Kahe Hot Adheer #2

Yog Bhakti! We are all strangers here. No one has a home here. We are lodged in an inn. But because we have been lodged here quite long, a delusion arises as if the inn were our home.
The world is an inn, not a home. Our coming is from another realm, and we are to go to yet another realm. One who can keep just this much remembrance—even while staying in the inn it does not touch him. He becomes like a lotus in water. And to be like a lotus in water is sannyas. The unknowing run away from the world, and the unknowing also identify with it. The wise neither identify nor escape. Awake, they know only this: this is not our home. It is a night’s halt, a wayside shelter; when morning comes, we will fly away. If this sense remains constant, if this feeling deepens, then samadhi is not far, then moksha is not far, then the Divine is not far.
He spoke rightly when, asked by the monk, he said, “I am not from here.” Simple, straightforward words. They can bear a double meaning. The monk must have caught only the first meaning, because had he caught the second, he would not have been a monk; had he grasped the second, there would have been no need to be a monk. He must have thought, “He is not from this village.” That is why he asked again: “Where have you come from and where will you go?” Otherwise there was no need to ask—the matter was already said in the first reply.
In the language of Jain philosophy, Nigod is that dark night from which we are coming, and moksha is that luminous dawn toward which we are going. As the seers of the Upanishads prayed: “From darkness lead me to light.” What they called darkness, Mahavira called Nigod. And what they called light, the light-filled—that Mahavira called moksha, the supreme liberation.
Light is moksha; darkness is bondage. Darkness is bondage because in darkness the ego is created. Darkness is bondage because whatever we do in darkness goes wrong. We want to find the door, we hit the wall. We search for the path, we stumble. Those we want to love—we end up in quarrel with them; where is love! We set out to do virtue, sin happens.
You see, even when someone builds a temple for merit, he fixes a plaque with his own name on the temple! Then the temple no longer belongs to the Divine; it becomes an ornament for his ego. You will find Birla temples in every corner of the country. They are not Krishna’s temples, not Rama’s temples—they are Birla’s temples. What does “Birla temple” mean? Let the temple be of Rama, of Krishna, of Allah—fine. But the temple does not belong to the One enthroned within; it belongs to the one whose name is carved on the stone! He went to do virtue; sin happened—because whatever we do in darkness, confusion is certain.
Someone asked Mahavira, “Who is a muni?” Mahavira said, “Asutta muni.” The one whose sleep is broken, who is no longer asleep, who has come to awareness—that one is a muni. Asutta muni! It would be hard to find a sweeter aphorism. In a single sutra the essence of all scriptures has come, the teaching of all meditators has come, the fragrance of all the wise has come. Asutta muni! It’s direct and clear; it hardly needs explanation. The one who is not asleep is a muni.
Then the questioner asked, “Who then is an a-muni?” Mahavira said, “Do the math yourself: sutta a-muni—the one who is asleep is not a muni.”

Mahavira did not say that the one who goes naked, leaves house and home and goes to the forest is a muni. He said, the one who has dropped sleep. That is an exact exposition, a precise definition. Nor did he say that one who follows the Jain religion is a muni. Whoever awakens—whether Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Brahmin or Shudra—makes no difference. Whether a woman or a man—makes no difference. The issue is awakening. All who are asleep are a-muni. You can even run while asleep.

You must have often seen yourself running in your sleep too—often! But can a man running in sleep get anywhere? Where will he go? In the morning he will find himself on the same cot where he had lain down. Run all night, board trains, take flights; in the morning, when your eyes open, you’ll find yourself where you were. Running in sleep doesn’t take you anywhere.

And the wonder is that the awakened one does not have to move an inch—yet he arrives! Because the one who awakens comes to know that in awakening itself is the divine. The moment I awaken, I am the divine. The moment I fall asleep, I am the ego. The moment I awaken, I am the soul.

The munis must not have understood. Munis usually don’t understand much. I have seen many munis. “Muni” and “understanding”—these two don’t often go together.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing through a cemetery and saw a plaque on a grave. He stopped, startled, and said to his companion, “No, no, this cannot be!” The companion asked, “What cannot be?” Mulla said, “This plaque says, ‘Here lies a lawyer and an honest man.’ Two people can’t fit in such a small grave!” The statement was, of course, about one person—a lawyer who was also an honest man. But Mulla said, “Two people can’t be here. A lawyer and honest—both in one? Impossible! There must be two. And two people can’t fit in such a small grave!”

“Muni” and “understanding”—two persons in one! Ordinarily it doesn’t happen. Munis are those who, asleep, were in the world; and because they got battered badly while asleep, they ran away. But where will you run? Awaken! Running will do nothing. Run as much as you will, your inner darkness will run along with you. How will your unconsciousness drop? You can leave your shop, the market, your home, your wife and children, because they are “other”; but your stupor is your own, your darkness is your own. It is not as if you married darkness. Darkness dwells within you. Wherever you go, your darkness will go along.

A crow was flying helter-skelter. A cuckoo asked, “Uncle, where are you going, so early, so fast?” He said, “I’m leaving this land for another—leaving the East for the West, going abroad.” “Why?” asked the cuckoo. The crow said, “People here don’t understand my music.” The cuckoo replied, “Better you change your music. In the West too no one will understand. Nowhere will anyone understand.”

“Crow” is perhaps the one name in many languages that is based on its caw. In Hindi we say kaua, because it says kaan-kaan; in English they say crow—the same caw-caw.

The cuckoo said, “It would be better to change the music—change yourself. Changing countries won’t help. Escapees change countries. And inside? As they were, so they remain. Often the inner state becomes worse, because changing countries thickens the ego; the stiffness strengthens; the pride gets a new edge.

