Kahe Hot Adheer #11

The mind, a baniya, never leaves its ways.
Paltu has again and again called the mind a baniya— a trader— and he says this baniya-mind does not drop its habit. Why call the mind a baniya?
The mind lives by accounts. The mind lives in arithmetic, in logic. The mind lives by its cleverness, its shrewdness. And the mind has no inkling that there is another kind of intelligence which is beyond the mind. The mind balances all its ledgers, yet all its calculations finally go wrong. Its mathematics collapses. It runs after wealth, and dies poor. It runs after position, the positions remain here; they cannot be carried beyond death. It is mad for prestige. It drinks the liquor of ego.
And all is to be reduced to dust and ashes. The body will merge back into clay. That very head with which you strutted so stiff— no one will even know where it became manure! The dust that today has taken shape as your head will be pressed under the feet of people.
Yet the mind remains engaged in all these races and is deprived of the real treasure. It piles up such wealth, fills up vaults— and the Atman remains empty. And there, alone, lies the true wealth.
That is why the baniya looks very smart on the outside; within, utterly foolish. Truly the mind deserves to be called a baniya. Paltu Das himself, before sannyas, was a baniya; he understands the baniya’s psyche. Saints speak the language they learned in the world. Kabir speaks as a weaver would speak—naturally. A weaver’s idiom: Jhini-jhini bini re chadariya! The Buddha could not say this; he never wove a sheet. Man baniya bān na chhodai— the mind, a baniya, never leaves its ways! The Buddha would not say this, nor Mahavira. They do not know the mind of a baniya from within. Only Paltu Das can say it; neither Kabir nor Nanak would say it in this turn.
When Nanak came of age, his parents grew anxious—he was absorbed day and night in the remembrance of Ram, in the company of sadhus. His father reasoned much: There is an age for sadhus and satsang. I myself— said the father— have not fallen into sadhus and satsang, and you already have! Is this any time? You are young. Enjoy the pleasures of life now. Set out on the campaign of success and prestige. Do some trade, earn something. Do not waste this time.
When the father insisted, Nanak said, All right, then I will earn something.
The father was pleased. He gave him a considerable sum and sent him to the nearby big town to buy blankets— winter days are coming, they will sell well. And for you it will be the first lesson in earning.
Nanak went with the money, and when he returned seven days later, his ecstasy was worth seeing— as if the money had become tenfold! He came empty-handed: neither money nor blankets! The father asked, What happened? You look as happy as though you have made a great profit! What have you earned?
Nanak said, By your grace, by your blessing, I have earned immensely. I was bringing the blankets back when I met a band of sadhus on the way. Winter had set in. They were without blankets. I distributed the blankets to them. For a day or two we had deep satsang, and my heart was delighted. Seeing them protected from the cold in those blankets, such a joy arose as never before. I am returning with profit— I am returning with joy, returning with celebration.
The father smote his forehead. The father’s mathematics was that of a baniya; the son’s arithmetic was something else. The father expected one kind of profit; the son understood profit differently. The father spoke of outward earnings; the son returned with the inner earning. The father was incapable of seeing the inner earning— he was blind to it. Otherwise he would have recognized Nanak that very day. That ecstasy was otherworldly. Those eyes were luminous with the light of another realm. That heart was filled with a wondrous music. But the father thought: I had given a thousand rupees— they should have become ten thousand. He was counting rupees. Even the thousand had gone! He had suffered a great loss. The son was counting something else. The father was stuck in the mind; the son had descended into the Atman.
Many such attempts were made— all in vain. At last it was thought: shopkeeping will not suit him— let us get him a job. They placed him with the subedar of the village. Nanak’s father told the subedar, Be careful with him. Do not send him with any great responsibility. And, do not give him any money in hand; otherwise he will earn something that for us will turn out to be loss, and he will think it is gain. His and our arithmetic does not agree. I warn you beforehand, otherwise later I will be in trouble— what kind of son you have kept for us!
He was healthy, handsome, talented; the subedar kept him. He gave him such work where there was no question of loss. He had many soldiers; daily they had to be issued measured rations of wheat, rice, dal. The subedar told Nanak: Do this work. Just weigh and give what is on these slips— who needs how many paseri of rice, who how many paseri of wheat— weigh that much and keep the notes. You have no worry— neither give less nor more; and no money to take either.
Nanak began work— yet on the very second day there was a disturbance. How the first day went fine— that too is a wonder. The first day was fine. The father was happy when Nanak returned home— nothing had gone wrong. The subedar sent word too: Rest easy, your son is smart. He has worked well— orderly. But the very next day everything was upset. He was weighing. The only reason it did not happen the first day was that one soldier needed five paseri, another six, another seven, another ten. The second day a squad needed twenty paseri of rice. There the trouble began. Nanak weighed. In Hindi the word is terah (thirteen), in Punjabi the word is teraa. And in that teraa the upsurge occurred. Up to eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve— all was well. When teraa came, remembrance of the Divine arose— His remembrance. The word teraa— Yours— and Nanak lost outward sense. From the people’s account he lost sense; by his own account he gained true sense. Then, paseri after paseri he kept pouring. And beyond teraa— Yours— there is no number! Once teraa has come, what more after this? Fourteen never arrived. The soldiers too were startled— he goes on weighing— and repeats, Yours! Morning turned to evening, a crowd gathered. At last the subedar was informed: he is giving away your whole store and is stuck on teraa. What sort of man have you employed! It seems he knows no number beyond thirteen; fourteen he does not know, fifteen he does not know. Yesterday all went well because the numbers were below thirteen; today all is spoiled.
