Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #3

Slowly, slowly the age’s cruelty works upon us.
Each day, a day is subtracted from my years.
Perhaps the garden weeps for the prisoners of the cage—
at dawn the hem of grass and flower is moist.

Man thinks he is living; the truth is otherwise—we are dying every day. The very process we call life is the process of death. From the day we were born, dying began. Each day is spent, with every moment life grows thinner. The vessel is emptying, not filling. And if drop by drop emptiness proceeds, even an ocean is emptied—while we are only small pitchers.

Slowly, slowly the age’s cruelty works upon us—
so slowly that we do not notice. So softly it happens that only those very alert, very aware, very watchful come to know; the rest are deceived.

Slowly, slowly the age’s cruelty works upon us.
Each day, a day is subtracted from my years.
Perhaps the garden weeps for the prisoners of the cage—
at dawn the hem of grass and flower is moist.

Go in the morning and look in the garden—the petals of flowers, the edges of the blades of grass, the rims of leaves are wet. Perhaps the garden is crying, there are tears in the garden’s eyes—knowing that these flowers are now, and in a moment they will not be; knowing that here, everything is like inmates locked in a cage.

Not only birds are caged—man too, though his cage is not visible; for his cages are subtle, invisible. He too is confined. He too is a prisoner. One is imprisoned as a Hindu, another as a Muslim, another as a Jain—these are all cages. Prejudice means a cage. To believe in anything without knowing means a cage. To adopt belief without experience is blindness.

Perhaps the garden also weeps for us. Each morning the tips and edges of flowers and leaves are wet. But we are not conscious; we rush headlong in our unconsciousness. We go on doing what we did yesterday, and the day before—what we have done countless times in past lives.

A thousand kinds of imaginings turned sides,
the cage remained a cage, it never became a nest.

Prison is prison; it cannot become a home. However much your imaginations may toss and turn—and this is what we have been doing for lives. Imaginations changed sides. When we were this, we wanted to be that; when we were that, we wanted to be this—thus we have wandered through eighty-four million wombs. Only the turnings of fancy—nothing else.

The poor want to be rich, and the rich think there is great spirituality in poverty. The rich think there is great freedom in poverty. The rich think, the poor at least know how to sleep like selling their horses; I cannot sleep at all. What if the bed is beautiful? What if the mansion is grand?—sleep is lost! What if the food is delicious?—hunger is lost! Hunger is with the poor, food is with the rich. The poor burn to have food like the rich; the rich burn to have hunger like the poor. Wherever one is, one is dissatisfied. Those who have wealth, their anxieties are endless. Those who do not have wealth have one anxiety—how to get it. Those who have are afraid of losing; those who have not are tormented about when they will get. Those who have want more. Nowhere is there contentment. There is a scramble, discontent, insatiability.

These are our cages. Invisible cages. Therefore we walk, rise, sit—yet we are bound. If rightly understood, even the body is a cage, and the mind is a cage. The body is a cage of bone, flesh, marrow; the mind is a cage of thoughts, beliefs, prejudices. He who is free of mind and body—only he is free. Only he knows life’s supreme beauty, life’s meaning—its meaningfulness, life’s godliness. Only he knows life’s eternity. Only he becomes acquainted with That—the mystery of mysteries, the Ultimate—God. The moment He is known, death disappears, sorrow disappears, suffering disappears. A day-and-night shower of bliss begins, a rain of nectar descends. Then it is monsoon forever; no other season remains.

In the beginning of love we were fire—
by the end we became ash: such is the extremity.

In the beginning everyone feels like fire, like embers. It is only much later one discovers that embers turn to ash. The one who knows while still an ember that he will become ash—into his life Sannyas enters; into his life a ray of meditation descends, the search for Samadhi begins.

The embers will become ash. While you are still embers, use that warmth for something. While life has heat, use it rightly—create something. Create that which does not perish. Do not waste it on what is bound to vanish. Do not build houses of sand, do not float paper boats.

There is a boat that carries one across—but that boat is of meditation. There is a house that becomes the very temple of the Divine—but that house is of consciousness, of awareness, of Buddhahood. He who has not found this has wasted life—wasted it in vain.

Behold the colors of delight—but do not be assured.
Perhaps this too is some face of sorrow.

The garden is in spring—laugh, O flowers, laugh—
until you know your fate.

I do not feel it now, yet I remember at least this much—
that ascent and decline wore differing faces.

Behold the colors of delight…

Look—people all around are laughing, smiling, making efforts to live. They may lose in the end, but in striving they do not slacken. The smiles may be false, pasted on, yet they are many.

Behold the colors of delight…

See these colors! See this cheer! This surface cheer, these surface colors, this surface spring—this false spring, these counterfeit blossoms.

Behold the colors of delight—but do not be assured. Do not be deceived. Do not take comfort. Seeing people laugh, do not assume there is laughter in their lives. Laughter has been in the lives of only a very few—some Buddha, some Jesus, some Kabir, some Nanak, some Raidas. In this world, very few have truly laughed. Only those who have known themselves. In them fountains have sprung—of bliss, of joy, of celebration. The rest of the laughter is false, hollow—devices to cover inner emptiness, arrangements to forget inner void.

There are tears within—but to whom will you show your tears? Tears have to be hidden—what will people say? Why expose yourself? The ego says, hide the tears; smile, keep smiling. If you cannot smile within, at least smile without. If you have no truth, no matter—at least pretend to truth. If real flowers are not available, plastic flowers are—at least the neighbor will be deceived.

Behold the colors of delight—but do not be assured.
Look at people’s laughter, smiles, cheer, festivities, shows—the shehnai sounds, flutes play, songs are sung, dances performed. Watch it all—but do not be assured, do not accept it as true.

Behold the colors of delight—but do not be assured.
Perhaps this too is one posture of sorrow.

