Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #5

Anand Kiran, this sutra is profoundly packed with meaning. Shrutih vividhāh… There are two kinds of scripture—shruti and smriti. Shruti means “that which was directly heard” from an awakened one. Those who sat near Gautam Buddha, heard him, and compiled his words—those are shrutis. Those who lived with Mahavira, who kept the company of Kabir; those who built bridges of love to a living master, who surrendered and listened; who set their intellect aside and listened; who didn’t allow their own arguments and prior knowledge to interfere and listened—what was compiled in this way is shruti.

But then come those who heard the shruti and “understood” it. For example, Ananda heard Buddha and compiled his words. That’s why all the Buddhist scriptures begin with the line: “Thus have I heard.” Ananda doesn’t say, “Thus I know.” He only says, “This is how I heard it.” Who knows if it is exactly right? Perhaps I introduced some obstacle. Perhaps a ripple of my own thinking came in between. Perhaps my mind was clouded, dust in my eyes made me see otherwise. Perhaps I took a different meaning and the meaning turned into non-meaning. So, who knows what Buddha actually said? Only this much is certain: this is what I heard.

This is a statement of great honesty: “Thus have I heard.” Not “Thus spoke Buddha.” What Buddha spoke—Buddha knows; or some future Buddha may know. Meanwhile what Ananda compiled has now been around for twenty-five centuries. People read it, recite it, ponder it, comment upon it. The scriptures that arise in this way are smriti—remembered tradition.

It is like this: the moon in the sky casts its reflection on a lake, and then you look at that lake in a mirror, and in your mirror appears the reflection of a reflection. Shruti is like the moon fallen upon the lake; smriti is like a photograph of the lake—or the lake trapped in a mirror. Smriti is a sound from afar—farther still. Shruti too is “from outside,” but not so far: at least there is a direct connection between living master and disciple. Something of the substance is bound to have fallen in the ear. One true thing out of a hundred must have landed. Through some seam, some door, some lattice, a ray must have entered. But smriti is very far away—an echo of an echo.

The sutra says: Shrutih vividhāh…
Even in the hearing, everything becomes diverse. Right now you are listening to me; as many people as are listening, that many versions of shruti are being created. I am saying one thing, but you hear according to your backgrounds, your beliefs, your ideas. A Hindu will hear one way, a Jain another, a Buddhist yet another. There are three hundred religions in the world, their three thousand sects, and those sects’ thirty thousand subsects. You are entangled in your own nets of assumption. My words, coming to you, will become something else. The theist hears one way, the atheist another. Both have the same ears, but inside the ears are different minds with their different conditionings.

Buddha once said, “You are hearing me in as many ways as there are people here; you will each interpret me in your own way.” Ananda asked him at night, “I don’t understand. You are one person, and what you speak is what we hear—how can it become different?” Buddha gave him three names and said, “Tomorrow, ask these three what they heard when I concluded my talk with the final line.” At the end of his discourse each day Buddha would say, “It is late—now go and do the night’s last task.” This was simply a signal to the monks: before sleep, enter meditation; fall into sleep from meditation. For there is not much difference between deep sleep and samadhi. Deep sleep is an unconscious samadhi; samadhi is a wakeful deep sleep. So transforming sleep into samadhi is the most effortless device for self-realization. Just a small joining is needed.

Sushupti—dreamless deep sleep—means all dreams have vanished, thoughts and desires are gone; where even mind disappears, the state of no-mind arises. But there is still unconsciousness—no alertness. Silence is there, profound peace, deep stillness. If only one more lamp would be lit—a little awareness! If only we could see and recognize this profound peace while awake! That is why meditation just before sleep is of utmost importance. One who goes deep into it finds that all night a continuous stream of emptiness flows within; a flame remains lit. In its light dreams first appear and then disappear; deep sleep itself becomes apparent. And when deep sleep is seen, that very seeing is samadhi. Where the seer is present, deep sleep is samadhi.

