Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #1

Anand Maitreya! This sutra is indeed unique and unfathomable. The whole essence of religion has entered into it—the quintessence of all the scriptures. Nothing remains outside this sutra. Understand this sutra, and you have understood all. Live this sutra, and you have lived all.

Sutra means: that which, when held, takes us to the divine. Such is this sutra. Its very meaning is its method. It can become a bridge—linking us to the divine. It may appear slender, like a thread, but however fine the thread of love, it is enough.

“Jyun tha tyun thaharaya.” By his very nature, man is the divine, but he has strayed from his nature. That wandering too was inevitable. Without wandering, how would one ever know what one’s nature is? A fish does not remember the secret of water—that water is life—until it is lifted out of the water. Only when it writhes on the sandy shore, scorched by the sun, does realization dawn. If it remains always in the ocean, grows up in the ocean, the ocean cannot be known. Without wandering, there is no knowing. Without wandering, there is no buddhahood.

So the wandering is unavoidable—but do not remain lost in it! Once it is realized that the ocean is life, set out to find the ocean. Don’t go on thrashing on the burning sand forever.

And all of us are thrashing about. What is our life if not torment—melancholy, anguish, a tangle of anxieties, a fair of sorrow-dreams! One sorrow-dream hardly leaves before another begins—an endless queue! Thorns upon thorns—as if flowers never bloom here! Pain upon pain! Only the hope of happiness. And slowly, hope turns into hopelessness. When hope loses repeatedly, breaks again and again, shatters again and again, then naturally, as the years decline, as evening approaches, a person becomes dejected, becomes despairing. With the sunset, something inside him also breaks and falls apart.

People die before they die. They die before they live! Living, they never come to know what life is. And the reason? Only this: the fish keeps writhing on the sand; the ocean is nearby; it is only a matter of a leap. Not even more than a single step away. But in its very thrashing it gets so entangled—even though the memory of the ocean comes. Those days of bliss are not wholly forgotten. That is why there is longing for joy.

The longing for joy is proof that once we knew joy. How could one long for what one has never known? If one had never tasted it, how could the craving arise? We have known it sometime; the taste is still on our tongue. It is not completely forgotten. However much else may have been forgotten, this has not wholly faded, it has not entirely been erased.

However faraway that call has grown, it still comes. It still calls—but there is no courage left to plunge again into the vast ocean. If the shore is so difficult, who knows what greater difficulties the ocean holds!

If the fish reaches the ocean again, then: “As it was, so it is restored.” It had strayed from its nature, and now it returns. Again there is bliss. Again there is celebration. Then every day is Holi, every day Diwali.

And now, for the first time, there is recognition. The fish was in the ocean before; it is in the ocean now. The fish is the same, the ocean is the same, yet everything has changed. Before there was ignorance; now there is buddhahood.

This title is a line from an extraordinary fakir, Rajjab. If you hold the whole verse in mind, this fragment will be easier to grasp.

“As one face appears two in a mirror, as much as was grasped, that much was sung.
Says Rajjab: I know such a way—As it was, so it was restored.”

“As one face appears two in a mirror.” The face is one, but look into a mirror and it becomes two. And without looking into a mirror, one does not come to know the face. So there is a compulsion: you must look. Only by looking will you know. But by looking, what was one becomes two! Hence, danger too. Necessity and danger together.

The necessity: without looking in the mirror, you cannot know what your face is like—its nose and features, who you are, from where you are, what your form is. You must look in the mirror. But as soon as you look, a dilemma arises; duality arises.

I have heard: a train left Amritsar for Delhi. Sardar Vichittar Singh felt an urgent need to urinate. He hurried to the lavatory and flung the door open. He glanced in—and saw his own face in the mirror! Quickly he said, “Sorry, Sardarji!” and shut the door! But the urgency mounted. He held it five minutes, ten minutes. But the Sardar who had gone in did not come out at all! He knocked again; no reply. He opened—the Sardar was there! “Forgive me, Sardarji!” He shut it again.

Now it was hard to hold on. Even self-control has its limit! Just then the conductor arrived. Vichittar Singh said, “This is the limit! A man has gone in and for an hour hasn’t come out!” The conductor said, “Let me see.”

The conductor peeped in. He too was a Sikh! He swiftly closed the door and told Vichittar Singh, “You go to the lavatory in the next coach. The conductor is inside!” He had seen a uniform—and took it to be the conductor’s!

Don’t think that mirror deceives only Sikhs. The mirror deceives everyone. And in life there are many kinds of mirrors. Every pair of eyes is a mirror.

A child looks into his mother’s eyes and then first forms an impression of who he is. That impression haunts him throughout life. That duality clings like a shadow. For the unconditional love given by the mother—who else will give it? She asks nothing. The child has nothing to give; the mother gives all. A delusion is born: the child feels he has a right to receive!

He is deceived by a mirror. All his life he will demand: give. He will demand from his wife, demand from friends. Wherever he goes, a hidden craving remains: give me love. “Let me give love”—that idea does not even arise. Because the first mirror was the mother’s mirror. The image seen there was: as I am, I am worthy of love; love should come to me—it is my right, my due. Love need not be earned; it is given without earning. And he will suffer all his life, because the wife will not be the mother. Friends will not be the mother. Society will not be the mother. Where will he find the mother? Nowhere. In this vast world, everywhere he will be rebuffed. And the difficulty is that all the people he meets have also seen their faces in the mirror of a mother’s eyes. They too are asking: give!

So the demand arises: give. Give love. The wife demands from the husband; the husband from the wife; friends from friends. There is no one willing to give. There is a crowd of beggars. Beggars have their bowls out to other beggars! Both have begging bowls in their hands.

The duality born of mirror now brings obstacles; snatching and grabbing begins. When it is not given upon asking, then snatch, grab, take by force. The name of this force is politics. If asking doesn’t work, what to do! Then by any means—get it.

What strange ironies arise! People go to prostitutes for love, imagining perhaps money will buy it. How can love be bought? They think: if I attain a high post, I will receive love. But no matter how high your post, love will not come. Yes, flatterers will gather—but flattery is not love.

