Koplen Phir Phoot Aayeen #3

Everything in life is unknown—even that which we think is known.

Socrates once said: When I was young I thought I knew a great deal. As I grew older, my knowing grew too. But alongside it, step by step, another strange thing kept happening: the more I came to know, the more I realized how little I knew. And finally there came a moment in life when I had only one sentence left to say: I know only this much—that I know nothing. These are among Socrates’ last words. A lifelong journey in search of knowledge, and the outcome—the innocence of a small child who knows nothing.

In Greece there is the temple of Delphi. In those days it was very famous; now only its ruins remain. The priestess of Delphi must have been like Ramakrishna. Sometimes, singing and dancing, she would fall unconscious. And what she uttered in that trance would take the breath away of those who were fully conscious. Shortly after Socrates spoke those words, the priestess of Delphi proclaimed that Socrates was the wisest man in the world.

People were astonished. Socrates says, “I know nothing—only this much.” And the priestess of Delphi had never been proven wrong. And she declares Socrates the greatest sage on earth. They went to Socrates and said, “This proclamation came in the goddess’s possessed state.”

Socrates said, “The goddess was unconscious; I am conscious. I repeat: I know nothing. The goddess can be wrong; Socrates cannot be wrong. The goddess knows me from the outside; I know myself from within. Go back and tell the goddess that one of her prophecies has gone wrong—at least one is certainly wrong.”

They returned and told the goddess. She laughed and said, “Tell Socrates I called him the greatest sage precisely because he has realized that everything in existence is unknown and mysterious. There is no contradiction between what he has said and what I have said.”

We are born—who knows why? What unknown force brings us into life? We live—who knows why? One day we die. And perhaps this cycle has turned countless times, and we still know nothing of why.

This question is from Bhadra. Because I had been tugging at her topknot every day—“Bhadra, ask; Bhadra, ask”—she has somehow managed to put together a question.

Existence is a mystery, a scripture that cannot be read. And those who claim to know—there are no greater ignoramuses than they. Those who understand that we are waves of an unknown, boundless, inexpressible power—whose beginning is nowhere to be found and whose end is beyond all news—such people suddenly discover within themselves that they have become like magnets.

Bhadra asks: “What is that unknown force that draws us to you?”
It is the very same unknown force that is within you and within me. I do not know its name, nor do you. But I do know this much: it is unknown and nameless. You still carry the illusion that perhaps one day you will recognize it and know its name. The day that illusion breaks, that day you too will become a center of a unique attraction, a magnet. The same pull will be in you. Your words will carry the same authority. Because then it is no longer you who speaks; then your song is not your own. You are just a hollow bamboo reed. The lips are someone else’s, and the song is someone else’s. Blessed are you if you allow that song to flow through you. And that flow is the greatest joy in existence. Do not seek knowledge; seek bliss. It is bliss that draws you toward me. It is my disappearance that draws you toward me. And only by disappearing can you attain bliss.

We are all stuck to names—false names. When you were born there was no identity card attached, no little slip with your name. Unknown, you arrived. Names are labels we have pasted on you. And the day you leave, we will peel off those labels, because you are entering the Unknown again. But between these two unknowns you live with the delusion that you know something about yourself. Even what lies between the two unknowns is unknown. Name, prestige, respect, titles—all are stuck-on things that will come off.

I want to say that existence can be divided into three parts: the known; the unknown; and the unknowable. What is known today was unknown yesterday. What is unknown today may become known tomorrow. Science accepts only two categories: the known and the unknown. It believes a day will come—a blessed hour for them, a fateful moment in my eyes—when all unknowns will have turned into the known. That day life would be meaningless; there would be no new challenge, no new dimension to explore. No—this will never happen, because there is a third category: the unknowable, which is forever unknowable. It was unknowable before, it is unknowable now, and it will remain unknowable tomorrow. You are that—the unknowable. To recognize within yourself that the unknowable dwells there is to turn yourself into a temple. For the unknowable is another name for God. We can drink its essence. The Upanishads say: Raso vai sah—He indeed is rasa, the very essence, the savor. We can taste it, but we cannot define it, interpret it, or give it a name.

