Maha Geeta #49

‘The man who is fulfilled, whose senses are pure, and who forever delights in aloneness—only he has obtained the fruit of knowledge and of yogic practice.’
Understand each word with care.
First thing: ordinarily people think that by living alone knowledge will be attained. This sutra turns it upside down. It says: the one who has succeeded in reveling in aloneness has already received the fruit of knowledge. No one attains knowledge by becoming solitary; by attaining knowledge the capacity for aloneness arises. If you run away alone, you will not arrive at knowledge; by sitting in Himalayan caves you will not arrive at knowledge. You will remain you; the same one who was in the marketplace will sit in the Himalayan cave. By changing the outer situation, no inner revolution happens. Whether you are at home or in a temple, what difference does it make? In a crowd or alone, what difference? You will remain you. This your being does not change so easily. So someone has left the world, thinking that by leaving, transformation will happen. When transformation happens, the world is naturally left; but by leaving the world, transformation does not happen.
This sutra is exceedingly important. My whole message is this. People have often mistaken cause for effect, and effect for cause. People think: if indulgence drops, renunciation will blossom. Not so. When renunciation blossoms, indulgence falls away. When the flavor of renunciation arrives, indulgence becomes tasteless. One whose hands have found diamonds and jewels does not go on picking pebbles. But if you think that by stopping picking pebbles diamonds and jewels will come into your hands, you are in great error. By not picking pebbles, only pebbles will not be in your hand; what has that to do with diamonds arriving?
Someone tells you: abandon wealth and knowledge will be attained—as if wealth could obstruct knowledge! What power does wealth have? Another says: leave family, children, husband or wife, and Paramatma will be attained—as if husband, family, home could come as a screen between you and Paramatma! Can such petty things obstruct Paramatma? Do not fall into such useless ideas. Yes, when Paramatma is found, your taste for these things drops. It drops; it need not be dropped. Fruit means: it happens on its own; it does not have to be done.
Do fruits appear on a tree by somebody’s doing? They appear; they appear by themselves. They are not the result of any of your efforts. You do not pull the fruits onto the tree. And if you bring fruits from the market and tie them on the branches, whom are you deceiving? Those fruits are not true. So if a man leaves the world and sits in a cave, and from the outside he looks very quiet—he has bought the fruit in the market—inside, the market’s clamor will be there.
A young man came to Bayazid and said, “Accept me at your feet; I have left everything and come.” Bayazid said, “Silence, stop this nonsense! You have brought the whole crowd with you.” The youth was startled. He looked around himself, looked behind—there was no one; where was the crowd? Is this Bayazid mad? He said, “What crowd? Which crowd are you talking about? I have left everything, I have left the crowd too. They had come to see me off to the edge of the village, my family wept, my wife beat her chest; but with a stout heart I left them all.” Bayazid said, “Do not look here and there; close your eyes and look within! They are all standing right there.”
The youth closed his eyes—the crowd was present. Inside, the wife was still weeping. He was still persuading himself; he was still stiffening his resolve; the children’s memories were coming; the faces of friends left behind were pulling him back. Then he understood. The crowd was neither here nor there—within was the crowd.
Run away to the forest. If the crowd were only outside you would become solitary, but the crowd is within. Your mind itself is the crowd. So sometimes it happens that someone is alone even in a crowd, and sometimes someone sits alone yet is in a crowd. Therefore do not insist on outward things; the matter is within; it is of depth, of inner depth.
‘The man who is fulfilled, whose senses are pure, and who forever delights in aloneness—only he has obtained the fruit of knowledge and of yogic practice!’
This is fruit—consequence. Not the cause, the effect. It comes as a spontaneous fruit. So the inner vision of life must be changed.
Ten jñāna-phalaṁ prāptaṁ...
He has received the fruit of knowledge, he has received the fruit of yoga! Who? So the definition is given: tṛptaḥ! The one who is fulfilled! Fulfilled in every way! In whose life no note of discontent remains! In whose mind there is no longing for anything! When will this happen?
You have heard the saying: “The contented are always happy.” More important than that is: “The happy are always contented.” “The contented are always happy” makes it sound as if somehow force contentment and you will be happy. Such forced contentment is not contentment at all. Contentment achieved by persuasion is a deception. You lecture the mind, convince it, “What is there in the world!” If you are lecturing the mind that there is nothing in the world, one thing is certain: your mind still says there is something in the world, otherwise whom are you convincing? Why would you need to convince? The very need to convince indicates the mind still believes: there is much in the world.
You tell yourself, “What is there in woman and gold? It’s all dust!” But why do you repeat it? Is this your seeing? Have you seen it so? Has this become the experience of your vision? If so, what is the use of repeating “woman and gold”? The matter is finished.
When you wake in the morning you do not go on repeating again and again, “What I saw in the dream is false; what I saw in the dream is false.” And if you do repeat it, naturally a doubt will arise that you have come to trust the dream very much. As long as you keep saying “the dream is false,” some line of truth still remains inside you. You still trust the dream. To cut that trust you say “the dream is false.”
We explain only those points that contradict our actual state. You say, “What is there in a woman’s body—only filth and excreta!” But why are you saying this? To whom are you saying it? For what? If you peek into it a little you will see that you are indeed seeing form in the woman’s body, beauty is visible. That beauty calls you. That form invites you. You have been frightened by that invitation, afraid. To cut that invitation you explain, “It’s all...look carefully, it is filled with filth!”
It is astonishing that those seers and sages who wrote in the scriptures that a woman’s body is filled with filth, not one of them writes that his own body is also filled with filth! As if they have bodies of gold! And the funny thing is that none of them writes that they themselves were born from a woman’s body. Then they are born of filth—and worse than filth they must be; because gold does not arise from filth. Not one of them writes that in my body too filth is filled! But in a woman’s body—filth!
There is attraction in the woman’s body, and to cut that attraction these devices are made. These devices are false. Attraction is not cut this way. Such persuaded contentment will be only assumed. From such contentment no revolution will happen; no lamp will be lit; you will not be transformed; no light will flood your life; nor will the rain of amrit descend.
“Tṛptaḥ!”
Look at life closely! Here there is, in truth, no reason to be discontented. See now, this moment, see! This is Ashtavakra’s emphasis: whatever is to be seen, see it now, in this very moment.
You are sitting before me. Just now look within a little: “Is there any discontent anywhere? Any longing anywhere? Any urge to be other than you are?” If you look quietly within you will find waves of fulfillment everywhere. Whoever has peered within has found an ocean of fulfillment! Deep contentment! All full—overflowing! What is needed is already given! It is as it should be. From the demand for otherwise, trouble begins. As much as you could be fulfilled by anything, that much Paramatma has given you—more than that. As much as could delight you, all that arrangement is there for you. If you do not look and rush elsewhere, your eyes fixed like an ox yoked to a mill, seeing only in one direction, not looking around—and the great festival unfolding here forms no relationship with you—then you are unfortunate, and the cause is you!
“Tṛptaḥ!”
Fulfillment is the fruit of natural knowing, the fruit of awakening. The one who has awakened and seen, found himself fulfilled. The one who gropes in sleep finds himself discontented.
People come to me. They say, “How can we become fulfilled? How can we be contented?” I say: do not ask the wrong question. You have tried to be contented and fulfilled all along, and it has not happened. I tell you, drop this. First see who you are. What you are—just that! First things first. We will think of the second later. Become acquainted with one fact: who are you?
