Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #9

Baba Malukdas is a rebel. And rebellion is the very soul of religion. Rebellion means: freedom from society, from conditioning, from scripture, from doctrine, from words.

The human mind is like an onion, layers upon layers of conditioning have gathered upon it. And within these layers the Self is lost. As one peels an onion, removing one layer after another, so too the layers of the human mind have to be parted.

Until there is freedom from all conditioning, there is no direct vision of the Self. And freedom from conditioning is hard. It is not like removing clothes, it is like flaying the skin. Because the conditioning has gone very deep. The sum total of conditioning is what we call the ego. The entire aggregate of conditioning is what we call the mind.

Rebellion means: break the mind. The mind is made by society; the mind is society’s donation. You are from the Paramatma; your mind is from society. And until your mind is dissolved in every way, you will have no glimpse of that which you are from the Paramatma, as you are from the Paramatma.

Hence rebellion—against society, conditioning, civilization, culture—this rebellion is the fundamental base of religion.

Religion is pure rebellion. Remember, by rebellion I do not mean revolution. Revolution again means organization. Rebellion is individual. In revolution there is once more organization; in revolution there is again the new structure of society. Revolution will change the old framework, but it will install a new framework. It will break the old society, but it will create a new society. In revolution society returns again through the back door.

Before the Paramatma you will have to dare to be alone; the crowd will not do. Before the Paramatma you will have to dare to stand naked and utterly alone. Before the Paramatma you will have to let yourself be just as you are—alone, helpless—no embellishment, no hiding, no hypocrisy.

Revolution changes society, it does not change the individual; the individual remains as he was.

In 1917 there was a great revolution in Russia. Society changed; the individual remained the same. Earlier the individual believed in religion because the Czar believed in religion. Now the individual does not believe in religion, he believes in communism because the government believes in communism. Earlier he worshipped the Bible; now he worships Das Kapital. Earlier Moses and Jesus were important; now Marx, Engels, and Lenin have become important. But the person remains where he was, his bonds remain as they were; not even a slight difference has occurred. He is just as asleep as he was before. His sleep has not changed. Perhaps the bed has changed—the sleep continues. The room has changed—the unconsciousness continues.

By revolution the individual does not change; by revolution society changes. And religion is the foundation for change in the life of the individual.

So religion is rebellion—an individual rebellion.

And remember a paradox: the Paramatma is one, therefore only by becoming one can you meet Him. The Paramatma is not two. There is no crowd of Paramatmas. Therefore you will not meet Him as a crowd. Become as He is, and you will meet.

This too is to be kept in mind: the Paramatma is not a collective; the Paramatma is the all-encompassing sovereignty. The collective is only the sum of individuals. The Paramatma is impersonal. All is contained in the Paramatma. The Paramatma is not everyone’s addition; the Paramatma is everyone’s base. He is equally your base as He is mine; as He is of the mountains, as of the trees. If we descend into our roots, we will find our base. When a person descends into his roots, there is the direct encounter with the Paramatma. Only by knowing oneself is Truth known. Once oneself is rightly recognized, all is recognized. In the very recognizing of the self, the self dissolves and the All is revealed. Therefore I said—paradoxical.

Those who do not know themselves and keep tying their relations with the crowd, they go on wandering outside. Religion is—an inner journey.

All the saints were rebels; they had to be. A saint who is not a rebel is impossible. Because man has invented many devices to avoid religion, and all those devices have to be broken.

The biggest device man has invented is that he has fabricated false religions; he has minted counterfeit coins. With fake coins in hand one keeps moving about and the memory of real coins does not arise. The counterfeits have become substitutes.

We have no trace of the Paramatma, so we have made an idol in the temple. The idol is our own making. We—who have no idea of the Paramatma—have we ourselves not carved the idol? We have ourselves framed the rules for standing before the idol. How to pray, in what words—we have fabricated those too. We have ourselves appointed the priest. In what delusion are we caught! We do not know the Paramatma, we do not know praise. We do not even know ourselves. But this false idol in the temple creates an illusion that perhaps we have worshipped, prayed. What more is there to do! We went and offered praise to God, made our petitions—and we remain as we were, because falsehood never transforms; Truth transforms.

Consider this: there is a dark room, and you light a lamp—there will be light. But if you bring in a picture of a lamp, there will be no light. However much a picture may resemble a lamp, it remains a picture. An idol is an idol. An idol is not God; it is a picture.

It is like going to a hotel and starting to eat the menu! The menu contains information about food; the menu is not food.

Scriptures contain information about Truth. Truth is not in the scriptures. In words and doctrines there are only shadows; very distant shadows. Don’t take them for the all.

A Zen master, Rinzai, was sitting with his disciples when a stranger, visiting him for the first time, said, I have a question to ask. Who is it that becomes bound? Because you keep saying: free yourself from bondage; be liberated; seek Nirvana—who is it that is in bondage?

Rinzai said: The second moon. The man did not understand. The second moon? He said: I don’t understand. So Rinzai said: Go out and see.

Rinzai’s ashram was on a lake. It was night and the moon had risen. Go out and see. One moon is in the sky and another moon is in the lake. The moon in the lake—that one is caught. The reflection is entangled. The real is not entangled at all.

A wondrous statement—“the second moon!”

Wherever you have grasped the second, there lies entanglement. You have not grasped the Truth. Grasp Truth, and you are free. You have held onto the echoes of Truth. You have not held the Paramatma; you have held the idols of the Paramatma. You have not held the saints; you have held the saints’ words; you have held the scriptures. You always catch the number two.

That second moon—this is the bondage in your life. You must be free of the second moon, if your eyes are to lift toward the real moon.

Therefore all saints stand opposed to your so-called religion. Your temples, your mosques, your Kashi, your Kedar, your Mecca-Medina, your Bible, your Vedas, your Quran—saints are opposed to these. There is a reason. Because all saints want you to obtain a cash religion. What are you doing with these loans and credits! And since when! And how long will you go on! Enough now. Enough has been wasted with falsehood. Seek the principal.

So rebellion means: freedom from borrowed religion; the search for a cash religion. Rebellion means: freedom from formal religion; the search for the real.

There is a formal religion. Your mother is there, so you touch her feet—even if no feeling arises in your heart to touch her feet; even if there is no sentiment to touch. Perhaps, far from touching feet, there is anger in the mind. Perhaps you do not even have the capacity to forgive your mother. But you touch her feet. A formality, a social manner. One should touch—she is the mother.

In the same way you go to the temple. In the same way you read the scriptures. In the same way you do your prayers. Your heart remains untouched. No waves arise in your heart; no music resounds; no soundless sound arises. The vina of your heart remains unstruck. Merely formal—what had to be done, was done—you go on doing as if you have no purpose at all.

Have you seen people going to temples! Have you looked into yourself—when you wake in the morning, sit and read the Gita; or you perform worship; you ring the bell, you pour water! All mechanical! Neither do you thrill pouring water over the Paramatma, nor do tears of bliss flow from your eyes. Neither is there any festival in your heart when you offer food to God; nor do you hum a song. Mere ritual.

