Piya Kokhojan Main Chali #10

Yog Neelam! The Beloved is not far. Not even so far that any meeting would be needed. There has only been forgetfulness, not separation. Separation cannot be. The Beloved abides within. He is the breath of our breath, the heartbeat of our heart. Without him we have no being. Because he is, we are. As the ocean is, so the waves are. The ocean can be without waves, but the waves cannot be without the ocean.

Yet a wave can fall into a delusion—the delusion that “I am separate from the ocean.” In that very delusion, forgetfulness happens. Only forgetfulness happens; separation cannot.

The whole search for the Beloved is nothing but remembrance—re-remembering. That is why the saints have called this search surati.

Surati means remembrance, recollection. Surati is the folk form of the word smriti. What the Buddha called smriti, by the time of Kabir and Nanak became surati—dearer, even dearer than smriti. In people’s hands words take on beauty. Their crookedness and angularity fall away. Their grammar is lost, and their poetry is revealed. Smriti has grammar, the purity of language; but it lacks that roundness, that beauty which surati has. Smriti carries a slight hardness, a touch of harshness; surati has softness. But the meaning is the same: one has only to remember him.

What stands in the way of remembrance?

None but ourselves. This I-sense is the sole obstacle. Drop the “I” even for a single instant—and the Beloved is already found! There is nowhere to go to search, not an inch of journey to make. Not even a blink need pass. Not a single moment need be lost. But one thing will have to be lost, and that is—the “I.” And there is no harm in losing the “I,” because the “I” is a delusion, a falsehood.

The greatest untruth in this world is the ego. And in that very falsehood—in the smoke of that falsehood—we have forgotten our truth. People want to seek God; people want to drown in love; but they carry a condition—and no one can fulfill that condition. The condition is that I should remain “I,” and the Beloved should also be found. Let me remain, and let You also be found.
And their argument also makes sense to me. Many times people came to Buddha with this very question. Naturally—because Buddha said, “You are not.” No one in the history of humankind struck at the ego with the depth and density that Buddha did—not Mahavira, not Muhammad, not Moses, not Christ, not Krishna, not Confucius. All of them said the ego has to be dropped, but they added one more thing: that within you there is a soul. And there the slip happened. People never actually dropped the ego; under the pretext of the soul they saved it again. For what does “soul” mean if not “I”? Buddha’s blow was total; he left not a shred of leeway. He said: Drop the ego—because the ego simply is not.
People would ask, “But the soul exists, doesn’t it?” Buddha would say, “There is no soul either. Because I know your tricks. I know your cleverness. I know your dishonesties. You are skilled at deceiving yourselves. There is no soul either. You are not—by no meaning, in no dimension, from no angle. Within there is non-existence, no-self, anatta.”

People would hesitate, shrug their shoulders. They would say, “If we are not, if there is no soul, then why seek the Truth at all?” What they meant was: “If I am not, why search for Thou? Who will seek? Who will find? What is the point?”

Their reasoning too is understandable. The same reasoning sits inside all of you—conscious or unconscious, clear or vague—but it sits there. That reasoning of the mind is indispensable for saving the mind: “If I have to be erased anyway, then what will I do even if I get the Beloved?” The mind says, “Let me remain and let me get the Beloved too—that is the real fun. Only then is there the delight of union. What kind of wedding night is it if either I am and the Beloved is not, or the Beloved is and I am not?”

But existence does not run by your arguments. Existence is deeply illogical—beyond logic. And you will have to understand existence as it is. Existence has never agreed, and will never agree, to fulfill the expectations of your logic. You will have to drop your logic. You will have to see the basic error in your reasoning. Your logic is not logic; it is a pseudo-logic, a sophistry. You are like a wave saying, “Only while I am is there joy in meeting the ocean.” As long as the wave takes itself to be separate, distinct—as long as the “I”-sense exists—meeting the ocean cannot happen. When the “I”-sense drops, the wave finds it has always been one with the ocean. There is not even a meeting—there has always been union.

When Buddha became enlightened for the first time he laughed and said, “Wonder of wonders! That which I was seeking has always been given to me. Not for a single moment had I lost it! What an astonishment—that which I had never lost, I kept searching for lives upon lives. Had I only once turned within, reversed the direction of my gaze, I would have found it at once. I went on running and running—where all did I not run? What methods, what yogas, what disciplines did I not try!”

Yog Neelam, you ask: “How does union with the Beloved happen?” “How” means: tell me the technique, the path, the practice, the method. To ask for a method is to ask for a process by which, having broken off, we could be rejoined.

And I want to say to you: you have never been broken off. No one has. If a leaf falls away from the tree, it begins to die at once, to dry up; its greenness is gone, its sap is lost. If the leaf remains joined to the tree, it is joined to existence; not only to the branches but to the earth as well, to the moon and stars, to the sun too. Everything here is interconnected. This entire existence is one—one great ocean of which we all are waves.

But this misfortune had to befall man. It was necessary too. Perhaps it is an indispensable stage in human evolution that one falls into the illusion, “I am separate,” that one goes through the illusion of separation—and then one day drops that illusion. It is part of the process of growth.

Jesus said: A saint again becomes like a small child. It is right to ask, and one should ask. The person to whom Jesus said this—Nicodemus—was a famous scholar, a religious leader. He immediately asked: “If becoming like children is the way to God, then why doesn’t every child attain God?” Jesus said, “You did not pay attention. I said ‘like children’; I did not say ‘who are children.’ Like children—meaning one who is not a child, and yet is a child. In one sense, not a child—childhood has been crossed; he is not childish. And yet… childlike.”

But to become non-childish, through what process must one pass? The child has to drop childhood: its whole sense of wonder, simplicity, innocence, purity—everything has to be left behind. That unscheming openness, that pristine clarity, all is lost. All sorts of tricks, all kinds of politics and diplomacies have to be learned. One goes very far away from oneself.

