Nam Sumir Man Bavre #7

Ever so many rents the goblet of the body bore; compulsion it was, I had to stitch it.
The hour of death was appointed; to be able to die, I had to go on living.
I drank the acridness of her intoxicating eyes—be it bitterness, be it poison;
Yet nature itself desired it, the heart was thirsty, I had to drink.
What the world called madness was but the disfigured face of reason;
For your sake I tore my collar—when you were not found, I had to rend my breast.
There was some tartness, some harshness; but since I myself had asked for it,
Having begged for it, there was no chance to give it back—I had to drink it.
Ever so many rents the goblet of the body bore; compulsion it was, I had to stitch it.
The hour of death was appointed; to be able to die, I had to go on living.

Among human beings, most are living just like this: living in order to die. As if nothing else has happened in life, nor can happen. As if life is one long journey of despair. As if life were a compulsion, a helpless state—somehow to be passed through, dragged as a burden. With gloomy, heavy hearts, people are advancing toward their graves—like prisoners; as if chained, fettered; as if there were no way to be free of death; as if there were no possibility at all of knowing that Supreme Life which never ends.
This is a delusion. Life is an opportunity to attain the Supreme Life. Life does not end with death. And if life ends at death, understand that you never truly lived. Only he dies who has not lived rightly. For the one who has lived rightly, death becomes the doorway to a greater life. And the one who has not lived rightly dies wrongly too: he must be born again and again, and die again and again. This lesson must be learned. Without learning it, nothing will do.
People have assumed that life—so to speak—is already obtained. It is not obtained; it can be. It must be sought, searched. What you have received is like a seed: find soil for it, give it nourishment, labor upon it, pour your sadhana into it so that the seed breaks open, sprouts, becomes a tree, bears flowers, bears fruit. Then you will know how great a gift life was from Paramatma.
But you are living as if this great opportunity were a punishment—as if it were a compulsion. Since death is decided anyway, what is there to do! Somehow we shall live, we shall keep an eye on the road. Death will come; we shall die. As if, besides death, nothing else can happen in this life. If between birth and death Paramatma does not happen, know that you lived in vain; uselessly lived. You did not live at all. It was only called living—a mere manner of speaking.
Those who speak of a ruined heart still call it a heart;
Even a garden that has seen autumn must still be called a garden.
Autumn descends into the garden—no leaf remains, no flower remains—yet people call it a garden.
Those who speak of a ruined heart still call it a heart.
And that heart which is utterly ruined, in which there is no heart at all—where no raga of the heart arises, where there is no festival of the heart—this too is called “heart.” It is all a matter of words.
What we call life is only a matter of saying so. Life is what a Buddha lives, what a Jagjivan lives, what a Nanak lives, what a Jesus lives. Only a few live life. Most are merely born and die. And in between birth and death, the vast opportunity that comes is squandered as if it never came. One could have discovered the treasure. One could have gained a wealth that could never again be snatched away. And yet one wastes life gathering a wealth whose loss is certain; which no one has ever managed to save; which no one has ever been able to carry along. Death comes, and you go a beggar. Even the greatest emperor leaves like a beggar.
The day Buddha left home, he said to his charioteer—because the charioteer was sad. He was an old man. He had seen Buddha grow from childhood. He was of the father’s age. He began to weep and said: Do not leave home. Where are you going? In the forest you will be alone. Who will be your companion?
Buddha said: Even in the palace, who was a companion to me? It was a deception. Even the palace was a forest. If not today, then tomorrow I must go to the forest anyway. And rather than being carried on another’s shoulders, better that I go on my own feet. Rather than going dead, better that I go alive—perhaps I can do something.
The charioteer tried hard to dissuade him: Leaving so much wealth, so great a kingdom, where are you going?
Buddha said: Death will come. You too know that death will come. Everyone knows death will come. And all this will be snatched away. Only a fool clings to that which is bound to be snatched away. That which is bound to be taken, is as good as already taken. What is the question of clinging to it?