If ritual is religion, then you are only hiding irreligion. Formal religion is a highly efficient device for hiding irreligion. This way you never even come to know that you are irreligious—and man remains irreligious.

If you would be religious, you must be heartful. Rebellion means: let heartfulness come into life. Do only that which your heart longs to do. Wait. If true prayer has not yet arisen, there is no need to pass time with false prayer. Whom will you deceive? You cannot deceive the Paramatma. You are deceiving only yourself. Why waste time?

The danger is that false prayer may become memorized, may become by heart, and then it may be that your throat gets choked by false prayer and the spring for true prayer never opens; there remains no space through which true prayer can flow. At least keep the slate empty; do not write the false. An empty slate is better than a slate filled with lies. At least when Truth descends some day, you will be able to receive it.

That is why I say the pandit does not understand the Paramatma.

Taha Husain tells a little story. God created all the animals, created the earth, the moon and stars—and then He made the donkey. The donkey is a straightforward animal—innocent, guileless. And God had great love for the donkey. He kept him close by. He liked his simplicity. And God was writing a book—to send directions to humankind—how man should live. He was writing the book on the leaves of a tree, keeping the leaves safe. The donkey watched this. One thought arose in the donkey: If I chew all these leaves, I will become omniscient.

A donkey is, after all, a donkey! One afternoon, tired, God fell asleep—the book was almost complete—when the donkey ate it. When God opened His eyes, the book had vanished, and the donkey stood there very pleased! He said: Don’t worry, everything is inside me. There is no need to send the book; send me into the world.

God was annoyed anyway; He intended to send him down from heaven. He said: All right, go down to the world. The donkey descended to earth very pleased. He thought, I will be worshipped. He was worshipped—with sticks. Because wherever the donkey went he tried to explain to people—Listen, I have brought religion.

First, his voice—its braying tone. His language no one could understand. And then, his claim! He tried hard to explain: everything is in my belly; I drank the whole book, you fools; just listen to me. But no one would listen. Whomever he tried to persuade and set right, that very one beat him with a stick. And they say that ever since then the donkey’s plight is what it is. Since then he is not even considered simple and innocent—now people just call him a donkey.

Taha Husain’s story points toward the pandit. Pandit means: the one who drank the book; chewed the book; the one in whose belly the book lies, or in whose skull the book lies. He thinks: I know everything—and he knows nothing. Does one know by chewing a book! One knows by living life, by experience, by direct realization—not by webs of words, not by webs of argument.

So the revolt of all saints is against the bookish. The revolt of all saints is against pedantry, against scripturalism. The revolt of all saints is to move life-energy from the head toward the heart, to lead it from mere thought to experience.

If your energy keeps echoing only in the skull, you will not reach the Paramatma. If your energy rains upon the heart—if your heart becomes a lake of life-energy—then something can happen.

Today’s aphorisms are the final ones—simple, direct, yet immense.

“Deval pooje ki devata, ki pooje pahar.
Poojan ko janta bhala, jo pees khaye sansar.”

Malukdas is a simple man—rustic, rural; not learned. What he says is people’s speech.

Deval pooje ki devata…
Whether you worship the temple or the deity in the temple—nothing will happen. If you wish, worship entire mountains. The temple is made of stone; your deities are made of stone; nothing is going to happen through them. If you wish, worship the whole Himalaya; worship all the mountains—still nothing will happen.

The danger in worshipping stone is this: you may yourself become stony. And that is what has happened—worshipping stone, people have become stony. Worshipping stone, people have become stone; their hearts have become rock. That is why a Hindu can cut a Muslim; a Muslim can cut a Hindu. Christians can kill Muslims, Muslims can kill Christians.

The whole history of mankind is the history of the hardness of your so-called religious people; it is a history of violence and bloodshed. How could a religious man do this? He must have become stone.

There is also a psychological truth here. What we worship, that we become. Our worship fashions us. With whom you live, you become like. Do not keep too much company with stones. If you live only among stones, slowly you too will become stone. Because we become like those we live with.

Seek the company of one superior to yourself. If you must worship, worship some living saint. Worship someone toward whom your eyes have to be raised upward. Worship someone who stands much higher than you—even if only one step ahead. Worship someone whose consciousness is deeper than yours, more luminous than yours.

Stone, inert—where there is not even a trace of consciousness—you go to worship that? For the worship of the Paramatma you have chosen precisely what is opposite to the Paramatma—stone. Better you worship a tree—it is at least alive, it grows. But even that worship is not right, because the tree is far behind you. Worship what is ahead of you. Because worship is a pointer. We worship that which we long to become. If you wish to become stone, then worship stone.

The very meaning of worship is: this is our longing; we would like to become like this. All right, worship Rama—that can be understood. Worship Krishna—that can be understood. Worship Buddha, Mahavira—that can be understood. But worship stone?

If you find a Buddha, then worship him. But Buddhas come only once in a while. And when a Buddha is, we fail to recognize him. And when a Buddha is, we are also afraid of him. Because to go to a Buddha is not without danger. To go near a Buddha means you will have to change. If you go, you will be effaced. Buddhahood is contagious. As disease is caught, so is spirituality caught. And disease has remedies; spirituality has none. To go to a Buddha means that far-away call will seize you; a thirst will seize you. Then until you reach that shore, you will have only weeping. The fire of longing will seize you. Then where you are will appear futile, and where meaning appears to lie is still far away. Then restlessness will be there. Then you will weep. All your comforts and peace will be snatched away. All your dreams will shatter.

Will you be able to understand the storm?

Wet clouds, golden dust,
Dry leaves, dry grasses—
Gathered, he moves, singing “har-har”—will you hear that song?
Will you be able to understand the storm?

This breeze fragrant with scent,
From it the groves were waving—
Suddenly the great dream it held broke—will you understand?
Will you be able to understand the storm?

To be near Buddhas is to be near a storm. And that dream you were seeing—of wealth, of position, of prestige, of pride and jealousy—that whole dream will collapse. In that storm your passions will be shaken and fall. In that storm you will no longer remain who you were until yesterday. The mansions you built will be leveled to the ground. The boats you floated will sink. And what you knew until now will appear futile and false. Hence people avoid Buddhas. Yes, when Buddhas die, they make their idols.

You will be surprised to know that in Arabic and Urdu the word for idol—“but”—is a transformation of “Buddha.” So many idols of Buddha were made that when the Central Asian lands first became acquainted with Buddha’s idols, they asked: What is this? People said: This is Buddha. And the word “Buddha” itself became the symbol of the idol. “But” is the altered form of “Buddha.”

Millions of idols of Buddha were made. Those who never worshipped Buddha while he was alive began to worship his idols.

It is easy to worship an idol. An idol does not change you; it cannot change you. You are the master of the idol. When you wish, you open the temple doors; when you wish, you offer the food. When you wish, you perform the worship. When you wish, you place the offerings—whatever you want, you place. If you don’t wish, you don’t place. If you wish to bathe it, you bathe it; if not, you don’t. As you please—your whim!