You can try to deceive yourself a million times; you won’t succeed. You saw one picture in your father’s eyes; it deceived you. You saw a picture in your siblings’ eyes; it deceived you. And then there are only pictures upon pictures—your own pictures—but different mirrors. You see so many of your own pictures. Each mirror shows a different one.

You see one picture in the wife’s eyes, in the husband’s eyes. One in the eyes of your son or daughter. One in a friend’s eyes; one in an enemy’s eyes. One in the eyes of the indifferent—neither friend nor foe, who don’t care for you. Yet in every mirror some picture appears. So many of your own pictures are collected—you have made an album! Not just duality—multiplicity! In one mirror there would be two.

Rajjab says rightly: “As one face appears two in a mirror.”

Not to have looked into mirrors is not to have become two. Hence duality has arisen. In reality there is nonduality. The nature is nondual. There is only one. But there are so many mirrors—mirrors over mirrors—mirrors everywhere! And you have gathered so many pictures of yourself that you are lost in the jungle of your own images. Now it is difficult to decide which of these is my face. The one seen in the mother’s eyes? Or in the wife’s eyes? In the prostitute’s eyes? Which one is mine? The one seen in a friend’s eyes—or in an enemy’s?

When you had wealth, the eyes that gathered around you showed one face; now, when you are poor, destitute—the face you see is different. For different people are around you now.

A very rich man was ruined—lost everything gambling. He used to have a crowd of friends; they began to thin out. His wife asked—she knew nothing; he had not told her that all was lost, that only the line remained, the snake had gone. She asked, “What is it? Your drawing room looks empty. No friends are seen. Only half remain.”

The husband said, “I’m surprised that even half remain! Perhaps they haven’t heard yet. Those who have heard have slipped away.” She said, “What are you saying! Heard what?”

He said, “What’s the point hiding from you. I’ve lost everything. Those people had gathered around me because of my wealth—that much is clear today. As soon as each learns I have nothing, he quietly departs. It’s right: where there is jaggery, flies gather. Now there is no jaggery—why flies? When the flower was blooming, bumblebees came. The flower has withered—what will the bees do!”

Hearing this, the wife said, “My father was right—do not marry this man. If not today then tomorrow he will land you in a pit. I’m going to my parents’!”

The husband said, “What are you saying! Even you are leaving?”

She said, “Why stay here and ruin my life!”

Here, all relationships are tied to reasons. Love without cause—where will you find it? And until you find love without cause, life will not be fulfilled.

Here, everything has a condition. One friend asked his most intimate well-wisher: “I have to choose between two women—whom should I marry? One is exquisitely beautiful, but poor. The other is very ugly, but very rich. She is her father’s only daughter. If I marry her, all the wealth will be mine. The father is old. The mother is dead; the father will go today or tomorrow! But she is very ugly. What should I do?”

His friend said, “This needs thinking! Shame on you. Does love think of money? Marry the beautiful one. Love knows the language of beauty, not of money.”

The man said, “You have advised well.” And as the adviser was leaving, he added, “By the way, give me the address of that ugly girl!”

In this world, relations are just like that. Then all these pictures pile up. It becomes impossible to decide who I am. And you have never known yourself directly; you have always known yourself in mirrors.

Have you been to a museum where there are many sorts of mirrors? In one you appear tall, in another short; in one fat, in another thin. You are one, but the way the mirror is made changes your appearance. There are so many mirrors that multiplicity arises.

Rajjab says “two”—but did it stop at two? It became many. From two come four; from four, sixteen. The thing keeps multiplying. Once duality begins, you are on a slippery slope; you go on sliding until you once again become one. Become one—and then: “As it was, so it is restored.”

To be free of mirrors is to be free of the world. To be free of mirrors is to be free of samsara.

The person who cares not at all for what other eyes say—that is the one I call a sannyasin.

People ask me, “So many abuses are hurled at you; so much is written against you—almost all over the world. Aren’t you troubled?”

I have no reason to be troubled, because what a mirror says is the mirror’s business. What is it to me?

The image that forms in the mirror speaks about the mirror; it says nothing about me. That statement pertains to the mirror—not to me.

Hence our saying: dogs bark, the elephant moves on. The elephant is the symbol—of intoxicated fakirs. The elephant’s gait is the gait of ecstasy—majestic, carefree. Dogs go on barking. They bark and bark and then fall silent. How long can they bark? Dogs are like mirrors. And mirrors keep following.

The mirror gets irritated if you ignore it. If you don’t listen to it, it feels anger. The mirror will bark. The mirror will defame you in a thousand ways. The mirror wants you to be displaced, to move away from your center. It wants you to trust the mirror. But the one who trusts the mirror has missed. He is worldly—one who trusts the mirror.

The one who does not trust the mirror, who says, “I know myself with eyes closed—what need to look into a mirror! I have seen my real face: whom should I ask now? Who could tell me my face? When I did not know, who else could?”—

There are things to be seen with open eyes. The outer world is seen with open eyes. The inner world is seen with eyes closed. What appears when the eyes are closed—that is you.

If you wander in mirrors, you are lost. “As one face appears two in a mirror.” If you do not look in the mirror, the two never arises.

Show a small child a mirror for the first time and see his reaction! The child who has never seen a mirror—place it before him. He will start, be bewildered for a moment: What to do now—another child is here! He will either be frightened and run to his mother, or, if he is courageous, he will try to touch and see who is there, where he is. He will touch the mirror—but nothing will be grasped; the hand will slip.

In the mirror there is nothing—only an illusion. If the child is a little intelligent, he will try to go behind the mirror. Crawling, he will go around, thinking someone is hiding behind. Again and again he will return and find that the other is still “there.” Soon he will be upset, sweating, “What to do with this other!” He will begin to cry, to shout, to call his mother.

Little children quickly try to feel out who is loving and who is not. The child, upon sensing love, slides closer; upon sensing unlove, he recoils. Look at a child with anger—he begins to cry. Look with love—he longs to come close.

