Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #5

Again the cruel east wind has begun to blow,
again the drops have set fire to the earth.
Alone I wander the desert wastes,
I cannot catch the scent of rain;
sometimes by mistake I would clasp a throat—
no such shade remains anywhere now;
above, an ember-colored sky,
my feet wrestling tongues of flame.
Where shall I go, where lay down my head,
at which threshold make my betrothal?
No one of mine is seen anywhere;
every dream, cursed, defeated.
Why should I scorch another's veil
when life is nothing but burning?
You gave me courage,
with great care you coaxed the mind;
what more could you have done—
I myself could not make renunciation my way.

Every obstacle grows, yet
new truths are being read;
but a pause for a moment or two—
and the fatigue climbs back.
So let me grow among thorns,
let me walk without support;
I have far to go still,
I must prepare to welcome the Goal.
Again the cruel east wind has begun to blow—
again the drops have set fire to the earth!

Our life is a desert. A long, meaningless journey. A burden we carry from birth to death. Not even a drop of bliss rains upon it. How would we understand the crimson festival of which the mystics sing—"pearls rain down from all ten directions!" Here, even when stones fall, we scarcely notice; a rain of pearls—far, far away. Nectar we have never known: we have drunk poison, we have become poison. So we listen to the saints' words, yet in our breath no veena begins to sing. Their words do not come into rhythm with our lives. They speak of flowers; we are entangled in thorns. They speak of bridal beds; we hang upon the cross. Meera has said: "Upon the cross, the Beloved's bed"—we hear, we say, perhaps; but to us no bed is visible except the cross.

The words of the awakened do not find a bridge to our life-experience. Between them and us a gulf remains; we do not see a bridge rising. The Buddhas have done all they could to make a bridge, but unless we too make some effort, the bridge cannot be made. Remember: from one bank a bridge is never built; two banks are needed. Until our bank itself engages in the building, all bridges made from the other bank collapse and never reach us.

The world has not lost the True Master, but discipleship has been lost. Religion has not disappeared, but the longing for religion has faded, smoke-like. Truth is not lost, but the desire to seek Truth has grown dim. No bright coal aflame. People ask about Truth as they ask about any other thing—like Truth is one more item on the list.

Truth is not an item on the list of life, not a mere name. Truth is the foundation of our life, the life of our very life-breath. Yet we never go within; from the outside we never find leisure.

People come to me, and if I say, "Meditate," they say: "When? Where is the time?" And these very people sit in hotels gossiping. These very people pack the cinema halls; there are queues upon queues. Let there be a football match and thousands gather. They go to watch horse races. No horse ever comes to watch men run! What horse would bother! Leave horses aside—even donkeys do not come. And if you ask them then, they say: "We are killing time." These same people, if told to meditate, say: "Where is the time?" They will play cards, set up chess or chaupar; ask, "What are you doing?" and they reply, "Killing time." Time is killing you, you fools! And you think you are killing time. Time is knocking you down each moment, bringing your death closer each moment. Soon this golden opportunity of life will slip from your hands. Then you will repent greatly. Not a single moment of it can be retrieved. And all this time could have been saved, none of it lost—if you had invested it in inner search; if you had connected with your own life-breath; if you had asked, "Who am I?" If you had turned within, dug even a little, you would have found those water-springs that satisfy forever. You would have found those streams of amrit, and drinking of them, no one dies again.

Days pass drowsy, dispirited;
resolutions of night-vigil win their vows.
Why does arrival become departure,
why does annihilation become creation?
Why are destruction and construction one?
Why does the curse turn into soothing?
Is death birth, or birth death?
Nowhere any final resolution.
Pride of knowing remains,
while we stitch and stitch beginnings and ends.

Why did sunlight become shadow in a blink?
Maya-form, form-besotted Maya!
Water in stone, stone in water;
within each life the whole world contained.
River in wave, wave in river,
stream upon stream—the whole of life.
Those who fill drop by drop—
why are full oceans empty?

We ask only of welfare and well-being;
why did all depart beating their heads?
Brahman true, so why the world false?
Why do the sun's rays weave dream-sky?
Light in darkness, darkness in light;
victory upon victory—yet life lost.
We wasted this diamond birth,
weeping-singing, eating-drinking!

We waste ourselves on the petty... "We wasted this diamond birth for nothing." But we do not know that life is a diamond. It looks to us not worth even two cowries; free, after all! Because it is a gift of the Divine, we know nothing of its price. If only you had to pay a price to receive life—you would not throw it away so easily, nor entangle it in such futility.

I have heard: a fakir sat by a riverbank, and a man was about to jump in and take his life. The fakir asked, "Brother, what trouble has come? Why are you dying?" The man said, "I am bankrupt—what else can I do but die?" The fakir said, "Look at me. I have nothing at all. At least you had something to go bankrupt with. I cannot even go bankrupt. Yet I am in bliss! Give thanks to the Divine." The man said, "Thanks—for going bankrupt?" The fakir said, "Not for that—give thanks that it is only you going bankrupt; at least you are not one of those who are your creditors—give thanks for that."

