Kahe Hot Adheer #19

Who knows who is astray, and who is aware of the destination? On life's great highways there move thousands of caravans. All are lost upon the very road to the goal; but the sorrow is this: Even the caravan-lords themselves wander upon those selfsame lost tracks.

Life is a journey. A journey—from death to the deathless; from darkness toward light; from the futile to the meaningful. In a single word: from matter to Paramatma. In this journey, all those who go on searching outside are the misguided. Search by the millions, yet nothing will be found—neither in Kashi nor in Kaaba; neither in the Quran nor in the Gita. Here, only those arrive who recognize the truth hidden within themselves.

This journey is unique. It is not a going somewhere, it is a returning from somewhere. We have gone very far away—away from ourselves. We are to return to our own home. We have gone far, far away—into our dreams, into our desires, into our thoughts. Drop all dreams, drop all thoughts, all passions, so that you can arrive at your own being. It is not the world that is to be renounced, it is dreams; for dream is the world.

You must have heard the pundits and priests say again and again that the world is a dream. I want to tell you: dream is the world. The web of dreams inside you—that alone is the world. It is to be dropped. These birds speaking outside will go on speaking—just so, and yet more sweetly. Into their throats a deeper music will descend, for you will have ears to hear. And to one who has ears to hear, even stones begin to speak. These trees will be just as green, and greener still. For the one who has eyes to see, colors deepen into colors, depths unfold into deeper depths, the formless peeks through the form. This world spread out beyond you will reveal itself more sweet, more lovable. Ah, if only you would awaken! Even while you sleep it is sweet and lovable; awaken, and it becomes an inexhaustible treasure. It is the empire of Paramatma.

I do not tell you to renounce this world. But the world of dreams must surely be renounced. Those dreams that keep churning within—Let me have this, let me have that; let me become this, let me become that; If this had happened, if that had happened! That past which keeps you fettered, that future which keeps you seized—step out from between those two grinding millstones. This alone is sannyas. The renunciation of dream is sannyas. Awakening is sannyas. For dreams cannot be dropped without awakening. The world can be left without awakening.

Some five million sadhus and saints are said to be in India. How many among them have attained Buddhahood? It is a crowd—of beggars, tricksters, dishonest ones, hypocrites, deceivers. A crowd that is sucking your blood. In this crowd whose inner lamp is lit? Who among them has had darshan of Paramatma? This crowd goes on repeating the scriptures like borrowed parrots.

But the talk of these blind ones pleases you—because you too are blind. They speak in your very language, so their words appeal to you, seem understandable.

The words of Buddhas slip out of your grasp, because before you can understand a Buddha’s words you must pass through a revolution. Before you can understand a Buddha’s words your intelligence must be honed; the lamp of meditation must be lit within you. Some wave of Buddhahood must arise in you too, only then will a kinship with the Buddhas be born. Otherwise you will keep revolving in the circle of the foolish.

These foolish ones have told you—leave the world.

Leaving the world is very easy. In truth, whoever lives in the world wants to leave it. Who is not bored? Who is not fed up with wives, husbands, children, parents? Who is not harassed—by the shop, the market, the job, the business? It is hard to find a person who has not become weary.

It is another matter that he does not leave. Why does he not? Where would he go? There must be a place to go after leaving! Bread must be earned somewhere. One cannot remain hungry. And if he will not earn, he must beg. But few are ready to fall to the level of begging. Or perhaps he lacks courage. For no matter how much weariness and trouble there is, there are conveniences too in the world. Or again he fears the opinion of people! What will they say—he ran away, he is a deserter, unmanly, a coward, he showed his back in the battle! He will fall in his own eyes. Or he is doing the mathematics—We could leave, but what would we get? If what is in hand is lost, and what is not yet gotten remains ungotten, we might fall into a worse mess. And then he looks at those who have left—what have they attained? Those who left live on the alms of those who did not leave.

People do not leave the world because they get great joy from it, but only because there is no other world to leave for. Is there even an alternative? There is none, so they live on, they carry the load. Slowly they compromise. They persuade their minds, console themselves—Such is life. And it is but for a few days, it has passed, it will pass. It is not even long.

Yet anyone who thinks even a little, in his mind a thousand times arises the thought: What entanglement is this—I should run away!

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife wrote him a letter from her parents’ home: Do not delay any longer. In just fifteen days I have dried to half. I cannot live without you. Write quickly, when are you coming?

Mulla Nasruddin said: In fifteen days. Half she already is, in fifteen more the decision will be final.

But the wife herself came back. That hope ended. He took counsel of a doctor—What should I do? How to be free? I do not have the guts to run away and leave the world. And how to be free of this wife—I see no way. Either I die or she dies.

The doctor said, Do not be so worried. I will tell you a trick, give you such a sweet poison that the work will be done and not a whisper of it anywhere. Love your wife as much as you can—love her to death.

Mulla said, That’s splendid! It never occurred to me—to love the wife to death!

The doctor was joking, but Mulla caught the point. Some thirty days later… Mulla had asked, How many days will it take? It was a month of thirty-one days, so the doctor said, One month… Thirty days later the doctor was passing in the street. He saw Mulla sitting on a swing before his house, utterly withered to skin and bone. Hard to recognize—only a skeleton. The doctor asked, How did you end up like this?

He said, Don’t worry. That trick you taught—love her to death!

Just then the wife came out for some chore and went in again—she is blooming, glowing.

The doctor said, So how long will this go on?

Nasruddin said, Not long now, the month has thirty-one days, thirty are gone, one more day and I shall be free.

The wife will not die—said Nasruddin—that much I have understood; but I will die. Well, so be it. The medicine did not work on her, but it worked on me.

People are ready even to die! Life seems not to give, but to snatch. Hence the words of so-called saints pleased people very much—Leave the world. Their inner logic was already saying the same. The tuning matched. And who knows how many left the world—and left nothing. The world remains as it was, they too remain as they were.

I tell you: drop the dream.

