Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #1

Anand Maitreya,
Rahim’s famous couplet says:
The Beloved’s image dwells in the eyes—where could any other image fit?
Seeing the inn is full, says Rahim, the traveler turns back on his own.

A human being without God is empty—terribly empty. And emptiness hurts. We try a thousand ways to fill it—with money, position, prestige. But such emptiness does not fill that way. Money is outside; the emptiness is inside. No outer thing can fill an inner void. It needs an inner wealth. External wealth will remain external; it has no passage into the within. Heaps of money may gather, yet the beggar within remains a beggar.

There are two kinds of beggars in the world: poor beggars and rich beggars. But their beggar-ness is the same. In truth, the rich beggar feels his beggar-ness more acutely, because outside there is wealth while inside there is poverty. Against the backdrop of outer wealth, inner poverty stands out—like stars at night: they’re present by day too, but lost in the sun’s radiance.

The poor don’t feel their poverty so keenly; the rich do. That’s why people in poor countries seem more content than in rich ones. Your sadhus and saints tell you that you are content because you are religious. This is sheer untruth. You appear content because you are poor. When there is poverty within and poverty without, it does not sting; it doesn’t get noticed. If someone writes with white chalk on a white wall, it’s hard to read; so in school they use a blackboard with white chalk. You need a contrasting background for things to stand out.

The “contentment” seen in poor countries is a false contentment; it has nothing to do with religion. Still, your ego is gratified. Your holy men say you are content because you are religious; your ego feels pleased, puffed up. But it is a lie. Ego survives only on lies; untruth is its food. The truth is otherwise.

Your holy men say, “Look at the plight of the West!” They explain it by saying, “They suffer because they are atheists, because they don’t believe in God.” This too is untrue. The West’s misery appears because there is wealth, facility, affluence. With piles of affluence, the inner destitution becomes unbearable: so much outside, and nothing within! Then the life-breath cries. The soul yearns to be filled within. So one runs: if not filled by wealth, then by power—become a prime minister, a president! If power won’t fill, maybe renunciation will—resign one’s post, do austerities, fasts, yoga, fire rituals.

But it still doesn’t fill. The inner emptiness cannot be filled that way. It fills only in one way: when the Beloved descends within. Only he can enter you. No one but God can enter your innermost. Not even your beloved can go there; not your husband, wife, or children—no one. Only God has passage to your deepest core. Only he can dwell in your inmost heart. If he fills, you are filled. Until he comes, you are empty. And if you are empty, you will weep; you will be miserable; you will live in hell.

Emptiness itself is hell. All other hells are imagined—cauldrons with people being boiled and fried—nonsense, fabrications invented by pundits and priests to frighten you. Frightened people are easy to enslave; the fearless cannot be enslaved. In fear you submit to every superstition—“Why invite trouble? We’re trembling as it is; who needs more?” Then you run to temple, mosque, gurdwara, to all sorts of worship as the priests instruct—donations, inns for pilgrims, temples. But the real hell is only one: to be empty within. For the empty one it is as if he has no soul—as if the soul is yet unborn.

When God comes, the soul is born. You must call to that Supreme Beloved. Let him fill your eyes. Let him saturate every pore. Let him be the henna on your hands, the kohl in your eyes. Let only he remain; you be no more. Let him be so present that there is no place left for you. You will have to empty yourself entirely.

Just now you are empty and suffering; when he comes you must empty yourself even more, for who knows how much junk lies within—of thoughts, desires, ambitions, cravings. Who knows how much ego—false, all of it. Yet to one who is drowning, even a straw feels like great support. Tell him, “Open your eyes; a straw will not save you,” and he will be angry—you’re snatching away his last hope.

That is why people have always been angry with the Buddhas. Jesus was not crucified for nothing; Socrates was not given hemlock for nothing. And the same attitude remains still. Whoever tells you that you cannot cross on these straws, you become angry with him. It is simple: you are already empty and, clutching a straw with closed eyes, you are lulling yourself with a dream of rescue—someone comes and forbids even the straw! How will you forgive the Buddhas? You cannot. You crucify them; and then you repent. First you crucify, then you enthrone. You crucify the living; you enthrone the dead.

