Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #2

Sahajanand, this sutra indeed condenses my outlook on life into a most compact signal. Life is the name of urgency, of intensity, of density. As when sunrays are gathered and focused, fire flares instantly; the same rays, scattered, merely give a little warmth—brought to a point, they ignite.

Life too can be lived in two ways: scattered, fragmented, piecemeal, with calculation and the arithmetic of the mind; or dense and profound. Either one lives minimally, or one lives maximally—fulfilled. Just as water vaporizes at one hundred degrees, so too life has a point of density at which the ego evaporates; where I and Thou merge; where the drop dissolves into the ocean—or the ocean dissolves into the drop.

Those who live lukewarm never come to know this. They never taste life’s dance, life’s festivity; no spring ever visits their garden, no flowers bloom, no birds sing. They live as if not living would have done just as well—half-dead. The cause is their calculating, businesslike mind. Every step is weighed and measured, every breath blown on before taken: more concern for protection than for living; more for security than for experience.

There is a Sufi tale. An emperor built a palace with only one door—no other window, no other entrance—lest a thief or assassin slip in, lest an enemy enter. He lived there alone; he would not even allow his wife inside. Who can be trusted? Who is one’s own in this world? He even talked lofty wisdom—but behind it all was fear, the fear of death. As if total security could be achieved! If even friends cannot enter, what chance is there for enemies? Your wife cannot enter, nor your children. Do you think death will not enter? Death will come all the same. In fact, it arrived the day you were born. Why worry? The moment the first breath is taken, the last is also assured.

He was a thinking sort. One door—very narrow, just enough for one person to pass. And he placed guard upon guard at that door: seven ranks. One guard might doze or betray; the second watched the first; but who could trust the second—what if the two colluded? Then a third watched them; and so on—seven watch-lines.

A neighboring emperor came to see the palace. He was impressed: “Security should be like this! I shall build the same.” As the host came to the door to see him off, praising continued. Just then a beggar sitting by the roadside burst into laughter. Both turned and asked, “Why did you laugh?”

He said, “Once I too was an emperor. I too arranged every security, all in vain. If you truly want total security—so that not a shred of fear remains—lock yourself inside and have this door sealed from the outside as well. Then none can enter. Now even a gust of wind comes—death will ride in upon it. Sunrays come—death will ride in upon them. Do this one thing more. I laughed because you did everything, yet death will enter by this very door.”

The emperor said, “If I seal this door too—madman!—I would be dead while living. It would become a tomb.”

The fakir laughed more. “A tomb it already is. What is left? Just one door. Does a single door make a dwelling? Ninety-nine percent it is a grave—why protect the one percent? If you have that much sense, then open more doors, more windows; the more the doors and windows, the more life flows in.”

Only in insecurity can you live. Fear will not let you live. And fear keeps you calculating how to live “more.” By “more” people mean length, not depth. The true “more” should mean depth.

Time has two dimensions—length and depth. Length you can picture as A to B to C, a linear journey. Depth you can picture as A to deeper A: A-one, A-two, A-three, A-four—diving into A so deeply that B never arrives. Depth ends in A. That is why we named the letters akshar, the “undecaying.” In no other language is the alphabet called akshar. The whole journey is fulfilled in A; go deep into A—it does not perish. B is perishable, C is perishable.

Look at the image of Jesus on the cross; it symbolizes exactly this. Christians never understood the symbol. On the cross, his torso lies on the vertical beam, his arms on the horizontal—two lines make the cross. In truth this symbol travelled from India to Jerusalem; Jesus himself brought it. The cross is the central arm of the ancient Indian symbol, the swastika—one vertical line and one horizontal. The horizontal line indicates the length of time, the vertical line its depth. Or say: the horizontal is time; the vertical is the timeless—akshar.

To live in urgency means: live with depth and with height. Depth like the Pacific Ocean; height like Everest. But we live flat, like a tarred road—no rise, no dip. How can there be joy in such flatness? How can there be celebration? On a tar road how will roses grow, how will seeds sprout? The road stretches from one end to another, the same all through—no variety, no wonder.

My message is to live in the moment—and to live it so completely as if there will never be another moment; as if only this moment is. Truly, only this moment is. Who can guarantee another? It may come, it may not. Only this moment is. Live it with urgency, with totality. Do not postpone to tomorrow. Do not say, “I will live in the evening.” If it is morning, live the morning. If it is evening, live the evening. Whatever is in your hands, drink it to the lees, drown in it. If another moment comes, drown in that too; if it doesn’t, what is lost? You will have lived this one. And one who has lived even a single moment totally has tasted the eternal. Call that taste religion, call it God, call it truth—whatever name delights you.

