Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #19

I am selling pearls — come!
The pearls are beautiful, so very beautiful;
Their radiance is deathless,
A hoard of unseen splendor — come, look a little, go and see.
I am selling pearls — come!

What ocean shone with their light?
In which boatman’s artful hands
Were they found and brought ashore?
Come, hear it from me.
I am selling pearls — come!

The ocean is the human inner sky —
Brimming with the waters of feeling;
There, a cluster of pearl-poems lay —
Test it, let it be tested!
I am selling pearls — come!

The master-poet, the boatman within,
Descending on the rope of imagination,
Brought them up, one by one —
Come, appraise their worth.
I am selling pearls — come!

How lovely these pearls, lovely, lovely —
Shapes of shine, of glow, of aura!
With this incomparable store of beauty,
Adorn your own heart.
I am selling pearls — come!

To buy them depends
Only on the tenderness of the heart;
Never by spending heaps of money —
Love them... and carry them away.
I am selling pearls — come!

The Satguru has always called out just this: I am selling pearls — come! Gulal says: Pearls are showering in all ten directions! Gulal longs that your eyes too might see in what miraculous, otherworldly realm this supreme opportunity called life has befallen you. Do not squander it like that. Let this diamond of a life not be lost in dust. Ordinarily it is lost in dust. Only a very few recognize its value — a few jewelers.

The call of the Satgurus is for the jewelers. And these pearls are not the kind that can be bought with price.

To buy them depends
Only on the tenderness of the heart;
Never by spending heaps of money —
Love them... and carry them away.

I am selling pearls — come!

Other than love, there is no way to attain them. People try by every other way. They try to gain them through logic. Logic is utterly the opposite of love. Logic is the sure method to miss. The one who set out to understand life through logic — life will utterly slip from his hands. Through logic no one attains life; one only loses it. Logic belongs to the mind; love to the heart. Logic is the circumference; love is your very life-breath. These matters are of the prana. These are not mere matters; these are not mere thoughts. Thoughts are only vehicles; words are mere pointers. That to which they point does not fit inside a word. That which is indicated cannot be shown forth by thought. These are feeble means. Yet since there is no other choice, we must speak. You would not understand silence; so words have to be used.

And even when it is said — do you understand? You take one thing for another. It is not that you have never passed by the Buddhas. Through births upon births it is impossible that you never came near some Buddha, some Mahavira, some Kabir, some Nanak, some Gulal. Some Gulal must have flung his gulal upon you too — yet you remain smeared with dust only; no fragrance of that color marks you. Some Kabir must have called you — but you were deaf, you did not hear. And even when you did hear — you heard something else. You even come close, but for the wrong reasons. And the one who comes near for a wrong reason, even arriving near cannot truly arrive.

Yesterday a woman came to see me from Gwalior. From Gwalior to here — she took the trouble! Twenty-five years ago she studied with me at the university. In these twenty-five years she never inquired about me. Still, no matter; even after twenty-five years news has reached — if one who lost his way in the morning returns by evening, we don’t call him lost. But what to say of one who, having reached home, turns back! She is a professor now in Gwalior. As soon as she came she said she must meet me in private. I am not ordinary, I studied with him.… Now, to have studied together is accidental. Neither was she with me because of me, nor I with her because of her. It was sheer happenstance that we were in the same university and seated in the same class. There is no virtue in it. It was not in our hands. It is like this: you board a train, others board too, you find yourselves in the same compartment, travel a while together — does it make it special?… Nevertheless she demanded a private audience. Laxmi told her I meet only sannyasins. And forget the old! Forget the forgotten! Come, we’ll show you the ashram; attend discourse; then if the feeling arises, come to darshan. And if the feeling becomes dense, if you have the courage for sannyas, a meeting will happen too. She stood up and said, If old matters are finished, if it is a matter of forgetting, I don’t even wish to see the ashram. I don’t wish to see the ashram, I don’t wish to meet him. She left. To hear a discourse? Why should I? I studied with him!

One can reach the temple door and still return. One can climb the steps and yet climb down. One can be within a breath of arriving — and miss.

And the reasons people come for are strange indeed.

Someone writes to me: We come to listen because the way you speak is so lovely. What will you do with my manner? Eat it? Drink it? Wear it? What will you do with it? What use is my manner! What I am saying — you don’t care. You like the manner! The manner is not the essential thing. At times the fakirs have spoken in the most ungainly manner — then you won’t listen at all.

Someone writes: Your style is beautiful, it pleases the mind. As if someone likes my clothes, and has no concern with me. Someone is charmed by the ornaments, and has no relation to the person. What is the utility of style? What is its purpose? Are words being traded here? Here we are invoking the descent of the Unknown. Here the Divine is being called. And you will be caught in style?

Another says: Your stories are so sweet, they touch our heart. We arrive sad, we return laughing. Your sadness is worth two pennies; your laughter also worth two pennies. As long as you sleep, you yourself are worth two pennies. Wake up! It is not a question of laughter or sadness. If I told a story and you laughed — what will come of it? For two moments the mind will be diverted, entertained. Is someone here to entertain you? I wish to dis-entertain your mind — and you are entertaining it!

