Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #9

Of life so fleeting—
Four blossoms of life!
Four blossoms of life!!
Stirring sunlight in the courtyard,
Chatting again and again with the moon;
The impish child bought—
The priceless consonants of song;
In a pinch were spent—
The precious moments of childhood!
Four blossoms of life!!
Offered to Manmath,
Riding youth’s chariot;
Arm in arm we walked—
Down public roads of love;
Swaying, we kissed—
The intoxicating vows of youth!
Four blossoms of life!!
A palmful of passing moments,
Ganga-water in the eyes;
In the arms of flames—
Dream-palaces melted away;
Blending with dust, dissolved
The golden brood of clouds!
Four blossoms of life!!
Of life so fleeting—
Four blossoms of life!

Life is very short. And the way we live it makes it even shorter. We earn little, we squander much. Our life is not such that it could truly be called life. Life is far off; we have not even properly been born. For those who feel their very being is bound only to body and mind, they have not yet known what they are—and what they could be! Life’s real birth begins with the experience of consciousness. Without the experience of the Self there is no birth. If the Atman is neither recognized nor known, then asleep, asleep we lose everything.

And how are we to even know what we are losing? You will know only when you gain something. Pearls are showering in all ten directions—this becomes known when your eyes open. Right now it seems to you that what is is all there is; as much as is seen is all; as much as is heard is all. No—no, there is so much that is not seen. What is seen is almost nothing; what is unseen—that is the all. What is heard is mere clamor; what is unheard—that soundless, that silence, that void, that meditation, that samadhi—only that is the all. What hands cannot touch, what ears cannot hear, what eyes cannot see—on the day that is experienced, that day you will weep much, and you will laugh much. At the first experience a person both weeps and laughs.

When the Zen mystic Rinzai first awakened, he wept and laughed loudly. His companions asked, ‘Haven’t you gone mad?’ For in this world only the mad can do two things at once—laugh and weep. A clever, sensible man either laughs or he weeps. He decides. If there is cause to laugh, he laughs; if cause to weep, he weeps. Only a madman can be in such a double-bind. ‘Are you mad, Rinzai?’

Rinzai said: ‘I was mad—today for the first time I am freed of madness. And yes, I am laughing and weeping together, but the reasons are different. I laugh knowing what an incomparable opportunity was available and how I was missing it. Infinite bliss was available, and I had not even heard of it. Today the cloud has burst, today my heart is filled with the nectar-essence—so I laugh. And I weep because so many days were wasted, so many births wasted! This nectar was raining then too; only my cup lay upside down. This beauty surrounded me even then, but I was blind—or my eyes were closed. This invisible One surrounded me even then, but I got so entangled in the visible that I forgot entirely that existence does not end with the visible.’

The remembrance of this is what sannyas is: that the world does not end with the visible; that the world does not end with the senses—it is trans-sensory. What appears to the senses is the periphery of the world, not its true center. As if someone took the waves for the ocean and turned back. The ocean is miles deep; the waves are shallow. What is there in waves! Without the ocean, there are no waves. Yes, the ocean can be without waves. Waves are fleeting—here now, gone the next moment; but we have become entangled in the fleeting. We must become disentangled.

The pearls of which Gulal speaks are raining. They rain each moment—whether you are awake or asleep; whether you come to your senses or remain senseless; whether you stay lost in a thousand swoons, or become a witness—the pearls rain all the same. All who have known are witnesses. But you see nothing. You even hear the Buddhas, the awakened ones—you cannot deny them, for their very existence is proof; their bliss is sufficient proof. But what are you to do? No proof is found within your existence; in your life only pebbles and stones seem to rain. You go on gathering colored stones and think, ‘I have earned.’ You climb a few steps of position and prestige and consider that you have attained all worth attaining. Squandered! This very time could have been meaningful had the movement been in the right direction.

‘Are the dying rays of the sun related somehow to me?
I do not know in which sky the Daylord spends his night.
These ears cannot hear what ‘sunset’ sings as its tune!
For what reason does the moon come to the sky smiling?
Stringing garlands of stars, night adorns herself.
Loosing her hair into the sky—whom does she come to entangle?
All the hubbub of this world feels unfamiliar to me,
As if somewhere else lies my beloved Nandan-forest.
Whose sweet laughter lights up the river of heaven’s sound—
The ‘star of my eyes’ is unlike all that moves and is still.
I no longer remember my own ‘bank and shore’—
Into which ‘Great Ocean’ will this ‘life-stream’ dissolve?
As if, spending my ‘night’ in this ‘darkness,’
I shall then ‘fly’ ‘above,’ spreading wings into the sky.
Paying the whole ‘price’ of life in two ‘songs,’
I shall ‘merge,’ with a little pride, into the ‘great song.’
My tune is distinct from the hubbub of this world;
My life’s cup is empty of the world’s splendors.
Why does the world lose itself over these shards of stone?
I have tested all the rubies and pearls of this world.
With an unmindful mind I dwell apart, alone from all the world;
The world and I feel to each other a deep riddle.
Why is mad thirst turned my life-bowl?
For what reason do ‘tender leaves’ applaud me every moment?
This ‘bud’ hesitates—how to smile upon the world?
How to let greedy ‘lips’ drink love’s nectar?
How to look upon the world’s glitter? My eyes grow shy;
In the world’s drunk festivals, I do not manage to take part.’