The wise pass through this life as one passes through an inn; they lodge in it as one lodges in a dharmashala. Evening falls, one stays. Morning comes, one moves on. It is a travelers’ lodge.
And the one to whom this life appears as a travelers’ lodge—his eyes alone are raised toward Moksha. For if this is an inn, then where is the home? Only then does the question arise. If the wealth of this world is false, then where is true wealth? For in the heart there is a seeking—there is a seeking for wealth. In whose mind is there not this search?
If the wealth of this life is false, then why is there this seeking? And it is not in a few hearts only; it is in every heart. It is hidden in every life-breath—buried within every being. This ember is within all. Then somewhere there must be the real wealth as well. If the positions of this world are vain, then where are the real positions?
Krishnamurti speaks truly: the one who sees the insubstantial as insubstantial—his search for the substantial begins. He who keeps taking the insubstantial as substantial—how will his search for the substantial ever begin? The one who has accepted counterfeit coins as real—why would he seek the real? He believes the real is already in his hand.
If you condense the message of all the true Masters, it is simply this: what you have taken to be life is not the real life, for death will wipe it away. Seek the Real. Seek that which, once found, can never be snatched. That alone is wealth; all the rest is calamity. That alone is property; all the rest is misfortune. Great effort is expended, and in the end all goes to waste.
Often the words of saints seem such that if we keep listening to them, even the small taste our lives have will dry up. The little happiness we feel will wither. The few times we laugh, these saints will rob us even of those.
If you have understood so, you have not understood the saints. They wish to take from you only what is not there. Your laughter is false—a device to hide the tears. You are pretending to be intoxicated. How can you be intoxicated? Without drinking Paramatma, no one has ever been truly intoxicated. Your intoxication must be counterfeit.
Once a friend of mine visited as a guest. As a prank I served him thandai, and then told him it had bhang in it. He began to get “high.” The whole family started laughing. The more they laughed—laughing at the fact that he had been served no bhang at all, yet he was getting intoxicated—the more his intoxication increased. A fog of inebriation began to descend upon him. Even his eyes reddened. After an hour or two he said, I feel dizzy. Everything seems to whirl. I told him: Sir! No one gave you any bhang—only the word was given. There is no bhang here; it was only thandai. The moment he heard it, the intoxication vanished. The eyes returned to normal. The house that had begun to spin grew still again.
Think of yourself. That day I said to him: such is the laughter of your life, such is the happiness of your life. You have assumed it. People laugh a little—see the hollowness in their laughter! Have you anything truly worth laughing at? There is plenty to weep for; what is there to laugh for?
A saint will surely take your hollow laughter away; but only so that the shower of true flowers may begin; so that when you laugh flowers may fall; so that when you laugh there be breath, life, within your laughter; so that laughter not be deception. He will take your false intoxication so that true intoxication can be given to you—such an intoxication as no one can ever take away.
What arrangements you have made here are greatly deceptive. And you know it well. Yet I understand your compulsion too: what to do now! Somehow one must live.
Ever so many rents the goblet of the body bore; compulsion it was, I had to stitch it.
Life has become rags upon rags—but it is compulsion, one must keep sewing. To show one’s face among people, the exterior arrangement must be made. Whatever the home within may be like, the drawing room must be decorated. Whether one has bathed or not, however unclean the body, however full the mind may be of sins—still, on the surface powder and perfume must be sprinkled.
Ever so many rents the goblet of the body bore; compulsion it was, I had to stitch it.
The hour of death was appointed; to be able to die, I had to go on living.
But can this be called life?
The saint wishes to take from you what is futile, what is false. And if in the Satsang of saints you grow despondent, know that you have not understood; know that you have missed. And if your saints are despondent, know that they are not saints. A saint’s life should be jubilation. There, the reign should be of bliss.
How can anyone hide the secret of love?
The eyes met—and the steps faltered.
