Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #9

Charandas speaks thus: listen, O wise saints.
The root of liberation is surrender; the root of hell is pride.

Anahat
A song
is in your heart—
on a single string of the sitar—
one.
In the wave of a river
one;
in a breath of the breeze
one.
In the meadow of grass
Hari—Hari—
one.
In the tattered,
yellow fallen leaf—
one.
In a seed too it is,
just as
it is in your heart.
It will sprout only as much
from the heart of the seed into the shoot
as it has already
risen from the mind,
as far as it is trembling
on the string of the sitar.

Man is a veena. A rare music is possible. But where music is possible, discord too is possible.
If a sitar rests in skillful hands, song is born. In unskilled hands, only noise. The sitar is the same; skill of the hand is needed, artistry is needed.
Life is the same for all; the same has been given to everyone. The same to Buddha, the same to you; the same to Krishna, the same to Christ. The same veena has been received, and the same music given. But the art of drawing music from the veena must be learned. The name of that art is religion.
That which makes your life musical is religion. That which makes a flower blossom in your life is religion. That which turns the mud of your life into a lotus is religion.
And remember—do not forget even for a single moment: the seed within you is just as much as it was within Buddha. You too can be that. If it fails to happen, no one but you is responsible.
Possibility has been given; to turn possibility into actuality—that alone is sadhana. What else is sadhana? That which lies in you like a seed should crack open, become a sprout, grow into a great tree. Let flowers come upon it; let birds build their nests; let the clouds of the sky converse with its lofty branches; let the moon and stars dance with it.
A seed looks like a pebble—but only looks so. If you sow a pebble, nothing will grow. The seed appears like a pebble, but a whole world is hidden within, an entire universe concealed.
The botanists say: give a single seed, and the whole earth can be clothed in green—so much is hidden within it. One seed is enough. The tree of one seed will bear thousands—hundreds of thousands—of seeds. Then in each single seed again, thousands more. In a short time, the whole earth—what to say of the earth—the whole Brahmanda can be filled with greenery and flowers by a single seed.
The small seed is not small. The vast is contained in the atom; so too is the Supreme hidden in man. You are not small. You only appear small. Do not be deluded by the appearance. What appears is not the whole truth. What appears is not all that is true. Truth is what you can become. That is your real being—what you can be. An infinite future is hidden within you.

Anahat—
A song
is in your heart.
And this song is such—anahat; unstruck, not struck by any hand. Virgin. Ever virgin. Ever pure, ever awake. Not even a trace of soot has touched it, nor can it. Not a speck of sin has touched it, nor can it. But it lies unmanifest. It has not been expressed. You have not called it. You have not invoked it. You have not invited it. You have not even turned your eyes toward it.
You go on living as if everything were outside. In wealth, in status, in intoxication—you go on living as if all were outside. Outside there is nothing. Outside—only ash, ash, and ash. What is—is within.
Gold is within; earth is without. And one who wanders only outside will never hear this anahat song. And the one who has not heard this anahat song has not heard the Paramatma. The one who has not heard this anahat song—no festival has ever come into his life; spring has never arrived. It was ready to come, but he never called it. It even came and stood at the door, yet the door was not opened.
You will live in the autumn’s fall if you do not raise, do not awaken your inner music.
How to awaken that music? The entire art, all the sutras of that art, are in the verses of Charandas today—pay attention.

“Many enemies dwell within the vessel of the body—you conquer none.
Day and night they surround—you find no release.”

The first thing: friends are within, and enemies are within as well. The friend is one; the enemies are many. Understand this.
Truth is one, unnumbered are the lies. As many lies as you like you can fabricate. Lies are your creations; truth cannot be fabricated. Truth can only be experienced. Truth already is; it has to be uncovered, discovered—not invented.
Lies are invented. You make the lies; make as many as you wish. But truth is beyond your hand; you cannot make it—you can only unveil it, lift the veil.
And keep in mind: truth is one and unnamable, as health is one and diseases are many.
Have you heard of two kinds of health? Whoever is healthy, health is one. Whether a child or an old man, woman or man, animal or bird—if healthy, health has no adjective. It simply is health. You cannot name it. When it is one, how will you give it a name? Names are needed only when there are many, so that distinctions can be made. That is why the Paramatma has no name.
Paramatma is one—how can He have a name? If there were many, there would be names. If there were many, names would have to be given.
The names we use for God are our makeshift conveniences. Call Him Ram, call Him Hari, call Him Allah, call Him Khuda, Rahman, Rahim—whatever you wish; but all these names are our inventions. He has no name. He is the Nameless.
Truth is nameless because it is one. Health is nameless because it is one.
But diseases have great names. Every day new research, and newer diseases are caught and named. Diseases have to be memorized.
A medical student studies in the university and must memorize the names of thousands of diseases, their symptoms. Health has neither symptom nor definition. The only definition of health is: absence of disease. Those thousands upon thousands of diseases—if they are not, man is healthy.
Health has no direct definition. Only this much: tuberculosis not, cancer not, malaria not—this not, that not—when no disease remains, whatever remains is health.
Health is like emptiness. If the room contains nothing—no furniture, no wall-clock, no cloth, no cupboard—nothing at all—there is emptiness. So too, when no disease remains within you, the emptiness that remains is health.
And in the same way, when no thought remains in your consciousness, the emptiness that remains is Buddhahood. Spiritual health is called Buddhahood. Spiritual health is called the state of Paramatma.

The first sutra of Charandas:
“Many enemies dwell within the vessel—you conquer none.”

