Kahe Hot Adheer #9

The mind longs to let the waters flow.
Why then this liking for the fall?
The mind is an ocean whose depth none can fathom—let attention dive within;
Gather true pearls, one by one—let the eyes lose their way.
Why then this liking for the fall?
The mind longs to let the waters flow.

Love—the lamp’s beautiful deceit, tender as a flower;
The thorn pricks and blood flows—this is love’s offering.
Each moment it sets the mind aflame; from instant to instant the heart brims over.
Why then this liking for the fall?
The mind longs to let the waters flow.

On the moon’s fair face dark clouds drift;
Sorrow awakens, the chakori is born—and the winds buffet.
A thousand forms it takes—separation shows what images it can unveil.
Why then this liking for the fall?
The mind longs to let the waters flow.

Blessed is the hour when a person begins to see thorns even among flowers; when in the very spring there is a sense of autumn; and when within life the clear perception of death’s shadow begins to dawn.
One who has seen only flowers—he wanders astray. One who has also seen the thorns hidden within the flowers—he arrives. One who has become enchanted with spring and has forgotten the fall—today or tomorrow he will weep, he will weep much; he will repent, he will repent much. But one who has remembered autumn even amidst spring—he goes beyond sorrow, he transcends sorrow.
Life is a duality—of happiness and pain; of birth and death; of thorns and flowers; of springs and falls. In this duality we grasp one pole and try to escape the other. This is our anguish; this is our suffering. What we try to grasp never quite comes into our grasp, it slips again and again; and what we try to escape, we cannot escape—it catches us again and again. Yet the responsibility is no one else’s—it is our own. For that which appears opposite to us only appears opposite—it is not so. Thorns and flowers are together—two faces of the same coin. Life and death too are two faces of the same coin. You want to save one face and drop the other—how will this be? The impossible never happens; it cannot be. If you set out to make the impossible happen, you will get pain. And this very pain we have been harvesting birth after birth.
Therefore I say: blessed is the hour when the duality of life becomes visible to you—and it also becomes visible that this duality is a great conspiracy. The moment this becomes seen, you start rising above duality; you begin to transcend. You become a witness then; neither life nor death—but the witness of both; neither day nor night—but the witness of both; neither spring nor fall—but the witness of both; neither love nor hate—but the witness of both. And the person who is a witness to every duality is established in Samadhi; he is available to Nirvana.
Today’s sutras point toward precisely this trans-dual state—they are milestones. If you understand their pointers, the goal is not far. Paltu says:

Let us go, friend, to that country where there is neither day nor night.

Friend, let us go to that country where there is no duality of sin and virtue, no duality of moon and sun, no division of lover and beloved. Let us go into the non-dual! Let us rise into the un-contradicted!

Where there is no earth, no fire, no wind, no water; where there is no sleeping and no waking.
Let us seek that country, for that alone is our native land. Let us search for that home where there is neither waking nor sleeping. For that alone is our true home. If that is attained, the immortal is attained; if that is missed, one keeps diving in poison. And for births upon births we have been missing. However many houses you build here, they keep collapsing. All the houses built here prove to be houses of cards. However strong you build them—even palaces built of stone, in the end prove to be nothing but sand. For stone too is nothing but sand—only a bonding of grains of sand; what is conjoined today will scatter tomorrow.
Here, however much trust you repose, all trusts are self-deceptions. However many steeds of desire you urge to run, it is all a race of dreams. However many boats you launch, they are all paper boats. And however puffed up the mind feels, all are bubbles of water—now burst, then burst—sooner or later, but all bubbles will burst, they will break. Nothing remains in hand here. We come empty-handed and empty-handed we go. At best we go having lost something—we do not go having earned anything.
A child is born with a closed fist; a man goes with an open hand. At least there was the illusion of a closed fist. They say: a closed fist is worth a hundred thousand; once opened, worth dust! They say it rightly. At least the child comes carrying an illusion. But life breaks all those illusions.
Unfortunate are those who take no lessons from life; who do not listen to life. Life breaks your illusions, and you fabricate new ones. Life covers your dreams with dust, and you fabricate new ones. Even to the last breath you remain engaged in dreams—their proliferation, the same make-believe. And that is why your own home—which could have been found, which was not far, which was hidden within you, which was the very life of your life, which was your inner soul—you remain deprived of it.

Let us go, friend, to that country...
Let us go to that country! And this country is not far. This country is not in some foreign realm. This country is not somewhere in the skies, nor in the netherworlds. This country is within you.

Let us go, friend, to that country where there is neither day nor night.
Where there is no sin, no virtue; no moon, no sun; no beloved, no lover.
Where there is no earth, no fire, no wind, no water; no sleeping, no waking.
Where there are no people and no scriptures; no forest and no habitation; no accumulation and no renunciation.

There, there is neither renunciation nor accumulation. There is no world, no society; no Veda, no scripture; neither forest nor town.

Paltu says: there is no Master, no disciple—there is only the One Ram, vibrating.

There all is dissolved. The final division of Master and disciple too dissolves. And all other divisions dissolve of course—the husband and wife, brother and sister, friend and foe—the final division, the dearest division, of Master and disciple also dissolves there. There only the One remains. And what name shall we give to the One! The One will of course be the Nameless. Names are possible only where there are two.

…only the One Ram remains vibrating.

Only the One Ram remains. Here Ram does not mean Dasharatha’s son. Here Ram means the witnessing Brahman dwelling within your life-breath. Where only the One Ram remains—no devotee, no God; no seen, no seer; where one pure witnessing remains—only a mirror, wherein nothing even reflects—so much as a duality does not remain—this state Yoga has called Samadhi, Nirvikalpa Samadhi. Mahavira has called it the state of Shukla-dhyana—so pure, so immaculate, so holy—hence shukla, white, the whitest! Buddha has called it Nirvana—where the lamp of ego has been put out. For the lamp of ego needs duality to burn.
When you are left utterly alone, the difficulty that arises—perhaps you have never even thought—why does it arise? Why do you become so restless in aloneness? If you have to remain utterly alone for ten or five days, why do you get so frightened? Psychologists say that if a person has to remain in absolute solitude for three weeks, he will go mad. Why? The reason is simple. You may not have thought, nor experimented.
Your ego needs the other to remain alive. If the other is present, the ego lives. If there is thou, then I lives; without thou, I has no existence. Where there is no thou, there is also no I. And where there is no I, there will be a panic—as if you are beginning to drown—drowning in bottomless depths! Will any shore be found for this bottomless depth? No trust arises. All supports start slipping out of hand. Till now you have lived in ego—‘I am!’ But where thou goes, I also goes; then what remains is—

…only the One Ram remains vibrating.

