Nam Sumir Man Bavre #3

The sayings of the saints are a diamond mine. Yet even in a diamond mine—only once in a while—Kohinoors are found. All sayings are dear, but sometimes one is utterly unique.

Today’s first sutra is such a rarity; it is a Kohinoor. If you understand it, you will be drenched in nectar. If you can live it, life will be transformed. In this sutra Jagjivan gives a great key.

“Let no one act merely by watching us.”

Man is an imitator. Charles Darwin was right to say that man has come from the monkey—if not for biological reasons, then certainly for one psychological reason: man imitates as apes do. Perhaps apes still learn a little; man hardly learns—he just copies.

I have heard: a man sold caps in the marketplace. One day, after selling caps he was returning home, and stopped to rest beneath a great banyan tree. Cool breeze, tired from the day—he dozed off. When he woke, the basket-lid lay open and every cap inside had vanished. Astonished, he looked about. He peered up: the tree was full of monkeys—and each monkey wore a cap. They had taken them all. All had become Gandhian! The caps looked good on them—just as they look good in Delhi!

The shopkeeper panicked. What to do now? Only one cap remained—on his own head. Then he remembered: monkeys are imitators. He removed his cap and threw it down. Instantly all the monkeys took off their caps and threw them down. He gathered the caps and went home.

Years later his son started the same trade. The father had warned him: Never rest beneath that banyan tree. Monkeys live there. Once they took all my caps. And if by chance you forget and it happens to you—remember the formula: take off your own cap and throw it.

The son too came that way. The banyan’s shade was tempting—deep, cool. He was exhausted, and since he knew the formula there seemed nothing to fear. He set down his basket and lay down to rest; sleep came. And what had to happen, happened. When he awoke the basket was empty. He looked up—there they were, all the leaders, each wearing a cap. He laughed inwardly: Fools! You don’t know I know the formula. He took off his cap and threw it. One monkey climbed down, picked up that cap too, and ran off with it.

These monkeys were the second generation. Their elders too had warned them: Don’t make that mistake again. Once done is enough.

Monkeys learn; man hardly learns. Man lives by imitation.

People saw that Mahavira was naked, and without understanding they too became naked—without seeing that Mahavira’s nakedness is not a discipline, but the outcome of an inner innocence. You can impose the result; but where will you bring the inner source?

Will standing naked make you innocent? Yes—if innocence happens, one may stand naked; that is a different matter. Revolution moves from within to without, not from without to within.

Two and a half thousand years have passed since Mahavira, yet some still imitate and go naked. But the fragrance of Mahavira is not felt in them, nor his beauty, nor his majesty, nor his grace—nothing; they are simply naked. Many tribes are naked. If nakedness made one a Tirthankara, if nakedness brought supreme knowledge, all tribes would have attained it long ago. Such nakedness is only imitation.

Mahavira fasted—no, better: fasting happened. He became so intoxicated in the inner realm that food was forgotten. Days came and went; mornings and evenings passed; his plunge in Samadhi continued. People saw: Mahavira fasts. Fasting was happening; people saw: Mahavira is fasting. The crowd sees only what is outward.

From the outside only symptoms are visible; the inner ground is not. Who can see the inner being of Mahavira? Only one who becomes like Mahavira. Who will see Buddha’s interior? Only one who becomes like Buddha. From outside only signs appear.

They saw that Mahavira went without food for many days. People began to fast. Two and a half thousand years have passed; people are still fasting. No one stops to think that fasting has not produced a single Mahavira. These twenty-five centuries narrate your defeat—and still the imitation continues. People think: perhaps we didn’t fast rightly; perhaps we didn’t do enough—hence the failure.

No—the failure is because fasting is the result of something else being present. Light a lamp and darkness disappears; but by removing darkness you cannot light a lamp—nor can darkness really be removed that way.

Therefore today’s first sutra is Kohinoor-like. This truth has rarely been stated so directly, so simply.

“Let no one act merely by watching us.”

Jagjivan says: Do not do as you see us doing. If you do it by watching us, you will get into trouble.

“Whoever copies what he sees us doing—he comes to humiliation in the end.”