He whose eyes have met Paramatma—shall his feet not tremble? And the one whose love has fallen upon That—even if he wishes to hide his secret, he will not be able to. It will be proclaimed by every pore of his being. It will gleam from every word. Whatever syllable comes from his lips will come honey-soaked. Those who drink his words will themselves begin to grow drunk.
His gait is intoxicated, his glance intoxicated, intoxication in his very manner—
As if he comes returned from the tavern.
The one who has gone to the temple—truly reached the temple—returns just so, as if from the madhushala. The temple is the real tavern. If you do not return intoxicated from there, then from where will you return intoxicated? If no dance comes into your gait from there, where will you learn to dance? If the temple has not awakened Naad within you, has not plucked your sleeping strings, has not played your veena—then where, then how will you awaken? Who will awaken you? Who will fill you with bliss?
We have not defined Paramatma as Satchidananda for nothing! These three must be found—there lies Satsang. Where Truth, Consciousness, and Bliss are found, there is Satsang. Where Satchidananda is found, there is Satsang.
But the sadhus and saints sitting in your temples are themselves despondent. Naturally, if you sit near such gloomy and sickly minds, you too will become gloomy—and you will think you are perhaps becoming religious.
Yes, religion certainly takes away false laughter—but only so that true laughter can be born. Religion certainly uproots the weeds—so that roses may be cultivated. Merely uprooting the weeds does not make a garden. And if you uproot the weeds and then sit back, and never sow roses, roses will not descend from the sky. And the weeds will grow again. Uprooting once does not end weeds forever. If the weeds are truly to be ended, the earth’s energy that produces weeds must be employed in growing roses.
I am saying: your laughter is false because inside you are sad; from above you paste on a borrowed smile. And in the marketplace, everything is for sale. Everything is for sale—even a “Jimmy Carter smile” is for sale. You can practice it; you can put on the mask.
Just look at people laughing a little: there is no joy in their eyes, yet the lips are stretched wide. This cannot be called laughter; it is baring the teeth. Such laughter you will find often. Have you ever seen a skull—a human skull—of a dead man? Just the skull! All skulls look as if they are laughing. Hence it also frightens. Keep a skull in your room for a few days and see. The most fearsome thing is the skull’s laughter. What is the skull laughing at? Because the teeth... the lips are gone, the skin is finished, only bone remains. Only the teeth are visible. All corpses become Jimmy Carters.
You will laugh—but only when joy moves in your life-breaths will it have meaning. You will sing—but let it not be a song learned on the surface; its roots must be in your Atman, then rasa will flow in it.
Surely, a saint wishes to take from you whatever is false. But that is only half the work. If the false is taken and the true is not given, not found, you will be in even greater trouble. Your condition will become that of Trishanku—belonging neither here nor there; neither of the home nor of the shore. You will fall into great perplexity. “Torn in two by duality, neither Maya was found nor Rama.” Such has become the state of your so-called religious ones.
And under the name of religion, the so-called saints and mahatmas who have sat upon your chest are merely sickly-minded people—mentally distorted, not healthy. Religion has fallen into deformed hands—it often does—because religion is a mighty, high-potential direction. The sick-minded are eager to seize it.
The sick-minded wish to grab everything. Wherever they sense a source of power, they rush in. They are ambitious. They race after wealth, after position; and if they feel there is power in religion, they race there too and seize it.
There are pandits, there are priests—they know nothing of religion. But through religion they gain control over people’s lives. The capacity to exploit falls into their hands. They are themselves gloomy—deeply gloomy. They have even given a fine explanation to their gloom. They say: gloom means vairagya.
I too know that the meaning of vairagya is gloomlessness. But the deep meaning of vairagya is raga—dispassion from the world, and attachment to Paramatma. Vairagya means non-attachment—yes: non-attachment to the world, attachment to Paramatma. Why do they not speak the second part, which is more precious? Dispassion from the futile—fine—but raga should awaken for the meaningful, otherwise what is the essence? You were previously in the insubstantial, at home you were also in the insubstantial; there too life was burdensome—now in the hermitage life is burdensome, even more so. At home there were at least some illusions; now even illusions are gone. At home you could sometimes dream of beauty, of truth—now even those dreams are renounced. Now you have remained a desert. Now there will be no greenery in your life.
