Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #17

Dharma is eternal—and ever-new!
Understand this paradox rightly. Dharma is eternal, because Truth can only be eternal. Truth does not change with time. No current of time leaves a line upon Truth. The waves of time cannot touch its timelessness. Truth is as it is. So it is today, so it was yesterday, so it shall be tomorrow. That is why we call it Truth—that which is ever of one taste, one suchness.
And therefore there is the distinction between dream and Truth. The dream is now—and in the next moment, no more. Just arisen, just gone—like a wave. Truth is like the ocean in which waves rise and fall—and the ocean remains.
First thing: Truth is eternal, deathless, beyond time; and yet, at the same time, original, ever-fresh. For whenever there is a revelation of Truth, whenever any living soul experiences Truth within, that experience is no one else’s experience; it is one’s own—so utterly one’s own that it cannot be called a repetition of anyone’s.
Buddha knew Truth, Mahavira knew Truth, Kabir knew, Nanak knew, Sundardas knew. But whenever anyone knew, it was known in such intimacy that it cannot be called a repetition of someone else’s Truth. Buddha can be a witness to it, but it is not the very same experience that happened to Buddha. Sundardas will know in his own way! Buddha knew in his own way. The ways differ.
Sundardas’s realization is such as has never happened before. Many have loved before you; but when you love, you will not feel that it is a mere repetition of the loves of all those lovers. Though the essence of love is one, every time it takes a new hue, a new mode. The pitch of love is one, yet every time it melts into new songs. The veena of love is one, yet each time a musician touches its strings there is a freshness in that very touch.
Truth is eternal—and forever new! As fresh as the morning’s dewdrop, so new! And as ancient as the sun.
If this paradox is not understood rightly, great difficulties arise. Some people believe Truth is only the old; hence whatsoever is old must be true. Then the worship of the old begins, and fear of the new begins. From this, traditionalism is born, a dead man is born—one in whose life there is no new throbbing, no wave of fresh delight; in whose life everything is stale. He parrots the Gita, parrots the Quran. His speech is false. His personality is false. His life—a hypocrisy.
This delusion has happened with great force—to millions. They end up in the worship of antiquity. Then they keep searching for that very Truth which happened to Buddha, which happened to Krishna, to Christ, to Mohammed. And that Truth will never happen to you, because God never creates two persons alike. This is the dignity of individuality—that every person is unique, incomparable, without counterpart. There can be no comparison. God creates a person—this person; he does not create another like him. Otherwise, persons would become mechanisms—like the Fiat cars rolling out of a factory, many of the same model.
Existence has not made a factory of human beings; it fashions each single human by hand. With the same love, the same joy, with which it fashioned others. When you were fashioned, not a whit less was its love. And when it gave you your features and breathed breath into your breath, it was no less jubilant. It is not that while giving breath to Buddha it was more ecstatic and while giving breath to you it was less.
This existence behaves equally with all. It gives equal respect, equal love to all. Therefore each person is unique, and the reflection of Truth that will arise in him will also be unique. So do not seek Buddha’s Truth. You will never find it. You have to seek your own Truth. Some people, thinking that Truth is eternal, get busy worshipping the Vedas—and the Veda within them goes on sleeping. If you seek the outer Veda, how will the inner Veda awaken? Your energy continues to circle around the outer Veda in worship and circumambulation; how will the inner richa-s arise? How will the slumbering notes within you awaken? How will your flute be filled with resonance? You are traveling to the Kaaba outside; who will journey to the Kaaba within?
So beware of one delusion—that Truth is only what is old.
Then another delusion arises—the opposite one. Every delusion gives birth to its opposite. There are those who believe Truth is only the new. It cannot be old at all. Therefore burn the old. Therefore break temples and mosques. Therefore burn the scriptures. Truth is new, and each person’s own. Then what is the point of looking backward? This is the second error.
Truth is new. It will be each person’s own. But many persons have known it before as well. And though their modes may have been different, their colors different, the essential foundation is one. As the moon arises in the sky, then its reflection appears in your small courtyard pond, and in someone’s great ocean, in a poor man’s house and in a rich man’s house—its reflections will form everywhere. The reflections will be different, and fresh, new—new each day—but that of which they are reflections is one.
When a richa is born within you, when your own ayat manifests, when you hum your song for which you had come to sing—you will be amazed to find that this is what the rishis of the Vedas sang, this is the Quran, this is the Bible.
The day one awakens to one’s own Truth, on that day a unique experience happens—that my Truth is not only mine; it belongs to all who have known, and to those who will know henceforth.
So Truth is not only new—do not fall into that delusion. That is the revolutionary’s error. Nor is Truth only old—do not fall into that delusion either. That is the reactionary’s error. Truth is both—the oldest of the old, the newest of the new. Ancient as the mountains, fresh as the dewdrops! This is the mystery of Truth—utterly archaic, ever-new.
A great fanfare of no-progress, of progress, yet
it is the same dance—the juggler alone is new.
Man, born a man, and without drowning into death,
who did not search out a loving support—
if you floated by the day, your life merely drifted;
at night perhaps you came, each night, to shore.
From peak to ocean the unhindered river—
it is the same river; only the banks are new.
The dark apsara, drunk on wine of stupor,
with limp vine-arms imprisoned me;
then dawn’s fair ray, tickling me awake,
with golden hands touched the lids of my eyes;
what fills the waking dream with colors now—
it is the same colors; only the backdrop is new.
Think me old if you must—
I am the surge that rises on eternal notes.
Your error is to think me unawake—
I sway, intoxicated, to the rhythm immortal.
What we drink and live by—
it is the same wine; only the cups are new.
Something new, something old—thus is the whole of existence knit together.
