Do what the Guru says, do not do what the mind says.
Hear Charandas’s teaching, keep this within your heart.
If you miss it now, regret will come.
If you will not leave the world, this birth will be lost.
In the world, live apart, remain absorbed in Hari’s meditation.
Let the body abide on earth, the life-breath in the Supreme.
Keep enmity with none, hold fast to humility.
In the end you will gain the state of freedom, no harm will come in the world.
Compassion, humility, meekness, forgiveness, virtue, contentment.
With these, do remembrance, surely attain release.
Do not love what perishes, love what abides.
Cast the false away, make your home in the True.
A wave of the Ocean of Brahman rises, bathe in it with zeal.
All the stain of the age will be washed away, no sin will remain.
What is austerity without the Name—yoga, rites, and almsgiving?
Thus says Charandas, know them all to be hollow.
What is gone is gone; now keep what remains, O foolish and unknowing one.
Chant nothing but Hari, honor the Guru’s teaching.
Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #3
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
गुरु कहै सो कीजिए, करै सो कीजै नाहिं।
चरनदास की सीख सुन, यही राख मन माहिं।।
अब के चूके चूक है, फिर पछतावा होय।
जो तुम जक्त न छोड़िहौ, जन्म जायगो खोय।।
जग माहीं न्यारे रहौ, लगे रहौ हरि-ध्यान।
पृथिवी पर देही रहै, परमेसुर में प्रान।।
सब सूं रख निरबैरता, गहो दीनता ध्यान।
अंत मुक्ति पद पाइहौं, जग में होय न हानि।।
दया नम्रता दीनता, छिमा सील सन्तोष।
इनकूं लै सुमिरन करै, निश्चय पावै मोष।।
मिटते सूं मत प्रीत करि, रहते सूं करि नेह।
झूठे कूं तजि दीजिए, सांचे में करि गेह।।
ब्रह्म-सिंध की लहर है, तामें न्हाव संजोय।
कलिमल सब छुटि जाहिंगे, पातक रहै न कोय।।
का तपस्या नाम बिन, जोग जग्य अरु दान।
चरनदास यों कहत हैं, सब ही थोथे जान।।
गई सो गई अब राखिलै, एहो मूढ़ अयान।
निःकेवल हरि कूं रटो, सीख गुरु की मान।।
चरनदास की सीख सुन, यही राख मन माहिं।।
अब के चूके चूक है, फिर पछतावा होय।
जो तुम जक्त न छोड़िहौ, जन्म जायगो खोय।।
जग माहीं न्यारे रहौ, लगे रहौ हरि-ध्यान।
पृथिवी पर देही रहै, परमेसुर में प्रान।।
सब सूं रख निरबैरता, गहो दीनता ध्यान।
अंत मुक्ति पद पाइहौं, जग में होय न हानि।।
दया नम्रता दीनता, छिमा सील सन्तोष।
इनकूं लै सुमिरन करै, निश्चय पावै मोष।।
मिटते सूं मत प्रीत करि, रहते सूं करि नेह।
झूठे कूं तजि दीजिए, सांचे में करि गेह।।
ब्रह्म-सिंध की लहर है, तामें न्हाव संजोय।
कलिमल सब छुटि जाहिंगे, पातक रहै न कोय।।
का तपस्या नाम बिन, जोग जग्य अरु दान।
चरनदास यों कहत हैं, सब ही थोथे जान।।
गई सो गई अब राखिलै, एहो मूढ़ अयान।
निःकेवल हरि कूं रटो, सीख गुरु की मान।।
Transliteration:
guru kahai so kījie, karai so kījai nāhiṃ|
caranadāsa kī sīkha suna, yahī rākha mana māhiṃ||
aba ke cūke cūka hai, phira pachatāvā hoya|
jo tuma jakta na chor̤ihau, janma jāyago khoya||
jaga māhīṃ nyāre rahau, lage rahau hari-dhyāna|
pṛthivī para dehī rahai, paramesura meṃ prāna||
saba sūṃ rakha nirabairatā, gaho dīnatā dhyāna|
aṃta mukti pada pāihauṃ, jaga meṃ hoya na hāni||
dayā namratā dīnatā, chimā sīla santoṣa|
inakūṃ lai sumirana karai, niścaya pāvai moṣa||
miṭate sūṃ mata prīta kari, rahate sūṃ kari neha|
jhūṭhe kūṃ taji dījie, sāṃce meṃ kari geha||
brahma-siṃdha kī lahara hai, tāmeṃ nhāva saṃjoya|
kalimala saba chuṭi jāhiṃge, pātaka rahai na koya||
kā tapasyā nāma bina, joga jagya aru dāna|
caranadāsa yoṃ kahata haiṃ, saba hī thothe jāna||
gaī so gaī aba rākhilai, eho mūढ़ ayāna|
niḥkevala hari kūṃ raṭo, sīkha guru kī māna||
guru kahai so kījie, karai so kījai nāhiṃ|
caranadāsa kī sīkha suna, yahī rākha mana māhiṃ||
aba ke cūke cūka hai, phira pachatāvā hoya|
jo tuma jakta na chor̤ihau, janma jāyago khoya||
jaga māhīṃ nyāre rahau, lage rahau hari-dhyāna|
pṛthivī para dehī rahai, paramesura meṃ prāna||
saba sūṃ rakha nirabairatā, gaho dīnatā dhyāna|
aṃta mukti pada pāihauṃ, jaga meṃ hoya na hāni||
dayā namratā dīnatā, chimā sīla santoṣa|
inakūṃ lai sumirana karai, niścaya pāvai moṣa||
miṭate sūṃ mata prīta kari, rahate sūṃ kari neha|
jhūṭhe kūṃ taji dījie, sāṃce meṃ kari geha||
brahma-siṃdha kī lahara hai, tāmeṃ nhāva saṃjoya|
kalimala saba chuṭi jāhiṃge, pātaka rahai na koya||
kā tapasyā nāma bina, joga jagya aru dāna|
caranadāsa yoṃ kahata haiṃ, saba hī thothe jāna||
gaī so gaī aba rākhilai, eho mūढ़ ayāna|
niḥkevala hari kūṃ raṭo, sīkha guru kī māna||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Yesterday a friend asked: I want to take sannyas. I have complete faith and feeling. But there are a few obstacles. I won’t be able to wear the full ochre robes. If I wear just one garment, will that do?
It’s no bigger than a fly. What obstacle can there be in this world—to wearing ochre robes? Yes, there will be a few hurdles; I can understand. But nothing bigger than a fly. People will laugh for a couple of days. The wife might say you’ve gone crazy! The children will say, “Father, we didn’t expect this of you!” Friends will say, “A man as intelligent and sensible as you—what net have you fallen into?” People will laugh a little—so what? How long do people laugh? Where do they have the time? No one is going to sit around thinking only about you!
What obstacle will there be? Perhaps the wife will be annoyed for a day or two. Perhaps for a day or two the tea will be served cold, the food stale. And what else is going to happen?
What is an obstacle? An obstacle cannot be of real value. It may happen that you work somewhere and lose your job there. That would be the biggest obstacle. Then you’ll find work somewhere else. A life is not stuck with a single job.
It may be that a promotion was due and it will be held back; the boss will get upset. Promotion may be stalled for a year or so. Or it may be that they transfer you somewhere else. Things of this sort—but their worth is no more than that of a fly.
If for such things you stop your trust and feeling, the door is open—and you will miss it.
Courage will have to be gathered. To be free of this world, you will have to bear a few obstacles. If you want everything to happen in complete comfort, with no obstacles at all; that no thorn prick your feet and yet the journey be completed; no pebble hurt you and yet the journey be completed; no sweat be shed and yet the destination arrive—then it will not happen. You will have to take on some labor; you will have to endure some inconvenience.
What obstacle will there be? Perhaps the wife will be annoyed for a day or two. Perhaps for a day or two the tea will be served cold, the food stale. And what else is going to happen?
What is an obstacle? An obstacle cannot be of real value. It may happen that you work somewhere and lose your job there. That would be the biggest obstacle. Then you’ll find work somewhere else. A life is not stuck with a single job.
It may be that a promotion was due and it will be held back; the boss will get upset. Promotion may be stalled for a year or so. Or it may be that they transfer you somewhere else. Things of this sort—but their worth is no more than that of a fly.
If for such things you stop your trust and feeling, the door is open—and you will miss it.
Courage will have to be gathered. To be free of this world, you will have to bear a few obstacles. If you want everything to happen in complete comfort, with no obstacles at all; that no thorn prick your feet and yet the journey be completed; no pebble hurt you and yet the journey be completed; no sweat be shed and yet the destination arrive—then it will not happen. You will have to take on some labor; you will have to endure some inconvenience.
Now a friend has asked: “If I just keep one essential garment...” And reading his question, I felt by “essential garment” he means: I’ll wear something underneath. So no one will see it; no one will catch on. But if you are so afraid of the world, so frightened, a revolution won’t happen.
Where there is trust, where there is feeling, there should be the courage to stake your whole life. Is this even a stake? If you cannot gather even this much courage, then what meaning is left in trust and feeling? Such feeble, impotent trust and feeling! Pay some price! Do not try to get trust and devotion for free—pay some price! Endure some obstacles! But these are such small, petty matters.
Letters come to me. People write: “Everything else is fine... your words feel right, but ever since these ochre-robed sannyasins have gathered around you, we’ve stopped coming. Your words are good, they have substance.”
Now this is a great joke. If my words have substance, what use is it to you who comes to me wearing ochre? Who is a sannyasin, who is not? You come anyway. But this has become a hindrance. This has become an obstacle. A fly has snagged you—a tiny thing. If you think about it, it has no value at all. Keep this in mind:
If you miss it now, the miss is final—later you will repent.
If you don’t drop worldly clinging, this birth will be lost.
Begin to prepare to let go of this world little by little. And I do not tell you to drop everything at once; I do not tell you to be in haste to renounce in one stroke. I say: slowly, slowly free yourself from attachment. Live right here—and slowly become unattached.
Yes, there are difficulties in this world, dangers in this world, a thousand kinds of chains in this world; but if you start becoming a little detached, a marvelous transformation begins. Stones on the path turn into steps. Storms become challenges. Illnesses themselves become steps toward health.
If in life we have found a few supports for living,
we have also received hints of dying-to-oneself.
However hard the sorrows of love may be,
some griefs on this path became dear to us.
