Jyun Macchali Bin Neer #3

Chaitanya Kirti! The word “loka” can create confusion—and it has. The consequences of word-confusions last for centuries. “Loka” sounds as if there is some outer geography to travel through, a destination far away; the rishi’s intent is entirely different. It is about your within—your inner worlds.

One who knows speaks of the within. Talk of the “outer” is only to remind you of the “inner.” You understand the language of the outside; that compels the rishis. They have to speak in outer terms. One can only tell you what you can understand. But here lies the danger: you will understand only what you are able to understand.

While the rishi is alive he can prevent your confusions, hold you, keep you from getting caught in the net of words. But when the rishi is no more and priests and pundits take his place—people whose entire dimension is that of words—then exactly the opposite of the rishi begins to happen.

Jesus repeated again and again: the kingdom of God is within you. Yet Christians fold their hands and look to the sky. The sages grew tired saying: God is within you; and still, whenever you worship, it is some image outside. Even if you go to a mosque, your call is still to a God outside. All the fingers point inward, yet whenever you look, you look outward.

Do not ask where these lokas are. The trouble begins with “where.” If you ask “where,” you will start looking for someone to map it for you. Temples hang maps of these lokas. These lokas are names for different dimensions of your consciousness. It is so clear—and still man is so blind. Everything is illuminated, yet how can the blind see? They cannot see even the light—these sutras are written in light. That is why we call them richa—not ordinary poetry.

There is a difference between kavita (poetry) and richa. Poetry is the arrangement of an ignorant mind—patchwork, a heap of words. It may bind you in melody, meter, rhyme—fine; but it is the blind groping in darkness. We call him a rishi who has seen, and who hums and sings what he has seen.

The utterances that pour from rishis, from awakened ones, we gave a separate name: richa—because they come from a rishi. And a rishi is one whose inner eye has opened. When the inner eye opens, he speaks only of the inner. Your eyes are turned outward; the inner eye is closed. The rishi speaks of the inner, you understand it as outer.

Hence every scripture has been misunderstood; every scripture has been wrongly glossed and interpreted. Only a rishi can reveal another rishi’s intent; this is not the work of scholarship or punditry.

Parthiva loka means your body. Antariksha loka means your mind. The summit of the luminous deva-loka means the soul. And then, where everything dissolves into the radiant mass of light—that is existence itself, the fourth state: turiya, samadhi, nirvana. You must go beyond the three and attain the fourth. Not only beyond body, not only beyond mind—beyond soul as well; because the soul too is, in subtle form, the ego. The “I-sense” still remains. “Atma” means “I.” That is why Buddha used the word anatta: atta means self, I; anatta means no-self, no-I.

Buddha was not understood. Nor did the commentators on the Atharvaveda understand—what a joke! Brahmins, pundits and priests did not understand. Those who recite these richas morning and evening did not understand. They thought, “This Buddha is an atheist—he even denies the soul!” Yet this very sutra of the Atharvaveda says: “From the luminous deva-loka dissolve into the infinitely radiant mass of light,” where all dissolves. For this “dissolving,” Buddha chose a very lovely word: nirvana. Nirvana means the lamp goes out. The lamp is burning; you blow and it is extinguished; someone asks, “Where did the flame go?” Where will you point? You will say, “It has dissolved.” That is all one can say. You cannot tell its address now; it has merged—become one with existence.

As the lamp goes out, so must the person go out—then unity with the whole happens. To be a person is a kind of triad: body, mind, soul—the triangle of your being. At the exact center of this triangle there is a point where the triangle becomes zero. The three corners vanish: the formless appears, all form is lost.

The richa is very clear: “Let us rise from the earthly realm and ascend into the realm of space.”

Rise from the body. Most people are lost in the body. One who is lost in the body is an animal; one who is lost in the body is a shudra. Even if he is born in a Brahmin’s house, it makes no difference. Whoever lives in the body is a shudra. And the majority live in the body; for them the body is all in all. Eat, drink, be merry—that is the sum of their life. Sex is their entire meaning; desire is their whole expanse; indulgence—and that’s the end of it. Food, clothes, sex, money, position, prestige—there it all ends.

Every day you see people falling. Every day you see people lowered into graves, burning on pyres. Still no awakening. As if it has been decided that awareness must not be allowed to come!

On the plane of the body are all our relationships: wife, husband, sons, daughters, family, friends, loved ones—and who else is “ours”? Who belongs to whom? Yet the longing persists lifelong—to somehow find someone, perhaps somewhere someone will be found. Not yet, not till today—but maybe tomorrow. Hope keeps fluttering, and we keep walking by its flickering candle.

Till now I have not found any confidant of mine,
Till now I have not found any confidant of mine;
Whoever I met was a prisoner of time and space,
Whoever I met…

Who knows with what understanding I always kept turning away,
Who knows with what understanding I always kept turning away;
A hundred times lightning struck my nest of hopes,
A hundred times lightning struck my nest…

I am tired of searching for a new path,
I am tired of searching for a new path;
On every road I found some caravan,
On every road I found some caravan…

How many lamps of how many hopes were snuffed out,
How many lamps of how many hopes were snuffed out;
O burning of love, you proved far too heavy,
O burning of love, you proved too heavy…

There was a secret-sharer whose love gave life its savor,
There was a secret-sharer whose love gave life its savor;
But where was that secret-sharer of love ever found?
But where was that secret-sharer found?

Till now I have not found any confidant of mine,
Till now I have not found any…

Where does one find a true companion, a confidant? It is impossible. Yet even when hope dies, it does not die. It falls, and we pick it up again. Every time it falls, we prop it up. We invent new supports, new crutches. How many times has your nest not burned down? How many times has lightning not struck your nest? You are not in a body for the first time; you have lived in bodies infinite times. This is nothing new—yet you keep forgetting, slipping into oblivion.

Who knows why man, again and again, trusts the same old way! The same mistakes, the same credulity—nothing new. He goes round and round in circles—like an ox bound to the oil-press.