The Mahabharata’s sutra is pithy: muhurtam jvalitaṁ śreyaḥ.
Burn as if a torch were lit at both ends at once.
Muhurtam jvalitaṁ śreyaḥ.
A muhurt is the tiniest unit of time. Even a second is not so small; it can be divided. A muhurt means that part of the moment which is then indivisible, the ultimate atom beyond which division is impossible. Live that indivisible muhurt totally.

Two points to remember. Life’s totality is vast, like the ocean—and a muhurt is small, like a drop. Let the ocean descend into the drop. Live the muhurt as if it were the whole—nothing before, nothing after. Do not look back; in that very looking the moment will pass. Do not peer ahead; in that peering it will pass. Withdraw yourself from past and future. Be here, this very instant, now. Then for the first time a hundred degrees of heat are generated in your life—a density at which spring arrives, the lotus opens. All energy gathers. Otherwise everything is scattered. One part left in childhood, one in youth, one stuck in midlife, one already old; part of you is here, part is racing ahead, part perhaps has already died, and part is seeking heavens or salvations beyond death. You live so spread out that life becomes thin—so you live at the minimum. With a palmful of water, how will you drown?

Muhurtam jvalitaṁ śreyaḥ—
Better to flare up in a single instant
na tu dhūmāyitaṁ ciram—
than to smoulder in smoke for a long time.
To keep smoking endlessly—what meaning has it? Smoke fills your own eyes with tears and others’ as well, and there is no light. Truth is, if there is to be no flame, sheer darkness is better; smoke makes darkness worse. You set out in search of light and made the darkness insane. And people live as smoke.

In this hazy life how will you understand that nectar is hidden, bliss is hidden, moksha is hidden? You can’t believe; life furnishes no proof. Let Buddha or Mahavira or Krishna or Christ or Mohammed say so—let them. What will a few eccentrics change? One trusts one’s own experience; the experience of the millions around appears to confirm it. A Mansoor cries “Ana’l-Haqq”—I am the Truth—and you say, “He is self-hypnotized.” The masses’ experience must be right, says even a Sigmund Freud. Either, as Buddhas say, the world is a mirage—or, as Freud says, those few are in a mirage.

So you may worship Buddha’s statue or read the Quran in the morning or go to church—it makes no difference; you do not trust because your life offers no evidence. Your life is smoke—and Krishnamurti speaks of a smokeless flame! You have not known even a smoky flame; only smoke. Wet wood smokes. The wetter the wood, the more the smoke. Remember: smoke is not part of the fire. People think smoke rises from fire. It does not. If the wood is utterly dry—with not a trace of moisture—there is no smoke. Smoke is from the water in the wood.

Buddha rightly said: as long as your mind is wet with desire, there will be smoke. The day you are free of craving, of imagining, of the mind’s restless scrambling—when you are dry, like seasoned wood—then only flame will arise: a blazing, smokeless flame. That flame is life’s supreme wealth, the ultimate experience.

Notice this: water always flows downward; fire always rises upward. Esa dhammo sanantano—such is their eternal law. Water never climbs of itself; to make it rise requires effort—pump it, lift it. The Ganga flows down from the mountains effortlessly; to make her climb back is arduous. Fire is the opposite: try to force a flame downward—even if you invert the torch, the flame climbs.

Both processes, both natures, are different. And in wood both are hidden—water and fire. Perhaps it is because of fire that the tree rises upward, and because of water that its roots go deep. In a tree there is a harmony of the two. Fire lifts it; flowers are born of fire. When the palash trees blossom, the forest looks aflame—only flowers remain, the leaves fall, and the whole jungle seems to have caught fire.

Flower is a portion of the sun. Without the sun, flowers do not bloom. Plant a flowering bush where sunlight never reaches: leaves may come, but flowers will be wilted or absent. That is why you cannot grow roses indoors; the sun is needed. The sun is hidden in the flower. And the roots, seeking water, go deep.

Scientists have been astonished to find that roots have sensitivity: they know where water is. They grow that way. Sensitive dowsers take a freshly cut moist twig, hold it lightly, and walk; where the twig gives a sudden tug, their sensitive hand recognizes the signal: there is water below. Water recognizes water’s language—even fifty feet under sand. The dowser halts, and proves right—even in deserts.

One scientist found that a banyan, with no water nearby, had sent its roots across the road toward the municipal pipeline. A cement pipe! Water runs inside, sealed. But the banyan had an inner intelligence. When they dug, all its roots led to the pipe; they had cracked the cement and slipped in to drink. The tree knew.

Water belongs to the roots; fire to the flowers. When you burn wood, both are there. Hence, if two sticks are truly dry, fire is born from mere friction. But the sticks must be absolutely dry.