Hence Buddha would not say every day, “Now meditate”; he would give the symbol: “Go and do the night’s final task. The day is done; do the last thing and fall asleep while doing it.”

Buddha told Ananda: “Tomorrow ask these three what they understood when I said that sentence. All three were before me, and seeing their faces I knew each had understood differently.”

The next day Ananda asked the three—“Buddha himself has asked, so speak truthfully.” A little embarrassed, they still opened their hearts. One was a monk absorbed in intense practice. He said, “What else would I understand? I understood I should go, dive into meditation, and slip into sleep while soaked in meditation.”

The second was a thief. He said, “How can I hide it? Buddha himself asks—I must tell the truth. When he said that sentence, I thought: ‘Ah, the night is deepening. My work time has come. Let me go, do some stealing, and return early to sleep.’”

The third was a courtesan—Amrapali, later to become a bhikkhuni of Buddha. That she became a disciple shows she was a genuine woman. She blushed, but told the truth: “How can I conceal it? When he spoke that line I felt: ‘Let me go and take up my work.’ My profession is that of a courtesan.”

So one went to meditate, one went to steal, and one to her business. And Buddha had spoken one sentence.

Shrutih vividhāh.
As many hearers, that many meanings.

Smritayash cha bhinnāh.
And as for smriti—what to say! It is still farther from the source. I tell you, you tell someone else, he tells a third—soon the tale grows tails. Even where there was no tale, a tail appears. A rag becomes a snake. Centuries pass; one generation hands smritis to the next; each generation adds something. No generation takes it exactly as it was.

A woman, after quarreling with a neighbor, was gossiping to another neighbor, who listened raptly. When the storyteller rose to leave, saying her husband would soon be home, the listener pleaded, “Tell a little more.” The first said, “The truth is, I’ve already told you more than I actually heard. What more can I say?”

Whenever you pass a story along you add a little, cut a little, decorate and color it your way. So smritis multiply endlessly.

This sutra is marvelous: Shrutih vividhāh smritayash cha bhinnāh.
Shrutis differ; smritis differ. If you seek dharma in shrutis and smritis, you will never find it. If you seek truth there, you will not find it. Beware! The sutra is warning you: be alert. Do not get entangled in words. Words are vast jungles; doctrines are wide deserts. Lose yourself there, and even finding your own home becomes difficult.

Nor is the word of any one sage binding authority. Someone may say, “All right, we won’t get lost in words, not in scriptures, not in smriti or shruti. But surely we can trust the utterance of a great soul?” The sutra says: not even this. Because belief is not experience. Why do you believe this one and not that one? Because his saying suits your conditioning. For example, a Jain cannot accept Ramakrishna as a Paramhansa—how can one who eats fish be a “supreme swan”? No Jain ever went to Ramakrishna—how could he?

Just yesterday I received a long letter from a Jain lady, evidently very learned; she has extracted the essence of Jain scriptures. She writes: “Your words seem very lovely, but why do you take the names of Krishna, Christ, Mohammed, Buddha along with a vitarag like Mahavira? Only the passionless one is God. Vitaragata is the sole criterion. On that touchstone, Ram and Krishna fail; even Buddha fails, for he at least uses clothing and a begging bowl—so much attachment, so much possession! Mahavira is sky-clad, bowl-less—hand-to-mouth; even a loincloth not retained. Digambar-hood is proof of vitaragata.”

So she is troubled that I name Mohammed—who carries a sword—or Krishna, entangled in political strategies—or Ram, who goes to war—alongside Mahavira. To her this is all mere maya and attachment. My words please her, but her difficulty is that I place Buddha, Zoroaster, Lao Tzu, Mohammed with Mahavira.

Whatever aligns with your preconceptions you will call “sage.” What doesn’t align you will not. You yourself are the judge and you carry the touchstone. Then whom will you accept? Furthermore, every sage has spoken differently—in his own mode, his own color, with an originality that will not sit inside your stale frameworks. Your molds are made on the basis of corpses; a living Buddha or Jina cannot be seated upon them.

