Kahe Hot Adheer #7

The whole city is in mourning—how are we to laugh?
Even the season is distraught—how are we to laugh?
For centuries a quake was gathering here—
now it circles the heart—how are we to laugh?
He who burned the garden, the nest, the courtyard—
it is he we seek—how are we to laugh?
Who is it that has died so publicly like this—
a corpse lies on the road—how are we to laugh?
This newly blossomed rose is filled with dread—
a cowering palash—how are we to laugh?
Again the moon has risen like a wound—
the very same chiseling—how are we to laugh?
The whole city is in mourning—how are we to laugh?
Even the season is distraught—how are we to laugh?

The world is sad. A hundred thousand may put on masks of laughter, but tears cannot be concealed. A hundred ornaments of beauty may be worn, but the heart is full of wounds. In this world there are thorns and only thorns. Flowers are seen only by those who themselves become a flower. In this world there are thorns and only thorns—because as yet, we are thorns. As the vision, so the creation. You receive what you are. More than that is impossible. You receive according to your receptivity. Your vessel can hold tears—therefore you dream of nectar in vain. To drink nectar, you must refine the vessel, clean it, make it worthy of nectar.

You do call out to the Lord, but where will you seat that Guest? In the house there is not even a seat fit for Him. If He were to arrive and stand at the door you would only writhe more. You would say: Just today there is not even a mat at home! Forget a throne, there is not even a mat to spread!

If you would call to Paramatma, then before the call the heart needs a preparation; a cutting edge, a polishing. The heart requires a festival, a springtime. The heart should hum; the life-breath should dance. All doors and windows should be open, that sunbeams may come in and dance, that a drizzling rain may descend, that the breeze may enter.

Open to nature, and you will be able to open to Paramatma—for Paramatma is hidden within nature. Nature is His veil, His veil of modesty. But we are closed to nature and closed to Paramatma. We are closed even to love—therefore all our prayers become false. We pray in temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches—but all of it is false, ostentation, mere ritual, parroted words. Your prayer does not rise from your heart. It is not the expression of your life-breath. And any prayer in which your very life is not poured will not reach Paramatma—has never reached, can never reach. The prayer into which your life melts grows wings.

But we have built a hollow world. Inside we go on weeping, on the outside we go on smiling. Within there are wounds, without we arrange flowers. Within there is a stench, above it we spray perfume. Let others be deceived perhaps—but how do you deceive yourself? That is the wonder. Others may not see your tears and may be persuaded by your smiles—but how do you yourself trust your smiles?

Yet people have trusted their masks. When others trust your mask, you think: if so many trust it, then the thing must be right. You do not know how to see your face straight; you look into a mirror. You look into the mirror and smile. What is the poor mirror to do? If you smile it shows a smiling image. Smiling into the mirror you decide you are happy.

Other people’s eyes are only mirrors. And what concern have others to probe your interior! They can barely manage their own tears—who will take on the trouble of yours! And so we built a world of etiquette in which we suppress sorrow and display false joys. Etiquette means only this much: the others are as miserable as you—why show them your misery as well! Hide your pain. Smile falsely. Bloom false flowers. They are doing the same—hiding pain, blooming false flowers. From this a great illusion has arisen: everyone seems to be smiling and blissful! Then a doubt arises in the mind: perhaps, except for me, everyone is happy. Now even if I want to share my anguish—whom do I tell? And if I tell it will only reveal my stupidity. In a world where all have arranged to be happy, I alone could not manage it! This will hurt, will create inferiority. It will wound the ego. Better then: life is only a few days—somehow laugh and pass the time. Do not weep. Do not speak your pain to anyone.

To live in this falsity is to live in the world. To break this falsity and become true—that is sannyas. Sannyas is not to flee to the jungle. Sannyas is to be authentic—as you are. No coverings, no ornaments, no masks. To drop all the garments of falsity is sannyas. As you are—naked! Good or bad, suffering, wounded—expose yourself with innocence. And a revolution begins—an astonishing revolution! For the things we hide—those survive.

This is the eternal law of life: what we hide survives, what we expose evaporates like camphor. If you repress tears, they will remain stored in the chest. By and by your chest will be only tears and tears. You will have no Atman, only a heap of tears. Let the tears flow from the eyes—they will fly away—and you will remain free and empty of tears. The moment the tears depart—flow away—the eyes become clear and pristine.

But up till now humanity has imposed a false behaviour. Because of that falsity millions are deprived of bliss. And in the name of religion the same falsity continues—worse still. The irreligious man retains a little authenticity; the so-called religious one not even that. He speaks not only worldly lies—he speaks spiritual lies.

Someone asks you, Is there God? and you say, Yes, there is. You have not known, not seen, not recognized—and you say—Yes! You speak a spiritual lie. Worldly lies are pardonable; spiritual lies are not. This is the climax of falsity. You did not spare even Paramatma from your lies! Or perhaps you say—There is no God. Again you lie. Have you searched and found that He is not? Have you explored every dimension of existence and discovered that Paramatma is not? No—you have not searched all dimensions.

Here Marx is false too, who says—There is no God. For he never meditated, never prayed. On what strength does Marx say God is not? Only on the basis of logic. What has logic to do with God? Logic is a courtesan—it goes with anyone. Logic is a crafty advocate. Whoever can coax and cajole logic—logic goes with him. And logic finds ways out of anything. Marx is speaking only in logical terms that God does not exist, because by logic God is not proved.