Dropping dreams is hard. Dropping dreams is difficult. There is a subtle science of dropping dreams; that science is meditation. Become a witness. As witnessing grows dense within you, dreams begin to thin out. The day witnessing sits enthroned in its fullness, no dreams remain. As when the sky becomes utterly free of clouds and the sun appears in all its radiance—so when dreams disappear within you, the consciousness hidden within you manifests in its totality. That is union with Paramatma. To attain this, one need go nowhere else. To attain this, one must come home.

But this world is strange! Here, it is very difficult to decide!

Who knows who is astray, and who is aware of the destination? On life’s highways there are thousands of caravans.

Who here is lost, and who knows the destination—this is so hard to decide.

On life’s great highways move thousands of caravans— Not one or two, but thousands—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh. Caravan upon caravan! Processions have begun—their own flags, their own books, their own meanings of God, their own beliefs, their own prejudices.

Who knows who is astray, and who is aware of the destination? On life’s highways there are thousands of caravans. All are lost upon the path to the goal; but the sorrow is this— Even the caravan-lords themselves are wandering on those very lost tracks.

All are lost upon the roads! The roads have become so long, so intricate, that the destination has been altogether forgotten. All are lost on the roads. But the sadder fact is that not only do people get lost—those whom you call leaders, the caravan-lords, their gurus, their guides, the givers of values, the makers of policies, the preachers—these too are wandering on the same roads. And the roads are circular—people just go on circling and circling. No one seems to be arriving; no glimpse of the goal anywhere. How long will you go on like this?

To seek Paramatma no caravan-lord is needed, no leader is needed. To seek Paramatma you must dive within yourself—whom will you ask? Ask, and you go astray. Seek, and you go astray. Do not seek—lose yourself. Dive so deep that you never come up again. And do not go even an inch outside yourself. For if He is, He is within you. You are the temple!

Says Paltu: This beautiful body is a temple. Within this very temple He abides.

But you have built false temples, mosques, gurudwaras. In the houses you yourselves built, with prayers you yourselves invented, with gods you yourselves fabricated—you are worshiping. Are you in your senses, or mad?

Vrikhsha phirein na aapako, nadi na anchavai neer. Trees do not bear fruit for themselves, nor does the river flow to quench its own thirst.

Par-svarath ke kaarane, santan dharai sareer. The saints—those whom you have taken as saints are not—they are those who have become merely a medium for Paramatma; His flute! If they remain in a body at all, it is because the Lord wishes to work through them.

What is your definition of a saint? What does he eat, what does he drink; how does he stand, how does he sit; how many clothes does he keep, where does he stay—these are your measures for judging saints from the outside. And this whole drill anyone can do. It is not very difficult. Eat once a day instead of twice—within days, you get used to it. Take no water or food at night—within days, a habit is formed. Sleep at nine, rise at three—within days, the body adjusts. The body is very flexible; you can train it to anything. Stand on your head for hours, do asanas, pranayama—the body will bend to everything, agree to everything. The body is your servant, a marvelous instrument! Not inert, it is supple.

And these are the only ways by which you measure your saints—just from the outside. And because you measure from the outside, you are deceived.

There is no way to measure saints from the outside. Saints have but one definition.

Par-svarath ke kaarane, santan dharai sareer. Paltu is giving the right definition. He says: A saint does not live for himself. As far as he is concerned, his work is done. His dreams have vanished, his thoughts have gone. He is free of mind. As far as his private affair goes, he has arrived. But one who has arrived—Paramatma begins to take work from him. A calling begins within him—for those who are still wandering on roads, still groping in darkness. Paramatma begins to work through that person—for those whose eyes have not yet opened.

Just as fruits appear on trees—not for themselves, but for others. And the river does not drink itself; it gives to others.

This is the definition of a saint: one who spends lavishly—who spends Paramatma! One who distributes the divine!

Everything else you can distribute is trash. Even if you distribute all your wealth, you cannot become a saint, for wealth is refuse. Whether you hoard it or hand it out—it is trash. If you go about distributing your knowledge—that too is refuse. You borrowed it and hoarded it, now you are passing it on. First you filled yourself with rubbish, then when it grew burdensome you began emptying it into others’ bags.

There is but one thing worthy of giving, one treasure worthy of being squandered—that is Paramatma. But you must experience Him; be connected to that source; find that Gangotri from which the Ganges of life flow.

A saint is one through whom Paramatma speaks; through whom the formless takes form, becomes word, becomes embodied. If ever you meet such a one in whose words the music of the wordless hums; in whose movements awareness is embodied; in whose eyes there is a lake-like peace in which all the stars of the sky seem reflected; in whose silence waves of silence rise in you too; in whose presence you are stirred, for no reason, by some strange joy; whose very presence becomes proof that God is—no argument, no debate—just to look into his eyes, to place your hand in his hand, to sit near him; whose fragrance becomes evidence that Paramatma is—know him as the saint! Then your petty notions will end. A saint is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian—those are names of differing conducts.

Hence this strange thing: Jain monks do not accept Buddhists as saints. Buddhists do not accept Sufi fakirs as saints. Sufis do not find Hindu sannyasins acceptable as saints. Why?

Because we have taken conduct to be sainthood. And conduct—how many forms it can take in this world! Thousands upon thousands. Someone has decided that eating meat is contrary to saintliness. But Jesus ate meat. And let Jesus and Muhammad be—they are distant—Ramakrishna Paramhansa was so near in time, he too ate fish! Now the person who has made the notion that no saint can be non-vegetarian will miss at Ramakrishna’s feet; he will go on thinking—Fish? What sort of saint is this! Saints speak sweetly; saints say lovely things; flowers fall from saints’ words.

But Shirdi’s Sai Baba used to lift a staff and hurl mother-sister abuses, would run after devotees, would throw stones. How will you decide these are saints? To your eyes it will be decided at once they are not. Lifting a staff, throwing stones, abusing! Ramakrishna too would swear. Great trouble for you—how to decide who is a saint?

