Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #8

Harish! Life generally goes to waste. One in a million lives becomes meaningful—though everyone’s could; though all are born carrying the possibility of meaning.

Each person is a seed of the divine. But a seed is not yet a flower; it can become a flower. A seed is a possibility—not a truth. Turning possibilities into truth is what sadhana is.

A seed needs soil, manure, water; you must arrange it so that sunlight reaches it. You have to remove the obstacles between it and the sun. And then, with a prayerful heart, wait. When the right season for the seed to split arrives, there will be germination. Then the sprout must be protected. The sprout is delicate—filled with great life, yet very tender. A single stone falling on it, and all is ruined. Then you must put up a fence. Until the plant is able to stand on its own feet; until the roots are strong enough that the tree can bear the gales and storms swirling in the sky—joyfully, delightedly, exultantly; so it can dance in the storms and tempests; the clouds may thunder, lightning may crack, and the tree feels thrilled, drenched in sap—until that hour arrives, there is continuous sadhana.

You ask me: “What should I do, and what should I not do?”

First, give yourself the right ground, the right field. I call that field sannyas. Sannyas is the search for the right soil. Perhaps alone you will not be able to sprout, because sprouting needs a deep hope. How will that hope arise? Where there is no hope, the life of the seed does not sprout. Hope arises by seeing seeds sprout. That is why all the buddhas created sanghas.

A sangha is an energy-field where other seeds—some a little ahead of you—have already sprouted. Some, a little further ahead, have leafed. Some, further still, have flowered. Some, even further, are laden with the weight of fruit; their branches have bent down to the earth.

Find such a situation where, ahead of you and behind you, there is a gathering of many seeds in various stages of sprouting. Find such a sangha. Those behind you you can support; those ahead of you you can take support from. And at least an assurance will arise that something can happen within me too, that I am not a pebble—I am a seed. This much trust is essential. And it is a matter of trust; there can be no proof. There can be no logical basis.

What logical basis does a seed have to claim it is a seed? The seed will know it was a seed only when it has sprouted. Once it has sprouted, looking back it will see, “I was a seed.” Ahead, nothing is visible. Ahead there is dense darkness. Not a single ray of hope. Only one possibility: if seeds like me, human beings like me, have attained the truth; if lamps like me have become luminous—then an urgency will arise in you. A deep longing, an ardent thirst will awaken—that what happened to others can happen to me. That longing, that aspiration, that trust is called shraddha. Shraddha is not belief in doctrines, nor belief in scriptures—it is trust in life-energies.

Seeing the Buddha, many people felt the trust that this can happen within us too. The Buddha struck the strings of the veena that had lain silent for lifetimes in countless beings; the music burst forth.

Harish, it is good, auspicious, that seeing me you felt your life has gone to waste. If you felt that, the hour of fulfillment has arrived. Then life has not gone to waste—it has brought you this far. What greater meaning could there be! It has brought you to me. You have not wandered lost in the desert. You have come close to the ocean. Now a little more courage, one more leap. Drop your attachment to the shores; step into the ocean. Prepare to dissolve.

You ask: “What should I do, what should I not do?”

Dissolve! Because unless the seed dissolves, the tree will not be. Unless you dissolve, buddhahood will not awaken within you. And awakening is your possibility.

I am exactly like you—the same bones, flesh, marrow. Yet something has happened that belongs to the sky, not to the earth. If, looking into my eyes, a thirst arises in you—has arisen—then do not suppress it, because that thirst is your future. That thirst is the path that will take you to the divine.

At life’s end it seems to everyone that life has gone to waste. When death knocks at the door, who does not feel that life was wasted! But blessed are those who hear the knock of a true master before death.

The old scriptures say the true master is death. In one sense they are right. Acharyo mrityuh. They are right that the guru is death. Because just as death comes and shakes you, startles you—“The whole life has gone to waste; what are you doing!”—so does the true master shake you.

But death’s shaking is futile, because no time remains. Even if you want to do something, what will you do! Death does not grant even a moment’s respite. When it comes—it comes. Death arrives—and you are gone. There is no time for sadhana. The true master is a kind of death who shakes you awake while life still remains. Good that you have come. And good that you have become aware of futility. This is an auspicious sign.

Dried to a boundless mire,
songs of joy stick to the lips,
turning into scabs, most pitiable;
the moments of gone-by dreams are gone too—
nothing lovely remains.
The cycle of breath goes on, but the mind’s chariot has halted.
Companion of my burden! Believe me,
in the age of my youth this life has fallen apart—
companion of my love! Believe me.

It is an everyday story: the unexpected is what occurs,
but the one thing desired day and night never happens.
I knew I had no command over time’s pace—
I did not even know time’s own gait; now I have come to know.
Watching the way of wave upon wave, I too was swept into waves.
Companion of the current! Believe me,
in the age of my youth this life has fallen apart—
companion of my love! Believe me.

In an age of revolution, coming to my senses,
I drifted away from the pace of revolution;
no surge of ardor is possible—
thus I too am helpless.
But this clamor of helplessness
keeps becoming ever more futile.
One world is perishing on this side,
the other cannot be born.
This new taste of stagnation and failure has come to me.
Companion in defeat! Believe me,
in the age of my youth this life has fallen apart—
companion of my love! Believe me.

But if this remembrance comes at the moment of death, it is too late—far too late. Once the birds have eaten the field, what use is regret now? But before death—“my life is going to waste”—such a realization, such a seeing becomes the beginning of the journey toward truth.

Seek the ground! And if here you have felt that possibility can become actuality, then don’t turn back, skimming the surface. Dive! Accept the invitation! Accept the invitation of love!

Sannyas is my invitation—for the courageous; for those who have the trust to let their little boat loose upon a stormy ocean; who know the storm too is one’s own, not alien; that the storm is not an enemy but a friend; that the storm itself will carry you across; that the storm will become the ferryman. Where such trust is, there sannyas becomes possible.

