Piya Kokhojan Main Chali #1

Anand Pratibha!
Palatu has a famous saying:
Palatu dival kahkaha, mat koi jhankan jay.
Piy ko khojan main chali, apui gayi hiray.
“The wall of laughter—let no one peep across.
I set out to seek the Beloved, and I myself got lost.”

You must have heard the tale that at a certain spot on the Great Wall of China a miraculous event occurs. It is a story, yes, but a meaningful one. At that particular place, whoever climbs up and peeks to the other side bursts into loud laughter and immediately jumps, never to return. Many went resolving, “We won’t laugh, we won’t jump.” No exception ever held. Whoever went, laughed, leapt, and was lost. No one ever came back to say—what they saw, why they laughed, why they jumped, where they disappeared!

It is a story, but a deeply symbolic one. Those who set out to search for the Divine are in just such a plight. Those who peeped beyond, laughed—laughed out loud. Their laughter is causeless, mysterious, paradoxical, inexpressible. It can neither be explained, nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be. Yet people have seen an extraordinary joy in their lives, a wondrous humor, a smile. While life is full of sorrow, there is still delight in the eyes of Buddha! Though life is filled with suffering, there is still a drunkenness around Mahavira! Even when life looks like nothing but thorns, Krishna’s flute still plays!

That laughter points to this very joy, this very ecstasy, this intoxication: as though whatever is happening in the world is dreamlike; not worth giving such weight. All these sufferings, all these pains seem imagined—webs of people’s minds.

Whoever has seen the Divine laughs at the world. He laughs because the world is nothing but a stage. There is nothing here worth fretting or being tormented about. If you suffer, it is due to your own stupor; if you are troubled, it is due to your own unawareness. Wake up and everything is performance, all play. Wake up and you will laugh. You will laugh at yourself: “What a fool I was, how tormented!” You will laugh at your whole past—its long history of woe—how much you cried, begged, shed tears, cried for toys, chased mirages! And somewhere you knew you would get nothing—neither had you ever gotten, nor could you. It wasn’t that some deep sense didn’t remain within; but the shadows were seductive, because they seemed true.

Awake—and you’ll laugh at your past. Awake—and you’ll laugh at the world, that people still take seriously the same drama you once took for truth.

That wall is the symbol of this world. Peeping beyond the wall symbolizes peeping into the Divine. And whoever peeped, laughed. And whoever peeped, did not return.

Hence, once a person attains enlightenment, he does not return to the world. There remains no reason to return.

We come back because of our desires—those desires which remain unfulfilled, which did not complete. Bound in those desires like cords, like ropes, we return. As long as we are slaves of desire, we must come again and again.

But one who has seen the Divine—his desires vanish in an instant, as darkness disappears in light. In the experience of the Divine, in the experience of prayer, desire dissolves. Then there is no returning. Then one leaps into the Infinite—into the unknown, the unknowable.

And what one sees in that eternal, that timeless, there is no way to say. Our words are too small, too petty. It isn’t that the attempt has not been made, but all attempts have failed. There are the Vedas, the Bible, the Quran, the Gita, the Dhammapada, the Jina-sutras—but none could say it. All who knew tried to speak, wanted to say, yet they also said: “However much we speak, we cannot express it.”

Lao Tzu refused throughout his life. People insisted, “Write something, say something.” Lao Tzu would laugh, deflect, talk of this and that. When he had grown old—very old indeed. For the marvelous tale about him says he was born already eighty years old—born old—to indicate that he was born aware, awakened. As if ninety-nine percent had happened in the past life, and just one percent—like a hair’s breadth—remained, and that too completed. So Lao Tzu was born like an enlightened one.

Born eighty, then old age must have taken him to one hundred eighty—if he lived another hundred years. In that great age he set out toward the Himalayas. His disciples asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “To the distant mountains! I seek a place for final rest where no one will know where I died, where my samadhi lies; where earth dissolves into earth, water into water, air into air; where the soul merges into the Supreme. No trace remains. For when footprints remain, people imitate them. People are imitators. I am going to efface myself completely.”

They pleaded, he did not agree. He set off to disappear. The emperor had ordered guards at all borders to stop him and tell him: first write your experience, then go.

Lao Tzu was stopped at a border post—he was known. The guard said, “I cannot let you go; imperial orders. Stay at my hut and write the essence of life.” Lao Tzu said, “If I could write, I would have long ago. But a guard is a guard; rules are rules. If you want to go, write. I am not very learned; don’t try to persuade me. I need something written to present to the emperor.”

Compelled, Lao Tzu wrote. Thus was born the wondrous sutra-book Tao Te Ching. No other book was born this way. And the first sutra? That truth cannot be said; the truth that can be said is no longer truth. “Read my sutras, but don’t forget this.”

Why does truth turn untrue when said? Because truth is known in emptiness and expressed in words. Truth is known in silence, and when you speak, you cannot speak in silence. Truth is known beyond mind, where there is no mind; to speak you must use mind—the medium changes.

It is like a blind man wanting to speak of light. What can he say? Or you trying to explain light to the blind—what will you explain?

Kabir says: goonge keri sarkara—the mute tastes sugar, the sweetest taste, but how can he say it? What can he say?

So the attempt has been made—and blessed it is, out of the compassion of those who have known—but the thing yet remains unsaid.

This story is delightful. Palatu says: “Palatu dival kahkaha.”