And one who has received Sai Baba’s abuse—and swallowed it—and still remained bowed, whose head remained bowed—be it abuse, or stones thrown, or the staff—he knows, he recognizes. But to you he will seem mad, unhinged. For in Sai Baba’s staff, flowers fell upon him; in those stones, ambrosia showered; the abuses were symbols of his love. You are such that without abuse you will not awaken. So for your sake he is willing—even if abuse can shake you, he will abuse. Otherwise you are in such deep sleep. Nice, nice words become lullabies. And you have heard lullabies for too long—sucking your thumbs, rocking yourselves in your little cradles.

How will you decide? Jesus drank wine. Not only drank—one of his miracles is that, when he came to the sea, thousands were with him; he, by a miracle, turned the whole sea into wine. If he had been in India, the police would have arrested him—What are you doing! Turning the ocean into liquor, drink as much as you like—now there will never be any shortage!

How will you accept Jesus as a saint? You will be obstructed.

Conduct varies vastly. In the world there are nearly three thousand religions—small and large. Each has its own notions. How to define a saint? Paltu gives the right definition. He says: I have but one definition—

Par-svarath ke kaarane, santan dharai sareer. Then what he eats, drinks, how he sits or stands—that is his affair. For us there is one thing to test, one thing to discern: whether his life is surrendered to Paramatma, whether his speech is surrendered to Paramatma, whether he has become wholly Paramatma’s and is now distributing Paramatma. The ways of giving may differ, the colors may differ, but the giving is one. Then whether it is Jesus, or Mahavira, or Buddha, or Kabir, or Nanak, or Paltu—it makes no difference. And wherever anyone is distributing Paramatma, there true service of others happens. By distributing anything else, service of others does not happen. You distribute money—what did money do even for you? You pass on to others what made you sick—like handing your disease to someone—Brother, keep it carefully while I go.

There is such a lovely story in the Upanishads. Yajnavalkya was leaving. The last days of life had come; he wished to disappear into the caves of some mountains. He had two wives, and immense wealth. He was then the greatest pundit of his time—none could match him in debate. His repute was such that King Janaka once convened a great assembly and placed a thousand cows at the palace gate, their horns plated with gold, draped with precious cloths, and declared: Whoever wins the debate shall take these thousand cows. A great prize.

Many pundits gathered. It was noon. A long debate ensued. No decision—who had won, who had lost. At noon Yajnavalkya arrived with his disciples. At the door he saw—the cows were standing in the sun, exhausted, sweating. He said to his disciples, Do this—drive the cows home; I’ll finish the debate and come.

Even Janaka did not dare say—What is this, first win the debate! A few pundits murmured—This is against the rules, the prize first!

Yajnavalkya said, I have confidence. Do not worry. I will win the debate—what is in debates! But the cows are tired—some attention to them is needed too.

To his disciples he said, Do not worry; the rest I will handle.

The disciples drove the cows away. Yajnavalkya later won the debate. The prize he took first. A person of great repute. Much wealth. Great emperors were his disciples. When he was to leave, he called his two wives and said, I will divide my wealth—half to each of you. It is so much, it will last for seven generations. So be at ease, you will have no difficulties. I am going to the forest. Now my last days have come. I wish to be wholly absorbed in Paramatma. No other artifice now. Not a single moment will I spend on anything else.

One wife was delighted—so much wealth! Half to me! I will live in great joy. But the other said: Before you go, answer one question. Did this wealth give you peace? Did it give you bliss? Did it give you Paramatma? If it did—then why are you going? And if it did not—why hand this trash to me? Then I too will go with you.

And for the first time in life Yajnavalkya stood without answer. What could he tell this woman! If he said it did not, then what was the pride in distributing it? He was giving with great flourish—See, so many jewels, so much gold, so much money, so much land, so much expanse! There must have been some pride in that moment—See how much I give! Which husband has ever given so much! The second wife poured water on all that vanity. If you got nothing from it, why load me with this entanglement? If you are escaping because of this, then today or tomorrow we too will have to escape—so why not today? I will come with you.

So what is the one distributing wealth really distributing! He has nothing of value. And one who distributes knowledge, opens schools, explains scriptures—if he himself has not dived into meditation and Samadhi—he is distributing garbage. It has no value. Only one thing is worthy of being given: Paramatma. But you can give only when you have known, when you have lived, when you have realized.

And the day you know, live, experience, you will be amazed: many before you have known! You are not new. The experience is not new. New only in the sense that for the first time you have known. In another sense it is ancient, eternal—for Buddhas have always been happening, through the ages.

Kuchh mite se naqsh-e-paa bhi hain junoon ki raah mein, Humse pehle koi guzra hai yahaan hote hue. There are faint footprints too upon the path of ecstasy; before us someone has passed here.

Es dhammo sanantano! This dharma is eternal! It is not mine or yours, it belongs to none. From this ghat how many have crossed, and will keep crossing. Infinite beings have come and crossed in this boat; the boat belongs to no one.

Therefore religion is not Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain. Religion belongs to those who have meditation. Religion belongs to those claimants who have attained mastery over themselves.

Bade badaai mein bhule, chhote hain sirdaar. This aphorism is marvelous. In this country the connoisseurs have been lost. Diamonds are here, but no appraisers. A great difficulty has arisen from this. This sutra recalls a saying of Jesus, a saying so revered around the world. But poor Paltu’s saying—no one cared.

Bade badaai mein bhule… Paltu says: The great are lost in their greatness, drowned in their ego.

…chhote hain sirdaar. And in truth, those who have no sense of their own greatness, who know themselves as nothing, who are small, like emptiness—they are the chiefs.

Jesus said: In my Father’s kingdom those will be first who are last here. The whole world has resounded with this saying. It is important. Paltu’s saying has the same meaning. Jesus said again: Blessed are the meek, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Bade badaai mein bhule, chhote hain sirdaar. Ask me, ask those with eyes—The great are submerged in their ego. They keep puffing themselves up—with wealth, with position, with knowledge, with renunciation. But truly, those who should be called chiefs, who are first in this world, are those who are humble.

Paltu meetho koop-jal… A small well—its water is sweet.

…samund pada hai khar. And the ocean is vast, but altogether salty—good only to look at. If you are thirsty, it cannot quench your thirst.