It may also be that someone claims to have known and is either deranged or dishonest. What proof is there that he has known? The statements of the knowers are so different—how will you take any word as proof? Krishna accepts God and soul; Mahavira denies God, accepts soul; Buddha denies both God and soul. What will you do? Whose word will be authority? Not even one sage’s word can be.

Na eko munir yasya vachah pramāṇam.
How could words be proof? Truth is vast; words are tiny. Truth cannot be contained in words. Say as much as you like—something remains unsaid. Truth is like the sky; words are little clay pots. Truth is like the ocean; words are not even droplets. Only experience is proof of truth—your own experience. Another’s experience cannot be your proof. A man may beat his head and insist, “I have seen God,” but why should that bring trust to you? He may be self-deluded or deluding others, hypnotized by a notion.

There are people who chant Krishna until they begin to see Krishna; it is their own projection. A Christian will never see Krishna; he will see Christ. And a Krishna-devotee never sees Christ; if by accident Christ appears he’ll say, “Out of the way!” Then he will bathe with Ganges water to purify himself.

According to Jain thought, a Tirthankara cannot be pricked by even a thorn, for all his karmas are ended. If a Tirthankara walks and a thorn lies upright, it turns aside. How then can they accept Jesus as a Tirthankara, for he is crucified—not merely pricked by a thorn! Surely he suffered the fruit of some grave sin from a past birth!

But to a Christian, Mahavira does not appeal at all. What is the point of standing naked? Eyes closed, seeking one’s own liberation—pure self-interest! Even if you became peaceful and blissful—where is service? No hospitals, no schools, no care for orphans, no tending of the lame or the leprous. What kind of religion is this? Jesus gave sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, limbs to the lame, healed the sick, raised the dead. These are the signs! Apart from these signs, how can divinity be recognized?

So to Christians, Mahavira and Buddha are selfish—seeking their own happiness. One seeks wealth, another seeks heaven—yet it is “mine” in both. One wants victory here, another there. Those who win there we call Jina—the conquerors. But it is still the language of conquest. Christians don’t like it.

Ask a Muslim: neither Mahavira, nor Jesus, nor Buddha will impress him. For a Muslim, Mohammed is the true prophet—the real one—because he struggled his whole life, even wielded the sword to transform the ignorant, risked his life, determined to bring the errant to the path. To make someone Muslim means to bring him to the path. If they come by their own will, good; if not, even by force must they be brought.

You may feel this violates freedom; even a child going toward the fire feels his freedom is stolen when his mother drags him away. But these people speak in such different languages, in such disparate styles and structures—whom will you treat as authority?

Na eko munir yasya vachah pramāṇam.
No single sage’s word is conclusive. Then what is the way?

The sutra says: Dharmasya tattvam nihitam guhāyām.
Anand Kiran, you translated it as “the essence of dharma is profound.” Linguistically fine; experientially not. Dharmasya tattvam nihitam guhāyām—its meaning is: the essence of dharma is hidden in the inner cave—guhāyām! In that cave of the heart. It will not be found in the sayings of sages, nor in shrutis or smritis. Not in Himalayan caves, but in the cave within. Dive into your own consciousness and you will find it.

Dharmasya tattvam nihitam guhāyām.
Because shruti is outside, smriti is outside, the sage’s words are outside; dharma is within you—your very nature, your intrinsic being.

Seek it in your own cave. It is realized through samadhi, because samadhi is a dive into oneself.

Mahājano yena gatah sa panthāh.
And the path trodden by the great ones—that alone is the path.

You ask, “What is the mark of a mahājan?”
For the intellect, none—because a mahājan is not apprehended through intellect, and “marks” belong to the language of the intellect.

