Nirvan Upanishad #6

Patience means the capacity for infinite waiting — to wait infinitely. If the mind burns with the craving that truth must come today, now, then it never comes. And I will wait; whenever truth happens, I will keep my eyes on the path, I will keep watching for the way, I will keep longing at the crossroads; whenever, in endless births upon births, whenever His grace descends, let it be here and now too. The greater the patience, the sooner the happening; the meaner the patience, the longer the delay.
A deep thirst is needed to reach toward the Divine, but not impatience. The longing must be total, but not hurried. The greater the treasure one sets out to seek, the more preparedness is needed to wait along the way. And whenever the event occurs, it is already soon, for what is received cannot be measured by time. Even if union with the Lord happens after infinite births, it is very soon. There is never a delay. For if you attend to what it is that is attained, then the journey of infinite births is nothing. Whatever wandering happens on the way is nothing in the face of the destination that is reached.
Thus the rishi says: Dhairya kantha — patience is his shoulder-sling.
The bag that hangs from the sannyasin’s shoulder is called the kantha. The rishi says: in truth, the sannyasin’s patched cloth, his pouch, is patience. And in this patched rag of patience, great diamonds fall.
But we have scarcely any patience within. For the petty we can wait; for the vast we do not wish to wait even a little. A person sets out on the journey of university for a simple education — spends sixteen or seventeen years to become a graduate — and returns home with nothing but trash. But if a person sets out on the journey of meditation, he comes and says to me on the very first day: a whole day has passed and nothing has happened yet.
For the trivial we are ready to wait endlessly; for the immense, no waiting at all! This only shows one thing: perhaps we have no idea what the immense is. And perhaps our desire is so faint that we are not ready to wait. Our desire for the petty is strong, hence we agree to wait.
A man can stake his whole life to earn a little money and keeps waiting — today if not, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. Since the desire for wealth is deep, he can wait. For Paramatman he thinks it should be available in one sitting. And even that sitting he spares only when he has extra time left over from the hunt for money — on a holiday, in leisure. And then he wants it wrapped up quickly. This very talk of quick wrapping up shows there is no such longing that we would stake our entire life upon it.
And remember, the vast does not become available until one is ready to surrender all. And even surrendering all is not a bargain, not a transaction. Otherwise someone says: I have surrendered everything, yet it has not happened. If even this much barter survives in the mind — that I have given all, so I must receive the Lord — even then it will not be possible. For what do we have with which to purchase the Lord? What will you leave? What do you have to leave? Nothing is yours that you can renounce. All is His. By giving His back to Him, will you make a deal?
What is truly ours? This body is ours, the land is ours, knowledge is ours — what? And it may be that wealth is indeed yours, land is yours. But one thing is certain: that which is hidden deep within you is absolutely not yours. For neither did you create it, nor did you seek it out, nor did you attain it. It is.
So wealth may be yours, but you are not your own at all. You can say: the wealth I earned. But the inner flame of consciousness that is lit — that is given by the Lord alone. You have no part in it. You are not your own — so what will you give?
Marpa, an extraordinary rishi of Tibet, when he reached his guru, the guru said: Give away all. Marpa said: But what is there that is mine? The guru said: Then at least surrender yourself. Marpa said: I! I am His. By surrendering, by returning His thing to Him, what glory would there be! The guru said: Run away, and never come back again — for what I could give you has already come to you. It is already yours. Marpa said: I only came to the feet so that someone might recognize it and say so. I am unknowing; what has been found I cannot recognize, for it had never been known before. You said it — sealed it.
In truth, the final need of the guru is not in the beginning stages of sadhana; the final need arises on the very day the happening happens. That day someone is needed to say: Yes, it has happened. For the unfamiliar, the unknown, never known before, opens — one enters that realm. There is no recognition, no identifying of what has occurred. So the guru’s need in the primary stages is very ordinary. In the final moment the guru’s need is extraordinary — to say: Yes, that for which you longed has taken place. He becomes the witness, the testimony.
Patience means: we have nothing to stake, nothing with which to answer the Divine, nothing to barter — we have nothing at all. And our demand is that the Divine be attained. Then we will have to wait. We must keep patience, and infinite patience. Not that it runs out, so that after two or four days we begin to ask again. Otherwise the same loss occurs as when small children plant a mango kernel in the earth and four times a day uproot it to see whether the sprout has come out yet. In impatience, the sprout never emerges. With that four-times-uprooting, it will never sprout. It is not given even the chance to sprout, not given the opportunity.
Having sown the seed in the soil, one should forget it, and wait. Yes, water it — but now do not keep uprooting it to check whether it has cracked yet! Otherwise it will never sprout; the seed will only be spoiled. So after meditation do not ask every time: Have we arrived yet, or not? Keep sowing, keep watering. When the sprout shoots up, you will know. Do not hurry; do not uproot it again and again to check.
There was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. He stayed in his master’s house for twelve years. For twelve years he did not even ask: What should I do? After twelve years one day the master said: Bayazid, why have you come? You never ask anything. Bayazid said: I am waiting. When you find me fit, you yourself will say.