The wine is the same—only the cups are new.
These words of Sundardas are the essence of all the scriptures—and yet a repetition of none. And whenever you sit near an authentic master, you will find exactly this. In his words is the essence of all the scriptures, yet the repetition of none. And wherever you feel this, know that Truth has descended again, Truth has come again, its ray has touched earth again; spring has come, buds have opened. Wherever you hear only the parroted proclamation of the old—be alert there! And where you find, on the contrary, only the worship of the new and the new—be alert there too! Where the old and the new stand together, where the old has dropped its oldness and the new has dropped its mere novelty, where both have become two faces of one coin—there, know, Truth has incarnated.
This spring breeze has come, swaying,
the shy-bond of the bud has opened!
Wherever the spring breeze arrives, there the bud breaks and becomes blossom.
This spring breeze has come, swaying,
the shy-bond of the bud has opened.
Play ended in dust—childhood bid farewell;
youth colored its frolics with rays;
clad in a green garment, youth came—
with the wind it began to romp;
on the sun-gold body of the harvest
from the sky poured saffron of hue!
This spring breeze has come, swaying,
the shy-bond of the bud has opened!
A mere bubble of water—true;
who says it came and got trapped?
I lived upon the bosom of life’s wave—
and when it passed, I laughed at death.
I am the sap of affection on the body of the harvest—
melting, mingling with the rising color.
This spring breeze has come, swaying,
the shy-bond of the bud has opened!
Where you find the embrace of the old and the new, where the Sanatan and the nava, arm in arm—there know Truth has appeared.
What Sundardas says is the essence of all scriptures—yet not a repetition of any; it is his own realization. Attend to his words.
As the vessel is within, so does it see.
Whatever one is, so one sees. This is a precious sutra. From what anyone sees, understand the state he is in. The blind does not see light. That does not prove that light is not. It proves only this—that he is blind, he has no eyes. The deaf does not hear the birds’ songs. Do not conclude from this that nature is dumb, that existence is mute. Know only that you lack the faculty of hearing, the sensitivity. You are deaf.
But man’s ego insists on the opposite. If the birds’ song is not heard, the ego says: there are no songs. If light is not seen, the ego says: there is no light—that is why it is not seen. The ego never takes the fault upon itself. The ego always passes the fault to someone else. And unless you become alert to this device of the ego, you will keep falling into its net. The ego always shifts the fault. And the fault that is shifted remains.
Accept the fault, own it. If light is not seen, before you go to deny light, to reject it, search deeply within to see whether you have eyes or not. The true seeker first looks within. He does not proclaim that there is no God. He says only this: I do not experience it. Then somewhere, in me, some flaw must be. So many have experienced; so many have declared. And where will you find more authentic men than these? If Buddha and Mahavira and Krishna and Christ stand in testimony, where else will you look for witnesses? Where will you find more authentic witnesses? Yet you go on believing your ego. You refute the testimony of centuries. You negate the witness of the finest.
From the Vedas till today, whoever has known has proclaimed His being. But you deny them all and choose your ego. Think for a moment—whom are you believing? Yourself?—who does not even know who the ‘I’ is! Who does not know from where he comes! Who does not know to where he goes! Who knows nothing. Who has never even descended within to see who dwells there! Who is not even acquainted with himself—him you believe!
Reflect a little! What is the worth of your word? But no; the ego says God is not. Because the ego cannot accept that I am blind. The ego cannot accept that I am ignorant. If God is, then I am ignorant.
Friedrich Nietzsche, among his many declarations against God, says this too—that if God is, then I am ignorant; and this I am not ready to accept! Do you understand the meaning? If God is, then one thing is clear—that I have not known Him. Then I become ignorant. And the ego wants to believe itself wise, not ignorant. So the ego will deny God—one way. The other way—the ego will accept others’ knowing as its own knowing. That too is the ego’s device to save itself. You will memorize the Gita and say, all right—God is. And you will repeat the Gita’s words. But those words are not yours. Krishna has not yet awakened within you. In you even the war of Kurukshetra has not begun. In you the struggle between darkness and light has not arisen! In you the victory of light is far away. You are buried in darkness. You repeat Krishna’s words—they are false upon your lips.
Even Truth becomes untruth if it is not one’s own experience. Your beliefs are nothing but devices to hide your ignorance. Disbelief is also a device to hide ignorance: if there is no God, then there is no question of knowing. And belief too is a device to hide ignorance: God is, we accept, we know; what remains to be known now?
Look closely. There is not much difference between the theist and the atheist. The deeper you look, the more you will find—there is no difference at all. I have seen theists and I have seen atheists—and found both alike, utterly alike. Though what they say seems opposite: one says God is, the other says God is not. But those are surface contradictions. Inside, if you look closely, both have adopted different strategies to save the same ego. Both are escaping.
The religious person is one who does not escape, who does not want to escape—who wants transformation. Who leaves himself naked before Truth. I do not know—how can I say ‘He is’? How can I say ‘He is not’? This much I can do, this much is in my hands: I can awaken my consciousness more, make it more aflame; perhaps if my awareness rises I will come to know something.
Think a little. In the night you fall asleep. You do not know what is in your own room. If in the night thieves enter your house and carry away your safe, you will not know. In the day when you are awake, thieves cannot enter; your safe cannot be stolen! Because then you see what is around you.
At night you fall asleep; whatever little consciousness you have is also lost. You are not aware of anything. In the day you awaken; a little consciousness returns. Consider: can consciousness grow more? Can it become more dense? Perhaps if consciousness becomes more dense, more incandescent, then what I do not see now may begin to be seen. Consciousness can become dense; you yourself often find that your consciousness becomes denser. In twenty-four hours your awareness is not the same; there are tides and ebbs.