And Mahatma Gandhi is no different. He too did not meditate. And what he called prayer was not prayer—it was parroting. Repeat a million times: Allah-Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan. By your repetition nothing will happen. If only it were so easy! He has not known God; he has accepted Him by logic. Logic—that since the world is so vast, there must be a maker. This too is logic. And Marx says that if there is a maker of this world, then someone must have made that maker. In that case there will be no end. God made the world, and some other God made Him—and who made that God? Where will it end? Wherever you stop, the question will arise: who made this one? Why then undertake such a futile journey—accept simply that the world is unmade, made by no one. This too is logic. The nets of logic are many.

Mulla Nasruddin’s friend Chandulal said to him: Nasruddin, this is too much! What I heard—I could hardly believe, but I am forced to, for the source is reliable—that last night on a train you were caught making love to a totally perfect stranger.

Nasruddin said, That is an outright lie! There is no one perfect in this world.

Do you see the logic! Do you see the escape route! How he saved his skirt! By logic, anything can be proved, anything disproved; therefore do not trust logic.

God must be sought by experience. And experience comes only to those who drop from their lives all the webs of falsity. In the net of untruth the fish of experience has never been caught, never will be. Truth has no net, and the fish of experience comes by itself. Truth has an attraction—a relentless magnetic pull. Truth has no net; it has only majesty, grace, dignity, light. The rays of truth draw Paramatma close to you.

The first lesson of dharma is: break hypocrisy from your life. And this is what the so-called religious find hardest—for their whole life is hypocrisy. Hypocrisy means: what you do not know you are forcing upon yourself.

The true religious seeker begins from zero and reaches the whole. Begin the journey from zero; not from belief, but from zero. Neither theist nor atheist; neither Hindu nor Muslim; neither Christian nor Jain; neither Buddhist nor Parsi—begin from zero. Neither Indian nor Pakistani; neither Chinese nor Japanese—begin from zero. Neither white nor black; neither woman nor man—begin from zero. Neither theist nor atheist. Remove all beliefs, free the mind from assumptions, for all beliefs are borrowed. And with what is borrowed, the cash of Paramatma cannot be attained.

Paramatma is cash; your knowledge is borrowed. If you can remove all your assumptions and make the vessel of your heart empty—that is what I mean by preparing the vessel—then the inner sky will be ready to receive Paramatma. You do call Him, but you are not ready; even if Paramatma wants to come—how can He come?

If in life someone meets you and then leaves—what then?
If the garden of belief is laid waste—what then?
From a small wave in the whirlpool of thoughts—
if a storm of doubt should surge—what then?
A race that starts with honor and ends with money—
if in that race man should fall behind—what then?
What the streets have seen and the walls have heard—
if those words should fall into every ear—what then?
A childhood raised in the courtyard of old age—
if that lifespan should fly without wings—what then?
That pain buried in wounds of forgotten memories—
if it should grow for no reason—what then?

A childhood raised in the courtyard of old age! From the very day you were born, you have been dying. Wake up! Be alert!

A childhood raised in the courtyard of old age—
if that lifespan should fly without wings—what then?

And this lifespan will fly—it will fly without wings. It is here today; tomorrow has no guarantee. And if you spend it in chasing wealth, position, prestige, you prove you had no genius. Where diamonds could be gathered, there you went on picking pebbles—colored, variegated; but still stones. In this life where shraddha can be born, you settled for belief. Belief is false shraddha. In the dictionary shraddha and vishwas may be synonyms; not in the lexicon of life. Shraddha is self-experience, something seen with one’s own eyes—not from writings, but from seeing. And belief? Not seen with your own eyes—others have seen, others have told, you accepted. Like a blind man accepting that there is light—that is belief. The one with eyes does not believe in light; he has shraddha—he knows it is.

The pundits and priests teach you: Believe! For your remaining blind is to their interest; your remaining deaf is to their interest; your remaining asleep is to their interest. Your waking is dangerous. For the moment you awaken, the pundit-priest is no longer needed. The moment you awaken, no one is needed between you and Paramatma—no broker, no middleman. Brokers and middlemen are needed only so long as you are asleep, blind, deaf. The pundit-priest feeds on your deafness and blindness. His whole business rests on your closed eyes. He gives you belief and protects you from shraddha.

A true Satguru gives you shraddha and saves you from belief. To save from belief means: to awaken you to the truth that truth is not obtained from others; it must be sought oneself. One’s life must be refined, passed through fire—then truth is available. If truth could be obtained from others—if it were so cheap—then the whole world would have truth. Then not occasionally a Buddha—but Buddhas everywhere. Truth is written in the Upanishads; but memorize them—will you find truth? Truth is written in the Quran; recite it daily—will you find truth? Truth is written in the Guru Granth; become capable of repeating it verbatim—do you think you will find truth?

Truth must be found within first. The one who sees within finds it in the Quran too, in the Bible, in the Dhammapada, in the Gita, in the Guru Granth. And the one who does not see within—he only believes. Belief is worth two pennies. In the boat of belief you will not cross the ocean of life. This boat is paper—for it is made of books, and books are made of paper. Sitting in boats made of those pages—Gita, Quran, Guru Granth—you imagine: we will cross the ocean? You will drown—drown badly!

I see you drowning. Someone in a boat of Gita, someone in a boat of Quran, someone in a boat of Bible. Their boats are different—but all are made of the same paper. Therefore I see no difference between Hindu, Muslim, Christian; for all drown in paper boats. Yes—on someone’s boat the script is Arabic, on another Hebrew, on another Sanskrit. Will those scripts save you? Shraddha saves; belief drowns.

And remember: belief is never free of doubt. Within every belief, doubt goes on burning. It will. It is simple. You believed—blind—you believed that there is light. But your life within keeps whispering: who knows whether there is or not! After all, another speaks truth—what proof is there? The other may be deceiving. The other may have some hidden interest. The other may be speaking of light in order to rob me. He may be speaking of light just to prove me blind. What is the proof that the other is not a cheat? Until your own eye opens, doubt will remain.

