Mare He Jogi Maro #5

So long as reality remains veiled, the tales will not cease.
So long as the secrets of the sanctuary are thriving, the tales will not cease.

O people of intellect! You are free to build your prisons—but
the very walls will begin to dance, the mad lovers cannot be shut in.

Let these lilies and roses, the moon and the stars not claw your face, O preacher—
Taverns do not close; taverns will not close.

They themselves will become the lamp of trust, smiling to be consumed—
In the dungeons of superstition the moths cannot be kept.

All mockery and blame are nothing but words about love—only that.
The world is a “way,” and the world’s stories will not cease.

So long as Paramatma is hidden, those who unveil will go on being born.
So long as reality remains veiled, the tales will not cease.
So long as the Beloved’s face is veiled, Ram will be talked about; the songs of prayer will arise.
So long as reality remains veiled, the tales will not cease.
So long as the secrets of the sanctuary are thriving, the tales will not cease.

This tale of the search for Paramatma will continue until Paramatma is found. But the search is personal: one finds, and with his finding his search ends. Yet countless others wander in darkness—their seeking continues.
Religion will remain on earth so long as even one man is asleep, until all awaken—until every lamp is lit.

O people of intellect! You are free—build your prisons if you must...
Those who rely on reason and argument...
Build the walls of scripture, erect the gaols of words, forge the chains of doctrines.
But those who have heard the call of the Divine start dancing even within walls. The prison walls dance with them. Make as many doctrines as you like, you cannot erase from this earth the lovers, the holy madmen. A doctrine never nourishes; it remains on the surface. It resounds in the head, but the soul remains untouched.

How many jails of doctrines have been raised—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Parsi, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh—prisons all. In the name of temples, factories of chains have been set up. In the mosques, your bondage is being cast. Yet the Beloved’s lovers dance even among all these chains. With them the chains turn into the tinkling of anklets. If the dance arises, even a chain becomes an anklet; if the dance does not arise, even an anklet is a chain. If there is dance, a prison becomes a hall of dance; if there is no dance, what will you do even if you sit in a dance-hall? If you know how to drink, whatever you drink is honey; if you do not know how, even a rain of nectar is of no use to you.

Let these lilies and roses, the moon and stars not claw your face, O preacher!
These flowers—lilies and roses, the sun, the moon and stars... O so-called wise man, beware they do not rub your face in the dust. For whatever you are doing is against beauty, against the festival of moon and stars.
The pundits have given man very dreary notions. In those dull concepts, flowers do not bloom; there is the stink of graves. In those sad concepts the stars do not shine; there is deep darkness.
That is why the whole of mankind seems religious, yet where is religion? If religion were, there would be celebration. Faces would blossom like flowers, eyes would be starry, veenas would sing in the heart, life would become a dance. Where is the dance? Where are the shining eyes? Where are the dancing ones? Where are the souls brimming with rasa? And they say Paramatma is rasa—raso vai sah! Paramatma is rasa, but your so-called mahatmas are tasteless. Those who have separated you from Existence are your mahatmas. Between you and Existence a Wall of China has been raised by the so-called pundits and priests. Until a person is free of pundits and priests he cannot be free of intellect. Wretched is the man who lives and dies in the head; he never knows the secret of life, nor has any sense of its mysteries.

Let these lilies and roses, the moon and stars not claw your face, O preacher—
Taverns do not close; taverns will not close.
You may shout your prohibitions, but somewhere a tavern will arise. Wherever a Gorakh appears, a tavern blooms. Wherever a Kabir stands up, a wine-house springs up. Wherever Jesus walks, the madhushala moves. Where Buddha sits, there will be a festival.
Taverns do not close; taverns will not close.
Though wherever a tavern appears, soon the wine-house vanishes, and a temple or a mosque is built on the spot. With Buddha, a sweet rain pours, but soon come the Buddhist pundits and their cohorts, and the wine-house quickly becomes a dreary temple. Dance becomes ritual, heart-born sighs formal prayers. Where living truth appeared, now there is talk about truth.
So it happened with Jesus, with Krishna, with all true Masters. Even in Krishna’s temples where is the flute? Where is the beat on the drum? Some strange web is man’s: he finds his bondage even with liberators. Yet there is one good fortune—that despite all our arrangements and systems, someone blossoms, somewhere a lotus opens, a fragrance starts flying toward the sky, somewhere the sounds of worship are heard again, somewhere life returns to its ecstasy!
