Piv Piv Lagi Pyas #7

The arithmetic of the world and the arithmetic of truth are not only different, they are opposite. The ladder that works in the world becomes a fall in truth. The prop that supports you in the world becomes an obstacle in truth. What makes you succeed in the world makes you fail in truth.
And all of life’s education and training is for success in the world. Which means: around your life a complete arrangement, a complete conditioning is prepared for being a failure in Paramatma. If you want to win in the world, struggle is the formula there; surrender there is a mistake; struggle there is the law. If you surrender, you will never win in the world; you will go on losing. Only if you struggle is there a chance of victory.
But the difficulty deepens. Even if you win in the world, victory does not land in your hands. For victory belongs only to truth. If you want to win in the world, struggle; but when you win you will find your life was spent in struggle and you gained nothing. Winning, you will discover you have lost. The one defeated in the world loses, that is clear; but even the one who wins finds in the end that he has lost.
No one has ever truly won in the world. Yet the world’s formula is struggle; violence, enmity, jealousy, hatred, greed, anger—an entire army—these support you in the world.
We prepare every child for the world. That very preparation becomes a barrier in Paramatma. Until you consent to break that conditioning, the door of the divine—which is always open—will remain closed for you. It will remain ‘closed for you.’ The door is not closed; the door is open. But there is a wall over your eyes; because of that, even the open door is not seen.
In a school a teacher asked the son of a hotel owner: ‘If fifty wedding guests come, so much lentil is needed. If a hundred and fifty come, how many times more lentil will be needed?’ The boy said: ‘The lentil will be the same; only the chili and water will have to be increased.’ The promising son of a hotel owner—being educated, being initiated.
In the world, trust is a mistake. Trust, and you will go astray. Doubt is the essence. In the world, move with the assumption that all are enemies, none is a friend. For if you take someone as friend, from there your fall in the world begins. Take the world as enemy. If you call someone a friend, let it be only in words; never believe it within.
This is the teaching of Kautilya and Machiavelli—do not take anyone as friend. Know even a friend as an enemy within; show friendship on the surface, hold enmity inside. Because if you accept someone as friend, you will trust; and the one you trust will deceive you.
Jesus’ teaching is exactly the reverse: consider even the enemy a friend. So for one well-trained in the first teaching, the second becomes very difficult. To move toward truth, shraddha is needed. To move toward the world, the more suspicious the state of mind, the more helpful it is. And we are trained for the world.
So in irreverence we have a highly expert, skillful arrangement. There is not even a sprout of reverence. Hence even when we turn toward Paramatma, we bring the same skeptical heart that worked in the world. Then it becomes the barrier. His door is eternally open. If something is closed, it is your heart. The eyes are closed.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife went to the doctor. She was ill. He took her into the inner room for examination. While lying on the table she said, ‘One thing—before you examine me, please call the nurse inside.’
The doctor was a bit annoyed. He said: ‘What do you mean? Do you not trust me?’
Nasruddin’s wife said, ‘I trust you completely. I do not trust my husband sitting outside. Call the nurse in. Husband and nurse are alone outside.’
Moment to moment—even those of whom you say you are in love—there is no trust in them.
In the world love is sin, hatred is arithmetic. And this is your education; layer upon layer of this has gathered around you. Therefore, when one day you get tired of the world and knock on the door of Paramatma, your knocking goes in vain. Because the door is not closed; the door is open. The place you knock is your own wall. You are knocking on your own wall. How could the door of the divine be closed? It is your web of conditionings that encircles you on all sides. You yourself have gone wrong.
And until this wrongness is put right, no matter how much Dadu or Kabir hammer your head, even if you feel you have understood, you will still not understand. Your understanding will not help. For the life-position, the structure you have built is fundamentally anti-truth.
Understand this well. That is why Jesus said, ‘Unless you become again like children, you shall not enter the kingdom of the Lord.’ What does it mean to become again like children? It simply means: return to that state where conditioning, society, and culture had not yet impressed you; return to the earlier state when you had learned nothing, when the poison of the world had not entered you, when you had not tasted the world—until you reach that state again, until you become virginal again.
The world has made you adulterated. Until you regain that original simplicity, you will not enter the Lord’s kingdom. And you have become very complex. Too cunning. Too calculating. You have learned the language of the shop, and you have forgotten the arithmetic of love. You have become unfamiliar with love—and then you come to pray.
Coming to pray is like a man who has been paralyzed and cannot even walk, yet plans to run. You cannot walk; how will you run?
You cannot love; how will you pray? You cannot open your heart to one person; how will you open it to the totality? You cannot open to one; how will you open to the infinite?