You ask for “symptoms.” Then the same trouble begins for mahājans as for sages. What will you take as a sign? Is nakedness the sign? Then only the sky-clad Jain monks are mahājans, and Jesus, Zoroaster, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu—such wondrous beings—are not. If “service” is the sign, Mahavira never performed any social service.

I receive letters: Jains write to me, “Why don’t you serve the poor?” If they met Mahavira they would ask him too, “Why not serve the poor?” Do you think there were no poor, no lepers, no blind, no lame in Mahavira’s time? There were. Neither Mahavira nor Buddha “served” anyone. What then is the criterion? If service is it, Christian missionaries are the mahājans—they dedicate themselves to service; their religion is service.

If samadhi is the criterion, samadhi is deeply inward. Who will decide who has it? Ramakrishna would swoon in samadhi; Buddha never fainted. Ask the Buddhists, and they will say Ramakrishna’s samadhi is a dull, unconscious samadhi—not the real one. Psychiatrists agree—what happened to Ramakrishna looks like an epileptic fit: froth at the mouth, eyes rolling upward, limbs stiffening. Is it epilepsy or ecstasy? Buddha never had such samadhi. But a devotee of Ramakrishna will doubt Buddha’s samadhi: “His eyes don’t roll up; teeth don’t clench; the tongue doesn’t get cut between the teeth.” Whose signs will you accept?

So who is a mahājan? The intellect cannot decide. The decision happens through the heart. With whom does your being fall in rhythm, in whose presence does your inner lotus bloom—that one is the mahājan. Leave aside surface traits. This is what Carl Gustav Jung called synchronicity—when sitting near someone a music starts within you; their awakened life touches you, and if you sit in silence and surrender, that life impresses itself upon your sleeping consciousness. Those rays penetrate you and begin a new inner sequence. Wherever your inner tune matches—synchronicity—where a flute is heard by which your feet begin to tinkle on their own, that is your mahājan.

The test for mahājan is not intellectual but of the heart; not logical but of love. And love is mad—love admits no bookkeeping. Where your peacock of the heart dances, there is your mahājan. Then never mind what the world says. If your heart dances near Mohammed, don’t worry whether he is vitarag or not; for you, Mohammed is a mahājan. Tastes differ: one’s soul dances with Buddha, another with Mahavira, another with Mohammed, Jesus, or Kabir. Wherever your humming begins within, where the bird inside you flutters to fly into the sky—that is your mahājan.

Mahājano yena gatah sa panthāh.
Then don’t worry too much about what the mahājan says; watch how he lives. Don’t get tangled in his words; drink the beauty and the prasad of his life. How he rises, sits, walks. In the Gita, Krishna defines the man of steady wisdom: how he rises, sits, walks; whether in sorrow or joy he remains even; in victory or defeat he remains the same.

Don’t be preoccupied with the great one’s words; enter the recognition of his life. Look into his eyes. Tune your breath to his. Let his very way of living be his message to you.

Mahājano yena gatah sa panthāh.
Live as the mahājan lives, moves, breathes. And remember—this does not mean imitation or mimicry. It means joining your rhythm to his, becoming so empty that the ego is not in the way, so that the one you love can cover you entirely, his rain falls wholly upon you. Open your vessel; don’t sit with it covered. Drop your veils so his rays can enter. Open all doors and windows so his winds can come and sweep away your dust.

Mahājano yena gatah sa panthāh.
Therefore, do not wander in shrutis, nor in smritis, nor in the words of sages. The truth is hidden within you. But since you do not yet know your own truth, sit near one who knows—and who is that? The one in whose presence your inner truth begins to stir and stretch; there is no other proof. If, sitting by someone, a sweet intoxication and ecstasy descend—take it as a sign: this is the place, this is the destination; this is the temple where you must bow your head and not raise it again. Then that essence of dharma, hidden in profound inner caves, can be realized.

Dharmasya tattvam nihitam guhāyām.
Mahājano yena gatah sa panthāh.

