Kahe Hot Adheer #13

When you have lost your own mind, what remains to say of others?
Bear it, poor fool—bear it in silence—the blow that has arrived.
The world is immense, and life’s expanse vast indeed—
In what delusion have you, for ages upon ages, stood at the door of this inn?
Day is a passerby, O fool! Night is a passerby too!
Who inquires into depth? A well is deep indeed—
But neither the breeze reaches there, nor does sunlight.
Victory is his who keeps company with the waves!
Why blame the cloud if you could not split the rock?
Water is just water—do not insult yourself so!
Only when patience of aeons gathers does the waterfall come into being!
Bear it, poor fool—bear it in silence—the blow that has arrived!
When you have lost your own mind, what remains to say of others?
Bear it, poor fool—bear it in silence—the blow that has arrived.

Whatever happens in this life has no cause beyond you. Other than you, there is no one responsible. You are the master of your destiny. There is no other god of fate who fashions your fortune. You create your destiny every day. Moment to moment you write your own fate. Live in unconsciousness and you will live in hell. Live in awareness and wherever you are, that is heaven.

Live in a stupor and the inn will feel like a home. And then there will be great trouble. For an inn is an inn; it will not become a home just because you believe it so. Today or tomorrow the inn will have to be left. And then the pain will be immense. So many days of attachment, so many days of clinging, so many old bonds, such deep roots—when, uprooting all, you set out upon the journey into the infinite, there will be great pain. You will turn back again and again to look. You will not wish to go. You will writhe. You will try to hold on—cling to the body, cling to the mind. But nothing will avail. If one must go, one must go. Cry as much as you like, writhe as much as you wish, scream and shout as you may—an inn is an inn; it cannot become a home.

And he who sees the inn as an inn has already taken a very significant step toward the search for his home. For to recognize darkness as darkness is the necessary background for recognizing light as light. To see the false as false is the prelude to seeing the true.

The world is immense, and life’s expanse vast indeed—
In what delusion have you, for ages upon ages, stood at the door of this inn?

This inn, then that inn. This body, then that body. This womb, then that womb. And the world’s expanse is huge! Inns upon inns spread out. You finish with one inn and get entangled in the next. When will you search for your own home? When will you seek yourself? You sought wealth, you sought position, you sought respectability—when will you seek yourself? Will you remain occupied only with the search for the other, while remaining a stranger to yourself? And one who is a stranger to himself—how can he be intimate with another? He who is not acquainted with himself does not know the art of acquaintance. He will remain a stranger even among others. All his knowledge is false, hollow. He who is acquainted with himself has laid the right foundation for knowledge.

The name of acquaintance with oneself is meditation—Dhyan. The process of self-acquaintance is Dhyan. And one who has built his temple upon the rock of Dhyan—his temple’s spires will rise into the heavens; they will touch the clouds; the ambrosia of the moon and stars will rain upon them; they will shine in the sun’s radiance. There will be grace in his life. And one who has built the temple of life—one day, in that temple, the idol of Paramatma is installed.

You build the temple; Paramatma comes of his own accord. He only waits—when will you build, when will you send the invitation of love, when will you call?

But even if you call—how will you call? Where will you seat Him? You yourself are lodged in an inn. Will you lodge the Lord of lords in an inn? He will not come into an inn. A worthy seat must be fashioned for Him.

There is a Sufi story: An emperor greatly honored a fakir. But whenever the emperor wished to meet, the fakir would say, “I will come myself; please do not trouble yourself.” And the fakir would arrive at the emperor’s palace. The emperor grew curious that the fakir never allowed him to visit his hut. One day, without informing, the emperor reached the fakir’s hut. The fakir had gone to work in the fields. His wife was there. She said, “Please sit! Be seated! I shall call him. I will run and bring him soon—the fields are not far.”

But the emperor said, “I will stroll here—go and call him.”

Thinking perhaps it is difficult for him to sit on an empty floor, she spread the only thing she had—a torn, old mat. “Please be seated!”

The emperor glanced once at the mat and said, “I shall walk—go and call him.”

She thought perhaps the mat was not worthy of an emperor. So she spread the shawl they had—someone had gifted it to the fakir—over the mat. “Please sit!”

But the emperor said, “I will walk. Go bring your husband quickly; do not waste time.”

She went. As they returned together, on the way she said, “The emperor is a strange man! I spread the prettiest mat we owned. Then your shawl—the one you sometimes wear at Sufi gatherings—I spread that too; we have nothing more precious. Yet the emperor keeps walking. He says, ‘I will not sit, I will stroll.’”

The fakir laughed. “Foolish woman, to seat an emperor one needs a golden throne! That is why I always told him, ‘I will come myself.’ Our home has no place worthy enough to seat him.”

If an emperor requires a golden throne, then for Paramatma too a throne must be built within. A golden throne will not serve. Build a throne of consciousness—a throne of Samadhi, a throne of Buddhahood. Then your invitation is accepted—accepted instantly! Even if you do not send the invitation, Paramatma comes and knocks at your door. The moment your preparation is complete, Paramatma manifests.

But you lie in inns. You escape one and get caught in another. You think—perhaps this one will be my home. You leave that and become entangled in a third. And this world is an expanse of inns—a very vast expanse. The habit of our entanglement in this world is what is called maya. Do not take maya to mean that this world is false—as your pundits, priests, sadhus, and mahatmas explain, that the world is untrue.

The world is not untrue; your mind is untrue. The world is perfectly true. Your Atman is true; the world is true. But between the two has arisen an untruth—the name of that untruth is mind. Mind is maya. And he who wishes to be free of maya must be free of mind.

But since the mahatmas go on explaining—“the world is maya”—you run away from the world. But where will you run? Wherever you live, a world will be formed around you. Live in a hut and you will become attached to that very hut. Sit beneath a tree and you will become attached to that very tree. If tomorrow someone else comes and sits beneath that tree you will stand with a stick and say, “Be off! I have sat under this tree for twenty years. This place is mine!”