Foolish, yet somehow it struck him. He sat down. More talk followed. The fakir said, "Before you commit suicide—you are going to die anyway—be of some use to me." The man said, "What use? I am going to die." The fakir said, "Come with me." He took him to the emperor. Whispered in the emperor's ear. The emperor said, "All right, I will give two hundred thousand rupees." The man heard only that much: two hundred thousand. He cried, "What is being bargained?" The fakir said, "I am selling your eyes. The emperor is ready to give two hundred thousand for your two eyes." The man said, "Do you take me for a fool? I will sell my eyes for two hundred thousand?" The emperor said, "Then take three hundred; four hundred; five hundred—name your price." The man said, "Sell to whom, sir!" He forgot entirely he was about to kill himself.

The fakir said, "Just now you were to jump in the river—your eyes would have gone, everything would have gone. This emperor is ready to take anything—your eyes, your kidneys—everything. He will store them safely, they will be useful. And you were to die—what harm is there in selling?"

For the first time it occurred to the man: I would not part with my eyes for five hundred thousand, yet I was willing to drown.

We have no awareness of how precious is what we have. Those who awaken to this are the truly religious. In them arises the feeling of grace—how much the Divine has given. From their life prayer arises, gratitude arises. From our life, only complaints, only complaints. What has been given we never speak of; we cry for what has not been given. The race of "more"—no matter how much you get, that "more" never dies; it stands up again and again. However much wealth—more wealth; however much position—more position; however much prestige—more prestige. The mind lives in "more." If you understand that the entire net of mind is the net of "more," you will understand the essence of prayer, for prayer is release from the net of "more."

A man worshiped the Divine for many days. Then the Divine appeared. The man said, "Grant me a boon—that whenever I ask for anything, I get it." A conch lay there in the shrine; the Divine handed it to him and said, "Keep this: whatever you ask will be given immediately." As soon as the Divine vanished, the man said, "One hundred thousand rupees!" And a hundred thousand were there. The rag-heap's fate turned! He built mansions upon mansions. Wealth rained down. But his restlessness remained as it was. Sorrow where it was stayed where it was. In truth, it increased. Hopes were fulfilled, yet despair did not diminish. Dejection stood where it stood. Now whatever he asked, he got—but does getting what you ask for solve anything? The mind said: Ask for more! What will one mansion do? Ask for two! What will two do? Ask for a million! He got them. Daily he would ask and receive. But he never once thanked the Divine.

One night a sannyasin was a guest in his house. He saw the conch: whatever he asked, it was given. He said, "Your conch is nothing; I possess the Mahashankha." The man asked, "What is the excellence of the Mahashankha?" "Whatever you ask, it gives double. Yours gives exactly as asked; mine gives twice." Greed rose. The householder said, "You are a renunciate, a vow-taker—what do you need it for? Take my conch; give me the Mahashankha." None richer than he, still he said, "Poor me! Give me the Mahashankha!" The sannyasin gave it.

Exactly as said, the Mahashankha was. Say to it, "Give me a hundred thousand." It replies, "What will you do with a hundred? Take two hundred!" Say, "All right, give two hundred." It replies, "What will you do with two? Take four hundred!" It only talks on and on; there is no question of receiving or giving; never any delivery! Meanwhile the sannyasin was gone. In his room the conch had vanished; and he was left holding the Mahashankha... Perhaps the Mahashankha was a kind of politician—whatever you ask, it promises double; but as for giving, never bring it up!

Your mind is both the conch and the Mahashankha. Even if you get what you ask, the race of "more" is not finished; if you get double, still the race will not end. It never ends—it goes on increasing. People run and run and fall into their graves. The goal does not arrive; the grave arrives. No thankfulness arises for life; only complaints: Why was I not given more? This could have been, why did it not happen? If you found the Divine, you would grab Him by the throat: "Where are you going? Stop! Why did you torment me? Why did I not get what I asked? Others were given everything; I got nothing!"

This mind is utterly jealous. Perhaps that is why the Divine does not show Himself to you, however much you search. He hides so that you search and still do not find Him; for He knows you through and through—He made you; if He does not know you, who will? He knows well that if He is found, you will create an uproar. You will launch a thousand complaints. Your whole life is arranged around complaint. And yet so much has been given that—if only you could see it—without any worthiness on your part, without any merit of yours, unearned. If only you could see, gratitude would arise—of joy, of grace; music would resound within. That is prayer; it drowns one in religion. That very prayer pours nectar into one's life.

Gulal says:

Let the mind engage in the commerce of the effortless Name; abandon all other dealings.