“That’s why your so-called munis, sadhus, mahatmas are often more egoistic than anyone else. Their ego is of another order! Their ego touches the peak. Their ego is not a common house—it’s a Taj Mahal!”

The munis did not understand. So they asked again, “Where have you come from and where will you go?” My father was a simple man. In that very simplicity is hidden saintliness. In that simplicity he replied, “I have come from nigoda and I will go to moksha.”

Nigoda is the realm of darkness, of stupor, of sleep—where one has not even the news of oneself; where the darkness is so dense you can’t see your own hand; a night of no-moon covering the soul. Sun and stars are far; not even a flickering lamp is lit, not even a tiny candle is available. In Jain philosophy, that state is called nigoda.

And moksha means where everything is illumined, dawn has come, the sun has risen—the inner sun, the inner morning! And as soon as the inner light begins to manifest, the ego melts as an ice cube melts on seeing the morning sun. The ego evaporates as dewdrops sparkling on leaves vanish in the morning sun. The sense of “I-as-somebody” disappears, and only then the true being arises. Ego dissolves; the soul is born. That state is supreme freedom.

There are two kinds of religion in the world. Three religions took birth in India, and three outside India. Those born outside India—Jewish, Muslim, Christian—are a bit gross; they could not take such height. There are reasons. One, they have not had the time to rise so high. Height needs time. Indian religion is at least ten thousand years old. Christianity is only nineteen hundred years old. Judaism is about three thousand. Islam is only fourteen hundred years old. They have not had the long span of time needed; thus they could not rise very high. The final height they reach stalls at heaven and hell. Therefore in these three Western religions there is nothing beyond heaven and hell. Do virtue and you’ll gain heaven; do sin and you’ll fall into hell. This makes these three religions ethical—but not truly spiritual.

Hence you’ll notice a strange thing: the Western person is more ethical—more ethical than you. If he gives his word, he will keep it. He stands by his word. He will give even his life if needed. You say, “I’ll come at five,” and you might arrive at four, at six, at eight—next day, third day. Your “five o’clock” rarely means five o’clock. It seems you have no sense that breaking a promise is inauthentic. You adulterate everything. In the West, the question hardly arises.

A friend of mine went to Switzerland. At a hotel he said, “I want pure milk.” The waiter looked puzzled—“Pure milk! Never heard of it. Milk is milk.” He said, “Wait, I’ll call the manager.” The manager came. “Pure milk? We have regular milk; we have pasteurized milk; we have powdered milk if you want. But ‘pure milk’—we’ve never heard the term. What do you mean by pure?” My friend said, “Milk without water mixed in.” The manager said, “Are we crazy—that we’d mix water into milk? Do people in your country put water into milk?”

This country has gone further!

When I was a university student, the man who delivered milk to students had only one son, and he would swear by that son whenever anyone asked. And it was certain his milk had water in it—beyond doubt. It hardly seemed like milk—just the color. If someone asked, “Have you mixed water in the milk?” he would say, “I swear on my son”—and he would bring the boy along with the milk can—“Here is my boy; with my hand on his head I swear: no, there is no water in the milk.”

One day I said to him, “At least tell me the truth—I won’t tell anyone. You swear on your son, and you have only one! And it is certain there is water in the milk.” He said, “Now what’s the point hiding from you—but don’t tell anyone. There’s a trick in my oath. I never mix water into milk; whenever I mix, I mix milk into water. That’s why I have no problem swearing. Not a hair on my boy’s head has been harmed. For ten years I’ve been taking that oath. Let anyone harm a hair of my boy!”

Those days are gone when we mixed water into milk; now we mix milk into water!

The West is more ethical—and for a reason: in the West, religion is a synonym for morality. But it did not take a higher flight.

India alone has three religions—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist—that speak of moksha. That is beyond heaven and hell. In heaven and hell, duality remains; the two have not dissolved. Sin and virtue, the world of doing is still on. The witness has not yet awakened. The sinner suffers the illusion “I have sinned”; the virtuous man suffers the illusion “I have done virtue.” The irreligious thinks “I am irreligious,” the religious thinks “I am religious”—but both think “I am something.” “Neti, neti”—not this, not that—has not been born. Neither auspicious nor inauspicious. Neither body nor mind. Neither morality nor immorality. Neither sin nor virtue. Neither heaven nor hell. I am the witness of both; only the seer. Like a mirror in which reflections arise—I am such an empty mirror. To this utter emptiness the Western religions still have to rise. The Eastern religions have risen to this emptiness. This had its gains—and its losses.

In this world it’s necessary to remember: anything that brings benefits also brings harms with it. It depends on us to choose the benefit and not the harm. And anything that brings harm also brings some benefit. It depends on us to choose the benefit and not the harm. Here the wise turn poison into medicine, and the foolish turn medicine into poison.

You must have seen—when prohibition is enforced, people start drinking “Kamla Tonic”! There are clever ways to turn a medicine into poison. But in the hands of the right physician, even poison becomes life-giving.

In the West, religion did not fly beyond morality. But Western people know how to draw benefit from things. So they took from religion’s morality as much benefit as possible. The East took a very high flight—we went far beyond. We left behind the ordinary heaven-and-hell religion. We took flight toward moksha. We experienced the witness. But instead of taking the benefit, we filled ourselves with the harm. Why? Our dishonesty found a trick.

Moksha means: neither sin is ultimately true nor virtue is ultimately true—both are maya. And when both are maya, we thought, then sin to your heart’s content! If it’s all illusory, what is there to fear? We came to know that heaven and hell are mental states; we are beyond both. If we are beyond both, why worry? Then do as you please—this is all dreamlike. If theft is a dream and charity is a dream, then why not steal? we thought. Why get into the hassle of charity? What was wrong…

We flew high. Our Mahaviras, our Buddhas, our Krishnas spread their wings to the ultimate heights of the sky. And we fell very low. Both happened together. We produced the highest individuals and the lowest society. The reason was our cunning.