This is the mark of a sannyasin. Twelve years! In the evening he presses the master’s feet, in the morning he cleans the room, sits silently, sits the whole day. At night when the master says, Now I sleep, he leaves. After twelve years the master asks: Bayazid, you have been here long — you ask nothing! Bayazid says: When my receptivity is, when you feel the moment to speak has come, you will say it. I wait. And Bayazid added: Had I asked, whatever I got would have come by asking; this waiting has gifted me unasked. Now I am utterly quiet. In these twelve years I have done nothing — only sat in eager waiting. So I have become utterly silent. No thoughts remain within.
Eagerness breeds thoughts. Hurry gives rise to thoughts. If there is waiting, thoughts become quiet. The storms arise in the mind from the urge that something happen soon. Let it happen whenever it may; when it has to be, it will be. And even if it does not, leave it to the Divine — that is waiting. No complaint.
Patience is their patched wrap.
No complaint. Whatever He shows is right; whatever He does not show, right. Endless.
This does not mean the matter becomes endless. With such preparedness it happens this very instant — for one so prepared there is no reason to hold it back any longer. He whose wrap is patience has the wealth of truth immediately available.
Udasin vritti is their loincloth.
Udasin vritti — let us understand it rightly. Ordinarily what we take udasin to mean is not its meaning here. We think udasin means: where desires taste, there the person remains dull, distant, tasteless; where the senses demand, there he restrains himself. No — that is not the meaning. If a person restrains himself positively, by deliberate will, then he is no longer udasin — choosing has begun.
My mind says: May that big mansion be mine. I say: I will not take it; I am indifferent; I will not even look at this palace — I will pass with head lowered and eyes closed. I am no longer udasin; I have taken a side. Within me two sides have arisen: one that demanded the palace, another that says: No — what will a palace do? If I take either side among these two, I am no longer indifferent. Udasin means: one corner of the mind says, Let the palace be had; another corner says, We will not take it — what is there in a palace? One remains distant to both, remains on the bank, neutral, makes no choice — choiceless. Let both aspects of the mind go on; one does not choose between the dual. One stands back.
Udasinata is non-choice. It means we make no choice in the mind’s dualities. One part of the mind says: Be angry. Another says: Anger is poison. We listen to neither the first nor the second. We stand a little away and watch both parts. We choose neither this shore nor that. We choose nothing — and non-choice is udasinata. The mind raises dualities at every moment, for the nature of mind is dual — to be dual. Mind cannot live as One. Mind lives only as two.
You have never found a wave in the mind whose opposite wave the mind did not produce immediately. Where attraction arises, repulsion is born at once. One part says: Go left; another instantly says: Go right. The mind always creates duality. If the mind becomes non-dual it dies; if the dual is lost, the mind ends. If you choose anything from within this duality you remain with the mind. And that which you choose — its opposite will remain present; it will not vanish. It will wait for you: Wait — in a few days you will get bored of your choice and then you will choose me. This is what is happening all the time.
You love a woman or a man — even then the mind is in duality. One part says: Good, delightful — stay together. In one corner another part says: Where are you getting trapped? What trouble are you entering? Soon there will be suffering! And then whatever part is heavier at that moment for desire, you choose it. The other remains lying there.
In a few days, after living with that woman or man, the suffering begins — for attraction is in distance. When near, disillusionment starts, all charms fall. The woman who seemed an apsara, after four days together becomes an ordinary woman. The hypnosis in-between collapses. The body from which fragrance seemed to rise — from it sweat begins to stink. Those hands which seemed such that touching them would be the touch of flowers — now they are just hands of flesh and bone like any other. Everything becomes ordinary.
Oscar Wilde, a very thoughtful man of France, wrote a line in his diary after the experiences of a lifetime: There are two misfortunes in a man’s life. One is not to get the one one loves; the other is to get him or her. And the second is the worse. For if you do not get the one you love, then the enchantment remains forever.
Majnu does not know the real misfortune. The real misfortune would have been if Laila were attained. He was saved from the real misfortune. Not getting her, the dream remained, the hope kept alive, the desire flamed. Had she come, Laila would have fallen upon Majnu like water on fire.
Oscar Wilde says: the second is worse than the first. Both are misfortunes — in the first there is trouble; in the second there is trouble. Yet the first is better — for even in that trouble there is a certain savor; in the second, even the savor is not.
But the mind produces both sides. First it says: Attain. Once attained, it says: What is there in it! This ‘what is there’ was present even before — it was only the minor part, the minority, so it remained suppressed. It waits: My turn will also come. Then I will rise up and say: See, I had told you earlier — you didn’t listen. Now you have landed in trouble.
Mind lives in duality. You cannot desire any thing in such a way that a nondesire for it will not one day arise. You cannot love in such a way that hatred will not be born one day. You cannot make such a friend who will not one day become an enemy. Whatever is desired, its illusion will break. You cannot attain any thing that one day will not feel like a noose around your neck. In the end, that for which you labored so much becomes your own gallows.
Voltaire wrote: There was a time when no one knew me. Passing on the road, I suffered that no one even saluted me. In the mind there was only one desire: When will that day come when people will also know me, and wherever I pass eyes will turn toward me?
