Mare He Jogi Maro #9

In the end, every fragment attains the rank of the Whole;
I have not seen a single drop that did not become the ocean.
There is not a single drop in existence that today or tomorrow will not become the sea. The part becomes the Whole, the fragment becomes the unfragmented, the finite becomes the infinite. There is not a single drop whose destiny is not to be ocean; then how could there be a single human being who is deprived of becoming divine?
To be divine is the very nature of man. As the drop can become the ocean, so the human being—if freed of boundaries—can become Paramatman. Man is Paramatman; it is only a matter of letting the boundaries fall. There is no other obstacle to man’s divinity; it is we who have drawn the Lakshman-line around ourselves. It is our line; we ourselves do not step out of it; we ourselves have built the walls; we ourselves have arranged for our own security; we ourselves have bound ourselves to the known. The Unknown calls, but out of fear we do not set out on the journey.
Yoga is a journey into the Unknown. But only he will go into the Unknown who has become weary of the known. Are you satiated with what you have known?
If the mind is satiated, then there is no question of reaching Paramatman; Paramatman has already happened. The very name of satiation is the meeting with the divine. But the mind is not satiated. Not even a little. It is as empty as empty can be. Only hopes—tomorrow it will be full, the day after it will be full—keep you entangled. Only false assurances, which are never fulfilled—no one’s are ever fulfilled.
Yesterday I was listening to a popular song—
Who knows what kind of people they were whose love found love.
There have never been such people whose love found love. In this world no one has ever attained fulfillment.
Who knows what kind of people they were whose love found love.
We asked for buds and received a garland of thorns.
We looked for the destination of happiness and found the dust of sorrow.
We desired songs of longing and received cold sighs.
The one who came to share our grief only doubled the burden of the heart.
Every companion parted after giving company for a moment or two.
Who has the leisure to hold a madman’s hand?
Often even our own shadow we found tired of us.
If this be called living, then thus we shall live;
we shall not complain, we shall seal our lips, we shall drink our tears.
Why fear sorrow now? Sorrow we have met a hundred times.
Who knows what kind of people they were whose love found love.
We asked for buds and received a garland of thorns.
Such people have never existed. Here, whoever asked for buds received a garland of thorns. In this world there is nothing but thorns. Yes, from afar flowers appear; on coming close, they prove to be thorns. What is not attained appears dear; what is attained becomes worthless. There is attraction in absence. The drum that is far sounds sweet.
Only he will set out on the path of Yoga for whom it has become utterly clear that here happiness is not possible. Happiness is impossible in the world. Because “world” means an outer journey—going away from oneself. And going away from oneself, no one will ever attain happiness. The farther you go from your own nature, the more you become contrary to it. And to drown in one’s nature is bliss. To be immersed in one’s own Self is bliss. Swabhava is bliss; vibhava is misery. So the farther you go from yourself—into wealth, position, prestige—the more miserable you become. “World” does not mean these trees, these moon and stars; “world” means the mind’s outward rush. The outer journey is worldliness. The inner journey is Dharma.
Look a little carefully at your own life, reflect; only then will these nectar-words of Gorakh be understood. Not only Gorakh—none of the words of the awakened ones can serve you because you have not inspected your own life. Still your hopes remain. Still your hopes have not been shattered.
The whole outward world is a deception:
if you go near, even the lips will not be moistened.
From afar it seems as if the water ripples; but it seems so only from afar. It is a mirage. And when you go near, even your lips cannot be wet. The throat is a far-off matter; even the lips cannot be moistened.
This earth never turns green;
what seeds of desire are you sowing in your heart?
On this ground no greenness ever grows. You are needlessly sowing the seeds of desires in your heart. You will repent much. These seeds never sprout.
This earth never turns green;
what seeds of desire are you sowing in your heart?
Why do you go on sowing new seeds of longing? When the old seed does not sprout, you sow a new one. You have been doing this for births upon births.
When you go near, not even a drop is found in your hand;
from afar, in the mirage, water appears.
Shankar proved there is no color in the sky,
yet it seems the blue has pervaded the heavens.
In “presence” there is absence; in absence we stuff in “presence.”
Who can say what is true? None has known.
This world is full of entanglement. In presence there is absence. What happens is forgotten; what is, is not seen. In presence there is absence, in absence we pour in presence. And that which is not, we get emotionally entangled in it. You are stuck in what you do not have—this will surprise you if you see it.
People think we are stuck in what we have; this is wrong. You are not stuck in what you have; you are stuck in what you do not have. You have ten thousand rupees; you are not attached to them; you are attached to a million, which you do not have yet. Even if you give up these ten thousand, nothing will be gained. Unless the million—which you do not have—drops…
It will sound upside-down that we are entangled in what is not. The wife you have—you are not entangled in her; you are already free of her; you have even stopped seeing her. You would not even recognize her. How many days, how many years have passed since you looked at your wife with full eyes! Who looks at one’s own wife! People look at others’ wives!
You are entangled with what you do not have. Absence has entangled you. Hence the Master’s strange task: he takes away from you that which you do not have. And he gives you that which you already have. When you go near, you will find that not even a drop exists where the ocean seemed to be waving.
This deception is like the sky’s looking blue. It only appears so; the sky has no color. The sky is not a “thing” upon which color can be painted. The sky is the name of emptiness. How will you color emptiness? The sky only appears blue.
Shankar proved by reason that there is no color in the sky,
yet it seems the blue has pervaded the heavens.
There is solid proof now, scientific proof, that the sky has no color; yet it appears blue. And in the desert, when you are scorched by thirst, your very thirst creates mirages. And do not talk only of ordinary men; even extraordinary ones get caught in mirages. Even Rama went after the golden deer. Are there golden deer? Have there ever been?
The story is sweet! Rama lost Sita—not because of Ravana, but because he went chasing the golden deer. If you ask me, the fact that Ravana stole Sita is secondary; the important fact is that Rama let Sita be lost. Think a little: if you had been there, would you not have thought, “Can there be a deer of gold? Has there ever been?” But the golden deer appeared, and Rama went to hunt it. He picked up bow and arrow. He left Sita. He left what was, for what is not—and what has never been and can never be. Against intelligence, against understanding—he went searching for the golden deer.
But the tale is endearing. Just so, we all go searching for golden deer and have lost our Sitas. Sita means your Atman, the one who is with you. That you have completely forgotten. You have turned your back on her. And you have gone searching for golden deer—position, prestige, wealth, fame. These are all golden deer—never have been, never will be.
