Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #3

Dinesh Bharti! Rabia is one of the very, very rare mystics—like the summit of Gaurishankar, Everest. Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Lao Tzu, Zarathustra—only a very few women can be placed in that league. Among them, Rabia stands foremost.

And the greatest beauty of Rabia is that she never compromised at any level with people wandering in the dark valleys. She spoke only from the summit, in the language of the summit. That is why her life looks very baffling—ungraspable by intellect and argument.

This incident is of that kind. Keep a few things in mind.

There have been two kinds of awakened ones, enlightened beings—man or woman. First, those who, out of compassion, tried to speak in the common man’s language. But then inevitably they had to come down from the summit of truth. And the closer you come to the common man, the less you can say truth.

To fit truth into the language of the common man means cutting truth down and laying layers of untruth upon it—like sugar-coating a bitter pill. The bitter tablet may not be swallowed; a thin sugar coat helps it go down, and once past the throat, the taste is no longer noticed.

Truth too is very bitter. Buddha has said: “Untruth is first sweet, then bitter; truth is first bitter, then sweet.” Truth is bitter because we have become accustomed to untruth. The sweetness of illusion has seduced us. Untruth is very hypnotic, very consoling. Truth shakes you like a storm, a gale. Truth is ruthless.

So there are those awakened ones who, out of compassion, added the sugar coat, spoke in such a way that their words could pass your throat. But because of the very way they spoke, you only licked the sugar and threw away the bitter medicine.

You are clever too! While the sugar lasted you kept the pill in your mouth; you didn’t let it pass down. And the moment the bitterness came—you spat it out. The wise ones added the sugar so it would go down; but your foolishness is no less than their wisdom. Their wisdom was great; your unawareness is great! Their knowledge may be infinite; your ignorance is infinite! You’re no less—very crafty!

So you swallowed only the sweetness: “What tastes sweet, we swallow; what’s bitter, we spit.” That’s your logic. Their labor went in vain. Seeing that, some Buddhas spoke truth just as it is, without any coating: “If you want to drink, drink. Here it is. It’s bitter. Don’t later say you were deceived. There’s no question of spitting—know it’s bitter, and drink it as bitter.”

I too speak that kind of language—bitter—so you cannot later say you were duped by sweetness, or someone sweet-talked you into delusion. I want to hand truth to you pure—if it is bitter, it’s bitter—and to shake you awake by saying it’s bitter: if you want to drink, accept the bitterness. It is fire. It will burn, turn you to ash. I give it to you with full alerting and warning. That is why only those who really want it come to me. No crowd can gather here. No sweets are being distributed here! A revolution is being given here.

Rabia is among those few who did not add a sugar coat.

In one sense, it will appear the coated ones were compassionate; they were, and hence they coated. But you defeated them. I hold that the truly more compassionate proved to be those who did not coat. They did not lie to truth; they made no compromise with it. Of course, very many people did not come to them—could not.

This is not for the many. It needs a chest of courage. Few came; but those who came, came. Those who dived, dived. And having come knowing truth is bitter, fire, live coals must be swallowed—having known, they swallowed. There was no question of spitting. Only these few attained revolution. Only these few could burn the ego to ashes.

I am in agreement with Rabia.

The story is sweet—but sweet for you because for you it’s just a story. For those to whom Rabia handed a candle, a needle, and a hair from her head, it must have been very bitter. Understand. So, here—understand! As Rabia said, “Here, understand!” I say the same: here, understand!

Sufi Sufyan cannot be a saint. Rabia said exactly that. By giving him a candle she said: You are a scholar; don’t fall into the delusion of being a saint. The inner lamp has not yet been lit—and you’ve become a saint! If you were a saint, what would be left to ask—“You are learned; kindly give us some teaching”? A saint is one for whom truth has been attained, drunk and digested—truth has become his flesh and marrow.

Sufyan must be a “saint” only the way your so-called saints are. Whom do you call saint? On what basis? Those who fulfill your beliefs are your saints. If someone fulfills Jain beliefs, he is a Jain saint. And what beliefs! Some tie a mouth-cloth, and that makes them saint: “Look, a mouth-cloth!” Some eat once a day—saint! Some stand naked—saint!