Only disgrace will be your lot—you will gain nothing.

“Do not walk as we walk; do not do as we do. Do only what we tell you.”

What you see occurring in us is only the outer symptom. The roots are inside; flowers appear outside. You cannot bring flowers without roots. And if you bring them, they will be paper flowers bought from the market—pasted on top. But paper flowers are paper flowers. From them no Mahavira, no Buddha, no Mohammed, no Krishna, no Christ is born. From them only the false, the hollow, the hypocrite are produced.

First grow the inner roots—first sow the seed. But people are in a hurry. They say: If we sow the seed we must then wait; who will wait for the clouds, for the rain? Flowers are available in the market; why not paste them on?

Beware of conduct as the primary thing. Revolution is of the inner being; there the roots are. Conduct only expresses outwardly what has happened within. Yet people cling to conduct. And those who cling to conduct teach others too: Do as we do. Follow our way of life.

Jagjivan’s words will shock you, for your so-called saints say precisely the opposite: Do as we do. If you cannot do it all, do a little. If you cannot walk two miles, walk half a mile—ten steps at least. If you cannot take all our vows, take one or two. If you cannot fast long, do short fasts; but do something. Do as we do. They themselves are imitators; they can only teach imitation. From monkeys you cannot expect more than monkey-ness.

Jagjivan’s sutra is revolutionary. No one has said it in just this way—so straight, so clear. He was a rustic, uneducated. He had no habit of entangling words. He simply said what he saw. One thing must have become clear to him: people had started imitating.

Human beings are skilled at imitation; sometimes so skilled they outdo the original.

“Whoever copies what he sees us doing—he comes to humiliation in the end.
Do not walk as we walk; do not do as we do.
If you heed what we say and walk accordingly—every task will be fulfilled.”

Jagjivan says: Obey what we say. Do not worry yet about what we do. Because where we are, what is happening there—you are not yet there. If you imitate now you will fall badly; you will be disgraced.

Within man there are many planes of consciousness. For one who has attained Samadhi, the small social rules are no longer needed. A tree that touches the clouds needs no fence. But a new sapling, tender leaves just appearing—if left without a fence, animals will graze it down; it will not survive.

When one is grown, he walks on his own feet; as a small child he cannot. Then he needs a hand to hold; he crawls on his knees. Yes, if someone gives a hand, he may walk a step or two. One day he will walk on his own—but not yet; preparation is needed. The body must become capable.

Just as bodily capacity is built, so too is the soul’s capacity built, step by step. Those who have reached Samadhi need neither rules nor restraints. But those who have not—if they drop all rules and restraints, they will never reach; they will break, they will scatter along the way.

“If you heed what we say and walk accordingly—every task will be fulfilled.
We shall dance in the world wearing a body; none will grasp the secret.”

Do not ask about us, says Jagjivan. We now know we are not the body.

“We shall dance in the world wearing a body...”

We now know that we are one thing and the body is another. We dance in the body. There is no bondage to the body, no more attachment. Distance has arisen between us and the body; identification is broken.

So do not do what we do. So long as you are identified with the body, don’t imitate us—or you will get into trouble. First let the identification break. And there are processes for that. Often, if one does now—while identified—what another does after identification is broken, the identification becomes even stronger.

A sannyasin went to King Janaka. His guru had sent him to receive Brahma-knowledge. He was hesitant: What could a king know of Brahman? But the guru insisted; he went. He was shocked: there was a royal revelry, wine flowing, dancers dancing; the king sat in the midst, utterly at ease. The sannyasin began to tremble. He wanted to run away at once, but Janaka said: Since you have come, stay the night. At least rest. Then ask your question in the morning.

He had come from a distant forest, exhausted. The bed was beautiful—most beautiful; he had never seen such a bed. He was tired; he should have slept deeply. But sleep did not come. In the morning the king asked: Any difficulty? Did you sleep well? He said: How could I sleep? What a joke! Such a palace, such a bed, such food! I was exhausted; I should have fallen into deep sleep—but above my head, hanging by a fragile thread, was a naked sword. All night I wondered when it might fall and take my life. Fear kept me awake. Not a wink.