Yog Pritam’s song—

Flow, my river, flow soft and slowly,
Flow, my spring of feeling, flow soft and slowly.
Flow so that time itself flows with you,
Become a tune all can hum.
In forests of the heart, in deep valleys,
Let your silent mouth tell your own tale.

Fly, my myna, fly light and tender,
Fly, my song-bird, fly soft and slowly.
Fly into the sky of consciousness
So that, seeing you, all wings remember to flutter.
Fly so that they recall their own selves,
Join so that all hearts learn to join.

Bloom, my buds, upon the heart’s stem,
Bloom, my flowers, bloom soft and slowly.
Bloom so that seeing you, all minds blossom,
Sing some song, hum some ghazal,
Drown everyone in a sea of fragrance,
Proclaim the reign of beauty to all.

Pour, my cloud—become rain of nectar,
Pour, my monsoon, pour soft and slowly.
Pour so that fairs of spring gather daily,
Somewhere a peacock dances, the papiha calls,
The earth turns lush, hearts sway and sing,
The river of joy breaks all its banks.

Speak, my drunkenness, say something swaying,
Speak, my mind, speak soft and slowly—
Say something like wine, something like honey,
Like the cuckoo’s coo from the mango grove,
Like a bud that bursts and says a few words,
Strike a note that binds earth to sky.

Stay, my friend, stay by my side,
Tell the heart’s story, tell it soft and slowly.
Flow, my river, flow soft and slowly,
Flow, my spring of feeling, flow soft and slowly.

The mahājan is recognized through feeling, not through argument or doctrine. Only the lovers can recognize the flame; when the lamp is lit, moths are drawn—only the moths know. They come ready to die.

The essence of dharma lies hidden in the deepest caves—the caves within you of which you have neither map nor mark. But in the presence of one in whom dharma is ripened, a resonance can arise in you too; your veena’s strings can vibrate because his veena is sounding. The presence of one who is awake can become the very cause of breaking your sleep.

So, Anand Kiran, recognizing the mahājan is not a matter for the intellect. No list of signs will help. It is a matter of feeling, of a sweet madness, of intoxication. This whole process is of love—less a matter of temples than of taverns; more for drunkards than for shopkeepers. How do you know you love a woman or a man? By what proof? Which shruti, which smriti? It happens—and if it doesn’t, no effort can force it; if it does, no effort can erase it. Exactly such a love-event, on a very high plane, occurs between master and disciple. But it is love, through and through.

Bharat Bhushan, hope is sweet—but forgive me, I will disappoint you. I cannot accept it. On the surface your words seem perfectly right; within, they are not right at all.

First: “Without roots there is no possibility of flowers…”
True, as far as physical flowers are concerned—without roots there can be no flowers. But Buddhahood is a sky-flower. It is no ordinary blossom. It is not a material, bodily flower. In fact the flower is invisible. And this invisible flower is not connected to roots. You ask, “How can there be a present without the past?” You say, “Without the past the present is not possible…”

I want to say to you: it is because of the past that the present does not become possible. You say, without the past the present is not possible—and I understand why you say so; anyone would. But try to understand me too: it is because of the past that the present does not happen. Only when the past drops is the present possible.

In ordinary convention we divide time into three segments: past, present, future. But those who have known samadhi know only two segments of time—past and future. The present is not a segment of time. The present belongs to the eternal, not to time. Time is a flow; the eternal is stillness. The present is the entry of the eternal into the river of time—like a ray descending into darkness. Granted, the ray is in the darkness, but it is not part of the darkness; it belongs to a sun. Imagine a dark room in your house; through a tiny chink between the roof tiles, a sunbeam slips in. From above it appears part of your dark room because you can see it there; but it is not of that darkness. How can light be part of darkness? That ray belongs to the sun.