Taverns do not close; taverns will not close.

They themselves will become the lamp of trust, smiling to be consumed—
In the dungeons of superstition the moths cannot be kept.
Good that the moths cannot be shut in superstition’s darkness; they long to be burnt. And if lamps are not found, they themselves become lamps. Moths will become lamps if lamps are not found. Moths cannot be imprisoned in the dark of superstition.
This earth is filled with the darkness of superstition—so ancient that it seems superstition itself is life. If you believe in God you are superstitious; God has to be known, belief will not do. Belief is cheap, worth a penny. The believer is irreligious. It must be known—nothing less will do. But to know demands courage. To know, the moth must become the lamp. To know, one must offer one’s life. To know, one must stake one’s very being.
Religion is not a curiosity, not an itch to be scratched—it is a wager of life. Only the courageous become religious. Religion is not for the frightened, not for cowards; cowards escape. Religion is for those who accept life’s battle, life’s challenge, in its totality—who live life, live it in fullness, who do not run, are not afraid or trembling, who plant their feet and engage life. From that very struggle the soul is born; in those challenges the soul ripens and grows strong.
Gorakh’s sutras can turn your life into a wine-house. They can make of you a moth—such a moth that if a lamp is not found, you yourself become one. These sutras are wondrous. Drink deeply of each one. Pour each sutra into the cup of your heart.

“Remain within the mind; do not reveal the secret; speak words of nectar.
If the other becomes fire, O avadhuta, you become water.”
Remain within...

Right now you live outside; you do not know the art of living within—that is why you suffer. The outer is hell, the inner is heaven. To live outwardly means to live in desires—for wealth, position, respect, recognition. To live outwardly means: ‘If I get something, I will be happy.’ To live inwardly means: that which can bring happiness is already obtained.
Remember this finely: living outwardly is placing conditions on happiness—‘If this happens, I will be happy.’ Until the condition is met, you will remain miserable. And a new surprise awaits: when the condition is met, the habit of misery remains. Whoever places conditions misses, because happiness is unconditional. Happiness is your nature, you bring it with you, it abides within—and you go searching outside and lay conditions.
Searching outside demands conditions—what else would you search for? Search means arranging to fulfill conditions. One says, ‘Until I become prime minister I will not be happy.’ In a country of sixty crores that is a long journey; you may not arrive alive. The whole life will pass in misery. And when he becomes prime minister, he will be shocked: a lifetime of misery has made misery a habit; the habit does not drop by becoming prime minister.
Habits are hard to drop. If one has practiced misery for sixty years—day and night, waking and sleeping—how will it drop? Misery has become bone, flesh, marrow. It is not like clothing that you can take off and put on others. Then the mind will arrange new miseries.
Until the ten lakhs are not in hand, one is miserable that they be had; when they are had, the mind says, ‘What will ten lakhs do? At least a crore is needed.’ No desire is ever fulfilled, for by the time fulfillment comes, misery has become a habit. You project again; you create a new condition for misery, push the condition farther. You say, ‘When there is one crore, then I will be happy.’ And you all know this: you thought ‘If I get that car, that house, that shop’—you got them; where is happiness? ‘If I get that woman or that man’—you got them—where is happiness?
Perhaps you did not even notice that the very day you get the thing, it becomes stale. That very day new plans begin. The mind starts dreaming further—how to go beyond. You push the condition farther all your life and remain miserable.
Happiness is unconditional; it has no condition. Whoever understands this turns within at once. We run outside only to fulfill conditions—which can only be fulfilled outside; inside how will you fulfill them? Inside you can produce neither wealth nor status. Sitting with eyes closed you will not become prime minister; nor will the Kohinoor diamonds pile before you; nor will fame gather in the world. No condition can be fulfilled within. Only one who has seen the stupidity of conditions goes within, who sees that even if all conditions be met, nothing is fulfilled. Whoever sees this truth goes within—and whoever goes within finds happiness, because happiness is there. Happiness is your nature.
