Lagan Mahurat Jhooth Sab #7

Swarupananda, words that give expression to truth are like a double-edged sword. They can protect—and they can devour. They can become provisions for the journey—path, pointer—and they can become a load on your life, a burden under which the soul’s liberation becomes impossible. Hence those who have known have said: to set out in search of truth is like walking on the edge of a sword, like walking on a naked blade. Great care is needed; a slight inattention, a small slip—and you can be lost for lifetimes. The higher you climb, the greater the risk.
And truth is a bird flying in open sky. Even the peaks of Gaurishankar, Mount Everest, are left far behind; the clouds remain below. There, every single breath must be of awareness.
This sutra is among those dangerous sutras which, if misunderstood, become poison, and if understood rightly, nectar. And misunderstanding is always easy—because misunderstanding is what we all already have. Right understanding becomes possible only through practice—through meditation, by refining, washing, and clearing your consciousness. Misunderstanding is readily available to everyone.
This sutra seems to be about the glory of the Master, but in essence it is a sutra in praise of discipleship. The Master is only a pretext. But neither disciples understood this, nor so-called Masters. Disciples made this sutra the basis for worshiping the Master, and the so-called Masters took it as a device for exploitation—now with the support of the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible.
Take note of this from the very outset. I want both meanings to be clear before you. At first glance it seems the Upanishad is saying, “Gurudeva paro dharmo, gurudeva para gatih—The Master is the supreme religion, the Master is the supreme goal.” It appears to be singing the Master’s glory; thus Swarupananda asks why the Upanishad sings like this.
I say to you: this is not about the Master’s glory at all. The Master is just a device, merely an occasion. And the device is needed because without one you will not be able to surrender your ego. You have nursed a lie within you—the ego—and you live as if it were true. Living as if it were true, it becomes your truth. When you come to a true Master, to a Buddha, a Krishna, he will say: Drop this ego, because it alone is the obstacle between you and the divine; there is no other wall. Remove this and the door opens; let it dissolve and a bridge appears; while it is, the divine is not. Hence Krishna says: Mamekam sharanam vraja—Arjuna, take refuge in me alone!
Those who oppose Krishna say, “This is Krishna’s ego: who says ‘Come to my refuge’? What more proof of ego do you need—he himself declares ‘Come only to me!’”
But Krishna is only saying: what you take to be your treasured ego—give it to me, I will take it. Krishna knows the ego does not exist—there is nothing to give, nothing to take. But the disciple lives convinced that the ego is everything—his wealth, his life, his very soul. Perhaps only in love for the Master will he be able to drop it—perhaps! Even Arjuna tried every way to avoid it—he argued, made excuses, set conditions: “First show me your cosmic form; at least let me know you are the Divine!” All the effort is one: How can I surrender my ego at your feet? First assure me these are truly the feet worthy of my surrender!
Throughout the Gita Arjuna strives to save his ego, and Krishna strives to dissolve it. The irony is: the ego is not. There is nothing to save and nothing to destroy. If it existed it could be destroyed or saved. Krishna sees it is not—but how can you say that to Arjuna at once? He cannot understand.
A child clutches a doll to his chest all day long. The mother sees he is exhausted—carrying the doll tires him. She coaxes him: “Time to put the doll to sleep; you sleep, the doll must sleep too; if you keep it awake all day, poor thing may die! Lay it in bed, it’s cold, cover it with a blanket; I will sing a lullaby!” The mother knows well the doll neither sleeps nor wakes—but how to free the child from his madness? Or he will carry this weight everywhere.
One of my American sannyasins used to walk around carrying a gun, hidden under a big sling bag; but it was so large it showed anyway. Because he tried to hide it people became suspicious: “Why hide it?” A friend peeked into the bag and saw even in the market he kept the gun with him. They informed Sheela: “This man seems dangerous. He goes about with a gun!” Sheela called him and asked, “What is the need to keep a gun day and night?”