Our being is like a bubble of water;
this show is like the shimmer of a mirage.
Open the heart’s eye toward that other realm;
the worth of this realm is like a dream.
Open your heart toward the beyond, for here everything is dreamlike. Open the eye of the heart toward that truth; lift the veil, remove the curtains. The very worth of this world is dreamlike! Our existence is like a bubble—made now, gone now. This display is like the shimmer of a mirage—false, sustained by belief.
And what all do people not believe! Our entire world is made of our beliefs. We have believed. The whole affair is of believing; and having believed, we go on with it. One who has not believed thus will laugh.
For the man possessed by the race for wealth, wealth is truth. And he who has no such race laughs: “You are crazy. What will you do with wealth? What can wealth do? It will all be left behind.” One whose belief is different is bewildered: “What are you running after!” But the believer’s eyes are intoxicated; he is not in his senses.
This world is the result of our craving, our thirst, our race, our ambition. And he who does not awaken out of this fever of ambition will never recognize himself. Without knowing oneself there is no bliss. Without knowing oneself there is no music. Without knowing oneself there is no taste of nectar. These sutras are for the search of that nectar.
Listen, O emperors, to a consideration of sense and understanding.
Gorakh says: O emperors!… Remember, he calls you emperors. Because you are emperors, while you have believed you are beggars. You are the masters, but you have believed you are slaves. Believe—and it becomes so.
Listen, O emperors—
consider with a little understanding.
Listen a little to intelligence, to awareness: will you go on running and running? Will you not stop? Will you not pause and consider—having run so much—where have you reached? Review once.
From the five elements is this whole world born.
All those things after which you are running—there is nothing there but the play of five elements. Earth, water, air, fire, ether—out of these this whole game is made. In this game there is nothing. And that which you seek is present within you—beyond these five elements. These five are born and die; they rise and fall. They are waves. With them you will never be blissful, because they no sooner arise than they disappear. How will you live with them? They are momentary. And from the momentary only suffering is born. Seek that which is eternal. And that sits within you.
If you look at this world carefully, the very seer will come to remembrance. If you look at it in a swoon, the seer is forgotten; you are entangled in the seen. He who is entangled in the seen goes astray. He who awakens in the seer arrives.
First, begin; then, in the vessel, gain acquaintance; then, the conclusion.
Thus speaks the noble Gorakh.
Gorakh says: O emperors, I have four things to say to you. He condenses his whole life-understanding into these four.
First: beginning. Beginning means: until now you have run only outward; you have not even begun the inner journey. You have not turned your eyes within. You have not looked back. Mahavira called this “pratikraman”—the turning back.
The mind has two modes—aggression and regression. Aggression means outward toward the other; regression means inward toward oneself. Patanjali called it pratyahara—turning back.
Return, return to yourself! Jesus called it conversion. Conversion does not mean a Hindu becomes a Christian or a Christian becomes a Hindu. That is not conversion. Conversion means the outer journey becomes the inner journey. Do not search for the temple outside; search within. Do not go to outer tirthas; bathe within. Dive into meditation and the revolution begins. Gorakh calls that the beginning. Only then has your humanity begun; thus he says beginning. Animals live outside, trees live outside; only man on this earth can live within. Only he has this possibility—to realize the Self.
Everyone runs outside; in this there is no glory. Your life’s glory begins the day you turn within. You become honored, you become luminous, you become human. Within you the birth of the Self takes place. Within you begins the search for Paramatman. And this is the greatest revolution. None other is so great. It is the inner revolution. Gorakh calls it beginning.
He says: Listen, O emperors! You have not even begun your empire. You are owners of an immense treasure, yet you have not struck the first blow of the spade to dig it out.
Second: the vessel. The vessel means the pot, the body. This body is the pot. The body is the temple. Inside it the Master is hidden. Within this vessel the sky is hidden. Do not get stuck in the vessel alone, because when you turn within you will see that the body is not such a small thing as you thought. The body is very mysterious. The body is a world unto itself.
Scientists say: in each body at least seven crores of living cells. Hence we have called the soul the purusha, because the body is pur—a city, an inhabited city. Bombay is smaller. Calcutta is smaller. Calcutta’s population is one crore; your body’s is five crores. Five crores of living cells. This is no small occurrence. Do not be deceived by the body’s small boundary. Scientists discovered atomic energy—atoms invisible to the eye; but when the atom explodes, in ninety seconds Hiroshima with a hundred thousand people turned to ash. That which is not seen to the eye can hide such immense energy! Then the body is vast. It hides tremendous energy. It has great mysteries.
If you turn within, the first acquaintance will be with the body, because the body is the temple. If you enter the temple, first you climb the steps, pass the walls, cross the door; then you can reach the inner sanctum. So first begin the inner journey; then become acquainted with this house. Otherwise you will not meet the Master.
Naturally, do not oppose the body. Do not torture it. Otherwise you will not understand. It is the Beloved’s dear gift. Do not suppress, do not harass it, for to harass and suppress the body is to deny the Beloved—it is atheism.
The theist will thank Paramatman: What a lovely body you have given! What form is poured even into clay! What magic shines even in the five elements! Paramatman is a magician. The greatest proof of his magic is this body of yours.
Scientists say: what the body accomplishes—were we to do it in a factory—the noise would resound for four miles. We have not yet found a way. Science has made great progress—man has been set down on the moon; the atomic bomb has exploded; and now we have enough bombs to burn the earth to ash not once but a thousand times. In spite of such development, science is still not able to turn bread into blood. But that magic happens in your body. Not only does bread become blood and flesh; bread becomes your brain. Bread becomes your thought. Bread, through some mysterious door, keeps your consciousness luminous.
Thus it is said: the hungry cannot sing the Lord’s name. The hungry man cannot pray. He lacks the energy for prayer. For prayer, the belly must be full. Hence, when a country becomes poor, bhajan disappears or becomes false. In this country there was once true bhajan, because the country was prosperous. At least people had bread; none was dying of hunger. In those days Buddha was born, Mahavira was born, Gorakh, Patanjali and Krishna arose; we reached great heights. At least there was no hunger. I do not say people were affluent with riches, but they were not hungry. The body was content. Prayer could arise.