Psychologists, after deep study, now accept this. It is now based on scientific proofs, proved—that in twenty-four hours your consciousness goes through many fluctuations.
They say there are two kinds of people. One—those whose awareness is very sharp in the morning and becomes dim by evening. The other—those whose awareness is dim in the morning and becomes sharp by evening. There is a great gap between them. To synchronize them is difficult. One whose consciousness is alert in the morning will rise early—will rise in brahmamuhurta. The earlier he rises, the fresher he will remain the whole day! The most profound hour of his life is going to be the morning. He will see the sun rise, will hear the birds’ songs, will see the greenness of trees. Dawn happens not only outside; it happens within him too. And he is so awake in the morning that he cannot miss that hour. Such people must have spoken about rising at brahmamuhurta.
But there are others—if you wake them early in the morning, you spoil their whole day. They will remain sad and cross all day—uprooted, broken, scattered, fragmentary. All day they will feel something has been missed, somewhere something is lacking. These people become sharp in awareness by evening. Such people gather in clubs at dusk, they dance, they sing, they gossip late into the night. Only at midnight can they sleep; before that they cannot. Their hour of awareness comes at night. With twilight their real life begins. With the rising moon, something rises within them. Or when the sky fills with stars, their awareness becomes dense.
Observe—you will find this too! And those who are more alert in the morning, by evening—after twelve hours—they have reached the opposite pole. And those who are alert in the evening, by morning—after twelve hours—they are at the opposite pole. Within you is a circle. When your hour of awareness is very sharp, whatsoever you do will be auspicious; whatever you do, you will succeed! Because your whole intelligence will be present in it.
Psychologists now say that all students should not be examined at the same hour—this is injustice. If you take exams in the morning, you do injustice to those who are dull in the morning. They will fall behind unnecessarily! Those who are fresh in the morning will go ahead comfortably; the gold medals will be theirs. This is injustice. Those who are fresh in the evening should be examined in the evening, not in the morning. Only then will they get a fair chance. Soon examinations will have to adopt this arrangement. This compulsion is beyond their control. It belongs to the chemistry of their body; it cannot be changed.
Therefore keep this also in mind: a person for whom rising early is not right will not succeed even if he tries his whole life. It cannot be changed. It is woven into every fiber of you, lodged in your very cells. The wise way is to harmonize with it, rather than fight it needlessly.
In your twenty-four hours also, when your awareness is dense, certain happenings will occur which never occur when your awareness is less dense—meaning, when your awareness is more dense you will find trees a little greener and birds’ songs more melodious! People more lovable! Existence meaningful. You will hear fewer insults and more songs! If you are in ecstasy, the whole existence will appear filled with ecstasy. If there is thrill within you, you will find thrill in every leaf of the tree! If a dance is happening within you, you will see the dance glimmering in whomever you meet. And when you are sad, despondent, when your hour is bad, you will feel the whole world is sad. Trees stand as if weeping, pale—as if someone had squeezed out their juice. Even when the moon rises it seems to be weeping—as if tears were dripping! You will hear more abuses; songs will be difficult to hear. Life will seem nothing but complaint. Doubts will become dense; faith will be difficult.
Each person should find his own hour of faith. That is his hour of prayer and meditation. People ask me: when should we meditate? Nothing can be imposed from above. You must find it! If you observe for three weeks you will find it; write in a diary for three weeks—when in the twenty-four hours you feel good, when you feel bad. And beware: you often think that I feel bad because so-and-so said such a thing, or this happened, or my wife is not cheerful today, hence I am a little sad; or the child broke something; or the child failed the exam. No; if you keep a regular check for three weeks, you will find that nothing outside makes the difference. Something is happening within you. You will soon catch the key—and the hour in which you are most conscious, that is the hour for prayer. It will be different for each; everyone’s own. And the hour in which sadness is at its peak, in which you are most irritable—at that hour close doors and stay in bed. Going out then is dangerous; even speaking to someone is harmful. Something wrong will happen. You will say something that will pinch and for which you will repent later. In your irritable hour anger will be easy, compassion difficult. In your jubilant hour compassion will be easy, anger difficult.
Sutra:
As the vessel is within, so does it see.
What one is, so one sees.
A great hushed noontide!
Even the bird does not flutter;
not even a leaf rustles.
Silence has grown thicker—
where has the lapwing spoken?
A sheet of glaring sun is stretched—
I wander—where is the dense shade?
In each new moment of the blaze
a deeper thirst arises!
What river?—a line burning,
a sobbing breath, just going on.
The new monsoon’s virgin cloud—
who knows where it has halted?
A great hushed noontide!
When you are hushed within, all is hushed. Remember, the afternoons are not outside; the afternoons are within you. Neither is evening outside, nor morning. Neither day, nor night. Neither life, nor death. All is within you. When a man says there is no God in the world, have compassion on him. He is sad, rootless; his roots are broken. He has no earth in which to spread his roots and be drunk with sap—have pity on him, do not be angry. He is ill; he needs healing.
Carl Gustav Jung, a great Western psychologist, in his memoirs writes: After treating many people through my life, I have come to this conclusion—that after forty, forty-two, the fundamental disease of those who come to me is neither physical nor mental, but spiritual. They are the people who could not give birth to any kind of faith. Up to forty, forty-two, a man somehow drags along; there is the intoxication of youth, the flow of nature, one is carried. But after forty-two death begins to knock at the door. The feet begin to falter. Life has turned downhill. The ascent is gone. If we take seventy to be the average, in thirty-five man touches his peak; then he begins to descend the mountain. Around forty-two the obstacle starts arising.