I used to go to Punjab. In one house where I stayed I saw in the morning, passing through a central room toward the bathroom in the courtyard, that they had set up the Guru Granth Sahib like an idol. All right, no harm. But right in front was a lota full of water and a stick of chew-wood for brushing teeth! I asked: What is this! They said: For the Guru Granth Sahib’s tooth-brushing.

They had placed a pot of water and a twig for brushing. I said: Good people, at least keep toothpaste and a toothbrush! Show some propriety. Who uses a twig now? Do you use it? They said: No. Then at least don’t make Him do what you don’t do. But your whim rules. Make the Guru Granth do whatever you like. Keep a twig, or keep a toothbrush. And if you keep neither, the Guru Granth can do nothing.

Now Nanak opposed idols. But what does it matter! We will turn even the book into an idol!

If someone were to place a twig before the idol of Rama, that might make some sense; but before a book—a twig! This is sheer stupidity. The last limit. Only a Punjabi could do this.

But man is such… An idol falls under your control. You do whatever you wish, however you wish.

If you go to a Buddha, you will have to fall under the Buddha’s sway.

But remember: what you worship, knowingly or not, you begin to become. Worship a book, and you become bookish. Worship stone, and you become stony. If you must worship, worship consciousness. If you must worship, worship the new incarnations of awareness. If you must worship, lift your eyes upward. At least your worship will then be able to pull you upward.

There is a saying: choose your company thoughtfully. You become like those you live with.

It often happens that people who work only with machines become like machines; mechanical. In the West this is happening. Because all day people are engaged with machines—sometimes one machine, sometimes another—their consciousness slowly becomes mechanized.

I used to go to Calcutta and stayed with a family where the man was a High Court judge. His wife said to me: My husband respects you so much; please at least tell him not to be a judge at home. Let him do whatever he must in the office.

I asked: Is he a judge at home too? She said: Why hide anything from you. Forget the house—the bed at night too he remains a judge. We all live as if we are criminals! Law in everything! And the same stiffness in everything that he has in his courtroom. We are fed up. We are frightened. The children run outside when they see him. As long as he is home not a single child plays in the house. Because in everything he sees a fault. In everything he sees a breach of the rules.

This happens. A man who stands eight hours at a crossroads as a policeman returns home as a policeman. It is not so easy; where in you is that much intelligence that when you come from office you leave the office there? It is not so easy. The office comes along! Files float in the clerk’s mind. He sits at home and thinks only of files. He eats, and within he continues to turn pages of files. He sleeps at night, and dreams of the same.

We become like those with whom we live. So this is a dangerous and unfortunate choice—that man has made God out of stone. Hence man has become stony.

Says Malukdas:

“Deval pooje ki devata, ki pooje pahar.”

If you wish, go on worshipping mountains—nothing will happen.

“Poojan ko janta bhala, jo pees khaye sansar.”

But if your attachment to stone is too deep, if you cannot do without stone, then worship the grinding-stone. At least this much: “Better the mill for worship, which grinds to feed the world.” At least people can be fed by it; something will happen. It will be of some use.

Your gods are utterly useless. Not just useless—they are dangerous. Temples and mosques serve no purpose except to provoke quarrels. The whole business of temples and mosques is politics; it is mischief; it is to make man fight man.

Maluk is right: “For worship, a mill is better.” The two millstones are good. At least this much: they grind to feed the world. If stone must be worshipped, worship the mill; it will at least serve some purpose, it will not incite fights; it will fill the belly of the hungry. Perhaps in grinding the grain, compassion might arise in your mind toward the hungry. Perhaps a sprout of love might arise. Perhaps toward the thirsty and hungry, compassion might be born.

Malukdas is saying this in irony—that if you are obsessed with stone, then the stones of the mill are better.

But man is astonishing. I lived many years in Jabalpur. There is a temple there called Pisanhaari ki Madiya. I was curious: what is this Pisanhaari ki Madiya? I went. Some woman who ground grain, five to seven hundred years ago, collected money by grinding and built that temple. How did people commemorate her? They hung her millstone on the temple spire. Now the mill is being worshipped.

When I went to Pisanhaari ki Madiya, I thought: Baba Malukdas, had you seen this Pisanhaari ki Madiya, you would never have said even in irony: “Better the mill, which grinds to feed the world.”

People are worshipping the mill too; they are offering flowers to it! In the temple offerings are made; there is a priest. Worship is being done to the mill!

Then perhaps Malukdas would not have dared say it—even as a joke. Man is so foolish that he hardly understands even a joke.

What is to be taken to heart is this: the Paramatma sits within you. Whenever you worship anyone else, you insult the Paramatma within. Until the Paramatma is attained, no worship of anyone has meaning.

If it won’t do without worship, then worship such persons in whom you feel some manifestation of the Light; those in whom a lamp seems to be lit. These we have called tirthankaras, avatars, Bhagwan.

Worship such a person—if worship is a compulsion. It is not necessary. What is necessary is that you begin to look within. You are the temple. And the one you are seeking is present within you.

“Makka, Madina, Dwarka, Badri aru Kedar—
Bina daya sab jhooth hai, kahai Maluk vichar.”

Maluk says: grasp this one aphorism—that compassion is the aphorism. If your worship and prayer increase compassion within you, fine. If your temples and mosques increase compassion, fine. Take compassion as the touchstone, as the measure; this is the scale—weigh upon it.

All the saints of the world have said this. Mahavira says: ahimsa—that is his word for compassion. Buddha says: karuna—that is his word for compassion. Jesus says: service—that is his word for compassion. Call it compassion, call it service, call it karuna, call it ahimsa—these are differences only of name. But note one thing: all four words are feminine. Daya, karuna, ahimsa, seva—all are feminine. This is worth understanding.

Language is not made without cause. Language is formed slowly out of causes.

The male heart is hard. Therefore harshness we call “parushata”—harshness, from “purush,” man. The male mind is aggressive, violent. The male’s whole urge is to seize others, to possess. To extend realms, to build empires.

Man takes great delight in being powerful. His entire search is for power. How much power I can have—prime minister, president—how much power I can have, that I might rule the whole earth—such is man’s longing. Naturally, when you exercise power over others, you cannot be compassionate. The holder of power cannot be compassionate—cannot be. Power stands upon violence. When you wish to possess another, you will have to destroy the other.

In the world there are only two choices: either you climb upon the other, or the other will climb upon you. Before the other climbs upon you, you climb upon the other. That is what Machiavelli said: if you do not plunder, you will be plundered. Before someone robs you, rob him—because whoever takes the initiative gains.

The male scripture is Machiavelli’s scripture: aggression, violence, force, power, might. Even in religion the male is interested in order to gain siddhis perhaps—to attain miraculous powers, so that what he cannot do today he might do tomorrow. But his emphasis is always on showing the world that “I am something.”

The male’s fundamental base is ego. All the tender qualities are feminine qualities: compassion, motherliness, karuna, ahimsa, service—these are feminine.