How many stones did you throw at the Buddha? Is there any count? How many attempts to kill him! A mad elephant was loosed on him; a boulder was sent rolling down the mountain toward him.

The stories are charming: when the mad elephant—who had killed so many—approached the Buddha and saw him, it halted and bowed at his feet. I don’t think it happened literally. One cannot expect such discernment from a mad elephant; we don’t find so much even in clever men—what to expect from a mad elephant! But the story wishes to say something else: that even mad elephants are wiser than your so-called wise men. Even a mad elephant understood, “This man is not to be killed; he is to be bowed to.”

They say when the rock was pushed toward the Buddha—he was meditating beneath a tree—and set on just the right angle to crush him and send him tumbling into the ravine, the rock, on reaching him, altered its course. Who can rely on rocks that much! These stories are not historical facts; they are psychological truths. They say that man has become harder than stone. Even a rock has the sense to give way if a Buddha is in its path, lest it hurt him; man has not that much sense.

Afterwards you repent—what is the use then? When the birds have eaten the crop, what use to regret? Then for lifetimes, for centuries you worship; you wash and wash the bloodstains on your hands. But those stains don’t fade, for they are not on your hands, they have marked your very soul. Such stains cannot be washed off by rituals.

Your ego is a lie—a paper boat on which you set out to cross the boundless ocean, with imaginary oars that do not exist. If you want to invite God within, this rubbish must be set aside. Truth belongs to the brave. To drop false supports takes daring. Falsehood is our only support; the thought of losing even that makes the mind tremble and fear. There is nothing else inside; somehow we have lulled ourselves into dreams and fantasies; we have built a whole inner world of thought and keep ourselves busy within it.

Watch people: as soon as they rise in the morning they become busy. They cannot sit quietly for even a moment. And these perpetually busy people insult anyone who sits still for a while, who silently closes his eyes, calling him lazy, indolent, good-for-nothing. The perpetually busy are the deranged. They cannot remain without busyness; busyness is their device, their protection. Keeping themselves busy, they forget the inner poverty, the feebleness, the falsehood, the garbage—the inner lack. People keep running, on any pretext. Running gives the relief of forgetfulness. Stop, and you remember; become empty, sit in silence—and you remember.

Therefore meditation is the most difficult thing in the world. Though meditation is not a “doing”—not an act, not a deed—it has become the hardest thing. To sit silently has become most difficult. Those who cannot sit still say, “An empty mind is the devil’s workshop.” The truth is exactly the opposite. One who knows the art of emptiness, who agrees to be completely empty, becomes the house of God.

But the so-called men of action, the so-called karma-yogis, who say, “Keep at it, keep struggling! Do something—anything—but do! Better to do something wrong than be idle!”—they have driven the whole world into frenzy. We feed every child this poison, because we’re afraid: the day someone faces himself, looks within, he will be shaken by the bottomless void. Yet whoever witnesses that void, the Full descends into him. The condition of attaining the Full is to accept the great Void. Call it surrender, sannyas, meditation, samadhi, love, prayer, worship, devotion—whatever you like; I have little taste for names. Let your eyes be filled with the Beloved; let there be no room in your gaze for anything else.

Rahim is right:
“The Beloved’s image dwells in the eyes—where could any other image fit?”
Even if I wished some other image to enter my eyes—of money, of position, of prestige—there is no place now. The eyes are filled with the Beloved.
“Seeing the inn is full...”
Like a full inn,
“...the traveler turns back.”
Desires will still come; wishes will still knock at the door. Ambitions will still coax you, tempt you in every way. But there is no worry. Once the Lord abides within—seeing the inn is full, the traveler turns back—they leave on their own. You don’t even have to drop them; they go away dejected and disappointed. There is simply no space inside.