With these subtle mirrors we are doing the same. And because the mirrors are subtle, we get very anxious. The mirror that showed us a beautiful image yesterday—if today it shows an unbeautiful one—we feel betrayed, cheated. We get angry. We say, “Don’t change yesterday’s verdict so soon!”

We want to make relationships permanent. We want our ties to be eternal. We want time to bring no disturbance to them. This is the whole spread of our world.

In this short saying Rajjab speaks a wondrous truth: “As one face appears two in a mirror, as much as was grasped, that much was sung.” Those who have known, each has tried to say as much as he could, to sing as much as he could. But truth does not fit into any song.

“As much as was grasped, that much was sung.” As much as was possible, the knowers have uttered. But that One cannot be said—because words too are mirrors. As soon as you bring it into word, the One becomes two.

When a person sinks into the inner, into the perfect void of meditation, there is realization, there is direct seeing of who I am. There is no mirror at all—only pure feeling, sheer awareness of who I am. Not even that a verbal answer arises—who I am. Just a state of being. This is the supreme peak.

The moment you say within, “Ah, here is samadhi!” mirrors have begun. From the one, the two has arisen. The speaker has entered; the mind has returned. Mind says, “Listen to me. This is samadhi—this is nirvikalpa samadhi, this is nirbija samadhi. This is what Patanjali praised; this is what Kabir hummed; this is what Nanak spoke; this is in Mahavira’s words; this is Buddha’s message; this is the Quran; this is the Gita; this is the Bible!” You have come back. Now delusion begins. A mirror has arrived. The mind has held up a mirror.

Samadhi was one thing; the mind began to show a reflection. Now samadhi has become two—a word; distortion has begun.

Then you tell someone, and it is distorted further. What was hidden within you—when you try to tell another, it goes still more astray. For the listener has no experience of samadhi. He hears the word “samadhi”… and since he has heard it many times, he imagines its meaning is within his grasp. Without experience, where is meaning? For him the word is hollow, without sense. He will hear it, and perhaps begin to parrot it.

Such parrots sit in your temples, mosques, gurudwaras! Such parrots you worship. These parrots are your pundits. They go on repeating, with no experience of their own.

Even those who have their own experience—when they attempt to say it, the thing goes wrong; it simply won’t be made right. A thousand times it has been said, and a thousand times it has gone awry.

Rabindranath was on his deathbed. A friend said to him, “You are truly blessed. You should not die sorrowful!” For tears were flowing from Rabindranath’s eyes.

The friend said, “I thought you were fulfilled. You have sung six thousand songs! No poet in the world has sung so many. Kalidasa and Bhavabhuti and Shakespeare and Shelley—all fall behind.”

Shelley has written two thousand songs; he is the West’s greatest poet by number—a great poet. Rabindranath sang six thousand songs of the same order—each can be set to music, bound in meter and cadence, translated into song.

“You have given such a vast gift to the world,” the friend said. “Why are you weeping!”

Rabindranath said, “Wait—you misunderstand. I am praying: O Lord, I have only just tuned the instrument. I have not yet sung the song—and the hour of departure has come! What kind of injustice is this? My whole life I was tuning…”

You know tuning: the tabla player taps with his hammer to bring it into pitch; the sitarist tightens and loosens strings to the point where they are neither too tight nor too slack. If the strings are too slack, music will not arise. If too tight, they will snap—what music then, only discord.

They must be brought to the exact middle—Buddha called it the Majjhima Nikaya—the precise center where neither tightness nor slackness remains, where tension and laxness are both transcended. When the strings are perfectly healthy—neither this extreme nor that—when the clock’s pendulum comes to rest in the middle, the clock stops. So when strings are exactly in the middle, then the possibility of the birth of music arises.

Rabindranath said, “I had only just brought the sitar strings into tune. With great difficulty I had brought the tabla to pitch. These six thousand songs were efforts to sing that one song—which I have still not sung. These six thousand are six thousand failures, six thousand unsuccessful attempts. I want to sing one song—just one. But whenever I sing, it turns into something else!”

“As much as was grasped, that much was sung.” Much has been sung. The song is one; truth is one. But no one has yet been able to say it—and no one ever will. Rabindranath wept unnecessarily. He had no experience of buddhahood—otherwise he would not have wept. He would have known this truth: that song cannot be sung. Yes—sing as much as you can. But do not hope that truth can ever be bound fully in words. Neither the Upanishads bind it, nor the Brahma Sutras, nor the Quran—none bind it. Each, according to his capacity, has tried to hum.

It is compassion that Buddha spoke, that Mohammed sang. Compassion. But truth is experience. The moment it enters words—two. And as soon as you tell someone—three! And as soon as someone hears and begins to interpret—it goes more astray!

There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. The thing keeps going astray. Commentaries upon commentaries! The thing keeps going astray.

That is why when an enlightened one is alive, only those near him may taste a little. Later the thing keeps going wrong. The more time passes, the more it goes astray.

Hence the older a religion becomes, the more it decays. Religion must be new—freshly dipped in the ocean of experience, one who has just now brought the pearl—perhaps he can hum a little, perhaps gesture a little. But the older it grows, the more it rots.

This is Hinduism’s misfortune—that it is the oldest religion on earth. Hence its stench is deep. It forgot how to be new. It must renew its body again and again. It forgot the process of transfiguration. And whenever someone tried to transfigure it, it refused.

We became worshipers of corpses. We denied Buddha. Denied Mahavira. Denied Kabir; denied Nanak. If only we had not denied Buddha, he would have given birth to the Upanishads again. If only we had not denied Kabir, he would have revived Buddha. If only we had not denied Nanak, the truth would have come fresh again.

Religion must be reborn daily—like old leaves falling and new leaves coming. Like a river’s flow—the old water flowing away, new water taking its place. Let the current not stop; if it does, it stinks. If it stops, the river dies, becomes a stagnant pool. Let it flow. Let it keep flowing.