When a country grows poor, then communism arises there—not religion. Then people get ready to kill and be killed. Then there are gheraos, strikes, riots, killings, violence. Prayer does not arise. The hungry man can be violent, not loving. The hungry man becomes angry; he cannot be compassionate.
Therefore I say: if this country remains poor longer—as our leaders seem to have decided it should—then nothing but communism will remain possible here. Consciously or unconsciously, the country is being taken toward communism. Those who lead perhaps are unaware; they may even be trying that the country not become communist. But it is not a matter of trying: if the country remains poor, nothing else is possible but communism. Prayer will not be born.
Hurry! The poverty, the starvation, must be removed. Otherwise we shall fall into a pit from which it will be difficult to come out. It was not so hard to be freed of British bondage. But once the country becomes communist, then to break those chains is almost impossible. Even Russia cannot break them; we certainly will not. We became slaves easily and remained so for thousands of years. Communism is a terrible slavery. Yes, bread will be available, but the soul will be snatched away—and for that price, accepting bread will be a shame. Bread can be produced. Only a little intelligence is needed; producing bread is not difficult. But our stupidity is so old that we go on augmenting the very causes of poverty, and we are the enemies of the causes by which poverty could end.
Behind Indira’s defeat this was the reason—simply this—she made a strong effort to bring population under control. Without that, this country can never be rich—not even well-fed. That became the reason of her defeat. She tried to enforce family planning. It must be enforced, or the country cannot be saved from poverty. Sixty crores already; by the close of the century it will be a billion. We have no capacity to feed a billion. People will grow hungrier, angrier; and the angrier they become, the more communist they will become—automatically. It is an inexorable process.
Indira lost because she actually tried to do something right. And that work must be done forcibly; otherwise it will not happen. If you leave it to people, they will not agree. They say: “God gives children; who are we to stop?” They will go on producing children—like rats. And the country will grow poorer. They do not know what they do. It will have to be enforced. People will feel hurt, their old habits will be obstructed. One who took pride in how many children he had will be angry if you say: “Two or three, enough.” He will be offended; his father produced twelve, and he—two or three! Such a thing never happened in his tradition.
Thus priests and pundits were angry; mullahs and maulvis too; their concern is that their numbers not diminish. Muslims fear Muslims may become fewer; Hindus fear Hindus may become fewer; Jains fear Jains may become fewer. If numbers fall, power falls. None cares that if all increase their numbers—Muslim more, Hindu more, Jain more—the whole country will die.
All these priests joined hands in defeating Indira. It was not accidental. If Indira’s fault was anything, it was that she tried to do one right thing which the ossified mind of this country did not like. By removing Indira you seated old men who can give no hope, who have no capacity, with whom there can be no future. But all reactionaries, all regressives, united. The stupidity of the country gathered together.
You saw the miracle: all political parties, with no concord in principles, gathered together. Such opportunists you will not find anywhere, who in a moment threw away their ideals, their philosophies, for the sake of power. Socialists, Congressmen, Jan Sanghis—together—this is astonishing, yet not astonishing: all religious orthodoxy felt hurt.
It is as if this country has decided to remain poor. If poor, there is no possibility of bhajan. What is true for the individual is true for society, for the nation, for all humanity. Your body should be happy, blossoming, healthy.
Therefore the yogi’s second task is to gladden the body—to make it healthy, blooming. The body should be like a flower; smiling, bathed in bliss. This temple is His; hang festoons upon it.
But your so-called monks have taught you the reverse. They have poisoned you: “The body is the enemy; if you would attain God, break the body, torture it, lay on a bed of thorns. Beat the body; the more you beat it, the closer you come to God.”
False—one hundred percent false. The more you destroy the body, the more the temple will fall. And in its collapse the fear is that the deity may be crushed. The body is a temple; respect it. Gorakh has great respect for the body. Hence he says: first begin the inner journey; then take care of the temple.
So: first, beginning. Then, the vessel—care for this pot. For within it is hidden the treasure. All the processes of Yoga—yama, niyama, pranayama, pratyahara—are not to break the body but to harmonize it; not to uglify it but to give it beauty, health, strength. Through them the body grows green; it flowers; its roots go deep into the earth.
Then the third event occurs: acquaintance. When your body becomes beautiful, musical, rhythmic—when there is a cadence, a celebration—then you have the first glimpse of consciousness. Then you enter the temple. Sad, weeping, hungry—you cannot enter. Only riding the wave of health can you.
First, beginning; the vessel; acquaintance; then conclusion.
Let the acquaintance happen; then draw the conclusion, the nispatti. Before that, do not say “God is” or “God is not.” Before that, do not conclude—neither yes nor no. Do not be theist or atheist. For conclusions taken before experience are borrowed, stale, secondhand. Who knows whether others gave rightly or falsely? Who knows whether they were deceivers or themselves deceived!
Let a man resolve: I will trust only my knowing; I will be my own foundation; I will be my own lamp. Then conclude. A lovely vision: first the inner journey; then the attunement of the body; then the recognition of consciousness—meditation; then Samadhi—the conclusion.
Thus speaks the noble Gorakh.
And Gorakh says: do this, and you will be awakened to your sovereignty. The Master of masters sits within you. The Lord of lords sits within. But you go on running. Who knows where you run—to every place but the one place.
I have heard a tale: when God first created the world, he lived right there in the middle of the market, on M. G. Road. Naturally—he had made the world and lived in its midst. But people troubled him much. Complaints upon complaints—this is not right, that is not right. And contradictory: “Tomorrow do not send rain; we have clothes to dry.” Another says: “Do send rain; we have sown seeds.” One says: “Let the sun shine.” Another: “Do not let it shine; we are traveling—shade will be good.” God must have gone mad. Whom to satisfy! If you satisfy one, many are dissatisfied. He grew afraid. People did not let him sleep by day or by night. In the middle of the night, they knocked: “Do this, do that! Tomorrow let the sun not rise; or make it rise early—we have work in the fields; darkness disturbs.”
He called his gods, his ministers: “Show me a way, or I shall go mad. Where shall I hide? Save me from my people. I made them; now they are my trouble. I made one mistake—man.”
Hence, you know, after making man, God made nothing else. Intelligence came, mind came. Before that he made much—trees, birds, mountains, rivers, moon and stars—and then man. After making man he made nothing else. Millions of years have passed; God sits with his hands withdrawn. He no longer creates. Such a mistake! He has no courage to go further.