The farther one goes, the more pain one suffers. The farther one goes, the more one withers. The farther one goes, the fewer the flowers that bloom. The farther one goes, the more life seems futile, meaningless. Then a day comes when the memory grows intense: “What have I done! What a self-betrayal! How have I destroyed myself with my own hands! Now let me turn back. Let me go home. Let me return to the world where I always already was.” That same childhood—when on the seashore I gathered shells and conches, colorful stones—which felt as if I had picked up diamonds and rubies! That same childhood—when I gathered flowers, and it seemed I had filled my bag with stars! Those days of simplicity. No entanglements; no question of solving anything. No problem; no desire for solutions. Everything evoked wonder, left me awestruck. The smallest thing would render me speechless, fill me with mystery. Let me return!

And the journey of return begins. The saint finds childhood again. A saint is one who has regained childhood—but regained. Remember this; do not forget it.

The first childhood has to be lost, because the first childhood is unconscious, unknowing. Only by losing it does one come to know what was lost. And when you regain it, you know the joy. Like a fish drawn out of the ocean—caught in a net, thrown on the burning sand at noon when the sun is a ball of fire and the sand is scorching—the fish flaps and writhes. Then for the first time it knows what the bliss of the ocean was. Then it recognizes for the first time, “Ah, that in which I was—that was my home, my ocean!”

While it was in the ocean it must often have wondered, “Where is the ocean?” It had heard so much—heard from the elders, the stories, the scriptures. Great mention of the ocean, great songs in praise of the ocean. Those who knew the ocean were called Buddhas, Jinas. “Where is that ocean?”

The fish cannot know—because it is born in the ocean. To know, a little distance is needed, a little gap.

If you want to see your face in a mirror, you need a small distance. If you press your face against the mirror, you will see nothing—not even your own face.

When the fish writhes on the sand it sees, it experiences. If somehow it slides back into the ocean, then in one sense it is the same fish, and in another sense it is not. The first fish was unknowing; the second fish has attained Buddhahood.

This is the only difference between you and the Buddhas. You are also where the Buddhas are.

Yog Neelam, you are also where I am. You are also where Krishna is. You are also where Buddha is. Not the slightest difference. Only you are in forgetfulness; they have remembered. Every child is where the greatest sages of the world have entered. But children will have to be lost. They will have to wander in the marketplaces. They will have to weather the heat and glare of life—sufferings, pains, thorn-strewn paths. Then they will remember. Then the pain will sting. Then the return will become possible. When again they return to their own temple, for the first time they will realize what immense wealth was theirs—and how they simply walked away from it without even looking back.

You ask: “I set out to seek the Beloved…” We have all set out to seek, but before seeking there must be a readiness to lose yourself. We have found ourselves—or rather, we have fabricated ourselves. We have made an image of ourselves. What are we but a notion, an appearance? The name is false; the form is false. Every moment everything is changing; there is a flow. What is the truth within you?

If I show you the picture of the very first moment in the mother’s womb, you would not recognize that that condition was once yours. To see it with the naked eye is impossible; you need a microscope. Under the microscope you would see only a tiny dot, a cell. It won’t resemble you in the least—no nose, no features, nothing. Yet that was you. Then day by day you grew.

Scientists say that in the nine months in the womb the child passes through all the stages that humankind traversed over eons. Life first arose in the ocean, so the child is first like a fish. If that picture—your picture—were placed before you, you would not recognize yourself. You would say, “This is some fish’s picture. Me? Impossible! Neither the features nor the form match.”

Gradually the child develops—rapidly passing through all the steps. What took humanity thousands of years, the child completes in nine months. One day you would look just like an ape, a monkey; you would not be recognizable, even to yourself. Yet one day that was you.

If the picture from the day you were born were put before you, could you recognize yourself? Impossible—quite impossible.

Change is happening every day. This body is flowing like water, every day. This is not you. And the mind flows even faster. The body takes a while to change; the mind moves at the speed of the wind—perhaps faster. Amidst all this, what is still? Understand that still point, and the Beloved is found. Among all this, what is eternal? What is the nectar? Recognize that nectar—drink it—and the Beloved is found. Within all this only the witnessing, the seer, is eternal; all else changes. All else has no ultimate value.

Meditation brings you the remembrance of that witnessing. Meditation gives you nothing new; it returns your original childhood to you. It gives you what you never lost.

That is why I say: I will give you only what is already yours; and I will take away only what was never yours. This may sound paradoxical—but it is not in the least. It is straightforward, as clear as two plus two are four. Let me repeat: I will take away only what you do not have—your ego, which is sheer falsity. And I will give you what you have never, even for a moment, lost—your Beloved, your God.

Meditation is merely a process of remembrance. We have to remember what we have forgotten. However it is remembered—by whatever device—that device is only a pretext. In what way remembrance will dawn in whom is hard to say.

A man once went to a psychologist—a famous professor of philosophy. He said, “I have a hindrance: I forget everything. Sometimes I even forget my own name. I have to ask people, ‘Who am I?’ and they laugh. The truth is, I always keep a card with my name in my pocket; I take it out to see who I am, and put it back. One day by mistake someone else’s card got into my pocket and I was in great trouble. Somewhere inside I felt, ‘This is not me,’ but the card plainly declared I was. Today my wife has packed me off with great persuasion. This morning it got really bad: when I was leaving home, I kissed the maid instead of my wife and asked my wife if everything was fine—‘Are you happy with the salary?’ My wife said, ‘This is too much. You must go to a psychologist and get treated.’ So I have come.”

The psychologist asked, “Since when do you have this illness?” The professor stared at him and said, “What illness? What are you talking about? Come to your senses!” The psychologist realized the case was badly gone—just now he was telling his illness, and he has already forgotten! A little silence followed; the psychologist did not know what to say. Then the professor remembered a little why he had come. He took out his card and then recalled—his wife had written on it why he must go. He said, “Now I remember: I forget things. What should I do?”

The psychologist said, “Whatever else we do, first pay my fee. You’re not a reliable man. When you forget your disease, tomorrow you won’t even recognize me. You’ll say, ‘What fee? For what?’ First pay, then treatment.”