We had some hope in our own fidelity,
and some support in their glances.
O guide of the path of ecstasy, do not forget,
on this road some gave all they had and lost themselves.
We accept the charge of indifference toward us,
yet we also met your altered ways.
What can one do? Strategy alone cannot win;
true, on the road we met those defeated by fate.
Not all drown in a tempest, “Akhgar”;
some people find a shore in the storm.
It all depends on you. Some people found a shore in the storm. There are those who turned the storm itself into a shore. And there are such unfortunate ones who, sitting on the bank, still drowned—the shore itself became a storm for them. It all depends on you.
However hard the sorrows of love may be...
The pains of this path of love are very severe.
But do not think that this is all there is.
Some griefs on this path became dear to us—
there are pains on this way that become the very openings to love’s infinite possibilities. It is a matter of seeing—of vision, of perspective.
If you tangle in pain, it becomes a wound. If you awaken in pain, the pain becomes a doorway that leads you toward the Divine.
Notice this: pain brings remembrance of the Divine; the door is very near. If there is understanding, every sorrow can become a recollection of God. If there is understanding, you can transform every pain into great wealth. Then, in the end, you will not even say that pain was bad, because it was through those pains that you grew and reached the Divine.
The Sufi fakir Hasan used to say in his prayer: “O Lord! Do not give me a day on which I have no sorrow.” His disciples asked, “Hasan! Is that any kind of prayer? We also pray. We say: God, show us at least one day with no pain. Your prayer is entirely reversed! You pray, O Lord, do not give me any day without sorrow!”
Hasan said, “I have received so much from pain; it is through pain that the memory of God has dawned in me. By the support of pain alone I have sought Him. If all were pleasure, one thing is certain—Hasan would not have turned toward God. Pain has given me much. So I keep reminding Him—by all means, do not, by mistake, snatch away sorrow completely. I fear that if pain is taken away I might wander in pleasure; I might forget. I might get lost in the sleep of comfort; I might fall asleep. Pain keeps me awake. And I have gained so much from pain.”
However hard the sorrows of love may be,
some griefs on this path became dear to us.
Not all drown in the tempest, “Akhgar”;
some people found a shore in the storm.
Understand this world; awaken in this world; become a little detached in this world. Not an escapist—detached. Escaping is also a way of avoiding detachment.
If you run off to the forest leaving everything behind, then in the forest you will have nothing—no means to get attached. But that does not prove your attachment is gone. You have lost the objects.
If a man has no food, does it prove that hunger is gone? Does it? The absence of food does not remove hunger. You will know hunger is gone only when you are surrounded by heaps of food and you sit inwardly unattached; you don’t even register that food is all around you. Only then you will know hunger is gone.
Let piles of wealth surround you, and if in your mind there is no desire for wealth—then that is detachment.
If you flee to the forest, you have fled from wealth, but detachment will not arise from that. Perhaps your very basis for running was fear of your attachments.
You are afraid; you fear that if wealth appears, you will certainly become attached. If a woman appears, you will fall into infatuation; if friends appear, you will be bound in affection. So you run away from it all. But by running from circumstances, has the state of your mind changed? Has it ever changed that way? Never.
So remember:
If you don’t drop your clinging, this birth will be lost.
The meaning of “dropping” will become clearer further on.
In the last aphorism too, Charandas said: “Live in the world as if estranged.” Estranged... He did not speak of running away from the world. He spoke of awakening in the world.
Life is a long race,
vain and fruitless.
Even if you sit down exhausted, nothing is gained,
and even if you reach the destination, nothing is gained.
Yet, to keep moving, stumbling,
falling, rising again and running—this feels right,
because moving is aligned with life,
and stopping is against it.
“It is not easy to die before death.” But the one who dies before death—that is the sannyasin. Of course it does not feel like it—to die before dying. How would one feel like dying? The mind wants to keep you alive: live, run, chase, do something. And yet it is clear that neither by doing do you get it, nor by not doing do you get it. Neither by living in the world do you get it, nor by fleeing to mountains and forests do you get it. If you get it, you get it by awakening to life. And in that very awakening, death happens.
Detachment means: live in the world as if you have died—like a corpse.
If you do not drop your clinging, this birth will be lost.
And life will be lost like a river fading away in a desert. Save it—save something...
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
Let the body dwell on earth; let the life-breath dwell in the Supreme.
A beautiful saying: Live distinct in the world. Which means: live in the world, but “distinct,” set apart. Surrounded—and yet not surrounded. In the midst—and yet beyond. Live in the marketplace, in the noise, but safeguard the inner treasure; maintain the inner serenity; preserve the inner silence. Let the noise rise outside. The outer clamor does not disturb you unless you start clutching at the outer noise. If you sit within, carefree and quiet, let the storm rage outside—and you will be amazed: you find the shore in the very storm. In the marketplace itself the Himalaya is found. And only then is it delightful—to find peace in the marketplace. If you find peace on the Himalaya, it belongs to the Himalaya; when you descend, it vanishes.
Live distinct in the world...
The word “nyare” (distinct) is sweet. It has many meanings. One meaning is: non-attached, set apart, aloof—like a lotus leaf in water. Another meaning is: unique, unlike the crowd. Give birth to your individuality, become a self. Do not move like a blind sheep with the flock. Drop herd-mentality. Don’t be a slave of the same old groove; be distinct. Give your life your own style, your own color.
If you keep doing only what others are doing, you will be fake; you will never become authentic. And remember: you are unique. Each one is unique. God has made each person distinct. He has made no two people alike. No one is anybody’s carbon copy. Leave people aside—you won’t find even two pebbles alike. Not even two leaves are identical.
Here everything has individuality. The greatest loss in the world is to lose your individuality. And the crowd demands exactly that. The crowd says: do not remain a person. Wear the clothes we wear. See the films we see. Join the clubs we join. Eat what we eat. Drink what we drink. Speak as we speak. Our temple should be your temple; our mosque your mosque. Do not try to stand apart; do not declare your own being.
Just live quietly as a number; do not be a person. As in the military there are numbers: a man dies and they say, number eleven has fallen. The number falls; the man does not die there. And if number eleven dies, there is no difficulty. Give some other man the number eleven; now number eleven stands again. Think about it.
If a man dies, there is no way to fill his place. If a number dies, there is no difficulty in filling it. When a person dies, how will you fill his place? Because there has never been anyone like him—ever. Not earlier, not now, not in the future. His place is empty forever, eternally empty. However poor he may have been, however ordinary, even if he bore no special distinction, still he was unique. God had made him differently—distinct. Another like him has not been made.
A human being is not a machine. Machines can be many and identical. On the road you can see hundreds, thousands of identical Fiat cars. But have you ever seen two identical human beings? Even twins are not exactly the same. They also differ; there are differences of individuality. One will become a poet, the other an engineer. One will become a renunciate, the other a politician. They differ, greatly differ. No two persons are identical.
In the military they keep numbers; numbers are convenient. One goes; the number falls; change the number—give number eleven to another; he takes the place. It’s all a game of numbers. Society is in the same condition.
Society wants to keep you alive as a number. You should live as a number; do not become distinct. Therefore, whenever you become a little different, you’ll see, obstacles begin.
That is exactly what the friend asked yesterday: there are a few obstacles in wearing ochre... These are the very obstacles. The obstacles are to being “distinct.” People cannot tolerate someone embracing individuality. If a person begins to live in his own way, people get angry. People say: So you go beyond our circle? So you declare yourself special? People will take revenge. People will trouble you. People will not leave you so easily.
Imagine a flock of sheep moving along, and one sheep begins to walk apart— the whole flock will be offended. This is not right; this is against the congregation. They will harass that sheep—the other sheep. They will say: come back into the herd. If we let people move separately, slowly the congregation will break, society will break.
Society cannot tolerate individuals. It wipes and erases individuality. Society wants you to live as if you have no personhood—person-less—statistics.
So “nyare” also means this: Live distinct in the world. Live in your own way. You have this life—give it your own style. Sing your own song; play your own veena. Whatever the price, whatever cost you must pay.
The person who lives in rebellion—that person lives. The one who is fundamentally a rebel—that is a person, and such a one I call religious.
A religious person is not sectarian, not communal. A religious person is private, personal. He is in rebellion. He breaks rules, regulations, disciplines in order to live in awareness and freedom. Climbing that freedom, one day you will attain the supreme freedom—moksha. There is no other way.
Slowly gather courage. Slowly break your chains. I am not telling you to break them all at once, because those chains have become such an old habit, you could not live without them. But at least begin to break them, slowly. Cut the prison bars one by one. Cutting one bar at a time, one day you will find: the gate has opened—you can fly out.
And remember, there is a great difference between a bird flying in the sky and a bird shut in a cage. The bird in the cage is not the same as the bird in the open. It may even be that the caged bird is in greater comfort. No worry about food; it comes on time. Perhaps he even thinks servants are appointed to him: at the precise time, they bring food, they bring water, bathe him, clean the cage. It may even be a golden cage, studded with jewels, and the bird sits inside and struts: who else has such a cage!
Just like that your presidents and prime ministers strut: who else has such a cage? It is of gold and silver, not some ordinary cage. But wings are cut. The cage comes at the price of clipped wings.
The bird flying in the sky—no gold or silver, no jewels. But what would you prefer? Choose a golden cage—convenience, security, order—or choose freedom? That is the difference. That is the decisive point.
Sannyas blossoms in the life of the one who is ready to risk the sky; who wants to play with free winds; who wants to journey to the far unknown corners of the sky; who wants to take flight toward the sun—that one is a sannyasin.
A householder means—shut in a cage. Householder means convenience, security, honor, status. Do what people approve of; do what people say; for you must take respect from these people. If you offend them, they will not respect you.
These people have never given honor to birds flying in the sky. They crucified Jesus. They stoned Buddha. They hammered nails into Mahavira’s ears. They gave poison to Socrates. They chopped off Mansoor’s hands and feet.
Whenever anyone has flown into the sky, those locked in cages have not tolerated it. It hurts them, it troubles them. It makes them aware of their own condition. A comparison arises: we are caged.
If no one flies in the sky, if no bird flies free, it’s convenient for the caged. They forget the sky altogether. There is no need even to admit that the sky exists. Even that wings exist no longer remains a question. Wings become a sort of ornament—good for fluttering, not for flying. Wings become decoration. They have no use left. And when no one flies, there is no challenge.
