Ka Sovai Din Rain #5

Gold had rained from the stars, from the springs silver flowed;
Pearls lay scattered upon the flowers, the fate of the dust-motes gleamed.
On the lips of buds were songs, upon the boughs a trance-like wajd was descending;
Treasures of fragrance were being squandered, and the world wandered, a little intoxicated.
O friend! Perhaps you no longer remember that day, no longer remember.

With the sun’s tender combing, the beauty of the buds would brighten;
On mustard’s delicate stems golden blossoms would sway.
From the lilac-hued clouds streams of nectar used to pour,
And in that slight nip of cold the heart would slowly, softly glow.
O friend! Perhaps you no longer remember that day, no longer remember.

The oceans of flowers were ours, the goblet of dew was ours;
Diamonds among dust-motes were ours, the garlands of stars were ours.
The waves of the river were ours, the melody of the waves was ours.
From dust-mote to star, this whole world was ours—
O friend! Perhaps you no longer remember that day, no longer remember.

Man lives in dreams.
The weave of man’s life is made of two threads—memory and hope. Memory belongs to the past, hope belongs to the future. And both are untrue. For neither memory has any existence, nor hope. Existence is of the present alone. The past—what has gone and is no more. The future—what has not yet come, is not yet. Between the two, this moment of the present—this very moment is the door of Paramatma. And man keeps missing this moment. Either he thinks of the past which has gone, repents for its pains, longs again and again for its pleasures; or he thinks of the future—hoarding new hopes, new dreams, new fantasies.
Between past and future man reels, lives—and thus goes on missing life. He who settles in the present alone attains to life.
Today’s sutras are the tale of every person’s life, the sutras of life’s ache. Understand them rightly.

Diamond-birth does not come again and again—understand, mind, awaken.
Dhani Dharamdas is saying: this life that has come to you is like a diamond, and you are wasting it among pebbles and stones.
Diamond-birth does not come again and again…
And whether it will come again—nothing is certain. The opportunity that is lost returns only with great difficulty. This life too has been gained with great difficulty. You don’t even remember through how many pains, how many struggles, how many long journeys—endless journeys—this life has been earned.

Charles Darwin only recently gave the West the thought that man has been evolving; he gave the theory of evolution. But in the East the vision of evolution is ancient, very ancient. And Darwin’s evolutionary view is shallow and superficial: it counts only the body—how man’s body evolved. The East gave a much deeper vision: how the soul evolved, how man’s consciousness evolved.
The talk of the eighty-four lakh forms is not imaginary. Little by little, grain by grain, fighting inch by inch, we have become man. The journey was long. Blessed are you that you could become human. Now don’t squander it thus. That’s why it is said: “Diamond-birth!”
In this world there is nothing more sublime than human life. And the way man wastes his precious moments—it is astonishing to see. A wealth gained with such difficulty is thrown into the mud. If you use this opportunity, supreme light will dawn in your life. If you stake this diamond rightly, Paramatma is yours. If you miss, then the wheel turns again. Miss—and the whole wheel will revolve. Then who knows when again—almost impossible to guess—when again you will become human, when again this hour of consciousness will strike! And when a moment of becoming conscious is so easily frittered away, how will you find it again, how will you seek it, how will you search?

Seeing the way men misuse their lives, it seems a miracle that they became men at all! How did they manage to arrive? How did they complete such a journey?
But it often happens: for what you thirst while seeking—once you attain it, your taste dies. In the ordinary arithmetic of life this is seen. You want wealth, attain it, and then your relish for wealth fades.

The psychologists say: watch a painter at work. While painting he labors so intensely he forgets hunger, thirst, everything. Whether it is sun or heat or cold—he notices nothing. He is absorbed in painting. He paints so rapturously one feels, when the painting is done he will dance. But when it is done he pushes it aside. No dance arises. He becomes eager for another painting, starts the next.

Rabindranath wrote six thousand songs. When a song was coming through, descending, he would lock doors so no interruption came. A day would pass, two, three; he would neither eat nor bathe; when he slept, when he woke—no account remained; his state became almost of madness, near derangement. And when the song was complete he would set it aside. Rarely did he ever read his own song again.
But this is the tale of all artists—of all painters, sculptors. And this is the tale of every human being. To become man we traveled with such difficulty, fought so much! And having become man—we push the matter aside. Now people ask only how to kill time: shall we play cards, go to a film, quarrel with someone, throw abuse—how shall we pass the time? And for this time how long a journey you had made, how much you had staked!

It is a built-in feature of the human mind that while striving to gain he stakes all, but once he gets, instantly his eagerness is extinguished. You were mad after a woman, you attained her—and the moment you did, your enthusiasm waned. You wanted to build a house; how much you dreamed, sleepless nights, gathering money; then the house was built—and you forgot it. Even living in it you are not enchanted, not delighted.

So has it happened with life too. If you don’t look again at a painting, it will do; if you don’t hum again a poem you wrote, it will do; if you push a finished sculpture aside, throw it among the trash, it will do—these are small things. But life is priceless. It has no price; it is beyond price—amuly, mulyateet.

Diamond-birth does not come again and again…
Therefore Dhani Dharamdas says: understand this diamond a little. Lose it, and you will repent deeply. Some things, if they break, cannot be joined again. Then one must make the whole long journey again—the very one made to gain it: the same mountains, the same thorny paths, the same climbs. And by the time you arrive again you will again have forgotten that once life had come and I had squandered it—now let me not squander it.
Do you think this is your first time as human? In beginningless time you must have been human many times. So long has passed—you must have arrived at this hour again and again, and again and again you have lost it. And having lost, you must also have repented, and at death you must have cried. Blood must have dripped as tears from your eyes. And you must have resolved: never again this mistake. If the chance comes again, I will not repeat it. But by the time the chance comes again, so much time has elapsed that you forget again.