That day came — the second misfortune. That day came, and Voltaire’s condition became such that the police had to smuggle him, hiding him, into his house. People knew him so much and honored him so much that he could not reach home with clothes on. In France there is a custom that of one we respect, we wear as a talisman a piece of his clothing. By the time he reached home his clothes would be ripped. Then he said: O God, save me somehow from these people! The first condition was better — at least I could reach home safely. Sometimes in the crowd he would be pushed, his hand hurt, because people tore his clothes.
That day came again. Times change quickly, as the weather changes. What to trust in people’s minds? They change from moment to moment. That time came again: Voltaire was defamed. At the time of dying, to carry his coffin were three men — and the fourth was his dog. People had forgotten. Hearing the news of death, many said: Ah, was Voltaire still alive? We thought he must have died long ago — for many days we had neither seen nor heard the name.
Whatever happens, the mind turns to the other side. Fame is attained — it gives trouble; not attaining fame gives trouble. Wealth is attained — it troubles; not attaining it troubles. There is nothing in this world which does not trouble in both conditions. The reason is: the mind always lives in duality. Choose one and the other becomes ready. When this tires, the other comes up.
Udasin means no choosing at all. Hence the indifferent is blessed, because the indifferent cannot be miserable. Those two options of Oscar Wilde — the udasin chooses neither. He says: I will not choose any option of the mind. I will not choose. Neither for nor against. I am neutral.
Udasinata is a wondrous peace. Because when you do not choose any side of the mind, slowly both dualities wither. They live by your choosing, by your cooperation. Both gradually dry up; their water supply stops. And the very day the mind’s duality dries, the mind itself dries away.
Therefore the rishi said: indifference is their loincloth.
They speak in symbols, so that the image of a sannyasin’s form may come to mind.
Vichar is his staff. Vichar dandah.
The stick in his hand is thought. But understand: vichar — a thought — is one thing, and the crowd of thoughts is quite another. If there is one thought, it can become a staff; if there are many thoughts, it does not become a staff — it becomes a bundle of sticks on the head. Then it is no support, it is a burden. The sannyasin is not in thoughts — he is in thought.
Understand this difference. We are always in thoughts, not in thought. Within us there is a crowd of thoughts. A solitary, lonely, single thought never exists within us. There is a disconnected crowd. We leap from one to another. There is an opposite crowd: one thought is this — and its opposite is present right there, standing behind it. Many thoughts stand together. That is our distraction, our insanity.
Amid so many thoughts we are simply crushed. And when thoughts become abundant, discrimination becomes feeble — as the sky is crushed by clouds, or as leaves spread over a lake and the water cannot be seen. So our inner discrimination, our consciousness, is pressed beneath layers of thoughts. Then we no longer sense it. Not thoughts in the plural — not thoughts.
Vichar is the staff.
A sannyasin does not allow more than one thought to come before his consciousness at a time — because only if one comes can it be tested. Only if one comes can consciousness examine and weigh it. Only if one comes can consciousness decide. Only if one comes does it become immediately clear — right or wrong; there is no need to think then. But understand one more difference.
Here vichar does not mean the particular content — a thought-thing; it means thinking itself. Sometimes a thought arises in you: hunger has come, I should eat; sleep comes, I should lie down. A thought came within you. The arising of such a thought does not mean you are a thinker or that the capacity of thinking exists. For when you think hunger has come, the thoughtful one will not live by this thought alone; he will think about this thought from a second layer. He will consider: Has hunger truly come?
Many times hunger does not truly come — it comes from habit. If you eat at one o’clock and the clock strikes one, a thought arises: hunger. That hunger is not true. If by mistake the clock strikes one when it is still twelve, hunger still comes — that hunger is not true. And if you wait an hour, since it was not true — merely habitual — then after an hour you will find it has vanished. If hunger is true, after an hour it should have increased. False hunger vanishes after an hour because the mind was running mechanically.
The thoughts running within you are habitual. They are not the product of your inquiry; they are not born of your awareness. They are the progeny of your past and memory — a memory product. A constellation of habit is formed; it runs every day.
You come home — you do not have to think: now turn left, now right, now enter the house, now apply the brake. Nothing like that is needed. A thousand things can keep running in your head; the hand applies the brake at the right moment, turns the bicycle; you turn left, turn right, reach your door. Have you noticed? While cycling, you need not think where now, which side now — habitually. It is necessary too, because if every little thing had to be thought out, life would be hard to run. If every day you had to stand outside and think: Is this my own house? — it would be difficult. There are such people who must think every day whether it is their house!
When Mulla Nasruddin married, his wife got upset the very first day and said to her neighbor: I am very distressed. The neighbor asked: What happened on the very first day? She said: When Nasruddin got up after eating, he left a tip in my hand. The neighbor said: There is nothing to worry about. Out of habit — the poor fellow was a bachelor; until now he ate only in hotels. The wife said: No, that did not worry me so much; I worried when, after leaving the tip, he also kissed me. If the tip is habitual and this too is habitual, then it is a dangerous case.
We live just like this. Everything becomes mechanical, bound in grooves. A track is made and we run on it. In the outer life it is fine — otherwise work would be difficult. But for the inner life it is dangerous, because the capacity to inquire diminishes. Children are more thoughtful; old people are less so — although the old have more thoughts and children fewer.