Why do people get angry with Jesus? Because all of us are in cages and you dare to fly in the sky? You hurt our ego. You challenge us—we will not tolerate it. If you are right, then all of us are wrong. And that hurts very deeply. We will finish you. Only by finishing you can we feel at ease; then we will sleep again in our cages. Then we will sleep the peaceful sleep of safety. Our security will again be intact.
“Nyare” means: unique. “Nyare” means: sannyas.
Here, everyone is a householder. Everyone is locked in their own cage. Everyone has made his own security and convenience. To obtain that security and convenience, everyone has lost his soul. And remember: even if you gain the whole world by losing your soul, you have gained nothing. And if you lose the world and gain your soul—your ownness, your distinctness—you have gained all.
Only with your distinctness can you stand before God. Otherwise, with what face will you stand? As a number? As a statistic? As a Hindu? As a Muslim? As a Christian? Or as yourself?
Only if you stand as yourself will you be able to stand. Only then will you be able to meet the Divine eye to eye. Because you have fulfilled what He intended: the flower He wanted to bring forth in you—you have become that. Only that flower can be offered at His feet.
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
And what is the method to be distinct in the world?
Remain absorbed in the remembrance of the Beloved.
Remain in the memory of God, and you will become “distinct.”
If you remember wealth, you become part of the crowd. If you remember status, you are lost in the crowd. If you remember God, you become solitary, distinct. Understand why:
Remembrance of God happens in aloneness. In your uttermost aloneness the Divine is remembered. There is no way to remember God in company.
Even if ten people sit silently and remember God, remembrance still happens alone. When each of the ten goes within, when each becomes solitary, when the other nine disappear from memory, when only one’s own being remains—then God is remembered. If the nine remain in memory, God is not remembered.
There is only one thing in this world that is absolutely personal: remembrance of the Divine, love of the Divine; where no other is needed. This is the difference between ordinary love and prayer.
In ordinary love, the other is needed—a woman, a man, a son, a mother, a brother—someone. In prayer, no other is needed. You alone are enough. You dive within yourself. You slide inside. Alone is enough. In that solitary aloneness—remembrance of God.
Love has polished the cross of my eyelids;
love has recited the gospel of pain again.
Then some burning, mad gust of memory
came close to my dry lips.
Today again on the scandalous pathways of the eyes
some wine of moving splendors paused.
The eye can no longer endure even the tremble of a dream—
no cause for formalities now, no veil of convention.
The heart is declared more fragile than a glass bangle;
how can it bear such a great blow?
The one who never descended from the throne of love,
how can he live in death’s cellar?
This darkness, this melting, night-colored hush—
let it dissolve into every wave of my feeling.
Let the sword of the last breath also strike;
let me slip out of this town of craving.
That same confluence, the first meeting of destiny—
where you met me, I shall go there again.
This separation is only the pause of a breath;
do not fear, my beloved, I shall come again.
What is remembrance of God? The search for the source from which we came. The search for the Beloved from whom we came, and to whom we must return. Remembrance of God means: the search for one’s real home.
That same confluence, the first meeting of destiny—
where you met me, I shall go there again—
this separation is only the pause of a breath;
do not fear, my beloved, I shall come again.
Remembrance of God means only this: My Beloved, I am coming; I am on my way; our separation is just a small comma between two breaths. It is no real separation. It is only forgetfulness. I remember you again. I call you again.
The remembrance of God is not of some deity sitting in the sky; it is the remembrance of your own soul hidden within you—of that innermost, ultimate lamp at your center, from which all light has spread, from which you still receive light, from which you still live—the remembrance of that lamp.
And the wonder is that that lamp is one; yours and mine are not different. Yours and the trees’ are not different. Yours and the mountains’ and the moon and stars’ are not different. We differ only on the circumference—at the center we are drowned in one, joined in one. Like branches and leaves are separate on the tree, but at the root they are one—in God we are one.
So first, become distinct from the crowd, because the crowd does not go to God. First, become separate, then begin the inner journey. Set out in the search for the Lord.
The search for God is not in Kashi or Kaaba. Not in Mecca and Medina. Mecca–Medina, Kashi–Kaaba, Girnar—they are inner symbols. Go within. There is only one pilgrimage—go within. The rest are journeys; the one pilgrimage is: go within.
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
Let the body dwell on earth; let the life-breath dwell in the Supreme.
Live on earth, keep the remembrance of God. Let your life-breath abide in the Lord—live on earth. This is the meaning of my sannyas. Live in the market, live in the world, live amid home and hearth, but do not let the search for the Beloved cease even for a moment; do not let your breath forget Him even for a moment; let there be no inner obstruction even for a moment. In every breath let there be his remembrance; in every heartbeat let there be his remembrance; let the mention remain, the memory remain, the awareness remain.
Keep non-enmity with all; keep your mind fixed on humility.
Says Charandas: If you would seek God, do not create enmity in the world, because if you create enmity, outer entanglements arise; when entanglements arise, going within becomes difficult.
Keep non-enmity with all; keep your mind fixed on humility.
And if you would be without enmity, do not declare your ego—“I am special; I am something rare.” Do not proclaim “I.” Because once you proclaim “I,” enmity is born.
All enmity arises from ego. Two egos clash, and enmity arises. If you do not want enmity, do not declare the ego at all. Remain poor in spirit—nobody, I am nothing—only a void. If you remain as a void, enmity does not arise. If there is no enmity, there is no outer entanglement. Without outer entanglement, your consciousness is free to go within, capable of seeking God.
In the end, you will attain the state of liberation—with no harm done in the world.
And if remembrance of the Lord goes on, if you don’t get entangled in useless outer knots, if you do not set out on journeys of ego, then one day the supreme liberation is attained. You will fly with outspread wings into the sky. That supreme bliss, that nectar is found. And “with no harm done in the world”—there will be no loss to anyone. Keep this in mind.
I am more in accord with Charandas than with Buddha and Mahavira on this point. Because the outcome of their words brought much harm into the world as well. People were benefited, yes, but the world suffered harm. A husband ran away—left home. He found benefit. But the wife and children were reduced to beggars, to wanderers from door to door. A man fled from his responsibility. He had fathered children, brought a wife home; there was responsibility. This is deceit. This is not honesty. There was no need for it. The wife became a widow while her husband lived; the children became orphans while their father lived.
Thousands upon thousands have renounced in the past, and thousands upon thousands of homes were ruined.
Charandas says: There is no need to harm the world. Keep the world’s work in order. Live on earth; set your life-breath in God.
Compassion, humility, poverty of ego, forgiveness, virtuous conduct, contentment.
These are the qualities that should be in a sannyasin—compassion, humility, poverty of ego, forgiveness, character, contentment. One who holds these six finds no needless calamities and problems arising in life. There is not a constant recurrence of problems.
Compassion—then anger drops away. When you do not get angry, anger does not come from others either. When you are filled with compassion, the whole existence becomes compassionate toward you. Remember this.
This existence is our echo. As we are, so does it return to us. You are annoyed—annoyance returns. You are enraged—rage returns. You are full of wrath—wrath returns to you. You hurl abuse—abuse rains upon you. You shower love—love showers upon you.
Humility—meaning ego-lessness. Poverty of ego—free of ambition: no race for position, prestige, or wealth. Forgiveness—if someone does err, do not keep stretching that error endlessly; have the capacity to forgive.
Virtuous conduct—character is the name of conduct that is not imposed from above, but which begins to manifest in your life on its own due to meditation and remembrance. True conduct is that.
One kind of conduct is the hypocrite’s—imposed from the outside because it seems profitable; a show. One thing inside, something else outside. And the other kind of conduct is spontaneous; it wells up from within you, as fragrance arises from a flower, as light issues from a lamp. Inside as it is—so outside.
And contentment—contentment with whatever comes. If it comes—contentment; if it does not—contentment. Charandas calls contentment the final virtue. Only the contented can attain truth.
Ordinarily our mind is in constant discontent. We keep making inventories of what we did not get, what we should have got. We go on complaining within: O Lord, why did I not get this? Why did the other get it? Everyone here seems fine; only I am miserable. This complaint-filled mind misses prayer; it cannot remember the Lord. Complaint is an obstacle. Let there be no complaint; let there be gratitude.
With these in hand, remember the Lord—liberation is certain.
One who carries these six along and remembers God—his liberation is certain.
Do not fall in love with what perishes; give your love to what remains.
Abandon the false; make your home in the true.
Priceless words—remember them.
Do not fall in love with what perishes...
What is going to vanish—do not fall in love with it, because that love will bring sorrow. If you love what is bound to pass, sorrow must come.
Do not fall in love with what perishes; give your love to what remains.
Love only that which is everlasting—eternal, timeless.
Abandon the false; make your home in the true.
What perishes—now here, now gone—is false; a bubble on water.
What never perishes, is never born, never dies—that is the true. The eternal is truth.
Waves of the Ocean of Brahman are ever arriving—bathe in them when they come.
All defilements will be washed away; no sin will remain.
He says: Brahman comes to you like the ocean’s waves that roll toward the shore—ever arriving. If you just sit by the shore... nothing more is needed, only to sit. The wave will come and wash you.
A man need do nothing else; learn to sit quietly. That is meditation—that in the twenty-four hours you sit quietly even for a little while. Nothing to do; simply become silent. Do nothing—sink into non-doing.
The symbol is beautifully chosen: “There are waves of the Ocean of Brahman.” God is like a mighty surge. You don’t have to go anywhere—just sit on the sand, eyes closed. A wave will come and bathe you. It will immerse you in itself and pass on; you will rise fresh. That is meditation.
In meditation what do you do? What is there to do? You sink into non-doing. You sit in silence—quiet—hushed. As silence grows dense, you will find: a vast wave draws near—that vast wave is the Divine—and it comes to bathe you. Every hair of your body thrills. Your dust and grime is washed away. You are left fresh, renewed. You are given a new birth.
Waves of the Ocean of Brahman are ever arriving—bathe in them when they come.
You have only to create a rendezvous, so the wave may reach you. You do not have to bring the wave. You have only to learn the art of sitting.
All defilements will be washed away; no sin will remain.
What are austerity, yoga, sacrifice, and charity without the Name?
Says Charandas: all these are hollow without remembrance.
Charandas says: austerity without God’s Name has no meaning. It is then only ego. One who has no remembrance of the Lord, even by austerity will inflate his ego—“I am an ascetic, a renunciate, a sage, a monk!”