Consider this too. A ten-thousand-year-old religion—therefore it could rise so high. But in ten thousand years people also become very cunning. The older a person grows, the more dishonest he becomes. It’s easy to deceive a small child; it’s very difficult to deceive a dishonest old man—he’s experienced. He himself has been deceived and has deceived plenty. How will you deceive him? Old people gradually become more cunning. Children are simple.

Hence new civilizations have a certain simplicity; old civilizations acquire a certain craftiness, hypocrisy. Every coin has two sides. It depends on us what we choose. In ten thousand years we touched the highest heights—we could touch Everest if we wanted. And in those ten thousand years we also tasted all the bitter-sweet of life; we touched the abyss of dishonesty. We can choose to live there.

Moksha means the state where consciousness experiences itself beyond all karma. As long as there is doing, there is bondage. Do sin and you will suffer; do virtue and you will rejoice. As if someone sows neem seeds and reaps bitter fruit, and someone sows mango and tastes sweetness. Just so—simple arithmetic. But within us there is one who tastes neither bitterness nor sweetness—who is beyond both; who sees both. Who sees: the tongue is experiencing bitterness; the tongue is experiencing sweetness—but I am separate, I am the witness. To be established in this witnessing is samadhi; to attain the full experience of this witness is moksha.

Nigoda is darkness; moksha is light. Nigoda is identification; moksha is the state of witnessing.

So he answered rightly: “I have come from nigoda and I will go to moksha.” And he also rightly told some pundit, “As for me, I know this is my last birth.”

Climb a few steps of meditation and you too will know this is your last birth. There is nothing very difficult in it—just a little taste of meditation.

And his journey toward meditation was on. Continuously—doing everything—meditation was the center of his life. For years he would take time for meditation. All his work continued; he did not abandon his home; and slowly within, a peace, a depth, a joy began to surge; inner flowers began to bloom.

If you get even a little taste of meditation, you too will be able to say, “This is my last birth.” Why? Because birth belongs to the doer, and meditation gives you the experience of the witness. The witness has never been born, nor does it ever die.

The Upanishads say: Two birds are perched on one tree. One bird sits on the lower branch, chattering away—jumping from this branch to that, tasting this fruit and that. He is caught in a great bustle. The other bird sits on the topmost branch—just sits! He merely watches the lower bird’s hustle-bustle, running about, restlessness—just watches.

It is a lovely symbol. The Upanishads are saying: within you too are two birds—one witness and one doer. The doer is busy on the lower branches: “Let me gain more wealth, more position, more prestige.” He never gets satisfied. The more measures he takes for satisfaction, the more dissatisfaction grows. But above there is a witness who only sees—watches the lower bird’s fretting, the unnecessary trouble—only sees! Like a mirror. It says nothing.

Now religion can take two forms. The moral form of religion tries to change the lower bird. The ultimate, the spiritual form of religion reminds you of the upper bird. The spirituality of religion says: if only you remember that there is a witness within you, that’s enough—because the witness has no birth. It is the doer who wanders in births. For at the time of dying your cravings remain unfulfilled. The thread of craving pulls you into a new birth.

We have a beautiful word: pashu. You think it simply means “animal.” No—not only that. “Jaanwar” means one who has life, so you are also a jaanwar—one who has prana. The English “animal” comes from anima—breath, life. But our word is unique; it should not be translated as “animal.” Pashu means one who is in pasha—bound by a fetter, tied by chains, with shackles on his feet and chains on his hands. One bound is pashu. A remarkable word. Such words are rare in other languages—for a reason. There were few people in the world who could coin such words. Those who coined them hid so many keys in these small words.

This pashu of yours—by what chains is it bound? No visible chains—only invisible ones: of craving, of desire. “Let me get this, let me get that…” Twenty-four hours: “Something—let me get!” Even while dying you die filled with the thirst to get. And that very thirst to get becomes the cause of your next birth. That very fetter drags you into a new womb. Otherwise there is no possibility of a new womb. The door is broken; the path erased.

One who has experienced meditation can say, “This is my last birth.” There is no ego in this. It is simply a statement of fact: “I have begun to see my witnessing nature.” The witness is not a pashu. The witness is the divine. No craving clings to the witness. The witness is utterly content—content as it is, where it is. Nowhere to be, nowhere to go, nothing to gain. The witness is the very name of contentment, supreme contentment, ultimate fulfillment. One who gets such a glimpse can say, “This is my last birth.”

But pundits remain entangled in disputes. They keep worrying: “Will there be a next birth? Why will it be? How will it be? Does it even happen? By what law? What’s the arithmetic? What are the maps?” They keep drawing maps, fitting equations. No one does more futile work than the pundit. All his efforts are verbal, not experiential.

So if he said to some pundit, “You may know scriptures and doctrines; I know neither scripture nor doctrine. But one thing is becoming certain: this is my last birth”—he spoke rightly.

Those entangled in scriptures and doctrines never find time for meditation. They never reach meditation, because the essential condition for reaching meditation is: drop scriptures and doctrines. Drop words and you will enter meditation. Wordlessness is meditation. Drop thoughts and you will enter thoughtlessness. Thoughtlessness is meditation. Drop choosing between “right” and “wrong”—be choiceless. Choicelessness is meditation.