No one’s thirst can be quenched by the ego. Ego is salty, very salty. If you drink ocean water, you will die—it brings death, not life. For life one must find some little well, with sweet water. Great, great men have been—Genghis Khan, Nadir Shah, Taimur, Alexander, Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin, Mao—great men! But completely salty! Drink them and die! Beware of them! History’s books are filled with their glories. In the footnotes you will not find the name of a poor man like Paltu. When I first chose Paltu, a friend said—Where do you find such people! I’ve never even heard the name. Do you invent them?

This country has diamonds, many diamonds! But the appraisers… the appraisers have been lost. If Paltu’s aphorisms were translated into other languages of the world, they would be honored, people would carry them on their heads.

Rabindranath wrote Gitanjali—no one cared in this country. Each aphorism is sweet, reminiscent of the Upanishads. But no one bothered. When the Nobel Prize came—when Rabindranath translated it into English—then the Nobel Prize came—then everywhere in the country, welcome ceremonies. In Calcutta, where Rabindranath lived—where never had a welcome ceremony been held—yes, he was abused, criticized—those very critics, those very abusers, arranged welcome ceremonies…

Rabindranath refused to go. He said, I will not accept this ceremony. This is not a welcome for me, it is a welcome for the Nobel Prize. Take the certificate of the Nobel Prize, worship it—do not invite me. I have been here for years, and it is twenty years since I wrote Gitanjali. For twenty years it has existed in Bengali, but no one looked, no one asked. Now, because abroad there is prestige, honor arises in you! This is not honor. Rabindranath said, My heart bows with shame.

Paltu meetho koop-jal, samund pada hai khar. The sea is enormous—but salty, useless for life. A small well can quench thirst. Great scholars will not help you; great renouncers will not help you. Find such a person who is like a little well—some unknown name, no fame—but within whom there are springs of sweetness.

In the context of Paramatma there is but one sweetness—by whose side love begins to well up within you; in whose presence buds begin to open in you and become flowers; by sitting near whom it seems that spring has come, the month of honey has come.

Saalik-e-raah-e-khudi is bhed se waqif nahin, Bekhudi ki raah mein bhi ek maqam-e-hosh hai. The traveler on the path of ego knows nothing of this secret. Even on the path of egolessness there is a station of wakefulness.

A station of awareness exists which only those attain who become egoless; who lose their ‘I’. On the path of nir-ahamkara a station comes where only awareness remains. As much ego, that much unconsciousness. As much egolessness, that much awareness.

Hirday mein to kutil hai, bolai vachan rasaal. Paltu vah kehi kaam ka, jyon naarun-phal laal. The heart is crooked, yet the words are sweet. Paltu—what use is such a one? Like the jujube fruit—red and lovely to look at, but bitter to taste.

Such is ego. From afar it gleams—gold-plated, studded in jewels, garlanded with pearls; come near—it is poison, pure poison.

Hirday mein to kutil hai, bolai vachan rasaal. And the egoistic one’s heart is always crooked, forged, hypocritical; and if he speaks sweet words, he speaks them as one baits a hook with dough—for the fish. Not to feed the fish—to catch it. The heart is a hook; the dough only hides the hook.

Ego, too, can speak very sweet words—has to—because in that sweetness poison can be concealed. See allopathy’s pills—they are poison, bitter, but there is a little sugar coating on top. That little sugar lets you swallow it; otherwise it would be hard to take in. Ego too can speak the language of sweetness. Pundits and priests can speak very sweetly; but within there is nothing but crookedness.

Mulla Nasruddin was invited to dinner by Dhabbhuji. Those days Dhabbhuji’s health was poor, so along with the other dishes, there was khichri. Dhabbhuji ate the khichri, but Mulla left the khichri and ate all the sweets, fruits, and nuts. Dhabbhuji could not restrain himself. In anger he said, Why Mulla, is khichri for donkeys to eat?

Mulla quietly replied, Friend Dhabbhu, the donkeys are indeed eating the khichri.

The talk is sweet, the friendship polite—else why invite! A friend invites. But the eye is fixed—this fellow Nasruddin is not touching the khichri. He must have held himself back as long as he could; still the words slipped—Will donkeys eat the khichri? Mulla would not lag behind—Khichri the donkeys are already eating.

Ego speaks sweetly on the surface; but the coating is soon stripped. Love on the surface, hatred within. Friendship on the surface, enmity within. Between two egos friendship is impossible—competition simmers within—Who is greater? The struggle goes on.

Hence in politics there are no friends—it is the race of ego. He who was an enemy yesterday becomes a friend today; he who was a friend today becomes an enemy tomorrow. Ordinary folk are astonished—What kind of game is this! Yesterday he abused this one; today he honors him.

Charan Singh wanted to conduct upon Indira a trial like the one conducted after the Second World War upon Hitler’s generals—the most dangerous trial in history. He wanted such a trial against Indira and Sanjay. And the same Charan Singh, when the time came to bring down Morarji, said to Indira, You are my younger sister. And Sanjay—Sanjay is like my son.

Upon a sister and son he had wished to conduct the Nuremberg trial! A very amusing game. There no one is one’s own. Those whom you take as your own are not your own. You never know upon which horse they will mount in the next moment. In politics there are no friends.

Machiavelli wrote the Gita of politics. In The Prince he wrote all the root principles. Machiavelli thought that after his book was published he would certainly be made a minister in some great kingdom. What emperor would not want so wise a man! But far from any great job, he was not allowed to stay in any country. People saw—One so clever is dangerous. And he wrote openly what should not be written, everything clearly. For instance, he wrote—In politics there is neither friend nor enemy. Therefore do not say to a friend what you would hide from an enemy, for this friend may become an enemy tomorrow. And do not speak against the enemy what you would not speak against a friend, for this enemy may become a friend tomorrow.

Machiavelli is surely the most skillful pundit of politics, as in India Kautilya was—Kautilya, an incarnation of crookedness.

Whether it is the race for wealth, for position, for fame—wherever ego is, this double game will go on.

Hirday mein to kutil hai, bolai vachan rasaal. Paltu vah kehi kaam ka, jyon naarun-phal laal.