Remain within... To remain in the mind means: remain inwardly, remain where you are. Do not move from there; move and you are lost. Who moves you? Desire, craving, ambition. They say: ‘Sitting within, what are you doing? Get up, go, much must be done. Many journeys to make.’ And we all set out. Because the whole world is moving, movement seems right. Man imitates. Father is moving, brother, friends, neighbors—everyone moving outward—you run too. You also begin the commerce of the mind: ‘If this happens, if that happens, when I have this and that, then I will be happy.’
And I tell you—as all Buddhas have said—if you want to be happy, you need not go anywhere. Lao Tzu says: you need not even leave your room. Happiness is your wealth. The foundational truth of religion: happiness is not to be earned, it is given. It is prasada of Paramatma—but when will you see the gift? Your back is turned to it. You run outside without pause. Day-long you think and run; night-long you dream and run. When will you stop? The day you stop, you will be startled—unbelieving, dumbstruck—‘Why did I run so vainly? What I was seeking is within me.’
“Remain within; reveal not the secret...”
And whatever dawns within, do not tell it—to anyone. Why? Because whoever you tell will laugh. And perhaps you do not yet have the strength to bear others’ laughter. Whoever you tell will think you mad. You are still unripe; just embarking on the inner journey—a little laughter may throw you off. People live by others’ opinions, not by their own insight. You crave approval; you fear blame. Many who appear moral are so only out of fear—‘What will people say?’ If assured they would not be caught, they would slip into immorality.
It often happens: those who reach power become immoral. Lord Acton said, Power corrupts, and corrupts absolutely. I agree with the fact—but not with the premise. Power does not corrupt; it only exposes. Before power, a man hides behind dress; he fears being caught. With power in hand, who will catch him? He is the catcher. He is above rules; rules apply to others. Hence power seems to corrupt; in fact it reveals.
We seek praise, so we act moral; we fear blame, so we tiptoe. Therefore when the inner nectar begins to flow, and happiness arises, say nothing, says Gorakh. He is right. Do not disclose the secret. It is a new sprout, people will break it. They are eager to break it, because it has not sprouted in them—‘How did you dare? We are all miserable and you have become happy!’ Envy will flare. You may not be able to bear it.
Reveal not the secret...
When inner rasa begins to surge, when flowers begin to bloom, tell no one—keep it safe. Tell your Master, your fellow travelers who can understand; but do not proclaim it among people. Do not start dancing in the streets when the dance arises within—else the police will take you. Your own family will bring you to a psychiatrist, inject you, shock you with electricity.
Bertrand Russell once went to an aboriginal tribe. On a full-moon night, when they danced with drums and cymbals, Russell felt: how much the civilized man has lost! In the name of civilization, what do we have? No drum, no cymbal, no capacity to dance; the feet have forgotten. He wrote: under that full moon, beneath the trees, watching those naked tribals dance, I asked myself, ‘What have we gained by progress?’ And he added: if I returned to London and danced in Trafalgar Square, I would be arrested at once. People would think I had gone mad.
People understand sickness; they think joy is madness. Things have deteriorated so far that only madmen laugh; the sensible have no time to laugh. Their hearts have dried up. They count money, climb the stairs of ambition, say ‘Let’s go to Delhi.’ Who has time to sing two songs, play the ektara, dance under stars, look at the sun, converse with flowers, embrace trees? They keep it for the end—when all is done: wealth, position, prestige. But that day never comes. You live grumbling and go grumbling—empty-handed came, empty-handed went.
So when inner rasa is born, inner flavor comes—and it does not take long: just turn within and all is present. Your back is to the lake; therefore you are thirsty. Turn: turn your back to the world and your face to yourself. You will be amazed: why were you thirsty so long? You will weep for what was wasted and laugh that you were seeking what you already had.
But do not announce it, for at that moment a natural urge arises to proclaim it—to help those lost in the dark. But the wanderers will not agree so easily; their egos have become part of their wandering. If you say, ‘Do not wander; see, I have found,’ they will laugh: ‘One more gone!’ They will call you mad.
R. D. Laing has proposed that many in Western asylums, had they been born in the East in earlier ages, would have been revered as Paramhansas—masts, god-intoxicated ones. And if Ramakrishna had been born in the modern West, he would have been in a hospital, called hysterical. Psychologists still say Ramakrishna had epilepsy or hysteria; those faintings were not Samadhi. They say Jesus too was deranged—only deranged people talk to the sky. Jesus would kneel, speak to the heavens—‘Abba!’—‘Father!’ ‘Madness,’ they say—hallucinations. ‘Give him insulin, electric shocks. Bring him to his senses, to the path.’
