Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #8

Anand Tirth! It is because of hope that disappointment befalls you—not because of the world. What does the world care! The world is utterly neutral. You create the whole play yourself. You weave hopes; hence disappointment comes to hand. Hope means: you want the future to be a certain way—suited to your desires, your cravings. And this vast existence cannot run according to your petty wants. Even if there were just one or two of you, perhaps it could be managed; but there are millions upon millions of people, with billions upon billions of desires—if the cosmos tried to accommodate them all, it would not be able to take even a single step. It would fall apart instantly. It would shatter into fragments. It would no longer remain a cosmos. The harmony that is present now—the music, the attunement, the subtle coordination in which each thing is in rhythm with every other—would all be destroyed. Existence cannot follow your private longings; the Whole cannot move after the part.

And what are we? Tiny parts—like a small wave of the ocean. If a wave demands that the ocean flow according to it, how could that ever be? Yet that is precisely what we do. This impossible insistence is called craving. Yes, the wave can move with the ocean—then it will live, and there will be no disappointment. But for the wave to move with the ocean, first hope has to be dropped. Then wherever the Vast carries you—that is its will. “As Ram keeps me!” Then there is no personal hope in you; and therefore there can be no personal despair either. Sow the seeds of hope and you will reap a harvest of despair. Aspire for success and you will tumble into the pits and chasms of failure. Seek victory and defeat is assured.

Understand this great arithmetic rightly. Whoever has truly understood it has attained Buddhahood.

If you want to win, drop even the thought of winning—then no one can defeat you. If you want to be blissful in life, do not raise the issue of attaining bliss at all; do not even bring up the topic; do not peg your hopes upon bliss—and bliss will rain upon you.

Lao Tzu said, “Let me see who can defeat me! No one can defeat me.” A disciple asked, “But there are great wrestlers—surely you are a wise man, but there are powerful bodies who could defeat you.” Lao Tzu said, “No one can defeat me because I am already defeated. Before anyone can throw me down, I lie down flat on my back—then what will he do?”

How can you defeat one who is already defeated? And the one who is defeated before the Vast—he alone has won. In front of God, where is defeat? To be defeated there is to be adorned with garlands of victory, garlands of pearls.

You ask, “Is it only disappointment that one finds in the world?”

The world has nothing to do with it. The world is completely neutral. Everything depends on you. If you move in tune with the innermost order of existence, there is nothing but victory. Then the lamps of hope will begin to glow of their own accord; Diwali will happen. Lamps will be lit that never go out. Your victory-banners will fly in the eternal. You will be enthroned upon such a seat from which no one has ever been dethroned. Yesterday, Gulal was speaking of that very throne. The thousand-petaled lotus will open within you; upon its throne you will be seated. But this good fortune comes to those who have the courage to offer their ego at the feet of God.

Yes, if you insist that your ego must win, you will be badly thrashed. The larger the ego, the harsher the beating. Your blows come in direct proportion to your ego. All the defeats, the failures, the sorrows that come into your life—you yourself have called them, invited them. The ego attracts them like a magnet. Ego is delusion. You are not separate from existence; therefore what separate longing, what hope can be yours? If you were separate, separate desires and separate hopes could have meaning. But you are one with the Vast. It is like a leaf of a tree developing a private agenda—then it will be in trouble. When the tree dances in the winds, the leaf wants not to dance because it is resting; and when the tree is still and no wind blows, the leaf wants to dance because its rest is complete. It will never find itself together with the tree. When the tree is not dancing, how will the leaf dance? And when the tree is dancing, how will the leaf restrain itself from dancing? At every moment the leaf will meet disappointment; it will feel that the whole arrangement is against it, that everyone is an enemy. No one is your enemy except yourself—and no one is your friend except yourself. If the ego is dropped, you are your own friend; if you continue to prop up the ego, you are your own enemy.

Do not blame the world. If there is a fault, it belongs to your own mind. But no one wants to blame themselves. We always try to find someone else on whose shoulders we can unload our burden of faults. So we have coined good-sounding words. You commit the stupidity and blame the world. And then naturally the “logical” conclusion is: if you want to be blissful, renounce the world. But don’t renounce stupidity! Because you never declared stupidity to be the culprit. Leave the world—but stupidity is within you; wherever you go after leaving the world, stupidity will go along. Whatever you do will carry that stupidity. If you run a shop, stupidity will be there; if you do worship, stupidity will be there. Your worship will arise out of your stupidity! From where else will your prayer come? The same disease that was in the shop, in the marketplace, will be in the temple, in the place of pilgrimage. What was in the household will be in the cave in the Himalayas. Your prayer will be born from you; it will carry your color and your style. There too you will create a new world, weave a new web of imagination, and again bind hopes.

Those who sit in Himalayan caves—do you think they are free of hope? If they were free of hope, what need would there be to sit in caves? Sitting there, they dream of heavens. Your dreams are small, not very big. What do you dream of? A bigger house, a little money, some property; a beautiful wife, a suitable husband; a good position. Your dreams are small. The dreams of sannyasins, monks, your so-called saints are much bigger: they want heaven, wish-fulfilling trees under which all desires are fulfilled without doing a thing—just sit beneath the tree and whatever you think of is fulfilled instantly. Some extraordinary lazybones must have imagined this wish-fulfilling tree—no need to lift even a hand!

I have heard: a man, wandering by chance, came under a wish-fulfilling tree. He did not know it was such a tree. Tired, he sat down in its shade and thought, “If only I could get some food—how hungry I am!” It was a wish-fulfilling tree. Instantly celestial nymphs appeared with golden platters full of sweets, foods, dry fruits. He was so hungry that he didn’t even wonder from what realm these nymphs had descended! “It must be some holy merit, the fruit of many lifetimes. After all, I have counted many rosary beads! It should have happened much earlier; it’s already late.” After eating, naturally the thought arose, “If only there were a place to lie down, a fine pillow and mattress to rest upon.” Instantly there appeared a beautiful bed, a golden bed with soft pillows—he lay down at once and fell asleep. After two or three hours, when he awoke, he thought, “I am very thirsty. If only there were water scented with rose.” He had never drunk such delicious water before. Now as he drank, a little sense returned; he began to wonder, “What is going on? First the platters came, then the bed, and now the water—could it be that there are ghosts here?” And ghosts appeared! A wish-fulfilling tree is a wish-fulfilling tree. Naked ghosts began to dance all around. Terrified, he cried, “Now I am done for!” And he was done for. The ghosts jumped onto his chest, throttled him, beat him, pressed his neck. Whatever he thought, happened.

