Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #10

Prem Kirti! There is not the slightest miracle in it. Esa dhammo sanantano! Such is the eternal law. When a lamp is lit, moths will find their way to it from far away. The lamp does not go out to look for them. The lamp remains where it is; the moths come. And moths come to dissolve, to be consumed, to become one with the flame.

The disciple is seeking his death—the death of the ego. He is burdened by his own being. He has carried the load too long, dragged the Himalayas on his head. He longs to be unburdened. He seeks the feet where he can lay down his whole load. He seeks a presence, a nearness, where awareness is sparked, wakefulness arises, so that the sowing of thorns that has gone on until now may stop in the future. For we reap only what we sow: sow thorns, reap thorns; we sow thorns and hope for flowers—hence disappointment.

The disciple is searching for a place, a seat of learning, a satsang, where he can learn the art of sowing seeds of flowers and growing flowers. And the first step in that art is to efface oneself, to surrender oneself. There is no greater good fortune in this world than surrender.

Every person is seeking surrender—knowingly or unknowingly, rightly or wrongly. When you yearn for love, you are yearning for surrender. But love will not satisfy, because two persons on the same plane of consciousness cannot truly surrender to each other. Even if a moth surrenders before an extinguished lamp, how can it? There is no flame in which to be absorbed, in which to melt and merge.

You meet many extinguished people, and you pour your love on them, but nothing comes of it—how could it? You are extinguished, they are extinguished. Where there was one unlit lamp, there become two unlit lamps. Hence love brings melancholy. Though the search in love was for surrender, very soon love turns into a race to possess one another.

An unlit lamp cannot dissolve you. What will you do with an unlit lamp? The unlit lamp will try to possess you, because an unlit lamp means a person filled with ego. And the ego has only one urge—to become the owner of the other. The ego claims, accumulates, lives by possession. The more claim it has upon the other, the more the ego is fortified. You had set out for surrender, but the story turned upside down—you began to struggle.

That is why loves that begin with rosy hopes and sweet imaginings end in bitter hells. Yet even there, the search in love was for surrender. The direction was wrong, that’s all; but the longing was right. One tried to press oil from sand. The wish for oil was fine; but oil cannot be pressed from sand—so failure will be your lot. Life becomes a long tale of failure and agony. At the moment of death you will find: I came empty-handed, and I go even more empty-handed.

Those whose love has failed everywhere can find success at the feet of a Satguru. Those who have seen love in many forms, tested it and suffered its pains, only they can fall into the love of the Master. That is love’s ultimate peak. Beyond that, love becomes formless. Up to the Satguru, love has a form; the moment you enter through the Satguru, love becomes formless. When the moth falls upon the burning flame, it becomes formless. And as the flame is soaring toward the sky, the moth, dissolving, finds the gates of the sky flung open.

Just light the flame—and see: moths begin to come from far and wide. There is no miracle in it. Man has always been in search. Who does not long for truth?

Sitting here I am giving a silent call. That silent call will be heard far and wide. Wherever a heart is longing for love, there the heart-strings will begin to vibrate. Time and space do not obstruct this call. Love is beyond time and space; there distances disappear; there is no distance at all.

So from the outside it seems that people are coming to this pilgrimage place from distant lands. They are coming because something within their hearts has begun to happen—and the heart recognizes no distances. The heart has never acknowledged distance. Distance is a measuring of the mind. But the heart can cross seven seas, for the heart knows how to dare.

The intellect is a coward; it fears, it hesitates; it ties the boat with a strong chain to the shore, lest the boat slip away unknowingly. There are storms on the ocean—and there are always storms on the ocean, sometimes less, sometimes more. And the boat is small, the ocean vast; and the other shore is not visible.

But at times the voice of that unseen shore can be heard. At times a glimpse of that unseen shore begins to descend within. At times the beauty of that unseen shore becomes an irresistible summons.

Then one has to go—one must go. An inevitability arises that cannot be postponed to tomorrow. The boat must be rowed now; the boat must be freed now; the moorings must be loosed now. Whether there is night’s darkness or a raging gale, whether there is risk of perishing or drowning—one cannot remain. And one who moves with such courage in search of the other shore finds even midstream to be a shore. Even if he drowns midstream, he has arrived.

Those who cling to the shore drown at the shore itself. Their cowardice kills them. The saying is: the brave die but once; the coward a thousand times. What death is this speaking of? The death that happens through surrender.

No, there is no miracle in it. It has always been so; it will always be so. Those who are seeking will come from afar. Those who are not, may be near and yet nothing will happen by their nearness.

A woman wrote a letter four or five days ago: “Should I stay here or go back to my country? Will you be as available to me far away in my country as you are here?” I replied: Yes, as much as here.

People take their own meanings. I meant something else; she took it otherwise—and I knew she would. My meaning was: neither are you available to me here, nor will you be there. I meant: as available as you are to me here, just so there. Go in peace. To stay here is futile, without cause.

She understood, “Ah, then I am blessed—I will have you as available there as here!”

Yesterday that woman came for energy darshan. Thousands have come to energy darshan, but I have not found anyone so closed, so far. My hand is on her head, and yet the distance is like thousands of miles. My hand touches her head, but her heart remains untouched. I am showering on her, but her bowl is upside down. Even in receiving she is miserly.

People are miserly in giving—and then miserliness becomes a habit. They become miserly even in receiving. They fear to receive lest today’s receiving compel tomorrow’s giving—better not to take at all; why invite the bother of giving?

