Jyun Macchali Bin Neer #6

Anand Maitreya! This sutra is extraordinary. It carries the very essence, the distilled perfume of religion. As one might extract attar from thousands of roses, so the realizations of thousands of enlightened ones are gathered into this single sutra. Understand this one, and all is understood; nothing essential remains.

But its meaning is not merely “live according to natural law.” In truth, there is no precise word in Hindi that translates “Rit” adequately. So try to understand.

“Natural” can mislead. It is certainly one dimension of rit, but only one. Rit is multidimensional. What Lao Tzu called the Tao, the Rig Veda calls rit. What Buddha declares as “eso dhammo sanantano”—the eternal Law, dhamma—that is rit.

Rit means: that which is effortless and spontaneous; not imposed but discovered; your innerness, not an outer code of conduct; the radiance of your own wisdom, not a rulebook for character; that by which all life is threaded; the ground on which all rests and by which all moves; the principle through which chaos does not prevail. Spring comes and flowers bloom; autumn arrives and leaves fall. That invisible ordering which brings spring and autumn, which holds the sun, the moon, the stars, this vast cosmos—where there is no disorder, everything is interrelated, musical, rhythmic—that harmony is rit.

Such vast, exquisite order cannot arise causelessly. An invisible energy holds all. Everything happens in time, as it should, not otherwise. This inner ordering of life—no one is telling trees to be green, no one is pulling leaves out; seeds become trees, trees blossom; morning comes and birds sing—this is rit.

If someone plays a flute, it’s beautiful; another plays the sitar—beautiful; a third plays the tabla—beautiful. But when many instruments become an orchestra—when they are all attuned to one raga and one rhythm, when their sounds join in a single flow—then a rasa, a music, a beauty is born that no single instrument can produce. If all play different tunes at once, there is only noise, no music.

This world is an orchestra. The truth that makes it an orchestra—that binds flute to tabla, tabla to sitar, each to each, with no conflict but cooperation—is contained in the word rit. So understand rit as dharma; naturalness is one of its limbs.

Fire’s dharma is to be hot; water’s dharma is to flow downward; and man’s dharma is to rise toward the divine. The flame always rises; even if you invert the lamp, the flame will still move upward—it will not invert. So all life flows toward some unknown peak. There is a deep longing to touch a height, a thirst to know the truth. That ultimate truth is rit.

Lao Tzu says: it has no name, so I will call it Tao. The Vedas say: it has no name; we will call it rit. From rit comes the word ritu, “season.” Who brings the spring of blossoms, the winter’s hush—no one knows; yet everything arrives in order, with music and balance. No proclamations, no drumbeats, no notices. No one tells the flowers—but somehow they know. No one instructs the birds—but somehow they know. Clouds gather, the peacock dances—somehow! This Unknown that contains all and pervades all, like a thread running through the beads of a mala. You can heap flowers—but a heap is only a heap. Thread them, and they become a garland—and only a garland can be offered.

This world is not a heap of flowers—it is a garland. And a garland can be offered at the feet of the divine. The more you understand, the more you will find: existence is musical, rhythmic.

Look within yourself. Science has not yet discovered how bread becomes blood. If it had, we would feed bread and water into a machine and draw blood out the other side—there would be no need for blood banks. Though science has advanced, it still cannot grasp how bread becomes blood, how it becomes flesh and marrow, how it turns into the energy of the brain, into semen, into the flow of life. Not only your life, but your children’s life is fashioned by that bread. An astounding alchemy is at work within you. That alchemy is called rit.

Why and how do you breathe? We think we breathe—this is a fundamental error. If we breathed, no one could ever die: when death came we would simply keep breathing. But when the breath goes out and does not return, we have no power to recall it. We do not breathe; rather, breath breathes us—this is nearer the truth.

It is only our ego that blocks understanding. Rit saturates you within; every breath testifies to it. Who is breathing in you? Surely not you—how would you breathe during deep sleep? Or when, drunk, you fall unconscious in a gutter—not aware even that there is a gutter, or where you are, or who you are?

Mulla Nasruddin once returned home drunk. A lamp post stood near his door. From a distance he noticed it and tried to pass carefully so as not to collide. There was ample space on either side; the post was barely six inches thick. Even a blind man would rarely hit it. But precisely because he tried to avoid it, he struck it! Trying to avoid increases the chance of collision.

If you’ve just learned to ride a bicycle, you’ll know: a sixty-foot-wide road and a small milestone at the edge, painted bright red like Hanuman—innocently standing there with no interest in you or your bicycle. Yet from afar the novice cyclist frets, “I mustn’t hit that stone,” and rides straight into it. On a long, wide, empty road, a small target that even a skilled archer might miss—yet the beginner never misses.

Psychologists say: what we try to avoid captures our eyes. To avoid a thing, our consciousness fixes upon it; we forget everything else; energy gets transfixed. The bicyclist forgets the broad road; only that red stone remains. You may chant Hanuman Chalisa, “Bajrangi, save me!”—it won’t help; your eyes are fixed. They call this autosuggestion, self-hypnosis. Hypnotized by the stone, you are pulled toward it. The stone has no hands; it is all your doing. And you crash into it and wonder how—on a wide, empty road!

A drunk is even more easily hypnotized. Alcohol robs you of awareness; where awareness is absent, any fixation can grip you.

Nasruddin tried to skirt the pole—and crashed. He stepped back ten paces, tried again—hit it harder. Remember: once you’ve collided with something, if you then try to avoid it, you are almost certain to collide again. A third time—worse; fourth, fifth, sixth… Panic! He cried, “Lord, save me! I seem to be lost in a forest of poles!” To him, poles were everywhere—yet there was only one.

A policeman finally dragged him to his door and said, “There’s no forest—only one pole. I’m watching, amazed that you keep hitting it.”