Someone asked Friedrich Nietzsche: You are always laughing—what is the secret of your laughter?
Nietzsche said: If you truly ask, I laugh so that I may not begin to weep. If I do not laugh, I shall burst into tears. The energy waiting to become tears, I somehow mold into a smile. Thus I deceive others, and seeing that they are deceived, I am deceived by their deception.

Life is strange beyond reason—deceiving the other, you begin to deceive yourself.

Mulla Nasruddin went out for an evening stroll. Dusk was gathering. Near the royal palace, some mischievous boys began troubling him—someone tugged his coat, someone put a hand in his pocket, someone tried to snatch his stick. A crowd of lads, and Mulla an old man. He thought: difficult to escape these. But he had not bleached his hair in the sun, he had bleached it in experience. He said to them: Do you know where I am going? I am going to the palace—there is a feast today. What are you doing here? The whole town is invited—you did not know?
As soon as the boys heard, they left Mulla and ran toward the palace. When all the boys ran, Mulla too ran behind them. He thought: who knows, perhaps the lie I told is true! Perhaps by mistake my lie is truth! Who can tell—there may indeed be an invitation at the palace. So many are deceived—it is worth going to see.

You must have found that if you go on telling a lie, slowly you begin to believe it yourself. Then it becomes difficult to decide whether what you said was lie or truth. If people believe it, because of their believing you too accept it as truth.

Behold the colors of delight—but do not be assured.
Perhaps this too is one posture of sorrow.

Perhaps this is but a covering for grief, a method, a mask.

The garden is in spring—laugh, O flowers, laugh—
until you know your fate.

Spring has come—so bloom, laugh! Until you know your outcome, your future. The fall is not far behind. The flower that opens in the morning will drop by evening. The leaf now green will soon turn yellow. The one so full of pride, so arrogant, wrestling with the winds, imagining itself able to face the sun’s rays, dancing with the birds’ songs—has no idea that before the sun can set, life will set. The one who blossomed at dawn will wither by dusk.

The garden is in spring—laugh, O flowers, laugh—
until you know your fate.

I do not feel it now, yet I remember at least this much—
that ascent and decline wore differing faces.

In the end you will find that what you called rise and what you called fall were one and the same—the faces only differed. What you called sorrow and what you called joy were one and the same—the faces only differed. But this comes to be known so late that nothing can be done. Evening has arrived, petals are falling, leaves have turned yellow—then even if you wish to do something, you cannot.

For centuries this land had a tradition—Sannyas after seventy-five. Mahavira and Buddha broke that tradition, and in breaking it they showered great compassion. That tradition was cunning. It was cleverness. It was the invention of the dishonest—the logic of pundits and priests: in the final stage, when evening sets in, when the sun begins to sink, when petals are about to scatter and leaves begin to yellow, when autumn knocks at the door—then take Sannyas.

But what is the worth of such Sannyas? It is meaningless, futile.

A sense of renouncing the world arose in my heart—
but when? When the world no longer needed me.

Then arose the thought of leaving the world—but when the world had no use for me. Is that renunciation? Is that sacrifice? Is that Sannyas? The greatest gift that Buddha and Mahavira gave humanity was youth-Sannyas—the greatest of gifts. People say their greatest gift was non-violence—not at all. Their greatest gift was this awakening: turn toward yourself as early as possible. Evening is not far, you do not know when it will be; you do not know when the sun will set. This moment is in your hands; the next moment may not be. Do not trust tomorrow.

Hindu society has never forgiven Mahavira and Buddha. The biggest reason is this: they gave Sannyas to the young—even to children. If children and youth take Sannyas, the ready-made social structure of centuries will fall apart. What will happen to the Brahmin priest? He wants to perform all your rituals from birth to death. He wants to exploit you from the day of birth to the day of death. He has spread such a net that if you are born he is needed; for naming he is needed; for the sacred thread he is needed; for marriage he is needed; then when your children are born he is needed; when you grow old he is needed; when you die he is needed.

He has tightened his grip on your entire life; from corner to corner he has left nothing. Even after death he does not leave you—he will conduct the third day, the thirteenth day, and not satisfied with that, every year in the fortnight of the ancestors he will exploit you again. If he does not spare the dead, how will he spare the living?

Buddha and Mahavira shattered this four-ashrama arrangement. The very meaning of Sannyasin is: one who is free of Brahmin, pundit, priest. And the Sannyasin is beyond varna. The Brahmin order stands on the four varnas—Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, Shudra. But a Sannyasin has no varna. The moment one becomes a Sannyasin, one goes beyond varna, outside the system. No social rule or code applies to him—he has transcended.

Thus they broke the ashrama system—because they gave Sannyas to the young; and they broke the varna system—because a Sannyasin belongs to no varna. Once Sannyas happens, only one varna remains—Sannyas. Whether one was Brahmin or Shudra or Kshatriya—no difference remains. In both ways the very roots of Hindu structure were broken by Buddha and Mahavira. Hindus cannot forgive them.

Yet what they did was revolutionary. When life is in your hands, when energy is there, when there is zest, capacity to do something, courage to take challenges—climb the mountain while you can climb. Swim the ocean while you can swim. If you take Sannyas when you have become a skeleton, then Sannyas is for corpses. No flowers can bloom in that dead Sannyas. Remember this arithmetic: in one who has no capacity to sin, the capacity to do virtue is also absent. The capacity is one—whether you commit sin or do virtue. The capacity is one—whether you create the world or take Sannyas. Energy is one—whether you seek the eternal or squander it in the fleeting; whether you wander in the desert or reach the ocean.

Raidas says—
The day that comes is the day that goes.

The day that has come will go. The life you have received will be snatched away. It is an opportunity. It is not given forever. It has a limit. Within that limit, do something—something that joins you to the Eternal, so you become infinite. Life has a limit—but there is another life, the supreme Life, which has no limit. The life in the body is here today, gone tomorrow. Its death is certain. None can escape death. Strange but true—that in this world only one thing is absolutely certain after birth, a hundred percent certain—and that is death.

Departure must be made—abiding is not.