Wherever there is ‘mine-ness,’ there is maya. Maya means the feeling of ‘mine.’ It matters not upon what you project this ‘mine.’ Whether on wealth, position, status—or on renunciation, on religion—“my religion”—there too maya has begun. And from where is this ‘mine’ born? It is born from the mind. ‘Mine’ is a projection of the mind. When the mind goes, ‘mine’ goes. When ‘mine’ goes, ‘thine’ goes. And where neither ‘mine’ nor ‘thine’ remains, what remains is Paramatma.

Paltu’s sutras are dear—try to understand them.

Maya, you are dear to the world, but you are of no use to us.

He says: Maya, you are dear to the whole world, but you are of no use to us. Why not? One who has known even a single instant of no-mind, for him maya is no longer of any use. One who has glimpsed, even for a moment, Samadhi—maya is of no use to him. He has seen through the trick, end to end.

As when you go to the cinema—the play of light and shadow moves upon the screen. You know well it is light and shadow, yet you are moved—at times you weep, at times you laugh. Sometimes your heart stops with a thud. A thrilling scene unfolds and you are thrilled. There is nothing on the screen—you know it—yet, again and again, you forget. One day try watching in the cinema hall for three hours, and for all three hours keep remembering: it is a screen; upon the screen a play of light and shadow—and nothing else. You will be astonished. If you can remember that it is light and shadow—do not forget—then neither sorrow will grip you nor joy; neither thrill nor panic, neither pain. If someone dies on the screen, or if the shehnai plays for someone’s wedding—it will all be equal.

Such is the state of the knower, the meditator, the one established in Samadhi. He sees that whatever play is unfolding upon the vast screen of this existence is a projection of mind. It is the spread of his own mind. There is nothing there. The house you call “mine,” for which you will fight in court, for which there might be scuffles, heads broken, necks cut, blood shed, lives given and taken—does that house know it is yours? That house has no news of you at all. And you go on fighting and dying in vain.

In the life of Bhartrihari it is written.

Bhartrihari is a wondrous man—as a man should be. First he saw the whole world of enjoyment, and he wrote down all his conclusions about indulgence in a few aphorisms named the Shringara Shataka. They are very lovely sutras. Among the statements that hedonists have made regarding the world, these are supreme. He surpassed Charvaka, left Epicurus far behind. Marx and Engels do not even come into the category. None has seen such grandeur in maya as Bhartrihari has sung in his Shringara Shataka.

But one who plunges so deep into maya—inevitably, one day, vairagya arises. It is bound to happen—inescapable. For one who goes deep—end to end—into maya, will see its futility. Sit far away and watch the cinema and perhaps you will never know that what is before you is only pictures. And life is such a cinema that neither its beginning is visible to you nor its end. As if you have come into the theater in the middle. If you had come at the start you would see the bare screen; then the film begins and you would remember. This life is a cinema whose beginning is not, whose end is not. You always arrive in the middle and depart in the middle. The play goes on. Hence you never glimpse a blank screen.

But if only you would go near the screen and touch—how astonished you would be: there is no one there—an empty screen! Upon the screen a magical play of light and shade.

Bhartrihari enjoyed the world with great attention and depth. From that very enjoyment his yoga was born. He left everything and went to the forest.

In this leaving there was no renunciation—remember. He renounces who yet has attachment. One in whom attachment no longer remains—what is there to renounce? Futility became visible. Then there is nothing to leave; things simply drop. True renunciation happens; it is not done. Whatever is “done” is false—never true.

Futility became visible to Bhartrihari; one day he set out into the forest—to search for himself. He had peered into the other and found nothing but his own desires, his own lusts projected; the other only served as a screen. So now—who is this hidden within from whom this whole magic, this entire enchantment arises? He set out to find that.

Then he attained the incomparable state of Samadhi and wrote his second set of aphorisms: the Vairagya Shataka. That too is wondrous. Just as the Shringara Shataka is matchless and unique, so is the Vairagya Shataka—matchless and unique. Such depth and height and dignity and majesty of vairagya none other has sung. But only one like Bhartrihari can sing thus. He who has known raga alone can know vairagya. He who has known darkness alone understands the meaning of light. He whose feet have been pierced by thorns alone can know the tenderness of flowers. He who has drunk poison alone can recognize the taste of nectar.

One day Bhartrihari sat in the forest—beneath a tree, upon a rock—silent, still, absorbed in meditation. A horseman passed by. The thud of hooves opened his eyes. He saw: the horseman had flown by like the wind, but from his saddlebag a precious diamond had fallen and lay before Bhartrihari.

Unconsciousness is very subtle. For a moment a desire arose in Bhartrihari to pick it up. Just for a moment! A thrill—“How lovely it is! It looks precious.” He was a connoisseur of diamonds; born among them; had lived among them. He had seen many jewels, but this diamond seemed extraordinary. “Pick it up.” Then he laughed: “I have left all my own jewels behind—why? And here I am, about to pick up a stranger’s fallen gem. Again the same net! Again entry into the inn! Again the eagerness to bind myself in some foolishness!” He laughed at himself. Remember: he who laughs at others is unwise; he who laughs at himself—his is intelligence; his is Buddhahood.

He laughed, smiled, watched the cunning of the mind—saw how ready the mind still was to swoon. He was becoming intoxicated watching these tricks of mind, witnessing the mind—just then from both sides two horsemen arrived. Both their eyes fell upon the diamond at once. It was such a gem that eyes could not pass without being caught. In the morning sun its brilliance was unique. Around it, as if a rainbow had been woven—the rays returning from it—dazzling. Both saw it at once. Both drew their swords, planted them by the stone, and each claimed, “My eyes fell first, so the diamond is mine!” And Bhartrihari watched. He began to laugh even more—“The play is thickening! Now it grows dangerous!” It took no time—the swords flashed. They struck into each other’s chests. In a short while both horsemen lay dead upon the ground. The diamond lay where it was. Bhartrihari laughed and closed his eyes. “Good that I did not pick it up—else this would have been my fate. My gaze fell first; I would have been embroiled.”