His hands trembled as he fumbled for the lock. The lock shook too. The policeman said, “Here, I’ll open it.” Nasruddin protested, “No, no—I can manage. I’m not drunk.” No drunk ever admits he’s drunk; especially not before a policeman.

He pulled out the key—but his trembling hands wouldn’t get it into the shaking lock. The officer said, “Give me the key; I’ll open it.” Nasruddin replied, “If you really want to help, hold the house steady—it won’t stop shaking. Is there an earthquake or what?”

Meanwhile his wife woke up, peeked from the window, and asked, “What’s the matter? Lost the key? Shall I throw down the spare?” Nasruddin said, “The key is fine—the damned lock is faulty. Throw down another lock!”

Without awareness, whatever you think or do multiplies the mistake. In cleverness the drunk gets trapped—how to be clever without consciousness?

We all are drunk on ego, hence we miss rit. We say, “I am breathing. I am hungry.” Can you be hungry? You are the witness of hunger. Hunger does not happen to you. Nor thirst. You do not become young or old. You are as you are; around you things happen. But where is awareness? The body was a child, became young, will grow old—following an unknown law. Nothing is in your control. People try desperately to remain stuck in youth.

Chandulal’s wife, after three hours before the mirror, said, “Just look at me. Don’t I look thirty?” Chandulal, irritated because they had missed the train, said, “You looked thirty—when you were thirty. Now, even if you spend thirty hours adorning yourself, you can’t look thirty. You looked thirty back when you were thirty.”

Every woman tries to stop youth; every man, too. But it is not in your hands. Breath is not in your hands—how then youth and age? In whose hands? That invisible energy is rit. Call it Tao, call it rit, call it dhamma, call it dharma—any name. It is nameless. But understand this: all life runs on one unknown principle. To discover that principle is to discover truth. The first step is to begin with yourself—seek rit within. But you cannot find rit while buried under ego.

Ego invents countless arguments: “I did this!” You did nothing; it happened. The painter has done nothing; it is his rit, his nature. The poet has not done; the singer has not done; their nature has manifested. Rose, jasmine, champa—if they had the capacity to think, the rose would boast, “Look what flowers I have produced, what fragrance!” Night jasmine would retort, “Stop bragging! If there is fragrance, it is mine—I fill the whole courtyard. Yours—someone must lean in to smell.” Each would claim, “I did it.”

I heard of a stone a child picked up and threw at the window of a palace. As it rose, the stone shouted down to the heap of stones where it had lain for years, “Watch me—I am off to tour the palace!” It was thrown, but it claimed it was going. The other stones burned with envy—but what could they do? It was indeed going; and they, too, had dreamt of visiting that palace—music, lights, festivals within! They had to swallow their frustration.

The stone struck the glass; naturally the pane shattered. It is in the nature of stone and glass—no merit of the stone, no defect of the glass. There is no need for the stone to swagger or for the glass to feel abject. But the glass grew abased; and the stone boasted, “I warned you—whoever collides with me is shattered! See with your own eyes. Enmity with me is unwise.”

Then it fell onto a priceless Persian carpet and thought, “I’m exhausted. A long flight, a victory over my enemies—the glass shattered! Let me rest a bit.” It fell only because the energy imparted by the boy’s hand had been spent. But who accepts compulsion? We even turn compulsions into ego. The stone did too: “I will rest, then resume my journey.”

The palace guard heard the crash and came running. Seeing the lavish carpets, chandeliers, paintings, fresh paint, the stone thought, “They knew I was coming—what hospitality! As they say, the guest is god.” The guard picked it up and the stone imagined, “The owner himself welcomes me, saying, ‘What good fortune you have come!’” He picked it up only to throw it back—but who thinks such thoughts?

Your death draws near and you celebrate birthdays. You should celebrate death-days. Each year, one year less remains; your life-cup empties drop by drop. Yet you celebrate birth—you are dying, and you think life is happening; you drag on, imagining a victory parade.

The guard threw the stone back. The stone thought, “Ah, the owner understood that I longed for my loved ones, that I prefer my homeland. What are palaces to me?” Sour grapes: unattained, they are sour; attained, sweet. It fell back onto its heap: “Friends, the palace was beautiful—very beautiful. But home is home. I returned.” The other stones replied, “You are blessed, not ordinary—a divine incarnation. Write your life-story for our children.” And the stone is writing it.

This is your story too. How will you understand rit while you keep pasting ego onto everything? Lift the veil of ego and look within. You will be amazed—you will experience the meaning of this sutra: “Ritasya yatha preta.” Then you will know: the art of right living is to live in oneness with rit, not separate. Whoever lives apart breaks and is defeated; whoever lives with rit is assured of victory—but it is rit’s victory, always.

You are like someone trying to swim upstream in a river. You may thrash a bit, but you will soon tire—needlessly—and then blame the river for not letting you go upstream. The river is flowing to the ocean; become its companion. “Ritasya yatha preta.” Do not fight the river; flow with it. Don’t even swim—float.

You have seen this: the living drown and the dead float. What art does a corpse know that the living do not? The living sink; the dead rise. What is the secret? Only this: the dead do not fight the river; they cannot. They are surrendered—hence the river carries them on its palms. The living fight till their last breath and drown in fighting.

“Ritasya yatha preta.” Live according to rit—flow with the river of life toward the ocean of the divine. Nothing else is needed. Surrender to life; feel yourself one with it. You are one anyway; if you feel it, there is the joy of victory; if you don’t, there is the pain of defeat.