Within live many enemies. Birth after birth, who knows how many ailments you have nurtured. Who knows what diseases you have befriended. Who knows how many diseases have become part of your habit. So, “Many enemies dwell within the vessel—you conquer none.” And that ‘you’ which is within—that alone is the one friend. That inner consciousness, that awareness, is the only friend. And that conscious one is surrounded by countless enemies. Lust, anger, greed, attachment, jealousy, pride, envy—who knows what all. Surrounded on all sides.
Your one friend is the witness—consciousness, awareness. But the witness is besieged by many diseases. Wherever identification happens, there the witness is lost; there the disease takes hold.
A wave of anger arises. You are not anger. You can never be anger. You are the knower, the seer before whom anger arises, before whom the smoke of anger spreads. Clouds gather in the sky—the sky is not the clouds. Or the sun is surrounded by black clouds—the sun is not the clouds. In the same way you are sometimes surrounded by the clouds of anger.
But when you are engulfed, you forget that you are separate, distinct—that you are consciousness. You become one with anger. You accept, “This is me.” You become anger; you are anger-saturated. The shadow of anger falls upon you and you no longer remember your separateness, your distinctness. Identification happens with anger. This is the disease. The diseases are many, but the way of linking with them is one. Whether you link with anger, or with greed, with attachment, with ego—or with any other illness—the aligning is one: identification.
Whichever disease you identify with, you take to be ‘I.’ Break this identification and victory begins. Let identification grow and defeat follows.
“Many enemies dwell within—you conquer none.”

Great enemies live in the house within, and you have gone out to conquer the outer! And the house itself is lost; defeat is hidden at home.
Victory has not happened at home and you have gone to win outside—the desire to rule the world!
Man’s madness is such: to conquer the moon, to conquer Mars, to go to the stars—while man has not yet gone within. He has not yet known himself. He has not recognized the inner light.
But the drums of the distant are charming; journeys to the far call to the mind. The far tempts because on that journey the enemies hidden in your mind can continue to live. But if you set out on the inner journey, then you must be free of these inner diseases; they simply fall away.
Slowly the mind begins to die. Each disease that dies—mind dies a little. When all the diseases die, you arrive at no-mind; you go beyond mind. Transcendence happens. The state beyond moods arrives. Only in that state will you know who the friend is.
Mahavira has said: the enemy too is you, the friend too is you. You are the enemy when you join yourself with the false. You are the enemy when you link yourself with the other. You are the enemy when you take yourself to be that which you are not.
As if a mirror were to stand before you and conclude that the reflected face in it is itself. Such is the delusion.
The mind is the mirror; consciousness is the reflecting. Whatever comes before it, its shadow is formed. But you clutch at every shadow. Clutching at shadows, you remain in maya. You must awaken from these shadows.
Pressed beneath these shadows, your consciousness is lost. You forget yourself; you lose all remembrance.
“That was a strange season of life.
Spring crashed upon the lovely bodies.
In every breath there was sorcery,
in every glance, a frenzy.
Bodies, drenched beyond measure
in the imagining of wine.
In the softness of intoxication
thought and sight flickered and went out.
When stupor veiled the brain,
the body woke and danced.
The darkness deepened,
the universe went deaf.
Emerging, shadows
recognized one another.
That was a strange season of life.”

When man gets lost in shadows, when he takes shadows as truth—that is a strange moment of life. That is what we call youth. That is what we call the world. That is what we call blindness.
“That was a strange season of life.”
When someday you awaken, you will say: What a moment that was! What an unfortunate hour—how strange—that I took myself to be what I was not. How I slept—that I took shadows to be truth and let truth slip from my hands!
“That was a strange season of life.
Spring crashed upon the lovely bodies.”
The more you are stupefied, the more dreams appear. To dream, sleep is needed.
The first condition for dream is sleep. And what you call the world is a dream. To see this dream of the world, you must be asleep.
“Spring crashed upon the lovely bodies.
In every breath there was sorcery...”
A magic seizes every breath when the fever of desire takes hold; when the fever of lust seizes, eyes go blind, identification forms with lust.
“In every breath there was sorcery, in every glance a frenzy.”
A delirium, a madness descends.
“Bodies drenched beyond measure in the imagining of wine.”
Then in the wine of sin the body is utterly immersed.
“In the softness of intoxication thought and sight flickered and drowned.”
In that intoxicant of sin, that wine of lust, the twinkling stars of vision and reflection no longer appear.
“The lamps of awareness go out.
When stupor veiled the brain, the body woke.”
As the mind, the brain, awareness grows unconscious—“When stupor veiled the brain, the body woke.”
The more the soul sleeps, the more the body wakes—in the same proportion. To the extent you cease to be divinity, to that extent you become an earth-dweller.
“When stupor veiled the brain, the body woke.
The darkness deepened, the universe went deaf.”
And as these shadows thickened and the wine of lust rose, “the darkness deepened, the universe went deaf.” Then nothing was seen or heard—all became blindness, all deafness.
“Emerging, shadows recognized one another.”
Then shadows fell in love with shadows; shadows related with shadows. Call these your household, your home, loved ones, kin—name it as you will. It is the friendship of shadows.
You do not know yourself—how will you know your wife? You are still unlit within—how will you see without? You have not seen the nearest—you have not seen yourself—whom else will you see? Your son—how will you see? Your daughter—how will you see? You yourself are a shadow—for you are asleep.
In this sleep, in this wine, neither the lamps of thought burn within, nor the lamps of meditation. You busy yourself with the play of shadows.
This play of shadows we have called maya: that which is not as it appears, and appears as it is not. Maya means delusion.

“Many enemies dwell within—you conquer none.
Day and night they surround—you find no release.”