Jung’s experience is right. My experience too supports it. Those who did not kindle any kind of trust, after forty-two will find themselves utterly alone; wealth gained, position gained, the running about is over, the noon is declining, evening approaching. Now everything will appear very hushed. Now even in the wife there is not so much juice, nor in the husband. Now a little more wealth will be gathered—what difference will it make? One more rung climbed—what will it change? Now one thing has become clear: the intoxication of youth is evaporating—and a man feels robbed, lost. The intoxication carried him; now it breaks. How to go on now? Now the feet stagger. One who has not come to trust in God—know it, he has not known the exuberance of life. He has made life a long sadness. He has not known the festival of life!
This very place
is our
Manasarovar—
these voices,
these tremblings,
these falls and risings,
these ironies,
these struggles!
Here itself, yet—
life;
here the flame;
here bliss supreme!
In the mould of surrender
here
are cast
Sat–Chit–Ananda!
Here is everything. Here are the struggles, the upheavals, wars, murders and suicides—and here too are those dancing ones from whom the richa-s were born. Here Krishna’s flute sounded, here Tamerlane slew people. Here Buddha attained peace, and here people are going mad.
Here, yet—
life;
here, the flame;
here, the bliss supreme!
In the mould of surrender
here
are cast
Sat–Chit–Ananda!
But what is within you—that you will see outside.
When someone says God is—by believing? No, by knowing, by experience—he is blessed. For it means only this: within him the festival has become so dense that now he begins to see God everywhere. Within him awareness has become so intense that even a stone cannot hinder his seeing God.
Those who said God is in every particle—what were they saying? They were saying: our eyes have become so deep now, that what appears substance to you appears God to us. Matter appears to the blind.
Matter—understand it thus: as if a blind man has groped God and found only His body. A blind man can only feel his way.
Helen Keller was a famed woman. Blind, deaf, and mute. A wondrous woman, she met many great men of the world. A special talent of this age. When she came to meet Jawaharlal Nehru, she felt his face with her hands. Feeling his face, do you know what she said? She said: It is exactly the feeling I had when I touched the ancient marble statues in Greece.
But remember—the comparison is with stone! The comparison is sweet—the most beautiful statues are the Greek marbles. She is saying, you are very beautiful; yet remember, the comparison is with stone. However beautiful, there is stoniness. Even if marble, even if cool—still something inert, frozen, blocked…
A blind man can only grope. And what you will find by groping is matter, stone. When you awaken, open your eyes, matter dissolves.
I wish to tell you: Helen Keller, the blind woman, by touching the living face of Jawaharlal Nehru remembered marble statues! The converse also happens—when a man of eyes looks at a marble statue, he finds the living within. The blind man, finding a living man, finds a marble statue. The one with eyes, even in marble, finds the living.
Do not think that when Ramakrishna danced before the image of Kali, he danced before a stone. Do not, by mistake, give room to such a thought. Not for a moment. For Ramakrishna that image was not stone. He had eyes such that in that image he could see the living, the conscious. For him it was a living image. For him not stone, not rock.
For the devotee, even in stone God becomes present—but others see only the stone. Therefore I say: those Muslims who broke Hindu temples and broke their idols, they were not Muslims either. Had they been Muslims, it would not have been possible. Because then they would have seen that even in the stone is the same One, in the image is the same One. No—they were merely blind believers. They had no eyes! If there were eyes, how would you break an image? You would see that for the world it may be an idol, but when a devotee comes and, filled with feeling, dances in ecstasy, the idol dissolves as stone and something manifests through it which reveals itself to no one else. A way of seeing is needed!
The lamp of the mind—
alert and humble;
the incomparable of the unreachable,
form of the radiance;
charity to every atom,
fearless, life-full!
A special brilliance of light,
limitless in love;
the rim of the eyes,
cord of kohl;
child of restraint,
messenger of patience!
On the breast of darkness—
the lamp’s chamber;
nightlong struggle,
insight of the bright;
let one live nearby—
hope and trust!
Crown of splendor,
modest gaze;
shimmering pure,
the night of awareness;
thickets of gloom—
bundles of rays!
The weight of night upon the head—
by dawn’s door
it glimmers lightly,
overflows from the pot of dark;
the sky of the sun—
undying aura!
Thickets of gloom—
bundles of rays!
To the one who can see, even in darkness light becomes visible.
Thickets of gloom—
bundles of rays;
crown of splendor,
modest gaze;
shimmering pure—
the night of awareness.
Even night becomes day; dusk becomes dawn. Death too becomes the door to great life. But the lamp must be lit within.
The lamp of the mind—
alert and humble;
the incomparable of the unreachable,
form of the radiance;
charity to every atom,
fearless, life-full!
Everything depends on you.
As the vessel is within, so does it see.
Beautiful—lost is one’s own self; whom then shall we ask?
And Sundardas says: In search of whom do you set out?—first search your own self!
Beautiful—lost is one’s own self; whom now shall one ask?
And this search you must do yourself; no one can do it for you. No one can tell you either. This is your innermost core. There no one but you can enter. There you alone will reach—by closing your eyes.
The guru’s work is only this much—to indicate how to close the eyes, how to cease thought, how to be without thought, how to break from the outside, to give the method. But the going—you must go. There you will arrive alone.
Beautiful—lost is one’s own self…
We never even look to see that I am the one lost.
You ask, Where is God?—Give proof! Does life remain after death or not?—Give proof!
Life is present within you—what no death has ever stolen nor can—go there. From there recognition will arise. And God, whom you have gone to seek outside, will not be found until He is found within!
If in the chest of your thoughts, inside, a cuckoo coos;
or flowers blossom;
or even enemies are met there in the mood of friends—
it is enough; at least this much I have known:
first find Him within,
whom you wish to see blossoming everywhere without!