He said, “I will make nothing more. But what is made is made. Where shall I hide?” Someone said, “On Mount Everest.” He said, “Soon, in just a moment of time, Hillary and Tenzing will climb Everest. And once one reaches, then buses will come; hotels will be built; M. G. Road… helicopters will bring people. This is no permanent solution.”
Someone said, “On the moon.” He said, “Not that either. Soon Armstrong will reach; then the Russians; disputes will arise.” Then one old god whispered in his ear; God smiled: “Yes, this fits.” The old one said, “Hide within man. Man will go to the moon and stars, but he will never go within. He will never remember.”
Since then God sits hidden within—and is enjoying himself. Once in a while a Gorakhji reaches. But by then all his complaints are gone. Meeting them he rejoices. The riffraff cannot reach there; they have no time from going to Delhi. Some Gorakhji, some Gautam Buddha, some Vardhaman Mahavira… With such ones he too is delighted; a feast must be held; cups of honey must be passed; words soaked in nectar must be spoken; songs sung; dance and drum; the veena string plucked. But Paramatman is within you. You are Paramatman.
Thus speaks the noble Gorakh.
If you walk within—bring a little awareness—complete these four tasks; attain the conclusion; let life find its meaning.
First, begin; drop lust, anger, ego.
If you would begin, then drop kama. Kama means: “Without the other I am not sufficient. I need the other.” If woman—then man; if man—then woman. The opposite is needed—and the opposite is outside, so men run after women, women after men.
To be free of kama means: first let me see who I am. Do I truly need the other? I do not even know who I am—and I go searching for the other! One who becomes acquainted with himself is astonished: there is no need of the other. To be oneself is enough.
Drop lust, anger, ego.
And one who has dropped lust—who needs no other—his anger drops of itself. Anger is the shadow of lust. Only the lustful is angry. Why? Because if anyone obstructs your desire, anger arises. One who has no desire—how will you make him angry? You may obstruct as you like; he has no desire. Your obstruction creates no pain. Even your obstruction does not appear as obstruction.
Jesus said: if someone slaps you on one cheek, turn the other also. If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too. If someone asks you to carry a burden one mile, go two.
One who has no desire has no hindrance. One who needs no other—the other cannot harass him. Understand this well. Another can trouble you only so long as you need him. Thus much confusion arises: the husband needs the wife, so the wife can trouble him; the wife needs the husband, so the husband can trouble her. Lovers love each other—and are angry with each other, fight each other. Why? Because we depend upon the other; dependence hurts: our key is in someone else’s hand. We are no longer our own masters.
Therefore lovers go on struggling to decide who is master—I or you? After marriage the struggle is the same: who is the real master? They do not say it plainly—how to say it!—but these are political maneuvers. The wife makes her moves; the husband makes his. Both set their pieces—who is master? The wife says something; the husband opposes—whether opposition makes any sense or not. The husband says something; the wife opposes. Trifles—what movie to see—and a quarrel.
One day Mulla Nasruddin and his wife quarreled—a hot quarrel for an hour and a half. Then Mulla went out. It had come to blows. He walked in the cool air; the mind calmed a little. The matter was small—what film to see? He thought: Why quarrel over such a small matter? Better to accept her choice. He sensed: quarrel is costly; hunger will soon arise; she won’t cook; night will come; she won’t let me sleep either. She will throw pillows; create some nuisance; put on the radio loud. Troubles do not end quickly. Once you start them, a chain is born. After full calculation he thought it best to agree to her film. He came in and said, “Be happy. I accept your choice. We will go to the film you wish.” She looked and said, “But I have changed my mind. Now your agreeing is of no use. Now I do not want to go to that film.”
If the issue is only quarrel, it makes no difference—film is only the pretext. Psychologists say: the basic reason lovers quarrel is that as soon as you fall in love, you begin to realize that your happiness depends upon the other. He may give, or may take away. You are no longer master—enslavement. Enslavement hurts; from hurt comes anger; from anger, conflict.
Kama and krodha go together. Between them stands the ego. If you win over the other, the ego becomes strong. If you lose, it goes underground; it seeks another route for victory.
One who has neither kama nor krodha—his ego dissolves by itself. Kama and krodha are the two wings that fly the bird of ego.
First begin; drop lust, anger, ego; the mind’s delusions, sensual vices.
Drop the notion that anything from outside can be gained. None has ever gained anything from it—nor will. The more you ask, the more you will be troubled, sadness will deepen.
I had desired the moon and the stars—
I received nothing but the blackness of night.
I am that song which never found the assembly of love;
that traveler who never found any destination.
I received wounds; I had desired spring.
I had desired the moon and the stars.
No tresses, no anchal to lean upon;
no dim star on the way.
My eyes had desired sights;
I had desired the moon and the stars.
In my heart I found the nests of failed hopes;
I went out to fetch light and found darkness.
I had desired streams of color and radiance—
I had desired the moon and the stars—
I received nothing but the blackness of night.
No one ever received anything else—only the night’s blackness. Ask for moon and stars—you are free to ask—but nothing ever aligns with your asking. By asking you become a beggar. As a beggar, your very worth falls; you are thrown far from the divine. Become a sovereign. To meet the Sovereign, become a sovereign. Only the like meets the like. As a beggar you cannot meet Paramatman; as a sovereign you can; only by becoming like Him.
What does it mean to be a sovereign? No asking remains—not for maya, not for lust, not for greed, not for wealth, not for position—no asking. You say: “As you have made me, I am content. As I am, I am content. Perfectly content.” In such a state, the emperor is born within. Then even if you are a beggar, you are a sovereign. Now even if you are an emperor, you are only in name; within, a beggar.
The mind’s illusions, sensual corruption—
these have seized your swan and slaughtered it.
They have gripped your inner swan by the neck.
Renounce craving; abandon greed.
Drop this thirst. Drop this greed. These have killed you. Their poison has finished you.
Drop duality; abide beyond the pairs.
Drop the language of two—“I” and “thou.” Abide non-dual. Where “thou” goes, where the desire for “thou” goes, the “I” also disappears. Then a vast silence remains. Silence—like after the storm. Or silence—like before the storm. Or silence—even in the midst of storm for one who knows. Even in the marketplace there is silence, because within there is always silence; there is eternal peace. If you know how to dive within, no outer turmoil can disturb it; no outer obstacle will be an obstacle.
Drop duality; abide beyond the pairs. Renounce the embrace of the other; abide unbound.