Who am I? Who is this ‘you’? The day this question becomes the most important of all, that day the first step toward victory is taken.
The very first, the most fundamental quest is this: that I find the answer to ‘Who am I?’ Before this, whatsoever you do will be wrong. Before this, wherever you go, you will go astray. Before this, there is no real journey—only wandering.
If night is dark, the first thing is to light a lamp. The night is very dark and life is groping in pitch darkness. Nothing is seen. Light the lamp—the one lamp that serves in life’s darkness is the lamp of your consciousness.
The body is only dust—risen from dust, it will fall back into dust. Only ash! But in this ash of the body a possibility is hidden—a flame can begin to glow. In a clay lamp a flame can descend—so too, within you a flame can descend.
Find that flame and you have found the friend. But that flame is surrounded by great enemies.
“Day and night they surround—you find no release.”
Not even for a moment is there a gap. You slip from one, another seizes you.
Look at the state of your mind. Now thinking of money, now of position; now filled with anger, now with greed; now with attachment, now with lust. Are you ever empty? Is there ever a pause? Do you ever give yourself a little rest? These clouds ring you in! Could there be, sometime, even for a little while, no cloud—or a small aperture open up?
Consider this: the Hindu calls his prayer sandhya. Sandhya means a junction—a slender opening. If a narrow window opens, if a little junction appears—the sandhya has happened.
One cloud departs, the next not yet arrived—before it, a little space remains—mind is at rest for a short while so that self-recognition can happen.
If there are no clouds, the sun knows itself. When clouds are, it only knows the clouds.
If the mirror is empty for a moment—no image formed—the mirror knows itself: who am I, how am I? But the flow of reflections continues like a stream—one goes, another comes. A crush and rush at the door—some shadow always forming.
Meditation simply means: in the twenty-four hours, snatch a few moments when neither anger grips you, nor attachment, nor maya, nor greed.
Give yourself a few moments to sit empty—do nothing. Sitting and sitting, someday the tuning happens. Sitting and sitting, someday the moment arrives—even for only a moment, a tiny junction—when you find: the road is closed, no one passes on it. There is utter stillness. In that stillness consciousness returns to itself. In that stillness a glimpse of oneself is received.
When no one stands before you, only then do you glimpse yourself. As long as something stands before you, the eyes remain fixed on it. When there is no object within, then you know yourself.
As long as there is something else to know, your knowing remains entangled there. When there is nothing to know, knowing returns to itself.
This returning of knowing to itself is meditation. That is why Mahavira called meditation pratikraman—returning to the self. Jesus called it conversion—turning around. The Sufis call it tauba—returning to oneself.
You are—but you are ringed by clouds. Once you must experience what you are except these clouds. If clouds are not, who are you? That very experience reveals the friend hidden within.
After that experience, the enemies can no longer deceive you. Recognition arises.

“Many enemies dwell within—you conquer none.
Day and night they surround—you find no release.”

Either find yourself—and enemies are vanquished. Or conquer the enemies—and the friend is met. Two faces of the same coin; do not think them separate. They happen together—one event seen from two sides.
Light the lamp—the darkness is gone. Say either “the darkness is gone, the lamp is lit,” or “the lamp is lit, the darkness is gone.” Both happen together. It does not happen that the lamp is lit and then, for a while, darkness waits, pondering: shall I go or not? Shall I remain a little longer? I am an old resident, and this lamp has just arrived and already claims the place! Shall I sue in court? Shall I protest that someone is encroaching upon my house—even though I have dwelt here long?
No, darkness says nothing. The lamp is lit; darkness ‘is not.’ In the same instant—no delay—not even for a flicker of a moment.
This is one event with two aspects, two faces of the same coin.
So it is within. When the enemies depart, the friend is found; when the friend is found, the enemies depart. They never co-exist—remember this. If lust, attachment, greed, anger are present, you have no trace of the friend. If the friend is there, there is no trace of the enemy.
As you awaken—in your inner, true friend—you will find the enemies gone.
Buddha said: thieves enter the house where the master sleeps. They do not come by day, they come at night. The master must be asleep; only then can theft happen. If the master is awake, they do not come. So too, when you are awake, enemies do not come.
Your wakefulness is your victory. Wakefulness is victory. Do not misunderstand the word ‘victory.’
There is danger in words. In the word ‘victory’ there is danger. People hear ‘win’ and begin to fight anger—that will be a mistake. That is not the path of victory.
If you fight anger, you will be entangled in it. You become like that with which you fight. Choose the enemy with great care: you will become like that with which you fight. If you fight anger, you will become angry. If you fight lust, you will become lustful. The dye of the adversary will stain your being. Wrestling continually, you cannot remain different.
You will often see two enemies fighting all their lives—by the end, their characters become alike.
This happens daily in politics. One party is in power; another fights it. Years pass in removing it. By the time the chance comes, the second party has become like the first.
Do you see any difference between Indira and Morarji? In these months, has anything changed? The same people, the same ways. And the wonder is that Jayaprakash called it ‘total revolution!’ What sort of total revolution is this? The same people, the same methods, the same machinery—everything the same—and total revolution has happened? Not even a leaf stirred, and total revolution!
Those who fought the Congress for thirty years became like the Congress—no difference remained. Not only here. It happened in Russia. Years of struggle—and those who fought the Tsar—Lenin, Stalin, Trotsky—when power came to their hands, they proved to be like the Tsar. Not even a trace of difference. They were replicas—perhaps even more dangerous; fighting the Tsar, they had learned his ways. To fight him, you must learn his tactics. Gradually you become like him. Therefore revolutions do not succeed in the world.
So many revolutions—yet all failed. Why? For a deep psychological reason: you become like that with which you fight. The one who fights ego becomes very egotistic—though he may declare, “I am humble, I am meek.” Even in the declaration of humility the trumpet of ego sounds.
The one who fights anger becomes angrier. The one who fights unrest becomes more restless. Look around with open eyes: one becomes like that against which one fights. Fighting means deep association. Therefore do not take ‘victory’ to mean ‘fighting.’ Victory means ‘awakening.’ There is no fight.
Fighting means you have accepted that the enemy has power over you. Who fights with a shadow?
How will you fight with maya? With that which is not—what is fighting? Awakening means knowing—not fighting. Recognizing—not fighting. Seeing things as they are.
What is anger in truth? See it with awareness. In that very awakening, the summit of awareness rises and the smoke of anger dissolves.
To be angry, you must be unconscious. In awareness you cannot be angry. Try—it is impossible. No one has done it. If you do, it will be a miracle.
Anger cannot exist with awareness. As awareness comes, anger slips away; as anger comes, awareness slips away. They do not co-exist—just as lamp and darkness do not co-exist.
So what is there to fight? Awaken awareness. Become full of awareness.
Hold my word carefully in your heart: in awakening there is victory. In fighting there is defeat.