He came still carrying the bag. He said, “I am in a mess. If I don’t carry it I am in trouble, and carrying it I am in trouble. Do you see this little brat of mine? It’s not a real gun—it’s a toy,” and he pulled it out, “but so big I cannot lug it around. And this rascal won’t budge without it! Unless the gun is with him he won’t move. I’m stuck; I brought him here thinking it would be a trip for him, but he is killing me! At night he keeps checking if the gun is lying next to his bed. The gun is so big he can’t carry it, so I have to. People stare at me in the market—why a gun? Because they stare, I hide it. When I hide it, people stare more. And when I hide it, the boy keeps peeking into the bag to make sure the gun is there!”
The mother knows the child is hauling a useless burden—but what to do? To tell him now, “It is only a toy,” will be meaningless—he will cry. You must find a device.
Buddha said: true Masters have only one work—to find devices for children. Devices. And devices are as “false” as children’s toys. Like using one thorn to remove another and then throwing both away—one lie removes another lie, then both are discarded.
From the Master’s side the matter is clear: the ego is not. If he too thinks the ego is, he is not yet a Master. A Master is one who has realized: “I am not; only the divine is. Not I, but God.” He wants the disciple to know exactly what he has come to know. But the disciple is far; he clutches what is not. Yet when you hold a non-thing tightly, some device is needed to pry it loose. The Master even makes himself a device. He says, “Fine, I will keep it safe—give me your ego. Do you think it is safer with you? It will be safer with me; I will care for it.”
All the Master’s effort is to awaken trust and love in the disciple—enough love, enough trust that he places this ego, dearer than life, at the Master’s feet. The moment he places it there, the secret is revealed: he sees for himself there is nothing there. We say, “A closed fist is worth a lakh; once opened, it is worth dust.” As long as your fist is closed the ego seems precious; open your hand at the Master’s feet and you see: What have I put down? Nothing!
The Master’s work is to snatch from the disciple that which he does not have; and to give him that which he already has. It is an odd job: to take what is not, and give what is. To take away the ego and give the soul. The fun is: the ego is not; the soul alone is. But as long as your eyes are fixed on the “not,” you cannot behold what “is.” Therefore the Master himself is a device.
Patanjali has an astonishing sutra: among the methods for bringing revolution to human life, he counts even God as a method. Patanjali does not argue whether God exists or not—that is not the point. God too is an anchoring device to drop the ego. If you accept, even a stone becomes useful; if you don’t, even a living Buddha standing before you is of no use. If you accept, a stone idol can bring revolution to your life. Why? Because before a stone idol too you can offer your ego.
It is a little harder, because a stone idol won’t argue, won’t refute your arguments, won’t strike at you. But if your feeling is deep, your love and trust profound, you can lay it down even there—the fist will open, the dream will break, the sleep will end.
This is the sutra’s essential purpose. It is not the Master’s glory; it is a demolition of the ego.
Gurudeva paro dharmo, gurudeva para gatih—“The Master is the supreme religion.”
Because the moment the ego drops, you know your own nature. Dharma means: intrinsic nature. Not Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—those are sects, not dharma. They are different ferries to reach dharma. There are some three hundred sects in the world—three hundred paths to dharma. Sampradaya means: path, way, boat, ghat. What does it matter from which ghat you cross? There are many ghats, the river is one. Whether you sat in this boat or that, of what color or with what flag—what difference? A boat is one that takes you across; any ghat, any tirtha.
Tirtha means: crossing-place, ford. Tirthankara means: the boatman who ferries you across from this shore to that—Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed—any will do. Reach the other shore.
Dharma is your nature. And we do not know who we are. We open Qurans and Puranas, but do not know ourselves. We study scripture without knowing the reader within. The very principle of knowing remains unknown to us—and that is dharma. Dharma means: to know oneself, to recognize one’s nature, to become acquainted with one’s consciousness.