What are austerity, yoga, sacrifice, and charity without the Name?
If you practice yoga, the ego will grow. If you perform sacrifices, the ego will grow. If you give in charity, the ego will grow. Only one thing wipes away the ego: the wave of the Ocean of Brahman.
Remember that Supreme. Call the Vast from within yourself, so that your littleness dissolves in it. Invoke the Great, so this tiny atom-like ego-state may be absorbed in it. Let your drop fall into His ocean; only then—otherwise your charity, vows, rules, fasts, sacrifices, yoga—are all futile.
Says Charandas: all these are hollow indeed.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now, O foolish one.
Chant the Lord’s Name ceaselessly; heed the Master’s teaching.
What is gone is gone...
Charandas says: what is gone is gone; what is past is past; worry about it no longer. Do not sit adding up accounts of how much you have lost. In making those accounts, more time will be lost.
“What is gone is gone.” Do not worry over it. “Keep what you have now.” Now—everything can happen now. You have lost time; you have not been lost. There is still time; you are still alive. In a single moment this revolution can occur. If there is urgency, intensity, depth, totality—it can happen here and now.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now...
Do not get entangled in accounts of the past.
People come to me and say, “How will sins of many births be erased?” What accounts are you sitting to compute? You wasted time in sin, and now you waste time in reckoning? You have opened ledgers? How will sins of births be erased? “What is gone is gone...”
All that you saw was a dream. If it was sin, it was a dream; if it was virtue, it was a dream. The good deeds you did in the past—futile; the bad—also futile. Only one thing is meaningful: remembrance of the Lord. That alone is true; everything else is false. Everything else comes and goes.
Do not fall in love with what perishes; give your love to what remains.
Abandon the false; make your home in the true.
Now build your house in truth.
This can happen now.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now, O foolish one.
He says: O ignorant one, O foolish one! Do not worry about what is gone. Even now all is possible. Nothing is lost yet. If the one who went astray in the morning returns in the evening, he is not called lost. Whenever you return—that is the right moment.
Sages speak of three kinds of fools. Fool number one accepts, “I am a fool.” There is some hope here, for he accepts it; there is a glimmer of intelligence.
Fool number two asserts, “I—a fool? Never.” Very difficult now; the door will be hard to open. Still, it is only difficult; it can open, for he only says, “I am not a fool.”
Fool number three is impossible. He says, “I am intelligent; I am wise.” He has made it impossible.
If you are fool number three, at least slide back to number two. If you are number two, slide to number one. From number one there is a door.
For the one who realizes, “I am ignorant,” the beginning of wisdom has arrived. The first ray has descended; the first awareness: I am ignorant. I have wasted so much time; now let me do something. And this “something” is such that it does not require cleverness.
To remember the Lord—no scriptural knowledge is needed. No theory, philosophy, Vedas, Puranas or Quran will help. Remembrance of the Lord is so simple that even the simplest heart can do it. Anyone can. No intellect is needed; only a living heart is needed.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now, O foolish one.
Chant the Lord’s Name ceaselessly; heed the Master’s teaching.
And the Master’s teaching is but one: somehow get connected to the Lord. The Master’s work is only this: first he connects you to himself; and when you are connected to the Master, he connects you to the Lord—and then he steps aside.
First, the Master draws you into his heart, and he enters yours. That is the first step of the true Master. The second: slowly he withdraws from your heart, making space so that the Divine may fill it. First he calls you close to him, because that is the only way for you to go across. He seats you in his boat; and when you reach the other shore, he sets you down; he bids you farewell.
People make two kinds of mistakes. First, they do not board the Master’s boat. They struggle, throw up obstacles, try to escape. If somehow they do get on the Master’s boat, they then refuse to disembark on the far shore. They say: now we won’t get off. How can you leave us now?
So the Master must do two things: one day he has to make you board the boat; another day he has to make you get off. Such a Master is the true Master.
The true Master’s teaching is very small. But from that small spark, the largest forests of ignorance burn to ash. It is only this:
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
And remember, with the Master:
Do what the Master bids; do not do what your mind bids.
Hear Charandas’ teaching; keep this in your heart.
Meditate on these aphorisms. They can make your path very clear. They will serve as provisions for your journey. A long journey needs provisions.
Whatever the saints have said, they did not say it for the pleasure of saying. They are not poets. They spoke so that someone might hear and awaken. Their statements were not given for the joy of speaking; their words are practical, for experiment. They carry a call and hints for you: how to set out on the journey to the Infinite.
Live on earth; keep your life-breath in God. As remembrance of the Lord deepens, you will find that the Lord begins to descend into you; you begin to be filled with the Lord.
In my lap,
the geography.
In my arms,
the sky.
In my eyes,
the racing golden tracery
of planets and stars—
today I saw myself
becoming vast.
The moment remembrance of the Lord is total, you will find in that very moment: you and the Lord are not two. You will find yourself becoming vast.
The cosmos is found in the atom. The mystery of all oceans is hidden in a drop; just so, the Divine is hidden in you. The art is only this: sit inactive for a little while, so that the wave from His ocean may come and refresh you; may thrill your life; may make it dance; may steal your sadness and fill you with celebration.
Enough for today.
Letters come to me. People write: “Everything else is fine... your words feel right, but ever since these ochre-robed sannyasins have gathered around you, we’ve stopped coming. Your words are good, they have substance.”
Now this is a great joke. If my words have substance, what use is it to you who comes to me wearing ochre? Who is a sannyasin, who is not? You come anyway. But this has become a hindrance. This has become an obstacle. A fly has snagged you—a tiny thing. If you think about it, it has no value at all. Keep this in mind:
If you miss it now, the miss is final—later you will repent.
If you don’t drop worldly clinging, this birth will be lost.
Begin to prepare to let go of this world little by little. And I do not tell you to drop everything at once; I do not tell you to be in haste to renounce in one stroke. I say: slowly, slowly free yourself from attachment. Live right here—and slowly become unattached.
Yes, there are difficulties in this world, dangers in this world, a thousand kinds of chains in this world; but if you start becoming a little detached, a marvelous transformation begins. Stones on the path turn into steps. Storms become challenges. Illnesses themselves become steps toward health.
If in life we have found a few supports for living,
we have also received hints of dying-to-oneself.
However hard the sorrows of love may be,
some griefs on this path became dear to us.
We had some hope in our own fidelity,
and some support in their glances.
O guide of the path of ecstasy, do not forget,
on this road some gave all they had and lost themselves.
We accept the charge of indifference toward us,
yet we also met your altered ways.
What can one do? Strategy alone cannot win;
true, on the road we met those defeated by fate.
Not all drown in a tempest, “Akhgar”;
some people find a shore in the storm.
It all depends on you. Some people found a shore in the storm. There are those who turned the storm itself into a shore. And there are such unfortunate ones who, sitting on the bank, still drowned—the shore itself became a storm for them. It all depends on you.
However hard the sorrows of love may be...
The pains of this path of love are very severe.
But do not think that this is all there is.
Some griefs on this path became dear to us—
there are pains on this way that become the very openings to love’s infinite possibilities. It is a matter of seeing—of vision, of perspective.
If you tangle in pain, it becomes a wound. If you awaken in pain, the pain becomes a doorway that leads you toward the Divine.
Notice this: pain brings remembrance of the Divine; the door is very near. If there is understanding, every sorrow can become a recollection of God. If there is understanding, you can transform every pain into great wealth. Then, in the end, you will not even say that pain was bad, because it was through those pains that you grew and reached the Divine.
The Sufi fakir Hasan used to say in his prayer: “O Lord! Do not give me a day on which I have no sorrow.” His disciples asked, “Hasan! Is that any kind of prayer? We also pray. We say: God, show us at least one day with no pain. Your prayer is entirely reversed! You pray, O Lord, do not give me any day without sorrow!”
Hasan said, “I have received so much from pain; it is through pain that the memory of God has dawned in me. By the support of pain alone I have sought Him. If all were pleasure, one thing is certain—Hasan would not have turned toward God. Pain has given me much. So I keep reminding Him—by all means, do not, by mistake, snatch away sorrow completely. I fear that if pain is taken away I might wander in pleasure; I might forget. I might get lost in the sleep of comfort; I might fall asleep. Pain keeps me awake. And I have gained so much from pain.”
However hard the sorrows of love may be,
some griefs on this path became dear to us.
Not all drown in the tempest, “Akhgar”;
some people found a shore in the storm.
Understand this world; awaken in this world; become a little detached in this world. Not an escapist—detached. Escaping is also a way of avoiding detachment.
If you run off to the forest leaving everything behind, then in the forest you will have nothing—no means to get attached. But that does not prove your attachment is gone. You have lost the objects.
If a man has no food, does it prove that hunger is gone? Does it? The absence of food does not remove hunger. You will know hunger is gone only when you are surrounded by heaps of food and you sit inwardly unattached; you don’t even register that food is all around you. Only then you will know hunger is gone.
Let piles of wealth surround you, and if in your mind there is no desire for wealth—then that is detachment.
If you flee to the forest, you have fled from wealth, but detachment will not arise from that. Perhaps your very basis for running was fear of your attachments.
You are afraid; you fear that if wealth appears, you will certainly become attached. If a woman appears, you will fall into infatuation; if friends appear, you will be bound in affection. So you run away from it all. But by running from circumstances, has the state of your mind changed? Has it ever changed that way? Never.
So remember:
If you don’t drop your clinging, this birth will be lost.
The meaning of “dropping” will become clearer further on.
In the last aphorism too, Charandas said: “Live in the world as if estranged.” Estranged... He did not speak of running away from the world. He spoke of awakening in the world.
Life is a long race,
vain and fruitless.
Even if you sit down exhausted, nothing is gained,
and even if you reach the destination, nothing is gained.
Yet, to keep moving, stumbling,
falling, rising again and running—this feels right,
because moving is aligned with life,
and stopping is against it.
“It is not easy to die before death.” But the one who dies before death—that is the sannyasin. Of course it does not feel like it—to die before dying. How would one feel like dying? The mind wants to keep you alive: live, run, chase, do something. And yet it is clear that neither by doing do you get it, nor by not doing do you get it. Neither by living in the world do you get it, nor by fleeing to mountains and forests do you get it. If you get it, you get it by awakening to life. And in that very awakening, death happens.