But our entire education teaches the opposite. Society trains you in conduct, not inner discovery. Conduct means an imposition from outside: “Do this, don’t do that; this is virtue, that is sin.” Others decide—according to their own interests. No one cares what you were born to be, what your rit is. Hence such a sad, neurotic humanity. The one who should have been a musician is a doctor—never happy, for he longs for the veena while he writes prescriptions. The one who should have been a doctor keeps a shop. The one born to trade does a job. The one born for a job writes poetry. The poet sells vegetables. Everyone is in someone else’s seat; no one is in his own nature. Who created this mess? Ironically, those who love you the most. No parent wishes a child ill, yet few allow a child to live according to his nature. Their own ambitions remained unfulfilled; they mount a child’s shoulders to fulfill them—unaware, thinking they act for the child’s good. The child says, “I want to play the flute.” The father says, “Nonsense! Throw it away—study math, geography, history. You want to beg by playing the flute?”

The 75th birthday of a renowned surgeon was celebrated with dance and feast. Students and friends praised him: “There is no greater surgeon.” He sat gloomy. A friend asked, “We celebrate one of the most successful men alive, yet you are sad?” The surgeon said, “Say no more. Watching these dancing couples, I feel sorrow—I wanted to be a dancer. My father forced me into medicine. I wanted the music academy; I was pushed into medical college. Today, seeing the dance, I feel my life has been wasted. I gained money and success—no joy. I remained empty within. I would rather have been poor and a dancer—with joy.”

And is there any treasure greater than joy?

Happiness means alignment with your nature; sorrow means going against it. Occasionally, by accident, you fall in step with your nature—then you feel happy; for that while, light, dance, and celebration enter life. But it happens by chance, because you have no awareness. Mostly you do violence to yourself—taught ambition under noble names: discipline, duty, education, initiation.

True education has not yet been born. If it were, every person would be a celebration. Flowers would blossom in each human being, fragrance and light would awaken. Instead, the earth is full of dim lamps and gloom. People somehow push through life, hoping only that it will end soon enough.

Nasruddin’s wife lay dying. The doctor whispered to him, “I’m sorry—your wife can live only two or three months.” Nasruddin said, “Don’t worry. We managed thirty years—we can manage three more months.”

No one here feels love or blessedness—what has happened? Even birds and beasts seem more joyous. Have you ever heard a cuckoo sing off-key? All cuckoos sing in tune. Pihus call “pi-kahan” with the same sweetness. Have you seen an ugly deer? All are graceful. Walk into the forest—everyone is delighted, intoxicated in their gait. What has befallen man, the most conscious being? What curse?

Animals lack the intelligence to go against nature; they remain naturally aligned. Man’s fortune—and misfortune—is intelligence. It can make you blessed by aligning with rit, or cursed by opposing it. Meditation is the process of discovering rit. Meditation means witnessing—look within with a witnessing eye: what is your ownness? Then declare it, at any cost. Go hungry, be poor, but if your juice is in the flute, play the flute. As a beggar you will be happier than Alexander the Great. Do not sell your soul, for that means: live against rit. Conduct is superficial imposition; others say, “Do this, sit like this, stand like that,” and you imitate—becoming a hypocrite. You wear a cloak of piety, while inside you are different. Then you are split, and where there is division there is sorrow, for music is broken. The flute plays one thing, the tabla another—out of sync, each destroying the other. Look within—you will find everything out of tune, because you listened to others, not yourself. And how could others know what you were born to be? They do not know themselves—how will they know you?

I give one meaning to sannyas: the declaration of your ownness. Sannyas is rebellion—against all imposed conduct and others’ coercion. It is a clear acceptance: I will live in my own way, whatever the consequences. I will not live by another’s will, nor will I coerce another. These two together are one coin: I will live in freedom.

“Swatantrata” is a beautiful word—unique to our tongue: swa-tantra, the inner principle of oneself, to live by one’s own inner law. So is “swachchhanda”—its meaning has been spoiled by others who made you slaves. Swachchhanda means attuned to your own chhand—your own meter, rhythm, song. We have the Chandogya Upanishad—“chhand” is a sweet word. Rit means the same: live your inner dance, song, music, note. Difficult? Yes—like walking on a razor’s edge. People around you will not tolerate it; the one who lives by his own rhythm cannot always obey others. He will agree when it harmonizes with his rhythm, and gently say no when it does not—whether father, teacher, politician, or priest commands. Nothing is above one’s own rhythm, for it is the voice of God within. Living by it is sannyas; discovering it is meditation.

This sutra is dear: “Ritasya yatha preta”—live according to rit. It is the root of spiritual revolution, the spark that sets your inner fire ablaze. You will be enflamed and luminous; not only illumined yourself, but lighting others’ lamps.

But the earth is full of slaves: Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—these are names of slavery. I do not say, “Be a Jain”; I say, “Be a Jina”—a Victor, as Mahavira was. Mahavira was not a Jain; he was a Jina. A Jain imitates Mahavira’s style. Remember, two Mahaviras have never been born nor ever will be. Existence makes each person unique. When you imitate, you insult God and yourself—one and the same insult. And when you imitate, two things happen: you never become the other—it is against rit, for no two are the same—and in the effort you waste your energy so that you cannot become yourself. You end in tension and anguish.

Everyone’s face bears a saga of pain; our only story is pain. The greatest pain is to be uprooted from your center. Your well-wishers help uproot you—blindly. Education is set up to wrench each person from his nature, to inject ambition: position, wealth, the mad race to be first—by any means. No one asks: once you have the position, what then? If you gain the whole world and lose yourself, what is the gain? You grasp only dust.

“The wood burned into coal; the coal burned into ash.
I burned so utterly, neither coal nor ash remained.”

So you will burn—leaving neither coal nor ash. Nothing in your hands. Right education and thus true civilization and culture cannot arise yet. Education is the first thing: the method of inquiring into one’s own rit. Outwardly it blooms into civilization—relationships filled with love and joy; inwardly it flowers into culture—self-purification, the inner refinement through which the deity within shines forth.