God is vast! If he fills you, where would any room remain? Not a particle of space. Then he is within and he is without. But the condition must be fulfilled: that you, the little that you are, be not even that. As it is, you are ninety-nine percent empty; the one percent you have stuffed with falsehood. Let even that fall. Dare once to surrender that shred of falsity as well. Become absolute zero—and see the miracle!

I offer my feelings—accept them!
You gave my mind the turmoil of motion,
To dreams the enchantment of the magic of images;
You created the world of tears in my eyes,
Gave to my lips the pristine quiver of sweetness;
Exultation and breath’s upsurge are your very limbs,
You created mirage and thirst;
Making my being a curse,
You granted me the boon of perishing at every step;
I laughed at your laughing hints,
I burst open beholding the play of your arched brows;
By your divine play I am astonished and amazed!
I offer my feelings—accept them!

I offer my actions—accept them!
What is sin and what is virtue—you alone know;
Here one need only know this much:
The sky is yours and the earth is yours;
It is in you that these breaths strike and throb;
In you are the weakness and the strength of these hands;
I walked—for the only merit of feet is to walk;
You fashioned these scenes, and the very sight you gave me;
What do I know—what is truth and what is deceit?
To create and then destroy is your very way;
In you lies the frustration of these limits;
It is driven by its own success and failure!
I offer my actions—accept them!

I offer my very existence—accept it!
Shaping the loveliness of colors, the sweet season burns away;
Scattering fragrance, the flower turns to dust;
By melting, the cloud quenches the earth’s thirst;
Striking the rocks, the stream sings;
From you, indeed, came the music of madness;
As compassion, you taught me how to melt;
It is you who gave me here a mother’s tenderness from dust;
From you I learned to burn in colors.
In that knowledge and that delusion you are the very consciousness,
By which I, helplessly, keep rising and falling;
In my fragments—O Infinite, O Unbroken One—you alone are!
I offer my existence—accept it!

Once, leave everything at the feet of the Unknown—your ego, your sense of doership. Say to him: As you will! However you make me dance, I will dance. Whatever you make me do, I will do. We are not the doers; we are only actors. Whatever role you decree, that we will become. We have no decision of our own, no destiny of our own. All is in your hands.

Whoever can make such a surrender becomes absolute zero. And when you become absolute zero, your very zero is the invitation to the Full. The Full descends instantly—dancing, humming, in celebration.

Dharmendra,
Moksha is not an achievement. You have thought of moksha in the language of achievement—and there you have missed. Moksha is not a goal to be reached; moksha is our very nature. It is nothing to be attained—because we never lost it. We have only forgotten it, fallen into oblivion. All that is needed is remembrance—just remembrance.

Kabir, Nanak, Dadu use a lovely word: surati. Surati comes from the Buddha’s word smriti—awareness, remembrance. Simply remember, be mindful—sumiran.

But people have turned sumiran into something else. They think sumiran means sitting and rolling the rosary, wrapping themselves in “Ram-naam,” or mechanically repeating “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram” like a parrot.

Sumiran, surati, smriti, remembrance—these are not such cheap things that you learn a mantra and repeat it like a parrot and become realized. The process of surati is this: you will have to drop all your lies. You will have to recognize and abandon them one by one.

And on you there are layers upon layers of lies. How many garments of untruth you have put on! If you look closely you will be in a great difficulty. Like the onion has skin upon skin, so around you lie upon lie, layer upon layer. As when you start peeling an onion: you peel one layer and another appears; peel the second and the third is already there—such is your condition. Over centuries, through countless births, quite naturally you have gathered much dust, many falsities. You display what you are not. You state what you are not. You do one thing, you say another, you are something else. In this way, in your life, you have lost remembrance of what you really are. Showing lies to others again and again, you yourself have come to believe in your lies.

Keep repeating a lie for five or ten years, and after that it becomes difficult even to remember whether it is a lie or the truth. Repeat it for ten years… and if others also accept your lie, then it becomes even more difficult. Seeing trust in their eyes, trust will arise in your eyes as well. You will feel, “So many people believe it—there must be something to it.” Slowly you will forget that you yourself started a lie.