This often happens. There are many tales about forgetfulness in relation to philosophers—no accident; there are reasons. Philosophers get entangled in very high thoughts; the mind weaves vast webs—like a spider spins a web, so does a philosopher weave webs of concepts. Beautiful webs! A spider’s web is beautiful too. But spiders catch flies in their webs; philosophers get caught themselves. They weave such webs they forget the way out. They construct labyrinths but forget the exit.

There are many stories about the great thinker Immanuel Kant. One night he returned from a walk and laid his cane on the bed to rest, while he himself stood propped in the corner where the cane should have been. After a while he thought something was wrong—he did not feel the usual comfort. “What is it? Everything seems arranged, and yet something has gone amiss.” The servant, seeing the light on, peeped in the window and saw the master leaning in the corner and his cane resting on the bed—under the blanket, head on the pillow! He said, “Sir, there’s a mix-up. Put yourself on the bed and the cane in the corner.” Kant said, “Right, that’s what I’ve been thinking—something is certainly wrong. I arranged everything, but somewhere I slipped.”

Kant lived practically under the servant’s care. A lady had once proposed marriage to him—he forgot. Three years later, while looking through his notebook where he had jotted it down, he remembered. He rushed to her house and knocked. Her father opened the door and asked, “Sir, to what do we owe the honor?” Kant said, “Your daughter had proposed marriage to me; I have come to say I agree.” The father replied, “A little late. She is married and has two children. When did she propose?” Kant pulled out his notebook, read the date—three years had passed. He never married. Just as well—one woman was spared trouble.

He became so dependent on his servant the servant could demand any wage. Without him Kant could not live a day, not even move an inch—because the servant had to remember everything: when to drink tea, when to eat, when to sleep, when to go to the university, when to return.

And not only about Kant—such has been the state with many philosophers. The reason? Lost in thought, too many thoughts. So lost that the awareness of the seer is forgotten. So lost in philosophy that the knower is forgotten. They forget themselves.

We are all small-time philosophers. Even if not as great as Kant, even if we cannot weave such mighty webs, each of us has our little webs, our little scriptures, our beliefs. It is hard to find a person without any personal doctrine—right or wrong is another matter. As it is, all doctrines are wrong, all philosophies are wrong. Being the seer alone is truth; the rest is a net of dreams. Within you neither body is truth nor mind is truth. Within you the truth is the one who sees both. In whatever way remembrance of that seer dawns…

Different methods have been used; they are all artificial aids to memory. How the happening will occur cannot be said, because it has happened to different people in different ways. But this much is certain: whenever it has happened, by some pretext or other, abiding as the witnessing has occurred. Perhaps seeing the sunrise your thoughts fall silent. Surely someone, sometime, seeing the sunrise, had thoughts fall silent—and from then came surya-namaskar. From then thousands offer water to the sun. But this is an artificial remedy; they do not know why they are doing it. They bow to the sun. Surely someone, seeing the moon, felt a hush within—and so Islam counts months by the moon. If you dig you will find a person who, seeing the moon, attained life’s treasure. But these are all pretexts.

Buddha’s enlightenment happened while watching the last star of dawn setting. Even now in China, Korea, Japan, and Buddhist lands there is a practice of watching the last star sink. Millions watch and hope something will happen—but nothing happens. These are not methods, not a science. These are coincidental events. Buddha was silent and still; he was looking at the sky—there was no net of thoughts between the sky and him. By coincidence, at that time the last star was setting. There is no causal connection to the star’s setting. That is why there can be thousands of methods of meditation—because to different people it happens differently.

You have heard about Valmiki: Narada told him to chant “Rama, Rama,” but Valmiki was illiterate—he forgot. And even if you chant rapidly “Rama, Rama,” soon it is hard to tell whether you are saying “Rama, Rama” or “mara, mara” (die, die). If you leave no space between the two “Rama”s, writing in a single line, one could read it as “mara-mara” as easily as “Rama-Rama.” That is what happened to Valmiki. Being unlettered he forgot “Rama” and slowly began to chant “mara, mara, mara…” Yet he attained the Ultimate.

There is no mantra in the word “mara,” nor in the word “Rama”—note this. If the mantra were in the word “Rama,” Valmiki could not have attained. He attained chanting “mara.” It is the totality, the absorption, that matters.

The English poet Tennyson used to say, “I just repeat my own name five times and suddenly there is silence.” In childhood his father had told him, “Never be angry before me. I do not want you to learn anger. I have burned in anger and suffered much.” The boy asked, “What should I do if anger comes?” The father said, “Remember.” “How to remember?” “If a situation arises where anger comes, say within yourself: ‘Tennyson, be alert! Tennyson, be alert!’ It will bring you back to awareness.” It became his practice. Whenever anger arose, he would say inside, “Tennyson, be alert!” and anger would vanish—as if it had never come. He began to enjoy it: whenever he said, “Tennyson, be alert!” anger disappeared. He experimented with others: someone abused him, and he would say inside, “Tennyson, be alert!” and the abuse was as if it came and did not come. He felt great joy—“I have found a key.” Later even “be alert” was not needed; just “Tennyson” was enough. He found another key: if ever sleep did not come at night, he would say two or three times, “Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson!”—and sleep would come. However tense the mind, he would say “Tennyson,” and the tension would melt. He practiced this all his life. This was his great mantra—his own name; not Rama’s name, not God’s name, no devotional chant—and just so he slowly unveiled his witnessing.

You ask: “How does union with the Beloved happen?” I can only give hints. To give a fixed method is not right, because who knows if that method will suit you or not. Individuals differ. Hints will help; you can then find the method.

Meera’s gaze got riveted on Krishna, and through that she attained. Mahavira would laugh; he could not believe it possible, because nothing like that happened to him. For Mahavira the happening came by dropping all thoughts, becoming thoughtless. And Krishna is a thought—a beautiful image perhaps, flute in hand, peacock feather on the head, charming and alluring—but what difference does that make? Mahavira’s path is the path of the masculine. Hence in Mahavira’s tradition it is said that liberation cannot happen in the female state. There is some force to that—but in Mahavira’s tradition it cannot happen, because that whole tradition is loveless. But to say it cannot happen in the female state is wrong, because there are other traditions, other paths.