And still, even though a hundred times lightning has struck and death has come again and again, and the nest has been demolished again and again, you once more gather four straws to build a nest—hoping that now lightning will not strike.

You grow weary and restless; then you look for consolations. If you don’t find them, you fabricate them.

I am tired of searching for a new path;
On every road I found some caravan.

And you see you are not walking alone—whatever road you choose, whether chasing wealth, status, or fame—everywhere you see crowds of millions moving.

Caravans keep going. You are not alone. That increases the delusion: “Where so many are going, surely something lies there. So many cannot be wrong.” And you restrain yourself. Just as you begin to awaken, you stop, and fall back into dream.

How many lamps of how many hopes were snuffed out;
O burning of love, you proved too heavy.

What hopes a man carries! What dreams he weaves! Every time the lamps go out; a small gust of wind and—dark. Then we light them again. We borrow oil and wicks from others, we borrow flame from others, and again we light the lamps. They are extinguished, we keep relighting them.

But our spread of desire is such, it does not break. Awareness does not dawn; we cannot steady ourselves.

There was a secret-sharer whose love gave life its savor—
But where was that secret-sharer of love ever found?

We keep hoping that someone will be found—one of our own, a lover, a beloved, a friend. We think: then life will be sweet, flowers will bloom.

Think—how many ages you have been searching: “Where was that secret-sharer of love ever found!”

Till now I have not found any confidant of mine;
Whoever I met was a prisoner of time and space.
Till now I have not found any confidant of mine.

On the plane of the body there is nothing but failure, nothing but sorrow. Rise above the body. You are not only the body; there is much more within you.

Think of the body this way: someone living only on the outside of his house, never entering inside—circling around the exterior. Now go within a little. A little within, a little above the body. “Within” and “above” mean the same in the lexicon of life. Whatever the dictionary may say, in life they are one: the more you go within, the more you rise above; the more you go outward, the more you sink below.

Go within, and you find the mind. Mind is the first station on the inner journey. Mind means the capacity to reflect, the art of thinking. When reflection arises you begin to see that in the world of the body there are only delusions, attachments, fascinations, fetters, bonds. That is why I said: one who lives in the body is an animal—bound. Bound by the leash.

Food and sex—these are the two poles between which the body-bound man swings like a pendulum: from one to the other. Understand this: those who repress sexuality develop excessive interest in food, because their pendulum gets stuck on food. Those who clamp down on food will be flooded with sexuality.

Mind means reflection. Think a little about your life: What is it? What am I doing? What am I getting? What is anyone getting? So many have run, so many have sought for centuries and centuries—no one has found anything outside; how will I find it? Not one person in the whole history of humankind has said, “I searched outside and I found.” The few who found say only this: “I searched within and I found.” The outward seeker—there is not even one who could say, “I found.” There is nothing to find—so how could one say it? With what face? With what strength? On what basis?

If you think even a little, you begin to rise above the body. But then do not get entangled in thinking, or you will stall—just a little above, a little within, and stuck there. Some who rise above the body get caught in the mind. Their taste changes; it is subtler than bodily pleasure: they have a taste for music, poetry, art. No animal or bird is intrigued by art, philosophy, poetry, sculpture, painting, music. Only man can journey in that direction.

Even the word “manushya” (human) comes from “manan”—reflection, mind. When you rise above the body you cease to be animal; when you enter the mind you become human. But merely human is not enough. That is only the beginning of the journey, not the end. Soon the reflective person sees that thinking too is building castles in the air; it yields nothing. However logical you become, no conclusion is reached. Philosophy has no conclusion, no consummation.

Then the mind itself gives you the first hint of going beyond mind: you rose above body and found a freer sky—antariksha, inner space. Take one step more.

The art of going beyond the body is reflection; the art of going beyond the mind is meditation. Through meditation the soul is encountered. And in the soul there is immense bliss, immense meaning, dignity, glory. Therefore there is also great danger. Many religious people get stuck at the soul. There is so much bliss they think, “What more could there be?” What is received in the soul is so much that imagining more seems impossible. But a few courageous ones went beyond the soul too. They said: “We dropped the body and gained so much; we dropped the mind and gained even more. If only we could drop the soul as well—who knows how much might be gained!” Great courage is needed.

Buddhahood belongs only to those who drop even the soul. A few brave ones took that final step. It is perilous: a plunge into an unfathomable unknown with no shores. This is what the Atharvaveda says: “And then from the luminous deva-loka dissolve into the infinitely radiant mass of light.” Then there is nothing but dissolution.

A trace of you remains in the soul, just a little—asmita, the I-sense. A last faint line, like the trail that lingers after a shooting star; it glimmers for a while and then dissolves. Or as a jet passes and leaves a line of vapor that soon scatters.

The soul too is only a wisp of smoke—but very pleasurable, fragrant, full of flowers; therefore very capable of holding you. And for those who have known only body and mind, it seems as if the treasure of all treasures has been found. So many religious people stop at the soul, thinking the final station has arrived—there is nowhere else to go.

Yet one more step remains: turiya. The fourth is yet to be realized. As long as you are, understand that there is still more to be attained. You must be effaced, absorbed, dissolved. As a river merges into the ocean—so. Your separate little flame must become one with the great Flame. Then there is no “I.”

Not that the buddhas never use the word “I”—they have to, for utility’s sake, because they must speak with you. Otherwise there is no “I” within them.

This is a lovely sutra. But Chaitanya Kirti, do not ask where these lokas are. They are within you. They are your own treasures. Set out on the inner journey! This sutra of the Atharvaveda can illumine your entire path of inner pilgrimage.

Melaram Asrani! I am not at all—what messiah, what avatar, what tirthankara, what prophet! And if I am not, what is there to take myself for? Who would understand? And understand whom? I am gone. Long ago I went.

This drop was swallowed by the ocean long back. But when a drop dissolves into the ocean, it becomes the ocean. That’s why Kabir said, “Behold the wonder—the river has drunk the ocean.” Kabir’s upside-down sayings—that the river has drunk the ocean—are pointers, very telling pointers.

