Lagan Mahurat Jhooth Sab #6

Anand Maitreyi!
Karmatyagann sannyasau...

For centuries sannyas has been taken to mean the renunciation of action. But dropping action is not dropping the mind. Renouncing action only creates an illusion—deep and dangerous.

If no one abuses you or insults you, anger won’t naturally arise. But that does not mean anger has ended within you. The day someone insults you, even if anger has slept for centuries, it will raise its hood again. The right conditions were simply missing. Seeds were there, but there was no rain; they lay dormant in the field. When the rain comes, they will sprout.

The seeds of the world are in the mind. The world is only the opportunity, the situation in which those inner seeds sprout. But man is extrovert; he always looks outside. He thinks the world entangles him. The world entangles no one; it is your mind that entangles you. And the mind you will see only when you turn within. You keep looking outward.

So the greedy man thinks greed exists because of wealth. The truth is the reverse: because of greed there is the chase for wealth, the longing, the lust for wealth. Greed is the root. The lustful man thinks lust exists because of woman. That turns arithmetic on its head. Because of lust there is sweetness in woman. The lust is within you; the woman is outside. Greed is within; wealth is outside. Anger is within; insult and abuse are outside. But we keep looking outside and never look within.

Naturally, those who tried to understand life superficially began to run away from the world. They saw disturbance in the world. But wherever you run, you only escape the circumstance; where will the seeds go? The seeds will follow you through births. In this life you may hide in a Himalayan cave; in the next, when conditions are again available—when the season, when the spring returns—the seeds will sprout again, flowers will bloom again.

Sannyas cannot happen through such escapism. Sannyas can happen only in the world, because the world is the test. To have wealth and no greed—that is sannyas. To be among the most beautiful women or men and have no lust arise—that is sannyas. To have the opportunity to sit in high office and yet have no inner ambition for position—that is sannyas.

Sannyas is tested only in the marketplace; that is the touchstone. The runaway sannyasin is like gold that fled the assay. If you run from the test, how will it be known whether you are genuine or counterfeit? How will you know?

The world provides all the means. Every moment offers chances. If your inner fire has truly gone out, there will be peace, there will be silence. If even a small spark remains, the whole forest will catch fire—again and again. One spark is enough. The world offers fuel. But fuel will burn only in one who has a spark within; otherwise the fuel just lies there. Someone insults you—you hear it—and it just lies there. Nothing stirs within you. But if there is ego in you, something will happen. Ego is the spark. Ego means there is a wound in you on which insult strikes.

Have you noticed? When there is a wound, the hurt always lands on that very spot. If there’s a wound on your foot, the chair will hit it, getting out of bed will hurt it, putting on the shoe will hurt it, crossing the threshold will hurt it, and a child will come and stand right on that foot. Then you start wondering, “What is this? Why is the hurt always on this same foot—the one that has a wound?”

The knocks were always there; you didn’t notice them because there was no wound. Now there is a wound, so you notice. The wound only makes you aware; it does not invite the blows. But a wound is sensitive.

No one hurls abuse at you because you have ego; but ego is very sensitive. Very sensitive. Even the man who greets you every day—if today he passes without greeting, you feel hurt. Pride rises within: “Ah! So this is his worth—today he passed without saying Jai Ramji! I’ll teach him a lesson!” He committed no crime, said no abusive word, offered no insult—yet you feel insulted.

If ego is there, it will find something or other to be hurt by, to be troubled by. Yes, you may go far away and hide yourself where no conditions arise—no sun, no wind, no rain. Naturally then the seeds will lie asleep. But it is the seeds that are the bondage.

That is why Patanjali speaks of two kinds of samadhi—sabija and nirbija. The distinction is profound and worth deep reflection. In truth, sabija samadhi should not even be called samadhi; it only looks like samadhi. It is the deception of samadhi. Sabija means the ego remains within in the form of a seed. As a seed, it is not visible. When sprouting begins—leaves appear, branches grow, flowers and fruits come—then it is seen. For now it is invisible. Even if you cut the seed open, you will not find flowers, colors, or leaves within it. The seed needs opportunity.