“Many enemies dwell within—you conquer none.
Day and night they surround—you find no release.”

“Without knowing this mind, none ever becomes a sadhu.
If worldly craving does not fall away, no glimpse of the unfathomable is gained.”

Listen:
“Without knowing this mind...”—the key to victory is knowing.
“Without knowing this mind, none ever becomes a sadhu.”
A sadhu—a simple one, a beautiful one, an innocent one, a pure one—cannot be, without knowing the mind.
Do not fight the mind; yet do win. And winning happens only by knowing—by awakening. Not by fighting.
“And as long as the craving for the world does not fall away, the unfathomable, the boundless, the infinite remains unknown.”
The world means the craving for the trivial—some more money, a little more land, a larger house.
Craving for the trivial is the world. Craving for the vast is prayer—the unfathomable.
There are only two kinds of people: lovers of the trivial—who are in love with the little. Ten rupees—how to make eleven? The circle of ninety-nine. And this circle, however long you run, never completes. That is why it is called a ‘circle.’ The wheel keeps turning; it has no end.
Today ten—so eleven. Tomorrow ten thousand—then eleven thousand. Tomorrow a million—then a million and one. The same restlessness continues; the same tension, the same race, the same madness.
Do not think that by becoming eleven it will be solved. Before eleven arrives, the longing for twelve appears. Hence the story of the ‘circle of ninety-nine.’ You know the story?
A king was worried: he had so much—yet no peace. His barber who came daily to massage him was a jolly fellow. He received a single rupee each day—in those days a lot. He ate himself, fed neighbors, invited friends. One rupee was plenty.
He earned one rupee each morning for an hour’s massage, then went home. No worry at all—carefree. Next day again he would come, work an hour, take a rupee.
There was always laughter and chess in his house. The king felt restless—he could not laugh like that, could not call friends like that. Worries pressed him—while the poor man had nothing—just a rupee. Not even arrangement for tomorrow.
He asked his vizier: What is the secret of his happiness? The vizier said: it will soon be clear.
He went and threw a pouch of ninety-nine rupees into the poor man’s house.
Next morning he came, but the old merriment was gone. He kneaded hands and feet, but without strength. The king asked: Today you are sad—I have never seen you thus. You look worried. Did you sleep last night? Your eyes are red, tired. He said: Since you ask, I’ll tell you. I have fallen into a great mess. Someone threw a pouch with ninety-nine rupees into my courtyard. All night I could not sleep. Again and again I thought: ninety-nine rupees! Ah! Delight! And the thought arose: how to make it a hundred? I decided that the rupee I get today—I will not give any feast, we will fast—save it. Let the hundred be complete.
Such is the mind’s habit: if there are ninety-nine, it wants a hundred—as if something will happen at a hundred!
So I did not sleep—today I am tired.
The king said: Fine.
Within days the man began to wither. The king asked: What is it? Your joy and juice are drying up. He said: The pouch is draining my life. I saved a rupee, and as soon as the hundred was complete, I thought: now I am a little rich; slowly one hundred and one—then one hundred and two—and so on, let there be two hundred.
Within a month the man was half-dead. The king said: Madman! Now you are worse off than me. Now when you massage, there is no strength. No laughter from your house, no flute at night, no lamp lit. He said: How can I light a lamp? Oil is wasteful. Friends do not come—for we have to feed them. The flute has been put away. Only one worry remains—how to make a thousand.
From this story came the phrase: the circle of ninety-nine. And all are in it.
“Without knowing this mind, none ever becomes a sadhu.
If worldly craving does not fall away, no glimpse of the unfathomable is gained.”
One who falls into craving for the petty never knows the secret of the unfathomable. He remains unacquainted with the Paramatma. Unfortunate is he who remains unacquainted with the Paramatma—for there alone is the great festival, the bliss; there is the True, the Beautiful, the Immortal.
Will you squander it in silver pots, in paper notes, in property disputes? Until you understand the mind—its moves—you will squander it.
So the first sutra: know the mind.

Mulla Nasruddin married his daughter. After the wedding he embraced his son-in-law and said lovingly: Ah, my son, today you are the second happiest man in the world, for you wanted to marry my daughter—and you did. The son-in-law was startled: Why not the first happiest? Mulla said: Better you don’t ask, for the first happiest is me—I escaped this calamity.
Be the first happiest in the world—only then are you truly happy: that the calamity of the world has been avoided. The second happiest is still unhappy; second place has no relish.
This worldly craving is: let me have more. Freedom from this craving is: let there be ‘me’ no more.
The race for ‘more’—that is the world. More and more—it never ends. Collect as much as you wish—it does not lessen.
He who awakens from this race—who sees this is simply the mind’s device; that mind demands ‘more’—he becomes capable of a new revolution.

“This is a land of silver, of crafty princes.
Wayfarer, be mindful before you love—
love is a trade of hearts.
Who here has leisure to hear your cries?
Whose arms are empty for you?
Whom do you seek in this desert like a cloud?
Who here is restless with eyes that search for you?
This is a bazaar of flowers, a fair of smiles—
who will buy your few wounded tears?
Be mindful, wayfarer, before you love.
Here the demand of love is fulfilled by hate;
Ah! even offering your heart, the world receives only embers.
It takes all and does not grant even a shroud to modesty;
Daily a bier is prepared for the bud by the bumblebee.
Here at the sun’s corpse dusk celebrates Diwali,
and on evening’s extinguished pyre, the moon strolls.
Be mindful, wayfarer, before you love—love is barter.
See—poison is served as honey by the temptress,
and every garland hides flowers of fire.
Behold, that deceiving rose stands—piercing the bulbul’s heart;
Bearing night’s corpse, the laughing dawn arrives.
Clouds gather only to give the earth thirst to drink;
Spring comes daily to bring the garden autumn.
Be mindful, wayfarer, before you love.
Here ruthless cruelty stands, veiled in beauty;
Beauty drinks the blood of love and sways.
Alas! in the bud’s innocent bodice a serpent sits,
and in love’s simple lap lies hidden deceit.
With a single ray the dawn snuffs out a thousand lamps;
With a single drop the cloud strikes a hundred thunderbolts.
Be mindful, wayfarer, before you love—love is barter.
This is a land of silver, of crafty princes.
Be mindful, wayfarer, before you love—love is barter.”