You have seen misers who fear to give; I know misers who fear to receive. And this inner wealth is such that it takes courage even to receive it—because to receive it is to be effaced, to die.

The moth can be available to the flame. God has appeared to it as light. But it will have to become one with the flame; it will have to burn. The flame is burning; just as the flame is burning, so too must it burn—then the harmony will happen.

It is not a matter of far or near, not a matter of geography.

That woman is going away reassured that I will be as available there as here. And I did not lie; I will be as available as here. I am available even here. But she is not ready to receive; she sits with doors and windows barred. There she will bolt them even tighter. If she cannot open here, how will she open there?

Tearing the dense darkness
comes the warbler’s call—
first a little faint,
then irresistible!
On branches sunk in bottomless night
birds beyond counting sleep;
stirred by that tumultuous note
they begin to sway,
wake and answer—singing!
The sky resounds with songs of dawn.
You too, O my unready heart,
send out the cry!
Shatter the choking gloom with tones!
Now, in the blinking of an eye,
from the silent dark
your countless unknown companions
will raise the echo—
they will sing!

Morning comes. The sun does not go rousing each bird one by one. The sun does not shake each tree: Wake up, morning is here; drop dreams, day has come. The sun rises here and inevitably the trees awaken. The throats of birds, rested through the night, burst with new songs, new tones, new music. The sun says nothing, yet the happening happens, silently. By some indirect path the sun’s call awakens the trees. Flowers begin to open; buds unfold their petals; fragrance starts to fly. Birds, who knows how, catch the cue that the sun has risen.

Man alone is such that he misses the cue. He needs an alarm to wake him—and often even then he shuts off the alarm and turns over to sleep again.

Only man has become a little cut off from nature. Otherwise, the birth of a Buddha on the earth is sunrise in the world of consciousness, and it will inevitably draw all those who have a little life-energy within them, a spark—those who are truly alive, not dead, not corpses; who are not merely dragging themselves; who have a little inquiry, a little longing for liberation, a thirst. Wherever they may be, hidden in far caves, it makes no difference—they will begin to hum.

Tearing the dense darkness
comes the warbler’s call—
first a little faint,
then irresistible!
At first it will be heard soft and low.
First a little faint,
then irresistible!
Then you will not be able to escape it. At work, in business, sitting, rising, waking, sleeping—some invisible ray will begin to draw you, irresistible. There is no way to avoid it. The voice grows louder and deeper and brings you to the moment when you must set out.

On branches sunk in bottomless night
birds beyond counting sleep;
stirred by that tumultuous note
they begin to sway,
wake and answer—singing!
The sky resounds with songs of dawn.

This is the natural law. The sleeping birds will awaken; they will sing in response. Blessed are we—the sun has risen again; flowers have bloomed again; there is vision of light once more. If they do not sing, what else can they do? If they do not hum, what else? If they do not dance, what else? How else to offer thanks?

Morning birds, singing, are absorbed in prayer. Morning’s song is their hymn. These flowers that open in the trees at dawn—these are their silent expressions of gratitude.

You too, O my unready heart,
send out the cry!
Shatter the choking gloom with tones!
Now, in the blinking of an eye,
from the silent dark
your countless unknown companions
will raise the echo—
they will sing!

Sitting in my room, what else am I doing? Calling out. Scattering notes into the suffocating dark. Because I trust:

Now, in the blinking of an eye,
from the silent dark
your countless unknown companions
will raise the echo—
they will sing!

And those who have begun to hear are starting to come. Many more are to come—innumerable ones. These are only the first flowers before spring. They say, if the first flower blooms, spring has come. Then flowers will open in rows, then countless flowers will bloom—there will be no way to count. These small flames that have been lit, these saffron tongues of fire gathered here in small number—these flames will beget more flames. Lamps will light other lamps. This saffron fire will encircle the whole earth.

And there is no miracle in this—no magic. That which has to happen, is happening as it must. In this world there are no exceptions; hence miracles simply do not happen. There are laws. The name of that law is God. Call it law—if you wish to use the language of mathematics. Call it God—if you wish to use the language of feeling. Both point to the same.

You have not yet even paid the price
of the candle’s smiles—
let go, let go, and come,
come, and make these flames your own.
Become light or become smoke—
this is the final test of love.
Before you dissolve,
show your true form.
Come, come, come, my moth!
Lose yourself on the waves of the flame.
Come, come, come, my moth!
Lose yourself on the waves of the flame!

The call has been given. It is a silent call. Alone in my room, I am calling. Ears will not hear it, but wherever hearts are alive, there will be a ringing.

Nurture I will you with love, O my seed!
One day you yourself will become a flower,
one day all these bees will sing your praise,
all will gather around your shore.
Therefore the effort—
for you shall be expressed as smile, as sweet unfolding!
Therefore the effort—
for one day you shall become the very embrace
in the arms of the wind!
Look not that today your bed is earthen,
look not where the swarm of bees is absorbed;
think not that you do not yet have that smile;
consider how tender still your age!
Steady striving,
steady effort for freedom, ceaseless labor—
the festival of sprouting, of blossoming—this blessed chance!
Laughter, exuberance—all shall be yours; let time ripen it.
Today let me lay you in the soil,
let me pour the waters!
Seed you are, primal source you are! You are the fire-marked revolution.
Asleep you are; within you sleeps the obedient beauty of the earth!