The world provides opportunity. A Himalayan cave does not—that is the only difference. And if you ask me, one should remain where the opportunity exists, because only there can nirbija samadhi bear fruit. The samadhi that comes in a Himalayan cave will be sabija. On the surface everything will become quiet, but within all the possibilities of disturbance remain. Pus is still within; the boil is ripening. There is no blow landing, so there is no pain. But when a blow lands—and one day it will—who knows from where it might come?

A man was harassed by his quarrelsome wife—very harassed. He ran away. Most who run away are like this; ninety-nine out of a hundred of your sannyasins are such runaways. One is troubled by his wife, another lost his job, someone went bankrupt, someone lost at gambling, someone could not win in the race for position and prestige and became frustrated and depressed; life’s anxieties and torments laid mountains on their chests; frightened by all this, a man runs.

Of a hundred who run, ninety-nine are mere cowards. The one percent I leave aside are of a wholly different kind. They do not run away from the world; the world drops away from them. Even if they have to remain in the world, no problem. But having lived in the world, they have seen that no fuel ignites their fire anymore. No abuse produces insult in them. No honor makes their chest swell. If wealth is there, fine; if not, fine. If position is there, fine; if not, fine. They have passed all the touchstones of the world.

Such one-percent have also gone to the forest—but not by fleeing the world; the world had fallen from them, as ripe leaves fall. The world itself slipped away. If they had stayed, it would have made no difference. If they did not, it made no difference. As if there is no distinction left.

This man ran. He had fled from his shrewish wife. In the forest he sat under a tree—great peace seemed to be there. The peace of the forest, the stillness of the mountains, the silence of snow-clad peaks—he was delighted. Just then a crow came and dropped its droppings on him. He flared up: “This is the limit! I left home, and even here there is no peace! A wretched crow has defiled me! I never imagined even a crow would be my enemy! The wife was an enemy—that was understandable; but now even the crow is troubling me!”

What has the crow to do with you? A crow drops droppings. If you were not there, it would still drop them; you were there, so it did. The crow has no intention at all. But the man is hurt. He had run for this very reason—and the same thing arises. So distressed he thought, “The world is useless; sannyas is useless. There is no peace anywhere; only unrest.”

He went to the river nearby, piled dry wood on the sand, lit the fire, and was about to climb onto his pyre when a few villagers from nearby huts and fields ran up and said, “Brother, stop! If you want to die, go and die somewhere else! Is this any place? We live here. You will burn and your stench will spread. You will die, but we still have to live! Then the police will come. You will die, and we will be caught—how did this man die, why did he die? What shall we say? Brother, go and die somewhere else! The world is so big—of all places you choose this ghat to die!”

The man said, “This is the limit! There is no facility to live, no facility to die! A man cannot even die! There is no freedom for this either.”

One who runs will always keep finding reasons to be troubled—anywhere. Seat him in heaven and he will still find lapses and faults. He will. Because the inner seeds are still there.

Yes, on the mountain, in the forest, there will be a kind of peace—but it is the mountain’s peace. Do not mistake it for your own. What has it to do with you? It was there before you came—indeed a little more of it; your coming reduced it slightly. When you leave, it will increase again. The snow-clad silence, the coolness—that belongs to the mountain. But there the illusion easily arises: “Look, how peaceful I have become! No ego now...” How can ego show itself? No one abuses, no one insults, no one jostles you, no one jumps the queue—you have no queue there.

A life in which you are alone is naturally devoid of opportunity. Then an outer peace is mistaken for your own. That is your illusion. The seeds will remain within. And whenever—across births and births; how long will you escape, how long will you run?—whenever the opportunity comes, the seeds will bud again.

Sabija samadhi has no value. Only if samadhi is nirbija is it samadhi. Sabija samadhi is a deception. And nirbija samadhi can happen only in the world. That is why I do not support the kind of sannyas that has prevailed in the past. And the Maitreyi Upanishad agrees with me. But the wonder is that sannyasins read these Upanishads and yet—did they understand or not?

It is so clear: abandoning actions is not sannyas. Yet for centuries the web has persisted: leaving actions is sannyas. Give up the shop, the house, the wife, the children—you have become a sannyasin.

Karmatyagann sannyasau na praishochcharanena tu.
Nor is it sannyas to proclaim, “I am a sannyasin.” What will a proclamation do? It only serves the ego. By merely declaring, “I am a sannyasin,” nothing will happen. The declaration will nourish the ego, make it stronger, give it new life. And ego is the seed of the world. For a sannyasin there is no question of declaration; there is the question of realization. Not “I,” but humility.