I have tasted that essence. And within you too there is a thirst, across lifetimes, to taste it. It is that very thirst which draws you here in spite of yourself, for there is danger in entering the Unknowable. Man is satisfied with the known—he knows, he recognizes. The unknown does not frighten so much either—if not today, tomorrow we will know. But the unknowable? There one can only be lost, dissolved, become one with the vastness. We committed great mistakes by giving names to this Unknowable. Someone called it God, someone Allah, someone Paramatman, someone Yahweh—thousands of names we have given, all false. We do not know it, and cannot know it; but we can live it—we are living it. It is in each of our breaths, in the glimmer of our eyes.

So my invitation is not for a journey of knowing. My invitation is for a journey of being. That is what draws you. That is the attraction for you. I do not want to make you learned; I want you to become as innocent as you were in the very first moment after birth. The eyes were open—you saw everything—but there was no name, no word.

There is a unique statement in the Christians’ Bible, which I have always opposed. The Bible says: In the beginning was the Word, the Word was with God, and the Word was God. I have asked the greatest Christian scholars: what is the difference between a word and a sound? A waterfall plunges from a mountain—you don’t call it a word, you call it a sound. Winds pass whispering through dense forests—you don’t call that a word, you call it a sound. Because a word means a sound to which meaning has been given. So, to begin with, there cannot be a “word,” because first you would need someone to give it meaning. Better than “word” would be to say: in the beginning was sound. The mistake becomes a little smaller, but it does not disappear. Because even for sound there must be an ear to hear it. When there is no one to hear, sound has no existence. Perhaps you think that the waterfall’s symphony in the forest remains the same after you have gone—then you are mistaken. You go, and it goes too. It existed between two—the sound needed your ear.

So not even sound can be first. Then what was there in the beginning? The Upanishads are very honest. There are no more honest books on this earth than the Upanishads. They say: Who was there in the beginning? No one knows. How could anyone know? Who was there to witness it? And who will remain at the end? There is no witness for that either. If in the beginning there is the Unknowable, and at the end there is the Unknowable, then in the middle too there is only the Unknowable. All your names and identities are false. Your caste, your religions, your walls are false. Your nations and your divisions are false.

Meditation is the only process of descending into that Unknowable, where suddenly you become silent—because what you see there cannot be given any word. And it is from that Unknowable that attraction arises.

Thousands came to Buddha like bees to a flower. There was no advertising, no publicity. But when a flower blooms, the bees somehow come to know. I can at least tell you this much: I have looked within and experienced that void which has no name and no religion. That is your attraction. And may God grant that you too know it within yourselves. The more people who know, the more flowers that bloom, the more spring will come into the lives of millions of bees.

Now pour it out with both hands. When joy and peace are felt within you, don’t be miserly. The old habit is to lock away whatever is precious in our strongboxes. And you have known nothing more precious than joy and peace. It is your good fortune that joy and peace have come into your life. Don’t miss the opportunity. Because the higher one rises, the lower one can fall. Share it! Pour it out!

Kabir has said: “Empty with both hands—this is the work of the noble.”

And this is the great delight: the more you pour out, the more you find new sources, new springs, ever-fresh experiences arising within you.

There is something beyond joy and peace. Joy and peace are not the destination. Beyond joy and peace is the void. And until you become capable of pouring out your joy and peace, you will not be able to experience that emptiness in which all the mysteries of life descend—by themselves, uninvited.

There is an old saying: we used to call a guest atithi, and we gave the guest the status of God. But perhaps you have not thought what atithi means. Tithi means a date; atithi means one who comes without a date—suddenly, at any unknown moment, present within you. And that which appears within you like such a Guest is the very essence of life, the experience of the Absolute, samadhi.

Joy and peace are the sentries. The sanctuary is yet to be entered; the deity of the temple is yet to be met. So do not remain seated on the steps. Joy and peace are very enticing, because we have lived in tension for lifetimes, endured such restlessness, passed through so many hells, that when joy and peace arrive it seems the goal has come. No—only the steps have appeared. Two or four steps more. Just a few steps more. A little more courage. Until you experience emptiness—this I give you as a touchstone—do not stop. For in that very emptiness the Guest arrives. As long as you are filled with yourself, you cannot be filled with the Divine. When you become empty of yourself, become shunya, then from infinite directions the whole beauty of life and the whole nectar of life begins to flow toward you.