George Bernard Shaw was asked his view on civilization. He said, “It would be a good idea—someone should try it.” So far, man is pre-civilized. Without civilization, how can culture be? And both are missing because our education is fundamentally wrong.

Any education without meditation at its base cannot be right. It can only teach wealth, position, prestige—the horns of ego. Meditation teaches egolessness. Only in egolessness is rit experienced. Where I am not, God is; where I am not, rit is.

Rit is even a dearer word than God—for “God” risks leading you into worship. Rit cannot be worshiped; it can only be lived. God becomes an object of adoration; rit becomes life. Hence a Buddha avoided the word “God” and said, “Speak of dharma, not God.”

We usually think there is no religion without God. Buddha said: dharma is enough. Dharma—the ground that holds all; that on which we breathe and are conscious. Know that. Meditation is the pickaxe. Just as there is water beneath every patch of earth, dig and you find it. Rit is within everyone—dig a little. Society has heaped much dirt upon you—junk thoughts layered over your being. Clear them away; break the rocks; and a spring will burst forth within. Live that stream. That stream is you—your nature, your freedom, your swachchhanda, your ownness, your ahobhaava. Then however you live will be right, appropriate, virtuous.

To go against rit is sin. To step with rit is virtue. Against it—sorrow. With it—great bliss.

Krishna Satyarthi, life is not a problem, therefore it cannot be solved. Life is not even a puzzle, because every puzzle has an answer. Life has no answer. Life is a mystery—certainly unanswerable.

Mystery means: that which cannot be solved, and for which there is no need to solve. Live life—what is there to solve? And even if you solved it, what would you do with the solution? There are some crazies who keep trying to solve. They keep trying to figure out what love is. Arre, love! What is there to figure out? And how will you figure it out without loving? How will you ever know? Yes, you can sit in a library and read hundreds of books written on love; you can collect thousands of bits of information about love—but knowing about love is not knowing love. And the one who knows love will be the one who does not fuss about understanding it. The one who fusses about understanding will never know.

“Those who searched found, by diving into the deep waters.
I, foolish, went to search—and remained sitting on the shore.”

Ponder Kabir’s saying:
“I went, mad, to seek—
and stayed seated on the bank.”

If you try to understand, you will remain sitting on the shore. Enter—take the plunge. “Those who searched found, who plunged into the deep.” Dive so utterly that nothing remains to come out again. Do not just dive—become one with it, be of the same substance, let there be identification.

In the attempt to understand life, one calamity befalls you: you are deprived of living, you sit on the bank. Life is the name of living. Live! And live as multi-dimensionally as you can.

That is why I am against the old sannyas, because it was a one-dimensional life—of escapism, of flight. It was running away from life. It was not an acceptance of the godliness of life; it was a declaration that life is sin, and running away from life was counted as virtue. Where will you run? You will go to the forest. Look rightly: life is there too—life of trees, of animals, of birds. Where will you run? All around, only life. Even if you go to the moon and stars, there will be life of the moon and stars. You can run from human beings. And the wonder is: you are a human being; only in living with human beings will you find the depth of life. Live with stones and you will become a stone. The result of association is natural. So if those sitting in caves become like dead stones, do not be surprised. What else can fugitives find? Live life in its infinite hues. It is a full rainbow; all seven colors are worth living.

Yes, just remember this much: live with witnessing, live with awareness. And I insist on awareness only so that you can live totally. Unconsciously lived, you will live partially. Live totally. Live awake. Do live in ecstasy—only do not misunderstand “awake” to mean you must lose your ecstasy.

This is the most mysterious part of life: here there is a kind of awareness that is deeper than unconsciousness, and a kind of ecstasy that glows with the lamp of awareness. Drink the wine of the outside and you will become unconscious. Drink the wine within and there will be ecstasy, there will be intoxication—and yet you will not lose awareness. This paradox happens. That is the riddle—the unanswerable riddle; that is the mystery.

Life is a desert, and life is a garden too—both. It is autumnal barrenness and springtime abundance; both spring and fall. A garden—and a desert. These are different aspects of life. The desert has its own beauty that no garden has. Where will a garden rival the stillness of the desert? Where will a garden rival its freshness, its endless expanse, its infinity?

A garden has its own beauty—these multicolored flowers, the songs of birds, the dance of trees. What desert can rival that? I say: do not choose. The desert is yours and the oasis is yours. The whole of life is ours. Since we are alive we should touch all the facets of life. The more facets you touch, the richer you will be within. Do not make your life like a railway track, or else you will turn into a freight wagon, shunted here and there—always on the same fixed rails, a slave of the rut.

No—do not become like the rails. I say, do not even be like a canal; be like a river. A canal too gets confined; it is a bound stream. Be like a river—sometimes turning left, sometimes right—on a journey into the unknown. Each moment is exploration, discovery; each moment brings a fresh experience.

Life belongs to the one who lives, and only the one who lives comes to know. But knowing is so deep that having known, no one can say, “I have known.” If someone says, “I have known,” understand he has not known.

A famed utterance of the Upanishads says: the one who says “I have known,” know well that he has not known.

Socrates said, “I know only this much: that I know nothing.” This is the state of supreme knowing.

Another astonishing sutra of the Upanishads—though how Indian pandits missed it is hard to tally—ought to be carved on every pundit’s skull: the ignorant wander in darkness, but the learned wander in an even greater darkness. How wondrous! Whoever said it must have spoken from unfathomable depths. The ignorant wander in darkness—naturally. But those with the conceit of so-called knowledge—the learned, the pundits—are parrots, Pundit Parrot-ram, and in the delusion that they know; that is always a delusion.

The one who comes to know life will indeed know—but it is like the dumb man’s jaggery: he savors, yet cannot tell. You will ask, and he may smile. You will ask, and perhaps he will play the flute like Krishna, or dance like Meera, or close his eyes like Buddha. You will ask, and he will not give an answer. He will say, “Sit as I sit—in silence. Or dance as I dance—perhaps you too will know.” You will know only by knowing. Nothing will happen from what I say; in fact, my saying will spoil it.