Good that Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna and Christ finished earlier. Troubles have multiplied now. Gorakh is right; his hint to the seeker is perfect.
Remain within; reveal not the secret...
Say to no one what is happening within. Silently taste the nectar; keep sinking. Yes, if you meet a fellow traveler, share heart to heart. That is satsang—where a few mad lovers sit and say and hear each other. Where people can understand, say it; otherwise hide it. This is a matter of the secret, not to be told to all.
Reveal not the secret; speak words of nectar.
Do not report what has happened within; but let nectar flow in your words. Do not say, ‘A spring of amrit has arisen in me, Paramatma is found, the Self is found’—do not say it. Keep it for the final hour, when even if the whole world stands against you, not a grain of doubt can arise; when even in aloneness no doubt is born. To the new traveler, crowds give confidence—‘So many are going, that must be the truth.’ Hence all religions try to increase their numbers. Christians boast of a third of the world; what can Jains claim—thirty lakhs? Mahavira came twenty-five centuries ago—were even thirty couples influenced then, their children alone would have become thirty lakhs by now; in India births multiply faster. Thirty lakhs—obvious it cannot be truth, else more would be influenced!
The world lives by crowds. A Christian once told Bernard Shaw, ‘So many believe, it must be true.’ Shaw said, ‘Forgive me—so many believe, therefore it cannot be true. Truth is rare, glimpsed in one or two; the many sleep because untruth is convenient and consoling. Untruth is sleep; most are asleep. Truth dawns only to the awakened.’
So until this strength arises in you, keep silent. Let maturity ripen, roots go deep in consciousness, the tree of knowing spread. A day will come when the tree is strong and needs no fence; then the proclamation happens by itself. For now, a small remark can disturb you. You say, ‘I am beginning to meditate,’ and someone says, ‘Come to your senses! Meditation? Mere fantasy.’ Doubt begins to surround you. If many say it, you are lost.
Remain quiet. But let amrit flow in your speech. Do not speak of amrit; let sweetness permeate your words. Do not say directly what has been found; but in your rising and sitting, in your walk, a difference will appear. A revolution will begin. A song will enter your speech—a cadence that was never there. That very cadence will draw to you those who seek cadence; it will attract. They will ask: ‘What has happened to you?’ If someone comes very close in yearning, tell him; otherwise keep the secret veiled.
Remain within; reveal not the secret; speak words of nectar.
If the other becomes fire, O avadhuta, you become water.
If someone flames into anger before you, be water; pour yourself on his fire. Let that be your life-gesture, your expression. From that alone, the seekers will slowly recognize. No need to beat drums; your fragrance will reach the nostrils that long. The inner reed you play will transform your presence; and those thirsty for joy will find their inner veena resonating to your note. They will come—inevitably. Who does not seek amrit? All seek joy, though in wrong directions. Whenever they meet someone truly joyous, the impact is irresistible.
Rahim said:
‘Both are alike, Rahim, until they sing—
Crow and cuckoo in the month of spring.’
The crow and the cuckoo look alike until they sing; when spring comes, the difference is revealed. When you speak, when you act, when you take a hand, when you embrace, the difference will be known. Let your love, sweetness, and prasada be spring.
If the other becomes fire, O avadhuta, you become water.
Understand a strange fact. A lady came to me, of a very wealthy family, educated. ‘I have come to learn meditation. But before that one question: will meditation create trouble in my marriage, my family life?’ She added, ‘I know—why would it? Meditation is good. I ask only because my husband told me to ask.’
I said, ‘Then it is better you do not meditate—trouble will come.’ And strangely, if you learn something bad, little trouble comes. If the wife or husband starts drinking, a little trouble; gambling, a little trouble—perhaps none. Perhaps some previous trouble even vanishes. Wives relish improving their husbands. If the husband is perfect, the wife loses interest. If he smokes or drinks, the wife gains superiority; she becomes the pious one. In India most women have not yet gathered courage to smoke or drink; centuries have broken their courage. So they can’t do it, but they can gain by condemning. If the husband quits smoking and drinking, the wife’s proprietorship collapses; her ‘sweetness’ is lost. People are not so troubled by others’ vices, for the one who errs becomes meek and feeds the ego of others.