The Divine is that very wall of laughter—where people have stood and laughed, danced, hummed, been ecstatic, as if drunk; swayed as if anklets were tied to their feet and a flute or veena had been struck—but could not say anything.

“Palatu dival kahkaha, mat koi jhankan jay.”

Palatu says: if you take my counsel, do not set out to search. Why? Because it is only for the daring, not for shopkeepers. If you would go, think it through. Test your heart. Do you have that much courage? Can you leap into the unknown? Can you dive into the bottomless? There is no returning—remember. You will melt, you will be erased.

Only he finds the Divine who consents to be lost. That is why so few have found, though many talk. Talking is easy—pleasant—and it flatters the ego. It seems a profound, philosophical discussion is happening. Everywhere people are engaged in Brahma-discourse—but that has nothing to do with knowing. They only delude others and themselves.

One who knows will say: let no one go searching. Think, this is a perilous path, the edge of a sword; slip a little—you fall badly. And once you climb, you cannot climb down. Understand before you ascend.

That is why I keep telling my sannyasins: this path is of courage—indeed, of audacity. There is no greater audacity in the world. Climbing Mount Everest is not that great—anyone can climb.

I’ve heard that when someone asked Edmund Hillary, “You know well that in the past fifty years who knows how many tried and failed to climb Everest, many even lost their lives—why did you go?”

Do you know what he said? “It seems you are not married. A man can climb anywhere to escape his wife.”

To escape the wife, men reach the moon, try for the stars. For centuries men have run to the Himalayas to escape the wife—living in caves. They don’t fear wild animals—and don’t rush into the marketplace, “We have renounced the jungle!” No one ever renounced the jungle. But people renounce their homes.

Mulla Nasruddin went hunting. His wife wouldn’t allow him to go alone. And if wife says no, what to do? She said, “I’m coming too—I want to see what kind of hunter you are!” Mulla told his friend Chandulal: “Now hunting is difficult. Just seeing her, my hands and feet tremble. I’ll aim one place, hit another.”

But when Mulla’s wife went, Chandulal’s wife wouldn’t be left behind—she too came along. One event after another happened on that hunting trip.

First, Mulla fired at flying birds; he missed them and hit Chandulal’s seated wife. Chandulal cried, “You’ve crossed the limit! What have you done? You killed my wife!” Mulla said, “Don’t be upset. Here—take my gun and kill my wife. Now we’re even.” But Chandulal was a seasoned man: “I won’t give you such happiness. A friend is one who shares sorrow. I can help in sorrow, not give you joy. Let bygones be bygones.”

Next day another incident. Chandulal came running: “What are you doing?” Mulla was loading bullets on the machan (platform). “You’re loading bullets there, and in the tent we pitched, your wife is alone—and a cheetah has gone inside!” Mulla kept loading. “Did you understand?” “I understood everything,” said Mulla, “but what is my fault? The cheetah went in—he made the mistake; he will bear it. I too made a mistake and bore it. And I don’t have any great attachment to cheetahs. Let him go to hell.”

Thus both were rid of their wives. First, fear of wives ruined his aim; the third day, joy ruined it. A flock of twenty-five or thirty geese flew by. Mulla fired. Even a greenhorn would wound one or two in such a flock. The shot went, no goose fell. Mulla fell silent for a moment, then said to Chandulal, “Do you get it?” “What should I get?” “A miracle! The geese are dead—and still flying. That’s called a miracle!”

To hide in Himalayan caves, to reach the moon and stars—there is no great danger in that. Life here is so painful that a man wants to run anywhere. He has been running for ages. But very few have searched for God. One flees the world to save oneself; to search for God one needs courage to lose oneself. It’s not about saving—it’s about losing. The trade is reversed.

“Palatu dival kahkaha, mat koi jhankan jay.”

He says, “I warn you beforehand, brother. Don’t go peeping. If you take my word, don’t get into this hassle. It is only for a few brave ones, a few chosen.”

People ask me, “How many will you make sannyasins?” I say, it’s not about how many I will make—it’s about how many can become. Only a few can. I won’t stop anyone, but I must make you cautious; the path is dangerous. Once a step is taken, return gets harder—day by day. Caution must be given first. Let no one later say, “We weren’t told.”

Hence Palatu says: “Mat koi jhankan jay”—If you take my advice, go back home; run your shop; make money; fight elections; seek office. Do an easier job. Life is short—why are you eager to risk it? Earn something.

Palatu is deeply satirical. The speech of saints has bite and deep irony.

They say: if you are a coward, then good—don’t get into this mess. Do worship—there are idols in temples. Don’t get into the bother of searching God. Idols are good—they won’t mess with you. Rats climb on them, sprinkling sacred water; idols do nothing. Hanumanji sits under a tree and a dog lifts its leg—Hanumanji does nothing. Deal with these. That’s cheap. Why search for God? Scriptures are available; why seek truth yourself? Mohammed knew, Mahavira knew, Moses knew—what will you gain by searching? Does everyone have to search? Just memorize. Parrots memorize; you can, too. Memory is all you need. If you cram the Gita, it will be memorized. And once the Gita is by heart, what’s the difference between Krishna and you? And there’s no shortage of Arjunas—of simpletons—anyone will do.