But some friends arrive—out of eagerness, out of curiosity—like scratching an itch. They come, they go; they can carry nothing away from here; they can leave no rubbish behind, nor can they gather any diamonds.

My friend! I have no interest in politics. If you want to hear something about God, religion, and spirituality, then listen. Otherwise we will have no harmony at all. I speak of the sky; you ask of the netherworld! How can there be a dialogue?

If you are interested in politics, go to the politicians. If politics is your interest, this is not the right place for you; it is a dangerous place. Lest, unknowingly, you get entangled here. Run from here! The sooner you can run, the better. Make Delhi your destination. There you will find your gurus! Why have you come here? How did you wander in by mistake?

This is a place for those who are filled with a supreme thirst. This is a place for those who have decided that life is futile. This place is for people like Harish.

You ask, Harish: “What should I do, what should I not do?”
When love is spent, when the wick has burned away,
do not scream,
you fool!
Be like a mountain rock—
this boundless darkness stands firm.
This throat-voice will not pierce it,
your call will not reach the farther shore.
A challenge is futile,
entreaty is futile!
But do not lose heart;
in your being a lamp of anguish is still aflame.
Pour your strength into it,
flare up!
Like an iron chisel, rays of light
will cut through the darkness.
The language of light is never hindered by obstacles!
This is the one path to liberation!

Do not fold your hands before the sky, for the sky does not understand folded hands. Do not pray in temples and mosques. Those prayers are lost in the void.

A challenge is futile,
entreaty is futile!
Your call will not reach the farther shore;
this throat-voice will not pierce it.
This boundless darkness stands firm.
When love is spent, when the wick has burned away,
do not scream,
you fool!
Then what should be done?

But do not lose heart;
in your being a lamp of anguish is still aflame.
The very fact that the futility is being seen is a most auspicious sign. The lamp of anguish still burns.

But do not lose heart;
in your being a lamp of anguish is still aflame.
Pour your strength into it,
flare up!
Like an iron chisel, rays of light
will cut through the darkness.
The language of light is never hindered by obstacles!
This is the one path to liberation!

Light the flame. Stoke the flame of the inner lamp. It has not gone out, because you are becoming aware that life has been wasted. Who is it that is becoming aware? The very name of that awareness is the flame. Who is it that has been jolted? Who is it that has awakened from sleep? Who is it whose dream has broken? Hold on to this. Take care of this. Give your whole life to this faintly rising voice. Give your entire energy to this softly glimmering flame. And within you a blazing fire will be lit that will not only give light, but also coolness. A blazing fire will be lit that will melt your ego, cut through your darkness, and become for you the path to the supreme light.

I call the process of lighting this lamp meditation. The preface is sannyas. Sannyas is the preparation for meditation—the arrangement, the setting. And meditation is the seed that breaks open in the midst of sannyas—the sprouting. Sannyas is the earthen lamp, and meditation is the conscious flame burning in it. Sannyas is of clay; meditation is of consciousness. And when these two are joined, Harish, then what happened to me will happen to you. That is what has to happen. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. Delay as much as you will, but that alone has to happen. And the sooner you do it, the better. Because for as long as it does not happen, that much time will pass in dream-sorrows. That much time will be wasted gathering rubbish. That much time will simply be wasted.

Even now it is not too late. It is said: If one who lost his way in the morning returns home by evening, he is not called lost.
Harish, evening is falling. You lost your way in the morning; if even now you come home, you will not be called lost.

Ranjan! A human is the body—and not the body too. In the body is the bodiless; within the form, the formless hides; in matter, the divine remains concealed.

Two kinds of ideologies have held sway in the world. Both are incomplete. One is the materialist tradition—Charvaka, Diderot, Marx, Freud, Epicurus, and the like—who said that a human is only the body, not a grain more, not different, not other. Just the body; a clay lamp with no other flame in it. A mere mechanism. While it runs, it runs; when it collapses, it collapses. When your watch stops, you don’t go to the watchmaker and ask, “Where did its soul go?”

Mulla Nasruddin once bought a watch at a fair—cheap. A fair-watch, and very cheap; he came home delighted. But on the way home, the watch stopped. So Mulla opened it up.

His wife protested, “You don’t know how to fix a watch. Why are you opening it? Go to a watchmaker.”

Mulla said, “Such a cheap watch! The watchmaker will rob me! Let me just open it and see what’s what.” He opened it—and found a dead mosquito inside.

Mulla said, “Ah, that’s what I was thinking: when the driver dies, how can the watch run?”

From Charvaka to Marx they don’t accept that there is any driver inside you—not even a mosquito-sized one! You are just a mechanism. If a watch stops, you can’t ask where the ‘one who was moving’ went. If you do, they will call you mad. There was no one in the watch who was ‘moving.’ The watch was only a combination. There was no soul of the watch that flew away—spreading its wings—to some other realm, leaving the body behind.

This is the materialist tradition. In it there is half a truth. And remember, half-truths are worse than outright falsehoods. The danger in them is precisely the bit of truth they contain, because they look like truth—and are not. The outer wrapping is of truth; inside is untruth.

Opposed to this half-truth—or half-falsehood—is the second tradition—that of the spiritualists. A great crowd stands behind it. The materialists never had a very large following. But now they do, because Russia and China, two great nations, became materialist. For the first time materialism became a religion. Earlier it wasn’t; a few rationalists, people living only by intellect, intellectuals, now and then said such things. Society paid them little heed. They didn’t make or mar much—like a flute in a noise of drums; who would care!

But now materialism too is a religion; it has its priests and pundits; it has its trinity! Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and Lenin—these three form the trinity. Joseph Stalin tried hard to make it four, a tetrad; he tried to insert himself. As long as he lived he turned the three into four. The moment he died, he was removed. Mao Tse-tung tried the same. But the trinity has stabilized. As Christians have the doctrine of the Trinity, so communists have their trinity.