When Paul Brunton went to Ramana Maharshi he carried many questions. Ramana said, “Only one question is meaningful: Who am I? All other questions will be solved by themselves. Ask this one.” He said, “Very well, I ask: Who am I?” Ramana said, “You ask that to me? Close your eyes and ask yourself: Who am I? Keep asking, keep searching. That you are is certain. That you are and you are conscious is also certain. Else how would you come to ask me! You are alive, you are conscious—what more do you need? These two great events are meeting within you.”
Life and consciousness have met—what more is needed for fulfillment! You have no remembrance of the benediction of life. You have forgotten what you already have. Life is!
When Alexander was returning from India he went to meet a fakir. He said to the fakir, “Do you know who I am? Alexander the Great! Conqueror of the whole world!” The fakir laughed. He said, “I too used to see such dreams; but I woke up in time. Have you woken up yet?”
Who does not dream of being Alexander! The fakir said, “This is nothing new. Every man is born carrying this dream.” Alexander said, “I do not understand.” The fakir said, “Consider this: you get lost in a desert, and a fierce thirst seizes you; someone says: I can give you a glass of water—how much of your empire would you give for one glass?” Alexander said, “In that moment I would give half.” The fakir said, “And if he is stubborn and says: I will take all, would you give the entire empire for a glass?” Alexander thought for a moment and said, “In such an hour, wandering in the desert, I would give the entire empire.” The fakir roared with laughter and said, “Then what have you earned, after all? A single glass of water! If the occasion arises, buy a glass of water. What is the total value of this empire? If a little thirst in the throat cannot be quenched by it, how will the thirst of the soul be quenched? If the thirst of the throat cannot be satisfied, how will the thirst of the heart be satisfied? If the hunger of the body cannot be stilled, how will the hunger of the soul be stilled?”
The fakir said, “Enough of this madness! Now step down from the dream! Wake!”
Only one question is important—Who am I? Do not think that by repeating “Who am I? Who am I?” an answer will come as in examination papers. No. If you go on asking, go on asking, not an answer will come; one day even the question will fall silent. An experience will come, not an answer. The happening will come! Life and consciousness—this great union happening within you; life and consciousness hand in hand, dancing, this great dance—its recognition will arise, its witnessing will happen. In that witnessing there is fulfillment.
Ten jñāna-phalaṁ prāptaṁ yogābhyāsa-phalaṁ tathā.
Know that only such have obtained the fruit of knowledge, and only such have obtained the fruit of yoga...
Tṛptaḥ svacchendriyo.
Those who have become fulfilled and whose senses have become clear.
This too is to be understood. Svacchendriya—note the difference. Usually your religious teachers tell you: “The senses are your enemies. Break them, crush them, suppress them, destroy them! Somehow be free of the senses!” Listen to Ashtavakra’s word: svacchendriya—let the senses become clear; they will become even more sensitive.
The fruit of knowledge! This word is astonishing. There is truly no one like Ashtavakra in human history. If you understand these sutras, nothing remains to be understood. In each sutra a Veda is condensed. If the Vedas are lost, nothing is lost; if Ashtavakra’s Gita is lost, much is lost.
Svacchendriya—the fruit of knowledge is that one’s senses become clear; one’s eyes are cleansed!
You have heard the story of Surdas. I do not believe it is true. I do not believe it because I have some love for Surdas. That, on seeing a woman, he gouged out his eyes—from fear that the eyes lead one astray. If Surdas did that, he is worth two coppers. Yes, the one who fabricated the story had such a mind. If you gouge the eyes out, will that free you from a woman’s form? At night in dreams the eyes are closed—does it free you from a woman’s form? Women appear even more beautiful. Have you ever seen women as beautiful awake as they are in dreams? This is the pain of life: in dreams they appear, in life they do not. And whoever appears in life comes up short against the dream-woman, hence cannot satisfy. Or the man found in life is smaller than the dream-man. Our dreams are grand; reality is drab. Reality is black and white; our dreams are many-colored, iridescent!
Will form disappear by closing the eyes? Will imagination of form be lost by gouging them out? Were it so cheap we would gouge out the eyes, burst the ears, cut the hands! People have done such things. In Russia there was a Christian sect that cut off the genitals. Is this any way! Women cut off their breasts. Is this any way! By cutting off the genitals will lust go? The capacity for sex may go, but has desire ever gone by losing capacity? Ask the old whose capacity is gone—has desire gone? The truth is: in old age lust torments more than in youth. In youth you can do something about desire; in old age you can do nothing—only burn. In an old mind lust becomes a piercing pain, pricks like a thorn, as it does not in youth. The body grows old; desire never grows old—its nature is youth. The body tires; desire does not stop; it runs on. When you fall exhausted on the road, your desire sets out on endless journeys. If it were not so, why should there be rebirth? If the old man’s desire also became old, the body decayed and desire too decayed—then he would be free, there would be no rebirth.
Why does rebirth happen? Because that desire is young; it demands a new body. It says, “Find a new body! This body is gone, damaged. Now find a new model. The old model is no more useful. But I have not died yet. Take hold of a new body! Move with the support of a new body. Move on! What could not be attained in this life, perhaps will be in the next; perhaps fulfillment will come, happiness will come. Again search!”
No sooner does an old man die here than he is born there. Between dying and being born no time is lost. Often it happens that while you are carrying the old man’s corpse to the cremation ground, by that time he has already entered some womb; you are preparing his bier, he is already born. Where is there leisure! Desire is so intense it will not wait for you to decorate the bier, tie flowers and leaves, gather the neighborhood, arrange the band, and reach the cremation ground—you need time for your procedures, for wailing and commotion. By the time you reach...but the old man has no leisure to wait for you! You are burning only a decayed corpse. The one you call the dead is no more there. He has already entered some new womb. Desire does not wait even for a moment.
You have seen: when desire seizes you, can you wait a moment? When anger seizes you, do you say, let it be tomorrow? When anger seizes you, you become fire that moment. And when lust seizes you, do you think, tomorrow, the day after, next life, what is the hurry? When desire seizes you, you become impatient. It must be now! A delay of even a moment is unbearable. As the old dies here, there his desire carries him on a new journey.
So the so-called holy men have been teaching you: mutilate, burn, ruin the senses. No, the wise do not say so. “Svacchendriya!” Your senses will become more and more sensitive. You have been told: kill taste.
In Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram one vow was: asvāda—no-taste! Kill taste! What would Ashtavakra’s word mean then? Can svacchendriya mean asvāda? Svacchendriya would mean: supreme taste. Such taste that even in food Brahman is experienced—that is svacchendriya. Kill taste, and the possibility of experiencing Paramatma through the tongue will die.
The great Western thinker Louis Fischer came to meet Gandhi. He was writing a book on him. Gandhi seated him for the meal. They used to eat neem chutney; his plate too was given neem chutney—to ruin taste! If the vow of no-taste is on, neem chutney, so that if any taste arises in the food, neem will spoil it. Out of courtesy Fischer tasted a little, to see what it was. Bitter poison! He thought it best to say nothing. Someone had warned him: be careful, they will give you neem chutney! So this was neem chutney! He thought: instead of ruining the entire meal, gulp this down in one go; at least the rest will go better. So he swallowed all of it at once. Gandhi said, “Bring more—Fischer likes chutney very much!”
You can kill taste. Sometimes taste dies even on its own—after fever the taste-buds weaken. You eat sweets, they do not taste sweet; food tastes insipid and bitter, dull. Is there any glory in that? Does any experience of the soul come of it? If it were so cheap, pour acid on your tongue and finish it; why nibble neem chutney again and again! Get it done once; go to a doctor, he will scrape them off! Very few tiny buds receive taste; he will remove them. Have an operation. But will you attain self-experience by this?