Do not take religion to be a social transaction. We have taken it as such. We go to temples as a formality, a social practice. Others go, so we go. Forefathers went, so you go; and as you go, your children too will go. But it is all formal, superficial. No connection of your life-breath with it. You go, strike your head on the floor, chant the Name; sit in the mosque and repeat the verses of the Quran—but like parrots, like corpses. Lips move, the heart does not move. Words emerge, but in your wordless depths no resonance arises. The body goes to the temple; you remain in the marketplace. The body offers prayer and worship, offers flowers, waves the lamp—while you are not there at all. You are in a thousand places: entangled in various businesses, involved in schemes, fantasies of the future, memories of the past. With such practical religion, being irreligious is better—at least there would be truthfulness!

I say again and again: better a true atheist than a false theist. At least there will be truthfulness! And where there is truthfulness, atheism cannot last long. Where there is truthfulness, atheism will die, it will have to die. But where there is falsity, how can theism enter? It remains hollow, a whitewash over the corpse. Dress a corpse in fine clothes—will breath begin to flow, will the heart start to beat?

False theism is drowning man.

If there is true atheism in you, one day or another you will have to become a theist, for he who has the strength to say "no" from his very life-breath—even to God—who says, "Until I know, I will not say yes," whose demand is so intense and authentic—his doors to the Divine will surely open. But your "yes" is impotent; there is no power in it. You say yes just to avoid trouble: "Everyone says so, so it must be so!" Your yes has no love, no prayer. It is a social politeness. It is like when someone asks in the morning, "How are you?" and you reply, "All is beautiful, all by God's grace! All is well!" Your face tells another story, your eyes another. You wear a mourner's face, eyes ready to weep; your whole being says something else; but etiquette dictates that you say, "All is well."

Nothing is well. If it were, what need to say it? Everyone says, "All is well," and then heaven would descend to earth. But all lie. Not that they lie deliberately—merely a learned formality. You say what should be said. A politeness is observed. Neither does the other see you, nor do you see the other. Neither does he wish to know your state, nor do you wish to hear his lament. These are ways of avoiding—"All is well, all fine"—ways of running away: Brother, you go your way, I go mine. Let there be a full stop here; let the talk not proceed.

You have made religion into the same kind of formality. On the road you meet someone, you say, "Jai Ramji." Never even a thought occurs; no remembrance of Ram awakens in that Jai Ramji—only the word. Such a lovely salutation—that the victory be Ram's—few languages have it. Most are ordinary: "Good morning." But in this land, for centuries, we have said: "Victory be to Ram!" Yet we merely say it. We have no feeling for what it means—or how the victory of Ram could be. Ram's victory will be only when you disappear. When your ego is sacrificed, then Ram's victory is. But you keep the formality; there is no question of doing anything, no longing expressed. Words have been memorized; there is no need even to be conscious—they come out mechanically, like a gramophone record; hands fold automatically.

Nowhere else in the world do people greet by joining hands. Some wave, some shake hands; but to join hands... Joining hands is a deep symbol: making two into one, dissolving duality into non-duality; a gesture pointing from dvaita toward advaita—the whole Vedanta hidden within. When we join hands and say, "Jai Ramji ki," we say: When two become one, Ram will be victorious; neither I remain nor you. And when we fold hands before another, we say: That Ram resides in you too—whoever you are, good or bad, honest or dishonest, thief or saint—it makes no difference: Ram is within you. And the day the two become one within you, that blazing light will be revealed, that unprecedented beauty, that eternal fragrance will arise within you too.

But how many times have you said Jai Ramji—did you ever think why you joined hands, to whom, why you remembered Ram, why you spoke of Ram's victory? And how will Ram be victorious unless you are defeated? His victory lies in your defeat. But you are trying to win; and every win takes you farther from Him. You join hands, yet all your life you never become one. You bow before someone you greet—did you truly bow? If for even a moment it were true and not formal, what need of temples? There are walking temples all around—every life is a temple. Wherever breath is flowing, the Divine is alive there. He inhabits every eye. If He is not seen through the windows of the eyes, what on earth will you see in the peepshow of a temple? If He is not found in living experience, will you truly worship dead idols, stone statues? Will your worship there be true?

Gulal speaks rightly:

Let the mind engage in the commerce of the effortless Name... abandon all dealings.

If you must do something, do the effortless commerce of the Name.

Abandon all practicality. In religion there is no room for practical transactions. But this is commerce—meaning: you will have to give something to receive something. Give yourself, and you will find Him. Lose yourself, and you will find Him. Something must be staked. And this commerce is unique—almost a gambler's play. For what you put at stake is solid, in your hand; and what you stake it for is invisible—whether it exists or not cannot be decided until you risk yourself. And what is the method of risking? The effortless Name.

There is the path of forced, unnatural practices. Someone stands on his head and thinks he is doing Yoga. If the Divine wanted you head-down, He would have made you so; why would He set you on your feet? Your great men seem wiser than God—healthy, walking people are turned upside down! And that fool imagines something will be solved by standing on his head! As it is, your head is already inverted; your life is upside down; you see everything awry—and now by standing on your head you are trying to see the world rightly!