Here we are in a foreign land. This realm of our swoon, this system of our unconscious living—this is exile. It is not our swabhava. It is our vibhaava. It is not our original nature. That is why we are so tormented. Whatever we obtain, there is no fulfillment. Piles of wealth—no fulfillment. Position—no fulfillment. Prestige—no fulfillment. Fulfillment cannot come. Fulfillment comes only when something happens in tune with our nature. All this is adverse. When something falls in tune with swabhava, in that very moment a revolution—sunrise happens in life.

These words of Gulal will remind you of your real home. In them there is an invocation, a challenge. Those who have courage—let them accept the challenge. Let them set out upon this endless journey, this inner journey.

‘Only he who becomes a buyer of love.’
But he says, ‘Let me make it clear from the outset—only the one who agrees to walk the path of love should listen, should ponder. The one ready to trade in love… This is a costly bargain. Here one must stake oneself wholly. A partial stake will not do.’ Thus many people pray, worship, offer devotion; temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras—full of them—but all these prayers seem to go to waste. These worships end with a local din. These prayers have no wings. The lamps of these worships are false. They are not those lamps of which the saints spoke—‘without wick, without oil.’ These adorations are formal. Merely on the surface. They do not feel like the call of your life-breath. You do them because one ‘should’; because it was taught; because it has been imposed since childhood. It is a kind of hypnosis. You go to temple, to mosque—not you are going, you have been hypnotized.

The science of hypnosis is simple and plain. Its whole method is this: repeat one thing again and again, so much, so much, that descending from a person’s conscious it goes and sits in his unconscious. That’s all. Once it sits in the unconscious, it becomes active. Then a person will do that act as if he himself is doing it—though he is not; he is merely hypnotized.

Have you ever seen a demonstration of hypnosis? In such a show, whatever the hypnotist wishes to make the subject do, he makes him do. And know this—contrary to popular belief, the hypnotist has no special power. Do not remain in the illusion that his eyes or his hands have some magic. It has nothing to do with magic. You can do it. Anyone can. Out of a hundred, thirty-three percent are ready-made to be hypnotized—one-third are ready. They agree—keep repeating any lie, they will take it as truth. They are very sensitive. Try it on ten people—you will succeed on three.

Do a small experiment. Tell someone to interlock his fingers. Then for two–three minutes repeat before him: ‘Now you will not be able to open your hands; try as you may, you will not open them; put in all your strength—you still cannot; no power will let your hands open.’ After three minutes say to him, ‘Open them, use force.’ You will be astonished—and so will he—he puts in all his strength, and his hands won’t open. The more he strains, the harder it becomes. He gets frightened. It will seem you have some power, some siddhi. There is no siddhi, no power. You repeated so much that the message entered the unconscious. Now you will have to repeat again: ‘Yes, you can open your hands. I give you permission.’ And they will open.

And it is not only a matter of hands—deeper experiments have shown results that seem to go against scientific laws. Place a burning coal in a hypnotized person’s hand and tell him it is an ordinary pebble—no blister appears. His unconscious has believed so completely that the body follows the mind. The body is a slave to mind. Or place a cool pebble on his hand and tell him it is a burning ember—and a blister will form.

You are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—have you ever asked, ‘Why?’ Hypnosis. Parents repeated, priests repeated—no sooner is the child born than the means to hypnotize him begin. People call this ‘religious education.’ It is not that—it is a subtle method to destroy a child’s freedom; a fraud, a conspiracy. The day this conspiracy ends, true human beings will arise in the world. Otherwise only false men remain—Hindu, Muslim—false in the sense that what they have believed, they have not known. Therefore their prayer is false. It does not arise from their own intelligence. If prayer arises from your own intelligence—blessed! Then even your small prayer will fill your life with fragrance. But it can arise from your intelligence only if you have courage. Hypnosis makes you cowardly. It steals your courage; your guts to step into the unknown are finished. Gulal says rightly:

‘Only he who becomes a buyer of love.
He who renounces the mind’s craving—he alone gives his head.’

Love’s path is such that only he can walk there who is ready to offer his head. At the very first step the head is asked for.

There are two paths to know Paramatma: one of resolve, one of surrender. On the path of resolve the head is asked at the last moment; on the path of surrender the head is asked at the very first moment. Therefore the path of resolve appears hard, yet is easier—because the demand comes at the end, by when you are prepared, refined. But the path of love? Love’s path is so difficult! Why? For it is dear, pleasing, soaked in rasa, brimming with bliss—flower upon flower on that way—yet why so hard? Because its very first condition is to put down your head—and not just put it down, but put it down with such trust that you can sleep. Such trust that worry does not seize you; you hand over everything to His will, saying to Paramatma: ‘Do as You wish; I withdraw.’ Cutting the head means: I step aside; I will not intrude, I will not obstruct.

Do not take ‘cutting the head’ literally—no lifting of a sword to sever your neck. These are symbols. Cutting the neck is not so difficult; many commit suicide. If moksha were by suicide, what could be simpler? Drink poison, jump from a cliff—now there are easier means; an electric chair—sit, press a button, finished; not even a moment’s pain. But Paramatma does not ask you for suicide—He asks for spiritual life, not self-destruction. And you are in such sleep that spiritual life is far, you may not even manage suicide.