There is a tale in the Upanishads, very dear to me—the tale of Yayati. It is a tale; it cannot be historical, but it is profoundly psychological. The Puranas are not history; they are psychology. Psychology’s depth is far greater than history’s. History collects junk; that is why in history you find the stories of Aurangzebs and Akbars and Shahjahans and Jahangirs, Taimurlangs and Nadir Shahs—junk! History does not find the Buddhas. On history’s page the line of a Buddha does not get drawn, because unless someone creates an uproar, no line gets drawn. Kill someone and your name appears in the newspaper; steal and your name appears; plunge a dagger in someone’s chest and your picture is printed. Help a fallen man by the roadside—no news comes. Sit in your home and meditate—how will there be news? Remember the Lord—who will know? How will anyone come to know?
History is a bundle of old newspaper clippings. The Purana is not history; it is psychology. Not that it happened once—but that this is what always happens. Such is the tale of Yayati.

Yayati came near death. He was a great emperor—had a hundred sons, many queens, lived a hundred years. He was dying at the full span. But when death knocked at the door and said, Yayati, get ready… In those good old days! Now death doesn’t even knock—doesn’t give you time to prepare. Death said, Yayati, get ready—I have come. Yayati was startled. You too will be startled if one day death knocks. That is why I call the tale psychological.
Yayati folded his hands: forgive me, I have squandered life. A hundred years went by; I never came to know. I wasted the days. No, no—do not take me. Give me one more chance. I will not repeat the mistake. Let me do what is to be done. With what face will I stand before Paramatma? What will I answer?
Being an old tale, death was moved to compassion. Death said: Fine. But someone must come with me. Will any son agree to go?
There were a hundred sons. Yayati looked to them. If he was a hundred, some son was eighty, some seventy. They too were near old age. But even the eighty-year-old son lowered his gaze. The youngest stood up—seventeen or eighteen. He said to death: take me. Death felt even more compassion: you have elder brothers who don’t agree—why do you go? Ask them—why not you?
He asked the brothers: why will you not go? Can you not give your life for the father?
The elder brothers said: when father, even at a hundred, is not ready to go, we are only seventy or eighty. We have still years left to live. And just as father could not do what was to be done, how could we have done it? He got a hundred years and didn’t—ours are only eighty; twenty more remain. We will do it now.
Yet the young son remained ready. Death asked: you seem mad. You are still young; you have seen nothing.
He said: If my father could see nothing in a hundred years, will I see? If my brothers could see nothing in eighty or seventy, will I see? My ninety-nine brothers saw nothing; my father saw nothing. My father, even at a hundred, is asking for more life. That alone is enough to show me that here days pass in sleep. You take me. If my life may at least serve my father, it will be meaningfully used. I do not want to squander it in futility. Let this much consolation remain—that I served my father.
A hundred years passed. Death came again—and the same scene. Yayati wept again: forgive me—I thought a hundred years now lie ahead, what hurry? I went back to the same old business. A hundred years—such a long time—they too passed. When did they pass—I never knew. How did they pass—I never knew. Forgive me. One more chance.
And the story says: again and again chances were given. A thousand years Yayati lived; and in the thousandth year too, he died weeping.
You too—when death stands at your door—you will weep: I did nothing; I did not remember Ram; I tasted no virtue; I opened no window of meditation; I did not get the fragrance of Samadhi. I never knew who I was. I never knew what existence was. No rhythm came together—no harmony with existence; no union with Paramatma. Spare me…
But as easily as in Yayati’s tale death spares you, so it is not. That tale is symbolic. Death will take you. And who knows when the opportunity will return? Yayati kept forgetting even after chances; as for you—till it comes again, who knows how many eons will pass, how much time will flow, how much water Ganga will carry away! Will Ganga even remain when you come again? And naturally by then you will have forgotten again.
You do not carry memory from one birth to the next. You start again with your ABC. Perhaps you squandered then as you are now—and will squander ahead too.
If you would awaken, awaken now. Do not postpone to tomorrow. It is in postponing that man gets lost, wanders. If you put off—you have postponed; if you postpone—you have missed. Is there any guarantee of tomorrow? Has tomorrow ever come? Does tomorrow ever come? Tomorrow is the name of that which never comes.

Diamond-birth does not come again and again—understand, mind, awaken.
So Dhani Dharamdas says: understand rightly. This diamond-like chance—who knows if it will come again? And come to your senses, awaken. Bring forth consciousness. This opportunity is precisely so that consciousness can be born. If meditation is born in life, life is fulfilled. If meditation is found, the treasure is found. If meditation is found, you too become dhani, as Dhani Dharamdas.
Life is a stairway—to the temple of meditation. Do not sit on the stair. The stair has no meaning in itself. Its purpose is only that you may reach the temple. Do not clutch the door—the door is vain. Enter the temple. The deity is seated within. Make life a stair. Understand life as a path. Life is not the destination. Do not think: life is gained, hence all is gained.
Life will have only that much value as you pour into it. Life is only a possibility. It is a kind of wealth.