Your saints sit with fantasies of wish-fulfilling trees—dreams of idlers, of the indolent, of freeloaders. Your desires are small; they call you sinners for your small grasping, while their cravings are vast and they take themselves to be saints! You clutch small things and are called greedy; they clutch the eternal and believe they have achieved non-greed.

I have heard: in a village lived a miser—an extreme miser. He heard that in the neighboring village there was an even greater miser; people said, “Next to him, you are nothing.” His heart was hurt; his ego was bruised. As the other miser’s fame spread far and wide, our man thought, “I should go and meet him, have his darshan, see what makes him so celebrated while no one speaks of me!”

He took a piece of paper and drew two healthy, handsome rabbits, placed the paper in a basket, and set off for the neighboring village. He arrived, knocked on the door; it opened and the miser’s son came out. “Where is your father?” he asked. “I’ve come to meet him.” The son said, “He is away and may not return for two or three days. But I am his son—how may I serve you?” The visitor said, “I have brought a gift for him.” He took out the picture of the two rabbits and, handing it to the boy, said, “Give him my gift and tell him I came to meet him. I live in the nearby village.” The boy said, “Since you’ve come so far, please accept a gift from us as well. Come inside.” He took him in and said, “Open your basket.” The visitor opened it. The boy traced the shape of a mango in the air and said, “Please accept these mangoes—our gift.” There were no mangoes; he simply drew their outline in the air and dropped them into the basket.

The visitor returned home thinking, “Exactly as I had heard! I at least spent paper and color to draw rabbits; the boy didn’t spend even a sheet—he gave mangoes made of air. If the son is such a miser, may God save us from the father!”

Meanwhile, when the father returned, the boy narrated the whole episode. “The man brought two rabbits as a gift, and I too did not let him go empty-handed—I gave him some mangoes.” The boy traced the shape of the mango again in the air: “Like this, I dropped them in his basket.” The father looked—and slapped the boy hard. “You fool! You always do something stupid when I am not home! You good-for-nothing! Why did you give such large mangoes? If you had to give, you could have given small ones! One day you’ll ruin me completely!”

Look at the cravings of those you call saints, their desires, their thirsts! If you are small misers, they are grand misers. You clutch perishable things; they clutch too—but such things as cannot be snatched away. You hold what will be taken from you; you are not even truly greedy—you yourself know it will all be left behind. “When the caravan moves on, all grandeur is left behind!” You know this. They do not clutch the temporal because all pomp will be left behind; they clutch something that will not be left behind, that will go along with them. They want to carry something even after death. You anchor your hopes in the transient; they anchor theirs in the eternal. Where is the difference? I do not call them saints. They are supremely worldly. I call him a saint who has understood the truth: I am not separate at all—so what could be my private longing! He trusts neither wealth nor position, neither wish-fulfilling trees nor heavens. He pins his hope on nothing—neither on the transient nor on the timeless. Seeing hope itself as futile, he drops it. The moment hope drops, despair ends.

Just think: if there is no hope, how can there be despair? If hope is absent in your mind, how will you be disheartened? Impossible. When hope goes, despair goes. When success goes, failure goes. When day goes, night goes. They are together, twinned. They come together and go together.

Do not blame the world! Understand your mind. Your mind is your real world. But we don’t look at the mind; we carry it along, we decorate it, and then we accuse the world. The world has done nothing to you. This world of trees, the moon and stars, the sun in the sky, the clouds—what harm have they done you? This wondrous play of the Vast—what harm has it done? Yet you abuse it; you call it all illusion. And within you, the very source of illusion—your webs of imagination, your nets of desire spreading endlessly—you are swallowing them! Spit them out! That is where the error lies.

I call your mind the world.

Fairs of enchanting colors!
They left me, left me lonely!!
Like bargains broken,
like bonds misbegotten,
we scatter, moment by moment—
like levees burst and broken;
like yellow leaves that fall,
like songs once full that stall;
mingled with aching pain,
we frolic, tears our all!
Cursed like blessed boons,
even quenched, aflame they loom;
a life without all meaning
let the world learn from our tuning;
the moods of our own have changed,
the jewels of dreams exchanged;
eyes ablaze like flaming dhak,
as if clods of ochre ranged!
Breaths, a heavy slurry made,
hopes turned into biting brine;
helpless smiles now glued
to lips that bear their weight as wine;
each pore a burning Holi,
forehead smeared with anxious vermilion;
remaining utterly still within,
we bear both spring and conflagration!
Fairs of enchanting colors!!

All the fairs are in your mind. All these colors are in your mind. These rainbows you spread—then you run to catch them. When nothing comes to your hand, you weep—and then you blame the world. Awaken toward the mind! Awaken from the mind! Become a witness to the mind!

Anand Tirth, the moment you become a witness to the mind, release happens—not only from this world but from the otherworldly as well. As soon as you awaken toward the mind and see that the mind is playing the whole game… Mind is a projector. When you go to a movie, your eyes are fixed on the screen; you never look back, though the real play is going on behind. There is the projector; there is the film. On the screen it is only projected. But you are entangled with the screen where there is nothing—just a play of light and shadow. Yet how you get entangled! If a tragic scene appears, tears start flowing; if a joyous scene comes, fountains of laughter burst. You pass through so many colors while watching a film! And you know very well it is only a screen; yet you are deceived—knowing, you are deceived! But the real projector is behind. If someone switches off the projector, the screen becomes blank.