No. Neither does rasa vanish by destroying the eye, nor by killing taste. Let taste become so deep that food disappears and the taste of Paramatma begins to arrive. “Annam Brahma”—the Upanishads say food is Brahman. Then increase taste, purify it. Enlarge it. If you see a woman, do not gouge out the eyes; look more attentively so that Brahman begins to be seen in the woman—that is a clear eye. Until you see nothing but Brahman, it means only that the eye is not yet fully clear. When the eye becomes totally clear, only Brahman is seen—the One alone is seen. When all the senses become purified, from all sides the same One is experienced. Touch—and that same One is felt in the hand. Taste—and that same One on the tongue. See—and His darshan. Listen—and His footfall is heard. Do anything...breathe, and He is what goes in with the breath. The sun rises—it is He who rises. Night fills with stars—the sky fills with Him. Flowers bloom—He blooms. Birds chirp—it is His song.
When all the senses become clear, from every side the One begins to be experienced. The more impure the senses, the less this experience happens.
Remember this sutra:
Tṛptaḥ svacchendriyo nityam ekākī ramate tu yaḥ.
And the person whose senses have been purified, who has begun to experience the One everywhere—only he can delight in aloneness, because now the second is not left at all.
Understand the meaning of this aloneness. Ekākī does not mean loneliness. Ekākī means one-ness; not loneliness. Loneliness means lonesomeness. Ekākī means aloneness. Loneliness means: the memory of the other is there; it would be good if the other were present. Loneliness means the other’s absence is pricking, some space feels empty, restlessness arises. You sit alone, but the call of the other rises. You will run to the jungle, there is no one to talk to; then you will talk to God—but you have created a second again. You are not alone. In loneliness a man will begin talking to God—this you call prayer. That is conversation. You have created someone to talk to—a kind of madness.
Go to a madhouse—you will see a madman sitting alone and talking. You laugh; but when one prays, you do not laugh! To whom is he speaking? You laugh at the madman because you see no one, and he is talking to someone. And when in a temple you fold your hands and say, “O redeemer of the fallen, have mercy on me”—to whom are you speaking? As long as you know that Paramatma is the second, the other, with whom conversation is possible—you have no clue of Paramatma. Paramatma is not the other—He is your being. You are! Aham Brahmāsmi!
When there is the experience that only the One is, the division of I and Thou has fallen—then the happening that flowers is called aloneness, aloneness! Then the absence of the other does not hurt; there is relish in one’s own presence. In one’s presence there is festival. You do not speak—whom to speak to? Who would speak? All speech is lost. You become wordless.
You have heard such sayings: if the Lord’s grace descends, the dumb begin to speak and the lame begin to walk. The condition is exactly the opposite. Ask Ashtavakra—he says something else. Ashtavakra’s sutra you remember? We read it just days ago. The sutra says: when one arrives, even the speaker becomes silent and the walker falls down. The one who was very industrious becomes supremely lazy. King of laziness! All running is gone! Where to run? Where to go? One is where one is. No restlessness remains. Whom to speak to? What to say?
Prayer is only when nothing is left to be said, no one is left to say it, and the one to whom it was to be said is also not left. The name of that moment of silence is prayer. Do not spoil prayer by speaking. If you speak, you miss, because in speaking you have concluded there are two—that Thou art the redeemer and we are the sinners. The same one whom you call sinner is seated within you; the same one whom you call redeemer! This division you have created—that Thou art above and we below; Thou great and we petty—whom are you calling petty? He is within you; He is without you. The One alone dwells, the One alone expands. When there is deep recognition of this expansion of the One, there is aloneness.
Do not take it to mean that you will have to sit in a Himalayan cave. Now wherever you live, you sit in the cave of the One; wherever you are, you are alone! Whether you go into the crowd, into the bazaar, or into solitude—the same! Only waves of the one ocean, and you are one such wave.
‘The man who is fulfilled, whose senses are pure, and who always delights in aloneness...’
Now note—always delights in aloneness! If you are in a cave, you cannot be always alone. Someone from the village will bring food for you; then for that time you will not be alone. A crow comes and sits on the cave and begins to caw—then you are not alone. What will you do about crows! Crows are not very spiritual. They do not appear to honor saints. They do not distinguish saint from sinner; in that they are supreme knowers—no distinction; they are in the state of paramhansa! They will not care that you are doing great meditation, counting your beads. They will not care a bit. A dog may come and take rest in the cave—what will you do? Not alone. How can you be always alone? Only if aloneness is linked with that supreme One. Then wherever you are, however you are—the crow comes, yet it is your own nature; the dog comes, yet it is your own nature; if no one is there, He is present as the formless; if someone is there, He is present as form—but in all conditions only the One is present. In the outer and inner, above and below, in all dimensions, in all ten directions, there is the resonance of the One!
‘...and who always delights in aloneness, only he has obtained the fruit of knowledge and of yogic practice.’
Knowledge is fruit; consequence; result. So you may read the scriptures as much as you please, collect them—knowledge will not happen. Turn the pages of yourself! Go within a little. Open your own book. You have kept it tied up for so long—you never opened it. Lifetimes have passed—you carry this book, but never open it. You roam asking others: “Who am I?” You are—and you do not know, so how will another know! You yourself, closest to your own existence, are missing—what answer will another give! Another can only see you from the outside. From the inside, only you are able to see yourself—no one else. Another can only see you as an object; as the seer only you are able to see yourself. And the seer is your nature.
So ask: Who am I? This one thing becomes meditation if you keep asking: Who am I? And not only verbally. Close your eyes and let the feeling be there: Who am I? Set out on the inquiry. Go deeper and deeper, and keep seeing; whatever you see and feel, “This I cannot be,” drop it—and go deeper.
First you meet the body, but you cannot be the body. A hand can be cut off, but you are not cut off; your sense of being remains intact. You were a child, you grew up, you became old, but in your being there is no change; your sense of being is the same. Wrinkles have come on the body, it has grown old, tired, unsteady, now ready to fall—but within, when you close your eyes, has any wrinkle come on your consciousness? It is as fresh as in childhood, just the same. No line of time has been drawn there. Time has left no mark there. No shadow of time has fallen. Timeless, beyond time! You are as you were when you came. No difference has occurred. You are eternal.
You cannot be the body. The body is momentary—changing, changing, changing each moment! The body is a river’s flow, a spinning wheel. You are the unmoving nail.
And one certainty: whatever we can see as an object, we are separate from it. The body you can see as an object—so you are separate. You stand before a mirror; the mirror reflects your image—can you say that is you and nothing more? It is the body’s image, not your consciousness. There is no mirror that can reflect consciousness; there cannot be. The body stands before the mirror; the reflection of the body stands in the mirror; the one who sees both is beyond both. You are seeing your body by bending a little, you are seeing your reflection in the mirror—who are you who sees both? You are different! Separate from both.
Go a little within; then there are waves of thought. Watch them carefully. Ask: “Is this me?” One thought comes and goes, another comes, a third comes; a continuous stream flows; in none of these can you be, because you remain. Thoughts come and go—sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly; sometimes auspicious, sometimes inauspicious; sometimes it arises to love the whole world, sometimes to destroy it; sometimes compassion’s fragrance rises, sometimes anger’s smoke—yet you stand beyond them all and see. You are the witness! No, mind is not you either.
Go still deeper! Proceeding thus, a moment arrives where whatever you are not has fallen away; now only that remains which you are, which cannot be denied. Saying neti-neti—not this, not this—you come home within! There remains only that which has been saying till now: neti-neti—not this, not this! This is you. No written answer appears; there is no nameplate placed within, no tablet on which is written: this is you. But now experience will happen. The rain of experience will descend. Existence will surround you. Life and consciousness will be recognized in deep union; there will be witnessing.
And this is the fruit of knowledge. With this, your senses become svaccha—clear. With this, life becomes fulfilled. With this, you become alone—but not lonely—alone, aloneness. Now only Paramatma remains!
The waves float,