If in life someone meets you and then leaves—what then?
If the garden of belief is laid waste—what then?

And the garden of belief will be laid waste. It always is—sooner or later. And the sooner it collapses, the better—for when it collapses perhaps you will sow the seeds of shraddha.

From a small wave in the whirlpool of thoughts—
if a storm of doubt should surge—what then?

But it surges. Whenever you believe, the storm of doubt will surge. If you would be free of doubt I show you the straight way: be free of belief, and you will be free of doubt. Drop all beliefs and even the faint line of doubt will vanish within you.

Krishna has said: sanshayatma vinashyati. He who is filled with doubt is destroyed.

The pundit interprets: Believe—do not doubt. And I interpret: Do not believe, for behind every belief doubt is born. The more beliefs, the more doubts. If you would be saved from doubt, leave all beliefs—then how will doubt arise? Doubt needs a foundation. For doubt, belief is needed. This will sound very upside-down to you. My words will often feel upside-down—but if you consider them quietly you will see it all very clearly. It feels inverted because for centuries you have been told something else. Centuries have spoiled you.

There was a case in court against Mulla Nasruddin. A most surprising case. His wife was driving a car in front of him; he was following in his own car—and he ran into his wife from behind. The magistrate said: Nasruddin, even if you had collided with someone else, it would be one thing—but have pity on your own wife! And your wife says she had signaled with her hand that she would turn left. Still you did not understand?

Nasruddin said, That very hand is the cause of this case. Had she not shown that hand, there would have been no trouble. I know my wife: she is upside-down. When she showed her hand to turn left, I understood now she will turn right. That leftward hand-signal—this very thing became the cause of the accident. Had this wretch not shown her hand to the left, I would not have been deceived. I know her well. There has been twenty years of satsang with her. This is the first time she showed her hand to the left and turned left.

For centuries you have been taught one lesson. It has entered your blood, sunk into your bones—Believe! For by belief you will be free of doubt.

There is no greater lie in the world. You are believing—but where are you free of doubt? Every belief brings doubt. For one belief, ten doubts.

He who has not believed in God—can he doubt God? He who has not believed in the Atman—can he doubt the Atman? The first step of doubt is belief. Believe first—then doubt can arise.

I agree with Krishna: the man of doubt surely is destroyed. But how to destroy doubt? Doubt is not destroyed by belief. Let belief go—and its shadow, doubt, goes with it. Doubt is the shadow of belief. Neither doubt nor belief—that state I call zero. That state I call meditation—when within you there is neither belief nor doubt; when you say: As yet I do not know—how can I decide? How can I say yes or no? I will remain silent, say nothing. For now I will keep my hands empty, hold on to nothing. Until I know, I will not grasp. And the delight is that he who knows does not need to grasp. What is known becomes yours—whether you grasp or not is irrelevant. What is known becomes part of your life-breath. That knowing I call shraddha.

Shraddha is self-knowing. Belief is what is taught by others.

In this world there is much doubt, because the pundits and priests have spread much belief. A Satguru is one who frees you from belief, frees you from doubt—and kindles in your life a longing to know truth! I must know! I must know for myself!

Buddha has said: Appo Deepo Bhava!

The house you have built is utterly false.
A roof of sand and walls of water.
How strong the nests we have built!
A desolation of loss encircles us—
we are safe because our props are so great!
Welts on the back from the cane, blisters on the feet—
body is taut and yet so many wounds.
We are proud of this fortress of light—
its walls have begun to crack.
In the town of the heart nothing stays even two days—
like dreams some peddlers wander through.
A roof of sand and walls of water—
How strong our nests are.

Look closely—what kind of house have you built to live in!

A roof of sand and walls of water—
How strong our nests are.

If your life turns vain, it is no surprise. If death comes and finds you empty-handed—no surprise. If death arrives and you repent—what will come of it? There is no time then. And the very mistakes you repeat in this life—you will repeat in the next. For by repetition, the habit of repeating has become strong.

Awaken now! And there is one way to wake: fall in love with someone who is awake; fall in love with a wakeful one; take the hand of one who is awake.

Paltu’s sutras:

Forming, forming—formed it is, if you remain at the saint’s door.

Do not leave the door of one who is awake—and forming, forming, it will be formed. Delay there may be, but never darkness. And if delay happens, it is because of you—because you abandon your rubbish with great difficulty. Only by and by is it dropped. You save it; by one door you throw it out, by another you bring it back in.

Forming, forming—formed it is, if you remain at the saint’s door.

It is a lovely sutra! Paltu says, forming and forming—the thing is formed. Fulfill one condition: remain lying at the saint’s door. If somewhere you come upon a Buddha, a Krishna, a Jesus, a Mohammed—do not leave. Although your intellect will devise many arrangements to leave. Your logic will create doubts and confusions. Your mind will do everything to save itself, for if you remain at the Guru’s door, the mind’s death is certain. And where the mind dies, there your life begins.

Ordinarily the condition is exactly opposite. You live from the mind, and take the mind to be life itself.

There was a case against Mulla Nasruddin. The magistrate asked, Mulla, how old are you?

Mulla said, Thirty.

The magistrate was startled. He didn’t look less than fifty. He took off his glasses, cleaned them, looked closely and said, Nasruddin, as far as I remember, ten years ago you came to my court and even then you said you were thirty—and now again thirty?

Nasruddin said, In your mind there is a point; I have two answers. First, I am a man of my word—what I say once I have said. Though I am not a Hindu, I have great trust in Tulsidas: Raghukul riti sada chali aai, pran jaye par vachan na jaye. Once given, my word is given. You may ask in a million ways—I will always say thirty. Second: the truth is also that my age is indeed thirty. For I married at thirty; after that, what is the use of counting! Before that there was age, there was life.