Consider: I have heard of a miser. He had gold ingots kept in his safe. Hungry, thirsty, eating coarse scraps, each day he would open the safe and look at the gold ingots—like people go to the temple for darshan, he took darshan of his ingots, felt pleased, closed the safe. His son grew up: what madness is this? We have nothing to eat or drink, no proper clothing, the house is shabby—and such wealth sits idle—and father only opens the safe and, like God, bows before the gold! These gold bricks have value only as possibility—as potential. Only in their use is there value. If you do not use them, whether you keep gold bricks in the safe or bricks of stone—what difference?
The son played a trick. He got brass ingots made, gilded them, and replaced them in the safe. Father continued as before—opened the safe daily—now it held brass—offered salutations, became delighted. No difference to him at all.
Wealth is known as wealth only when you use it; otherwise what difference between poor and rich? Even if you have millions buried in the ground and you beg—what is the difference between you and the beggar who has not a coin? The value of wealth is in use, not in wealth itself—in exchange. The more it circulates, the more useful it becomes. The more you transform it, the more its utility increases.
Hence the miser never truly has wealth, for wealth is in movement. That is why in English the word is “currency”—that which runs, flows. Like the current of a river. If America is very wealthy, the sole reason is that America alone understood that wealth must flow. If our country is poor, it is because we know only how to clutch wealth. And the moment you clutch it, wealth becomes useless; then no difference between gold and brass. Save it, and wealth dies—you have strangled it. Let it spread, use it. Its meaning is only as much as you use it.
And the same is true of life-wealth. Do not clutch life like a miser. Use it. Then use it as widely as you wish. With it you can buy trash—that will be your life’s value. With it you can buy Paramatma—that will be your life’s value. Life is a blank book; what you write in it becomes its worth. You can scribble abuses, you can inscribe songs. It all depends on you.
People come and ask: What is the meaning of life? I tell them: life has no meaning in itself—you must pour meaning into it. It is not readymade, that you go to the market and buy it. Meaning has to be put in. Therefore in the life of a Buddha there is meaning; in the life of a Krishna, of a Christ—there is meaning. What meaning would there be in the life of a Taimur or Nadir Shah? Bloodshed—where is meaning? Slaughter—where meaning? Hustle and tussle—where meaning? Meaning is not already there in life. It is not kept somewhere that you open a door and find it. Meaning has to be created. For meaning one must endeavor, pray, wait.
Each man gives his life a meaning. If your life has none, note one thing: you have not given it. If your book is blank, it means only this—you have not written the song. If you sit with an unhewn stone—how will there be meaning?

Michelangelo was passing a street. Outside a shop of marble he saw a large block lying—crude—by the roadside. He asked the merchant: all other stones have been stored inside carefully. Why is this one lying outside?
The merchant said: this stone is useless. No sculptor is willing to buy it. Are you interested?
Michelangelo said: I am. The merchant said: take it for free. Just remove it; it is taking up space. It has been lying for ten years; no buyer. Take it. No money needed. If you like I will even have it delivered to your house.
Two years later Michelangelo invited the merchant to see a sculpture he had made. The merchant had forgotten the stone. Seeing the sculpture he was stunned—perhaps such a sculpture had never been made! It was Mary lifting Jesus down from the cross. In Mary’s arms the body of Jesus—so alive that he could not believe it. He asked: where did you get this stone? From where did you get such an extraordinary piece?
Michelangelo laughed: it is that same stone you had thrown outside as useless and gifted to me—more than that, had it delivered to my home.
The very same stone! The merchant could not believe it: you are joking. No one was ready to take it, not even for a penny. And you have given such glory, such form, such grace! How did you know such a stone could become so beautiful a figure?
Michelangelo said: eyes are needed—eyes that can see inside stone.

Most people’s lives remain crude, worth two pennies—but of your own doing. You never chiseled. You never lifted the tool. You never shaped yourself. You never thought: this life of mine, still a rough stone, can become a beautiful statue; the Christ hidden within can be revealed; the Buddha concealed can appear.
In truth Michelangelo’s words were: I have done nothing. As I passed by, the Jesus hidden within the stone called to me: Michelangelo, free me. Hearing his voice I brought the stone. I did nothing—only chipped away the useless stone around Jesus—and Jesus appeared.

Every person sits carrying Paramatma within. A little stone is to be chipped away, a little chisel to be lifted. Lifting that chisel is what is called sadhana.
And remember, even if an uncut diamond comes into your hand, you will not recognize it. The first time the Kohinoor came into someone’s hands, he did not know it was Kohinoor. He gave it to his children to play with—a colored stone! He could not even imagine its value. The children played with it for days. Today Kohinoor is the world’s largest diamond. And know this: the man who got it found later that its weight kept reducing—now it is one-third of the original. So much has it been cut! The weight fell; the price rose. As the weight fell day by day, the value rose day by day.
When a man polishes the diamond within, one day the weight disappears entirely—becomes weightless. Only value remains. Wings grow. The capacity to fly in the sky arrives.

Diamond-birth does not come again and again—understand, mind, awaken.

Like insect and moth and stone—became beast and bird;
Water-waves remain in water—tortoise and fish.
The limbs are always exposed—and never find joy.
Without knowing Satnam—birth after birth great suffering.

He says: just look—around you—look at insects and moths, at crocodiles and fish. See these different wombs of life. Know well: they are your wombs. Through them you have passed. With great effort, through great trying, you have been freed of them. With strenuous labor you somehow came out of these prisons. You gained the freedom and dignity of man. Do not think: you are home. Home has not come yet. Home can come now. This is the first chance. After becoming human the chance of home arises—because now you can awaken. If you awaken, you will find Paramatma. As high as your consciousness rises, that much height you will know.
And human consciousness can rise to the ultimate. This is the tale of the Buddhas; of Nanak, of Kabir, of Mohammed, of Mansoor—those who awakened, who remembered, who dedicated their small life to gaining the Great Life.