Note the difference: the old have many thoughts, but thoughtfulness has decreased. Their thoughts have become habits; they do not need to think any longer — thoughts come by themselves. They have become regular. The child has very few thoughts, hence much thoughtfulness. Slowly layers of thought will gather; he too will become old — then thinking will not be needed; he will have thoughts. When a thought is needed, he will pull it out of the storehouse of memory and place it before him.
Remember: the old have experience, have thoughts, but thoughtfulness decreases; too many leaves gather on the lake. The child is like a clear lake upon which leaves have not yet fallen.
Hence if only children could be taught meditation, a revolution could happen in this world. Otherwise it is difficult, because with the old one must do reverse labor: all one’s life he has gathered junk. If before gathering he had the sense not to gather, or even if he gathered, not to identify with it; and however many thoughts collect, not to let thoughtfulness die...
To be neutral even toward your own thought — that is thoughtfulness. We are neutral toward the other’s thought; thoughtfulness is to be neutral toward your own thought too. The capacity to reconsider one’s own thought is inquiry. And day by day, not habitually but consciously — for a thought of yesterday may not be useful today. All has changed; the thought becomes fixed, frozen, sits within like a stone. Life is fluid, liquid — it keeps changing; and we keep collecting pebbles and stones within.
It was the month of Ramadan and Mulla Nasruddin decided to fast. He thought: One will have to keep count of days — how many are gone. Otherwise one may die: one keeps hoping, One day has passed, now fifteen left, now fourteen — it will pass, it will pass. But who keeps such accounts — so he kept a jar, and each day he dropped in a pebble. When needed, he would count the pebbles.
About fifteen days passed. A pilgrim on the road, going on a pilgrimage, stopped at Nasruddin’s door and asked: I have forgotten — how many days of Ramadan have gone? Nasruddin brought his jar. He was a little afraid when he turned it over. He said to the traveler: Sit outside a bit, I will count and come. He counted — and was amazed. What happened was that seeing his father drop pebbles in the jar every day, the boy also began dropping pebbles. He went out and said: Forgive me, brother — forty-five days have passed. The traveler said: Forty-five! Are there forty-five days in a month? Nasruddin said: I am telling very few — there are one hundred and fifty stones. I am telling you much less.
Thoughts collect within like those stones. Life is fluid, thoughts are solid. In the end we count those pebbles and think we have the account of life. And as Nasruddin’s boy put in many stones, thoughts are not all yours; a few are yours, the rest others put in you. In the end the stones in your jar are not all yours. Everyone is putting stones into your jar — father into son, wife into husband, teacher into student, guru into disciple. They will all collect. That is not thought. A collection of thoughts is not thought.
Thought is a power — the power to see, to think, to remain impartial, to be neutral even toward your own thought. That which was yesterday’s thought has become other — the capacity to reconsider it is the sannyasin’s staff. Vichar dandah. He walks by thinking. Walking by thinking means: he does not live by inertia and habit.
There was a case against Mulla Nasruddin. The magistrate asked: What is your age? He said: Forty. The magistrate was startled: Four years ago you came too, and your age was forty then as well! Nasruddin said: I am a man of my word — what I once say, I say. I am never inconsistent. When I have told the court my age is forty, the matter is closed. Ask me anytime — wake me from sleep — I am forty. And you made me swear upon the oath to speak only the truth! Having spoken the truth once, it is spoken.
Such rigidity arises in us. It hardens. What we thought at five years of age still comes in useful at fifty. You do not notice that at fifty you sometimes behave like a five-year-old.
I saw a house on fire. I was a guest in that village. In the house opposite a fire broke out. The man of the house was at least fifty-five. But seeing the flames he began jumping like a child, wailing, slapping his chest.
This is regression, say the psychologists — he regressed. Children can jump, shout, beat themselves — they can do nothing else. Now a fifty-five-year-old — this is not right behavior if he were thoughtful. He must have many thoughts; he must advise his son a lot, advise anyone who comes. That is why we have much advice for others. When trouble comes upon oneself, then it becomes clear advice will not work, for we regress at once. We drop into a state unknown to us.
Now this man is behaving like a five-year-old; at this moment his age is no more than five. What is happening within him is what he learned at five: when something goes wrong and nothing can be done, then one should wail and beat and cry. For a child this is fine — when he wails and beats, it works: mother bends, father agrees — Don’t eat our head, take whatever you want. This annoyance costs more than the rupees — it is cheaper to spend a few. There is bargaining. They scold once or twice, trying to save five rupees; if they can’t, they agree. Thus the child learns a trick — when you cannot see what to do, wail and beat: that too works.
Now he is fifty-five; his house is on fire. The situation is the same — nothing comes to him to do. He becomes a five-year-old and wails, beats, cries. The pebbles he collected at five, he is using at fifty-five.
No — this is not thoughtful. Otherwise he would also think: What will beating hands and feet do! He has many thoughts within — now that the house is on fire, he will have even more. But they are of no use now.
To be thoughtful means a continual freeing from one’s past — dying to the past, dying daily to it. Memory will collect — but keep thought separate, and keep thought even upon memory.
So the sannyasin’s staff is thought. He does not proceed via memory, probe via memory, seek the path via memory — but via thought. Whenever a situation comes, he is always ready to reconsider.