Detachment means: live in the world as if you have died—like a corpse.
If you do not drop your clinging, this birth will be lost.
And life will be lost like a river fading away in a desert. Save it—save something...
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
Let the body dwell on earth; let the life-breath dwell in the Supreme.
A beautiful saying: Live distinct in the world. Which means: live in the world, but “distinct,” set apart. Surrounded—and yet not surrounded. In the midst—and yet beyond. Live in the marketplace, in the noise, but safeguard the inner treasure; maintain the inner serenity; preserve the inner silence. Let the noise rise outside. The outer clamor does not disturb you unless you start clutching at the outer noise. If you sit within, carefree and quiet, let the storm rage outside—and you will be amazed: you find the shore in the very storm. In the marketplace itself the Himalaya is found. And only then is it delightful—to find peace in the marketplace. If you find peace on the Himalaya, it belongs to the Himalaya; when you descend, it vanishes.
Live distinct in the world...
The word “nyare” (distinct) is sweet. It has many meanings. One meaning is: non-attached, set apart, aloof—like a lotus leaf in water. Another meaning is: unique, unlike the crowd. Give birth to your individuality, become a self. Do not move like a blind sheep with the flock. Drop herd-mentality. Don’t be a slave of the same old groove; be distinct. Give your life your own style, your own color.
If you keep doing only what others are doing, you will be fake; you will never become authentic. And remember: you are unique. Each one is unique. God has made each person distinct. He has made no two people alike. No one is anybody’s carbon copy. Leave people aside—you won’t find even two pebbles alike. Not even two leaves are identical.
Here everything has individuality. The greatest loss in the world is to lose your individuality. And the crowd demands exactly that. The crowd says: do not remain a person. Wear the clothes we wear. See the films we see. Join the clubs we join. Eat what we eat. Drink what we drink. Speak as we speak. Our temple should be your temple; our mosque your mosque. Do not try to stand apart; do not declare your own being.
Just live quietly as a number; do not be a person. As in the military there are numbers: a man dies and they say, number eleven has fallen. The number falls; the man does not die there. And if number eleven dies, there is no difficulty. Give some other man the number eleven; now number eleven stands again. Think about it.
If a man dies, there is no way to fill his place. If a number dies, there is no difficulty in filling it. When a person dies, how will you fill his place? Because there has never been anyone like him—ever. Not earlier, not now, not in the future. His place is empty forever, eternally empty. However poor he may have been, however ordinary, even if he bore no special distinction, still he was unique. God had made him differently—distinct. Another like him has not been made.
A human being is not a machine. Machines can be many and identical. On the road you can see hundreds, thousands of identical Fiat cars. But have you ever seen two identical human beings? Even twins are not exactly the same. They also differ; there are differences of individuality. One will become a poet, the other an engineer. One will become a renunciate, the other a politician. They differ, greatly differ. No two persons are identical.
In the military they keep numbers; numbers are convenient. One goes; the number falls; change the number—give number eleven to another; he takes the place. It’s all a game of numbers. Society is in the same condition.
Society wants to keep you alive as a number. You should live as a number; do not become distinct. Therefore, whenever you become a little different, you’ll see, obstacles begin.
That is exactly what the friend asked yesterday: there are a few obstacles in wearing ochre... These are the very obstacles. The obstacles are to being “distinct.” People cannot tolerate someone embracing individuality. If a person begins to live in his own way, people get angry. People say: So you go beyond our circle? So you declare yourself special? People will take revenge. People will trouble you. People will not leave you so easily.
Imagine a flock of sheep moving along, and one sheep begins to walk apart— the whole flock will be offended. This is not right; this is against the congregation. They will harass that sheep—the other sheep. They will say: come back into the herd. If we let people move separately, slowly the congregation will break, society will break.
Society cannot tolerate individuals. It wipes and erases individuality. Society wants you to live as if you have no personhood—person-less—statistics.
So “nyare” also means this: Live distinct in the world. Live in your own way. You have this life—give it your own style. Sing your own song; play your own veena. Whatever the price, whatever cost you must pay.
The person who lives in rebellion—that person lives. The one who is fundamentally a rebel—that is a person, and such a one I call religious.
A religious person is not sectarian, not communal. A religious person is private, personal. He is in rebellion. He breaks rules, regulations, disciplines in order to live in awareness and freedom. Climbing that freedom, one day you will attain the supreme freedom—moksha. There is no other way.
Slowly gather courage. Slowly break your chains. I am not telling you to break them all at once, because those chains have become such an old habit, you could not live without them. But at least begin to break them, slowly. Cut the prison bars one by one. Cutting one bar at a time, one day you will find: the gate has opened—you can fly out.
And remember, there is a great difference between a bird flying in the sky and a bird shut in a cage. The bird in the cage is not the same as the bird in the open. It may even be that the caged bird is in greater comfort. No worry about food; it comes on time. Perhaps he even thinks servants are appointed to him: at the precise time, they bring food, they bring water, bathe him, clean the cage. It may even be a golden cage, studded with jewels, and the bird sits inside and struts: who else has such a cage!
Just like that your presidents and prime ministers strut: who else has such a cage? It is of gold and silver, not some ordinary cage. But wings are cut. The cage comes at the price of clipped wings.
The bird flying in the sky—no gold or silver, no jewels. But what would you prefer? Choose a golden cage—convenience, security, order—or choose freedom? That is the difference. That is the decisive point.
Sannyas blossoms in the life of the one who is ready to risk the sky; who wants to play with free winds; who wants to journey to the far unknown corners of the sky; who wants to take flight toward the sun—that one is a sannyasin.
A householder means—shut in a cage. Householder means convenience, security, honor, status. Do what people approve of; do what people say; for you must take respect from these people. If you offend them, they will not respect you.
These people have never given honor to birds flying in the sky. They crucified Jesus. They stoned Buddha. They hammered nails into Mahavira’s ears. They gave poison to Socrates. They chopped off Mansoor’s hands and feet.
Whenever anyone has flown into the sky, those locked in cages have not tolerated it. It hurts them, it troubles them. It makes them aware of their own condition. A comparison arises: we are caged.
If no one flies in the sky, if no bird flies free, it’s convenient for the caged. They forget the sky altogether. There is no need even to admit that the sky exists. Even that wings exist no longer remains a question. Wings become a sort of ornament—good for fluttering, not for flying. Wings become decoration. They have no use left. And when no one flies, there is no challenge.
Why do people get angry with Jesus? Because all of us are in cages and you dare to fly in the sky? You hurt our ego. You challenge us—we will not tolerate it. If you are right, then all of us are wrong. And that hurts very deeply. We will finish you. Only by finishing you can we feel at ease; then we will sleep again in our cages. Then we will sleep the peaceful sleep of safety. Our security will again be intact.
“Nyare” means: unique. “Nyare” means: sannyas.
Here, everyone is a householder. Everyone is locked in their own cage. Everyone has made his own security and convenience. To obtain that security and convenience, everyone has lost his soul. And remember: even if you gain the whole world by losing your soul, you have gained nothing. And if you lose the world and gain your soul—your ownness, your distinctness—you have gained all.
Only with your distinctness can you stand before God. Otherwise, with what face will you stand? As a number? As a statistic? As a Hindu? As a Muslim? As a Christian? Or as yourself?
Only if you stand as yourself will you be able to stand. Only then will you be able to meet the Divine eye to eye. Because you have fulfilled what He intended: the flower He wanted to bring forth in you—you have become that. Only that flower can be offered at His feet.
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
And what is the method to be distinct in the world?
Remain absorbed in the remembrance of the Beloved.
Remain in the memory of God, and you will become “distinct.”
If you remember wealth, you become part of the crowd. If you remember status, you are lost in the crowd. If you remember God, you become solitary, distinct. Understand why:
Remembrance of God happens in aloneness. In your uttermost aloneness the Divine is remembered. There is no way to remember God in company.
Even if ten people sit silently and remember God, remembrance still happens alone. When each of the ten goes within, when each becomes solitary, when the other nine disappear from memory, when only one’s own being remains—then God is remembered. If the nine remain in memory, God is not remembered.
There is only one thing in this world that is absolutely personal: remembrance of the Divine, love of the Divine; where no other is needed. This is the difference between ordinary love and prayer.
In ordinary love, the other is needed—a woman, a man, a son, a mother, a brother—someone. In prayer, no other is needed. You alone are enough. You dive within yourself. You slide inside. Alone is enough. In that solitary aloneness—remembrance of God.
Love has polished the cross of my eyelids;
love has recited the gospel of pain again.
Then some burning, mad gust of memory
came close to my dry lips.
Today again on the scandalous pathways of the eyes
some wine of moving splendors paused.
The eye can no longer endure even the tremble of a dream—
no cause for formalities now, no veil of convention.
The heart is declared more fragile than a glass bangle;
how can it bear such a great blow?
The one who never descended from the throne of love,
how can he live in death’s cellar?
This darkness, this melting, night-colored hush—
let it dissolve into every wave of my feeling.
Let the sword of the last breath also strike;
let me slip out of this town of craving.
That same confluence, the first meeting of destiny—
where you met me, I shall go there again.
This separation is only the pause of a breath;
do not fear, my beloved, I shall come again.
What is remembrance of God? The search for the source from which we came. The search for the Beloved from whom we came, and to whom we must return. Remembrance of God means: the search for one’s real home.
That same confluence, the first meeting of destiny—
where you met me, I shall go there again—
this separation is only the pause of a breath;
do not fear, my beloved, I shall come again.
Remembrance of God means only this: My Beloved, I am coming; I am on my way; our separation is just a small comma between two breaths. It is no real separation. It is only forgetfulness. I remember you again. I call you again.
The remembrance of God is not of some deity sitting in the sky; it is the remembrance of your own soul hidden within you—of that innermost, ultimate lamp at your center, from which all light has spread, from which you still receive light, from which you still live—the remembrance of that lamp.
And the wonder is that that lamp is one; yours and mine are not different. Yours and the trees’ are not different. Yours and the mountains’ and the moon and stars’ are not different. We differ only on the circumference—at the center we are drowned in one, joined in one. Like branches and leaves are separate on the tree, but at the root they are one—in God we are one.
So first, become distinct from the crowd, because the crowd does not go to God. First, become separate, then begin the inner journey. Set out in the search for the Lord.