Now I am not. Now only That is. Where is “I,” where is “you”? This I-and-you has vanished. If I say, “I am a messiah,” it would be a mistake. If I say, “I am a tirthankara,” it would be a mistake. If I say, “I am an avatar,” it would be a mistake. I am not; now there is only godliness. The very godliness that is within you too. But you do not gather the courage to dissolve.

Melaram Asrani, you have made yourself into a mela—a fair. And in a fair there is bound to be a jumble. You are a crowd. I am emptiness; you are a crowd. You are so many things! Within you there is not one, there are many minds. Not one run, but many races—and all those races run in opposite directions; hence the uproar. Hence the constant inner conflict, duality, turmoil.

And even when you come to me, what can you do? Out of that same inner uproar such questions arise as, “Are you a messiah?” What’s the idea—do you plan to crucify me? Because has anyone ever become a messiah without being crucified? Would anyone have acknowledged Jesus as a messiah before the cross? If in your hearts you are itching to erect a cross, then all right, I am a messiah—go, fulfill your desire. Or do you want to drive nails into my ears? Or set mad dogs upon me? For until nails are hammered and mad dogs are loosed, no tirthankara is acknowledged. Until rocks are hurled, deranged elephants released, poison slipped into the food, no Buddha is certified. What are your intentions?

I am not willing to be divided into any categories. I am not willing to stand in any category at all.

There is a lovely incident in Buddha’s life; perhaps it will help you. A great astrologer was returning from Kashi—having completed his studies. His fame was spreading far and wide. His predictions were coming true. His word was becoming like a line chiseled in stone. He was on his way back to his village. On the way there is a small river, the Niranjana. It flows near Bodh Gaya. On that very bank of the Niranjana, Buddha was absorbed in the supreme light. Even the river’s name is beautiful: Niranjana—stainless. Niranjan is one of the names of the Divine. Buddha chose well.

On the bank of the Niranjana, under a tree, Buddha was meditating. It was the blazing afternoon when the pandit from Kashi reached the riverbank and was startled—there in the wet sand were the prints of someone’s feet. He was shocked, because according to his astrology the markings visible in those footprints could only belong to a chakravarti samrat, a wheel-turning world emperor—sovereign of all six continents, lord of the whole earth. A chakravarti emperor, barefoot, walking to the bank of this humble river in the heat of the day! And there wasn’t any such emperor in those days—in India it was impossible. In Buddha’s time India had two thousand kingdoms—how could there be a world emperor? Each district had its own king.

India has never really been a nation. Its mind has a habit of fragmenting into pieces; that habit hasn’t left it yet. It doesn’t know how to unite. Here, everything falls apart. India was split into two thousand fragments—where was a chakravarti emperor!

But those footprints were very clear. The astrologer grew anxious—was his scripture wrong? He followed the tracks. In the direction the prints seemed to go, he walked, for it had become necessary to see this man. Walking along, he reached the tree under which Buddha sat—and then he was in deeper trouble. Seeing Buddha’s face, it seemed indeed the face of a chakravarti—his very presence had the aura a world emperor should have: the same halo, the same circle of light, the same fragrance, the same majesty. Yet the man looked like a beggar. A begging bowl lay beside him; not even a mat to sit upon. He was seated on a rock under a bush. The astrologer fell at his feet, placed his precious scriptures there, and said, “Please settle my curiosity; I’m in great difficulty. You have turned twelve years of my effort and labor to water. Are these your footprints? Let me see your feet.”

Buddha extended his feet. The astrologer examined them and said, “Without doubt, you should be a chakravarti emperor. How can you be a beggar? What is this begging bowl? On the bank of this poor river, in the heat of summer—the Niranjana is almost dry, a mere trickle—what are you doing here as a chakravarti?”

Buddha said, “What chakravarti! Except for this begging bowl, I have nothing. And even this is not mine. Nothing here is mine. Even this body is not mine. This mind is not mine. Even ‘I’ am not mine.”

So the astrologer asked, “Then there is only one possibility—you must be some deity descended from the heavens, to inspect the earth or for some other purpose?”

Buddha said, “No, no—I am not any deity.”

“Then are you a gandharva?” Gandharvas are the musicians of the gods, a class among the celestials. “Are you a gandharva?”

Buddha said, “No, no—I am not a gandharva either.”

The astrologer was getting more and more confounded—and angry too. What sort of man was this? At every point he refused—“I am not this; not that.” So he said, “At least you are a man, aren’t you?”

Buddha said, “No, no—I am not a man either.”

Now the astrologer grew even angrier. His anger was natural—twelve years of toil gone to waste, his scriptures proven wrong, and here is a man who answers in such a way that you can’t get a hold on him anywhere. In which category to place him?

“So then—you are an animal?”

Buddha said, “No.”

“A stone?”

Buddha said, “No.”

Then he said, “You tell me—who are you?”

Buddha said, “I am only awakening. I am only awareness, bodh. I am not; there is only bodh.”

Therefore I cannot even say, “I am Buddha”—there is only awakening. And only when “I” disappeared did awakening happen. If “I” remains, there is no awakening.

Melaram Asrani, I am neither a messiah nor a tirthankara; neither a prophet nor an avatar. I am not. There is a zero. In this zero you can see whatever you want; you can project whatever you wish. Therefore someone may see God, someone the devil. This zero is merely a mirror; only your own face will appear.

Now when Melaram Asrani looks, he will see a mela—a grand Kumbh fair! What a name you’ve chosen—Mela-ram! Ram would have been enough; you’ve turned even Ram into a fair. Save Ram; let the fair go. And Ram remains only when you dissolve. The fair dissolves—meaning you dissolve. The fair is the jostling crowd of ego, the turmoil, the hullabaloo. When the fair goes, Ram remains. And by “Ram” I do not mean Dasharatha’s son—mind you. By “Ram” I mean godliness, the Divine. Within you too lies God, but neglected like a diamond, while you wander among garbage.