Hence we seek crowds. Hence even in the name of religion we join crowds—the Hindu crowd, the Muslim crowd, the Christian crowd, the Jain crowd—we seek crowds. Mahavira attained knowing in solitude. Buddha attained knowing in solitude. Jesus attained knowing in solitude. But we seek the crowd. Our aloneness bites. The bigger the crowd, the more reassured we feel. Seeking crowds is politics; seeking solitude is religion. The politician needs the crowd. Without the crowd, his very life seems to slip out.

A former M.L.A.
Came and stood at the bus stop,
And a little later
He fell in a faint.
His consciousness flew,
And a nice thick crowd
Gathered around him.
One man requested the people:
‘Please disperse this crowd,
Let the poor fellow get some air.’
Then I said,
‘No! Let the crowd remain.
Perhaps you don’t know
That the man lying unconscious
Is a defeated legislator.
For now, this crowd
Is beneficial for him.
Why are you being so foolish
As to disperse the crowd?
Ah, it was the crowd that deserted him—
That is why he is having these fits!’

Man lives in crowds. Not only politicians—everyone seeks crowds. Why do we build families? So as not to feel lonely. We marry, we have children—so that we do not feel alone, so that companionship remains. The greatest fear is the fear of being alone—that somehow I may not be left alone! For that we make how many arrangements! If we sieve life, all our arrangements are for one thing only—that somehow I not be reminded that I am not. And Buddha says: one who comes to know ‘I am not’—he has attained all; he has found that country—where there is neither thou nor I.
Because we depend on the crowd, we also fear the crowd; we remain frightened of the crowd. We do what the crowd makes us do. We have to obey the crowd. The character the crowd hands us, we have to put it on—whether the inner soul bears witness or not. We have to keep the crowd pleased, because without the crowd we fall into difficulty. So if the crowd goes to war, we go to war. If the crowd is burning a temple, we burn the temple. If the crowd is demolishing a mosque, we demolish the mosque. If the crowd commits murders, we commit murders. Hindu–Muslim riots exist only because of crowds. Some have become part of one crowd; some have become part of another.
Hindu–Muslim riots, Christian–Muslim riots will not vanish from this world until man gathers the capacity to be alone. As long as there are crowds, there will be riots, because a crowd needs riots in order to survive—just as you need a crowd to survive, the crowd needs riots to survive.
Adolf Hitler has written in his autobiography: if your country has no enemy, then invent a false enemy, but keep one. As long as there is an enemy, the country remains together, strong. The moment there is no enemy, the country becomes lax, lethargic. If there is a real enemy—good fortune; if not, then keep spreading false rumors, keep frightening people. Islam is in danger—then Muslims will remain together. Hindu dharma is in danger, the Hindu nation is in danger—then people will go to the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, don shorts, and drill. Keep a danger alive, keep danger awake. As long as there is danger, you are together; the moment the danger goes, you scatter.
You have seen it: in this country, barely thirty years ago there was British rule—then the whole country was united because there was one enemy to fight. Since there was to be a fight, people were united. There was no quarrel between Gujarati and Marathi, between Hindi-speaking and Tamil-speaking—no quarrel. The entire country was one. The British were frightened by that oneness. So they set up a quarrel—between Hindus and Muslims. They incited Hindus: your religion is in danger; and they incited Muslims: your religion is in danger. They kept both entangled in this fight. In this fight they split the country into two. Hindus and Muslims kept fighting.
People thought: once Hindustan and Pakistan are separated, then the riots will end. But they did not end. If Hindus and Muslims are separated, so what! Then smaller and smaller quarrels arise. There is now a quarrel between North India and South India. If you burn the effigy of Ravana, then in the South they will burn the effigy of Ram—because Ram was of the North. The North is upon the South’s chest. The South must be freed of the North. A North–South quarrel—who had ever thought!
And there are petty quarrels: whose is Narmada’s water—Madhya Pradesh’s or Gujarat’s? Or the question of a small tehsil, a district—Karnataka’s or Maharashtra’s? Knives will be out. Whose is Bombay—of Gujaratis or of Maharashtrians? There will be knifings.
Man lives in crowds to feel that ‘I am’. And the crowd fights other crowds so that it may feel ‘I am’. If none remains to fight, the crowd falls apart. You are not bound by friendship; you are bound by enmity. You are not bound by love; you are bound by hate.
Hence, you noticed: if there is a quarrel with Pakistan, the internal quarrels of Indians instantly become quiet. First let us settle with Pakistan, then these internal quarrels will come in handy later—when there is no other quarrel, we will pass time in these. If China attacks, you immediately unite; you forget your quarrels. Else, smaller quarrels crop up—Khalistan is needed! Bengalis want an undivided Bengal!
Crowds cannot remain alive without colliding with other crowds. These your nations—India, Pakistan, China, Japan—what are they but names of crowds? And what is the secret of their survival? The same. If you understand the fundamental principle: you will not survive if you become alone; the crowd will not survive if other crowds do not remain.
We live in duality. Not only do we live in it—we nourish it. Then the crowd upon which you live—you will naturally fear it. If it says: eat this way—then you must eat that way. If it says: stand and sit in this manner—you must stand and sit in that manner. For the crowd will not tolerate rebels—for rebels are dangerous to the crowd; they will break it; they will fragment it. The crowd wants an obedient person. In the crowd’s eyes, violation of command is the greatest sin. So you are afraid. And until you can live in solitude, until you can dive into your inner solitude, until you can become soaked in meditation—the crowd will remain your master and you will remain a slave.

The doctor asked the sick leader, ‘Do you go to many parties? Your stomach is upset, your digestion is disturbed.’
‘Yes, I go to many parties,’ the leader said. ‘First I was Jan Sanghi, then Socialist, then Communist, then in the Swatantra Party, then Janata Party. From there I came to the Swarna Congress, and nowadays I am in Indira Congress—because now prospects appear to lie there.’

A leader knows only one meaning of party—even if his digestion is bad! He has a fixed language.
If you fear the crowd, you will also fear the Veda. The Veda is a symbol. If you are a Muslim, understand Quran; if a Christian, then Bible; if a Buddhist, then Dhammapada. The book you have accepted—that is your Veda. The book you are following—that is your Veda.