People thought he did not know arithmetic. He knew another arithmetic— the arithmetic of the beyond. The word teraa itself transformed him. His inner mood changed. He was filled with a divine intoxication. Each time he said, Yours, and each time he poured the grain, his ecstasy grew. By evening, when the subedar came, the work of teraa was still going on. The whole town had gathered. No one dared to stop Nanak. In those moments the aura around Nanak seemed such, the power such— there was no fatigue, though he had weighed all day. A strange energy was there, an extraordinary dance!
The subedar stood transfixed. This chant of Yours had become prayer. It was a mantra. Not borrowed from any scripture— it was discovered. It was his own; it had arisen from his very life-breath.
The subedar fell at his feet. He said: I can see. I am no baniya. Your father will not see. I am a kshatriya— I can see what is happening to you! But you are not fit for our work— you are meant for His work alone. Devote yourself to His work! I touch your feet, for what I have seen in you today I have never seen in anyone. The light that flashed in you today— I have never seen it in anyone. I have seen great fakirs, great saints— yet all borrowed. You are cash. And this tone of yours, this cry of Yours— no greater mantra can be. But it will not serve our work— we shall be ruined. If you weigh like this, we will be finished; we have to live in this world.
But the subedar did understand one thing: our arithmetic is one thing, his is another. The mind has its arithmetic— and Paltu calls the mind a baniya: The mind, a baniya, never leaves its ways.
And this arithmetic is ancient— ancient of ancients. Who knows from how many births you have been living by this arithmetic. It has soaked into you. It has entered your every pore. You simply cannot think otherwise. It is the very foundation-stone of your thinking. When you think, it is money, position, prestige. When you think, it is ego, pride, self-importance. Outwardly you may become humble, but within even humility hides ego.
I have heard a tale— three Christian ascetics met on the road. Each began praising his own order. The first said: Whether there be anything else or not, the renunciation of our monks is unmatched. In renunciation we are beyond compare; none can be measured against us.
Now renunciation has ceased to be renunciation; it has become ego.
The second said: Perhaps about renunciation you are right. But what is there in renunciation? The real question is knowledge. The kind of scholarship our monks have, their effortless movement in the scriptures— as fish swim in the ocean, without effort— so do our monks swim in the ocean of knowledge; without even moving hands and feet. And whatever else there is, there is no essence in it; in knowledge we are the Gauri Shankar— none higher than us.
Now knowledge too becomes a proclamation of ego. Renunciation too! Knowledge too!
And the third crossed all limits. He said: We have no taste for renunciation, nor for knowledge. Our discipline is humility. And in humility you people are worthless. As far as humility and simplicity are concerned, ours soars above the moon and stars. You cannot even touch our feet— you are not worthy! Keep your scriptures and pursue your renunciation; in humility we are foremost!
Forgive the renunciate, forgive the learned— but the humble one too says he is foremost in humility! Higher than us there is none— we are above moon and stars! You are the dust of our feet! What kind of humility is this? But so it is.
The mind, a baniya, never leaves its ways.
Even if it becomes a renunciate, nothing changes. Even if it becomes learned, nothing changes. Even if it becomes egoless, nothing changes. Within, its ways continue. And then this baniya-mind keeps dragging you toward hell. Its final consummation is hell.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin took a month’s leave to practice mountaineering. On returning, his office friends asked, Nasruddin, how was the mountaineering? Enjoyable?
Yes, why would it not be enjoyable— said Nasruddin— one day I climbed almost ten feet.
Only one day? And that too only ten feet! What did you do the other twenty-nine days?
The other twenty-nine days I was in the hospital.
In the world— are you, or are you in the hospital? What is the accounting of your life? What is your achievement? Heaps upon heaps of pain. Many kinds of suffering— different kinds— cheap sorrows, expensive sorrows— a marketplace of sorrow, and people buying sorrow. And buying with great effort, with great toil.
What is the fundamental habit of the mind-baniya? It knows the art of producing suffering. It promises happiness— and it is very clever. It gives assurances of joy and hands you sorrow. And this has happened again and again. The mind has never fulfilled its promise of happiness. Each time it entices with joy— and in the hand comes suffering. Still you do not wake up? The habit is ancient; it does not let you awaken. Habit has become so ingrained that you act out of habit; you even decide you will not do it again.
All your life you were angry— and all your life you reaped misery. How many times did you resolve: no more anger, enough now— after all, everything has a limit! And sometimes a flash of understanding strikes you, for understanding is the nature of your Atman. However much you are crushed under habits, somewhere understanding bursts forth, its spring breaks open. When given a chance, understanding flashes like lightning— for a moment all is illuminated; all is seen clearly. In that moment you decided: no more anger. And you thought, Truly now, anger will not be possible. It has become so clear— that to be angry is to throttle your own neck with your hands; to set fire around yourself with your own hands.
Buddha has said: There is no stupidity greater than anger. To punish yourself for another’s fault— what greater foolishness can there be! Someone hurled abuse— you became angry. The abuse he gave— but anger flared in your chest. You lit the flames. His was the fault; you mete out the punishment to yourself. What greater foolishness can there be!
The mind’s greatest skill— it is a master salesman!
I have heard: One man came running, distressed, to his boss and said, Great trouble! Their business was buying and selling land. The boss asked, What has happened? He was a new agent, a broker. He said, The new parcel of land we sold— it is under ten feet of water. And we duped that buyer. We showed one land and sold another. But truth will break out one day or another! Now it is certain he has found that the piece is under ten feet of water. He is very angry. He wants his money back.
The boss said, You are raw. Bring him! The man came, buzzing with complaint. The boss heard his buzzing, seated him lovingly, served him pan, cigarettes, hospitality… and in the end when the man left, he also bought a motorboat. The boss said, This is how business is done. The land we sold— that is sold; now that it lies under ten feet of water, sell him a motorboat too. Then you won’t have to return in panic. Use every opportunity.