Drop the embrace of the other—for in this embrace you are bound. Because of the other your life has become a prison. Because of the other chains have been placed. It is the wall of others among which you are enclosed.
Renounce the embrace; abide unbound.
If you would be free—as free and vast as the sky—then learn non-duality.
With the simple device, take your seat.
Learn the practice of the simple. Simple device—that is the true device. What is it? Desire to be nothing. Because of desiring to be something, one becomes crooked. The moment you desire to be something, an ideal appears—“I must be that!”
Suppose you desire to be a Buddha—then what? You will begin to imitate Buddha. You will forget who you are; you will perform Buddha-like behavior. If you desire to be a Mahavira, you will stand naked like Mahavira. This will not be your authenticity. The moment you want to be something—an ideal enters, and you become false.
With ideals comes hypocrisy. An ideal means: a far star in the future—“I must be like that—Mahavira, Krishna, Buddha.” And you know, Buddha has never happened twice. None can be another Buddha—nor is there any need. There is never a second Mahavira. You are born to be yourself—not to be someone else. Buddha became Buddha because he did not try to be Krishna or Rama. He became Buddha because he dissolved into his own originality. You too can only be yourself. You are unique; there has never been and will never be anyone like you. Existence never repeats. Existence is not a broken gramophone record playing the same song.
Paramatman is ever-new, flowing, dynamic—not a stagnant puddle with stench and mud. It is flow—the Ganga, ever flowing.
Artificiality is born of ideals. Man became hypocritical, unnatural, complex—because of ideals. People teach each other: parents teach children—“Become like this… be like Buddha; be like Alexander; be like so-and-so.” No parent tells the child: “Become yourself.” Beware of Buddhas; beware of Mahaviras. They were; beautiful, glorious; but if you learn anything from them, learn only this: they lived their own authenticity—live yours. Do not act, do not imitate. Imitation and acting make one false; you become double—something inside, something outside. Your clothes one thing, your soul another. Discrepancy appears between your inner and outer hues. You become fragmented. Fragmentation is unnatural.
Sahaja means: live unfragmented. Live as you are.
Reflect well on this. It is precious. Live as you are. If bad—then bad; if good—then good. Let the whole world be acquainted with your actual state. Uncover yourself. Say, “This is how I am. This is my destiny. Thus has God made me. His will.” If the world accepts—fine; if not—fine.
When you want the world to accept you, then trouble begins. Then you must be as the world wants. When you seek respect, trouble begins—the world will respect on its terms. Fulfill its conditions, you will be honored. If not, you will be insulted.
One who wants to be something becomes fearful; and fear weakens—he loses soul. Do not want to be anything; as you are, you are enough. In God’s eyes you are accepted—otherwise you would not be. He has accepted you.
There is a story in Junnaid’s life. He stayed in a new town. Next door was a quarrelsome, troublesome man. For two or three days Junnaid watched; then he could bear it no longer. One evening after prayer he said, “O Lord, finish this man. What need is there of him in the world? My neighbor—only mischief, only harassment. He torments your people; he is wicked.”
Never had God answered any of his prayers; that day He did. “Junnaid, you have been here four days. I have been with this man sixty years. He is my neighbor—indeed all are my neighbors. I have tolerated him for sixty years; you could not for four days? And if I tolerate him, there must be some reason, some secret. At least before praying, think: what God accepts—what complaint can you have?”
Junnaid liked this very much. From that day he never prayed to improve any man—for it is as God wills. As it is, it is right. Who are we?
They brought a woman to Jesus and said she had committed adultery. The old scripture says she should be stoned to death. What do you say?
Jesus sat by the river. He must have thought: if he says stone her, it is violence—what of his love? If he says forgive, people will be angry: “You go against our old scripture.” People wanted this: if Jesus says forgive, we will throw stones at Jesus. If he says stone her, we will kill the woman and say to Jesus, “What of your compassion?” They did not know what Jesus would answer.
Jesus said, “The old scripture is right. Pick up stones; kill her. But let those throw who have never committed adultery—and not even thought of it.”
Those elders standing in front—mayor, council members—quietly slipped into the crowd: “Who will get into this mess! The town knows us.” Even if one has not acted, at least he has thought; who can be found who has never thought, never been attracted! They dropped their stones. Slowly all left. Evening fell; as darkness came, people ran away. The woman remained alone. She fell at Jesus’ feet: “Give any punishment; I confess—sinner, adulteress. Your compassion has melted my heart. Whatever you say…”
Jesus said, “Who am I to punish? Who am I between you and your God? You know; your work knows, and your God. I take no decision. If you feel you did wrong, then do not repeat it. If you feel it was right, continue. The final decision is between you and God; there is no middleman. Go.”
Do you get it? Jesus’ famous saying is: do not even condemn evil. Why? Because if God runs it, there must be a reason. Awaken within; live; the formula for living arises from authenticity.
With the simple device, take your seat.
If your life becomes simple—there, you are seated. That is the true asana. Sitting cross-legged is not the real asana; anyone can do that. It is exercise—good for health—but it will not give you the soul. When the seat of simplicity and authenticity is found, the experience of the Self begins.
Make firm the body, mind and breath.
Then spontaneously body, mind and breath begin to quiet, to become steady. Live simply.
Notice: whenever you lie, your breath trembles. Observe. When you lie, your breath wavers; its cadence breaks. When you speak truth, cadence continues.
On this basis scientists have made a machine to catch lies. In Western courts it is used. The man does not know there is a machine beneath his feet. As he stands, the graph is drawn before the magistrate. He is asked, “What time is it?” He says, “Nine-fifteen.” Why would he lie? A clock is in the court; the graph is drawn. He is asked, “How many people are here?” He counts, “Fifteen.” Why lie? For such two or three questions he cannot lie. Then: “Did you commit the theft?” The heart wants to say yes—because it knows—but he suppresses yes, and with his head says “No.” There, breath wavers; the graph trembles; he is caught. He is lying.
No man can lie without upsetting the breath. One who lives in truth, in simplicity, finds the breath steadying itself. You will be surprised: in meditation a moment comes when breath completely stops. If you bring a mirror before the nose of a meditator, no mist appears upon it. Normally, bring a mirror close and the vapor covers it. Sometimes one going into meditation grows frightened: “Am I dying?” No need to fear; you are not dying. For the first time the touch of supreme life is upon you. Everything has stilled—even the breath. Such a deep peace that movement ceases.