Those who worship the Ganges have not understood the secret! They worship the Ganges but forget the real Ganges. They lock the “Ganges” in a washbasin! They say, “If the mind is pure, the Ganges is in the basin.” How will the Ganges be in a basin? Have you gone mad? However pure your mind—how pure will it be if you imagine the Ganges in a basin?

The Ganges must flow. But read the story: with great effort Bhagirath brought the Ganges down from the heavens. So great was the effort that his name became synonymous with supreme effort. Whenever someone undertakes a great endeavor, we call it a “Bhagirath effort.”

Bhagirath strove so much that he brought the Ganges down from the sky—but it came only halfway. Half remained in the heavens. This is symbolic.

As much as you know, you will not be able to bring that much into words. As much as is within, that much will not be brought out. If even half comes, it is much.

Bhagirath was fortunate that even half came. Half remained in heaven—in the realm of experience; in the beyond; in the sky. Half descended to earth.

But the purity and innocence at Gangotri, the source, is no longer there in Banaras. The Ganges at Banaras is filthy—a dirty drain. So much garbage has flowed into it. So many drains and sewers have merged into it.

Scientists say today there is no river more polluted than the Ganges. Yet you dip in it! Corpses are consigned to it. Dead bodies float in it. And so many sinners wash their sins there!

Just imagine—how many sinners for how many centuries have washed their sins in the Ganges! If all those sins have been washed into it, then do not even touch the Ganges by mistake, because sin is a nasty thing—if it touches even your finger, it will slowly enter within! Consider the Ganges untouchable—now it has become a Shudra! Yet you plunge into it—hoping to return home with fewer sins! How will this Ganges wash your sins? You are washing mud with mud. Such is the condition of religion.

In the realm of experience, religion is whole, one, indivisible. In expression, the moment it descends, it becomes half. By the time it reaches you, it is halved again by your understanding. Then when you tell another—it is halved again.

And now it has grown so old that we no longer know who told whom. How many people passed it on? How did the thing travel? From ear to ear—each whispering into the next. And we insist, “Our religion is very ancient!” The more ancient, the more rotten. Do not fall into this mistake. The more ancient, the more decayed.

Religion too must be rejuvenated. Each time, Bhagirath must bring the Ganges back, and Gangotri is born again.

“As much as was grasped, that much was sung.” But don’t get stuck in words—descend into silence. Do not wander in words. The singers have sung—catch their hints. But do not worship their words. Yet the worship of scriptures goes on!

“Says Rajjab: I know such a way…”

Rajjab says: I am plain and simple, an ordinary man. I am no pundit, no scholar. I know nothing of scriptures. I know only one method; I know one device; I have one alchemy in my hand:

“Says Rajjab: I know such a way—As it was, so it was restored.”

I have only this small sutra: as it was—my nature as it was before birth—just so I have let it become still again. And in that stillness, everything is attained.

All scriptures are included, all doctrines, all Buddhas, all Krishnas, all Christs—because how did Krishna attain? “As it was, so it was restored!” How did Buddha attain? “As it was, so it was restored!” How did Jesus attain? “As it was, so it was restored!” You too—let it be restored as it was.

What is that method? What is the king of secrets? A small secret: call it meditation, call it awakening, call it bodhi, call it witnessing. In the mind a procession is going on—thoughts in a queue, a crowd of desires, cravings, ambitions; a stream of memories; a net of imaginings being woven.

Between past and future you are being crushed. Kabir says: “Between the two millstones, not one grain remains whole.” These are the two millstones—past and future. Between them you are being ground. “Not one remains whole.”

But when Kabir sang, “Between the two millstones not one grain remains whole,” his son Kamal wrote a counter-sutra: there is a peg in the center between the two stones, upon which the upper stone turns.

Kamal was Kabir’s son. He said, “Listen, some are saved—some.” Kabir asked, “Who?” Kamal replied, “Those who take hold of that central peg, which stands still, which does not move, which has always been still—they are saved. Between the two stones no one survives; they are ground. But the one who takes support of that little fixed peg—he is saved. That’s why a few grains remain whole.”

Run a millstone and you’ll see: some grains, very clever, slip from between the stones and reach the peg. They take refuge at the peg. There the mill cannot grind them.

Within you too there is such a peg.

Kabir said, “I was waiting to see if anyone could complete this sutra. Kamal, I am happy!”

That very day Kabir said of Kamal: “Withered the line of Kabir, a son Kamal was born.”

People think this was criticism. No. It was praise.

Kabir said, “I remained Kabir—at least I produced something: a son, a daughter.”

Kabir’s son was Kamal, his daughter Kamali. He named them Kamal and Kamali because he had begotten them in witnessing—hence, they were marvels.

That is the marvel: the sannyasin lives in the world yet remains untouched. Kabir lived with his wife, lived in the bazaar; he was a weaver who wove cloth and sold it. And in the end he was bold enough—an astonishing man!—to say to God: “Jyon ki tyon rakh dihini chadariya”—Here, take your sheet back. I return it just as it was given. Not a stain upon it. I have lived in the world, I have passed through the room full of soot—look at your sheet! Take care of your sheet!

“Jyon ki tyon rakh dihini chadariya.” He lived only in witnessing—even in sex he remained a witness. Hence he named his son—Kamal! When a son is conceived in witnessing, it is a marvel—and the son will be a marvel. He was.

Kabir at least gave birth, left a lineage. But Kamal left no lineage—he begot no one.

“Withered the line of Kabir; a son Kamal was born.”

Such a son was born that he finished the matter. He broke the lineage. He said, “What is the point of prolonging it? Why keep running the chain of the world!”

Kabir said this the day Kamal added: “Add one thing more—that he who takes refuge in the central peg is saved.”

Two stones—past and future; and the peg between them—the present. Witnessing means: to settle in the present. Neither past remains, nor future. Then what remains?

What do you have besides past and future? Nothing. When past goes and future goes, there is emptiness. In that emptiness there is only light; only knowing; only awareness; no object at all. There is a mirror—but no image forms now. No other, no second.