Be alert. Do not be taken in by sweet words. Do not get entangled in pretty talk. Words can be flowery, yet become the noose for your hanging. Move with great care, weigh each step. You have been burned so much that I tell you: even drink buttermilk by blowing upon it. The saying goes: One burned by milk blows even upon buttermilk! You have been so plundered, so tormented, exploited in so many ways through centuries that I tell you: blow even upon buttermilk. There is no harm. It only takes a little extra time to blow—what else! But blow upon buttermilk. Otherwise you may be burned again.

Sab teerath mein khojiya, gehari budki maar. Paltu jal ke beech mein, kin paaya Kartar. Paltu says: I went to all the places of pilgrimage, took deep plunges—perhaps in a deeper depth I might find Paramatma.

I spared no effort in diving deep.

But neither did I find, nor had anyone ever found before, nor will anyone find in the future.

What has plunging into water to do with finding Paramatma? Dive into your own life! You are Prayagraj—the confluence is in you.

Understand the symbol of the confluence. It is said three rivers meet at Prayag—Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati. Ganga and Yamuna are visible; even when they meet, their waters remain distinctly colored. Saraswati is invisible. Such is man’s condition. It is the symbol of man’s state. Within you body and mind are visible—though mingled, their currents are seen as different, their colors distinct. Consciousness is unseen—Saraswati. Saraswati is the goddess of knowledge, of awareness, of meditation. Your consciousness is not visible—Saraswati.

So the meeting of body, mind and Atman goes on within you—that is Prayagraj, the pilgrimage of pilgrimages. There is no need to go anywhere else. Do not wander at Kumbh melas! The Kumbh mela is within you every day. You are the kumbh—the pot! Dive into this.

Sab teerath mein khojiya, gehari budki maar. Paltu jal ke beech mein, kin paaya Kartar.

Bahre-hasti ka azal se hoon shanavar lekin, Aaj tak waqif-e-raaz-e-tahe-darya na hua. I am a swimmer on the ocean of being from the beginning of time; yet till today I have not become acquainted with the secret at the bottom of the sea.

Tairak hoon, a seasoned swimmer!

Bahre-hasti ka azal se hoon shanavar lekin— In the search of existence I learned to swim, to dive…

Aaj tak waqif-e-raaz-e-tahe-darya na hua— I have swum much, dived deep; yet the inner treasure of life is not in my hand.

Jo doobna ho to kaafi hai ek aansoo bhi, Tera qusoor ki tu gharq-e-aab ho na saka. If drowning is to happen, even a single tear is enough. It is your fault you could not be drowned in that water.

A single tear is sufficient—if it is of love, of devotion, of trust, of meditation, of surrender—then even a single tear will drown you; in a single tear the Lord will be found. Otherwise go to pilgrimages and keep diving—your journeys will be in vain.

Teri nazrein de rahi hain tujhko dhokha pai-ba-pai, Hai gubare-dasht, diwaane, yahaan mahmil kahan. Every step your eyes are deceiving you; this is but the dust-haze of the desert, O madman—where is the caravan there!

Har zarra de raha hai ‘alam’ daawat-e-jamaal, Lekin jahaan mein chashm-e-haqiqat-nigar kahan. Each particle is giving the invitation of the Beloved’s beauty; but in the world where is the eye that sees reality?

Where are you going about searching?

Teri nazrein de rahi hain tujhko dhokha pai-ba-pai— Your eyes deceive you at every step.

Hai gubare-dasht, diwaane, yahaan mahmil kahan— Where do you seek? All these wanderings will fill you with dust and grime. From these journeys you will return more soiled. From pilgrimages you will return more impure, not purified.

Har zarra de raha hai ‘alam’ daawat-e-jamaal— But if there are eyes to see, each particle extends the invitation of Paramatma.

Har zarra de raha hai ‘alam’ daawat-e-jamaal, Lekin jahaan mein chashm-e-haqiqat-nigar kahan— But the trouble is—where are the eyes that see truth! Eyes that Paltu calls “blind.” For if you have eyes, then you must call the eyeful blind. Either you are blind and then the seeing ones are seeing; or if you call the Buddha blind, then you can be called seeing. Choose one of the two.

Paltu says: Brother, let it be you are the seeing ones. For you can see the things outside, so you are the seeing. He says: My word will be understood by the blind. Blind—one who has stopped looking out and begun to look within.

Lekin jahaan mein chashm-e-haqiqat-nigar kahan— There are no eyes that see the truth—otherwise each atom is inviting the divine. And you go to pilgrimages? The pilgrimage is where you are! Wherever you stand, there is Kaaba; wherever you sit, there is Kashi. Learn the art of sitting, the way of standing.

Paltu jahaan do amal, raiyat hoy ujaad. Ik ghar mein das devta, kyonkar basai bazaar. Paltu says: Where there are two rulers, the people are in trouble—whom to obey! In you there are two rulers—indeed not two, but many. Not one, but many!

Ik ghar mein das devta, kyonkar basai bazaar— Your town cannot be settled; it keeps being laid waste. Ten senses are within you, and each drags you in its own direction. And your Indra is asleep. Indra is not in the sky—remember. Indra is the name of that principle within you that can hold mastery over your senses. Indra—the lord of the senses. Indra—the one around whom the senses dance, who can sit upon the throne. Indra means sovereignty. Who can be sovereign? Not one asleep. The sleeper will be many; the awakened can be one. In sleep there will be many dreams; in awakening all dreams fall, only awakening remains.

Paltu jahaan do amal, raiyat hoy ujaad. One is your soul that says—Come towards Paramatma. One is your body that says—Come towards matter. The body pulls to the earth; the soul pulls to the sky. And you are being torn.

What is your tension? Why so much anxiety in human life? Just this—opposites pulling. It must be decided who is the master and who the slave. Most have decided the body is the master. As for the soul, they have no sense—so the body must be master.

In the body are ten senses. Then all ten pull their own way. The eye says—Come towards beauty. The tongue says—Come towards food. The ear says—There is a music gathering tonight; even if we fast, no matter, we cannot leave this gathering. The eye says—What gathering! A beautiful film is on—come here, go there! Do this, do that! Ten senses pull in ten directions. Five organs of action, five of perception—each with its own drag.