Depart you will. This caravan will arise. All this grandeur will be left behind. This is an inn; to halt at night is fine, but by morning you must pack up your bundle. Do not mistake the inn for home.

Departure must be made—abiding is not.

Go you must. Abiding is not. Will you spend the whole night painting the walls of the inn? Hanging pictures on the walls the whole night? Cleaning the inn all night? Will you lose the entire time arranging the inn—and morning comes, and the inn is taken away!

No—use the inn. Do not waste all your time in the inn. Do not get entangled only in this body. Unentangle a little. Wake a little from this body. Rise a little above it. Granted you must live seventy or eighty years in this body—but compared to eternity, what is the value of seventy or eighty years? Not even a night. And how quickly the day goes! Time cannot be held in the fist. Morning comes and evening has arrived. Morning becomes evening, and so life is spent.

Yesterday you did the same, today you will do the same, tomorrow the same, and the day after the same. One day death will stand at the door—what answer will you give? Your head will hang, your hands will be empty. You will beg: just a little more time, a little more life—for this has been wasted. And the result of that beggary is—again you will be born. What you ask, you will receive. If you ask for birth again, you will be born again; you will enter some womb once more. But you will repeat the same mistakes you repeated before—perhaps even more assuredly, thinking, no worry, births keep coming, what is the hurry!

That is why India is so lethargic—birth upon birth, what is the hurry! Another birth will come, and another; we will do it later. But you will still be you. If you do not do it today, tomorrow too you will be the same you. In truth, if you do not do it today, tomorrow you will be even more you—for another day you have lived, your habits have grown stronger.

I have heard: His Excellency Matkanath Brahmachari, Mulla Nasruddin, Dhabbhuji and Chandulal were once caught gambling. The raiding officer swelled with joy. He said to the four: Come to the station, today I will show you fun! They went along merrily.
At a crossroads, Mulla said: Lord, half a furlong from here there is an excellent tea-and-paan shop. Tomorrow we may be sentenced—who knows whether we will ever again get such fine tea to drink! Or those sweet, delicious paans to chew! If you permit, we four will go once to drink tea and eat paan—bringing some for you as well.
The officer said: Good idea—go, come back quickly, and bring me the very best paan.
The four went—and never returned. The poor officer waited two or three hours.
A year later, on Diwali, the same incident—again the four were caught gambling. The officer said: Children, now I will not spare you. You are badly trapped this time. Last time you tricked me, now come to the station; I will show you real fun.
The four, humming film tunes, went along again. At the same crossroads, Nasruddin repeated the old plea: As you know, sir, there is a tea-and-paan shop nearby—if you permit, we will have a last tea and paan, and bring for you the very best.
The officer, red with rage, said: Tricksters! I know each one of your tricks. You dare try the same cunning again! Scoundrels! Do you think I am a fool? O whelps of the fox—I too have drunk at many ghats. My hair has not turned grey in the sun. You all stay here—I will go myself and bring the paan for you.

You are you! Whether from this side or that, you will repeat the same mistake. What you have done in this birth you will do in the next—and in the next again.

It will not do. Let this sink like an arrow within you—
The day that comes is the day that goes. Departure must be made—abiding is not.

The bier moves along—we too must go.

Remember: whenever you see a bier passing, remember—The bier moves along—we too must go. You accompany the bier to the cremation ground—that much is fine; but also remember that sooner or later, we too must go.

There is a delusion in the human mind that it is always the other who dies. And in a way it seems true—so far you have not died. You take others to the cremation ground and return home. You think: my work is only to carry other people there; I am not the one who dies. But those whom you have carried thought the same. They too carried others. One day others will carry you—and returning home they will think: poor fellow, he died! It does not strike them that they too are poor fellows who must die.

An English saying: When the church bells toll—because in a village in Europe, when someone dies the bells ring to inform the whole village—when the church bells toll, do not send to ask for whom they toll; know that they toll for thee.

This saying is loving, meaningful, profound—dive into it. When the bells toll, do not send to ask who died. When a bier passes, do not send to ask who died. Know that you died. All these are your own faces. But people are strange.

One winter morning a bier passed. Mulla Nasruddin was in his courtyard, face to the sun, taking warmth. His wife said: Nasruddin, someone has died—and it seems to be a special person, because many are following the bier. It is passing by the road.
Nasruddin said: Died at a very inconvenient time, and at a very inconvenient time the bier passes. My face is not turned that way yet—I am taking the sun. You look, and tell me the details.

Man is not willing even to turn his back to look; then what remembrance will he have that this death is my death! Every death is your death. Not only the deaths of men—when a yellow leaf falls from a tree, remember: you have fallen. When a flower withers at dusk and drops, when its petals lie in dust, know that you lie in dust. When beneath your feet its petals are crushed, know that you are crushed.

When such understanding arises within you, when such a deep feeling becomes yours, only then does the revolution of religion happen—not by going to temples and mosques. These are toys.

The bier moves along—we too must go.

Carry the bier to the cremation ground—but tell it: we are coming too. Sooner or later, we are coming.

A little distance of journey remains—death hangs over the head.

A little while, yes; we will walk a little more in life—but death hangs over the head; none can escape. Run ever so fast, there is no way to escape death.

A disciple of a Sufi fakir saw in a dream that Death placed a hand on his shoulder. Even in sleep he was frightened. He asked: What is it? Why are you placing your hand on my shoulder? Death said: I have come to tell you that today, with the setting of the sun, I am coming for you. Since you are a disciple of a great fakir, this special concession—I inform you in advance. It is not my rule to give notice; to come suddenly, to seize unawares, is the rule. If I warn, people may escape, run, make arrangements. But out of mercy for you I tell you—if there is anything to do, do it. Not much time remains.

At midnight he awoke, terrified. He asked the fakir: What shall I do? The fakir said: What is there to do now? There is only one thing—take my horse and go as far as you can. Not a moment is safe here.