This gathering of saffron-clad sannyasins, these madmen, is the first stage of a vast coming revolution. As the east turns rosy before sunrise, as the horizon in the east blushes red—sign that the sun is coming, coming, bound to come—so my sannyasin is the first note of a new revolution in human consciousness, the first flower of spring.

But before becoming a flower, one must pass through the travail of the womb.

Nurture I will you with love, O my seed!
When I give you sannyas, this is what I am saying.
Nurture I will you with love, O my seed!
One day you yourself will become a flower,
one day all these bees will sing your praise,
all will gather around your shore.
Therefore the effort—
for you shall be expressed as smile, as sweet unfolding!
Therefore the effort—
for one day you shall become the very embrace
in the arms of the wind!

But when someone says to the seed, “I will nurture you with love, O my seed!”—the seed trembles. For no matter how lovingly you water it, the seed must die. The seed dies and then it sprouts. The sannyasin must die so that he may be reborn. The sannyasin has to become dvija—twice-born. But the second birth is possible only when the first has died.

Look not that today your bed is earthen—
and the seed must be laid in the soil. Who wants to be put in the soil? The soil is where graves are made. But without a grave, no flowers bloom.

Look not that today your bed is earthen,
look not where the swarm of bees is absorbed—
today the bees sing elsewhere. The seed must feel a little envy—the bees are singing on other flowers; they are dancing their rasa around other blossoms.

Look not where the swarm of bees is absorbed,
look not that today your bed is earthen.
Think not that you do not yet have that smile;
consider how tender still your age!
Seed, you are new. Today you do not even know how to smile. How can a seed smile? It is the flowers that smile—though the flowers are hidden within the seed. The seed is possibility; the flower is actuality.

When you come to me, you come as possibility. You cannot yet recognize how full of possibilities your life is—because possibility is not visible. You cannot hold it in your hand, you cannot touch it; it has no clear outline. I must give you trust: you will bloom, you will surely bloom. Do not worry. The bed of soil given to you today will become the very cause of your rising to the sky. That very earth will lift you to the heavens, make you dance on the winds, converse with moon and stars. Today there is the dying, but tomorrow that very death will become great life. And the same bees that dance today on other flowers will dance around you. They will hum around you. Let your fragrance burst forth.

The process of dying is hard. To melt the ego is arduous. That is why only a few dare to take sannyas.

Steady striving,
steady effort for freedom, ceaseless labor—
the festival of sprouting, of blossoming—this blessed chance!
I am here, you are here—
the festival of sprouting, of blossoming—this blessed chance!
To die and to receive new life—this blessed chance, this great festival! Here I will give you the cross; there your resurrection will be.

Laughter, exuberance—all shall be yours; let time ripen it.
Today let me lay you in the soil,
let me pour the waters!
Seed you are, primal source you are! You are the fire-marked revolution.
Asleep you are; within you sleeps the obedient beauty of the earth!

These people who have come from far countries are the first signs of a coming revolution that will sweep the earth. This is no small event. Today, if you look, it seems small—the seed is small. When it becomes a tree and touches the clouds, then you will know how much power was hidden in a seed. Botanists say a single seed can green the whole earth—because in one seed is a tree, in one tree infinite seeds, and in each seed again infinite seeds. One seed can make the whole earth green. And one sannyasin can color the whole earth saffron. One Buddha can inspire the whole earth toward Buddhahood.

There is nowhere to go, and no question of going anywhere. Those who are to come, thirsty ones searching for a well, will come of their own accord. And they have begun to come.

The unfortunate will miss—and it may happen they miss while living next door. And people miss for such petty reasons that it is hard to reckon.

The day before yesterday a very senior government officer, now retired, came to the ashram. He told Laxmi, “Forgive me. For seven years I have hated Bhagwan in a way perhaps no one else has—and I am ashamed to tell you the reason, but if I say it today my heart will be light. Today, coming here, my hatred of seven years has turned into love; that is why I must say it.”

You will be astonished at the reason for his hatred; it was something tiny, with which I had no connection. The man is a lover of books—one of those bookworms. In every Bombay bookshop he went to, whenever he liked a good book, the shopkeeper said, “Don’t touch that, it’s for Bhagwan.” From this a great hatred arose: the book I want to buy… Those were my pre-ordered books; the shopkeeper could not sell them. He was only waiting for more to come so he could send them on to me. But the man felt deeply hurt, wounded.

He never came, never listened to me, never read a book of mine. He is mad about books, yet has never read one of mine. A hostility was born: the very book I want has already been bought—and by this one man! Jealousy, envy. Never met me, no connection.

He came and wept. He came and asked forgiveness. He came and understood what foolishness he had been doing.

People are strange. When I was in Jabalpur, a woman said to me, “My husband agrees with everything you say—only he is annoyed that the sleeves of your kurta are too loose! He cannot tolerate the sleeves of your kurta.”

Since then—you have seen—I made the sleeves shorter. But he still hasn’t come. Ten years have passed. I sent word to his wife that the sleeves have been shortened; I am waiting for your husband!

People are so foolish—not for others, but for themselves. They do not even understand what they are doing. Whether the sleeves of my kurta are loose or not—what has that to do with anything? But no, it became a stumbling block. And surely he must have found reasons within himself. He is a lawyer—a High Court lawyer. He must have found many arguments: such loose sleeves—this is a show, a display! And one who has attained truth—would he display?