I stayed in a village. They brought a gentleman to me, saying, “He’s a great mahatma, a Jagatguru—world teacher.” I said, “I too live in the world—I’ve never heard of him. How is he a world teacher?” Even he looked a bit sheepish. In those parts every village, every lane has a Jagatguru; it’s easy to be one. I asked, “How many disciples do you have?” The one who brought him said, “What’s the use asking—there’s only me, his single disciple.” I said, “No need to worry. Do one thing.” I told the Jagatguru, “Rename this disciple ‘Jagat’—World. Then the matter is settled. You are Jagatguru, he is Jagat—so you are the teacher of the world. No one can object—legally airtight, logically perfect.”

There are temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras, scriptures, Jagatgurus, Shankaracharyas everywhere—why search? Searching is dangerous.

Palatu says: come only if you have the courage to melt; the capacity to dissolve the ego.

“Palatu dival kahkaha, mat koi jhankan jay.
Piy ko khojan main chali, apui gayi hiray.”

Palatu says, Learn from my experience. I too stepped out to seek the Beloved. And the Beloved did come—surely—but when? When I was lost.

Notice two things. Many times you will find saints suddenly speaking in the feminine voice. When will they do so? Hard to predict, but whenever they come close to truth, whenever they want to speak of it, instantly they speak as women. The reason: it is the woman’s capacity to melt, to dissolve, to be absorbed in love. A man’s stiff pride persists till his last breath. He protects the ego, guards it. Man is as if the symbol of ego: even a burnt rope retains its twist—so man’s stiffness remains till death.

To attain the Divine, one must become feminine. Not that you must literally be a woman, but the psychology must be feminine—receptive, not aggressive.

Man is aggressive, attacking. That helps if you want wealth—for wealth requires aggression. Sit at home and wealth won’t come—even if you claim, “When He wants to give, He tears open the roof and gives.” I’ve never seen roofs torn open to shower wealth. You tear open some roof yourself. Then to cover yourself, you say, “When He gives, He tears the roof!” As if you sat at home and He tore it and dropped it!

These are your self-justifications. No one drops down to make you president; you must go door to door begging votes—pleading, baring your teeth, saying whatever works—flattering, bowing before everyone, for power has to be seized.

But there are things that never come by seeking; the more you seek, the farther they recede. Aggression cannot win them. The first condition to receive them is that aggression, violence, the spirit of conquest, be gone; the ego be uprooted. The Divine comes to those who become empty—who become nothing, who dissolve.

Thus saints often switch into the feminine. You’ve grown used to it and don’t even blink. It’s not a habit; it hides a secret.

“Piy ko khojan main chali, apui gayi hiray.”

As soon as the Beloved comes into the picture, the saint becomes feminine. Kabir says: “I am Ram’s bride.” He is no longer the groom—he becomes the bride; if Ram is the groom, he is Ram’s bride.

A woman has these virtues: she waits; she is not aggressive. Even in love, she does not propose; she waits. The man must propose. If a woman chases a man, he will be frightened and run away. However strong her inner longing, love awakening, she waits.

It is her nature, her grace. Even when you propose, she won’t say yes outright. She may say yes, but she will say “no”—in such a sweet way that you will know the “no” means “yes.” So juicy, so charming, so intoxicated, so delighted a “no” that nowhere is there a denial—yet she says “no.”

By saying “no” she announces that there is not even that much aggression in her as to say “yes” immediately. If at the first request she agrees, you too would be a little startled—seems she was waiting at the door for you to speak so she could say yes. She will keep saying “no,” shy, modest. The veil—ghoonghat—was not invented by men; it is the woman’s own discovery. She will veil herself; peek from behind it; hide herself; stand in the shadows. Her life-breath will be aflame with prayer; she will be ready, but there will be no declaration—because declaration is also an aggression. If she consents it will be as though you pursued her and she—what could she do? You insisted so much that refusal seemed improper.

Before the Divine, one must be just as non-aggressive.

Gandhi used one word—satyagraha (insistence on truth). That word is wrong at its root. There is no insistence in truth. The moment there is insistence, truth turns into untruth. All insistence belongs to untruth. Insistence means: “It must be so.” Truth is uninsistent—silent, waiting, prayerful, full of deep longing and thirst—yet without demand.

Hence, when they speak of the Divine, saints at once speak a woman’s language. They become not Majnu but Laila.

“Piy ko khojan main chali, apui gayi hiray.”

I set out to seek the Beloved, says Palatu, but let me tell you the truth so you won’t blame me later—“I went searching and got lost.” And when I lost myself, only then did I find Him. Losing oneself is the condition for finding Him.

A second point: the search for truth is not a dry, barren logic. One kind of search is logic—dry, mathematical, like “two plus two is four.” No sap flows there. Whether two plus two is five or four or three—who cares? No one’s heart is pierced if two plus two is five. Let it be so—it touches no one’s soul. Logic is desert—no greenery, no saplings, no streams or their music, no flowers or fragrance—only sand to the horizon.

Hence the purely logical is dry. And the logical cannot be a theist—for theism is a juicy happening. Raso vai sah—if any definition touches the Divine, it is this: He is of the nature of rasa, of essence, of juice.

That is why I say: poetry is closer to Him than philosophy; music nearer than mathematics; dance closer than science; women nearer than men; the heart nearer than the head.

Thus, when saints speak of Him, they speak as of a beloved, a lover.

Now, there is no logic in love. Love is alogical. Hence the rational call love blind. Who calls it blind? Those for whom logic is the eye. But those who know love will laugh—because for them love is the only eye. Only love opens the heart. And when the heart’s door opens, vision clarifies; only then does true seeing happen, true meeting happens. The nuptial night of devotee and Divine is upon the bed of the heart; it has never happened in the skull, nor can it.