The ocean has drowned,

The stars have awakened,

The sky grows drowsy;

The clay lay scattered,

The pitcher has gone;

Lightning smiled,

The cloud grew tearful;

Eyes closed—dreams,

Eyes opened—mirror;

Thought ripened to fruit,

Vision sprouted as seed.

Eyes closed—dreams;

Eyes opened—mirror!
You are living with your eyes closed. You will be amazed. You say: we live with eyes open. Your outer eyes are open; the inner eye is closed. The day you close the outer, the inner will open. Keep this reversed arithmetic in mind. As long as the outer eyes remain open, the inner is closed; within you are blind. Close the outer a little and vision will turn within. The same faculty of seeing that is engaged without is freed within. Just now within are only dreams. Within there is no truth yet.
Eyes closed—dreams!
This outer open eye means: the inner eye is closed.
Eyes closed—dreams;
Eyes opened—mirror.
Close the outer a little so that the inner opens. Let this energy flow within. This very craving to see outside—turn it a little inward; persuade it, coax it, befriend it, say: come, let us also see within. Much we have seen outside; the eyes are tired, stony—nothing is obtained. Let us also see within a little!
What we seek—who knows, it may be lying within! Before you start searching the whole world, search your own home. Because the world is vast; searching, searching, you will reach nowhere; do not let it happen that at the end it turns out that what we set out to find was lying at home. And so it is. Whoever has searched within has found; whoever searched outside has never found. Without exception, those who have found are inner seekers; without exception, those who have searched much and never found are outer seekers.
On the first evening of Ashadha,

The dark-blue clouds poured down;

The sky’s blue cloud burst,

As if the pitcher on the path broke;

A shower of light rained;

Jasmine rays fell from the vine;

Honey-sweet moonlight spread,

Oceans of rays scattered.
Go a little within—an extraordinary rain begins.
On the first evening of Ashadha,

The dark-blue clouds poured down;

The sky’s blue cloud burst,

As if the pitcher on the path broke;

A shower of light rained;

Jasmine rays fell from the vine;