Keep this first point in mind; then these sutras will be very easy. Otherwise they will be difficult to understand. And that point is: at the door of Paramatma, shraddha is the ally, doubt is the hindrance. Trust—undivided trust, infinite trust—is the door here. A little suspicion, a little doubt—and the door is closed; it is a wall, not a door. Here simplicity—not cleverness; not shrewdness, but innocence—is the ally. Your cleverness, your skill, your degrees gained in the world—there they are degrees, much respected; here those degrees are diseases. The word ‘upadhi’ is beautiful. It has two meanings. One is a respected title; the other is a disease. All titles are diseases. All upadhis are upadhis.
What are heights in the world are your lownesses in the realm of Paramatma. The peaks of the world are dark abysses in the realm of the divine. What is your achievement in the world is your disqualification in the realm of Paramatma.
I have heard: one day the governor of Tokyo came to the door of a Zen fakir. He sent in his card with his name. Below it was written: Governor of Tokyo.
The disciple on door duty took the card inside. The Master saw the card and said, ‘Throw it away. Drive this man off. What need is there of him here? A governor—what has he to do here?’ The governor was naturally surprised. The disciple returned and said, ‘The Master says: remove this man. This door is closed to such a person. What need is there of him here?’
The governor must have been truly intelligent. Such intelligence is hardly expected of governors. He must have been rare. Ordinarily it does not happen. By the time one becomes a governor, one becomes a complete donkey. That is the nature of the journey. There is an Arabian saying: donkeys cannot become horses; but they can become governors.
But this governor must have been unusual—alert with a certain brilliance. Instantly he understood. He took back the card, struck out ‘Governor of Tokyo,’ returned the card and said, ‘Please, take it in once more.’
The Master saw it and said, ‘Ah! This is it. Call him in. We thought he was a governor. What need is there of a governor here? This is an old acquaintance—let him in.’
On the path to Paramatma your titles, your successes, your name and fame—all become stone walls. Only if you drop them can you go. If you wish to carry them along, drop the very idea of going. You keep to your house, let Paramatma keep to his. Do not make unnecessary fuss. Live some more in the world. If there is still juice in these illnesses, remain ill a little longer. There is no hurry; eternity is available. But only when you are truly free of the world will you be able to move toward the divine. If even a little taste clings there…
Do not mistake ‘becoming free’ to mean ‘running off to the forest.’ Those who are escapees run because they are not free. If they were free, where would there be to run? From what would they run? And even if you run, where will you go? Wherever you go, there is the world. And wherever you go, at least you will still be the same. There is no running—only awakening. Do not run; change. And changing only means: wake up from sleep. See the futile, perceive the insubstantial, recognize the essential. Dadu says:
‘Yoga’s Samadhi through joyous remembrance,
comes of itself, naturally—naturally it comes.
The palace gate stands open—
this is the bhakti mood.’
A rare utterance.
‘The palace gate is open—
this is the feeling of devotion.’
Jesus says: ‘Knock, and the doors will be opened; ask, and it shall be given.’
Dadu says something even more astounding. He says—‘The palace gate is open.’ Where will you knock? What is there to ask? It is already given. Paramatma is not far—he stands right before you. He is nearer to you than you are to yourself.
‘The palace gate is open—
this is the feeling of devotion.’
The bhakta’s feeling is exactly this: the door is open. It is not to be opened. It does not even need opening. If effort is needed to open it, the ego will enter. You will make effort, and your ego will grow strong.
Whatever you do—through your doing Paramatma is not found. When you are in a state of non-doing, he is found. When you are utterly still, in akarma, then he is found. If you even try to open the door, there will be agitation. That is why very often those who worry too much about opening the divine door lose the door forever.
There was once a most astonishing magician—Houdini. In his life he performed miracles like no other magician. And the man was remarkable—he always admitted these were but sleights of hand. He never deceived. He did thousands of feats; had he wished, he could have become the greatest ‘incarnation’ in the world. Your Sai Babas and the like are pale things; two-penny. Houdini’s art was unique. There was no lock in the world he could not open in a second. Chains bound him, handcuffs were fixed, he was thrown into the sea; in seconds he was out, the chains fallen. He was put into jails—England, America, Spain—in the strictest cells; moments later he stood outside. No one could understand how he got out. He shattered all arrangements. But he never claimed to be a siddha. He said, ‘It is all hand-work.’
But once he got into trouble. In Paris he did an experiment. Everywhere else in the world he had succeeded; there he failed. He was locked in a prison cell, from which he was to escape. All his life he escaped from the toughest jails; whatever the chains, he opened them without keys. What his technique was is hard to say; and he never claimed to be a miracle man or godly.
But there he failed. The man who came out in three seconds, at most three minutes—three hours passed and he did not come out. People got anxious. Outside a huge crowd had gathered. What had happened?
The police officers had played a prank: they had not locked the lock at all. The door was left unlatched; and he searched for the lock. If there is a lock, he can open it. There was no lock—he was thrown into panic. It never occurred to him, in his agitation, that the door was merely pushed to. He became so perturbed: where is the hidden lock? Somewhere there must be a lock! He searched every corner. He searched the other side of the room—perhaps there was a false door. He scanned every inch; if only he could find a lock. And when there is no lock, of what use are any keys?