The fakir was joking. But the disciple did not understand. He took the horse and ran. He ran with all his might. He did not stop even to drink water. He ran and ran. By evening, he reached an orchard of mangoes outside Damascus and rested. He rejoiced: I have come so far—now Death will search for me there! He patted his own back—and not only his, he patted the horse’s back too. He said to the horse: You too are spirited, for you had no fodder nor water all day. Your pace is fast—of course, you are my guru’s horse! You saved me. The sun is setting and we have come so far. How will Death find me now!

He was saying this to the horse—there was no one else there to speak to—but he had to speak to someone. Just then, the hand that had touched his shoulder in the night dream touched it again. He turned and saw Death standing behind him, laughing. Death said: I too will thank the horse—for bringing you at the right time to the right place. This is the very tree under which you must die. In fact, last night I had to come because I was anxious: how would you reach this tree within twelve hours? So I had to inform you in advance—because until you reach here I cannot come. The horse is strong and you are a man of courage. Even I was doubtful whether you would reach by evening—but you have arrived, and so have I. This is the place where you must die.

Where will you run? Take the fastest horses, fly in an airplane—where will you run? You cannot run from death.

A little distance of journey remains—death hangs over the head.

Go as far as you may—remember, death is always above your head. Wherever you may be, there you will die. Death must be.

Are you asleep, O unknowing one?—wake up.

Such an event as death surrounds you, and still how ignorant you are—that you sleep! Wake up.

The disciple of the Sufi fakir did not ask the master: Twelve hours remain—let me taste the nectar. Life is going anyway; death will come at evening—it is great kindness that she has warned beforehand. Until now I have not meditated—now I will pour all my energy into these twelve hours, for what is there to save? I will stake everything.

He did not ask this. He asked: What shall I do, how shall I escape death? The master joked: Take the horse and run. But if the disciple had a bit of understanding, he would have said: Where will the horse take me? Death’s net is vast—encompassing the whole world—she will catch me anywhere. Do not trick me thus. How will a horse save me? The horse too must die. This body is gone—now give me a path to the Eternal.

He should have asked for meditation, for the Ultimate—but people do not ask for that.

Four men were talking. One said: If I came to know—if the doctor told me—that I have only three months to live, what would I do? As for me—he said—if the doctor says three months, I will sell all my business and go around the world. It is my heart’s desire to see the world—Taj Mahal, Khajuraho, Konark, Borobudur. The world is vast—Himalayas, the Alps, Switzerland, Kashmir. I have not seen; my whole life I was in business, sitting in the shop. If three months remain, I will sell the shop, bid farewell to wife and children, and set out.
The second said: If I knew I have only three months, the first thing I would do is divorce my wife—which I have been thinking my whole life. And then I would enjoy as many women as I could. Whatever it costs, every night I will bring a new woman. When only three months remain, what shame, what propriety or impropriety? Death is coming—who cares!
The third said: If my doctor tells me I have only three months, I will sell everything and just lie drunk—ecstatic. When only three months remain, I will not be frugal, I will not worry that alcohol harms health. I will drop such foolish talk. Death is coming—I will keep drinking; as soon as I come to, I will drink again; as soon as I come to, I will drink again.
The fourth was a Jew—or say a Marwari. He said: If my doctor tells me three months remain, I will seek a second opinion from another doctor. I am not going to die so easily.

But not one of the four said anything meaningful—only meaningless talk. Suppose not three but six months—you live a little longer—what difference does it make? The quantity of time increasing makes no difference—your quality of consciousness must change.

Therefore Raidas says: Are you asleep, O unknowing one? Wake up.
Your quality of consciousness must change—the journey must move from sleep to awakening.

I have no sense of my own condition—
I have heard from others that I am in distress.

Such is our unconsciousness! We do not know our own condition—we hear from others that we are troubled. The awakened come and shout in your ears that you are asleep—but you, even in sleep, are dreaming that you are awake. You are engaged in all ways to avoid—lest the sleep be broken. You have invested so much self-interest in sleep, you have decorated such sweet dreams, that you are afraid this sleep might end—then what will happen to this golden palace I have built? What of these apsaras I have invoked!

Are you asleep, O unknowing one? Wake up. Make your life true by awakening.

For only those who have awakened have known the truth of life. Only they have made life true. The rest live untrue lives.

Had I had more awareness in the course of life,
with each breath a revolution would have happened within me.

Awareness was little—otherwise, with each breath, revolution was coming and going.

Awareness was little—consciousness was little—wakefulness was little.

Had I had more awareness in the course of life,
with each breath a revolution would have happened within me.

With each breath, revolution can happen. Therefore Buddha emphasized watching the breath. Vipassana is the name of this method—watch the incoming breath, watch the outgoing breath. Watching the coming and going of the breath, you will awaken. Because breath is the knot that ties you to the body. Watching the breath, suddenly you will find—you are different from the breath; you are the witness. And he who knows he is other than breath knows he is other than the body—for the breath is the knot tying you to the body. If I am other than the breath, then I am certainly other than the body to which breath ties me. No doubt remains.

Had I had more awareness in the course of life,
with each breath a revolution would have happened within me.

With each breath, moment to moment, revolution is coming and going—just increase awareness a little, awaken a little, wake up a little.

All methods of meditation are methods of awakening. Somehow—awaken. Someone wakes up with an alarm; someone asks a neighbor to knock at the door. Someone tells his wife: splash cold water on my eyes. And someone who has a little understanding tells himself before sleeping—if his name is Ram, he says: Ram, wake me exactly at five. And you will be amazed—at five sharp your sleep will break. If you have gone to sleep with the total consideration that at five you must wake, then at five you will awake—because inside the body there is a clock that keeps time.

Now scientists agree about this body-clock. That is why hunger comes at the right time, sleep at the right time, and at the right time sleep breaks. If it is a bit delayed, the belly grumbles—the body-clock says: now it is getting late. If a bit delayed, drowsiness comes into the eyes—the body says: time is up, take the bed. If you lie too long, and the time for waking has come, the head gets heavy—sluggishness clings all day.