Ramakrishna had his eyes closed. He opened them. With difficulty he propped himself up with his hands and sat up, and said, “Yes, the Rama that was—I am he. And the Krishna that was—I am he. I am Ramakrishna. I am both. Do you have anything more to ask?”

Vivekananda had not asked aloud; he was only thinking it in his mind. He must have repented much later: Even at the dying moment, what was I thinking! And having said just this, Ramakrishna passed away.

Even a person like Vivekananda—leave aside ordinary people—can be filled with such preposterous questions at his master’s final hour. And if Ramakrishna had not said this, perhaps Vivekananda’s doubt would have deepened. And do you think that by saying only this the doubt would have been dispelled? The books don’t say; but I cannot believe that just this much would have removed the doubt. He must have thought, Perhaps he knows telepathy, reads another’s thoughts—what is special in that? Magicians do it. Or he might have thought, If he can speak, then why not do at least this much more and show that he can remove the cancer too!

And it did not happen only with a disciple of Ramakrishna; it has always been so.

Jesus is being hung on the cross. The disciples have fled; only one disciple is hidden in the crowd. And what is he hiding there to see? To see whether a miracle now happens: Can Jesus save himself or not? If he is truly the son of God, God will save his son.

Jesus is being nailed to the cross; but what thought is arising in that man’s mind?

Jesus is praying to the Divine, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

This is not a miracle! A miracle, for them, would be if God descended in a golden chariot, lifted Jesus down from the cross, and proclaimed before the crowd: This is my true son, my only, my one and only son. Then they would call it a miracle.

What is a miracle? You want the laws of life to be broken. If you understand rightly, the expectation of a miracle is an irreligious expectation. Do not be startled by what I say: the expectation of a miracle is irreligious. A religious person understands that life is law. Buddha defined dharma itself as law; that is indeed its meaning. The Vedas say the same: dharma means rita—the supreme, eternal law by which the cosmos moves. No exception ever occurs in this law. Impartially it goes on in its course; it does not show favoritism. The very meaning of a miracle would be favoritism: what is not done for anyone else should be done for Jesus—then, a miracle.

And do you think the people who gather around wonder-workers are religious? Their very expectation is irreligious. Ash appears from someone’s hand—and that’s it, a miracle!

A friend has written to me. He is my devotee, and his wife is a devotee of Sathya Sai Baba. The two of them are always arguing about who is right. He does not believe that miracles can happen. But from the picture of Sathya Sai Baba hanging in his wife’s room, ash keeps falling. He suspects some trickery—that ash has been packed into the frame beforehand, that there is some other scheme. He is a doctor; he imagines a thousand devices.

But one day it went too far. Then he wrote to me: Now I’m in real trouble. In my room there is your picture too—and from it also ash is falling! If I don’t accept a miracle now, what am I to do? Now you must explain this to me!

I sent him word: The same miracle your wife was doing with the Sathya Sai Baba picture, she is doing this miracle too. Your wife has floored you. Often wives floor their husbands. It is the wife whose hand is behind this showering of ash. I wrote to him: I have no hand in it.

But he is not ready to accept it. He keeps writing: How can I believe that? He collected the ash—he’s a doctor—and sent it to Cambridge University for scientific analysis: What is in that ash? He sent both ashes.

Nothing will be proved by testing. Only this will be proved—that both are ashes. And behind both ashes is the hand of the same woman. Women are miraculous! And this is not the first incident I am speaking of; many such things happen every day. And many times they happen unconsciously. I am not even saying that his wife is knowingly deceiving; it is not necessary. The mind is a very tangled affair.

A few years ago in London a case was uncovered. All of a woman’s clothes would be found cut, as if someone had snipped them with scissors. Every few days—two, four, eight days—this would happen. Life became difficult. If all the clothes are cut—the clothes inside a locked cupboard are cut, the clothes inside a locked suitcase are cut—what explanation can there be except ghosts and spirits! Many exorcists were called; tantrics were called. No one succeeded. Then a detective said to the husband: If you will give me a chance...
The husband said, What will you do? This is not a detective’s work!
He said, Just give me a chance. Give me seven days. And give me the key to the house. For seven days, let me come and go at night, at odd hours—give me complete freedom. One chance!
There was no other way. He was given the chance. And what was found? At night the woman would get up in her sleep and cut her own clothes in her sleep. In the morning she herself had no awareness that she had cut her own clothes. So you cannot hold her guilty; she was not doing it knowingly. It was all done in sleep.

Ten out of a hundred people can act in their sleep. Ten is not a small number. Out of a hundred, ten; out of ten, one. One in ten can walk in sleep, can act in sleep—and can do such things that in the morning even he himself will not remember.

In New York there was a man who would leap from his own rooftop to another rooftop. And a New York roof is not a Poona roof—one building a hundred stories, another ninety stories! From the roof of his building he would jump to the roof of the next—while asleep! The gap was such that even monkeys would hesitate to leap. No one could believe a human being could do it. Every night! Gradually the news spread in the neighborhood. Every night hundreds of people would gather below. A vast distance—hundreds of feet down—crowds gathered. People would hold their breath, waiting for the man to appear. Between twelve and one he would come onto his roof, leap from his roof to the next, stroll around there for a while, then leap back to his own roof, go to his room and sleep.
The crowds grew. One day such a crowd gathered—thousands of people! And when the man came to the roof, as people do when they see a hero—clapping and making a commotion—he was about to jump when, in their joy and excitement, they shouted loudly. The noise broke his sleep. The moment his sleep broke, he could not make the leap. From the hundred-story building he fell to the ground and died. That shout killed him. That event could happen only in sleep; in wakefulness he too was an ordinary man.