Yet a humble sannyasin you will hardly find. Sannyasins are egoistic; their ego sits right on the nose. Their stiffness is far greater than that of ordinary people. Why? Because they have arguments. Their argument is: “You are still indulgent; we are yogis. You are rotting in the world; we have left it. You are still running after wealth; we have renounced it.” Their logic further fortifies their ego. And your respect strengthens it even more. You touch their feet, bathe their feet and drink the water; you wave lamps in worship; you call them mahatmas. Naturally, when people call you great and give you honor, the ego gets a fresh edge—as if a rusted sword has been sharpened clean.

That is why the so-called religious people and mahatmas of the world have caused more disturbances and more violence than anyone else. Whether Hindu, Muslim, or Christian makes no difference. On this earth, more people have been killed in the name of religion—in the name of religious foolishness—than for any other reason.

Padma Bharti! This is centuries upon centuries of derangement, hiding under the cloak of renunciation, buried beneath the pretense of sannyas. Under the ashes of renunciation burns the fire of ego. Even vows and fasts become a competition. That too is a game of kabaddi. Man simply doesn’t see it!

Just yesterday the news said some Nagpur college girls went to Wardha to play kabaddi. They also visited Vinoba’s ashram at Paunar, and Vinoba played kabaddi with them for forty minutes. How delightful! But the same kabaddi is going on everywhere under different names. When Paryushan comes, the Jains start competing: who will outdo whom, who will fast longer?

Padma Bharti has written correctly: “There, a competition of vows and fasting began.”

And then trouble is bound to follow. The Jain system of vows and fasting is hardly scientific. No one checks whether the body is fit for fasting, whether it’s needed at all, or what the consequences will be. If a man has diabetes, fasting can be disastrous—his sugar can crash, and within three days he will slip into a coma. Death can result.

“On the tenth day he died. In his last moments he kept crying only for water.”

But who listens? It’s the world of competition. Just a few more hours and ten full days will be complete. If they’re Digambar, Paryushan is ten days. Had they been Shvetambar he might have survived; theirs is only eight days. This time the hazard lay in being Digambar! Ten days—only a couple of hours left, and now he’s asking for water. Family, loved ones—wife, children, parents—must have resisted: just a few hours more, having come this far! Don’t fall from yoga at the shore! What will people say? Later you yourself will blame us: “Why didn’t you stop me?” And where competition is at stake, people are ready to wager even life—especially a religious competition! As if there could be competition in the spiritual at all.

Competition is the world. That is politics: to get ahead of another. Whether you get ahead with wealth, with position, with vows, with fasting—what difference does it make? These are pretexts to advance; pegs to hang the ego upon. Any peg will do.

“Only four hours remained!”

Reading Padma Bharti’s question I recalled Tolstoy’s famous story: a fakir visits a poor farmer with a tiny plot, barely making ends meet. The fakir says, “You fool! How will you live on this scrap of land? Half-fed, half-clothed, shabby shelter. I wander far and know places in Siberia where there are miles of fertile land lying open. Sell this land and hut, take the money, and go there. I know a place where for a small sum they’ll give you more land than you can imagine.”

Greed stirred: why stay here? He sold everything, told his family to wait, and set off. What he found amazed him: miles of fertile land, scarcely a soul in sight. The villagers said, “It belongs to no one. Our custom is: for a thousand rubles, whatever land you can encircle in a day is yours. We have no measure. Start at sunrise, pound stakes as you go, and whatever you enclose by sunset is yours. But return before sunset—if the sun sets, your money is lost.”

He was a sturdy farmer. “In a day I’ll circle miles!” At dawn he paid and ran. He didn’t walk—he sprinted. He had brought bread and water, but thought, “If I stop to eat I lose half an hour—better to run and enclose another half-mile. One day without food won’t kill me. Better not drink either—water will make me heavy. A few hours more, return by sunset, then I’ll eat, sleep for two days, and the rest of life will be ease.”

You would think the same. Don’t laugh at him—he is your own mind.