The king said: Look at me—this is my answer. The sword of death hangs above me as well. Its memory is with me every instant; therefore dancers may dance, wine may flow, gold palaces and luxury may be there—it is all fine—but the sword hangs above. I do not forget. Just as you could not sleep, I too do not become unconscious. My awareness remains alert. My meditation remains poised.

Do not judge by outer appearance alone. From the outside you will err. I sat there, yet I was not there. The revelry went on; on the surface I was present, but inwardly I was not. I was miles away—just as all night you were on the bed and yet not on the bed; all arrangements for sleep were there, but you could not sleep. Here all arrangements for enjoyment exist, but enjoyment is not. I am unattached—lotus-like in water: surrounded by water, yet not touched by even a drop.

But do you think the courtiers were in the same state? You would be mistaken. Although they were outwardly doing what the king was doing, inwardly there was a vast difference.

I agree with Jagjivan. Let this sink deep.

“We shall dance in the world wearing a body; none will grasp the secret.”

We dance wearing the body; to us the body is like clothing. We inhabit it, but we are its master; we are not the body.

“And now no difference appears in this world; all has become non-dual.”

Mud and gold are alike.

In Maharashtra there is a lovely story of Raka and Banka. A fakir named Raka renounced everything—vast wealth thrown away. His wife joined him. Wives do not easily join, for a woman’s attachment to earth is deep. Woman is the very form of earth—home, property, house. You see? A man earns, buys a house; yet she is called homemaker; no one calls a man homemaker. He may sweat and bleed to earn, buy the house—and instantly it becomes hers: she is the lady of the house. Woman’s grip on the gross is strong.

Raka worried whether his wife would come, but she amazed him. She did not refuse even once. She watched quietly as he gave away all wealth. When he left, she followed. You too are coming? he asked. She said: I am coming. Good, one trouble less; unnecessary nuisance ended.

Raka could hardly believe it. No husband imagines his wife so wise. They cut wood in the forest, sold it, lived simply.

Three days of unseasonal rain kept them from cutting wood; they remained hungry. On the fourth day, weak and hungry, they went to cut. Returning, Raka walking ahead, saw on the roadside a pouch full of gold coins dropped by some rider—hoof prints in the dust, the dust still in the air—he had just passed.

Raka thought: I am a renunciate by understanding. But my wife—she only followed me. Perhaps out of attachment to me, or fear of being alone. Who knows? A woman is a woman; her mind may be tempted. And so many coins! Also we are hungry for three days. Better hide them aside for hard times: if rain returns, sickness comes. Let me quickly bury them.

He dropped the coins into a pit nearby and was covering them with earth when his wife arrived. What are you doing? she asked. He had sworn to truth, so he could not lie. He said: I am in a dilemma. You asked, so I must tell you. A pouch of gold coins lay here, dropped by a rider. Thinking your mind might be tempted—I am a renunciate; to me mud and gold are alike. But you—I still have no full trust in you. You came with me, but for what reason I do not know—perhaps attachment to me, that as in happiness, so in sorrow we remain together. Fearing your mind might waver, and given three days of hunger—I thought to keep it. So I am covering the coins with earth.

His wife burst into laughter: This is too much! Do you still see a difference between gold and mud? Aren’t you ashamed to pour earth on earth? From that day her name became Banka. Raka was the husband; she became Banka. She must have been a wondrous woman. She said: Pouring earth on earth! At least blush a little! Do you still perceive the difference between gold and soil? Then what delusion is your renunciation? Renunciation means that difference has vanished.

See the difference. One is the state of Samadhi in which no difference appears—everything equal. The other is where difference is clearly seen, and by effort you renounce. Then there will be conflict inside, hypocrisy; you will become false.

So that you do not become false, Jagjivan offers this sutra: Do what I tell you—so slowly, step by step, I can lead you upward; inch by inch I can transform you. A day will come when what I do you too will do—but not out of imitation; it will flow from within you. Your own flower will bloom; your own fragrance will arise.

In religion imitation is easy—because it is cheap. Buddha’s way of walking—you too can adopt it; what difficulty is there? A little practice.