Understand the mind. By understanding the mind you will understand the world, for the world is the spread of your mind.
The roots of the world are in your mind. Therefore do not begin fighting the world. Do not fall into that error.
The roots of the world are in your mind. Fighting the world is like cutting a tree from above while the roots remain hidden in the ground. New shoots will come again; the tree will grow again.
Those who fight the world do not fight at the root; they go on plucking leaves.
Therefore I do not tell my sannyasin to run away from the world. Nor does Charandas. I say: do not go anywhere—understand your mind.
And the world offers more opportunity to understand the mind than any cave in the Himalayas. In the cave the mind has fewer chances to manifest—how will you understand it? For understanding, the mind’s expression is needed. Here the chance is daily—moment to moment, step by step.
Someone abuses you and the mind fills with anger. An opportunity for meditation. If you have even a little understanding, you will not be angry with the abuser; you will go to thank him: You gave me a chance to be aware. Anger lay hidden within; had you not abused me, I would not have known. It would have remained buried, and that poison would have spread within forever. You abused me; what was hidden came out. I became aware of it. I had the chance to watch, and the possibility of freedom arose.
You see a beautiful woman and lust rises; you see someone’s great mansion and craving rises—these are opportunities. The art of transforming such opportunities into meditation is sannyas.
“Without knowing this mind, none becomes a sadhu.
If worldly craving does not fall, no glimpse of the unfathomable.”

But the mind will persuade you: Do not understand me—what is the use? Live me. Do what I say—listen to me. Do not enter the bother of understanding me.

“Tonight is the spring night—
do not speak of departure!
Dust has become a bed of flowers,
the garden wears silver and gold;
buds cast spells;
every leaf is fragrant—
do not speak of the sacred fire!
Tonight is the spring night—
do not speak of departure!”

The mind will coax: It is a spring night… why talk of death now? I am still young—why talk of renunciation? There is so much to do in life—why talk of meditation?
The mind will persuade you in a thousand ways: indulge a little first. Live a little first. If you must wake, wake later—what is the hurry?
People come to me and say: We will take sannyas—but not now. My age is only fifty!
Some say: The scriptures say sannyas must be taken at the end. Why do you give sannyas to the young as well? Sannyas must be taken in old age—the last ashram!
Man invents endless excuses—to deny truth.
There is no guarantee of tomorrow. He will take sannyas when he is seventy-five! There is no guarantee of tomorrow—not even of the next breath.
In this life of uncertainty, do not be held back by the mind’s counsel.
The mind is your enemy—not your friend. You have strayed thus far because you followed the enemy.
Mind is darkness; it fears the light; it does not want to go near the light; it runs from it. Naturally.
If the mind is darkness, it will fear the light. It will present arguments and schemes. It will say: Fine—take sannyas too—but later. What is the hurry?
“Tonight is the spring night—
do not speak of departure!
Dust has become a bed of flowers,
the garden wears silver and gold;
buds cast spells;
every leaf is fragrant—
do not speak of the sacred fire!
Tonight is the spring night—
do not speak of departure!”

But this spring will arrive and pass—and in this spring autumn is concealed. In this youth old age is seated. In this life death is cloaked.

“Sunlight spread upon stone,
color blooming in the flower from who knows where;
a still kite perched for long
upon the golden temple-spire;
and with all this,
a lake rippling within the mind—
I feel like calling all this mine,
or out of fear of time,
calling it a dream.”

Both possibilities stand before you, moment to moment. Either call this world ‘mine’—the mind says: call it ‘mine.’ Or death approaches; time slips from the hand—call it a dream.
If you call it ‘mine,’ you remain worldly. If you call it a dream, you become a sannyasin.
It is a dream. It will break. Even if you watch it for a whole life, it will not become truth. Truth cannot be made a dream; a dream cannot be made truth.
How long you dream does not change anything. Everyone’s dream breaks. Blessed are those whose dream breaks before death; unlucky are those whose dream breaks at the moment of death. Then nothing can be done—the opportunity is gone. The miss has occurred; you will have to return. And the more you miss, the more missing becomes a habit. That is why you have come and gone so many times—yet nothing has been gained.

“Without knowing this mind, none becomes a sadhu.
If worldly craving does not fall, no glimpse of the unfathomable.”

“The poison slides away to another side—
and never returns to the hand.
It does not stay during remembrance,
O Lord, though I hold it firm.”

This mind slides away; it never remains in the hand. You resolve a thousand times—then an insult and all is forgotten. The mind slides again. Again and again it happens. You regret—but what will regret do?
Break the arrangement of sliding. Otherwise you will go on regretting—and the mind will go on slipping away.
“The poison slides away… and never returns to the hand.
It does not stay in devotion though I hold it firm, O Lord.”