But those who live only in the skull, whose whole life has shrunk into the head, who have forgotten there is such a thing as heart, for whom heart means only a blood-pump—there can be no relation with the Divine.

Logic can make one atheist; and the irony is, logic can make one atheist only if he stops at a limit. If he goes on relentlessly, logic ultimately commits suicide—cuts itself. First it cuts others… like an oil-lamp consumes the oil, then the wick; when both are gone, the lamp goes out. So with logic: first it burns the oil, then the wick, and when that too is gone, logic self-destructs. Those who are truly logical, if they persist, persist, persist—when they reach that limit, theism can be born. But only after logic is gone. Logic is dry; there is no room for love in it.

Therefore, when saints speak of the Divine, they speak of love.

“Piy ko khojan main chali!”

See the difference: “I want to search for Truth”—that is an intellectual curiosity. “I want to seek the Beloved”—that is a yearning of the heart. A small difference—but vast as earth and sky.

I too say to you: the search for Truth as “truth” is mental turmoil; nothing comes of it. For centuries thousands have thought, and philosophy has reached no conclusion. Philosophy is the lone discipline with no conclusions—only thought upon thought. Yes, those who grow tired, wherever they tire, that they call a conclusion. It only tells their exhaustion.

I studied philosophy. Every philosophy teacher I found was tired—because each had taken conclusions. I would say, “If you say your conclusions come from the heart, I have no quarrel. What is there to argue with the heart? The heart sings; there is no logic in a song.

You don’t argue with a singer whether his song is right or wrong. A song may be beautiful or not—but not true or false. True and false is no measure for a song. To test flowers on a goldsmith’s touchstone would be just such madness—you’ll reject every flower as ‘false.’ The touchstone is not for flowers; it is for gold.

So I would say, ‘If you tell me your conclusion is heartfelt, I drop the dispute.’ But philosophy professors cannot admit such a ‘weakness’—the heart. They say, ‘We have concluded through reason.’ Then, the debate never ends—for my view is reason cannot conclude.”

I tangled with one teacher for eight months. Gradually the other students stopped coming; nothing could be taught. I would arrive and the teacher would arrive. He panicked as exams approached—what would become of the students? And his job? He told me, “Exams are near; you don’t let me move an inch.”

I said, “Say one small thing, and I will be silent. Say your conclusions are of the heart—and I will not argue. But if you insist they are intellectual, I will not stop—exams or no exams; this year or two; my life goes, your life goes.”

He said he would not come to college; he was ready to resign. Three days he hadn’t come.

The principal called me: “What’s the matter? He is senior, respected. This never happened.” I said, “That only proves he never faced a student who challenged him. Bring him here; the matter will be clear in front of you. Let him say his conclusions are of the heart; I will be silent. If he insists they are rational, then it won’t end.”

The principal said, “He won’t come. He’s ready to resign.” I said, “That’s his choice.” The principal said, “I see your point—but we are helpless. The college will suffer. Better you withdraw.” I said, “I can withdraw—but not on my own. You must expel me.”

“Are you mad? When we expel someone, he pleads to be allowed to leave quietly, transfer elsewhere. You want us to expel you!”

“Without expulsion I won’t go. Expulsion will be my certificate—that a college lost to me; now to meet another. And I will not go by your recommendation, why put you in trouble—this story will repeat. I’ll go on my own. And I have no taste for your degrees; I consider degrees diseases. Certificates I only mean to tear—and that I did. What else to do with them? But I wanted to test: how much intelligence is in those called intelligent.”

No conclusion can be drawn by logic. Hence saints speak of love, not logic. One who argues with saints is foolish. They are not speaking of argument—they have already said, it is beyond dispute.

“Piy ko khojan main chali!”

I set out to seek the Beloved. And it happened—

“Apui gayi hiray!”

“I myself got lost.” Palatu then is silent. He does not add, “And then what happened?” You may want to know—but Palatu is silent: who will speak now? If he is lost, who will speak? Now understand. Now the matter is to be understood, not said. Only by losing oneself is He found. As a river, merging into the ocean, becomes the ocean—so when the devotee is lost in God, he becomes God.

Anand Pratibha, this series will be a meditation on love. Certainly, to speak of love we will also have to speak of logic. Only against the backdrop of logic can love be understood—like stars shine out against the darkness of night.

I enjoy logic; it has its flavor. I am not hostile to logic. For me it is a play, a sport—only a play. But those who mistake it for life are blind. Those stuck in toys are childish. In childhood, fine—but as you grow, it should become clear life is more than logic—indeed, beyond logic. Before you die, know that which is beyond logic. Knowing it, one tastes immortality.

So I will speak of logic as a blackboard, and of love as the white chalk with which we write upon it. I want to lead you to love—but you are stuck somewhere in logic, whether you admit it or not, know it or not. After all, what is your being Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain? Nothing but logic. It is not your love.

A Jain—when did he love Mahavira? By chance he was born in a Jain home. Raise that Jain child in a Muslim home—and if grown he loves Mahavira, then one can say that love of Mahavira was natural. He will love Mohammed. Raise him in a Christian home—he will love Jesus. A Christian never even thinks there is anything to love in Mahavira. The Hindu too doesn’t think!

Wherever you are born, the conditioning you receive, you repeat your whole life. This is a mental thing; conditioning sticks in the head. No conditioning reaches the heart. This is the heart’s wonder: no one can corrupt the heart. This is the head’s flaw: the head can be corrupted—and it is.