The pundit cannot meditate. Yes, he thinks about meditation. Keep this in mind. Think as much as you like about water—it will not quench your thirst. You can paint beautiful pictures of water, fill your room with pictures of seas, lakes, waterfalls—yet there will be no satisfaction. When thirst comes, pictures will not help. And you know well—if you are hungry, reading cookbooks won’t fill your belly. But man is strange: when he feels hungry for God, he reads the Gita, the Koran, the Bible. The hunger must be false. If it were real, you would sit at a Master’s feet; you would take the hand of an awakened one—not sit with a cookbook. And people are amusing! Even after reading the cookbook, if you cooked something, it would be okay. But people recite the cookbook daily! Every morning they chant the Gita. Becoming Krishna is far away—they don’t even become Arjuna. Yet the Gita is memorized. The cookbook is memorized. They can tell you, point by point, how to bake bread, how to make sweets—but their own life is drying up; no stream of juice flows. Because the nourishment life needs does not come. Cookbooks don’t nourish. Even if you grind them and drink, your stomach won’t fill. You might get sick, but not fed. Scriptures don’t feed the soul either.

This is the difference between knowledge and meditation. Knowledge is thinking about God; meditation is a plunge into God. Knowledge is cookbook and cogitation; meditation is freedom from all words and all cogitation—entry into silence. That is why Mahavira called his renunciants “muni.” These words are lovely. Muni means one who has entered silence. But how many Jain munis seem to have entered silence? They sit reading scriptures and explain the same scriptures to people. Where is the silence? And yet they are called munis!

Acharya Tulsi—a renowned Jain muni—once asked me, “How should one meditate?” I said, “You are a muni and you ask how to meditate! Then how did you become a muni? And not only a muni—you are the acharya of seven hundred munis, their guru! Not an ordinary muni—a maha-muni—and you ask, ‘How to meditate?’ If you haven’t meditated, how are you a muni?”

We have even forgotten the meaning of the word. Its simple meaning is: silence. One who has attained silence is a muni.

Buddha chose another name for his renunciants: bhikshu—one who knows nothing is mine in this world. He may even be an emperor, yet a bhikshu, because he knows nothing is mine. One who has dropped the illusion of ownership is a bhikshu.

And what does sannyas mean? Samyak-nyasa—placing everything rightly. One who has learned the right art of living—and in the art of living, the art of dying is included. The one who knows the right art of living and the right art of dying is a sannyasin. For the right art of living, one must be a muni. For the right art of dying, one must be a bhikshu.

That is why I chose the word “sannyas,” because sannyas assimilates both—muni and bhikshu. It is larger than both. Muni is the art of living; bhikshu is the art of dying. Buddha chose yellow robes for his bhikshus because yellow is the color of death. When leaves are near dying, they turn yellow. When a person approaches death, the face turns yellow. Yellow is the symbol of death. Hence Buddha chose yellow for the bhikshu, because the bhikshu’s art relies on one thing: how to die—die in such a way that there is no birth again.

But you can die rightly only if you have lived rightly. Dying is not something you can master in a single instant. You must have practiced living rightly your whole life. And the art of living rightly is the art of silence. Live in quietude. Let storms rise in the world—no storm should shake you. Let whirlwinds blow—no whirlwind should sway you. Things arise and vanish—remain unaffected, untouched. If your silence is such, you have known the art of living. And only one who knows the art of living will one day understand the supreme mystery of death.

I chose the word sannyas because it includes both—the arts of living and dying. Anyone who has understood even a little taste of silence can say, “There will be no birth again for me.” In truth, he can say, “I was never born.”

Zen mystics in Japan say that the Buddha was neither ever born nor did he ever die.

One should understand the sayings of mystics in the mystics’ way. Pundits will laugh; historians will laugh. They will say, “What nonsense! We know well that the Buddha was born and died. We know where he was born and where he died. There are historical proofs.”

They miss it! They do not understand the mystic. The mystic is not saying that Gautam Buddha was not born, that he did not die. He is saying: Gautam the Buddha and Siddhartha Gautam are two different “persons.” Siddhartha Gautam is the sleeping man—he had a birth and a death. Gautam the Buddha is the awakened consciousness—how can he die? What birth? He is eternal. The mystic is pointing at something else—and he is right. He speaks of the witness. The historian speaks of the doer, for the historian cannot go beyond the doer.

That is why there is always a lack in history. Those who are the greatest in our world cannot be included in history, because in their lives there is not much “doing.” In Genghis Khan’s life there is a lot of doing. Nadir Shah, Tamerlane—even though Tamerlane was lame, he did a great deal—so much havoc that there is plenty to write. But what will you write of Buddha’s life? He sat under a tree for six years! There isn’t much to write. And what happened, happened within; there is no external proof. He attained buddhahood—but there is no outer evidence, no scale to measure it. It happened within.

Buddha says: Those who have trust can accept; those who have eyes can see; those without eyes will not be able to see.

Most have no eyes. Or if they do, they have tied bandages over them. Most have no ears. Or if they do, they have shut them. Most have no heart. Or if they do, they do not listen with the heart, do not contemplate with the heart. Their whole life is lodged in the skull.

So what will you write of Buddha’s life? What will you write of Mahavira’s life? It is difficult. Novelists say you cannot write a novel about a good man’s life. Nothing happens worth writing. If there is theft, robbery, drunkenness, murder, consorting with prostitutes—then a plot emerges, a story takes shape.

If you make a film on Buddha, what will you show? Buddha is born—done in a moment. Then he grows up. Then one day he leaves home—you can show the leaving. If you make a film on Buddha, it cannot be longer than five minutes. Birth. Then nothing for twenty-nine years—on screen the calendar just flips furiously. After twenty-nine years, one night he leaves home. Then six years of silence—the calendar flips again. Then one day, after six years, enlightenment. How will you show that? Buddha sits under a tree and suddenly the screen turns sheer white. Buddha has become enlightened! Now there is nothing left to say. The audience will tear the screen, break the seats, thrash the manager: “What kind of film is this? Give our money back!”