You will be surprised: have you seen a beard and moustache on Buddha’s face? Or on Mahavira’s? Or among the twenty-four tirthankaras of the Jains—on any? Not on Rama, not on Krishna. Have you seen a bearded Rama? A bearded Krishna? What is the matter? Did they lack some hormones? Were they effeminate? What was it? Was something lacking? If it were one or two, it might pass. But all of them?

No; they too had beards; moustaches grew on them too. But we chose a symbol—we did not fashion their faces like a male’s. Because their manliness had ended within; the feminine principle had arisen. To announce this truth we made no beard and moustache on Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Rama. With great deliberation… These are not realistic statues, these are idealistic statues.

Do not think Buddha looked as his statue looks—no. Such was Buddha’s inner state. We have tried to depict the inner state. These are not photographs. They have no relation with external realism. They are pointers to what happened within. Therefore, looking at Buddha’s face you will sense the feminine. The hands and feet too hold roundness, as in a woman. Not muscular as a male body is—no such body. He was a kshatriya; the body must have been strong. They were all kshatriyas—Krishna, Rama, Buddha, Mahavira, all the tirthankaras. So the body must have been as a male body should be. But we have depicted him as feminine—to indicate the inner tenderness.

“Bina daya sab jhooth hai,” says Maluk.

All your male traits are harsh; let them quiet down. And the feminine traits within—let them awaken. Then the beginning of religion has happened in your life.

So if worship you must, better to worship a flower than a stone. But look—we do the reverse. We pluck the flower and place it upon the stone. It should be that we lift the stone and place it upon the flower.

The flower is tender, yet we place it upon the hard. That day will be of great fortune when we lift the stone and place it upon the flower. That day we will have shown greater respect for the tender. For now, we keep breaking the tender.

Compassion is the touchstone. Whether you are Hindu or Muslim, Christian or Jain or Buddhist—this is worth two pennies. If you are compassionate, all is well: if you are Hindu, fine; Muslim, fine; Christian, fine. If you are not compassionate, all is futile.

Muhammad came to hide in a cave. A disciple was with him. Enemies were chasing them. The moment was dangerous. Horse-hoofs sounded behind. They were about to enter the cave when Muhammad halted and said to his friend: Stop; do not go in. He said: This is not the time to stop. Let’s go in somehow and hide. This cave is useful; it has come at the right time; it is God’s grace.

Muhammad said: That is true. But look—the spider has just now woven a web across the cave’s mouth, a fresh web; the spider is still weaving—it is not right to break it.

The friend was astonished. He said: I will clear the web. What is there to breaking it! But Muhammad said: She has made it with great effort. Do you see? We will find another cave. But it is not right to be harsh with the spider.

This is the mark of a Muslim. This is the mark of a truly religious man. Where harshness does not remain, where the heart is tender—not stone-like but like butter—tender, flower-like.

“Makka, Madina, Dwarka, Badri aru Kedar—
Bina daya sab jhooth hai, kahai Maluk vichar.”

Maluk says: You go to Badri, you go to Kedar, to Mecca, to Medina, to Dwarka—you wander the whole world; nothing will happen. Enter the temple of compassion, and all will happen.

…says Maluk—vichar.

Remember: vichar here does not mean what you mean by “thinking.” You have never truly thought. Yes, many thoughts pass through your skull—that is true. But you have never thought. To truly think, as much alertness is needed as you do not have.

Within you float others’ thoughts. Someone said something—it enters your skull. You read something somewhere—it enters. And with these you go on tottering. Have you ever considered anything yourself? Do you have even a single thought that is your own? One you can say, with authenticity—this is mine!

You will be amazed; if you search within the treasury of your thought, you will hardly find a single thought that is yours—authentically yours. You will find everything borrowed, stale, someone else’s. And even if you find one or two that you can call yours, if you examine closely, you will discover they too are patchworks of others’ thoughts. A leg from here, an arm from there, a head from elsewhere—you set up a scarecrow.

But original thought is possible only when you gain the capacity to stop all thought; when you gain the capacity to let all thought cease. When you become skilled in being thoughtless, then you succeed in thinking. It is paradoxical, but so it is.

The day you become capable of being without thought, the day you wish and time passes without a ripple of thought arising within—the day you become the master of this. Right now, you are not the master. Right now, however much you wish for thoughts not to arise, they go on arising. You lie in bed and wish sleep would come, but thoughts go on. You say to them: Brother, forgive me; now go; let me sleep a little. But they do not listen. They have become the masters; you are the slave. When they leave, good; when they don’t, they don’t—you have no power. You are helpless.

When Maluk says, “says Maluk—vichar,” he is saying this: when, in a thought-free, silent state of mind, I saw; when I fixed my eyes upon the truth of life; when in the mirror of a thoughtless mind I caught a glimpse of life—then I found: without compassion, all is false.

So your temples and mosques, your worship, prayer, adoration—all false; your scriptures, your Vedas and Quran—all false.

“Bina daya sab jhooth hai…”

If compassion arises within you, the first step of the Paramatma has entered you. If compassion descends within you, your first relationship with the Paramatma has begun.

Compassion means the realization that as I am, so is the other. As valuable as I am, so valuable is the other. Now I will not use anyone as a means. All are ultimate ends; no one is a means. I will not use my wife as a means. I will not use my husband as a means. I will not use my son as a means. For whomever we use as a means, we insult them. Whomever we use as a means, we form an immoral relationship with them. Whomever we use as a means, we fail to accept the dignity of the Paramatma seated within them.

Immanuel Kant, in defining ethics, said: only that act is moral in which you do not treat the other as a means; in which the other is an end in himself—an end in itself.

Compassion means: as valuable as I am, so valuable are you—not a bit less, not a bit more. The day you see that my worth is the worth of the entire existence; what I desire for myself, I desire the same for the other…

There was a Jewish sage, Hillel. An atheist came to Hillel and stood on one leg, saying: Listen. I’ve heard you are very wise. I do not want to get into much verbiage. I am an atheist. I want a brief answer. In the time I can stand on one leg, tell me the essence of religion.

Hillel said: The essence of religion is only this—what you do with yourself, do the same with others. That’s all.

That says it all. There is no greater essence of religion than this: “Without compassion, all is false,” says Maluk, in vichar. Then even if you forget the Paramatma, no harm; the Paramatma will not forget you. And right now, even if you remember the Paramatma a lot, all your remembrance is futile; the Paramatma will not remember you. Only one worship of yours will be accepted: that worship in which compassion is included. Only one worship will be received—not through flowers, but through the compassion of your heart. Offer flowers of compassion at the feet of the Paramatma. Let your life be such that no one is hurt by you.

I am not saying: let your life be such that you constantly worry that someone might be hurt. Let your life be such that you do not hurt anyone—and yet others may still be hurt, that is another matter.

Many were hurt by Jesus, else he would not have been crucified—though Jesus wished to hurt no one. Stones were thrown at Buddha, though Buddha wished to hurt no one.

You may not wish to hurt anyone—that is enough. Keep only this much awareness: everyone’s worth is absolute. Even then someone may be hurt. Often it happens: your being joyous is enough to hurt others. People are so miserable that seeing your joy is beyond their tolerance. People stand in such darkness—and light in your eyes? They become eager to gouge your eyes out. People are so troubled and you sit carefree—in Samadhi! This goes beyond their tolerance.