I was a guest in a new house. Thin modern walls; I could hear the neighbors. First day, husband and wife began to quarrel. The husband was a university professor. I too had newly come to that university. I grew concerned—the matter worsened—I could not help hearing; it was so loud. Finally the husband said, ‘I will commit suicide—enough! I’m going!’ Now I was more worried. I stepped out, but he stormed out before I could speak. I told his wife: ‘Though I am a stranger—know neither you nor your husband—but this is not a matter where unfamiliarity should be an obstacle. If I can help, tell me.’ She said, ‘Be absolutely at ease. This is nothing new—it is his habit. He will be back in ten or fifteen minutes. Don’t worry.’ Still I worried—poor fellow, he left so buzzing, what if he actually does something! I said, ‘Shall I go and bring him back?’ She said, ‘No—going will take longer; he will stiffen. He returns on his own; please do sit. You are new; I have lived with him fifteen years—this happens often.’ And indeed within fifteen minutes he returned. I asked, ‘Ah, you came back?’ He said, ‘What else to do? Can’t you see it has started drizzling? The station is three miles away—and who can trust the train these days! How late it may be! Why spoil the whole night?’

He went to die, and returned because of drizzle.

Later I heard many stories about him. Once he went to die carrying a tiffin. He laid the tiffin down and lay on the track. A cowherd grazing his cattle nearby was astonished. First, he lay on a track where no trains ever ran; perhaps once they did, now it was closed, all rusted—anyone could see. The tracks that carry trains shine like silver; seeing the rust he had chosen it—no fear! The cowherd asked, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘I am committing suicide.’ The cowherd said, ‘I haven’t seen a train here in ten years.’ He replied, ‘What need for you to speak in between? I will die where I want! We aren’t asking anyone’s advice.’ The cowherd asked, ‘And why the tiffin?’ He said, ‘Who knows how late the train comes—should I die hungry?’

It became known—dying was his daily art. The whole university knew—he was adept at dying, so adept that he hadn’t died yet.

People do commit suicide—nine out of ten do it in such a way that it doesn’t happen. Someone swallows sleeping pills, but just enough to stay alive till morning—he reaches hospital, ‘then we’ll see.’ Ninety-nine out of a hundred find a way to die such that they do not die. Even death is politics—a way to put pressure. A kind of satyagraha, like fasting—‘We shall die; two–three months it will take, we will torment you, churn your chests with our dying; noise in the newspapers, a ruckus—you will have to yield.’ So too with suicide.

Paramatma is not interested in your suicide—else why give you life? Therefore do not think offering the head means literally giving up the head. Some madmen have thought so. These are symbols.

I once met a man in Kashi—brought to me with great reverence and worship. I asked, ‘Why such respect?’ They said, ‘He cut off his tongue and offered it to God.’ I asked, ‘Why did he do that?’ He had read in a scripture, ‘Until you give your tongue to God nothing happens.’ Now see the madness! Giving the tongue meant—do not speak; let Him speak through you. It meant renounce chatter; become silent. Then if something arises from silence, it is not yours. Become a flute—hollow reed. Leave yourself upon God’s lips. If He sings—He sings; if He does not—He does not. You remain silent, remain muni. Then let Him blow the note—He surely does; else how would the Bhagavad Gita be born? Had Krishna cut off his tongue, the Gita would not be. Had Mohammed cut off his tongue, there would be no Quran. Had Buddha and Mahavira cut off their tongues, the world would be unimaginably poor.

I said, ‘You call him a mahatma! The man is insane. He did not understand a symbol a symbol. He cut his tongue.’ And by cutting the tongue, does one become silent? Thoughts run in the skull—what fault is the tongue’s? Thoughts are not in the tongue; the tongue is an instrument.

There are tales of saints who gouged out their eyes. Not saints—deranged. They ripped out eyes so that form would not allure. Do you think closing eyes will stop attraction? It will allure more. If you keep your eyes open, in a few days you recognize—there is nothing in form; dressed-up paper flowers. Tazia. If you close your eyes, you will never discover that it is tazia; your delusions, attachments, attractions will remain. Hence the escapist sannyasis whom you have worshipped for centuries—their minds never come to the end of desire; they cannot. Look at the world carefully—open your eyes. You would gouge them out? No—open them! Do not see with half-closed eyes; see with fully open eyes. What is there here to be so afraid of? If you fear, it only proves fear inside—proof that the world might ensnare you; that you still see rasa in the world.

So—neither cut off the head, nor the tongue, nor run away from the world. These are symbols. The head symbolizes ego. The tongue symbolizes thought and speech. The eyes you know—symbols of outward seeing. The seeing must turn within. Turn the outer eye inward—become inward-turned, not gouged. Let the ears that hear outside hear the inner Sound. And let the eyes that see outer beauty see the inner beauty.

And the head is but a symbol of ego. That is why when we bow in humility, we lower the head. And when anger arises, we lift a shoe to someone’s head—though what will a shoe on the head do? Symbolically, we have lowered his ego. The head is the symbol of ego, of thought, of frenzy, of dispute, of doubt—the house of all these diseases. Offer it to Paramatma—only then know that love has arisen within you.

‘Only he who becomes a buyer of love.’
Then know you are a buyer. Many come to ask and inquire. Many wander the shops asking prices. Some have even made a hobby of it—nothing else to do; in the evening they set out. Ask, ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Shopping!’ Shopping is never seen—what they do is inquire.

I know a gentleman who always asks shopkeepers for things that are not sold in any market. Waste their time—and his—turn things over and then says he wants a thing that simply isn’t. And should it ever be found by some mistake, he will find so many faults that buying never arises. I have never seen such a buyer! And every day he goes to buy—as if he has no other work. What work do people have? There is time—and they must kill time.