Practice moderation; be skillful in food.
Moderation means: abide in the middle—neither this extreme nor that. Neither overeating nor undereating; neither oversleeping nor undersleeping. Stay in the middle.
Practice moderation in mind.
When moderation comes to the mind—when the middle arrives—everything is set right.
Be skillful in food.
Then take in nourishment with intelligence. Do not take rubbish. “Food” is a large word; it does not mean only what you eat. It means whatever you take in. Someone comes to gossip; the man of moderation will say, “Brother, do not feed me this. Do not pour this rubbish into my ears. What use? I have no taste for it.” Because that is food for the ear. One who is skillful will not read trash, will not fill himself with junk. He will not go to see senseless violence on television; he will not sit in the cinema watching the same triangles of love. He will not carry this garbage within. Whatever you put in, you are being made of it. Not only food is nourishment; everything you take in is food.
Drop stupefaction—the time-stealer of life.
Do not think I say do not sleep. Sleep will be there, but without stupor. And you will not be stupefied even when awake. You are awake and yet asleep—walking on the road, a thousand thoughts running, entangled; you neither see the road nor people. If someone asks: “On the path you traversed, were there flowers on the tree?” You say, “I did not see.” Though you pass daily. How will you see? You are entangled in thoughts.
People are buried in thoughts—sleepwalking. This is sleep. As you become thoughtless, awakening comes. Then you are astonished: the world is very beautiful. Dust has fallen from the eye of thought; the reflection of the world becomes accurate. When ripples of thought cease, the lake is still; upon the still lake the full moon descends. The world is filled with unprecedented colors. But as long as dust of mind remains, the world seems stale, repetitive. It seems all the same.
Nothing here is the same. Every day it is new. The sun you bid farewell yesterday will not set today in just the same way; today’s dusk will unfold new hues. There will be new clouds, new colors. The glow of today’s sunset will be different. Today’s sunrise too was different. Every moment all is changing. That is life; otherwise all would be dead. Existence is no corpse; it is a living flow.
But you are asleep. You do not know. You go on somehow. Even your wakefulness is sleep. And there comes a moment of awareness when even as the body sleeps, inside a small lamp of alertness burns. Sometimes in your life also this happens.
A mother has a child. The monsoon is raging; thunder roars; lightning flashes. She does not hear. But the child whimpers—and she hears. What is this? Thunder in the sky—she sleeps soundly; but the child stirs—and instantly she awakes. Something within is awake, a small part, keeping watch lest the child need something. Her motherhood is awake.
If all people here sleep and someone calls, “Ram!” none will hear—except he whose name is Ram. He will say, “Why do you bother me? You don’t let me sleep?” The word “Ram” falls into everyone’s ear; yet everyone knows—even in sleep—that this is not my name; it is to tease someone else. In the morning if asked, you cannot tell that you heard “Ram.” But “Ram” hears.
I have heard: in a village a miser died. His wife sat without weeping. People gathered, thinking she had gone mad with shock. Just then a beggar came and rattled his bowl before the corpse. The moment he rattled, the woman began to weep. The neighbors were amazed: “What is the matter?” She said, “Now I am certain he is dead. If he does not go into the house at the sight of a beggar, he is dead. I doubted he might be in a swoon; now I am certain—the soul has departed. Whatever the swoon, at the sight of a beggar he would go inside.”
In ordinary life too, sometimes a small watchfulness remains. A student, during exams, through the night wakes now and then, looks at the clock—“Is it morning?” The exam stands over his head; one small string remains awake. These are small experiences.
Within the yogi a lamp burns continuously. Hence Krishna says: When all others sleep—yā niśā sarva-bhūtānāṁ—then for the disciplined one there is awakening. It does not mean Krishna never slept, standing with flute all night. He would go mad; the neighbors too. He sleeps, but only the body sleeps; consciousness remains awake.
Drop the stupor—the killer of life.
This stupor alone deprives you of the eternal life. Drop it, and you will experience the deathless.
Drop tantra, mantra, medicine.
He says to his yogis, his disciples, his sannyasins: do not get into these businesses—tying amulets, giving mantras, distributing roots and herbs, alchemical potions.
Drop tantra, mantra, medicine; yantra, pellets, metals—hypocrisy.
Drop all this hypocrisy. Do not be entangled. The monk of this land has been entangled for long—he does all sorts of things. He gives medicines, performs miracles, produces ash from empty hands, amulets, conjures watches. This is hypocrisy—sleight of hand, jugglery.
If a street magician does it, you do not fall at his feet crying, “Sai Baba! Our union has happened!” You know it is magic—some trick. But the same man in ochre, in monk’s garb—do it—and you fall at his feet. It is the same; no difference.
Gorakh says to his disciples:
Drop tantra, mantra, medicine; yantra, pellets, metals—hypocrisy.
Do not use the name of herbs; do not give entry to the royal court.
If you get into these trades—roots and herbs—sooner or later you will get embroiled in politics; you will reach courts of kings.
Politics means hankering for position and prestige. If entangled in such trades, you will become position-seeking. Why else would you do it? To have people think you are someone—important, great. A monk should be simple: “I am nothing. I am as a void.” He should have no claims. How can a monk display miracles? Only the unmonk can, because behind miracle is the desire to worship the ego.
Drop binding, mesmerizing, bewitching; expel exorcism.
Leave these arts—binding, seducing, hypnotizing, controlling—bewitchment. Drop exorcism, driving out ghosts. All this nonsense—leave it.
Listen, O yogis, to the path of Yoga’s beginning.
He says: O yogis, listen, I tell you the real path of Yoga’s beginning.
Abandon the thirty-six other pursuits.
Abandon all else, remember the One alone.
Every morning I rise to ask only for You, only You;
besides You I have no other claim.
Drop all else—this all is time-waste. Let all your energy be poured in one prayer. Ask only for Him; ask for nothing else.
Every morning I rise to ask only for You, only You;
besides You I have no other claim.
Let there be no other asking but for Paramatman. Ask so that in the asking you are lost.
Searching for Him, Mir lost himself;
someone look at this search!
“See my seeking,” says Mir. He went to seek Him—and he himself was lost!
Searching for Him, Mir lost himself;
someone look at this search!
He went to seek—and was lost!
Wandering, wandering, O friend, Kabir lost himself and remained.