At the railway station, in the inquiry office, a woman came with a small child in her arms and asked, Sir, can you tell me when the train for Bombay will leave? The officer stuttered somewhat; he said: T-t-three f-f-fifty. After five or ten minutes the young woman came again and asked, Sir, when does the train for Bombay leave? Again he answered: T-t-three f-f-fifty. She went away.

Five or ten minutes later she appeared again.

This happened five or six times. Each time he said: T-t-three f-f-fifty; and each time she returned after five or ten minutes. At last, exasperated, he said: M-m-madam, how m-m-many times will you ask? I’ve told you so m-m-many times — the train to B-b-Bombay leaves at t-t-three f-f-fifty. The young woman said: The thing is, Sir, I’ve understood when the train comes and goes. But my child loves hearing you say t-t-three f-f-fifty. So he insists again and again, Mama, I want to hear him say t-t-three f-f-fifty once more. Because of his insistence I have to keep coming. Please forgive me!

What is the value of style? People are like small children, even in old age. One gets entangled in words, another in doctrines, another in style, another in the manner of speaking, another in the stories, another in the poems. But what I wish to say to you — when will you hear it? These are methods to avoid hearing. Devices for escaping. Entanglements. Stoppages. You have wasted how many lives like this. Will you waste this one too? You have wandered down countless byways just like this. Opportunities kept coming — and you kept missing. A fresh opportunity has come again. Do not miss it! Do not miss it over small things.

That woman from Gwalior — I felt pity. Who the person was twenty-five years ago — where is he now? How much water has flowed in the Ganges in twenty-five years! And even twenty-five years ago, when this woman studied with me, I do not recall that ever there was any conversation between us. We were strangers then. We are strangers now. But because we sat in the same class, in the same room, this became reason enough to come so far — and to go back. That is sheer foolishness! But from professors, what more can one expect? Vanity, ego, make strange demands.

Counting moments, clock by clock, I chip away the days of life —
Will life pass only by hauling breath back and forth?
Sleeping and waking, watching dreams, the nights somehow pass;
But like this — for how long — how will the days of my life be fulfilled?
Let something happen — even a calamity — in this dull life of mine!
If nothing else, let fire catch in this desolate, stale forest within!
I am weary of sleeping, sleeping... flames, wake me —
Let thunder strike — but let awareness awaken in this lifeless, stone-like mind!
Let the Atman cry out in one great wail, let such a shock descend suddenly —
Let speech fall mute forever — from somewhere let a terrible shriek rise!
Pierce the ears deaf — startle the eyes, tear them open —
Let a scorching light rise, like the sun filling the sky — let those starry eyes see!
Nothing happened! The earth did not split! Alas — the longing was not fulfilled!
Even today my eyes face walls as they do every day!
Just like yesterday, today went by; tomorrow too will pass empty.
Unburned, the dream-cotton of imagination lies in ashes!

So many yesterdays have gone to waste! Will the coming tomorrows be spent the same way — or will we awaken? Will we make a new acquaintance with life? Recognize That which is hidden in life? Will we experience that mystery, that wonder? Will we become one with the Supreme Light? Or will we end life playing with fleeting, perishable dreams? Will you remain entangled in the bubbles of water? Words are water-bubbles. This whole world is a water-bubble. In this world there is one thing that does not perish — the witness hidden within you, the seer.

Today’s sutras are concerning that very seer. Today’s sutras are most wondrous. Each sutra is like nectar. Drink them. Let them enter to the innermost. Let them pierce you — as if an arrow were to strike the heart and go on pressing through, right through and out. Gulal has said lovely words, but today’s words are beyond all comparison; even Gulal’s words pale beside them.

Keep remembrance — take refuge, and fall at the Feet;
There is no other Death, no other snare at all.

Keep one thing safe — take refuge, hold surrender. Keep one thing safe: put the ego aside, and fall at the Feet of the Infinite. If in this world you keep only this safe — everything is saved. But we do the exact opposite. We stand stiff. We safeguard the ego, not surrender. To prove I am something, what a hustle we make! To prove I am something, what ways we devise! Any way at all — a man is ready to do anything to prove I am something. He is ready to become a saint — even if it means giving great pain. He is ready to become a sinner — even if tortured, even if he must do penance — but I am something!

In a jail a new prisoner arrived. There were too many inmates; space was short. Two prisoners per cell. One old inmate, already sprawled on his bedding, asked without getting up: Brother, how long is your sentence? The newcomer said: Three years. The old-timer said: You spread your bedding by the door. I’m to be here twenty years. What do you think you are!

Even in prison there is ranking. The one with twenty years becomes the godfather. And your status? Three years! Greenhorn! Stay by the door! Three years will pass anyhow. Slip out from the doorway—come and go. No need to go too far in.