People take the unbridledness of mind to be life—its bustle, rush, desires, cravings. As soon as youth begins to fade and the mind becomes a little fatigued, people fear that death is coming. At the Guru’s door one must surrender the mind. To remain at the Guru’s door means: leave the door of the mind, hold the door of the Master. There will be a struggle between the mind and the Guru. You must choose. If you choose the mind, you choose the world; if you choose the Guru, liberation is yours. And forming and forming the thing is formed—do not be in a hurry. Why be impatient! Do not say: One day passed, two days, three days—I have been at the Master’s door and nothing has happened yet!

Forming, forming—formed it is, if you remain at the saint’s door.

Offering body, mind, wealth—he shoves you, the Lord.

And the trouble is greater: the Guru will push you—Run! The Guru will push in a thousand ways to set you on the path. Shopkeepers will coax you to stay the night right there; but the Guru will strike hard—so hard that sparks will fly. He will cut, like a sculptor cuts stone with chisel and hammer. Only if he cuts your unshaped rock can the hidden image appear. It is hidden—but to manifest, much useless stone must be cut away. Out of compassion, the Guru is severe.

The pundit-priest will knead your feet, flatter you, sing your praises—not only yours, but of your dead fathers and grandfathers! Go to Prayag and you will find ledgers in the hands of the pandas praising your father and his father and his father’s father. They butter your ego. That is why those ledgers are preserved. The fathers are dead, but their names are kept, for you are part of the same line. They praise your father and the panda will add that when he came he gave such donations—offered gold, silver, so much money! He inflates you. He fills your ego with air, makes your balloon bigger. He says: Give as much as you can; you won’t fall behind your father! It is a matter of honor. This is your family prestige. He is arranging to loot you. He will serve you, praise you, glorify your merit. He will say: You have come to the pilgrimage, not everyone attains this—only the virtuous…

But go to a Guru: he will not praise your fathers. On the contrary he will strike such blows that you will be beaten—and your dead fathers will be beaten too! He will tell you that you are ignorant and your fathers were ignorant too. They died in vain—don’t you die in vain! He will not flatter. He will break you. He will strike you.

Paltu speaks true: you will offer body, mind, wealth—everything—and from the Guru’s side you will receive only pushes. Do not be frightened—the Lord’s pushes are better. What use are the praises of the poor! Beggars will praise you—because only through praise can they rob you. See how beggars praise: O generous one! Where are you going? Look at me! A donor like you, and leave without giving!

Beggars catch you in the marketplace—where your reputation concerns you—that if you don’t give a few coins, what will people think: a miser! If you are alone a beggar will not catch you, but if you are with four people, he clings to your feet: O giver, don’t miss this chance! Take the benefit! Earn some merit! It will be useful in the next world. Give one here—you will gain millions there. Seeing those four people, you are compelled to give. You do not give to the beggar—you give to the presence of those four. He catches you in the crowd—the question of prestige arises. The beggar too chooses his moment. In the evening he does not come—he knows you return beaten and battered; there is no hope that you will give. You might pounce on him instead—or snatch his bag. In the evening the beggar does not come; he knows you are bruised enough. In the morning he comes—fresh, newly awakened from sweet dreams—then perhaps you can be seduced.

The beggar will praise you. The opposite is true of the Lord. And whom does Paltu call the Lord? He who has attained the supreme wealth—he who has found the Lord—that one is the Lord—he is blessed indeed.

He shoves you, the Lord.

He will push much, drive you away much—Go away from here. He will devise all means that you cannot cling. Those are tests. Through them your vessel is tempered. They are touchstones. But the one who bows his head and never raises it—however the pushes, he returns again and again—only he can remain with the Guru.

Be like a corpse—be turned away, do not turn—though he urge you a hundred thousand times.

Lie there like a dead man—however much the Guru pushes, do not go.

Be like a corpse—be turned away, do not turn—though he urge you a hundred thousand times.

Even if the Guru explains: Go away—there is nothing here. Do not be taken in by his words. Do not be persuaded. Look at him. Recognize him. Drink the light around him. Taste the flavor of satsang. And if ever the flavor of satsang reaches you—do not leave that door; lie there like a dead man.

Like the dog’s habit—he who gains it, eats; keep your devotion fixed at his feet.

As a dog behaves—drive him away and he returns—such should be the disciple’s habit—dog-habit! You drive him out with a stick; he goes out. You return inside—he follows you in again. So should be the disciple. The Guru will often chase you with sticks—sticks not gross but subtle, invisible.

How many blows I give you—on your beliefs, your religions, your scriptures, your traditions. The uncomprehending become angry—enemies. The wise understand that I am not against the scriptures, doctrines, religions. In truth I am against your mind. And in your mind these things sit—religion, scripture, doctrine—I uproot them all. If they are uprooted, one day the true religion will be born within you—natural, spontaneous—a spring of dharma will burst forth. Then you will know that in your scriptures there is only a reflection of this.

I oppose your scriptures to give you the real scripture. I oppose your religions to give you the real religion. I oppose your past and tradition to give you real life. But the uncomprehending flee as enemies; only the intelligent remain.

Like the dog’s habit—he who gains it, eats; keep your devotion fixed at his feet.

No matter how much the Guru strikes—do not worry. Fix your tendency, your flame at the Guru’s feet.

Paltu Das: the work is done—hold fast until then.

Do not stop before that—until the work is done. Until then—however much the Guru drives you away, however many blows—drink them all—until the work is done. And when will the work be done? When within you the mind settles, becomes still; when the restlessness dissolves; when the waves of mind become calm.

A friend cannot awaken you; sleep, the enemy, prevails.