A man went into a ready-made clothing store. He liked a jacket very much. Wearing the jacket, he stood before the mirror. The jacket was so tight his life was being squeezed out. He said to the shopkeeper, The jacket looks fine, but it is so tight I am dying.
The shopkeeper said, Don’t worry, wear this coat.
The man said, What will wearing the coat do?
He said, First wear the coat.
The coat was tighter still. The man said, Will you kill me?
The shopkeeper said, Wait a minute— put on these trousers. The trousers are so tight that you will forget both the coat and the jacket.
Before a great pain, a small pain is forgotten.
I heard another story. A man came out of a famous tailor’s house. His gait was very strange. One hand he held lifted high, one leg was pulled in. His neck was crooked. When he had gone in, he was perfectly normal. People saw him and wondered, What happened to you? What is this condition? And you are wearing very fine clothes!
The man said, Because of these very clothes. This tailor, this wretch— he put a coat on me; one sleeve was short, the other long. He said to me, Make the short hand a little longer, and pull the long hand a little inside— what does it take? I agreed. Then the same with the trousers. Now, if I am to wear these clothes, I must remain in this posture. And I spent so much on these clothes— an expensive imported cloth! The tailor said, What’s done is done. Now adjust to how the thing has turned out. Have contentment, contentment is a great thing! Why be impatient! In a few days you will get used to living like this.
So the mind twists you in many ways and keeps assuring: Why be impatient! It keeps explaining: contentment is a great thing. This crooked neck, that long arm, that slanted leg— all this will be fine. Slowly you will get used to it— you will even forget.
Thus people have become twisted, crippled. Thus paralysis has surrounded people. Thus they are struck by palsy. This palsy has not come from outside; it is an invention of their own mind.
So the first iron rule of mind is: once a habit is formed, it will not let you move different from it; it always keeps you bound within habit. If you slip out from one place, it imposes habit from another.
The second rule of mind is: it keeps you a beggar forever. However much you have, the mind never lets you feel— now enough, now let us do something else. Let us explore new dimensions of living: enough of wealth, now let us descend into meditation. Enough of the world, now let us drown a little in sannyas.
Mind drives repetition and keeps you a beggar. The mind says: a little more! a little more! The mind feeds on more. Its food is more.
A beggar was asking Mulla Nasruddin for alms. Mulla first made him drink a good lecture and then scolded him, Aren’t you ashamed to beg! Why don’t you do some hard work?
The beggar said, Have you ever begged?
Mulla answered, No, I have never begged.
The beggar said, Then how would you know what hard work is! Man, there is no work in the world harder than this.
And the beggar was right. What work is harder than begging? For however much you beg, it does not come! It is an endless run. The more you ask, the more it increases. The more water you drink, the thirst increases— as if you were pouring ghee into the fire. Begging is tremendous labor. Death comes, but the beggar goes on begging, begging, begging. Beggars are the ones who live, beggars the ones who die.
As long as there is desire, there is beggary. Another name of desire is beggary. And to be free of desire is to be a master. That is why we have called sannyasins Swami— master! We have called sannyasins emperor, shahenshah.
Swami Ram wrote a book, and named it: The Six Edicts of Emperor Ram. Someone asked, Do you take yourself to be an emperor? Nothing is visible to you!
Ramtirtha said, Precisely! Because I have no need of anything. All my needs have gone, my beggary has gone. With needs, my begging went with them. Now I am the owner. These stars and the moon are mine. This entire existence is mine. When I left one little courtyard, the whole sky became mine!
But the mind will offer many arguments. If you want to move away from mind, if you wish to awaken, do not think the work will be easy. The mind will offer many arguments— arguments that appeal, that fit nicely. The mind is an expert in logic. The Atman has no logic. The Atman is alogical. Only madmen enter there— those who leave logic and the rest. That is the world of the intoxicated, the realm of the carefree drunkards. There only the doors open to drunkards.
The mind is utterly logical. It has answers to everything. And with answers it makes you sit, satisfied— though nothing comes from answers.
One day Mulla Nasruddin came to the barber’s shop and said, Brother, I am a bit in a hurry— shave me with the speed of the Frontier Mail.
The barber began to shave. In his hurry he left patches of stubble here and there. Mulla said angrily, What nonsense! Why did you do this? Why have you left hair in places?
The barber said, Brother, the Frontier Mail never stops at small stations.
The point is correct. There is logic in the barber’s defense. Mulla had nothing more to say. If the shave is with the Frontier Mail’s speed, small stations will be missed.
The mind gives you logic and silences you. The mind knows how to silence you. If you say wealth is futile, the mind says: Then is the whole world mad? Are these billions chasing money mad? What count is there of a few Mahaviras, a few Buddhas, a few Mohammeds? They may be lovable people; their words may be sweet; their songs beautiful; their personality may be hypnotic so that those who went to them were hypnotized. But is the entire world mad? And then, see this: who obeys them? Even those who worship them do not obey them! No one follows them. The worshipers do not obey either. They worship only to say— Brother, forgive us. Take this worship, and leave us alone. Worship is a kind of bribe: do not torment us, do not wake us too much. We are seeing sweet dreams; do not intrude upon our dreams. Do not raise unnecessary noise here. You do your meditation in the jungle and mountains. We will come sometimes, touch your feet, offer a few flowers. That will be our relationship with you.
If truth is to be decided by numbers, then Mahavira, Buddha, and Krishna are all wrong. The numbers are yours— the billions. How can so many be wrong? And democracy has given people yet another delusion: where there is a crowd, where more hands are raised— there lies truth.