Why ask me who I am! You will recognize me only when you recognize yourself. Before that, no recognition is possible. If you want to know the Buddha, become a Buddha—there is no other way. If you want to recognize the awakened, wake up from your sleep.

But you are asking in your sleep: “Are you a messiah?”

You are mumbling in your sleep. These are the words of your dream. And if I say, “Yes, I am a messiah,” then the dreamers will do two things—some will set about destroying the messiah, preparing a cross; and some will set about worshipping the messiah. Both are bent on erasing the messiah—one violently, one nonviolently. The crucifier is erasing him; the worshipper is erasing him too. The worshipper says, “You are so worthy of worship—please, show grace, keep your distance; we’ll offer two flowers, that’s all we can manage. Forgive us, have compassion on us. Take these two flowers and set us free.”

The crucifier says the same thing—just in a violent way: “We don’t want you to remain, because your presence hinders us. We want to erase your presence.” He too erases; the worshipper also erases. The worshipper says, “You are a messiah, God, tirthankara, prophet, avatar. We are mere men. We are Mela-ram; you are Ram—what have we to do with each other? But since we met on the road—Jai Ram ji! Take these two flowers and let us go our way!”

Both, each in his own way, are trying to avoid. Make the effort to understand; make the effort to awaken. Only then will you recognize that becoming a zero is also a way. That is the Richa of the Atharvaveda:

pṛṣṭhāt pṛthivyā aham antarikṣam āruham
antarikṣād divam āruham, divo nākasya
pṛṣṭhāt svarg-jyotir agāham.

Keep moving, rise— from the body, from the earthly realm to the mid-sky; from the mid-sky to the luminous realm; from the luminous realm, merge into the supreme blaze of light. Become a zero—and the great Void is yours. Vanish—and all is yours.

Krishnatirth Bharati! Certainly the lotus is born from mud—but even the mud needs a little peace. On the bed of a lake the mud needs a little rest. Keep a constant rumpus going over it and no lotus will appear. And politics is a rumpus. Yes, there is mud, but even the mud has no peace there. Mud is being flung at one another. Where does the mud get leisure to raise a lotus? For a lotus to grow, a little time is needed.

But these political troublemakers neither sit quietly themselves nor let anyone else sit quietly. Their very business is to remain restless and to make others restless. They ruin their own soil and spoil others’ soil too.

It is impossible for a lotus to be born from politics, because you need to understand what politics means. Mud—fine, you understood that much; but there the mud is in a great upheaval. An earthquake is on; every moment another tremor. So when will the lotus be born? Even the mud is being driven around—from here to there, being flung, tossed, turned. Give the mud a chance too, a little time to rest.

And when I say the lotus is born from mud, keep one more thing in mind—don’t miss it. Yes, the lotus is born from mud, but the lotus seeds are also needed. Otherwise, from mud alone no lotus appears; and from seed alone neither. There must be a meeting of the mud and the lotus seeds.

Within you too the lotus can be born; but at the very least you will have to sow lotus seeds. Politics will not let you sow them, because lotus seeds mean the seeds of intelligence, of meditation, of awakening. And politics requires sleep—deep sleep. It needs intoxication, a kind of drunkenness. In politics the one who wins is the one who, even after taking a hundred shoes, still barges into the spectacle. However much beating he gets—someone is pulling his leg, someone runs off with his loincloth, someone throws away his cap—no worry: he straightens his cap, ties his loincloth again, and jumps back into the fray. However much you drag him, throw him down, do anything—these are dogged people. They will climb onto the chair no matter what. Though even on the chair there is no peace. If there were peace even there, lotuses might blossom there too. But how can there be peace there? One has to cling to the chair, because others are pulling: move aside! The wrestling is on. All around people are doing squats and push-ups, flexing their biceps. Those who are sitting on the chair are being frightened: run, get out! Someone is praising him, massaging his feet—but even of the one who is massaging your feet you have to be careful, because he who massages your feet will squeeze your neck. In fact, he wants to squeeze the neck; he is starting from the feet. Everything has to begin with the ABCs. If you grab someone’s neck all at once, he too will get angry. While pressing the feet, who knows when the neck will be grabbed!

In politics there is no such thing as a friend; all are enemies. Friends are enemies; enemies are enemies anyway. The closer a person is, the more dangerous he is in politics. Because the nearer he is, the more his hope hardens: now I too can be in office. If Morarji Desai can hold office, why not Charan Singh? Of course he can. When he saw Morarji climb up, why should Charan Singh lag behind? Anyone can climb. When one monkey has climbed up, do you think the other monkeys will sit quietly?

Among these political monkeys, where will you sow the seeds? Even if you give them lotus seeds, they’ll turn them into something else. Have you looked closely at politicians? Do you see any signs of intelligence in them?

A certain leader had to preside over a mushaira. As soon as it began, shouts of “Mukarrar! Mukarrar!” arose. The leader softly asked his secretary: What does “mukarrar” mean? He’s presiding over a mushaira and doesn’t even know what “mukarrar” means! The secretary said, Sir, people want to hear the couplet again. They’re saying, once more—one more time. “Mukarrar” means: once more. Hearing this, the leader pulled the microphone toward himself and said: Look here, gentlemen, listen to a couplet just once. So long as I’m here, you cannot harass the poet like this!

One must have some intelligence too. Even if the lotus were to bloom, where is the intelligence?

Another leader was narrating in great detail the memories of his foreign tour: I went to America, toured England, saw the jungles of Africa, got stuck in snowy regions. A gentleman sitting nearby said in amazement: Then you must have a good knowledge of geography. The leader said: No, I didn’t go there.

To find something called intelligence in a leader—utterly impossible.