The aim of meditation is samadhi, shunyata—that you disappear, and only that remains which never disappears.

It is true that plastic flowers have no fragrance. And it is also true that plastic flowers do not die; they just keep on “living.” Wash them every day and they look new again. Real flowers open with the morning sun, spread their fragrance, and by evening their petals have merged with the dust. You will never meet that same flower again. Flowers will keep coming, and flowers will keep going.

If the only truth were that real flowers have fragrance and plastic flowers do not, the distinction would be easy. The real difficulty is that the fake flowers last a long time, while real flowers wither quickly. The more real the flower, the sooner it withers—because the more real it is, the more totally it lives and spends itself. So it is auspicious that you feel real flowers are blooming in your life. Now, take care: when these real flowers begin to scatter, do not try to stop them. They are making room for the flowers yet to come, and each flower that comes will be better than the last. These flowers have fragrance, color, a freshness. But if you close your fist to preserve them, you will destroy everything.

And this is what we do our whole lives. You loved someone; a real flower sprang up—and soon you start shutting doors and windows, posting guards. Fear arises: the love that is today—who knows if it will be there tomorrow? Your anxiety about tomorrow kills your today. And if today is dead, tomorrow will be even more dead. When a wave of love comes, open all the doors and windows. Courage will be needed, because love comes like a gust of wind and goes like a gust of wind. But there is no need to panic. We are sharers in an infinite existence; more breezes will come. Keep the windows open. Do not fill the mind with prejudices. If there is no attempt to grip what has come, to force it to stay, you will find new flowers every day. And a day comes when flowers no longer come—you yourself become the flower. Buddha called this state—when you yourself become the flower—nirvana. You pour out your entire fragrance.

The musk-deer is not the only one with musk in its navel; your navel, too, holds a fragrance deeper and more precious than that of a thousand musk-deer. You have not given it a chance. You have been playing with toys. The day your own musk gives its fragrance to the sky, that day you too will dissolve, as a flower dissolves. Then you will not return to the world again; you will not take a body again. For the body is nothing but a prison, a skeleton hidden behind the skin. Then you become a partaker in the infinite sky and the infinite existence.

First the flowers come. Everything depends on how you relate to them. Do not become attached. If they come, welcome; if they go, welcome. If they come, sing and press them to your heart; if they go, sing and bid them farewell. From this will arise maturity, that strength which one day will give your own flower the capacity to bloom. And if your own flower blossoms, this is your last life—or your last death. After this is the great life. Buddha called that parinirvana. When flowers come and go, that is nirvana. When you yourself become the flower, parinirvana. And when there is no possibility of return, mahaparinirvana.

And this has been our endeavor in this land for thousands of years: that as many as possible may reach the source, become part of the boundless, infinite, eternal. It is indescribable; it cannot be said in words. It is ineffable.

There is an incident from the life of Gautam Buddha. Malunkyaputta, a great philosopher of those days, who had thousands of disciples of his own, came with five hundred eminent disciples to debate with Gautam Buddha. He had defeated countless scholars and great acharyas. He requested a dialogue. Buddha said, “There will be a dialogue—but at the right time. You have been dialoguing your whole life. What have you found? You invite discussion at the wrong place, at the wrong time. You have no sense of life’s deeper processes. I agree—but on one condition: sit silently at my feet for two years. And watch what happens. Thousands will come and go, be initiated, become sannyasins, be transformed. I do not want to hear a single word from your mouth. And I also want you to refrain from making any judgments about them. Just sit silently with me. And after two years, at the right time, I will tell you: now is the time to debate; now you may ask.”

While this was being said, an old disciple of Buddha’s, Mahakashyapa, who was sitting under a tree, began to laugh. There is hardly any earlier mention of Mahakashyapa; in the Buddhist scriptures this is the first—he laughed.