And Bhartrihari said, “The poor diamond has no inkling that two men came and went. And how much ‘mine-ness’ they poured upon it, so much so that they gave their lives. And the diamond knows nothing—it will not even thank them. If one meets that diamond again it will not recognize them.” In that moment, if any subtle trace of desire remained hidden in Bhartrihari, it too vanished.

Maya, you are dear to the world…

Paltu says: The whole world is enchanted with your love.

…but you are of no use to us.

You are of no use to us. We have awakened. We have seen your true face.

Into the courtyard of my eyes I will pour water in cupped palms and lay upon you a curse—
Be quiet, enemy—be quiet.
You, go sail your paper boats,
Bathe your mind in delusions if you must—
But my Beloved is a trickster indeed,
A master diver of the depths—
Cast the net if you please, but do not yourself be caught
By the fever of the flute’s nectar.
Do not endure it, enemy—do not be swept away.

Without water when does the lotus bloom?
When does the thirsty one receive water?
This rose’s hue will mix with dust—
Only do not fall into forgetfulness.
Look at my wedded veil of auspicious vermilion—
Go measure your own path.
Hear, you deaf one—do not collapse.

Some have gods of gold,
I am their queen of silver—
Fragrance adorned touches the touchstone,
And water becomes nectar.
Do not be willful, poor silly one—
Do not intoxicate yourself with your own waters.
Listen, enemy—do not speak.

Sail your paper boats,
Bathe your mind in delusions if you must—
But my Beloved is a trickster indeed,
A master diver of the depths—
Cast the net if you please, but do not yourself be caught
By the fever of the flute’s nectar.
Do not endure it, enemy—do not be swept away.
Into the courtyard of my eyes I will pour water in cupped palms and lay upon you a curse—
Be quiet, enemy—be quiet.

Once it begins to be seen, all boats are of paper and all houses are built of sand. And all dreams are lines drawn upon water. And how we run, how we toil, how much we lose—in the hope of gaining something! And we go empty-handed. And it is not that nothing can be earned; much can be gained—but our direction is wrong.

Paltu says:

Away from the doorway, maid—do not enter the house.

He says to maya: Move on! Move ahead! I will no longer sail paper boats. I will not build houses in sand. I will not plant my desires upon water-bubbles. Move on! As one says to beggars, “Move on!”

And he calls maya a maidservant. Ordinarily, man is the servant of maya. People serve maya—be it wealth, position, prestige—whatever be the name of your maya, it matters not—you are engaged in service. But those who awaken—even a little—come to see: We are the masters. We are part of the Master; we can only be masters.

The Upanishads say: From that Whole, take the Whole, yet the Whole remains. From the Fullness remove the Fullness, Fullness remains behind.

We are part of that Master—not just part; the Master is such that He cannot be parted. Whenever we come from that Master, the entire Master is within us.

P. D. Ouspensky, in his significant book Tertium Organum, has written that there are two kinds of mathematics in the world. Ordinary mathematics. Its fundamental rule: the part is always smaller than the whole. Naturally, a piece of something will be smaller than the entire thing. Pluck a leaf—it will be smaller than the tree. Tear a petal—it will be smaller than the flower. This is ordinary mathematics, says Ouspensky. And he says there is another mathematics—the great mathematics, the trans-empirical mathematics.

When the Upanishads say: From the Fullness take the Fullness, yet the Fullness remains, and when you add the Fullness to the Fullness it neither increases nor decreases—this is talk of another mathematics.

Ouspensky says: The rule of that other mathematics is—part equals whole; not smaller. By ordinary math the drop is smaller than the ocean—very small; by the great mathematics the ocean is contained in the drop; the drop equals the ocean. For the law that reigns over the ocean reigns over the drop. Do not be deceived by size or appearance—these are superficial. Grasp the inner law, peer into the inner mystery. In a single drop the entire mystery of water is hidden. If we fully know one drop, we have known all the seas of the world. More: those who have gone deep say that if we fully know one drop, we have known the whole existence—because the secret of all secrets is hidden in the drop.

Recognize a single petal of a flower, and you have recognized the whole cosmos—for in a single petal the whole universe is contained; the whole universe has given its hand, its donation. The sun has given something, the ocean something, the moon something, the stars something. All have donated, thus the flower is formed.

And if, taking the Fullness from the Fullness, the Fullness remains—then there is no hindrance. We are masters because we are of the Master. And we are wholly the Master. We are not merely a part; we are the whole. Hence the Upanishads could declare: Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman! Hence Mansoor could cry: An-al-Haq—I am the Truth! I am Paramatma! Hence Jesus could say: Between me and my Father there is no difference; we are one, two names of the same one.

Away from the doorway, maid…

O maidservant, move away from the gate!

…do not enter the house.

Listen—do not enter the house! Here I am the master. Paltu says: I am the master. There is no path here for you. Go where slaves are. Go where people are eager to press your feet. I have seen you. These shadows can no longer delude me.

Maya stands before me, kohl in her eyes.

Yet maya will allure you—she will apply kohl to her eyes, stand before you, always a step ahead. You turn left, she stands left; you go right, she is right—always before you—seducing.

Maya stands before me, kohl in her eyes;
She dances, she sings, she displays emotions—
And fills her parting with pearls.

She will fill the parting of her hair with pearls, assume beautiful forms, dance and sing, display many charms. And here is the whole fun: these are all your mind’s games. Those pearls—you are filling the parting yourself. That dance and song—you are putting them in her. The beauty of maya is the creation of your imagination. But the mistake in understanding is big—because the projector lies behind.

When you watch a film, your eyes are fixed upon the screen, but the real play is not on the screen; it is behind. On the wall behind you, where your back faces, the projector plays; from there the play proceeds. Each person’s mind is a projector—a machine of projection. The play appears in front. Hence you are deluded that the play must be happening where it appears. But your mind is spreading the entire play. Those who have utterly stilled the mind are astonished—when the mind becomes silent, the whole play disappears! Maya dissolves! But this mistake is natural—your eyes are fixed forward, hence you misunderstand.