I have heard: when Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was PM of India, one morning a donkey came to see him. Donkeys—what to say of them! In Delhi there is no shortage of donkeys; men are hard to find. You look for one donkey and find a thousand; with or without looking, they are everywhere. And this was no ordinary donkey; it was the leader of donkeys—their representative. It came to demand, "Enough now. Our number is eighteen crores; we have many demands. Either fulfill them or we want a separate nation. We will no longer live with humans." The guard was dozing—as guards do; it is their work. Had it been a man, he would have stopped him; a donkey—what harm could it do? The donkey strolled at the door; when the guard dozed, it slipped inside. Politics turns men into donkeys and donkeys into men—such is its strange circle!

Nehru was doing shirshasana at dawn. Seeing the donkey arrive, he forgot he was inverted—some routine he did as formality. He was startled and said, "I have seen many donkeys, but why are you walking upside down?" The donkey said, "Panditji, it is you who stand upside down; I am not walking upside down." Nehru was more startled still—because the donkey spoke. The donkey said, "Do not be so shocked. What is surprising? Have you not seen speaking donkeys before?" Nehru recovered and said, "True enough. I have seen many donkeys who speak—so no need to be shocked. How did you come here?" "I have come to meet you. Do not be angry; I know your temper. Granted I am a donkey; but reading newspapers I have learned to speak and write. Do not flame at me; sparks are flying from your eyes. Do you feel insulted meeting a donkey?"

Nehru said, "Insulted to meet a donkey? Apart from donkeys, who else comes to meet me! But why did you have to come just when I am doing shirshasana, my practice?" The donkey said, "Panditji, if the Divine liked it this way, He would have made everyone stand on their heads; He set us on our feet—that is the natural way. We donkeys do no headstands. We believe in a simple life. Humans invent strange things—twisting the body into peacock postures; then why were you not born a peacock? How many poses have you invented—upside down, crooked—bending and breaking the body. Are you practicing spirituality or a circus?"

Gulal is on the side of the effortless. He says: Do not entangle yourself in crooked tricks. The Divine can be approached only by the simple. For the Divine is svabhava—nature itself. The Divine is the suchness, the spontaneity of this existence. The more natural you become, the more simple, the closer you come. The more innocent, childlike, guileless—you come nearer. The peak of sainthood is when you become utterly effortless.

Let the mind engage in the commerce of the effortless Name...

"Sahaj"—effortless—means that which is self-born. Within you there are processes that go on by themselves—like breathing. You do not do it; it does itself. It continues when you sleep; it continues when you work—you need not remember. If remembrance were needed, how would you live? Forget a moment, get absorbed in work, forget to breathe—and it is over. Sleep at night—and finished. Even if you lie unconscious, breathing continues. Breath within you is the symbol of effortless nature.

Buddha made breath the very foundation of all Yoga, and gave vipassana as the sole method of meditation: become the witness of your breath—enough. Simply watch the breath going in, coming out—do nothing—whenever it is convenient, watch the in-breath and the out-breath. When the breath enters, remain aware that it is entering. As it comes in and in, at a certain depth it halts for a brief moment—that moment is the doorway to the inner being. When breath turns outward, go with it; outside also there is a point where breath hesitates for a moment—there too is a doorway, a door of the Divine.

If you enter through the outer door, then the Divine will enter you; if through the inner, then you will enter the Divine. Choose either of the two.

The jnani chooses the inner door, the bhakta the outer—but both doors open into the same Divine.

Breath is the most effortless process... and note, I am not speaking of pranayama—breathing deeply, closing one nostril, holding for so many counts—that is forced, artificial. No—let the breath move naturally as it moves; just watch it.

This process of the Buddhas is unique.

This is what Gulal calls the effortless Name. Why the Name? Because as you keep listening to and seeing the breath going in and out, slowly you will begin to experience the door within or the door without—and you will be astonished: you were sitting at the very gate of the temple. There was nowhere to go. The Kaaba was within you; Kashi within you; Girnar within you—where had you been running? And as your rhythm with breath becomes attuned, a sound will be heard, which the saints have called anahat, the unstruck sound. The name of that sound is the "Name." If we try to transpose it into language, it is very near to Om—near, not exactly Om. Om is its closest verbal approximation.

That is why all religions have accepted Om.

Three religions arose in India: Jain, Buddhist, Hindu. They differ on every point, agree on none—but on Om they agree. And Jew, Christian, Muslim—three born outside India—they too agree on Om, though they gave it different names. Those differences are natural, because Om is not a word, it is a sound; how you render that sound into language depends on you. Muslims say Ameen—that is a form of Om. Jews and Christians say Amen—that too is a form of Om. When witnessing becomes steady on the breath, this sound begins to be heard. You are not to chant Om, Om, Om—that becomes a formality; it is to be heard. You remain the listener and the seer. It arises within you of itself; when it arises effortlessly, know that it is authentic.