I wrote to him: Just investigate your wife a little. They have no children; there are only two people in the house—husband and wife. It must be the wife who is dropping the ash from the Sai Baba photo. And now, to defeat you, she has found the final device: You don’t believe in miracles? Now you will! From your own guru’s photo—look—the ash falls!

And he wrote to me: There is one more surprising thing—that the Sathya Sai Baba picture has a frame, so it is possible to suspect that some ash was hidden in the frame. But on my table your picture has no frame. A frameless picture—and ash is falling from it! Now I have to accept it as a miracle.

I told him: Your wife has defeated you. The question is not about believing in Sathya Sai Baba; the question is about believing in miracles.

Miracles simply do not happen. Life moves according to its law. And if ever it seems to you that some miracle is happening, know only this: you do not yet know the whole law. Know only this: there are aspects of the law unfamiliar to you, that’s all. But nothing has ever happened, nor can anything ever happen, contrary to the law.

Therefore, Prem Kirti, this is no miracle. The lamp has been lit; the moths have begun to come. The gardener has arrived; the seeds are eager that they too may have the opportunity to become flowers. This is a rare conjunction. Make use of this conjunction.

Constant endeavor
constant striving for liberation, the age-old enterprise
—this conjunction is a festival of bursting forth and blossoming!

Krishnatirth Bharati! To attain the divine there is no need for any practice at all—but to dissolve the ego, much practice is needed. Think of it this way: you want to dig a well. To obtain water itself no practice is needed; the stream is already flowing under the ground. But between you and that underground stream are layers of soil and stone, and to break through those layers, practice is needed.

You exist, the thirst is present, and the water is present too; between the two stands a long wall of earth. You will have to dig. First your hands will meet pebbles and stones, rubbish and trash. Do not get tired. Do not be defeated. Do not become disheartened or despairing. Then dry soil will come up. Do not be alarmed—“In such dry soil, where will I find a spring?” Keep digging. Then damp soil will appear. Keep digging. Then water will begin to seep and gush—but it will be muddy, not yet fit to drink. Keep digging. Very soon you will reach where a clear spring is available.

But remember this: no effort was made to obtain the water. The thirst was there, the water was there—only a barrier was in between. Meditation is to remove that barrier. Prayer, worship, adoration are to remove that barrier. The device of witnessing is to remove that barrier—the method of vipassana. There are rules and methods for becoming aware: yoga, tantra, bhakti. Yet the verse you have quoted can be misunderstood.

“By continual practice the dull-witted become wise.”
By practice the dull-witted do not become wise; by practice they become clever—tricky. The fundamental dullness does not break. If someone is truly dull, the more he practices the more the dullness gets draped—puts on fine clothes—but at the root nothing changes. You may go on rubbing a brick and rubbing a brick—it will not become a mirror.

A Zen story: when Rinzai was absorbed in his practice—twenty years he had been absorbed—one day his master came, and right in front of him began to grind a brick on a stone. Rinzai became furious. Naturally—if it had been someone else he might have forgiven him, but this was his old master! “I am meditating!”

Just imagine: you are meditating—Krishnatirth Bharati is meditating—and I sit down in front of you with a brick and begin to grind it. Meditation is hard enough as it is! Thoughts by the thousands. And if someone starts grinding a brick in front of you, your teeth will start gritting. You will squirm, anger will rise.

But the master kept grinding. For a while Rinzai endured it. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Sir, what are you doing? Master, what has come over you in your old age! I had heard that the devil creates obstacles in meditation—but never that the master himself would. By grinding that brick you have made me so angry that the little peace that had begun to settle has been uprooted. Now only one thought goes on inside me: when will this wretched grinding stop? My teeth are grinding with it!”

The master said, “I have come to ask you just one thing,” as if he had not heard any of that. “If I go on grinding this brick and grinding it, will it one day become a mirror?” Rinzai said, “Listen! I had hoped to learn wisdom from you, and you need small lessons from others! Rub a brick for lifetimes, it will not become a mirror. A mirror is one thing and a brick quite another.” The master said, “Then I will go. You too can go on rubbing this head of yours for lifetimes—meditation will not come. Meditation is a mirror; and this skull is worse than a brick. A brick at least has its uses—you can build a house. What will you do with a skull?”

They say that the master said this, picked up the brick, and left—and in that very instant happened what had not happened in twenty years. Rinzai ran after him, fell at his feet: “Forgive me. What my practice could not do, your shock has done!”

A true master devises wondrous devices—finds the device suited to the disciple—the one blow that will break the inner aquifer.

You ask: “By continual practice the dull-witted become wise.”
They say such things in schools. Teachers repeat that if you keep rubbing a brick, it will become a mirror. Have you never heard? The dull do not become wise by practice. A dull person can become wise—but not through practice. For who will do the practice? The same dull mind, no?

If an angry man wants to be non-angry, who will practice non-anger? The angry man himself. If a lustful man wants to be free of lust, who will practice? The lustful man himself. What can he do? At most he will suppress it, press it down into his chest. And whatever you repress inside becomes more and more dangerous—highly toxic. What you suppress does not free you from it.