A young man, Chandulal, returned from the city to his village during summer vacation. He befriended a village girl. Slowly the relationship deepened; meetings increased. One evening they strolled in the fields. Nearby a cow and calf rubbed their faces together. Pointing toward them, Chandulal, shy and trembling, said to his beloved, “Do not mind, but my heart too longs to do the same.”

The girl replied, “What is there to mind! And why so afraid? Do it at your pleasure. After all, that cow belongs to my uncle—what is there to be ashamed of?”

Chandulal was saying something; his beloved understood something else. One thing is, another is understood. This is maya, this is the delusion, this is our wandering.

Maya weeps, beating her chest, but I cannot be found even a little unmindful.
Whenever I look, I look from knowledge and meditation—
How to strike her down!

If you will not yield to her singing and dancing, then maya will weep; she will beat her chest.

Maya weeps, rolling on the ground…

She will thrash and tumble, fall again and again. But Paltu says: there is no way you can entangle me—not by your dance, not by your song, not by your crying, not by your falling in a tantrum. I know these are all games of my own mind; therefore I am not heedless. I am filled with awareness. I am awake. Do all your tricks; show all your play. I know very well these are all my fabrications. I sowed these seeds in the past which have now stood as a harvest.

In front of a government ration shop stood a large crowd. A man holding a large bag under his arm kept trying to push through. But a crowd is a crowd—how can one pass through! Again and again they shoved him back. After three hours of this, exhausted, he addressed the crowd: “Brothers and sisters, if you do not let me go to the front, then hear me—I tell you plainly, the shop will remain closed again today. Because, after all, who will open it but me?”

He was the manager; without him the shop could not open.

The key of maya lies with your mind. You just set the mind aside, and then however much maya tries, the shop cannot open. The key of maya is within you—this is our good fortune! Had the key been with another, there would perhaps be no possibility of liberation in this world. Then even liberation would have been a kind of slavery; we would be free only if another freed us. But because the key is within, it is our choice. If we wish we remain slaves; if we wish we become masters.

Paltu says: We have become masters; thus your force no longer works upon us.

Whenever I look, I look from knowledge and meditation—
How to strike you down!

I behold you from the realm of knowledge and Dhyan. I am steady in the witness. And in my witnessing there is but one concern: how to strike you down once and for all—so that your rising becomes impossible. This much has happened: I have awakened and you no longer deceive me; but this has not yet happened—that you cease to come. Half-awake I am.

A little, little—like sometimes in the morning—your state: neither asleep nor awake. A bit awake—the sounds of a passerby reach you; the noises of children preparing for school; the kettle sounds in the kitchen as your wife makes tea; the aroma of tea reaches your nostrils; the rays of the morning sun touch your face, their warmth felt. Then you turn upon your side and sleep again: “Just five, ten minutes more.” Not asleep, not awake.

The state of meditation means: neither asleep nor awake—the old wakefulness. And Samadhi means: fully awake. Samadhi is such a totality of meditation that from it one can no longer fall back. But from meditation you will often slip. While remembering, you will forget.

“My wife,” Mulla Nasruddin said to me, “doesn’t think I’m a man, not even an animal, but a crawling insect. She often calls me a fly, a mosquito, a cockroach, even a beetle. And when very angry, she calls me an ant, a louse, even a termite. Lately she has started calling me a flea.”

“What a nasty woman,” I said, “in such a bad situation, what do you do?”

“What can I do?” Nasruddin replied fearfully. “I simply make sure we have no DDT or Flit in the house—lest she spray and finish me off. And when the malaria men come to spray, I bribe them ten or fifteen rupees to go away.”

If a wife says such things a whole lifetime, you begin to believe it. You get hypnotized. The repetitive assertion of anything makes us believe it.

In the same way you have come to believe in maya. It is a repetitive chant of lifetimes. From beginningless time your mind has been repeating—more wealth, more position, more prestige, more fame! The tune of more-more is on. Twenty-four hours it frets for more. Listening again and again, you have become hypnotized. Maya is hypnosis—a kind of trance—that through repetition has begun to appear true. Now not only the wife believes Nasruddin is a flea—Nasruddin believes it too—and he is frightened, terrified.

This hypnosis of yours—maya—the effort of the sages has always been just this: how to shake you! How to stir you so deeply that this fixed hypnosis breaks! How to de-hypnotize you! Therefore the awakened ones have continuously cried—whether you listen or not, they have called; whether you agree or not; whether you crucify them or throw stones—they remain drunk with their tune, calling you on. For they see that only your belief has created the obstruction.

Once a man was brought to me. His mind had become somewhat deranged. He had the delusion that two flies had entered his body because he sleeps with his mouth open, and two flies had flown in—and now they would not come out. They buzz inside—here in the belly, then in the head, then they enter the leg. What can doctors do! He was taken to many; much treatment was tried. What treatment can there be? If there were a disease, it could be treated. Maya is not a disease; hence it has no medicine. The family was in despair. His wife brought him to me: “We have nowhere else to go. We are troubled to the end. You must do something.”

I said, “This is my craft. You have come to the right place. My work is to free people from flies.”

She said, “Are there others like this? I thought only my husband suffers this disease.”

I said, “Do not worry. All husbands have it. Wives too have it. First I will free him; then I will free you.”

“But I,” she said, “have no such thing.”

“You did not understand,” I said. “There are different kinds of flies. The disease comes in many ways.”

“Whatever it is,” she said, “do not speak metaphysics—just free my husband from these two flies.”

The husband said, “It is very difficult. How much treatment has been tried! I am fed up drinking medicines. I swallow them and the flies go to the head. How will medicine chase flies!”

I said, “Do not worry.” I told him, “Lie down on the bed, close your eyes. These flies are clear to me.”