Daily you find yourself—What to do? Listen to the radio, read the newspaper, see a movie, go to the club, meet a friend, sit with the children, lay out the cards or the chessboard—what to do, what not to do? For even small things there is confusion all day long. Women spend hours—cannot decide which sari to wear.

Mulla Nasruddin sat in his car and kept honking. Time was passing, the train had to be caught—and the wife would not come down! Hearing the honking, she peeped from the window and said, Listen! For an hour I have been saying I’ll be there in a minute! But you keep honking and honking.

For an hour I’ve been saying I’ll be there in a minute! One cannot decide. Deciding itself is difficult—even in little things.

In my village a goldsmith lived across from my house. He was a wavering mind. Seeing his wavering state, one day as he was going by I said, Soni-ji, where are you going? He said, To the market. I said, Did you check the lock properly? He said, I locked it.

But the doubt was planted. I came this way; I saw he too was coming back. I said, Soni-ji, why have you returned so soon? He said, You created doubt in me. He went and shook the lock and said—It’s fine.

After that the news spread in the village. Wherever he was seen, people would say—Soni-ji, did you lock the door properly? Slowly his doubt grew so much that one day he caught me on the road and said, You will be the death of me! Whoever I meet says—Did you lock the door properly? Though I know I locked it, still I have to go back, to check. Now people follow me to see whether I go back or not. Now even after I lock it I shake it four or six times; and even if I am sure—I will not believe anyone. But when someone says something, the doubt rises—Who knows! And what guarantee that I shook it six times!

One day I saw him in a tonga on the way to the station. The station was two miles from the village. I was returning from a walk. I said, Soni-ji, where are you going? Your wife is crying.

He said, Why would she cry—I have just left her!

I said, She is crying. She thinks you have run away from home. She thinks you have left for good.

He said, No, I am going only for three days; I will return.

I said, First go home and explain to your wife. She might burn herself, something might happen!

He said, No, no… But doubt arose… You have created a mess—my train will be missed if I go back.

I said, As you wish.

He went a little further—the village tongas move very slow. By then I had reached his house. I told his wife, Be careful—Soni-ji has gone very angry! If he returns he will beat you.

They often quarreled. Hearing this she began crying. By then Soni-ji came in the tonga. Seeing his wife crying, he burst out—Fool! Have I run away or died, why are you crying? You have made me miss today’s train!

Look into your mind—anyone can create doubt in you. Anyone! There are differences among people in degree—but to plant doubt in your mind is easy. The mind is full of doubt. And you do not have one mind, but many—a crowd. And in this crowd you are pulled and stretched, troubled. In such turmoil you can never attain the stillness of life. And one who is not still—how will he come to know himself?

Thi na azad-e-fana kishti-e-dil, ai naakhuda, Mauje-toofaan se bachi to nazr-e-saahil ho gayi. The boat of the heart was not free of perishing, O helmsman—if it escaped the storm, it crashed upon the shore.

Koi aijaaz-e-safar tha ya fareb-e-chashm-e-shauq, Saamne aakar nihaan aankhon se manzil ho gayi. Was it the miracle of the journey or the deception of the eager eye—so often the goal came right in front, and then vanished from the eyes.

If somehow the boat is saved from the waves, it strikes the shore.

So many times the goal came so near—Here it is, here it is—and then vanished from the eyes. Because you turned; you took a turn. And there are turns upon turns—at every step.

Hindu pujai dev-khara, Musalman mahjid. Paltu pujai bolta, jo khaye deed bardid. A dear sutra—keep it safe.

The Hindu worships the temple, the shrine; the Muslim worships the mosque.

Paltu worships the living one—the speaking one, the one who walks and moves.

Paltu pujai bolta, jo khaye deed bardid— We do not offer prasad to a stone idol; we offer to the one who eats before our very eyes.

Paltu says: The truly religious is he who finds a Sadguru. Temples and mosques are all mazars—tombs. Yes, once living men may have resided there. But the lamps have long since gone out; the flame has flown away. The swans have flown to Mansarovar—the cages remain. You are worshiping the cages. And the cages keep getting bigger, more ornate.

A man died. His children were small. After his death, sitting and thinking what to do, how to preserve father’s tradition, they saw that each day after eating, just outside the kitchen, in a niche, he kept a little twig with which he cleaned his teeth. There must be some mystery in this! We never saw such… He might have left other works undone, but he surely cleaned his teeth with this twig. There is some secret in this twig.

They were children; they did not even need to clean their teeth—an old father, gaps in his teeth, a twig was needed. Children’s teeth were clean—no twig needed. They began to offer two flowers to the twig—what else could they do!

Then they grew up. They said, The twig still lies there—is this a way to remember father! They had a large sandalwood stick carved, beautifully shaped, and placed it there.

Then they grew richer, built a new house. They said, This niche does not befit the house—build a small temple. They had a marble temple made, and in its center a golden stick as a symbol; but now it had no relation to scratching gums or cleaning teeth—now it was an image. Daily they placed flowers upon it. And they said, How long can we ourselves go on placing flowers—there are a thousand chores—hire a priest. For a hundred rupees a month they hired a priest to wave the lamp and recite the Gayatri.

A fakir, staying in that house, asked—In many temples I have been, but never one like this—a golden stick! Is this a new modern form of the Shiva-linga? What have you made here? He inquired; tracing it back he discovered that the father kept a twig and cleaned his teeth with it.

Behind your temples, such stories will be found.

I have heard: A fakir rested in a village. A man served him greatly. When the fakir left, he gave him his donkey—pleased by his service. The fakir had nothing else.

The fakir went, but since it was the fakir’s donkey, the disciple worshiped it. Upon whose back the master has sat—that donkey is to be worshiped. He offered flowers, applied sandal paste. The donkey looked like a pundit-priest. He garlanded it. Seeing such service, the people too thought—There must be some secret. They also began to garland the donkey, put sandal marks, offer flowers.

Then people made vows before it. Some vows were fulfilled. Someone who did not have a child got one—though the donkey had no hand in it. People began offering money. Then the disciple saw—This is quite a business! He tied the donkey and sat there; ten, twenty-five rupees would come in a day, offerings too.