Those you ordinarily call friends will not do; they cannot awaken you—they are asleep themselves.

A friend could not awaken… sleep remained, the enemy.

It is not the friend’s fault—do not be angry. What can he do? He is asleep. He may promise to awaken you—he himself has not awakened—how will he awaken you?

And understand one trick of the mind: it makes friends only of those lower than yourself. It never makes friends of those above you. Why? Because to befriend those above, you must drop the ego. You must bow. And the ego does not wish to bow. Therefore the ego enjoys those lower than itself. Among them it can strut.

Hence around politicians you will find toadies gathering. Around kings and emperors, the same—courtiers. The bigger the toady, the bigger the courtier. To see these toadies, go to Delhi. The toadies are the same, the politicians change. The toadies are skilled: when one pot breaks, they move to the next. You will find the same faces around one prime minister and around another. The prime ministers come and go; the toadies remain. They wear whatever cap the leader prefers. If he is Gandhian they don pure khadi; on October second they spin a wheel at Gandhi’s memorial—whether it spins or not, whether their forefathers ever spun or not. If the leader is socialist they don the red cap; if communist, the red flag—whatever…

Mulla Nasruddin served a nawab. One day both sat to dine. The nawab loved Nasruddin. Who does not love toadies! Okra had been cooked; fresh okra had come. The nawab said, Excellent, delicious. Nasruddin was not one to lag—such chances are what toadies live for. He said, Delicious! Botanically this is nectar. Whoever eats okra lives a thousand years—and each of his years has a thousand days. Okra is to vegetables what you are to emperors—the emperor of vegetables!

The cook heard too. Seeing such qualities in okra—like nectar—he cooked okra the next day too, and the third, and every day. On the seventh day the nawab flung his plate away: Bhindi! Bhindi! Bhindi! You will kill me?

Nasruddin threw his plate even harder and gave the cook a slap: You want to kill the master, wretch? Even beggars will not eat something as rotten as okra! Look at the name—bhindi! Poison! You are playing into the hands of enemies, a partner in some conspiracy.

The nawab said, Nasruddin, as far as I recall, seven days ago you said okra is nectar.

Nasruddin said, Master, you recall perfectly.

Then the nawab said, I do not understand—why today do you call it poison and slap the poor cook and throw the plate harder than I did?

Nasruddin said, Master, we are not servants of okra—we are your servants. To hell with okra! When you throw the plate, we throw it harder. When you praise, we erect bridges of praise. We are in your service. Our pay comes from you, not from okra. If you call day night, we call it night; if you call night day, we call it day. We are loyal to the master.

Those with wealth, power, convenience, gather around them people far more petty. Naturally—for the petty praise them. And there is a hunger for praise. The ego is fed by praise.

A friend could not awaken you; sleep, the enemy, prevails.

That enemy—sleep—remains draped over your chest. And however much friends promise to awaken you—they cannot.

First, you choose as friends those beneath you—deeper asleep than you. They mutter in sleep—and such you choose. In sleep they mutter: We will awaken you, do not worry. But by their awakening, no awakening happens. Only a truly awake friend can awaken you.

Who then stays awake—patients…

Paltu says: either the sick are awake—because they cannot sleep. They want to sleep but cannot.

…or servants…

Or servants—watchmen—awake by compulsion.

…or thieves.

Or thieves, because their trade is such that when all sleep, they can steal.

Or the saint in love—

And the saint awake in longing—because the love of Paramatma will not let him sleep—

…by the Guru’s bhajan.

Within them only song goes on rising; within them waves of feeling go on rising. The ray of Paramatma descends within; darkness cannot come that they may sleep.

All gather to awaken for self-interest—

Those who awaken for some self-interest—their waking is false, for self-interest is sleep.

…none without self-interest.

Those—thief, servant, patient—are awake from self-interest.

But a man awakens without self-interest—by the Guru’s grace.

Until the grace of an awakened Satguru descends, true awakening does not happen. Not the patient’s, watchman’s, thief’s waking—those are pseudo-awakenings. They do not break sleep. They are deep sleep. But he who is awake in love of the Lord, awake in the Lord—whose eyes hold the form of the Beloved, in whose heart His melody goes on—filled with the unstruck sound, in whom music flows—if the grace of such a Guru comes, awakening enters your life.

By waking the other world is made; by sleep great sorrow.

Sleep is suffering; waking is bliss. Waking is heaven; sleep is hell.

With the sword of knowledge, Paltu stays awake—whatever happens, happens.

Once the lamp of knowing is lit within, the sword of knowing flashes—there remains no worry of what will be or won’t be. Whatever happens, happens! Then whatever happens is auspicious. Then as it happens, so it is accepted. Then there is no discontent—there is satisfaction, contentment.

Your wife looks very calm, grave, virtuous, Dhabbuji—said a new friend.

Yes, that is her only virtue—said Dhabbuji.

What—being calm, grave?

No—looking so!

A thief looks awake. A servant looks awake. A patient looks awake. They are not awake. Only the yogi is awake. Krishna has said: Ya nisha sarva bhutayam tasyam jagarti samyami. That which is night for all beings—darkness and sleep—in that very night the yogi is awake, the austere is awake, the meditator is awake.

The meditator cannot sleep. He has recognized within that element which never sleeps—in which sleep never occurs. The body sleeps, the mind sleeps; the Atman never sleeps. You have taken yourself to be body—therefore you must sleep; taken yourself to be mind—therefore you must sleep. The day you know you are Atman—eternal, without beginning or end; the day you know you are amrit, deathless; the day you recognize the witness—on that day sleep departs. The body will still sleep, the mind will still sleep; for they are mechanisms and they tire. But the witness remains awake.