A leader came to Delhi for the very first time. When all his other work was done, he thought: Since I’m here, why not get a shave from a good Delhi barber? So he went to a big barber shop and said: I want a shave—how much will it cost? The barber said: As expensive as you like, sir—fifty paise, one rupee, two rupees, five rupees, ten rupees—whatever you wish. The leader said: All right, do this—first give me the eight-anna shave. The barber picked up the razor and shaved his entire head clean. When he was done he said, Now please pay me. The leader said: Now give me the one-rupee shave. The barber panicked: Where is there any place left for a one-rupee shave? Seeing him panic, the leader said: Don’t worry—slowly, I’m going all the way to the ten-rupee shave. Do it with confidence.

There isn’t even a trace of intelligence. If there were, why would they be in politics? Yes, there is mud—but where are the lotus seeds? And even if there were lotus seeds, who knows—thinking them roasted gram, they might chew them up! Who can trust them?

A whole troupe of these monkeys has sprung up across the country—each outdoing the other.

On a tour of a drought-stricken region,
a certain food minister
was informed
that people there were eating grass.
He was delighted,
and in his public speech he said:
“My brothers of the drought-stricken region!
I am delighted
to learn
that you all
are eating grass.
I have heard
that to defend freedom
Pratap too ate grass,
and
Netaji Subhas Bose also said
that the grass of freedom
is better than the bread of slavery.
I congratulate you
that you too, to defend freedom,
are eating grass,
doing your duty.
Now what more can I say—
it’s time for our lunch,
we are going!
Jai Hind!!”

Just look at politics as a circus! One clown after another—what antics they perform! There is one leader, Raj Narain. He alone is known as Netaji; the rest are only leaders—Netaji is Raj Narain!

Shri Rajnarayan, remember him, delighter of millions upon millions,
Ever stitching-and-un-stitching, breaking-and-smashing, the shatterer of the Janata Party.
A new green scarf upon the head, moustache and beard adorning the face,
Your body most formidable, a fearsome form, like a wild forest-man.
Strong in every limb, a Kali-age Hanuman, the ornament of the monkey clan,
Grinding bhang each evening, drinking life-water each dawn.
Your body revels in fragrant oil, in attar and perfumed garments and ornaments.
Ever persuasion, gifts, punishment, division—polluting the entire parliament.
Hail to you, purifier of fallen Kashi, to whom sins and merits are offered.
Then reaching the Ganga’s bank, Tripathi performed the final oblation.
Thus speaks Alhad Das: the joker’s character, bizarre and unique—
In this Kali age the destroyer of worldly life; in the refuge of your feet is protection.
Shri Rajnarayan, remember him, delighter of millions upon millions,
Ever stitching-and-un-stitching, breaking-and-smashing, the shatterer of the Janata Party.

One more outlandish than the next. And you think that in Raj Narain a lotus will blossom? Impossible! And among them, does anyone even wish to grow a lotus? They want something else: position, prestige, ornaments for the ego. They want to sit on your head. They want to exploit you. They want to grind you underfoot. Do they want a lotus? A lotus requires softness. How can such a riotous state of mind become a ground for lotus-being?

And do you see them kneeling everywhere? From the beggar to the president—it is begging all the way. Begging for votes, begging for posts. Everywhere their one occupation: press down those below; flatter those above—massage them, serve them; and take out the price from those below.

I have heard: once, in anger, Akbar slapped Birbal. Birbal, without a second thought, turned and slapped the man standing next to him. The man fumed: This is the limit—I did you no harm. Akbar slapped you; if you must slap someone, slap Akbar. Why slap me? Birbal said: Each will slap whomever he can. You pass it on to the one ahead. The man understood and passed it on. He slapped the man next to him. And then the slap went around the whole court. It reached the peon. Thus the journey proceeds.

A man, when Indira Gandhi was prime minister the first time, used to praise her. Then when Morarji Desai became prime minister, he praised him. Then when Charan Singh became prime minister, he praised him. And when Indira became prime minister again, that man came again and praised her. I said, My brother, at least think a bit—now you praise Indira, now Morarji Desai, now Charan Singh! Have you no shame? He said, What wrong am I doing? What have I to do with Morarji, with Charan Singh, with Indira? Whoever is the prime minister, my loyalty is to the prime ministership. I praise the prime minister. What do I have to do with these people—who comes and goes? They keep coming and going. I asked him: What is your job? He said: I’m the prime minister’s peon. And these are temporary; I’m permanent! They come and go; like monsoon frogs they croak and go. I’m permanent—I’m stationed here. What do I care who sits on the chair! Whoever is seated is the boss.

A leader who had betrayed Indira and gone over to Morarji—when Indira returned to power, his position is described thus:

Mother mine, I have not got any post.
You made a new government—what wrong did I do?
I scanned with eyes wide all the papers—my name did not appear.
The opposition tormented me greatly, surrounded me and sent me to jail;
Whenever I sought justice, even the court’s dog growled at me.
Mother mine, I have not got any post.

I will place my steps most carefully, whatever command you give I will obey,
I will no longer eat the deceit I once devoured.
Mother mine, I have not got any post.

I raised an uproar about sterilization, misled the innocent public,
It was the police who forced it, and my false name was attached to it.
Mother mine, I have not got any post.

At the door stand youths and maidens, the sons and daughters of ministers too;
Let them play Holi in Delhi—now they have found such a good chance.
Mother mine, I have not got any post.

The tale of the chair failed; now keep giving shares of the chair;
Enemies strained themselves to death, yet I reached Parliament.
Mother mine, I have not got any post.

Mother, affection welled up in your heart; keep patience, my dear little Kanhaiya,
“I will make you ‘Prime’ and honor you,” stroking with my hand.
Mother mine, I have not got any post.

In these fools, you think lotuses can bloom? Mud—yes. But they are worse than mud. They are more degraded than mud.

Politics expresses the lowest form of human life. There is no possibility there. How will meditation happen there; how samadhi? And without samadhi, how the lotus? That thousand-petaled lotus the Buddhas have always spoken of can bloom only in the supreme peace of your consciousness, only in silence. It requires the utmost intelligence. Its whole art has to be learned. In this world of cheating, of dishonesty, of tricksters, of people cutting each other’s throats—how will the thousand-petaled lotus bloom? Impossible.