Yes, fools can be dressed up and made to stand in line. Many such fools are taken to be great scholars. Fundamentally they are still stupid; only a covering of scholarship is there. With that covering you may deceive the world, but you will not deceive the divine. And deep down you will know—you cannot forget that you are dull. All that practice is the practice of a dull mind.

Addressing Mulla Nasruddin in the dock, the judge said, “Old man, aren’t you ashamed to keep coming back to court?” Nasruddin looked at the judge calmly and said, “Your Honor, I come only once in a while. But you—don’t you come every day?”

The same judge asked him again another time, “Mulla, why did you hit your friend with a chair?” Nasruddin replied with great innocence, “Your Honor, I couldn’t lift the table!”

The dull-witted remain dull-witted. Not by practice. Then what? Is there no remedy for the dull?

There is—awakening, awareness, witnessing. Just sit inside and watch the dullness of your mind. Be a seer. Do nothing. If you do, you will be rubbing the brick; if you do, it will be practice. Doing will bring no benefit, because whatever you do will be done by your dull mind. All doing issues from the mind.

A Jain monk was giving a discourse on vegetarianism—praising animals and birds: they too have soul, they too have life; he who causes suffering will suffer himself. Nasruddin was listening. He suddenly stood up and said, “You are absolutely right. Once a fish saved my life.” The monk was delighted. He seated Nasruddin near him, patted his back. “See, direct proof! And you people eat fish! You, Mulla, stay close to me—you are living proof.” Whenever he preached, he would point: “See Nasruddin! Tell them.” Nasruddin would say, “A fish once saved my life.”

Several days passed. One day the monk asked, “But tell us in detail—when did it save you? How?” Nasruddin said, “Better not ask. Once I was starving—and by eating a fish I saved my life. I owe a great debt to fish!”

Your personality, your actions, your pronouncements, your practices, your fasts, your vows and disciplines—who will perform them? Who are you? But there is an element within you that is not the “you” you take yourself to be. That alone is your hope. Within you is the seer, the witness—that is not your mind-made self. That witnessing has to be awakened.

And remember: witnessing is not something to be practiced. It already is. Only remembrance is enough. That is why Buddha spoke of samyak smriti—samma-sati. The saints called it surati. Gurdjieff called it self-remembering. Not practice—just self-remembering.

Walking on the road—see yourself walking. Sitting—see yourself sitting. Eating—see yourself eating. Speaking—speaking. Listening—listening. See yourself as you are, in whatever is happening. At night, while you are lying down, see yourself lying down. Drowsiness starts coming. To the very end keep watching: “Sleep is descending… descending… the curtain falls.” One day you will be amazed. This is not practice; it is simple awareness. One day you will be startled to find that the curtain of sleep has fallen, yet you remain awake. “What is night to all beings, in that the self-controlled one keeps awake.” In that night he is awake.

This is a restraint, a balance—not a practice.

Practice is a small thing. Like doing push-ups—that is practice. Like repeating “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram”—that is practice. Turning the rosary beads over and over—that is practice. Your tongue may get blisters repeating Ram-Ram, your hands may get calluses rolling the rosary—and still there will be no benefit. You will remain dull-witted.

Your fundamental transformation can happen only through one process, Krishnatirth Bharati: witnessing. I teach you witnessing. Whatever you are doing, let there be the remembrance of what you are doing. The breath goes in—see it going in. The breath goes out—see it going out.

This may not feel very “spiritual” to you. You may say, “What kind of spirituality is this?” Chanting Ram-Ram feels spiritual. Yet parrots chant Ram-Ram, and none has become spiritual. And parrots do not go to heaven. They are gramophone records. You too can become gramophone records—chanting Ram-Ram on the surface while, inside, who knows what trash is flowing. The rosary turns in the hand, but the mind? The mind remains sunk in its stupor.

Stupor means unconsciousness. There is only one remedy for unconsciousness—awakening, witnessing. It is not to be practiced; yes, it is to be remembered continuously. There is a very fine distinction.

Your mind will say, “But remembrance again and again—isn’t that practice?” No. Practice means this: when a man learns to drive a car, at first it is very difficult. He has to keep remembering: hold the steering, watch the road with all kinds of people on it—children running, trucks coming, buses going—so much is happening; any slip and you are gone! Keep attention on the accelerator—one foot there; on the brake—another foot there; on the gear—now change the gear. To keep track of so many things at once seems hard. That is why beginners are drenched in sweat.

Slowly practice forms. Then the feet manage the pedals, the hands take care of the steering; you no longer need to. Smoke a cigarette, sing along with the radio, chat with a friend—you no longer have to attend. Driving has become mechanical.

Whatever ultimately becomes mechanical—call that process “practice.” And what can never become mechanical—call that “witnessing.” Understand the difference exactly. Practice always makes things mechanical; and what has become mechanical you do in sleep. No awareness is needed. But witnessing can never be done in sleep. How could you be a witness unconsciously? There has never been such a practice that one remains a witness while asleep. Witnessing and sleep are opposites.

So take this as a definition: whatever ends in inertia is practice. Therefore practice does not make the dull wise; it makes the dull skillful.

And you say, “As the rope goes to and fro, it carves marks in the stone.”
Yes, the rope that is drawn over the well-stone again and again leaves grooves. But meditation is not the name of such grooves. If a rope can make grooves on stone, it will make them on the mind too. Scientists even say the mind is nothing but grooves made by repetition. You do the same thing again and again—grooves form. Then you no longer have to do it attentively; the grooves do it for you. Your brain becomes a computer. You no longer need to think; the brain begins to work on its own. Press the button—the program runs. Switch it off—the program stops.