He said, “You are the first man. All these doctors have said it is only imagination.”

“Fools!” I said. “Are flies ever imagination? They are clearly visible buzzing within you!”

He said, “Give me your hand. You are the first man I trust. Perhaps you can do something. When they say the flies do not exist—how will they treat me! They doubt me, while these flies are taking my life—neither can I sleep nor sit nor work—their buzzing, their whirring—while I am so troubled, these gentlemen offer wisdom: there are no flies; it is mind’s fancy. Fancy! Am I mad?”

The mad never accept they are mad.

“You are not mad,” I said. “You are perfectly sensible. You are even counting correctly—two flies, precisely two. Now lie down. I tied a bandage over his eyes. ‘You rest,’ I said, ‘I will try to catch the flies.’” Sometimes I pressed his foot, sometimes his belly. He was delighted that someone finally believes. Sometimes I placed my hand upon his head.

He said, “Yes, yes—exactly here.”

Then I ran into the house. I thought: somehow I must catch two flies. I had never tried to catch flies! With difficulty—at a neighbor’s house I found them. He had a bottle of hair oil he sometimes kept in the sun to warm in winter; I used to see flies stuck there. I asked him to give me those two flies. I brought them back, sealed them in a little glass, muttered some spells. Then I opened the patient’s bandage and handed him the bottle. He said, “Now this is something! Here are the flies!” He called his wife: “Foolish woman—three years you have eaten my life saying, ‘Let go, there are no flies.’ Now where did these come from?”

I told the wife, “Say nothing. Admit our mistake.” The man was cured. The flies gone; the buzzing gone; the trouble ended.

Many times, the awakened have had to invent strange devices for you, because your disease is fundamentally false. Hence no device is truly real. All Buddhas have said: one day even the device must be dropped, because it is only to remove your false disease—like removing a thorn with another thorn; then throw both away.

Paltu says:

Maya weeps, beating her chest, yet I am not found even a little unmindful.

I only keep this much in mind—that I not find myself even a little heedless; for the moment I am heedless, maya takes hold. If I remain aware, maya does not possess me.

Whenever I look, I look from knowledge and meditation—
How to strike her down.

Only one remembrance abides, one insistence—that a blazing light arise within me that never goes out; that such a flame of knowledge, of Dhyan, ignite that in its light this maya cannot be manufactured again. It can only be forged in darkness. And so long as darkness remains, save yourself as you may—you will not be able to save yourself.

Chandulal had filed for divorce. In the petition he complained that for the past thirty years his wife had kept throwing things at him—rolling pin, vase, plate, and so on. The magistrate said, “Your complaint makes sense. Wives do such things, I know—I am married too. But for thirty years she has been throwing rolling pins, vases, all sorts of things—and you file for divorce today?”

Chandulal said, “What to do, sir! Before, when she threw the rolling pin etc., her aim would miss; but since yesterday her aim has become absolutely accurate. Now living with her is impossible. When I am awake I save my head—jump aside. But she throws when I am asleep too. And her aim is accurate. I cannot carry on.”

If you are asleep and someone’s aim is sure, there is no way to save yourself. Such is the situation. Divorce maya. The name of divorce from maya is sannyas. And what does divorce from maya mean? Not that you run away to the forest. Maya’s arrows will reach the forest too if you are asleep. Maya’s spread is vast—her arrows travel far. The question is not of running; the question is of waking. Wake up where you are and no arrow of maya can reach you. Maya dies. The moment you awaken, maya dies. As long as you sleep, maya lives. Your slumber is maya.

Hence Buddha has said: Unconsciousness is maya. Not the world—unconsciousness. Mahavira has said: Sleep is maya. Not the world—sleep.

She sends me Riddhi and Siddhi like gold, to make me slip.

And he says: As my meditation steadies, maya raises new obstacles—she sends Riddhi and Siddhi. Now subtler means are sought. Now she does not send money—I have seen its futility. Now she does not send position—its futility is seen. Now Riddhis and Siddhis begin to come—powers to touch earth and turn it to gold, to touch a corpse and make it rise.

Paltu says: I recognize well—these too are maya’s ultimate nets. If I get entangled here, I will fall again. All heights lost. Back to where I began.

Mind uses every means to save itself. Riddhi-Siddhis are strategies to save the mind. Very subtle means. So pleasing, so sweet, so delicious that one does not wish to drop them. Even when mind gives poison it sugars it—soaks it in sugar.

She sends me Riddhi and Siddhi like gold, to make me slip—
To shake me, to wobble me, to disturb my meditation, to raise waves upon my motionless lake—now these Riddhis and Siddhis arise.

Your rule runs in the three worlds, but not in this house.

Keep in mind—perhaps in the three worlds your empire will spread; but in this house your arrow will not strike. Riddhi-Siddhi will not deceive me.

Therefore a true sadhu does not perform miracles—only false sadhus do. A true sadhu cannot, because to perform a miracle means he has fallen from Samadhi. He missed at the very peak—almost touching the summit, he wandered astray. Again the ego of Riddhi-Siddhi will arise.

Your rule runs in the three worlds, but not in this house.

Paltu says: Know this too—your arrow will not fly here. In this house you have no movement. Let your rule run in the three worlds—know that—but here, it will not.

Will you make me dance, O maya?

A lovely utterance. He says: Will you make me dance!

…I am a great dancer.

I have made many dance. My business has been to make others dance. This is my work, my trade. How will you make me dance?

Your bargain has no place here—

Here your deal will not run.

…I am Paltu, the trader.

Know this! I am Paltu the merchant. I have made many dance. I know all the tricks. What trick is there that I have not done? What fraud is there I have not committed? What deceit have I not practiced?

…I am Paltu, the trader.

I have done all this commerce, for births upon births. I am not a simple brahmin, sitting with prayer and ritual. I have gambled all the games.

A sweet truth he speaks. I have done all trades, all jugglery. You will not be able to make me dance.