Even in sleep the meditator remains awake. The body sleeps and within the lamp of awakening goes on burning. Whoever finds that lamp of awakening enters heaven. Heaven is not some geographical place. Heaven is the name of your state of awakening.

Once Chandulal and Dhabbuji, having smoked bhang, went for a stroll. They were passing near India Gate. Chandulal said, Look, Dhabbu! Today India Gate is so tilted! How has it bent so much! Be careful passing beneath, or you will crack your head. If we pass standing, it looks as if our heads will surely hit. Better we go under it on our knees.

Dhabbu said, Yes, friend, seems there is something fishy. How did India Gate bend so much! And both began to go on their knees.

After a little while Chandulal said again, Seems, Dhabbu, India Gate has really gone low today! Even on our knees our heads might hit. Let’s crawl on our bellies.

Dhabbu said, Right, Chandu—you speak true. We should slither on our bellies. Both began to crawl. It was rush hour. A policeman came and gave each a rap on the head. Chandulal said to Dhabbu with anger and surprise, This is the limit, friend! We were crawling on our bellies—and the darn thing still hit our heads!

There is a world of unconsciousness—however you pass, your head will be split!

He who lives in ego has drunk bhang. Nothing is more intoxicating than ego—not even alcohol. Wine you drink in the evening—by morning it is gone. The ego is intoxication for a lifetime.

To awaken means to awaken from I-ness—to be free of the liquor of ego. And that can happen only where someone egoless is available to you. Sitting near him, the taste of egolessness will enter your experience too.

Once Nasruddin was traveling by train. The ticket-collector came asking for tickets. Mulla said, Sir, I do not have a ticket.

The collector said, Do you not know it is forbidden to sit in the train without a ticket?

Mulla replied, I knew, sir—that is why you see I have been standing so long! I have not sat!

Remember: sleep has its own logic. It has its own ways to save itself. Sleep will not let you go easily. First it will defend itself in every way. And whosoever awakens you—sleep will make him your enemy. Hence Jesus is crucified, Buddhas are stoned. These sleeping people do not wish to awaken; they are full of ego; and all the blows of Buddhas are on their ego—on their sleep.

If you would awaken, do not listen too much to the sleeping mind. Even if it speaks, let it go in one ear and out the other. That is the meaning of discipleship: not listening to the mind and listening to the Guru. If the Guru says something odd—seems inverted today—still listen. And if the mind speaks perfectly logical things—push them aside. For the mind’s logic is only logic to save your sleep.

It was night. Mulla Nasruddin was driving. On the edge of a village, on the road, there was a big heap of stones with a lantern burning on top. Mulla felt curious and waited there. Finally a peasant passed; Mulla called him: Brother, what is this? Why is this lantern placed on this heap?

The man said, Big sir, don’t you know even this much? It is placed so that the heap of stones is visible to passers-by.

Mulla said, I see. But tell me—why have you piled these stones here?

The man said with contempt, Big sir, we hear that city-people are clever—but you talk nonsense. If we do not pile the stones, then on what shall we place the lantern? The heap is to place the lantern.

Observe the mind’s logic. It goes in circles. The lantern is there so the heap may be seen; and the heap is there so the lantern may be placed. Where else to place the lantern!

Consider the mind’s logic—you will always find it rotating in a circle. It has no foundation. If you look at segments of logic, they seem meaningful. If you see the whole process, you immediately see it is delusive. But who sees the whole? Who contemplates so much? Who practices that much attention?

If you meditate upon mind, you will laugh greatly. It goes round like an ox tied to an oil-press. It thinks it is reaching somewhere—never does it reach, no destination arrives. It walks a lot. See how the mind walks! Day and night. Morning and evening; by day and by night—either in thinking or in dreams—it goes on walking. Have you ever asked where, with all this walking, it has reached? And if it has reached nowhere—it must be running round in a circle. So the work of walking goes on—but no arriving ever happens.

No one has ever reached anywhere by the mind. Those who reached, did so by dropping the mind. And dropping the mind is extremely difficult. Because you have invested all your life-energy in it. Your whole stake is with the mind. And this very mind will not let you come to the Guru.

Many times you have come close to Buddhas—and missed. You are not new—you are an eternal traveler. Some of you surely passed near Gautama the Buddha. One morning you sat and heard him. Some passed near Jesus—one morning you heard his words. Or Zarathustra or Mohammed or Kabir—or who knows, some among you may even have heard Paltu. You have been here forever—in countless forms, in many countries, in many races. It is impossible that in such a long journey you never passed a Buddha. Somewhere a Nanak must have crossed your path; somewhere a Farid; somewhere a Rumi; somewhere a Mansoor. But you missed. You did not see. You wear spectacles. Those spectacles are of the mind. The mind does not let you see. It does not let you see the Masters—for to see the Master is the beginning of the mind’s death.

Who will open the door of the temple—without Satguru, O Lord?

And until you see a Satguru, who will open the doors of the Lord’s temple? Who will open the windows from which you may peep into the Eternal—the supreme mystery, the supreme wonder!

In the natal home you learned no virtue—
in the in-laws’ you became uncouth.

Your life is passing like this. Births go by—you do not learn anything.

You learned nothing in your parents’ home, and in the husband’s home you became even more crass.

Your mind is so full of its own nobility that not to speak of the ocean—you cannot receive even a pitcher. You are so filled with ego that where will the ocean find room! There is no space even to place a little pot. The Guru is the pot; Paramatma is the ocean.

Within the pot there dwell five-and-twenty—who will show the path?

And if you were one, it would be easy. You are five-and-twenty. You are a crowd. Mahavira has said: you are mult-minded. Within you there is not one mind—there are many.