Even criminals inflate their crimes — for no one wishes to be small. They too want to say: We are not petty criminals, we are great ones. Just as saints love to enlarge their feats. They fast a few days, but will claim forty. They practice a few yoga postures, but speak as if they have been in austerity in the Himalayas for centuries.

A traveler from the West came to India looking for a saint. He went to the Himalayas — where else? He heard: A very ancient saint — seven hundred years old. He was very impressed. He arrived. Seeing him, it seemed he could be at most sixty — seventy at the most. Seven hundred! The Western scientific mind could not digest it. But a great festival was afoot, money was being offered at his feet, worship and aarti; he thought, Whom shall I ask? He found out that one man had been serving this saint for many years. He caught him privately: Brother, tell me truly — is your guru seven hundred years old? He said: Brother, I cannot say. I have only been with him for three hundred years. I can vouch for three hundred — beyond that I don’t know! But when I came — he looked just as he looks now.

Ages will be overstated. Saints will inflate their ages. Women will understate theirs. But it is the same matter, the same ego. A woman’s value lies in being younger. A saint’s value lies in being older. As if age brings wisdom! If you are a fool, age will make you a bigger fool. The foolishness will ripen. In youth it was unripe; in old age, perfectly ripe. Age does not bestow wisdom! Yet ages are claimed.

In a gambling house two women entered — doubtless a Paris story. The first was eager to place a bet. The second said, I too wish to bet — but on what number? The first said: My method is always one — I bet on my age. Whatever my age, that number. And I often win. The second said: I’ll try that too. She placed her bet on twenty-four. The wheel spun and stopped at thirty-six. The woman fainted. She cried, My God! How did this wheel know I am thirty-six?

Women keep at least such a distance — twenty-four and thirty-six. But it is the same thing. Youth has value for women; old age for saints. Saints will inflate their ages. In the world you have value if you have money; if you renounce the world, value lies in how much wealth you left. Worldly people tell lies about riches — they show what they don’t have as if they have it. Renouncers tell other lies — what they never had, they claim to have left.

Ego sustains itself by the subtlest of paths — through scholarship, through wealth, through renunciation. Its paths are fine, and mostly unconscious. Surrender means the reverse: leave everything to the Divine, say, I am nothing — only You are. Gulal says: Keep refuge safe — just this one thing — and you have saved the treasury; you have found life’s truth. Keep refuge safe — and you are keeping the ego safe! Fall at the Feet of the Unknown. Do not keep walking with your head raised. This stiffness will drown you. It has drowned multitudes. Those who let it drop — they crossed over, reached the other shore.

Keep remembrance — take refuge; fall at the Feet.
There is no other Death, no other snare at all.

In the world there is only one net, one Time — your ego. No other Time, no other net. In these brief words the essence of all scriptures has arrived —

There is no other Death, no other snare at all.

Even death belongs to the ego. Time — that is, death. Understand this. If you drop the ego, you cannot die. I do not say your body will remain forever — the body is earth, it will fall back to earth. But you will remain. And you remain only when you are no longer you — when the ‘I’ in you is gone. When the I-sense dissolves — who remains? What remains is Paramatma. What remains — the Void — is the Full. It has no death.

Why are you so afraid of death? Because the ego, the sense that I am separate, frightens you. Today or tomorrow death will come and erase it. And it will certainly come and erase the ego — for the ego is a house of cards. A palace of playing-cards — a small gust and it collapses. Whoever lives in such a house will live in fear. Step out from that house; live under the open sky — then there is no fear of collapse, no fear of being crushed. To live inside the ego is to live inside a lie. And the lie will fall — today, tomorrow, the day after. How long can you prop it up?

And what is the point of propping up a lie! You waste time, you waste energy. See the lie as lie. I am not separate; you are not separate; we are all limbs of Existence. As the waves of the ocean are many, so are we — waves of one ocean. The day you know this — what fear of perishing? The wave, even dissolving, remains in the ocean. The river fears to enter the sea, thinking her individuality will be lost. Ganga will no longer be Ganga, Godavari will no longer be Godavari; all will be ocean. And Ganga has been honored — so many pilgrimages made upon her banks, such glory, such songs! At the moment of merging, how will she not be afraid? How will she not wish to stay? But has anyone stayed? Today or tomorrow she must fall into the sea. And falling — the banks are left behind, the old identity is left, the old name and fame, address and abode are gone — Ganga goes, merged in the sea. But did she die?

Nothing in this world perishes. Not even your body. Dust returns to dust. Nor does your soul perish. The Atman is Paramatma-saturated. If anything perishes, it is that which was never there: ego. It is a figment of your imagination — a scaffold erected in vain.

Ego is a name — like the name we give a newborn. The child brings no name. Yet a name is necessary. Without it, how will you find him? How will letters be addressed? How will a father call his son if the son has no name? Some name must be given.