And we have been doing this for centuries, for infinite births. That’s why the awareness of our original nature has been lost. Our original nature has not been destroyed—what can be destroyed is not nature. That which cannot be destroyed alone is nature. What can be lost is not essence; what cannot be lost is essence.

And what does moksha mean? To free your essence from the net of lies. Moksha is not obtaining something that is far away. Moksha is no Delhi to be reached. Moksha is within you. Moksha is you.

So, Dharmendra, do not worry. And who has convinced you that you are lazy? People around you say such things. If you are a little slow in the race for wealth, they will say you are lazy. “Look at others—heaps of riches! And you are where you were! Look at others—what they have become! And you are the same! Others have raised palaces, and you cannot even manage your hut—who knows when the next flood will wash it away!”

So people say you are lazy. Your wife will say you are lazy. “Don’t you see what gifts other husbands bring their wives? They’ve loaded them with diamonds and jewels! And you—look at others!”

Your sons, your children will say you are lazy. “Other children go to school in cars, and we are still dragging along on foot!”

Laziness is a comparative thing. Who is calling you lazy? And for what reason? Look into this a bit! Perhaps you are lagging in the race for wealth. But what is the harm? What will those who have gone ahead really get? What did the Alexanders gain? And what did those who stayed behind truly lose? Here there is nothing to gain and nothing to lose—it’s all play. Someone built a big castle of sand, someone a small one—both are going to fall. Both will leave no trace. So why fret that you managed only a small one and someone else made a grand one? They are card houses; a gust of wind will come and take all away—neither the small nor the big will be spared. Why worry?

People must have convinced you from all sides that you are falling behind in competition… and it is possible you are a decent man. The name, Dharmendra, sounds good! You may well be a good man. In this throat-cutting contest where unless you slit each other’s throats there is no progress—if you have fallen behind, perhaps you are a bit of a gentleman. In this game scoundrels are the ones who progress, for they do not care. They will take a hundred beatings, but they will sneak into the show! No worry—let the shoes rain down, let the blows fall, but they will reach Delhi. They will be thrashed all along the way—no problem!

I have heard: a dog from Benares got the obsession to go to Delhi. He must have seen everyone going—election time! The idea stuck in a dog’s head too: “I will go to Delhi.” Other religious dogs of Benares tried to counsel him, “Fool, the whole world comes to Benares, and you are going to Delhi?” But he wouldn’t listen. So they said, “All right, if you must go, then go as our representative!” All the dogs garlanded him and said, “You are our representative. Meet the Prime Minister, meet the President, and complain of the ill-treatment dogs have suffered for centuries.”

It was a long journey. The dog was swift, but still it was expected to take at least twenty-one days. So they packed food for twenty-one days. But the dog reached Delhi in seven days! The Delhi dogs had also been informed, so they were making preparations to welcome him. But they hadn’t finished preparations—no stage, no flags, no buntings—yet the dog arrived! They said, “Amazing! You completed a twenty-one-day journey in seven! How?”

The dog smiled and said, “Because of my own brothers.”

The Delhi dogs said, “We don’t understand! Speak plainly.”

He said, “The journey is indeed twenty-one days, but I finished in seven because in every village I entered, the local dogs charged after me! Such barking and chasing—they wouldn’t let me stop anywhere! And before they gave up, the next village dogs took over! I didn’t rest a single night. I had no chance to open the food bundle. I am hungry and thirsty—but my heart is happy, for I reached Delhi! Whatever happened on the way is over—let bygones be bygones. No worries—arriving alive is enough.”

People are racing madly. Journeys of twenty-one days are completed in seven. People are intoxicated with speed. Naturally, if you walk gently, leisurely, people will say, “You are lazy.” “What kind of gait is this! What kind of way is this! You live in the twentieth century, and this is a bullock-cart gait—a wayside-inn pace! Run! In loose clothes you won’t make it. Wear churidar pajamas!”

A churidar pajama is such a thing that even put on a corpse it will run—because one feels so trapped one thinks, “How do I get out!” That’s why we have chosen churidar pajamas for leaders. Dead-already, corpses who should long ago have been in their graves—by virtue of the churidar pajama they keep moving. You too try one day. It takes two hours to put on—two people are needed. And don’t even ask about taking it off! Once a man is tightly trussed up, he jumps two steps at a time.