One has to be free of politics—then certainly the lotus can bloom. Freedom from politics means freedom from ambition. Politics means ambition. And freedom from ambition means supreme peace. Where there is no ambition, there remains no cause for restlessness. As long as you want to be something else, as long as you want to obtain something, as long as you are racing—there is no peace, no rest. You will have to stop, to pause, to sit down. Close your eyes and look within. Then certainly the lotus can bloom. I am not saying that in a politician’s life a lotus can never bloom. It cannot bloom while he remains in politics. Otherwise, the politician is a human being like you. He has gone a little mad; so he can drop the madness—because the madness has not caught hold of him; he has caught hold of the madness. Whenever he wishes, he can drop it. Drop it, and the mud will settle. Drop it, and in that very dropping the seeds will be sown. Once ambition goes, how long does it take the lotus to bloom? It is our very nature.

In this world, whatever is worth attaining has already been given to you—just give it a chance. Do not scramble.

Jesus used to say: You throw seeds; some fall on the road where people pass. Will they ever sprout? How could they sprout? The road is moving day and night; the seeds will be crushed underfoot, shoved here and there. Carts will pass, horses will pass; hooves will strike, wheels will roll—how will the seeds sprout? But some seeds fall at the edge of the road; perhaps they will sprout, but flowers will never bloom. Because at the roadside, true, not so many people pass, but even so, sometimes people walk there. When carts, horses, donkeys pass on the road, people walk on the roadside. So it may be that a seed sprouts at the roadside, but it will sprout only to die. Some seeds fall farther away on the field’s embankment; perhaps the sprouts become plants, but even along the embankment the farmer passes sometimes. Not many people pass, but the owner passes; his wife brings him bread; his children come to meet him; sometimes his guests come too. Even if they become plants, they will die. And some seeds fall into the field. Those that fall into the field will sprout, become plants; they will bear flowers and fruits. Perhaps someone will rest in their shade. Fragrance will rise from them. They will dance with the stars in the sky. They will converse with the moon and the sun. There will be dance; there will be celebration. For the tree that comes to its flowering is fulfilled.

Only the person who lets his thousand-petaled lotus bloom becomes fulfilled. This lotus of a thousand petals is within you. But do not throw these seeds onto the road.

Politics is like a road in motion. If you cast seeds there, they will die. But one who is in politics can step away.

One of my sannyasins, Amrit Chaitanya, has written: “It has been years since you told me not to fall into politics. But I did not listen to you. I got into politics. I became a member of the Legislative Assembly. Now I see I wasted so many years. Now your words make sense—that I got beaten for nothing; my time was wasted for nothing. Now there is remorse.”

Amrit Chaitanya, what is gone is gone. The one who loses his way in the morning but returns home by evening is not called lost. Don’t waste time in remorse now. One better than the other! First you wasted it in politics, now you’ll waste it in repentance. At least don’t waste it in repentance. Why repent? Perhaps it was necessary—otherwise you would have heard me then. Some taste, some attachment, some inner race must still have been alive in you. Perhaps it was necessary for you to go into politics. So what I told you then is understood now. Good. If you understand it now, that is what matters. If it wasn’t understood then, no problem. Perhaps I said it before its time. Perhaps the time wasn’t ripe then. You heard me, but how could you understand? Without passing through the turmoil of politics, my words would not have sunk in. You did fall into the mess—fine! Even that much understanding is no small profit. If you had just stayed stuck there, that would have been foolishness. You got out—and were seized by remorse: that is at least a sign of intelligence. Now don’t waste time in remorse. The matter is closed. You’ve learned a lesson. After all, man learns only by making mistakes. What is there to regret in that?

A child only learns not to put his hand in fire when he burns it. He only learns how to avoid a pit after he falls into one. The dull-witted are those who keep falling and do not learn.

I told you this fifteen years ago. The good news is you learned it in fifteen years. There are people who won’t learn it even in fifteen lifetimes. Take Morarji Desai—he’s touching eighty-five, and still no sense! He had cooled down for a while, having concluded there was no hope. But now his disciples—other langurs—have set off riots across the country. Prices are rising—rising thanks to these very gentlemen! Because while in power for three years they stopped birth control completely, so the population increased. Goods remained the same; the numbers swelled—prices had to go up. And now they are agitating that prices must not rise. People ought to grab them by the neck and say: what you did to this country those three years—this is the result. Results take time to appear. For three years you spread disorder. For three years these gentlemen did only one thing: somehow annihilate Indira. A human being has shame and restraint—one doesn’t strike the defeated, one doesn’t kick someone who’s fallen. But they did not exercise even that much decency. For three years they were obsessed with uprooting Indira entirely. Their entire project was only to ruin her.

And remember: he who is busy ruining another ruins himself. He who sows thorns for others must one day walk on those very thorns. He who digs pits for others must one day fall into them himself—the pits he dug become his grave.

In three years the country saw that we had handed power to donkeys. Don’t be offended by the word “donkey”—by it I simply mean “seriously religious.” It’s shorthand. Why keep saying again and again: “seriously religious, seriously religious”! And now these other donkeys—their disciples, langurs—have started disturbances: riots here and there, Hindu-Muslim riots, without any genuine cause, with a definite conspiracy behind them, because the same pattern repeats everywhere. The same script and the same arrangement. In Moradabad there was a riot—same trick: a pig was let loose in an Eidgah. In Allahabad, same trick: a slaughtered pig was hung in front of a mosque. Clearly the hand behind such incidents is that of pigs. Whose else could it be? And behind it is a well-laid conspiracy to entangle the entire country in Hindu-Muslim strife—then toppling the government becomes easy.

And prices are rising; they will rise—numbers are rising. No one can stop prices from rising under those conditions. And if you want to stop prices from rising, there is only one way—force. Use force and these rogues will be the first to cry: Look, Emergency is back! Compulsion again! We told you—bring Indira and coercion will return!