Then the donkey died. The disciple was very sad. He built a beautiful tomb. Now miracles began at the tomb—more than before! Earlier, as long as the donkey stood there, people felt a little shy. Now there was a tomb—no question of donkey. Whose tomb—it was not asked. Ah, some great saint! Some wali! Slowly so much money collected he made a large temple. Much wealth came.

The fakir passed again through the village. He inquired after his disciple. They said, He is. But you will not recognize him now. This temple—the priest is your disciple.

The fakir saw great pomp. The disciple jumped up, fell at his feet—Master, what a gift you gave! I thought—What kind of gift is this! But the mysteries of saints saints know. You gave me a donkey—but my fortune blossomed. What a donkey—accomplished, miraculous! People’s vows fulfilled—marriages occurred, children born, lawsuits won. What miracles this donkey showed! Even after dying, it shows them. And my fortune has opened. No work, no worry—ten, twenty-five disciples serve me.

The fakir laughed—You are right. That donkey was no ordinary donkey. The temple in which I live—that is his mother’s temple! A hereditary line of donkeys—his mother too was miraculous! My master gave me his mother. A lineage of siddhas through generations—no ordinary donkeys.

Temples and mosques, rituals and readings—such nets are woven; and then one follows another. People are blind, mere imitators.

Hindu pujai dev-khara, Musalman mahjid. Paltu pujai bolta, jo khaye deed bardid. Paltu says: I worship only the living. I sit at the feet where Paramatma is still flowing. I listen to the one through whom Paramatma speaks.

Chari varan ko metike, bhakti chalaya mool. Those who are awakened have erased all divisions—the four varnas, the four ashramas, Hindu-Muslim-Christian. They have erased separation and set flowing the essence—bhakti, devotion.

Chari varan ko metike, bhakti chalaya mool. Guru Govind ke baag mein, Paltu phoola phool. And Paltu says: It is due to my Guru’s garden, due to his satsang, due to the sangha around my Guru—

Guru Govind ke baag mein, Paltu phoola phool. I could never bloom by myself. Seeing the Guru in bloom, I gained trust—I too can bloom. Sitting by the Guru I saw others bloom—I gained trust—I too can bloom. In the Guru’s garden there were so many flowers that no bud could remain unblossomed.

And this is what I tell my sannyasins—If you remain, remembering Paltu, and keep reminding yourself—Why be impatient?—then if not today, tomorrow your flower will open. The assurance is that here many flowers are ready to bloom. Your buds will burst and become flowers.

Naakhuda doob chuka, naav hai gharq-e-toofaan, Haay kis waqt mujhe yaad-e-Khuda aati hai. The helmsman has drowned, the boat is in the storm—alas, at such a time I remember God!

Woh samajhte hain gulistan mein chhatakti hai kali, Tootne ki jo kisi dil ki sada aati hai. They think the sound that comes from someone’s broken heart is the sound of a bud opening in the garden.

You remember Paramatma only in sorrow; I am teaching you to remember Him in joy. In sorrow your remembrance is of no use.

Naakhuda doob chuka, naav hai gharq-e-toofaan— The helmsman has drowned; the boat is about to sink.

Haay kis waqt mujhe yaad-e-Khuda aati hai— You will repent much; when everything is drowning, then you remember God. The helmsman is gone, the boat is going, the storm has seized—then if you remember God, it will be of no use. Remember Him in celebration, in bliss.

Woh samajhte hain gulistan mein chhatakti hai kali— They think when the heart breaks, that is the bud opening.

Tootne ki jo kisi dil ki sada aati hai— When an instrument breaks, there too a sound comes; but the breaking of the instrument is not music.

At the feet of a Sadguru there is also the sound of a bud opening—but that is the sound of blossoming, of music rising upon the instrument.

But people are lost—in dead religions. And people are very skillful at deceiving themselves. Deception is cheap—no price to be paid. Worshiping the dead is easy—they cannot change you. As for what you think about yourself—you can go on believing it, the dead cannot stop you. Interpret the scriptures as you wish—who can hinder you! Scriptures will not say—This is wrong. If the Sadguru is present, first you will not dare to misinterpret; and even if you dare, his staff will be upon your head. His sword is ever ready to strike. He sits with hammer and chisel in hand. He will carve your uncut stone. He will make a statue of you. But people choose what is cheap; they live by beliefs.

In a train three women were gossiping. One of them, who looked no less than sixty, said in a charming voice, No one can say I am forty. Even now my figure makes handsome young men clutch their hearts.

Hearing her, the second woman, who was about forty, batting her eyes, said, That is nothing. I myself am thirty, yet people take me to be twenty-two. Not just young men, even adolescents go mad seeing me.

How could the third remain silent! She said, That too is nothing. People take me to be only sixteen, whereas my real age is twenty. Forget youths and adolescents—even little children clutch their hearts when they see me.

And that young lady must have been about thirty. But women are women!

Mulla Nasruddin was on the upper berth. Hearing them, he fell down with a thump. The ladies were frightened—Where have you dropped from?

Mulla said, I am coming straight from God—I have just been born.

Believe whatever you like—no one to stop you. People sit with such beliefs; their religion is their belief, their knowledge their belief. Their ethics, their conduct—mere beliefs. A Sadguru is needed who will shake you so that your beliefs fall like the leaves of autumn. Then new shoots are born, new leaves sprout.

Kamar baandhi khojan chale, Paltu phirai udes. Shat darshan sab pachi mue, kou na kaha sandes. Paltu says: I girded my loins and set out to search. One single aim, one special goal—to attain God. I sifted through all six darshans—dead bodies! No message did I receive.

Shat darshan sab pachi mue, kou na kaha sandes— There lie the corpses of truths, but truth itself has long since flown.

Kuch apni karaamat dikha, ai saaqi, Jo khol de aankh, woh pila, ai saaqi. Hoshyaar ko diwaana banaya bhi to kya, Diwaane ko hoshyaar bana, ai saaqi. Show some of your magic, O Cup-bearer! Give to the one who opens the eye. What’s the use making the wise mad—make the madman wise, O Cup-bearer!