I am telling you: the world is only a screen; the mind hidden within you is where the whole play is. You keep projecting it outward. The day you slip out of the mind within, the outer world changes instantly; its color and flavor change. That day you no longer find the world—you find God. His pure, innocent existence you are distorting. You keep throwing your hopes and cravings upon it, weaving web after web like a spider that spins its threads from within itself and spreads a web—then gets entangled in its own web and cries for help.

Now you ask: “Is it only disappointment that one finds in the world?”

If you hope too much, then yes—only disappointment upon disappointment will be found. If you have not hoped, despair will not touch you at all. Despair does not touch my hands. For years I have been unfamiliar with despair. Sometimes I even try to feel despondent—but it does not come. The projector is broken. And you ask if only despair comes? Everything depends on you.

Even by mistake you did not come!
Tears swelling in the eyes,
in the eyes themselves are drowned.
With fragrance decked and dressed,
new winds ran along your path;
crimson buds themselves, adorned,
wove an aarti in the heart.
Palm-fronds, folded, arched,
fresh festoons at the gate swayed.
Finite, with infinite joy,
I drenched the world entire;
with the anthem of my breath
I sang your endless praise.
But tell, what voice, O Maker-of-voice,
could bring you to my side?
Even by mistake you did not come!

When you call to God, you take for granted in that very call that he is far—and for the one who assumes distance, he is far. It is all a game of belief. True prayer is not a call; it is silence, wordless. Wordless prayer means: he is so close—what to say to him? What to tell him? Before we can say, he already knows; before we know, he knows. We find out long afterwards; by the time we realize, it is already done. He resides in our innermost core. What is there to say to him, what to inform him, what advice to give him?

What are you doing in temples and mosques? You are advising God: do this, do that; my wife is ill—cure her; my son has no job—give him one. You are begging like beggars. And if the job does not come, you fall into despair; if the wife is not cured, you fall into despair.

And if, by coincidence, she is cured—that too is trouble.

When I lived in Jabalpur, one evening I was strolling in my garden. A gentleman came to meet me. I leaned against a nearby car and began talking with him. He quickly took out a notebook and started writing. I asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “You have given the hint.” I said, “I haven’t even spoken yet. I often talk myself hoarse and people still don’t get the hint—you seem a prodigy! Let me see what you wrote.” He had written down the car’s license number. He said, “I came to ask which lottery ticket number I should buy. And look at the wonder—you leaned right on the number. I understood the hint at once. You said it clearly enough—what more is needed!” I said, “Now you’re putting me in a fix. If this number doesn’t win, no harm—you’ll be rid of me and go looking elsewhere. But if by some fluke it wins, you’ll tie yourself to my neck!”

People are stuffed with desires, with cravings, with their own webs of imagination. I kept saying to him, “There is no hint. I just happened to lean against the car to talk to you; you came at an odd hour; it is my time to walk, the car was near, I leaned on it. Forgive me—no intention.” But he was unwilling to listen. He bowed quickly and went off, “That’s enough. I got what I came for.”

A man full of craving sees only what he wants to see and hears only what he wants to hear. Cravings do not let him see what is; they do not let him see what surrounds him. They allow him to see a tiny world—and that world is of his own making.

Chandulal used to paint large advertising billboards along the roadside. One day he fell from the top of the ladder and was badly injured. Dhabbuji went to see him in the hospital and found plaster on fractures all over his body; nothing could be seen but his eyes and mouth. Dhabbuji was moved: “You must be in great pain.” Chandulal said, “Not always—only when I laugh it hurts everywhere.” Dhabbuji asked, “But what is there to laugh about?” Chandulal said, “Don’t ask! Right across from where I was working there was a window, and in it a young woman was changing her dress. She was about to remove her last garment when the ladder broke and I fell—and this is my condition!” Dhabbuji asked in amazement, “But how did the ladder break? Was it your weight?” Chandulal replied, “Not mine—those twenty-five other fellows who had climbed up! Because of their weight! I wasn’t alone on the ladder—the whole village had climbed up! How long could the ladder hold? And that’s why, from time to time, I can’t help laughing—what a scene!”

What people see and hear is not what is; it is their own web of imagination. And they pay heavy prices for it. They waste entire lives, end up skin and bones—and the old disease remains the same. That is why truth is so difficult to convey.

Just last night an Indian friend living in America took sannyas. I gave him the name: Ashok Muni. I told him: ashoka is a Buddha-word. Before Buddha, the wise spoke of ananda—bliss. Buddha was compelled to speak of ashoka—absence of grief—because when people heard “God is truth-consciousness-bliss,” they began to lust for bliss itself: “If there is bliss, we must have it.” The very word ananda started tickling them, making their mouths water; they grew greedy for it. “Bliss—endless bliss, sheer pleasure, without even a trace of pain—then let’s run!” But the condition of bliss is precisely this: as long as craving persists, it is not attained. God, too, has set the condition upside down—so long as you run, so long as you desire, bliss will not be available. And yet you want bliss! If you want it, you will not get it. Bliss happens to those who want nothing at all, who say, “Want itself has dropped.” When the storm, the whirlwind of wanting is gone, bliss arrives.

People even try to deceive God; they say, “Alright then—we will drop wanting. If dropping desire brings bliss, we agree.” But inside, the old mood remains: “We must get bliss.” They are even ready to drop desire! People ask me, “Then is it guaranteed that we will get it? We will drop desire too.” But where are you dropping desire? You are only making desire firmer. “Guaranteed?” If it is guaranteed, then we’ll do it—if dropping desire is the condition, we will fulfill it. But such a person will keep peeking from time to time: “Still not arrived? Desire for desire has gone, but there is no sign of bliss—how much longer?” But that very peeking reveals that desire is still intact, only hiding.

Before Buddha, the Upanishads defined God in a positive way: sat-chit-ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss. Buddha changed the definition. He saw people had misunderstood. They made bliss their goal. Buddha said: the ultimate state means only this—that there is no sorrow. Do not speak of pleasure—only that sorrow is absent. He used the term dukkha-nirodha—cessation of suffering. There is no suffering there. The difference is immense, though the reality is one. But people steeped in craving do not like Buddha’s expression. That is why the Upanishads are still repeated and Buddha has long been forgotten. In India we uprooted Buddha. Yet what he did was a great, wondrous work. He tried to cut desire at the very root so that you might receive bliss. But you missed.