Malunkyaputta said, “I cannot understand why your disciple is laughing.” He added, “Before I fall silent, at least grant me this much permission—to know why—otherwise, for two years it will gnaw at my brain like a worm: why was that man laughing? And whenever I see him—he sits here—and it may even be that whenever he sees me, he will start smiling.”

Buddha gave Mahakashyapa permission to state the reason for his laughter, so that Malunkyaputta could be at ease. Mahakashyapa said, “Malunkyaputta, if you want to ask, ask now. In just this way I too came one day, and after sitting for two years at these feet, I disappeared. And two years later, when Buddha asked me, ‘Mahakashyapa, is there anything to ask?’ inside me there was no question, no word, no curiosity—nothing at all. This man is a great trickster. He is my master, but truth is truth. If you want to ask, ask now; and if not, then sit for two years.”

And that is exactly what happened two years later. Two years is a long time. Malunkyaputta forgot when days came and nights came, when the moon rose and set. Years came and passed. And one day, suddenly, Buddha shook him and said, “Two years are complete. This is the very day you arrived. Now stand up and ask.”

Malunkyaputta fell at his feet and said, “Mahakashyapa spoke rightly. Within me nothing remains to ask. I have become so empty—and existence has so filled that emptiness! Now there is neither question nor answer. Now there is a continuous shower of nectar. Do not disturb me, do not trouble me. Just let me sit silently here at the feet.”

For sitting at the feet of the true master, we have used one word: Upanishad. Upanishad means sitting at the feet of the master—not asking, not inquiring, but melting as you sit, becoming empty.

Flowers are coming—an auspicious sign. They are not plastic; you are blessed. But do not stop at the flowers; let your own flower bloom. Do not clutch these flowers; let them come, let them go. One day they will take their leave, and the petals within you will open. When that lotus blossoms, then there is nothing left in this world to attain. You have attained all. You have won all. This is the very meaning of sannyas: a pilgrimage of victory.

Who is not afraid of death? Everyone thinks death always happens to someone else. And there is some sense in that reasoning, because one never sees oneself dying—one only sees others dying. One escorts others’ biers to the cremation ground. He bathes in the river and happily returns home—puzzled: am I some exception?

Cremation grounds are built outside the village. They should be built right in the middle of the village, so that everyone sees each day that someone is dying. And the queue that has been formed grows shorter; your number too is drawing near. But we build them outside so that when a person dies—forget it, drop it. When someone dies we pull the children inside the house so that they do not come to know of death. But such cheating will not do. Whoever is born will have to die. Whatever has one end will have the other end as well.

If death frightens you, then try to know life. There is no other way. The fear of death is evidence that you have not yet had any experience of life. I have heard that many people only come to know after dying, “Oh God, I was alive all these days!”

Life passes by in trivialities. Give at least an hour for yourself, for the search of your own life. For at least one hour sit quietly, sit in silence. Forget that you are Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian. Forget that you are man or woman. Forget that you are a child or young. Forget this whole world.

Slowly, an experience of an eternal life begins to arise from within you. A Hindu dies—he has to. A man dies, a woman dies, a child dies, the young die, a Muslim dies. For one hour each day, separate yourself from all that which dies. And try to search within: is there something else besides all of these? Thousands have experienced—without exception—that there is a spring of eternal life within you. The day even a single drop of it touches your lips, that very day the fear of death will disappear.

This fear of death is good. It keeps you awake. If there were no fear of death within you, perhaps there would have been no possibility of Buddhas and Mahaviras being born in the world. It is death’s compassion upon you that it does not let you rest at ease. Sooner or later it reminds you: you will have to die. Old age is beginning. What else is there in the next moment except death? Before death arrives, make a little effort to recognize the nectar.

And to carve out one hour out of twenty-four for yourself is no expensive bargain. How much time you find for foolishness! I have seen people playing cards. Ask them: What are you doing? They say: Passing time. Fools, are you cutting yourselves or cutting time? Who has ever cut time? They run to the cinema; crowds gather. Fights break out at the ticket windows. Ask: Why? To pass time. Three hours will pass pleasantly. And in what other petty things do you keep cutting your time? Wasting it in idle gossip with friends—without knowing that the same time can give you the experience of the nectar.