There is the terror of the hereafter after the griefs of this world;
There is another life too after this life.
There is another life too—remember this; and you stand at the very edge from where the leap can be taken. Hence it is called “diamond-birth.”
There is the terror of the hereafter after the griefs of this world;
There is another life too after this life.
O wise one, let not this worship go waste;
Do not be proud of your worship—even after worship.
People waste life in ego. Sometimes they even become interested in religion—but the ego does not leave them; then ego destroys even religion. They become stiff with prayer, stiff with sadhana.
Do not be proud of your worship—even after worship.
If pride arises—if stiffness comes, if asmita, if ego enters—then worship is futile. Man has so much consciousness that he can step outside ego. You have stepped outside many things. You were once stone—you stepped out; you were plant—you stepped out; rooted in the earth, not free; you became animal—walking came.
If you look closely at life, the story of evolution is the story of freedom. That is why we call the ultimate state moksha—freedom. Why? From stone to Paramatma—if you observe—the higher the womb, the greater the freedom compared to the previous. A rock’s freedom is less than a plant’s. A plant can at least dance in the breeze—a rock cannot. A plant can grow upwards—not walk, but still travel toward the sky a little—a rock cannot.
Plants become sad—now there is scientific proof; they become joyful—there is proof. The rock has not even this facility, not even this freedom. The rock is a huge prison—chains upon chains. But the plant’s trouble is that its feet are fixed in the soil; it cannot walk. It can creep a little. Some plants creep a little: if water-sources dry up, some can shift a few feet—slowly the roots toward water lengthen; away from water they shrink and break; and the plant shifts. In marshes plants creep a little, because the earth is porous, liquid. Yet the freedom is small.
Animals have more freedom. They can move. If water is not here, they can go ten miles to drink. If food is not here, they can seek elsewhere. Freedom has increased—but not too much. Therefore many animals lived on earth and died; only their carcasses are found. Conditions changed so much they could not adapt. Conditions change daily.
Suppose sudden cold arrives—the animal cannot make a coat; his freedom is not so much—he dies. If too much heat, he cannot create air-conditioning. His limit. If little, he manages—sits under a tree in heat, stands in sun in cold. But there is a line.
Man went further. He created in great measure freedom; he became in many ways his own master; he became free in many ways from nature, not dependent.
Therefore among humans note: the race that is freer is more evolving. The race crushed by the past, traditionalist, does not evolve; its freedom becomes less. Races crushed by the past die sooner or later. Being crushed by the past means they carry answers to questions that are no longer questions—and cling to those answers.
For instance if there is no rain, the Hindu does a yajna. That answer is now futile. There are better means—but you do the yajna, burning millions! And stupidity knows no end. Your ministers come there for blessings too.
If this country is rotting, the sole reason is: what we should have dropped long ago, we do not drop. We clutch. Our freedom to let go is very small.
History records that some tribe ate only rice. Rice ended—they died; they were not ready to eat wheat. Great principled people: we will eat rice only; we cannot eat wheat; our forefathers never ate—how can we? We will do what our forefathers did—even though times changed.
Life demands new answers—but you are rooted in grandfathers. Your forefathers did yajna when rain did not fall. Now there are better ways: seed the clouds with dry ice or silver iodide—rain will fall. In Russia rains are made; deserts have become lush gardens; in India, gardens slowly become deserts—and you do yajnas, burning millions! Rains or not, wheat does not grow by yajna; the ghee of the cow is burnt in yajna—the cow’s milk and ghee that were—go into the fire. Folly.
As the folly increases, so does bondage.

A friend of mine, a great Sanskrit scholar, a professor, Brahmin, very orthodox—went to Tibet searching scriptures. He could not live there; in Tibet if you bathe at 5 a.m. in cold water—you die. But his forefathers always bathed at Brahma-muhurta—so he must. He doesn’t know forefathers never went to Tibet. In India, not to bathe in the morning—mad; in Tibet, to bathe in the morning—mad. He soon fled. His research remained incomplete, for at five he must bathe; then he would be a corpse all day—numb. Massage, heat, then he would warm a little.
Tibetan dharmashastras say: one must bathe once a year. But follies are not one-sided. Some Tibetan lamas once stayed with me; the whole house filled with stench—for they bathe once a year. In Tibet it is fine—no dust, no sweat. In India they came in the same Tibetan robes—here there is fire all around—still in woolen robes; inside sweat puddles, and the thought of bathing does not arise. I told them: either you stay here or I—both cannot stay. Either I leave, or…
They said: why? We came for your satsang. I said: this satsang is very expensive; I cannot tolerate this smell. Bathe.
They said: bathe? Our shastra says: once a year. I said: here you will bathe twice daily. They too were offended. In cold lands—Russia, Siberia—alcohol is necessary like water. But if you go there and apply your principle—no alcohol—you will be in trouble.
Freedom means: awareness, understanding. Man is the freest—but among humans some races have known more freedom than others; those that have have climbed to the peaks of development. Our country wasted centuries not even sailing the sea—because scripture did not mention sea-voyage. One who went became mleccha. Naturally, those who could sail became our masters.

Man is most free—and he becomes even more free if he lives with understanding, not by rote. One who lives by rote is not truly human—something is missing, some animality remains. The traditionalist retains a bit of animality. Therefore a truly religious person cannot be a traditionalist. He is a rebel, a revolutionary. He lives by his own understanding, not by shastra. If there is a clash between understanding and scripture, he goes with understanding, not with scripture. The traditionalist sets aside understanding and follows scripture.
My message is: live by your understanding. Your scripture may have been written ten thousand years ago—then circumstances were different, people different, assumptions different. In ten thousand years man has traveled far. Now you have ten thousand years of collected understanding. You are wiser than the shastra. If you learn to use your own understanding, there is no need to keep referring back to scripture. In ten thousand years the scripture had no experiences—it lies where it lay. Scripture cannot experience—it is dead. But through these millennia human consciousness has evolved, kept experiencing; the heap of experience has grown.
Dhani Dharamdas says: this is an opportunity—only an opportunity, not an end. The supreme freedom is yet to happen.

There is another life too after this life;
There is the terror of the hereafter after the griefs of this world.
There is another life too after this life.
O wise one, let not your worship go to waste;
Do not be proud of your worship—even after worship.
A thousand griefs lie veiled behind delights;
Let not tears struggle out after laughter.
Man needs peace and security indeed—but
Offer the message of peace, not after warmongering.
How can one expect guidance from those
Who cannot find the path even after wandering?