That is why I say to you: Do not run from life—else maya will catch you anywhere. You will remain raw; you will not have experience of maya’s nets. Live in the world rightly and recognize all the plays of maya. The world is the supreme opportunity to recognize maya’s games. Do not escape. Become so capable that you too can one day say: I am the great dancer! I have made the great ones dance—you will not make me dance.

Your bargain has no place here—I am Paltu, the trader.

A bundle of sins upon the brahmin’s head—you have bewildered them all.

You have led all astray—even the brahmin brother. He is simple, innocent—never deceived anyone; a bookworm, chanting Vedic hymns by rote.

A bundle of sins upon the brahmin’s head—you have bewildered them all.

And upon the brahmin’s head you placed a sack of sin. Your trick worked on him too.

He fixes auspicious timings for the village, matches horoscopes; yet at home his daughter sits a widow.

He, who examines time and fate for others, guiding the whole village—he too is deluded.

He plants the fool on arithmetic of planetary houses…

By tallying horoscopes, concocting birth charts, matching stars—

…while his own daughter sits widowed in the kitchen.

He shows planets to all, yet cannot free himself from his own planets.

He tells others that planets afflict them; he himself is caught in planetary afflictions, unable to escape. The poor fellow is naïve. His scholarship is hollow. Perhaps you deceived him. But—

Your bargain has no place here—I am Paltu, the trader.

Here your tricks will not work. If you are a pound, I am twenty ounces. I will recognize your every deception—for I have committed every deception. What trick is there I have not played! I have picked many a pocket. Now, move on!

In a city two villagers walked down the middle of the road. The policeman at the crossing said, “Walk on the side.” They stepped onto the footpath and said, “Strange man—he himself stands in the middle of the road and tells us to walk on the footpath!”

Such is the state of your brahmin. Who will listen to him! People do see his own state is miserable—he himself begs from door to door. He has not improved his own life and keeps advising others. But when people like Paltu are transformed, then people do listen—because they come ripened with experience. The pundit only speaks formalities—mere words—without substance; and because of ritual he is in trouble and drags others into trouble.

Mulla Nasruddin had a guest, Miya Badruddin, from Lucknow. In the morning both needed to visit the toilet. With etiquette Nasruddin said, “First you.” Badruddin would not be left behind—“No, first you.” “No, first you.” “No, dear sir, first you.” Then Nasruddin said calmly, “Friend, mine is already done right here—now you please go.”

Formalities—“First you, first you.” No one has any real purpose, but the words continue—since always accepted, thus carried on.

The pundit has nothing but formalities. No awakening, no experience, no meditation. Where there is no meditation, how can there be knowledge? Knowledge is the fragrance of meditation. It is the music that arises on the veena of Dhyan.

Knowledge is not obtained from scriptures; it comes from entering oneself. Learn as much as you like of the Quran, the Bible, the Puranas, the Vedas, the Upanishads—nothing will happen. But if you know yourself, then you will find much in the Quran—for it is the utterance of one who knew himself. Then you will find much in the Gita. But the first glimpse must arise within. The first ray must break within. If there is a lamp in your hand, you will find treasures in the Gita—treasures are there; but without a lamp, what will you find! If you lack the jeweler’s eye, even if diamonds and gems are placed before you, what will you do? You will not recognize them. If you are blind, then it is most difficult—and that is your condition: blind, not a jeweler, without a lamp—and you are searching!

Philosophy is thus defined: A blind man, on a moonless night, in a house with no lamp, searches for a black cat—which is not even there. Blind—and a moonless night—and no lamp—and a black cat—and the cat is not there! If it were, at least somehow there could be a meeting—if the blind man did not find the cat, the cat might find the blind man. But the cat is not even there.

Philosophy is just this. All scholarship is like this. Hollow. Its hollowness comes from a wrong beginning—from the other; borrowed. Accept Krishna, accept Buddha, accept Mahavira—and forget altogether that you exist. Become a Jain, a Christian, a Muslim—and forget that you are Atman, neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian.

He shows planets to all, yet cannot free himself from his own planets.

For liberation people accept these pundits and priests as guides; they know nothing of their own liberation. They do not know the secret. They do not know the key. They are more bound than you.

They say to others, “Be blessed,” while they themselves suffer in sorrow.

Bow to the brahmin and he says, “Be blessed!” Look at his face. If seeing his face brings blessing, then stay. He says, “Be blessed!”

In my village a teacher taught Sanskrit. His habit: you greet him, he says, “Blessings!” The first day I joined his class, I bowed and he said, “Blessings!” I said, “Sir, has yours happened?” He said, “Is that something to ask?” I said, “If yours has not happened, how will you arrange mine?” He called me aside: “We do not speak like this before everyone. It is merely a formality.” I said, “Then I will stop bowing—you at least do not lie to me. When yours has not happened, how will you do mine?” Whenever I greeted him, he became restless—the habit was so fixed—like a gramophone record. He would hesitate—what to do—“Blessings” would rise to his lips, but he knew I would catch him.

One day I told a small child playing in the school ground: “Stand by me. Here comes the pundit. Bow to him.” The child bowed. Instantly the pundit said, “Blessings!” I said, “Wait—you are blessing again!” He said, “Will you stop me from speaking altogether? I have begun to fear you. You greet me and I am in a fix—what to do!” I said, “All my obstruction aims simply to remind you that your blessing has not happened yet. First bless yourself. Then share. Share, indeed—what else is more worthy to share than blessing!”

They say to others, “Be blessed,” while they themselves suffer in sorrow.

Without experience themselves they distribute experience to others!

Mulla Nasruddin and his friends went to the cinema. It was rainy. All wore raincoats, standing in a long queue. Dhabbuji turned and said to Mulla, “I must pee badly. If I leave the queue for the bathroom, I will have to stand at the back—then it will be difficult to get a ticket. If I do not go, I fear my clothes will get spoiled. What a predicament!”

“Follow my advice,” said Mulla. “Release the water into the pocket of Chandulal’s raincoat in front.”

Dhabbuji smiled, “And if he finds out?”