If you wish to see the world everywhere blossomed, filled with God, remember—
first find Him within,
whom you wish to see blossoming everywhere without!
Beautiful—the fire dwells in the wood, hidden within.
Fire is hidden in the wood; so too within you is hidden the Fire—the eternal flame! Another name for it is Paramatma. Fire is the symbol of life; of supreme life.
Beautiful—the fire dwells in the wood, hidden within.
If the wood is long, the flame rises long; if broad, it rises broad; if small, small; if big, big. If the forest catches fire, it is terrible. But the nature of the fire is one. And it is certain that in every wood fire is hidden. Do not think that two sticks rubbing create it. It was only hidden—now it is manifest, not born. By friction it comes out.
Between disciple and master such friction goes on. From flame to flame the lamp is lit!
If long, long it rises; if wide, wide it spreads.
Beautiful—consciousness itself, and yet it moves in the gait of the inert;
like children astride a wooden horse, leaping and prancing.
Have you not seen small children, riding a wooden horse? They themselves jump and imagine the horse is jumping. They jump themselves—and must also make the horse jump; double effort is needed. Jumping alone would have been enough; somehow they must also make the horse jump. And they become utterly thrilled. They think the horse is leaping and making them leap.
Beautiful—consciousness itself, and yet it moves in the gait of the inert.
You are consciousness, and you walk the gait of the inert! You are like those children—
Like children astride a wooden horse, leaping and prancing.
To some you say he is a Brahmin; to some you say he is a Chandala.
Beautiful—the delusion is such—one goes on slapping talk for nothing at all.
And see the stupidity—you call someone a Chandala, someone a Brahmin. Someone you make a Shudra, someone a Vipra. Useless fictions…
…one goes on slapping talk for nothing.
Here there is only One indwelling. Neither any Brahmin nor any Chandala. The One within is Paramatma. By mistake do not call anyone a Shudra—for you have called God a Shudra. Do not call anyone a sinner—for you have called God a sinner. Do not slander anyone. Who are you?
Jesus has a famous saying: Judge not. Do not decide who is bad and who is good. The One is within all—He knows!
Beautiful—the delusion is such—one goes on slapping talk for nothing.
The body is stout or thin; a wound is inflicted on the body;
consciousness takes it upon itself—Beautiful, what a habit!
What habit we have fallen into! The body becomes young, and you think—I am young. The body becomes old, and you think—I am old. You are never young, never old. Have you ever considered this? Close your eyes and see—within, do you feel any age? Have you ever noticed that within there is no sign of age—whether you are forty, or fifty, or eighty? Within, there is no age—how could there be any sign? Age belongs to the body, not to you!
The body is stout or thin…
And if the body is strong you think—I am strong. And if the body is thin, weak—you think—I am weak!
…a wound is inflicted on the body.
Wounds are inflicted on the body—but what a strange habit you have adopted: you think, I am wounded!
A Sufi fakir was seized for declaring: I am God. In the court the caliph said: Ask forgiveness, otherwise lashes will strip the skin from your body! And the fakir declared again—Anal Haq! He said, Let it begin; where are the lashes? Who is the son of a lion who can beat me!
The emperor did not understand—emperors have never had much understanding. The fakir was saying—Who is the son of a lion who can beat me! He meant, no one can beat me—that is impossible. But the emperor took it as a challenge to himself; I will prove it right now. He called fierce executioners. They began to lash him. And the fakir kept laughing. His laughter hurt the emperor deeply—what is the matter? Blood is flowing from the body, and the fakir keeps laughing. At last he said, Stop. He asked the fakir, What is the matter—are you mad? They are whipping you, your skin is torn, blood flows—why are you laughing? He said, You are beating someone else. I laugh because I threw a challenge—and you are beating another! This body is not me. The day this was known, the day this proclamation arose in me—Anal Haq—Aham Brahmasmi! You will not be able to beat me.
It is said of Sarmad, the fakir, that his head was cut off—for saying Aham Brahmasmi. Sarmad said, Even after death I will go on saying it! Thousands gathered in Delhi when Sarmad was beheaded. When his head was cut at the Jama Masjid and thrown down the steps, it is said the head rolled down and streams of blood were left upon the steps—and yet the voice continued, Aham Brahmasmi, Anal Haq. The voice continued to echo! Thousands saw this. There were eye-witnesses. Those who had killed Sarmad also saw it; they trembled—From where is this voice coming! Sarmad was laughing—even after death!
You are not the body—you are beyond the body. But what a habit has gripped us!
Consciousness takes it upon itself…
Whatever happens, you quickly make it your own. I have been wounded—I am wounded. I fell ill—I am ill.
You never fall ill, no wound ever reaches you. You are never young, never old. You are unborn and undying. You are eternal.
Slyly, sitting in your own home, you say, I shall go to my own home.
Sundardas is joking. He is joking that you are very clever, very wise! And I have heard even the so-called wise saying: Slyly, sitting in your own home, you say, I shall go to my own home!
Such is the delusion—Beautiful—forgetful of one’s own place.
You have forgotten your own home—and you are seated in it! The man who says, I am going to search for God in Kaaba, Kashi, Kailash—considers himself very clever.
Slyly, sitting in your own home, you say, I shall go to my own home.
How clever you are! Your condition is like this: one night a man drank. Somehow he reached home, groping. But he was bewildered—he could not recognize his own home! The intoxication was high. He knocked at the door—not because he thought it was his home, but so that someone would wake up; whoever’s house it be, he could ask, Brother, where is my home? His mother opened the door. The old mother was waiting. He fell at her feet and said, Mother, tell me the address of my home. She said, Fool, this is your home. I am your mother. He said, Do not try to explain—tell me my address. I want to go home. My mother must be waiting for me.