You have missed Buddha and you keep missing the Buddhas because Buddha tried to break your language-traps. He crafted a new language. He said: the ultimate state should not be called moksha—liberation—but nirvana. Why not moksha? Because moksha suggests: I will remain there, free. “I will remain, liberated I will live.” But as long as the “I” is there, where is liberation? Liberation is only when the “I” is gone; freedom from “I” is moksha—this is the very definition. Yet listeners said, “This is wonderful—moksha! No hassles, no bondage, no wife, no children, no world’s nuisance! Sitting on the pinnacle, enjoying bliss, showers of nectar pouring endlessly—but I am.” If “I” is, there is no moksha. But in the word moksha the “I” seems to survive—I will be there, free.

Buddha said, “No—you will not be there.” Hence he chose the word nirvana: the flame going out. You will be extinguished like a lamp; you will not remain. Will this excite anyone’s desire? People asked Buddha again and again, “Your words are strange. If we will not remain, why should we meditate or practice? Just to be annihilated? Man wants to do something to be more; not to be nothing. You teach emptiness.” But people liked the Upanishads: “That is the Full; from the Full, the Full is born; remove the Full from the Full and the Full remains; add the Full to the Full, the Full remains the Full.” Attractive! Fullness seems to decorate the ego, adorn it. Buddha says: shunyata—emptiness; the Upanishads say: ananda—bliss; Buddha says: dukkha-nirodha—no suffering. The Upanishads say: “Flowers will bloom”; Buddha says: “There will be no thorns.” But who will be inspired to fast, to do yoga, for the promise that “there will be no thorns”? If someone asks you while you stand on your head and fast for months, “Why?” and you answer, “So that there will be no suffering”—negative! Yet where there is no suffering, there is the flowering of bliss. Buddha does not say it—because saying it invites your greed. You can only understand what you can understand.

In a cinema hall a fine film was showing. Chandulal said to his beloved, “Let’s buy tickets for the back row.” She asked, “And if we don’t get back-row tickets?” Chandulal replied, “Then what? We’ll watch the picture!”

People have their own languages, their own arithmetic. They are childish.

A little boy asks his old granny, “Granny, can you croak?” She says, “Yes, son, why not?” The boy says, “Then croak, please! Because mom was saying: ‘When that old woman croaks we’ll get lots of money.’”

But the child can be forgiven; he understood as much as he could. He thinks it’s only a matter of saying “croak”—say it and we’ll get money. He doesn’t know what lies behind death. But even grown-ups behave the same way. Neither do you understand what is said to you, nor do you understand what you see. As long as mind is there, you deform everything. Only free of mind does truth begin to appear. Then this world is wondrous. Then it is not maya. Your mind has made it appear as maya. Your mind has cast the net of illusion upon it.

Bhartrihari left palace and home for the forest to meditate. He was an emperor with immense wealth—he left it all. Early one morning, in the dim light of dawn, he sat in meditation. As the first rays of the sun spread, his eyes opened. Right on the path before him lay a large diamond, glittering in the morning light. He had left behind diamonds far greater than this—but look at the mind of man: for a moment greed arose—“Let me pick it up.” He was startled and gathered himself—he did not pick it up. But for a moment desire surrounded him; the mind returned. He forgot that he had renounced everything, that he had left behind gems beyond counting. For this path-side stone, a wish arose! “It is for this that I left home and palace?” But desire grabbed him for a moment. Desire moves with a speed beyond light. Scientists say light travels 186,000 miles a second—no speed higher; but desire—where is its measure? Here one instant, the next on the moon, then on the sun—who can calculate! For a fraction of an instant Bhartrihari got lost—he recovered and did not fall. But then another incident occurred.

Two horsemen came from opposite sides. Both saw the diamond at once. Both drew their swords and laid claim: “My eye fell first—so it is mine.” Bhartrihari smiled. In fact, his eye had fallen on it first. Then he smiled again at his own smile: “If I smile at this, I am still a claimant.” Moments earlier he had reflected, “What have I done—what desire arose!” Now again a wave arose: “Shall I stand up—old kshatriya blood—shall I tell them whose eye fell first?” He held himself back. Maya rises again and again; desire keeps surging.

The two warriors clashed. Neither would retreat—retreat was not in their language. Swords flashed and fell. In moments, both heads were cut off; each sword fell upon the other’s neck at the same time. Their corpses lay there; the diamond lay where it had always lain. The diamond has nothing to do with Bhartrihari, nor with those two who died.

Is the diamond illusion? Is illusion in the diamond—or in the mind? Bhartrihari felt a gust of illusion, another gust rose, yet he mastered himself. But those two men died—for a diamond they would never know; for a stone that had nothing to do with them; that belongs either to God or to no one. And even calling it a diamond is our notion; otherwise it is just a stone. If you believe, it is a diamond; if you know, it is stone—shiny and beautiful perhaps, but stone nonetheless.

If we see the world free of mind, it is supremely beautiful, utterly blissful, divine. But if we see it full of mind, then there is only trouble. Then come the games of hope and despair, the net of success and failure, the noose you tie with your own hands.

Anand Tirth, do not blame the world. The world is very lovely, because it is God’s expression. Seize the mind—your own mind—because only there can revolution happen. The way to catch the mind is meditation. The way to awaken from mind is meditation. To transcend mind is meditation. To become a witness to mind—that is meditation. Be a witness to the mind. As Bhartrihari twice seized his mind through witnessing, so keep catching it. Whenever the mind spreads its nets, step aside. Say to the mind, “This is a game—I am not participating.” Stand apart and aloof. Slowly the mind will drop its old habits. Seeing that you no longer have any taste for them, it will call you, it will lure you in many ways, it will coax you in many ways. But if you have decided—truly decided—made a resolve… and, Anand Tirth, the meaning of sannyas is precisely this: resolve. The resolve that now we will not be ensnared in the mind’s nets; now we will awaken from the mind and be a witness. The day you become a witness, that very day there is no illusion, no mind, no despair, no dejection. Then life is a great festival.