A man wrote a novel. He managed the big fat thing — but a title? He came to me. Seeing that fat tome, even I trembled. To give a title one must enter the tome, see what he has written! I said: Do this, go to Mulla Nasruddin; he is most skillful. He went — and within five minutes returned: He gave a title immediately. He is indeed skillful. I asked: What title? He said: A very attractive one — it will lure the mind — ‘No Drum, No Kettledrum.’ I asked: How did he decide that? He said: He simply asked me — Is there any mention of drums? I said: No. He asked: Any mention of kettledrums? I said: No. He said: Then the title is set — ‘No Drum, No Kettledrum.’ Now read, friend, whoever wishes; in the end the reader will discover — no drums, no kettledrums. Something or other must be named! I said: That will do. It will work — for names are given just so.

The child is born — we give him a name. And slowly, slowly we give him an ego. We teach him: You are separate, distinct. We teach him: You are special. You are Brahmin, you are Jain, you are Hindu, you are Muslim. You are born of a noble line — our lineage is very prestigious; great people have come in this line, made a name; you too must make a name. Since you have come into the world, become something. We teach ambition — lessons in ego. We send him to school — where he must come first. If you come first, you are honored. If you pass, you are honored. If you fail, you are dishonored.

Honor and dishonor are methods of maintaining ego. With dishonor we say: You could not manage well. With honor we say: Well done — you managed well. Thus in twenty-five years we slowly strengthen the ego. Thereafter this person revolves around a lie — a sheer lie — on which his whole life will be sacrificed.

And then death is frightening. As long as I am, there is fear that I will be destroyed, burned on the pyre. The breath trembles; fear seizes. In such fear, how will love be born? From such fear how will devotion arise? The God that fear gives birth to is false. It is fear transformed, fear projected.

Remember Gulal’s sutra:

Keep remembrance — take refuge, fall at the Feet.
There is no other Death, no other snare at all.

There is but one Death, one Time — if there is ego. And if there is ego, many nets will arise. Ego will demand: Bring more wealth — this is not enough; the neighbor has more. A higher post — others have reached higher.

A rooster gathered all the hens of his coop and said: Come, I have something to say. I do not wish to insult anyone or cause hurt, but truth must be spoken. A neighbor’s child was playing and kicked a football into our pen. Around that football he gathered the hens and said: Look, see how the neighbor’s hens lay eggs! I don’t wish to hurt you — but take note! What miracles are happening next door! And here we are — the same small hens, small chicks, small eggs. This is what is called an egg!… A football.

But this is human language. The neighbor’s grass looks greener. The neighbor’s wife looks more beautiful. The neighbor’s house seems more charming. And perhaps the neighbor is burning with the same jealousy for you. Your grass seems lovely to him, your wife beautiful. It seems to him your life is full of joy — just as it seems to you that his is. The drums afar always sound sweet. The farther the drum, the sweeter it seems. Come close — the stark remains. But by then other far-off drums appear, and we begin to long for them. One desire falls — a thousand arise.

Ego spins nets. It says: With this little money what will happen? You’ll be a nobody! Others have millions! The one with thousands wants lakhs; with lakhs, crores; with crores, billions; with billions, trillions — the race has no end. Life has an end — the race does not. Therefore every man dies unfulfilled, discontent, in pain — poor in spirit — crying that nothing was accomplished. We carry huge ambitions; slowly they prove futile. Not that we run less; not that we labor less — we run, we labor. But in the realm of desire there is no destination — only road. A road that goes round and round. This is what Gulal calls a net.

And not just one — nets within nets. Escape one and another catches you. As a spider spins the web from itself, we spin from our ego; then we get caught, and cry, Save me, save me! There is no need to be saved — understand your own web. Stop your own spinning — you are already saved. There is no need for a savior — no Christ, no Mahavira, no Buddha. Gather your web back. You’ve spread it too far. Now you don’t believe it can be gathered — it’s too vast, bigger than you.

But you spread it — it can be gathered. The simplest way: cut the root. From the ego, all these leaves have grown. Cut the ego and the tree will dry of itself. Don’t go plucking leaves — you will be in trouble. Pluck one, three will sprout. Pruning only thickens foliage. Cut the root.

Gulal is speaking of the root —

There is no other Death, no other snare at all.

Those from whom you take counsel — your pundits, priests, so-called mahatmas — are entangled just as you are. Perhaps their nets are draped in spiritual colors. Perhaps their nets are religious, otherworldly. Peer inside and you will find: they harbor desires — a special place in heaven.

I was driving one day and a woman stopped my car, came over, and gave me some pamphlets. She was a Christian. Later I glanced at them. One caught my eye: on the cover a beautiful house, a waterfall, a swimming pool, trees, a bungalow. On top: Would you like to live in a house like this? I thought: Where is this house? I opened it — it turned out to be about the next world, not this one. She was advertising her church. Whoever believes in Jesus will get such bungalows in the beyond.

All religions have made such promises.