People do not want you to break their sleep; they are lost in their dreams. And you want—in their interest—that their sleep be broken. For their own good you try!

One of Buddha’s monks attained full Buddhahood. And Buddha said to him: There is no need for you to stay with me now, because now you are what I am. Go now. Far and wide, wherever people sleep, go there. Carry the news of awakening. Spread this fragrance that has come to you upon the winds; let it reach as many as possible. This light that is lit within you—let its rays fall upon as many as they may. Go. Where do you wish to go, Purna?

Purna said… There was a region in Bihar where no monk would go; the people were wicked. That region was called “Sukha”—dry. They were dry people, whose hearts had utterly dried; in whom there was no stream of juice. He said: I will go to the region of Sukha.

Buddha said: Better not go there. The people there are very wicked; they will torment you.

He said: That is precisely why they need me—someone to awaken them.
Buddha said: Your intention is good, but I want to ask three questions. First: you will go and speak good things to them. But your good words will sound like insults to them. They will abuse you, they will insult you, they will mistreat you. When they abuse you, what will happen to you, Purna? First answer me this.
Purna said: What is there to happen! You know—what answer is there to give? If they abuse me, I will think: how good these people are—they only abuse me; they don’t beat me. They could even have beaten me.

Buddha said: All right, second question. And if they beat you, then?

He said: Why do you even ask! You know. If they beat me, I will thank them—how good they are; they only beat me, they don’t kill me. They could even have killed me.

Buddha said: Fine, let that pass too. Now the third and last question. If they actually kill you, then as you are dying, what will happen within you?

Purna said: You ask pointless things. You know what will happen. As I die, I will think: how good these people are—they have freed me from a life in which some mistake could still be made.

This is compassion at its ultimate peak.

So when I tell you: do not let another be hurt, it does not mean no one will be hurt. It means: you do not be the one to hurt. Let there be no intention in you to hurt. Even then, hurt may still happen. It will happen. It happened through Socrates. It happened through Jesus. It happened through Mansoor. It will happen.

People are mad. And when distraction ends in someone’s life, he begins to seem so alien to others that he becomes hard to tolerate. His very presence begins to jar. If he is right, then the rest of us are wrong. That becomes hard to swallow.

They had to make Socrates drink hemlock because his presence had become intolerable. If Socrates is true, then everyone else is false. To accept “I am false” is very hard.

“Without compassion all is false,” says Maluk.

So take one touchstone in your life: if your mindfulness, your worship-prayer, your devotion increases compassion, know you are on the right path; the indicator falls in the right place. If your compassion decreases, know something is going wrong.

One day Mohammed took a young man to the mosque. It was the youth’s first time. After the morning prayer, when they were returning, the youth said: Master, do you see how sinful people are—still lying in their beds! Many are still sleeping, snoring. What will become of them, Master? Will they fall into hell?

Mohammed stopped short. He said: I made a big mistake bringing you to the mosque. When you used to sleep, at least you did not think people are sinners. This has done no good; it has done harm. Today, after your very first time in the mosque, you have begun to think others are sinners and you are righteous! He said to the youth: Brother, you go and go back to sleep—and forget this whole thing—and I will go back to the mosque.

He asked: Now why will you go?

Mohammed said: I must pray again and ask God’s forgiveness, for I made a big mistake bringing this man. He was fine, he used to sleep. At least he had no disrespect or harshness toward others. Now he is planning to throw them into hell! See his intention after one prayer!

Whenever you see in someone that his religion is inflating his ego, know a mistake has happened. When you see within yourself that your religion is reducing your compassion, know a mistake has happened. That is why I say that out of your hundred so-called saints, ninety-nine are not saints. Their hidden intention is to cast you into hell. They are busy calculating the sorts of fires you will be burned in, the kinds of cauldrons you will be thrown into.

Those who have written elaborate descriptions of hell in the scriptures cannot be good people. There must have been malice in them. Compassion could not have been there. Had there been even a note of compassion, the very notion of hell would not arise. Heaven they keep for themselves—and hell for everyone else. Hell for all who do not agree with them—let them rot in hell! However saintly they look from the outside, inside they are disciples of the devil, not saints.

Now that is another matter—by what means you take revenge on people; how you torment them. You will torment by throwing them into hell—but the desire to torment remains. There is not even a trace of compassion in you. Remember this.

“Everyone calls himself the Lord’s servant—Hindu and Muslim.
The Lord serves only the one whose faith has found its resting place.”

And Maluk says: One whose heart is filled with compassion, even if he does not explicitly worship God, it is all right. His worship is happening every moment. His compassion is his worship; that is his namaz. He is already bowed in prayer.

“And—the Lord serves only the one…”

An extraordinary event happens: then the devotee no longer worships God; God worships the devotee.

“The Lord serves only the one…”

The day compassion alone fills your life, that day Existence remembers you.

What will your remembering do? Until He remembers you—no meeting will happen. Until this whole existence becomes eager for you—to welcome you, to unite with you—nothing will happen.

“Everyone calls himself the Lord’s servant—Hindu and Muslim.”
That worship goes on—it is formal.

“The Lord serves only the one whose faith has found its resting place.”

Attend to these words: “whose faith has found its resting place”—whose trust has settled; the mirror of whose mind no longer quivers with thoughts; whose iman no longer trembles—it has become untrembling; whose inner consciousness burns windlessly.

“…whose faith has found its resting place.”

The mind is fickle. The mind is like a lamp’s flame wavering in gusts of wind—now here, now there; always wavering; not still even for a moment. With such an unsteady mind what peace can there be? With such a mind what happiness? For those who are bound to such an unsteady mind, the taste of bliss is never possible. They will reap only sorrow.

But there is a state of consciousness in which the mind comes to rest. No ripples arise; the lake is still. Not a single wave. The lake becomes utterly calm. Only in that still lake is the reflection of the Lord formed; His image appears.

God does not sit in temples; when your trust settles, you will find Him seated within.

And Malukdas speaks exactly: “The Lord serves only the one…” That day you will find that the Lord is worshiping you—because you are the Lord. Not for a single moment are you anything else. You have forgotten your own remembrance; otherwise you are the Divine.

You have forgotten your own memory. You have simply forgotten who you are. And so long as this mind trembles, you will not even be able to recognize who you are. With a trembling mind, to recognize is very difficult.

Think of it this way: you come here with a camera in hand to take a picture, and both your hands are shaking—the photo won’t come out. And when you develop the film, you find it makes no sense; colors smudged everywhere; fragments scattered. No clear image forms.

The mind trembles so much that even though Truth stands before you, how will the picture form? If the mind rests a little, if trust pauses a little, quiets a little, the image forms at once.

You have seen, when a storm rakes a lake and waves are many—if the moon is in the sky, even then its reflection does not form. The moon gets broken into fragments—scattered across the lake. The whole lake turns to silver. But you cannot hold where the moon is. When the lake becomes still, all the silver gathers into one place; becomes the moon.