So the present belongs to the eternal, not to time. Time divides only into two: past and future. One who settles in the present has no roots in the past and no branches in the future; he is utterly in the present. And the present is so vast—what need then of past, what need of future? In the future there is craving and desire; in the past there is memory. In samadhi there is neither memory nor desire. Where there is neither memory nor desire, eternity is experienced—that experience is the present.

So, Bharat Bhushan, forgive me for disappointing you. This flower of Buddhahood blooms without roots. And this present I am speaking of has nothing to do with the past; it is not a link in the chain of the past. It is utterly different—transcending the past, beyond the past.

You assumed one thing and then built further arguments on it: “In the same way, our roots are linked with the timeless glory of Indian culture.”

Yours may be; I have nothing to do with that. Mine were too once, but since awakening they are not. Since then I have not been connected to Indian culture, nor to any culture. Since then I have not even been linked to my own past—how will I be linked to anyone else’s past?

Awakening is a revolution, not a tradition. It is a leap.

And what “timeless glory” are you talking about? Religion has nothing to do with history. What glory? Why drag the dead? Why haul along rotting corpses? The load on you has become so heavy you can hardly walk—let alone dance. But how to put the load down? It is “glorious”!

I continuously demolish your past for this reason: I want you to drop the whole burden of it. Even if your past were of gold, drop it. Put gold on your chest and sit with it—it will kill you just the same. What glory is there in that? If Buddha happened in your land, if Mahavira happened, it was only a coincidence of place—not because of your land. In China there were Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Lieh Tzu—no impediment. In Greece there were Socrates, Pythagoras, Plotinus—no impediment. In Jerusalem there was Jesus—no impediment.

Awakened ones have arisen all over the world. Their arising has nothing to do with geography or history, with soil or climate, with cold or heat. Don’t fall into this madness. And if you go on like this, absurdities will multiply: if Buddha and Mahavira both were from Bihar, what of Maharashtra? What of Punjab? What of Gujarat? And Buddha and Mahavira did not arise “in all of Bihar”—they were born in specific places. Buddha was born in Kapilvastu—a small town whose very trace has vanished now. Then the glory belongs to Kapilvastu. And not even to all of Kapilvastu—he was born in some neighborhood, in some house. And not in the entire house; the palace was large—he must have been born in one room. And not in the whole room—he must have been born on some bed. Then let the cot have the glory! Let the cot stand tall! Is this how “glory” is earned? And do you think that cot had any special virtue? Any cot would have done. And even without a cot he would have been born. After all, Jesus found no cot. His parents had gone to a fair; the guesthouses were full, the inns full, no place anywhere—only a stable was found, and he was born there. Who deliberates before being born whether a stable is fitting? Where there was straw, there Jesus was born.

Neither earth nor sky, neither land nor tradition has anything to do with it. The flower of Buddhahood can bloom anywhere; it has bloomed everywhere. This madness should be dropped. But we do not drop it, Bharat Bhushan; our ego is obstructed. And it is the ego I want to be dropped. I am striking your ego from all sides. When I hit at your past, do I have anything to do with the past? I am striking your ego. It is you I am concerned with.

Those who come to me—I want to shatter their ego completely, so they cannot carry it any further. But you want to save it.

You say, “Without roots flowers are not possible…”
A fine argument you’ve found!
“And without the past the present is not possible…”
And from there the chain goes on:
“In the same way, our roots are linked to the timeless glory of Indian culture. This flower of sannyas you are making bloom—its roots too are in Indian culture.”

No—not in the least. If the roots of my sannyas were in Indian culture, would I be abused so much? Would Shankaracharyas, Acharya Tulsi, and all manner of mahants, saints, and mahatmas be against me? The sannyas I speak of has never existed on this earth. I speak of a sannyas that does not come out of flight from the world. All your past sannyas was escapist. Even your Buddha and your Mahavira were escapists.