‘No world, no Veda...’

If you fear the crowd, you will also have to accept the crowd’s book. And what sins these crowd-books have not made you commit! What sins Manusmriti has not made you commit! But if you are a Hindu, you will have to accept Manusmriti. For how else will the Hindu crowd be held together? Some book is needed, some rule is needed, some arrangement is needed—who will provide it?
Hence books have become so valuable. Your own intelligence has become valueless; others’ intelligences have become valuable. Five thousand years have passed since King Manu died, yet there is no getting rid of him. Even now, whenever you burn a Harijan, the hand of Manu’s book is present in it.
Perhaps you know it, perhaps not—but Manusmriti has set in motion an unbroken stream of Brahmin, Shudra, Vaishya, Kshatriya—the divisions absolutely fixed. So fixed that those you call great men no longer seem great.
Ram himself had molten lead poured into the ears of a Shudra because he dared to listen to the Veda. Dared to listen!—for the Veda is forbidden to a Shudra! And you call Ram the supreme man of decorum! Perhaps this is why you call him so—for he did not step outside your decorum. Your decorum was exactly this: a Shudra should not hear the Veda; let alone read, not even hear it. And one Shudra heard the Veda—so melted lead was poured into his ears. The poor fellow must have died.
And if Ram can do such an act, then what the small Rams do from village to village—that is all decorum! These petty supreme-men-of-decorum!
Your great men are great only if they follow you; if they do not follow you, they are no great men. This is a miracle—that even small people make their great men walk behind them. The law of the world is: if a leader wants to remain a leader, he must walk behind his followers. This is a very topsy-turvy law. The real leader, the intelligent leader, is he who sees where the crowd is going—and always positions himself ahead of it accordingly. Though behind, in truth he is behind the crowd—he sees where the crowd goes; if it turns left, the clever leader turns left; if it turns right, the clever leader turns right! The leader is like a weather-vane showing the direction of the wind—left, right, wherever the wind blows, the vane moves.
Your great men are quite hollow. Otherwise you would not recognize them as great men; you would stone them, abuse them. You would burn them alive. And you have done exactly that with the real great men. You call Ram the supreme decorous man—but you did not even mention Mahavira. In the Hindu scriptures there is no mention of Mahavira. Why? Because he did not accept the decorum of the Veda; he did not accept the decorum of Manusmriti. He did not accept the rule of the four castes, nor did he accept the rule of the four ashramas. And not only that—this person abandoned clothing, stood naked. He broke all decorums. He is a rebel. Such a rebel cannot be accepted. So Mahavira was stoned, driven out from village to village; iron nails were driven into his ears; ferocious dogs were set upon him. As much persecution as could be inflicted upon him—was inflicted.
The same you did to Buddha. Rocks were rolled from the hills—so that Buddha, meditating below, would be crushed. The stories say the rocks veered aside—they spared Buddha. It seems rocks have more understanding than you. A mad elephant was set upon Buddha. But at Buddha’s feet he bowed. It seems you are more mad than mad elephants.
You gave poison to Meera; Mansoor’s hands and feet you cut off; Jesus you hung on the cross; Socrates you sentenced to death.
And Ram—you call him the supreme decorous man! What is his decorum?
The first decorum: that he obeyed an old father’s wrong command. The old father, in old age, married a young girl—to whom he had given a promise. He obeyed this old father; he is obedient—this is his decorum! Then he protected the so-called rishis, sages—pandits and priests—this is his decorum! Into a Shudra’s ears he had molten lead poured so that no Shudra ever again commit such a mistake—this is his decorum! That is why Ram has been praised for centuries, Ramlila is staged in every village. People have memorized Tulsidas’s couplets and they think by repeating those couplets they become religious. The crowd gave Ram such honor—this makes it clear that Ram kept to the crowd’s wishes; he did whatever the crowd desired. He must have been a skilled politician, a clever leader!
And you follow the Vedas—no matter what the Vedas say.
No book is eternal; all books are temporal, suitable to their time. For their time they are necessary, useful, relevant. But no book is eternal.
The Bible says the earth is flat. Now scientists have discovered that the earth is round. Now a difficulty arises. For one who moves by the book, an obstacle appears. Three hundred years ago, one of the greatest scientists ever born on this earth, Galileo, was summoned by the Pope to his court to apologize—‘Apologize and say the earth is flat, not round! And the sun goes round the earth; the earth does not go round the sun.’
Science had discovered both facts. Galileo had sufficient evidence for both—that the earth is round and that the earth moves around the sun, not the sun around the earth. But Galileo must have been a very free-spirited man. He was old, but very wise. He said, ‘All right. If it pleases you that the earth remain flat—so be it! I will say it—the earth is flat, not round. And it gives you joy to know that the sun goes round the earth and not the earth round the sun—I am perfectly ready. What is my obstacle? What is it to me? I will say the sun revolves and the earth does not. But note this well—by my saying so nothing happens. The earth is round and will remain round. And if the earth goes round the sun, it will continue to go round it. The Pope’s order has no meaning. However loudly I shout—I will do as you wish, I will ask forgiveness, I will kneel. I will not get into this trouble; I do not want to make such petty matters into wasteful disputes. But what can I do?’
He repeated again and again: ‘What can I do?’ He really hit the Pope nicely. ‘I am apologizing, I am apologizing from my side; but what can I do for the earth! Call the earth into the court.’
But what was the Pope’s difficulty? If science has discovered this fact, why not accept it? One difficulty arises: if a single statement in the Bible can be wrong, then suspicion arises—other statements may also be wrong. This suspicion creates great inconvenience. If a single brick slips in the foundation, people will start moving other bricks. They will say, ‘If your scripture has such a fundamental error, who knows whether everything else is not error too!’ Then that fort of belief erected comes tumbling down.
Therefore no religion wants to accept any kind of revision in its book. As it is written—just so; not an inch here or there. And no scripture can be useful forever. It is a shadow of its time; it bears its time’s language; it reflects its time’s rules. For its time it was indeed useful. But to declare it useful forever and impose it upon the chest of people forever is dangerous—and a costly bargain. Yet we ourselves choose this. We fear people and we fear scriptures. And these two fears do not allow us to enter our innermost.
Sharpen your own prajna. Hone your own intelligence. Truth is hidden not in scripture but in yourself. And not in the crowd; if you are to find the Divine, you will find him within, in yourself.