The mind says: When so many are gathering wealth, they cannot be mad. The greater likelihood is that Mahavira and Buddha were mad. And the arithmetic seems right, the logic proper. No flaw appears in the logic. And the mind says: You are influenced, that is true— but to be influenced means nothing. People are influenced even by a flower. You see a lotus— do you then try to become a lotus? People are influenced by the moon and stars— do they try to become moon and stars? Admit they were dear people, fine. Admit that seeing them awakens a wish in you to be like them. But do not get into the trouble of becoming like them— otherwise you will put yourself into difficulty and go against the arithmetic of life.
Therefore people have become very clever— this too is the trick of the mind-baniya. When Buddhas and Mahaviras are alive, the mind-baniya is opposed to them; it condemns them in every way. And when they die, this same mind-baniya worships them. When they are alive, this mind-baniya fears— their influence may pull me toward the Atman! From circumference to the center I might start moving! Their word, their dignity, the power of their presence, their magnetic pull— they may detach me from the world! To save itself from this fear, it slanders them, abuses them; between itself and them it tries to create as much distance as possible. These abuses, condemnations, stones, crucifixions— all are attempts to raise mountains, to keep distance— nothing else. By condemning, it persuades itself: there is no need to be influenced. Who would be influenced by such people! By condemning, the mind says: Do not go near such people.
I have heard a sweet incident from Mahavira’s time. A great thief lived in Shravasti. Mahavira came to Shravasti. The thief feared Mahavira most— not the policemen. What would policemen do? Thief-thief, cousins! Some are government thieves, some private thieves— that is all the difference. What would policemen do? He was not afraid of the emperor either— emperors are great thieves; they stand in the same line, just ahead. They too have snatched and grabbed, used force, raided and looted. Their looting is so large it is not seen.
Those you read about in history— they are looters: Chengiz Khan, Nadir Shah, Akbar, Alexander— all looters. But such great looters that you do not understand. And great looters oppose the small looters. Small looters are not afraid of them; they know— the big looters and we are of one world.
He feared no one. Truth is, the emperor feared him— for he was a master thief. When Mahavira arrived in the town he called his son and said, Keep away from this Mahavira. People like him are always against our profession. Such people are our sworn enemies. Do not even go to hear him. If Mahavira passes along a street, do not go into that street. If suddenly you meet Mahavira on the road, escape into the alleys. If somewhere he is speaking, put your fingers in your ears and run home— do not listen at all.
The father warned him, so the son kept away. But when you avoid someone, an attraction arises— what is the matter? Father does not fear the emperor, not the high officers, not the generals, not the swords and guns, not the prison and chains— but fears this naked Mahavira— what is the matter? Sometimes he would be drawn. Yet the father’s order had to be obeyed. If he wanted to see, he looked from the corner of the eye. One day he was passing slowly by— Mahavira was speaking. He thought: Let a word or two fall into the ear— what is the matter? What does he say that frightens father so? He moved slowly. Just a few words fell into his ear. And that very night he was caught in the act.
The boy was caught. The emperor rejoiced: through him we will open his father’s secrets too. The father is sly, expert; the son is still raw— through him we will get the father’s secrets too. But how? The viziers arranged a plan. They plied him with wine— so much wine that he fell unconscious. When he fell unconscious they took him to the most beautiful chamber of the palace— used only for display, not for living. Gold everywhere, silver walls, studded with gems. The bed was of gold, jewels sparkling. The finest carpets, the most expensive chandeliers. It seemed not of this world— like a celestial palace.
They laid the unconscious youth upon that bed. The most beautiful women of the palace were dressed in heavenly garments, as if they were nymphs of paradise, apsaras— and all were set to serve him. They were told: When he awakens he will ask, Where am I? Naturally— he will be startled. He will never have seen such a palace, nor such beauty. Say to him: You are between heaven and hell. From here it will be decided whether you go to heaven or to hell. If you atone for your sins, you will go to heaven.
This was a plan to extract confession for all his sins. He was after all a thief’s son. Just then he remembered a saying of Mahavira. When he awoke and asked, Where am I? The women like apsaras said, You are now exactly in the middle world. And here your decision will be made— at a crossroads. Heaven or hell— all depends on you. If you repent, open all your sins like a book— you will go to heaven; if you hide, you will rot in hell. He was about to confess his sins— because it seemed clear: he is at a crossroads, very close to heaven— not far. Just then he recalled a word he had heard that morning. Mahavira was telling his monks: In heaven, the gods cast no shadows.
It is only a symbol, yet significant. A shadow forms of a solid— it forms of the body; not of the Atman. If there were a perfectly pure pane of glass— perfectly transparent— it would cast no shadow. Or even if it did, it would be very thin. It too is matter, but if transparent, no shadow. The Atman is not matter, it is consciousness. Of the Atman there can be no shadow. The body is left here; in the other world there is only the Atman. How a shadow?
Mahavira was explaining: the Atman casts no shadow. He had heard only this much. Being a thief, he at once looked carefully— do these apsaras cast shadows or not?
All had shadows. He understood: a trick! He left aside confession of sins— and began to recount his merits: what merits he had performed! And not only he— what merits his father had done!
The viziers were astonished, the emperor astounded: our whole strategy has failed. They asked: Tell truthfully— how did our arrangement fail?
He said: I will say this much— it failed because a single word of Mahavira fell into my ear. And now I go straight to him— as soon as I am freed from here I go straight to him. I will no longer listen to my father. He whose one word saved me today like a boat— if I could understand his whole speech! And he whose word can save, his presence can save— if I could understand his person— perhaps I could be liberated! And I invite you too: come! For we are cousins— I too am a thief, you too are thieves. We are small thieves, you great thieves. Sins we have, sins you have— ours small, yours big. I say to you too: come. He whose one word has saved me like a boat today— he can save you too.