And I am not telling you to go to the Himalayas and renounce everything. Nothing will come of it. Even sitting in the Himalayas you will go on planning chess moves. Stay here. Steal an hour. You are giving twenty-three hours to the world—are you so miserly that you cannot give one hour to God? Before sleep, sit on your bed and give one hour. It won’t be long before you come into contact within yourself with that subterranean stream where, like an underground current, the Ganges of life is still flowing. Before it dries up, it is necessary to become acquainted with it. The fear of death will vanish, because then you will know: death simply does not happen.

Death is the greatest untruth in this world. Only bodies change, houses change, clothes change. But your essence is exactly the same as it has always been. But you must come to know it. Apart from recognizing that, religion has no other meaning. It will not happen by going to the mosque, nor to the gurdwara, nor to the temple—because there too you will do the same mischief; after all, you are the same. Now, if you see a beautiful woman in the temple, how will you refrain from giving her a little nudge? And in so holy a place it seems most fitting to perform such a holy act!

No—right here in this world, where all the commotion is going on, is the real opportunity, the touchstone, the ordeal by fire. Here itself, for an hour at any time... Nor is it necessary that the time be fixed, because people find one excuse after another that fixing a time is difficult. I am not telling you to fix a time; whenever it can happen—but remember one thing: out of twenty-four hours, one hour is yours. And in that one hour, the realization and experience of all the truths of life will free you from the fear of death. Know life, and there is no more death.

Al-Hallaj Mansoor was a famous Sufi, whose limbs were cut off by the Muslims because he spoke things that went against the Quran. Not against religion! But books are too small; religion cannot be contained in them. Al-Hallaj Mansoor had only one cry—Anal Haq! Aham Brahmasmi! And for the Muslims it was intolerable that someone should call himself God. The way they tortured him to death—no man in the world has ever been killed like that. That day two incidents occurred.

Mansoor’s guru, Junnaid, must have been only a guru—the sort that can be bought by the dozen, available everywhere, in every village. They blow anything into your ears and become gurus. Junnaid was telling him: Look, even if your experience is true—that you are God—don’t say it. Al-Hallaj said: That is beyond my control, because when I am intoxicated and the clouds of ecstasy surround me, then I do not remember you, nor the Muslims, nor the world, nor life, nor death. Then I do not proclaim “Anal Haq”; it is proclaimed. That experience permeates my every breath.

Eventually he was captured. The day he was seized, he was circumambulating himself. People asked: What are you doing? These are the days to go to the Kaaba and circumambulate the holy stone. And you are standing here, going around yourself?

Mansoor said: No stone can experience “Aham Brahmasmi,” what I experience. I have gone around my own being; the hajj is done. Without going anywhere, sitting at home, I have invited God into my own courtyard.

A man who speaks such true things always has to get into trouble. He was hung on a cross; stones were thrown; he went on laughing. Junnaid too was standing in the crowd. Junnaid was afraid that if he did not throw anything the crowd would think he was not against Mansoor. So he had hidden a flower. He could not throw stones. He knew that whatever Mansoor was saying was his inner experience. That we could not understand is our mistake. So he threw the flower—into that crowd where stones were raining. As long as the stones fell, Mansoor laughed; and as soon as the flower struck him, tears began to flow from his eyes. Someone asked: Why? Stones make you laugh; a flower makes you cry?

Mansoor said: Those who threw stones were ignorant; the one who threw the flower is under the delusion that he knows. I feel compassion for him. I have nothing else to give him but my tears.

And when his legs were cut off and his hands cut off, he looked to the sky and burst into loud laughter. A bleeding body, a crowd of hundreds of thousands. People asked: Why are you laughing?
He said: I am saying to God, what a show you are putting on! So much arrangement to kill that which cannot die! You are uselessly wasting so many people’s time. And I am laughing also because what you are killing is not me—and what I am, you cannot even touch. Your swords cannot cut it, and your fires cannot burn it.

Once you become a little acquainted with the current of your own life, the fear of death disappears.