There is a witness—but nothing before it. There is a seer—but no seen. There is a knower—but nothing remains to be known.

“As it was, so it was restored.” In such a state of witnessing, you are again stilled in your nature.

Buddha calls this “tathata”—suchness. One of Buddha’s names is “Tathagata”—the one who has thus-gone, who has come into suchness.

The one who has come into his nature, who has drowned in his own being, has found the ocean. The fish no longer thrashes. Then there is ecstasy; celebration. Life becomes a festival. Then there is a shower of bliss. Then the clouds of nectar thunder.

“As one face appears two in a mirror, as much as was grasped, that much was sung.
Says Rajjab: I know such a way—As it was, so it was restored.”

Therefore I say, in this small sutra everything is included. Nothing remains. Fulfill this one thing and religion descends into your life; your lamp is lit—the lamp that has been extinguished for lifetimes. The current of life flows again within you—the current that has been blocked for lifetimes.

You have become a basin-Ganges! Fulfilling this sutra, you become Gangotri again. Again the holy Ganga. Wherever you flow, there will be pilgrimage. Wherever you rise and sit, there will be pilgrimage. Wherever you rise and sit, there will be Kaba and Kashi.

In this little span of life, O God, what all am I to do?
Abdul Karim!
“Ishq-e-butaan karoon ki main yaad-e-khuda karoon?”
You have already made them two! That is the very mistake: “As one face seen in two mirrors.” Is “love of the idols” and “remembrance of God” really two different things? The image in the temple and the emptiness in the mosque are two mirrors reflecting the One. The temple is a mirror; the mosque is a mirror. Truth is one. Some have seen it as without attributes, others as with attributes. All qualities are His; and the One in whom all qualities abide is, of course, beyond qualities too.

Islam worships Him as the attributeless; other religions worship Him as the One with attributes. But all qualities are His.

This manifest world we see, these rainbow colors—every color is His. These dawns and dusks are His, these moon and stars are His. These many forms seated here are His. In woman He is woman; in man He is man. In trees He is tree; in stone He is stone.

We split the One into two—and fall into doubt. Then question upon question arises, and there is no end to it.

“Ishq-e-butaan karoon ki main yaad-e-khuda karoon?”
Now the difficulty begins: Should I go to the mosque or to the temple? And how many temples, how many mosques! Even within mosques there are quarrels; even within temples there are quarrels. Should I go to a Hindu temple, a Jain temple, a Buddhist temple? And within Jain temples there are quarrels—Shvetambara temple or Digambara temple? And even among Digambaras—Beespanthi temple or Terapanthi temple!

Quarrels upon quarrels! Split it into two and you start slipping; the whole thing keeps getting worse, without end. The One, which remains infinite as One, gets fragmented into many!

How many quarrels within the mosques! If conflict were only between mosque and temple, one might still understand; but inside the mosques too: Shias and Sunnis at each other’s throats, ready to cut one another’s necks! Where is the leisure to worship God when you are busy cutting throats? All the time goes in the cutting. And whose neck are you cutting? The cutter is He, the one being cut is He! Kill a Hindu—you kill Him. Kill a Muslim—you kill Him. Burn a temple—you burn Him. Burn a mosque—you burn Him.

“Ishq-e-butaan karoon ki main yaad-e-khuda karoon?”
The mistake begins right at the start, when you divide into two. Don’t make it two. As one face seen in two mirrors! Why split it? Whichever way your heart inclines.

“Ishq-e-butaan”—if images please you, there is no harm. If the formless pleases you, there is no harm. By whatever excuse you return home, the excuse is irrelevant. Come by bullock cart, on foot, by airplane, or by train—just come home.

But people are quarrelling! The bullock cart won’t move; the train won’t move. First settle the quarrels, then travel. The quarrels pile up so much that nothing moves. Everything is stuck. Whoever enters the quarrel will be stuck. Someone is stuck in the Gita, someone in the Quran. What could have been boats, we have turned into obstacles. What foolishness!

Religiousness is one; religions are many. Therefore religions are false; religiousness is true. A truly religious person is neither Hindu nor Muslim. Seat a religious person in a mosque—he remains a witness; seat him in a temple—he remains a witness. What difference does it make where you witness! Whether the walls were raised by Hindus or by Muslims—what difference?

I was once a guest in a village. Right before me a temple was being built—the very house where I stayed was having a temple constructed. The masons raising the walls, the craftsmen carving the stones and sculpting the images, from their talk it seemed they were Muslims. I inquired and found yes, they were Muslims.

So I asked my hosts, who were having the temple built: This is amusing! The walls of this temple are being raised by Muslims; the image too is being sculpted by Muslims; the steps will be set by Muslims; and then the temple will be “Hindu”? And one day these very Muslims will burn it down!

I asked them: How will this become a Hindu temple? The walls are raised by Muslims. Many temples in India have been turned into mosques, because in the Muslim era, when they ruled, they converted any temple into a mosque. It took no time—change a few things and a temple becomes a mosque. And if later the Hindus ruled some region, they turned the mosque back into a temple!

Between temple and mosque there is no essential difference. For the uncomprehending there may be; for the wise, none.

Seat me in a mosque—what difference will it make? I will sit in the same joy and ecstasy. Seat me in a temple—no difference. That’s why whether I speak on the Gita or on the Quran, it makes no difference. What I have to say is what I will say; the song I am to sing is the one I will sing. Hand me any instrument—you give me a flute or a sitar—I will sing the same song, the same raga. If I remain silent, it will be for That alone; in my silence That will be, and in my speech That will be.

A religious person is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Sikh—just religious. My effort—a Bhagirath effort—is to free you from religions so that religiousness may blossom in your life.

Don’t ask me: “Shall I love the idols or shall I remember God?”
In whatever way you can be religious. People differ; their inclinations differ. If you try to force Meera to become Mahavira, you will make a mistake. Poor Meera will not even remain Meera—and Mahavira she cannot be. If you try to make Mahavira into Meera, it will be a mess; he will no longer be Mahavira, and Meera he cannot be.