Meera will not take easily to the idea of thoughtlessness. Meera is the complete woman. If Mahavira is the complete man, Meera is the complete woman. The difference between them is as vast as earth and sky. Naturally so. If ordinary man and woman differ so much, then between the complete man and complete woman the differences will be immense. The structures of their being differ greatly. Woman cannot enter through the notion of thoughtlessness—but her love can become so deep, so deep that the very outcome of her love is thoughtlessness. Her love can be so absorbed, such a plunge, that the question of coming out does not arise. Such a plunge happened to Meera.

Neelam, such a plunge will happen to you. I know you—intimately. Of those I know very closely, you are one. Of those whose hearts I have peered into carefully, you are one of the fortunate ones. Your plunge will be through love. In truth, your plunge is already happening. Day by day you are coming close to the Beloved.

Drown in love! Cry in love! Sing in love! Dance in love! Be ecstatic in love! Whatever love makes you do, do it! Be intoxicated in love, be mad in love. This is your worship, your prayer, your path. In love, the ego dissolves on its own. In love the ego cannot survive. Love is poison for the ego and nectar for God-realization. Love is like light; darkness vanishes instantly.

Your movement will be through love. It is already happening. I see your steps every day moving toward the Lord’s temple. I am delighted.

But often it happens: the nearer we come to God, the more intensely we feel the pull—the more it seems, “Let it happen sooner, sooner!”

The taste has begun. A drizzle has started.
But when a drizzle begins, the mind says: why only a drizzle now? Let the sky burst open! Let the heavens break! Why not let the whole ocean descend? Why just a ray or two—why not the whole sun arrive?

This is natural. For those who have not received even a single drop in life, this thought does not arise. That question never comes to them. They do not ask: “I set out to seek the Beloved...!” That is not their concern. One is searching for wealth. Another for position. Who is seeking the Beloved?

You have set out. Your feet have begun to tread the right path. Within you, love is growing denser day by day, silence is deepening. Your prayer is becoming more intense. Your surrender each day is gaining urgency and intensity. But as this happens, you will feel—it should happen sooner, sooner. As the temple draws near, its incense begins to reach you; the lamps burning in the temple begin to be seen. Then the heart longs to run. The pace quickens. You become a moth. As the moth draws nearer to the flame, its yearning keeps increasing. And where does that yearning finally lead? The moth is effaced; it burns in the flame. That is the union with the Beloved. That is the meeting with the Dear One. In that dissolving, the moment of union arrives. Though what dissolves was false, and what is found is the Supreme Truth.

Chitranjan! As you learn the ways of the tavern, newer and newer modes of drinking and serving will occur to you.

The one who comes here for the first time becomes acquainted only with my words. Even to become acquainted with words is much—because he hears only what he can hear, what fits his assumptions and beliefs. What goes against them, he turns deaf to. Or he twists those words—he hears something I never said, something I never meant, could never have meant.

But to the newcomer, wine can only be offered in the cups of words. He is unfamiliar with any other kind of cup. Then, as you begin to come closer to me, the new customs of the wine-house, its depths, begin to occur to you. This is not a temple—remember that. So long as I am alive, this is a tavern. If small incidents make it look temple-like, pay them no attention.

Just yesterday Swami Sant Maharaj asked: a gentleman, walking out of the Buddha Hall with a friend, was saying, “Now this place too is becoming a temple.” Sant couldn’t hold back and asked, “What do you mean?” He replied, “My shoes have been stolen.”

Such little incidents may happen here; don’t take this to be a temple because of them. Sometimes shoes go even from a tavern. Not stolen—that much is certain. Where would you find thieves in a tavern! Someone simply drank a bit too much and walked off in someone else’s. No theft at all. What can you expect of drunkards? They may go away wearing another’s shoes! This is the world of revelers.

One day I saw Nasruddin: a red sock on one foot, a yellow sock on the other. I said, “Nasruddin, is this some new fashion? What kind of socks did you buy?” He said, “That’s what amazes me. And it isn’t just one pair—I have two pairs like this at home! I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. What kind of fashion have these companies put out!”

Who can rely on drinkers! No one will steal your shoes—unless someone has come here by mistake, intending to steal shoes. Such people also turn up; many are under the delusion that this too is a temple. They come by mistake—and then behave just as one does in a temple.

In temples it often happens that people stand with folded hands paying obeisance to God, but they keep turning to look at their shoes. Now tell me, how will their salutation ever reach God? It isn’t reaching God at all—it’s reaching their shoes. Because where the gaze is, there the salutation is.

People go to temples wearing completely worn-out shoes—so that if they get stolen, well and good, one nuisance gone. They’ll even have something to say: “My shoes were stolen; now I must buy a new pair.” Or, if they get the chance, they’ll swap them right there.

I once saw a very new-looking umbrella with Chandulal the Marwari—looked as if he had bought it that very day. I asked, “Chandulal, you’ve bought a brand-new umbrella!” He said, “Not new—seventeen years old.” Seventeen years! And in this condition! Was it made in India? Here an umbrella doesn’t last seventeen days—how did it last seventeen years? He said, “Made in India, but a very sturdy umbrella. Why talk of lasting! It has been swapped at least fifty times, and I’ve had it repaired at least fifty times. And since you ask, I went to the temple this morning—it got swapped again. But it’s a marvelously strong umbrella! Seventeen years, and the same freshness, the same newness.”

People go to temples for their own reasons—one goes to swap umbrellas, another to swap shoes. Leave them be. Some people come here only to hear words; even if I want to pour something else, they won’t be able to drink it.

Chitranjan, but for those who have begun to drink, they must be served through the eyes. The real thing can happen only between eyes and eyes. It happens in that space. For it, words are not necessary; silence is enough. Those whose eyes have linked with mine hear my words in an altogether different way. They drink; they do not merely listen. Then within them there is neither argument nor debate. And when argument and debate fall silent, dialogue arises. Without dialogue there is no experience of truth.

This is going well. You say, “For some days you have been giving to drink through the eyes.” These days you have come close. These days you have become near. Day by day you are coming nearer.

And you say, “But the intoxicated eyes droop.” That too is right: when you drink through the eyes, the eyes will close; when you drink through the eyes, they will droop, become ecstatic.