‘Where there is no world, no Veda; no forest, no town; no accumulation, no renunciation.’

There is a state of consciousness where there is neither accumulation nor grasping, nor renunciation. Understand this. For in the world there are two kinds of people. There should be a third kind—but the third kind is rare, very rare. The world is crowded with two kinds. Those who live in accumulation—go on gathering, go on filling—no matter what it is, trash and junk, but fill, keep collecting!
I used to go for walks with a friend. A bicycle handle lay by the roadside. He felt much embarrassed, but said to me, ‘Pardon me!’—and he picked up the handle.
I asked, ‘What will you do with this rusted, broken handle?’
He said, ‘You just watch! I have already gathered two rims. I have a pedal too. Just keep watching—bit by bit it will be made! Some day I will show you a bicycle.’
And when I visited his house, I was astonished—he had collected many sorts of things; things that had no use remaining—those too were all stored. There was hardly any place left to live—broken, discarded furniture, pots and pans, everything... Whatever entered the house never left. Whatever came inside only accumulated.
Some accumulate wealth; some accumulate knowledge. Some begin to accumulate renunciation too—but the collecting goes on. Why is it so? Why this rush to accumulate? Why this madness of possessions?
We feel very empty. Without self-knowing a person is empty—and emptiness bites; somehow fill it! People overeat to fill it.
Psychologists say people overeat precisely because they feel empty. They gather more clothes because they feel empty. Whatever you gather, this disease of collecting is a sign of your inner void. In the West there is a strong sense of void, hence in the West people accumulate things. And here too—since there are not so many things, not so much facility to collect—people gather junk; but they gather something or other. By collecting, there is a kind of illusion that we are filled.
One is filled only when one fills with Ram. Let me remind you again: I do not mean Dasharatha’s son. With Dasharatha’s son I have nothing to do. By Ram I mean the Divine, the supreme state of the soul. When the soul is illumined, when the kingdom of the soul is attained, then you feel full. Otherwise you feel empty. And however much you fill with things—with position, prestige, name—it will do nothing.

An international feast contest was organized, with champions from far countries. The person who ate the most was to be honored and given many gifts. The competition began and in the end Chandulal, after eating two hundred pooris, four hundred rasgullas, two hundred plates of dahi-wada, four hundred kachoris, and eighty glasses of sherbet, still held the field. The judges panicked and declared him the winner—lest he died! He was still ready for more. He was saying, ‘Let it go on a little—must set a record!’ But the judges were frightened: ‘The record has been set. Have mercy on us—else we will be arrested. If you die, the police will harass us.’
He was declared the winner and invited to the stage to receive his prize. He could barely rise—you can imagine how—but he rose somehow.
What will not the gratification of ego accomplish—little or much! A dead man can rise. If one dies, whisper in his ear, ‘Hey! Is this a time to die! Elections are near—chance to win!’ And don’t be surprised if he sits up.
Somehow Chandulal stood up and reached the stage. After receiving the prize he addressed the people: ‘Friends! I have entered this competition today—please do not let this reach my wife. Otherwise she will not give me dinner today, and I will have to go hungry.’
People keep filling, keep filling—and yet nothing fills; they remain empty as ever.
I like a story very much—a Sufi story. A fakir placed his begging bowl at an emperor’s gate. It was early morning and the emperor was entering the palace after a stroll in the garden. The emperor said, ‘What do you want?’
The fakir said, ‘What is there to ask. I want one thing: that my begging bowl not remain empty. Fill it—even with pebbles—but fill it. Emptiness bites. I do not want to remain empty. Fill my begging bowl.’
The emperor said, ‘Is that such a big demand! Such a small bowl—get it filled at once!’
But the fakir said again, ‘See and take care. The condition is: the begging bowl must be filled; otherwise I will not move from the door.’
The emperor said, ‘You madman! What do you take me for—a beggar! He commanded his ministers, ‘Fill it with gold!’
Gold coins were poured in. But his begging bowl was marvelous. The coins made no sound—vanished. Not even the clink of metal. As if they fell into abysmal depth. The bowl small—and when peered into, nothing to be seen. The treasury began to empty. Noon came; the entire capital gathered—the news spread like wildfire that the emperor took a strange challenge. Great wars he had won—yet to a fakir he was losing. And the fakir stood with his begging bowl, clacking his little tongs. He kept saying: ‘Until it is filled I will not move... You accepted the condition—fill my bowl.’ Tears came to the king’s eyes; his back bent. Diamonds and jewels went, gold and silver went—whatever there was, finished. By evening, the treasuries were empty. The ministers said, ‘Now nothing remains.’
The emperor fell at his feet: ‘Forgive me! But before you go, tell me the secret of your begging bowl.’
The fakir said, ‘There is no secret. I made it from a human skull. Neither does a human skull ever fill, nor does this bowl. No big mystery. I found the skull at the cremation ground, scraped and shaped it into a bowl. When I made it, even I did not know its secret. Only when I put things in and they vanished, I was amazed. Ah, man! A wonder in life; a wonder even in death!’