And the story says: the emperor too went to hear Mahavira, and was initiated. The thief was initiated. Then, after him, his father also was initiated.
The mind will not let you listen. The mind protects itself. The mind says: Do not hear such words as can carry you beyond mind. And the mind thinks itself clever. It is not clever— that cleverness is the mask of stupidity.
Mulla Nasruddin’s son asked him, Papa, I have to play a fool’s part in the school drama— how should I prepare?
Mulla said, Son, nothing at all; no preparation needed. Just go on stage as you are.
Man is already foolish.
A Christian pastor was instructing his flock: When you explain heaven to people, your face must at once blossom, a smile spread, your face become radiant. Only then will people understand what heaven is. The very word heaven should delight you. Raise your hands, lift your eyes upward to the sky— and stand still for a moment.
A disciple stood up and asked, Fine— heaven we will explain so. And hell?
The pastor said, No need to explain hell. Just stand as you are. Looking at you they will understand hell.
Man is foolish. Looking at him, foolishness is evident. His sorrows are proof of his foolishness. Man is hell. Look into his eyes— darkness upon darkness— the darkness of the new moon night. Look into his life-breath— not even one lamp is lit. Look into his life— there is no fragrance anywhere. How did this happen? By whom? Who brought man to this plight? None other than— the mind, a baniya, never leaves its ways!
Pura baant tare khiskavai…
You too have a proper weight, as the baniya has. Not that the baniya does not possess a full standard weight. He has that too. When he buys, he uses the full weight. In truth he has a weight even heavier than full— when he buys from another he uses that. And he has a light weight as well— when he sells, he sells by the lighter weight.
Pura baant tare khiskavai, ghatiya ko taktolei.
Under his cushion he keeps both kinds. When he has to sell, he fingers the light one; when he has to buy, he fingers the full one. When he has to loot another, he uses one set of weights; and when he sells— he is also looting— he uses another set.
So Paltu says a second thing about the mind: the mind keeps two kinds of weights. The mind always has two valuations— one for itself, another for others.
Mulla Nasruddin’s son asked his father, If a Muslim becomes a Hindu— what would you call him?
Mulla said, Traitor! Corrupt! Sinner! Infidel!
And his son asked, Papa, and if a Hindu becomes a Muslim?
He said, Intelligent! Wise! Talented! Thoughtful! Worthy of respect! Meritorious! Paradise is his.
If a Hindu becomes Jain— corrupt; and if a Hindu becomes Jain— a Mahatma! If a Jain becomes Hindu— corrupt; if a Hindu becomes Jain— saint!
The mind always keeps double weights. In every matter there are double valuations. If someone leaves your party for another— turncoat! Betrayer! If someone from another joins your party— he has come to his senses, understanding dawned, intelligence returned, foolishness dropped! And we do this daily. We weigh others one way, ourselves another. If another cheats— he is a cheat; if we cheat— it is not cheating— what to do? The whole world is dishonest! One has to. It is the way of life. If we lie— it is only practical; if another lies, we do not call it practical. He is sinning— he will rot in hell. If we lie— it was just a casual remark; if another lies— he is a liar. His lying makes his whole personality false. Our lying— just idle chatter.
If you are to be saved from mind, you must drop these double weights. And we use these double weights everywhere, in everything.
Pura baant tare khiskavai, ghatiya ko taktolei.
And until you bring the full weight into your life and keep using the light one, you will remain low. The full weight is the symbol of the Divine— the Complete. The mind is always partial, never complete— a light weight. And you weigh everything by the mind.
Weigh the world by the Divine, not by the mind. See the world through the eyes of the Divine, not through the eyes of the mind. Through the mind’s eyes, there is mine and thine; through the Divine’s eyes, nothing is mine, nothing thine. Through the mind’s eyes, all things are dyed in the mind’s color. The mind’s dishonesty, the mind’s trickery is projected upon things. Through the eyes of the Divine, of the Witness, things appear pure and clear— as they are.
Pura baant tare khiskavai, ghatiya ko taktolei.
Pasanga mānhai kari chaturai, pura kabahũ na tolei.
You have never weighed fully with the mind. People deceive even their own. If they get a chance, they deceive themselves too— leave aside others! They keep palming the scales; by any device, they weigh less.
Pasanga mānhai kari chaturai…
And they think they are very clever, living very intelligently. Ask anyone— each thinks he is living wisely; he knows the art of living. Not only does he want to live so, he wants his children to live so; he teaches them the same.
…Pura kabahũ na tolei.
You have never seen life through the eye of completeness. You look through the incomplete mind— therefore all appears incomplete. If you see through the complete, all will appear complete. And to whom all appears complete— where can there be discontent? Where pain? Where sorrow? Where hell?
Before marriage you used to give me precious gifts, garments— and wrote such sweet letters! Why don’t you do that now, Chandulal?
Gulabo, you really are so innocent! replied Chandulal. Have you ever heard of a fisherman who, after catching a fish, still feeds it flour?
The wife said, So you consider me a fish and yourself a fisherman?
Chandulal said, No, no— I do not consider you a fish, nor am I a fisherman. I am a Marwari.
But this is how we see life— like fish and fisherman. Each trying to hook the other. Each trying to exploit the other. And as long as you are engaged in exploiting the other, how will you be able to see the Divine in him? And if you see the Divine in him, how will you exploit? Then you can only serve.
Ghar meṃ vāke kumati baniyāin, sabahin ko jhakajhole.
Paltu calls the mind’s consort kumati— wrong-intelligence. The mind is the baniya; within sits kumati.