Do not be alarmed. Do not worry. Do not try to hold the eyes open by force. Sometimes it happens that what open eyes cannot drink, closed eyes can. As much as the open eyes can drink, they will; then they will close, and the closed eyes will drink. Don’t worry about it. Once the connection of the eyes has begun, once glances have met, then whether the eyes are open or closed makes no difference—the drinking will continue. Whether I speak or not. Whether I say this, or I say that.

It means: it has nothing to do with me. Those tears that were flowing were not because of me. They were because of your own beliefs—because I was speaking on your saints. When I spoke on Nanak, suddenly the number of Sikhs here became visible, and they were choked with emotion. They had nothing to do with me. Had I uttered a single word against Nanak, they would have started brandishing their kirpans. They have nothing to do with me. That happiness, that being moved—that whole melting is false. I was merely confirming their belief; that’s why their eyes grew moist and the tears began to flow. Because inwardly they were saying, Ah—in their heart of hearts—what we have believed is exactly right. So you also say the same! You too support us!

So you must have had tears then. Because when I spoke on Sundardas, someone here would have been a follower of Sundardas; when I spoke on Kabir, someone would have been a follower of Kabir; and when I spoke on Meera, someone would have been a follower of Meera. The hearts of all those devotees must have been overflowing.

And one more thing: at least they were all old. And we have such an insistence on the old that it is beyond measure. Whether there is anything in their words or not, we are deeply attached to the old. As for me, I consider their words to be nothing more than pegs. What I have to hang, I will hang. Whether it is Sundardas, or Kabirdas, or Nanak, or Raidas—it makes no difference; for me they are pegs. But you are people tied to the pegs. If I praise your peg, your heart overflows with joy.
To the gentleman who has asked this, I would say: Brother, have your cry at home. Read Sundardas and weep there to your heart’s content. What need is there to come here?
But those who understand me, who love me—directly; who know my address, who haven’t come here “care of” someone—nothing changes for them whether I am answering people’s questions or not… because I am the same.

And what do you think—if I answer Yog Neelam’s question, it won’t appeal to you; you’ll feel, “All right, what could Yog Neelam possibly ask!” But if I speak even on some completely rotten, decayed saying of Meera, that will please you—because it is Meera’s saying. And I see no lack in Neelam. A step or two more and she will be Meera—and a living Meera!

If I am answering Chitranjan’s question, tears won’t come to your eyes—“Ah, this Chitranjan! That same Chitranjan from Baroda!” But if I were to just fabricate some saint… And don’t trust me—I do many things for simpletons. Fools die, leaving offspring. One has to care for their offspring too. So for them I speak on the sayings of fools. In a fool’s sayings there is nothing—it’s just a fool! But I will spin such meanings that tears will flow from the offspring’s eyes! The fools’ progeny will say, “Wow, you reminded us of our forefathers! They were accomplished—we already knew that, but we didn’t know exactly how accomplished our ancestors were!”

You have such attachment to the past, to the ancient, to the rotten and decayed, to the dead, to cremation grounds; you worship corpses beyond measure.

Those who are connected with me—it makes no difference to them.

Then I will speak with my heart thrown wide open—without even the small restraint of a question. Otherwise I have to keep the question in mind a little. I do speak from the heart anyway, but I must touch the context of the question now and then, so you don’t feel I have wandered too far from it. I keep circling back to remind you: “I have set out to seek the Beloved!” Then I go where I have to go, and take you where I intend to take you. A month, two months later I’ll remind you once again—“I have set out to seek the Beloved”—and you feel, “Yes, he’s on the subject.”

And what have I to do with subjects at all? If I am to make you subject-less, why should I be bound by subjects? If no questions come, don’t worry—on that day I will speak with my heart wide open. But that day only those will understand who have learned to drink through my eyes. Whoever drinks through the eyes will have eyes made ecstatic; an intoxication will descend—and this is a wine that does not make you unconscious, it brings you to awareness.

You ask, Chitranjan: “Without the master, from where shall I obtain knowledge? Grant me meditation, that I may sing the Lord’s praise!”

It is precisely that master I am reminding you of—the one seated within you. Call him by any name you like: the Beloved, the Dear One, the Divine, Consciousness, the Witness—even call him the Master.

But hollow, so-called gurus have profited much from such sayings. They started telling people, “Without the guru there is no knowledge!” and they made it mean “Without us there is no knowledge.” That is not its meaning.

Your own master is hidden within you. The outer master is a true master only if he reminds you of the inner one. The outer master is a false master if he entangles you outside and never lets you reach the inner, if he becomes a barrier. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, outer gurus come between you and your inner master. In truth they fear your inner master; they do not want you to be free, to stand on your own feet, to be independent. They want to make you dependent in every way. Dependence is slavery. They enjoy your slavery. And as there are many forms of slavery, so there is mental slavery.

In this country mental slavery is immense. There are gurus in every village, in every neighborhood. And each one keeps preaching: “Without the guru there is no knowledge!” It has been said for so long—centuries—that people have memorized it. They say, “It must be right. Earlier gurus also said there is no knowledge without the guru.” So grab the feet of some guru; latch onto someone.

I am not one of those gurus. In truth, I am not your guru at all; I am your friend. I will rejoice in remaining your friend. I want to walk with you—companion, not guru. I do not want to make you a slave. I want to give you eyes; I do not want to become your crutch.

A crutch will never want you to acquire eyes. How could a crutch want your lameness to disappear? If you are no longer lame, if you gain vision, you will throw the crutch away. So the crutch wants you to remain forever lame, forever blind, forever crippled; only in your crippling does the crutch have power over you.

The crowd of your so-called gurus depends entirely on keeping you subjugated—a slavery of the mind, a slavery of the spirit.

India first became spiritually enslaved, and therefore later had to become politically enslaved. Once souls are enslaved, how long can political freedom last? It was impossible. Those who could not protect their souls—how would they protect their bodies? Those who were ready to sell their souls found no hurdle in selling their bodies. India remained a slave for two thousand years.