If it would stay, it could be grasped. If it never stays, how will you grasp it? If you wish to catch it, first make it stay. Therefore the methods of meditation are arrangements for the mind to be still.
In twenty-four hours, steal one hour. No one is so poor he cannot give one hour to meditation. And no one is so rich he does not need it.
Give one hour. Sit for one hour—watching the mind, understanding the mind. This theatre of the mind—this drama—sit as a spectator, a seer, and watch.
And it is not that the play will stop in one day. In truth, when you sit to watch, the mind will attack with full force. It will not tolerate that you have found a way to slip from it—who tolerates that?
When you break the chains, the chains are also angry. When you wish to exit the prison, the prison is not pleased.
When you wish to slip from someone’s slavery, why would the master be happy? His power is weakening; his dominion is breaking; his empire is falling apart—one slave has escaped.
So the mind will attempt everything. When you sit to meditate you will be surprised: the mind never torments as much as when you sit to meditate. It launches a four-sided assault. It raises all kinds of turmoil. Such a storm, such a whirlwind that you are cautioned: there is no point in this trouble—why sit again? The condition has worsened!
People tell me: The mind is usually quiet—but when we sit to meditate, it becomes utterly restless.
It is restless anyway—but you are entangled and do not notice. When you sit to meditate, you notice. And when the mind observes that you are trying to free yourself, it casts every net. Naturally.
Watch these nets as well. Watch the mind’s trickery. Watch the great squalls. Just watch. Remain impartial. Do not even say, “Bad.” The moment you say ‘bad,’ you have missed. Do not say, “Stop!”—for the mind will not listen.
Till now the mind has ordered you; you have never ordered it. If today you suddenly command, it will not hear. It has no habit of hearing you.
Though the mind is your slave, by long practice it has become the master—very spoiled. This will not change in a day.
But if you keep sitting… do not worry whether some result is coming or not. Say only: For one hour I will watch the mind’s turmoil—for one hour I will watch the disturbances. Keep watching.
Slowly you will find junctions appear. Sometimes such a rare instant comes—just for a moment—in which no thought is.
In that silence, for the first time you will know what religion is. In that silence, you will know that God is. In that silence, the Veda, the Koran, the Bible are confirmed. In that instant, all religions become true—because religion itself becomes true.
“The poison slides away… and never returns to the hand.
It does not stay in devotion, O Lord, though I hold it firm.”

“The senses be turned toward the mind as object;
the mind be turned within intelligence;
intelligence be turned in Hari’s remembrance—
and then dissolution happens.”

This sutra is rare—worth its weight in diamonds.
“The senses be turned toward the mind as object…”
The whole scripture of the inner journey is hidden in this sutra.
Until now you have seen outward through the eyes—now begin to see inward through the eyes.
“The senses be turned toward the mind as object…”
Until now the eyes have seen the world—now look at the mind with the eyes. Until now the ears heard outer sounds—now leave the outer sounds and hear the inner sound.
“Turn the senses—make the mind your subject of knowing.”
“…the mind be turned within intelligence.”
When you become capable of seeing and hearing the mind, then the second step: turn the mind toward the buddhi—intelligence that is the inner clarity.
The world is outside you; the mind too is outside you. You are at the center. You are the seer of the mind.
So take one step at a time. First, turn the outward-turned senses inward. Close the eyes and see within; close the ears and hear within. This is the first step of meditation.
Gradually you will find the outer forgotten; it melts away. Only the waves of mind remain—around you. Watching these waves again and again, the mind becomes quiet.
Nothing needs to be done—doing will be a mistake. No act is needed—only witnessing. No doer is needed—only the seer. Merely by seeing…
This may seem difficult, for in the world nothing happens without doing. In the world, only the doer wins; the lazy lose. How can one win without doing?
But the law of the mind is just the reverse—there the active lose, the non-doer wins. There doing is not needed; seeing is enough. There, revolution happens by seeing. The doer does not win—only the seer. Just see.
“Turn the senses toward the mind as object…”
First fix the capacity to see upon the mind.
“…the mind be turned within intelligence.”
Then the second step will come. As the mind becomes quiet, waves of thought dissolve. First the world is forgotten; then the mind is forgotten. When the mind is forgotten—
“…the mind be turned within intelligence.”
Then awaken to the witness itself—the capacity to know, to see. Let the witness become its own witness.
The jnani often stops here. The bhakta takes one step more:
“Intelligence be turned in Hari’s remembrance—
and then dissolution happens.”
For the bhakta says: even within the witness a deeper core is hidden—within the seer itself, the Paramatma abides. The body’s center is the mind, the mind’s center is the soul; the soul’s center is the Paramatma.
Where the jnani stops, the bhakta takes one more step. Charandas says beautifully:
“Turn the senses toward the mind as object; the mind toward intelligence.
Turn intelligence in Hari’s remembrance—and then dissolution happens.”
In that very moment dissolution, immersion. Home has been reached—rest arrived. Call it moksha, call it nirvana—name it as you will.
This is everyone’s quest. This is the capacity hidden in the seed within you. This is the tone hidden in your veena. Without awakening it, you cannot be fulfilled. If it awakens, life is blessed. If not, it is wasted.

“Lust burns body and mind—
churns the heart unstable.
Religious honor and shame are lost;
the heart remains open for ‘I’ alone.”

See: waves rise in the ocean—whence do they rise? By the gusts of wind. The wind is invisible, yet makes the visible waters tremble. So the waves within you arise from kama—desire.
“Lust burns body and mind…
churns the heart unstable.”
Kama means craving—the urge to gain something, to become something else. Dissatisfied as you are—wanting to be otherwise; discontent with what is—wanting more. This fever of kama—
“Lust burns body and mind…
churns the heart unstable.”
—raises all storms.
“Religious honor and shame are lost;
only the self sits enthroned in the heart.”
The lustful one sees nothing—neither what is right, nor what is dignified.
A man was caught in court: he stole a gold bar from a jeweler’s shop—at high noon, in a crowded market. Customers were on the counter; he was seized at once. The policeman stood at the crossroads. The magistrate asked: This is the limit! We have heard of many thefts—thieves come daily—but people steal at midnight, when all sleep. You—in broad daylight, in a busy market, with customers at the shop, the owner awake, servants moving about—and a policeman on the street—you dared? Are you blind?
The thief laughed: Such is my condition. My lust for gold is such that when I see gold, I see nothing else. When I saw that gold bar on the counter, neither the shopkeeper, nor the customers, nor the policeman appeared. Only the gold bar appeared.
The lustful sees only what his desire sees.
“Religious honor and shame are lost;
and where the Paramatma should dwell, we enthrone lust in our heart. Where Ram should be seated, we install kama. This is our decline.
“Infatuation is great sorrow—
smite it and cast it out.
Drop love for the world—
become exile (to it).”