Every child’s intelligence is violated by you. Children are born with great genius. No child is born Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. But you grab their necks quickly. Children are fresh—you kill them; you poison them. You feed hostility, envy, hatred—what not! The milk comes mixed with poison!

Very few fortunate ones escape this poison. My whole effort here is to free you from it. You cling to it, because you don’t see it as poison. But it reaches only the mind, not deeper. Therein lies your hope, your future—that the heart cannot be destroyed. Betrayal of the heart is impossible; only the head can be betrayed.

And your mind has been much betrayed. I want to pull your intellect right up to the limit where it abandons you. To that boundary—“Palatu dival kahkaha”—that wall—so you can peek beyond yourself.

Hence I do not preach simple faith. My way is unique. Ordinary religious people say, “Believe, have faith.” I do not. I say: first exhaust your reasoning—so that the fuss ends and nothing remains to argue. Settle accounts with it. See every trick the mind can perform. Watch the whole show to satiety. Be bored of it. Drag it to its extreme.

Therefore, in my words you will see an edge of logic. Theists come and get frightened by this edge—they leave troubled: “What kind of religion is this?” They believe in limp, half-baked theism.

I do not believe in a flaccid, neuter theism. I believe in a theism that has gone beyond atheism—not by bypassing it, but by passing through its fire.

I want to lead you right up to the wall. And I will warn you there: “Mat koi jhankan jay”—don’t peep. Now be careful. Even now, if you want to turn back, you can.

But until the wall appears, what is there to say? Until then, I will take you to it—Palatu too takes you that far. Standing upon it, I will tell you: Think it over once more. Here is the wall. If you peep, you are finished. Now choose this side or that. If you want to stay here, stay. Don’t look back later.

But my experience is: those who can walk with my logic to the wall do not return without peeking. How can anyone return without peeking? However much Palatu says, however much I say “Don’t peep”—what happens? The wall is so alluring. And when you see people peeking and leaping and hear their laughter, your own life-breaths become restless. You think, “Let’s gamble once. Who knows if life will come again? Who knows if this wall will come again? Who knows if I will reach here again!”

Still, I must warn you—so you won’t say later, “You didn’t tell us, and we climbed by mistake.” I don’t want to take anyone up by mistake. Climb in full awareness—only then climb; only then can you peep beyond.

And one who has peeped has become intoxicated. He has entered the tavern. That is why I call this pilgrimage of mine a tavern. I do not call it a temple—I call it a wine-house. Temples are dead taverns. Once wine was sold there; once drunkards sat there; once revelers gathered. When Buddha was there, it was a tavern. The pourer is gone, the sakhi is gone; priests remain. Empty bottles remain, and the worship of empty bottles goes on—or people drink Ganga water from empty bottles! Will you get drunk on Ganga water? For that you need pure grape wine—red wine! You need a magician who can touch even water and make it wine.

In Jesus’ life there is a story—he saw the sea and the sea became wine. Christians think this is a miracle. It is not. It is the event of every Buddha’s life. Wherever he looks, wine showers. If he looks into your eyes, wine will surge through your being; every pore will thrill. If he takes your hand—Palatu’s wall and laughter! You’re on the wall. Then escape is hard. This is the one love-marriage without any possibility of divorce.

But the Master does warn; and rightly so. Because this is a dangerous bargain: everything must be staked.

“Piy ko khojan main chali, apui gayi hiray.”

It is an invitation to all who are ready to lose themselves. So I will speak logic—to lead you to the wall; logic can take you that far. Then I will speak love—because love alone can take you beyond.

I accept everything in life—logic and love; science and religion. I call him wise who uses everything—who makes medicine even of poison, who turns everything into a rung of the ladder. Nothing in life need be rejected—everything must be transformed.

Yog Pritam has sent me a song:

One ray is enough to reach the sun,
One path is enough to reach the goal.
Life is a festival, brimming with dance and song—
Let us accept it—let us try to live it.
Granted, there are thorns—but flowers aren’t few either—
Let’s view life once through a window of joy.
One fragrance is enough to find the garden,
One hymn is enough to merge in Brahman.
One ray is enough to reach the sun,
One path is enough to reach the goal.

Granted, there is the din of storms and tempests,
But life’s ocean also sings its music.
In the play of the waves, it giggles like a child.
It holds the submarine fire—yet makes lotuses bloom.
One thirst is enough to reach the ocean,
One grace is enough to behold the Lord.
One ray is enough to reach the sun,
One path is enough to reach the goal.

Life is an opportunity—everything depends on living:
We can turn words into curses—or into songs.
Life is not a curse; it is the Giver’s boon.
Let us drown in its nectar, dwell in its love.
One spark is enough to kindle revolutions,
One devotion is enough to taste sweet release.
One ray is enough to reach the sun,
One path is enough to reach the goal.

If there is thirst in you—even a little—I will pull you to the wall of laughter. And who is there without any thirst at all? How could there be a human in whom at some hour the longing to experience the Divine does not arise? He may suppress it, deny it—but who has not seen the futility of the ordinary at least once, and asked, “Is this all—or is there more?”

Not one person is without at least a single ray. If there is courage, that one ray is enough to reach the sun.

One ray is enough to reach the sun,
One path is enough to reach the goal.

And since you have come this far—to me—I would not want you to go back empty. I want to fill your begging bowl—with such joy that the more you share, it never runs dry; with such songs that the more you sing, the more they are born and grow; with such love that the more you pour, the deeper it becomes.