If life were a problem, an answer could be sought and given.

But it is good that life is not a problem—otherwise one Buddha would have given the answer, the matter would be finished, and what would you do then? Nothing would remain for you. It is good that each person has to find his own truth. Self-discovery has a different taste, a different juice, a different bliss. And existence has arranged it so—this is rit, es dhammo sanantano, the eternal law—that another’s truth can never be your truth.

Therefore, even if someone wishes to say, he cannot; and if he tries, he fails. And even if he says, the listener does not understand; the listener hears something else altogether.

Drink the wine of life. And this wine is unique—paradoxical. You will be intoxicated and awake at once.

Friends, forgive me, I am drunk.
Now keep the goblet coming—I am drunk.
Friends, forgive me.

If my feet stumble badly,
do not be upset with me.
Friends, forgive me, forgive me.

Either give me your hand as though it were a cup of wine,
or walk a little way with me—I am drunk.
Friends, forgive me—
forgive me, I am drunk.

There is an outer intoxication in which your feet totter; and there is an inner intoxication in which the tottering feet become steady and poised. There is an outer intoxication that blinds; and an inner intoxication that gives eyes.

Drink the wine of meditation, Krishna Satyarthi. Do not sit to solve life’s riddle. It is not a riddle; you will never solve it. And if you persist, persisting you will become a “riddle-solver,” and get nothing in your hands—and whatever you solve will be upside down.

You have read stories of the wiseacre, the know-it-all. Once, an elephant passed by a village at night. In the morning the villagers were worried and perplexed. The whole village gathered, because there were huge footprints. No one had seen the elephant; elephants had never passed through that region. Work stopped that day—how could it go on when such a big puzzle had appeared? Nobody went to the fields, nobody to the orchards—people forgot food and drink. The whole village gathered: what was the matter, what was this riddle? If some animal had passed, how huge it must have been—just look at the prints. And such an animal had never been seen.

Then the village know-it-all—every village has one—said, “There is nothing to worry. I have uncovered the whole secret. It is nothing special; it’s straightforward. ‘A deer jumped with a millstone tied to its foot!’ That’s all. Some deer jumped with a millstone tied to its leg, so big footprints were made—still a deer.”

And the village was satisfied: what a solution the know-it-all found!

Another time, a theft occurred in that same village. An inspector came from the city, made many inquiries, found nothing. People said, “Sir, this way you will not find it. Once we were stuck—an animal had passed, no one could guess, great pundits scratched their heads, the scriptures had no mention. But our village has a know-it-all—he solves everything. He solved it in a minute. As soon as he came he said, ‘Why worry? A deer jumped with a millstone tied to its foot!’ Now this case will be solved only by him.”

The inspector thought, “Why not—no other way is working; let’s ask.” They brought the know-it-all. He said to the inspector, “It is nothing big, but I will tell only in absolute privacy. I don’t want trouble. If I tell who stole, he will harass me. Swear to your father you won’t reveal my name. And I will tell only in seclusion, where no one can hear.”

So he took the inspector outside the village. When they had gone very far—no people, the path left behind, the village out of sight—the inspector became uneasy: what kind of man is this? He said, “Now tell; there is no one here, not even animals—cows and buffaloes are far behind, night is approaching. How far will you take me?”

He said, “All right. Bring your ear close. I will whisper. Remember your oath—do not tell anyone.”

And in his ear the know-it-all said, “It seems some thief has done the theft.”

To tell this he brought him so far! “Some thief has done the theft.” The inspector slapped his forehead: what an astounding secret you have revealed!

You will turn into such a know-it-all, Krishna Satyarthi. Do not go to solve life’s riddle, or you will end up with something cockeyed. Live life—live in totality, in completeness, with the witnessing of awareness, in wakefulness. Wakeful—and wholly absorbed: this is my message to my sannyasins.

And this is exactly where the difficulty lies. Living with awareness is easy if you run to the forest—because then there are no disturbances. Living in the world is easy if you drop awareness—absorption is easy in the world. People are absorbed: someone in wealth, someone in position, someone in wife or husband or children. Everyone has found his own absorption. But awareness is lost; only absorption remains. In the forest, awareness is easy but absorption is lost. Without both together, the secret of life does not open. Awareness with absorption; absorption with awareness.

By all means, dive—but remain awake. Then the mystery of life will be realized. And even then you will not be able to say what was realized. You will fall silent. Your throat will fill with nectar. Your life will become luminous. But you will not be able to speak—you will become dumb. Speech will stop.

What the awakened ones have said has been about truth; they have not said the Truth itself—Truth cannot be said. Whatever they have said is a pointing: move on; here is the direction. Only by going will you experience.

You ask me what sunrise is like, and you refuse to step outside your room, doors and windows closed—what can I do? How can I make you understand what sunrise is like? I can only say, open the doors, come out, see for yourself. If you say, “I will come out only when I have understood what sunrise is like, and whether it is worth seeing,” then at most I can bring you a picture of a sunrise. But a picture is dead. In it, the sun is not rising; it is stuck, frozen in one place.

A wife was showing the family album to her son. At one photograph the boy said, “Wait, Mom! Who is this? Look at the hair—like Dilip Kumar’s. Who is he?”

She said, “Arre, you didn’t recognize him? That’s your papa—your father.”

The boy said, “That is my father? You never told me. Then who is that bald man who lives in our house? I always thought he was my father.”

But those Dilip Kumar-like locks do not remain. One day they go. In the picture they stay. Everything in a picture is static; therefore, everything in a picture is false.

A great painter, Picasso, was told by a very beautiful actress, “Yesterday I saw your painting hanging in a house and was so moved that I pressed it to my chest and kissed it.”