Strange—time is so precious that it never returns, and you kill it! A single moment cannot be recalled—and you waste it! Yet each moment could become a pearl!

‘Only he who becomes a buyer of love.’
So he says: I warn you first—if you are a buyer of love, then keep in mind—you must have the courage to put down the head and sleep without worry. It does not mean self-killing; it means dissolving the ego. And you are so asleep—your suicide? You will only bungle.

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin went to commit suicide. He arranged everything so no mistake be left. He climbed a hill above a river—‘From this height I will die by the fall; if not, the river is deep, I will drown. But who knows? Better make all arrangements—being a cautious man—leave no method out.’ He carried kerosene to pour over himself and set fire; he carried a rope to tie to a tree at the bank and hang himself; and as last resort he took a pistol. When, an hour later, people saw him return home, they asked, ‘What happened?’ He said, ‘I climbed the hill, looped the rope around my neck, poured kerosene, fired the pistol at my head—but the bullet missed my head and cut the rope; before I could catch fire, I fell into the river, so the fire went out; and thank God I know how to swim, otherwise today I would have died! I swam back home. All methods failed.’ What meaning can the methods of a sleeping man have! But the man who is ready to stake it all—the very staking begins awakening.

‘The palace of glass dreams shattered,
Since the day You turned away Your eyes!
By an unceasing stream of tears—
The dignity of my eye’s mirror grew dim.
Whom shall I adorn with my heart’s garland—
Even my own image is unknown to me.
For whose welcoming do my eyes—
Unblinking, bewildered—ache?
The palace of moods is sulking,
Since You turned away Your eyes!
In the dense forests of darkness—
Even a step is hard to take.
Hard indeed is the Beloved’s path—
To meet Him is harder still.
In a house of lac, this world of delusion—
Like the Pandavas, life under arrest.
The splendor of the palace of form has turned away,
Since You turned away Your eyes!’

It seems to us that Paramatma has turned His eyes from us. It seems so naturally. But the matter is exactly the reverse. Our eyes are turned away from Him. We stand with our backs to Him. And we are afraid to turn and face Him—for to face Him is to prepare to dissolve. To receive such Vastness, one must vanish. If a drop wishes to meet the ocean, and wishes also to save itself—both cannot happen. The drop must be ready to vanish—only then can it become the ocean. We are the drops, and Paramatma is the ocean. We cling to ourselves, we fear. We talk about God, but we run—lest union actually happen. For if there is face-to-face with Paramatma, one thing is certain—we will be lost. Another thing also certain—we will be Paramatma. But the second is later; who can trust it—may be, may not be. The first alarms—we bolt at the first.

‘He who renounces the mind’s craving…’
Gulal says—no need to leave the world; what must fall is the mind’s craving. The mind’s craving is the world. Yesterday I told you—samsara is not the outer, mind is samsara. There is nothing wrong in the world; everywhere His signature appears; everywhere His footprints. This world is sacred—His expression—call it His song, His dance; if this is the veena, He is the veena-player; if this is a painting, He is the painter; if this is creation, He is the Creator. The world is not wrong—and people flee the world. They do not see—the flaw, the error is in our mind. They flee the world, not the mind—because fleeing the mind is difficult.

There is only one way to leave the mind: awaken from the mind. Go to Himalaya—the mind will go with you. Go to Kaaba or to Kashi—the mind goes with you. Householder or monk—the mind goes with you. Awakening from mind—this is the meaning of meditation. Become a witness to the mind—learn to stand at a distance, to see: I am not the mind. The day this settles deeply—that I am not the mind—freedom from the world has happened. For the mind’s expanse was the world. And what is mind? Demand—‘more, more…’ Give as much as you will, the demand continues: ‘More, more…’

‘He who renounces the mind’s craving, he gives his head.
And he who leaves the gates of conduct and custom—
He alone seeks his own inner movement.’

‘And he who leaves the gates of all conduct…’
A revolutionary utterance. Gulal says: leave the babble about ‘character,’ all this fuss about conduct—false, futile, noisy.

‘And he who leaves the gates of conduct…
He alone seeks his own inner movement.’

Leave those gates.

‘…He alone seeks his own inner movement.’
Do just one thing—move within. But we have become so outer that our wealth is outside, our religion is outside; our position is outside and even our God outside. If we think of God we look to the sky—as if He sits somewhere above the clouds; if we speak of God, we recall statues in temples. Krishna comes to mind, Ram comes to mind, Buddha, Mahavira—if we talk of God, we think of someone outside. Our outwardness has struck root like a grave disease. Whatever we think, we think outside; even our character is outside. If we build character, it is only to gain prestige.

In the school where I studied, the principal loved to have noble sayings painted on classroom walls. He had selected many. I would bring him his own lines pointing out errors. Finally he held his head and said, ‘Then you bring the lines—what should be written?’ I said, ‘Better a blank wall. Whatever you write…’ He had written on my classroom wall: ‘The man of character is honored everywhere.’ I told him, ‘That very man is not a man of character who becomes moral for the sake of honor. The aphorism is wrong—scrape it off. The desire for honor is the desire of ego.’ Yet this is what we teach children—that you will be honored, respected, prestigious—here and in the other world—so be moral. ‘Do not lie, or you will be dishonored; there is no sin greater than that.’ Clever people learn to lie so that they still are not dishonored—what harm then? The clever keep two doors—one the outer salon where guests are received—well decorated; and one inner door where they live—their private world. The more skillful a man, the more hypocritical. For what you honor—he smears on himself, dons the mask. You say, ‘These are the marks of a saint’—he will do them. The inner world remains his own.