Now you see how this political web is spun. Without force you can’t push prices down. Only the policeman’s stick can haul them down. But lift the policeman’s stick and Indira is finished—because you used force on the people: coercion in a democracy! If you don’t lift the stick, still Indira is finished—because prices keep rising, the people suffer, and you fail to fulfill your promises.

They are trying to trap her in this damned dilemma. He felt his chances of being prime minister again had revived. So for a while he sat quietly—didn’t even go out to campaign for Janata Party candidates. And now he is active again—once more on tour, hopes revived. How many times can hope be shattered—yet it refuses to die! If at eighty-five a man still cannot go beyond politics, we must conclude that perhaps there is no such thing as intelligence in him. Otherwise—having seen it all—why go back into the same mess? But he still has to take his beatings; he still has to be thrashed a bit more. The intoxication is rising again.

You, Amrit Chaitanya, are more intelligent: in ten or fifteen years of political turmoil you’ve understood it was foolishness. And I had planted the seed in your mind: don’t fall. When I told you not to fall into politics, it was surely because I’d seen you about to tumble—otherwise why would I have said it? I don’t tell everyone not to go into politics. I told you because I must have seen you standing right at the edge of the pit, heart itching to jump, loincloth already tied, ready to dive. That’s when I said, Brother, if you can stop, stop. Though I didn’t imagine you would. But I did think: never mind—even if he falls, the word will lie within him; perhaps one day it will come in handy. Today it did.

Now there is no need for remorse. You got out quickly. People take lifetimes and still don’t get out. It is rare to get out. Whoever comes out is wise.

Look at Maitreya—he was a member of parliament for twelve years. Had he stayed, he would certainly have been a cabinet-level minister by now—at least the chief minister of Bihar. Every possibility was there. But I told him, and he got out. Really, twelve years had shown him enough—perhaps he was only waiting, watching for an excuse to leave. You hadn’t yet fallen into the pit; I told you—and you fell and learned. Maitreya I told while he was already in the pit; bones already bruised and breaking. I said, come out—and he came out at once.

Everything has its time. There is no need to repent. Don’t look back; don’t get entangled in thoughts of the past. Move ahead. What happened, happened—and you profited from it: your intelligence grew. What wasn’t understood fifteen years ago is dawning now—that’s a good sign. Now just don’t fall again—that’s all I ask. And don’t repent either, because repentance is a subtle and delicate business.

Understand the psychology of repentance—it is dangerous. Why does a person repent? You think, because he made a mistake. No. He repents to wipe the slate clean, to pour water over it—so that it becomes convenient to repeat the mistake. Otherwise the mistake will stand there and warn you: Look, don’t repeat me. By repenting you will hoist your ego back up. What had cracked and torn will be patched over again.

Repentance means you persuade yourself: See, I did wrong, but I repented. Repentance is like a holy dip in the Ganga. And when you return from the Ganga, what is the harm in sinning again? If the path is available, you’ll just bathe again. Repentance is a balm—a bandage. You flare up at someone, then go apologize. That doesn’t mean you won’t flare up again. It only means your ego got bruised; your idol of “I” toppled. You used to think, “I am non-angry; I never get angry.” Your “I” was wounded. Now how will you say, “I am non-angry”? Your head hung down. You go and apologize; your head is upright again. Now you can say, “Even if I did get angry, I asked forgiveness. See how humble I am!” You’ve healed the wound—and tomorrow you’ll get angry again, because now you’ve discovered the trick for healing the wound.

I say: don’t heal the wound—don’t repent. Repentance means whitewashing to erase the mark. That is the danger. Let the wound remain alive, so it keeps warning you: beware. Let it point like an arrow: Remember—don’t forget.

Repentance is the mechanism of forgetting: “I erred but I repented—what else is there to do? The matter is over.” Went to Kaaba, became a Haji; bathed in the Ganga; the slate wiped clean—now live it up again. Danger! Don’t repent. You made one mistake going into politics; don’t make a second mistake by repenting. The first can be forgiven; the second will be difficult.

Mulla Nasruddin drew his salary one day. By mistake he received six hundred instead of five hundred—two notes had stuck together. On the way he counted: six! He was delighted. That evening the cashier’s tally revealed the error—and he knew exactly who had received the extra hundred. He kept quiet to see whether Mulla would return it. Why would he return it! Mulla thought, “This is the fruit of my prayers. All those daily namaz—finally a result! And when God gives, He breaks the roof—He doesn’t hand out a rupee or two. An entire hundred-rupee note!” He thanked God profusely—but told no one else.

The cashier remained silent too—what’s the use of asking? He’ll deny it. Next month he put only four hundred in Mulla’s envelope instead of five hundred. Mulla rushed outside to count—maybe it was six again; when God gives, He breaks the roof! But it was four instead of five. He buzzed back angrily, flung the envelope on the table, and barked, “Are you blind? Can’t you count? You’ve given four hundred instead of five!”

The cashier said, “And remember the month before—when I gave you six hundred instead of five, you said nothing.”

Mulla replied, “A fellow makes a mistake once—that can be forgiven. But if he repeats it, I cannot forgive.”

That is what I say to you too. You made one mistake—never mind—but don’t do it again. No repentance now. Now be cheerful, be joyful that insight came quickly, that awareness dawned early. Thank politics: Mother, your grace—that you didn’t delude me for too long; you awakened me soon! Now drop it. What is past is past. Forget what is gone; take care of what lies ahead. Look forward, not back. The more you look back, the more time you waste—because you cannot go back; so why look? Look ahead.

You squandered time in politics—now pour that energy into meditation. It’s not enough to say “I won’t do politics.” If you truly want to be safe from politics, move into religion—otherwise you are not safe; the danger remains. Sitting idle, what will you do? Idleness will bore you. Bored, your old habits will whisper: come on, let’s at least contest an election. Why sit doing nothing? Time is being wasted anyway—at least in politics there was involvement, a sense of occupation. Before your emptiness begins to gnaw at you, fill it with joy, with meditation. Before the itch to step back into the thorns of politics returns—politics is an itch, a scabies—understand its law: if you scratch, it hurts; if you don’t scratch, it hurts. Scabies is a wondrous thing! Don’t scratch, and you can hardly bear it; scratch, and there is such sweetness you drool—scratch, scratch! You forget that earlier too you scratched—and every time you scratched, you suffered. Skin peeled, blood came, pain followed. All forgotten. In this sweet moment who remembers the earlier autumn? Nectar seems to call. The itch is so attractive—it’s like the devil himself!