God seems scattered everywhere; therefore we do not see Him; His image does not form.

You need not go anywhere to find God; you only need to find the stillness of the mind.

“…whose faith has found its resting place.”

What Krishna called sthitaprajna—steadfast in wisdom—Malukdas calls “whose faith has found its resting place.”

“When compassion and dharma dwell in the heart, one speaks words of nectar.
Know as truly high only the one whose eyes are lowered.”

“When compassion and dharma dwell in the heart, one speaks nectarous words.”
And whose speech is filled with nectar… But nectar appears only when compassion and dharma dwell in the heart. When an ocean of compassion fills the heart, then words steeped in that compassion become nectar.

“Nectar in speech” is not an orator’s skill. It does not mean someone is a very polished speaker. Nectar in speech means: the sound of the soundless vibrates in the words; the words are not just empty bodies, but a luminous soul glows within them. The words are not mere words; the silence hidden within them is present too.

As with your body: today the Divine dwells within, so you are alive. Tomorrow when breath flies off, the bird has gone; the body will be the same, but your loved ones will quickly begin to prepare the bier: everything is as it was; a small thing has changed—the one who dwelt inside is no longer there, so it is a corpse. Yesterday this body was dear; today it is fit to be placed on a bier.

So it is with words. When a pundit speaks, there is only a corpse in his words. He has no living experience to breathe soul into them. When the knower speaks, his words carry nectar. Nectar means: his words are not lifeless; they are alive. His words pulse. His words breathe. If you touch his words, you will know—they are not dead.

“Nectarous words flow when compassion and dharma dwell in the heart.”
But this is possible only when compassion has been born within. Then words that rise, drenched in compassion, become nectar. We have collected such nectarous sayings in the scriptures—in the Upanishads, in the Quran, in the Tao Te Ching, in the Gita. But the difficulty is: as soon as you collect them, they cease to be nectar.

When Krishna spoke to Arjuna, they were nectar—because of Krishna. Krishna’s living presence was trembling in those words. Krishna’s color and form had tinged them. They had just emerged from within Krishna; they were fresh. Krishna’s fragrance was still hovering around those words. When Arjuna heard them, they were fresh, alive. Now when you read the Gita, they are dead.

Therefore one thing has always been essential: if you can find a living master, let go of all scriptures and find a living master. Because there the scripture is still alive. A true master means: where the scripture is still alive. And “scripture” means: a master’s words that are no longer alive. The line remains; the snake has slipped away.

“When compassion and dharma dwell in the heart, one speaks words of nectar.
Know as truly high only the one whose eyes are lowered.”

And know only such a one to have arrived who has no swagger of arrival. Know only such a one to have attained who has no claim of attainment. One who lives in egolessness… Now understand this. It is a bit intricate—because man has minted so many counterfeit coins that things are very tangled.

Note three words: ego; humility; egolessness. Humility is a false, hollow word. A humble man is not egoless. The humble man has the ego of humility. He says, “I am nothing”—but he looks into your eyes to see if you see that he is nothing. “Acknowledge that I am nothing. Do you hear—that I am nothing?” And if you say, “I am even more nothing than you,” he gets upset right there.

There is competition even in being nothing. Even in the claim of non-being, ego slips in through the back door.

A humble man is not egoless. Humility suppresses the ego; it pours sweet sugar-coatings over the poison of ego. Hence in the humble man you will always find ego—hidden, unmanifest, gone underground; but present.

Egolessness means: neither ego remains nor humility. When the ego is not, the humility attached to it also disappears.

Then why does Malukdas say, “whose eyes are lowered”? Because ordinarily we take humility to mean this—one who always looks down, who keeps his eyes lowered. If you keep your eyes lowered by effort, that is humility. If the eyes have naturally fallen, that is egolessness. There is a difference.

If you are trying to keep your gaze down—making an effort, suppressing something—then it is false. If it has happened uncaused, naturally… And where else will the eyes rest? If not down, where will they rest? Look at a tree when it is laden with fruit—its branches bend. This bending is of another kind. So too when the eyes are filled—with the vision of God—they bend.

When the eyes are filled to the brim with the Divine, where remains any place to lift them? They bend. This bowing is like the branch bending under the weight of fruit.

“Know as truly high only the one whose eyes are lowered.”

“All the pleasures of the world, I gathered and piled.
When winnowed and sifted, few were grains, the stones were many.”

A very lovely sutra:

“All the pleasures of the world—I gathered them all.”
Malukdas says: I saw all pleasures; I gathered them all—remember this. There are many people—at least in this country—who, hearing the words of the good, run away from the world before they have even tasted its pleasures. Those who run away raw like this, their minds ache to return. They may go to the Himalayas, but they will think of the marketplace. They may sit in a cave, but they will think of wife and children. Wherever they go, it makes no difference.

I used to read an incident from the life of Bhartrihari. He became emperor. On ascending the throne he called his ministers and gave a most unusual command. It was this: I want to enjoy all the pleasures possible in the world. The ministers thought: What a voluptuary—has become emperor. On the first day on the throne he says: All pleasures in the world—I must enjoy every one! Not even one to be left out.

They said: Your Majesty, we will do whatever we can. We will gather every pleasure. You are the lord. Command.

Bhartrihari said a second thing: a pleasure is to be tasted only once—not twice, for what is the point then! So remember: any garment I wear once should not be given to me again. Any woman brought to me once, should not be brought again. Any dish served to me once, should not be served again.

The ministers said: So be it. They were a little troubled. In a month or two the trouble became very clear. Where to bring new foods every day! The vegetable tasted once—finished. A fruit tasted once—finished.

As the year passed, the ministers were going mad: Where to arrange from! Bring from where? They scoured the provinces far and wide—whatever could be found. Who knows how many women they brought; how many garments; how many dishes. But things began to run out. By the end of the year the ministers said: Forgive us, Majesty. We are going insane. Where to find something new every day?

Bhartrihari said: So it’s all exhausted? They said: It’s exhausted. We see no way. Bhartrihari said: Good; that’s all. The matter is finished. Now I go to the forest.

They asked: Why? Bhartrihari said: I have seen. And once I have tasted, what will I gain by tasting it again? If something was to be found, it would have been in the first taste. To taste the same thing again—where is the sense? There is no meaning in this useless running around. Now I go to the forest.

Then they were astonished. They had thought: We have a lustful king! Then they realized that behind this indulgence was hidden an unusual process of renunciation. Bhartrihari had been working on a great sutra.

Bhartrihari wrote two scriptures. First, the Shringara Shataka—the hundred verses of love and adornment. Such verses none has written, because none has known Shringara as he did.

Malukdas is saying the same:

“All the pleasures of the world—I gathered them all.”
He gathered everything and enjoyed every pleasure—then wrote the Shringara Shataka. And when he left everything, he wrote the second scripture: the Vairagya Shataka—the hundred verses of dispassion. Out of indulgence arose renunciation; out of bhoga was born yoga.

Only by seeing the world, only by recognizing it, does remembrance of God begin. That is why I say: don’t run away. I tell my sannyasins—do not run anywhere. Wherever you stand, whatever is available there—experience it rightly. In experience itself is liberation; out of experience arises liberation.