A man died. An angel took him to the other world. He sat in the reception hall—worried: Is this heaven or hell? He looked around, but could not decide. He was shy to ask—what if it’s hell! At least till it’s fixed, he could imagine it was heaven. Then he saw a mahatma very famous on earth enter—his heart bloomed: ‘Surely heaven!’ The mahatma was seated in a special chamber.

He was rejoicing when, alas, all joy collapsed like a house of cards—for a great courtesan of that town also arrived. He was stunned—‘Surely this must be hell. That a prostitute be in heaven—impossible!’ But mahatma and prostitute—what to do? His dilemma grew. As soon as the prostitute entered, the mahatma pounced on her. He was more shocked. Without delay the mahatma began making love. The prostitute screamed and cried; the mahatma would not listen. He was a mahatma—how could he hear outer things—his ears were long since closed—a kanphata yogi perhaps. Now he thought, ‘I had better find out what is going on.’ He asked the gatekeeper: ‘Is this heaven or hell?’ The gatekeeper said, ‘Look and decide yourself.’ He said, ‘That’s why I ask. Till now I was unsure; now I’m utterly confused. Do you not hear? That poor woman cries—and that thug of a mahatma! All his life he did nothing else—dand-baitak, exercises—he was stout; he is tormenting that poor woman with vile lust. It is happening before my eyes; I cannot bear it. Only because he is a mahatma I am silent—else I’d give him two slaps! But he is famous; I’ve always touched his feet—so I hesitate.’ The gatekeeper said, ‘Since you wish to know the truth—this is heaven for the mahatma and hell for the prostitute. The mahatma is receiving the fruit of his virtues; the prostitute the fruit of her sins.’

This is what you have been told for centuries: renounce in this world and you will indulge in the next—apsaras await with doormats spread; rivers of wine flow. Here prohibition runs; there rivers still flow—drink your fill! Not only drink—dive, swim! Fill jars! Who imagined such heavens? And who told you that if you are moral you will get these things? These are temptations feeding your greed. On this basis, whatever ‘character’ arises is worthless.

Or the fear of hell—that you will be tortured; burned in fire; cauldrons always boiling, sinners plunged into them. Here oil is scarce; there no scarcity. For centuries cauldrons have been on the flame and sinners tormented. Worms will crawl in your body; you will thirst but your lips will be sewn; what monstrous minds! Look at their imaginations—such scoundrels! They write scriptures. Hitler should take advice from them on how to torture. Worms will bore holes through you—tear you to pieces—but you will not die—mind it! You are not allowed to die in hell—if you die the fun is over. Torture as much as you wish—do not let him die.

So—either fear of hell or greed for heaven. Between fear and greed you somehow maintain your ‘character.’ That ‘character’ has no value—perhaps it brings you social prestige, honor—but through it there will be no experience of dharma, no realization of Paramatma.

Therefore this wondrous revolutionary utterance—

‘And he who leaves the gates of conduct…
…He alone seeks his own inner movement.’

Leave all doors of conduct and ‘virtue’—there is only one doing, one character, one practice worth doing—

‘…He alone seeks his own inner movement.’

Just this—go within, walk within—the inner journey. Dive within; go on diving till the center is found. Until your own center is discovered, the inner journey must continue.

‘A dense darkness is spread on all sides;
Cloud upon cloud has gathered.
The wind runs wild against us—
Even the roots of mountains shake.
The ocean roars again and again—
Who will carry me to the other shore?
Mountains rise as waves,
Roaring with terrible woe.
Ah! Their foaming breath
Mocks at the little boat.
The oar slips from hand—
Who will carry me to the other shore?
Free to devour the boat,
Sea-creatures roam.
Seeing the black infinite sea—
Alas! My courage breaks.
Waves are heaving, measureless—
Who will carry me to the other shore?
That star’s light is quenched
In which my hope did shine.
Night speaks in her dark-blue veil—
‘Immerse the flowers of your wishes.’
No helmsman came—
Who will carry me to the other shore?
I had heard—beyond this shore
There is a golden land,
Where birds of laughter fair
Hearing the name of death—smile.
Earth wears an endless adornment—
Who will carry me to the other shore?
Where waterfalls sing in silence—
Granting immortality.
The sky resounds with boundless ring—
Striking every string.
It brims with measureless love—
Who will carry me to the other shore?
In flowers is infinite smile,
In the wind the honor of renunciation;
In all—celestial unfoldment,
That tender, lovely light.
How far away that world!
Who will carry me to the other shore?
Who came and whispered in a moment—
A honeyed, bewitching strain—
‘Take the boat into midstream;
By drowning you will cross.
Dissolution is the helmsman—
He alone will carry you to the other shore!’’

Drown into yourself. The greatest depth is there. Even the Pacific’s depth is not so deep—though five miles deep—compared to your depth, nothing. Consciousness is measureless in depth, measureless in height. Everest is not so high as the height of consciousness. Consciousness is the highest—and the deepest.

‘Who came and whispered in a moment
A honeyed, bewitching strain—
“Take the boat into midstream;
By drowning you will cross.
Dissolution is the helmsman—
He alone will carry you to the other shore!”’

Learn the art of dissolution. Learn the art of drowning—not into any other thing, but into yourself.