The body has a clock; twenty-four hours it works. If you have a little awareness, you can tell yourself and sleep—the waking will happen.

But if even so much awareness is not there, find a master who will knock at your door. Find such a master who will not return after knocking; if you do not rise, he will bring the stick down on your head. If he must snatch and struggle, he will—but he will pull you out of bed. But awaken you must—otherwise life is going in vain. Moment by moment you are losing a supreme treasure.

And what subtle deceits man plays upon himself! The first and greatest deceit is this: man thinks, I am already awake. This is the greatest deception. What more awakening do I need? My eyes are open, I see the world. I walk, rise, sit, pass along the street, come home, go to the office, do not bump into everyone—so I am awake. This is the greatest deception—because one who believes he is already awake will make no effort to awaken.

Gurdjieff used to tell a story again and again: A magician had many sheep. He kept them for food. Every day one sheep was slaughtered; the rest saw, and their hearts trembled. The thought arose: if not today, then tomorrow, we too will be cut. The sharper ones tried to escape. They ran far into the forest. The magician had to seek and bring them back. This became a daily bother. And they did not only run away themselves, they also told the others: run—our turn is coming too. Who knows when our number will come! This is not a man—this is death! See his knife—one stroke and the head is off!
Finally the magician discovered a trick—he hypnotized all the sheep and told them: First, you are not sheep. Those who are cut are sheep; you are not sheep. Some of you are lions, some tigers, some leopards, some wolves. Some of you are even men. Not only that—some of you are magicians too.
The hypnotized sheep believed. From that day, great ease came to the magician. Whichever sheep he cut, the others would laugh: poor sheep! For one sheep thought, I am a man. Another thought, I am the magician himself; who can cut me? Another thought, I am a lion—if he tries to cut me, I will pounce and teach him a lesson. Who can cut me? This poor sheep is bleating and being cut! And that sheep too, until yesterday, had thought the same when others were cut—that I am a lion, I am a man, I am the magician, I am this, I am that. From that day the sheep stopped running.

Gurdjieff said: Man is almost in such a condition. You are asleep—in deep sleep.

Understand sleep in the spiritual sense. Sleep does not mean only the physical sleep when at night you close your eyes and lie down. That is bodily sleep. Spiritual sleep means: he who does not know himself is asleep.
Someone asked Mahavira: What is the definition of a muni? Mahavira replied: asutta muni—one who is not asleep is a muni. And then he was asked: What is the definition of a non-muni? Mahavira said: sutta amuni—one who is asleep is a non-muni.
A lovely definition. Nowhere does “Jainism” enter it. In truth, with beings like Mahavira, categories like Jain, Buddhist, Christian simply do not arise; they do not exist for them.

Ask a sectarian Jain monk, “Who is a muni?” If he wears a mouth-cloth, he’ll first say: one who ties a cloth over his mouth. If he is a Digambara he’ll say: one who is naked, who eats once a day, who begs his food, who keeps no more than three garments. If he is Shvetambara: one who wears white. These are the definitions you’ll hear. But Mahavira’s definition won’t occur to them. They themselves are not awake, so how would they ever declare: asutta muni—he whose sleep is broken is a muni; and the one still asleep is a non-muni. You might be naked and asleep—what difference does it make? That would only mean you are a sleeping Digambara.

Many people sleep naked. In the West almost everyone sleeps naked. Perhaps except for India, there is hardly a people who do not sleep naked. And sleeping in clothes—is that even sleep? Pajamas tied tight, dhotis knotted tight. You do a great favor by at least removing your cap and shoes. And women—layer upon layer of cloth, then sleep. The body isn’t even allowed to rest.

So whether someone is naked and asleep, or asleep in clothes, or asleep in white—Shvetambara—or asleep with a mouth-cloth on—who is being fooled? If sainthood could be had so cheaply, the world would be overflowing with saints. No one becomes a muni that easily.

Mahavira’s definition is exact: Wake up! And what does waking mean? You see everything else, except yourself. The seer alone is not seen. Therefore the definition of awakening is: the one who sees the seer; who recognizes oneself; who turns within.

You keep looking at others and think you are awake. They look at you and think they are awake. Neither do they know themselves nor do you know yourself. If someone asks, “Who are you?” you immediately give your name, your caste, your country; you produce a passport, an identity card. None of these are you. These are accidents—that you were born in India; you could have been born in Pakistan or China. It is accidental your parents named you Ram; they could have named you Krishna.

I know a Hindu whose name was Ramprasad—was, I should say. He converted to Islam; his name became Khudabakhsh. He came to see me. I asked, “Tell me, Ramprasad, how are you?” He said, “Ramprasad is no longer my name; I have become a Muslim. I endured many years among Shudra Hindus; it became unbearable. Much oppression fell on me.”

I asked, “And now your name?” He said, “Khudabakhsh.” I said, “How curious! Khudabakhsh means exactly what Ramprasad means. Whether you say the gift of Ram or the grace of God—it is the same. What on earth have you changed? From Ramprasad you have become Khudabakhsh! Out of the well into the ditch.”

What will a name change do? You are not the name—change it as much as you like. You are not your name, not your caste, not your varna, not your religion. Whether you go to a temple or a mosque—if you are asleep, you will go to the temple asleep, you will go to the mosque asleep. The question is waking. You do not even know who you are. But you’ve been deceived. A name was handed to you and you think, “That name is me.” You drag that label your whole life. Do you ever even wonder, “How can I be a name?”

All babies are born unnamed. Ask a newborn, “Child, what is your name? Where have you come from? Who are you? Caste?” He will remain silent. It will take him two or three years to learn name, caste, religion and the rest.