Why? Such a vast land, such a vast population—one-sixth of the world—and little peoples in small numbers, tiny countries that could fit inside its districts, kept ruling it! The Huns came, the Mughals came, the Turks came, the British came, the Portuguese came—whoever came found India ever ready to be enslaved. As if we stood with folded hands: “Come, make us your slaves!” As if we were begging that someone come and enslave us! What could be the reason behind this?

As I see it, the reason is your gurus. First they enslaved you spiritually. Once you were inwardly enslaved—your mind and intelligence lost—what was left? Your vigor was gone. And their web is still spread far and wide. If I speak against them, letters come to me saying, “A spiritual person like you should not speak against anyone.”

To hell with your spirituality! I have no interest in being a “spiritual person” and so on. I will speak as it is. These various kinds of gurus are making you slaves. They smear ashes on you calling it vibhuti, while they rot your souls. Until you awaken to this, you will never come to knowledge.

Chitranjan, the saying is important, but its meaning has been consistently distorted. It has been so misread that someone like Krishnamurti had to deny the guru altogether: “Knowledge cannot come through the guru.” That is the opposite extreme. And I can understand that extreme; it is a complementary overcorrection. For centuries you were told, “Only through the guru comes knowledge; hold the guru’s feet.” Krishnamurti saw that this had become the cause of slavery, so he cut it off at the root: “Knowledge cannot come through a guru.”

But I want to tell you: both extremes are wrong. If you must choose an extreme, choose Krishnamurti’s; at least you won’t become anyone’s slave. But truth lies exactly in the middle. Truth is never at the extremes. Knowledge does come through the guru—but the guru is within you. That is the middle truth. Knowledge does not come from an outer guru. Those outer gurus who claim to give knowledge make a false claim. No one can give you knowledge. What can be given is thirst; an unremitting flame can be kindled within you.

The outer master’s work is to shake you like a storm, to come like a whirlwind and rattle you to your roots so your sleep breaks; and then to throw you back upon yourself. Not to carry you on his shoulder, nor to perch on yours, but to fling you onto your own ground—make you aware that the very thread of your life is hidden in your inner being. There a lamp is burning that has never been extinguished. In that lamp is knowledge—and that lamp is the guru.

The word guru has a very lovely meaning: that by which darkness is dispelled; lamp, light. A sweet word. But even the sweetest words, in the hands of the wrong people, become lethal. What a lovely word—and what meanings it has gathered! From this sweet meaning has arisen “gurudom.” From this sweet word have arisen “guru-ghantals,” rogues hiding behind “guru.”

In parts of the country, guru has come to mean goon. For accomplished thugs people say, “Wah, guru, what a move!” Like in Bombay they use a respectful word for a goon, because if you call a goon a goon he’ll crack your skull. So in Bombay they say “dada.” Strange—dada and goon! Similarly, in Jabalpur where I lived, a goon is called “guru.” You have to say something nice; you can’t call a thug a thug.

Many thugs are hiding behind the word guru, and many shops are running behind it. The greatest delusion is that knowledge can be obtained from outside.

Knowledge cannot be obtained from outside. Knowledge is your inner nature, the rising of your inner sun. Then what is the role of the outer guru? Just what outer music does. When someone strikes a beat on the tabla, you must have noticed: your feet grow eager to dance! What happened? A beat fell on the drum here, and there your feet began to stir—what commotion is this? You want to dance.

Carl Gustav Jung, the great Western psychologist, coined a term for this process: synchronicity, consonance. Something happens outside and, in parallel, something begins to happen inside. Music is played outside, and a tune starts playing within. Music is played outside, and your head nods, your feet dance. That music was inside you; it was there even when no music was playing, but now the music has awakened it.

This is the work of the outer guru: to strike the outer drum, to play the outer flute, to pluck the outer veena, so that the sleeping resonances within you are set ringing, so that you remember your inner being.

“Without the master, from where shall I obtain knowledge?”—then the meaning of this saying will become clear. Certainly, without the master there is no knowledge. But by my meaning of master: he only creates consonance. He is a musician; a dancer who ties bells on his ankles and dances, and you feel like tying bells to your own ankles. Even if you don’t know how to dance, your feet begin to throb; even if you know nothing of music, your head starts to sway.

“Grant me meditation, that I may sing God’s praise.”

This too has a wrong meaning and a right one. With every saying, keep both in mind. The wrong meaning first: people think we will ask for meditation and it will be given; we will beg from God or from the guru, and we shall receive.

Nothing is obtained by begging. Beggars get nothing. The law of this strange universe—esa dhammo sanantano, the eternal law—is that here emperors receive, beggars do not. Whoever asked, missed. Whoever spread the bowl will remain forever empty-handed. Pearls come unasked; asked for, you won’t get even chaff. Do not beg.

The wrong meaning becomes: “Grant me meditation, that I may sing Thy virtues!”—“Lord, I will sing your praise, give me meditation.” It turns into flattery: I will exaggerate your greatness, say you are this, you are that—you purifier of the fallen, you Rahim, you Rahman, ocean of compassion!—and then I will watch to see what you give me for such praise.

This habit of flattery has seeped deep into India. So the panegyrics here would astonish you. A petty politician turns up—worth not two pennies, and you know it well—yet see the praise: garlands upon garlands! Yesterday the same man stood at your door asking for votes and you didn’t even invite him to sit; you looked at him as at a nuisance—“Move along!”—as people look at beggars. And today he is in office, so garlands! Showers of flowers! Velvet carpets rolled out! And listen to the praise—you would be stunned.

Chandulal won an election, and naturally there was a grand reception and procession, endless praise. His wife, Gulabo, came with the children to listen. From far she couldn’t see clearly. She said to her son, “Go closer and see if that really is your father or someone else. With praise like this, it can’t be your father. I know your father very well! Look carefully—maybe someone else is seated there!”

How would the poor woman know that the man she knows and the man being praised are no longer the same; there are now two men, two faces, two masks. The real face is the one she knows; the fake face is the leader’s.