The same Chandulal, the world-contest-fame, came breathless to a doctor: ‘Doctor, nowadays I don’t feel hungry.’
The doctor asked, ‘What did you eat since morning?’
Chandulal said, ‘On the bed itself I had some ten cups of tea—and with tea ten-fifteen plates of jalebis. Then washed up and went to the market. There I ate fifteen plates of samosas and six glasses of milk. Then a round of the city—by then it was eleven, time for lunch—so I reached home. There I had twenty rotis and ten plates of rice and some ten oranges, and...’
The doctor interrupted in between: ‘So—now you intend to eat me?’
The mind does not fill. It cannot—it is not its nature.
So on one side are the possessors, piling up. Then, piling and piling, they get tired—very tired. Tired, they begin the opposite. They think: I did not find fulfillment in possessions—I will find it in renunciation. Earlier they chased wealth; now they run from wealth. Earlier they chased women; now the moment they see women they flee, turning their back. What they did earlier, they now do the reverse—as if someone imagines: by standing on the head life will be transformed.
If a fool does headstand, do you think he will become a Buddha? Doing headstand, he will look even more foolish—become a great fool. At least on his feet there was a little chance of some intelligence—now even that is gone.
But the logic of human life is: having exhausted one extreme, one runs to the other extreme. He feels naturally: it didn’t happen this way—let me try the opposite. Hence there are bhogis, accumulators, and tyagis, renouncers.
And you will be surprised: the more hedonistic a society, the greater its respect for renunciates. For the hedonist understands the logic of renunciation. He too feels inside: I am not receiving anything, though I am accumulating—the receiving is not happening. My capacity is still low, inner strength low, resolution low. When resolution arises, I too will renounce and become a muni.
You see this: in this country Jains have the most wealth, the greatest comfort—and the Jains are the greatest votaries of renunciation! Possession—and partial to renunciation! Outwardly it looks opposite; inwardly, it is the spread of one logic. The Jain expects the most renunciation from his muni—more than any society expects from its ascetics. Muslims do not expect so much renunciation from their fakirs. Because the Muslim still does not possess much; he is not tired of possessions; how can he expect renunciation? But the Jain expects much from his fakir. Jain laymen constantly examine their munis so that if the slightest mistake is found, he may be set straight! When does he rise, when sit; what does he eat, drink; how much—everything is recorded. Vows, fasts—does he follow the rule or not—all accounts are kept. But those who deceive, they do find paths.
A while ago, in the Jain pilgrimage place Shikharji, nude Digambara Jain monks were caught in a case unimaginable—had to be taken to the police station. The Jains bribed, fed, to hush the matter so it not reach the newspapers—for Jain munis—and in such a case! Two Jain munis fought and beat each other.
Ahimsa! Naked! What means of fighting do they have! But there was a motive. In their picchi—the whisk with which they sweep the ground so as not to kill ants—there is a handle. They had hollowed the handle and stuffed it with hundred-rupee notes. Both had decided to split half and half. The one in whose handle the notes were hidden wanted to keep a little more—naturally, since he kept them, took the risk. But the other knew the secret. He said, ‘I have kept the secret—else you would have been defamed long ago. The share should be equal.’
A fight broke out—only their picchis were there—so they beat each other with the picchi. Some villagers saw it, informed the police. In the police station the Digambara monks were present—and then all was revealed: the fight was over money!
You would never imagine that a Digambara would hide notes in his picchi’s handle! Now, next time you meet one—first inspect the handle, then bow. But by now they must have found some other trick, for that one was caught.
Where rules are, the cleverness to evade them also arises. And when you renounce—why do you renounce? There too is hope—that merits will accrue, and the fruits of merit will be gained in heaven. But the same business, the same commerce, the same merchant-mind, the same arithmetic—there is not a whit of difference.

‘Where there is no world, no Veda; no forest, no town; no accumulation, no renunciation.’

Paltu says: neither accumulation nor renunciation; neither indulgence nor Yoga—he who goes beyond both attains. Free of extremes lies the attainment.

Paltu says: there is no Master, no disciple—only the One Ram, vibrating.

When only the One remains—who is that One? What name has that One? What form?
Witnessing is its name; witnessing is its form. In accumulation the doer arises; in renunciation too the doer arises. And where the doer arises, the world arises. The doer is the door to the world.
Wherever you are—whether in the world or outside it, whether renouncer or enjoyer—remember one thing: let not the sense of doership arise. Where doership arises, there you miss; you slip badly. Let witnessing remain. Even while sitting in the shop, if witnessing remains; even in the marketplace, if you remain merely a spectator—that is enough. Let this witnessing flow continuously—twenty-four hours—so that even in dream you see that ‘I am the witness’. Then no soot remains on you, no stain remains, no blemish remains. You will experience the supremely pure Paramatman! He resides within you—has not moved away even for a moment. But you keep running—sometimes into indulgence, sometimes into renunciation.
Avoid renunciation and avoid enjoyment—there is not much difference between the two.

‘Mulla Nasruddin, these two silver cups of yours—seems you won them in some competition,’ asked a guest on seeing two silver cups in Mulla’s house.
‘Yes, I got them in the All-World Music Competition,’ said Mulla.
‘Oh? When did you get them?’
‘In 1956.’
‘Why two cups in one competition?’
‘When I began singing, this small cup was given,’ Mulla explained, ‘and later, to make me stop singing, they gave me this big one!’

Whether you begin singing or stop singing—it is the two sides of one process. Indulgence or renunciation—two faces of one coin. Let this truth sink as deep within as possible.
Mulla Nasruddin practices daily—practices music for years. And whenever he practices, his wife comes out for a walk. One day I asked his wife, ‘What is this? As soon as Mulla starts a raga—the first long alaap—why do you, leaving all your work, rush outside? And you keep walking outside until he stops practicing!’
She said, ‘So that the neighbors don’t think I am beating him.’
And Mulla’s practice is also worth knowing: he plucks only one string of the sitar. For a while people tolerated it. Morning, evening, night, at all times—that one note keeps sounding. At last the neighbors requested his wife, ‘What kind of practice is this? Listening to this one note, we are going insane. Sometimes we feel like smashing our heads on the wall—what to do! Only that one note!’
Mulla’s wife said, ‘What can I do! I have begged him to stop this one note. We have seen other musicians in the world—they play many notes, touch all the strings.’
Nasruddin said, ‘They have not yet found their note; they are searching. I have found mine—why should I search? When I have found it, I play only that.’
One night a neighbor opened the window: ‘Nasruddin, stop it now—four in the morning! If you play for another minute, I will jump out and kill myself.’
Nasruddin said, ‘As you please. I stopped two hours ago.’
Now you can imagine the condition of people—they have gone mad! It is still ringing in their ears—he has stopped for two hours. ‘I was sleeping. You called—I woke. There is no hand of mine in this.’
On one side are those rushing toward objects, madly—possessed by a single note: someone by wealth, someone by power, someone by prestige. Then, somehow tired, they do not drop the old habit—they begin the opposite race—renunciation, saintliness, holiness. But the running is the same, the gait is the same, the raga is the same! The same old style, the same old mind! One has to go beyond both.

Let us go, friend, to that country where there is neither day nor night;
Where there is no sin, no virtue; no moon, no sun; no beloved, no lover;
Where there is no earth, no fire, no wind, no water; no sleeping, no waking;
Where there are no people, no Veda; no forest, no town; no accumulation, no renunciation;
Where there is no Master, no disciple—only the One Ram, vibrating.

‘My mind is indolent; now words will not come from me.’
If you rise above duality, if you leave the two behind and become one—then this occurs—

‘My mind is indolent...’
The mind becomes still, motionless, unmoving.