If you would be free of craving, drop your clinging to outer objects. And remember: Charandas does not say run away. He says: let this revolution occur in your inner world. Wake up.
“Live in the world as the lotus lives upon the lake—
resting upon the water, yet untouched by water.”
Live like the lotus upon the lake—thus live in the world: you remain in the water, yet the water does not wet you. Live in the world and let the world not touch you.
Like the lotus in water—this is the definition of sannyas. If you run away from water and then water does not touch you—what virtue is there? Remaining in water and remaining untouched—that is the virtue.
Remain in the world and let Ram remain within—that is the glory.
Be as you are, where you are. Nothing else to be done. Not a single thing outside needs to be moved here or there. The wife remains in her place, children in theirs; work in its. All continues as it is. Understand it as a play.
As an actor performs—becomes Ram—Sita is stolen, he weeps; on the stage he asks the shrubs, “Where is my Sita?” Tears flow. But none of this touches him; what does he have to do with Sita? It is a play. The curtain falls; he goes home and sleeps sweetly. Not once does the thought arise—not even as a dream—that his Sita was lost. He will not fret at night—what to do, how to find her? He has nothing to do with Sita. Though in the play he performed fully.
I call that one sannyasin who lives in the world as an actor. Perform perfectly. If a husband—perform husbandhood; if a wife—perform wifehood.
And the joy is that if done as acting, you will do it more skillfully—because there is no worry, no anxiety.
Become the doer—and worry arises. The real Ram must have worried when Sita was stolen. But the Ram of the Ramlila worries not—no anxiety—it is a play.
Learn acting—become adept—and you will remain lotus-like upon the waters.
“Living upon water,
untouched by water.
Live in the world as the tongue lives in the mouth—
eating thick ghee, yet it remains ungreased.”

How much ghee you drink—yet the tongue does not grow oily; it remains lotus-like.
“In that vessel where the serpent of worry dwells—
no mantra of remembrance can arise.”
Worry catches only because you take yourself to be the doer—otherwise what is worry? The Ram of the Ramlila does not worry; you do. Worry arises because you become the doer.
Do not be the doer. The doer is the One—the Paramatma. Leave the doing to Him.
Know yourself only as this: an acting has been given—perform it. Whatever part He gives, perform with full skill—with all your art, your mastery, your intelligence—but remember: I am not the doer.
Then you will be astonished. The world will not cling. It will be near yet far. It will surround you yet not touch. You will remain untouched; you will float lotus-like.
This land has held no glory greater than this: that a man lives in the world and floats upon it like a lotus. That is why we called Krishna a Purnavatar. We did not call Buddha a Purnavatar—because Buddha left.
Krishna remained in the world; he stood amid all the play—did not run. Living in the world, he remained untouched—therefore Purnavatar.
Buddha left the world—an avatar indeed—but he left; this rankles a little. It seems he was somewhat afraid.
Rabindranath wrote a poem. His heart was colored with Krishna; he was not pleased with Buddha’s leaving. He imagines: when Buddha returned home after enlightenment, his wife Yashodhara asked him: I wish to ask one question. Whether she asked or not is not the point; Rabindranath makes her ask. She says: What you found in the forest—could you not have found it here, in this palace? Buddha stands silent. Rabindranath keeps him silent—no answer. What answer could there be?
The question is right. What was found there could have been found here. What relation does truth have with place? Is truth’s condition that it is found in a hut but not in a palace; in a forest but not in a village? What is this?
So Buddha remained silent; Rabindranath let him, for he had no answer. Yashodhara asked such a question that Buddha fell silent. There is no answer.
What was found there could be found here. Anywhere it can be found.
Wherever you are—take it as the Prasad of the Divine; remain there; begin to become unattached there—and the world becomes a school.
The world is a school; one who lives sannyasically within it passes—he has learned the lesson. Therefore the one who lives in the world unattached does not come again. Having learned, why return to the same school? Fail—and you are sent again.
“In that vessel where the serpent of worry dwells—
no mantra of remembrance can arise.”
From the stance of the doer, worry arises—what shall I do in the morning? How to run the shop? How to earn? Will it come or not?
But one who takes the Paramatma as the doer—and remember, he who knows himself as witness will take the Divine as doer; for things are happening. If I am not the doer, someone must be. The act is happening—Paramatma is the doer.
There are only two states: either take yourself as doer, or take yourself as witness.
Note this: many religions tell you, many gurus say—Whatever you do, do carefully—God is seeing you. This makes you the doer and God the witness. This is the worldly’s stance.
What I say is the other: become the witness and let God be the doer. You watch—let Him do. This is the sannyasin’s stance.
I do not agree with the first. If God is witness, then who is the doer? Then you will be the doer—and worry arrives. Thousands of worries—Will the shop run? Money come? The wife is ill—will she recover? The son is sitting an exam—will he pass? Will this happen or not?
What is worry? It simply means: the burden is on me. Will I be able to bear it? No—become the witness.
In the Gita Krishna tells Arjuna: Do not be the doer. You are only an instrument; He is the doer. Whomever He wishes to slay will be slain; whom He wishes to spare will be spared. Do not come in between. As witness, fulfill what is commanded.
Paramatma is the doer—we are the witness. Then ego departs—neither defeat is ours nor victory. If defeat—His; if victory—His. Neither merit ours nor sin. All is His. We are unburdened. This unburdening is sannyas.
“In that vessel where the serpent of worry dwells—
no mantra of remembrance can arise.
If ever a tiny remembrance comes,
it slips and is lost again.”