Lao Tzu has said the wise one walks as if danger were at every step—so watchful. He walks like one crossing a frozen river in the deep of winter—placing each foot with care. He walks as if enemies surround him with drawn arrows—so cautious. Like a deer in the forest alert to hunters.

But that carefulness comes from within—from awareness, from wakefulness. You can learn carefulness from the outside too: you can place your feet ever so carefully. But will that give you inner awareness? Careful walking will become a habit, a practice; the inner sleep will remain untouched, as it was.

Whatever is to be done must be from within toward without—not from without toward within.

In Mahavira, the sense of non-difference arose; from that, ahimsa was born. Followers try to cultivate ahimsa, hoping non-difference will come. Are you mad? Is truth so cheap? Certainly Mahavira placed his feet gently lest an ant be crushed. The follower also places his feet gingerly. But between the two the difference is vast—as between earth and sky.

Mahavira is careful because even in the ant he is; how can he step on himself? How can he inflict pain upon himself? For him, to strike his own cheek with his own hand—that kind of madness. One presence is in all; one Atman pervades.

But when the so-called Jain monk watches his step lest an ant die, do you think the reason is the same? No—he is afraid he will go to hell if the ant dies. He is busy saving himself from hell. His anxiety is about himself; what has he to do with an ant? To hell with the ant—she would die tomorrow, let her die today. He only wants to avoid trouble for his own afterlife; let his hell be saved, his heaven assured.

This is the same old journey of ego and greed—ambition disguised as religion. Politics extended from this world to the next. He saves the ant not for the ant’s sake, not from non-difference; he saves his own skin. Fear makes him cautious.

Mahavira is cautious not out of fear, but out of love. And between love and fear is a gulf. Actions may seem similar; causes are opposite. Nothing that arises from fear will expand your being; you will contract. Therefore the so-called Jain monk has shriveled—no expansion. Religion is expansion. The soul must grow vast. Fear shrinks; love dilates. One day love becomes so immense that it contains the whole universe; it becomes sky-like.

Such love blossomed in Mahavira. From that love ahimsa was born. Ahimsa does not create Samadhi; Samadhi flowers into ahimsa. The same is true of every rule of life.

“We shall dance in the world wearing a body; none will grasp the secret.
We dwell in satsang; surati has merged within.”

Do not do by watching us, says Jagjivan. We have found satsang; you have not yet. We have found the Guru; you have not yet. On us the Guru has poured, his grace has descended. We have placed ourselves at the Guru’s feet; we have become residents of satsang. Our ego is gone; only then was grace received.

Bulleh Shah just placed his hand upon Jagjivan’s head; light flashed. There was no obstruction—doors were open. The lamp of Bulleh Shah drew near; the extinguished lamp lit up.

“We dwell in satsang; surati has merged within.”

Samadhi has dawned; remembrance has arisen. The sense of the Divine has awakened; the lamp is lit.

Now do not do outwardly what is happening in us; otherwise you will become false and hollow—deceivers.

Consider: A man wins a lottery and dances. You begin dancing by watching him. Do you think dancing will bring you the lottery? Even if you imitate every move, something is in him that is not in you—an inner joy: he has won. You have not. Perhaps you dance because you think: Look, by dancing he is so joyous—let me dance and be joyous too.

There the mistake begins; the mathematics goes wrong. He is joyous; therefore dance happens.

I spoke of a lottery as an example. Samadhi is the supreme treasure. The word lottery was only to make you understand; Samadhi is still an empty word for you. You have heard of surati—what it is, you do not know.

All treasures of this world are worthless before surati. One who remembers the Lord—everything is obtained; he becomes sovereign.

“Surati has merged within.
Therefore we call out: consider well and listen—
these are not empty words.
Jagjivan says: natural remembrance of the heart—
rare indeed in this world.”

Rarely, very rarely, does the event of Samadhi descend into a life. But when it does, conduct is instantly transformed; life becomes luminous.

Then for such a one nothing is bad, nothing is good. Even if he touches mud it becomes gold. Whatever he does is auspicious; the inauspicious does not arise. For one in whom Samadhi has dawned there remains no rule. Therefore the culmination of sannyas is called the state of Paramhansa—beyond rule. But do not follow the Paramhansa. Do not imitate his outward conduct.