We all want others to be inferior to us. Two ways: become superior—or make others inferior. Most so-called saints manage their ego cheaply with small renunciations—no cigarette, no betel, no tobacco, water filtered, no drinking at night—on these paltry bases the ego gains much prestige. So cheap is the ego—who would leave it? For the ego, a man will do anything. These are easy renunciations. If in a family someone does something inferior, others gain a hold over him.
I told the lady, ‘I cannot say that meditation will not bring trouble; it will bring much. The whole politics of the house will change. You will be quiet; your husband will become fire—and you will remain quiet. Think how his ego will be hurt. Go and think, then come back.’ I see it daily.
Another lady, meditating for three years—trouble started: she lost taste for sex; her husband is going crazy. I said, ‘At least pretend—what is the point of daily quarrels? If he demands, fulfill—like an act.’ She said, ‘Fine. A meditator can act easily.’ But even in play the husband was disturbed. He came and said, ‘You have taught her a new trick. Now I feel more foolish. She is acting! It gives me shame. You have ruined my life.’ I told her, ‘Go think again. Your inner light will alter everything. Those who were higher will seem low; deeper, shallow. Their egos will be hurt; they will strike back.’ Five years, she has not returned.
Bear in mind: the moment an inner light is lit, changes begin—whether you speak or not. Even if you hide the secret, a difference will appear. You cannot behave as yesterday. Spring has come—now the difference between crow and cuckoo is clear. Crows will be angry at the cuckoos. Naturally—the cuckoo sings, all are delighted; the poor crow tries hard that someone clap—but they clap only to shoo him away.
A crow was flying. The cuckoo asked, ‘Uncle, where are you going?’ He said, ‘To the East. People here are wrong; no one appreciates my song.’ The cuckoo said, ‘I must tell you: go East or West—so long as your throat is what it is, you will be troubled. Change the throat; changing directions won’t help.’
A Sufi tale: a rider came to a town-gate where an old man sat. ‘What are the people like in this town?’ The old man asked, ‘Why do you ask?’ He said, ‘In the town I left, people were rude; I was fed up, so I left. I want to settle somewhere else.’ The old man said, ‘Go on—people here are worse. You will be in trouble—search elsewhere.’ The rider went on. Then came a man in a bullock-cart: ‘What are people like here? I seek a home.’ The old man asked, ‘And the town you left?’ Tears came to the man’s eyes: ‘I did not want to leave; I was compelled. Those people were very loving. Wherever I stay, I will miss them. I left only due to poverty; when fortune favors, I will return, live there, and if not live, at least die there.’ The old man said, ‘Welcome! You will find the people here even more loving. Come in.’
A man who had listened to both said, ‘You have puzzled me—one you told: rogues; the other: loving!’ The old man said, ‘People are as you are. They are the same everywhere. The real question is you. Remember!’
If the other becomes fire, O avadhuta, you become water.
Let the other blaze; you be water—fire will go out. The one who enters inner journey will meet many who flare up. Friedrich Nietzsche, Germany’s great thinker, criticized Jesus and said a strange thing. Jesus said, ‘If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other also; if someone takes your coat, give your shirt; if someone asks you to carry his load for one mile, carry it for two.’ Beautiful. Jesus, in his idiom, is saying: if the other becomes fire, be water. Offer the other cheek.
Jesus could not imagine someone would critique this—Nietzsche did. He said, ‘This is insulting. If I slap someone and he offers the other cheek, he treats me like an insect! He gives me no dignity as a man. If he truly respects me, he should slap me back—then we are equal. Jesus is teaching great arrogance—“You dog, I am a saint; you slapped—here is the other cheek.” Like saying, “The elephant keeps walking while dogs bark.” That is great ego!’
Do not think that if you become water, the other will calm down. Not necessary. He may flame more—‘So you think you are a saint! I slapped you and you offer the other cheek!’ And if you offer the cheek only so he calms down, you have missed the sutra. Then it is a tactic to defeat him—a subtler slap.