Hindus say: A wish-fulfilling tree stands in the beyond. Sit beneath it, and all desires are fulfilled. Nothing to do, nothing to hold — idleness seems to be the ancient Hindu treasure. The kalpavriksha is the fantasy of great idlers. Sit beneath it, wish — fulfilled at once. Instantly! No need to consult the clock. No waiting like in a café where you say to the waiter, Tea! — and he vanishes for hours. Here, the moment the wish arises, it is fulfilled. No time in between. Great idlers must have imagined it.

So too with other religions.

Heaven has been richly imagined. The ‘mahatmas’ sit saying: Only a few days of hardship more — endure. Fast a little more. Just a little — you’ve already borne so much. It is only a matter of a little time — bear it — then it will be only pleasure. And what kind of pleasure? The very things condemned here are available there. Here wine is banned — the Koran says wine is sin; touch it and you sin; to drink here is forbidden. And in Paradise? Rivers of wine are flowing. What kind of sin is this? If wine is sin, there should be none in Paradise. What kind of God is this, that He creates rivers of wine there? But they must be flowing — otherwise mahatmas will not survive here. They sit here abstaining in the hope of those rivers. They have given up even tea and coffee, in the hope that only a few days remain — we have done this much, a little more — then it will be pleasure unending — for eternity. Not for a little while — for ever: swim in wine, dive in and out, drink and pour — rivers are flowing.

Whose fantasies are these?

Beautiful women are available in everyone’s heaven — the most beautiful. Here woman is the gate to hell; in heaven, what are women doing there? What need of them if woman is the gate to hell? Here the mahatmas teach: Avoid women. But why? So that apsaras may be attained there. The arithmetic is clear: what you give up here, you will gain there — a millionfold. Here you leave an ordinary woman — bones and flesh and marrow. Here woman is reviled — because she is made of bones and flesh and marrow. And you? Are men made of diamonds? Within women there is filth — urine and excrement. And in men? Nectar?

Those men who wrote such things in scriptures — is there no end to their stupidity? Women are filled with filth — and these writers, with what are their hands filled as they write? They were born from those very women, parts of those very women; they lived nine months in the wombs where, they say, filth is stored — they bathed in it for nine months — and now they are mahatmas! And even now, what do they desire? Apsaras, of course! They have arranged everything with the apsaras that the poor man here cannot manage. Science tries to manage it here; religions try to arrange it there. About there, there is one convenience: no one comes back. Who knows the conditions? Science tries to keep women youthful here — hormones, injections. In heaven, it seems, the hormones have been perfected. Apsaras are fixed in age. Indian apsaras are forever sixteen — according to the Indian imagination the age of perfect beauty. Urvashi was sixteen five thousand years ago — and is sixteen still. There should be a limit to tall tales!

And there, women do not sweat. Poor scientists are trying to invent deodorants, synthetically scented soaps, perfumes — somehow to keep body odor masked. In heaven, it seems, the formula is found. It seems apsaras are made of plastic — only plastic does not perspire. Synthetic material of some kind. No sweat, no odor. The scriptures are old; if written anew, provision would be made for this too — women such that when you wish, press the valve and let the air out, fold her into your briefcase; when you wish, pump and fill her up and she stands again. If I were to write new Puranas — sometimes I think I should — then women would have to be like that: when you wish, deflate; when you wish, inflate — otherwise, carry your woman in your pocket!

Our rishis would do anything. They sit desiring heaven — where there is only pleasure, no pain. For that pleasure here they will endure any amount of pain — the price they pay. But there is no difference at heart between you and your mahatmas. For the desire is the same — whether for this world or the next. Your mahatmas are more greedy than you, more dishonest.

One day Chandu Lal said to his guru, Matkanath Brahmachari: Mahatmaji, I am in a real quandary. I have a beloved who is beautiful but poor; and another who is rich but utterly ugly — frightful! But she has money. I cannot decide whom to love. The Mahatma said: Arre, Chandu Lal, child, what is there to think? Marry the poor beauty. Money is the dirt of the hand. Today it is; tomorrow, not. Even if much, one day it will be gone. Take my advice — choose the poor, beautiful beloved as your life-companion. Love is Paramatma, say the mahatmas. The Ganges flows — bathe, brother Chandu Lal, do not miss the chance! Such auspicious opportunities come only after accumulated merit of many births.

Chandu Lal was convinced. He touched the Mahatma’s feet, thanked him, and was about to leave when Matkanath called: Child, at least give me the address of the rich woman before you go. The Ganges flows, brother — do your bath — but at least let me wash my hands too! You take the pearls and rubies; let me have the pebbles and stones — don’t deprive me of those!

Look at your mahatmas. They teach you money is the dirt of the hand — but their eyes are on your money, on your pocket. Give a Mahatma money — he honors you.

Among the Jains is a great muni — Kanji Swami. Passing through Jabalpur once, I happened to hear his discourse. Everything was fine as such; two things amazed me. After every sentence he would say: Did you understand? As if a congregation of fools were seated. Then I thought: perhaps it is true — only fools listen to this. For what he was saying was rubbish — and even of that he kept asking: Did you understand? There was a king, and there was a queen — did you understand? It was too much. There was nothing to understand!