‘Ever-present is love’s brimming cup…’
If you can drown, this will be known—

‘Ever-present is love’s brimming cup—quiver, quiver, drink the rasa.
The Beloved in the soul; the soul in the Beloved—He is the one who speaks as speech.’

If you can drown in the midstream—into your very prana, your very consciousness—dissolving all ego, becoming one, of one taste—then—

‘Ever-present is love’s brimming cup—quiver, quiver, drink the rasa.
The Beloved in the soul; the soul in the Beloved…’

Then you will know the Paramatma, the Beloved, is within you.

‘…the soul in the Beloved…’

And you are in that Paramatma. He who knows himself knows this too: there is no gap, no distinction between me and Paramatma; not even a line of difference.

‘…He alone speaks as speech.’

Then what you speak is His speech, not yours. He speaks then. Thus were the Vedas born, the Upanishads born; the Quran, the Gita, the Bible born—born when someone drowned within. That is why we call the Veda apaurusheya—not composed by any person; they descended when the person was gone. That is why the Quran is called ilham—revelation; not Mohammed’s composition, but descended upon Mohammed. That is why Jesus repeatedly says: ‘What I say is what the Father says.’ Between me and my Father, between me and Paramatma—no difference; I and He are one. The Upanishads declare: Tat tvam asi—Thou art That.

‘He is in all…’

And what you find within—you find in all.

‘We are in all…’

The day you see yourself spread through all, that day your bliss will be shoreless. You will find all within you, and yourself within all.

‘…Rare indeed is the one who understands.’

Very few, blessed ones have fathomed this secret. You hear, you read—but your erudition is not knowing; it is stale and borrowed.

A great scholar went to see a madhouse. The superintendent showed him around. The scholar asked, ‘How do you know when a madman is cured?’ He said, ‘We have a little trick. Do you see this tub? We turn on the tap and tell the madman to empty the tub. He starts bailing with a bucket. Then we know he is still mad.’ The scholar asked, ‘I don’t understand—how does this tell you?’ The superintendent said, ‘If he first closes the tap and then empties the tub, we know he is cured. If he leaves the tap running and starts emptying—we know he is still mad.’ The scholar said, ‘This is astonishing—even I could not imagine closing the tap! This did not occur to me at all.’

The scholar had come; a lecture was arranged among the madmen. They clapped and danced with such delight that the scholar said, ‘I thought, what could madmen understand!’ He asked those in front—clapping, ecstatic—‘Brothers, I have spoken to great gatherings; never have I found such joyous listeners—what is it here that pleases you?’ They said, ‘We are pleased because—ah, what fun! Madmen like you are outside, and sensible ones like us are inside. What a game in this world! By God’s play—you are the scholar, we are the mad!’

Those you call scholars suffer the greatest fundamental error—that truth can be borrowed. That from scriptures, from words, from others truth can be taken. There can be no greater mistake. Truth must be experienced—by oneself. Neither scripture nor another can give it. It is present in your innermost. Why seek it in the Gita or the Quran! Yes—on the day you know it within, that same day you will see it in the Gita and the Quran. Before that you will memorize empty words, like parrots. Parrots may be a little wiser—your pundits are not even that. I know pundits who have written beautiful books on meditation and then ask me, ‘How to meditate?’ I ask, ‘You wrote such a fine book—how did you write it?’ They say, ‘What is there in writing a book! Read ten books on meditation and write the eleventh.’ ‘Ever meditated?’ ‘No—never meditated. If books left me free, I would meditate!’ Strange people—yet the world is full of such.

A lady writer came from Holland. She wrote a book against me and sent it to me; with it a letter: ‘I must apologize. I did come to Poona and stayed three weeks—because I had to write the book; I was to be paid—but I became so entangled in writing that except for my room in the Blue Diamond hotel I could not come to the ashram at all.’ See the fun! She wrote against me—never even came to the ashram. No leisure to come—too busy writing. How did she write? The whole book is gibberish—as it would be. Yet thousands of copies are sold. Others will write books reading that book. The chain continues.

People write such articles that when they reach me, the mind is delighted!

One gentleman wrote: ‘When I reached the ashram gate at five in the morning—brahma-muhurta—a naked woman opened the door. I was startled, but having come from abroad to see the ashram, I entered timidly. The woman took me to a tree, plucked a fruit that looked like an apple and said, “Eat it—who eats it remains forever young.”’ I immediately called Laxmi—‘Where is this tree? You distribute fruits to strangers—while our sannyasins are growing old! Let them have it first!’ Now this will spread; others will quote it.

But that is nothing. From Punjab came a magazine—the Punjabis are matchless. A Sardarji poured out all his wisdom—whatever there was. He wrote: ‘The ashram is spread over six square miles—’ or six acres—‘six square miles.’ Imagination should have a limit. ‘Within these six square miles there are great lakes where thousands of sannyasins and sannyasinis bathe naked; there are artificial waterfalls; … underground air-conditioned halls where ten thousand sannyasins listen to the morning discourse…’ Take a careful look—you are all sitting underground! ‘…and the rule for sitting there is that everyone must sit naked…’ Well, this much is true—inside their clothes, all are naked. What will clothes do to remove nakedness! Nakedness is natural—clothes are draped on top. So you are all sitting naked here—underground—without the world knowing! ‘…and after I leave, then the rasa-lila begins; then sannyasinis and sannyasins engage in love-play for hours…’ The blind man saw far—the Sardarji must have written exactly at noon!

Such things spread—and once they do, there is no stopping them. From one to the next—they grow, gather.