And as Hindus have Kashi, Muslims the Kaaba, Jains Girnar, Jews Jerusalem—so communists have the Kremlin. Kashi, Kaaba, Kremlin—these are of one kind; there is no real difference. As there are authorized priests and pontiffs, popes and acharyas, so there is the authorized Communist Party, its Politburo, its certified scholars, approved pundits. They too have authorities! Whoever deviates is a sinner. Whoever differs is sent to hell here and now—because communists have no faith in the hereafter! They have no hell after death; so they must send you to Siberia while you live, or shut you in prisons.

The other tradition is the spiritualists’. They say, man is not the body, he is the soul. The body is only a dream, a maya.

This too is a half-truth. The body is not a dream, and the body is not illusion.

Shankaracharya, having bathed at Kashi’s ghats in the Brahma-muhurta before dawn, was climbing the steps when a shudra touched him. He grew very angry and said, “O foolish shudra! Do you not even understand that when a Brahmin, purified by bath and preparing for worship, is passing, he should not be touched!”

But that shudra was extraordinary—surely no ordinary man. He said, “Give me an answer to one question. I touched you deliberately. I touched you precisely to know the answer. Last night I heard your discourse; I listened to your arguments. You proved that the world is maya, the body is but a dream. Then my dream touched your dream. If one dream touches another, what impurity can arise? Neither I am, nor are you. As bodies, I am unreal and you are unreal. Do unrealities come in pure and impure varieties? Do unrealities have Brahmin-unreal and shudra-unreal? I understand unreal is simply unreal. If my body touched you and your body became impure, then the body exists. What then of last night’s arguments?”

No one had ever shaken Shankaracharya like this. He was a great logician; none could defeat him in argument. He had beaten his drum across the land, winning debates everywhere. But before this shudra he had to bow. And the shudra continued, “You may also say, ‘No, the body is maya; but your soul defiled my soul.’ Then I wish to remind you that last night you also said the soul cannot be defiled. The soul is pure; its nature is Brahman. And Brahman—defiled? So my Brahman defiled your Brahman? And did you bathe Brahman in the Ganges, or the body? Does the water of Ganga wash Brahman? Has the outer water begun to cleanse the innermost?”

It was the first time Shankaracharya was rendered speechless—as if his tongue were cut out. He bowed at the shudra’s feet, sought forgiveness, and said, “Pardon me. What I have been saying till now was doctrine, philosophy. From now on I shall make it my life.”

He searched for that shudra through the day, but could not find him. That shudra must have been a wondrous, mystical saint—someone of the stature of a Buddha, a Kabir, a Christ—who shook even Shankaracharya!

This is the half-tradition that calls the body illusion.

Ranjan, I do not accept either tradition taken alone. I accept both together. A human is the body. The body is true. And a human is not only the body; within the body is the soul. And the soul is the supreme truth. A human is the union of both. A human is a wondrous conjunction where sky and earth meet. A human is a horizon.

We are not islands of life’s river,
but clear lakes brimming with life.
Though made of clay,
clay is only the circumference—
our life-breath is not clay.
From the sun’s radiant ray
and water’s tender union
we are the pure offspring.

Listen again!
We are not islands of life’s river,
but clear lakes brimming with life.
Though made of clay,
clay is only the circumference—
our life-breath is not clay.
From the sun’s radiant ray
and water’s tender union
we are the pure offspring.

Granted, today we are bounded on all sides by limits,
yet within us lives
the limitless current of movement,
within us lives
the love of the ocean’s depths
and the cloud’s heights.
We are children of keen light, of moving feeling;
we are not rough, ill-omened heaps of sand.
Yet we are made restless by a pain:
we have been cut off from the current,
severed from the flow.
We are lakes—
not the stream!

This is not a curse or our destiny,
it is merely a matter of time,
a fleeting circumstance.
We are the river’s children, walled by stone!
Far from her breast, far from that source,
yet still her part, her lineage.
We may be moribund,
but in the campaign toward communion, toward union,
our very life longs to be one again.

If you are islands—
misshapen dunes of dry sand—
obstacles seated in the very lap of the stream,
then stay high, be great if you wish,
but please do not imagine
that every wave that strikes your side
is patting your back,
or singing the praises of your glory.
She is restless, eager to overleap you,
to find her unimpeded, natural flow,
to swell the river’s run!

And we, though we are not the current,
though we are but a lake,
this too is only a matter of time.
Let summer return;
let us receive a little boon of the sun’s rays;
let us seethe and overflow!
Forgetting the ‘I,’
erasing our own design,
breaking all boundaries,
one day we shall merge again with the stream,
with the immeasurable tide of collective life!

We belong to that infinite sky. And if today we are bounded by earth, that is only circumstance. It is not our truth. Like a river’s current cut off to become a lake, hemmed in by rocks—still it is a part of the current, though today it is ringed by stone. Let the summer come. Let the sun’s rays descend. They will lift that lake into the clouds. Then it will rain upon the Himalayas. Then it will become a stream again. Then it will meet the ocean.

Just so, when a disciple comes close to the ray of a master, flight begins. He remains on the earth, yet his feet no longer touch the earth. He remains in the body, yet becomes free of the body. He is in the body, and yet he is not only the body.

I want you to take this truth deep into the core of your being. Honor the body; do not insult it. Do not denounce the body as vile. The body is your temple. And within the temple, the deity is enthroned. But without the temple, even the deity would be incomplete. And without the deity, the temple is empty. Both are together; both in concert, bound into one tone, dissolved in one rhythm. This is an unparalleled opportunity for bliss. Do not break it into fragmentary truths.

Ranjan, you ask: “Is a human only the body, or something more as well?”
The body too—and something more as well. Beyond the body too. Matter as well—and the divine as well. And in the final analysis, matter is the condensed, manifest form of the divine; and the divine is matter’s unmanifest, invisible form. If matter is the flower, the divine is the fragrance. Fragrance condensed becomes the flower; the flower rarefied, made invisible, becomes fragrance.