Honey-sweet moonlight spread,

Oceans of rays scattered.
Within you, within you, you carry great suns. Just open the inner knot, untie the inner bundle, break the inner pitcher—and rays upon rays will shower! In that rain the senses become clear. In that rain the life-breaths become fulfilled. The fruit is found!
“Hanta, the knower of the Truth never meets sorrow in this world, for by that One alone this entire cosmic expanse is complete.”
In Dattatreya’s life it is mentioned: he went begging at a door. No one was at home; a maiden was there. Her parents had gone to the fields. The girl said, “You have come; my parents are not here. If you wait two moments I will husk some rice for you; there is nothing else in the house. I will husk the rice, clean it, and fill your bowl.” Dattatreya waited. As she began husking, many bangles on her hand jingled. She felt great embarrassment—this jingling, this noise, a saint at the door! She removed them one by one. The noise lessened. Dattatreya was surprised. Finally the noise vanished, because only one bangle remained on the hand. When she came to give the rice, he asked, “I want to ask something: at first when you began husking there was much noise; then little by little it lessened; what happened? Then it vanished.” The girl said, “Thinking that you are at the door, I felt embarrassed that your peace might be disturbed. There were many bangles on the hand; there was noise. I took them off one by one. The noise lessened, but remained. When one bangle remained, all noise disappeared.”
Then Dattatreya said this verse:
Vāso bahūnāṁ kalaho bhaved vārtā dvayor api.
Kākī vicared vidvān kumāryā iva kaṅkaṇaḥ..
“As on a virgin’s hand many bangles create clamor, so in the mind where there is a crowd there is much noise. As when a single bangle remains on a virgin’s hand clamor ceases, so when within one attains the One and the crowd dissolves, such a peace is attained.”
He said, “Daughter, you did well! I have received a great insight.”
He who seeks insight receives it from anywhere. He who does not, even if he sits before a Buddha and listens to his words, nothing happens. The flute plays, the buffalo keeps chewing the cud—it does not care.
Na kadācij jagaty asmiṁs tattvajño hanta khidyati.
Yata ekena tenedaṁ pūrṇa brahmāṇḍa-maṇḍalam..
“Hanta, disciple! The knower of the Truth never becomes aggrieved in the world, for by that One alone this entire cosmic sphere is complete.”
This word is simple, but very deep!
Perhaps you have heard Jean-Paul Sartre’s famous sentence: “The Other is hell.” Because of the other there is hell. Wherever the other is, there is conflict. The very presence of the other is conflict. One way is a cheap way: leave the other and run away; but it is cheap—you will not get far!
I have heard: a man ran away. He sat beneath a tree, very relaxed: now no wife, no sons, no one to bother me—now I will do supreme meditation! A crow came and dropped its droppings on him. He stood up angry: “Enough! Left home and hearth and this crow has come!”
The other will show up anywhere. Until the very sense of “other” itself disappears, until the seeing of “other” in the other stops—until then hell continues.
You may have noticed: you sit alone in your room, at ease, resting—and suddenly someone knocks at the door; at the knock tension is produced. Rest is gone. A guest arrives. You say, of course, out of politeness: what a joy to see you, I am overwhelmed! But your face shows no such emotion; your eyes show no welcome. You say it as social decorum. You seat him too.
One day a guest like that came to Mulla Nasruddin’s house—a blatherer. He talks for hours. Mulla began to be bored. Many ruses he tried; many times he looked at the clock; he yawned often—but those who specialize in boring others have no concern for these things. They are absorbed in their job. He went on and on. Finally Mulla said, “It is getting late at night; you will be delayed reaching home.” Reluctantly he stood. “Yes, correct; my wife must be waiting. I go now.” Mulla was delighted. He took two steps, reached the table, picked up a book and began to leaf through it. Mulla said, Another hassle! He turned the book over and put it down, then changed tack, returned and said, “I remember, I wanted to say something!” Mulla said, “Perhaps you want to say ‘Goodbye’?”
Some people have no sense of it at all, no understanding that if someone is alone, do not disturb his aloneness. In the East there is no such awareness. In the West a little understanding has arisen that if someone is alone, do not disturb him. Here there is no such thought.
Why is it an offense, an immorality, to break someone’s aloneness? Because in aloneness alone there is some rest. The moment the other arrives, rest is gone. As soon as the other is present, the very presence of the other creates waves of tension. You are not natural. You are not simple. Sometimes in your bathroom you are a little simple—alone! But if you came to know someone is peeping through the keyhole, instantly naturalness disappears. Perhaps a moment before you were making faces in the mirror enjoying yourself, or humming a childhood tune; but if you found your little son peeping through the keyhole—even then you stop; you are no longer simple, no longer spontaneous.
The greatest tension of our life is this: another’s eye makes us restless and forces us to put on a mask. We have to show what we are not. We have to behave as we are not. A smile not arising has to be dragged to the face. We have to say what we do not want to say. The inner simplicity and spontaneity must be blocked. And we live in crowds twenty-four hours a day; slowly we forget our real face—these masks are all that remain. Go to the office; put on one mask before the peon. As you pass him, you wear one face. The moment you enter the boss’s room, instantly the mask changes! Now the process is so mechanical that you do not even notice, like a skilled driver changing gears unnoticed—even the passenger cannot tell. You change gears. You change faces. Past the peon you strutted as if he were an insignificant insect. Then before the boss you yourself became the insect, wagging your tail. Instantly the face changed.
A man came to see Mulla Nasruddin. Mulla didn’t know who he was. So he didn’t even say “Sit.” You don’t say it to everyone. People act according to calculation. The man said, “Perhaps you don’t know I am a leader of the Congress, an M.P.” Mulla said, “Ah, sit down, sit in the chair.” He himself stood up. “Come, what a joy!” The man said, “You probably also don’t know that I will soon be inducted into the Cabinet.” Mulla said, “Ah—sit on two chairs! How will one chair suffice!”
Seeing people, we keep changing faces all day. At home you have one face for your wife, another for your son. Amidst these faces we forget what the original face is.
Zen masters tell their seekers: first find your original face—only then the work begins. These false faces won’t do; with false faces you will never reach Paramatma. Find the original face. The original face—the one you had before birth and will again have after death! Remove the crowd in between.
The original face! It opens only in solitude. But we have completely forgotten solitude. Supreme solitude is available only when we come to know that the One alone is. Then there is no face to change. Therefore the saint becomes like a small child. There is no other here—whom to hide from? Whom to save from? Whom to deceive? What politics! What diplomacy! Only the One is here.
It is as if the left hand deceives the right. There are such people who can have the left deceive the right.
Have you ever seen someone in a train? I often traveled; I have seen many times—gentlemen playing cards alone, laying down moves from both sides; even so, thinking there will be win-lose! Enough is enough. You are playing both sides; you know both moves—whom are you deceiving? Whether the left hand wins or the right—what difference is there! Who wins, who loses! Yet you are engrossed.
Our life is a deception. Its root cause is the presence of the other. There are two ways to remove the other. There is a cheap way: run to the forest—it doesn’t work. Ashtavakra says: there is a deep way—know yourself, and through your knowing, you will know that you pervade all. Only the One is. What appears as I and Thou is like the left and right hands. These are two wings of one existence. Then there is no deception. You become innocent.
“Hanta, the knower of the Truth never meets sorrow in this world, for by that One alone this entire cosmic expanse is complete.”
Then what sorrow! Sorrow is due to the other. Suffering is in the presence of the other; because the other’s presence limits us, and the other’s presence forces us into false behavior, and the other’s presence falls upon our chest like a stone.
As long as there is the other, there is suffering. How to eliminate the other! We try to eliminate the other in many ways—whether knowingly or unknowingly. You can see: the husband tries to eliminate the wife completely, so she has no existence; make her a maid. Husbands have taught for centuries: we are God, you are maid! Wives also say, “Right.” They write letters signing “your maid.” But the way they take revenge! They show the husband twenty-four hours a day who the maid is! “You are God,” they say, and keep pulling his leg.
One day Mulla and his wife quarreled. The wife chased Mulla; as is her habit—she might strike, throw things. He panicked and slid under the bed. The wife said, “Come out, coward!” Mulla said, “Let it be! Who can pull me out! I am the master of this house; I will sit where I wish. Let us see who pulls me out!” The wife is a little heavy-built; she cannot slide under the bed.
The wife’s whole effort is to eliminate the husband. Why? There is a deep reason. The presence of the other is dangerous; there is fear that he may become the master. Before he becomes the master, make him the slave—strangle his neck!
A child is born in your house; you say you love the child; but both mother and father begin to eliminate the child. Quickly plaster him over and finish him before he declares his freedom, his spontaneity! You say, we love; but in your love there is not much truth. In the name of love you feed poison. The wife says to the husband, we love you. If there is love—set him free! Love always frees. The husband says to the wife, I love you. This looks like a cover under which poison is given. Drink it in the name of love—and die! We kill the child. The father tries, the mother tries, the family tries that the child have no freedom at all. Therefore we put great value on obedience. Obedience means: do not be like yourself; be as we say! Your fathers killed you; kill your sons. They will kill theirs. For centuries, generations kill each other and man is completely dead. The pursuit never ends.
If you love a child—truly—then you will accept his freedom, embrace it. You will not commit this injustice, just because you are stronger, to strangle his neck.
Khalil Gibran has said: give love, but do not give your doctrines. Give love, but not your scripture. Love, but do not take away freedom. Because if freedom is taken away, love cannot be. Love gives freedom. The proof of love is one: freedom. Love accepts the other as oneself. Love sees oneself in the other.
As for yourself—do you always want to be free? Then to the one you love you will also give supreme freedom. But we try to eliminate the other in a thousand ways—because we are afraid. If we do not eliminate him, perhaps he will eliminate us; perhaps he will sit on our chest!
We tremble. Why do we tremble? Because there is the other. One way to eliminate the other is to crush his neck. One way is Hitler’s: kill the other, destroy him utterly. Another way is Buddha’s: look into the other and find yourself. Then you neither need to eliminate, nor to be violent, nor destructive. In the other you find your own reflection. Then the other is no more. And when there is no other in one’s life, says Ashtavakra, there is no sorrow, no suffering.
If you let the breeze of the One blow a little, spring will come into your life; a great fragrance will enter!
Softly it began to flow,