Buddha said: in man also, two forces work—attachment and prayer. Attachment (moh) pulls downward like water, love (prem) rises like fire. Love refined is prayer; attachment deepened is lust (vasana). If man becomes free of lust, then in a single muhurt such radiance appears that he recognizes life’s essence; the meaning of life floods into experience. And some live a hundred years and not even ashes stick to their hands.

I am a partisan of living in the instant. Do not worry about lengthening life—deepen it.
Muhurtam jvalitaṁ śreyaḥ, na tu dhūmāyitaṁ ciram.
What will you do smouldering for long? You have smouldered for ages. Now be startled—awake! The fire is hidden within you; the formula is hidden that can lift you to heaven’s last heights. God’s song is hidden within you.

A poem of Yog Pritam—

There is no song that does not carry Your melody;
There is no love in which Your sweet bridal grace is absent.
In the darkness of this life
You blossomed like a full moon;
In the emptiness of this life
You awakened these seasons of spring.
Such nectar You showered that life became a new blossoming.
There is no flower that lacks Your tender pollen;
There is no song that does not carry Your melody.

In every dance of this life
It is Your sweet anklets that chime;
In every kirtan of this life
Only Your tune resounds.
You are the grove of this life, the humming of our breath;
There is no festival of color we would play without You.
There is no song that does not carry Your melody;
There is no love in which Your sweet bridal grace is absent.

In my emotion-filled depths
Your adornment shines;
This sannyas is Yours,
This world of mine is Yours.
In the Vrindavan of my heart, night and day You weave the rasa.
There is no longing that does not contain Your fire.
You are the grove of this life, the humming of our breath;
There is no festival of color we would play without You;
There is no song that does not carry Your melody.

That is what lies hidden within you. Chit chakamak lage nahin—just strike the flint of awareness; dry out the dampness of lust a little; and you will blaze in a single instant.

The Mahabharata’s sutra is right: you will blaze, you will become aflame—and that is what is truly auspicious. Not that you live long. Look how people are living—rotting, yet calling it living! As if mere living were a value in itself. Decaying, dying—and still “living”! As if life had meaning just in breathing; as if eating and digesting daily were meaning enough—fifty years, a hundred years, one hundred and fifty years—what for?

Scientists worry how to prolong man. By their reckoning, a man can live at least three hundred years. God forbid they succeed! Man is troublesome enough as it is. In seventy or eighty years he makes such a mess; at three hundred, it will be terrible. And they harbor longer aims: at least three hundred, at most seven hundred years—no obstacles, they say.

But what will you do? Keep rotting? In seven hundred years, how many generations will be born! Your children’s children’s children will not even recognize you. After so long, will these same games—politics, toys, wealth, status—still taste sweet? In seventy years a man fools himself somehow; the days pass, night arrives. From cradle to grave takes no time. Seven hundred years will be very hard.

In the countries where average life has crossed eighty, the elderly are demanding the right to die—the birthright of euthanasia. And I too see meaning in it. Sooner or later, the world will have to include this in its laws. In Russia there are already many near one hundred and fifty who want to die—but how? Death is illegal. Worse in America: thousands lie in hospitals, on beds—can neither rise nor sit; can’t live, can’t die. What a dilemma! Cases in courts: they want to die, but the courts refuse—there is no law. Tubes feed them medicine and food; tubes remove waste. Some hearts do not beat—machines beat them. Some lungs won’t breathe—machines breathe for them. Shall we turn off the machine or not? If we do, is it legal or illegal? A crime? Who will switch it off—the doctor, the son, the wife? Some lie unconscious—there is no asking them. They are like turnips and radishes; to call them human is not right—cauliflowers, and worse, for even a cauliflower can be eaten; they are of no use. But the law gives no right to die. This right will have to be given—like other birthrights, we will have to add euthanasia, the right to die. It may sound paradoxical—birthright to life, and talk of death!

This is the outcome of long life. What is needed is deep life. Science tries to lengthen; religion deepens. So I tell science: concern yourself with making the days a man does live healthy. Do not fret about adding length; ensure he can live in perfect health. And let religion concern itself with how that health is used to deepen life.

By meditation life can be deepened; by science it can be made healthy. Without science, life cannot be healthy; without meditation, life cannot be deep. If science supports from without and meditation from within, a great revolution is possible: each muhurt can become an eternity.

I love life. For me, life is another name for God—in all its shades and forms. I am no escapist; I oppose all escapism. That is why I am uprooting the old religious foundations—because in them escapism is hiding: run away, renounce! I say: live, awaken. Do not run, do not abandon. Use the opportunity you have.