It has happened. Such experiments were made. In the West a film was made: Waiting for Godot—based on the story by a remarkable thinker, Samuel Beckett. “Godot” is a reminder of the word “God,” though Beckett avoided using “God”; he coined “Godot” to suggest a hint. Waiting for God—meaning, for that which never comes, never appears.

Two men sit under a tree and wait. One says, “Godot hasn’t come yet.” The other says, “He will come—since he said he would.” Then a little silence. The first asks, “He still hasn’t come—and time is passing!” The second says, “Don’t eat my head—I can see he hasn’t come; but what can we do? He’ll come when he comes! Other than waiting, what is there to do?”

The waiting continues, the silence passes. Both sit under the tree. Nobody comes, nobody goes. Then the second says, “I’m getting bored. I think I’ll leave.” The first says, “Then go—don’t chew my brains. One hassle is that the one we’re waiting for isn’t coming; the other is that you keep nagging! Go wherever you want.”

But the second doesn’t go. After a while the first asks, “Why don’t you go?” He says, “Where would I go? The same will be there too—then wait again. Here at least two are one—so we can talk a bit.” And that’s all—the story goes on like this. No one comes; waiting bears no fruit. A film was made on it. How long could it be? It ended in seven minutes! Wherever it was shown there were riots—screens torn, chairs smashed, theaters burned, audiences demanding refunds: “Is this a joke? Is this a film?”

But Beckett said, “This is life. All your life, what do you do—just wait! No one ever comes, nothing ever happens. No one ever knocks at the door. Sometimes you open the door and find a gust of wind. Sometimes you open it and hear thunder. Sometimes a dry leaf is scraping the door. No one comes, no one goes. Life is just this empty. But at least there is this conversation—two talking to each other; at least one makes two.”

When Buddha attains enlightenment after six years, he is utterly alone—not even two. No one to ask, no one to answer. That event will remain unwritten. No history can contain it. There is no way. The greater the buddhahood, the more it remains outside history.

There is a history of doing; there is no history of witnessing. Therefore, the supreme buddhas of this world have lived outside history and disappeared. History is of the crooked and the noisy, whose heads are off-kilter. They create enough uproar and disturbance that you have to write their history. Even in newspapers you don’t read news of buddhas—you read news of troublemakers. Because the one who causes trouble causes “events.” He can lay sieges, call strikes, incite riots, break and burn things, kindle Hindu-Muslim clashes—he creates such disturbance that lines must be drawn in history. The one who becomes a witness steps outside doing. But one thing becomes crystal clear to him: there is no more birth. For birth is for the stage of doing. As long as there is any ambition to do, there is birth. When there is not a single ambition left, birth ends.

That is why the one who attains buddhahood cannot be born again. There is no rebirth for him. And whatever a buddha does thereafter is not “doing.” Buddha lived forty to forty-two years after enlightenment; but what he did then was no longer doing—it was a spontaneous flow.

Like the Ganges flows to the sea—you don’t say she consults a map at every bend, asking a policeman, “Which way is the ocean?” She simply flows. It is not doing; it is nature.

One who attains buddhahood lives by nature. What happens, happens—what nature within him wishes, or what the divine wishes. He becomes a flute; whatever song existence plays, he lets it be played. If none is to be played, he has no insistence that a song must be played.

Witnessing gradually makes it clear to you: this is your last birth. And as meditation deepens, many things become clear. As meditation deepens, you clearly see how long this body can last. You begin to see your bonds with the body loosening. Daily you can watch: ties are breaking. You can estimate how long it will take for all ties to break.

So if he said, five years before his heart attack, “I will remain five years more,” there is no problem in that. It would have been visible how many attachments remain and how long they will take to dissolve. It’s straightforward arithmetic. As when you see a building falling—each day a pillar drops—and ten pillars remain: you can estimate, “In ten days, the whole structure will be rubble.” Just so. In meditation you begin to see how many ties are weakening day by day. In five years all ties will be gone—then the body will fall away.

Yoga, devotion—these utterances are important. And I am discussing them because sooner or later these very happenings will come to you all; they will be useful for you.

Sheela! The story of Rajjab, Sundaro, and Dadu is, for you, only a story. I tell it to you; because you love me, a truth enters even into that story for you. Because I fill that story to the brim with my love, because I revive it before you, you are thrilled by it. But your relationship with that story is indirect—through me. Dadaji’s death you saw with your own eyes, not through me; it is your direct experience. Naturally its thrill is utterly different.

However sweetly I may say something to you, and however gracefully and reverently you may install it in your heart, still it remains my word. It is like someone who has seen the Himalayas returning and describing the beauty of the Himalayas, their coolness, the virgin snow upon them, and their lofty peaks—peaks rising above the clouds, peaks conversing with the sky, peaks eager to touch the moon and stars. If one has the gift of poetry, a sense of beauty, has pressed the Himalayas to his chest and then pours them out before you—yes, a thrill arises. Yet it is still borrowed. The Himalayas are not standing before you. You have to see through that person’s eyes. His beauty will make your heart quiver—but only if you open your heart before him, do not argue, do not get entangled in pointless logic, but assimilate his experience. Then there will be thrill, there will be a taste. But the day you yourself go and see the Himalayas—their uplifted peaks will rise in your eyes; that unparalleled glory, that eternal beauty—and then what you had heard earlier will seem like a very distant sound, an echo. One hears a flute; another hears only the flute’s echo in the valleys. The difference is vast. The difference is as great as between seeing me and seeing my photograph.

A very beautiful woman once said to Picasso, “Yesterday I saw a self-portrait of you, painted by your own hands. It was so lovely that I couldn’t resist and I kissed it.”

Picasso said, “Then what happened? Did the picture return the kiss or not?”

The young woman said, “What are you saying? How could a picture return a kiss?”