A crowd gathered. Neighbors began to laugh. All said, This is your home. But the more they insisted, the more the drunken man insisted. He said, No, this is not my home. Take me to my home; do not joke with me. Because I have drunk does not mean the whole neighborhood should make fun of me.
Another drunk was returning from the tavern in his bullock cart. He too saw the crowd. He stopped and said, Brother, you are right. These people are joking with you. Come, sit in my cart; I will take you to your home.
He was happy. He said, At least one good man is found!
But it is his home. Now if he sits in a drunkard’s cart, the farther he goes, the farther he will be from home.
Beware of those who are taking you to Kashi, Kaaba, Mecca. Be a little cautious of those who say, Come to the Himalayas. Those who say, Go on pilgrimages—be a little wary. Where you are is your home. Ask those who are awake! Do not be caught in the circles of sleepers. Millions are caught and are seeking God—and God is right where you are. Exactly at that spot. Your being is God’s being.
Slyly, sitting in your own home, you say, I shall go to my own home.
Such is the delusion—Beautiful—forgetful of one’s own place.
Forgotten utterly—in what a mirage you are caught! You have taken the shadow to be the real—and your reality to be false. You have taken the ego as truth, the soul as false.
Shadows of leaves upon stone—
swaying, quivering, dancing,
scattering the burden of forms;
falling still;
embroidering patterns,
weaving vines,
laughing, making laugh,
suddenly ringing out—
then falling silent;
thinking something,
lost in itself!
Far, very far,
the gaze runs—
rising, hesitating,
then again withdrawing;
again and again it looks
at its own body—
shadows of leaves upon stone.
Naked, unclad,
rolling and rolling;
turning, tossing,
taking stretches;
on the stone again and again
rising and rising,
stamping her feet;
bored, annoyed,
muttering something
under her breath;
angry with herself!
Shadows of leaves upon stone!
Shadows of leaves upon stone!
Strutting, sobbing,
weeping, beating her head, repenting—
she did not find
the company of the sun!
Shadows of leaves upon stone!
Consider a little. You have not looked within to see yourself. You have looked at your picture in other people’s eyes. Shadows of leaves upon stone! That you have taken to be ‘I am this.’
Consider a little—whatever knowledge you have about yourself is borrowed, from others. Someone says, You are very handsome—and you accept that you are handsome. Someone says, You are very intelligent—and you accept you are intelligent. Someone said something, someone something else. And these statements are highly contradictory, because among those giving statements are friends and enemies. Hence you have become a confusion. Someone says, You are very handsome—and then someone says, Ugly fellow, look at your face in the mirror! Now both statements have lodged within you. You are in difficulty—who are you? Someone calls you very wise, someone calls you a fool. Now you are in trouble.
You like those who praise you. You dislike those who criticize you. You want to remember the things said in your praise. You want to forget the things said against you. But however much you forget, so long as praise has value for you, abuse too will have value. Because it is the opposite of praise—you cannot escape it. As long as one is, the opposite will remain. But the whole mistake is this: you ask others, Who am I? Ask yourself. Close all doors and windows and raise this one flaming question within—Who am I?
Slyly, sitting in your own home, you say, I shall go to my own home.
Such is the delusion—Beautiful—forgetful of one’s own place.
What is known cannot be said: the bliss of the Atman by experience.
Those who have known, who have gone within, cannot tell what was found there—what joy, what peace! What was attained there—what Self, what God!
What is known cannot be said: the bliss of the Atman by experience.
Therefore, those who have known cannot tell you until you go within yourself—for it cannot be said.
The rain has fallen!
Life had turned tasteless,
when the mind had thirsted for sweetness—
Great the grace,
the clouds have arrived, the rain has fallen!
They thundered and rumbled—
but the rainbow’s arched brows were not drawn;
no sword of lightning struck anyone—
only the glance of compassion watered all.
The soil grew fragrant
when the inert was touched by the conscious.
The rain has fallen!
The earth wore vermilion;
the gentle shehnai of the cicadas sounded;
on the sky-paths, with new wind-chariots,
this auspicious hour arrived;
the lap of the earth was filled—
the sprout showed its face!
The rain has fallen!
Yet how difficult to say—when rain falls, the sprout shows its face, the sweet smell rises from the earth; in the body of clay one feels the nectar; in the dark night the sun rises. Difficult to say. It can be known, lived—not said!
What is known cannot be said: the bliss of the Atman by experience.
Those who have not known—often they go about saying who they are. Easy for them. Ask anyone, Who are you? He promptly gives name, address—card already printed—hands it to you: Here I am. Shyam is laughing—he keeps cards in his pocket. He quickly hands one—Here I am! My address—doctor, engineer, leader—this, that. How easy! Ask Buddha, Who are you?—and silence happens. Utter silence. They do not carry printed cards to give you quickly—Here I am!
The story is: A Brahmin, a great astrologer, saw Buddha. He had never seen so beautiful a person! So serene, so gentle, so unperturbed! He was enchanted. He bowed and asked, Who are you? Alone beneath this tree, in this forest—are you a god descended from heaven? For you do not seem of this earth. From which world are you a god?
Buddha said, No, I am not a god.
Then who? A kinnera?
Buddha said, No, not that either.
Then who? Some spirit, some auspicious ghost?
No, Buddha said, not that either. The Brahmin asked every category he could, and Buddha went on saying, No, no, no. Then he was bewildered. Then he asked, Who are you? Buddha said, I can only say this much: I am awakening, buddhahood, awareness, remembrance, mindfulness; not a person. I remembered—this much I can say.