One fragrance is enough to find the garden,
One hymn is enough to merge in Brahman.

And I see: you have that much within. At least one hymn is in everyone. It needs to be awakened. A little stirring, a little brushing off the ash.

The true Master cannot give you truth, but he can certainly blow away the ash that has gathered upon your truth; he can fan your ember till it glows again.

One thirst is enough to reach the ocean,
One grace is enough to behold the Lord.
One spark is enough to kindle revolutions,
One devotion is enough to taste sweet release.

You have come here—you prove it: one ray is there; you have taken one path. Now come with me to the wall and its laughter. One who reaches that far does not return without climbing.

And that is why Palatu can so playfully say, “If you can turn back, then turn back.” He knows no one ever has. Hence he can say so lightly, “Let none go searching, let none go peeping. Save yourself, if you still can.” He speaks so casually because once at the wall, it’s hard to resist. And he gives news of the other side: what will happen—“You will be erased. You will not find God while you remain. As long as you are, God is not. When you are gone—He is.”

People want proof of God and also to remain as they are. Impossible. Against the very law of life. The drop wants to know the ocean and stay apart; to taste the ocean’s flavor and remain distant—how can that be? The drop has to be lost. But what does it lose? Does it forfeit anything? From one angle, the drop disappears; from another, it becomes the ocean. Nothing is lost—everything is gained.

Naresh!
This is everyone’s condition. You are at least fortunate enough that you’ve sensed this much, that such a question has arisen within you, that such curiosity has awakened—“Am I alive or not?” Most people are simply convinced they are alive. They are in their graves and still assume they’re alive!

What passes for life is no life at all. Yes, you breathe, you eat. Trees also breathe and take nourishment. Animals too breathe and eat. If life is only that, then there isn’t much difference between you and a cauliflower. You’d be just another cauliflower.

Life is not only that. Life is other. Life is vast. Life is boundless, immeasurable. It is there before birth and after death.

But the search for that life begins only when this question mark starts pricking you like an arrow from within—an arrow that won’t go clean through and end the irritation, but remains lodged halfway, constantly aching.

It is good, Naresh, that you ask: “Am I alive or not?”

This is a very intelligent question. In the life of one in whom this question has arisen, he cannot remain dead for long. There are two kinds of dead people in the world—those who have gone to sleep in graves, and those who are still walking around in their graves. Those sleeping in graves might also be under the illusion that they are alive; they may be dreaming that they are living. At night, when you fall asleep, what don’t you dream! Who knows what dreams the man lying in the grave may be seeing!

One thing is certain: one who spent his whole life in trash and thought that trash was life will actually feel relief in the grave. He will perhaps think, “I’ve arrived at my destination. Now I’m home. Now it’s all rest and only rest.”

But the first blow of restlessness has struck within you—that’s good news. It is an auspicious sign. This is where religion begins. This is where the first step of the journey is taken—the very first step that is absolutely essential; the first ray without which no one can reach the sun; utterly indispensable.

There is such a mention in Mahavira’s life: Mahavira was staying in Vaishali. In Vaishali there was a master thief. Just as Mahavira was famous, so was that thief. He had never been caught in his whole life, even though everyone knew he was the greatest thief. There wasn’t a single emperor in those days whose treasury he hadn’t raided. And not only did he raid the treasuries, he also left his mark and sent word that it was he who had done it. Yet he could never be caught red-handed.

When Mahavira came to the town, the thief told his son, “Listen, stay away from this man. He’s an enemy of our religion—of our profession. Don’t go to listen to him. Emperors can’t catch us, but this man will catch you. The police can’t catch us, but avoiding him is difficult. I tell you from a lifetime of experience: such people are dangerous; they ruin our trade. If you care about our heritage, don’t go to hear him. Many will urge you, ‘Come, listen, what astonishing words!’ but you go deaf. Don’t even go near the lane where Mahavira is staying. And if by mistake you see him on the road, slip away through any alley. Don’t even look at him. Even seeing such a man is dangerous, because merely seeing him can infect you. Such people are contagious. If you have to pass that way and he is speaking, don’t let a single word enter your ears—plug your ears with your fingers and run.”

So warned by his father, the boy’s curiosity also awakened. But the father was experienced, and the son too wanted to learn his father’s art—he was learning—and wanted to become accomplished, to surpass his father even; so he didn’t want to drop the trade at once. He tried to avoid Mahavira, but somewhere deep within, in the unconscious, a longing remained: “Let me see once what kind of man this is that even my father fears him! My father fears no one, he knows not what fear is—and he fears this naked monk who has nothing at all! Why? And what could there be in his words that merely listening to them ruins a man? That merely seeing him ruins a man?”

One day he was passing by and Mahavira was speaking. His voice was ringing out to the road. The boy did put his fingers in his ears—as father had said—but a moment late, just late enough that a sentence or two could slip in: what is this man saying?

Mahavira was explaining: when a person dies, if he has done merit he enters heaven; if he has sinned he enters hell. Someone asked, “But what is the proof that he is dead?” Mahavira said, “The proof is that whoever is present there will have their feet reversed. Whether gods or spirits, hell or heaven—their feet will be backward.”

This much the boy heard. Then he quickly plugged his ears and ran. He thought, “What was there in this to be frightened about? Why is my father so scared?”