In true Satsang, greenery must descend. In true Satsang, the desert must become an oasis.
So keep in mind: these are the words of a healthy Mahatma. And you will understand why I say so. The words themselves will prove that they are the opposite of unhealthy saints. These words are not to make you sad; they are to fill you with bliss.
Nam sumir man bawre,...
O crazy mind! Remember the Divine Name.
...kaha firat bhulana ho.
Why do you wander forgetting, in these futile things? Here no one has ever truly gained anything. Here you too will waste your life.
In the world people leave after losing, not after earning—generally so—but we imagine people are earning. In the markets people are busy earning. Ask a little carefully: what will you be able to carry away? What are you earning? You will leave after losing. There was a treasure within, which you will squander away. You will sell the soul, and buy shards. The supreme opportunity of life, which could have become the meeting with Paramatma—you will gather a few paper notes in it.
And the notes will remain lying here. You will not be able to take them with you. No one has ever taken them along. No thing of the world can accompany you. What is the definition of real wealth? That which can go with you. Only dhyan can go with you; therefore dhyan is dhan—meditation is wealth.
Twelve years later Buddha returned home. His wife was angry. She stood their son before him and said: Rahul, this is your father. He ran away leaving the home. Now he has met you. Whether you meet again or not, ask him for your inheritance.
It was a jest, a taunt. What inheritance did Buddha have now to give? He was a beggar, with only a begging bowl in his hand. The mother was joking, she was satirizing. She said to her son: Look, this is your father. You kept asking who is my father, who is my father? Here he is. This beggar standing before you is your father. He gave you birth and did not understand his responsibility, and he ran from home. Now ask him for your will—whether you meet him again or not. Whether he comes again or not.
But Yashodhara did not know that even in jest, if you join with a Buddha, the jest becomes costly. Rahul stretched out his hands. The mother had told him to ask for his inheritance. She wanted to show Buddha: understand that you are only a beggar—what else have you become? You lost much. You were an emperor, you became a beggar. Today your son stands with open hands, and you do not have a single coin to give. What sort of attainment is this? What have you earned by returning?—this is what the mother was saying.
But Buddha placed his begging bowl into Rahul’s outstretched hands and said: You are initiated. You too have become a bhikshu. This is the wealth I have to give. I have returned with dhyan; I shall give you dhyan.
And to Yashodhara he said: You too are invited. I have returned with the supreme treasure; you too become a sharer in it. I have not returned after losing; I have returned after earning. Look again into my eyes. This is not the same man who left you. Do not look at the begging bowl in my hand; look at my soul. See the aura raining around me. Listen to the music resounding in my heart.
Yashodhara was angry—anger was altogether natural. But this lion’s roar of Buddha! She wiped her tears and looked carefully at Buddha. This grace! This beauty! Surely this is another person. The body is the same; the soul has changed. This dignity, this aureole—this is not of this earth. This has descended from the beyond. This is divine.
The great Western thinker and historian H. G. Wells has written that upon this earth there has never been another man so godless and so godlike as Buddha. Because Buddha did not believe in a God, he has written so: “So godless and so godlike.” So devoid of God, and so like God!
Yashodhara bowed and became a bhikshuni.
Dhyan is wealth. Devotion calls it—Nam-smaran: remembrance of the Name. That is the name of bhakti.
Nam sumir man bawre,...
“Name” is a hint, a symbol. Therefore no particular Name is specified. It is not said: remember Ram. For if one says remember Ram, the Krishna-remembrancer will wonder whether he errs; the one who remembers Allah will think, should I remember Allah or Ram?
Therefore the saints have not used any particular Name; they have only said: remember the Name—sab naam usi ke hain, all Names are His. Call Him Allah, call Him Ram, call Him Krishna—whichever word sits deepest in your heart, with which your raga arises, with which your flame joins, with which your strings unite—speak that; the way will open through that.