Imagine going to a physician: you do not copy what the doctor does; you follow the prescription he gives—these medicines, in this manner; this diet. You follow that. You do not say: Let me see what the doctor does—on Sundays he plays golf, so I too will; he rides horses, so I will; he sits late in the club playing cards, so I too—look how healthy he is! Don’t imitate the doctor; follow what he prescribes—because your disease is different.

If you follow the Guru’s conduct you will be in difficulty; each disciple comes with a different malady. One Guru, many disciples—each with a unique disease. Do what the Guru says.

Therefore you may find it puzzling. This happens to me daily. In the same evening I may give opposite counsel to two people. They are confused, for they think one advice should fit everyone. Life is not so simple; it is subtle and complex. To one I must say one thing; to another, the opposite.

Not long ago an Indian friend said: I am tormented by sex; badly. I am fifty now; I worry—when will I be free? All my life I have tried to be free. I was born a Jain; I kept company with Jain monks and saints. Hearing them I even did not marry. Every way I have suppressed desire. Suppressed, it has sunk into my every fiber. Now I tremble as age sets in.

When one has youthful strength, suppressing sex is easier. When strength wanes, suppression becomes difficult. People think once youth passes, peace will come—wrong. When youth passes, you will be in greater trouble; the power to suppress is gone, while desire sits aflame.

I had to tell him: Suppression has had bad results. Even now nothing is lost; do not suppress. He began to perspire: Not suppress? But how? I have fifty years of reputation as a renunciate! What are you saying?

I said: As you wish. Then this will continue till your last breath. At death the last thought in your mind will be of sex—because it is the strongest in you. You may try to remember the Navkar Mantra at the last moment—you will not. Only women will appear.

This is not rare. I have not yet met an Indian who asked the opposite, while many Westerners do. Indians ask: How to be free of sex?—because they have learned suppression. Westerners sometimes ask the opposite, which would shock an Indian.

On that very evening a French woman of thirty-three asked: My sexuality has gone. How can it be rekindled? In the West there is the belief that when sexuality ends, life is finished. Freud’s doctrine at base says: life equals libido. When libido goes, life is hollow. Then what to live for?

She was terrified—just as the Indian man was terrified of not being free. She asked: How can sexuality be ignited? I feel no juice; men do not appeal. Not even in dreams. I try to fall in love, but it’s all trying—no substance. Save me! That’s why I came from France—to revive this dying life-energy. Otherwise what will I do? I am only thirty-three; at least fifty years remain. Must I live them empty?

I told her: What has happened to you could happen only in France. Where sexuality is accepted openly, without condemnation, sexuality fades. These are paradoxes: what you live fully, finishes; what you leave unlived, persists and nags. The Indian’s sexuality does not leave him till death.

In the West many young men and women go to psychologists saying: Our sexuality is dying; we have no interest. What to do? New methods are invented to revive desire; every year new drugs appear promising to ignite libido.

The reason? Whatever is understood, seen, experienced—its juice is exhausted. What is not experienced, not seen—its pull remains. Experience is freedom; true renunciation is the final outcome of fulfillment.

Moksha is attained by passing through the world; the world is the path, not the opposite. Climbing the steps of matter, one reaches the temple of the Divine.

When two different people ask two different questions, I must give them opposite suggestions. To the French woman I said: Good—you are out of the tangle. Had you been born in India, you would have thought yourself blessed—fruits of merit from many lives—that desire is over. You would have danced with joy: One nuisance ended. Now all my energy can seek the Divine, become prayer, become worship. I can cast my life into meditation. Rejoice—it is very good.

The Indian gentleman was present. He was startled. To him I said: Even now it is not too late—pass through some experiences; and to her: you are blessed.

If they think I am contradicting myself, fine—but there is no contradiction. Their diseases differ. One’s disease is suppression; he must be taken out of suppression. Another’s disease is craving for indulgence; she must be taken beyond that craving.

I say this as example. Each person’s ailments differ; their treatments differ.