I’ve heard—who knows how true—that Tarzan wrestled with apes for many years in Africa’s jungles. Someone told him, “Will you waste your life here? In India’s jungles there are even more advanced langoors. Here you have only small-time monkeys—there they are disciples of Hanuman, his progeny! Monkeys who defeated a mighty Ravana. If you want a real match, go there. What are you doing with these minor apes?” No legends, no culture here—there, apes men worship! How many temples does Hanuman have? How many devotees? Everywhere the Hanuman Chalisa is being recited! Such an ape who set Lanka on fire, defeated Ravana. Even Rama won propped on their shoulders; Rama fired his gun off their shoulder!

What are you doing here?

Tarzan got fired up. “Then I’ll go to India!” His ego stung, he boarded a ship—no ticket, of course. The captain panicked; the passengers too: his roar could scare the life out of you! When the captain came to ask for a ticket, Tarzan simply bared his chest and flexed. The captain said, “All right, sir, please sit, take your meals—whatever you need, command us!” Such a dangerous fellow!

He landed at Bombay harbor. On hearing the name “Bandra-gah” (Bunder/port), he thought, “This is truly the land of apes!” Whom to ask? Just then he saw on Chowpatty Muni Thothumal walking—mouth-cloth tied, a peacock-feather whisk in hand. Tarzan thought, “What a strange ape! So it’s true—India has extraordinary langoors. Ah, he hasn’t put the tail behind; he’s tucking it under his arm! A different kind of tail.”

He’d seen many monkeys, but never one who tucked his tail (the whisk) under his arm; and why the mouth-cloth? Nervously he decided to try his old trick from Africa: he opened his shirt, showed his chest, flexed his biceps, and said, “I am Tarzan!” Muni Thothumal removed his mouth-cloth and said, “I am Muni Thothumal!” Tarzan had seen many apes but never a talking one. They say he jumped straight into the sea. He’s the first man to swim from India to Africa in twenty-four hours! He never looked back—“This is no place to stay; where monkeys speak in the streets, what will the jungles be like?”

They say Tarzan is the only man in history who crossed that sea in a single day—see his panic! When life is at stake, what won’t a man do!

Whom do you call saint? What hollow, fake, counterfeit people!

Usually, the parrots who recite scriptures—you call them saints! Thieves, dishonest—telling you what is not theirs as if it were their own.

Yesterday a friend asked: He went to listen to Guru Maharajji’s elder brother, Satpal Maharaj. He was shocked—they were repeating pages from my books! He examined their literature and was even more startled: page after page—stories, jokes—word for word, not a syllable changed. He asks: what is this? And now Satpal Maharaj is not only doing that; he’s settled in London conducting Dynamic Meditation—actively! News from sannyasins in London says: a gentleman, Satpal Maharaj, is installed there, conducting Dynamic Meditation, without taking my name! People think Dynamic Meditation is his discovery!

In Marathi, a similar parrot-pandit, Shantaram V. Thate, has just written a book on the Ashtavakra Gita. In it, my first discourse on Ashtavakra is reproduced entire—word for word—without leaving even a matra. He just added a foreword! No mention of my name. Marathi papers shower praise: “No such book has ever been written on Ashtavakra Gita!”

Laxmi sent him a registered letter asking for a reply—six weeks, no response. Thief! Thieves of every kind!

Karpatri Maharaj is a great Hindu saint. He wrote an entire book against my “From Sex to Superconsciousness”—not a single argument of mine answered. Only scriptural citations, and he asks me, “Where is the support of scripture for your statements?”

When did I ever say my words must be supported by scripture? Have the scriptures taken a franchise on truth? Is truth exhausted in scriptures? If my words are not in scriptures, that only proves that what I’m saying is original. Why should it be in scripture? No other argument—just that “this scripture doesn’t say it, that scripture doesn’t say it,” and whatever he could find against me in the texts he quotes. He has sent me his book asking me to reply.

What reply can I give! Ask my sannyasin Prajña. Before she was a sannyasin, Karpatri Maharaj came to Ahmedabad; she went for darshan. Finding her alone, he didn’t miss the chance—grabbed her breasts! She can answer—what can I say! Prajña can answer. She was so shocked—she was young then—so distraught she ran crying to her mother: “What to do?” The parents panicked: “What can we say about such a great saint? Seventy years old and the itch remains! Writing against my book ‘From Sex to Superconsciousness’!” What can I answer to such people?

Hollow men! And whom you call saint is a riddle.