He had planned to turn back at midday, but the land ahead looked ever more fertile. “If I run a bit faster, I can go further. This piece I cannot leave.” Only a quarter of the day remained. He threw away his bread, his thermos, his coat—any weight was too much. Now he had to run as if death were behind him. The whole village was watching from a hill, waving frantically: “Faster! The sun is setting!” He could see them, hear them, but his legs were failing, throat parched. He fell, rose, fell again—what a time to fall! Finally he collapsed six feet short of the first stake. He tried to crawl, but strength was gone.

The crowd gathered, laughing. He gasped, “Why do you laugh?” They said, “Because you’re not the first. Many die like this here. No one yet has reached the stake in time. This business of ours is not cheap. Since you’re dying, we’ll tell you: we knew from morning that your money was gone. You think you will get so much land: no one ever has. We’ve seen many die six feet from the stake. Our elders saw it, their elders saw it. It’s been going on for centuries. You came; tomorrow another will run. But you came quite close—only six feet. Die in peace!”

How could he die in peace! A lifetime’s savings gone, a day’s unprecedented toil wasted, and the stake six feet away! The sun set, and he died. Tolstoy’s famous story: “How Much Land Does a Man Require?” Only six feet—because they dug his grave in the six feet he lacked and buried him there. That frantic running was in vain.

That is exactly what happened to poor Basantilal Ji Bakliwal. What “spring” came to him? The stake was six feet away. The family thought: now is it time to give water? Ten days are nearly over—why fall at the shore! Chant the Namokar Mantra! Remember the deities! They would chant while Basantilal begged, “Water! Water!” In that state no mantra can be heard—he needed water! Perhaps if they had given it, the man might have lived. They killed him. They are his killers.

What a country this is, and what a law, that killers go free. All these people conspired. Your Muni Sanmati Sagar too is part of this conspiracy, perhaps the chief culprit. He must have inspired the fast—“Fast and liberation is assured.” He got death; liberation is another matter.

And listen to the last flourish: “After he died, they tried to give his death a hue of martyrdom.”

Ego never leaves us. The very same relatives, community leaders, the very muni at whose behest this man died—violence was done. The muni filters his water, and a living man is killed. But killed in a pious way, so no one calls it a crime—though it is. It is homicide.

And it isn’t about one muni; across India your so-called saints and mahatmas have many such deaths on their heads. The killings remain hidden under fine robes; the law cannot catch them—how could it, when these very worthies sit upon the chests of the lawgivers, framing social values, setting the codes? They have stuffed this land with hypocrisy. Here even murder happens and not a whisper is heard. Then they paint it as martyrdom: a religious martyr who “sacrificed his life.” He did not want to sacrifice; he was asking for water. They refused water and forced him into martyrdom.

And the final remark: “If you had told me a little earlier, I would have given him initiation into Digamberhood in that very state, and his passage would have improved.”

You may not know what Digambar initiation implies. I knew a Jain renunciate—Ganeshevarni—highly esteemed among the Digambar Jains, not for any great merit, but for a simple reason: he was born a Hindu, left Hinduism, and joined the Digambar Jain order. When a Hindu becomes a Jain, the Jains’ chests swell; if a Jain becomes a Hindu, the Hindus’ chests swell. “Our religion is superior—otherwise why would such an intelligent man convert?” As if that proves intelligence!

Likewise, when Sardar Sundar Singh became a Christian, Christians worldwide beat the drums of his greatness; Sikhs felt betrayed. He declared that none compares with Jesus—not Nanak, Kabir, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna. That was enough to be hailed as a towering genius in Christian circles, and to be branded a traitor among Sikhs. He went to the Himalayas and never returned; it’s said someone finished him off—who knows. Such are sectarian tempers.

Back to Ganeshevarni. In the Digambar tradition there are five rungs: from brahmachari onward—brahmachari keeps a sheet and two loincloths; chullaka drops the sheet, keeps two loincloths; ailaka keeps one; finally muni is nude—Digambar, “clothed by the sky.” Only one who dies as a Digambar gains liberation, they say. When Ganeshevarni was dying he was only a chullaka, not yet a muni. He longed for it but lacked the courage to go naked. At the last moment, when doctors said the end was near, he said, “Quick, give me Digambar initiation.” If liberation comes so cheaply, why miss the chance? They rushed to fetch a muni—only a Digambar muni can confer muni initiation—but by the time he arrived, Ganeshevarni had lost consciousness. No matter: they “initiated” him while unconscious—muttered mantras, removed the last loincloth, and declared him Digambar, liberated! The man knew nothing; perhaps he died fretting that the loincloth never left!