Even after three hours he had not come out. What happened was this: he became so exhausted, soaked in sweat, that he fainted and fell. The jolt opened the door. He fell outside. For the first time in his life he failed. Magic lost before a prank.
The reason? The very reason that is happening in everyone’s life. If you are failing at the door of Paramatma, the reason is that you are searching for a lock. And there is no lock there.
‘The palace gate is open…’
That gate is open, free. Not even latched. Not even the need to fall unconscious so the door may open with a push. The door stands open.
‘Yoga’s Samadhi through joyous remembrance,
comes of itself, naturally—naturally it comes.’
And entry into Paramatma happens with such ease—while you, unnecessarily, are exhausting yourself with great efforts, sweating. One is standing on his head, another doing all sorts of contortions with the body, practicing Yoga; one holds his nostrils closed, restraining breath; another plugs his ears with fingers; another presses the eyes to see lights.
A thousand foolishnesses are in vogue across the world. They are all keys for opening a lock that is not there; ways to open a door that is already open. Your methods themselves will prevent the door from opening.
Bhakti is the easy path. Easy means: where nothing has to be done, and it happens on its own.
‘Yoga’s Samadhi’—that Samadhi which is the supreme solution of Yoga, where all problems fall, all questions vanish; where only the music of resolution begins to play, where the sound of the One resounds.
‘Yoga’s Samadhi’—Yoga means union; where the individual meets the total, where the particle meets the infinite, where the drop meets the ocean—that moment is Yoga. Where you dissolve and meet Paramatma—that embrace is Yoga.
‘Yoga’s Samadhi’—the moment union happens, all is resolved. Across millions of births, who knows how many questions and problems had arisen; in the instant of union they do not arise. You must have imagined you would ask many questions when you meet the divine. A thousand questions arise in your mind. But the day Paramatma is met, not a single question remains to be asked; that day you will suddenly find there is no question—life is questionless.
There is no question in life. Questions are born of your anxieties. Life has no question. Life is a mystery, a rasa. Live it—do not ask. Ask, and you miss. The moment you begin to question, you stop tasting the rasa of life. You no longer savor the juice; you are now questioning. And there is no end to questioning. By questioning the tail only lengthens. Questions proliferate; ask one, before the answer arrives ten have arisen. Branches and sub-branches spread.
In existence there is no question. Existence is for those who know how to live without questions.
‘Yoga’s Samadhi’—‘Samadhi’ is a most meaningful word; it means complete resolution. Where nothing remains to ask, all is quiet. Search for a question—you won’t find any.
Whoever came to Buddha, he would say: ‘Stay for a year. Ask whatever you wish—I will answer all your questions. I am not going anywhere. But stay for one year. For one year, do what I say. Then ask, and I will answer.’
A year would pass. If a person agreed to stay and to do what Buddha said—many would leave, thinking: what is the point of being with someone who cannot answer our questions now? If he cannot solve our questions, why waste time? Many thought Buddha did not know; that is why he did not answer. Many thought he was not a knower, for a knower always answers—why is he silent?
But those who stayed, who were courageous, who were willing to live as indicated by Buddha—they stayed. A year passed. Buddha would say, ‘Now ask.’ They would laugh and say, ‘You have tricked us. There is nothing left to ask. Following you we grew quiet; as quietness deepened, the questions shed like leaves in autumn. No question now arises.’
Buddha would say: If the day you arrived I had answered, after every answer more questions would have arisen. Nothing would change. Today no question arises; I am ready to answer, and you are not ready to ask. Then you were ready to ask; I was not ready to answer.
One who questions may go on thinking; but the more you think, the farther you go from existence. The farther from yourself. To come near yourself, drop thought; let it fall silent. Become a lake where no ripple arises. Become a still pond where not a wave rises, where not even the tremor of a question arises—that state is called Samadhi.
‘Yoga’s Samadhi through joyous remembrance…’
And how will this Samadhi happen? How will resolution come? How will you rise beyond questions? How will mind be transcended? How will No-Mind begin?
The sutra is: ‘Through joyous remembrance’—practice remembrance with joy. But note clearly—joyously. Do not attempt to torture yourself. Otherwise what happens daily will happen again.
There are two kinds of wicked people in the world. Those who torment others; and those who torment themselves. Both are wicked. The first kind you recognize; the second kind you worship. The second kind are more cunning. Your so-called saints and sannyasins are of the second kind—violent.
Understand this. It is simple. If you starve another person to death, all will say you are evil. But if you fast yourself, all will say you are a great renunciate.
It is amusing. The thing is the same. You are starving yourself—you are a renunciate. Starve another—you are wicked. If fasting is beneficial, then starve everyone. People should praise you that you are not fasting alone; you are making many fast.