Hush, hush, hush—the sound;

The branches felt

As if awakened by embers;

Buds of the eyes—

Sisters, open a little!

Rustle your self-leaves—

As if awakening them;

Leaf-tips suddenly

Began to clap;

Branches gently

Began to sway;

At the feet of what ocean

Of supreme bliss

Did the world’s breaths

Begin to sing?

The world woke—

Trees awoke;

Hearing the proclamation

Birds burst into chirping;

Where the gust of wind came

There arose in the world

Why this hush, this hushing everywhere!
As the morning breeze comes, awakens the flowers, teases the leaves, raises a thousand songs, drops the sleep, scatters the dreams—an awakening spreads across the world! Exactly so—if you see the One, a unique fragrance will arise in your life; a wondrous breeze will arrive! You will be free of your staleness, your fettered, stale air. Your limitation will fall. Where you see the One, the infinite begins to come, the waves of the infinite begin to come. In those waves there is happiness, peace, rest.
Citi-kṣiti is advaita;

In duality only their seeing;

Form and formless are no rivals;

The mirror is bound to the image;

In the fleeting past,

In the manifest being,

Ever the Avadhuta, stainless;

Word-free yet word-bound,

Thinkable-unthinkable, eternal;

Satya Shivam,

Satyam Sundaram;

Name itself is adjective;

Grammar is vain;

How to address the endless peace!

In the fleeting past,

In the manifest being,

Ever the Avadhuta, stainless!
Only the One is hidden!
Form and formless are no rivals;

The mirror is bound to the image!
We—you and I—are bound as image and mirror. You stand before a mirror; you appear separate, the reflection appears separate; you step away, the reflection goes! You and your reflection are not two; one alone.
Form and formless are no rivals;