By nature, the sannyasin must be inconsistent. If Nasruddin is consistent, the sannyasin must be inconsistent. The situation will change; the thought must change. A new moment will be — a new thought must be born. Habit will say: Manage with the old. Memory will say: Ready-made answer is there — give it. But thought never gives a ready-made answer. A ready-made thought is not thought — it is memory.
Thought is always spontaneous, born in the moment, born of total consciousness. In a single instant you face the challenge — thought is born. If you used the old memory, it is not thought — you are a dead man. A sannyasin is alive — he lives moment to moment in spontaneous flow. That is the meaning: thought is his staff.
Brahma-darshan is his yog-patta.
Brahman-vision alone is his certificate — no other. Seeing Brahman is his examination; seeing Brahman is his result; seeing Brahman is his testimonial; seeing Brahman is his yog-patta. He will not be content with less.
Remember: not by reading the Brahma-sutras, but by Brahman-darshan; not by reading scriptures concerning Brahman, but by seeing Brahman. The sannyasin is not content with anything less than vision. Nothing less is in question.
Shvetaketu returned with knowledge — having read all the scriptures. But the father asked him: You have read everything — but did you know That, by knowing which, all is known? Shvetaketu said: What is this? It was not in our course. What sort of trouble is this? We have learned everything — we know astrology, we know ayurveda, we know music, we know the four Vedas, we have read the Upanishads, we have come having taken full knowledge of Brahman — but this question we cannot even understand: whether we knew That-One — by knowing which all is known, and without knowing which all the known has no value!
The youth said: I was coming full of pride, bearing many certificates — and you poured water over all. The father said: Go back. What you have gathered is not knowledge. It is only the ashes of knowledge. He sent his son back.
Years later the son returned. From the window of his hut, the father saw Shvetaketu coming. He said to his wife: Open the back door — I should run away. The wife said: What are you saying? The son is returning. The father said: He is coming knowing That which even I have not yet known. I too read in scriptures: Know That-One by knowing which all is known. I also read it in scriptures. And that boy is troublesome. I had asked casually — and he actually went back. Now he returns knowing. His gait says so, the winds around him bring the news, his face says it, his eyes say it. The aura around him says it. I should run away, for it will not be right to let him touch my feet. Until I also know, it is not right to see this son. He ran out the back.
Brahman-vision...
The sannyasin is not satisfied with less — not with words, not with doctrines of scripture, not with knowledge-exams. Where is the Veda obtained by passing examinations in the Veda? By sitting in Benares memorizing Sanskrit verses, does one gain knowledge? How many pandits there are! Yes, one thing does come — a stiffness. Ignorance remains within and scholarship gives a swagger: I know. And when ignorance starts thinking I know, a worse condition arises than ignorance. If ignorance knows I do not know, it is humble, one day it may break open. If ignorance gets the idea I know, then ignorance fills with ego, is strengthened by stiffness — then even breaking becomes difficult. Hence the ignorant may reach Brahman, the pandit hardly can.
Brahman-vision alone — nothing less — is his examination, his scripture, his knowledge, his yog-patta, his proof — that is all.
Mind the word darshan. In English there is the word philosophy. Now when we translate darshan from Hindi we say philosophy; or when we translate philosophy we say darshan. That is not right, because darshan is not philosophy. Philosophy means thinking, reflection, contemplation — not darshan. Darshan means seeing.
A blind man can also think, hear about light. If written in Braille, he can read. A blind man can contemplate much about light. It may even happen that if the blind man is precise and intelligent, he can discover theories about light, make inventions regarding light — construct theories that help to untangle the puzzles of light. There is no obstacle. But a blind man cannot do darshan. Darshan is something else.
Thinking hovers only up to the skull; darshan reaches the heart. Thinking is only a shadow; darshan is a realization, an experience. That is why in the last fifty years a German thinker, Hermann Hesse — not Dr. Radhakrishnan, not Vivekananda, not Ramatirtha, none among those who attempted to present Indian darshan to the West — but Hermann Hesse refused to use the word philosophy for darshan. He said: I will coin a new word not present in Western languages. He coined the word philasia. In philosophy there are two words — phila and sophia. Sophia means knowledge, phila means love — love of knowledge. Hesse coined a new word: phila-sia. Phila means love, sia means to see — love of seeing.
In India there has never been anything like philosophy. There is no love of thinking here. Here the yearning is for darshan. Without seeing — what will happen from hearing, understanding, memorizing? One will have to see — Brahman-darshan. The sannyasin’s longing is Brahman-vision.
Shriyam padukah.
This is a very wondrous sutra.
Wealth is their sandals.
Strange. What has wealth to do with a sannyasin? Everything else is all right — Brahman-darshan, yes. But what has wealth to do with a sannyasin? The hint lies here.
Wealth is their sandals.
Two or three points. First: we are the sandals of wealth; we are the shoes of property. Wealth walks; we serve as its shoes. Slaves of wealth. Only a sannyasin can be the master of wealth. He can put wealth on like sandals and walk — because there is no demand for wealth within him.