The search for God is not in Kashi or Kaaba. Not in Mecca and Medina. Mecca–Medina, Kashi–Kaaba, Girnar—they are inner symbols. Go within. There is only one pilgrimage—go within. The rest are journeys; the one pilgrimage is: go within.
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
Let the body dwell on earth; let the life-breath dwell in the Supreme.
Live on earth, keep the remembrance of God. Let your life-breath abide in the Lord—live on earth. This is the meaning of my sannyas. Live in the market, live in the world, live amid home and hearth, but do not let the search for the Beloved cease even for a moment; do not let your breath forget Him even for a moment; let there be no inner obstruction even for a moment. In every breath let there be his remembrance; in every heartbeat let there be his remembrance; let the mention remain, the memory remain, the awareness remain.
Keep non-enmity with all; keep your mind fixed on humility.
Says Charandas: If you would seek God, do not create enmity in the world, because if you create enmity, outer entanglements arise; when entanglements arise, going within becomes difficult.
Keep non-enmity with all; keep your mind fixed on humility.
And if you would be without enmity, do not declare your ego—“I am special; I am something rare.” Do not proclaim “I.” Because once you proclaim “I,” enmity is born.
All enmity arises from ego. Two egos clash, and enmity arises. If you do not want enmity, do not declare the ego at all. Remain poor in spirit—nobody, I am nothing—only a void. If you remain as a void, enmity does not arise. If there is no enmity, there is no outer entanglement. Without outer entanglement, your consciousness is free to go within, capable of seeking God.
In the end, you will attain the state of liberation—with no harm done in the world.
And if remembrance of the Lord goes on, if you don’t get entangled in useless outer knots, if you do not set out on journeys of ego, then one day the supreme liberation is attained. You will fly with outspread wings into the sky. That supreme bliss, that nectar is found. And “with no harm done in the world”—there will be no loss to anyone. Keep this in mind.
I am more in accord with Charandas than with Buddha and Mahavira on this point. Because the outcome of their words brought much harm into the world as well. People were benefited, yes, but the world suffered harm. A husband ran away—left home. He found benefit. But the wife and children were reduced to beggars, to wanderers from door to door. A man fled from his responsibility. He had fathered children, brought a wife home; there was responsibility. This is deceit. This is not honesty. There was no need for it. The wife became a widow while her husband lived; the children became orphans while their father lived.
Thousands upon thousands have renounced in the past, and thousands upon thousands of homes were ruined.
Charandas says: There is no need to harm the world. Keep the world’s work in order. Live on earth; set your life-breath in God.
Compassion, humility, poverty of ego, forgiveness, virtuous conduct, contentment.
These are the qualities that should be in a sannyasin—compassion, humility, poverty of ego, forgiveness, character, contentment. One who holds these six finds no needless calamities and problems arising in life. There is not a constant recurrence of problems.
Compassion—then anger drops away. When you do not get angry, anger does not come from others either. When you are filled with compassion, the whole existence becomes compassionate toward you. Remember this.
This existence is our echo. As we are, so does it return to us. You are annoyed—annoyance returns. You are enraged—rage returns. You are full of wrath—wrath returns to you. You hurl abuse—abuse rains upon you. You shower love—love showers upon you.
Humility—meaning ego-lessness. Poverty of ego—free of ambition: no race for position, prestige, or wealth. Forgiveness—if someone does err, do not keep stretching that error endlessly; have the capacity to forgive.
Virtuous conduct—character is the name of conduct that is not imposed from above, but which begins to manifest in your life on its own due to meditation and remembrance. True conduct is that.
One kind of conduct is the hypocrite’s—imposed from the outside because it seems profitable; a show. One thing inside, something else outside. And the other kind of conduct is spontaneous; it wells up from within you, as fragrance arises from a flower, as light issues from a lamp. Inside as it is—so outside.
And contentment—contentment with whatever comes. If it comes—contentment; if it does not—contentment. Charandas calls contentment the final virtue. Only the contented can attain truth.
Ordinarily our mind is in constant discontent. We keep making inventories of what we did not get, what we should have got. We go on complaining within: O Lord, why did I not get this? Why did the other get it? Everyone here seems fine; only I am miserable. This complaint-filled mind misses prayer; it cannot remember the Lord. Complaint is an obstacle. Let there be no complaint; let there be gratitude.
With these in hand, remember the Lord—liberation is certain.
One who carries these six along and remembers God—his liberation is certain.
Do not fall in love with what perishes; give your love to what remains.
Abandon the false; make your home in the true.
Priceless words—remember them.
Do not fall in love with what perishes...
What is going to vanish—do not fall in love with it, because that love will bring sorrow. If you love what is bound to pass, sorrow must come.
Do not fall in love with what perishes; give your love to what remains.
Love only that which is everlasting—eternal, timeless.
Abandon the false; make your home in the true.
What perishes—now here, now gone—is false; a bubble on water.
What never perishes, is never born, never dies—that is the true. The eternal is truth.
Waves of the Ocean of Brahman are ever arriving—bathe in them when they come.
All defilements will be washed away; no sin will remain.
He says: Brahman comes to you like the ocean’s waves that roll toward the shore—ever arriving. If you just sit by the shore... nothing more is needed, only to sit. The wave will come and wash you.
A man need do nothing else; learn to sit quietly. That is meditation—that in the twenty-four hours you sit quietly even for a little while. Nothing to do; simply become silent. Do nothing—sink into non-doing.
The symbol is beautifully chosen: “There are waves of the Ocean of Brahman.” God is like a mighty surge. You don’t have to go anywhere—just sit on the sand, eyes closed. A wave will come and bathe you. It will immerse you in itself and pass on; you will rise fresh. That is meditation.
In meditation what do you do? What is there to do? You sink into non-doing. You sit in silence—quiet—hushed. As silence grows dense, you will find: a vast wave draws near—that vast wave is the Divine—and it comes to bathe you. Every hair of your body thrills. Your dust and grime is washed away. You are left fresh, renewed. You are given a new birth.
Waves of the Ocean of Brahman are ever arriving—bathe in them when they come.
You have only to create a rendezvous, so the wave may reach you. You do not have to bring the wave. You have only to learn the art of sitting.
All defilements will be washed away; no sin will remain.
What are austerity, yoga, sacrifice, and charity without the Name?
Says Charandas: all these are hollow without remembrance.
Charandas says: austerity without God’s Name has no meaning. It is then only ego. One who has no remembrance of the Lord, even by austerity will inflate his ego—“I am an ascetic, a renunciate, a sage, a monk!”
What are austerity, yoga, sacrifice, and charity without the Name?
If you practice yoga, the ego will grow. If you perform sacrifices, the ego will grow. If you give in charity, the ego will grow. Only one thing wipes away the ego: the wave of the Ocean of Brahman.
Remember that Supreme. Call the Vast from within yourself, so that your littleness dissolves in it. Invoke the Great, so this tiny atom-like ego-state may be absorbed in it. Let your drop fall into His ocean; only then—otherwise your charity, vows, rules, fasts, sacrifices, yoga—are all futile.
Says Charandas: all these are hollow indeed.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now, O foolish one.
Chant the Lord’s Name ceaselessly; heed the Master’s teaching.
What is gone is gone...
Charandas says: what is gone is gone; what is past is past; worry about it no longer. Do not sit adding up accounts of how much you have lost. In making those accounts, more time will be lost.
“What is gone is gone.” Do not worry over it. “Keep what you have now.” Now—everything can happen now. You have lost time; you have not been lost. There is still time; you are still alive. In a single moment this revolution can occur. If there is urgency, intensity, depth, totality—it can happen here and now.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now...
Do not get entangled in accounts of the past.
People come to me and say, “How will sins of many births be erased?” What accounts are you sitting to compute? You wasted time in sin, and now you waste time in reckoning? You have opened ledgers? How will sins of births be erased? “What is gone is gone...”
All that you saw was a dream. If it was sin, it was a dream; if it was virtue, it was a dream. The good deeds you did in the past—futile; the bad—also futile. Only one thing is meaningful: remembrance of the Lord. That alone is true; everything else is false. Everything else comes and goes.
Do not fall in love with what perishes; give your love to what remains.
Abandon the false; make your home in the true.
Now build your house in truth.
This can happen now.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now, O foolish one.
He says: O ignorant one, O foolish one! Do not worry about what is gone. Even now all is possible. Nothing is lost yet. If the one who went astray in the morning returns in the evening, he is not called lost. Whenever you return—that is the right moment.
Sages speak of three kinds of fools. Fool number one accepts, “I am a fool.” There is some hope here, for he accepts it; there is a glimmer of intelligence.
Fool number two asserts, “I—a fool? Never.” Very difficult now; the door will be hard to open. Still, it is only difficult; it can open, for he only says, “I am not a fool.”
Fool number three is impossible. He says, “I am intelligent; I am wise.” He has made it impossible.
If you are fool number three, at least slide back to number two. If you are number two, slide to number one. From number one there is a door.
For the one who realizes, “I am ignorant,” the beginning of wisdom has arrived. The first ray has descended; the first awareness: I am ignorant. I have wasted so much time; now let me do something. And this “something” is such that it does not require cleverness.
To remember the Lord—no scriptural knowledge is needed. No theory, philosophy, Vedas, Puranas or Quran will help. Remembrance of the Lord is so simple that even the simplest heart can do it. Anyone can. No intellect is needed; only a living heart is needed.
What is gone is gone; keep what you have now, O foolish one.
Chant the Lord’s Name ceaselessly; heed the Master’s teaching.
And the Master’s teaching is but one: somehow get connected to the Lord. The Master’s work is only this: first he connects you to himself; and when you are connected to the Master, he connects you to the Lord—and then he steps aside.
First, the Master draws you into his heart, and he enters yours. That is the first step of the true Master. The second: slowly he withdraws from your heart, making space so that the Divine may fill it. First he calls you close to him, because that is the only way for you to go across. He seats you in his boat; and when you reach the other shore, he sets you down; he bids you farewell.
People make two kinds of mistakes. First, they do not board the Master’s boat. They struggle, throw up obstacles, try to escape. If somehow they do get on the Master’s boat, they then refuse to disembark on the far shore. They say: now we won’t get off. How can you leave us now?
So the Master must do two things: one day he has to make you board the boat; another day he has to make you get off. Such a Master is the true Master.
The true Master’s teaching is very small. But from that small spark, the largest forests of ignorance burn to ash. It is only this:
Live distinct in the world; remain absorbed in the remembrance of God.