A saaqi is needed! A Sadguru is needed who can make you drink! Who can make the madman sane, wake the sleeper!

Sishya sishya sab hi kahain, sishya bhaya na koy. Paltu Guru ki vastu ko, seekhai sish tab hoy. All call themselves disciples. A Hindu thinks he is disciple to the Hindu scriptures; a Jain to the Jain scriptures. From scriptures no disciplehood is born. Discipleship happens only with a living Guru. Yes, those who were with Mahavira were disciples. Those with Muhammad were disciples. Muslims are not disciples; Jains are not disciples.

How can you be a disciple until the Guru is present? Only in the presence of a Guru is there a possibility of discipleship. Seeing the Guru in bloom, trust arises, shraddha arises—I too can bloom! Seeing the Guru’s flower, a recognition dawns—I am still a bud, and I have the full possibility to become a flower.

Paltu Guru ki vastu ko, seekhai sish tab hoy— Sitting by the Guru, learning the way of the Guru’s being, learning to live as the Guru—then you are a disciple. No one is born a disciple. Discipleship must be sought.

Khojat gathri laal ki, nahin ganthi mein daam. Loka-laaj torda nahin, Paltu chahae Ram. Paltu says: You go searching for the bundle of rubies, to buy diamonds—yet there is no coin in your knot! There is no worthiness. Create worthiness. Grow discipleship. Learn the art of bowing. Learn the art of dissolving. Become empty. Open the doors of your house. Invite at least one into your innermost being—let him enter, do not obstruct.

This is the art of the disciple—that when the Guru enters you, you open every door and window, remove every curtain. In your total nakedness make yourself available to him, that he may touch your innermost and strike the veena of your heart.

Khojat gathri laal ki, nahin ganthi mein daam. Loka-laaj torda nahin, Paltu chahae Ram. And you set out desiring Ram, yet you will not drop social reputation! One who is mad for Ram must drop public shame. He will receive all kinds of sufferings from society. Tradition will torture him. Those with rotten beliefs will harry him in every way. This is natural—the price to be paid. This is the coin that should be in your knot.

Marne wala mari gaya, rovai jo mari jay. Samjhavai so bhi mare, Paltu ko pachhtay. And be quick!

Marne wala mari gaya— You see someone dying every day. Be quick! He too had been postponing, postponing—and was finished. And the auspicious moment never came when he took discipleship.

Marne wala mari gaya, rovai jo mari jay— Now you sit by him and weep. He has died; you too will die, weeping. Learn the art of dying laughing! Die laughing! But only one who lives laughing can die laughing. And who can live laughing? He who has some kinship with Ram. And who can have kinship with Ram? The one who through a Sadguru begins to send letters of love to Ram. The Sadguru is the postman, understand—he delivers your letter there, and brings letters from there to you.

Marne wala mari gaya, rovai jo mari jay. Samjhavai so bhi mare… And some fools are counseling—Do not cry; this is how it happens in the world. This is the law of the world. Someone has died, squandered his life. Someone is weeping—squandering time. Someone is consoling—squandering time.

…Paltu ko pachhtay. Paltu says: Rarely is there even one among them who repents. And the one who repents—he arrives.

A single yellow leaf falling from a tree gave Lao Tzu enlightenment. Seeing the leaf fall, he understood—Here everything will pass. In a world of perishing, what is there to build! I shall seek the eternal, the timeless.

A sick man, an old man, a corpse, and a sannyasin—seeing these, a revolution happened to Buddha. Where there is sickness, old age, death—what is there to toil for? Everything will be snatched away. And seeing a sannyasin, Buddha felt—There are some who seek beyond death.

People ask me—How many sannyasins do you want? I say—This is not a question of numbers. I want the whole earth to be sannyasins—so that it cannot be that you do not see ochre-robed people. Even seeing them will remind you. Have you counted how much compassion that unknown sannyasin had upon Buddha? We do not even know his name. Seeing him, Buddha remembered—There are seekers here too; not only losers, not only squanderers—some are earning too. Seeing that sannyasin, Buddha became a sannyasin.

I want the whole earth to be ochre. Every lane and alley—wherever you go—let a sannyasin be seen. Who knows in what auspicious moment remembrance will arise in you—What are these people doing? What has happened to them? Perhaps in a blessed moment a spark may arise in you. And a spark can burn the whole forest—just one spark is enough. Creating that spark is discipleship. And to be consumed in that spark until you are ashes—and you have become a Guru!

Between disciple and Guru there is not much distance—only the difference between a spark and a forest fire—of quantity. If the disciple is true, he will quickly attain Gurudom.

But if your discipleship itself is false, you will never be a Guru. At most, a pundit, a priest—hollow, parrotlike. You will go on repeating dead words. They gave no light to your life, nor will they bring light to anyone else’s.

Seek the Guru—seek the living Guru, says Paltu.

Nazar-nazar mein tamaashe dikha diye aise, Mujhe bhi ek tamaasha bana gaya koi. Someone has shown such spectacles to every gaze that I too have been made into a spectacle.

Dikha ke shokh-nigaahi ka jalwa-e-betab, Meri nazar ko tadapna sikha gaya koi. Showing the restless splendor of playful eyes, someone has taught my eyes how to ache.

Namood-e-husn ko khilvat mein tha qaraar kahaan, Taayyunaat ki duniya mein aa gaya koi. The manifestation of beauty never could rest in seclusion; it entered the world of forms and names—someone came.

Diya woh dard ki thi jis mein ek lazzat-e-khaas, Sitam mein shaan-e-karam bhi dikha gaya koi. He gave such a pain in which was a special delight; in cruelty too someone showed the majesty of grace.

Yeh mo’jiza hai ki zinda hain ab mere armaan, Mare huon ko bhi jeena sikha gaya koi. It is a miracle that my longings still live; someone has taught even the dead how to live.

Naqaab rukh se utha di magar kamaal yeh hai, Meri nazar ka bhi parda utha gaya koi. He lifted the veil from his face, but the marvel is this—someone lifted also the veil from my eyes.

Enough for today.