Someone spins a charkha—saint? Mahatma? They only need to fit your notions—which are notions born of ignorance.

So this Sufi Sufyan is no saint. Why would a saint go to ask someone, “Please give us some teaching”? He has received all. The one who has received is the saint.

Rabia gave the teaching. She said, “Here is a candle.” She said, “How long will you live by others’ light! Light your own candle. It is better than another’s sun—for it is yours.” She said plainly: You are a pundit, an empty scholar. You know nothing yet—and you sit as a saint? People worship you as a saint and you don’t even deny it. Your inner lamp hasn’t been lit.

Such a compact answer! I don’t believe Sufyan understood. He must have turned the candle over and over: “What is this? Any secret in it? Any inscription?” I doubt his intellect grasped it. If it had, he would have said so; then Sufis would not have needed to speculate afterward.

And Abdul Wahid must have been a philosopher, a logician; that’s why she handed him a needle. The needle is a great symbol. Rabia had a unique way—her hints are precious.

In this connection, remember an incident from the life of the saint Farid; then the needle will be understood.

An emperor went to Farid. He thought to carry some gift. What? Someone had gifted him a golden pair of scissors, studded with jewels, that very day—very beautiful, artistic. He thought, “I’ll take this.” He had also heard Farid often sits sewing clothes—sewing for the poor. So it would be useful.

He offered the scissors at Farid’s feet. Farid said, “Thank you, but what use have I for scissors? Take them back. I have use not for scissors—but for a needle.” The emperor said, “I don’t understand.” Farid said, “I don’t cut—I join.”

Logic cuts. Logic is scissors. A needle joins. The needle is love.

You ask, Dinesh Bharti: “What is Rabia’s secret in this wondrous answer?”

Abdul Wahid Amri must have been a logician. The needle is a sign: “Sir, join. How long will you cut? Who ever found by cutting? Logic analyzes; it cuts. It cannot synthesize. Logic’s work is to break things apart.” That is why science, based on logic, cannot recognize the soul or know God—never will. Science’s whole method is analysis—cutting. To know soul it has only one device: postmortem. When a man dies, cut his body. If you cut the living, he will die.

In medical colleges, frogs are cut, animals dissected; cut and cut in the attempt to understand. Naturally, the soul is never found—because the moment you cut, the life-breath flies! The cage remains; the bird is gone. How will you find the soul?

It is like taking a flower to a scientist and saying, “It is beautiful, very beautiful—a rose!” He says, “Give me time; I will analyze and see whether beauty is there or not.” He cuts the flower—that is his method—dissolves it, burns it to ash, separates and lists the chemical constituents: such-and-such earth, such-and-such water, these pigments, this fragrance. Then he says, “We found everything—color, fragrance, water, soil—but beauty we did not find. It never existed—you were deluded!”

Beauty resides in the whole. The moment you cut, it flies—becomes invisible. You cut and it disappeared. The flower is beautiful in its wholeness. Fragment it—beauty is gone.

Beauty is in the unfragmented. So is truth. Therefore logic can never attain truth. Whatever logic attains will be dead. Truth is alive. Truth is another name for life.

Rabia said: “Sir, Abdul Wahid, how long will you keep cutting like scissors? Thus you will attain nothing. Here is your lesson—be like a needle. Join, don’t break. By joining you will attain.”

Science breaks; religion joins. And what breaks is not religion. Your so-called religions break: they separate Hindu from Muslim, Muslim from Christian, Christian from Jain; and then they keep cutting—Shvetambara from Digambara, Shia from Sunni, Protestant from Catholic—cutting, cutting into fragments. That is not dharma, not the eternal law of life.

Dharma is that which holds all, that which is woven into everyone, the thread on which we are all strung, which makes us one.

Religion can only be one; irreligions can be many. These are all irreligions—Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist. Buddha knew religion; he did not divide. Jesus knew; he did not divide—he joined. But popes, your so-called Shankaracharyas—they know nothing of dharma. They have mistaken irreligion for religion—irreligion meaning hidden politics, hidden logic. It is a net of argument. Whoever gets entangled in it is lost in the jungle; no shore will be found.

Rabia said, “Sir, keep this needle. Understand the hint.” What style! What grace! A tiny needle—yet enough to puncture a logician’s balloon of pride. “Learn love—drop logic. Learn meditation—drop mere knowledge. Knowledge divides—meditation joins. Meditation is a bridge between man and God; knowledge is an obstacle, a wall.”