I have heard: Kabir had a son, Kamal. Sometimes he would say such things to Kabir that Kabir told him it would be better if he made his own hut, for he would sometimes speak out of time and create difficulty unnecessarily. For example, Kabir once said: Seeing the running mill-stone, Kabir wept — whatever falls between the two stones is crushed. He said perfectly rightly. Kamal said: No, Kamal laughed seeing the running mill. The two stones were crushing, but the one who took hold of the middle shaft was saved.
This is an unnecessary tangle — Kabir is exactly right. Kamal too is exactly right. It is not necessary that clash happens only between truth and untruth — often two truths clash directly.
Kabir said: Son, make another hut, for unnecessary disturbance arises here. Kamal began living separately. Some people would also come to listen to Kamal. He was indeed a marvel — Kabir himself had named him Kamal. And if Kabir’s son were not a marvel, it would be Kabir’s disgrace. Kabir had only said so that useless disputes may not arise in that hut and doubts not arise in people’s minds. You live separate — people will hear you as well.
But among disciples opposition begins. Some became disciples of Kamal, some of Kabir. Trouble arose. Kabir’s disciples began spreading: Kamal seems no knower — when people give money, he keeps it. Bring to Kabir — he accepts nothing.
That is Kabir’s way. Perhaps he does not accept so that the giver is not broken from Kabir. For if one brings money and he does not accept, one becomes very pleased, very impressed: a renunciate! But one insists, Please accept. One feels hurt: You do not accept my little request. If he accepts, one does not feel happy; one becomes anxious: Has he fallen into some trap? This man accepted at once. Such is man’s mind. Whatever you do, he is unhappy. Kabir would refuse — many would feel sad that they get no chance to serve. The human mind has a deep sorrow.
In the animal world, if animals’ needs are fulfilled, they are satisfied. They have needs; if these are fulfilled, they are fulfilled. But man has another strange need — a need to be needed. People should feel they need me — that I am of use to someone; without me a great mess would occur. Even if all needs are fulfilled, one need remains within: others should need me. If it seems no one needs me, life is worthless. Food, clothing, sleep — all lie there, but there is no place for me.
So when someone comes to a man like Kabir and Kabir refuses — No, brother, I will take nothing — he refuses out of compassion. For he knows if he accepts, this man will go disturbed, may not sleep at night: To what indulgent man did I go?
Kamal — if someone brought, he would accept. He would say: With great joy, leave it here. That too is compassion — for if this man feels Kamal cannot live without him, then a flower within him will find a way to blossom. Life is a vast riddle.
Kabir’s disciples began spreading: Kamal is dishonest — no sannyasin. The king of Kashi once came to Kabir; the disciples were restless lest he go to the other hut. They said: Come quickly, go straight. The king said: Let me also meet Kamal — Kabir’s son is here. They said: He is not a right man — seems greedy for money. The king said: Then let us test him.
He went. On his hand was a ring with a precious diamond — its price in lakhs. He took it off and told Kamal: I leave this with you. Kamal said: As you wish. The king was startled — so quickly! One should first refuse, then accept with reluctance. So quickly! He felt like putting it back on his finger — but it would be a great insult. The disciples had rightly said: Do not go here; now he was trapped. He hesitated; Kamal said: Leave it — why do you pause now? He asked: Where should I keep it? Kamal said: Wherever you like. He stuck the ring into the thatch.
He could not sleep — a day, two — great anxiety: Where have I entangled myself! Kabir is a good man; even a penny you give, he says: No, take it back, what will I do — I have all. What kind of man is this? After fifteen days the mind did not agree. He went back: Let us see what happened to the ring. By now it must have been sold; who knows what dance-music might have happened. This man looks such — if you pause a bit he says: Leave it — why pause?
He went; Kamal was sitting. Kamal asked: So you brought the ring again? How are you people! Now the king could not contain himself: What kind of man are you! Kamal said: How have you come? Last time you came with the ring, so I thought perhaps again... No, the king said: I have not brought the ring — I came to find out where it is. Kamal said: Look where you kept it. If no one has taken it, it will be there. If someone has taken it, we had not taken the contract of guarding it. The king stood and found the ring still stuck in the thatch.
This is the meaning: wealth is the sannyasin’s sandals. Someone could also have taken the ring — then an unknowing about Kamal would have remained forever. But wealth is only sandals. He does not accept even such ownership as to refuse it; what need to say no or yes? If it is dust, it is dust.
In both holding and leaving we give value to wealth. When we say we want wealth, there is value; when we say we will not touch it, there is value. For the sannyasin it is without value — the matter has become valueless. You say: Let it be left here. He says: Leave it. Why refuse even dust?
When wealth has only this much place, the rishi says: Then he is a sannyasin. But it is always hard to recognize, for it depends on the individual sannyasin what he does — his own expression. One thing is fixed: wealth holds no ownership over him — it cannot possess him.
And remember: We all think we are the possessors — we are the owners of our property. But we are in illusion — property becomes our owner. When you sleep at night, the rupees in your safe do not stay awake in worry — they sleep soundly. You stay awake. Who is the owner? When a rupee slips from your hand the rupee does not weep: Where has my owner gone? Not even this much it weeps. You weep. And you are the owner?
No — whatsoever we try to own becomes our owner. The possessor is always the possessed. Whoever tries to be owner becomes a slave.