The man who torments another we call violent and sinful. Hitler and Alexander seem violent—they cut and kill others. But those who cut and kill themselves—you carry them on your heads. They sleep on thorns, and you bend to their feet: what a great ascetic—sleeping on thorns. He is wicked, violent. No difference; it is violence turned upon oneself.
Psychology recognizes two kinds of violence. And in this it has clear insight. In the future, religion will have to understand this; otherwise it cannot be true religion. Psychology says there are two kinds of violent people.
First, those called sadists—who take pleasure in tormenting others. De Sade, in France, was a great writer; sadism is named after him because he tormented others; that was his pleasure. Even the women he loved he would lock in and lash until they bled. When he came to love, he came as a doctor comes with a bag. In his bag were a whip, thorns, iron claws to pierce to bone and marrow. He beat, tormented. The woman screamed, cried, pleaded; that was his delight, then he loved.
A little of that violence you too will find within. If you have loved a woman, sometimes you have bitten her. There is a little violence. A small measure of de Sade lives in you too.
If you read Vatsyayana’s Kama Sutra, he says: among many modes of love, nail-marking—making the woman bleed with nails. Whether you do it with your nails or with iron nails is technical; nothing special. He was smarter: why entangle the nails? And what iron nails can do better, nails may not do so well.
But Vatsyayana says: mark with nails, bite with teeth—these are signs of love. Then what are signs of hatred? Generally, if you see a pair making love—perhaps this is why lovers love in the dark, hiding, lest anyone see—if you see, you will find that the element of fight is greater. Perhaps this is why women close their eyes in the moment of love: who wants to see the mess? The man looks terrifying—as if he will take life.
Sadism arose from Sade’s name—pleasure in another’s pain.
There was another writer—Masoch. He was a self-tormentor. From his name comes ‘masochist’. Some people torment themselves. He tormented himself—lashed himself, beat his chest, bled—himself! He said it gave great pleasure.
These two types fill the world. And the second type—the masochist—has greatly deceived in the name of religion. He fasts, sleeps on thorns; what has he not done? You will be shocked: he gouged out his eyes, cut off genitals—and he was worshiped, honored. He commits suicide; what you call penance is his slow-motion self-murder.
And note: the one who gives pain to others is a little courageous; for tormenting another has complications. The other will not simply sit. He too will do something. There is fear: he may torment you if strong. But cowards torment themselves. There is no fear. Torment yourself—there is no one to take revenge.
So those a little courageous torment others; the cowards, the weak, torment themselves. And these cowards appear to you as saints.
No—Dadu says: ‘Through joyous remembrance.’ The knowers say: happiness is the way. There is no need for suffering—neither to give it to others nor to yourself. What has the divine to do with suffering? ‘Through joyous remembrance.’ He will arise only from the mood of joy. And it makes sense, for he is the great bliss. How will he be attained by giving pain? Give pain and you will gain more pain. Practice suffering and you will go to hell; how will you go to heaven?
If you want to practice for heaven, if you want to prepare to go, cultivate immersion in joy; cultivate the art of joy. Dadu speaks true: ‘Through joyous remembrance.’ Practice joy.
Practicing joy does not mean chasing pleasures. The one who chases pleasure never finds joy. If joy is to be cultivated, there is only one way—‘through remembrance.’ Be awake. Live with remembrance.
‘Surati’ is the softened form of the Sanskrit ‘smriti’; softened, the word has become sweeter. Sometimes this happens. ‘Smriti’ has a slight edge; ‘surati’ has a roundness. ‘Smriti’ strikes; ‘surati’ melts into the heart like sweetness. Often when the pundits’ words come into the folk tongue they become lovely. ‘Smriti’ is a pundit’s word. ‘Surati’ belongs to the unlettered. The meaning is the same, but it becomes deeper. ‘Smriti’ carries a cut; sharpness. ‘Surati’ has no edge; it has roundness and melody.
‘Through joyous remembrance’—joyfully practice remembrance of Paramatma. ‘Yoga’s Samadhi’ will be attained. To live joyfully means: do not nurse sorrow.
I see people come to me daily. When they tell their tale of sorrow, I always feel that even in telling the tale they take great delight. If there were no sorrow to tell, they would have nothing to say. Look at their faces; a glow appears when they tell their sorrow. And they magnify it. The sorrow they did not even suffer, they fabricate and present. Perhaps they themselves believe it.
If you do not believe such people’s sorrow and dismiss it, they become even more miserable. If you say, ‘These are mental notions,’ they are hurt. They take great relish in sorrow. They seek sympathy. ‘Pat my head a little. Bless me. I am very sorrowful.’ As if being sorrowful were a great quality! As if it were a great merit to come bearing sorrow! Being sorrowful is no merit. It is mere stupidity.