So Jagjivan is right: Do what I tell you, not what I do; otherwise you will be disgraced.

“Jagjivan says: natural remembrance of the heart—rare indeed in this world.”

Natural remembrance and natural Samadhi are rare. But when effortless Samadhi happens in someone, do not imitate his conduct. What is effortless for him will not be effortless for you. In his life a light has come; he sees accordingly. Identification with the body has broken. He is in the world and not of it. The world is there, but not inside him. His state is unique. Honor him. Bow at his feet. Sit near him. Hear him. Follow his word in experiment. Learn only this from his joy: that such joy can be yours too.

But it will be so only if you follow what he says. Do not think to live as he lives—otherwise you will act a part. And in the name of religion much acting goes on; vigilance is essential.

“From the beginning till today this is the tale of the seeker:
First he was silent, then he went mad with love, and now he is drunk beyond himself.”

In the seeker’s life great stages come. First absolute silence. Then, from that silence, a wine arises—an inner intoxication deepens; no outer drink is needed.

“First he was silent, then he went mad with love, and now he is senseless.”

And then comes a moment of utter swoon; but what swoon? One in which the lamp of awareness burns within. From the outside the world says: senseless; inside he is supremely aware.

Ramakrishna would fall unconscious for hours, sometimes days. Physicians called it hysteria, epilepsy. But Ramakrishna laughed: Outwardly my body may be inert; inwardly I am filled with more awareness than ever. When he returned to “our” sense, when outwardly conscious again, the first thing he would say was: You sent me back into swoon again? Call me back into wakefulness. Why are you pushing me again into fainting? And people thought he had regained consciousness! He would say: Why are you throwing me back into the world? Let me go inside. The physician will call it hysteria; the knower calls it the state of a Paramhansa. But do not imitate it.

A Zen master gave a disciple a koan. Whatever answer the disciple brought, the master said: No—go deeper. Days, months, years passed; the disciple was exhausted.

He asked older disciples: What’s the way out? One said: After seven years, when he asked me, I simply fell unconscious. He embraced me and said: Good—answer found.

The disciple said: Why didn’t you say so! He ran, bowed, and when the master asked, Answer? he quickly fell flat in a faint. The master said: Fine—but what of the answer? The disciple opened one eye: Isn’t this the answer?

The master said: Look, in a faint no one speaks—and no one opens one eye. Get up and get out. Seek the answer. Borrowed answers won’t do. That man’s swoon was real. Just seeing me, eye to eye, the event happened—he plunged. You staged a show: you even arranged yourself so as not to be hurt when you fell. When a man “arranges” his fall, he first looks around carefully lest he hit his head—and then drops—and lies very still.

Your religious behavior is much like this. Some things can be known only by experience, not by another’s telling.

“These tales of youth I heard from my own heart;
Had another told them, I would never have believed.”

Tell a child of the intoxicating sweetness of youth—he won’t believe. Only when he hears from his own heart.

Whether tales of youth or the remembrance of God—only what is heard within bears fruit.

“Listen, brother, to the way of Kali.”

In the Kali age truth is forgotten. The Golden Age has receded from life.

“Listen, brother, to the way of Kali:
All this is the Lord’s maya, yet each one sings ‘mine’.”

This entire world belongs to the Divine; everything is His. And see the way of Kali: each says “mine, mine.” The land is not yours—you did not bring it, you will not take it. The husband is not yours, the wife is not yours, nor the children.

Perhaps only in the Eskimo tongue does a deep truth peek through. If you ask an Eskimo seeing a boy with him, Who is this? he does not say: my son; nor I am his father. He says: This boy lives with us, stays in our house. Where did he come from? From God; God sent him. We are his caretakers.

Poor Eskimos speak profound truth: We are caretakers. God sent him; he stays with us. But not “my son.” What is “mine”?

No land is ours, no wealth, no position. Nothing is ours. Empty-handed we came, empty-handed we go. We bring nothing, we take nothing. And in between, what a noise we make. That noise is the world.

“All this is the Lord’s maya; yet each one sings ‘mine’.
Deluded, they bloom and strut, yet nothing comes into their hands.
What is where, remains where it is; at the end they depart, repenting.”