It is madness, like trying to make bela into juhi, juhi into champa, champa into gulab. The whole garden would go mad! Humanity’s garden has gone mad. There is hardly a sane word spoken anywhere.

I don’t want to make anyone Muslim or Hindu. I only say this: follow what resonates with you.

The Quran has its own flavor, its own intoxication. If someone’s heart delights in it, fine—make the Quran your boat. If someone loves the Gita, what obstacle is there? Make the Gita your boat.

A drowning person doesn’t ask, “Who is the boatman of the boat that comes to save me—a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Sikh?” He doesn’t ask even, “Are you theist or atheist?” Does a drowning man ask, “Who are you?”

When you are ill, you don’t ask whether the doctor is Christian and you are Hindu, or the doctor is Hindu and you are Jain—how will you get treated? When ill, you don’t worry. And you are ill—spiritually ill.

Why this worry! Choose the physician you trust. Remember: more vital than the medicine is the physician. Medicine is secondary. If you can trust the hand, even ash from that hand becomes medicine. And if you do not trust the person, he may give you gold bhasma or pearl ash—nothing will happen. Consider it ash. Your doubt will devour you.

Wherever trust takes wing, Abdul Karim—where your faith grows feathers—begin to search the sky from there.

Why ask: From which ghat should I step into the water?
Ghats are many—the ocean is one. Enter from any ghat.

“Ishq-e-butaan karoon ki main yaad-e-khuda karoon?
In this brief life, how many things, O God, can I do?”

Once you divide, life certainly feels short. If you get lost in anxious choosing, you will be in trouble. There are three thousand religions on earth. It isn’t only “love of idols” or “remembrance of God.” There are three thousand religions, with at least thirty thousand sub-sects! If you get entangled in this, one life—no, many lives—will be too short. You won’t even be able to decide which boat to sit in!

Every boatman is calling: Come, sit in my boat. Only this boat can take you across. If you keep worrying which boat to choose, life will indeed be very short—short because of your worry. If you become free of worry, life is vast. A single moment is as vast as the eternal.

If you are carefree, if anxiety drops, will you still call life short? You need to understand time—not only by the clock. There is outer time, measured by the clock; and inner time, which depends on the state of your consciousness.

You sit by your beloved, Abdul Karim, meeting after many years—hours will pass like moments, racing by! The night will be gone and you won’t notice.

My sannyasins tell me: We don’t know how the time flies! It races—because of ecstasy. In sorrow, time seems long; in delight, time becomes short.

On the eighth of September, Vivek said to me: “A year has passed—it’s hard to believe it’s been a year since your father’s Mahaparinirvana. It feels as if only a few days ago we bid him farewell—and again the eighth of September is here. So soon! The days are racing!”

If you are in joy, the days race. You don’t notice time. If you are in sorrow, time halts, stutters along. Time walks with a stick like an old man, stopping, starting—like a passenger train.

I had a friend, Rekhchandra Parekh—he departed a few days ago. He loved to travel by passenger train. Many times I told him, What madness is this! He said: For once, follow my lead. So once I agreed and traveled by passenger train. And truly, I found he had his secret in it.

Where we could have reached in one hour by plane, it took four days! But I understood his point—it was right.

At every station the train stopped. Stopped for hours. He had acquaintances at every station. Even the porter knew him! The station master knew him; the ticket collector knew him; the hotel man knew him! Wherever we went, there was a welcome. He knew every spot—where the fritters are best, who has good milk, where the tea is good, whose kachoris are the finest—he knew every little thing.

At one station the train halted; he said: Quick, come! He took me out of the station. I asked: Where are you taking me? What if the train leaves? He said: Don’t you worry!

Outside there were many mango trees, a whole grove, with ripe mangoes. He said: It’s mango season, and I never pass this station in mango season without plucking some. Let’s pick a few. I said: This is too much! We’ll have to climb the trees—and if the train leaves…! He said: Don’t worry. The train will wait here.

When we climbed up, we saw a man already up there before us. They greeted each other and chatted. I said: Let’s get down now! He said: Don’t worry at all. As long as that man is up in the tree, the train isn’t going anywhere. I asked: Who is he? He said: He’s the driver! I come right behind him. How will the train go? Don’t worry.

And how could it go! It was perfect. Then, carefree, everyone plucked mangoes, filled our bags, and returned. If the driver himself is up the tree, you can imagine it would take four days—stopping to pick mangoes, to eat fritters, to drink tea, to buy milk, sweets for the children, wooden toys—they knew where to get the best—by the time we reached home, they had filled the compartment with things!

I told him: Your point is right. He said: You tell me—had we flown, where would this fun be! And people never forgive the one who flies. I said: That too is true—if you fly over someone’s head, how will he forgive you? Climb on someone’s head—how will he forgive?

And in the passenger train! On my insistence he came to first class; otherwise he said the fun is only in third class: friendship, familiarity, camaraderie, new connections, the most delightful people, and their life stories! And when you stay together four days, everyone opens up. What people don’t tell relatives they tell strangers in trains. They fear telling their own, but they tell strangers. Every person is a story—an extraordinary story.

He said: What’s the point of first class! I said: Be kind enough not to drag me into third class. It’s enough that I agreed to the passenger train—at least let me be in first!

But he kept going to meet people—sat in third class! He couldn’t rest—he loved the bustle and crowd.

People’s tastes differ. Pay heed to your taste, and wherever your interest connects, time changes utterly there. Its flow shifts.

There is a curious fact about time—perhaps you haven’t noticed. There’s a paradox. In moments of pleasure, time runs fast; in moments of pain, it moves slowly. But when you remember later, the situation reverses. The happy moments, in memory, seem long; the painful ones seem short. Because we accept flowers and keep them; we discard thorns.

Remember later and you’ll say, Ah, sweet childhood! What days! In old age recall your youth—Ah! What days! Evening on one side, a goblet in hand on the other—what days! Though a young man knows his troubles; in youth troubles are visible. In old age we forget them.