“No one finds out,” Mulla said. “Besides—it’s raining so hard!”

“Don’t joke,” said Dhabbuji. “If this Chandulal finds out there will be a lot of trouble. I am afraid.”

“Friend,” said Nasruddin, “you are truly a Dhabbu! Do not worry—do as I say. I speak from experience—when I peed into your raincoat pocket, did you find out? Why fear?”

When one speaks from his own experience there is force in the word. The pundit’s word has no force; it cannot. He must seek witness outside. The knower stands as his own witness. If he cites scripture it is to bear witness to scripture—not to take scripture’s witness.

If I sometimes cite the Gita, the Quran, or the Bible, it is not that my word gains strength from theirs. My word is my experience. Whether Quran, Bible, Gita existed or not—if all were burnt to ashes—it would not affect my word. Its force would remain the same. If I quote them, I am not taking their witness; I am giving them witness. But when a pundit quotes, he takes their witness—he has nothing of his own. Take the Gita away from him and he becomes stark ignorant. His life is in the Gita. Twist the Gita and his life is twisted.

Your life should not be in scriptures—else you will wander all your life. Root your life in experience.

They give milk to others’ children, while themselves begging from door to door.

They themselves beg and bless others.

He who understands Paltu’s word—even the blind will then see.

A wondrous statement. Keep this sutra safely:

He who understands Paltu’s word—even the blind will then see.

Paltu says: Those whom the world calls “eyes” are blind—their eyes open only outward. In my reckoning they are all blind. He alone is “sighted” who closes his eyes to the outside—who becomes blind to the outer—he begins to see within.

And what is meditation? Becoming blind to the outside—so that all the life-energy, all the capacity to see, turns inward; so that the light that fell upon objects begins to fall upon oneself—the capacity to see oneself by one’s own flame. Until now your lamp has searched others, the world. But beneath the lamp—darkness. With that lamp you search everywhere, and beneath the lamp darkness gathers. Now this flame must turn inward.

In the world’s eyes become blind. Close your eyes, embark on the inner journey. People will call you mad, insane, possessed—blind—say what they will. Do not worry. Only those few who dare become blind to the outside come to know themselves. And the one who, knowing himself, opens his eyes again, sees this entire world filled with himself—then in the cuckoo’s call it is his own throat; in the fragrance of the flower it is his own perfume; in the height of the mountains his own height; in the depth of oceans his own depth. Then all existence is felt as one’s own expansion: Aham Brahmasmi! An-al-Haq!

Your good sense has been stolen, O pandit, O brahmin!

Your sense has been utterly robbed, O pandit, O brahmin!

You claim to be the highest among castes, yet your deeds are of a butcher.

You claim, “We are supreme among all castes,” but what you do is a butcher’s work—worse than a butcher. A butcher slaughters animals; you slaughter people. He commits small violence; you commit such great violence by deceiving people that you ruin the journeys of their births.

Your mind is utterly robbed—maya has thoroughly deluded you, O pandit, O brahmin!

You claim to be highest among castes yet do the butcher’s work.

You kill the soul and wash the body; not a trace of pain do you feel.

You feel no pain, no sorrow—you go on deceiving; deceived yourself, you deceive others. Yourself trapped in maya, yet you preach Brahma-knowledge to others. This is killing the soul; this is destroying people’s Atman.

Hearing the name of Rama gives you fever, yet you worship Durga and Chandi.

The true remembrance of God never comes to you. If someone tries to awaken it in you, fever arises.

The sight of Buddhas has always given pundits fever. In fever they rave. Recently two Shankaracharyas began to speak against me—delirium! Fever! Many letters came to me to reply. But does one reply to the words of a fevered man? If someone babbles in delirium, do we answer him?

Hearing the name of Rama gives you fever, yet you worship Durga and Chandi.

When one arises who can distribute Rama freely, you panic—because your profession, your business, your plunder is at stake. Your prestige, your worship, will vanish. When one arises who begins to pour Rama, you are frightened. What of your temples—who will come to your temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras? You keep people engaged in worshiping Durga, Chandi and so on—in useless prattle. Perform yajnas—there will be rain. Perform yajnas—there will not be excessive rain. Perform yajnas—disease will vanish.

For five thousand years you have been doing yajnas—yet in this country as many calamities occur as nowhere else. If this is the fruit of five thousand years of yajnas and rituals, then one thing is proved: God is very annoyed by your yajnas—greatly disturbed.

A man died who all his life prayed—morning, evening, noon. Whenever there was time he chanted “Rama-Rama,” counting on his rosary when the tongue could not chant. His business partner never went to a temple, never took God’s name, never touched a rosary. Both died together in a car accident. Angels came—to take the rosary-man to hell, and the partner to heaven. The devotee said, “Wait—some mistake is happening! We thought only in government offices mistakes occur—here too? Do you not see my Rama-cloth, my rosary, my chanting? A lifetime of Rama—and hell for me? And heaven for this scoundrel—an atheist?”

The angels said, “No mistake. But if you have a complaint we will present you both before God.” He said, “Do that.” He said to God, “What injustice! We always heard: there may be delay but no darkness. But darkness is here. Heaven for an atheist and hell for a theist? What is the reason?”

God said, “You have eaten my head! Your whole life you never slept nor let me sleep. If someone sits beside you chanting your name, how will you sleep? I will not let you stay in heaven. If you insist, you remain—I will go to hell! Better to live there than with you; at least we can sleep after a day’s work. No buzzing in the skull—Rama-Rama. And this Rama-cloth, your rosary—because of all this I am sending you to hell. You and I cannot live together.”

So it seems. Five thousand years of yajnas, havans, pujas—and this country sees more floods than any other, more drought than any other, more dams break than anywhere, more trains derail than anywhere. God seems very upset.

Hearing the name of Rama gives you fever, yet you worship Durga and Chandi.

You worship imaginary gods—creations of man’s mind. But the witnessing Paramatma hidden within—if anyone reminds you of Him, you panic.