Much wandering holds one meaning: in wandering, learn, understand; squeeze the essence out of life’s bitter experiences. Wandering too has value. Wanderers also arrive. Therefore I do not call wandering sin. But do not let wandering become your habit. You have wandered enough! Seen many ways of living, many forms of desire, many styles of life—enough! Now understanding should dawn.
And there are two sutras of understanding. First: this life is not the destination in itself—it is a stairway to a greater life. Second: freedom alone is the journey of evolution; freedom alone its basis; freedom alone its measure. The ultimate freedom—moksha—can be found only in Paramatma, by being Paramatma. Before that some lack will remain, some limit, some walls will surround.
Man stands where, if he wishes, in one leap he can break all boundaries and be absorbed in Paramatma. Man stands where Ganga stands at the shore of the ocean—just a step, and she enters the sea.
But many squander the opportunity of life. They believe: life is got—everything is got. Let me gather wealth, power, prestige; leave a name. Then your wheel will turn again; the journey will start again from ABC.

Diamond-birth does not come again and again—understand, mind, awaken.
Without knowing Satnam—birth after birth is great suffering.
Only by knowing Paramatma does the taste of bliss begin. Without that—only sorrow.
Understand the definition of sorrow: sorrow means—we do not know our supreme nature. We do not know who we are, hence sorrow. Sorrow is self-ignorance. Therefore whatever we do goes wrong. We do not know with what our being can harmonize; hence whatever we do, it goes wrong. If we know our nature, if our relation with Paramatma is joined, then whatever we do will be right. Then wrong does not happen. When wrong does not happen—how can sorrow be? Sorrow is the fruit of wrong.
Without knowing Satnam—birth after birth great suffering.
And great suffering you have borne; now the hour has come when truth can be known. Do not miss it.

Cool your dice, and play the gamble with care.
Dharamdas says: do not miss the chance now. Play this gamble. It is a gamble—because it is the work of the courageous, of gamblers. You will have to lay everything on the stake. Why call it a gamble? I too call it a gamble.
Religion is the work of gamblers, not shopkeepers. The shopkeeper is always calculating: to stake as little as possible and gain as much as possible. That is the very meaning of shopkeeping: let the stake be small and the profit large. The less you have to put in, the better; the more you get, the better. Minimize risk—that is his mind. Hence if little is put, little can be lost. Put in two pennies and gain a million—that is his desire. If loss comes, only two pennies are lost—nothing much; if gain comes, a lot comes.
The shopkeeper’s mind thinks in profit, accounts, calculation. The gambler has another way—he stakes all. He says: I put everything together on the table. In putting all there is danger: if it comes, everything comes; if it goes, all is gone. Risk lies there. And what guarantee of gain? Has anyone ever surely gained? Do you know for certain Buddha gained? Who knows—perhaps he did not, he only said so! How to trust? For it is inner; this is inner wine. Even Buddha has no proof to place in your hand. If you believe, you believe. But to believe then is the gambler’s work.
The shopkeeper says: what is the proof? You found God—show me. You had Samadhi—what is the proof? You experienced the Self—what is the proof? Objective proof, laboratory proof!
There is none. There is no proof of love; no proof of prayer; no proof of Samadhi; no proof of Paramatma. Proofs belong to the small; not to the Vast. Proofs are for outer things; not for the inner. Inner you will know only by going inner. That is difficult. When you yourself become Buddha, then you will know what Buddha got was true. Before that you cannot know. But once you know—what is the use then? The use was when the stake had to be laid—if there were definite proof then, staking would be easy. Then even the shopkeeper would stake.
Gambler means: stake the known for the Unknown; lay on the table what is in the hand for what is not in the hand. The sensible say: half a loaf in hand is better than a whole far away. It is in hand! The gambler says: with half the heart will never be full—once it should be staked. Let the whole be gained—or go whole. Either fullness here or fullness there—let there be fullness. Either we will be utterly naked—nothing left; or utterly filled—everything gained.
Gambler means: either all or nothing—either shunya or purn.

Cool your dice, and play the gamble with care.
Dhani Dharamdas says: the gamble must be played—but carefully. Care means: with preparation. Before staking, make yourself worthy to stake. What is to be staked? Yourself. First create some value in yourself—then staking will have flavor.
All sadhanas give you value so that one day you may lay yourself on the stake. One day you can say to Paramatma: now I am ready to come to your feet—accept me. But one must become worthy of acceptance. Without becoming so, you cannot find Paramatma. You need the vesselhood to approach his feet. Hence: carefully.

Cool your dice…
And make the dice of sheel and santosh—only then you will win. This gamble is no ordinary gamble; this dice is no ordinary dice. Two words: santosh and sheel.
Santosh means: with what is, I am content. As it is, so I am content. No special itch remains in me—bigger house, more money, a more beautiful wife, a healthier husband, a more intelligent son—these do not engross me. If engrossed, energy goes there. Either build a big house—or build a great soul. Either gather much wealth—or gather much meditation. Both cannot be together; you cannot hold laddoos in both hands—energy is one, whether it goes to money or to meditation.
So contentment outward—so that all energy turns to the inner pilgrimage.
Santosh and sheel.
Sheel means: live life as an art, as a prasad. People live in ways where there is neither art nor prasad, nor sense of beauty—they live rudely, primitive, uncultured. Give culture to your life.
What is culture? As refinement enters, things change. One man thinks film-songs are music—which they are not; they are noise, and vulgar noise. Anyone with ears even slightly tuned will feel: who is creating this nuisance? This madness? This hullabaloo that you call film-music, before which people, crazed, sit and shake their heads—it reveals that inside those heads there is chaff; otherwise is this music? Sit such people in a classical concert and they look around—what is happening?
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a classical concert. As soon as it began, he started weeping—tears streaming. The man next asked: Nasruddin, we did not know you love classical music so.
He said: love? To hell with classical music! I am weeping looking at this musician.
What do you mean?
He said: what do I mean! What he is doing—aa… aa… aaaa… exactly like that my goat went on…and died. He too will die. He cannot be saved. My goat could not be saved either.