So in this world of hustle, Dharmendra, do not worry about what people say. It is they who must have planted this delusion in you that you are lazy.

I have not seen anyone truly lazy. You breathe happily—if you were lazy you would not even breathe. You eat and drink, you digest—if you were lazy you wouldn’t even digest. Who would go through the bother of eating and drinking? You get up, sit down, bathe, walk—yet if you are a certain kind of man you will be thought lazy. Do not be frightened; remember Dās Malūka’s line:

“The python does no service, the birds do no work.
Dās Malūka has said: the Giver to all is Ram.”

Don’t get tangled in such talk—“lazy”! And you too have accepted it; others convinced you. If you accept it, it becomes a problem.

And as for moksha—there is no obstacle at all. Even if you are lazy—let us grant it, just for the sake of argument—even then laziness is not opposed to moksha. Moksha is not a race; moksha is the dropping of the race.

Often it has happened that the lazy have attained, and the industrious have missed—because the lazy can sit quietly, can lie down peacefully. He doesn’t have too much hustle and bustle. He is not overly engaged in running. He can close his eyes; for a while he can relax completely and sink within himself. For him, moksha is. For moksha means your nature. The experience of the stream of your essence hidden beneath layers of lies. The recognition of who you truly are. The direct seeing of your original face.

Moksha is not the kind where you have to place a ladder against the sky. People think moksha is somewhere far away in the heavens. Whenever the thought of moksha or heaven arises, you look upward. And when you think of hell, you look down—netherworld!

But, my brother, America is in the netherworld for you! And when Americans think of hell, it is you—because you are below them. And when Americans think of heaven, then where you imagine hell is their heaven; and where you imagine heaven is their hell. The earth is round—keep this in mind. Who is above and who is below? And the sky has no boundary, so above and below do not apply. Above and below apply only where there is a limit. The sky is infinite, and the earth is round. There is no ladder to place anywhere. There is nowhere else to go. You have to go within.

And moksha is not an achievement. The language of achievement is the language of ego. Moksha is that which is already given to you; you are simply sitting forgetful. Like having money in your pocket and forgetting. It happens—those who wear spectacles will remember—you are wearing the glasses and searching for them! Wearing the glasses and looking for the glasses! Those who tuck a pen behind the ear—a man tucks it there and then searches for the pen everywhere.

It is simply a forgetting. Just bring a little remembrance. And the capacity to remember is in everyone—it is the very nature of consciousness. It is an inner capacity, its quality. As the nature of fire is to be hot and of ice to be cold, so the nature of consciousness is surati, smriti—awareness, remembrance, wakefulness. So do not needlessly belittle or cheapen your own mind.

Look, think, understand; listen, sift, and know—
this, that—if possible, come to recognize yourself.
But let your face remain as it is;
let yourself flow with the current of life.
Whatever you are, that you will remain—take my word!

You do not have to be otherwise; you are not to become something else.

Whatever you are, that you will remain—take my word!
Look, think, understand; listen, sift, and know—
this, that—if possible, come to recognize yourself.
But let your face remain as it is;
let yourself flow with the current of life.
Whatever you are, that you will remain—take my word!

As you are, you are conscious, awakened, knowing;
you are capable, you are the doer, exceedingly proud—
but the wonder is how innocent you are!
Hard as stone on the surface, hollow within.
You are a story of becoming and being erased!

In one moment you laugh, the next you weep;
absorbed in yourself, you fight with yourself.
But that you do any of this, I doubt—
philosophy is idle chatter of the leisure class!
Trying to take root, you get uprooted every day!

A little suffocation and a little color;
a pinch of chili and a handful of sugar—
your life is this limited—this much is true.
All that is beyond this is merely greed.
Friend, let your years pass in this spectatorship!