In the evening you decide: I will get up at five. Now I must. In brahmamuhurta I will rise, whatever happens. All the wise have said to rise in brahmamuhurta—there must be some secret. Now I sleep with a firm resolve. At five, when the alarm rings, you shut it off, roll over and say: What harm in one day—tomorrow! The mind that resolved—was it the same mind that turned off the alarm? No. Psychologists now agree with Mahavira—it was not the same; it was another.

One mind says: I will love you all my life. And not to speak of life—by evening there is a quarrel. For whom you were ready to die—you are ready to kill. Forgotten the promise of a lifetime. This is another mind.

One mind vows: I will not be angry. Someone abuses you—and anger surges. This is another mind. After the anger passes—you repent: Again I erred. Another mind. Within you is a crowd of minds.

Within the pot there dwell five-and-twenty—

You are not one—even if you were, the matter would be simple. If you were unitary—revolution would be easy.

The greatest difficulty for the Guru is: how to make the disciple one? How to melt his crowd and cast it into one? Five are your senses—and each of them runs in at least five directions—so multiply: five-and-twenty! A crowd has arisen inside.

Your condition is like that of prime ministers in Delhi—someone pulls the leg, someone the hand, someone snatches away the cap. Someone pulls at the churidar pajama. That is why leaders wear churidar—because it is hard to pull off. Pull and pull—it does not come easily. The secret of the churidar is this. Nehru did well to choose it. Had he chosen a Bengali dhoti, great trouble. Someone would run away with the dhoti—and you cannot leave your chair—so you would sit naked on the chair. It takes two men to put on a churidar; two to take it off.

Your condition is the same. Someone pulls the leg, someone the hand. One mind says, East; another, West; one says do this; another, that. Pushing and shoving! How you live at all is a miracle. That you somehow drag yourself through this shoving is a wonder. You are like a football—kicked from here to there and there to here.

Within the pot there dwell five-and-twenty—who will show the path?

And if someone would show the path—to whom will he show it? Who will listen? There is conflict, there is war. And since you have become many—you are impoverished, your energy flows out through all these holes. You could be a lion—but you are not.

A man joined the army. On the first day of drill he raised his legs so gingerly—as if going to a wedding, as if the groom at the bride’s gate. The captain shouted: Hey! Not like this! This is not a wedding. Stop this wedding gait. And mind you, my name is Sher Singh—I will set you straight.

The man said in a tearful voice, Please do not talk of names. My name too is Babbar Singh—but what does a name do! This is my condition. I cannot go any faster. What can I do! I am a married man. I have already been beaten so much—do not beat this poor wretch any more.

Enough now, Guljaan—or the animal inside me will awaken!—Nasruddin shouted at his wife. She mocked: Oh, go on—let that animal awaken. Who is afraid of a mouse!

Man could be a lion; he has not even remained a mouse. All energy leaks away as if there are a thousand holes in the pot. Nothing remains. Who will show the path? To whom will he show it?

Your mind is so full of family pride—there is not room even for a pitcher.

Within the pot there dwell five-and-twenty—who will show the path?

Paltu Das: leave lineage and caste—find the Satguru’s company.

Leave family, caste, rank, class—only then will you be able to find that supreme companion called Satguru.

…find the Satguru’s company.

He alone is the true companion, the true friend—the one who joins you to Paramatma is the friend; the one who separates you from Paramatma is the enemy. Take this definition: an enemy is he who separates you from Paramatma; a friend is he who unites you to Him.

Do not veil yourself from the Master—drink with full eyes.

And if ever you meet such a Master—in whom the Master has descended—do not veil yourself. Do not peep from behind the veil. Do not miss. Look with brimming eyes! Drink him with your eyes! Open the doors of your eyes for him! Remove the veils from your ears. Remove all veils that become hindrances.

Why draw the veil while you dance—remove the scarf from your face.

When the Satguru is found—the hour to dance has come! Managing the veil will not do.

…remove the scarf from your face.

Now drop all veils. Meera said: I have thrown away all public shame!

If one be a sati, why consider omens—why announce drinking poison?

Sati means the one who has desired the One alone; who has surrendered everything to the One. In the disciple there is the spirit of sati. Sati comes from sat—the one who has given all to truth. The bond with the Satguru is of love, of affection. It is the marriage of the soul with the Soul of the soul.

If one be a sati, why consider omens…

Then there is no need to look for auspicious times—to ask, when should I see the Guru, when not. All that is false—auspicious timings, omens. No need. Keep no concealment before the Guru, no secret—open all. Before a physician you go and reveal your whole illness—do you hide? Otherwise what can he do?

Once Mulla Nasruddin went to a doctor. The doctor asked, What is the trouble?

Mulla said, You tell me. Are you the doctor or am I?

The doctor said, Then go to a veterinarian. For only a veterinary doctor can treat you—animals say nothing; doctors must guess. I am a doctor for humans—you have come to the wrong place.

Before a doctor you must open everything. Before the Guru you have come to the supreme physician. Not only the body—he must heal the soul. You must open all.

If one be a sati, why consider omens…

Then one does not consider time or shame or reputation—before the Guru everything is unconditionally opened. From that opening the revolution begins.

…why announce drinking poison?

And if the Guru gives even poison to drink—do not proclaim: Look, I drink poison! Look, I have renounced this! Look, how much I have offered! Look, my great surrender! Do not proclaim. By proclaiming all is ruined. If you drink and keep telling—what drinking is that! If the Guru gives poison—drink it joyfully, not a word—because from the Guru’s hand even poison is nectar.

Sometimes a physician must give poison as medicine. In the healer’s hand even poison is a remedy. In the fool’s hand even remedies turn into poison.

Fear of the world, of the Veda, of body, of mind—with such fear how can one be drenched in love’s color?