“The Master is the supreme dharma”—Master means one who has become acquainted with his nature, who has realized the Self. If you can surrender your ego at the feet of one who has realized, then in his mirror—his stainless mirror—your image will be reflected. In his mirror, for the first time, you will recognize your original face. His veena is already singing; if only you place your mind-ego at his feet, you become empty—into that emptiness, his music begins to enter you.
Scientists have experimented: in a closed, empty room a veena is played in one corner; in the other corner a veena is just placed. No one is touching it. The player plays—and astonishingly, the strings of the other veena begin to vibrate. One veena plays, the other sings without being played.
This is exactly what happens between Master and disciple. The Master has begun to sing; his flute is sounding. The disciple has yet to sing. His capacity to sing is exactly the same as the Master’s—the same music, the same light, the same vastness is within him. His nature is the Master’s nature—no difference at all. Sitting near a singing veena, perhaps his own memory awakens; perhaps some strings within begin to hum.
A blown-out lamp is brought close to one that is lit—and a revolution happens. As the unlit lamp approaches the lit one, the chance of the flame leaping across increases. Then comes that unprecedented moment—the leap—the lit lamp lights the other. The marvel is: the lit lamp loses nothing, and the unlit lamp gains everything.
This is the very essence of the spiritual life: the giver loses nothing and the receiver gains all.
This is not the Master’s glory; it is the glory of discipleship. But then why didn’t the Upanishadic rishi write the glory of the disciple? Because that too was risky—indeed riskier. When two dangers are present, choose the lesser. If the disciple’s glory were sung, his ego might be strengthened—very likely, since all he has right now is ego.
Praising the Master carries danger only for those who are not real Masters. The true Master is beyond danger. Praise him, bow, shower flowers, wave lamps—nothing touches him. The danger is to the counterfeit. But why worry about the false? He is already in danger. And the true? He is beyond danger; there is no way to drag him back into it.
Yet another danger remains: the disciple may not drop his ego at all, and only get busy singing the Master’s praises. That is a smaller danger—far less than strengthening the disciple’s ego.
So with this sutra there is the risk that hearing, “Gurudeva paro dharmo, gurudeva para gatih—the Master is the supreme religion, the supreme goal,” you may think, “Now all that is needed is worship—adoration, remembrance of the Master’s name, guru-bhakti.” If so, you have missed. Your arrow has not found the mark.
I have heard about Diogenes, a carefree sage of Greece. In a marketplace an archer was showing off his skill. He was green—more show than substance. He shot arrows but none hit the target. One flew here, one there; one fell short, one went too far; one too high, one too low.
Diogenes went and sat beneath the target board. The crowd said, “Are you mad? Will you ever be wise?” He was famous for such antics. He said, “You are mad. Given this man’s archery, this is the safest place—his arrow is not going to come here. Standing anywhere else is risky. His arrows are flying to all four directions—only this board he never hits.”
Man lives in a swoon. He walks somewhere and arrives elsewhere. He shoots one way and lands another—but the ego refuses to admit the miss.
Mullah Nasruddin once took his son Fazlu hunting. He bragged and boasted; the boy said, “Now show me something; enough talk.” Just then a crane flew over the lake; Mullah fired—missed. Before the boy could speak, Mullah stared at the flying bird and said, “Look, son, behold the miracle—a dead crane flying!” Fazlu said, “That’s just what I was thinking: the gun has fired and the bird is still flying!” Mullah said, “Miracles happen, son—only open your eyes; the world is full of miracles.”
There is the risk of missing if you get occupied with the Master’s worship. The point is not worshiping the Master, but laying your ego at his feet. Flowers and lamps won’t do. Place the ego there—surrender it. In that very moment you will see what was always there but hidden by your closed fist—your nature, your soul, the taste of your own consciousness.
This is what is meant by: “One who does not honor the Master who gives a single syllable.”
Ekakshara—“imperishable syllable”—that which never decays.
“One who does not honor the giver of the imperishable syllable—his learning (shruta), austerity (tapas), and knowledge (jnana) slowly waste away like water from an unbaked pot.”
One who does not honor—do not miss the meaning of “honor” here—means one who does not place his ego at the Master’s feet. That alone is honor. For such a one, his shruta—what he has merely heard—is all that his “knowledge” is. He has not known; he has heard.