The mirror is bound to the image!
As your reflection is bound to you, so is Paramatma bound to the world; the body is bound to the soul; I is bound to Thou. Where you see duality—night is bound to day, life to death. Here all is bound, gathered together. Look a little closely and you will find only the One. The one who finds the One goes beyond sorrow.
“As the elephant pleased by the leaves of sallakī cannot be delighted by neem leaves, so too no objects delight the one who delights in the Self.”
Na jātu viṣayāḥ ke’pi svārāmaṁ harṣayanty amī.
Sallakī-pallava-prītam ivemaṁ nimba-pallavāḥ..
If an elephant has chewed the sweet leaves of sallakī, then do what you will—you cannot make him chew bitter neem leaves. He who has tasted the higher does not settle for the lower. He who has tasted a little of Ram’s rasa finds no taste in kāma. One who got a glimpse of Samadhi finds sex meaningless. One to whom a breeze of meditation has begun to come loosens his grip on wealth. But mind it: the vast comes first; the petty goes later.
“As the neem leaves cannot delight the elephant pleased by sallakī leaves...”
Our condition is reversed. Your so-called saints tell you: leave the world if you want Paramatma. I say to you: find Paramatma if you want to leave the world. Grasp the difference well. You are told: drop the futile if you want the meaningful. I say: have a little experience of the meaningful if you want to drop the futile. You cannot be persuaded to drop the futile. One who has tasted only neem leaves, and knows nothing of the sweet sallakī, you may talk to him endlessly; he does not believe. He has known only one taste; another might even be—this does not settle in his mind; no trust arises. You say so much; to him it seems your eye is on his neem leaves—you will snatch them away and seize them for yourself; what is your intention God knows! Why are you after me? And even if he drops neem leaves, the habit of bitterness will not leave so easily. He will drop neem leaves, but at night he will eat neem in dreams; thoughts will be shadowed by neem; he will not be free. Outwardly he may flee; inwardly he will remain connected. No, revolution does not happen that way.
People come to me. They say, “We are indulgent. How can we enter sannyas?” I say: drop worrying; you know indulgence. Enter sannyas; if its taste arises, if the leaves of sallakī begin to give rasa—then you can think. Whether to drop neem or not—that is up to you; why should I enter your arbitration! Why should I tell you to drop neem leaves! If the sweet taste of sallakī frees you, good; if not, also good. But it has never failed. As soon as you experience the delicious, you begin to drop the bitter. I want to fill your bag with diamonds and pearls. I am not asking you to throw away your pebbles and stones. You will throw them yourself. Once you glimpse the diamonds, you will immediately empty your bag; because the same space will be needed for diamonds. You will not keep clutching stones.
Call first to Paramatma—the world departs on its own. Do not worry about it. If you set about leaving the world you will entangle yourself in great trouble. You will not get joy; and even the pain you had you will lose. Remember: man prefers suffering to emptiness. It will surprise you, but one deep finding of modern psychology is: man prefers madness to emptiness, because in madness at least there is some outline; all is not lost. People at least say: this man is mad. He is in a madhouse. Doctors come to care. Friends come to express sympathy. People listen with concern. Something at least. Nothing—null, void—such a state frightens greatly! The life-breaths writhe.
Therefore I say to you: you will not be able to drop suffering until you taste joy. Until joy’s taste arises I do not even want to take your pain away; for now it is your treasure. You hold it to your chest. At least it is something. You are not completely empty. You are not cast into a void. Let wealth be, house be, family be—at least you hold something! Something is in hand. Ashes—call them vibhuti if you like—ashes, but something! The boat is of paper perhaps—but it is a boat; it looks like a boat at least! It will sink when it does, but for now the trust of the boat is there. The dream, when it breaks it will break—but now it is a support; by holding its support you swim along. Do not snatch it yet.
Until truth is found, your dream should not be snatched. The supremely wise have always tried this: first the true; then the false departs by itself.
Consider a dark room. One way is to push the darkness out—you will go mad; it will not go. Another way: bring a lamp; light it; darkness leaves by itself.
“He who is not attached to the pleasures already enjoyed and is without desire for pleasures not yet enjoyed—such a man is rare in the world.”
Two things hold man: pleasures already enjoyed—what you have experienced leaves a taste; the mind wants repetition—again the same pleasure. This is the past. And there is the longing for unexperienced pleasures—this is the future. Between these two a man is crushed. Between two millstones—no one is spared! What was enjoyed haunts you: enjoy again. And what is not yet enjoyed, a fierce desire arises: before dying, enjoy it once!
“One who is not attached to pleasures enjoyed and is desireless toward pleasures not enjoyed—such a person is rare in the world.”
Yas tu bhogeṣu bhukteṣu na bhavaty adhivāsitaḥ.
Abhukteṣu nirākāṅkṣī tādṛśo bhava durlabhaḥ..
Such a person is very rare who has escaped both millstones. And he who has, he alone has known the truth of life; he alone has tasted the fruit of knowledge.
So leave the past—understand it. In repeating what has been enjoyed there is no essence. For when you enjoyed, what did you get? You enjoyed, and then? Your hands remained empty. Now again to enjoy the same—that is deep unconsciousness. And what you want to enjoy tomorrow is today’s unexperienced pleasure—yesterday, too, it was unexperienced; you enjoyed it and got nothing. Now you chase another unexperienced one! You built a big house; you find no joy in it; now you think of a bigger one!
I have heard Mulla Nasruddin was employed in an emperor’s house. He was cleaning the room. Seeing the splendid bed his mind was lured many times: let me lie once and see! What joy the emperor must take! So soft, velvety, precious! Inlaid with gold and silver! Diamonds and jewels dangling all around! That day the emperor was busy in court; Mulla thought, let me lie for five minutes. He lay down. He dozed off. The emperor came to the room, saw him on the bed—he became very angry. Fifty lashes were ordered. The lashes began. At each lash Mulla roared with laughter. The emperor was amazed—mad? What is the matter! This is madness. First he slept on the bed, knowing it was an offense; and now he laughs! The lashes fell; streams of blood flowed; skin flayed—and he laughed! Finally the emperor said, “Stop; what is this? Why do you laugh when whipped?”
He said, “I laugh because I slept only fifteen minutes—what will be your fate! In fifteen minutes, fifty lashes! Do the math—I am calculating within what will be the fate of this poor fellow in the end!”
The pleasures you have enjoyed—what have you gained but pain? Look back—trace the marks of your past. Only wounds upon wounds—what did you obtain? You desired rasa, where did it come? Hot coals you got! You have been burned at places—your whole being is burned, pierced—and now you desire those pleasures not yet enjoyed. Look at those who are enjoying! Seeing them, wake up. Because it will never happen that nothing remains unexperienced. If you think you will enjoy all and only then wake up—you will never wake up. The world is infinite. It can never happen that you can say: all has been enjoyed. Use a little intelligence. A little thinking, a little awareness, a little seeing.
“In this world those who desire pleasure and those who desire liberation are both seen. But one who is without desire for both pleasure and liberation is a rare great one!”
With me an injustice!

Cups, countless cups of nectars, placed before me, block the path;

But to my lips they bring only streams of tears.

With me an injustice!
Everyone is saying: there is injustice with me. So many nectars and I get no chance to drink! So many nectars, and everywhere walls; sentries posted, guards. Everywhere obstacles.
With me an injustice!

Cups, countless cups of nectars, placed before me, block the path;

But to my lips they bring only streams of tears.