You may have heard the name of Dr. Hari Singh Gaur. He built Sagar University. He was one of India’s greatest lawyers—indeed among the world’s two or three. He had offices everywhere—Peking, Delhi, London. Today Delhi, tomorrow Peking, the day after London. A leading barrister before the Privy Council. But he had a habit—a practice. You have such habits too; if you pay attention you’ll notice them.

Some people, when they have to think, start scratching their heads. Hold their hand and don’t let them scratch, and they’re in trouble—they can’t think. “Let go of my hand, or my thinking is ruined!” It’s a mechanical habit.

Someone must light a cigarette to think; as the smoke begins, thinking becomes easier. Snatch the cigarette and he’s disoriented—“What do I do now?” Another person must ring the temple bell every morning, wave the plate of offerings. Keep him from entering the temple for a day and he is upset all day. You think there is a difference between scratching the head, ringing the bell, smoking a cigarette? There is none.

Dr. Hari Singh Gaur had a habit—he told me this story himself—that whenever he argued a deep point before the Privy Council, he would twirl the button of his coat. If his fingers found that button, his brain worked at speed. He won every case. His opposing counsel, who had lost several cases to him, slowly became convinced there was some secret in the button. Whenever he touched the button, his logic and style became razor-sharp. He only touched the button when needed—when the case reached a crucial climax the fingers found the button.

That lawyer bribed Gaur’s chauffeur to break off the button. A big case—of a Rajasthani king, worth lakhs—was before the Privy Council. Gaur put on his coat, never noticed the missing button, and went in. The hearing began. At the first snag, his hand went to the button—there was no button. He began to sweat. “My brain snapped off,” he told me. “I tried hard, but a darkness came before my eyes; nothing would come. I had to beg: adjourn, please; I’m unwell; I’m dizzy.” The next day, with the button back on, everything went fine.

If such is the state of a brilliant man like Hari Singh Gaur, what of others! Mechanical. Once, a little too fond of drink, he had drunk too much and went to court, forgot which side he was on, and argued for the opposition—brilliantly—twirling his button, laying waste to his own client. The judge was astounded, his own client appalled, the opposing counsel amazed—“Nothing left for me now!” Who could stop Hari Singh midstream?

At the tea break his assistant said, “Sir, what have you done! Ruined the case. You argued against your own client!” Hari Singh sobered a bit: “Don’t worry. Half the time still remains.” Returning after tea he said, “My Lord, so far I have presented the arguments my learned friend would have made. Now I begin their refutation.” Then, hand to the button—and he refuted them brilliantly.

A lawyer or a prostitute—who knows where they will stand; they can be with anyone. The mind is like a lawyer and a prostitute—do not trust it. Become an atheist and it will argue atheism; become a theist and it will argue theism. Do rituals and it will speak for rituals; want to drop rituals and it will speak against them.

With this stupefied mind, practice as much as you like—yes, it will be polished and decorated. But as with a fool given a fine turban, twirled moustaches, perfume and splendid clothes—what changes? Inside he is the same.

Mulla Nasruddin and three of his friends decided, “We have heard that through silence one has the vision of the divine; let us keep a month’s silence.” The four went and sat in a Himalayan cave. Half an hour had passed when the first said, “Oh! I think I left the power-house on. In a month the bill will be huge!” The second said, “Idiot! We swore to be silent for a month, and you spoke!” The third laughed and said, “But you too have spoken!” Nasruddin said, “O Lord! Only I am good. So far, only I have not spoken!”

In half an hour the whole matter was over. How long can a dull mind practice? What will it practice?

Not by practice—but by awareness, by wakefulness, by witnessing. Krishnatirth, link witnessing to each and every act. It will not feel very “spiritual” to see “breath went in—seen; breath went out—seen; the left foot lifted—seen; the right foot lifted—seen.” It won’t feel like spirituality. It isn’t. It is science—the science of knowing the self. Yes, chant Ram-Ram, turn the rosary, apply tilak and sandal-paste—and it feels like spirituality. In truth it is nothing. You are simply fools. And those who are more skillful fools than you are are robbing you.

Anand Dev! There is only one way to safeguard it—share it. If you hoard it and don’t share, you will lose it. If you share it and don’t hoard, it will be preserved. Give! Lavish it! This is not some petty economics of life where you lock things away in a safe. These flowers are not meant to be locked in a strongbox—else they will die, they will rot. Don’t lock this lamp in a safe—else it will be extinguished.

Share! Make partners! Make as many partners as you can! Share unconditionally! Don’t even discriminate between worthy and unworthy. Who are we to decide—who is worthy, who unworthy? Who are we to decide—which seed will sprout, which will not? Sow the seed. Wherever there is a patch of earth, sow the seed there.

Blavatsky, who gave birth to the Theosophical Society, was traveling on a train. She had kept a satchel near her. Again and again she would put her hand in and throw something out. At last the fellow passengers’ curiosity grew. They could not restrain themselves. They said, Forgive us! We would not deem it proper to obstruct you without cause, but our curiosity has gone beyond bounds. What is in that satchel? And what are you throwing out in handfuls, again and again?

Blavatsky said, Look in the satchel. They’re flower seeds. These are what I’m throwing out of the train.

They said, We don’t understand! What is the point?

Blavatsky said, The point? Clouds are gathering in the sky. Ashadha has arrived. Soon it will rain. These seeds will become flowers.