Picasso asked, “Then what did the painting do?”

She said, “What could a painting do? It did nothing.”

Picasso said, “Then that wasn’t me. It must have been someone else’s picture—I don’t know whose—but not me. Because if someone kisses me and I do nothing, if you embrace me and I do nothing—that cannot be.”

And Picasso added, “You go to such lengths! You have met me so many times and never embraced or kissed me; and you went to kiss a picture!”

But people are like that. While the Buddha is alive, they will not go to Buddha; they will worship the statue—and then worship it for centuries. People are used to worshiping pictures; they run from the living. They are afraid, nervous—because the living will respond. It is easy to worship the dead: you can do as you please. Whenever you wish you open the temple doors for Krishna, whenever you wish you close them; whenever you wish you put him to bed, and whenever you wish you wake him up—the poor fellow can do nothing. In the middle of the night you can stand him up: “Stand up, Krishna Kanhaiya!” He stands. In the blazing noon you can put him to sleep: “Sleep quietly.” Cover him with a blanket: Krishna Kanhaiya is asleep. But with the real Krishna Kanhaiya, this will not do. Leave Krishna aside—just try putting a little living child to sleep; he keeps sitting up: “I don’t want to sleep—why should I?”

I was once a guest in a house. The host’s little boy said to me, “My mom is crazy.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “When I am not sleepy, she says, ‘Sleep!’ And when I am sleepy, she says, ‘Get up!’ If this isn’t madness, what is? Early morning, when I’m sleepy, she wakes me; at night, when I’m not sleepy, she puts me to bed. I want to watch television and she says, ‘Sleep.’ Her mind is spoiled. You have come—please explain it to her. She does everything upside down.”

The child is right: when sleep comes he is not allowed to sleep—“Get up, it’s the pre-dawn hour.” When he wants to be awake—news on the radio, a film on TV—he is told, “Go to sleep.”

You cannot put even a living child to sleep the way you want. How will you put the living Krishna Kanhaiya to sleep? But with a dead Krishna Kanhaiya it is easy: whenever you like, put the flute in his hands; whenever you like, take it away. Offer him food—and then you eat it yourself. Dress him as your heart desires—or leave him standing naked, he will stand. Cold or heat, rain or shine—he is fine. With the dead, it is easy; with the living, difficult.

But if you want to know life, you will have to know life itself. Even if I bring you a picture of the sunrise and place it before you, it is not the sunset and not the sunrise. Something essential has been lost—fundamentally lost. It is only flat paper with colors smeared on it. It is false.

I can only tell you that I know the way to open the door; I opened my door. Yours will be a little different; your framework is a little different. My door opens to the east; yours may open to the west. Your latch will be of a different kind, your lock of another kind. But that the door can be opened is certain. And for every lock a key can be found—this is certain. Truly, the key is given to you before the lock. Whether you come out from the east or from the west, the sky is available. Come out anywhere—under the stars. Come out anywhere—near the trees. Then you will experience.

I can give you the path; I cannot give you the truth. The riddle cannot be solved. Yes—I can give you the art by which you can plunge into the riddle. I call that art meditation: wakefulness and absorption together; awareness and intoxication together. The day you complete this supreme paradox within yourself, that day everything is yours—the whole sky, all the stars, all the beauty, all the bliss, all the celebration.

Blessed, Kumar Kamal! Blessed be, mother’s brave son! But you’ve chosen a very old-fashioned name—the poet’s name—Kamal, the lotus. The lotus’s day is over. You say you’re modern. Modern—my foot! Not Kamal—pick Cactus, or Coca-Cola—something modern, international. What lotus? Why this lotus-obsession? The lotus’s day is done. It’s an ancient symbol. You’re a modern poet, a modern writer—you write anti-poems and anti-stories.

And often it happens that those who write “anti-poetry” are precisely those who can’t write poetry. “Anti-poetry” means: the ones who can’t even manage a rhyme. Then they take to anti-poetry. Those who can’t become writers become critics. Those who can’t succeed in politics become journalists. Those who can’t walk the path stand on the side and throw stones at the ones who are walking—what else will they do! At the very least they’ll put obstacles in the walkers’ way. Those who can’t even rhyme, they start doing anti-poetry. That’s what “anti-poetry” means—you can’t make a poem.

And even if you do “succeed,” what will you do with it? I explained just yesterday: if you are a poet, whether a blessing comes or not, what difference does a blessing make? If you are a poet, your joy is in the making of the poem itself. Truly speaking, a poet should not aspire to success at all. If it comes, it’s a matter of sheer coincidence—river and boat, a chance meeting. Not coming is far more certain, because a poem can’t be worn, eaten, or draped. What use is it? Will you bake bread out of a poem? Make clothes, a roof? People want bread, livelihood, a house. And you say, “Take a poem, here—take a poem.” But, “On an empty stomach no hymn is sung, O Gopala.” They’re sitting hungry and you thrust a poem into their hands. They’ll wring your neck—and you talk of success?

Don’t you see how, in kavi-sammelans, poets are hooted, how shoes are scraped, how uproar is raised, how people try to shut the proceedings down? And even if they don’t shut it down, the reasons can be… peculiar.

I heard of a poet-conference where a poet was reciting in a lilting, metered tune. People kept shouting, “Mukarrar! Once more! Encore!” He sang it again, delighted—fortunate that the audience had “accepted” it. But they shouted again, “Mukarrar! Once more!” He was even more flattered. A third time they shouted. He read it a third time. When they shouted for the fourth time, he protested, “Brothers, will you let me read anything else, or do you want me to repeat this one forever?” Then one man stood up and said, “Until you read this properly, we’ll keep shouting ‘Mukarrar.’ First read this one right, then go on.”