With me an injustice!
No, no one is doing injustice to you. Nor is it that no one brings the cups to you. Each cup, by the time it reaches you, turns into streams of tears. No one is doing it. In truth the cups are filled with tears. From afar, because of your desire, they appear as nectar. When you come near, enter into experience—everything becomes tears. Search your life. You will find streams of tears. If someone did anything, it is you yourself.
That day in the pageant of dreams

I smiled for a moment;

Do not break now for ages,

O strings of salty tears!

Take revenge, O moments of joy!

I wore chains of gold

Danced in a dream for a moment;

Claim me forever now—

Clamp me in iron shackles!

Take revenge, O moments of joy!
Each small pleasure descends into deep pain. Each tiny heaven leaves many hells.
That day in the pageant of dreams

I smiled for a moment;

Do not break now for ages,

O strings of salty tears!

Take revenge, O moments of joy!
Each pleasure seems to take deep revenge. When each pleasure breaks it leaves a deep melancholy.
I wore chains of gold

Danced in a dream for a moment;

Claim me forever now—

Clamp me in iron shackles!

Take revenge, O moments of joy!
Whatever pleasures you desired—those very ones are taking revenge on you. What you desired—if you got it, it is suffering; if you did not, it is suffering. In desiring you desired only suffering. Get it—suffering. Not get it—suffering. Become rich—you will be miserable. Look at the rich. Remain poor—you will be miserable. Remain unmarried—you will be miserable; marry—you will be miserable. Look at the married! In life, look at the winners and the losers—you will find all miserable. If ever you have found a man happy, he is one who has dropped both winning and losing; who has become a witness, a seer. Neither the losers are happy, nor the winners—the one who transcends both alone is happy.
Bubhukṣur iha saṁsāre mumukṣur api dṛśyate.
Bhoga-mokṣa-nirākāṅkṣī viralo hi mahāśayaḥ..
Such a one is a rare mahāśaya! This word mahāśaya is lovely. Along with it we should coin another: kṣudrāśaya. If there is any desire in your mind, you become kṣudrāśaya, small-hearted; because your desire narrows you; your intention becomes small. One who desired wealth became small. His desire defines him. How will you remember him? As wealth-aspirer. His longing is for wealth; he becomes smaller than wealth. Wealth is a clod; he becomes worse than clods. Only he would desire clods who is worse than clods! Someone desired position, he became smaller than position. Kṣudrāśaya! He desired a chair, so he is smaller than the chair.
Psychologists say: the seekers of position suffer from inferiority complexes. All politicians are victims of inferiority. In a good world, politicians will not be in capitals; they will be in madhouses. They will be treated. I say to you: if the mad are released from madhouses and politicians put in—I assure you the world will be better. For no madman has ever done such vast damage as a position-seeker does.
Psychologists say: the deeper the inner inferiority, the more a man wants to compensate; the louder the claim: I am this, I am that! President! Prime Minister! Minister! Something! Governor! Something! Until he can make this claim, he finds no rest; his inferiority gnaws him like a worm. Kṣudrāśaya!
Who is mahāśaya? He in whose life there is no such desire that narrows; one who is open in all dimensions! Mahā-āśaya—whose intention is great! You will be amazed: Ashtavakra says, if you desire even moksha you become kṣudrāśaya—because the desire for moksha is desire still. Greater than wealth, granted; greater than position, granted—but a desire nonetheless. Desirelessness alone makes you mahāśaya.
“Only a broad-hearted one holds no attitude of acceptance or rejection toward dharma, artha, kāma, moksha, life or death.”
Some udāracitta—broad-hearted! Mahāśaya means broad-hearted. Kṣudrāśaya means narrow-hearted. You are as narrow as your desire is narrow. It is in your hands. You can make a prison as small as your desire. If you want freedom, let all desire go. Do not desire anything. This very moment you are free! Moksha is not a goal of desire; when there is no desire, what is—that is moksha. You cannot target moksha with the arrow of desire. Moksha is no target. Moksha is the state of being mahāśaya. The intention has become vast; nothing is to be desired—on the day nothing is to be desired, you have become God. The Lord is enthroned within. In that supreme fulfillment the senses become clear. In that supreme fulfillment you return home; the journey ends.
In whom there is no sense of acceptance or rejection regarding dharma, artha, kāma, moksha, life and death—such a broad-hearted one is rare...
Dharmārtha-kāma-mokṣeṣu jīvite maraṇe tathā.
Kasyāpy udāracittasya heyopādeyatā na hi..
“In whom there is no desire for the annihilation of the world, nor aversion toward its continuation—that blessed one therefore lives happily by whatever livelihood comes of itself.”
Vāñchā na viśva-vilaye na dveṣas tasya ca sthitau.
Yathājīvikayā tasmād dhanya āste yathā-sukham..
Blessed is the one who has no desire at all—not even the desire that the world be or not be. Not even eager for the destruction of the world.
Consider: the one who desires moksha becomes eager for the world’s end. He wants the world to be no more; this net to end; this dream to break!
“In whom there is no wish for the annihilation of the world, nor aversion to its being...”
As it is—it is right. Let it be as it is; there is no demand for otherwise. Such a person is blessed. In what comes, he is blessed. Whatever the Lord gives—therein he is blessed. What comes, he receives as prasad. What comes is sufficient.
“...therefore he lives happily by what comes of itself.”
He does not think that more should come, in a different way, a little differently. What has come does not generate a longing for something otherwise. This is the state of the knower. This is the state of the witness.
And in becoming a witness nothing else is a means. To be a witness is itself the means. For this there is no other arrangement to make. As you are, the arrangement is complete; simply close the eyes. Raise within this deep inquiry: Who am I? Sever connection within from all that you are not. Finally only that remains which you are—and once its taste comes, the delicious fruits are tasted; then there is no longing to taste the bitter fruits of neem. This is life’s supreme acceptance.
In Ashtavakra’s voice there is no negation, no denial. What is, is perfect. What is, is Brahman-form. What is, is the expansion of Brahman. Become part of this expansion. Abandon your limit, let it go, become dissolved, become One. Become One—then ekākī. Wherever you live, however you live, whatever comes as given will bring festival. You will be blessed, you will be grateful! From your life, day and night, gratitude will arise. It is by the continual rising of gratitude that a religious man is known. As fragrance rises from a flower, as light falls from a lamp—so gratitude rains from the life of the religious.
Hari Om Tatsat!