Those who know nothing are ready immediately to tell you who they are. Even if you don’t ask, they are eager to tell. Those who know say—
What is known cannot be said: the bliss of the Atman by experience.
And for another reason it cannot be said: the more you know, the more you see—there is more to know. The end never comes. The mystery deepens—it does not get solved.
The thirst for the Beloved’s vision is not quenched; the eyes fill up.
Even after seeing, the eyes brim with tears. The thirst for darshan is not to be quenched.
The thirst for the Beloved’s vision is not quenched; the eyes fill up.
In the tender bite of sweet pain
flames shoot up in damp fuel;
the earth burns, clouds gather in the sky.
The thirst is not quenched; eyes fill up.
The feet did not follow the path’s counsel;
the garden of labor blossomed in youth;
we moved like the breeze, drops rolled along.
The thirst is not quenched; eyes fill up.
The door of sun and shade was opened;
light and darkness played;
now and then quick lightning, the rain poured down—
The thirst is not quenched; eyes fill up.
The eyes fill—with tears of joy! But the thirst does not end. One who has dived into God goes on diving. The thirst is not quenched; it becomes more dense, more sweet; new dimensions of thirst arise. Prayer grows new wings. It is an endless pilgrimage—with a beginning, but no end! What to say? How to bind it in words?
Beautiful—up to the throat it rises—but does not come out of the mouth.
What is known cannot be said: the bliss of the Atman by experience.
It comes up to the throat, but does not come to the lips. It feels as if it is lying upon the tongue—and yet it does not come out. It feels—now I have said it, now I have said it—and then you find it was unsaid, it remained unsaid. What was said did not solve anything.
For forty-two years what did Buddha say? The same thing. Again and again he tried—tried from here, tried from there, tried from this direction, from that. He went on losing the game.
The Zen masters say: Buddha did not say anything. For what should be called ‘saying’? Had that been said, then he would have spoken. That was not said. Everything else was said, but that was not. Then what did he say?
Zen masters, who revere Buddha and bow at his feet daily, say: Buddha did not speak. I say to you too: He spoke for forty-two years—and he did not speak.
There are so many sayings of the saints in the world, so many sweet words, poetic, saturated with experience—and yet that remains unsaid, is unsaid, will remain unsaid. It cannot be said. The matter is such—so deep that no word can capture that depth. Words hover on the surface.
Words are like the waves on the ocean’s surface. How can waves give news of the ocean’s depth? The wave is above, on the surface. In the depth there is no wave. And in the wave there is no depth. A great difficulty. Though both belong to one—the ocean; the depth is his, the wave is his; the periphery is his, the center is his. Yet the periphery and the center never meet! One who has reached the center—how will he express his experience in the language of the periphery? If he speaks—nothing happens; if he remains silent—nothing happens. Speak it cannot be; remain silent it cannot be; and yet it comes up to the throat. It keeps coming up to the throat. One longs to share.
Beautiful—up to the throat it rises—but does not come out of the mouth.
Beautiful—he who truly has wealth, keeps it hidden within;
only the petty go about tossing cowries.
Those who have petty experiences go about tossing cowries like beggars. Those who are truly rich know—it cannot be said. People with pennyworth will be found. Someone feels a slight stir of kundalini and runs to tell the whole world—my kundalini has awakened! These are pennyworth things. Experiences of kundalini and such are childish. They have little to do with spirituality. They are like the stones along the path. Among the stones along the path! This is not the destination. Someone saw a little light within—and runs to tell. Someone heard an inner sound—and runs to tell. They forget that these are grasses and blooms by the wayside. The supreme flower—this cannot be said.
Beautiful—he who truly has wealth, keeps it hidden within.
Those who have received, who have attained, who had the capacity, the wealth—they keep it hidden within. It cannot be said—what else can they do?
Only the petty go about tossing cowries…
…those who are pennyworth.
Whether an outcaste or a Brahmin—whoever churns the wood of the self—
Beautiful: without any distinction, the sacrificial fire manifests.
As fire is produced by rubbing wood, so too—whether Shudra or Brahmin—if one churns oneself, does the manthan, the churning, the divine fire will manifest within. It does not matter who he is. Shudras have known Him. Brahmins have known Him. Kshatriyas have known Him. Vaishyas have known Him. Men have known, women have known. People of this land have known, of other lands have known. In every age, known. Whoever rubbed a little within, whoever churned—manthan meaning meditation, manthan meaning love, manthan meaning sadhana—whoever gathered a little courage and went within, has found.
Whether an outcaste or a Brahmin—whoever churns the wood of the self—
Beautiful: without any distinction, the sacrificial fire manifests.
Then does it matter which wood? In every wood the fire is born. In the poorest wood and in the costliest, the most precious wood—be it sheesham or merely household firewood—there is fire in all. And fire is the real thing. Fire is the soul. And until your flame arises, keep churning; do not stop.
The body is wood. The hidden fire is God. By that, recognition will happen—you will experience your own nature. By that, life is gained and its meaning gained—the seed becomes a flower.
A lamp I lit in the Brahmin’s house; I lit again in the Chandala’s—
Beautiful: in both houses the darkness vanished at once.
A very lovely saying. Sundardas says: I lit a lamp in the Brahmin’s house, and I lit a lamp in the Shudra’s house. And in both, the darkness disappeared instantly.
I say to you too: light the lamp anywhere. And what is true of the outer lamp is equally true of the inner lamp. Do you think the Brahmin’s lamp removes darkness quicker?