Why stop at the unconscious? Give Digambar initiation to every corpse and send them all to moksha!

Now your Sanmati Sagar says, “If only you had told me a bit earlier...” Measure the malice hidden behind pious words. He does not say, “You should have given the man water. Distilled water, filtered water—whatever—save his life!” No. He approves withholding water: “Otherwise the fast would be broken; ten days of effort wasted, and he would fall.” Then he suggests the “higher” step: “Had you told me, I would have stripped him further.”

Basantilal would have clutched his clothes—he was still conscious, asking for water. How bewildered he’d be: “I need water and you are snatching my clothes!” If relatives held him down—ten days of fasting, sick and weak—he couldn’t resist. They would clap a hand over his mouth: “Hush! Let the muni do what he must!” He could cry, “I don’t want to be naked! Everyone is watching! I don’t want moksha!”—but who would listen? Those who send you to moksha will send you whether you want it or not—after all, it’s for your good! By force they would strip him and then announce that he attained liberation.

And you call such things sannyas?

The Maitreyi Upanishad says rightly: “Giving up actions is not sannyas. Nor merely declaring ‘I am a sannyasin.’” Then who is a sannyasin? “That state in which, in samadhi, the seeming twoness of jiva and Brahman is dissolved”—that is called sannyas.

Even the translator falters: “the feeling of oneness” is a mistake. There is no “feeling” of oneness; there is direct experience. If there are two, there can be a feeling of one, as lovers say: two bodies, one soul. Say that until someone beats you—you’ll discover who is being beaten and who is watching.

The aphorism is: samdhau jivātmanor aikyam sannyāsaḥ parikīrtitaḥ—when in samadhi the union of the individual and the Supreme is realized. Not as an emotion, but as truth unveiled. We were never two; twoness was our mis-seeing, our dream. When the veil lifts, a thrill runs through every pore: “Ah! I was always one with existence.” That is samadhi.

Hence the sages chose “advaita” (not-two), rather than “ekavada” (one-ism). To insist “one” still suggests two that have been made one. Advaita points out: two never were.

In the West translators were puzzled: why “non-dualism” instead of “monism”? Because monism is a philosopher’s concept; advaita is a mystic’s experience. It emphasizes that we never were two—our error was the dream of twoness.

Like dreaming you’re on the moon; someone shakes you awake and you find yourself in your room. You didn’t “return from the moon”; you never left the room. Twoness is dream; oneness is reality. But oneness is not a “feeling”—it is an unveiling. Feeling is cultivated; experience is revealed.

A Sufi fakir was brought to me—thirty years in a devotional trance, “seeing God” in everything. He would talk to trees and stones; disciples were dazzled. I asked, “How did it begin?” He said, “I started practicing the feeling: not tree, but God; not mountain, but God; not sun and moon, but God.” I said, “Feeling is imagination. The foundation is false; on that you’ve built a temple. Do one thing: for three days, drop the feeling. Neither speak to tree nor stone.” He was afraid—rightly—because in three days it all fell away. He was angry: “You ruined my thirty years!” I said, “What is true cannot be ruined in three days. You practiced autosuggestion. Now begin rightly: learn thoughtlessness. When stillness deepens, what is revealed then is true; then three days or three lifetimes cannot shake it.”

A ghazal says:
I do not long for the heart’s repose, nor hunt any destiny.
In seeking You, I lost a gaze—I seek that gaze.

What you could not find anywhere, I found within my heart.
Why should the zealot grieve? I seek not things but sight.

You gained the joys of two worlds; I gathered their grief.
You sought your Lord’s gaze; I seek the gaze itself.

Erasing my comforts, your sorrow gave me life.
Your sorrow was no accident—it is my life’s long quest.

O Light, may this longing end, this restless search cease.
I seek that eye which no glitter can deceive.

What is “search”?
That eye which no splendor can delude,
which cannot be deceived—
I seek that gaze.