I heard of a Christian fakir: a man slapped him; the fakir offered the other cheek as per rule. The man slapped that too—harder. Suddenly the fakir leaped on him and beat him soundly. The man cried, ‘Brother, you are a Christian saint—what are you doing?’ The fakir said, ‘There is no third cheek. The rule is fulfilled; now it is between you and me.’ He was brawny; he thrashed him. ‘Jesus said, “second cheek”—finished. Now I am free.’ If you offer the second cheek to defeat the other, soon you will leap like this fakir.
When Jesus said, ‘Forgive the one who insults you,’ a disciple asked, ‘How many times? Fix a limit so later we are free.’ Jesus said, ‘Seven times.’ The man said, ‘Fine’—meaning: the eighth time we will settle it. Jesus said, ‘Not seven—seventy times seven.’ But even that fails; rules have limits—maryada. The Self alone is limitless. Therefore this is not a rule to follow; it is an inner mood—bhava—to be realized. It must arise from love, not calculation.
Remain within; reveal not the secret; speak words of nectar.
If the other becomes fire, O avadhuta, you become water.
Let this be your inner mood—not a rule. It happens only when you are absorbed in your Self. And a unique revolution happens: when you are absorbed in your Self, you see there is no ‘self’—there is only Paramatma. The distance from your own Self created the sense of a separate God. When that distance ends, the distance to God ends—Atman is Paramatma. You become one color, Advaita.
Rahim says:
‘Praise that love, Rahim, where two become of one hue—
As turmeric sheds yellow, and lime its white, both turning red.’
Become one thus with Paramatma—then love happens. It can happen any moment when you turn within. There Paramatma waits, hidden, for you.
Gorakh says, listen, O avadhuta: live in the world like this—
Look with the eyes, listen with the ears, and from the lips say nothing.
Live in the world like a mirror. The mirror makes the image—beautiful for the beautiful, ugly for the ugly—but says nothing. It gives no judgment: ‘Ah, how beautiful!’ nor rejection: ‘Go away, horrible!’ The mirror is only a witness. This is the sutra of witnessing.
Gorakh says, listen, O avadhuta: live thus in the world—
with the witness-stance. See, hear, and pass on. This is just a play, a film on a screen—sunlight and shadow. Do not get entangled.
Mulla Nasruddin went to see a film for the first time. The first show ended—he did not get up. The manager said, ‘Go now.’ He did not move. ‘Take money for the second show; I will see again.’ He watched it again, still did not move. ‘Take money, I will watch the third.’ The manager asked, ‘But why the same film again and again?’ Nasruddin said, ‘Understand: at one point some women take off their clothes to step into a pond. Just as the last garment is about to come off, a train passes—the track runs by the pond. While the train goes by, the women hide; by the time it passes, they are in the water. I am waiting that the train be late once—it is an Indian train after all. I will not go till I see the whole scene.’
Do not laugh—this is how you too get influenced by films. In small villages, when the first film arrives, people throw money at the screen as in folk theatre. I have seen it—people bow, throw coins; when a dancer whirls and the skirt rises, they stoop to peek beneath. There is nothing there—only light and shade. But people are people—and this is their lifelong style.
It is not only the small. In Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar’s life it is recorded: he went to see a play. A wicked character on stage committed villainies. The righteous Vidyasagar became angry. At the final misdeed, he could not bear it: the villain tried to strip a woman in a forest. Vidyasagar forgot it was a play—he took off his shoe, jumped on the stage, and began to beat the actor. The actor showed more intelligence: he took the shoe, placed it on his head, and said, ‘No one ever honored me so. I did not think my acting so skillful that you would be deceived. It is only acting. This is no woman—our manager; even I could not pull off the dhoti. You labored in vain. Look closely—is he not the manager?’ The shoe is still preserved in a glass case in the actor’s family—as the award given by Vidyasagar.
Leave aside small men; your great pundits are not much different. Your lifelong habit is to be the doer; you fail to remain the witness. In doership is the ego. The day you become a witness, the ego is gone. What ego can a mirror have? When ego goes, burden goes; the unburdened alone can fly to Paramatma.
Rahim says:
‘Throwing the load into the furnace, Rahim crossed over—
But those with loads on their heads drowned midstream.’
The load is ego, doership. As you become a witness, you become weightless, empty—like a mirror: reflections come and go; nothing happens to the mirror.
Rahim again:
‘The path of love is slippery as ice,
Ants slip there—yet men load bullocks!’