Notice something delightful—small children, at first, say something of great significance. Suppose you have named the child Munna. When he is hungry he says, “Munna is hungry.” That is very important. His identity has not yet fused with “Munna.” He still sees “Munna” as other. He says, “Munna is hungry,” not “I am hungry.” There is still a distinction between I and Munna. Gradually it will disappear. Later, whenever Munna is hungry—by then he will be Munna Lal—he will say, “I am hungry.” But the truth is: the child was more accurate—“Munna is hungry.” I am the one who sees that Munna is hungry.

Swami Ram began to speak like this. He would not say, “I am thirsty”; he would say, “Ram is thirsty; Ram is hungry.” Once in America some people abused him terribly, insulted him. He stood there laughing. Someone asked, “Why are you laughing? Don’t you understand—we are abusing you?”

He said, “Abuse Ram as much as you like—what is it to me? I have no name. Unnamed I was born, unnamed I am, unnamed I shall go. What do I have to do with ‘Ram’? You abuse—and I am delighted. I watch: how strange these people are, hurling abuse at one who is not! Which ‘Ram’ are you talking about? You cannot abuse me—you do not even know my name. You cannot insult me—you do not even know my name. Even if you blacken my face, it will not touch me—I am not the body. My innermost remains as luminous and pure. Only your hands will be soiled. Now you are soiling your own tongue by abusing. I am watching how hard you are working—to abuse one who isn’t; only a figment of imagination!”

Names are imagined. But we take the imagined as our own. Our waking is imagined. In that very imagination we wander, and in that imagination we die while still alive.

“Are you asleep or awake, O unawakened one? Only the one who wakes knows the truth of life.”

“He who gave you your bread showers it from the skies.” Life has been given to you—and you are only gathering livelihood! Will you waste life merely earning a living? Bread, clothing, house… I am not saying these are unnecessary. Bread is needed, clothing is needed, a house is needed—but there are other needs, greater needs. These are steps; use them—but do not forget the temple! Earning a livelihood is not life. Livelihood is for the body; life belongs to the soul.

“Within every vessel the inner marketplace is astir.” Look at the One who, within every being, moves the breath, runs the life. Recognize the Mover—or will you remain entangled outside?

During wartime people were being conscripted. Among them they dragged in Mulla Nasruddin. He was subjected to all the tests, and tried to fail every one of them—gave wrong answers, wrote nonsense—yet still they passed him: they had to recruit. The poor Mulla was miserable; he did not want to join the army. The final test was eyesight. He was led before a big board covered with letters and symbols.

“All right, Nasruddin, tell us—what letter is this?” the officer pointed. Nasruddin shook his head: “Sir, I can’t make out anything clearly.” “You can’t see the letter?” “Letter? I can’t even see the board.” They brought larger boards, larger letters. Still he said, “I see nothing—where is the board? where are the letters?”

At last the officers gave up. In exasperation they brought a plate, put it in his hands and barked, “Now look at this and tell us what this is—or can’t you recognize this either?” Nasruddin peered at it and said, “Ah! Where did you find my fifty-paisa coin? I have been searching for it for three days.”

The officers smacked their heads—“All right, dismissed!” Nasruddin walked out elated and went straight to a matinee. At the interval, when the lights came up, he was shocked to see the same officer seated beside him. His soul nearly fled! Before the officer could say, “You could see a plate and a coin—but not the board? And from this distance you can enjoy the film!”—before he could speak, Nasruddin said, “Sir, where is this bus going?”

If you’re bent on deceiving, that’s another matter. And if you only deceived others, that would still be something—but you deceive yourself, and go on doing so. Every day you must invent new deceptions, because the old ones go stale. Bored with one wife, you begin to relish another woman; bored with one husband, another man; bored with one food, another; bored with one house, you plan to buy another.

Before one delusion breaks, you erect a new one. If you have decided to deceive, then beware: this habit of deception will make you wander for lifetimes; it will rot and corrode you.

“He who gave your sustenance from the skies—he keeps the inner marketplace stirring in all.” Recognize that Master who dwells in every heart.

“Make your worship by dropping ‘I’ and ‘mine’.” Ravidas says: I learned one prayer—the day I dropped ‘I’ and ‘mine.’ That is worship.

“Make your worship by dropping ‘I’ and ‘mine’; in your heart, keep the Name at once.” What a sweet saying! The day I dropped I and mine—because “I” is a delusion, “mine” is a delusion—what remains in you when “I” is gone and “mine” is gone—that is you, your flame—eternal, infinite, boundless. Tat tvam asi—you are That. This is the definition of true worship: let “I” and “mine” fall away.

“Keep the Name in your heart at once.” So hurry. If you must keep something in the heart, keep the Name of the Divine; drop your own name. Drop yourself, and enthrone the Divine. Drop ego; enthrone God.

This line has two senses. “At once” means quickly. And “at dawn” means morning.

“Keep the Name in your heart at dawn.” The day you hold the Beloved within, that very day the dawn has come; until then you are in the night—a long night, the night of lifetimes. The sun that rises every day does not bring the true dawn. Do not be fooled by the outer morning. As long as the Divine has not dawned within you, it is not morning. The outer dawn cannot dispel your darkness. You need the inner dawn.

But what do you do in worship? You never drop “I” and “mine.” You pray to increase “I” and “mine.” Your worship is strange—you have turned it upside down. People’s heads seem upside down. They go to pray and ask for more wealth, more possessions, fame, respect, to win an election, to hit the lottery. Even in prayer there is no prayer—just the same old stupidity repeated. One who has learned worship knows something else entirely:

“Give, with Your own hand, whatever You wish to give.
Do not publicize me, do not turn me into a beggar.”

One who has learned worship says: Whatever You wish to give—give with Your own hand; if You don’t wish to, don’t. “Do not trumpet me needlessly… do not make me a supplicant.”

“And do not make me a beggar; do not force me to ask. If it be Your will, give. Whatever You give, I am content—because what You give is auspicious. What I ask—asked in darkness, in blindness, in unconsciousness—will be inauspicious. What is the worth of my asking? My asking will be full of mistakes.”

“My life has gone by; I have not even set my path.
Evening has fallen; darkness gathers in the ten directions.”