The sannyas I speak of is the art of living, not of renouncing life. It is a way of living life with such totality and wholeness as if life itself is God—there is no other God elsewhere. Nothing to renounce, nowhere to run. One must live here—but learn the art of living. Live attentively. Live in samadhi.

By no means, don’t even by mistake think that its roots are in your culture. Ramakrishna spent twenty-four hours abusing two things—woman and gold. “Beware only of these,” he said. “If you avoid these two, everything will be fine.” They were the only life-blood he kept condemning. Now if you link my sannyas to Ramakrishna, how will it fit? Ramakrishna was utterly tied to Indian culture; that is why no one ever said he was harming Indian culture. Everyone sang his praise: “He has done a great work, he is an avatar—an incarnation! A combined incarnation of both Rama and Krishna!” But he abused woman and gold.

I abuse neither woman nor gold. I say both are lovely. I have no quarrel with them. I say: let wealth grow—grow richly! And I say: may there be more and more women, more and more beautiful! Beauty should grow in life; wealth should grow—in the outer and the inner. I am not an enemy of the outer.

Your past sannyas was an enemy of the outer. Your past sannyas was sickly, suicidal—based on self-torment. That torment was called austerity; renunciation. I am neither a renunciate nor an ascetic. My sannyas has a different adornment altogether, a different grace. So do not link it to your past.

You say, “This flower of sannyas you are making bloom—its roots too are in Indian culture.”
Not at all. That is precisely why I am opposed so much. That opposition is proof enough. Ramakrishna was not opposed; Vivekananda was not opposed; Ram Tirtha was not opposed; Mahatma Gandhi was not opposed. They were nourishers of Indian culture. What I am saying is so new, so different, the dimension so fresh, that opposition is natural.

You say, “You cannot deny this.”
I deny it utterly—one hundred percent.

You say, “The meditation you teach is not original.”
You are mistaken. Only the word is old—and words are a compulsion. We have to use old words, because the language must be the one you can understand. So I use the word meditation; do not be misled by that. My meditation has nothing to do with Patanjali’s. And don’t imagine, because I have spoken on Patanjali, that my meditation is related to his. Even there, resting my gun on Patanjali’s shoulder, I fired my own shots. I use any shoulder I find—Mahavira’s, Buddha’s, Patanjali’s. When a shoulder is handy, I rest the gun on it. I am hardly going to rest the gun on my own shoulder! A gun must be on another’s shoulder if you want the aim to be true.

But my meditation is not Patanjali’s. Patanjali begins with dharana—concentration; dharana, dhyana, samadhi—his three steps. My meditation is freedom from dharana. Only when there is freedom from concentration does meditation begin. Patanjali’s meditation begins with the deepening of concentration. What he calls meditation is concentration. What I call meditation is relaxation, not concentration. What he calls meditation is a function of the mind. What I call meditation is the absence of mind. What he calls samadhi is the culmination of his meditation. What I call samadhi is the culmination of my meditation. But between his meditation and mine there is a foundational difference. The same difference holds between my meditation and that of Mahavira, and of Buddha.

Those who have read Buddha through me may feel I am saying what Buddha said. They are mistaken. If you read Buddha through me, you are reading me. Buddha is only an occasion, a peg; but I always hang my own coat. Why should I hang someone else’s coat? And how could I? I will hang my own coat—whatever the peg. If no peg is there, I will hang it on a nail; if no nail, on the door. One way or another, the coat must be hung.

I have spoken on all. And therefore whoever tries to understand Jesus through me—let him understand well—he is understanding me. Whoever understands Kabir through me—he is understanding me. These were my ways of bringing my message to you. But what I call meditation is distinct, different, original.

You say, “Then why don’t you accept the inviolate, eternal stream of Indian culture?”
I have nothing to do with it—why should I accept it? I have no connection—why should I accept?