This is why bribery is so hard to eliminate here; there is no way. When we feel no shame in bribing even God, why would anyone feel ashamed bribing a petty tehsildar or police inspector? What’s the harm? People offer a coconut to Hanumanji and say, “There isn’t much—please do take care. If not a flower, at least a petal—take this as a lot. I’m a poor man; here is a coconut—please get my boy a job!”

Then they go to the politicians: “Whatever I can manage—I’m a poor man—if not a flower, then a petal!” They tip the station master, the clerk, the constable—wherever they can. And there is no embarrassment: neither in giving nor in taking. When God has been taking bribes for centuries without any shame—otherwise he would have drowned himself in a handful of water long ago!—and the givers keep giving and the taker keeps taking, then we, little people, why should we hesitate?

It is hard to wipe out bribery from India. This is the wrong meaning of “Grant me meditation that I may sing Thy praise!”

But there is a right meaning too. The right meaning is that meditation is prasad—grace, a gift. It does not come by your effort, your striving. The more you strive, the harder it becomes to receive. Striving creates tension; tension drives meditation away. Meditation happens in relaxation. It happens when you are utterly without effort, when there is no doing at all—no practice running inside you. Practice implies a goal, a desire to attain, an ambition, a reaching. When there is no hustle within you—utterly still, nothing to ask, nothing to get, nowhere to go—then suddenly there is a downpour. You don’t even know from which unknown doorway the sun has burst forth—where did this sun rise from? Everything becomes light.

Therefore those who have known meditation say: it is prasad. Prasad—of what? Of the Divine, of course; whose else could it be? By “Divine” I do not mean a person. I mean the all-pervading energy of life itself—the supreme energy of existence. Naturally, when you are in total rest, that energy enters you, begins to ripple within. When you are in absolute repose, “you” are not. You exist only as long as you are striving. Ego lives on effort; where effort ceases, ego ceases.

In this sense the saying is marvelous. And then, naturally, if meditation comes as grace, what remains for us but gratitude—to sing the Beloved’s praise! That is the right meaning. Keep the right meaning in view; avoid the wrong. For the wrong meaning is precisely what you have been taught.

Chitranjan, if you understand me, the saying is lovely and precious; otherwise it is worth two pennies—and dangerous. It all depends on understanding. In the hands of the wise even poison becomes medicine; in the hands of the foolish even medicine becomes poison.

“Without the master, from where shall I obtain knowledge?
Grant me meditation, that I may sing the Lord’s praise.
Today my mind longs for the vision of the Divine!”

Let there be longing, but not tension. Let the thirst be as deep as possible, but do not import tension. Here lies the whole art of religion, its secret. Otherwise, what difference remains? One person longs for wealth, another for meditation—what’s the difference? Both are burning with desire, both agitated, both unhinged, both taut within. Where will the difference be?

It will be here: the one who longs for meditation will have no tension. He will be utterly thirsty, yet say, “As You will. Whenever it happens, that is soon enough. I consent to wait forever.” Infinitely thirsty—and ready for infinite waiting.

The day this paradox arises within you—an infinite thirst together with an infinite patience—that day you have understood religion’s deepest sutra. Infinite waiting and infinite thirst—together. From these two, prayer is born.

Satyapriya! Drop the worry, you crazy one! You are no longer a Marwari. How many times must I tell you? One doesn’t become a Marwari just by being born in Marwar. To be a Marwari is a great discipline. It isn’t a simple matter that you’re born in Marwar and therefore you’re a Marwari.

You are absolutely not a Marwari—neither your father is a Marwari, nor your mother. If they were Marwaris, they couldn’t have become my sannyasins. A Marwari and my sannyasin—impossible! A Marwari first sets conditions; he makes a deal. And sannyas is a gamble, not a bargain.

A gentleman has written to me: “Your condition for sannyas is that I should wear ochre robes; my condition is that unless you give me samadhi, I will not take sannyas.”

These are Marwaris! Now, wherever they may have been born—what difference does it make? Marwaris are born in every corner of the world. “Marwari” is a big phenomenon; it’s not limited to Marwar. Break this link between Marwar and “Marwari.” It’s not a geographical matter. Being a Marwari is a psychological event. Now this man is a Marwari. He says: First I must get samadhi, then I will wear ochre robes!

Then why will you wear ochre at all? To torment me? What would be the reason to wear ochre? If you have already attained samadhi, then you can roam naked like Mahavira—there’s no obstacle. If you wish to wear yellow robes like Buddha, wear yellow robes. And if, like Krishna, you wish to adorn yourself—do your coiffure like the women, put on a peacock-feather crown and stroll about. If samadhi is attained, then what is this ochre for, and why?

Sannyas exists so that you can journey toward samadhi. And this man is a Marwari; he says—first samadhi, then I’ll put on ochre! As if I have some special relish in making people wear ochre. For that I’d even have to hand him samadhi first! As if my entire work, my entire interest and ultimate goal is merely that people wear ochre robes. Not samadhi—ochre robes are life’s final goal! They think samadhi is a tuppenny thing. They’re making samadhi itself a condition for wearing ochre. These are Marwaris, Satyapriya! You are not a Marwari.

And who said there is nothing praiseworthy in Marwaris? There are astonishing things.

Chandulal the Marwari and Dhabbuji were eating in a hotel. After they had eaten, the waiter washed their hands and, taking a coat from the peg, helped Chandulal into it with his own hands. Chandulal was very pleased with the waiter and gifted him a cash tip of half a rupee (eight annas).

Seeing this, Dhabbuji was aghast. He said, “Chandulal, how can you do this, being a Marwari? Will you squander your forefathers’ earnings like this? Is this any way? Why on earth did you need to tip the waiter eight annas? At most ten paise would have done. You’ve spoiled his habit, and you’ve wasted your forefathers’ wealth. And you’ve put me to shame too because of you; now if I give ten paise I’ll look miserly. Aren’t you ashamed?”

Chandulal the Marwari smiled and said to Dhabbuji, “You’re getting upset for nothing. Is this coat too expensive for eight annas? I hadn’t even brought a coat from home. And the eight annas I gave him, I took right out of this same coat. There’s nothing of my father’s in it.”

There are marvels among Marwaris!