Kamleshwar! That everything else appears meaningless—what greater good fortune could there be! You want to interfere by doing something! Just watch. Don’t panic—panic will arise, because all will seem meaningless. Wherever there seemed essence until yesterday, there it will now appear hollow. Then fear will arise: What is happening to me? Am I going mad? Because the whole world is running after things that now appear empty to me. The whole world is crazy about money, position, prestige—I no longer find any substance in them. So many people cannot be insane!

But let me tell you, so many cannot be Buddhas. They can be insane—indeed, they are. Buddhas are very few, countable on the fingers. The crowd is of the unawakened, and you are surrounded by that crowd; naturally worries will arise in the mind that something must be going wrong in me! Moreover, until yesterday those things that seemed essential kept you occupied; there was engagement, there was work. Now as they appear hollow, the busyness will diminish, time will not pass, you will feel: now what is there to do? That is what you are asking: What should I do now? Now let God do! You have done a lot. What did you gain by all your doing? What came into your hands? Now leave it to Him. Say: Now You do. Now we will move by Your will. We will do what You make us do, but we will no longer be the doer; we will remain only the witness. If there is doing, we will do; if it is Your command, we will do. If You make us keep a shop, we will keep a shop; if You take us to the marketplace, we will go to the marketplace. Whatever You make us do, we will do—but we will no longer be the doer. You are the doer; now You take care. Sin Yours, virtue Yours, religion Yours, irreligion Yours, morality Yours, immorality Yours—now nothing is ours. We will remain only witnesses. We will not budge from the seer; we will not be shaken. Do this: do not move away from the witness.

Kamleshwar, an auspicious hour is dawning in your life. But whenever such revolutionary moments arrive, when such radical transformations happen, restlessness also comes, because everything is thrown into disarray; yesterday’s well-arranged game suddenly ends. What was woven till now with so much effort and striving vanishes at once. Like a house of cards— a gust of wind came and the house fell. Just a slight gust! And here, this is your very first visit—only a little breeze touched you and your house fell. I can understand your unease. You must be feeling: now what will I do? Until now there was a race; you were absorbed. There was a fixation; you were entangled—this to do, that to do. The relish, the attachments—they have been snatched away. Now even if you want to taste them again, it will be difficult. There can be juice only so long as there was stupor. Now even if you have to do, you will do tastelessly. This is what is called vairagya—dispassion. Vairagya does not mean running away; it means: let the doing be exactly what God makes you do, but the relish is gone; it becomes insipid. Only the acting remains—just a play. Do not take it seriously; take it lightly, playfully. Then no burden remains a burden.

In some such way we have changed!
Now every season is empty of meaning!!
Whether colors rain or the drizzle sets in,
whether spring’s fever-tide awakes—
we will no longer be made luscious;
our dreams are kin to autumn’s fall.
Garlands of blossoms have come to naught,
spring has turned misshapen;
such a shadow of delusion-dark
that even the sun’s course seems dim!

When the mind is unminded, distressed,
how can life be blessed?
The caravan of breaths is looted—
what use of abir and gulal now?
Tesu’s flowers are burning,
Palash is melting into fire—
thus the eyes have turned moist,
every glance brims over.

What shall the spring rhythms do,
what can the echoing intoxication do?
Strings, tightened by tears—what countless runs can they manage?
Meends are heavy with sorrow,
only descent remains;
thus the ragas have fallen still,
the scale fell silent before its time!

Until now we were singing a song—suddenly it broke. Until now we were playing a sitar—the strings snapped. I can understand your restlessness. But this restlessness is auspicious. If you are willing to endure it, a sunrise can happen in your life. If you get frightened, turn your back, and run to the old game—and throw yourself into it harder so that nothing shows—that is another matter. You had come near: a lamp would have been lit within you; but turning away you were flung far. And to come near is difficult; to go far is very easy—because going far fits the old habit, and coming near is a completely new moment.

You say: “Ever since I came here, only your remembrance abides in my heart.”
Let it abide. In just this way I will break your old strings, cut your old roots. In just this way I will uproot your old habits. If this remembrance pervades your every pore, you can appear anew; your rebirth will happen. You will become dvija—twice-born. You can become a brahmin; but the middle period will be difficult. The old will depart and the new will not yet arrive, and in between you will hang like Trishanku for many days. It depends on you how long you will take. If there is courage, this time is completed quickly—indeed, it can be completed in a single instant. Without courage, one can hang like Trishanku for lifetimes—neither here nor there.

One thing is certain: even if you try, you will not succeed in reinstalling the old. If a gust of wind has once knocked down your house of cards, however much you try, how will you forget that it is a house of cards, that a single gust is enough to topple it? If you have once seen a paper boat sink, how will you persuade yourself that it is not paper and will never sink?

This is the whole meaning of satsang. The true Master is a gust of wind: he sinks your paper boats; he topples your houses of cards. The true Master comes first like a blow—like a squall, like a storm. But those who consent to endure him become refined; they become clean; that storm brushes away their dust and grime. But there is an art to enduring the Master.

Lao Tzu has said—and in that saying he has kept the whole secret of satsang—that when a great storm comes, the big trees stand stiff, fight the storm, and they fall. Having fallen, they cannot rise again. The small grasses, when the storm arrives, bend; they do not fight. In the direction the storm is going, they bend. They attune themselves to the storm, they surrender. The storm brushes away their dust and moves on; those grasses stand upright again. But those big trees swollen with ego—now they can never stand again.

The art of satsang is to be humble, surrendered, to become like grass. If you stand rigid, if what I am saying you oppose within, resist, try to protect yourself, you will get into difficulty. If you bend, consent, accept naturally; if you see, understand, recognize—and allow yourself to be dyed in the color that is raining here; allow yourself to be immersed in the fragrance that is wafting here—then there is no worry. You will become fresh, new. And then that in-between interval will not be long; it can be completed in a single instant. The transitional period is difficult; if it becomes long, it becomes painful. To make it long or not is up to you.