Understand the difference between sumati and kumati. Sumati is that intelligence which leads toward Truth. Kumati is that which leads toward untruth. Kumati is outward-bound; sumati inward-bound. Kumati takes delight in objects; sumati delights in one’s own being. Kumati is worldly; sumati spiritual.
If the mind is a baniya, then kumati is his baniyain— his wife.
Just look and search a little— is your consciousness always running outwards or not? Whenever you think— you think outwardly. Even at night you dream of the outside. Your attention runs outward always. When will you come home? How will you come home? You go farther and farther from your own home. To find home you will have to move toward your source. To find home the Ganges must flow back toward Gangotri. But the Ganges is rushing away from Gangotri. We are running away from our own nature. That which takes you into your nature— that is sumati.
But we keep much security for our kumati. We say: It is necessary. Otherwise how will we survive in the world?
Even if you survive— what then? And how long will you survive? Suppose you do, for a while— still the feet will be uprooted. Yet kumati feels it is very clever! Man digs pits for others— not knowing he will fall into them himself. He sows thorns for others— not knowing it is in these thorns that he himself will be entangled. For whatever you give to the world, that returns to you. You give abuse— abuse returns, a thousandfold. You distribute flowers— flowers return, a thousandfold.
But how will you distribute flowers, when as yet no flowers have bloomed within! Inside there are only thorns. People have become cacti— only thorns! And you water those thorns well.
On his wife’s birthday, Mulla Nasruddin gifted her a single slipper— only for the left foot. The wife was furious: Do you think me mad, that you bring only one slipper? Better you had brought nothing. Why do you insult me, Nasruddin?
What are you saying, Guljaan— said Mulla— would you have me insult you doubly by bringing two slippers?
If one slipper is an insult, two will make it double. The arithmetic is right; the account is right; there is no error in the tally. But the foundation is false. We erect great edifices of logic— without seeing that they stand on sand. Logic is very skillful, but not intelligent.
Ghar meṃ vāke kumati baniyāin, sabahin ko jhakajhole.
And that kumati quarrels with all. Quarrel is the nature of the mind. You see how the mind is always eager to fight. If you do not fight, it is not that you do not want to; it is only because it is risky with the one before you. People like to fight with the weak— where victory is certain. Before the powerful, the tail begins to wag; before the weak, you bark. In the office if your boss speaks nonsense, still you go on saying, Yes sir, yes sir. But a fire burns within. You will vent it somewhere. It may be that you come home and vent it on your wife— though she is blameless. She perhaps cannot vent on you, for you are the husband— husband means god! She will vent on the child. The child cannot vent on the mother; he will break the leg of his doll. Thus anger moves along and the poison spreads.
…Sabhahīn ko jhakajhole.
This kumati shakes all— and badly— and all, everyone. One person’s kumati creates storms without end.
There is a story— Akbar one day became angry. Birbal had said something— jokingly— but the joke cut deep. Akbar, without seeing left or right, landed a slap on Birbal. Birbal was not one to remain silent— but to slap Akbar would be costly. So, he slapped a courtier nearby even harder. The courtier was shocked: What kind of justice is this? Akbar slapped you— why do you slap me?
Birbal said, Why worry? Slap someone else. Let it pass on— it will reach Akbar sometime. Pass it along— do not stop it. It will reach the emperor; do not worry. The world is round.
Everything returns— if not today then tomorrow, if not tomorrow then the day after. The entire doctrine of karma is only this much— that everything will return to you one day. Give with thought.
Ladka vāka mahāharāmī…
The mind’s wife is kumati— the outward-going journey. Who is their son? Tarka— logic— is the son. And logic keeps giving your life wrong suggestions, wrong directions, wrong signals. The right signals come from love; the wrong signals from logic. The right path is the path of love; the wrong path the path of logic.
But all cling to logic. Logic is taught in schools, colleges, universities. The whole society lives by logic. Love is denied, forgotten, made to be forgotten— and logic is taught.
Logic is violent; its aim is refutation. Logic is a kind of sword with which you cut another’s head. And remember— the sword with which you cut another’s head— today or tomorrow you will commit suicide with that very sword. It will turn into self-slaughter.
Be a little cautious with logic. Logic has no fidelity. Logic is a courtesan— today it is with you, tomorrow with another. Therefore never build your house upon logic. Do not place the foundation stones of your life in logic. Your logic can be refuted; there is no logic that cannot be refuted. Only love is irrefutable. Love cannot be refuted.
Keshav Chandra went to Ramakrishna and argued much that God does not exist. He knew he would defeat Ramakrishna in moments— Ramakrishna was uneducated, had read only to the second standard— what logic could he have! And Keshav Chandra was a great logician. But he could not defeat Ramakrishna. Love cannot be defeated— it must be yielded to. Keshav argued against God, and Ramakrishna kept getting up to embrace him, saying, Bravo! Well said! Well said!
Things began to go awry. People who had gathered to watch grew restless. They had thought there would be debate— that Ramakrishna would answer. He did not answer; he kept saying, Bravo! How splendid! What a fine, subtle point! And when the point became very subtle— he would stand and embrace him.
Keshav Chandra found himself in difficulty, became dejected. Finally he said, What is this? Why do you not answer?
Ramakrishna said, I am answering. I am telling you: What I have known cannot be refuted. Your logics are lovely— but they can persuade only the ignorant. Yes, if you argue against light before a blind man— he will be persuaded. In truth, it is difficult to persuade a blind man in favor of light. To persuade him against light— what difficulty is there? If you argue against light, the blind will agree. But my eyes have opened— what can I do! You have come a bit late, Keshav! Had you come ten or fifteen years earlier, when my eyes too were closed, perhaps I would have agreed with you. You would have won. But now there is no way to win.