A child knows his troubles too. Think again—revive your childhood and you will see how many troubles there were. Daily school. Daily beatings. Holding your ears and doing sit-ups. Kneeling punishments. Who wants to go! Cold mornings, and if it’s Saturday—who wants to get up early? One wants to turn over and sleep under the quilt.

Revive it and live it again—you will not find it as happy as you now imagine. But from a distance youth thinks childhood was wonderful—only joy, no worry. That’s what you say now. Then, there were worries: Will I pass the exam? Maybe there was no worry of a job; there were other worries. Mischievous kids in school teased you.

In my school there was a boy with a wobbling, spongy bald spot. He too met me later and said, Ah, how good those days were! I said: Don’t you say it! He asked why. I said: I remember your life very well.

Anyone slightly stronger would wobble his bald spot! Whoever met him took off his cap first to wobble it. I wobbled it so much that once I was sent to the headmaster: Why do you harass this boy? Why do you take off his cap and wobble his…?

I told the headmaster: Before you say anything to me, let me remove his cap and you wobble his bald spot! He said: What’s in that? He too became curious. I said: You just try. When he wobbled it, he too burst out laughing: You’re right—his bald spot is extraordinary!

It was very spongy. I said: Now you tell me—if someone has such a bald spot, whose fault is it? If you must punish, punish me. But it’s so extraordinary—who wouldn’t want to press it!

The poor boy was in trouble. Even teachers punished him by removing his cap and wobbling it—didn’t pull his ears; they pressed his bald spot, because that was the harshest punishment for him.

He would come to school sneaking through alleys so as not to meet rascals on the main road, who would harass him. He was always late, and sought early leave—because if a thousand boys are let out at once, by the time he got home his bald spot had been wobbled so much he was in misery.

When he met me later and said, Ah, what days those were! I said: You, of all people, don’t say that! Remember what you went through. Lift your cap so I can jog your memory—maybe your forgotten memories will return!

He said: True—if I think carefully, I was harassed a lot. But now those things are forgotten; only the nice memories remain.

Looking back, the pleasant moments seem long because you chose to keep them; the painful ones seem short because you didn’t choose them—only a faint line remains, which you would erase if you could. That’s why the old think youth was good; the young think childhood was good; and perhaps the dead, lying in their graves, think old age was good—Ah, what days!

A U.S. Supreme Court justice died at ninety. When he was ninety, he was strolling in a garden with his son, who was sixty-five. A beautiful woman passed by. Naturally the son looked; the father looked too—she was so beautiful it was hard not to. The son said: Father, you must wish you were young! The father said: It’s not that I wish I were young—but at least I wish I were sixty-five! At least your age! Sixty-five is “old,” but for a ninety-year-old, sixty-five is youth.

Look back, and the shape of time changes. In suffering, time feels long; in memory, it contracts. In joy, time feels short; in memory, it expands. And the final thing to understand about time is this: if pain and pleasure alter time so much, what is time’s state in bliss? In bliss, time disappears.

When one enters true samadhi—the void, the witnessing—“as it was, so it stands”—then time ends. There is no time. And if you remember such a moment later, it feels eternal—so unprecedented, so overflowing, you wonder how even eternity could contain that vast joy.

Abdul Karim, you ask in this short life, “What all am I to do, O God?”
Do nothing—only one thing: “as it was, so it stands.” Do just this, and all will be done. Both “love of idols” will happen and “remembrance of God” will happen. In the form you will find the formless hidden.

Go by the form if you wish; leap straight into the formless if you have the courage. But I have not seen anyone leaping straight into the formless. Granted, there are no images in a mosque—but what is the Black Stone of the Kaaba? And what is a mosque after all? The mosque, too, ended up doing what an image does. Why wash your hands and perform wudu before entering? What is the sanctity of the mosque? If a mosque is just a building like any other, why bow there? If it’s only brick-mortar, like other houses—no. There is a sacred quality to the mosque; that same quality becomes “image.”

Granted your mosque has no image—many temples too have no image; they have a scripture. In the Jain family I was born into, the temple had no image; it had a scripture—like the Guru Granth in a gurdwara.

Taran, a fakir of Nanak’s time, arose then. My family traditionally belongs to his lineage. Just as Nanak removed the image and placed the Guru Granth, so Taran did. It was a breeze then, five hundred years ago—Kabir, Nanak, Taran, Raidas—one breeze: Why worship a stone image?

But the paper book is also, after all, an “image.” Perhaps a stone image outlasts a paper book—if permanence is your concern. If you think of God’s eternity, the stone might better hint at that. But if you think of thought, the scripture can be more helpful. What will a statue say? A scripture can be read, contemplated, meditated upon. Those who preferred contemplation kept scripture; those who loved singing and kirtan kept the image. As per taste.

Being born in a Hindu home doesn’t make one a Hindu; born in a Muslim home doesn’t make one a Muslim. Birth has nothing to do with dharma.

We have tied too many false connections. These illegitimate ties have caused us untold misery; much of our inner rigidity comes from them.

A person born in a Jain home—if a Meera-like devotion arises in his heart, what is he to do? He will ache. Where will he find Krishna? And you cannot dance before Mahavira—it won’t suit. Mahavira stands utterly naked—dancing there would be out of place, no harmony. For that you need Krishna—those ornaments, the peacock feather, the attire, the dancing posture, the flute in hand—one feels it will sound any moment! With a dancing Krishna image you too can dance—the rhythm matches.

Before Mahavira’s standing, naked image, how would you dance? There everything has come to stillness.

Before Buddha’s image, if you dance, it won’t fit; there you fall silent. No songs there—only hush. But some enter silence by singing too; some enter by dancing. Someone loses himself in the dance, melts, dissolves—and in that melting, when ego is gone—then “as it was, so it stands.”

So follow your own taste.

In my temple the doors are many. If someone comes dancing, for him I have adorned Krishna’s image. If someone prefers to sit silently, for him I have seated Buddha’s image. According to each one’s taste.