I do not want to make you a materialist, nor a spiritualist. I want to make you a lover of truth. And truth is both—together. The vina is true, and the music that arises from it is true. You can hold the vina in your hands, but you cannot grasp the music in your fist. Yet music is no less true than the vina. If music were untrue, what truth would remain in the vina? What would be left in it? And if the vina were untrue, how would music be born?

This existence is an essential limb of the divine. And the divine is the essential life of this existence. I accept both together. I am a materialist—and I am a spiritualist. Charvaka is as dear to me as Gautam Buddha. Shankaracharya is as dear to me as Epicurus. And here, through your sannyas, I am creating a unique synthesis, building a bridge, an arc of rainbow—to join these two traditions. For only from their union will the whole human be born. Until now, man has remained partial. The atheist became bound in the body. The theist became an enemy of the body. I want both to be yours—this shore and that shore.

The Upanishads say, neti-neti: not this, not that. I say, iti-iti: this too, that too. I want to give you all that is. Nothing in it is to be discarded. For if you discard anything, you will remain in some way incomplete. A little lack will remain in your wholeness. Your song will be fractured; some links will be missing. Some strings of your vina will be broken. You will be lame; you will be crippled. And bliss lies in wholeness. To be whole is to be sat-chit-ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss.

Therefore the theist will oppose me, and the atheist will oppose me. The atheist will oppose me because I speak of the soul. The theist will oppose me because I honor your body, I revere it. But both the theist and the atheist are foolish. If they were not, both would welcome what I am saying. Both would dance with delight that, for the first time on earth, we have become capable of accepting the totality of man; that we now have the receptivity to embrace the whole human, rejecting no limb in order to accept another.

The time of the partial human has passed. The time of the undivided human has come. This earth is ours, and so is the infinite expanse of sky filled with stars. We will not abandon the flowers of the earth, nor the stars of the heavens. We will build our home by joining both. In my sannyas, the task is to bring together the flowers of the earth and the stars of the sky, to make a bridge between them. My sannyasin is neither the renunciate of the old mold, nor the worldling of the old mold. My sannyasin is a unique experiment, utterly new, a revolutionary experiment. For whatever is excellent—whether in the atheist or in the theist—we accept it. And what is base, we will make into a step; that too we will not reject. Rejection is not my vision. Total acceptance is my philosophy.

Krishnaraj! This doubt is natural. It is a sign of intelligence—to ask, “What will happen by taking sannyas?”
But without taking it, how will you ever know? What will happen when a seed breaks—how will the seed know without breaking? What will happen when a drop of dew slips into the ocean—how will the dew know without merging into the ocean?
The thought is fine—what will happen by taking sannyas? But without becoming a sannyasin, how will you know? Has anyone ever known anything without experience? Love is known by loving. When the throat is parched—drink water, and you will know what quenching is. And when you are hungry—only by eating will you know taste; and the contentment that is possible only when food arrives after hunger.
If you sit and keep thinking, “Yes, I am thirsty, but what will happen by drinking water? Where is thirst and where is water! They don’t seem to match. Water is not thirst; thirst is not water!” If you keep doing such arithmetic, you will die doing your sums. And the stream was flowing all along; it only needed cupped hands. Just a little bowing down.
When a little child is born and feels hunger, he does not think, “What will happen if I take the mother’s breast into my mouth?” Krishnaraj, you too did not think, “I am hungry—but what’s the use of taking the breast into my mouth!”
No. An imperative inner knowing compels the child, without any prior experience, to take the mother’s breast in his mouth. His hands grope for it. He has never taken a breast before, and suddenly he begins to drink milk—as if he already knows.
Just so you drink water. Just so you eat. Sannyas is like that. It is nourishment for the soul. Without experience you will not know. Your very life-energy is saying: take it; leap; be courageous. Your intellect hesitates. There is a great reason behind the intellect’s hesitation. The intellect fears sannyas, because sannyas is a kind of divine madness. Sannyas is like a moth rushing toward the flame. Sannyas is like love. Sannyas is a kind of craziness! A drunkenness. As if someone has drunk wine. Sannyas is a wine.
The wine Omar Khayyam speaks of is sannyas itself. Omar Khayyam is not a drunkard. He is a Sufi fakir. Great injustice was done to him. Fitzgerald, by translating Omar Khayyam into English, did the world a great favor—and a great harm as well.
A favor, because without Fitzgerald’s translation perhaps no one would have ever known Omar Khayyam. His Rubaiyat would have remained unknown. Fitzgerald made his quatrains part of world literature. Through him Omar Khayyam’s name spread far and wide, to the horizons. Omar Khayyam came to be counted alongside Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti, Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley, Rabindranath—of that order. And there is something in Omar Khayyam that none of these have: a certain flavor, a certain aliveness.
But there was also a loss. Fitzgerald was not a Sufi, not a mystic saint. Not a sannyasin, not a meditator, not a devotee. He never worshiped, nor prayed, nor adored. He never tied ankle-bells and danced in a temple. He never went to a mosque to call upon the Lord. He took the literal meaning—wine means wine. He gave Omar Khayyam an utterly wrong interpretation. People began to think Omar Khayyam was a drunkard.
You will be surprised to know: Omar Khayyam never even touched wine in his life. Then which wine is he talking about? The very wine I call sannyas. He is calling out—drink! The days are slipping away—drink! Morning has come, and evening will not take long. See, the sun has cast the net of dawn. Now dusk will not delay. Birth has happened—how long can death be!
Krishnaraj, at the time of dying will you think, “What will happen by dying?” At the time of death no one will ask you whether anything will happen or not. Death comes by force.
Sannyas is a voluntarily embraced death. And one who embraces death voluntarily—death never comes to him again. One who has already died—who will death kill now! Everyone dies except the sannyasin.
Understand me well! In the ordinary sense the sannyasin also dies. One day the body falls. One day the bier is lifted. But only the body dies; within, the sannyasin remains awake. He remains awake even in death. Even in death he sees: the body is going. And I? I am eternal. I am forever. The awareness of that eternity remains. The taste of the immortal continues.
You ask: “What will happen by taking sannyas?”
There will be death. Such a death as will free you from all deaths. But this will happen only by taking it.
And death is sure to come, Krishnaraj! It started walking toward you the very day you were born. It is moving along carrying your warrant. And it is a warrant for which there is no bail. When death comes—it comes. It does not pause even a moment so you can say, “Let me bundle up my bedding! Let me arrange some provisions for the road! Let me pack a little food! Wait a bit so I may meet my own for a few moments! Let me take leave! At least let me say goodbye!” Even the moment to say goodbye does not come.