Bhoga and yoga are not opposites. Yoga is born in the innermost depth of bhoga. So do not flee. There is nothing to be gained by running. Do not be fugitives. Don’t run—awaken. Whatever you are experiencing—experience it with awareness, so there is no repetition; so you don’t circle around the same again and again like a cartwheel. Learn understanding from every experience, and soon you will find Malukdas is right:

“All the pleasures of the world—I gathered them all.
After winnowing and sifting, few were grains, the stones were many.”

Exactly so—like women sift rice or wheat in a winnowing-fan—after winnowing and tossing in the fan of intelligence and awareness, it was clear: few are the grains and the stones are many.

“Few are the grains, the stones are many…”
Pleasures are momentary; long are the lines of suffering.

This too is to be understood: Malukdas has such fidelity to truth that he does not exaggerate. Ordinarily the enlightened will say: There is no pleasure at all in the world. Maluk does not say that. This is the mark of a true man.

Typically saints say: There is no pleasure in the world. That is an exaggeration. If there were no pleasure at all, how would people keep wandering so long—how? There must be something. “Few are the grains, the stones are many.” Granted the stones are many, but here and there drops of pleasure do fall; it is not that they do not. I call this great integrity, great honesty. Otherwise the mind finds it easy to say: What’s in the world—everything is useless, all is suffering.

In this sense, Malukdas’ words hold more factual truth than even Buddha’s. Buddha says: All is suffering—birth is suffering, old age is suffering, life is suffering, death is suffering, all is suffering. Here there is nothing but suffering.

That is an exaggeration. It is not literally true. Perhaps he said it out of compassion; perhaps seeing you he said it—if told there is even a little pleasure here, you might cling to that little. You would say: There is a little, isn’t there! Then fine. If it is “few grains and many stones,” we will separate the stones and enjoy the grains. We will winnow properly; we will sift; we will say, Baba Malukdas, it seems you did not winnow and sift well enough! We will pick them clean. We will separate the pebbles, and we will glean the grains of pleasure and have our fun.

So why is there any need to renounce?

Perhaps Buddha, mindful of this, said out of compassion: All is suffering. But it is not literally true. Not all here is suffering; there is a little pleasure too. On the strength of that little, suffering keeps going. If there were only suffering, everyone would leap out at once.

There is some sense of pleasure—if only a glimpse; but it comes. If not the whole sun, at least a ray comes. And in the hope of the ray, man remains bound. On the strength of that one ray he thinks: If the ray has come, tomorrow the sun will come too. If a drop has come, the ocean will come too. Wait a little; make a little more effort; arrange a little more.

But Malukdas’ statement is utterly clean about truth. He says: It’s not that there are no pleasures here; few grains, many stones. But the stones are so many that to endure so many stones for so few grains is unintelligent.

And if you rise just a little above all this, there is only bliss—where there are no stones at all.

A flower now and then, but thousands upon thousands of thorns. For that one flower to endure so many thorns is not wisdom. The flower is there—but only one here and there, and only sometimes.

Think a little: when did happiness come in your life? Look back. You lived fifty years, forty years—when did it come? Do not cheat; do not assume it came once upon a time. Look carefully. Man is skillful at self-deception. He thinks: It came that time, and that time. He says this just to preserve his self-image, otherwise how foolish to have lived fifty years and never been happy! Then what were you doing? Why batter your head fifty years?

People come to me. Someone says: I have been a renunciate for twenty years. I have practiced yoga and meditation. I ask: Did you get anything? He says: Yes, a little. I say: Honestly? Because one who has practiced for twenty years cannot say “nothing,” or else—what were you doing twenty years! Are you totally stone-headed? What were you doing?

He says: A little. When I probe and dig, after a while he says: No, I got nothing. Then why did you say “a little”?

Look back over your life. You lived fifty years or sixty—in how many moments could you truly say you were happy? And whatever moments you think were happy, examine them from all sides; inspect them thoroughly. Were they, or were they assumed? Perhaps you will find one or two moments. Then you will understand Malukdas. And for those few moments, how many thorns have you endured! How much sorrow have you borne! There is no proportion between the two.

It is like a man walking thousands of miles in the desert and then finding a single dewdrop on a blade of grass to drink. Before you taste it, it is gone. It touched the tongue, and gone. It won’t reach the throat. A single drop cannot reach the throat. A slight taste, a thought—and gone!

In sex there is such happiness. In wealth, position, prestige there is such happiness. The labor is great; in proportion to the labor, nothing is obtained. But yes—something. Malukdas’ fidelity to truth is unique. He says: There is something.

“All the pleasures of the world—I gathered them all.
After winnowing and sifting, few were grains, the stones were many.”

“Maluk’s house is dilapidated, the walls have begun to crack.
I found not a single one who could raise it up again.”

“Maluk’s house is dilapidated…”
And Maluk says: In seeking these few grains I have become jhanjhara—worn out, rickety. This house named Maluk has turned to ruins. Running and racing, panting, I found nothing in hand. A few dreams—some glimpse—but the suffering was great.

“Maluk’s house is dilapidated…”
And now the condition is that I am nothing but a ruin.

“…the walls have begun to fall.”
The walls keep collapsing.

“I found not a single one
who could come and raise it again.”

And in this whole world there were friends, kin, relations, “my own”—yet not one who could prop up this ruin and raise it again.

“Beneath the flickering lamp of beauty,
how long will our love last?
In the blue lake, a blue wave hunts
all night for the morning’s shore,
but when dawn comes and the goddess of dawn arrives,
each wave dissolves into a drop.
When attainment itself is the death of existence,
how long will this heart’s commerce last?
Beneath the flickering lamp of beauty,
how long will our love last?

The ray that brings morning to the world
gives evening as refuge to the dark.
Light is truth—darkness false—yet forever
day and night choose each other.
If even truth is not steady in its own form,
how long will this world of dreams last?
Beneath the flickering lamp of beauty,
how long will our love last?”

We all grow dilapidated. Each day death comes closer. What you call birthdays are the mileposts of your death. A birthday comes—one more year emptied out; that much more time has gone. One should weep on birthdays—yet you celebrate! Life has decreased. Life does not increase on a birthday. That much of life has been used up.

Death comes close every moment. There is nothing here to be had. That which is obtained is dreamlike—like rainbows. Drums sound sweet from afar; up close, all is useless. Nothing is gained; life slips away. And this time cannot be given back. And once this house has become a ruin, it is a ruin.

Before you become a ruin, make this house a temple of God. With Him, eternal life is possible—only with Him is it possible. All other life is momentary.

“Be not proud, beloved, of your beauty;
the earth is a grave, the sky a shroud.
Every bird nests upon the cremation ground;
every boat is moored to the shore of death.
This body’s bier moves by itself,
the soul is a thirsty traveler at the world’s well.
Why then insult thirst?
The world lives by sipping thirst.
Be not proud, beloved, of your beauty;
the earth is a grave, the sky a shroud.