And to Hasan she gave a hair from her head. Consider a hair: when you cut hair, there is no pain. Nails too—you cut, no pain. Though parts of your body, hair and nails are not living. Were they alive, there would be pain. They are dead; hence they can be cut without pain. Try cutting some other part where there is life—there will be pain. Hair—nothing is felt.

One who takes the body to be all has mistaken the dead for the living.

To Hasan Basri, Rabia said: “Look within. Don’t get entangled in the periphery. The periphery is of death; within is the nectar. Don’t lose yourself in hair—dead stuff. As hair is dead, so too your whole body only appears alive because it is adorned by the aura of the soul. But that light is not its own.”

Another Sufi story:

A fakir was walking with a lantern on a dark night through a jungle path—silence, wilderness, danger of wild animals. Another man also had to travel that way and joined him. The fakir’s lantern cast light; in that light both walked.

Naturally, it makes no difference in whose hand the lantern is—the path is lit. The fakir could see; so could the other. They walked together till midnight; then the moment of parting came—their paths diverged.

As they parted, the man realized the light had gone too. It had never been his; it was the fakir’s lantern in his hand. Till midnight the traveler had forgotten the light was not his own, but another’s.

Such is the light of our body. Two travelers walk together—nectar and death. Nectar is within; the light is its, life is its, bliss is its, the juice is its. The body is merely adorned—by its juice, its glow. As long as the companion remains, the body remains in the delusion, “I too am alive.”

That traveler forgot the lantern wasn’t in his hand. The moment of parting came, the fakir turned down another path—pitch darkness.

The day the soul leaves the body—what remains? Dust remains. A corpse remains.

Rabia told Hasan: “Don’t get entangled in the body. Life is not of the body. It only seems so because it moves and eats and speaks. But remember—life belongs to the hidden soul. The soul is so alive that whatever goes with it appears alive. But this companionship won’t last long. Today or tomorrow, the roads separate; the soul will go on its way—its journey is other—and the body will lie there. In a moment, what becomes of what!”

“With fists of dust the friends came after the burial,
To offer the reward for a lifetime of love.”

What reward! When we bury the dead, every friend throws a fistful of dust on him. That’s the “reward”!

“With fists of dust the friends came after the burial,
To offer the reward for a lifetime of love.”

What reward! What became of a lifetime of friendship, of love? What the outcome?

And no one even said,
“Don’t throw dust on him—
He has just bathed today!”
A corpse is washed and dressed in new clothes.

No one said,
“He has just changed his clothes,
He has just bathed!”

“For a lifetime of love—such the reward!” Even friends throw dust. From them we did not expect this! Enemies might—but friends? Yet what can they do? Dust has fallen back into dust; what else can one offer? Only dust remains to be offered.

In a moment everything changes—utterly.

Just the other day I mentioned Shri Rekhachandra Parekh. A few days ago he passed away. He had taken “sadhu” initiation and used to say, “I’ll come soon. Soon I’ll take the ochre, become a sannyasin.” And in that “soon” eight years passed! For eight years he didn’t meet me. News kept coming: “I’m coming now—just as soon as I settle this business, that entanglement.” And how he died!

He was at his farm. In the night, he slipped away in sleep. He was wealthy and helped my work greatly. But he was at the farm, twenty miles from Chanda. In the morning the laborers came and saw the Seth didn’t appear—knocked on the door of the bungalow he had built at the farm—no one opened. They broke in—only dust lay there. At dusk he had taken leave; all was fine. Morning—dust.

No one from his household was present. And the rains were so heavy—between the farm and town a stream was in flood—two days the body lay there rotting. No way to get word to Chanda; the stream was too fierce to cross. And even if word were sent, the body could not be brought. Two days the corpse lay decaying.

Rekhachandra was a valuable man, among the first who recognized me. Yet he delayed! He did not understand life won’t always go on. When and where the paths will separate—no telling. Now here, now gone—everything in a moment.

The first time he saw me, he recognized—and so recognized that the whole of Chanda was astonished. Rekhachandra was notorious there as the greatest miser. No beggar asked alms at his door. If someone stood there, it meant he was new in town; people on the street would say, “Brother, you’re wasting your time. This is not the door where anything is given. You’ll be scolded.” When he saw me and recognized me…

His wife had brought me to their house. She had been taking him to saints, hoping to bring her husband onto the path: “Why is he after money!” She had taste for religion and saints. But Rekhachandra never liked any saint. He had an eye that recognized—he was not deceived. No Sufi Sufyan could fool him; no Karpatri Maharaj, no Shankaracharya of Puri.