Ai kaash ki soz-e-gham ashkon mein na dhal jaye;
Daaman se agar pochhun, daaman mera jal jaye.
Would that the burning of sorrow not melt into tears;
If I wipe them with my hem, the hem itself would burn.

Humko to gulistaan ke har gul se muhabbat hai;
Gulchin ko jo nafrat ho, gulshan se nikal jaye.
We love every flower of the garden;
If the flower-picker dislikes any, let him leave the garden.

Har khaar hamara hai, har phool hamara hai;
Humne hi lahoo dekar gulshan ko sanwaara hai.
Every thorn is ours, every flower is ours;
It is our blood that has adorned this garden.

Hum doobne waalon ko kaafi ye sahaara hai:
Saahil pe tu aa jaana, har mauj kinaara hai.
For us who drown, this support is enough:
You be on the shore—then every wave is a shore.

Sau zulm kiye tumne, ik aah na ki humne;
Vo dard tumhara tha, ye dard hamara hai.
You did a hundred wrongs; we did not even sigh;
That pain was yours; this pain is ours.

Hum tishna-labi apni duniya se chhupa lenge;
Saaki se rusvaai ab humko gawara hai.
We will hide our thirst from the world;
Even the cupbearer’s reproach we now can bear.

Ab unka haseen aanchal kismat mein nahin shaayad;
Aansoo bhi hamare hain, daaman bhi hamara hai.
Perhaps their fair veil is no longer in our fate;
The tears are ours, and the hem too is ours.

Khaamosh fazaon mein bajne lagi shehnai;
Yeh tune saja di hai ya dil mein utaara hai?
In silent skies the shehnai has begun to play—
Is it Your ornament, or have You descended into the heart?

Aankhon mein jab ashkon ke toofaan machalte the,
Humne vo zamaana bhi hans-hans ke guzaara hai.
When storms of tears raged in our eyes,
We still passed that era laughing.

Unke labe-naazuk ko kya raaz bataayenge?
Kuchh tu hi bata, ai dil, kya haal hamara hai?
How shall we reveal the secret to those delicate lips?
Tell me, O heart—what is our condition?

Aansoo bhi hamare hain, daaman bhi hamara hai.
The tears are ours, and the hem too is ours.

Here, the thorns are ours, the flowers too. Here, life’s sorrows are ours, and its joys—because one learns not only from pleasures; often more from pain. Flowers may seduce; thorns awaken.

Har khaar hamara hai, har phool hamara hai;
Humne hi lahoo dekar gulshan ko sanwaara hai.
And this is our garden; we are its keepers. If only this much happens—

Hum doobne waalon ko kaafi ye sahaara hai—
Saahil pe tu aa jaana, har mauj kinaara hai.
For us who drown, that is support enough:
You stand upon the shore—then midstream itself is the bank. A glimpse of the Beloved—let it be from the shore—and midstream becomes shore. That glimpse can arise at any moment—now. But for it we must retract our spread-out life; gather at a point; become undivided; invent an entire style of living.

Understand it thus: to live in a straight line, on the track, as a fakir of the rut, with the crowd—that is the world. To live in depth—not from A to B to C, but from A to ever-deeper A, diving to the akshar—that is sannyas. To make the muhurt itself your life—that is sannyas. And to say, “I will live tomorrow, the day after”—that longing is the world.

N. R. Bansal, this small question hides many things. We will have to take them one by one.
You asked—“these days…”

People often have the illusion that the disturbances in the name of religion are a phenomenon of “these days.” They have been happening forever. When will this illusion drop? They have been happening since time immemorial. This is not some special fault of today.

People try to explain it away by saying, “This is Kali Yuga.” Hindus say, “It’s Kali Yuga; of course this will happen.” As though it didn’t happen in Satya Yuga! In Satya Yuga the condition was worse. Today at least someone can ask a question; in Satya Yuga one could not. Today at least there can be discussion. Today at least a madcap like me can speak plainly. In Satya Yuga even that wasn’t possible. Tongues were cut out; molten lead was poured into ears. A person like Rama had molten lead poured into a shudra’s ear. What became of him, who knows? If molten lead is poured into the ear, the ears will burst, perhaps the eyes too—because ear, eye, nose are all connected. That’s why one doctor treats all three—ear, nose, throat. And the ears are doors to the brain. If the ears burst and boiling lead goes into them, it will reach inside the skull. That poor shudra must have died. And this is Satya Yuga! And the grace of Maryada Purushottam Rama!

Follies in the name of religion have always gone on. The only difference is that today we have begun to ask why these follies happen, whereas then people didn’t even think; they accepted them as natural. That’s the only difference. Man has become a little more reflective.