But you begin with deception. For centuries you’ve been told: “First believe, then you’ll know.” I say this is a lie, a poison. Whoever believes never knows. Believing, you go astray. If you want to know, do not believe—because once you believe, how will you search? A green lens makes the world green, and you insist, “I see green, so it is green.” Drop the lenses. Let the eye be naked.

That eye which no glitter can deceive—I seek that gaze.
The pure, unstained vision that cannot be duped.

Yet one worships Ganesh, another Hanuman, chanting Chalisa and Namokar—these are lenses. Let me tell you: Nanak was not a Sikh; Mahavira was not a Jain; Jesus was not a Christian; Buddha was not a Buddhist. Think! Buddha became Buddha without being Buddhist—why can’t you? Nanak realized truth without becoming Sikh—why can’t you? Kabir was not a Kabirpanthi. All who have known have known; they have not believed. Belief is borrowed; knowing is your own.

What you could not find anywhere, I found within my heart.

A story: Ramdas used to narrate the Ramayana so beautifully that Hanuman himself would come in disguise to listen. One day Ramdas described Ashoka Grove: “Everywhere white blossoms—jasmine, moonlight flowers.” Hanuman leapt up, forgetting his disguise: “Wrong! The flowers were red!” Ramdas, the fearless type, said, “Sit down and be quiet!” Hanuman flared: “I am Hanuman! I was there! Change your story.” Ramdas refused. Hanuman carried him to Rama for judgment. Rama scolded Hanuman for creating a scene and said, “When Ramdas speaks, don’t argue.” Hanuman, frustrated, took him to Sita. Sita said gently, “Hanuman, the flowers were white. Your eyes were full of rage; with blood-hot eyes everything looked red. Ramdas is right.”

When vision is tinted, error is natural. The angry see one world; the silent see another. That is the experience of samadhi.

The Maitreyi Upanishad’s point is clear: in samadhi the twoness of the jiva and the Self dissolves. They are not two; and we realize they never were two. Twoness was our miscalculation—like writing two plus two equals five. Even then it was four. When corrected, you don’t say, “I feel it is four.” You say, “I know.”

karmatyāgān na sannyāso na praiṣoccaraṇena tu।
samdhau jivātmanor aikyam sannyāsaḥ parikīrtitaḥ॥

Sannyas is the name of life lived from that realization. Whether in the world or in the mountains makes no difference. If you ask me, it is better to realize it in the world, where there is testing, a touchstone.

Hamun hai ishq mastana, haman ko hoshiyari kya?
We are drunk on love—what need have we of cleverness?
Whether free or in the world—why court the world’s favors?
Those parted from the Beloved wander door to door.
Our Friend dwells within—why should we wait?
People batter their heads with names and creeds.
We have dyed ourselves in God’s name—what need of worldly ties?
Not for a moment parted from the Beloved, nor He from us.
Our love is with Him—what cause for restlessness?
Kabir says: be drunk with love—cast duality from the heart.
The path is delicate—why carry burdens on the head?

These heaps of beliefs, scriptures, doctrines are a useless load.

Kabir says: cast duality from the heart.
There is no two; twoness is our heart’s delusion. When it falls, there is samadhi; and in samadhi is the solution. The life of one established in samadhi is called sannyas.

If you long to meet the Beloved, keep the flame ever lit.
Burn self-display to ash and anoint yourself with it.
Take love’s broom and sweep the chamber of separation;
Lift duality’s dust and scatter it from the prayer-rug.
Tear the prayer-mat, break the rosary, fling books into water;
Grasp the angels’ hands—be their servant.
Don’t starve, don’t keep fasts; don’t go to mosque, don’t bow;
Break the ablution pot—drink the wine of love.
Eat always, drink always; do not live in heedlessness.
Stroll in holy intoxication—burn your ego.
Be not mullah, be not brahmin; drop duality and worship.
It is the decree of the sovereign Qalandar: proclaim “I am the Truth.”
Says Mansur, the ecstatic: I recognized the Truth within my heart;
That is the tavern of the intoxicated—come within its midst.

Drink the wine of samadhi. Be lost in its ecstasy. When that wine flows in your life, that is sannyas—the state where duality drops, where you find yourself eternally one with the moon and stars, sky and clouds, sun and mountains—never separate, never to be separated. The inescapable certainty of that is sannyas.

Enough for today.