But they said, Do you have to travel on this train often? Do you pass this way again and again?

Blavatsky said, No, I’m passing this way for the first time, and perhaps I’ll never get the chance again.

Then they said, We still don’t understand! If so, what benefit is there to you in scattering the seeds? Even if the seeds become flowers, you will never see them.

Blavatsky said, It isn’t a matter of my seeing them. Someone will see! All eyes are mine. In someone’s nostrils fragrance will be filled! All nostrils are mine. Someone will be delighted, will be blissful. Every day passengers come and go by this train—thousands; and other trains pass along this route. Hundreds of thousands will see those flowers dancing in the wind and the sun—they will be gladdened.

One said, But they won’t even know that you sowed those flowers!

Blavatsky said, What difference does it make that they know who sowed the flowers; that they remember my name, that they thank me? They will be happy—there lies my happiness. They will be blissful—I will receive bliss.

Give joy—and joy comes. Share joy—and new springs of joy will burst forth within you. Anand Dev, the name I have given you is Anand Dev. Give! Share bliss!

Rain-laden clouds, sap-laden breeze, the moment rapt—
Speak! Loosen a few knots, share a little of your store.
Share! The world today begs for alms of nectar;
O full heart, O full cloud—learn this act.
Learn: let the restless swelling within become a gifting of essence;
Let the fevered breath of feeling bow and offer itself to the earth’s life.
Let the small wave of the heart touch and spread to the sky’s far edge;
Let this practice succeed—bathe every particle in ambrosia.
Speak, O knots of the imprisoned heart! Speak!!
Pour life forth—the earth is eager, lips parted.
Let not inner power be spent in lightning’s quiver and glare;
Let not the ocean’s longing be squandered into the void.
This loftiness is conceit, friend! This smoke is empty;
Come down to earth, kiss the green fields of love.
Today enshroud creation; pour down your laden burden;
May longing bear fruit—let there be a world of flowers.
Be free, be vast, like the measureless sky;
Leave this hesitation, O mind! Break the bonds of clay.

Leave the bonds of clay; leave the economics of matter; understand the economics of the soul.

In this world of things, if you save, they are saved; if you distribute, they are finished. In the inner world the rule is reversed: save—and they are destroyed. Share—and they are saved. In the moment of death you will find: only that will go with you which you shared, which you gave—unconditionally; in which you held no expectation; in which there wasn’t even the wish for a return; in which there wasn’t even the feeling of “let me at least receive thanks.” That which you gave in this way alone will accompany you in death. That is your real wealth; that is your true accumulation. Learn from the clouds as they rain.

Rain-laden clouds, sap-laden breeze, the moment rapt—
Speak! Loosen a few knots, share a little of your store.
Share! The world today begs for alms of nectar;
O full heart, O full cloud—learn this act.

A full heart and a full cloud behave alike. A full cloud must pour—it must. A full cloud is heavy. When it rains upon the parched earth, and the earth drinks its essence, the cloud thanks the earth, because the earth has made it weightless, freed it from burden. And a full heart, in just the same way, thanks the one who makes it weightless by accepting its love, who makes it weightless by accepting its bliss. Remember, water remains pure so long as it flows. If it stops, it turns foul. Flow! If you flow, you will remain pure. If you stop, you will rot.

Learn: let the restless swelling within become a gifting of essence;
Let the fevered breath of feeling bow and offer itself to the earth’s life.
Let the small wave of the heart touch and spread to the sky’s far edge;
Let this practice succeed—bathe every particle in ambrosia.

If you have received, then dip every particle in ambrosia. The old habit is miserliness, Anand Dev! You used to clutch money; now you start clutching meditation! You used to clutch objects; now you start clutching joy! You used to clutch the outer; now you start clutching the inner. And whoever clutches becomes bound. Possessiveness is bondage.

Lavish it! Empty both hands. Keep pouring! And don’t fear that it will be used up. The more you pour, the more trust will arise that new springs are opening, newer and newer doors are opening. The more one gives, the more one becomes eligible—entitled—to receive from the divine.

If you are getting a glimpse, that very glimpse will turn into dawn—if you share. If a little fragrance is coming, that very fragrance will become a whole garden—if you share. If a little cleanness of life is becoming available to you, share it! Do not delay—then the whole sky is yours. Why remain bound to the courtyard! And it is precisely this sky you have been seeking—the limitless, the infinite.

The limited cannot satisfy; only the limitless can. And the way to attain the limitless is not through holding back. The way to become limitless is—to give everything. As the river gives everything to the ocean, and becomes the ocean. If only you can do this, the prayer we have been discussing will be fulfilled: Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya—O Lord, lead me from darkness to light.

But only if you give light can you be led toward light. The divine can give you only what you give to others. Give sorrow—you will receive sorrow. Give happiness—you will receive happiness. As you sow, so shall you reap.

Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya—O Lord, lead me from darkness to light.
But at least show the readiness to go!
Asato ma sadgamaya—O Lord, lead me from the unreal to the real.
But when truth comes to you, don’t hide it. Lead people toward truth. Whatever small truth is yours, give as much as you can, as much as your small hands can give—give. Remember, what you give to people, what you give to the world, returns to you from the divine multiplied without end.
Mrityor ma amritam gamaya—O Lord, from death lead me to the deathless.
If you have received a drop of nectar, share it! Then the ocean is yours; then the whole ocean of nectar is yours.

That’s all for today.