And you say, “Is it not also true that you too are one of the finest flowers blossomed against the background of Indian culture?”
Not in the least. I am not a flower blossomed against any background. I would have blossomed the same in China, in Japan, in Arabia. Since I blossomed, I have understood that my blossoming has no relation to background. And when you blossom, Bharat Bhushan, you will be neither “Bharat” nor “Bhushan.” The very idea of being “Bharat Bhushan” will dissolve. The day you blossom you will find: Ah, I am linked to the Eternal! What have I to do with these little circles, these tiny puddles—India, Pakistan, China, Japan? Join the Vast.

Only when you awaken will you understand me. For now your statements feel very logical to you. They may well be logical—but the experience of samadhi is beyond logic. And the sooner you rid yourself of this old nuisance, the better.

Far off, under the dense shade of a banyan, silent and sad,
where, beneath the dark shroud of night,
the past and the present, like guilty worshipers,
weep quietly over their deeds,
the shattered finial of a desolate mosque
keeps gazing at the river flowing close by,
and on the broken wall an owl sometimes
recites an elegy to departed grandeur.
Dust-laden lamps, beneath gusts of wind,
are buried each day under a fresh layer of earth,
and the farewell breath of the setting sun
comes and snuffs the faint lights at the windows.
Somewhere, in the higher realm, the longing of dusk and dawn
listens to these disheveled prayers,
still thirsting for an evening tinged with rose,
and it gathers up its broken heart.
Or, near the coming of winter, some swallow
finds this place to make its nest,
and, curled up for hours within the broken mihrab,
tells the cold tale of what hangs suspended.
An old donkey, in the wall’s shade, sometimes,
sits and dozes a little before moving on.
Such desolation that even wild whirlwinds, frightened,
turn back from afar.
The floor no longer knows what sweeping is,
the bath for ablutions is not acquainted even with a drop of dew.
On the niche the candle’s tears still remain,
but there is no prayer-rug, no pulpit, no muezzin, no imam.
Once the messages and salutations of the Lord of the heavens had come;
now mountains and doors will no longer hear Gabriel’s call.
Perhaps the foundation of any Kaaba will never again be laid;
Abraham’s voice is lost in the desert of oblivion.
The moon passes with a pale smile;
the stars spread their laundered sheet.
At the funeral of that image cherished in God’s own heart,
only the dew here moistens its eyes, weeping.
A soiled, shabby, dejected little lamp
says each day with threadbare hands:
You come to light me, but never come to put me out.
One keeps burning, but another keeps going out.
Every wave of the swift river, heavy with tumult,
cries out from afar: transient, transient!
Tomorrow I will sweep you away, breaking the shore’s restraints,
and then domes and minarets too will be drowned, drowned.

This old mosque, this ruin—no prayers are offered here now, no worship arises, no lamps are lit. This crumbling mosque loses a brick every day, yet you clutch it to your chest. And as long as you clutch it, you too will remain a ruin.

Bharat Bhushan, if you cling to corpses, you will become a corpse. Life is here and now. Life is the present—not the yesterday that has gone, not the tomorrow yet to come. What has gone is gone; what has not come has not come. One who settles into what is—this settling is called samadhi. And in that samadhi, one who has come to rest has no background, no roots. I call it a sky-flower. Buddhahood is a sky-flower. Therefore Buddhas will be abused; fools will be honored.

“Neither their custom is new, nor our love is new;
neither their defeat is new, nor our victory is new.”

Buddhas will be abused, for they are always free of background, free of the past. And fools will be honored, for they always sing the glory of the past.

I want no honor, no position, no prestige. I am where nothing is needed. I am where nothing remains even to be desired. Since the day I touched this inner sky, the truth hidden in the cave of one’s own being, from that day I have been neither of India nor of China; neither of Hindus nor of Muslims. From that day I have belonged to existence—and I cannot settle for less. And I would wish that you too never settle for less. Whoever settles for less will go on wandering. Whoever settles for less has not accepted the challenge of life in its totality. He will never attain life’s ultimate ecstasy.

Enough for today.