The sannyasin does not talk of owning property. He says: Where is property? What you call property — if we look at your faces it seems adversity. Those who have property look like they have a calamity. Property seems absent — calamity seems present. Property appears with the sannyasin — his cheer, his bliss, his flower-like presence — no worry, no anxiety, no tension. Property seems with him — yet he has nothing. And those who have everything seem surrounded by disaster.
For the sannyasin, the rishi says: Wealth is like his sandals. He hardly even knows — if it is at his feet, it is at his feet. He uses the sandals, but never carries them upon his head.
When Bodhidharma went from India to China, he wore one sandal on his head and one on his foot. He was a very strange sannyasin. One thousand four hundred years ago he went to China. The emperor came to welcome him. Thousands of monks gathered, for from India an equal-to-Buddha man was coming to China for the first time — Bodhidharma. A great ceremony of welcome.
But the emperor became very uneasy; the monks too were amazed — they looked at one another: What has happened! This man seems mad. One shoe he wore on his foot and one he balanced on his head. The emperor could not restrain himself. He found a moment and said: What are you doing? This is causing difficulty. We have publicized widely that a great knower is coming — and what are you doing? People will hear you are mad.
Bodhidharma said: The one kept upon the head — that is according to your mind; and the one upon the foot — that is according to mine. The one upon the head is to remind you what kind of people you are: you call me mad while you keep both upon your head — and I only one.
We place shoes on our head — when we keep wealth upon our head. Wealth should be where it belongs — for the feet. It may be used as needed in life, but it cannot be made the master. We forget and try to be owner, and end as slaves. Whoever goes to be owner ends as a slave.
Therefore do not even go to be owner of wealth. Become owner of yourself; wealth becomes a slave. Hence we call the sannyasin Swami — not the owner of another, but the owner of himself. He has nothing else. He who is master of himself is Swami. For him wealth is a slave — sandals.
Paratpara ki abhipsa hi unka acharan hai.
The longing for That which is beyond and beyond — beyond all beyond — that which stretches afar and transgresses all our limits — the thirst to attain That is their very conduct. They live in such a way that in their rising, sitting, walking, sleeping one thirst keeps throbbing within the heart. One thirst resounds in their every breath. Their very being is for only one thing — that that Paratpara Brahman, that beyond-hidden, beyond-hidden realm of the Unknowable, be met. That is their conduct — their walking, sitting, rising, eating, drinking, wearing — all that.
Kabir has said: My covering is also Ram, my bedding also Ram. I sleep upon That, I sit upon That. I walk upon That — and That walks as me.
This ordinary conduct we see — have you ever noticed: for what? Why do you get up every morning? Which desire says: Get up, go on? Why do you eat each day? Which desire says: Save the body? Why gather wealth? Which passion says: Without wealth it will not do? What is the base, the center of your conduct?
If said in one word: kama — sex. For that we wake, move, earn, build houses, wealth, fame — all. If we search deeply, there is only sex. Man can deceive himself, but leave man for a while and watch the animals, birds — the sexual urge will be very clear. Man deceives himself a little, hence it becomes obscure. But if you go deep, the sexual urge is what keeps running you. For that we live. All the churning is for that. That is our conduct — sex is our conduct.
The sannyasin’s conduct is Ram. He too rises in the morning as you do — but his longing is to attain the Paratpara. He too eats — but not for what you eat. He eats so that the body becomes a vehicle to reach the Beyond. He too sleeps at night, and covers the body with cloth; when it is cold he does; in sunlight he sits in shade. But behind all the acts, behind all conduct, there is a single longing — how to have darshan of the Paratpara!
Sometimes you feel: the sannyasin eats like you, gets up like you, wears clothes like you — then what is the difference? The difference is within — it is at the center of life. It is in the question: For what? For what are you living?
If the sannyasin learns there is no Paratpara — there is nothing beyond; only this getting up and sitting, eating and earning, shop and life and then death — then he will not take even a second breath. The very matter is over. If That is, life has meaning. If That can be found, life has purpose. If That can be reached, life is life; otherwise life is nothing but a long process of dying.
Kundalini bandhah.
The source of the sannyasin’s power is Kundalini. As I said: the foundational base of our life and our conduct is sexual desire — hence the source of our energy is the sex-center. From there our energy flows. The power that looks through our eyes is the sex-urge; the power that hears through our ears is the sex-urge; the power that touches through our hands is the sex-urge. The center, the source, is the sex-center.
Very near the sex-center is the center of Kundalini — just beside it another reservoir. But we have never touched it. That very center is the base of the sannyasin’s life. He draws power from there by awakening Kundalini. He enters another dimension of power.
And the wonder is: as Kundalini awakens, all the energy of sex falls upon the Kundalini center and is transformed. For sex is a very small spring — a tiny stream. And such a stream that daily we must fill it with food, drink, rest; then it gathers drop by drop a little. And our madness is strange: we fill it drop by drop and then spill it; then fill again — and spill again; then fill again.
Behind this, just beside it, lies the vast reservoir of Kundalini — that is not made by food, not by water, not by rest. It is given by God. For the sex-center we must daily earn energy; for Kundalini, earning is not needed — it is given; it is our very nature. That is the source for the sannyasin.
Kundalini bandhah.