Second: he kept saying wealth is the dirt of the hand. But if Seth Chunnilal arrived in the middle, or Seth Dulichand, or Seth Kalumal, he would stop and say: Come, Chunnilalji — sit! Then resume: Come, Dhannalalji — sit! I asked a disciple: Why do these names keep popping up? He said: They are donors. They give.

Money is the dirt of the hand — and Chunnilal gives that dirt to Kanji Swami — and the Swami interrupts the discourse: Sit, Chunnilal! Do you understand, Chunnilal? Hearing his name in the midst of thousands delights him. He feels special. He sits in front — and the Swami says, Chunnilal, did you understand? Chunnilal nods: Yes, Maharaj!

Money is abused — and on the other hand it is said wealth comes from the merit of past births. A curious thing: Do good deeds — and get hand-dirt! Think a little: the fruit of virtue is dirt? Give something else — even a rose would do — but at least not dirt. And those who did not get that dirt — they sinned in past lives. Then what did they lose? Nothing but dirt. Then what did the receiver gain? Better to sin freely — less dirt will accrue! Do virtue, and you are trapped — you’ll get hand-dirt.

Do you see the contradiction?

For centuries this country has been taught: wealth comes from virtue; and wealth renounced is virtue. What logic is this? Wealth comes from virtue, and renouncing wealth is virtue. People have been yoked like oxen to a mill — made to go in circles. And people do not think what is being said.

There is no difference between you and your mahatmas. They seem mahatmas to you precisely because there is no difference. If there were, you would not call them mahatmas. You like their logic, their language, because it matches your own. Ego spins vast nets — in this world and the next. And even in the next, believe me, there must be big fights among the mahatmas — brawls — about who sits nearest to Paramatma, at whose right hand, at whose left. Who is closest? Surely knives are drawn among mahatmas there.

Two Digambara Jain monks were brought to the police station at Shikharji, a sacred Jain site — because they had beaten each other. They had gone into the forest for defecation — a fight broke out. They have left everything — even clothes — but the fight was not left. If ego is not left, how can quarreling be left? And the reason — more amazing: When the police scolded, the secret came out — money. A fight over money — and Digambar Jains who keep nothing. Only a pichchhi — a whisk — with which they clear the ground to avoid killing ants. But man is clever — he finds a way. The handle of the pichchhi is hollow — and stuffed with hundred-rupee notes. The quarrel was about dividing it. The elder one — older in age and first-initiated — wanted more. Naturally — he has suffered more, fasted more — and now if he doesn’t get more hand-dirt, what is the point! The other said: I will expose the secret — better we split equal. The quarrel escalated — they beat each other with those pichchhi sticks. Villagers brought them to the station.

The Jains tried hard to hush it up. They came to me: This must be hidden — otherwise it will be a great insult to the Jain community. I said: You have come to the wrong man. Now hiding it will be difficult. They said: Why? I said: Because I will tell it. Even if the newspapers don’t publish, this incident is too valuable — I cannot leave it.

Valuable indeed — they left all, yet the ego spins new nets.

Love with love — hold the Name in your heart;
Then force, birth, and death — all fall away.

A most wondrous thing —

Love with love…

Do not love anything else — love love itself. Then your loving will reach Paramatma. Do not love wealth, nor position; not heaven, not even moksha — for the love of heaven and moksha is also the ego’s net, a craving. Love love itself. Gulal has said a stunning thing: Love love. Then there is no goal, no forward-looking desire. Delight in love itself. Let love be your all-in-all. Beyond love there is nothing to gain — no heaven, no moksha.

Love with love…

Such wondrous words — but because they were spoken by unlettered saints, no one cares. That is why I chose to speak on them. Many speak on the Upanishads. Commentaries upon commentaries on the Gita. Great discourses on the Vedas. But who speaks on Gulal? Who cares? And yet these are jewel-words. Search the Upanishads — you will not find this: Love with love. Search the Vedas — you will not find it. He has outdone the Vedas. A depth beyond depth. Nothing deeper can be said: Love with love. No other end, no other motive. Love as means; love as end. Let love be your delight — for love’s own sake. Let love be your ahobhava — your exultant mood.

Love with love; hold the Naam in your heart —
Only then will you be able to seat the Divine within.

Then neither death nor time will have any sway over you. All will fall away of themselves. Drink the nectar of love. Drink deep draughts of love. All delusions, all nets will be cut — because love strikes at the root of the ego. If you are egotistical, you cannot love. If you are loving, you cannot be egotistical. They cannot exist together. If a lamp is lit, darkness cannot remain; if there is darkness, the lamp is not. Where love burns, ego goes. Where ego is, love is not. Ego only gives counterfeit love — very cunningly.

One evening Mulla Nasruddin was passing a cemetery. He saw a beautiful young woman in white fanning a fresh grave. Mulla was thrilled: Ah God! Who says it is the age of kali? The Satya Yuga still is. Such lovers still exist. Poor thing — fanning the grave! Tears of joy came to Mulla’s eyes. His own wife beats him while he’s alive — and this woman! Who says woman is the gate of hell? Fanning a grave — the heights of love! How much higher can love go!