Make it a rule: if you are unhappy, it will be your own mistake. You blame the world as making you unhappy. No one can make anyone unhappy. The world seems to you to make you unhappy because you want to be unhappy. You find excuses. You go on collecting them and then you become unhappy. Then you are not willing to drop sorrow. You cling to it as if it were wealth. Many have made sorrow their wealth. They live by it; else how would they live? If sorrow were not, the story of their life would end. Their autobiography would be lost. They weave their fabric from sorrow. And they take a kind of relish in sorrow.
It is like scratching a rash. You know that scratching will cause more pain, will bleed the body, the skin will peel—still a sweet pleasure is felt and you go on scratching. You know it is wrong, yet you cannot stop. You have made sorrow your rash. The more you scratch it—talk of it, focus on it—the more you feed it.
Attention is food. Give it to sorrow and sorrow will thrive. Give it to joy and joy will flourish. Attention is rain; whichever plant it falls upon, that grows.
And you go on about sorrow. From the morning you begin to seek sorrow. You find sorrow in everything, collect sorrow from everything. Slowly you have become a heap of sorrow, a collection. Now your only joy is that someone listen to your sorrow.
In the West a whole profession has arisen—psychoanalysis. The psychoanalyst does nothing except listen to your sorrow. In the West no one is ready to listen. There is no time. It is not like the East where you can go to anyone’s house and begin telling your tale of woe. People have no time. To visit, you must ask in advance, fix a time. You cannot just walk in. Even the husband has no time to hear the wife’s story; the wife has no time to hear the husband’s. No one has any time.
So a professional listener is needed—whose only business is to listen. That is the psychoanalyst. His work is simply that you lie on the couch; he sits behind; you pour out whatever nonsense there is. He listens. Even that brings relief. Psychoanalysis offers no real support, but by talking your nonsense you feel lighter. And someone listens so attentively—that itself is delightful. You bring more sorrow, magnified. And he must listen attentively—he is paid for it. In the past no one could have imagined that professional listeners would be needed—whose entire work would be to hear your nonsense, and you pay according to the time they give.
In the East the situation is the reverse—even now. If someone sits upon your chest with his tale, no matter how he bores or torments you, you say, ‘Great grace—you are a guest, a god. You came—good.’
Mulla Nasruddin was rushing to the station. A friend stopped him: ‘Where are you going?’
He said, ‘Bombay. Must catch the train.’
The friend said: ‘What time is it? The train leaves at five. Why are you rushing already? What time is it?’
Mulla said: ‘It is three.’
The friend said: ‘Amazing! Rushing at three for a five o’clock train?’
Mulla said: ‘Brother! On the way many fools like you will stop me. If I even reach by five, it will be a lot.’
In the East this is still the way. In the West circumstances have changed. No one has time to listen. So a professional listener is required. Bertrand Russell wrote that in the coming century psychoanalysis will be the biggest business. In the twenty-first century every neighborhood will need two or three psychologists. Because no one will be ready to listen to anyone. Why should anyone listen?
The psychologist listens. Know this: he takes hefty fees—one sitting a hundred, two hundred, five hundred, a thousand rupees depending on his standing. He listens for an hour, takes a thousand. People undergo analysis for years—three, four, five; some have been in treatment for ten years, paying a thousand per hour.
And how the psychologist will improve them, I do not know—for those psychologists come to me for their own healing. From the West they come. Those who are treating thousands are themselves coming for peace of mind.
Yet the patient feels relief—someone is listening! Attention to your sorrow.
But you do not know: whenever you attend to sorrow—or someone else does—attention is rain. The plant of sorrow grows bigger. Give attention to joy; neglect sorrow. If a thorn pricks, do not raise a hue and cry. Life has many flowers—look at them. If a little ache arises, do not carry it on your head. So much has been gifted by Paramatma—turn your remembrance there—‘through joyous remembrance.’
There was a Muslim emperor. His servant was very dear to him—so dear that at night he slept in the emperor’s chamber. They were very close, very intimate. They went hunting together. Under a tree the emperor reached for a fruit and plucked it. As was his habit, whatever he got he gave the servant as well; the servant was like a friend. He cut it, gave a piece to the servant. He ate it and said, ‘What good fortune! Give another.’ He took the second piece too, ate it, was very pleased. ‘One more, please.’ Only one piece remained in the emperor’s hand; three he had given.
The emperor said: ‘This is too much. Now let me taste also. Seeing your joy, it seems this is a unique fruit.’ The servant said, ‘No, my lord. The fruit is certainly unique, but I will eat it; you should not.’ A tussle ensued. The emperor got angry: ‘This is beyond limits. There is no second fruit on the tree.’ In the scuffle the emperor put the piece in his mouth—poison! He spat it out: ‘Fool! And you were smiling? Why did you not say so?’
The servant said: ‘From these hands I have eaten so many sweet fruits—what is there to make of one poisonous fruit? From the same hands I have received such rich offerings; why mention one bitter fruit? Why weigh it on the scales? That is why I insisted: give me one more piece—lest you come to know. For if you find out, then knowingly or unknowingly a complaint will arise. If I had left one piece in your hand and said nothing, and you had found it bitter, then I would have said it—without saying I would have said it. Therefore I wrestled it away—forgive me, lord. I wanted it not to be known. Let gratitude remain unbroken; let complaint not arise—so I tried to snatch it away. Forgive me.’