Beggar and king, fool and scholar, fair and ugly—
the sunlight of everyone’s life falls under evening’s sway.
For all, the final bed here is the pyre,
the last adornment is dust, the ultimate unmatched form is dust.
Why, then, insult the sun?
We are dust, you and I, and all are the same dust.
Be not proud, beloved, of your beauty;
the earth is a grave, the sky a shroud.

Life, O life-breath, is but the commerce of a breath,
the body a shop over which Time holds rights.
When the day’s transactions end at night,
this whole marketplace of forms will itself pack up.
Why then the pride of form?
The gardener stands over the corpse of the flower.
Be not proud, beloved, of your beauty;
the earth is a grave, the sky a shroud.”

Look into life. Do not run from pleasure; look deep into pleasure, and you will find: suffering much, pleasure almost nothing. To endure so much suffering for so little pleasure is not intelligence.

Death is great—life is small. Life is like a short ray; death like a long dark night. To live for such a tiny ray in such a dense night makes no sense. The price is too high.

And when this body has grown decrepit and no one is there to support you, you will call on God. But often it is too late. Because to call upon God, energy is needed—and that too has been spent; spent in calling money; position; husband and wife. You squandered it. When the hour comes to call upon God, you think: Now it has come—but there is no energy left; your wings are broken; the ability to fly is gone.

People turn to religion when old. In temples and mosques you will see the elderly. This is not accidental. Youth are not to be seen. And where youth are not to be seen, know that religion there cannot be real. Where youth are attracted, there religion is alive.

When Buddha walked the earth, youth took sannyas. When Mahavira walked, youths came and renounced. The old who came were youthful of heart; they were not old. But the larger number were the young.

Whenever religion is alive, it attracts the young. The young have capacity, energy; everything is not yet distorted; there is still some capital. That capital can be staked for God.

Remember one thing:

“If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.”

Remember: If God is not found, even if you gain everything, it is vain.

“If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.
The lamp that searched all night receives dawn;
the chaste maiden of dawn arrives in her palanquin of rays.
The sun walks the fiery path all day;
night comes, and lightly kisses the moon’s brow.
In life, everyone ever finds
the song of the breath and the charioteer of the road.
Only I alone, till today,
have not found the support of any arm.
When life becomes helpless, even if the whole world walks with me—it is in vain.
If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.

All life, people are with you, and even on the bier they will go to the cremation ground; they will bid you farewell. But if the letter of God was never met, nothing was met. All this companionship is false, a deception.

“When life becomes helpless, even if the whole world walks with me—it is in vain.
If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.

In this city of perishing, You alone were the one
I came here to seek.
Had You not been, how would I know
where my body would wander, where my mind would wander?
It is You for whom, till today,
I have sobbed in word and in song.
It is You without whom I became a corpse,
wandering daily among cremation grounds.
But if You do not now drink my thirst,
even with the Himalayas on my lips—it is vain.
If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.

I loved the flower for long, but
the pain of my heart never smiled.
I wooed the moon for long, yet
my breath never found rest.
But the day You called to me,
when I lay upon the pyre, I sang.
Some magic—who knows what—
in the lap of fire, my tears smiled.
And if You do not give me light now,
even if all stars burn beside me—it is in vain.
If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.”

What we call life in this world ends in death. What we call life here is death veiled; it is the expansion of death. And one who agrees to enter God must show a readiness that is nearly to die.

In olden days, when they gave sannyas, they would lay the person on a funeral pyre. They would prepare the pyre. They would shave the head as one shaves the dead. They would put on new clothes. They would change the name. They would lay him on the pyre. The master would light the pyre and say: Your old form is burned; you have died. And he would raise up the new person: Now you arise. Now you are new.

Therefore an old-time sannyasin… If you asked him: From what village did you come before sannyas? he would not tell you. He would say: That man is dead. Ask: From what home did you come; what was your name? He would not tell you. He would say: That man is dead.

There is a life that we call life, but it proves to be death. And there is a death in God that becomes the gateway to supreme life.

“I lay upon the pyre, but I sang—
the day You called me.
Some magic—who knows what—
in the lap of fire, my tears smiled.
And if You do not give me light now,
even with all stars burning near me—it is vain.
If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.

When I went out to seek You in the world,
temples misled me a great deal.
Yet this good fortune occurred in the race of life:
I paid no heed to the stones.
Mountains bowed their heads and kissed my feet;
a bud flung its arms round my neck in ecstasy.
But carrying Your picture, I
kept my robe clean and passed on by.
And even then, if I do not find You, tell me—
what meaning has birth, what meaning has death?
If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.”

Attend to these lines:

“When I went out to seek You in the world,
temples misled me a great deal.”

Temples lead astray; mosques lead astray.

“Yet this good fortune occurred in the race of life:
I paid no heed to the stones.”

If you are saved from stones, you are fortunate.

“Mountains bowed their heads and kissed my feet;
a bud flung its arms round my neck in ecstasy.
But carrying Your picture, I
kept my robe clean and passed on by.
And even then, if I do not find You, tell me—
what meaning has birth, what meaning has death?
If I do not find You along the road,
even if heaven itself is found on earth—it is in vain.”

Let a prayer keep rising within you; let a flame keep burning. And in that flame and prayer, keep testing the experiences of life. Keep seeing—what is grain, what is stone; what is essence, what inessential; what is conscious, what is clay; what is vain, what meaningful.

“All the pleasures of the world—I gathered them all.
After winnowing and sifting, few were grains, the stones were many.
Maluk’s house is dilapidated, the walls have begun to crack.
I found not a single one who could raise it up again.”

“People die for lordship, but none dies for the Lord.
Whoever dies for the Lord, lordship becomes his handmaid.”

Keep this last sutra most carefully in your heart.

“People die for lordship…”
All want power, rank, authority—for that they are ready to die, ready to kill.

“People die for lordship, but none dies for the Lord.”
But no one seems to strive to gain the Lord. And the sutra is this: “Whoever dies for the Lord, lordship becomes his handmaid.” Whoever is ready to die for God, lordship itself becomes his servant.
He who attains the Lord attains everything. “Accomplish the One, and all is accomplished.” Someone asked Jesus: What should I do to become wealthy? What should I do to gain position? Jesus said: Do one thing—seek ye first the Kingdom of God; then all else shall be added unto you. Seek the Lord’s kingdom, and the rest will come by itself; the rest will be given on its own. Find the One, and everything else follows by itself.
Except for that One, we seek everything else. And we do not get the many; even that One which was truly ours and could have been found is lost.

Live life awake. Malukdas is not in favor of turning people into escapees. Therefore he said: remain detached at home. Let there be compassion in the heart, let there be dharma. And in your own home, live quietly as a renunciate. There is no need to tell anyone.

God is everywhere; in your home just as much as in Kaaba and Kashi. If you open your eyes and look, you will find him anywhere.

Remember just one thing: if you want to attain him, be ready to lose yourself. Whoever wants to attain him has to disappear.

Everyone dies for lordship; none dies for the Lord.
Whoever dies for the Lord, lordship becomes his handmaid.

That’s all for today.