Keshav asked, Let that be. But why do you keep embracing me and praising me?
Ramakrishna said, Because I have never seen such a sharp brilliance as yours! I praise your brilliance. But stretch it further, hone it more. Seeing you, my trust in the Divine is strengthened— that in a world where such brilliance can be, that world cannot be empty of the Divine. That is why I embrace you— Ah! Well come! You have come as the final proof. I receive proofs of Him through flowers, through the moon and stars. Seeing your brilliance I receive proof as well. To me— there are proofs everywhere. But logic is a game. Keshav, rise above it. It is a toy for children. Come sit by me. I will take you through the door— the door of love! And the door of love alone is the door of the Divine.
Keshav has written in his autobiography: For the first time in my life I was defeated— and by one who did not offer a single argument against mine.
Ladka vāka mahāharāmī…
Logic is his son.
…Imrit meṃ vish gholai.
Even if you give it nectar, logic will mix poison into it. If you wish to remind someone of the Divine, logic will obstruct there too— What God? Where is God? Neither seen nor heard. And those who say they have seen, heard— who knows if they speak truth, or lie, or they have deceived themselves.
…Imrit meṃ vish gholai.
Even sitting near the awakened ones, logic does not drink nectar; it mixes poison into it before it reaches you. It creates nontrust in everything. Nontrust is poison. If trust is nectar, nontrust is poison. It awakens doubt about everything. And once doubt is awakened, you are in trouble. If doubt is there, your life cannot move; you will stand still, waiting for certainty before stepping forward. When it is settled, then choose a direction.
And logic never lets anything be settled. Whatever you decide, a shadow of doubt remains— who knows— maybe this, maybe not! Logic is conjecture— how can conjecture become trust?
…Imrit meṃ vish gholai.
Wake up a little and see— this is happening within you daily. If you become a little alert, you will begin to recognize how this son of kumati pours poison by a thousand devices.
Pañch-tatt ka jāma pehre, aintha-guintha dolai.
What are you? A bundle of earth and water! A puppet of five elements! The Atman will fly away, the cage will lie there.
Pañch-tatt ka jāma pehre, aintha-guintha dolai.
And how you strut! How you swagger! How you sway! In a moment you will be dust. All swagger will be still. You see this happening daily— someone goes, someone departs. Yet logic whispers: Others go, always the other dies— I do not die. See, I am still alive. I am not one to die. The law of death applies to others, not to me. See how many have died; I am still alive!
This is the very logic those who died were giving themselves. This is the logic you give yourself. Drop this stiffness. Logic nourishes your ego.
Janam-janam ka hai aparādhi, kabahũ sānch na bolai.
Logic never speaks truth— cannot speak it, for Truth has no need of logic. Where Truth is, logic is useless. Logic is needed only where untruth is— for without the support of logic, untruth would be seen as untruth. Taking support of logic it pretends truth. Truth needs no logic; Truth can stand naked— still Truth, still beautiful, still majestic. Untruth needs clothing.
You have seen— in fields people make a false man— a scarecrow. A stick thrust in the ground, a pot on top, a Gandhi cap set upon it. Another pole tied across— two arms— and a kurta put on— pure khadi! A churidar pajama! And if shoes turn up somewhere— the shoes too are put on. Those with a taste for finery even fix a cigarette in the mouth. On the pot they sketch a nose and features. Strip the clothes off such a gentleman and all collapses— inside is only a stick and a pot. They look good only in clothes— they cannot be naked. They require dressing to seem fine.
Such is untruth. Inside— nothing. Only the clothes are beautiful. Wrap yourself in scriptures, in doctrines, in philosophy— weave a web of logic around. But within? Is there any substance— any sat— any Truth? If not, you are wasting time. Death will come quickly; with one push the false puppet will fall, the pot will break, the whole magic will dissolve.
Janam-janam ka hai aparādhi, kabahũ sānch na bolai.
Jal meṃ baniyā, thal meṃ baniyā, ghat-ghat baniyā bolai.
And this mind of yours holds you everywhere— in water, on land, in every heart. The baniya speaks.
Paltu ke guru Samarth Sāin, kapat gānth jo kholai.
If you meet a true Master— Paltu says— as I met a true Master— Samarth, Sāin!
Understand these words. Who is a Samarth Sadguru? The one who has known himself is samarth— capable. One who repeats borrowed scriptures is not capable. Sāin means: Lord, Master. He who has known the Master becomes the Master. The Upanishads say: He who knows That becomes That.
The true Master— samarth, sāin— alone can untie the knot of your deceit. He will strip your achkan, your coat, and show you the stick within. He will remove your face’s masks and show the pot within— and say: How long will you be deceived by this? Seek the real man! How long will you keep changing clothes, changing faces? Search your root! Recognize your own nature!
Only one who has untied his own knot of deceit can untie yours.
Jahāṃ kumati kai bāsā hai, sukh sapnehun nāhīn.
As long as there is kumati, there is no joy— not even the possibility of joy— not even in dreams!
Phori deti ghar mor-tor kari, dekhe āpu tamāsā hai.
And this kumati always breaks everything— dividing into mine and thine, creating duality.
Phori deti ghar mor-tor kari, dekhe āpu tamāsā hai.
You become a spectacle. Your life becomes a show— a circus— so long as there is no Truth in it.
Kalah kāl din rāt lagāvai, karai jagat upahāsā hai.
And because of this kumati there is quarrel day and night; and there is mockery of life in the world. Awake! Long have you slept— awake!
Nirdhan karai, khāe binu mārai, achhat ann upavāsā hai.
This kumati makes you poor— a beggar.