But as fate would have it, the emperor was laying a trap. He wanted to catch him somehow. The father was hard to catch, but the son was still a novice. The son too had begun practicing theft. So the plan was to catch the son first. A whole conspiracy was hatched. Catching him red-handed during a theft was difficult; instead, they seized him and forced liquor down his throat until he became completely unconscious. That was the plot. Then they placed him in the most beautiful chamber of the palace, amid the loveliest courtesans, who were fanning him—and who had feathers as well as fans attached to their hands so that they seemed like celestial nymphs: Menaka, Urvashi fanning him, the room decked in gold and studded with gems.

When the boy began to regain a little consciousness, he suspected, “It seems I have died. Where am I? This isn’t my house. It isn’t a prison either—prisons aren’t like this. I’ve never seen such beauty. I’ve never seen such beautiful women. And they even have wings! Surely they are apsaras. And what fragrance is in the air! He was lying on a bed of flowers. Half-conscious, half-unconscious, he concluded, ‘I’ve reached heaven. I’m dead.’”

At that moment one apsara said, “You haven’t yet entered heaven. You’re in the waiting hall outside. First, here one has to give a full account of all one’s sins and merits. Whoever tells everything truthfully gets a place in heaven. Whoever tells even a small lie—what can be hidden from God?—whoever lies even a little is sent to hell. So if you want to go to heaven, tell everything truthfully!” He started and thought, “Tell everything truthfully!” He was a thief; at once he remembered Mahavira’s sentence. He said, “First look at their feet to see whether these are apsaras at all.”

He looked at their feet: they were like human feet—normal. He understood it was a conspiracy. Then he began to speak—of his merits, and of his father’s merits, and of his father’s father’s merits, and the merits of his ancestors for generations!

The whole plot failed. They had to let him go. They had hoped that, tempted by heaven, he would confess all the sins—his own and his father’s—and then they would have him trapped.

He reached home, touched his father’s feet and said, “Now I am going to Mahavira. A single sentence saved my life. I can no longer ignore him. That one sentence—which had seemed utterly meaningless when I heard it, which had appeared to have no significance—has saved me today. Your arts are no help to me today. Today I would have been finished. Not only I—you too would have been finished.” He told the whole story: “This was the king’s trick. But I am going to that man. The one whose single sentence has saved me—my life now belongs to him. My life will go with him. And now I know that what I have been living until now is false. If not today, tomorrow that falsity will be exposed. Even if I evade people, what of the beyond? Somewhere I will be caught. How long can a lie last? How long will you keep it going? I’m going.”

Not only did he go, his father thought, “He’s right,” and the father went as well. Mahavira initiated them and said, “Look, one sentence—spoken for you alone. Generally I don’t talk about heavens and hells; there’s no point. But you were passing on the road; I spoke for you. I knew of the conspiracy that was afoot; you would get ensnared. That sentence was spoken for you. One sentence has brought revolution to your life. Now your real life begins.”

You are asking, Naresh: “Am I alive or not?”

I want to tell you: that you could ask this is beautiful, auspicious. From this your real life begins. Until now you have not been alive—you were a corpse. Now, for the first time, you have taken a breath. For the first time, a true thought has been born. For the first time, discrimination has arisen.

A very fat man fell from the fourth floor of his house. When he came to in the hospital, the first question he asked was, “Doctor, am I on earth or in heaven? I can’t figure out whether I am alive or dead.” The doctor said, “Sir, you are very much alive, and you are on earth—in Sassoon Hospital in Pune—but the four poor fellows you fell on have prematurely become heavenly.”

Naresh, you have been dead until now, and who knows on how many you have fallen, how many you have sent to heaven! Now stop falling. One who falls does not fall alone—we are all linked with one another here, bound in chains. One person falls and drags four more down. Whatever you do—its consequences and ill consequences spread far and wide; their echoes are heard far and wide.

It is good that you are beginning to awaken. Come now with me to where laughter echoes off the walls. You have come to the right place. Here your rebirth can happen. Here you can become dvija—twice-born. Here I can make you a brahmin.

No one is born a brahmin—remember that. One has to become a brahmin. All are born shudras. In truth there are only two varnas in the world—shudra and brahmin. All are born as shudras; then a few who come to know Brahman become brahmins. And to know Brahman is to know life. You will become twice-born if you know life.

But you will have to be free of many things. You will have to drop the very things that have killed you. All your “knowledge,” which sits heavy on your head, is the cause of your death; like a boulder, it crushes your consciousness. Your scriptures are murdering your consciousness. You must be free of them.

And understand: to discover the truth that is in the scriptures, you must first be free of the scriptures. If you are not free of them, you will be deprived of truth. For now you will interpret the scriptures only according to what you are able to project. In your present stupor, what will you understand of the Gita? What will you understand of the Quran? What will you understand of the Bible?

Mulla Nasruddin was to come see me. He said, “I’ll come at such-and-such time,” and arrived two hours late. I asked, “Nasruddin, why so late?” Nasruddin said, “What could I do? There was a signboard on the road that said, ‘Go slow.’ So I kept coming slowly and slowly and slowly.” The sign on the road became his excuse, a peg to hang it on.

Nasruddin was drinking. I asked, “Nasruddin, you’re such a devoted reader of the Quran, and you say you revere it greatly, and the Quran clearly says that whoever drinks will rot in hell!” Nasruddin said, “I know. I read it every day.” I said, “Then how do you go on drinking?” He replied, “I don’t yet have the capacity to follow the whole sentence. For now I can only manage the first part—‘whoever drinks.’ I can comply with that much. It’s a matter of capacity and fitness. My qualification isn’t yet so great that I can fulfill the entire sentence. I do as much as I can. Beyond my means, I cannot go.”