Moments of departure—
Now do not halt, O unprepared mind!
Set out.
The road is ablaze;
Walking is no game—
But can you run away?
Will you escape karma anywhere?
Do not fidget like a child, timid mind!
Set out—
For the moment to set out has come!
Set out—
Crush this petty weakness of life!
From this racing heartbeat, give strength to your feet!
Do not stop—set out!
At dawn I saw:
Shaken by gusts of wind,
Leaves broke from the tree
And scattered in the courtyard;
By evening they had yellowed!
You too now set out,
Shaking off moments of comfort.
The wind does not stop—why would you?
It is through you that far away one day new blossoms will bloom.
Why this attachment to the tree, O inscrutable mind!
Set out—
Set out, for the moment to set out has come!

Death will come; you will have to go. You will be able neither to think, nor to deliberate, nor to decide.
And you say, “I am eager to take sannyas.”
What kind of eagerness is this?
“Yet for a year I have been hesitating.”
Eagerness and hesitation? Then the eagerness must be lacking. The eagerness must be intellectual, not of the heart. The intellect hesitates; the heart does not even know how to hesitate. The heart simply sets out—on unknown, unfamiliar paths. With no map, no guide—still, the heart goes.
And one day you will have to go into death. There I will not be with you. There even a sannyasin will not be with you. There you will be utterly alone. Before that, enjoy for a little while the joy of walking together. Before that, learn for a little while the process of dying, learn the alchemy of dying.
Do not hesitate. Hesitation is weakness; it is cowardice.
And you ask: “What will happen by taking sannyas?”
Until now nothing at all has happened in your life, and still you lived! Will you keep repeating the same life further? The life from which nothing has happened until now—will you go on repeating it? Do you think then that anything will happen? This life like the bull circling an oil-press!
Do otherwise now than what you have done so far. That is sannyas. You have tried the world; now try the otherwise. You have walked by awareness, cleverness, thinking, intellect, logic; now walk a bit by love, by devotion. Try even to stagger a little—that you set your foot here and it lands there. Let your eyes carry a little intoxication now. Try even after drinking.
This is the tavern. A brimming goblet sits before you. I am here with the decanter—so I may pour more. Drink, and I will pour more. And you sit there thinking, “What will happen by drinking?” And you are parched with thirst, and still you ask what will happen by drinking?

Quiet down, mind! For there is still life to live—
In life there are yet, who knows how many, surging tides,
Who knows how many unforeseen, unimaginable struggles,
How much pain, how much joy!
Companions of the way may fall away—
Ah! Even if this thorny path
Grows dim in your tear-damp eyes,
And not only that,
It would not be surprising if for a few moments
The heart’s carefully gathered, trained enthusiasm
Dozes off,
Becomes helpless, useless—
Yet, O my mind, do not forget:
The farther shore of the path has not yet appeared,
The journey has not yet ended.
In this harsh struggle you have not yet been defeated!
Do not weave vain doubts,
Do not grow faint from baseless forebodings.
Be still:
In life much is yet to come,
Much is still remaining!

You ask: “What will happen by taking sannyas?”
In life much is yet to come,
Much is still remaining!
The farther shore of the path has not yet appeared,
The journey has not yet ended.
In this harsh struggle you have not yet been defeated!

You are still living. Breath still moves. The heart still beats. The blood still runs. However many days may have been wasted, much is still left. The as-yet-unarrived is still there; the future remains. Live this future in a new way, Krishnaraj! Will you keep beating the same old track?
Just as you think, “What will happen by taking sannyas?” now think this: what will happen by not taking sannyas? Until now you have not been a sannyasin. What has happened so far? One thing is certain: at least sannyas will be a new experiment. Whether anything happens or not, a new path will be cut. Who knows—what didn’t happen on the old path may happen on the new! Walk with at least that much curiosity. Who knows! The old path is familiar; will you keep circling on it? And not think even once that after so many rounds nothing happened—so what will happen now!
You gathered wealth. Will you keep gathering wealth? Prestige, position—will you keep running after them? A thousand times it has been proved that all are mirage. But you will spin new mirages again? Gather new dreams? Set out again in the same gait, the same ungainly gait?
Sannyas is at least new, original. Who knows—something may indeed happen!
Keep one thing in mind: whenever you must choose between the old and the new, choose the new—because you already know the old. Even if nothing comes of the new, at least this much will be gained: “All right, it isn’t found on this road either. Let us now look for a third road.” Is that too little? You have come a little closer to truth. You tried two roads and did not find it—now look for a third. Tried three and did not find—now look for a fourth. In this way, slowly, the roads will be cut. On one road or another it will be found. Because within there is expectancy, aspiration, longing—so somewhere, surely, it is.
Before hunger, one does not manufacture hunger; before hunger, the food is prepared. Before thirst—not thirst; before thirst, water is created. Before a child is born, the mother’s breasts fill with milk. This life is not anarchy. Here a beautifully coherent thread runs through everything. Life is a supreme order.
Buddha knew through sannyas; Mahavira knew; Krishna knew; Janaka knew. Each of their sannyases had its own style. But all knew through sannyas. What does sannyas mean? Only this: to shape your outer life in such a way that inwardly meditation can happen. To create in the outer life such a situation that the inner state of mind can change. Sannyas is the outer form of meditation; meditation is the inner essence of sannyas. Sannyas is the body; meditation, the soul.