Picasso said, “Then that must have been someone else, not me. If someone kisses me, I respond. So that picture was of someone else!”

Something similar once happened with a very great realist philosopher...

In the West there are two traditions in philosophy: idealism and realism. The idealist seeks the ideal in everything; the realist sets down the naked fact. The idealist glorifies the world—he talks of roses, of rose flowers. The realist talks of cacti, not of rose flowers—because the world is full of cacti; where are the roses? Here every person is a cactus, full of thorns. Come close to anyone and the thorns prick. Come close and your garment snags so badly it is hard to free it. Thorns everywhere—where are the roses? Roses exist only in dreams—in poets’ dreams.

That realist came to Picasso and said, “Your paintings are not realistic. I don’t know what sort of pictures you make!”

Picasso’s paintings certainly were not photographs taken by a camera. That is precisely the difference between a camera and a painter. When the camera was first invented, painters were terrified—our profession has died, our livelihood is gone! The camera will make pictures better than we can. But the art didn’t die; it gained a new dignity and dimension. When a painter paints, he captures your feelings, your possibilities, your hidden secrets—not just your outer contours, as a camera does. The camera captures only the outer outline; that’s all it can do.

Picasso said, “I don’t capture people’s mere outlines; the camera can do that. I capture much that the camera cannot—that is the painter’s art. But tell me, what do you mean by realism?”

The realist philosopher pulled out his diary, took from it a photograph of his wife and said, “Look! You painted my wife, but it doesn’t look like her at all. You’ve made her eyes as if she were blind. And you’ve made her nose so large that her whole beauty is ruined.”

Picasso said, “I painted what I saw. Your wife seems blind to me—she sees nothing. I cannot paint eyes in her. And your wife seems very egoistic to me, so I made the nose very big. Ego sits upon the nose—right on its tip. That’s why I made it very pointed; look carefully. I included your wife’s ego and her blindness. A camera cannot do that. What can a camera do? Still, let me see the picture you call realistic.”

It was a camera photograph—pretty, exact. Picasso looked at it. He picked up a ruler lying nearby and measured it: six inches long, four inches wide. “Your wife,” he said, “seems very small—six inches long, four inches wide! Your real wife in so small a picture—this is the realistic image? And your wife seems absolutely flat—I ran my hand over it. What kind of realism is this? Is this your wife?”

The man said, “This is not my wife, it’s a photograph of my wife.”

Picasso said, “Then say photograph. A photograph is not a wife. Photographs are photographs, however lovely they might be!”

Sheela! The story of Rajjab, Sundaro, and Dadu that I told is a beautiful picture I have seen with my eyes. I fill it with rich color. Historians may or may not be satisfied; I don’t care. Whether books say this or not, I am not concerned. I am not here to prove any book right, but to invite you on a faraway journey.

Many of you may not know the story Sheela refers to about Rajjab, Sundaro, and Dadu. Let me tell it first—it is a dear story. Ambujibhai Diwan had asked a question, so I had to tell it. He had asked: during a mealtime discussion someone told me that when Dadu died two of his disciples—Rajjab and Sundaro—behaved very strangely. Rajjab closed his eyes and never opened them again. And Sundaro, when Dadu’s body was lifted, lay down on Dadu’s bed, pulled his blanket over himself, and never left that bed. Diwanji asked, “This doesn’t sit well with me. Are these the ways of awakened men—that one closed his eyes and never opened them, and the other lay in bed and never rose until he died? Are these the marks of awakened ones, of enlightened ones? Are these the traits of men established in samadhi? This seems possible only through great attachment and clinging. How could men free of attachment, free of delusion, free of passion, behave like this? What do you say?”

I have a love for Rajjab and Sundaro. Dadu had many disciples. He was among those blessed Masters who had many and unique disciples. Nanak, Kabir, Raidas, Farid—none had such a wondrous gathering of disciples as Dadu. Dadu collected unmatched, unique gems. Even Kabir lagged behind in this respect. There was some art in Dadu: of calling disciples to him, of binding them to himself. His gathering was large, his sangha great. But among all those gems, Rajjab and Sundaro were Kohinoors. Why did Rajjab close his eyes?

Rajjab did not close his eyes out of attachment to Dadu. He closed them because he said, “Having seen Dadu, what is left to see? After witnessing this supreme beauty, why burden the eyes with unnecessary dust? No summit higher than this will ever appear.” If someone has climbed Everest, and you ask him to go plant a flag on the little hills of Poona, he will say, “Come on—be serious! You do it.” You will not be able to persuade Edmund Hillary and Tenzing to climb Poona’s hills. They will say, “What a joke!”

One who has seen Dadu—his heart is full. Beyond this there can be no supreme beauty, no supreme grace. Rajjab did not close his eyes out of attachment; he closed them so that no useless dust might settle on them. Who is left to see? In Dadu he had seen all that is worth seeing—in Dadu, he had even seen the Divine. What remains to see now?

There is a story that Surdas put out his eyes—out of fear. If the story is true. I do not accept it as true. It should not be true! My reverence for Surdas is such that I will call the story false. I have my own standards. My respect for Surdas is such that I can call all history a lie. No, this story cannot be true; for if it were, Surdas’s whole glory would be reduced to dust. It must be false. The story says that seeing a beautiful woman, out of fear that as long as he had eyes attachment and desire would arise, Surdas gouged them out.

Do you think a blind man has no desire? Then the blind are blessed indeed! Do not pity them; pity yourself that God did not make you blind. Then worship the blind; do not have their eyes treated. Go and beg Dr. Modi to stop these eye-surgery camps. Why drag these blessed souls back into the world?