His wife brought me, hoping perhaps I would click if none had. On seeing me, Rekhachandra said, “Now this is fun!” But he told his wife, “Listen—I forewarn you: this mosque will fall on the Muslim, not on me! You brought me to crush me; you’ve carried me to many to put someone on my head. But this mosque will collapse on your head. I have already clicked; your problem begins—your religion will be in trouble. I am irreligious, I am an atheist, and this is the first man who speaks such language that an atheist becomes a theist!” And truly, he never argued with me; though he argued with everyone else, he never spoke a word against me.

For years I stayed at his house whenever I came to Chanda—twice a year for three or four days, a week each year.

He dived so deeply that the whole town was astonished, because he laid the foundations of my work there. I never asked him for anything—but whenever he sensed a need, he fulfilled it at once. He felt I needed a typist and typewriter, so he sent both. I asked the man, “How did you come?” He said, “Rekhachandra sent me.” I said, “Wonderful. I needed it indeed—how long can I keep writing letters by hand? There are thousands of loving people across the land—it became difficult.”

He was the first in everything. Now there are thousands of typewriters in this ashram—but the first was his. Now there are hundreds of tape recorders—but the first was his. Now perhaps the finest darkroom in India is here, with the costliest cameras—but the first camera was his. Now the ashram has dozens of cars—but the first car was his. In every matter, he was first.

Chanda was amazed: this man who never gave a paisa to anyone—what happened to him! Has he gone mad? I never asked for a paisa—he poured thousands.

He asked me just one thing—only one: “When should I leave business?” I asked, “How old are you?” “Fifty.” I said, “Then leave.” He said, “I leave.” And he left—a big business, left as it was.

Then there was leisure; he bought land in the forest and began planting an orchard—“Now that I have left business, let me live with plants.”

Eight years ago in the Mount Abu camp he took sadhu initiation, saying, “I am coming soon—will take sannyas.” But eight years passed, postponing, postponing—till he departed. Now at the moment of departure, the light will be lost. What he thought and saw—he will not be seeing that now. That was the lantern in my hand. Now in this darkness he had to go alone. The roads diverged. If only he had taken sannyas! If only he had entered samadhi! Then the light would have been his own.

To Hasan, Rabia said: “As this hair is dead—though part of the body—so the whole body is dead—recognize it or not. Until you see this, you will not be stung into urgency; the storm will not arise that sends you in search—of the nectar.”

The Atharva Veda has this lovely sutra: “Aroha tamaso jyotih”—rise from darkness, mount the chariot of light. “Ahi rohen amritam sukham raksham”—why delay? Mount the chariot of nectar with joy—that is the only safety.

Amrit is within you. You are children of immortality—amritasya putrah. But you wander in death. Death means darkness; nectar means light.

“Rise from darkness, mount the chariot of light. Rise from death—dive into immortality.” This is the hint Rabia gave. Whether those she hinted to understood, who knows.

One thing is certain: Sufis have written many commentaries on it. But those who comment do not understand. I have read them—guesses: “perhaps!” I am not speaking perhaps. I don’t trust conjecture. If Rabia were to deny what I am saying, there would be a tussle—I would catch Rabia by the neck! Because I am not different from her.

She handed a needle, a candle, a hair. I would grip her by the neck because I know what they mean—from my own experience.

I too am doing exactly this, every day. What am I giving you? These same hints: drop death—you are clutching it; death has not grasped you. Drop it. Wake up—you are asleep.

And you are tangled in a net of arguments—becoming scissors. Become a needle—join.

Do you see here how people have joined—of so many religions, countries, races, colors! People from nearly the whole world have come here. Only from Russia they could not come—so a husband and wife secretly took sannyas there. The mala had to be sent by stealth. I send a mala to some other country; from there it goes in a diplomat’s pouch to Russia. The ambassador is curious about me—I cannot name him. There are now perhaps fifty sannyasins in Russia. They cannot wear ochre or the mala. They meet secretly; they meditate. They have translated books into Russian; they type copies and share them. Four copies—who knows how many read! Tapes too are translated and pass quietly from hand to hand.