This is the bhakta’s feeling toward the divine. From whose hands so much has been received; whose gifts are endless; whose prasad rains every moment; whose fragrance is in each breath, whose song in each heartbeat—what complaint to make? Why bring up sorrow?
Drop it! Stop the talk of sorrow, else sorrow will grow. Neglect sorrow; do not take relish in it. Do not keep probing your wound with a finger. The wound is raw; it will remain raw. How will it heal? Stop scratching.
‘Through joyous remembrance’—remember Paramatma joyfully. There is so much cause for joy that there is no reason you cannot remember with joy. To be is such a great joy; the breath moving is such a great joy. That you are—is it a small event? Could you imagine anything greater? What is greater than being?
You are—aware—within you a small lamp of shimmering consciousness burns; what more do you want? The full possibility of sat-chit-ananda is present—what is your demand? Why be a beggar?
The door is open. Sit a while, joyfully. Fill with joyous remembrance. As joy permeates you, as its hum rings around you, as joy dances, as you drown in joy and joy drowns in you—as you become one with joy—your remembrance will become a great bliss. Open your eyes: the door is open. It is open.
‘Through joyous remembrance’—do not nurture sorrow; do not plant it upon yourself. Do not carry sorrow. Turn toward joy. Take attention toward joy. Both possibilities are always present.
I have heard: two men were imprisoned. Both had come to the jail the same day. Both stood holding the bars of the window. One looked out: right outside the bars a filthy puddle; the rains had come; mosquitoes perched; stench rose; trash collected. His mind filled with complaint. He said, ‘Prison— and on top of it this stench and filth. Life is hell. Better to die.’
The other stood by his side, holding the same bars. He looked toward the sky— it was a full-moon night. The sky was filled with wondrous light. There was a subtle music in the sky. The conversation of the moon and stars. He was filled with wonder and began to dance.
The first said: ‘You are mad. There is nothing here worth dancing for.’
The second said: ‘Perhaps I am mad. Keep your cleverness to yourself. It shows me nothing but puddles and trash. Mad I may be—but my madness shows me the moon. In my madness I see the open sky, and it fills me with bliss. They may have put my body in prison, but in the moment of seeing the moon, I was not in prison. In that moment when the flame was lit and the bond formed with the moonlight, there were no chains on my hands—I tell you. The bars did not enclose me. Though they may have put my body in jail, there is no way to jail my soul.’
And that second man said: ‘Even if you were outside, you would still be imprisoned. Your cleverness is your prison. You would still see the puddle, and be just as miserable.’
Where you are does not matter; how you look does. Change the way. ‘Through joyous remembrance’—seek joy. There is so much joy. It is everywhere. Perhaps that is why it is not seen. How much has been given! Is there any limit? Try to reckon—you cannot. The infinite has been given. In your little courtyard, how much has rained!
‘Yoga’s Samadhi through joyous remembrance,
comes of itself, naturally—naturally it comes.’
That Samadhi of resolution—that union with the divine—happens through joy, through remembrance.
‘…comes of itself, naturally—naturally it comes.’
And Paramatma comes of himself, naturally. Not even the slightest hindrance.
This I tell you from my own experience. I am a witness to what I say. I am not saying it because of Dadu. Dadu is right. I say it because I know it just so—‘naturally—naturally it comes.’
‘…through joyous remembrance, naturally—naturally it comes.
The palace gate is open—
this is the bhakti mood.’
‘The flame is lit—know it thus—when it never goes out.
Living it burns on—dying it merges into the beyond.’
The flame of bhakti—know that it has truly been lit only when it never goes out. Let a continuous current flow. Let there be an unbroken thread within. Never drying, never breaking, never closing.
‘The flame is lit—know it thus—when it never goes out.’
Whatever happens in life—let the flame not break. Sorrow may come—but let the flame not break; sorrow will pass. Calamity may come—but let the flame not break; calamity will be destroyed. Hell may arrive—but let the flame not break; hell will vanish.
Nothing is greater than that flame. Guard that—and all is guarded. If that is missed, all is missed. Guard whatever you guard—no essence will come of it. In the end all will prove rubble, pebbles and stones.
‘The flame is lit—know it thus—when it never goes out.’
What kind of flame is it if it lights and goes out? That would be the mind’s play.
Understand a little. If it lights and goes out, it was a thought. Thoughts come and go. The flame is that which is lit in no-thought; then there is no coming and going. What will go out then? Then the flame has become your very nature. Waves of thought come and go. Today present, tomorrow absent—lighting and going out. For thoughts you are an inn. They stop over—an inn, because you give nothing; they stay free, crowding within you, and leave. You are but a waypoint.