Sometimes for a brief moment—even a fragment—His remembrance comes, and slips away. The mind again runs to the world—thinking: do this, do that. What shall I do and not do? Will it happen or not?
Not only that—the mind is so mad it even chews the past: Why did I not do this? Why did I do that?
The past is gone beyond reach; nothing can be done. What is done cannot be undone. No corrections are possible—but the mind still thinks: When that man said this, if only I had replied thus!
Why waste time? The moment is gone. What you said—said. What you did—done. What can you do now? The past cannot be changed. And worry for the future is as vain, for it has not happened. What will worry do?
What is in your hand? Not even a breath. Whether the sun will rise tomorrow—uncertain. Whether morning will be—uncertain. Whether you will be—uncertain. Yet great plans and worries come with the sense of being the doer.
“If ever a tiny remembrance comes,
it slips and is lost again.
Hope’s river flows with the waters of desires;
whenever supreme interest springs, it too is swept away—
for the mind does not find steadiness.”

A current of hopes and expectations flows—streams of lust upon lust. In the river of hope, the waters of longing rush.
Dream upon dream, rank on rank. One is not done when another seizes you.
And sometimes, even if remembrance of the supreme arises—some satsang happens, some auspicious moment comes—before it can sprout, the river of hopes sweeps it away. The mind cannot gain steadiness.
It is not that the Paramatma does not sprout within you sometimes—He does. How can your ultimate destiny not sprout?
Despite all your noise, sometimes His voice is heard within. Amid all your darkness, sometimes a ray enters.
You forgot Him—but He has not forgotten you. He seeks you; He stretches his hand toward yours.
Even if your fist holds trash, even if your hand is not ready to clasp His—His hand still sometimes touches you, in spite of you. Even if you do not wish it, He touches.
But the seed of that supreme does not take root—because the river of hopes is in flood. Like trying to sow in a flowing river—no seed will hold. You will drop it and the river will carry it away. Such is the state of the mind.

“The proud are pounded and ground;
robbed of their wealth in the arms of death.
But those who become free of pride—
reach the abode of Hari.”

Those who hold the pride of being doers will be crushed. They will break to pieces by their pride.
However much wealth you gather, however many beauties, however many mansions, however much status—it will all be looted. Death will come and snatch all.
But those who drop ego, who drop the sense of being the doer—who bend, who surrender—only they reach the house of the Lord, the abode of Hari.

Charandas speaks thus—listen, O wise saints:
“The root of liberation is surrender; the root of hell is pride.”

One fundamental sutra: the root of liberation is surrender—to become subject to the Paramatma, to take refuge at His feet.
The root of hell is pride—the pride of being the doer. It will lead to hell—indeed, it has already.
The doer lives in hell. Where is happiness? Only misery. Distracted—rushing like a madman. Failing a hundred times, he still gets up to run again. He learns nothing from defeat—and nothing from victory either. He thinks when he loses: it is fine—I will win next time. He learns nothing from loss. And when he wins, he still learns nothing—for what victory is there? Even in winning there is loss.
In this world only loss is written. Win—and you lose; lose—and you lose.
What will you gain by victory? One day all returns to dust—to the grave.
“The root of liberation is surrender; the root of hell is pride.”

If you desire liberation—the supreme fortune of freedom, the taste of moksha—then drop one thing: the ego. Drop the sense of ‘I am.’
Bhakti helps you drop the ‘I’ far more than the path of jnana. On the path of knowledge, the ‘I’ remains—“I am the knower.” On the path of tapas, the ‘I’ remains—“I am the ascetic; I have fasted, I have taken vows, I have disciplined myself.”
But the bhakta leaves all this: What is mine? All is Yours. You handle it. If I am bad—Yours; if good—Yours. Whatever use You have for me—take. Make me a Ram if You will; make me a Ravan if You will. Who am I to choose? Whatever order You give, I will fulfill. Your will be done. I am not—I am Yours. I am Your shadow; I will follow behind You.
“The root of liberation is surrender…”
This is the meaning of surrender: I will move as Your shadow moves; where You go, I go.
Apart from You, I have no being. Apart from You, I have no voice; no tone of my own; no signature. I am merely Your echo. I am a hollow bamboo reed—whatever song You sing—let it be sung. If You do not wish to sing—let there be no song. If You wish to make me a flute—make me a flute. If You wish to leave me as a stalk—leave me so. In every case I am content.
In this acceptance is liberation; in this surrender—freedom.
“The root of liberation is surrender; the root of hell is pride.”

Charandas’s sutras are very sweet. If you wish to travel with Charandas, become Charandas—be at his feet. And hurry.

“As far from cold is spring;
as far as the drop is from the pearl;
or say,
as far as the flower is from the fruit—
that far is my body now from fire,
fire from ash,
ash from the waters of the Ganga.”

Not far. Soon—very soon—your ashes will be immersed in Ganga. Before that, awaken. Before that, call to the real Ganga. Become Bhagirath—bring the real Ganga down—the Ganga of Ram.
“As far from cold is spring—
what is far?
As far as the drop is from the pearl;
as far as the flower from the fruit—
that far is my body now from fire,
fire from ash,
ash from Ganga-water.”

Before your ashes are immersed in the earthly Ganga, immerse your ego in the heavenly Ganga. There are two Gangas: one in heaven, one upon the Earth. Before the earthly waters receive your ash, let the heavenly waters receive your pride.
“The root of liberation is surrender; the root of hell is pride.”

Charandas calls you:
“Come—give me your hand in mine;
we will walk to new horizons.
Hand in hand,
we will meet the sun.
Before this, too,
I have walked holding hands—
but those hands were of rays, of flowers,
of the riverbank in the rains.
I wish to take your hand in mine;
I wish to give you new horizons.
Give your hand into mine;
we will walk to new horizons,
and together meet the sun.”

Hear this call. Place your hand in the hand of a guru—so that someday the hand of the Paramatma may also be placed in yours.
“Come—give me your hand in mine;
we will walk to new horizons—
hand in hand,
we will meet the sun.”

We must meet the sun—we must meet the light. You have lived long enough in darkness—how much longer? Is this not enough?
It is enough. You have lived in darkness and gained nothing. Now long to live in light—yearn for the radiance.
“I wish to take your hand in mine;
I wish to give you new horizons.
Give your hand into mine;
we will walk to new horizons,
and together meet the sun.”

This has always been the assurance of the true masters.
For today, enough.