Chandulal the Marwari was returning home by car. On the way, a respectable-looking man asked him for a lift, and he gave it. He hadn’t wanted to—does a Marwari give a lift so easily? If he sits, the seat will wear out! But out of embarrassment he couldn’t say no. There was a taxi strike, so he had to stomach his reluctance.

A little further on, Chandulal looked at his watch to check the time—to see how long this wretch would sit there. What time was it, and how long would he sit, wearing down the seat? Not only was he wearing down the seat, he was also reading Chandulal’s newspaper. That too was causing him great distress. In his heart he kept saying, “If you’re such a big reader, buy your own newspaper!” But he couldn’t say it aloud. “Now that I’ve been this generous, why show stinginess over such a small thing? Let him read! I’m done reading it anyway—what do I lose?”

He felt for the watch on his wrist, but there was no watch on his wrist. Chandulal suddenly stiffened—he was already seething—and barked, shouted, “Come on, hand over the watch! You bastard!”

That simple, innocent man quickly took off his watch and handed it over. Chandulal threw the scoundrel out of the car right there.

When he reached home, Gulabo said, “You must have had a tough time at the office today, because you forgot your watch at home.”

They do have remarkable qualities!

Chandulal the Marwari was greatly impressed by his accountant’s abilities. When the accountant had been working for a full twenty years, he called him in and said, “Shyamlalji, today it’s been twenty years you’ve been working with us. This is the first time in my life that someone has stayed in a job for so long on such a small salary. We think we should do something for you. We think that from today, as a gift for your loyalty, instead of calling you Shyam, we will address you as Shyam-babu!”

After fifteen full years, Nasruddin came to visit his friend Chandulal. He knocked at the door; it opened and Chandulal’s wife, Gulabo, came out. Nasruddin greeted her and asked, “Is Chandulalji at home?”

With tears in her eyes, Gulabo said, “Don’t you know he passed away three years ago? What happened was that some guests were at home and one of them asked for green chilies. He went to the garden to pluck them—and never returned. He had a heart failure. The truth is, he had planted those green chilies himself, and he couldn’t bear to see guests spoil his green chilies like that.”

Tears filled Nasruddin’s eyes too, and he expressed his sympathy: “It’s very sad to hear this. But will you tell me—what happened after that?”

Gulabo said, “What else could happen? From then on we managed with red chilies instead of green.”

Marwaris are astonishing people! Consider them perfected beings! But you, Satyapriya, stop worrying. You don’t have to learn these astonishing arts. You have fallen into my hands now; wherever, by some mistake, a trace of Marwar’s imprint remains, it will be washed away. I keep myself busy washing Marwaris—because no matter how much you wash them, layer upon layer of dust keeps coming off.

I have traveled a lot in Marwar. One more astonishing than the next! I had only heard the stories before; then, seeing with my own eyes, I felt a great satisfaction. Truly they are accomplished people. The things said about them are not false. Exaggeration cannot be done about them—they always remain one step ahead of any exaggeration. My experience too is this: supremely miserly! To the ultimate degree! They clutch money as even no one would clutch God.

Clutching money indicates just one thing: there is deep sorrow inside, pain. A joyous person neither clings to wealth nor to status. A joyous person enjoys whatever comes; he relishes whatever is. He is not an enemy of wealth, but he neither clings to it nor runs away from it.

A Marwari will either cling to wealth or renounce it. If he clings, he will clutch it as if it is everything. And someday he will get frightened—and he will, when death comes near—then it will be seen: I have let my life go to waste. Then he will leave wealth, and run away—he runs away for the very fear that if he doesn’t, he will clutch it again.

That is why Jain monks are honored in Marwar. Marwar is a base for Jain monks. And the reason is: a Marwari is impressed only by the Jain monk. He says, “Ah! What an astonishing renunciation!” Because he himself cannot leave ten paise, and these have left everything. Naturally a great respect arises in his heart for them.

It is surprising that in this world, the greedier people are, the more they honor renouncers. In that sense, there is some Marwari-ness throughout this whole country. The degree of honor for renunciates in this country is proof that our craving for wealth is great, our greed is great. Because of that very greed, the one who becomes capable of dropping it, we say: he has done something extraordinary! A miracle! A magic!

And he is running only because if he stops, he will clutch it again. He builds all kinds of fences around himself so that he won’t clutch wealth again. And this honoring too becomes part of the fence. Those who give this honor also say: “Now that we are giving you so much honor, if you clutch wealth again, we will give you just as much dishonor.”

This country needs freedom—from greed and from renunciation. My whole endeavor is just this. Therefore both the hedonists and the yogis will be against me. The worldly people will abuse me and your so-called mahatmas will abuse me too, because they are the two poles of the same Marwari-ness. My saying is: neither is there any need to be crazy for indulgence, nor any need to be crazy for renunciation. If something is in your hand, enjoy it; if it is not, enjoy its absence. If there is a palace, fine—why leave it! And if there is no palace and you must sleep under a tree, then enjoy the open air! Enjoy the open sky! The open stars!

But people are strange lunatics! If they live in a palace, a desire lingers within: when shall I renounce this and sleep beneath the open sky! And if they sleep beneath the open sky, a longing lingers within: when shall I live in a palace! When and how shall I get into a palace!

I want freedom from both extremes for this country—and not only this country, for the whole world. I want the person to be balanced, healthy. And only a healthy person, in my vision, is a sannyasin. Sannyas means supreme health—coming to rest in oneself. No extremes—neither of greed nor of renunciation; neither of lust nor of celibacy; neither of the world nor of so-called saintliness. To become so utterly ordinary, as if I am not. In that not-being is the meeting with the Lord, the meeting with the Beloved.

“I set out to seek the Beloved—and I myself got lost.”

Whoever has gone to seek him has had to lose himself. And this is the way to lose: to come to the middle is to lose oneself. The moment you go to extremes, the ego survives. The ego of the indulgent does not die, nor does that of the renunciate. In truth, the renunciate’s ego is even greater than the indulgent’s. The death of the ego is the experience of God. Blessed are they whose ego dies, and who allow their ego to die. There is no greater good fortune.

That is all for today.