Love and hate are deceits—do not insist on them;
bitter or sweet—drink the juice to the full!
There is no end to walking; your sense of direction is raw.
The way of wandering is the straight, the true way.
Whenever you get tired and entangled—stretch out and rest long!

Look, think, understand; listen, sift, and know—
this, that—if possible, come to recognize yourself.
But let your face remain as it is;
let yourself flow with the current of life.
Whatever you are, that you will remain—take my word!

Flow in the stream of life. Perform your roles as in a play. Be a spectator. Do not make identifications. Like one who watches a drama, in the same way, watching life, flow along. Wherever the Divine leads, whatever He makes you do—let it happen. He is the doer, He is the controller. Leave everything to Him and be unburdened. If you can flow, what worry is there about laziness? The Giver of all is Ram!

This vast existence moves with such sweetness, music, and rhythm! You, alone, are needlessly troubled. The reason is that you have been repeatedly told: “Moksha is to be attained! You must labor for moksha! You must practice austerity for moksha! You must muster resolve for moksha!” Moksha has been turned into a destination—a distant star. Moksha has been made a goal for the ego. But the goal of ego can never be moksha. As long as ego is, where can moksha be? When ego is not, what remains is the state of freedom—that is moksha, nirvana, Brahman-consciousness.

Dharmendra, do not worry needlessly. Even that you have reached here is proof enough that you are not lazy! You must have read the stories of lazy people.

Two lazy men were lying under a tree. The jamuns had ripened and were dropping. One lazy man said to the other, “Brother, what kind of friendship is this! A friend is the one who helps when needed. Jamuns are falling—plop, plop—and you still lie there listening. Can you not at least pick one up and put it in my mouth?”

The other said, “Go away! Big talk of friendship! Yes, I too agree that a friend is one who helps at the right time. Just a little while ago a dog was peeing in my ear—did you chase it away?”

A man passing by heard this. He said, “Enough!” He came, picked up a jamun, and put it into each man’s mouth. As he started to go, one called out, “Brother, where are you going! At least take out the pits. Otherwise we will have to keep them in our mouths for the rest of our lives! You’ve created a new hassle. Wait a bit.”

Even so, I would not call these men lazy. If they were truly lazy, who would even speak so much as, “Put a jamun into my mouth,” or “Take out the pit?” A truly lazy man could not even live. There is no one utterly lazy. Yes, there is gradation. Some run less, some run more.

But do not think that for the one who runs less moksha is difficult, troublesome, distant. Moksha is no Olympic race. Moksha is your innermost intimacy. Even lying under a tree, these two “lazy” ones can be free—free right there under the tree.

Tie this knot in your heart: moksha is within you. It is not even like jamuns falling that someone must put into your mouth. It is within you; it is you! Not even a hair’s breadth different from you. The moment you become quiet, you will know. The moment you fall silent, an extraordinary light will flare within you, as if a thousand suns rose at once!

Some strings slack, some too taut—
why today are the strings of the veena so?
Trembling, trembling, the sweet notes do not arise
from the tender veena!

The discipline of music has slackened;
the brows are drawn in irritation;
the heart’s simple trust has quivered;
the fingertips tremble at their tips;
attention is broken, absorption lost—
the eyes were beyond the veena!

Some strings slack, some too taut—
why today are the strings of the veena so?
With total attention, O veena-player!
Bring the tonic and the co-tonic under your control!
Time is true; pour nectar-love
into the twin bowls of the veena!
Let nectar-soaked waves awaken every string—
a hundred times, O veena!

Some strings slack, some too taut—
why today are the strings of the veena so?

It is only a small matter. We too are a veena—the very veena that Buddha was, that Krishna was; the very veena that Mahavira and Mohammad were. Only, some of our strings are over-tightened, some are too loose; so the notes do not arise rightly, remembrance does not awaken properly; insight does not hold, it keeps slipping. We only need to tune the strings a little.

If the veena’s strings are tuned, if they come into right pitch, the music will arise at once. Music sleeps in the strings; it needs only to be touched. The strings are within, the one who plucks is within, the music too is within—everything is within you. Some strings are too tight—loosen them a little; there are tensions in the mind—relax them a little. Some strings are too loose—somewhere in life there is excess indulgence, craving—tighten those strings a bit.