In all the world’s languages so much is being written about this ashram that no one here has time even to see it all. Fifty people sit only in the press office—to collect what is written, to translate it—many languages are involved. At first I used to glance at some; then I told Laxmi—no need to bring this rubbish. But such rubbish becomes decisive. Pundits live off it.

They have read ten books on meditation and written the eleventh; someone else, reading their eleventh, will write a twelfth—without a shred of experience. Those who have not known love write treatises on love; those who have not known meditation write treatises on meditation. The matter is not so cheap. One must experience. And there is only one way to experience—go within. This outward excursion—even scripture is outward.

‘Who could tell His way—only he whose heart is true.’
How lovely! His way is known only to the one who is true in his life within.

‘…only he whose heart is true.’
He who lives truth—becomes truth—only he knows His way. No one else knows.

‘Says Gulal—those who knew merged into the Name…’
And Gulal says—they merged into the Name; those who knew, merged into Him. They did not remain separate; they became non-different.

‘…The rest—mankind is lost in opinions.’
As for the rest—lost in creeds and sects. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—still not enough—sects and sub-sects. Such tumult! Three hundred religions on earth; at least three thousand sects; and at least thirty thousand sub-sects. And within sub-sects smaller circles. If truth is one—why this commotion? Because truth is within, where you do not go; outside there can only be opinions, words, arguments—endless disputes over foolish things. In the Middle Ages in Europe, for three hundred years, a debate raged—top theologians, bishops, popes involved. The question: How many angels can stand on the point of a needle? Who cares! If anyone should worry, it should be the needle—or the angels. The issue—do angels have weight? Are they so subtle they have none? So fine they can stand on a needle. But how many? Then rises the question—how many exactly? What is the limit?

For centuries they have argued—when did God create the world? One European theologian fixed the exact date and day—January 1—of course; a year begins on January 1—God would never start the world in mid-year; and if He did—what of the months already gone? So January 1—satisfying. On a Monday—auspicious. And four thousand and four years before Jesus. How did he arrive at ‘four thousand and four’? Questions arose—January fine, Monday fine—but ‘four thousand and four’—how do you know? He said—he saw it with the inner eye! With the inner eye there can be no dispute. As the Sardarji saw with the inner eye—this ashram spread over six square miles; lakes, waterfalls; underground, tens of thousands sitting naked in meditation; tens of thousands joining in rasa-lila—inner eye! Who can argue with the inner eye? If yours does not see—your inner eye is defective. Get treatment. When cured—you will see too.

In a king’s court a trickster came. He said, ‘Sire, all is well—your wealth overflows, your empire where the sun never sets—but one lack troubles my heart, which I can fulfill.’ The king’s greed stirred. ‘What lack?’ He said, ‘You need garments of the gods. For you to wear human clothes does not befit—you are a god on earth.’ It was believed—king is God’s representative. ‘But where to get such clothes?’ ‘I will bring them—but the expense will be great; to reach the gods, and even there bribes run—from sentries to the top—a big affair. But I promise to bring them—in a month.’ A palace was given; guards set all around; ‘Whatever money I ask must come.’ In a month he drained the treasury—daily he asked for crores. But the king was stubborn—‘Where can he go—guards surround the palace—either he will bring the garments or we will take back the money and punish him.’ On the thirtieth day he came—with a beautiful chest. ‘Great difficulties—but I brought them. These garments befit you. But before I open the chest—hear a condition the gods placed. These garments are invisible—as gods are invisible. I pleaded: invisible is fine—but on earth how will people understand? They gave me a special concession—that these garments will be visible to those born of their own fathers.’ The king said, ‘No problem.’ Courtiers said, ‘No problem.’ The chest was opened—empty. The king was aghast. But to say ‘I do not see the garments’—now to defame even the Heavenly Father, and ruin one’s own honor forever. The trickster took his turban—jeweled—and, putting it in the chest, took nothing out, placed nothing on the king’s head and said, ‘Behold the turban!’ Thunderous applause! The courtiers cried ‘Wah!’—for who would say, ‘We see nothing!’ The king thought, ‘All see—only I do not; the fault must be mine, not this man’s.’ And the courtiers thought, ‘All see—only I do not; better hold my tongue.’ The trickster slowly removed all the king’s clothes. When he reached the underwear, the king hesitated—thus far he had endured; but now? Yet the applause was so loud—the king steeled himself—‘Take even this.’ He stood naked—and people praised his garments. The trickster said, ‘Sire, these garments come to earth for the first time—the whole city longs to see; outside the palace millions wait—your procession, a show.’ The king said, ‘I am ruined!’ The earth could split and swallow him—yet to refuse now was worse. He climbed the chariot—naked—while in front a crier beat a drum: ‘Only those born of their own fathers can see these garments.’ All saw—and the king gained assurance—‘Whatever, people see.’ Only one small boy on his grandfather’s shoulders cried, ‘Grandpa! The king is naked!’ The old man hushed him, ‘Shut up! When you grow up you will see these garments. These are not visible to little boys—they require experience. Speak again and I will slap you so hard you will remember all your life!’ The boy fell silent for a while—then said, ‘Grandpa, say what you will—the king is stark naked!’ The old man fled, dragging his grandson—‘He will ruin our reputation’—though the child spoke the truth—who believes children!