A refinement is needed. For classical music, refinement is needed. And know: if the art of listening to classical music arises in you, you will come nearer to Paramatma, nearer to meditation. Sheel will be born, because one who listens rapturously to such nuanced harmony becomes harmonious himself. We become what we absorb.
If you take film-hullabaloo as music, naturally hullabaloo will arise within. If you take noise as music, lust will rise—not prayer; desire will surge—not sadhana.
In this land classical music was born—it was a limb of sheel, of refinement. What do you see, hear, speak, read—all that will bear fruit. What are your curiosities? From morning you ask for the newspaper, or do your eyes fall first upon Krishna’s astonishing words in the Gita, or do you repeat the sweet ayats of the Koran? If you ask for the newspaper—your soul becomes two-penny—like the paper. What will you read? Where a theft occurred, where a dacoity, where a murder; which politician has been proven dishonest and who is next. What will you gather? This becomes your day’s provision—and you go forth! Not only that you fill your skull with trash in the morning; all day in office and market you pour the same trash into others’ heads.
By a man’s talk you can tell what paper he reads—he repeats the same rubbish. The savor of a Quranic ayat is different; the beauty of Jesus’ sayings is different; the Gita’s sutras, the Upanishads’ aphorisms—different!
Give yourself refinement—sheel. Slowly polish yourself—for the higher, the beautiful. Climb to values a little higher.
People have become utterly gross—their clothes gross, their sitting and rising gross, their ornaments gross. Sheel is lost. Today it is hard to decide who is a prostitute and who is not—all look alike—the same tawdry adornment, the same display in the bazaar.
A sense of sheel is needed—why? Because only with such vesselhood will you approach the Divine. You will stake—but to stake there must be something. Create some value, some meaning; let some music be born; let some meter bind. Let your life take on some significance.

Cool your dice, and play the gamble with care.
Victory is certain—go fully prepared; do not go to defeat.
Victory is certain—inevitable. Prepare and go complete. Do not waste time.
Do not arrive in defeat…
If you waste your age thus, defeat is certain. Do not postpone to tomorrow. Do not squander time. Each moment is precious—for who knows if there will be a tomorrow, whether another moment will come? Live each moment as if it were the last. Each night, before sleep, pray as if it were the last prayer. Gather yourself from all sides, be trimmed. Sleep such that if this very night there is a meeting with Paramatma and life drops, you can look into his eyes; you need not stand with the guilty man’s lowered gaze. And if morning comes again, live that morning as a thanksgiving—one more day is given—let me polish a little more. Polishing thus, washing thus, slowly a beauty is born within; the crude stone becomes a statue; then the worthiness to be offered arises.

Crying “Ram, Ram,” they took residence in hell.
But people have become gross even in calling Ram. They think: the blanket of Ramnam is enough—what else is to be done? Inside the same—all the trash the same—and in between they mutter Ram-Ram, turning a rosary. You see shopkeepers counting beads while watching for customers.
I lived in a village. Opposite was a sweet-seller. From morning he counted beads—great devotee, called “Bhagatji” in the village. Hand in his bag, the rosary slipping all day. But his bhakti astonished me. A dog came—he would signal to his boy: drive it away! The rosary kept moving, Ram-Ram went on, the hand signaled: remove! For a sweet-shop—if a dog enters, rosary and all… If a customer came he would signal the price with his fingers—and the rosary moved, Ram-Ram continued. His lips were expert at repeating the Name. And at trifles he would quarrel; at abusing, none in the village surpassed Bhagatji—he had a refined collection. He chanted Ram-Ram too.
In a mind filled with abuses, how will Ram dwell? You cry Ram in hell! In a vessel full of poison you expect nectar!
Listen—this word is harsh, but understand.
Crying “Ram, Ram,” they took residence in hell.
Many cried Ram-Ram and still lie in hell. They took residence there—crying Ram! The word seems hard—but it is true. The Divine cannot be deceived. By what you call, he does not come; by what you are, he comes. What you say has no value—what you are. Your inner tone must be Ram’s; your way of life must be Ram’s. Your behavior must be such that, seeing the world as filled with Ram, whoever you meet receives the same respect as Ram. When all is Ram all around, the matter changes. Surrounded by Ram—how will you misbehave? How speak harshly? How fling abuse, how slander?

Crying “Ram, Ram,” they took residence in hell.
Again and again one must fall into the womb—the filth of feces and urine—head buried there for ten months. And then, once out, you begin again what you did before.
When will you change? When will you give life a new tune?

Diamond-birth does not come again and again—understand, mind, awaken.

You know not by what punya you obtained this human body.
You got the human body and you do not even know the taste of punya. You have known sin, known wrong—but not the good. You will say: not so—we sometimes do good; we toss a coin to a beggar; sometimes we give to the temple; sometimes fast.
Still I tell you: Dhani Dharamdas is right—you have not known punya. Even when you give a coin to a beggar, there is no joy of giving. You do not give with respect, not taking the beggar as Ram. Your reasons are others. If the beggar meets you alone on the road, you do not give. That is why beggars stand in markets—alone you drive them away: go! Get lost! A healthy body—what are you doing begging? You give a thousand sermons. But in the crowd, in the bazaar, where all are seeing, where your prestige is at stake, a beggar clutches your foot—there you must give a coin. You don’t give—you must; for with two coins you purchase prestige—that you are generous, religious, good. It has its profits. Truly, you are doing business. People will trust you more; they will think you are good; then you will pluck four coins from their pockets easily. You did not give to the beggar—you invested in the shop. Good advertisement—at the cost of two coins news spread that you are pious, kind.
Or if you give, you give for heaven. I have heard: a man died and swaggered into heaven. The gatekeeper asked: why such swagger? What punya have you done? Those with punya swagger.
He said: I gave three paisa in charity. The account-books were opened. Three paisa indeed. The head clerk looked and asked his assistant: what to do? The assistant said: return his three paisa with one paisa interest—and send him to hell. He is fit for hell. He gave only three paisa and swaggers as if he gave three worlds.
What can we give anyway? Whatever we give is like three paisa. Note: do not think the tale means three only—if he had given three lakhs, they too are three paisa. Before Paramatma whether you give three lakhs or three crores—what difference? The wealth of this world is two-penny. All its treasure is two-penny. And yet you preen.
People think heaven will be got—that too is shopkeeping. As they deal here, they wish to deal there.
What is punya? An act done causelessly, in the flavor of joy; an act done in love; behind which there is no desire to take—not even the desire for thanks. Someone was drowning—you ran and pulled him out—then do not stand waiting for a thank you, for “you saved my life—you are my life-giver.” If that desire remains, punya is lost.
Do not be proud of your worship—even after worship.
You saved out of your joy—the matter ends. You gave to someone out of your joy. Therefore when you give something to someone, after giving, say thanks—that he accepted. He could have refused.
See this land’s tradition: after dana there is dakshina—amazing, lovely tradition. What is dakshina? It means: thank you for accepting our gift. We do not expect thanks from the receiver; the giver gives thanks—that you accepted our love; what we had was two-penny; you accepted with love, with joy—you made us blessed; you gave us a little taste of punya.
Punya has no relation to future fruit; its taste comes now—here.