The blind do not attain knowledge nor are they freed from desire. The blind writhe even more in desire. At least you have eyes; the eyes, too, grant a kind of satisfaction, for seeing is also a way of experiencing, a way of touching. And if you close your eyes, what will happen? Close your own eyes and see. The very images you fear will appear more beautiful. They must.

Just yesterday Lakshmi brought an article from Surat, sent by a friend, about Muktanand—how when he was doing his practice, meditating, he would lock himself in a small room and a beautiful woman would suddenly appear, so beautiful that he would be frightened, open the door, and run out to sit on a swing in the courtyard. But she would follow him and not leave him. The friend asked, “What is the secret of this?”

What secret? It is straightforward. Repressed sexuality cannot be stopped by locks and walls. No woman is coming. Let Muktanand take a look in the mirror at his own image! Which beautiful woman can pass through walls and doors? Try yourself running after a beautiful woman—she will flee! She will report you to the police! No, it is one’s own repressed desire...

But they have written the story because such things “always” happened in the lives of rishis and sages—so he too becomes a rishi! Those rishis were like him. This does not raise Muktanand’s stature; it only lowers the stature of rishis—and nothing else. It shows that your so-called rishis were mostly obsessed with repressed sexuality. Apsaras descend to torment them—as if apsaras can find no other handsome men! And look at the condition of the rishis—dried up like thorns, skin blackened by sun and wind, bones upon bones. For these worn-out skeletons apsaras come from heaven! Indra is not enough; Indrani comes seeking them! It is only repressed desire—nothing more.

Surdas did not put out his eyes out of fear. Yes, I accept this: perhaps on the day he saw God he closed his eyes. Then there was nothing left to see. As with Rajjab. Rajjab saw the Divine in Dadu—walking, sitting, rising, speaking. Now nothing remained to see, so he closed his eyes—not out of attachment, but out of a supreme experience. It would be an insult to Dadu to look at anything else. For Rajjab it was impossible. From Dadu he had received everything—what else could he turn to?

And Sundaro—when the body was lifted here, there he entered the bed! He pulled Dadu’s blanket over himself. His oneness with Dadu had grown so deep that many times it happened: Sundaro would be sitting outside; someone would come and ask, “Where is Dadu? I want his darshan,” and Sundaro would point to himself. So deep was his identity with him. He had dissolved himself in Dadu.

When a disciple immerses himself in the Master, he finds the Master immersed in him. When the disciple drops his separateness—the Master had none to begin with—non-duality happens. Many people became very upset later when they learned they had bowed at Sundaro’s feet and gone away. They would scold Sundaro: “This is not right! What kind of joke is this? We walked miles to bow to Dadu!” Sundaro would say, “You bowed and your bow reached. If, however, your insistence is merely for the body, then go inside—Dadu is there. If it is a matter of the soul, then look into my eyes—you have looked into Dadu’s eyes.”

So while people carried Dadu’s bier, Sundaro did not even go with it; he lay on the bed. As if he had long been waiting for the path to clear—“Move aside now! How long must I remain outside this bed?” He did not weep, nor was he disturbed. He put on Dadu’s clothes. When people returned they saw he was sitting exactly as Dadu—Dadu’s clothes, Dadu’s blanket, the same color and manner. And from that day people noticed that in his speech the same quality arose as in Dadu’s speech. Around him the same grace, the same fragrance began to spread that had been around Dadu. And he did not even keep his own name. He dropped “Sundaro.” Thereafter in the verses he wrote he invoked only Dadu—“says Dadu.” He signed as Sundaro, but in the verse he added, “says Dadu.” People told him, “This will cause great confusion later; who will decide which saying is Dadu’s and which is Sundaro’s?”

He said, “What is the need to decide? All the sayings are his! Where is Sundaro? Sundaro is long gone. The very first day I fell at his feet, I left. You took time to see it, that’s all; I understood that day that there is no point in remaining separate before this man. To be one with him is the joy. My drop fell into the ocean that very day. Believe it or not—but when the drop falls into the ocean, it becomes the ocean. Sundaro no longer remains.”

That was his beauty. Dadu had given him the name Sundaro—his beauty was this total surrender.

Dadu used to say of Rajjab, “Rajjab, you did something astounding!” He too did the astonishing.

Two stories are current about Rajjab. One is that when he was seven years old his parents came to bow to Dadu and brought Rajjab along. Rajjab never returned. The parents went back. They tried to persuade him, but Rajjab said, “I have found what I was seeking; I have found the home I was looking for. I have found my real home. I stayed in your house only because I did not know my true home. You were my parents only because I did not know my real parents. I will not go back.”

Hence Dadu said, “Rajjab, you did something astounding!” A seven-year-old child!

The second story is that Rajjab’s wedding procession was on its way; he, as the groom, was going to be married. The procession reached the village; shehnais were playing, guests had gathered, a grand welcome was prepared, bands were playing. Rajjab’s horse was festooned with flowers; Rajjab sat proudly upon it. In the middle of the road Dadu stood, took hold of the reins. Rajjab looked into his eyes for a moment, got down, fell at his feet, and said to the wedding party, “Go back. The one I was to marry has arrived.”

“Rajjab, you did something astounding!”

Both stories are told. Which is true, which not—I do not bother. Both cannot be literally true: if the first is true, the second cannot be; if the second, then not the first. But such nitpicking is for pundits—let them investigate. I see no obstruction; to me both can be true together. In those days children’s marriages were done very young. A seven-year-old... the procession set out... And processions weren’t at twenty-five, as nowadays. Times change.

My mother tells me she was nine when she married. She had no idea what was happening. The whole village was outside; only she was not allowed to go out! Her restlessness—because the groom had arrived on horseback and she wanted to see him. The band was playing as never before at her house; the whole house lit up as on Diwali; fireworks and sparklers. And at such a moment, to lock a nine-year-old girl inside! In the end she slipped out—she had to see.