If you fear the world, the Veda, the body, the mind—remember this: you will not be drenched in the color of love.

Paltu Das: become a marjiwa—dive for the jewels, your body will not wear away.

Paltu says: die living at the Guru’s feet. Marjiwa has two meanings. One: die while alive—that is its supreme sense. And second: diver. A diver is called marjiwa—because when he dives he holds his breath; he becomes like a dead man—for at death the breath stops. So marjiwa also means a diver.

Become a diver at the Guru’s feet. His feet are ocean-like. The depth of his feet is infinite. For he is not—he is only a door for Paramatma—the ghat of the ocean! Dive—be a diver!

…dive for the jewels, your body will not wear away.

Do not fear; nothing will be worn away; the body will not melt. And jewels you will find. If you dive deep, your bag will be filled with gems.

In the supreme sense marjiwa means: become a corpse while alive. At the Guru’s—let there be no life of your own; the Guru’s life is your life. Breathe in his breath. Join your heartbeat to his heartbeat. Blend your note into his music. Die while living and the supreme life is attained. Your bag will be filled with diamonds of amrit—with pearls of amrit.

But one must drown—as a sati drowns in her husband. The word sati has now become old. Its meanings are lost. Now that glory is no longer there. Once the word had great depth. When Paltu wrote, it stood seven skies high. Now to become a sati is a legal crime. If a woman is caught becoming sati, she will be punished—perhaps for life. Those days are gone. Now the days are different. Now the glory of sati is no more.

But there was great depth in that word. This country had known a unique experience of love. Because love needs time to ripen. It is not a seasonal flower. When two people immerse themselves into each other for a whole lifetime, slowly, slowly…

Forming, forming—formed it is, if you remain at the saint’s door.
Offering body, mind, wealth—he shoves you, the Lord.

Love, once it happens—then it happens. But the days have changed.

When Mulla Nasruddin came home early, he saw his wife on the bed and, seeing him, some man ran out the back door. Nasruddin, suppressing anger, said to Guljaan, Who was he? My friend Chandulal?

No!

Then was it Dhabbuji?

No, said the wife, as before.

Then Bhondumal? Or Matkanath Brahmachari?

Hearing these questions, the wife began to weep. Nasruddin said with compassion, What is done is done. What use crying now? Guljaan, do not repeat such a mistake in the future. I forgive you. Get up—be quiet.

I am not crying for that, Mulla—she sobbed—I am crying because you named only your friends—as if I have no friends!

The times have changed. The glory of sati is gone. But the intuition in the idea of sati had great dignity. We ourselves destroyed it by forcing women to be sati. Such things cannot be forced. If they happen, they happen. When we try to force even a noble thing, we become the cause of its destruction. Like prying open a bud to make a flower—you will destroy it. If the bud opens by itself—the joy! But opening it forcibly—with electric pressure, pressing down the petals—you will kill it.

That is what happened. The majestic idea of sati—but majestic only when natural, spontaneous. We did the opposite. We do it always. We drag every sky-high idea into dust. We forced every woman: if your husband dies, you must die. We created a compulsion that if she did not die she would be condemned; she would carry guilt, and society would go on condemning her. We arranged to make her sati by force—dragging a living woman to the pyre. So much ghee was poured on the husband’s corpse and then the living woman was pushed in. Ghee so that the flames are fierce and smoke rises—so much smoke that those who came to burn may not see what is happening to the living woman. Priests stood all around with torches, for a living person, if you try to throw into the pyre, will run. Put your hand into a lamp—you will withdraw it. Throw a living person on a corpse—she will run. So that she cannot run, the priests stood with torches to push her back into the fire. Drums were beaten, trumpets blared—so her screams would not be heard. A living person—burn her—and she will scream, cry out, terribly.

This is degradation. The glorious idea of sati became infernal. It is murder. It is not chastity.

In ninety-nine out of a hundred cases this was the truth: sati became murder. But in one case—and one is enough—this happened naturally: two people became so one. It is not necessary to die on the pyre; but after the husband’s passing, the sati’s life becomes marjiwa. She lives as if dead—living and yet not living. That becomes her sadhana, and through it she attains supreme light. For her, the husband becomes Satguru. Even his death becomes the doorway to God.

When my father passed away, the first thing my mother asked me was this: Now my life has no meaning. Tell me how I too may attain supreme meditation. Tell me how I can dissolve into Paramatma as your father did.

I know—sixty years of their togetherness is a long time. Sixty years of loving, unwavering, without an inch of wobbling—a long journey. After sixty years, for my mother to be alone—surely a vast loneliness. But by climbing the pyre nothing will happen. Yes—by descending into meditation, surely something will happen.

And that is what she asked me. I rejoiced. Climbing the pyre the body burns—the birth must be taken again. But if Samadhi can be attained, there will be no birth again. And I hope Samadhi can be attained. For now an opportunity has come—to live as if living and not living; now life and death are equal. This is the first threshold of meditation, of Samadhi. There is no obstruction now.

Between husband and wife there can be that oneness, one-pointed love—and so between disciple and Guru. If at the Guru’s you become such that you are not there; only the Guru is everything for you—he speaks in you, he rises in you, he walks in you, he breathes in you, he beats in your heart—it is enough. The ocean is not far. The ghat is found—now at any moment the plunge. And even if you do not jump, the Guru will push you—at the right moment—he will wait for the right opening and push.

And once you descend, no one returns. Once you taste the joy of drowning—no one returns. Like a statue of salt entering the ocean—melts. So too you, entering Paramatma, will melt, vanish, become shunya. And your becoming shunya is the descent of the Purna.

But it happens slowly, slowly—

Forming, forming—formed it is, if you remain at the saint’s door.

Enough for today.