Don’t ask, “What should I do now?” Now stop doing! Now just watch. Whatever is happening, watch it. See that all has become without essence. See that a new event is occurring in your life, that a new remembrance is imbuing you. I cannot give you wealth, nor position, nor prestige. Walk with me, and whatever of these is with you may even be snatched away. Because of me you will not receive honor, applause in society. Walk with me—stones may be thrown, there may be insult, you may be taken for mad. Walking with me is a costly bargain. But it seems costly only so long as you see what is being lost. The day you begin to see what is being gained, it no longer appears costly. Then you have bought pearls for the price of shells, diamonds for a trifle. Then you have given up mud and attained nectar.

Kamleshwar, it is an auspicious hour! Do not let it pass like this.

All life long, remain
in the vaults of awareness!
A needle pricked the eyes,
sleep dripped away drop by drop;
from pain we became fakirs,
love became eyewitness;
modesty turned mad,
does as it pleases;
and write one more name
among Meera and Raskhan!

If my words begin to be understood, then your name too will be written among Meera and Raskhan!

All life long, remain
in the vaults of awareness!
Now live in surati—in remembrance, in awareness, in knowing.

All life long, remain
in the vaults of awareness!
A needle pricked the eyes,
sleep dripped away drop by drop—
yes, what am I doing? I am pricking a needle into your eyes. Only then will you awaken. Nothing less will work.

All life long, remain
in the vaults of awareness!
A needle pricked the eyes,
sleep dripped away drop by drop;
from pain we became fakirs,
love became eyewitness;
modesty turned mad,
does as it pleases;
and write one more name
among Meera and Raskhan!

But if you miss—yes, you can miss; many come and miss; at the very point of attaining, they miss. They reach the riverbank and cannot form their hands into a cup to drink.

Sickened and weary of oneself,
sunk in loneliness;
on my forehead are written
two provinces of tears;
thus has so much life passed,
shrunk and constricted;
the rest too will pass
in the taverns of sorrow!

If you miss, then the taverns of sorrow remain. Then drink more wine. There are all kinds of wines—of wealth, of position, of prestige. Whatever makes one unconscious—that is wine. Then drink wine and keep drowning.

Sickened and weary of oneself,
sunk in loneliness;
on my forehead are written
two provinces of tears—
if this you have decided, that this is our fate, that the provinces of tears are to be our only kingdom—then your choice! I am ready to turn your tears into pearls; I am willing to grant you provinces filled with pearls—but you need the courage to receive. In this world the greatest courage is the courage to receive God. For that you must attain utter emptiness. You must empty your vessel completely; you must become vacant.

Sickened and weary of oneself,
sunk in loneliness;
on my forehead are written
two provinces of tears;
thus has so much life passed,
shrunk and constricted;
the rest too will pass
in the taverns of sorrow!

Then as you wish! Then return to the taverns of sorrow! But even to return you will not be able. You may try—you will be defeated.

A friend has written that he came here for a few days and became intoxicated; then a little fear arose that the intoxication might go beyond all bounds, so he ran away. But at home he could not stay even five days. Five days later he has come again. “What will happen now?” he asks. Now—it is your choice! Either run again… this time you will return in three days… or else dive so deep that there is no need to run. And if you go, go immersed. Then wherever you are, there I am. Then there is no talk of coming. Or, once in a while, drop by to say Jai Ramji Ki. Otherwise, you are perfectly where you are.

What now should I think and figure out,
how should I steady and untangle myself?
Even if I stay away, the mind
keeps tangling again and again;
let me dissolve into your breaths,
open, blossom upon your eyelids;
the mind’s rubies are found
in the mines of loving tenderness!

This is the world of love, the mine of lovingness. Here love is being given and received; this is the temple of love, the tavern of love—get entwined, dive in! What is there now to think and figure out! Do not think now. Thinking, you have squandered enough. Now take at least one step without thinking.

What now should I think and figure out,
how should I steady and untangle myself?
Even if I stay away, the mind
keeps tangling again and again;
let me dissolve into your breaths,
open, blossom upon your eyelids;
the mind’s rubies are found
in the mines of loving tenderness!

All life long, remain
in the vaults of awareness!
A needle pricked the eyes,
sleep dripped away drop by drop;
from pain we became fakirs,
love became eyewitness;
modesty turned mad,
does as it pleases;
and write one more name
among Meera and Raskhan!

Kishore! Who understands! Don’t worry about it. This is the beginning of understanding. To understand that “I do not understand” is the beginning of understanding. Those who think they understand are the ones who miss. Those who believe, “We already know,” who sit as if knowledge has already happened to them—chances are they will miss.

Kishore, you will not miss. The first ray has descended: “I am not able to understand.” This is the first blow to the ego. And you have asked rightly: why can’t I understand you? What could be the reason for not understanding? The cause is not ignorance; the cause is always knowledge. Somewhere or other, knowledge is stuck. And in this country there is no shortage of knowledge. This country is dying of knowledge. Knowledge is a noose around this country’s neck. Whomsoever you see is a knower. Where is the ignorant man! Go looking—will you find anyone ignorant? Ask someone on the road, “Brother, are you ignorant?” He will at once grab you by the neck: “What do you take me for?” Perhaps you may find one odd fellow, some crackpot, who says, “Yes, I am ignorant. Tell me, what do you want?” Otherwise, only knowers everywhere.

Knowledge is cheap, and a very easy ornament for the ego. But what is there in borrowed knowledge? You have memorized the Gita, memorized the Bible, memorized the Koran—what will you gain? It will remain only up to the throat. These words will go on echoing in the skull; they will not transform your life-energy. Yes, one danger will certainly arise: because of these words echoing in the skull, if by some mistake you ever happen to reach a true master, you will not be able to understand him. Because these words will interfere. Your conclusions will create obstacles. Inside you will keep weighing: “Does this agree with the Gita or not? Does it go against the Koran? Is it supported in the Bible or not?” And you will remain entangled in that.