Let the mind engage in the commerce of the effortless Name; abandon all dealings.

Night and day crumble away; not for a moment does it hold its place.

Remember: here, each day, life lessens. A day gone, a night gone—one less day, one less night. In the flow of this river of time nothing is fixed. Do not build your home here. If you build here, you will weep, writhe, repent.

Night and day crumble away...

Everything is falling, collapsing. Do not be too attached to a house that is falling. Seek the Eternal. In this house the tune of the Eternal is also playing—that very resonance of Om, that effortless Name. If you can catch that slender thread, hold that fine ray—you will fly with it to the sun.

Why did you pour beauty's nectar
into this desert of my life?
Why, in a dawn of two moments,
was such a treasure of life given?
My notes are as finite
as the morning stars,
but even oceans cannot hold
the feelings of union.
A barbed arrow of life
has pierced me—how deadly!
Can your hands
pluck it out at the final hour?
In this small jar of flesh
rose a sea of unsated longing—
why did you pour beauty's nectar
into this desert of my life?

Beloved, this night was too brief;
how shall I meet you?
My voice is mortal—
how shall I sing your song?
Breath has been cut into pieces
and each moves in fixed rhythm;
how shall I, from these,
weave today the garland of eternal meeting?
Why did a single flower's life
receive this springtime's splendor?
Why did you pour beauty's nectar
into this desert of my life?

Life is a desert; yet into it beauty's nectar can pour. Life is pebbles and stones; yet pearls can be showered—"pearls raining from all ten directions!" Life is change; yet union with the Eternal is possible, a bridge can be built. Life is death; yet this very life can become the doorway to amrit.

Entangled in business and deception,
we wander the world.

But how is this to happen? You are caught in business and in deceit.

Entangled in business and deception,
we wander the world.

You search everywhere—except within yourself. You have sworn to search in every mine, leaving out the mine that is within.

Mother, father, son, brother, wife,
clan, kin, family—

Do not weave the noose of maya and drown;
in a moment all will be destroyed.

You build so much in this world of change—relations, bonds, promises. Gulal says: if you understand, all you are building is a noose to hang yourself with.

Do not weave the noose of maya and drown...

You will drown in your own web.

...in a moment all will be destroyed.

In a moment all will be gone. Before all dissolves, do something—before the last hour arrives, recognize the Timeless.

Never once did you do devotion to Hari;
you made a treasury of saints' words
nowhere in your house.

You run and race—for wealth, position, pride—but never remember the Divine. You forget what is worth remembering; what is not worth remembering, you remember incessantly. Look at your thoughts—what sort of things you think, what nonsense and jumble; what dreams you wander in. Seeing it yourself you will laugh at your own foolishness—yet again you will be caught in the same net; the mind will wrap you again.

Never once did you do devotion to Hari; you never made the saints' words
into a home.

You never remembered Ram; nor sought a home in the words of the saints. You sought in wealth, position, prestige—but never in satsang, where a home can be found—a home that never collapses.

Drunk with pride and arrogance,
forgetful—you burned your life to ashes.

How much ego you have cultivated—how intoxicated you are with it! A bubble on water—ready to burst—and how lost in it you are. Every day people break around you, yet you do not remember that the same will be your fate. Every day someone dies, every day a bier is raised; but it never occurs to you that it is your bier. At the door of death there is a queue; people depart daily, the queue shrinks, you draw nearer. Soon your ticket will be called. But what a stupor—astonishing stupor!

Drunk with pride and arrogance, forgetful—your life has been burning to ash.

You do not even know to take care of the house of Experience—
who should I call a fool?

When will you bring remembrance? The Master dwells within you—
who shall I call a fool? Fools everywhere; a crowd of the unconscious. Whom to call a fool where all are fools? Like in a town of the blind, the man with eyes is in difficulty; in a town of the deaf, the one with ears suffers; in a madhouse, if you are admitted, you are the one in trouble.

Hence the awakened have suffered more obstacles than anyone—because among the crowds of the unawakened, whatever they say, the way they live, becomes distorted. Their language and ours diverge. They speak from a mountain peak; we hear from a dark valley. They speak from wakefulness; we hear in sleep. By the time the words reach us, they are changed—turn into something else.

Kahlil Gibran's well-known tale:

A sorcerer came and threw a packet into the village well and said, "Whoever drinks will go mad." There were two wells: the village well and the king's well. News spread—but how to live without water? By evening the whole village had gone mad. The king rejoiced: "Blessed my fortune—I had a separate well dug in the palace. Had I been dependent on the village well, today would be trouble." The king, the queen, the minister—only these three remained sane. But when the whole village is mad... By evening a rumor rose: "The king seems to have gone insane." People gathered around the palace—guards, commanders, sentries—all mad. The king trembled; even his bodyguards were mad. "What now?" he asked his minister. "We are trapped." The minister said, "Do not worry; I will keep them busy talking. Slip out the back door—quickly drink and return." The king and queen left.