You know not by what punya you obtained this human body.
If you got human life and did not know punya—what is the essence? What you do, animals too do. Where is the difference? Sit and examine: what you do—how does it differ from animals? You earn bread—do animals not? They do better—with more ease. You beget children—do you think that is great? In this country people think so—boast: I have twelve sons—as if it were a great deed! Ask the mosquitoes—their number is beyond counting. Insects are doing it. What pride in this? Twelve sons are only twelve more nuisances—who will strike, gherao, create trouble. People think: children begotten, house built—great work. Birds make lovely nests—sufficient for them.
Think: anger, lust, greed, pride, attachment, jealousy—animals have them too. What then is the difference of being human? Dharamdas says only one thing: the taste of punya—then you are human. Remember this.
Aristotle said: man’s distinction is intellect, thought.
We do not say so—animals also think; perhaps a little less, but they do. Your dog thinks. When you come, he wags his tail; even if you beat him, he wags—great politician, shrewd, he knows diplomacy: tail must wag.
Sometimes you see a dog—he is doubtful, he barks and wags together—confused what to do. He does both—whichever fits, he will keep. A stranger arrives—he barks, watching the master: what is he saying? He also wags. If the master greets the stranger with love, the barking stops, wagging remains. If the master does not, the wagging stops, barking begins. The dog is calculating.
Flunkeyism leaders learned from dogs—and leaders’ flunkeys too.
Animals calculate, think. Sometimes they calculate long. Birds in Siberia, when winter comes, travel thousands of miles and land on the very shores they came to last year, where their fathers came; again travel back when the ice melts. They are so far they cannot know when the ice will melt; yet if it melts a month later, they return a month later; if sooner, they return sooner—from thousands of miles. Scientists say they have a sensitive instrument within, like a radio; they know. They go by calculation. In the vast sky, traveling thousands of miles, keeping direction—no compass in their hand; pilots have thousands of instruments; they have none—yet they never err; they return to the same coasts, the same places.
Fish travel thousands of miles; they come to the same shores; then return back. Experiments show astonishing things: a fish species lays eggs in England—by lineage. Now it lives near Canada—the environment suits. But for centuries mother and father belonged to England’s coast—so now too she can lay only there; she begins days before, travels; lays eggs and returns. And know: the mother lays eggs and leaves; the babies that hatch begin the journey to Canada. No one to tell them—the mother is gone—yet they go. Who tells them? In such a huge world, how does the calculation work?
No—Aristotle is not right that thought is man’s distinction. Thought pervades the world. If there is a distinction, it is thoughtlessness—dhyana. Punya is man’s flavor; only man can know it.

You know not by what punya you obtained this human body.
With mind, speech and deed—be natural; with the Name, let love arise.
He says: with mind, speech, action—be spontaneous—that is punya. Become simple—and then love for the Name of the Lord will arise of itself.

After wandering through eighty-four lakh forms, you attained the human body—
Why squander it in the false, in hollow affections?
With so much difficulty you got this supreme body, this blessed body—and you are losing it in vain things!
Why squander it in falsity, in hollow loves?
People’s loves are strange: one says, I love my car; another, I love ice-cream; another, clothes.
Just now a lady came. Her husband took sannyas. I asked: why are you sitting back when your husband goes? She said: why lie to you? I love saris too much—my heart is not yet full.
What odd things people attach love to! If you must love—love Paramatma.
…hollow loves.

Childlike mind, unknowing—
The whole tale of life Dharamdas divides:
Childhood: moments of ignorance—also of simplicity, of innocence. No defilements in the mind.
He plays in natural ease—as his heart wishes.
In ease the child lives.
Lips bubbling, babbling—no sense of honor.
No ego.
He keeps not in mind good and bad—sees all alike.
No duality yet; sees all equal—no rich-poor, no own-other. This is the first stage—childhood. And this should be the last stage too—then man completes his circle; then diamond-birth is not lost. The circle completes. As you were born—simple-hearted, natural, easy—so at death become again—this alone is religion.
Jesus said: unless you become like little children, you shall not enter my Father’s kingdom.

Youth—form unparalleled; a down of moustache shadows the face.
Then comes youth; the moustache’s line appears.
Scent on the limbs, the turban tilts over the brow.
Then man adorns and arranges himself.
Becomes blind—cannot see—
The eyes of the child are lost.
Becomes blind—cannot see—four eyes have burst.
The two outside burst—that is obvious; the two inside burst as well. All four eyes are broken.
He lunges like a moth—
Seeing another’s woman.
Like the moth leaps into every flame, so a youth seeing any woman becomes crazed—so a woman seeing a man becomes crazed. A drunken world begins; an intoxication spreads in body and mind.