And remember, with the Master:
Do what the Master bids; do not do what your mind bids.
Hear Charandas’ teaching; keep this in your heart.
Meditate on these aphorisms. They can make your path very clear. They will serve as provisions for your journey. A long journey needs provisions.
Whatever the saints have said, they did not say it for the pleasure of saying. They are not poets. They spoke so that someone might hear and awaken. Their statements were not given for the joy of speaking; their words are practical, for experiment. They carry a call and hints for you: how to set out on the journey to the Infinite.
Live on earth; keep your life-breath in God. As remembrance of the Lord deepens, you will find that the Lord begins to descend into you; you begin to be filled with the Lord.
In my lap,
the geography.
In my arms,
the sky.
In my eyes,
the racing golden tracery
of planets and stars—
today I saw myself
becoming vast.
The moment remembrance of the Lord is total, you will find in that very moment: you and the Lord are not two. You will find yourself becoming vast.
The cosmos is found in the atom. The mystery of all oceans is hidden in a drop; just so, the Divine is hidden in you. The art is only this: sit inactive for a little while, so that the wave from His ocean may come and refresh you; may thrill your life; may make it dance; may steal your sadness and fill you with celebration.
Enough for today.
Osho's Commentary
Frightened, people stand on both the banks—
some with downcast eyes, some on the moon and stars;
some stand ready to lay down their lives at the slightest signal.
Somewhere a storm has halted—who knows what will happen?
A little darkness, a little light—an uncanny kind of weather;
silence trembles, and the dew itself seems afraid.
Whom should I call to? No companion remains.
Even the moonlight is deaf—who knows what will happen?
The river is very deep; who knows what will happen?
Where man is, there is no fulfillment. Where man is, there is sorrow and melancholy. And where the hope of fulfillment appears to him—the other shore—that shore is far away, veiled in mist; whether it can be reached is hard to decide. Whether it even is, is hard to be certain.
On this shore there is no joy. On that shore there is hope—but how to reach that shore? One must find a boatman. One must find a guide. One needs the company of someone who belongs to the other side; who has been to the other side; who has tasted contentment; who has lived in the breeze of moksha. One needs satsang with one who is free. This alone is the meaning of the guru.
Guru means: being on this shore and yet not belonging to this shore. Being on this shore and yet a proof of the other shore. Being on this shore and yet, in truth, residing on that shore. Among you, like you, and yet not among you; like you, and yet not like you.
Guru means: where something unprecedented has happened; where the seed is no longer a seed—it has become a flower; where the potential has become the actual; where man’s ultimate goal is fulfilled; where man has come to his consummation.
Guru means: your future. Guru means: someone has become what you can become. Without holding his hand, the journey is not possible. Without holding his hand, only the possibility of wandering remains—not of arriving.
Today’s sutras are important—for all seekers, all searchers.
“Do what the guru says; do not do what he does.
Hear Charandas’s counsel, and keep this in your heart.”
A very unique statement—and one that is not immediately understood. If it is understood, a great treasure is found.
“Do what the guru says; do not do what he does.”
It sounds inverted. Ordinarily we would think: do as the guru does. But Charandas says: do as the guru says; not as he does. Why? Because what the guru is doing is his inner state. The guru’s act belongs to the other shore. What he is doing, the way he is living—you cannot live that way yet. Try to live that way and you will get into trouble. Either hypocrisy will begin; there will be acting; for how can conduct arise out of you that is not your inner state?
Do not try to do as the guru is. That will happen some day—when it happens.
Mahavira stands naked; you too stand naked. But between your nakedness and Mahavira’s there is a great gulf—as vast as earth and sky. Your nakedness will be imposed nakedness; a kind of nudity. Mahavira’s nakedness is not nudity; Mahavira’s nakedness is innocence. You will try to drop clothes; with Mahavira something else has happened—there is nothing left to hide. It is not that he “dropped garments”; there is simply nothing to conceal. Like a small child he has become. This is not mere unclothing; it is the birth of innocence.
But if you try and, standing like Mahavira, imitate him, you will only be undressed; and in this undressing you will be deceived—you will feel: I have become like Mahavira.
No. Do what Mahavira says; do not do what he does. Because what Mahavira is doing today is not out of effort, it is out of his spontaneity. If you do it, it will be an effort, an imposition, a forcing.
Yet it often happens that people begin to imitate the guru. They begin to do what the guru does. They do not listen to what the guru says. Listen to that; go on doing only that; and a day will come—that hour of effortless revolution, that hour of Samadhi—when the same will begin to happen through you. But do not copy the guru. It will happen one day; if you “do” it, you will miss. Do what the guru says. When the guru speaks, he speaks keeping you in view. When the guru acts, he acts out of his own naturalness. Understand this difference.
When the guru speaks to you, his eyes are on you: where you are, what will work for you, what will benefit you, how you will change, how the first step can be taken from where you stand—toward that he points.
What the guru speaks, he speaks to you; hence he speaks with you in mind. What the guru does, he does from his own nature; from his own state; from his Samadhi. The guru’s act comes from within him. The guru’s words come from compassion toward you. Understand this difference well.
Therefore, the guru’s words alone are meaningful for you—not his acts. Yes, if you follow the words, one day the guru’s acts will also happen in you. That incomparable hour will come; such a sun will also rise within you; such clouds will gather within you; such a peacock will dance within you; such a rain is certain. But if, beforehand, you take the wrong step—the wrong step meaning: you do as the guru does—you will miss.
Generally man does exactly this. He says: if we do as the guru does, we will become like the guru. You will never be able to. Your doing will itself become the obstacle in your way.
Understand the guru. Open the guru’s word within yourself.
Greed in man is great. Man thinks: why take a long journey? The guru is present—why not become just like him at once? If the guru fasts, we shall fast; if the guru sways in ecstasy, we too shall sway; if the guru sits and rises thus, we shall too. What more is needed? And ordinarily reason too will say this is the right thing: to imitate the guru is to become like the guru. But Charandas says something very significant—rarely has anyone said it with such clarity and in this way:
“Do what the guru says; do not do what he does.”
The guru’s acts are not for you; his utterances are for you. If you are not there, his acts will continue; his utterances will stop. Whatever the guru does, he will also do in solitude—when no one is there. If he sways in ecstasy, he will sway seated alone in a mountain cave. His swaying has no reference to you. If the guru sits with eyes closed, he will sit with eyes closed whether anyone is there or not. The presence or absence of another makes no difference. The guru does not sit with eyes closed “for” someone; he sits with eyes closed for himself.
So the guru’s act is a dialogue with himself—words spoken to himself. But the guru’s utterance is speech addressed to the disciple.
In solitude the guru will not give utterance; he will not explain anything to anyone.
Then remember: what the guru has said to you—hold that very carefully. What has been said specifically to you is meant for you. Therefore proximity to the guru is needed—his presence, a personal contact. For each person stands at a different place. Not all are at the same step. Over lifetimes each has come to different states of mind.
Someone stands on the first rung; the guru will ask him to step onto the second. Someone stands on the third; if he hears “Step onto the second,” he will come down from where he is; he should not step onto the second—it is already passed. He must step onto the fourth.
And for one who has reached the topmost rung, the guru will say: drop the ladder. If one who has not even placed his first foot on the ladder hears this—has not even grasped the first rung—and he hears “Drop the ladder,” and thinks, “Well, the guru has spoken of dropping the ladder,” he will miss.
To some the guru will say: climb; to some he will say: come down; to some: the first step; to some: the last. Different words for different people.
With the guru there is a private relationship. And what the guru says to you, treasure it like a diamond; it is for you. This is the very meaning of satsang.
There are utterances that are universal. As I speak to you in the morning—these are universal utterances; for all. But in the evening when you come to me—for darshan—then I speak to you. That utterance is for you alone; it is wholly personal, bearing your address. It belongs to no one else.
If I have said something to you privately, do not tell even your wife that “this is to be done”; she will be standing elsewhere. Do not tell even your son. It may be that you are feeling great joy in doing it; even then do not tell your loved one, “You also do this,” for your beloved’s state will be different.
What is blissful for you may become the cause of grief for another. What is auspicious for you may be inauspicious for someone else.
Morning utterances are universal; they are not addressed to any one. What I say in the evening is personal, addressed to one—and do not mix it, even by mistake, with another.
I have to keep reminding friends—because in the evening there are ten or twenty friends present; when I say something to one, the others too are hearing—I must caution them: listen well, but do not start doing. The one to whom it is said…
Often it happens that one friend asks a question; I answer him. Then another comes and says: “I have received my answer, for that was my question too.” It cannot possibly be your question. This man is different; his whole life story is different. He has lived in different ways through many births; he has passed through different paths; he has been born of different parents, been related to different people; his conditionings are different. The question that has arisen in him can never arise in you in the same way.
Yes, I know: the words of the questions may be the same; the composition may be the same; form and color may be the same; yet they cannot be the same. His question is his—private, personal. The answer given to him is also private and personal.
So I must say to you: ask your own question. Do not get involved in his matter. What I have said to him, I have said to him—not to you. Do not make the answer given to him into your answer.
But this is our delusion. You too had come to ask the same thing—in words. This man also asked the same thing—in words. Words are similar; meanings cannot be. Meaning is colored by your very being.
Understand it like this: you stand before a mirror. Then another stands before the same mirror. The mirror is the same, but the image changes. When you stand, your image appears; when the other stands, the other’s image appears.
The mirror is the same; the words are the same; do not conclude from this that the meanings are the same. Words will of course be similar, but meanings will differ. When you employ a word, it gets tinged with your meaning; it takes your color.
Each person should receive for himself the instruction he needs from the guru. His universal utterances will form your background; they will refine your understanding, cleanse it. But his private utterances will set you in motion—they will become the steps of your practice.
“Do what the guru says…”
Then do not think: a thought keeps rising again and again—“This is what he told me, but he himself does otherwise. What am I to believe?”
You go to a physician. He tells you: “For a few days, avoid sweets.” The next day you see him in a restaurant—eating sweets. Naturally a conflict arises: “What is this? He told me: don’t eat sweets; and he himself is eating sweets!” No, you do not think like this; you are not that foolish. You think: I am ill; what he told me, he told me for my illness. The physician is not ill. Whether he eats sweets or not is his choice. And even if you find him eating sweets, what he told you—“don’t eat sweets”—is not invalidated. Yet this often becomes a stumbling block.