Let only the One remain; you be lost—only then He is found.
I searched much and did not find Him;
when I found Him, I found no trace of myself.
I searched much—He did not appear. He did not appear until I was lost. And when He was found, I looked back and did not find myself.
Drown thus—let one longing remain—one single yearning. Pour all desires into that one. If you travel in many directions, you will reach nowhere. Bind one, all are bound; chase all, all will be lost.
Abandon the thirty-six; contemplate only the Lord of the world.
Abandon the many kinds of performances; burn lust, anger, ego.
Drop the acting. Abandon the theatricals. These are all new faces of lust and anger—new arts of the ego. Be alert to them.
Do not wander lands with eyes full of craving.
Your eyes are full of lust—and you go on pilgrimages! Nothing will happen by this.
Do not tie the heavy burden of matted hair.
Even if you grow great matted locks and bind heavy hair, you will not become light.
Do not plant roadside groves.
And even if you do so-called virtues—plant trees, hedges along the way so travelers may have shade…
Do not dig wells and fall into them.
Even if you dig wells so people may drink—remember, says Gorakh: in these very wells you will fall and die. Virtue without meditation is worthless—it is only the expansion of ego. Even monks grab the ego: “We will build a temple; we will dig a well.” They insist till it is built. People, harassed, finally give and build, just to be rid. But it is only the expansion of ego.
There is another virtue not a “doing”—born of meditation. I dissolve in Paramatman; then whatever He has me do, I am not the doer. If He wants a well dug, let it be dug; trees planted, let them be; schools opened, hospitals built—but I am not the doer, only an instrument. First meditation. Do not think Gorakh says good deeds are bad; he says: as long as ego remains, it will hide and grow behind deeds. First let ego go; then virtue flowers by itself—with fragrance, with beauty, with music.
If the mind is in hand, Rahim says, why worry about the body?
When a shadow falls upon water, the body does not get wet.
If the mind is in hand—if it has become meditation—then whatever you do, wherever you go, the outcome cannot be bad; only auspiciousness flows.
Breath will break; the body will wither; make your seat firm—sit like a king.
This breath will cease; the body will decay. Before that, O emperor, settle. Take care now. Later there will be great regret. Death comes—and nothing remains in hand but regret. We squandered life on things we cannot carry. Death will take all; all splendor will be left behind. We did not earn meditation—only meditation goes with death.
Meditation is the supreme wealth. One who has tasted Samadhi—death can take nothing, for Samadhi cannot be cut by sword nor burnt by fire.
Breath will break; the body will wither; make your seat firm—sit like a king.
Awaken now, O king! You are a king; if you awaken, your kingdom is given—this very instant the event can happen.
Do not be entangled in pilgrimages and vows.
Do not wear yourself in climbing mountains—Giranar, Shikharji, Himalaya, Kailash. Why torment your life-breath?
Do not be entangled in puja and japa.
You have done so much worship, so much repetition—what has happened?
Do not make a mockery of Yoga.
People standing on their heads, twisting bodies this way and that—what will come of it? This is mockery. Do not be trapped in such distortions.
Drop the trades of physician, business.
Beware of these enterprises.
Reading, theories, social decorum…
You have read enough—parrots; become pundits by reading; you have layered on virtues; you have learned etiquette; grown civilized. But from this nothing will happen; all will be left behind. When the bird flies, only the bird goes; and the bird has remained as it was—you paid no attention to it.
Avoid the company of many disciples.
Not yet awake—and you gather disciples! Awaken first; then if someone comes, share. First be the light; then light another’s lamp.
People come to me: “We want to serve the people.” I say, “Your kindness would be great—do not serve yet. First serve yourself.”
They say, “Without service there is no sweet fruit.” Their eyes are on the fruit; thus they want to serve. Service has no purpose like that—that by serving you reach heaven. The truth is reversed: one who has heaven within—service flowers from him. One in whom the sweet fruit has rained—his actions become service. The truth is reversed.
They come asking to serve the people. I say, “See how many servants are already serving—and people are dying. The more servants, the more the people’s noose tightens. One pulls the hand, one the leg, one the neck. They say, ‘We are pressing’; but none cares the limbs are breaking, the neck cut. Yet the servant insists, ‘We will serve!’”
A Christian pastor told his students, “You must serve—at least once a week.” He gave them a week. Next week he asked, “Did you serve?” Three raised their hands. One said, “I did. I helped an old woman cross the road.” The pastor was pleased. “Well done!” He asked the second. He said, “I also helped an old woman across.” The pastor began to doubt—but thought: there’s no shortage of old women. He asked the third. “I also took an old woman across.” He asked, “You three found three old women?” They said, “Not three—only one. We three took her across.” He asked, “Was there need of three?” They said, “Not three—six would have been hard enough. We barely managed, because she did not want to go across at all. We panted; there was scuffle; but we persisted—service must be done. Without service no sweet fruit. We dragged her across—and ran away.”
Service! You do not yet have the fruit. You do not yet have the soul. In the name of service you will do wrong. It is as if—never studied medicine—you go to serve patients. Patients will die! They might have survived the disease; but to survive the physician is difficult.
The world is harassed by servants; they have caused great trouble. Remember: the real happening must occur first within.
Avoid the company of many disciples. Drop titles—the cremation ground; throw away debate—poison.
Do not get into titles: BA, MA, PhD, MD… these are worldly. In the world of monks too there are titles—mahant, mandalacharya, Shankaracharya… Some write “Sri Sri 105”; some “Sri Sri 108.” Karpatri Maharaj outdid them all—he wrote “Anant Sri”—Infinite Sri. Now you cannot go beyond. Like children—“One more than you—whatever you say, one more.” He who says so has won. Infinite Sri!
You are Paramatman; you need no other title. All titles are small. What title does God need? Those who have known have declared your godliness—you are Bhagwan, you are supreme, beyond you there is nothing. After “God,” will you add MA, LLB, PhD? You will look foolish. The whole existence is filled with God.
Thus says Gorakh: consider titles as cremation grounds; drop empty debates as poison.
Therefore I tell you again and again—
at the last hour you will regret.
Therefore I say this repeatedly—
alone you will have to go.
Neither disciples nor titles nor wealth nor position will go with you. Alone you will go. Therefore know now that you are alone. Thus will you go at the end. Live so now. Then death will take nothing. You will conquer death; death will not conquer you.
Do not display your knowledge in assemblies.