Jains say this is the fifth era, so of course such things will happen. Then who hammered nails into Mahavira’s ears? That wasn’t the fifth era; a Tirthankara was present. And the Jains say that where a Tirthankara is present, flowers bloom out of season within a radius of twelve kos. No doubt they do—but this man had no awakening at all? He didn’t hammer the nails into Mahavira’s ears from twelve kos away; he did it standing right next to him. Trees awaken, flowers bloom—and this man had no awakening! People drove Mahavira out of village after village; they set wild dogs on him. What was his fault? That he was naked—and nudity wasn’t considered decorous.

Nothing has changed. The same madness. Yudhishthira—he was the “king of righteousness”—staked his wife. First the five brothers divided the wife among themselves. Marvelous! If someone did that in Kali Yuga he would be punished; and for certain we wouldn’t call him “king of righteousness.” First they divided a wife, divided the days—dividing a woman as property, the way you divide land. Don’t we say, “Money, woman, land—three that breed quarrels”? We’ve lumped the woman right in with money and land! And once you’ve put her there, what harm in dividing her? In this country we’ve called a wife “property.” Property can be divided. The five brothers divided her equally—divided the hours of the seven days. Perhaps they kept a day or two as a holiday. No one raised an objection! Not only that—among the five virtuous maidens whose names are recited in India, Draupadi is one. Astonishing! If Draupadi is a maiden with five husbands, then those with one husband must be great-maidens indeed. And then this woman was put up as a stake.

There is a limit to inhumanity. But in the name of religion every kind of inhumanity has always gone on. Who crucified Jesus? That didn’t happen “these days.” Who made Socrates drink hemlock? Not “these days.” Who killed Al-Hallaj Mansur? Who cut off Sarmad’s head? Not “these days.” These are old stories—glorious tales of the past.

So, Bansal, don’t ask “these days,” because there is an illusion in that. Perhaps you didn’t even think, when you asked, how much meaning was carried by “these days.” But every day someone or other asks me the same thing—“Why is this happening these days?” It carries the illusion that earlier this didn’t happen. Earlier there was a golden age, everything was fine; now everything has gone wrong. Nothing was ever just fine. Conditions were worse than today. People didn’t even have the capacity to ask questions.

The day Rama had molten lead poured into a shudra’s ears, there were millions of shudras in India—but no rally went out, no strike happened, no gherao took place. Otherwise the “Maryada Purushottam” would have been gheraoed. At the very least the shudras could have stopped cleaning the filth of Ayodhya. Even that didn’t happen. The shudras also accepted, “It’s right; Rama can’t do anything wrong.” What had the man done? He had only heard—and even that by chance, because he was passing and a brahmin was chanting, and this shudra overheard. Since the words of the Veda fell on his ears, and that was forbidden—Manu forbade it five thousand years ago—that no shudra may read the Veda, no woman may read the Veda. What a Satya Yuga! What golden ages!

If the Veda is religion, are women and shudras denied the right to religion? If the Veda carries truth, are women and shudras denied the right to truth? And even a person like Rama inflicts punishment! And still Rama is worshiped! Ramleelas are still enacted! And to this day you burn Ravana’s effigy! At least make a small change now. Something new would bring a little relish too. Ravana wasn’t such a great culprit. Yes, he abducted Sita; but the courtesy he showed Sita, Rama and Lakshmana did not show to Ravana’s sister Shurpanakha.

What was Shurpanakha’s fault? Is it a fault that she fell in love with Lakshmana? If that’s a fault, Rama and Lakshmana had committed it first. They too fell in love with Sita. She was plucking flowers in the garden; the two brothers were passing by; and as Valmiki describes with relish, they swayed and were intoxicated at once. Both brothers were smitten. That’s why, when there was delay at the swayamvara, Lakshmana would repeatedly surge with zeal. Because of his elder brother he would have to sit down again. Ramachandra would say, “Sit.” Out of obedience—and with the elder present—how could he? Otherwise he would have stood up several times saying, “I’ll break the bow right now.”

So if Rama and Lakshmana can feel love for Sita, it wasn’t a fault that Shurpanakha felt love for Lakshmana. It was an honor for Lakshmana. He was a lovely youth, a handsome youth. And drop the misconception that the Ramlilas have spread across the land that Shurpanakha was an ugly woman. She was exceedingly beautiful, a princess. If she made a proposal of love, that was entirely proper; there is no prohibition against that. If Lakshmana didn’t like it, he could have said, “Forgive me—sorry.” That would have been enough. What was the need to cut off her nose? But he looked neither left nor right, and under Ramachandra’s presiding authority this ceremony of nose-cutting was performed.