One couple, with great difficulty and effort, escaped—they reached London. Yesterday the news came: “We are happy to be out of Russia. It was very hard to get out, but we did. We will come soon.”

People are coming from far.

From East Berlin, to escape is very difficult. But a sannyasin fled—hidden in a car’s trunk. He risked his life. If they had opened the trunk, he would have been caught—badly caught—ten, twenty-five years in prison, perhaps life; communists don’t stint on punishment.

But he took the risk—sat with his child and wife in the trunk of a big car. How they fit! How they hid! How they traveled—an incredible, thrilling story. He arrived here.

People come from afar; and here they become threaded together—one string of love.

Visitors are amazed how this commune functions. I never go to see; I don’t look into anything; where and what is happening—I don’t know. I have never visited the commune office—six years, not once. I have not even toured the ashram fully—from my room to this podium, and back.

But a thread of love—and people are active in work. No one is putting them to work, no one sits on their chest, no one pushes—people are at work, creating. One love has joined all.

No one asks, “Are you Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist? Negro, American, Indian?” No one cares. The whole trash is gone. People have thrown all that junk outside at the garbage heap.

This is what I call “needle.” The needle knows how to stitch, not to cut. And people are absorbed in meditation—this I call “candle,” lighting the inner flame. And here the search for nectar goes on—how to know that which is beyond death. No other work happens here.

Dinesh Bharti, these three are the works happening here—the candle, the needle, and the hair with which Rabia told Hasan: “How long will you remain entangled in the corpse? Wake up; morning has come—rise.”

Veena Bharti! On the path of love, losing is winning. On the path of love, whoever tries to win, loses—loses badly! On the path of love, the one who is willing to lose, wins.
This is the paradox of love. The logic of love is very illogical. The mathematics of love is upside down!
In the ordinary, outer world, the one who tries to win, wins; the one who loses, loses; the one who wins, wins. In this inner realm, this otherworld, the one who loses, wins; the one who wins, loses.
The one who sets the ego aside... at first it seems: “I’ve lost.” Only when someone is defeated does he put the ego down—he gets tired.
You say, “Everywhere I keep sounding my own voice,...”
That voice of yours—your own—the feeling of “I,” that itself is the obstacle. So you keep sounding it again. As long as you keep broadcasting your own voice, you will not be able to see me.
“Everywhere I keep sounding my own voice...”
If that sense of “mine-ness” keeps hiding behind the scenes, a very subtle wall remains.
Then you say, “Where, where shall I search for you!”
Search wherever you like, you will not find—because I am here, not “where-where.” Look here. And if you would look here, be silent; stop your own voice.
Now you say, “Not finding you, I sat down, tired.”
It is found in that very moment when one sits down exhausted. As long as even the desire to see remains, smoke lingers in the eyes. Even the desire to see is desire. People say, “We want the vision of God. We want to attain God.” That too is craving, that too is lust.
That is why Buddha said: drop God. There is no God. He said “There is no God” because as long as God “is,” you will crave; your mind will fidget with longing. Buddha cut the matter at the root: “There is no God—what on earth are you searching for? Drop it. Sit down. Close your eyes.”
As long as there is the wish for vision, you will keep your eyes open—looking “where-where,” searching in every direction. And he abides within. He abides “here.” If you look “there,” how will you find?
The eyes look outward. The eyes cannot look within. Eyes are made to look without. The purpose of the eyes is outside.
One night Mulla Nasruddin suddenly shook his wife awake and said, “Bring me my spectacles. Quick!” She said, “What do you need spectacles for at midnight?” Wives, of course, don’t readily concede—and he’d ruined her sleep at midnight! “What will you do with spectacles at this hour? Balancing accounts? Reading the Holy Koran?”
Mulla said, “Don’t delay. Don’t babble. Bring the glasses quickly. I was seeing a very beautiful dream—but it was all blurry. So I thought I’d put my glasses on!”
But dreams are not seen with spectacles. And even if you put them on, if the dream itself is hazy, the haze won’t clear. You can’t even see a dream with glasses. The eyes are outward, and the spectacles are outward. The eye is called chashm, and what you wear on it is chashma—both are outward.
Within, when someone utterly gives up, searches and searches and gives up, gets tired, becomes utterly impoverished, then the eyes close.
There is something that is seen only when the eyes are closed. But as long as craving remains, the eyes do not close; they keep flying open. Even the wish “to see the Truth, to see God”—if that ambition remains, it is enough to keep you wandering.
You say:
“Everywhere I keep sounding my own voice,
Where, where shall I search for you!
Finding nothing, I sat down, tired...”
It is good that you did not see and that you became tired.
“Finding nothing, I sat down, tired;
You have won, I have lost!”
This is exactly where discipleship begins.
Veena, the real journey begins right here—when the disciple gets tired, gives up, and says, “Here—take over. Here is my tether. Here is the rudder—now you be the boatman. I am tired. I have lost. I sit down. If you ferry me across, good; if you drown me, good.”
And this path is so unique that here only those who drown, cross over.
This is a tavern; its patrons are revelers. Here the cupbearer is the imam of all. This is a tavern. The drinker, when he is drowned—completely drowned—becomes intoxicated; he forgets who he is; he no longer remembers who he is—only then does this unprecedented event occur.
I myself have no sense—perhaps you have some news:
People say that you have ruined me!
Here the sober will miss. The sensible will miss. This path is for the crazed, for the moths. Here the ones who annihilate themselves attain. Here those who sink are the ones who surface.
Who can explain what hue the tavern wears?
Let the cupbearer’s glance rise—and the goblet gets the fame.
O you who tell the tale of the candle’s heat,
You have not yet seen the jealousy of the moth.
Who knew beforehand the true worth of reason?
The realm of sobriety is indebted to the madman.
At every step I remember the cupbearer’s eye,
Lest I lose the way to the tavern.
Now every evening passes in that very lane—
Such, O moralist, is the result of your counsel.
The station of sorrow is easy to pass once;
Love is the name of passing beyond oneself.
Veena, you kept sounding your own voice; that is why you kept missing. Whoever here is busy broadcasting their own voice will keep missing.
The station of sorrow is easy to pass once—
Passing through sorrow is not so hard. We have been passing through sorrow anyway—life after life. We are used to it, familiar with it.
The station of sorrow is easy to pass once—
Love is the name of passing beyond oneself.
The one who goes beyond himself, who goes beyond “mine,” who goes beyond “I,” who passes through the “I” and moves beyond it... We are stuck at the “I,” and then recognition cannot happen. There is no obstacle other than “I.”
Have you seen the moth’s dance near the flame? Which sensible person would consent to that? You will call the moth mad. It goes to die! To be annihilated! What will it gain by going to the candle?—Death.
In the ancient scriptures there is a sutra: “The Master is death.” What will you get by going to the Master? You will meet death. Because the ego will die near him. And up to now you know yourself only as the ego. Right up to the moment of dying, the ego tries to save itself. It devises many strategies.