The force of youth’s flood, the river’s breast swells within—
Saints, be alert—do not bind your arms in embraces.
Dharamdas says: this is the moment to be alert. Why? Because at this time energy overflows. Power awakens. The same power can become delusion, ambition, attachment; the same power can become meditation, dispassion.
Youth is a wondrous moment. If you wish, pour it into the trivial world and go astray; if you wish, set out on the journey to Paramatma. Mounted on this energy, a great journey can be made.
The force of youth’s flood, the river’s breast swells within.
This surge of love—if spilled on the petty, it is wasted. If offered to the Vast—if you must love, love the Divine; if you must seek a beloved, seek in the Divine.
Saints, be alert—do not bind your arms in embraces.

Give the elephant-strength of love, and close the ten doors.
A storm of love rises—close the ten doors: of the five senses of knowledge and five of action—so this love-energy gathers and begins to rise upward; it does not scatter, does not spread and get lost in the desert of the world. Let the flood be dammed within—then it rises upward.
You have seen—a dam on a river increases depth. The river that was running forward, dissolving in ten directions, gathers; the water begins to rise upwards. Let your life-energy too rise upward—urdhvagaman. Plug the holes.
We are like a leaky bucket—you draw water, by the time you reach the ghat it is drained. Holes everywhere—our senses are holes.
Give the elephant-strength of love, and close the ten doors;
In meeting that Beloved, do not bring delay.
Do not delay. Do not miss any occasion of meeting that Beloved—pour all your love upon him.

Grown old, he repents—when all three stages are lost;
The old love now seems dear in speech.
The world grows sticky, the hair all white;
Words won’t come to the tongue; Yama has ravaged the fields.
Otherwise you will repent—and what use then, when the birds have eaten the field! When life’s energy is spent, opportunities lost, and you are falling into your grave—what use repentance? Wake up in time!
Grown old, he repents…
In old age every man repents—except those who used life rightly; they are filled with blessedness. Whenever an old man is filled with inner grace, know—he has not whitened his hair in the sun; else most have whitened them in the sun. When an elder is filled with inner dignity, who has known, lived, recognized life—seen good and bad, passed through thorn and flower, day and night, heat and cold—through such dualities it became clear: I am only a witness, a drashta; I am only the seer—neither doer nor enjoyer. In such an hour, old age has a beauty no other stage has.
Not without reason did this land revere elders. The reason was this—we have known elders who attained a beauty beyond youth: elders whose old age was not a sign of death—but a symbol of supreme life. Otherwise who would respect the old? The old is dying, rotting; you want to be rid of him—not worship him. Who worships death? But we saw elders who were not dying—who had gone beyond death; who, before dying, had tasted the immortal. Then a beauty, a prasad descends. Before him the child’s innocence is mere ignorance; youth’s beauty is only of the body; the elder’s beauty belongs to the soul; a true innocence is born.
The child’s innocence will be lost—today, tomorrow—it is by ignorance; the elder’s innocence stands upon knowledge—it cannot be lost. The child has not earned simplicity—he got it by birth; it will end quickly. He must wander; he must lose it. The elder returns again to his childhood—second birth: dvija. When an elder becomes dvija, takes second birth—then Brahmin.
All are born as shudra; all should die as Brahmin. No one is Brahmin by birth—cannot be. Remember those ten months: your head was buried in filth.
Shudra means: ignorant; who takes body as self; who does not know his consciousness. Brahmin means: one who awakened, saw, recognized, and found—aham brahmasmi.
All are born shudra; and, sadly, most die shudra. Rarely someone dies Brahmin—some Buddha, Mahavira, Kabir. But everyone has the right, birthright. If you wish, it is your very nature’s right—no one can snatch it. But then you must make your old age like your childhood.
And to make old age like childhood, revolution must happen in youth. Do not sit waiting for old age—then energy will be gone. The energy you employed in the world is the same energy you had—with that you could have sought Paramatma. With that very energy you built a boat to go to hell—what will be left for heaven?
Grown old, he repents…
When nothing remains—energy gone, life gone, opportunity gone—repentance remains.
…when all three stages are lost.
Childhood lost, youth lost; now old age too is going; only death remains; only darkness. What if not regret?
The old love now seems dear in speech.
Then man keeps recalling the past. The old always speak of the past—remember youth and childhood: those dear days. No future remains; only the meager wealth of memory—he flips its pages.
The day you begin savoring talk of the past—know you are becoming old. The day you say: ah, those dear days, when rivers of milk and curd flowed, when ghee sold for that, wheat for this—those days…—know you are old.
The young talk of the future; the old, of the past; the child lives in the present. If in old age you speak of the past, you are a worldly old; if you speak of the future—that heaven will be got, for I did so much punya, built a temple, a dharmashala, opened a water-hut—you are a spiritual sort of old man, but your greed is not gone; you are still hoping for heaven, for apsaras and fountains of wine; there is no prohibition there; fountains flow—you will drink freely; here you drank little and did little wrong, did many good deeds—fruit must be given! You will sit under kalpavrikshas and enjoy. This is the religious old—but both are wrong.
Real wealth comes when the elder becomes child again and lives in the present—no past, no future; no memory, no imagination. In such a moment a man enters through the door of the present and attains the timeless. That timeless is Paramatma—moksha.
Be a witness—otherwise this life—this diamond-birth—will pass as it came.

I glimpsed your face at the line where joy and sorrow end.
Whenever I longed and joy drew me into its arms,
And whenever sorrow challenged me,
Not once did I lose my manliness;
In embraces life would ebb;
Under the sword life would come;
I glimpsed your face at the line where joy and sorrow end.

Let all joy be sacrificed—your footfall is heard;
Let all sorrow be dissolved—your form pours into the eyes.
Where there is neither joy nor sorrow,
You are one—and I am the second;
A third tongue sings that moment into song—
I glimpsed your face at the line where joy and sorrow end.

At the boundary of joy and sorrow the witness is born—exactly in the middle—neither joy nor sorrow, neither body nor mind—this nor that—neti, neti. There the witness appears. And only he who becomes a witness does not repent; all others repent.

Diamond-birth does not come again and again—understand, mind, awaken.

Enough for today.