Ravana behaved in no obscene manner with Sita. He kept her with great respect; he did not even touch her. He could have used force, but he did not even touch her. He kept her with honor and regard, separately, lodged in a special, most beautiful garden. Like a guest. Yet poor Ravana—every year you make his effigy and burn it, and Rama is still the “Ideal Man.”

Many nets have been spread in the name of religion. Not only the hands of small people, but the hands of great people are in them—great vested interests.

So, Bansal, don’t bring up the word “these days.” This has always been so. Quarrels in the name of religion have been continuous. Quarrels have been only in the name of religion. The reason is clear: we harbor a fundamental misconception about religion. As with a lamp—when it burns there is light; when it goes out, the light ends—so when a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Lao Tzu, a Jesus-like person ignites, there is light; and when that person departs, the light departs. But the lamp goes out and we get busy worshiping the darkness. Once the lamp is extinguished, only darkness remains. Granted there was a lamp there once and there once was light—but now there is only darkness. When the lamp burns, there is religion; when the worship of darkness begins, there is a sect. And what will sects do if not fight? What will the blind do if not collide?

Religion appears only sometimes. When some Buddha, some meditator, someone who has attained supreme knowledge is present, then religion manifests. And as soon as that person departs, religion becomes lost again. It will manifest again. Lamps will be lit again and light will come. But only when the lamps are lit does the light come. In between there is darkness.

And here’s the amusing thing: those who worship Mahavira’s extinguished lamp will not accept the lit lamp of Buddha. People focus more on the lamp—how it is made, small or big, of clay or of gold, what carving it has, what seal or stamp. No one cares about the light—whether there is flame or not. And the flame is the same, whether it burns in a clay lamp or in a gold one. But people’s eyes dwell on the lamps; they do not see the light. They keep fingering the lamps. So the follower of Mahavira will not accept Buddha even if his lamp is lit; the follower of Buddha will not accept Kabir’s lit lamp; the follower of Kabir will not accept Nanak’s. Their eyes have been caught by their own lamp. No one accounts for the light. Sects are formed around extinguished lamps; a burning lamp is religion.

Religion is only when the true master is alive; after that, under the name of religion only irreligion remains. Then there will be quarrels and strife; temple and mosque will fight; gurdwara and church will fight. This is entirely natural. Until we bid farewell to sects, these disturbances will continue. Until it becomes deeply and clearly settled in our minds that religion manifests only sometimes—most of the time it is unmanifest, a dark night—and if we recognize that dark as dark, the quarrels will already lessen. If a Hindu understands, “I no longer have any burning lamp,” then what is there to fight about? If a Muslim understands, “I have no burning lamp,” what is there to fight about? Wherever there is a burning lamp, both should go—because the question is of light. And the light is His—the Divine’s. It is neither Buddha’s nor Mahavira’s, neither Mohammed’s nor Christ’s. It comes from one source and dissolves back into the same source.

But when Buddha has passed, we sit worshiping the footprints his feet left on the sands of time. Then your footprints versus his footprints; the quarrel arises—whose footprints are correct, who is right? No one’s footprints are “correct”—they are footprints in sand. And the one who made them, who had passed that way, is no longer present. But the pundits and priests raise temples and mosques around these footprints; abbots are installed. Shankaracharyas, Ayatollahs, Popes stand around the footprints—and a vast business runs. In that business there will be quarrels, because there will be competition.

You ask, “These days, in the country the communal quarrels happening in the name of religion—what do you have to say?” They have always happened and will keep happening, unless we understand clearly the difference between religion and sect. Religion is aliveness. When someone is breathing, there is religion; when the breath is gone, when the bird of life has flown away and the cage is left—what do we do? Granted the father was very dear, granted the mother was very dear—what will you do? You quickly prepare the bier and take them to the cremation ground for farewell. What use is it to keep a corpse at home? What use is it to carry a corpse around?

And in the name of religion, people are sitting with corpses. The corpses have rotted; they reek. So someone rubs camphor on them, someone wafts incense so that somehow the stench of the corpse is masked and not revealed. Perfume is sprayed. Flowers are piled on the corpse. A thousand devices are tried. And the joke is that alongside, the quarrel continues about whose corpse is more alive; whose corpse is dearer; whose corpse is real, whose is fake.

When Buddha speaks, his words house the void; they carry the savor of nirvana. When Buddha is gone, the letters written in the book are only ink. Yet quarrels continue over that ink. When Buddha speaks there is no ink! What is ink? Darkness. Now there are many kinds of ink, but the old habit persists: we call blue ink “ink,” red ink “ink.” Ink means “dark.” In olden times there was only one color of ink—black. Hence “blackness” was the color of ink. Buddha’s utterances are pure white. By the time they reach paper they become black. If you must read Buddha on paper, read him on a blank sheet—perhaps you will find him, if you find him at all. But don’t read him in the ink; you won’t find him in ink. And quarrels go on over blackened pages.