Leela! First, I do not give commands. Because I am not your master and you are not my slave. The very word “command” is coarse. Commands are given to soldiers, not to sannyasins.

Understand the difference between a command and a counsel. A command means: it must be done. I give counsel. Counsel means: listen, understand; then whether to do it or not is your decision. If you do it, I am happy. If you don’t, I am happy as well.

A command means: if you obey, I am pleased; if you don’t, I am angry. A command means: obey and you go to heaven; disobey and you go to hell. A command carries within it reward and punishment. In counsel there is no reward and no punishment. In counsel there is no heaven and no hell. Counsel means: I have known something; I invite you to share in that knowing—I do not issue an order. Orders cannot truly be given, because I am I and you are you. What was right for me will not be exactly right for you. My clothes won’t fit you; your clothes won’t fit me.

There is an old Greek story. An emperor—an eccentric—had a golden bed made, studded with jewels. It was especially for guests. But guests did not come to his house for years—out of fear. A rumor had spread that one had to sleep on that bed. What could be the problem with sleeping on a bed? Yet if some hapless, unsuspecting guest got trapped who didn’t know about the bed, he was in trouble. He had to sleep on it. The bed was very beautiful, very comfortable—there was no other like it on earth. But the danger lay with the emperor, not the bed. If a guest was tall, he would have the guest’s legs cut off to make him fit the bed. If a guest was short, he had two strong wrestlers who would stretch him from both ends to make him fit the bed. It is very rare to find someone exactly the size of the bed—even though he had it made to an average size. But there’s a danger in averages. Average people don’t exist anywhere. The principle of the average is fine in mathematics; in life it is utterly wrong.

Suppose we are five hundred people sitting here. What is the average height? Measure everyone. There’s a two-foot child, a five-foot youth, a six-foot man, a Dutchman six and a half feet, perhaps even seven feet. Add it all up and divide by five hundred—the average might be three feet and three and a half inches! He had the average height of his capital calculated and had the bed made accordingly. Now it’s hard to find a person of average height. Among these five hundred, perhaps no one is three feet three and a half inches—maybe, by sheer coincidence! The average person exists nowhere.

There was a great Western mathematician—the one who first formulated the principle of average height. His name was Herodotus. And when someone discovers a principle, his joy knows no bounds—like small children who, when they speak a word for the first time, repeat it all day long. If they’ve learned to say “mummy,” they go around all day saying “mummy, mummy” with or without reason; they enjoy it so much—the possibility that “I too can speak”! Similarly, when a scientist gets his first principle, he goes mad with delight: he is the first to have found it.

Herodotus went on a Sunday picnic with his children. A small river had to be crossed. There were five or six children; his wife was with them. The wife was behind, the children in the middle, Herodotus ahead. She kept saying, “Watch the children, the current is strong!” Herodotus said, “Don’t worry. I have measured the river’s average depth and the children’s average height. Our children’s average height is greater than the river’s average depth. Be at ease. No one can drown. My principle is infallible.”

But the children started going under. Because average height is one thing; the river was a foot deep here, three feet there, six inches somewhere and five feet elsewhere, and in places quite shallow. Some children were taller, some shorter. The average height may have been greater than the average depth—but averages are not truth! The children were choking. The wife cried, “They’re drowning!”

But do you know what the scientist did? He did not worry about the children. He ran to the bank where he had worked out his calculations in the sand. “Let me see if there’s a mistake in the principle or in my arithmetic.” The children are drowning, and he is busy adjusting his principle and sums!

Likewise, the emperor fixed the bed’s length from the average height. Any guest who came was in deep trouble—he died. Many died, but the emperor never understood; he remained stubborn.

If guests must be adjusted to beds, the guests will die.

That is what a command means: do exactly what I say. Perhaps what I say has been true for me. But there is no other human being exactly like me anywhere. Therefore, what is true for me will not be true for you in precisely the same way. And this is the calamity that has befallen humanity—its misfortune. For centuries you have been given commands. And those who gave them thought: since this principle brought us such joy, it will bring great joy to others too. It did not. The opposite happened. The whole earth has become filled with sorrow—because of your saints’ commands, because of your so‑called wise men’s commands. For them the principle is valuable; you are not. They cut and trim you to fit the principle. They don’t trim the principle. They don’t change the doctrine; they change you.

My approach is different. My vision is different. No principle is more valuable than a human being. No scripture is more precious than a person. Scriptures are not made for people to fit; scriptures are made for people. That’s why I don’t give commands; I do give counsel.

Counsel means: I share what I have known. You must sift and search; choose what appeals to you, what feels dear, what gives you zest, enthusiasm. Only you can choose that. I cannot command it.

In Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram there were countless pointless practices; one of them was neem chutney. In theory it sounds good. Ask the Ayurvedic experts and they will tell you: there is no medicine like neem, no better elixir; it is free of all faults—neem!

You’ve heard the story: three pundits set out from Kashi, their education complete, for home. On the way they stopped, hungry, needing to cook. Who would do what? One was a botanist. They said, “Send him to get vegetables. Who could choose better than a botanist?” The botanist went to buy vegetables and brought to mind all the texts: what is the finest plant? He concluded—neem leaves! Neem leaves do no harm; they only benefit. They purify the blood, cleanse diseases; neem has no defect. The only hitch is bitterness. But what of that? Where there are such noble qualities, why fuss over a little bitterness? Even if nectar were bitter, would you discard it? And if poison were sweet, would you drink it? He didn’t even go to the market. He climbed a neem tree in the forest, plucked leaves, and returned delighted that his botanical knowledge had been put to use.