First know your own taste. Feel your own heart—then go by that indication. Then this dilemma won’t arise; duality won’t arise.

“As one face seen in two mirrors.” Don’t look into the mirrors; close your eyes and recognize your inner leaning—what is my inclination? Then there will be no difficulty. If you listen to others, you will be in trouble, because others will speak from their own inclination.

That is why I speak continually on many visions of life—lest some vision remain unfamiliar to you. I make you familiar.

And this happens again and again: when I speak on Meera, someone’s heart-bells begin to ring. When I speak on Buddha, someone else’s heart resounds. I have seen that the one who was moved to tears by Meera doesn’t resonate with Buddha; and the one who was stirred by Buddha remains untouched by Meera. The one who wept hearing Meera, whose eyes grew wet—he sits unmoved with Buddha. No harmony.

And the one who overflowed hearing Buddha, who found an inner stillness—he hears Meera and thinks: This is all imagination! Mere delusion! Feelings of the mind—what Krishna, what flute, what dance! Meera was a woman, sentimental, emotional. He can praise her hymns as poetry or music—but within, nothing happens.

But the one who reeled under Meera’s spell hears Buddha and finds a desert: no flowers bloom within, his heart does not leap to run into that desert and lose himself there. No cuckoo calls, no birds sing—only silence.

Here I open all doors for you. This kind of thing has never been done before on earth. That’s why I call it a Bhagirath effort. It is happening for the first time. Mahavira spoke his truth. I too could speak only mine and fall silent, but my truth would serve only a few.

Meera spoke hers; Buddha his; Krishna his. Now the time has come for someone to re-enkindle all of them together. That’s why you will find many contradictions in what I say—inevitably. When I speak on Meera, I become one with Meera; I forget Buddha and Mahavira. I have nothing to do with them then. If someone brings them up, I won’t let them stand before Meera! When I am Meera, then I am Meera.

And when I speak of Buddha—if someone says, Now tears don’t come to my eyes—I will shake him: If you want to cry, go elsewhere. Why cry! With Meera I will certainly say: Cry, cry your fill; get soaked—drenched through and through.

So you will find contradictions, because I am opening all the doors. They are different doors, with different keys, different locks, different architecture, colors, styles. But all doors lead to the same place: “as it was, so it stands.”

Abdul Karim! Do not ask:
“Shall I love the idols or remember God?
In this short life, how many things can I do, O God?”

Just do this much. This life is not small; it is plenty—measured out precisely. More than this you perhaps could not bear; more might be a burden.

In the West, lifespan has increased—past a hundred. In Russia there are many approaching 150. The oldest is 184 and still working.

In America, Sweden, Switzerland—the yardstick has risen. And there a new discussion has begun—euthanasia, the freedom to die. The old are saying: It is our birthright to die when we wish!

It shocks us to hear of euthanasia—“the birthright to die”—what a notion! No constitution yet has recognized it. But it will have to come; the movement is gathering speed.

A man over a hundred says: What is the point of living now? I have seen what I had to see, enjoyed what I had to enjoy. Why make me rot? And the legal difficulty is that he has no right to die. If he tries, he will be punished, jailed—it’s attempted suicide, a crime, a sin.

In Europe and America many lie in hospitals whose condition cannot be called living—merely breathing, that too artificially, on machines. Doctors everywhere face the dilemma: What to do? Should we switch off the oxygen? Switch it off and they will die. The old view says: If you stop oxygen, you are responsible for their murder—you killed them. And what is the point of keeping them alive? They lie there like vegetables—cabbage-carrots! Not even that, since cabbages and carrots are at least useful. They are of no use, and tie up many people: a nurse, a doctor, around the clock. This injection, that injection; legs hoisted with weights. They are unconscious, in a coma.

I went to see a woman—nine months in a coma. The question arises: How long to keep her alive? Why? For what? But who has the right to kill? Should the doctor stop oxygen? His heart will ache—his training is on old foundations. He will not sleep at night: What have I done! I killed her! Who knows—she might have recovered. Or perhaps she wishes to live—who am I to go against her wish? And if I keep her alive—perhaps she wants to die. What will she do, living like this?

Seventy years, to me, is a natural lifespan. Beyond seventy a person begins to feel like a burden—to himself and to others. And if in seventy years you have not done the essential, what more will you do? The moment to depart has come.

If medical science keeps pushing life beyond seventy, the end result will be that all advanced nations will have to add one more birthright to their laws: along with other fundamental rights, the right to choose one’s death. You cannot keep someone alive by force. If he wants to die, you must facilitate it. Who are you to keep him alive against his will?

Abdul Karim, this life is not short; it is exactly as long as it should be. Nature has given what is needed—no more, no less. But if you use this life for bliss, it is eternal, abundant—more than enough. For if even one moment of bliss is attained, you have tasted a drop of nectar—you are immortal. The body will go, the mind will go, but you remain as you are.

At the time of Sri Ramana’s passing, when asked, “Bhagavan, you are leaving—where will you go?” he said: Are you mad? Where would I go! I will remain where I am, as I am. Right here. “As it was, so it stands.”

The one established in witnessing neither comes nor goes. He becomes part of the eternal; a shareholder in the infinite; he becomes the form of God, God-suffused. That is why we called Buddha “Bhagwan,” Mahavira “Bhagwan”—because they attained “Bhagwatta,” godliness.

Godliness means: one who has known, “I was before birth, and I will remain after death,” who has recognized his own nature. Do just this. By what excuse you do it is your choice.

“Ishq-e-butaan”—if you love images, fine—choose a beloved image. If you have the courage to leap directly into the void, there is no need to choose an image.

Choose an image, and prayer will be your path. Choose the formless, and meditation will be your path. These are paths—and all paths reach the same summit.

I have examined all the paths: they all reach the same peak. Someone comes humming the Quran, someone the Gita, someone singing to Krishna, someone in quiet witnessing—but all arrive at that point which is eternal, which is nectar.

That is all for today.