This proud head of mine,
Lord, let it bow to the dust of your feet.

The feeling to bow is there—sweet. But the head is mine!

This proud head of mine,
Lord, let it bow to the dust of your feet.

I was lost in the talk of knowledge
and, actionless, fell asleep;
when my eyes opened, the mind wept—
let the world sleep; let me awaken.

I could not wash the filth of the mind,
this life could not become yours;
I am a lover—do not bend me so much.
We will see!

I am a lover—do not bend me so much;
even if I fall, let me rise.
This proud head of mine,
Lord, let it bow to the dust of your feet.

Beautifully said—flowers upon flowers. But a thorn has also come, and that single thorn is enough to hinder. Even a tiny, inch-wide gap is enough.

Perhaps when Kiran wrote this question, it never occurred that “I am a lover—do not bend me so much!” still carries a condition: don’t bend me that much; don’t efface me that much. Let something be spared! I am a lover—let at least something remain! Don’t drown me completely. At least let the head be saved. Drown me up to the throat, up to the neck—but let my head remain!

I am a lover—do not bend me so much;
even if I fall, let me rise.

And if I do fall, at least allow me to get up. Again and again the mind rises; again and again the ego resurfaces. Bowed down, it rises again! The paths of the ego are very subtle. Drive it out the front door; it comes in through the back. Bar the doors; it slips through the windows. Block the windows; it will enter through the cracks. Give it even the slightest pore, the tiniest seam between the tiles—the little hole in the lock meant for the key is enough. It will slide in through that. It is very subtle!