‘My mind is indolent; now words will not come from me.’
Suddenly you find: within you a peace descends—such a peace—not of your making; not one you hammered and imposed upon yourself; not one you forced by yogasanas, by persuasion, by binding. A unique peace you find descending—from the sky, from the infinite, from the vast! Or you find it arising within. But it will not be your act—it is grace.

‘My mind is indolent...’
By grace, the mind becomes still.

‘…Now words will not come from me.’
Now speaking becomes difficult.
There are people who cannot remain without speaking at all. They must have someone to speak to—even if there is nothing to speak. What is there to speak? Yet people keep speaking. On the whole earth, gossip is going on—a hubbub. Even if you want to stop, you cannot.
People are muttering in sleep as well. Not only by day—by night too they speak. And if you leave them alone for two or four or ten days, they will begin to talk to themselves. Scientists say it will take twenty-one days for them to start talking to themselves. After twenty-one days it becomes unbearable; then they themselves will speak and answer themselves. Somehow they have to entangle themselves. Talks gather within them in twenty-one days and begin to overflow—flowing from above—whether anyone listens or not.
Mulla Nasruddin was saying to Chandulal, ‘Chandulal, my wife is very strange—she keeps talking alone.’
Chandulal said, ‘Mine is no less. But she has one illusion—she thinks I am listening.’ Although who listens!
A great psychologist’s disciple asked him, ‘I get so tired listening to the patients’ talk. Who will not get tired listening to madmen! And you—you come fresh in the morning, and going back after listening to the nonsense of maybe two dozen patients all day—you are still fresh. At your age! What is the secret?’
The old psychologist said, ‘There is no secret. Who listens!’
I knew a politician—Kailasnath Katju. Both his ears were bad. Unless he wore the hearing aid, he could not hear. Whenever someone came to complain, the first thing he did was to take out the device and set it aside. These are the signs of the clever. I asked him, ‘How did you discover this device?’
He said, ‘What else to do! They will kill me—by their babble! They feel I am listening; they remain pleased, and I remain pleased. They think I have heard and go home happy—and I keep saying yes, hmm.’
If you observe, you too listen to people like this—else you will go mad. Who listens! Who listens to whom! You feel very bored with a person who does not listen to you—the one who only keeps speaking; who is so strong that he keeps pouring into you. You try a thousand ways to escape, he won’t let go.
There is one state of man: when you want to stop, you cannot—words keep pouring; and there is another state of supreme silence—when to speak is difficult; you have to draw each word out. The experience of truth occurs in that perfect, quiet, silent state. But with truth awakes compassion, and compassion says: what has been known, make it known. Compassion says: what has been found, shower it. And then words do not come.

‘My mind is indolent; now words will not come from me.’
Paltu says: there was a time when there was only talk—need or no need; urgent or not—and now such a time has come that the mind has become languid, still. Now the time to speak has come, what is to be said cannot be said. Now the moment to say something has come—something worthy is with me—and the words do not gather.

‘The threshold feels to me like a mountain; my courtyard has become a foreign land.’
There was a time I ran about—leapt over mountains. With no peace, there was hustle and bustle, rushing. I would cross seven seas. And now the condition is: the threshold feels like a mountain. Even the courtyard feels foreign. I do not feel like going out—not at all. The mind no longer is; the business has thinned, the trade has closed. The movement of mind is lost, its restlessness lost. And now was the time I could have gone, for there are people wandering. Now I could have shaken them; now I could have told them. Now there was authenticity in my word—not newspaper talk, not something read in Veda or Quran; not writing—but seen with my own eyes. While it was writing, I spoke much and listened much; now I have seen; now the time to say has come—but the words to say have been lost.

‘The threshold feels to me like a mountain; my courtyard has become a foreign land.
The opening of an eyelid feels like ages passing—
I have forgotten the message.’

I do not feel like opening my eyes.
The opening of an eyelid feels like ages passing—like it would take a thousand years. Such difficulty in a small thing—the opening of the eye!
I have the gift to give—but how to give, the words are forgotten. The words in which the message could be delivered have been forgotten. There is a feeling—but words are not found. There is a song—but the singing is not found. There is music—but the instrument is not found. The anklets are in hand today—but where are the feet on which to tie them? The sky has become available, but the wings are gone!

‘With the poison of desires the jewel has awakened, the snake has retreated into its hole.’
With the poison of craving the soul has awakened—but all the turmoil, all thought, the processes of mind have become as when a man approaches and the snake, frightened, slips into its hole. I have awakened—and the snake of mind, frightened, has gone into its hole.
Paltu speaks something of great worth. This is the anguish of all sages. And it is not that sages have not spoken—they have spoken, spoken much. Mahavira lived forty years after his knowing—his speech poured. Buddha lived forty-two years—spoke continuously; morning and evening. Yet what had to be said could not be said. What there was to sing—that song remained unsung. They tried to say, in every possible way—but all efforts failed. The Upanishads are a failed effort; the Quran is a failed effort; the Dhammapada is a failed effort. There is great compassion in the effort—but the effort did not succeed.
It will never succeed. That which has to be known in the wordless—there is no way to bind it in words. It is to be known by sitting with the Master in wordlessness. You will have to dive with the Master, to find it. If you hold the Master’s hand—it may happen. If you hold the Master’s words—you will miss.

‘The buttermilk is burnt away, clarified butter remains; of itself it becomes silent.’
When you boil butter to make ghee, the buttermilk in it sizzles, crackles, burns; but when the buttermilk is burnt away and only the ghee remains—then it becomes silent; all the sizzle ceases.
It becomes utterly silent. Words do not come. Silence becomes natural. Those who have known find it very difficult to come down from their mountain-peaks of knowing to your dark valleys. They make great effort—they call to you. But you can understand words, and their message is now not of words but of the wordless. Hence by satsang it can happen—not by study, reflection, reading.
What the true Master says is not the essence—what the true Master is, is the essence. If you would connect with true Masters, do not memorize their words—or you will become parrots. If you would connect with true Masters, connect yourself with their wordlessness, their silence. Sit near them in quiet. Drink their stillness. Simply by sitting near them, moving around them, some day the strings will align, some day a jugalbandi will happen. Some day your heart will begin to beat in rhythm with theirs. That day you will taste.

‘Now no force of mine works; I am sold into another’s hands.’
Paltu says: now my own force does not work. Now I have been sold into the hands of the Beyond—sold into another’s hands. As long as my force worked, I had nothing to give. See the paradox! And now that there is something to give, my force does not work. Sold into another’s hands! Now the Divine does what he wishes—his will! The will of the Divine alone is the sage’s life.