Shruta, “heard,” is a meaningful word. Hence scriptures are called Shruti and Smriti—heard and remembered. Still not known, not realized, not experienced—not one’s own.
You hear “fire burns”—that is shruta. When your hand burns—that is no longer shruta. Someone said, “Fire burns,” someone said, “Water quenches thirst.” Who knows if this is right or wrong? When you know for yourself, the question of right or wrong does not arise—no proofs are needed. Knowledge is self-validating; it needs no witness. But what is merely heard demands witnesses.
So to explain scripture you need pundits, commentators, priests—and still, what do we really understand? We hear and memorize—and forget just as easily. And if, sitting with a Master, you do not lay down the ego, soon you will find what you have heard is of no use. With a Master the chance was to know—not to hear.
Therefore, the one who goes to a Master only to listen is making a mistake. Listening can be done at home with books, or with any priest. For that you don’t need a true Master. Why search out Kabir, Nanak, Farid, Raidas? Their words are written—read them. If it were only a matter of language, all the educated would be Buddhas. But education has no connection with Buddhahood. Many Buddhas have been uneducated—Mohammed, Jesus, Kabir—and today the world is full of educated people; how many Buddhas are there? If what you “know” is only hearsay, it will not serve; your conclusions will be wrong.
I heard of a great philosopher standing by a lake, watching a fisherman weave a net. Entranced, he watched. Finally the fisherman asked, “You’ve been staring with such delight—why?” The philosopher said, “I see you are a genius at joining together small holes. I have never seen such an artist—so deftly you stitch tiny holes together!” The fisherman never even imagines he is joining holes—he thinks he is joining threads! Such lofty insights only philosophers discover.
Immanuel Kant kept two cats and was troubled by them; he could not sleep until they returned home at night. A friend said, “Why this needless suffering? Cut a hole in the door; they will come and go and you can sleep.” The idea appealed. Next day the friend found two holes in the door. “Why two?” “Two cats,” said Kant, “one big, one small—how will both pass through one hole?” As if they go through together! He even labeled them—“For small cat,” “For big cat”—lest the big one get stuck in the small hole!
Philosophers can spin grand logic. But shruta-jnana is not knowledge—only its counterfeit. Hence the sutra is right: if, while with the Master, you do not surrender the ego, you will not know. Don’t only sit and listen with a Master—that anyone can provide for a few coins. The Satyanarayan katha gets told again and again—there is neither satya nor Narayan in it; the story is finished and no one is the wiser. Neither the teller knows nor the listener; the matter remains where it was. How many times have you heard it—is truth known to you? Or Narayan? Ask the one who tells it five times a day—does he know truth?
Saint Bhikhan was speaking in a small Rajasthani village; people “listened” as people do in religious meetings—no one goes there to listen; they go there to sleep. Even doctors advise insomniacs: “Go to satsang!” If someone doesn’t fall asleep in satsang, he is a rare man. Tired villagers had come in the evening. The village moneylender, Asoji, a Marwari with a big belly, sat in front. When he slept he snored so loud his whole tummy shook—the saint could hardly speak.
Finally Bhikhan said, “Asoji, are you sleeping?” He quickly opened his eyes, “No, Maharaj, never! You speak and I sleep? Never! I listen with eyes closed.”
Bhikhan began again; soon Asoji snored. Bhikhan said, “Asoji, are you alive?” Asoji, still in his stupor, blurted, “No, Maharaj—again the same thing! Not at all!” Bhikhan said, “Now you are caught—I didn’t ask the same thing. You are hearing only what you heard before. You remain asleep, clutching the earlier words—shruta. You remember I asked twice, ‘Are you sleeping?’ so you assumed I asked it again. This time I changed the question to ‘Are you alive?’”
Even with a Master, if you are only “hearing,” you err. That can be had anywhere. With a Master, surrender your ego—then your eyes open. Remember, truth does not enter through the ears; it enters through the eyes. It is not hearsay or writing—it is seen. If, with the Master, you only listen or keep clinging to what you heard before, your shruta will wither. Hearing is of no value; it is lost as soon as it is gained. Your tapas too becomes useless if it is based on the heard.