A preacher always used to say in his sermons: Beware of Satan! Never listen to him! He tempted even Jesus—whom has he spared? He tried to tempt Buddha too—he has incited everyone.

But I think—what sort of temptation did he offer? He told Jesus: I’ll make you emperor of the whole world. Better he should have given Jesus an itch—then we’d have seen how he could resist. If an itch arose, he would have scratched. He tried much to bewilder Buddha too, and failed. He should have given him an itch! Perhaps back then even the devil hadn’t learned. After all, the devil also learns from experience.

This preacher used to lecture like this at home too: Beware of Satan. One day his wife went to the market and bought a very expensive coat. Winter was coming; new woolens had arrived. She entered the house nervously—such an expensive coat was beyond a pastor’s means, beyond her husband’s capacity. But what is a wife worth if she doesn’t go beyond her husband’s capacity! Wives have this job—to raise their husbands’ “capacity.” They spend in such ways that the poor man has to find new tricks: how to earn more, how to take bribes, where to get it, what to do!

Someone asked Andrew Carnegie, “How did you make so much money?” Carnegie said, “I had a lifelong competition with my wife. I wanted to see whether I could earn so much that she couldn’t spend it. So I made that much money—but I lost.”

Andrew Carnegie was among the richest men in the world—yet he says, “I lost.” However much you earn, you can invent a hundred ways to earn; your wife will invent a million ways to spend. And on things you never imagined could be spent on.

She was a little scared coming home: this was beyond a pastor’s means. But the coat—what could she do! She came in. The husband saw it: “How much?” “Five hundred,” she said. He said, “Think a little. I earn one hundred and fifty. Where will I get five hundred from? And I’ve told you a thousand times—when Satan tempts you, say straight out, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ As Jesus said: ‘Get thee behind me!’ Did you not say it?”

She said, “That’s precisely where the trouble began. When I tried on the coat and looked in the mirror, the devil began to egg me on: Take it, take it, don’t miss it. So I said, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ He got behind me—and looking over my shoulder he said, ‘Ah! From the back it looks absolutely stunning!’ That’s where I got trapped. It’s the fruit of your preaching—you always say, ‘Go behind, go behind,’ so I said it—and from behind he told me, ‘From the back it is deadly! Daggers will fly! Wherever you go, corpses will fall! People will whistle, sing film songs—even the dead will whistle when they see you. In the graveyard they’ll whistle. From the front, nothing much; from the back, you’ll slay them all!’ He seduced me from the back. If you hadn’t given that sermon, I wouldn’t have gotten into this coat.”

The devil is nowhere else; he is your mind. The other name of mind is devil. And what a strange mind—it won’t let you be empty. The proverb is wrong: “An empty mind is the devil’s workshop.” Not true. The devil can’t stand emptiness. In emptiness, God descends. If you become a zero, what more is needed! The devil will not let the mind be empty. You empty it of one thing, and he quickly fills it with another. Before you can make it empty, he starts filling—because if even for a moment you become empty, the devil dies forever.

So, Amrit Chaitanya, I say: after fifteen years of political jolts and jostling, don’t get into repentance. That too is a trick of the same mind. It will entangle you in remorse, and while you’re tangled, it will raise the itch again. Then elections will come. And how much memory does man have anyway? He swears by dusk and forgets by dawn. He vows in the morning at the mosque, “I will not drink again,” and by evening he drinks. In this way both worlds are managed: this world is in hand and heaven is not lost. Repent in the morning, break it in the evening. Then he finds excuses: “What could I do? I had no intention of breaking my vow, but the clouds gathered—and this wretched heart was tempted!” He will find excuses. Clouds! What have clouds to do with your liquor? “The clouds gathered, my poor heart was tempted. But never mind—repent in the morning, break it in the evening; thus the bottle remains and paradise is not lost.”

Be alert. This mind is crafty. What deluded you for fifteen years can delude you for fifteen lifetimes. Do not fall into repentance—that is the first thing. If you can break repentance, you have shut the mind’s first door. Then it will have no chance to take the second step. Otherwise, repenting and repenting, you will find yourself thinking: What am I doing! Politics at least had some juice, some running about, some fun. You will quickly forget the turmoil of politics; its relish will return to memory. On the road people used to bow to you; everyone said, “Come, Netaji, please sit! Betel leaf? Tea? Coffee?” Now no one asks. You were an MLA; being a minister was just around the corner—had you stayed a bit longer! Those who went after you are becoming ministers.

All sorts of thoughts will rise in the mind. This damned mind! It will tempt you—then tempt you more. It will forget all the thorns and remember only the flowers. And when elections near, memory wobbles again. That’s why they keep a five-year gap—so the fools return. Those who somehow ran away—five years is enough; in that time they forget by themselves. Then the stirring begins again; the itch rises again; scabies flares up again—and it seems: just scratch once more, only once—last time! Perhaps last time it bled; not necessary this time. This time the taste is different; the sweetness is different—scratch!

You will toss and turn a bit, do some yogasanas. But the more you toss, the more the itch will pursue you. It will say, “What’s the harm in a little scratch? If you won’t go all the way, at least a little. Don’t contest yourself—make someone else contest. Put your gun on another’s shoulder. But this is not a moment to miss!” The taste of the stage is hard to give up.

So—no repentance. And don’t forget. Before the mind fills the emptiness again, transmute that emptiness into meditation. That alone is the meaning of sannyas: the alchemy of transforming mind into meditation. And the day mind becomes meditation, politics disappears and the sun of religion rises. Esa dhammo sanantano—such is the eternal law.

That’s all for today.