And note this: each must find his own word. All words are alike.
The English poet Tennyson has written that he repeats his own name, and such supreme peace and such a compacted state of meditation descends upon him as comes to him in no other way. I do not tell anyone, he says, for what will people say—madman! Whenever I wish to meditate, I sit and begin to call, “Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson.” Seeing my own self calling my own name, a great silence spreads. The caller becomes someone else, and Tennyson becomes someone else. I remain only the witness.
All Names are His—then “Tennyson” too is His Name. Why only Allah, only Rahman, only Ram? But that to which your raga clings! It is a matter of raga. To someone the form of Krishna is dear—perfectly fine, for all forms are His. Krishna with the peacock feather, the flute upon his lips, the posture of dance—this may enchant someone. To another, the form of Mahavira is dear.
A Jain took sannyas some days ago. At the time of initiation he said, I ask for one permission: I find great joy in the Jina-image; may I keep going to the Jina temple?
I said: All temples are His. For my sannyasin, all temples are his. I am not here to sever you from any temple—I am here to join you. Do go, certainly. If you find rasa in the nude image of Mahavira—it has its own beauty.
Understand: Krishna’s adorned image has its own beauty. Ornament has its beauty. Simplicity too has its own beauty. Mahavira’s image is utterly simple—nothing adorned upon it. He stands naked, not even a cloth. Some heart delights in that form. Whichever delights you.
I told him: surely you go. Now his letter has arrived—“But the Jains do not let me in. They say, first renounce this sannyas.” I said: now you see. On my side there is no obstacle. It is the Jains’ lack of understanding that they would not allow a lover of Mahavira to come to Mahavira’s image. This is their stupidity. Because of their stupidity even Mahavira will be deprived of one of his lovers. But on my side there is no opposition.
Bow wherever you can bow. Bowing is surrender. The saints do not name the Name. They do not specify a particular Name; they only say, remember the Name. This is profoundly meaningful. Remember whichever is dear to you. Remember. The emphasis is on remembrance.
Nam sumir man bawre,...
O crazy mind! And mind is certainly crazy, for see what all it keeps remembering!
Just think a little—what all does your mind think, what all does it remember! If you do not call it deranged, what else will you call it? Leaving the meaningful, it roams only on the meaningless. From one garbage heap to another it keeps circling.
Ramakrishna used to say: the mind is like a kite. It flies in the sky, but its gaze remains fixed below—on which rubbish pile lies a dead mouse.
It flies in the sky. However great a height the mind may take, its gaze remains downward. One must be very alert with the mind. Mind is derangement. Mind is madness.
And there is only one deliverance from this madness: somehow offer this entire madness at the feet of Paramatma. Through His touch alone, through that surrender alone—through His philosopher’s-stone touch—iron at once becomes gold, and the mad mind becomes Buddhahood. From this very energy, from this very derangement, liberation is born.
Nam sumir man bawre, kaha firat bhulana ho.
When the lamp of Name-remembrance is lit, the wandering forgetfulness ceases. As of now, we are walking in darkness.
Someone’s memory has come into my dark heart today in such a way,
As if in a long-deserted inn a traveler has come and lit a lamp.
Like an inn long abandoned over many days, and some traveler arrives, halts for the night and lights a lamp—just such an event happens the first time remembrance of Paramatma descends within you. For births upon births the inn has lain deserted. You have become a ruin. Even the relation with light is forgotten. Light’s very recognition is lost.
When for the first time the lamp of remembrance is lit, the lamp of surati is lit—when for the first time someone begins to be absorbed in dhyan, or bhakti, or prayer—then a flame wells up: a flame that is your very own; a flame hidden in your life-breath; a flame to be awakened.
As when you strike two flints together, and a spark is born—it was there, hidden within the stones. Likewise, when a person remembers the Name of Paramatma, this little flint strikes against that vast, cosmic flint. The flame wells up. To walk in that flame is joy; is jubilation. To walk in that flame is dance. To walk in that flame is music. To walk in that flame is life—the Great Life, which never comes to an end.