Nirdhan karai, khāe binu mārai…
It does not even eat you, and slowly it kills you.
…Achhat ann upavāsā hai.
And with everything present it keeps you hungry. You have wealth upon wealth. The Master of Masters sits within you. The kingdom of the Lord is yours. All is with you, yet you die thirsty— as if someone in the middle of a lake dying of thirst! Had you been in the desert and thirsty— that would be forgivable. You are thirsty in the midst of the lake— you cannot be forgiven.
Paltu Dās— kumati is crude; it ruins both worlds.
Hai koi sakhiyā sayānī, chalai panighatvā pānī.
Have you heard me— says Paltu— is there anyone ready to come with me?
Kabir says: Is there anyone bold enough to burn his house and come with me?
Kabirā khaṛā bazār meṃ, liye lukāṭhī hāth.
Jo ghar bārai āpnā, chalai hamāre sāth.
Kabir says: I stand in the marketplace with a torch in my hand. Is there anyone who will set fire to his house and come with me?
Which house is he speaking of? Of the very house built by this mind-baniya, this kumati. And which torch does he speak of— with a torch in hand? This pot-like skull of yours— it is just to be broken. If Kabir gets hold of you, he will crack your skull!
Hai koi sakhiyā sayānī…
Paltu says: Is there any wise one among you?
…Chalai panighatvā pānī.
I have seen the water-drawing place— the ghat— where thirst is quenched. Come, walk with me.
Satguru ghāṭ gahir baḍā sāgar, mārag hai morī jānī.
And I will take you to the true Master’s ghat. The path is known to me— I have walked it.
Whenever a true Master speaks he speaks with such authority. He does not say: It is written in the Upanishads, therefore believe; Mahavira said it— therefore believe; Buddha said it— therefore believe. When a true Master speaks he says: Thus have I known. This is my experience.
Satguru ghāṭ gahir baḍā sāgar…
You are dying of thirst and at the Satguru’s ghat there is a deep, vast ocean.
…Mārag hai morī jānī.
And do not fear— the path is known to me.
Hai koi sakhiyā sayānī, chalai panighatvā pānī.
I will take you to the ghat— I will let you drink.
Lejuri surati, sabdi kai ghailan…
Bring the rope of surati— remembrance, awareness, attention, meditation— remembrance of the Lord.
Lejuri surati, sabdi kai ghailan…
And bring the pot of the Word— sabda— that is heard in the void, the unstruck sound— anahat nāda. The rope of attention, the pot of the music heard in meditation.
Lejuri surati, sabdi kai ghailan, bharahu, tajahu kulkānī.
Then abandon all caste-and-clan prestige. Do not say— I am Hindu, I am Muslim, I am Brahmin, I am Shudra. When you have reached the ghat— drink to your heart’s content! Leave all concern for public opinion. Make a bowl of your hands and drink your fill. Do not let any hindrance block you.
People come here to me. Someone asks: I am a Catholic— your words reach me, but I am Christian— how can I become a sannyasin?
Are you Christian— therefore you will not drink water at the ghat?
A Jain asks: I am Jain. Your words ring true— but how can I leave my lineage, tradition?
As you wish. You can remain a Jain, a Hindu, a Muslim— even having reached the ghat! Do you not want to quench your thirst?
You will not drink until you find a Jain well! And Jain wells do not exist. A well is simply a well— neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. Water is simply water. Only on Indian railway stations there is Hindu water and Muslim water; otherwise… What a hilarious world! On the platforms vendors shout— Hindu pani! Hindu chai! The tea must laugh, the water must laugh— how foolish man is! Water is simply water.
Rightly it is said:
Lejuri surati, sabdi kai ghailan, bharahu, tajahu kulkānī.
Drop all talk of caste and tradition. Drink to your heart’s content.
Nihurike bharai ghail nahin fūṭai…
Only one thing— bend to fill, and the pot will not break. If you do not bend, the pot will break. Bending is the art— surrender.
Nihurike bharai ghail nahin fūṭai, so dhan prem-divānī.
She who bends and fills without breaking the pot— blessed is that love-mad one! She is the madwoman of love— fortunate.
Suddenly you see— in the speech of devotees this happens again and again— they drop the masculine and begin using the feminine! Because the path of devotion is feminine. The path of love is the path of the woman.
Nihurike bharai ghail nahin fūṭai, so dhan prem-divānī.
Blessed the madwoman of love— who forgets family prestige and, bending, fills.
Chānd suraj dou anchal sohain, besar lat arujhānī.
Then in her veil the moon and sun sparkle. The head is lost— yet the clouds of the sky become her hair!
Chāl chalai jas maigar hāthī…
And her gait— like a sovereign elephant— a Maigor— strides.
Chāl chalai jas maigar hāthī, āṭh pahar mastānī.
She who drank at the Lord’s ghat— her ecstasy never diminishes; it only grows. It is not momentary— here now and gone now. It remains twenty-four hours.
Chāl chalai jas maigar hāthī, āṭh pahar mastānī.
Paltu Dās— I, at the very first sparkle, filled my pot, I did not care for public opinion.
Jhamaki bhari ānī…
As soon as I reached the ghat, as soon as I found the Satguru— I quickly filled the pot!
Jhamaki bhari ānī, lok-lāj na mānī.
Then I did not think what people would say; what the Vedas say; whether I would gain prestige or lose it; whether I would be taken as mad or as drunk. I did not worry.
Paltu Dās— I filled my pot in a flash; I did not care for public opinion.
If you can do likewise, you can be free of the mind-baniya. And freedom from the mind-baniya is absolutely necessary! It is this that has led you astray for births upon births.
He who is free of mind is united with the Divine. He who is empty of mind becomes full of the Divine.
Enough for today.