The second was a grammarian, a scholar of sound. He had studied sound deeply. “What shall we have him do?” they asked. “Let him light the stove until the vegetables and ghee arrive. There will be the creak and crackle of wood; when the fire catches, popping sounds. As a master of sound, he’ll kindle the stove as no one ever has—sweet music will come from it! And when such music arises from the stove, what vegetables will be cooked! The greatest botanist brings the greens; the greatest scholar of sound lights the stove—what finer conjunction!”

The third was a philosopher. They said, “You go to the market, because your books always debate: does the vessel hold the ghee, or does the ghee hold the vessel? Go buy ghee. By now it must be settled for you who holds whom—you are a great pundit!”

He went, bought ghee. He had read it often in the texts, but never purchased ghee. The text said the vessel holds the ghee. “But it should be tested—true or false? Is there an experimental basis?” He set off with ghee in a pot. On the way curiosity arose—he was a philosopher. He turned the pot upside down. All the ghee spilled. “The texts are right,” he said. “The texts are always right. Now it’s proven: the vessel holds the ghee; the ghee does not hold the vessel.” He returned very pleased—though he brought no ghee, and the money was gone. Empty pot in hand! “Why so happy?” they asked. “The pot is empty!” He said, “You don’t know—my principle has been verified. Such a great achievement! Perhaps no philosopher ever experimented; they only wrote in books. I am the first who tested it. The vessel holds it—I tell you—the ghee does not hold the vessel.”

The other two smacked their heads—but their own state wasn’t any better.

The philosopher asked, “And where are the vegetables?” There was a heap of neem leaves. “This is the vegetable?” he said. The botanist replied, “In our texts there is nothing more salutary than neem. All other vegetables carry some ailment: some cause gas, some inflame bile, some this, some that. But neem is antiseptic; neem only benefits.”

But the stove had not been lit. No vegetables arrived. No ghee either. The pot by the stove was cracked. The fire was out. And the sound scholar sat blissful. “What happened?” they asked.

He said, “The texts say never allow an improper sound to arise—shabda that is unworthy must be opposed. When I put on the water and lit the fire, the pot began ‘khudur-budur, khudur-budur.’ ‘Khudur-budur’ isn’t even a recognized sound. No scripture mentions ‘khudur-budur.’ What does it mean? Meaningless! An improper sound! I couldn’t stand it. I picked up a stick, and since anything to be removed must be removed at the root, I smashed it. I destroyed the ‘khudur-budur.’ I sit content today, for I prevented an improper sound from spreading in the world. Sound has great power. If ‘khudur-budur’ spread and spread, the whole sky would be ‘khudur-budur.’ Such vibrations are deadly to man—could even lead to world war! What is world war if not ‘khudur-budur’? I destroyed it.”

Such were the three pundits! Mahatma Gandhi was not far behind them. In his ashram neem chutney was made. Ashramites had to eat it; it was an order.

Louis Fischer, an American journalist—a distinguished writer and thinker—came to meet Gandhi. Gandhi seated him with himself for the meal. And the chutney came—not in a small dab. Like the balls of bhang that bhang-eaters swallow—huge green balls of chutney. Gandhi extolled it to Louis Fischer—the benefits are all benefits! He sang the praises of its virtues. Fischer thought, let me taste this first. He tasted—it spread like poison through his mouth. “I’m finished,” he thought. “If I have to eat this—and I must stay seven days in the ashram—if I must eat it fourteen times, my wife’s good fortune is now in God’s hands.” He saw all the ashramites eating it with relish—they were habituated. He thought the only way is to gulp the whole ball down with water—at least the rest of the meal will be spared; otherwise dipping the bread again and again, mixing with the vegetables, everything will be ruined. He gulped the whole ball. Gandhi said, “See! Didn’t I tell you Louis Fischer is a sensible man? He took the chutney first. Bring more chutney! He is wise; he knows the secret of neem’s virtues!”

Fischer slapped his forehead. He had gulped it simply to be done with the nuisance. Another ball arrived. For seven days his greatest misery was the chutney. But Gandhi’s order had to be obeyed!

People could not drink tea—Gandhi’s order. If Gandhi said sleep at a certain time, they had to sleep—whether sleep came or not. If he said wake at a certain time, they had to rise. But each person’s sleep is different. Some are night birds—they never feel fresh in the day; their freshness arises only after sunset. Such people you’ll see in hotels and clubs. All day you find them dull, and at dusk suddenly they light up. It is not their fault; their body’s scientific rhythm gives birth to vigor after the sun sets. If they go to bed early, they will only toss and turn; they cannot sleep. If they try to sleep early, the tossing itself will spoil the sleep so much that even by midnight or one they still won’t sleep. Only if they sleep at twelve or one will they get sweet rest. And if you wake them at brahma‑muhurta—three in the morning—they will be sluggish all day, their condition poor.

Bernard Shaw wrote: “I got up at brahma‑muhurta only once in my life, and never again. That day I made more mistakes than ever. From morning a gloom descended. My eyes kept drooping, I yawned, could not settle to any work. I reached the kitchen—tea wasn’t ready. I sat waiting. For the first time I reached the bus stand half an hour early and stood there till the bus came. I got to the office—the peon hadn’t arrived, so I stood outside. Then the sweeper came late; I had to eat dust. Somehow I dragged through the day.”

In Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram everyone had to get up at three!

Scientists say each person’s sleep timing is different. Each person gets two hours of deep sleep at night. If you miss those two hours, your whole twenty‑four hours will be dull and drained. For some, it comes between two and four; for others, between three and five; for others, four and six; for some, five and seven; for some, six and eight; and there are people for whom it is seven and nine. People are diverse—of many kinds.

I do not give commands. Therefore in my ashram, whoever wishes sleeps when sleep comes, wakes when waking comes. Let your own inner discipline guide you. Understand yourself and shape your life. Yes, what I have known and lived, I lay open before you. Whatever resonates, whatever digests, whatever attunes with you—that is yours. Then it is no longer mine. Because once there is attunement, it is yours. You cannot blame me—because I never gave you any command.