But the politicians profit, the gurus profit, the pundits and priests—everyone profits from these quarrels. If there are no quarrels, politics does not survive. If there are no quarrels, leaders do not survive. If there are no quarrels, what need is there of a pundit, of a priest? Huge vested interests are hidden in quarrels. Many people live off them; without quarrels they would die. Therefore the quarrels have to be kept alive somehow. And the greatest irony is that the very people who create quarrels are the ones who pacify them. Those who provoke conflicts are the ones who calm them. The quarrel must not go so far that everything collapses; nor must it end—otherwise they themselves will be finished. So politicians and religious leaders have to walk very carefully: let there be a little quarrel, let the fire smolder; let it not flare up; let there be smoke. It must not happen that even the smoke clears and people begin to see clearly, their eyes become clean—that too is a danger.

Disturbances in the name of religion
will keep happening like this:
some will keep weeping,
some, sheet pulled up to their heads,
will keep sleeping soundly.
Mosque, church, temple—
bequests in a will
in the names of mullah, pundit, pope, priest—
history bears witness:
the contractors of religion
have even sold them off
in the name of ideals.
For the sake of one beast
a human turns beast;
cold blood boils.
What worry for a hundred, two hundred lives:
let religion remain, let rites remain,
let the man be shameless—
just keep the modern contractors,
the politicians’ pockets, warm.
These people will go on
sowing seeds of hatred—
until you and I awaken,
disturbances in the name of religion
will go on just like this.

What is needed is consciousness. What is needed is awareness. The world doesn’t need Hindus or Muslims or Jains or Christians or Parsis. It needs human beings. These are worn-out ruts; and these worn-out ruts keep you deprived of the light that sometimes burns. If you are free, not bound anywhere, with no pegs driven into you, you will recognize quickly.

Buddha was born; the Hindus did not recognize him. Nanak was born; the Buddhists did not recognize him. Mohammed was born; the Jews did not recognize him. Jesus was born. Such people kept being born. But those tied to old pegs… Who crucified Jesus? Those who worshiped Moses. Moses had once been a lit lamp, but by then the flame had gone long ago—about a thousand years. The flame that burned in Jesus was the same that burned in Moses. But the followers of Moses crucified Jesus. Because they felt threatened; their sect felt endangered.

Religion never faces danger. Either religion is, or it is not. Danger never arises for it. While it is, there can be no danger; and when it is not, what danger could there be?

The river has shifted its course far away;
only desolate ghats remain.
When could courtyard, threshold, lattice
ever bind the circles of wandering feet?
For the aching heart there is no cure
in ocher robes or rudraksha.
Again the renunciate left the temple—
again the doors stood open.
Pressed to the breast—and then let go;
after bowing low, the bow was drawn taut again.
To whom can the mind now tell its pain?
The arrow wanders through the directions.
The fair one took her bargain and went home;
now the marketplace stands empty.
The river changed course and moved far away;
only deserted ghats remain.

The beloved has long since gone! The buying and selling are over. A deserted market is all that remains. The river changed course long ago and moved far away. But the worship goes on. There is no river; only sand remains—but the worship goes on. The market is ruined; only the traces remain—but the worship goes on. And because of this worship, wherever a new market may have sprung up, wherever a new bazaar lifted, wherever a new shop opened, where truth has been cast anew in fresh words, where meditation has ripened, where blossoms of samadhi have opened, where garlands have come for sale—you do not go there. You sit in your old market where there is nothing left. The shops are empty.

Again the renunciate left the temple—
again the doors stood open.
As long as the renunciate is in the temple, the temple is alive. When the renunciate has gone, what remains is open doors. Now, bruise your head as you like—nothing will come of it.

But why is it that when a person attains enlightenment, people are afraid to come to him? They worship the dead and fear the living. There is a reason for fearing the living. Vested interests do block the way; but inward fear blocks it too. Standing with any awakened person is not without danger. It is risky; it is the work of a gambler.