‘A lump of salt dropped in water,
Melting, it became water.’
So are we, says Paltu. Inside we went—the lump of salt which was the mind, as it went within, it drowned; it kept dissolving, kept dissolving. And when one reaches one’s very center, the mind becomes utterly empty. The I is lost. What remains is the Divine—his fragrance remains—if there are nostrils that can experience, let them do so. His light remains—if there are eyes, see it. His music remains—music without instrument, without note—if there are ears, listen. If there is a heart—experience it.

‘Above the seven palaces is the eighth—my awareness has dissolved into the sound.’
Now my memory, my knowing, my feeling, my very being—everything has merged into that Anahat Nada.
Seven chakras are in man. The first is the chakra of lust—where most people live. Their life is only that; their thinking, that; their day and night, that. Their dreams, that. One thing goes round their minds—lust.
A little above are other centers. At the heart center, love arises. The heart is in the middle. Three centers are below the heart—there run the cravings for sex, wealth, power. At the midpoint is the heart center—of love. Above the heart are three centers. There, there is neither wealth, nor power, nor sex. Then begins the movement toward Samadhi. Above the heart is the throat center—entering it, thoughts are lost; as if the throat is blocked. Above that is the third eye—the center of the third vision. Upon arriving there, feelings are lost; emotions vanish. And when thought is not, feeling is not—the mind is gone, because the mind is made of these two. Above that is the seventh center—the sahasrar. Whose energy reaches the sahasrar—symbolically—it is as if a lotus of a thousand petals has blossomed within!
But these are seven centers. Paltu speaks very profoundly: above the seven palaces is the eighth. For where the lotus is, even there the gross still remains. Then what is the eighth? The fragrance of the lotus—that has flown into the sky. To attain that eighth palace is Moksha, Kaivalya, Nirvana. He who reaches the seventh inevitably attains the eighth. Whose flower has blossomed—its fragrance diffuses of its own; for that nothing need be done. Until the seventh—there is effort, sadhana. Until the seventh—there are steps to be climbed. The eighth happens spontaneously.
Therefore many saints have not spoken of the eighth—not that they did not know. What is there to say of the eighth—it happens by itself. Until the seventh there is effort. The gardener will teach you about seed, about manure—how to prepare the soil, remove stones, pull weeds—this he explains; when to sow, at the right time and season—this he tells; how much water to give; how to fence, how long to protect—this he explains; when flowers will appear—this too he explains. But he will hardly explain that finally fragrance will arise from the flowers. That will arise of itself. Hence many saints have not spoken of the eighth.
Paltu has spoken of the eighth—so you remember that the real event happens when even the flower is left behind, the thousand-petalled lotus is left behind—and you fly into the sky! You fly into the infinite! You become absorbed in the vast! You become Brahman-formed!
Yesterday someone asked: I truly want to be a Brahmin—what should I do?
You must reach the eighth palace. Only there does one become a Brahmin. But people remain at the first. And whoever remains at the first is a Shudra—whether born into a Brahmin house or Vaishya, Kshatriya or Shudra—it makes no difference. Those stuck at the center of lust are Shudras. But most people—ninety-nine percent—are stuck there. We have taken that to be life. Life is vast. You remain outside the palace—the palace within is chamber after chamber, treasure after treasure.

‘Above the seven palaces is the eighth—my awareness has dissolved into the sound.
Paltu Das—how can I tell it, as the dumb tastes sugar.’

I want to tell, I cannot tell. The truth becomes for one as the sugar to a dumb man. But this much I can tell: what to avoid. Not what I have found—but what I avoided to find. Negatively I can say. I cannot say what the God-experience is—but I can certainly say what it is not.
Keep this in mind. There are two ways to say. One is to point directly. Someone asks: where is the rose? You point with a finger—here is the rose. Because the rose is gross, you can point a finger. But for subtle experiences, fingers cannot be placed—fingers are gross. The subtle has to be indicated by neti-neti—this is not it, this too is not it, not this either... And when all negations are done, then we say: now what remains—that is it.

‘Verbal knowledge does not make the knower—like a streak of coal-tar as tilak.’
Therefore Paltu says: this much I can say—knowledge gained by reading is not the real knowing. Ask me not what real knowing is. As when the dumb eats sugar! Regarding that—let me remain silent. But I can tell you what is false.
Verbal learning does not make one a jnani—
It is like the tilak made of coal-tar.
It looks like a tilak—but no real tilak. The true tilak only appears on those whose third eye opens. Why do we place a tilak? Where do we place it? Exactly on the spot of the third eye. The tilak is a symbol—of the aspiration that one day the third eye may open. The married woman places tilak, the mark, and fills the parting. These are only symbols—the symbols that her love should reach this height, not keep wandering below; not remain in the Shudra realm—become a Brahmin. That her love reach the realm where the third eye opens. Not only that—the parting is filled—symbol of the seventh—the blossoming of the sahasrar! That is the real bridal night; the real fortune of a bride—for there the union happens. Call it union with the Divine, union with the Self, union with Truth. There Samadhi happens.
Reading does not make one wise. The learned—consider him a literate fool. Ignorance remains hidden within; you cover it with learning.

On the government side, Mulla Nasruddin was presented as a witness in court. The defense lawyer interrogated him: ‘Tell us, Mulla, when you saw the murder occur, how far were you from the scene?’
‘Fifteen yards, two feet, nine inches,’ Mulla replied at once.
‘This is too much!’ said the lawyer. ‘You speak with such certainty as if you measured it. Nine inches—inch by inch! Were you there measuring?’
Mulla said, ‘Yes, I measured it—not before the murder, after it.’
‘Why? What need was there to measure?’
‘Because I knew beforehand some foolish lawyer would surely ask this question.’

The questions and answers of pundits are two-a-penny—questions false; answers false. Without personal experience, how can answers be true?

‘Mistress, yesterday in the trash I found these gold rings, hoops, ear-rings, and silver anklets,’ said the maid. ‘Please keep your things carefully and with awareness. Suppose something gets lost, only I will be defamed. No one will say you yourself are careless with your wealth; the blame will be yours.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the mistress, revealing the secret, ‘all these are fake.’
‘I knew that right away,’ said the maid, sadly. ‘That is why I brought them back to you.’