You lit it—and the darkness vanished, because this is the Brahmin’s house. Then you lit it in the Shudra’s house—it does not light at all at first, however much you try. It refuses: This is a Shudra’s house; I will not light here. And even if it lights, it does not remove the darkness—In a Shudra’s house I will not remove darkness so quickly; I will take my time. I will keep postponing—years on end. Does the lamp care whose house it is? Whether the body is Brahmin or Shudra—it is a house. What difference does it make—poor or rich, beautiful or ugly? The lamp only needs to be lit. Instantly the revolution happens—the darkness dissolves.
A lamp I lit in the Brahmin’s house; I lit again in the Chandala’s—
Beautiful: in both houses the darkness vanished at once.
In the Shudra’s water-pot and the Brahmin’s golden urn—
Beautiful: the sun shone, in both the same.
And Sundardas says: I have seen too—when the sun’s reflection fell into a poor Shudra’s earthen pot, the sun manifested—just as when in the Brahmin’s precious urn, when its ray fell, the sun flashed there too. The sun does not look to see whether it should appear sooner in the golden urn and later in the earthen pot. Whoever is ready to receive the sun, in that the sun manifests. Whoever calls God, in him He appears.
Call! Leave these useless distinctions—Brahmin or Shudra. If you are Brahmin, He will come sooner. If you are Shudra, He will delay. Earthen pot or golden pot—it makes no difference. Call the sun; the reflection will form instantly. You will be filled with the sun.
In the Shudra’s water-pot and the Brahmin’s golden urn—
Beautiful: the sun shone, in both the same.
In both it appears the same, without the least difference.
The flower has spread its carpet—
what guest is this who has come?
I was asleep;
waking me, thus he said:
Have you ever awakened a corpse?
I am not I, you are not you, beloved—
we have made names for the sake of name.
Love has expanded so vast—
where are one’s own, where are others?
From the eyes surge tears—
they brim—where shall they be contained?
What rainbowed life this is—
color upon color keeps arriving!
Touch the strings—song will arise;
just so are the strings of the lute tuned.
The image that entered the life-breath—
in that very image the life-breath has come.
Touch the strings—song will arise;
just so are the strings of the lute tuned.
Only the strings of the lute must be tuned! Set the veena within; tune the strings.
What rainbowed life this is—
color upon color keeps arriving!
From the eyes surge tears—
they brim—where shall they be contained?
Love has expanded so vast—
where are one’s own, where are others?
I am not I, you are not you, beloved—
we have made names for the sake of name.
Brahmin and Shudra, Hindu and Muslim, white and black, beautiful and ugly, woman and man—these are distinctions of names, of pots. But people have made great divisions and created great noise. Women cannot attain liberation—why? Does the God within a woman become less? Can God be divided into male and female? Is Atman male or female?
The body’s differences are differences of pots. What your pot is like—what does it matter? When the sun rises, reflection will form. What your house is like—what does it matter? Light the lamp—darkness will go.
Shudras cannot be liberated—these are the declarations of human ego. These declarations have kept man irreligious. Be free of them as soon as you can. See the One; forget the many. He who is lost in the many is irreligious. He who recognizes the One is religious.
Your eyebrow’s bow—
on which, without being aimed,
a simple glance-arrow
has been shot at me;
and my core
has pierced me—
since that day
I search—where is
that eyebrow-bow
whose bowstring’s vibration
is the supreme cluster of light?
Those very arrows are
the stars glittering in the sky;
those very arrows are
your jewel-like eyes!
That One which glitters in the sky like stars—glitters in your eyes too. Recognize a little; awaken your memory. That One which has blossomed in flowers—has blossomed within you too. Sit silently. Make acquaintance with that One. You made acquaintance with the many—you met this one and that, formed relations with this and that; with that One, when will you relate? And until you relate with that One, your life is in vain and will remain so. You will never know why you came, never recognize what your destiny was, your meaning. You will gather wealth, surely; gain position and prestige, surely—but you will die a beggar.
You are of fire—not wood. You are the soul—not merely the body. You are light—the supreme light, the light of lights! But you know not your own kingship; you sit as a beggar. You do not search your treasure; you entangle yourself in useless things. Even in the name of religion you have spread many useless nets—and the nets do not break. Even now Shudras are burned. Even now they are killed, murdered. And now Shudras too begin to flare up.
The other day came the news: four upper-caste men were burned by Shudras. How long will they endure? It has gone too far. But know it—whether you burn a Brahmin or a Shudra, you burn Him.
Recognize that One. Relate with that One. Wed with that One. Take the seven rounds with Him. If union with Him happens, everything is attained.
The rain has fallen!
Life had turned tasteless,
when the mind had thirsted for sweetness—
Great the grace,
the clouds arrived, the rain fell.
They thundered and rumbled—
but the rainbow’s arched brows were not drawn;
no sword of lightning struck anyone—
only the glance of compassion watered all.
The soil grew fragrant
when the inert was touched by the conscious.
Vermilion dotted the earth;
the gentle shehnai of the cicadas sounded;
on the sky-paths the new wind-chariots—
this auspicious hour arrived;
the lap of the earth was filled—
the sprout showed its face.
The rain has fallen!
The cloud is ready to rain, but you do not call! The sprout longs to burst forth, but you do not let the seed fall into the soil—do not let it die. Only when the seed dies does the sprout arise. Your thirst too is intense—but you wander in false directions—now wealth, now position; now this, now that. But the thirst is only for Him—that One! Now give your thirst the right direction. However far the spires of His temple seem, they are not far. The day you go within, you will find—the pilgrim of pilgrims is found! In that very moment—
The soil grows fragrant
when the inert is touched by the conscious;
vermilion dots the earth;
the gentle shehnai of the cicadas sounds;
on the sky-paths the new wind-chariots—
this auspicious hour arrives;
the lap of the earth is filled—
the sprout shows its face.
The rain has fallen!
Enough for today.