The minister tried to explain: "Brothers, listen, understand." But who would listen? They cried, "Where is the mad king? Bring him out. We will change the king—no more mad king—we will enthrone someone sane!" By then the king and queen returned—not from the back but from the front door—dancing naked. People rejoiced: "Ah, our king! Blessed our fortune—his mind seems fine now! Did you also drink?" "We just drank and came," the king said. "Such joy—only joy!" He danced; the people danced. A festival was held that night: "God be praised—our king's mind is well again."

Gulal speaks truly: "Whom should I call a fool?" One hesitates even to use the word—whom to say it to?

Gulal says: All men are heedless—
who will take them across?

All are unconscious—who will ferry this crowd across, these mad ones? They cannot cross themselves. To place the boat in their hands is dangerous; they will surely sink it. And who will take them across? They have no awareness—not even enough to recognize and listen to the one who has become aware. Hence so few have drawn benefit from the Buddhas.

How few disciples Jesus had—twelve. And when Jesus was crucified, one hundred thousand came to throw stones, to hurl abuse, to fling rotten bananas and tomatoes. None came to listen; only twelve consented to understand. But to see the crucifixion a hundred thousand gathered. Such is the crowd of madmen.

Mansoor was hounded from village to village; he was not allowed to settle anywhere, for what he said was the ultimate in wakefulness—Anal Haq, "I am Truth"—Aham Brahmasmi, "I am Brahman," and so are you. Unbearable to the Muslims!

There are many kinds of blind—Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—different sects of the blind. Sects can only be of the blind. The awakened have no sect, no religion. They have no country, no caste, no class—wakefulness alone is their caste, their religion.

Village to village Mansoor was chased. No one gave him shelter, no one food. But when he was crucified, lakhs came to see; those who never came to hear him when he poured nectar, came to see him being cut, his limbs severed; they came to hurl stones—traveling hundreds of miles.

Gulal speaks rightly:

You do not even know to take care of the house of Experience—
who should I call a fool?

Gulal says: All men are heedless—who will take them across?

It is a great difficulty—everyone asleep. And if someone becomes awake, the sleepers either kill him or begin to worship him. Both are devices for avoiding him. If they are crude, they kill; if cultured, they worship. Worship means: Sir, accept these flowers and forgive us—keep your teachings to yourself! We will worship for centuries, build temples—but do not harry us; do not ask us to live it. We can worship; we cannot practice.

Buddha was not heard; Buddha statues were made—so many that the Urdu word for idol, "but," is a corruption of "Buddha." So many were made that Buddha and idol became synonyms. There are more Buddha statues than of anyone else—though Buddha said, "Do not make my statues. If you want to do something, do it now. When I am gone, what will statues do? Do not go on worshiping stones." But with stones we find our match; we are stones too, so a friendship arises. And stone idols are in our control. Close the curtains when you like, put him to sleep when you like, rock him as you like, offer food when you like—the idol is in your hands. But the living Buddha is not in your control. With him, if friendship is to be made, you must come under his control—and there is the difficulty. Only one who can surrender can be a disciple.

But a way can be found; there is a door. The door is always open. The earth is never empty of awakened ones; somewhere a lamp is always lit. The Divine is not in despair; He incarnates somewhere in some being.

The nectar of the Name is immortal, brothers—one attains it in the company of a sage.

That amrit-rasa is available—but it is found in the company (sangati) of a sadhu, of one who has arrived. Make friendship with one who has reached, and you too can cross.

The nectar of the Name is immortal, brothers—

it makes one deathless.

—one attains it in the company of a sage.

Sangati—satsang—is the most significant word in the realm of religion—the secret of the alchemy of religion. Satsang means: the art of sitting and moving with one who is awake; the art of not letting the mind come between oneself and the awakened; the art of dissolving oneself for the sake of the awakened—of immersion. When at the feet of the Sadguru the disciple effaces himself, the same Ganges that has descended into the Master begins to descend into the disciple too.

The nectar of the Name is immortal, brothers—one attains it in the company of a sage.

There is only one way—only one. No other way. It will not be found in scriptures—bang your head on them for a lifetime and still you will not taste that nectar, for scriptures are words. Who will give them meaning? You will. And what meaning will you give? Your sleep will interpret; and interpreted through sleep, it will be a misinterpretation.

Mulla Nasruddin drinks heavily. A friend said, "You read the Quran daily and drink daily—these two do not go together. The Quran is strictly against wine. Leave the Quran or leave wine. What contradiction is this?"

Mulla said, "You do not understand. I read the Quran daily—and I drink by the Quran's command." The friend was stunned. "Where is that command?"