He went up to her and said: Seeing you, I feel love still survives — the world still has a future. There is still no reason to abandon hope. Even if many have fallen, a few like you are enough — you are the salt of the earth. But may I ask — why are you fanning the grave? The one has gone — what will fanning the grave do? The young woman said: The thing is, sir, my lover is waiting for me outside the cemetery. And my husband said: Until my grave is dry, do not marry anyone, otherwise I will be very hurt. So I am fanning the grave to dry it quickly.

This is how it is. In the name of love — displays of love. In the name of love — something else, perhaps opposite to love. In the name of love — ego is being fed. In the name of love — the urge to possess another. Behind it — jealousy, envy, hatred. Under love’s cover — what not! Gulal is not speaking of that love. Not your ‘love’. He speaks of the love of which you have no hint yet — but whose seed is within you. If awakened, within you too the same flower can blossom: love for love’s sake. No other demand — joy in giving love. Then love is no longer bound to persons. It becomes an impersonal mood of being. Not a relationship — a state. Not that you love someone — you are love. Wherever you touch — love. Whomever you see — showers of love. Sit even alone — waves of love arise around you. When such love is, Ram abides in your heart.

Keep remembrance — and fix love.

Just two things: guard your surati — remembrance, awareness — Who am I? And fill with love. Just two things; two steps — and the journey is complete.

I was not stone all my days!
By some curse I was exiled,
My awareness sank;
The lamp in the mind-temple went out;
My world fell into darkness —
But this ruined garden was not always so desolate, so forsaken!
I was not stone all my days!

In my empty sky there was a moon,
Whose moonlight cast soft shadows;
Touched by whose light my body of moonstone
Remained alive —
A smudged shard, tripped and kicked, yet I was not lifeless!
I was not stone all my days!

I too had someone; I too
Was someone’s — once — in life.
We were parted — but destiny did not break —
As long as sweet remembrance dwelt in mind;
What I might become — into what — I never had a clue!
I was not stone all my days!

I am a blossom of the garden,
Once a garland on some neck;
It was my smile — and hers too —
We were a laughing world;
Even crushed into the dust like a flower — I was not always dying!
I was not stone all my days!

I was not a helpless blade of grass,
That cast into water must float away;
And if cast into fire — a moment’s smoke and gone;
What I have become today — I was not always this!
I was not stone all my days!

My name, like dawn’s glow,
Would linger on her lips —
Youth would sway and sing
To the cuckoo’s notes in me;
Her life lived within me — I was no clay-made song!
I was not stone all my days!

Remember: today you are like stone — you have become stone-like — but this is neither your destiny nor your nature. You were not born so. Nor were you born to become so. Society has made you stone — because society wants stones, not men. For society, stones are useful — men are not. Men can be dangerous; stones are obedient. Men can rebel; stones do not. Your heart has been killed. Your intelligence stuffed with trash — for intellect is used by society. You must be made a clerk, a station-master, a deputy collector — then your skull must be filled with rubbish. Otherwise how will you slide those rubbish files across a table all your life? How will you carry the garbage?

Such beings exist whose heart is so pleased by files that even the office does not satisfy them — they carry files home under the arm. Files are their life — in them all the jewels. Their heart is so happy — a pile of files on the table — as the pile rises, their ‘wealth’ seems to rise. The more they hide behind heaps of files, the more important they feel — so much work upon them! The skull must be filled with trash! People must be made to do trash.

The heart is dangerous for society. The one with heart will see what is trash and what is essence. The one with heart — you cannot make him kill; you cannot make him shoot; you cannot make him raise a sword; you cannot make him drop an atom bomb on Hiroshima. The one with heart will say: Crucify me if you must, but to incinerate a hundred thousand people — I will not.

The man who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima slept happily that night. Asked next morning, Did you sleep? He answered: Happily. One sleeps happily after finishing one’s duty. Duty! A hundred thousand burned to ash — he completed his duty. He ate dinner. Who can eat after killing a hundred thousand — except one with no heart, a stone.

Nor was it only he. The American President who gave the order — Truman. The very name means ‘true man’. What irony! I call him President Un-Truman. He gave the order. When asked if he felt sorrow, repentance — he said: What sorrow? What repentance? The war ended. Otherwise it would not have ended. A lie. The truth: the war was about to end in a few days. It seemed urgent to try the new toy — otherwise there would be no chance to test the atom bomb. Research shows the war would have ended within days. Germany had lost; Russian armies were in Berlin; Japan was on its knees. The atom bomb was not necessary. Even if the war had dragged a few days more — what of it? But the fear: we won’t get to test the bomb, to know its power. The decision was taken — with joy. No repentance. Kill a single man and you feel remorse; crush a single ant and you feel bad.