You fast because you have heard Mahavira fasted and attained the ultimate. The truth is the reverse: Mahavira realized the ultimate, and therefore fasting sometimes happened—not “was done.” There is a difference between doing and happening. Sometimes he was so absorbed in meditation that a day would pass and hunger would not arise. When the body is forgotten, how can hunger be remembered? This is the meaning of upavas: to dwell near—near the Self—so near that the body goes far into the background, its echo unheard. So far behind it seems not to be.
Upavas is a beautiful word. Today even politicians call their hunger-strikes upavas. Call it anshan, starving—don’t call it upavas. Upavas is lofty—fitting for the likes of Mahavira and Buddha. What Morarji Desai and others do is anshan, not upavas.
Upavas is the fruit of meditation; when one dives deep and rests in the Self, the body is forgotten for days. Living within, food is not needed—not even remembered. You have gone so far from the body it cannot even signal hunger or thirst. That is upavas.
But the one who suppresses hunger by will, sits starving while his mind is full of food—this will happen, because you are sitting close to the body while pretending to be in upavas. In fact, with anshan you will be more in the body than on ordinary days. Such tapas withers—like lines drawn on water. You will not sustain it; it will vanish. And what you call knowledge is mere information. Such information won’t be of use when life tests you.
People in this land believe the soul is immortal—but let someone die at home and see. All knowledge is forgotten; they wail.
In my village a learned physician hosted many scholars. When his first wife died, I saw him weeping. I said, “Panditji, what are you doing? You, weeping? Is it fitting? I have heard you a thousand times say the soul is immortal—your wife did not die; she cannot. Nainam chindanti shastrani—no sword can cut her; nainam dahati pavakah—no fire can burn her. Yours was no ordinary wife—she was the wife of a knower, who served saints all her life!”
He said, “Not now—don’t spout this nonsense.” “Nonsense? This is the essence,” I said. “Leave me alone,” he said, “my wife has died and you preach?” I said, “Exactly now is the time to test if knowledge is real or mere information. Had I seen you smiling, I would know knowledge is knowledge. But it was only information. And now you are gathering it again—wasting time again with the same fools. Your wife died serving them; you too will die serving them. They themselves do not know whether the soul is immortal. From their faces I can tell.”
If knowledge is only information, it is useless trash—burn it, throw it away. But there is another knowing, born of surrendering the ego. There is another tapas, born of dropping the ego. There is another awakening, born of sitting at the feet of a Buddha.
Sitting at the feet—this is honor. Honor does not mean formal foot-touching. In this land it has become a formality—everyone touching everyone’s feet—as if something will happen by it. Nothing happens. Honor means: heartfelt dissolution of the ego. Then this sutra will feel deep:
Gurudeva paro dharmo, gurudeva para gatih.
He in whose feet you have placed your ego—that one is your Master. “Guru” is a good word: the one by whose presence darkness is dispelled; the one who dissolves the ego; who is like a flame. And surely light is the way—catch even a single ray and your journey to the sun has begun. Step into a current and you will reach the ocean—inevitably.
Ekakshara-pradatam na abhinandati—
Unfortunate is he who does not even honor the giver of the imperishable syllable, who does not place his ego at his feet, who does not bow.
Tasya shruta-tapo-jnanam sravaty amaghata-ambuvat—
All his “learning, austerity, and knowledge” drain away like water from an unbaked pot. The water goes, and the pot too dissolves. But he who has offered his ego becomes a fired pot—baked in the kiln; whatever is poured into it remains. Once the vessel is baked, it can be filled with nectar. For this baking, for this supreme opportunity, you will have to “lose” something. Though at the moment of losing it will feel like loss, afterwards you will be amazed—you lost nothing; you only gained.
Understand the mathematics across the boundary of this world. In this world, if you earn, you earn; if you lose, you lose. But beyond, if you try to earn, you will lose; if you dare to lose, you will gain.
Jesus has said: Blessed are the last, for the kingdom of my Father is theirs. Blessed are those who stand last—those who have dropped the ego, who are so humble they can stand at the end. The kingdom of my Father belongs to them.