People are eager to show knowledge. Someone asks—and you pounce. This is the sign of the ignorant.
Do not display your knowledge in assemblies.
Seeing someone eager to listen—someone asks, the poor fellow is trapped—do not grab him by the neck and pour knowledge upon him. Until a true seeker, a mumukshu, is found—remain silent.
Be dumb, mad—unknowing.
Until a mumukshu is found—be dumb, as if you cannot speak. Be mad—so none asks you: “What to ask that madman!”
A journalist came to Gurdjieff to interview him. Gurdjieff was drinking tea; he seated the journalist; he turned to a disciple and asked, “What day is today?” She said, “Sunday.” Gurdjieff struck the table with his fist and shouted, “How can it be Sunday! Only yesterday it was Saturday!” The journalist was shocked: “What sort of man is this! And so angry, pounding his fist, ‘How can it be Sunday! Yesterday was Saturday!’” He stood up: “Goodbye, I am going.”
When he left, the laughter was worth seeing. Gurdjieff laughed, disciples laughed. They said, “You did a wonder!” He said, “What is the use of wasting time on such a fool!”
Be mad! says Gorakh. If you see some useless fellow—journalists and the like—be mad. He will go away by himself; he won’t come again.
Be dumb, mad—unknowing.
And those who know become unknowing, become mad, become dumb. Because what is known—there is no way to tell. It is like a mute tasting sugar. Those who know become mad, because what they know is so different from worldly logic that it cannot accept it. They become “crazy.” Those who know become unknowing, because they see: what is known is that which cannot be known—what even after knowing, cannot be known. There is experience and taste—but no doctrine.
From whom shall we get news of You?—
he who is informed is himself unknowing.
Whom shall we ask? Some do not know and are ready to tell; some know but are not ready to tell—they themselves are unknowing!
From whom shall we get news of You?—
he who is informed is himself unknowing.
He who has come to know becomes unknowing. He becomes utterly ignorant.
Socrates, dying, said: “I know only one thing—that I know nothing.” This is the sign of the knower.
Drop the hope of being lord or beggar.
Drop the anxiety to be something. Strange anxieties run here: the poor want to be rich, and the rich think the poor are carefree. This statement is strange!
Drop the hope of lord or beggar.
The beggars want to be kings; the kings think beggars enjoy. The emperor imagines: “If only I drop all and take an ektara and wander village to village! What joy of the saints! One rag, the open sky; two morsels by begging; sleep carefree; drink water from a pond; sleep under a tree—what bliss!”
The king thinks beggars are blissful; the beggar thinks: “When will I tire of this tree’s shade? Will there ever be a roof? Will I ever smear ghee on my bread? When will I get the throne?” Here all are troubled. He who has thinks those who have not are joyful; those who have not think those who have are joyful. Gorakh says: drop both. Where you are, as you are, it is good; do not hope for later.
Take alms as food—be supremely without hope.
Whatever comes—what God gives—alms—be utterly without expectation in it. “Udas” here does not mean depressed and fly-infested. Gorakh cannot mean that, for he says: Laughing, playing, holding meditation—laugh and play, be in color! “Udas” has another sense: ud + aas—one who has dropped “aas,” expectation. One who no longer says, “Tomorrow it will be good, when it is like this.” Who is enjoying now. Whose Holi is now; whose Diwali is now. Who is not waiting for some future Diwali.
“Udas” means one who has dropped all future-hope.
Drop elixirs, potions, pellets.
Drop “ras” and “rasayan.” People have done these trades for centuries—some making elixirs to turn iron into gold, to make mortal man immortal. Drop it.
Drop elixirs, potions, pellets; abandon “riddhi,” seek “siddhi.”
Abandon “riddhi”—only then “siddhi” arrives. Riddhi means: performing miracles—walking on air, passing through walls, turning iron into gold. Drop these. Siddhi is one—dive into that which is within. No need to fly in the sky; birds already fly; they have not become paramahansas. If you must, airplanes exist.
A man came to Ramakrishna: “I can walk on water. What can you do?” Ramakrishna asked, “How long did it take to learn this?”
He said, “Eighteen years.” Ramakrishna laughed: “Poor fool! We cross the river for two paise. You spent eighteen years—and walk on water—for what? Go, walk on water! We sit in a boat and cross for two paise. For this you wasted eighteen years!”
Gorakh says: drop these things; they are only new ways of the ego.
Abandon wine and bhang; from them many-colored delusions arise.
Intoxication gives a counterfeit of meditation. Since the Vedas—soma—till now, monks have intoxicated themselves—bhang, ganja. Now LSD in America—the scientific soma. From Vedic rishis to Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley, there has been a hope that intoxication brings Samadhi. It does not; it gives the counterfeit. If Samadhi were so cheap, by intoxication… Yes, for a while forgetfulness comes; worries seem distant. But they remain in their place; the intoxication will wear off; they will return with double speed.
Woman, parrot, sarangi!
Drop lust. If man, drop the hope that woman will give it; if woman, drop the hope from man.
“Parrot”—some monks trade in this—keep a parrot to pick cards, tell fortunes, read palms, make horoscopes. Drop this nonsense.
“Sarangi”—fiddling; some think if they play the sarangi, all is attained. When will you play the inner sarangi? How long will you beat the outer drum? When the inner dance?
All three, the True Master has rejected.
What then? Beginning; the vessel; acquaintance; conclusion.
Begin the inner journey. Recognize the temple. Set it in order, purify it. Then acquaintance with the Self: Who abides within? Who is this consciousness? Who am I? Raise this question to the deepest depth. This alone is the meaningful question. And the day acquaintance happens, that day you can conclude. That day the conclusion has come to your life. And one whose life has conclusion—his moksha has arrived.
Thus speaks the noble Gorakh: O emperors! This alone is the awakening I want to give you. This alone the remembrance. Awake! This awakening is your capacity, your possibility. As the tree is hidden in the seed, so Paramatman is hidden in you.
In the end, every fragment attains the rank of the Whole;
I have not seen a single drop that did not become the ocean.
You are a drop; you can become the ocean. The ocean is hidden in the drop. And until you become the ocean, do not rest; do not relax. Let that longing hold you like a blazing fire. Let all else be burnt and dissolved—then the supreme life is discovered.
Die, O yogi, die—this dying is sweet;
die the death in which Gorakh saw the Divine.
Enough for today.