Nasruddin was in a tavern. Even the tavern-keeper felt so much pity that he had him thrown out—he had drunk so much, and was still asking for more. He would not leave: “More, more!” The craving never ends. More, and more. Even the tavern-keeper—whose business is to sell liquor—took pity: “Now he has drunk so much he won’t even reach home.” He had him pushed out. Nasruddin came back in through another door—the tavern had several doors—and demanded more. The owner threw him out again. He entered through a third door. He was thrown out again. He came in through the back door. And as they moved to throw him out yet again, he protested, “What is going on? Have you bought all the taverns in the village? Whichever tavern I enter, you throw me out—and it’s you I meet everywhere! What’s the matter?” He thinks he is going to different taverns—he is drunk! The doors change, but inside it is the same. The same is found within.

Kiran, you asked sweetly:

This proud head of mine,
Lord, let it bow to the dust of your feet—

but somewhere you have attached a condition. Even that much of a condition will not let you bow.

You say, “I am a lover—do not bend me so much!”
“So much!” Will you place a condition even on bowing? Then you will miss!

Even if I fall, let me rise—

forget the very talk of rising. If fallen, then fallen. If bowed, then bowed. Why rise again and again? If drowned, then drowned. Why come out again? Lose—lose now. Surrender is sannyas.

Veena, good! You say:
“I sat down, tired, without attaining;
you won, I lost!”

That’s it—the first step is taken. And the first step is the hardest; after that, all becomes easy.

A sannyasin, a disciple, must understand the language of the moth.

O tellers of the tale of the candle’s heat,
you have not yet seen the dance of the moth.

When the moth dances around the flame—have you seen its joy, its ecstasy? It does not say, “Don’t burn me so much—I am a lover.” It simply burns. It burns wholly. It is scorched through.

Who knew beforehand the price of reason?
The realm of sobriety is indebted to the mad lover.

This ultimate truth—who knew its price beforehand? Had its price been known, the clever would have bought it. But it has no price; it does not come in the language of price. Otherwise all the so-called clever, the shrewd, the logicians, the mathematicians would have attained truth. It was the mad ones who, without asking the price, without a thought for consequences, leapt into the fire. They burned—and found. They dissolved—and found! That is why the so-called sane are greatly indebted to the mad lovers.

The first step is surrender, and the second is attainment. In two steps the journey is complete. Or say: they are two sides of the same coin—surrender and attainment. On this side lost—on that side found. Not even a moment’s delay.

Veena, don’t get up now. Having sat down tired, don’t start looking here and there again. Don’t wander hither and thither again.

This attainment is not something that comes through effort; it comes through defeat. As long as there is effort, there is ego. As long as there is striving, there is mind.

The blessedness is that one day a person gets tired. The mind gets tired. One simply sits. For six years Buddha strove continuously. Where all did he not search? But in all that “where, where,” he wandered. Then, when he was exhausted, one evening he sat down, tired, and said, “All searching is futile. Nothing is to be found. There is nothing in the world, and nothing in liberation. There is nothing at all. All is vain.”

By nature he had already seen the world—the life of an emperor. And in six years he had seen the life of an ascetic, a yogi. There is nothing in indulgence, nothing in yoga. Neither indulgence gave it, nor yoga. There is nothing. If there is nothing—what is there to do? And that very night the happening happened. That night he slept in deep relaxation. There was no quest now, nothing to attain. Only rest—no tension, no worry.

In the morning, when he awoke, he saw the last star of night setting. Just to see that star sinking—its final quiver: “It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone!” In just that way the ego within went. Because when no search remains, when there is no desire to attain, when nothing is left to gain—when defeat is total—then: “It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone!” As the last star sinks at dawn. Whatever faint trace of ego still lingered, it dissolved. In that very instant, he became enlightened.

What could not be found by searching was found without searching. What effort could not bring, rest brought. What striving and labor could not give, cessation gave. What running could not yield, sitting brought. Not by hustle and bustle. After wandering hither and thither, it was found “here.” When he dropped everything and sat, what would happen? The life-energy that had been scattered everywhere gathered back. All vested self-interests fell away. The world fell away. Liberation fell away. No longing remained—of this world or that. Ambition simply ended. Then where could life-energy wander? It returned to itself. It settled within. It became centered. The rays returned to the sun. The expanse contracted. Everything came to rest at the center. There lies attainment. In defeat is victory.

Guna! May what is happening to you happen to all—this is my blessing.
That is all for today.