To walk in darkness is to walk in death. That is why we paint death black—it is only a symbol of darkness. Do not think the messengers of Yama are black—they are of all kinds, of all colors. Nor think they ride only on buffaloes—the ages have changed. Nowadays they arrive on motorbikes. They come seated on the “phatphati.” Why would they sit on buffaloes now! Or they ride upon the engine of a train. But the color is black.
Black is a symbol of darkness. Death happens in darkness. Death is the event of darkness—take only this much meaning. If the lamp is lit, there is no death. Light is nectar.
Therefore the rishis sang in the Upanishads: “Tamaso ma jyotirgamayah.” Lead me from darkness to light. “Mrityor ma amritam gamayah.” Lead me from death to immortality. “Asato ma sadgamayah.” Lead me from the unreal to the real. These three are synonyms—unreality, death, darkness are synonyms. Likewise, reality, light, nectar are synonyms.
Turn darkness into light—and your life has not gone in vain. You have made use of your life.
Nam sumir man bawre, kaha firat bhulana ho.
If you do not do Name-remembrance, you are a doll of clay, and will fall back into clay.
Made of mud, this little doll—kneaded with water.
And you are nothing else. Let the touch of Paramatma happen, and you are the flame of immortality. Without the touch of Paramatma—“Made of mud this little doll—kneaded with water.” You are nothing more than this.
George Gurdjieff used to say something very significant: not all men have souls. The soul is born in a man only when there is the companionship of Paramatma. Otherwise it remains suppressed—only a possibility, not a reality. As fire lies hidden in flint, as the tree lies in the seed, the soul lies asleep likewise. As soon as you remember Paramatma, the soul begins to awaken. Remembrance is the process of awakening.
Made of mud this little doll—kneaded with water.
One day the hansa will fly away to dwell elsewhere—house and home will be abandoned.
And this bird of life, unknown within you—with whom you have not even made acquaintance, whom you do not even know—who is it? From what Manasarovar does this swan come, and to what Manasarovar does it return—you know nothing. Yet for a little while it has perched upon a tree, has taken rest; you have halted in an inn and taken it as home; you have taken this body to be everything; you have identified with it—you will miss. Then mud will fall back into mud. The opportunity will be wasted.
One day the hansa will fly away to dwell elsewhere—house and home will be abandoned.
And one day this house will lie desolate. That day may come any time—today, or tomorrow. Some day it must come—the day when the hansa takes wing. Before that, make some preparation. Before that, make acquaintance with this hansa.
Those who have become acquainted with this swan—we call them Paramhansas. Those who have known precisely “Who am I?”—they have become Paramhansa. Then they still live in this body, but the body is a dharmashala, not a home. Yet futile things have great charm. Small, small toys hold immense interest.
O fellow-breather, do not ask about the affair of youth—
A ripple of the breeze came this way, and went that way.
Youth comes—new toys! The toys of childhood are one kind, of youth another, of old age still another. You will be surprised to know: as children celebrate the marriage of dolls and play with toys, the young play with the toys of ambition—build grand houses, fill up great safes. The old also play games. Someone is twirling a rosary, someone sits with a tilak, someone performs puja—these are the games of old age. These games have no relation to religion. Just as the games of childhood are futile, so the games of youth are futile, and the games of old age are futile. Religion has nothing to do with these games. Awake from the games! All games come and go.
You see: to children, the games of the old seem futile. Children cannot even imagine what that old man is doing—waving aarti! They laugh—naturally they laugh. The old laugh at the children. The old think the children’s games are futile. What are you doing—marrying dolls! The young laugh at both. The old laugh at the young; the young laugh at the old.
Everyone recognizes the other’s game as a game—only his own game does not appear as such. The one to whom his own game appears—he has awakened. Then he does not laugh at others; he laughs only at himself.