What can I ask of You? Life is nearly over; I have not even found my way. Evening draws near; soon darkness will cover all sides. What shall I ask? Whatever I ask will be petty, trivial. I have already been drowning in the petty.

“Put in a little more tobacco,” said Dhabbuji. The paan-seller added tobacco. “Friend, a little clove and peppermint too, a bit stronger.” He complied. “Arrey, you forgot the gulkand!” He added it, half-hearted. “Now add one more cardamom—let there at least be some taste,” said Dhabbuji. After adding cardamom he pleaded again, “Paanwala ji, if you have Paan-Bahar masala, add a little of that too—and make the Chaman-Bahar strong!” The shopkeeper could no longer bear it. Crackling with anger he said, “And sir, if you order, shall I add your twenty-five-paisa coin into it as well?”

What will you ask for? You do not have the understanding to ask. Whatever you ask will be wrong. And what you get will be just what you asked—at the end you’ll be left with a twenty-five-paisa coin.

This is what people are asking. Go listen in temples to people’s prayers, see their raised hands in mosques. They spread their bowls, turned beggars.

No—ask nothing of the Divine. Say only: Let Your will be done! Then my path will be set.

“Evening has fallen; darkness gathers in the ten directions.” Darkness is closing in. I could not put anything in order. Not that I didn’t read scriptures—I did. Not that I didn’t listen to masters—I did. But whether it’s scripture or master—you only impose your own meaning. And your meanings are only yours; they have nothing to do with Krishna or Buddha or Jesus or Mohammed.

One day Matkanath Brahmachari was dispensing wisdom to his friend Bhondumal—criticizing his lifestyle, advising him endlessly. After extolling the value of celibacy and the spiritual benefits of rising in brahma-muhurta, he finally asked, “Tell me truthfully, Bhondumal—when do you get up?”

Exhausted by the lectures, Bhondumal replied in a tearful voice, “You won’t believe me, but truly—as soon as the sun’s rays enter my room, I at once wake up.”

“Liar!” Matkanath flared up. “Shamelessly lying? The whole town knows you sleep all day and get up at four in the evening. O Kumbhakarna, have some shame!”

“I swear by God, I am not lying,” said Bhondumal. “The doors and windows of my room face West—what can I do? I wake up when the sun’s rays fall on my face. If the house is built wrong, how is that my fault?”

You will always insert your own meanings! What meaning will you give to brahma-muhurta? You will pour your own meaning into brahmacharya. You will manufacture your own prayer and worship. You have fabricated your god. You worship clay and stone dolls. And you never even pause to understand what you are doing. In the world you are deceived and you deceive; in the name of religion too you deceive and are deceived.

Wake up now! Lest evening arrive and darkness close in from all ten directions. Evening is coming, and darkness will come.

Says Ravidas: O naive madman!
You do not awaken—this world is a house of perishables!

You postpone. You say, “We will awaken—surely we will.” The first deception is that some believe they are already awake; not only that, they set out to awaken others. The second deception: if not today, we will awaken tomorrow—what’s the hurry? It’s not evening yet. You said this yesterday; you say it today; you will say it tomorrow. Even if those who call you to wake give up in defeat, you remain fixed in your habits.

The pandits of Allahabad are famous. One such pandit went to dine at a patron’s home. The patron, having invited him, was in distress—the pandit slowly emptied the entire kitchen. All the dishes were running out. The host grew desperate; how to hide that the food was finishing? He said, “Panditji, at least drink some water. You haven’t drunk any water yet.”

Panditji chuckled, “Heh-heh! Patron, I drink water only after I have eaten half my meal.”

You too keep postponing. “I haven’t even eaten half yet; why talk of waking now! I am still young! Waking is for old age, for the aged. When life begins to slip away, then we’ll wake; for now, let’s enjoy. Life is but two moments—eat, drink, make merry. Why wake now? What a hassle—waking! If we wake, how will we eat and drink and have fun?”

In this way, eating and drinking, making merry—how many times have you lived and died! And what merriment? What joy can there be in eating and drinking? There is only one bliss—the one that arises within. When it arises within, then there is joy in eating too, in drinking too, in sitting and standing too. Each breath becomes a wondrous taste of bliss. But the joy is not within.

And that pandit who drinks water only after half his meal—is he enjoying anything?

There’s another story. A young bride came to her husband’s home. He, too, was a dyed-in-the-wool pandit. When he came to take her from her parents’ home, he ate each puri in a single mouthful. No sooner served than gone—the server turned back and it had vanished. The bride watched from a corner, feeling ashamed—what would people think of such a husband! She signaled with two fingers—at least make two bites! The pandit thought she meant: this custom is not right; in our house two puris are eaten at once. So he began to gulp two puris in one mouthful.

The bride smacked her head. That night she said, “You’ve gone too far! It was better before—you were at least making one bite per puri. I meant make two bites; you started making one bite of two puris!”

He said, “You do not know what family I come from—this is the way of Raghu’s line! I am nothing. My late father—whenever he went to dine somewhere, they had to bring him back in a bullock cart. Once his condition was so bad that when they somehow loaded him in the cart and brought him home, the physician gave him a pill. He opened his eyes and said, ‘Vaidyaraj, if the pill’s place were for eating, I would have eaten one more laddoo—where is the room now!’”

And you think such people are enjoying? They are rotting in the name of enjoyment. There is no joy on their faces, no juice in their eyes, no wave of celebration around them. They keep eating because they feel an emptiness inside and want to fill it somehow. But no matter how much you eat, the inner emptiness won’t fill—because the emptiness is in your soul; it can only be filled by the descent of the Divine, in no other way. One hoards wealth in his safe thinking he will be filled; another builds mansions thinking that will give life meaning.

No. Meaning comes only one way—only one way: become joined to the Divine! And there is only one way to join: awaken.