So if this flame too comes to you like a traveler—stays the night and leaves in the morning—do not call it a flame. Dadu says: do not call this a flame.
The flame is only that—
‘The flame is lit—know it thus—when it never goes out.’
That is its sign. The true flame’s sign is that it does not go out.
Then this means: the true flame can be lit only on a deeper plane than thought; it must strike in no-thought. For no-thought neither comes nor goes; it is ever. No-thought is your state that does not come and go; it is your nature.
‘Living it burns on—dying it merges into the beyond.’
And while you live it will go on burning; and even in death it is not extinguished. You will dissolve; the flame will merge into the infinite.
This is a lovely thing. When the bhakta is lost—what of his flame? The bhakta is lost; his flame spreads through the whole world. The bhakta’s flame wanders in the world—who knows how many sleepers it awakens, how many blind it opens, how many closed hearts it sets beating, how many it raises into love, awakens into prayer. The bhakta is lost; but his flame scatters in the world. It moves, it roams.
Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Zarathustra are lost; but their fire—their fire burns still. You cannot now find Buddha—that event is gone; the drop has merged into the ocean. But the thirst that burned in Buddha, the knowing that burned in Buddha—that is still present, spread in the world. If you have a little understanding, you can connect with it even today. If you have love, even today you can receive as much from Buddha as his disciples did in his life. The flame merges into the world, into existence.
‘Living it burns on—dying it merges into the beyond.’
And in dying it merges into the whole.
‘Make the mind the horse, let consciousness be the rider;
let the flame become the rein.
Let the Master’s word be the whip—
thus a few wise sadhus arrive.’
‘The mind as a horse’—mind is the horse. ‘Consciousness as rider’—and consciousness is the rider.
Right now the situation is reversed: the horse rides the rider. Wherever the horse goes, you go. Wherever it points, your eyes turn.
Mulla Nasruddin was rushing on his donkey. People stopped him in the bazaar: ‘Where are you going so fast?’
He said: ‘Do not ask me—ask the donkey.’
They said: ‘Why? You are going—why ask the donkey?’
He said: ‘By experience I have learned: wherever I want to take the donkey, it does not go. So now wherever the donkey goes, I go. Where it is taking me—I have no idea. It is going fast—that is sure. It will reach somewhere—certainly. And when I used to try to take it somewhere, there was much trouble. In the market it would balk, and people would mock: even the donkey won’t listen to him. Now no one mocks. People think the donkey follows me. The truth is reversed: there is no question of balking now. Wherever it goes, I go along.’
You have begun to go along with the mind. You have been going along for lifetimes. If someone asks, ‘Where are you going?’ you too would have to say: ask the donkey. You too do not know where you are going. Where the mind leads.
Where will mind lead? Hard to say. It leads nowhere. Often it moves fast. But it leads nowhere. It makes you run; it does not make you arrive. And the motion of mind is circular. Like the bullock of the oil-press it goes round and round. It moves in a circle—here, there, and back again.
If you watch your mind carefully, you will recognize the circle. Keep a diary of your mind for a month: write what the mind does. Monday morning, anger; Monday evening, great compassion—then charity; then great resentment; then hardened. Write it all. Make a diary for a month and you will be amazed—this is a circle. The same rotation. Again the same. Monday again—and again angry. If you observe rightly, you will be shocked: your life is mechanical.
As a woman’s menstruation returns every twenty-eight days, so too your mental states revolve in a twenty-eight-day circle. No difference. But you never wake to watch, to see. How will you arrive by wandering in this circle?
‘Make the mind the horse’—Dadu says: make the mind the horse. It has become the rider. Mount the mind—‘let consciousness be the rider.’ How will you mount? If consciousness awakens, it mounts. Awakening is mounting. If you fill with awareness, if you become a watcher of the mind, if you become a sakshi of mind—consciousness mounts. As long as your witness is not present, mind will ride and you will be the slave. Mind will drive and you will be dragged behind.
‘Make the mind the horse, let consciousness be the rider;
let the flame become the rein.’
Let the flame of the divine be your rein. Make that flame your rein. A most beautiful utterance. Let that flame enter the mind’s activity. Let the human walk by the flame. Go only where by going you meet the divine. Do only that by doing which you meet the divine. Become only that by becoming which you meet the divine. All else is insubstantial.
‘Make the mind the horse, let consciousness be the rider;
let the flame become the rein.’
Eat—to attain Paramatma. Drink—to attain Paramatma. Wake—to attain Paramatma. Sleep—to attain Paramatma.
‘…let the flame become the rein.’
‘Let the Master’s word be the whip…’
Let the Guru’s word become the whip.
‘Let the Master’s word be the whip…’
If it hurts you, do not be afraid. He loves—that is why he hurts. If he strikes you, do not panic, do not harbor enmity. For he strikes only out of compassion—to pull you away from your paths. Do not doubt. If you doubt, he cannot pull you. Trust is needed. With trust you can be drawn.