The path to Paramatma—the way of love—is so slippery that even an ant’s weight—so subtle an ego—makes you fall. People carry bullocks—the bigger the ego, the heavier the burden. Let the ego go—how? The sutra, the science: do not be the doer; be the witness.
Gorakh says: preserve your Self; do not, with stubbornness, argue.
This world is a garden of thorns; carefully place your feet.
Save the Self—let the ego go. The Self and the ego are different. The ego is your illusion, your fabrication; the Self is the prasada of Paramatma—what you brought with you. The Self is the mirror; the ego is the doer and enjoyer.
Preserve the Self; let the ego fall away—and only then will you know who you are. Right now you imagine yourself this or that—doctor, engineer, judge, shopkeeper. The Self is none of these; it is an empty mirror. Impressions are stamped upon you and you become them. Sometimes even by accident impressions happen.
I read of a man. He went to Oxford, shy and timid. The clerk asked, ‘What will you study?’ He said, ‘Theology.’ The clerk heard ‘Geology’ and wrote it. The shy man saw it but did not object—‘Fine.’ He studied geology. After six years he came out a gold medalist. Then he confessed: ‘It was an accident. I came to study theology; alas, I became a geologist—no small geologist, a gold medalist! Now I am trapped for life. I alone know my suffering these six years. One year passed in shyness; later I thought to object would be foolish now. Then the degree came—worse. I surrendered: “It is God’s will; die a geologist.”’
Such accidents happen. I too remember. I went to enroll in college; I forgot my pen. I stood waiting to borrow one. A young man stood with a pen, filling a form, but thinking hard. I said, ‘Brother, while you think, give me your pen.’ I filled my form. He looked and said, ‘Good,’ and he filled his form the same. ‘You filled from my form?’ I asked. He said, ‘I was debating what subjects to choose. You came—now I know.’ I had filled philosophy; he filled philosophy. Now he is a professor of philosophy. Ask him who he is: ‘A professor of philosophy.’ All because he had a pen and I did not.
These are coincidences. You are not this; you are that which you were in your mother’s womb, before that, in deep sleep—neither doctor nor engineer nor professor. You are what you will be after death—you are Atman: your nature, your form.
Gorakh says: preserve the Self—do not, by stubbornness, argue. This world is a garden of thorns; place the feet carefully. Do not get lost in futile debates—whether the soul exists or not; what color it is. You will waste life in debate. Turn the eyes within and see what is. Who can answer you? The answer is within. Do not be lost in books and doctrines.
People argue for hours; some say there is no soul, it dies; they have not died, yet they say it will die. Others say it is immortal; they too have not died. What dispute is this? The soul is within you. Whether it will die is a matter for tomorrow. For now, recognize what is. Seek and search. If you do not find it, say so; but not one who has gone within has returned to say, ‘It is not.’ All without exception say, ‘It is.’ Those who say ‘not’ have not gone in. Marx never meditated, yet says the soul is not. This is foolishness. The first condition of science is: say only what experiment proves. Marx calls religion unscientific—then fulfill the primary condition. Buddha meditated, Mahavira, Jesus, Lao Tzu, Gorakh—whoever meditated says: ‘It is.’ With eyes open how can one deny the sun? The owl denies it; he sits with eyes closed. When it is morning to you, it is night to the owl.
Nearby on an almond tree I heard an owl one morning. The sun was rising; a squirrel sat nearby in the freshness, ready to begin the day. The owl asked, ‘O squirrel, night is approaching—will this tree be good for rest?’ The squirrel said, ‘Forgive me, it is morning.’ The owl snapped, ‘Silence! Nonsense! I know night is coming; darkness is gathering.’ The squirrel moved to another branch and muttered, ‘Your eyes are closing; that is why you think night is coming. Open your eyes: the sun is rising.’ But how can owls agree? For owls, night is day and day is night.
Those who live outside cannot accept Atman within; only those who turn the inner eye can say. So do not waste time in argument; put it into meditation.
This world is a garden of thorns—there are many entanglements, and the biggest thorn is debate. In debate people waste life; then obstinacies arise: ‘What I said must be right because I said it.’ The seeker says, ‘What do I care what I said? Wherever truth is, I stand there. I am devoted to truth—I want to be its shadow.’
Place your feet carefully—here the thorniest bushes are doctrines. People get entangled and forget meditation. Often even those who argue for God have no time to pray. Then it becomes absurd. You quarrel about food—when will you cook? You quarrel about water—when will you find the lake?