Before that end, awaken: Nothing is mine; all is His. I too am His. When this sense dawns, the first ray of religion enters your life.

“Wherever the nectar of the Name is spoken, there you go and start other talk.”

Even in a temple, see what people talk about.

Once I went to a gathering; after that I stopped. It was Krishna’s birthday, among Punjabis and Sindhis. All were decked out. The speaker before me was a Shankaracharya of a monastery. I was astonished: such a spectacle I had never seen—people chattering while he spoke; even women sat with their backs to the speaker, gossiping in clusters. Then I understood why in religious meetings one keeps inserting: Say, Victory to Lord Ram!—to silence people for a minute or two so the speaker can rush a few sentences before chatter resumes.

I folded my hands and left—not just that meeting, but all meetings. Whom to speak to? Who listens? Since then I prefer not to seat the new near the front. It may disappoint them, but I want those before me who are truly drinking; not the curious, nor the press—what use?

Jagjivan too must have witnessed such assemblies:

“Wherever the nectar of the Name is spoken, there you go and start other talk.
You tally prices and accounts; you will fall into a dreadful hell.”

The word “aghora” appears here. Jagjivan, unlettered, intends “ghora”—terrible—but says “aghora.” There is a story behind words. Originally “aghora” means simple, easy—without complexity, childlike. A beautiful word. When the Aghor path began, it meant a simple life—“Sahaj Samadhi is best.” But imitators came. They said: If a simple life is best, then whatever we do is simple—drink, gamble; and if anyone objects, we will say: Simple Samadhi is best! They went to brothels and said the same. Thus the word descended and became a slur—“aghori” became the name for the unkempt, the filthy. Words rise and fall.

“Drowning themselves, they drown others too, spinning much false talk.”

These “aghori-babu” sorts—listening, they become gramophone records; they repeat but do not live. They will drown and take others down—like the priest who himself sinks and drags the devotee with him.

“Jagjivan says: keep the mind apart; keep your love tied to the True Name.”

If you would reach the Divine, beware such talk. Make your mind apart. If you learn only to repeat what I say, your mind’s bondage deepens. The mind must become empty. When mind is empty, you are apart. Understand this well.

Body, mind, soul—of the three, body is real; soul is real; mind is only a bridge, a link between them. The more thoughts, the stronger the link between soul and body. The fewer thoughts, the looser the link. If mind becomes thought-free, the link falls away; the rope drops—body is separate, soul is separate. That is what being “apart” means.

One who knows body and soul as separate—then everything changes. “We shall dance in the world wearing a body.” Then dance as you will; the world cannot stain you. But this revolution must happen—the death of mind. Therefore he says:

“Pandit—what is the use of your punditry?
Give up reading many books; chant the Name with a gathered heart.”

Enough head-butting with scriptures. The Veda, the Quran, the Bible—no book ever sent anyone to the Goal. Sever your tie with words; now tie yourself to the wordless. You have lived long in thought—wandered long. Thought is transmigration, the road by which you have returned to the womb again and again—the waves of desire, imagination, craving.

“Give up reading many books; chant the Name with a gathered heart.
All this is outer conduct—I shout to make it clear.”

Your conduct is outer; your thoughts are borrowed—from others’ memories. Neither your thoughts nor your conduct are yours. You are poor because nothing is your own. When will you seek your own Samadhi? When will you recognize your original face? Bring the Divine remembrance now.

“In the night of separation the memory of that unmindful One returned again and again;
I too wished to forget, but beyond my power it returned.”

Let such remembrance arise that even if you try to forget, you cannot. A pandit only repeats like a parrot.

“What is the existence of the heartless? They neither live nor die;
no dream, no waking; no awareness, no ecstasy.”

The pandit lives in empty words—neither awareness nor intoxication, neither dance nor meaning. His words are corpses—the dead of centuries. He lives in a mortuary. Keep company with the living—seek satsang where a living spring flows. Even there you can miss if you cling to words.

“It was not all in vain—yet today we lost something of life;
We reached your door and returned,
drowning the honor of love.”