You also know the pundits are fake; the pundits know they are fake. But you fear the real—because the real demands a price. The fake is cheap; the faker the cheaper. The real is costly. For the real, you will have to pay—perhaps with life.

Verbal knowledge does not make the knower—
like a tilak of coal-tar.

‘Without capital he calls himself a moneylender—there’s not a cowrie in his house.’
Not even a cowrie is in the house of your so-called priests—and without capital he sits as a moneylender.
One night thieves entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. They moved very carefully, but Mulla sprang from his bed, lit a lantern, and followed them. The thieves were frightened. He did not even give them a chance to flee; he stood right at the door with the lantern. The thieves said, ‘You were asleep—how did you leap out of sleep at once?’
Mulla said, ‘Do not panic or worry. No hurry to run. I lit the lantern only to help you—how will you search in the dark? Thirty years I have searched this house—in daylight—I haven’t found even a cowrie. And you are searching in the dark! I will come with the lantern; if something is found, we will share it.’
Another story: one night thieves entered Mulla’s house. They had already stolen things from the neighbors before coming. When they went inside, Mulla, who had been sleeping wrapped in a blanket, spread the blanket on the floor and lay on the bed. When the thieves returned, they were surprised: why this blanket spread? They found nothing in the house. ‘Let’s take the blanket at least,’ they said. They tied up in the blanket what they had stolen from the neighbors, and as they left, Mulla silently crept after them.
Midway they felt someone was behind. They turned—Mulla. ‘Nasruddin, why are you coming behind us?’
Mulla said, ‘For long I have been thinking of changing house. Now that you have taken whatever I had, I thought—come, I’ll change house. Wherever the blanket will be, there I will be.’
The thieves folded hands: ‘Baba, take your blanket—but at least return the others’ things tied in it to us.’

Your priests—what do they have? Not even the cowrie of experience! Yet they sit as moneylenders—among the blind, the one-eyed becomes king.

‘As if one makes laddus of bran—what taste will there be in that! A dog barks on seeing something—he may at least get something. But he who barks hearing another barking—he is called a fool.’

If a dog barks seeing something, he may obtain something. But there are dogs who bark because another dog has barked. There are such fools among dogs; one barks and soon the whole neighborhood is barking. The foolishness of dogs can be forgiven; but there are such fools among men too.
Pundits are such fools. A Buddha spoke—a Buddha awakened—it is fine, he found, he spoke, he shared. But others sit—they quickly jot down and prepare scriptures.
A doctor used to come here. He was an educated man—but a veterinary doctor; so he wasn’t too learned—he had knowledge of animals. I observed he was always taking notes. I spoke here, and he was busy writing—fast.
I called him. ‘What do you do? Living among animals—are you spoiled? Is your intelligence intact? I speak, and you are busy writing!’
He said, ‘I write so it can be of use later.’
I said, ‘If you don’t understand now, what use will it be later! First understand. One lamp is lit—try to see in its light. You are making a picture of the lamp! Then you will roam in the dark with the picture—there will be no light. Then you will abuse the lamp—this lamp must have been wrong. The fault is yours.’
Buddha speaks—the pundits collect. You will be amazed to know: Mahavira was a Kshatriya; the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were Kshatriyas; yet Mahavira’s ganadharas—his chief disciples—were all Brahmins. It is puzzling: a Kshatriya Tirthankara’s chief disciples were Brahmin pundits. They wrote Mahavira’s words. A pundit cannot drop his habit. And what a pundit writes will be wrong—because he knows only how to write; he does not know how to read.
Khalil Gibran has a famous story: a dog became a leader. If a dog becomes leader—what will he teach? He began telling dogs: ‘See how degraded our caste has become! Where we saw golden ages, Ramrajya—and now this Kali age! And the cause? Your useless barking. In this, all your energy is wasted. Because of this, we are being beaten. Else we would have set men right long ago; our rule would be today. But your barking consumes all the power.’
The dogs liked the talk—it seemed true: day and night, barking. Barking for nothing. A car goes by—bark. The postman—bark. A policeman—bark. A monk—bark. Dogs are somehow against uniforms—any uniformed person appears—immediately bark! The dogs liked the talk. But how to stop barking! Difficult—an itch arises in the throat. Some dogs practiced—leader is right—but could not stop.
At last the leader grew old—tired of saying. He said, ‘See, my time has come. Will you ever listen or not?’
One new moon night the dogs said, ‘He is old; who knows when he will die. At least for one night let us obey him. Tonight we swear—whatever excitement, whatever temptation, however many chances—policemen, postmen, monks—let them pass—eyes closed, we’ll lie in the corners, in the dark, and will not bark. The itch arises—we will swallow it; we will not reveal it.’
All the dogs crept into corners eyes shut: we will neither see nor bark. The leader walked—but found no one to preach to. A great itch arose in his own throat. Till now he had avoided barking because he had no energy left—morning to evening preaching—at night he slept. For the first time—trouble. For the first time he realized: I too am a dog—what if I became a leader! Such a fierce itch—the itch of many births!—he sought someone who would bark so he could pounce and preach as never before. But no one barked. They had sworn, they wouldn’t even open their eyes.
At last only one way remained—the leader went into a lane and barked. It felt great. For births he had suppressed it; finally—what relief! As soon as he barked, the dogs said: someone dishonest has broken the oath. Why should we keep it then! The whole town barked—as never before, because that day the dam of restraint broke. As it happens with Jains after Paryushan—the prices of vegetables triple!—they restrain themselves for ten days; the eleventh day they burst! When the whole town barked, the leader was delighted—again he went preaching: ‘See—I have told you a hundred times—this is the cause of our downfall.’
Your pundits are preaching—because preaching gratifies their ego. But there is no difference between you and them. And they bark because it is written in the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Quran, the Bible. They are fools. Paltu says rightly—

He who barks hearing another barking—he is called a fool.

‘By talk no one becomes a king; by talk no fort is taken.’
‘In the land, action will happen only when arrows and cannons are fired.’
Your kingdom will come only when arrows are released, when cannons are fired. Do something! Do something to transform your life.
‘By talk one cannot cook delicacies; no belly is filled by talk.
Paltu Das says: Say only what you do—what will come of mere talk!’
By talking, delicacies are not cooked; hunger is not quenched.
Say only what you do—
When you have done it—then speak. When you have known—then speak. When you have recognized—then call out.
What will come of mere talk—if nothing is known! When your lamp is lit—show the light. When your flower blossoms—let the fragrance spread.

Enough for today.