Rahim says:
‘Accomplish the one, all is accomplished; strive for all, all goes.
Water the root, Rahim; the flowers and fruits abound.’
Accomplish the one: it is within you—you. Do not get entangled in Ved, Koran, Bible, proving and disproving; else you will lose all. Water the root—your Atman. From there is the door to Paramatma. Water the one root and leaves and branches abound; birds rest in you, fruit appears, the hungry find food, the thirsty find drink, flowers bloom—beauty is satisfied. But water the root.
‘Seat firm, food firm, and when sleep too is firm—
Gorakh says, listen, my sons: you will not die, nor grow old.’
How to accomplish the one? Asana firm: learn to sit. Not only bodily; sit within so that there is no movement. The outer posture is preparation for the inner posture. Sit so the body does not move—still. Then let the mind not move—no ripples. When body and mind do not move, then is asana. Outside and inside you have stopped—no desire, no craving, no waves—mind a still lake.
Food firm: take only what is necessary. Do not stuff the body with the useless. There are people whose life’s work is to put food in from one end and let it out the other. Nero kept four physicians; he loved to eat. But how often can you eat? He had them induce vomiting so he could eat again. It seems exaggerated, but I know people who do it. An American girl I met had done this for fifteen years: she would eat and vomit so she could eat again. And those who do not literally do this still stuff themselves as if life is only food. Life is more—there is bhajan too! Eat enough for bhajan.
But look at your sadhus—you will be shocked. If a Hindu sannyasi has no belly, he is not a swami! Big belly, big swami. Talking bhajan, doing bhojan. This is their sannyas?
Seat firm, food firm, and sleep firm.
Just these three: seat, food, sleep. These are the three obstacles. Sleep firm means: as waking quieted thoughts, so in sleep dreams should subside. Dreams are echoes of thoughts. Think all day and you dream all night. The glutton dreams feasts; the sex-obsessed, sex; the greedy, wealth; the ambitious, kingship. Dreams are the reflections of your mind’s distortions. When you learn to sit still, food becomes balanced—and remember, whatever you put within is ‘food’: avoid reading trash, for that too you ingest; avoid gossip—garbage poured into your head. If someone dumps trash in your house you object; but if they dump rumors into your skull you listen with relish. Think what trash you load inside. Eyes, ears, nose, tongue—all bring in food.
To make food firm is to guard the inner diet. See only what is needed, hear only what is needed, speak only what is needed—and saintliness will begin to descend. Then sleep will be set right. Even in sleep you will remain quiet; dreams will depart. Then a strange event: the day dreams vanish, you sleep and yet remain awake—body sleeps but a small flame of awareness remains. Krishna said: when all sleep, the yogi remains awake. Body sleeps, within a lamp burns—a constant awareness.
Gorakh says, listen, my sons: then you will not know old age or death. I do not mean the body won’t grow old; only the body. You will not. The body will die; you become immortal.
Two names are used for Gorakh: Gorakh Gopalan—ever fresh, ever young; and Buddhabalan—old yet childlike. Fresh as morning dew, as a fresh bud.
Gorakh says, listen, my sons: you will not die or grow old.
‘Eating, you die; not eating, you die—
Gorakh says, by discipline alone you are ferried across.’
You will die whether you eat or fast; only one does not die: the one who attains discipline. The three sutras of discipline: seat firm, food firm, sleep firm. Then there is no death—only the experience of the Eternal.
‘Dwell always in the middle.’
Find the middle in everything—neither too much nor too little: eat, sleep, speak in moderation. Like a rope-walker, keep balance—neither lean left nor right; lean and you fall. Find the middle in all things, and the evenness, the samyak, will be yours.
‘When the mind is unmoving, the breath becomes still.’
When the middle is attained, the mind becomes utterly still—even breath ceases. Then Samadhi flowers. Neither mind nor breath is restless. Do not be afraid; here it happens every day. In first Samadhi the breath stops; you think you are dying. But this is not death; it is the beginning of a new life.
‘Die, O yogi, die; such death is sweet—
Die the death by which Gorakh died and saw.’
This is the beginning of that death after which there is supreme life. Die such a death as Gorakh died and saw—and what he saw is eternal, amrit.
Enough for today.