Do not be like those who come to a living Master and leave empty—do not drown love’s honor. When you find a living stream, dive. Do not turn from the door. Few have the courage to enter love’s realm; yet only that little thread of love—“jazba-e-ishq”—is enough to draw even God.

Sometimes a pandit preserves love’s honor. One wrote me yesterday: I am myself a pandit. When you speak against punditry it hurt at first, now I see you are speaking of my life—parroting words and nothing has happened. You are right. Such a pandit can save love’s honor.

“Ask not the city’s jurists about what is permissible—
for the venerable ones declare even moonlight to be forbidden.
They call the bird’s song the ruin of the garden;
that no flowers bloom—this is what they call order.”

Ask pandits and you will be tangled. They forbid even the moonlight that pours nectar. Anything that could cause dance, ecstasy, music—they fear. He whose inner moon has not risen cannot see the beauty of the outer moon. He who has no inner dance will condemn all colors and celebrations.

Some pandits drown love’s honor; a few leave punditry and enter the temple—welcome them. Make the rhythm quicker, raise the tempo—for today the worshipers of the Kaaba are arriving at the tavern! Only the one who can drop punditry is welcome; yet pandits have seized the temples—their mortal enemies.

“Whoever hears and does—he crosses in a moment—
if conviction arises in his heart.
Reading and teaching do not pierce,
only days and nights are wasted.
From this no devotion arises; I declare it openly.
Do not be offended at truth: when Ajapa begins on its own,
then Jagjivan says the true teaching is found,
and supreme knowledge ever increases.”

When the Divine Name resounds by itself, when japa happens without your doing—Ajapa—then know something has happened. As long as you repeat like a parrot, nothing has happened. There is knowledge that comes from books—call it information. And there is knowledge that arises from descent within—call that Knowledge. Avoid punditry so that wisdom may flower.

“Fix your heart only on Him; there is nothing else in life.
Mother, father, son, kin—none will go with you.
Siddhas, sages, munis, Gandharvas—all mingle with dust.
Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—not worth counting.
What is man, poor soul—what weight has he?
Jagjivan prays: the One you seek remains in your shadow.”

All will fall away. None goes with you.

“To the destination of love one reaches alone—no companion remained.
Tired and tired along the road every friend fell away.”

Even Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—what to say of man—are dust. And the One you seek walks with you like a shadow. Turn back and look. He dwells within. Seek outside for lifetimes—you will rise and fall like waves of dust. Life is one: recognize the conscious within the clay. The recognition of the Chinmaya in the Mrinmaya is the beginning of life.

“Those who come to dwell in the ocean of bliss—
for them the body’s heat is no more.
When the self dissolves in the Self,
then in the Self the Self is found.
When the Self is found in the Self,
then japa remains happening by itself.
When knowledge’s lamp is lit within,
then, says Jagjivan, the world is known as a dream.”

A man once asked the Sufi Farid: How could Mansoor laugh when he was hanged? A thorn pricks and we cry; his limbs were cut and he laughed.

Farid smashed two coconuts to the floor. One was raw—both shell and kernel broke. The other was dry—the shell split, the kernel remained whole. See—this is you, that is Mansoor. Your kernel clings to the shell; when the shell breaks you break; hence you cry. In Mansoor the kernel had separated; the shell might shatter—what of the kernel?

One who recognizes the One within comes to dwell in the sea of bliss. He is beyond bodily pain. When the Self merges into the Self, the Self finds the Self. Then japa happens of itself—constant, day and night—for distance is gone. The devotee and the Divine are one; who remains to remember whom? When inner light arises, the whole world is seen as a dream. “Maya” is not a doctrine; it is the experience of those whose lamp is lit.

These sutras are lovely. Do not merely understand and stop; do not begin to explain them to others—else you will become a pandit and miss.

You reached the door and returned—do not drown love’s honor.

Let these sutras suffuse your breath. Let them become your life. Then you too can reach where Buddha reached, where Meera, Ramakrishna, Ramana reached. Wherever anyone has reached, you too can reach.

That supreme treasure awaits you—come. The Beloved calls—come.

Enough for today.