The guru tells you something—and in the guru’s conduct you see its opposite. Naturally you will trust the conduct more than the words; you will think: the words have no value if the guru behaves otherwise.
Then should we listen to the words—or look at the person? Charandas says: listen to the words. You are very far from where the guru is. What is spontaneous and natural for the guru is not so for you. The guru is no longer sick; he is healthy. He has no more illness, no more concern, no more problem. All your problems remain; all illnesses remain. You are still surrounded by afflictions and need many kinds of medicines, only then will you become available to Samadhi.
The guru is in Samadhi. No illness remains. Therefore no medicine is needed. But delusions usually arise.
We have always been told—by so-called thinkers, who are not very thoughtful, at best a little argumentative—that the guru’s utterance and his personality will be one. This is not true. If a guru’s utterance and his personality are one, he cannot be a guru; he will be of no use to anyone.
The guru’s personality will be one; his utterances will be of many kinds. As many as the people to whom they are addressed, that many kinds.
If a physician insists on keeping his personality and his utterances identical, he will be of use to no patient—and will be responsible for the death of who knows how many. If he says only what he himself does, and does only what he says, there will be great difficulty. Of what use will he be to you?
For this reason it also happens that a person attains supreme knowing and yet does not become a guru.
What is the condition for becoming a guru? Not all who know are gurus. All gurus are knowers, but not all knowers are gurus.
In the Jaina tradition, two words are used: Kevali—one who has attained Kevala-jnana; and Tirthankara—one who has attained Kevala-jnana and is also a guru.
What is the difference? The only difference is this: the Kevali’s conduct and his utterance do not differ. He says exactly what he lives. But he is of no use to anyone. His utterances are of no use to anyone. They are so far away, so lofty—what will you do with them? Will you make them, eat them, drink them, wear them? They are of no use on this earth. There will be poetry in his utterances, but no revolution in anyone’s life will be born from them.
Tirthankara means: one who has attained knowledge, lives from that knowledge, and out of compassion, taking into account those who come to him, considering their illnesses, diagnosing them, prescribes the diet and the medicine that fits them. His utterances are given with them in mind.
A guru must be a physician. And you have seen—when you go to a dispensary, there are many medicines; not all are for you. One medicine will be yours—and you will not be able to find it yourself. If the whole pharmacy were handed to you—“Find your medicine; it is hidden somewhere among these”—instead of being freed from illness, you would become more ill. How will you find it?
The guru finds the medicine for you. He takes your pulse. He sees: where is your problem, where is your knot; how will it open; by what device will it open? And he speaks to you of that device. This does not mean that he himself will apply that device.
A young man once traveled with me. Earlier, he had never gone anywhere with me. He used to come to the camps, meditate, listen. For long he had been after me: “Once, for a week, I want to be with you.” So when I was traveling, I called him. He stayed with me for a week. He must have watched everything—what I do, what I don’t do. He was quite surprised. For two or three days he went on meditating; on the fourth day he dropped it. I asked: “What happened? No meditation today?” He said: “When you yourself don’t do, why should I? I have been watching you for four days—you never meditate; so why should I?”
There is logic in his words. Perhaps that is why he wanted to stay with me—to see. But this turned out harmful, not helpful.
I said to him: “I don’t ‘do’ meditation, because meditation is a medicine. As long as there is the illness of mind, meditation is the medicine. When the mind’s illness is gone, if you keep on drinking the medicine, it is dangerous; meditation too will harm then.
“When mind is gone, meditation is gone. Meditation was a device. A thorn was stuck in the foot; you took another thorn and drew the first one out. Then both thorns must be thrown away. Though the second thorn was very kind—helped remove the first—will you keep it in the wound? Will you worship it?
“Meditation is a thorn; when the thorn of mind is removed—when the thorn of thought is removed, when the riot of thought has ended—then no one ‘does’ meditation. Then one is in meditation; one does not do meditation. Then whether one rises, it is meditation; whether one sits, it is meditation. But that meditation will not be visible. Meditation is only visible when it is done.
“When meditation becomes a natural state, we call it Samadhi. As long as it has to be done, it is meditation. When it begins to shower without doing, it is Samadhi. Its very quality has changed. Now there is no doing. Now illness is no more; the question of doing does not arise.”
To distinguish, two words are used: meditation as an act, and Samadhi as a state. Meditation is done; Samadhi is not done. Samadhi simply is. When meditation has thrown the mind out, what remains is Samadhi.
I told him: “Do what I say. Do not concern yourself with what I do—otherwise you will go astray. Remember this.
“Do what the guru says; do not do what he does.
“Hear Charandas’s counsel, and keep this in your heart.”
Always keep in mind: what has been said. Do only that—only that much. And what has been said to you—guard it as a most precious treasure.
Each person’s state is different.
“On an empty belly, O Gopala, bhajans do not happen”—
this is the refrain of Kabir’s song.
There is the hunger of the body!
The desire for woman, the heat of Kama,
burn the body and tempt it—endless sensual lures;
we long for wealth, for the comforts of power,
for wife, for sons, for money,
for the consecration of undying love—
there is the hunger of the body!
“On an empty belly, O Gopala, bhajans do not happen”—
this is the refrain of Kabir’s song.
There is the hunger of the mind!
The mind wants self-importance,
wants the fragrance of fame,
churns knowledge, spins ethics and philosophy,
craves honor, position, rights, worship!
By art and science the mind keeps
untying the knots of life and death—
this is the hunger of the mind!
Third, the deep hunger of the Atman!
As the senses are beyond the body, so the mind is beyond the senses;
and beyond the mind is the eternal Atman—
where freedom reigns
and the heart’s sobbing is drowned;
where Sat abides,
where Chit is delight,
where bliss abides forever—
so says the yoga-darshan.
But above or within,
visible to the mind or beyond its grasp—
is there not somewhere such a cloud of nectar
that might rain upon the earth a noble life?
Let caste and class be refined,
let people bind in immortal love and trust,
let them live lives of virtue
and the earth be hallowed with light!
Hungers differ. People are filled with different kinds of hunger. Someone is still full of the hunger of the body; for him the guru will prescribe a different medicine. Someone’s bodily hunger is satiated and the hunger of mind has arisen; for him the guru will prescribe another medicine. But it also happens, rarely, that someone comes so fortunate that his mind’s hunger has died too; the hunger of his Atman has arisen. For him the guru gives a different medicine altogether.
These medicines will differ; they are given looking at you. If the guru were to look at himself and give, he would hand out only one thing—Satchidananda. But that would not be of use to you.
You came asking for bread, and the guru gives Satchidananda—you will return annoyed: “Shall we eat it, drink it, wear it—what shall we do? We needed bread.”
You came burdened by the mind; you were full of mental diseases; the mind was becoming deranged—and the guru says: Satchidananda. You will say: “What are we to do with Satchidananda? Here the mind is burning; here it is full of flames; here a thousand worms gnaw at the mind; here a thousand desires slither within. What will happen by saying ‘Satchidananda’?”
If the guru gives only what is within him, he will be of no use to anyone—or only to those who need nothing; those already in the state of Satchidananda. They need nothing.
You must begin the journey from where you are. If you are very childlike in mind, you will have to be given a few toys—to play with. Do not think: “The guru is not playing with these toys—then why should we?” If you think like that, you will miss; you will miss badly—and later you will repent deeply.
“If you miss it now, it is a miss indeed; then there will be repentance.
“If you do not drop your clinging, this birth will be lost.”
Charandas says: “If you miss it now—this is the real miss.” If a guru has happened to you and you still miss, then indeed the miss is great. If no guru has happened and you keep missing, it is forgivable. There was no guru—how would you not miss? It was natural. No boatman was found, no boat was found, no one who knows the way to that shore was found—and you remained stuck to this shore; this can be understood. What else could you do?
It was not possible to step into such an unknown, such a strange, such an unfathomable. The other shore was not even visible; even that it exists was not certain. No one was found in whose eyes you had glimpsed the other shore; no one by whom you had heard the melody of the farther bank; no one whose hand you had held and felt the touch of the beyond. No one whose eyes you had peered into and seen heaven, seen bliss, heard the music—the unstruck sound. If such a one was not found, and you tethered yourself to this shore, and went on collecting money, position, prestige—it is forgivable.
But Charandas says: if a guru has been found and still you remain stuck to this shore, then it is no longer forgivable.
“If you miss it now, it is a miss indeed…”
For so long you missed—fine. But if the guru is found and still you miss, then it won’t do. Then surely you are the culprit. Then all along you were only making excuses—“There is no guru; how can we go to the other shore? There is no boatman, no one to take the oar—how can we go?” All the while you were saying, “How to go across?”—all this now appears false. You did not want to go. Now the boatman is found; the boat stands at the door; the oar is ready; only your sitting is awaited for the boat to push off—and you do not sit in the boat.
“If you miss it now, it is a miss indeed; then there will be repentance.”
And meeting the guru is only once in a while; not an everyday affair. It may be: once you meet the guru, and then for lifetimes you do not.
An old Buddhist tale says: the world is like a royal palace with a thousand doors, and only one door is open. Nine hundred and ninety-nine doors are closed. And man in this world is like a blind man shut inside that palace. He gropes around. Nine hundred and ninety-nine doors are closed—there is no way out through them. He gropes and gropes; after a long wandering he comes near the door that is open. But he makes a small miss: a fly lands on his head, and as he shoos the fly away, he walks past the open door—and begins groping again. Now again there are nine hundred and ninety-nine doors; who knows in what birth he will again come near the open door? And what guarantee is there that then there will be no itch in the foot? What certainty that no obstacle will arise? And the missing happens in a moment.
He is groping along; some obstruction comes; his hands get entangled; he walks two steps without feeling around—he has missed. Then for lifetimes…
The tale is delightful. Such is the condition. Once in a while, after searching through many births, you come close to a Buddha. But coming close to a Buddha is not enough: go out through that door. Listen to what Buddha says; do what Buddha says. Do not seek excuses.
Excuses are a thousand, and they are always available; and they have great logical force. A small thing can make you miss. A small thing—like a fly on the head. The blind man starts chasing the fly away, takes two steps, and passes the open door. His eyes are closed; the open door is not seen. His hands are occupied shooing the fly. Such a small thing makes him miss, sends him astray. Often very small things lead one astray.
Remember: there are a thousand excuses for going astray.