Perhaps Rajjab too was just seven and both things happened together. But such facts have little value in saints’ lives. Events are symbolic—whether they happened or not—their essence is to be drunk and assimilated.

Sheela says that the story of the passing of Rajjab, Sundaro, and Dadu thrilled her. But what she witnessed at the death of my father—our beloved Dada—who was also her friend, thrilled her even more.

Natural. I spoke; you agreed; love welled up. Yet when you yourself see, it is another matter. But remember: had I not told you stories of Rajjab, Sundaro, Dadu—and countless others like them—you would have missed even in my father’s passing; you would not have seen. All those stories laid the path. They awakened sensitivity in you, awakened awareness.

Now many of my relatives have gathered here. They cannot understand. My sister’s husband, Kailash, has written: “Say what you will, that this is a moment to celebrate—I cannot accept it.”

How could you? You are not a sannyasin. You have no taste of my color. My sannyasins understand this is an hour of celebration. You cannot. Natural.

Another relative writes: “Though I do not want to doubt, still I doubt that Buddhahood is possible.”

Naturally. You have no experience of meditation, of sannyas. Then Buddhahood is very far indeed. Without experience of pebbles and stones, why talk of diamonds and jewels? If you have not known the ordinary experience of meditation, you cannot even imagine the extraordinary, ultimate experience. You have come here formally; your connection is familial, social—not spiritual. Those who have not drunk my color may think they are my family, but they are not. My family is of those mad ones in ochre.

Yesterday another brother-in-law said, “All the family is here; we want to sit with you and have a family photograph taken.”

I said, “Don’t get into such hassle.” I didn’t say much, because I never want to give unnecessary hurt. Only one who deserves it do I hurt; even that has to be earned. To take my blow, one must have the capacity. Why hurt them? They are new; the marriage with my sister is new. They have little to do with me. They came once for two days, now for two days—that’s the connection. But let me say this: my family is my sannyasins; I have no other family. There is only one way to be joined to my family: join the journey on which I am leading people.

Sheela, that is why you were able to experience; a sensitivity has been formed.

Sheela too came and drowned in me as Rajjab drowned in Dadu. Sheela, you did something astounding! She was in America, with every comfort, earning well. She came to meet me accidentally, just as Rajjab went along with his parents. Since her father was keen on my ideas, he told her, “Before you go to America, go once and meet him.” Because her father said so, she came. But she came—and never went back. She bowed—and never rose. She drowned—and forgot America and its comforts. I became her all. Thus her heart was prepared; a receptivity was created; her eyes opened. That is why you could not miss this unique happening—you could see that something unprecedented took place.

All who were immersed in me there felt it. Nikalank was there, Shailendra was there, Amit was there, Swabhav was there, Sohan was there, Usha was there. Sheela used to come every day. Lakshmi came every day. My mother was there. They all felt something exceptional had happened, something that cannot be bound in language, hard to comprehend—yet something happened; something crossed beyond! But this was felt only by those close to me. The nurses were there, the doctors were there, the hospital staff was there; they felt nothing.

The next day when I spoke here, Dr. Sardesai gathered all the staff and doctors and played my tape. His affection for me has slowly begun—hesitantly, timidly. Naturally, near a man like me there is nervousness: there is a wife, children, responsibilities. And they see those who come to me go mad, drown. He has seen his friend Ajit Saraswati drown. Ajit brought him to me. He is my doctor; when something happens with my body, he comes. But he comes and runs—he won’t stay in the room for more than a second. I know the reason; he knows it too and has told people: the reason is that I am not yet ready. The danger is that I go to feel his pulse, and he catches hold of mine! Then what of my children, my wife...?

He had a faint sense that something happened—vague, a distant sound—but not clear. He was worried because when the condition had become completely fine, when the danger was entirely past... He would phone thrice a day: “What is the condition now?” For forty-eight hours they had said there was danger; then, no danger. And five weeks had passed. The question of danger didn’t even arise. When the danger was there, nothing happened; and when it had fully passed, then in a single instant, after a meal, the body dropped—no hiccup even!

Ordinarily, at death there is a hiccup. But for those whose life departs through the seventh chakra, the sahasrar, there is no hiccup. Those whose prana leaves through sahasrar do not return to the world again, and the moment of their departure is unparalleled. Many friends have written—Vairagya was present and wrote: “I have witnessed other deaths, and whenever I saw death a great heaviness descended on the chest—deep sadness, deep restlessness. But here the opposite happened. When death occurred, all my burden vanished! I became so light, as I have never been. There was a freshness there, and a breeze—as if of another realm. As if death had not happened at all—rather, Great Life had happened!”

Those who are joined to me, who have tasted meditation, who have known what I keep telling you—those who have known it, who have identified with me, who have become either Rajjab or Sundaro—only they are my family. And for anyone who would be my family, the doors are open, the invitation is there. But there is no place for mere formality in my family.

Sheela, you say: “It fills my eyes with sweet tears.”

Certainly. Tears will come—for you will not see him again. Tears will come—for it will be hard to find again someone so gentle, simple, natural, spontaneous. One person is never a replica of another. What has taken leave, flown into the sky as fragrance, cannot be grasped again in the fist. So tears will come. But because you understand, you are aware, those tears will be sweet. They will carry the tone of joy. In them, anklets of joy will ring.

Even if you weep, weep with joy. Even if you weep, weep dancing. Let your tears be flowers. Let your tears have the notes of a veena. I want not only to teach you life; I want to teach you death as well. These are all occasions. More such occasions will come. There are a hundred thousand sannyasins. Many friends will depart. Learn the art of farewell—dancing, singing, weeping—but the weeping not of sorrow, not of pain, not of anguish—of joy, of celebration, of great festival!

That’s all for today.