Often children speak truth. For truth, a childlike innocence is needed. Grown-ups become crafty, deceitful. Age does not give wisdom—only cunning. People do not become mature—they only grow old; they become smart—but all their smartness becomes diplomacy, politics. And you are trapped in such webs—entangled in theories where nothing is there—because father and grandfather believed, tradition believed, you go on believing; you will make your children believe.

I was taken to temples in childhood. My heart never felt to bow—nothing there to bow to. In the family where I was born there were no idols in the temple—only scripture, as Sikhs worship their scripture. In Jainism there is a Taran-pantha—arisen in Nanak’s time—their own similar mood; they worship only the Word—no idols. I could never understand—however you wrap a book in velvet, gild it, stud it with gems—what is the meaning of bowing to a book? But elders said, ‘Bow—you will understand when you grow up.’ I have still not understood—when will I? The king is naked—still naked. Those who told me ‘Bow now, later you will understand’—they spoke falsely. Yet, their compulsion—they too had been told so; they only repeated what was told to them—it was not their fault.

Thus we go on with our children.

Ganesh makes children laugh—but you say, ‘Do not laugh!’ Children say—‘Is this any kind of man! Not even a man—let alone a God. Is this any way to be human!’ Riding a mouse! If a small mount was needed—take a rickshaw! If not an Impala, then a donkey, a horse—something—mouse! And see that body! Children laugh.

One of my teachers had a great belly and wore a large turban. He taught Sanskrit—big tilak—old-fashioned—angarkha. Seeing him, even the most depressed would feel cheerful. We all called him ‘Bholenath.’ He was simple—but he hated being called Bholenath. As soon as he entered, the board said—‘Hail Bholenath!’ Then, study aside, he would rage—quote shlokas, scriptures—how in old days gurus and disciples were; today’s Kali age—you mock your teacher. ‘Am I some clown!’ Then he died—as all must. The whole neighborhood gathered—I went too. A strange thing happened—his wife came from within; his body lay there—she fell on his chest—cried, ‘Hai Bholenath!’ I tried not to, but laughter would not stop. To laugh at death! They dragged me out by the ears—‘You are ill-mannered.’ I said, ‘Ill-mannered is his wife. In life we said it—fine—but at his death to joke!’ Yet people did not know—‘You are not fit for society—when someone dies, don’t go.’ Was it any matter to laugh at? What else could one laugh at! The coincidence was exquisite. He lay dead—could say nothing; alive he would have risen—always a stick in his hand—he would have beaten us. Now poor man was dead—could not say anything—and his wife sent him off with ‘Hai Bholenath’—and for saying which he had made us do countless dand-baitaks! His farewell too with ‘Hai Bholenath!’

Childhood has its own world—without crookedness—things appear straight and clear. To become thus again is sannyas—to have the child’s eyes again—innocent, free of cleverness, wonder-struck, agape. But you are lost in words, scriptures, trickery, learning, endless sectarian quarrels—over worthless matters. Swords rise, necks fall. In the name of religion—how much blood has flowed—no other name has spilled so much blood. By the measure of blood, irreligion looks religious—atheists look religious, not theists. What a paradox! Gulal is right—

‘Says Gulal—those who knew merged into the Name…’
Those who became simple—dived within—wonder-struck—took a plunge into their own consciousness—those merged in Him. Then what Hindu, what Muslim, what Jain, what Buddhist! Then no scripture, no doctrine, no philosophy—only experience. And experience is one. He who lives in experience is not separate.

‘The Beloved in the soul; the soul in the Beloved—He is the one who speaks as speech.
He is in all; we are in all—rare indeed is the one who understands.’

‘Let these eyes loot the Beloved’s darshan every day.’
And if you can lose yourself—then plunder each moment! Bliss is raining; nectar is raining.

‘Let these eyes loot the Beloved’s darshan every day.’
Go within—Paramatma abides there—not in Kaaba, not in Kashi.

‘I am engaged at Thy lotus feet.’
Be engaged at His lotus feet—bowed, surrendered.

‘Ever I behold the Nirguna Name—
Thy form of endless artistry.’
Then He appears at every moment.

‘And everywhere His arts are manifest.’
His expression is everywhere—birds’ songs become Vedic hymns; winds passing through trees recite the Upanishads; the babble of rivers becomes the Bhagavad Gita.

‘I sing the purest, purest speech—
I try to describe the Resemblance.’
Says Gulal—since then I sing only His praise, humming His pure speech; though I sing and sing, I cannot tell it—the real form remains unspoken.

‘The lotus has blossomed; the body-garden has flowered—
From all ten directions pearls are showering.’
This much I can say—the lotus of consciousness has bloomed. Not only has the lotus of consciousness bloomed—my body too has become a flower along with the lotus of consciousness. And all around me—pearls rain from all ten directions.

I too tell you—pearls are raining—now, right now, always have rained, will always rain—because Paramatma abides each moment in every ripple of air, in each particle. If not pearls, what else will fall?

‘The lotus has blossomed; the body-garden has flowered—
From all ten directions pearls are showering.
Says Gulal—tie your thread to the Lord’s feet—
And be filled with light.’

Do just this—tie your cord to His feet; surrender there; cut off the head—erase the ego—and bow.

This life is precious. But because it came to you free, do not think it worthless. It was given as a gift—do not forget. You did not earn it; you are not deserving—it is His grace—so do not fall into forgetfulness. Remember, again and again remember His grace—and be filled with gratitude—bow—so that some day this incomparable experience becomes yours too—

‘The lotus has blossomed; the body-garden has flowered—
From all ten directions pearls are showering.’

Enough for today.