I explained to you, but you didn’t get it. People are caught in their own stubbornness, drowned in their own notions. If you are truly a poet, the question of success does not arise. In having made the poem, success has already happened. You sang your song—success is done. Which cuckoo worries about the Nobel Prize? Which rain-bird lies awake thinking, “When will I get the Bharat Ratna—at least a Padma Vibhushan?” No one cares. One sings one’s song; the joy is in the singing. What is this talk of success? Success means: fame.

I could give you a blessing—but I also think of those on whose backs your fame will ride. You’ll make them suffer.

One night in a liquor-house some folks came and drank their fill—downed and poured and kept pouring. They bought rounds even for strangers seated there. The fellow footing the bill was big-hearted. When, around midnight, he paid the five–seven hundred rupee tab and people began to leave, the shopkeeper said, “If customers like you came every day, our fortune would bloom—our life would have a glow.” The man, heading out, said, “I could come every day. You just keep praying to God that my business runs well.”

“Of course I’ll pray! Why wouldn’t I? From tomorrow itself I’ll pray—‘Ganpati Bappa Morya!’ From tomorrow, I’ll chew Ganpati’s ear off that your business be a success. If yours runs well, ours runs well. If ours runs well, Ganpati’s runs well. Let everyone’s run—together, together! Sure!”

But as he was leaving the shopkeeper asked, “At least tell me, brother—what is your business?” He said, “Better you don’t ask. I sell firewood at the cremation ground. If people die every day, if more people die, my business runs. But by God’s grace, everything runs. Sometimes flu, sometimes cholera, sometimes dengue—what all diseases God has invented—dengue! If you want to kill a man, finish him in one go; why not give a whole life’s sentence all at once? But no—dengue! Kill him slowly, grind him down! Break his hands and legs: pain in the back, in the hand, in the foot, in the head. What inventions God makes! He’s set up the diseases—and then after a man: allopathy, homeopathy, ayurvedic, Unani, naturopathy—who knows how many ‘pathies’! If by some chance you escape the disease, you won’t escape these. If you escape dengue, the doctor will get you. One way or another, you have to die; just find a pretext.

“So you pray—don’t worry. People die anyway. If you pray, a few more will die. Prayers are heard. And I have firm faith in God, because whenever I prayed, I was never left empty-handed—some disease or other arrives. He surely listens. Call from the heart—He hears! And if my wood keeps selling, I’ll come here every day to blow money like this.”

You ask for a blessing—but think also of those who’ll have to listen to your poems. I could bless you, but what those poor fellows will suffer—what dengue-fever will seize them! What does “success” even mean? But you won’t listen; you’re set in your groove.

You say: “Say what you like, but I will go back only with your blessing for success in writing.”

As you wish! Brother, leave by any means—take a blessing, but go! I’ve no hassle giving blessings, because I know my blessings don’t bear fruit. What’s the trouble—go on.

A man had heard there are many pickpockets in Delhi. True enough—no rumor. To live in Delhi and not know how to pick pockets—what’s the point of Delhi then! One day he put counterfeit coins in his pocket and roamed all over Delhi, thinking, “Let’s see how they pick my pocket. Let’s see what these Delhi pickpockets can do!” In the evening, back home, he felt in his pocket—all the coins were intact. Along with them was a slip that read: “Wearing a suit doesn’t make you a gentleman. You keep fake coins in your pocket.”

Just writing a poem doesn’t make you a poet, brother. Wearing a suit—so what? The coins in the pocket must be real. Even a pickpocket won’t take them—he left you a note.

But you’re stubborn. You understand nothing else—you want success, and only success.

A businessman told another—his showroom burned down and the insurance company paid him two lakhs! The other replied, “What a coincidence. I too got five lakhs from the insurance. My warehouse got caught in a flood.” The first said in amazement, “But how did you bring the flood?” The secret doesn’t stay hidden long. He himself had set the fire, so he knew about burning—but bringing a flood? This fellow has outdone me!

How do you “do” poetry? My own sense is: one who is truly a poet does not hanker after success. You must be stealing—patching from here and there, cobbling it together.

Theft runs deep in this country. Not just small fry—big people steal. In 1930, Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan faced a plagiarism case in the Calcutta High Court—he had lifted whole pages, whole chapters, from a student’s PhD thesis. The very book that made Dr. Radhakrishnan world-famous—Indian Philosophy—was wholesale theft. It was a student’s thesis—of a poor student. His thesis had come to Radhakrishnan for evaluation; he was the professor, the examiner. He suppressed the thesis and hurried his own book into print first, so that—if matters ever went to court—he could say, “My book was published earlier.” The case went to court and the facts came out, because the thesis had been deposited in the university a year to a year and a half before the book’s publication. It had lain with Radhakrishnan that whole time. If a sentence or two had matched, it might be understandable—but chapter after chapter, as-is. He was in a rush; had he mixed things up in the usual desi way—stirred and shuffled a bit—perhaps he wouldn’t have been caught so quickly. But he had to get it published fast: the thesis was in his possession; the university was after him—“return it, approve or reject.” And the fun of it: he failed that student—so the student would have to rewrite, losing another two years. By then his own book would be famous, and the whole matter muddied. But the student—poor, yes—but when he saw Radhakrishnan’s book, he was stunned; he couldn’t believe it. The case went to the High Court. They placated the poor student with ten thousand rupees; he withdrew the case.

People like Radhakrishnan—who later became President of India—even they steal. In this country there’s no reckoning of theft. Astonishing place! Here, in my observation, most people run on borrowed stuff. Those you call learned and pundits—mostly theft. No firsthand experience.

Your poem likely isn’t yours; otherwise “success” wouldn’t even come up. Keep one thing in mind: poetry is a creative joy. It is an end in itself. It is not a means to anything. It is your own intoxication—you wrote your song; now why seek success? You sang your song—whether anyone heard it or not, what’s it to you? A flower blooms in the forest—whether anyone breathes its fragrance or not, it blooms in bliss, dancing alone in the sunlight. If a passerby happens to pass, he passes; if not, not. What’s it to the flower?