Mulla opened the Quran: "Look—it is written clearly: 'Drink—drink fully—but remember, you will rot in hell.'" Mulla said, "According to my capacity, I fulfill at least half the verse: 'Drink—drink fully.' I do not yet have the strength to fulfill the second half. So I use what I can. It is the Quran's own word, 'Drink—drink fully'—not mine. As for the other half—I will attend to it when I have the capacity."

Meanings you draw in sleep will be yours alone. The scriptures cannot liberate you, for you will distort them instantly. What power has a scripture? It is dead—no life in it. What then is the way? One: find a living scripture—that is the Sadguru; not Upanishads, but one in whom Upanishads are being born now.

Scriptures are like dried rose petals; the Sadguru is a flower fresh upon the bush. His presence is essential because he will not let you commit misinterpretations; he will stop you where you go astray; he will pull you toward meaning while you drag his words toward sleep. There is a tug-of-war between Master and disciple—and if it begins, the Master will certainly win. There is only one way to defeat the Master: never go near him. But there is no way to win—if you come close, defeat is certain. By one means or another he will strike at your hardened places, break your inner rocks, pierce your springs, bring a stream to flow within you—for it is hidden in you. There are a few obstacles; they can be broken. He has broken his; he knows where yours are and how to break them. He has gone to the other shore; he knows how to take your boat across.

The nectar of the Name is immortal, brothers—one attains it in the company of a sage.

The whole city lies spread out,
but no place to dwell!
We measure the sky's frontiers,
but know not the road.
Our plans are mountain-high,
but not a grain is thus.
How can anyone reach the goal,
how go to the edges?
Light is strewn in heaps,
but morning is nowhere in sight.

Axles lost, all keep spinning,
only to keep on moving.
In time's fierce current—
helpless, we are swept.
Where place one's feet,
how bow the eager sea?
Pile upon pile of waves,
but no surface to swim.

Moments of life are fragile dreams,
shattered before they form.
Whoever came to lend support—
those enchanting veils slipped away.
How shall anyone calm the mind,
how unravel breath?
There are a thousand pretexts to die,
but no reason to live!

Your life is thus—many reasons to die, no meaning to live. If somewhere you meet a living being, dare to enter satsang. Then do not worry whether he is Hindu or Muslim, for the living and awakened are neither. Do not worry whether he reads the Quran or the Gita. Do not be entangled in petty matters; because of such pettiness, you have missed again and again. If Mahavira meets you, you will miss him because you are not Jain; if he stands naked, even a Shvetambara Jain will miss him—he wears no white. And if on a cold day Mahavira is found wrapped in a blanket, a Digambara Jain will miss him—he is not naked. If Buddha meets you, will you listen? Will you sit with him? You will say, "We are Hindus, Christians, Muslims." If Mohammed meets you, you will say, "We are Jains, Buddhists." If you meet Gulal, you will say, "We are Brahmins." If you meet Raidas, you will say, "Shall we go to hear this shudra?"

When I was in Jabalpur, some cobblers decided to celebrate Raidas Jayanti. They requested every known pandit and scholar in town; all made excuses. One said, "I will not be in town." One said, "I am unwell." One said, "I am engaged that day." Finally they came to me: "It is difficult—no one will come to speak; if you can, please come." I said, "I will." They were delighted. I went and spoke. Those who always came to hear me at other gatherings—I hoped they would at least come—none came. Who will go to a cobblers' gathering? Who will sit with cobblers? They had made great arrangements, but only fifty-sixty cobblers gathered; they had arranged for five thousand. They said to me, "Those who always hear you—we don't even know where they went!" I said, "Now you understand: they love me, but not enough to sit with cobblers. Their love is also formal."

People came to advise me beforehand: "Do not go there. It does not befit you to speak at a cobblers' meeting."

So even if Raidas were alive, you would not go to hear him. He himself was a cobbler. Will you go to hear Gora the potter? Kabir the weaver? Your ego will put up a thousand barriers: Brahmin, Vaishya, Kshatriya—high castes. Thus you have always missed the awakened; today it is as it was. "Whom should I call a fool?"—the same sleep remains.

Gulal says: All men are heedless—who will ferry them across?

Boatmen are always available; but those willing to sit in the boat are not. All have decided in which boat they will sit: the Jains say, "We will sit only if Mahavira himself is the boatman." He will not return again. Buddhists: "Only Buddha." He will not return. The Krishna devotees: "Only Krishna." None returns—and your insistences are upon the past. When Buddha was alive, you did not sit in the boat; when Krishna was alive, you did not sit.

Leave you aside—even Arjuna made such fuss about sitting in the boat! And I doubt he ever truly sat. The Mahabharata says that when the Great Departure happened, of all only Yudhishthira and his dog reached heaven's gate; the rest fell on the way—Arjuna too. It seems he did not fully trust. In the Gita there are a thousand signs: he cannot quite believe; questions upon questions. At the end when he says, "You have resolved all my doubts; now I am at peace," it does not seem true—more like he was tired: "Brother, be quiet now! Whatever you say is fine. If I go on raising doubts, he goes on answering; best to be silent and let the war begin."