What has happened to man? To produce such people, what have we done? We kill the heart. Our whole education cuts the roots of heart. Soldiers we make utterly heartless; we disable their thinking. We teach them mechanical behavior — left turn, right turn. Turn them this way, that way — left, right — we eat their brains. They lose the capacity to think. Say left turn — they turn mechanically. Ask them why — they will say, The order was given. They lose the capacity to disobey. Then one day they are told, Drop the bomb — poor fellows drop it. For them there is no difference between left turn and dropping the bomb. No difference remains. There is no sensitivity left — no love — to discriminate.

This society lives on non-love, on hatred, on enmity. In the name of nationalism we feed hatred. In the name of caste, in the name of religion, we feed hatred. And everywhere in the world there is nothing but trouble.

An old Jew, Silverstein, boarded an airplane. By chance, two Arabs sat on either side — big, fierce. The poor Jew shrank. One Arab said: You, Jew-boy — go get me a coffee! He could not refuse. Though there was no need — one could ring and the attendant would come. But to say that to this Arab — dangerous; he might wring your neck. Silverstein went through the swaying plane, fetched coffee. The other Arab said: Boy, bring one for me too. He went again. By the time he brought it, the first had finished. He said: Jew — another cup! He fetched it — by then the second had finished. In such a way they sent him ten or twelve times.

Arabs — say no more! Money has fallen from the sky upon them. When at last he sat down exhausted, one Arab asked: Jew — how is the world? He said: Very bad. In India, Hindus are killing Muslims; in Pakistan, Muslims are killing Hindus; in Bangladesh, Bengalis are killing Punjabis — everywhere murder! Vietnam is terrible. Israel is terrible. Iran is in crisis. Only crises! And what to tell you — even in this very plane what is not happening? Here in this plane Jews are pissing into Arabs’ coffee!

This world is brimming with hatred, up to the throat. Hence we cannot understand — even when we hear, we miss. These words go against our training. But without them there can be no revolution in life.

Keep remembrance — and fix love —

Just two things: one — dhyan, surati; the other — love. Meditation for meditation’s sake; love for love’s sake. Nothing to attain, nothing to demand, no motive, no goal. Meditation — joy in meditation. Love — joy in love. Then you will find the two are two sides of one coin. On one side meditation; on the other, love. Whoever meditates, loves. Whoever loves, meditates. Do one — the other will come. Do both — the revolution becomes easy, natural.

Keep remembrance — and fix love —
Remain unmoved; nowhere be shaken.

Let these two happen — and you are unmoving. No one can shake you. Sit in the marketplace — still, unmoved.

Remain unmoved; nowhere be shaken.

No one can shake you then.

Says Gulal: By the grace of my Satguru —
By his compassion, his favor — I received these two sutras; this I tell you —

Keep remembrance — and fix love —
Remain unmoved; nowhere be shaken.

Says Gulal: By the Satguru’s grace —
I fell into the Bottomless — he caught me by the arm.

He caught my arm and taught me these two things. He rescued me from the fathomless. Drew me out of the world. These two are the essence of sannyas.

Know then that devotion is fulfilled —
When one is beyond dharma and karma.

Again, words like fire — fiery. Do you hear?

Beyond dharma and karma.

The one who has truly come to knowing — to meditation or to love — in whose life devotion has become full — he is beyond karma as well. For karma — doing in the world — has been surrendered to the Divine.

Karma means action in this world. Dharma means action for the other world. He is eager neither to do here, nor there. Neither his craving lies in this world, nor in the next. Karma is the means to fulfill craving in this world; dharma is the means to fulfill craving in the next. The one whose remembrance is ripened and whose love is full — whose devotion is complete — needs neither dharma nor karma. Karma — he has left to Paramatma. What He makes him do, he does — yet he remains unmoved. Dharma — he has left that too. He is no longer Hindu, Muslim, Christian; he belongs to the Divine, and the Divine to him.

He lives in Ram —
And is dissolved in Light —
The dualities of the world he has burned to ash with ease.

With surati and with love. His illusions, his becoming — all burned. His anger has vanished — for when nothing is to be attained, when there is no craving, anger dies. Anger means: you wish to get something and are thwarted; a block arises. As a waterfall meets a boulder and roars — so is your anger. You go to gain something; someone blocks you. And people will block — they too want what you want. If you get it — what will they get? They will stop you — in every way they will stop you.

Illusion and becoming slain, anger burned —
And then what I say to you again and again is found here — my vision of life, my philosophy of life is contained in this: Make a friend of the thief.

The thief — the mind — is made a friend. Do not kill the mind — befriend it. Become its master — let the mind not be your master. Let the mind be your friend.

The thief is made a friend —
The mind that steals your life’s treasure — is befriended. How? By surati — awakening; by living in awareness, in remembrance. How? By living in love — by becoming love.

Says Gulal: By the Satguru’s grace —
When the mind came into my hand — death was slain.

Your own mind is not yet in your hand. When the mind is in the hand — death is finished. Then all sorrow leaves life. Then every thorn departs; flowers bloom.

Pearls shower in all ten directions!

Enough for today.