Long tilak on the forehead, sacred thread on the shoulder—of the heron’s tribe, a hypocrite.

You belong to the tribe of herons, O pandit, O brahmin. Outwardly you appear pure white, like a swan—but you are a heron. You stand on one leg, but your gaze is fixed upon the fish. From the outside you look very godly, but inside—nothing; there is no connection with Rama at all.

You eat goat, sheep, fish—why spare the cow?

It is a wonder—you eat goat, sheep, fish. Why have you spared the cow? That too you spared very late; earlier brahmins even ate cow—gomeadha yajnas were performed. Later they spared her—because the cow proved useful for agriculture. People must have made them spare her then.

Know that in India a common belief exists—even outside India—that brahmins are vegetarian. It is untrue. They should be—but are not. Bengali brahmins eat fish with relish. Kashmiri brahmins eat everything—hence Pandit Nehru was non-vegetarian, being a Kashmiri brahmin. If you take a tally across India, you will be shocked—they cannot be called vegetarian.

You eat goat, sheep, fish—why spare the cow?

Blood and flesh are the same, O pandit—shame upon your brahminhood!

Such people—how can brahmins not be annoyed? How will Shankaracharyas not get fever! “Shame upon your brahminhood!” He spits upon it.

Know one Lord in every heart—this is your good.

If you want your own good, awaken even now. Recognize—one Lord abides in every heart—in the shudra as in you. Paramatma is not only in brahmins and Hindus—He pervades all. Recognize this One, all-pervading.

Know one Lord in every heart—this is your good.

Understand and contemplate the Bhagavad Gita—Paltu makes this entreaty.

Paltu says: Then understand the Gita. Then I entreat you—now understand the Gita, now study it, now contemplate. But first meditation. Recognize the One; then you will be able to recognize the Gita. For now, parrot it if you will—of no use.

Knowledge does not come from scriptures; but once knowledge arises, scriptures contain wondrous wealth. Without self-knowledge, the meanings you draw from scriptures turn into mis-meanings.

Mulla Nasruddin saw a car rolling downhill. He applied all his strength and stopped it—was dragged a few steps, but he did not give up and finally stopped the car. Soon a man came from behind, sweating. “Who stopped the car?” he asked.

Nasruddin puffed his chest with pride. “Who else but me! When I saw the car rolling away, I put in all my might and stopped it.”

The man said, “You idiot! I was pushing it down—and you ruined everything. Who asked you to stop it?”

But Nasruddin had stopped it out of compassion—thinking it is rolling without a driver. He did not consider someone might be pushing it from behind.

If you look at scripture from the front, you will catch only words. Look a little: who is hidden behind? Behind the Gita stands Krishna; until you attain a Krishna-like consciousness, the Gita will not be understood. Behind the Bible stands Christ; behind the Dhammapada stands Buddha. Who stands behind? Become as he is. Paltu says: We have no quarrel with scripture. If we have any quarrel, it is with your hollow scholarship that has failed to awaken consciousness and busied itself collecting words. Collect words as you will…

But this country has great faith in words—not in truths, but in words.

Mahatma Gandhi called the untouchable “Harijan,” and the problem was solved! As if problems are solved by changing words. Earlier untouchables were burned; now harijans are burned. If the untouchable was not spared, why spare the harijan?

Even the word “untouchable” is not bad—it can be given a noble meaning. We call God: invisible, ineffable, indescribable, untouchable. He too can be called “untouchable”—one whom none can touch. The word had nothing wrong. It was changed to harijan—and it seemed the problem solved.

We are great experts at solving problems!—our cleverness knows no bounds.

Recently Morarji Desai suggested to the chief of the RSS that instead of saying “Hindu nation,” say “Bharatiya nation”—then there will be no difficulty. He promptly accepted—what difficulty is there! Do not say “Hindu nation,” say “Bharat nation.” The problem is solved! As if it is so easy: just change a word and inside the same man sits, the same game goes on. From “Hindu nation” to “Bharat nation”—and no obstacle. The truth is “Bharat nation” is even more Hindu a word. “Hindu” is not even a Hindu word—foreigners gave it. When the Greeks first came and crossed the Sindhu river, in their language the sound ‘s’ becomes ‘h,’ so Sindhu became Hindu. Those who lived by that river were called Hindus. When the Persians came, in their tongue Sindhu became Indu; hence the Indus River, India. All these words derive from the Sindhu river—made by others. They have nothing to do with Hindus. The Hindu word of the Hindus is “Bharat.” Hence if Balasaheb Deoras agreed at once, do not be surprised. He must have been happy: “Even better—the Hindu word’s trouble gone; it was not ours anyway—barbarians gave it. Our word is ‘Bharat’; we will say ‘Bharat nation.’” And Morarji thought the problem solved. We think problems can be solved by changing words.

Near the Himalayas there is a wild cow. In Nehru’s time she created great havoc—her numbers swelled, she attacked fields, a very powerful wild cow. Hunters were told to shoot; prizes offered. But the word “cow” created a parliament uproar—“Cows cannot be killed; Hindus will be upset.” A wild cow! Then some clever one said, “Why call it a wild cow? Call it a wild horse.” The problem was solved. They renamed it “wild horse,” and the wild horses were culled—and Hindus raised no objection. Horses—who cares. But wild cow…

Now the fun is—the name changes nothing; the creature dying is the same. Call it wild horse or wild cow—no difference. Kill a Hindu and God dies; kill a Muslim and God dies—the One dies in both.

But we have come to trust in words. This country is crazed with words—and this is the result of pundits riding our chest for centuries, making us verbal. Free yourself of words.

Then, he says—

Understand and contemplate the Bhagavad Gita—Paltu entreats.

Then I will fold my hands and pray to you: now dive into the Gita. You will bring up great diamonds. Even the ocean does not hold so many jewels, so many pearls, as the Gita does. But it is available to him who has learned to dive in Dhyan. There is no path other than meditation.

Enough for today.