If it seems to you that yes, it is supported, even then you miss—because then your coming was futile; you already knew the Bible. If knowing the Bible were enough to bring a revolution, it would have happened already. If through me the Bible gets support—so what? And if it goes against the Bible, then you will become angry, you will get upset. And can anything be understood in anger? Can anything be understood in a resentful state? Understanding asks for love. Only over the bridge of love does understanding travel. And the one who knows one thing gets deluded that he knows everything. He goes on applying his knowledge hither and thither.

Herototus was the first man who discovered the principle of averages. Naturally, when he himself had discovered the principle, he remained entangled with it twenty-four hours a day. He kept calculating the average in everything. He went on a picnic with his wife and children; they had to cross a small stream. He did not miss the chance—pandits never miss a chance. The wife said, “Hold the children, take their hands, they’ll be in danger from the river.” He said, “Wait! What do you take me for? I am Herototus, the discoverer of the principle of averages! I will immediately compute the children’s average height and the river’s average depth.” Quickly—he always kept a measuring stick with him—he measured the children, went to five or seven spots and measured the stream, sat on the sand and computed, wrote out the math on the sand, and said, “Be carefree. The children’s average height is greater than the river’s average depth; there is nothing to worry about.” Now, if the husband says so, the husband is God... and then a husband as learned as Herototus... The wife said, “If you say so, all right.” Though she had a little doubt. Wives don’t readily accept such principles and all. But she was helpless: “All right then!”

Five or six children—the Herototus went ahead with his measuring stick, the children in the middle, the wife behind—some of the children started going under here and there. The wife said, “The children are going under—to hell with your principle of averages; save the children!” But Herototus did not save the children; he ran off, saying, “Then there must have been a mistake in the mathematics.” A pandit is a pandit. Somehow the wife grabbed the children and saved them. Herototus had already begun to compute again on the sand. “There must be some error somewhere; otherwise how could this happen!”

In this world, governments are run on the principle of averages.

In 1917, when the revolution happened in Russia, they made great use of the principle of averages; they publicized it a lot. A traveler had come from the West. He said, “I have heard that in your country education has increased one hundred percent. How did so much development happen so quickly?” The official he addressed said, “Come, we will show you.” He took him to a nearby village. The traveler was astonished: there was only one teacher and two students. He said, “I don’t understand.” The official said, “Before the revolution there was only one student; now there are two students. Education has exactly doubled.”

The principle is absolutely true. People who live by principles live in airy fantasies. Whether the principles are of mathematics, of science, of religion, of philosophy—it makes no difference.

One day Dhabboo‑ji saw that Chandulal was giving his dear, delicate, white, snow‑pure cat a bath—soaping her, scrubbing her thoroughly—and the cat was doing her utmost to escape. But Chandulal was at it with all his might. When Dhabboo‑ji saw this, he said to Chandulal, “Chandulal, are you going to kill her today? Hey, these are cold days and you are bathing her!”

Chandulal said, “Don’t worry. Today she must be bathed properly. And this water is not ordinary—it is Ganga water. Her sins of many lifetimes will be cut off. In Ganga water the dead come alive; sinners become saints! And this is a cat—who knows how many mice she has eaten. I am improving her future.” Chandulal himself goes on pilgrimages to the Ganges, takes a bath—and brings back water too, to help others.

In the end Chandulal would not listen. And when Dhabboo‑ji returned an hour later, he saw that the cat had died, and Chandulal was sitting beside her. Seeing the cat dead, Dhabboo‑ji said, “See, in the end you killed her! I told you beforehand: don’t bathe her in such cold. But you’re a pandit—how would you listen!”

Chandulal said, “She did not die from bathing. Bathing could not have killed her—this is Ganges water, pure Ganga‑jal! She died when, after bathing her, I wrung her out.”

Pandits have their own principles.

You say, “Why don’t I understand you?”

Kishore, somewhere pedantry must be stuck. Drop information. Otherwise the Ganga water will kill the cat. And it is the cold season! And if not killed by the bath, she’ll die when you wring her out. Move your knowledge aside, and then you will be able to understand me. What I am saying is simple and clear—not at all tangled. I am no pandit. I don’t even know the a‑b‑c of Sanskrit. I don’t know Persian or Arabic. What I am saying is plain and simple. I am speaking in everyday, workable language—there is no complexity in it. This is no theoretical verbiage. This is a direct pointing toward truths, an indication.

But it is good that you asked. Your mind is creating disturbances in between. You are also newly come; it is natural. Those who sit here slowly, slowly, who, by participating in this new style of conversation, get soaked and seasoned in it—then they no longer encounter obstacles. As much as I say is only an indication; they begin to understand even that toward which I am pointing. What is said, they of course understand; they also understand that which cannot be said. And the joy is in understanding that which cannot be said. Speaking is only a device, a pretext. But until you can set your mind aside, this wondrous secret cannot be understood. The matter is simple, the matter is small—but very grave, very mysterious. Here we are reading the book of life—and I have no trust in any scripture. You too be ready to read the book of life. Just learn the art of setting the mind aside!

So don’t just listen to me—meditate too! The one who only listens to me will keep encountering this obstacle. Along with listening, meditate as well. That is its essential part. Meditation will prepare your ground, because it sets the mind aside. That is why so many arrangements for meditation are going on here. Choose whichever suits you! But take a plunge in one meditation. Bathe in meditation, and then listen to me! Then the matter will reach straightaway—heart to heart. This is a talk from heart to heart. In this, the head has no work to do.

Sant! Maharaj, there is neither any elephant nor any tail! After much coaxing I somehow got you to agree to let the elephant go, but you’re still clutching the tail—in the hope that, should the need arise, you can pull the elephant back. Where can the elephant go as long as the tail is in your hand! And Sant is a sturdy fellow! So he must be thinking, “No worry, son, go on; the tail is in my hand. The moment it seems a mistake is being made, I’ll yank you back inside.”