Leela, therefore first: I do not give commands. You say: “I want to be transformed. I have squandered much life in dreams. But now save me.”

First, let this sink very deeply—that I have lost my life in dreams. Don’t let it be that you asked only for the sake of asking. Don’t let it be that calling life a dream is just an old habit of the spiritualists, a well‑worn track, so you too said it. Has life truly become a dream for you? The total acceptance of this is the first step in transformation. Think! Search! Has life truly proved to be a dream? Or are there still dreams you want to fulfill?

The fault was mine—
therefore, look, I accept it simply.
What is there to be ashamed of?
But do not mock me with scornful laughter.
In this fleeting triumph, do not forget my strength
which is still with me.
While there is strength, these feet will one day find their straight path—
and on that day, may you not have to regret.
Consider it a little!
To own my fault is easy for me,
for I still stand firm,
my soul‑strength not yet defeated,
my gaze still steady, turned toward the future.
My dreams were impossible—this was my mistake, I admit;
but do not forget that though the dreams were mine,
I was not of the dream!

So first accept, simply and truthfully—not as a formality—that my life was a dream. Then understand the second thing: life was a dream, but you are not the dream; the dreamer is not the dream.

My dreams were impossible—this was my mistake, I admit;
but do not forget that though the dreams were mine,
I was not of the dream!

First know that your whole life was entangled in dreams. Second, know that within you there is a witness who watched all the life‑dreams yet never became a dream. The witness never becomes a dream.

The first brings into your life a wondrous dispassion. The second brings something even more wondrous—meditation, the sense of witnessing.

And it is good, Leela, that this has occurred to you early. Most people realize it at the time of dying—on the deathbed. Perhaps even then they do not. They die in unconsciousness. Understanding is carved on their tombstones; it never dawned on them!

The nectar was infinite; I sipped only a handful.
Spring lived in my heart; I offered only a single flower.
On the day of my vanishing, this is my thought:
In a vast epoch, what a small life I lived!

Such a vast sky! Such an immense spring! The nectar was infinite—and people drink a mere palmful. Even in drinking they are miserly.

The nectar was infinite; I sipped only a handful.
Spring lived in my heart; I offered only a single flower.

You could have given more spring; spring could have showered all around you. You could have brought a sweet season into the world.

Spring lived in my heart; I offered only a single flower.
The nectar was infinite; I sipped only a handful.
On the day of my vanishing, this is my thought:
In a vast epoch, what a small life I lived!

Most people live small, paltry lives in this vast existence. They hoard counterfeit coins. There are even madmen who collect postage stamps. Strange people!

I went to a home. The gentleman said, “See my collection?” “Certainly,” I said. It was astonishing: he had collected the labels from bidi bundles. The labels from bidi packs! I told him, “Your life has become a bundle. You are finished. Are you a bidi bundle?” He said, “I never smoke.” I said, “Not smoking is no great virtue. You could have smoked—fine. But what have you been doing all your life? The whole house is filled with labels of all kinds! And you consider this great wealth, display it with pride.”

In another home where I was a guest, the entire house was filled with notebooks. “What is in these books?” I asked. “Come, I’ll show you,” he said. In every book he had written Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram—account ledgers filled with Ram‑Ram. “I have written the name of Ram so many crores of times. From morning to evening I do only this.”

I said, “If ever you meet Ram, you’ll be in for it!”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because so many books could have served children. So many notebooks could have helped countless kids—you ruined them. And writing Ram‑Ram crores of times—have you no sense that in Sanskrit there is a plural—Ramah? Write it once—in the plural—and be done! Why ‘Ram‑Ram’?”

Leela, that you have remembered your life went in dreams—then with that very remembrance it has not gone in dreams. With this very awareness, life begins to become true. Who remembered? Who awoke? Who did this understanding arise in? Something is ripening within you; a witness is being born.

The peacocks have begun to dance,
the delicate edges of the sky are deepening.
Now the rains will come.
A single drop of Swati will become a pearl—
a tiny shell will teach us
how vital is the right reception of rasa.
This peacock‑call, this croaking of frogs—
mere uproar!

One drop falls into the shell and becomes a pearl.

Now the rains will come.
A single drop of Swati will become a pearl.

This faint arising of the witness, this sense that has begun to dawn—this is that Swati drop. This will become the pearl.

A tiny shell will teach us
how vital is the right reception of rasa!
When you know life is a dream, transformation has begun. Then the eyes begin to turn inward. Then rasa—the essence—is rightly received.

And then what worry if, in the rains, the frogs are croaking—let them!

This peacock‑call, this croaking of frogs—
mere uproar!

Then all of life’s dreams, the hustle, the running about—mere commotion. Turn the eyes within. Connect with your own essence. Become a shell; then within you the pearl will ripen. An auspicious hour has come.

But let this understanding about the dream not be mere formality—it must be your own experience. Not because I say so, not because Shankaracharya says so, not because Buddha says so, not because Kabir or Nanak say so. Let it be your own seeing. For the drops that fall into other shells will not become your pearl. Only the drop that falls into your shell becomes your pearl.

Break the rock of silence,
shatter the obstruction of ego,
lest the songs of your yearning life
die within.
Speak—speak out loud,
untie the knots of pain.
Gather your mind, that from your throat
the cascades of song may flow again.
Break the rock of silence,
shatter the obstruction of ego,
lest the songs of your yearning life
die within.

Now do just one thing: life has shown itself as a dream; now see that the ego is also a dream, this “I‑sense” is also a dream. See this too. In just two steps the journey is complete.

The world’s running about is futile; and the craving for ego, name, fame, position, prestige is futile. When these two futilities are seen, the seed of essence cracks open within you. Spring has come. There will be flowers upon flowers. Your goblet will brim with wine. In that wine, flowers of joy will float. Song will be born from you; rasa will flow from you. Your lamp will be lit—and not only yours; from your lamp, other extinguished lamps can also be lit.

That is enough for today.