Drop this craving for success. It is a shopkeeper’s mind. And it is dangerous.

Leaving body and illusion, the incarnation of Truth departed.
The sons, with great zeal, performed the cremation.
They draped a costly shawl, lit a sandalwood pyre with pure ghee.
Perplexed, the accountants debated:
“Under which ledger-head shall we put Lala-ji’s expense?”
A voice came from heaven in that very moment:
“Show it under ‘packing and forwarding,’ brothers!”

Dead—and still, “put it under packing and forwarding”—why fret? The voice calls down from heaven!

When Seth Chandu Lal Marwari was dying, his four sons thought, “Now the last hour has come. Father earned so much, yet never enjoyed. At least after death, let his bier go forth as no one’s ever has—majestic!” The youngest said, “Let’s borrow the Raja’s Rolls-Royce from the village. The bier shall go in that.” The second said, “That’s a costly affair. What’s the point of spending so much? The man is dead—what difference whether we take him in a Rolls or an Ambassador? If he were alive, it would matter. If alive, there’s the risk he might die in the Ambassador itself—it jolts so much. Now he’s dead—what difference do a few jolts make? It’s not as if he’s a pregnant woman who might deliver on the way. He’s already dead. We’ll borrow the neighborhood Ambassador—cheap job, less petrol too. Look how petrol prices keep rising!”

The third said, “What nonsense is this! Why cause Father’s soul pain? Understand his lifelong style—simple living, high thinking. A bullock cart will be just right—Indian, traditional. What’s this Ambassador nonsense? Cheap too—no petrol. Our servant even has a bullock cart—done free.”

Chandu Lal hadn’t died yet; he lay on his deathbed, listening. Hearing it all, he sat up: “Sons, where are my shoes?” The three asked, “Shoes—what for?” He said, “Sons, I’m still alive—I’ll walk there myself. I’ll die on the spot. Why the expense? Bring a bullock cart, then you must feed fodder—look at the price of grass!”

A man is trapped by his own way—till his dying breath, and even after!

You’re not listening to what I’m saying.

In a boxing match, when one boxer floored his opponent, the referee began the count. But when the downed man couldn’t get up for quite some time, the victorious boxer said, “Don’t count—start chanting God’s name; maybe the breath will return.”

People appear conscious; they are not. They appear to listen; they do not. You’re listening—but you’re not. Inside, you are calculating how to get success. “We’ll take the blessing—whatever he says! For this very thing we came.” I may go on speaking; you say, “Say what you like…!”

People are nearly asleep. If only they hear “Ram-naam,” that’s much. In life they don’t listen; so when we take a body to the cremation ground, we chant, “Ram-naam satya hai”—Brother, listen now; in a lifetime you didn’t—perhaps now you will. At least now! But one who didn’t listen in life—what will he hear after death?

And even if you become “successful,” what will you receive? You’ll become the editor of some crummy magazine—what else? Your “print-itch” will be scratched. “Print-itch” is a disease too—you must get printed. So that itch will be relieved. Like thirst, there is print-itch.

These galleys, these dummies, this office of proofs,
this plaster flaking from the office roof!
This panic of pages in “OK revision”—
and even if the flurry stops, what then?
Stories and ghazals and little short-shorts—
what if no one reads them at all!
This read-read, this print-print, this rush-rush office—
and even if we got this office, so what?
Every block blurred, every print a hazard,
this chatter makes blunders in the headline!
Is it an office in error, or an error as office—
and even if we got this office, so what?
Here leisure-labors always fail:
Mudgal, Uniyal, Arun and Balram,
and Nandan—besieged morning and evening—
and even if “Shaam-e-Awadh” is ours, so what?
Whom shall we bless, why should we grieve?
Toil as you like—you’ll get very little!
This office that brings out two issues a month—
and even if we got this office, so what?
Pick it up, pick it up, take away this office,
just move it out of our sight!
It’s yours—do you handle this office—
and even if we got this office, so what?

Still—as you wish. If you are a poet, delight in poetry. If you are not, then search for what your own cadence is, what your own swabhava is, what your own season and measure are.

I have never thought in the language of success. That is not my language. Success means ego. How can I bless you for ego? Ego is a disease. Yet we are all busy gratifying the ego. Ego has cast such darkness over our eyes that we see nothing—and what we do see, we see wrongly.

The jailer was very troubled. A friend asked why. He replied, “Last night, on the occasion of Ram Navami, the prisoners of our jail staged a Ramleela.” The friend said, “What’s troubling in that? It’s good that the prisoners staged a Ramleela.” The jailer said, “Listen to the whole thing. When Lakshman was hit by the Shakti-arrow, the prisoner playing Hanuman went to fetch the sanjeevani herb.” “So?” said the friend. “What’s wrong in that? Otherwise the Ramleela can’t be completed.” The jailer said, “You never let me finish—you keep sticking your own bit in between. He hasn’t come back yet.”

The jailer has his own problem. What does he care about Ramleela? That “Hanuman” went to fetch the herb—and looks like he ran away.

You’re not hearing me. You’re busy with your arithmetic. Perhaps you think I’ll pull off a miracle and you’ll become successful. I don’t do miracles. I don’t produce ash. For all that, go to Sathya Sai Baba. He’ll produce ash too. He’ll give blessings too. But that blessing is a curse, because gratification of the ego is a curse. Better that the ego lose—utterly lose. Better it never succeed. Because when the ego loses, then that moment arrives in life—of reflection, thoughtfulness, contemplation, transformation. “Hare ki Hari-nam!”—blessed is the defeated who takes the Name.

That’s all for today.