He awakens it, he lives from it. And when that energy awakes, this tiny stream of the sex-center falls into it by itself, and sexual desire is transformed into Ram-urge.
In meditation here we are attempting just that: to strike the Kundalini. I insist upon strong breathing so that by the blow of breath the closed door of the Kundalini center may break. I tell you to dance and jump with the whole heart so that in that movement the sleeping energy may tremble and rise. I tell you to roar, to sound the Hu like a madman — the louder the Hu, the nearer it reaches to the sex-center where the Kundalini lies, and there it strikes.
By breath, by the body’s movement, by sound, we strike. It will break — if you keep striking; if hammering continues, it will break. And the day it breaks, that very day sexual desire at once sets out on the journey toward Ram. Then this body is no longer the goal, no longer the end — it becomes only a means.
Para-apavad-mukto jivanmuktah — who is free from slandering others is liberated while alive. He who is free from the condemnation of others is jivanmukt.
Our minds savor slander. There is a reason. In condemning another we feel we are someone. When we pull another down, we feel we rise high. When we prove another bad, we feel ourselves good. When we declare another a thief, we feel ourselves un-thief. We are not — hence we prove ourselves via the other. One who is truly un-thief does not prove himself by calling another a thief — he is. One who has attained brahmacharya does not prove it by calling another licentious — he is.
That is why there is relish in slander. And praise hurts. If someone comes and says: So-and-so is a great saint — a thud of hurt arises: How is that possible? While I am still on the earth, can there be another saint? While I am here!
Mulla Nasruddin is dying. Final hour. All his disciples have gathered. He lies with eyes closed. In the moment of death the disciples praise as much as they can. One says: We have never seen such a knower. The scriptures rested on his tongue. Mulla opens one eye a little and closes it. Another says: We have not seen a more generous one — whoever came, he was ready to give. Mulla opens and closes an eye. A third says: We have never seen such a man of service. Mulla opens and closes an eye. Then all fall silent; nothing more remains to say.
Mulla says: You are leaving one thing out — there was no one more humble than me.
Even humility nurses ego. Mulla says: There was no one more humble than me — remember this too. Now, ‘There is no one more humble than me’ — what greater ego can there be?
Hearing praise of another, a wound occurs: someone ahead of me! Therefore we never quite accept praise — even when we hear it we do not believe it. We think: There must be some trick, some fault somewhere. It has not been found yet — but soon it will be discovered; the secret will be out. But when someone slanders another, see how our mouth waters. We do not even ask whether he is speaking truth or false — any evidence? We never think this man could be wrong — someday it will be known that the slander was wrong. No, such a thought does not arise.
If someone slanders, we accept instantly. If someone says: So-and-so is a saint — we never accept; we say: We will inquire. If someone says: So-and-so is a thief, licentious, wicked — we agree fully. Absolutely right; we already knew. Evil must be there — there is no question. Goodness is always doubtful.
For the sannyasin the rishi says: They are free from slandering others — they alone are jivanmukt.
This does not mean that before a sannyasin a thief stands and the sannyasin will not call him a thief. This does not mean he will not call the licentious licentious. If the sannyasin does not call the licentious licentious, his statement would be untrue; if he does not call the wrong wrong, it would be untrue. One difference there will be: the sannyasin will call the wrong only wrong — and there will be no relish in it. No relish that you are wrong — and he enjoys it. No relish that your wrongness gives his rightness a prop. None.
They are free of slander. A is A, B is B; darkness is darkness, light is light. They see as it is — but there is no relish in it. One difference does occur: whatever goodness is seen in another, they certainly enjoy speaking of it — they relish it, for whatever we relish increases. Relishing is watering.
If we relish that another is dishonest, whether we know it or not we are making a path to increase his dishonesty — our relish becomes a prop. If in a dishonest man we find even one virtue and say: However dishonest, he is very simple; however dishonest, he is very calm — we are giving his calm a prop to grow. If calm grows, dishonesty cannot stand long. If simplicity grows, how can the man remain dishonest? Thus we even help dissolve his dishonesty.
Whatever we relish grows, because relishing is watering. Therefore there is no relish in slander for the sannyasin — fact there is relish in; and whatever is auspicious, he tries to water that.
Enough for today.
The rest tomorrow.
Now we will enter meditation. Bring your total energy.
Ten minutes of breath, ten minutes of the body’s dance, ten minutes of the Hu-sound, then ten minutes of waiting.
Spread far out. Many gather in front near me; they bump into each other and it causes trouble. Those who feel they will dance and jump vigorously — come a little out into the open. Those who know they will run — go completely out, because running you disturb many. Consider yourself and move out.
Do not stand anywhere too densely. There is so much ground — fill it! Those who wish to remove clothes, remove whatever you wish to remove — take no worry. Even in between, if the thought arises to drop garments, drop them at once. The moment you drop them, the movement of meditation will deepen.
Tie blindfolds over the eyes. Blindfold the eyes, spread out far. And see that no spectator stands in the middle of the field. If anyone wishes to watch, sit on the far hill. Those who sit to watch — kindly do not talk at all, remain silent.
Bind the blindfolds. Move away from one another. Fill the whole ground. The more space, the better — you will have freedom to jump and dance. If someone collides, do not worry. Do your work; let the other do his.
Begin!