Who will interpret?

Two students arrived late to school. The teacher asked, “Mohan, why are you so late?” Mohan said, “Sir, I lost my half-rupee coin.” The teacher asked, “And why are you late, Gopal?” Gopal said, “Sir, I was standing with my foot on that coin. Until he moved, how could I move? When he moved, then I moved. And the rascal took so long—kept searching and searching—and I kept standing and standing. It became a contest of determination.”

Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. She said, “Do this: so my husband doesn’t find out, I live on the second floor. I’ll let down a rope and drop a coin. When you hear the clink below, understand it’s the signal—now climb up the rope, which means my husband is asleep and snoring.” Mulla said, “Fine.”

On the full-moon night he stood under the window. At midnight the rope was lowered, a coin fell with a clink. The woman waited and waited; an hour passed. She looked down and said, “Nasruddin, didn’t you hear the coin?” Nasruddin said, “I heard it; I’m searching for it. If I find it, then I’ll come up. If I leave it and come, my mind won’t be upstairs at all—my mind will remain on that coin.”

Your mind, your stupor, your self-ignorance—whatever you read, whatever you hear, all of it gets distorted and will go on being distorted. Therefore, Naresh, if you want to live, to be alive, do the first thing—be free of knowledge, free of pedantry, free of scripturalism. Look at the world again like a small child.

Children have life. Children have the capacity for wonder—and that is the greatest capacity. That is the very symptom of life: the ability to be awestruck. The smallest things enchant them—a pebble, a stone, a butterfly, a flower, a cloud drifting in the sky, a light rain—and they are wonderstruck. A rainbow blooms in the sky and their very souls become eager; had they wings, they would fly!

Until you again become like small children—free of all knowledge, free of hollow erudition, free of futile nets of logic—you will not be able to be alive.

Jesus said: Unless you become like little children, you will not enter my Father’s kingdom.

I agree with Jesus a hundred percent.

A thin, frail Chandulal was a professor of logic. Then he stood for election—and, by luck, he won. Some journalists came to interview him. They were chatting in the sitting room when Mrs. Chandulal entered. One questioner asked, “Is this your better half?” Chandulal said, “No, no, she is not my better half.” The conversation moved on. A little later a journalist said, “How nice it would be if we had the privilege of interviewing your good lady as well.” Chandulal said, “Of course, of course, here sits my wife. Ask her whatever you wish.” The journalists said in astonishment, “Just now you denied she was your better half, and now you say she is your wife! What kind of contradiction is this?” Chandulal replied, “Where is the contradiction, brother? Can’t you see my wife’s colossal body that you ask such questions? Gentlemen, she is not my better half; I am her one-eighth. And that is precisely why, brothers, the great sage Patanjali called his yoga Ashtanga Yoga—eight-limbed—meaning it is for men to do, not for women.”

See how the logician drags the meaning of ashtanga all the way to Patanjali! He even drags Patanjali into it.

You will have to drop all the logic you have collected—borrowed and stale. You will have to rely on your own intelligence. Only your own intelligence can liberate you. No one else’s truth can set you free. Only your own intelligence can give you life. And this crowd all around—these are all dead. It is a crowd of corpses. Seeing them, don’t conclude, “After all, there are so many; they too are alive like me, so I must be alive.” That would be mere logic, empty logic, of no value.

In Jesus’ life there is a mention: early one morning he came to the lake and placed his hand on a fisherman’s shoulder. The man had just cast his net. He turned back and saw the rising sun and, in that light, Jesus’ lovely eyes shining—deeper than the lake and bluer than the lake. The fisherman, a simple man, was spellbound. Jesus said, “How long will you go on killing fish? Life is short; time is slipping through your hands. Come, follow me! I will teach you the art of casting your net over God. What are you doing catching fish? Why not catch God?”

If that fisherman had been a logician, he would have started arguing. If he had been versed in scripture, he would have disputed. He was a fisherman, a simple man. He dropped his net and followed Jesus. He didn’t even ask, “Where are you going? Where are you taking me?”

As they were leaving the village, a man came running and said, “Madman, where are you going? Your father, who had been ill a long time, has just died—come home. His last rites must be performed.” The fisherman said to Jesus, “Forgive me. Give me three days’ leave; I will go and perform my father’s last rites.”

And do you know what Jesus said to that fisherman? Jesus said, “Are you crazy? There are plenty of dead in the village; let the dead bury the dead. You follow me.”

And the fisherman kept walking behind Jesus.

Did you catch what Jesus said? There are plenty of dead in the village; they will bury the dead. Why do you need to go? You come. Seek life.

Naresh, come with me. I can teach you the art of catching life. But you’ll have to drop the junk piled up in your head. Burn all your theories and scriptures; then the journey becomes smooth and simple. To arrive by your own intelligence is very easy. Borrowed intelligences are not intelligence. Borrowed lives are not life.

And we are all living borrowed lives. Someone is living Krishna, someone is living Rama, someone Buddha, someone someone else—no one is living himself. Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself! Extinguish all other lamps! Better your own darkness than someone else’s light—so that you can find your own light. That is the beginning of life.

Life is your birthright. But you will have to work, to practice. You can certainly attain it. You will have to lose yourself; only then will you find. Begin by losing your knowledge—that is the first step toward losing the ego. And the first step is half the journey.

That’s all for today.