“This world is but a snake-pit of illusions.” Here it is only darkness, only dreams. All is perishable; all is false. Keep this criterion in mind: seers have called that true which always remains, and false that which is momentary.

“O fierce wind, blow out the lamps on the graves—
in this black settlement they look like an ugly blot.
A law of love has been set in this world:
those are mad who call Majnun mad.
From that very assembly I came away weeping, O Asi—
where destinies by the thousand are changed by mere hints.”

Blow out the grave-lamps, O swift wind. In this dark world, those lamps are blemishes. Strange people—they light lamps on tombs! When a man is dead they light a lamp on his grave. Light the lamp within—while you are alive! Become a lamp to your life.

Remember: Layla and Majnun is a Sufi tale. In wrong hands it became notorious. Layla is a symbol of the Divine; Majnun, the seeker. It is a Sufi parable, ruined by the uncomprehending. In foul hands even fragrant flowers begin to stink. Now the Layla–Majnun story is taken as a tale of ordinary love. It is the story of extraordinary prayer.

Do not leave that assembly weeping. If you can awaken, fate changes; if you can become aware, destiny changes.

“High temples, big kitchens”—build great temples, offer lavish foods—still false! Until there is the temple of awareness, until there is the food of meditation, you have no connection with the temple, no relationship with pilgrimage.

“Not even for an instant will they remain.”—These temples will fall. They too are made of sand and clay. These idols too will crumble.

“This body is like a mat of grass.
The grass burns, the ash mixes with the dust.”

“Brothers, kinsmen, family, companions…”
As soon as the bird of breath flies from the cage, they will cut loose and run. Not only that—

“The woman of the house who clung to your chest—
she too will cry ‘ghost, ghost!’ and run away.”

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was close to death. They were talking. She said, “You don’t believe in the soul—but I do. And now I am dying—I promise, I will appear to you after death.”

She would die when she died—but half of Nasruddin’s soul flew out right then. He said, “Then keep two things in mind. First—never appear at night. And if you do, I will not sleep at home at night anyway. I only come home because of you—now why return? And if you must appear, appear by day—and only when five or ten people are with me; do not appear when I am alone. You know I have a weak heart. Best of all—do not appear at all. I will fully accept that there is a soul; I don’t need any argument.”

Those you think you love—if they stood before you disembodied, your life would tremble. Your love was for the body. You never recognized the one hidden within, never even became acquainted—that one is unfamiliar, a stranger. All companions will leave; they will slip away.

Says Ravidas: The whole world is plundered. We escaped by holding to the One—Ram.

We remembered Ram, so we could be free. We surrendered everything to the Divine—thus we could be free. Otherwise here there is only plunder, and nothing comes to hand.

It is up to you—will you be robbed, or will you carry something with you? Will you die a beggar—or like an emperor? A sannyasin is one who dies like an emperor. The worldly one dies like a beggar.

“Leaving the diamond that is the Lord, you pin your hope on others.”
Diamonds fill your within—and you pick pebbles outside, hanging your hopes on others!

“Leaving the diamond that is the Lord, you pin your hope on others.
Such men will go to the city of Death—thus speaks Ravidas in truth.”

Ravidas says: I speak truth, from experience—I am a witness to what I say. Do not take it as mere sermon. You are caught in Death’s claws—you will wander hells; you are already wandering.

“If your inner journey is not dyed in love, but you look outwardly forlorn—”
Until your innermost is drenched in the Lord’s love, no matter how dispassionate you pose outside—nothing will help.

“Such men will go to the city of Death—thus speaks Ravidas in truth.”

Ravidas says again and again: Death will plunder you; it will shatter all your deceptions—if your dispassion is only on the surface; if your life-breath is not steeped in the nectar of God.

“We tell our pain to Him in a thousand ways,
but we find the picture a picture in every state.”

What is in temples and mosques? Pictures. Pour out your heart—what will you get from pictures? Call to Him within! He sleeps within—awaken Him there! The diamond lies within—dig there!

“What hope of peace from the friends of the rose-garden?
These madmen play with their own nests.
Some called it lightning; some, a mere spark—
a flame had leapt out of the hidden wound of sorrow.
As a bell I startled the sanctuary;
stones of the idol-house woke at my call to prayer.
The measure of every deed, good or bad, is the intention:
if the intent be not sinful, there is no sin.
Moses lifted His veil upon Mount Tur—
if trespass has true decorum, it is no trespass.”

The True One can be found; even His veil can be lifted—one must know the art.

“As a bell I startled the sanctuary”—
I sounded the conch in the Kaaba. In the Kaaba you don’t blow a conch.

“As a bell I startled the sanctuary—
I went into the Kaaba and blew the conch, and startled its stones.
Stones of the idol-house woke at my call to prayer.”

If you have life within you, wherever you are is a pilgrimage. Sit in the Kaaba and the Kaaba is a shrine; sit anywhere, and the Kaaba comes there. The Kaaba is where a heart brims with love and is surrendered to the Divine.

“Every mote in the tavern teaches courtesy;
in hundreds of ways one learns to prostrate.
Love is bound by loyalty, not by ritual:
merely bowing the head is not called prostration.”

Merely lowering the head is not prayer.

“Love is bound by fidelity…
not by custom and convention.”

Love is not bound to tradition or track; love is freedom, not bondage.

“Every mote in the tavern teaches courtesy.”
If you know how to drink—if you know how to be drunk—then every speck of the tavern teaches reverence.

“Every mote in the tavern teaches courtesy;
in hundreds of ways one learns to prostrate.”

Drink a little of love’s wine! Sit in the tavern of a true master! Open your heart! Be drenched in his wine! Then prostration comes by itself.

“In hundreds of ways one learns to prostrate.
There is no fixed arrangement for it. Prayer is not a fixed formula.
Liberation cannot be attained by fixed formulas.”

“Every mote in the tavern teaches courtesy;
in hundreds of ways one learns to prostrate.
Love is bound by loyalty, not by ritual;
merely bowing the head is not called prostration.”

That’s all for today.