There is no elephant anywhere, Sant, nor any tail! It’s all mind-stuff. No one has bound you, nor are “you” something that can be bound. Nothing in this world is a bigger lie than the ego. And from the lie of ego a thousand more lies are born. From the lie of ego arises the lie of death. First you accept the ego—“I am”—then fear comes that now I will have to die. If I am not, fear is gone; the fear of death is gone; the whole thing is finished—if I am not, who will die? First you accept that “I am,” then anxiety arises: perhaps I’ll commit sin, perhaps I’ll rot in hell; so let me do virtue and enjoy heaven. This entire commotion is born only because of the “I.” And if this “I” remains, then your hell, your heaven, all are nothing but your imaginations. There is no hell anywhere, nor any heaven anywhere. What is, is here, now. Those filled with awareness are in heaven right now, wherever they are. And the unaware are in hell right now, wherever they are. Unawareness is hell; awareness is heaven.

Sant, come to awareness! What elephant? Look closely! There is no elephant anywhere. Then how will you hold a tail? And if you have let even the elephant go, be so gracious as to ask yourself why you are still holding the tail! And a fake elephant at that! It may be the elephant is long gone; only a plastic tail remains—and you sit there holding it! At least give it a shake.

A man walked into a bar. He went straight to the owner and said, “I can bite and taste my own eye.”
“Bite and taste your eye?” The owner was used to crackpots, so he asked, “What’s your point?”
The man said, “I’ll put five hundred rupees on it. If I can’t bite it and taste it, I’ll pay you five hundred. If I can, you’ll pay me five hundred.”
The owner thought, “Easy money. The man looks crazy—how will he bite and taste his eye?” He took the bet. The man popped out one of his eyes—it was glass. The owner’s heart sank: “I’m done for!” The fellow bit it, tasted it, popped it back in, pocketed the five hundred, and asked, “Interested in more? I can bite and taste the other eye too.”
The owner thought, “If both eyes were fake, he couldn’t even have walked in here like that—he came straight in, didn’t bump into anything, didn’t ask anyone for help. Now he’s overreaching.” So the owner said, “All right, but this time the stake is a thousand.”
“Make it a thousand.”
They bet a thousand rupees. The fellow took out his teeth—they were false—and with those dentures he bit his eye and tasted it. The owner thumped his head: “This is the limit; I never thought of that!” The man pocketed the thousand and said, “Any more ideas?”
The owner asked, “What else can you do? There are only two eyes—now what?”
The man said, “See that cup on the table in the far corner? From right here I can pee into it.” The distance was about fifty feet.
The owner said, “Impossible! Now I’ll win back my money.” And he said, “Five thousand on this one.”
“Fine.” The man started to pee. How was it going to reach? It splashed down three or four feet away. It landed on the table, on the floor, everywhere. And the owner laughed and kept wiping with his towel, saying, “Now I’ve got you!”
“Don’t worry,” said the man. “See those three fellows standing outside? I’ve got a bet with them for ten thousand rupees that I’ll pee all over the bar and the owner will laugh and wipe it up. Ten thousand!”

Sant Maharaj, the eye was fake, the teeth were fake, yet the shopkeeper kept getting trapped in new tangles. He got caught in the first, didn’t understand the second, got caught again, didn’t understand the third. Life is astonishing! You get out of one tangle, you’re in another; out of the second, in the third. Now the elephant has already gone, and you are entangled in the tail! Just let go and see whether the tail goes anywhere. It will drop within three or four feet. It can’t go farther. It’s a plastic tail.

But Sant Maharaj keep doing “meditation” like night watchmen—they stay awake all night; so in the daytime they’re bound to see elephants. Stay awake all night and you’ll see all sorts of odd things! Where are there elephants here? This isn’t some antiquated order of ascetics!

The tail will go too, Maharaj—don’t worry! Trust. If the elephant has gone, how long can the tail survive!

And I can see revolutions happening in Sant. When he first came, he was a solid Punjabi. He used to do meditation—his Dynamic Meditation was something to see! What punches he threw—into thin air! And what measured curses he hurled—in Punjabi! A curse, and then in Punjabi! People would come to me and say, “Everyone else’s meditation is fine, but what kind of meditation is this that Sant does?”
Punjab was overflowing inside; it had to come out. It poured out. The storm passed. Now he has become quiet. Now he doesn’t throw punches, doesn’t swear. Those days are gone. Now a deep silence has descended, like the calm after a storm. That is why the question has arisen; that is why you ask, “It feels as if the elephant has gone…and I am pointlessly holding the tail. Sadguru Sahib, have compassion so that the darkness departs now!” It will go, Maharaj! Don’t hurry! If it goes too fast it tends to return. Let it go completely. You have kept patience so long; keep it a little longer. One day you will come and say, “It’s gone.” One day you will ask, “At least you could have left the tail. The elephant’s gone—fine—but the tail in my hand gave a little reassurance.”

Don’t hurry! The revolution of life is the breaking of the darkness of many, many lifetimes; it is getting free of the garbage of many lifetimes. And it is good that it happens gradually. If it happens too quickly it may not become perfect, not total.

But I am happy, Sant! Seeing your growth, I am utterly delighted! I am fortunate in this sense: the people with me who are engaged in sadhana are truly engaged in sadhana. They are not involved in any pretense—here there is no way to maintain pretense. They are not entangled in hypocrisy—here there is no way to weave hypocrisy. The people with me are certainly involved in deep inner work.

After Buddha, such an extensive movement of sannyas has not happened on this earth, and this time it is going to be even greater. For now it is only the beginning, only Gangotri—the source; the Ganga has yet to become vast. And the vaster the Ganga becomes, the more sannyasins spread, the easier sadhana will become. Because each sannyasin will illumine sannyas with the light of his very life; each will share his peace, his bliss, his celebration. This great festival is about to become immense. In this boat, countless people are to sit and cross to the other shore.

Sant, your place is assured; be at ease! We must post a guard, mustn’t we, so that not everyone clambers onto the boat.

…The tail will go too!

That’s all for today.