‘Let the Master’s word be the whip…’
Let the Master’s word be your whip. When the mind wanders here and there, does not heed the rein, does not heed the flame—if it heeds the rein, then there is no need of the whip. If on all sides the alignment toward the divine continues, no whip is needed. But if the horse refuses—as all horses do, all minds do—then the whip is needed. Then do not take the decision in your hands; give it to the Master. What he says, do. Leave it to him. This is the meaning of ‘Let the Master’s word be the whip.’
Buddha said there are four kinds of people in the world. Some are like those horses who, even when you beat and beat them, move with difficulty—and soon forget, and stop again. The second kind, like horses who, when beaten, remember, move, and do not forget so quickly. The third kind are such that you need not beat; only crack the whip—do not strike—and the horse becomes alert: if I fail, the whip will fall. He begins to move. The fourth, Buddha said, are most rare: those who do not need even the crack. The shadow of the whip lifts—the rising shadow is enough. The horse comes to the path.
Recognize in which of these four horses you are. Try to become the fourth horse. If ‘the Master’s word as whip’ becomes real for you, then gradually even its shadow will make you move. The simple remembrance of his word will move you. The moment the Master’s word comes to mind, you will stop going somewhere— and move elsewhere.
‘…thus a few wise sadhus arrive.’
Those who fulfill these three—such few awakened ones arrive.
‘Beginning, middle, end—one taste; the thread does not break.
Dadu says: the One alone remains—known only when one awakes.’
It is the bliss of the divine—ever in unison. Same at the beginning, the middle, the end. No change in it. It is eternal. No transformation. It does not change. It is ever one-taste.
‘Beginning, middle, end—one taste; the thread does not break.’
When your thread ties to this one-taste and does not break—know then the goal has come. Before that, do not rest. Before that, make camps if you must—but know: this is not home. We rest for the night; when morning comes, we move. Until the moment comes when your thread is bound wholly to the one-taste—‘the thread does not break’—do not think the journey is done.
Often camps deceive as goal. The mind calms a little—you think: it is done. Do not be in such a hurry. A little rasa begins to flow, a feeling of bliss arises—you think: done. Not so soon. These are camps. A light begins to appear within—do not think the goal has come. These are still events within the mind. Good, pleasant experiences arise—do not think you have arrived.
You will arrive only when—‘Dadu says: the One alone remains, known only when one awakes’—only when two do not remain— you and Paramatma. Even if the divine appears standing before you, know you have not yet arrived; a distance remains. Become the One.
‘Dadu says: the One alone remains…’
Now two do not remain.
‘…known only when one awakes.’
Know only then that you are awake. Know only then that home has been reached.
‘Meaning beyond all compare is himself—
all else is meaningless.
Knowing thus, says Dadu, I have fastened my flame to him.’
Do not ask what flowers of meaning will bloom in that moment. Do not ask what fragrance of meaning will arise.
‘Meaning beyond compare is himself…’
Meaning beyond compare. There is no simile for it. Nothing in this world by which it can be indicated. All signs of this world are pale. They will mislead. ‘Meaning beyond compare’—unique, matchless. There is nothing like it.
‘Meaning beyond compare is himself…’
He alone is like himself.
‘…and all else, brother, is meaningless.’
Beyond him, whatever is—meaningless.
‘Knowing thus, says Dadu, I have fastened my flame to him.’
Knowing thus, fasten your flame to him. Dadu says: knowing thus, I fastened my flame to him.
‘Knowing thus, says Dadu, I have fastened my flame to him.’
Fastened my flame to him.
Understand the word ‘flame’. A lamp has a flame. Have you noticed? However you place the lamp, the flame always rises upward. Tilt the lamp—no difference. The flame does not tilt. Turn the lamp upside down—still it makes no difference. The flame rushes upward. Water’s nature is to go downward; fire’s nature is to go upward.
The symbol of flame says: when your consciousness begins ceaselessly to go upward, whatever the state of the body—of joy or sorrow, of pain, of life or death; youth or old age; beauty or ugliness; success or failure—wherever the lamp is placed, let it make no difference. Let the flame ever go toward Paramatma—upward.
‘Knowing thus, says Dadu, I have fastened my flame to him.’
These words are precious. I will repeat them once more—
‘Yoga’s Samadhi through joyous remembrance,
comes of itself, naturally—naturally it comes.
The palace gate stands open—
this is the bhakti mood.
The flame is lit—know it thus—when it never goes out.
Living it burns on—dying it merges into the beyond.
Make the mind the horse, let consciousness be the rider;
let the flame become the rein.
Let the Master’s word be the whip—
thus a few wise sadhus arrive.
Beginning, middle, end—one taste; the thread does not break.
Dadu says: the One alone remains—known only when one awakes.
Meaning beyond compare is himself—and all else is meaningless.
Knowing thus, says Dadu, I have fastened my flame to him.’
Enough for today.