What happened with Krishna, happened with Buddha, with Jesus, with Mohammed—with all. Satsang is costlier than you think: you must bend; and to bend is hard. To melt the ego even a little makes our very breath tremble, for we have taken ego to be our existence. And satsang demands only this: break the ego; drop it utterly; dis-identify; say, "I am not the ego; I am not the 'I'; I am only a void." Then satsang can happen.

The nectar of the Name is immortal, brothers—one attains it in the company of a sage.

Without grinding, without straining, if you drink—
not even a shell's worth is paid.

Nothing else need be paid—not wealth, not outer renunciation. Not even a cowry's price is asked—only the ego be left. And the ego is a lie. It exists because you agree; it is nowhere in reality. You are not separate from existence; it is only your delusion that you are separate. If the leaves of a tree could think, each would think itself separate; if the ocean's waves could think, each would think itself separate from the sea—exactly your delusion. You lose nothing—only a falsehood; not even a cowry goes; you lose nothing and you gain all.

Colors richly hued, flavors intoxicating
rise and never fall.

Gulal says: if you can remove the ego even a little, revolution happens.

Colors richly hued, flavors intoxicating—
you become a rainbow of hues; you are drenched in rasa that never runs dry,

...never falling away.

Not a monsoon flood that rises and falls—this is the flood of the Eternal.

Drunk and making others drunk, soaked to the bone,
you sway and sway in the nectar.

You will dance, sway, be intoxicated; rasa will flow from you. You will drink, and make others drink. Your every pore will be dyed in that rasa—not only your soul but even your body will be soaked through—you will be moist with joy; every hair will dance and sing; night will end, dawn will break.

Pure, pure words of virtue will be spoken;
experience will mount like wine.

Whatever you speak will be Truth—not that you will speak Truth, but whatever you speak will turn into Truth. Stand up—it will be a dance; sit down—it will be a festival.

Wherever you go, you will see none stands steady;
you will fling open your flask and run to them.

Wherever you go, you will find people not able to stand steady—you will open your wine before them: "Here brother, drink!" You will say, "Live to the brim, drink to the brim!" You will open your doors. For those lost in the dark, you will become a lamp.

Worshiping water and stone,
you have built idols in vain.

You will shake people awake: What madness is this—worshiping water and stone? You have built idols in vain, over and over—earth and stone. The Divine cannot be sculpted; He is the One who sculpted you.

By the Master's grace it is attained—
he fills the cups and passes them round.

This event happens only in the company of the True Master. The Master is a living tavern.

He fills the cups and passes them round.

He is the sakhi—the cupbearer—who pours from the flask into your cup, and lets you taste the Divine; lets you savor the flavor of Paramatma.

By the Master's grace it is attained—
he fills the cups and passes them round.

Gulal says: "We sit here, lost in ecstasy—let our blessing be asked of us!" In the Master's presence there is no need to ask; he himself pours. He himself roams with his flask; indeed, he himself is the flask. His source is joined to the Divine, so his flask never runs dry.

The Sufi fakirs have spoken of this very wine—and people did not understand. Omar Khayyam speaks of this wine—and people did not understand. They named liquor shops after him—Omar Khayyam. Great injustice has been done to Omar Khayyam. He is a Sufi saint—saying exactly what Gulal is saying: the Divine is wine, divine intoxication, the ultimate experience of bliss—Sat-Chit-Ananda. No symbol is better than wine to express it. Yes, with this difference: ordinary wine rises and falls; his wine rises—and rises ever more—to peaks upon peaks, never falling.

If you find the True Master, bow at his feet and say:

I seek the support of your silent compassion.
I know in this world
how brief the life of a flower,
how little air
in the swelling breath of youth.
Therefore I seek
the whole expanse of the sky.
I seek the support of your silent compassion.

Question-marks are rising
from the ocean of fate;
will the corners of the eyes
be free of tears?
I seek that stream of tears
which softens you.
I seek the support of your silent compassion.

Hoarding grain by grain,
the sky has studded stars—
bright they are indeed,
but do they serve anyone?
Life-breath, I seek a single star—
a guide.
I seek the support of your silent compassion.

What a tempest has risen—
as if the directions have joined!
One boat, one boatman—
and how many perils!
What shall I say—I seek
at midstream the shore.
I seek the support of your silent compassion.

Only so much prayer, so much surrender—and the revolution in life begins. The new moon is cut away; dawn arrives. And what happens is the wonder of wonders: it is your own original face, with which you were unfamiliar and now become acquainted. The Master gives you nothing; he simply brings you before yourself. The Master becomes a mirror in which you see your own image—and that image is the image of the Divine.

Understand these words of Gulal. May it be that one day you too can say: "Pearls rain down from all ten directions!"

Enough for today.