Amrit Priya! Sister, you speak the truth. You’re a hundred percent right. These Chidananda, Purnananda, Sahajananda, Sharanananda are dangerous fellows. Who knows where they’ve come from! These rascals can think of nothing else. They understand nothing. They just keep asking and asking, without a moment’s thought.

I’ve explained plenty; now if you can wake them up, do wake them up. Sister, tell them, “Brothers, why all this beating and killing? Why not keep the peace?”

Amrit Priya! Look around—you’ll find them. They’re right here. All of them are present.

And you say, “Just after hearing the Sanskrit sutras in the first question, among the three thousand people in the discourse only you remain awake.” That’s true. But whatever the question, whether your eyes are open or closed, you are asleep. Your sleep is very deep; your wakefulness is very superficial. And then, my work is to wake you up. Before waking, it’s good to have you properly asleep. So first I take up the sutras of these Chidananda, Purnananda, Svarupananda, Nijananda, Sahajananda—so you can go nicely to sleep. After all, to awaken well, proper rest is necessary!

A professor asked his medical students, “Tell me, how would you treat a patient who says, ‘I’m sick,’ but who has no illness?” One student replied, “Sir, that’s no problem. First I’ll give him a medicine to make him sick—then I’ll give the medicine for that sickness.” The professor praised him: “You’ll become an ideal doctor. Why don’t you go to some new town and open your clinic? Why waste time here with studies?” That very day the promising student left the medical college and became Hakim Birumal. As the saying goes, the prodigious show their sheen early.

First it’s necessary to put you to sleep. First the medicine has to be given so a man becomes ill; once he’s ill, curing him is easy.

Chandulal, traveling by train, asked his co-passenger, “Do you have a cigarette?” The fellow traveler said, “Here—take the whole pack!” Chandulal said, “Thanks! Could you also give me a match?” The traveler said, “Here—take this lighter, and you can keep it with you.” Astonished, Chandulal said, “Sir, such generosity! You must be a landlord or a billionaire businessman!” The fellow replied, “Sir, I’m neither a landlord nor a billionaire businessman; I’m a lung-cancer doctor—Hakim Birumal.”

First one has to create the illness, Amrit Priya; then waking becomes easy. And all these—Chidananda, Purnananda, Sahajananda, Sharanananda—are busy helping my work. They bring such sutras that you can sleep to your heart’s content! They do nothing else. Great knowers, these! And what else would knowers do? They just keep asking sutra-mutra. They never utter the words ice cream or pani-puri. Sister, they live right on Chowpatty; they stuff themselves with pani-puri! They’re “men of knowledge”—they don’t stoop to such small matters. They fast—and make others fast. That’s been their principle from the start: they die themselves, and make others die.

So you’re right: they starve themselves and make us starve. But there’s no need to get entangled in their talk. Let them die hungry! Let them go on with their sutra-mutra. You keep yourself together; don’t get caught up in their chatter—they themselves don’t.

That’s all for today.