I got tipsy and I strayed—
do not take offense at what I said.
I too am poised against life;
you too, put life to question.
I got tipsy and I strayed…
You won’t be able to keep pace with me;
leave me to my own state.
At every step I stumble—
how long will you keep propping me up?
I got tipsy and I strayed…
Some goblet of the water of life—
cupbearer, I do not want it.
Give me no Khizr to guide my life;
make me matchless in love.
I got tipsy and I strayed…
These bounds of temple and sanctuary?
No—this is the tavern; here there is no grief.
Here life itself is dancing—
come someday and see the goblet flung high.
I got tipsy and I strayed…
In search of rays, ray by ray,
I will pierce the starry night;
I will mix the dusk with the dawn,
casting some sun as a mold.
I got tipsy and I strayed…
Do not take offense at what I said.
I too am poised against life;
you too, put life to question.
I got tipsy and I strayed…

To stand with an enlightened man is not without danger, because he is intoxicated. He has drunk the wine of Rama; he is lost in its ecstasy. His steps stagger. His words are intoxicating, heady. His words are revolution—fire—volcanic.

You won’t be able to keep pace with me;
leave me to my own state.
At every step I stumble—
how long will you keep propping me up?
I got tipsy and I strayed…

If you are to walk with him, you need some chest—some heart. A calculating mind cannot walk with Buddhas. Yes, it is fine with statues. It can worship statues, offer flowers, light incense and a lamp, perform aarti. What danger is there in a statue? Then whether it is Mahavira’s statue or Buddha’s, it makes no difference. Any statue will do; you can bang your head before it. What can a statue do to you? It’s formality. But going to a living Mahavira isn’t free of danger.

I have heard a little story about Mahavira. A young man came home after hearing Mahavira. He sat down to bathe; his wife was massaging his body, he bathed, they chatted. His wife said, “I heard you too went to hear Mahavira today. I’m surprised, because you never went, you never took an interest. This was your first time. The family I come from are all devotees of Mahavira. My brothers are so absorbed in his words that any day now they’ll take initiation—if not today, tomorrow. Sometime or other they’ll certainly be initiated.”

The young man asked his wife, “Since when have they been thinking that?” It had been five or six or seven years since their marriage. She said, “From before my marriage. Why?”

The young man burst out laughing and said, “Nothing—only this: a man who has been thinking for five or seven years about taking renunciation—what renunciation will he take! Your brother is a coward.”

The conversation soured; a quarrel broke out. The wife, too, flared up. She said, “How could you say such a thing? Take your words back! My brothers will take initiation. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the day after—sooner or later, that’s all. But their resolve is absolutely firm.”

But the husband said, “I say again—your brother is a coward. I heard Mahavira only once—today, the first time. Even from that much I have understood this much: the man who is thinking of taking renunciation ‘sometime’ is a coward.”

The wife said, “Then you must be a real man—show me by doing something!” She said it in the heat of the moment; she had no idea how far it would go. The youth, naked, bathing, stood up. The wife asked, “Where are you going?”

He said, “The matter is finished.” She said, “I don’t understand.”

He opened the door and began to go out. “Where are you going, naked?”

He said, “The matter is finished. If I am to be naked, why go to Mahavira and become naked? I’ll go naked from here itself!”

The wife ran. She called the family: “Stop him, hold him—what has happened to him? He has gone astray!” But the youth said, “Now it has gone too far; I cannot turn back.” That very day he went to Mahavira and took initiation. Mahavira, too, was a little surprised; because others who came for initiation came wearing clothes—indeed, their finest clothes—since it would be the last time. If they were princes, they would even come with their crowns on, jeweled ornaments. They would make one last show. The urge to display does not go easily. “What sort of man are you? You came naked from home!”

Behind him a big crowd was coming—family, wife weeping, “Come back; I take back my words; what are you doing? Think of me too. It was only talk, a joke.”

But he said, “Now it has gone too far. The joke has gone too far. I was already thinking. Don’t be sad. I have made it firm. I thank you that you gave the opportunity; otherwise I would have had to say it myself. I was thinking to finish my bath and go to take initiation, and you raised the issue—so on the spot I announced the decision. Don’t worry. Renunciation doesn’t happen because of someone; does it ever happen because of someone else? It has arisen within me.”

Such courage is needed, N. R. Bansal, to be with a religious man. But to be sectarian requires no courage. A sect is a crowd—a flock of sheep. Not a pride of lions. One who has the courage to awaken has to walk apart from the crowd—the enormous mass of millions spread over the earth. He must seek his own line. In this deep, wild forest of life, he must make his own path by walking it.

To be with a Buddha is to stake your life like a gambler. It is work for gamblers; work for drunkards. And to be with a Buddha you need preparation—that he will refute your every thought, break your every idol, demolish your every notion. It will feel as if he is burning you, tempering you in fire. Only when the capacity comes to stand in fire and take the blows, not merely to endure but to feel grateful even while enduring—only then does someone become religious. Otherwise, in the name of religion what runs is sect, and a sect is a crowd of the blind; they will keep colliding. They always have collided. The same will happen ahead. Nothing else can happen.

That’s all for today.