But do not make the usual mistake. Often what happens is that people tighten all the strings that were already too loose, and loosen the ones that were too tight—and the condition remains the same. The illness remains the same; the medicine is taken, but the disease does not change.

That is what your so-called sadhus and renunciates do. Those you call ascetics are the opposite of you, but not different from you. You stand on your feet; they stand on their heads—but otherwise they are just like you. Half your strings are tight—half theirs are tight. Half your strings are loose—half theirs are loose. Only, the halves are exchanged. But neither does your veena sing, nor does theirs. In fact, in ordinary life you will see more cheerfulness and light on people’s faces than on the faces of your so-called sages and ascetics. Their faces are very sad. One whole sect of ascetics came to be called “Udasins”—the Indifferent. They are dead while alive; what music can rise from them! They have given up hope from the veena. They have sunk into despair.

The Divine is celebration, a great music. You too can join Him—only by becoming music, becoming celebration.

But our age-old beliefs have blinded us. Long ago a Jain muni met me. His devotees said, “Look, through austerity his body has become like refined gold!”

His body was becoming like a yellow leaf, and the devotees said, “like refined gold!” I told them, “Open your eyes a little! If this same man were laid on a bed in Sassoon hospital and you were asked, ‘Who is he?’ you would say, ‘Who knows with how many diseases he is afflicted!’ You would not then see any golden radiance. Ask a non-Jain—he will not see it. Leave aside non-Jains—these were Digambar Jain monks—ask a Shvetambar Jain; he too will not see it. He will lower his eyes and say, ‘What kind of naked fellow is this standing here!’ And if you are naked, at least be beautiful to behold! Nakedness alone is not enough; you must also make the body as ugly as possible—mere bones. Seeing him, only death comes to mind; nothing else. You feel like rushing home to see your wife and children once more.”

Recently in Bombay a Digambar Jain muni came—Elachari Vidyanand. Beside him, even the bhel-seller of Bombay, “bhelachari,” looks better. There is some glow, some color, some lustre on his face! But to the Digambar Jains it will seem, “Ah! What a golden form! Like gold!”

I saw his pictures in the newspapers. In every picture—now he is naked; no newspaper will agree to print that, and they themselves must feel shy, the devotees too must feel a little shame—so in all the photos he is sitting with a very large scripture on his knees to hide his nakedness. My dear fellow, a loincloth would have sufficed—what harm in that? A loincloth would be lighter than that huge book, simpler too! Tie a simple strap. Why sit with a massive volume—just to hide a small thing!

But once we have a belief, we do not see the absurdity. In Jain homes, pictures of Mahavira hang. They paint them so that Mahavira stands in meditation and a tree branch serves as a loincloth.

Why trouble the poor man!

I was a guest in a house. The picture was beautiful, but that one branch spoils everything—dense leaves covering Mahavira’s nakedness. I asked, “May I ask a question? What would he do in the season of fall?” They said, “Meaning?” I said, “When these leaves drop—then?” They said, “What are you saying—this is a picture!” I said, “That I also know—but think of the reality! If Mahavira always stood hidden behind a bush, what would he do in fall? And did he ever go anywhere? Wherever I go, he is always behind the same bush! Perhaps he carried that bush everywhere—kept it on a bullock-cart! That is not real life; that is like a tableau in a parade—mounted on a truck, a bush installed, standing beside it—so much fuss! A small red loincloth like Hanuman’s would suffice. Janghiya, shorts—whatever you fancy!”

But our belief blinds us. For centuries we have thought the cheerless man to be the dispassionate, the realized.

The siddha is the one who is utterly celebrative—whose life has dance and song. And dance and song arise only when all the strings of the veena are tuned—neither too loose nor too tight; exactly in the middle. Where the middle is, there is samyakta, samata, samadhi—these are dear words. Our most important words are built on sam: samyakta (rightness), samata (equanimity), samadhi (meditative absorption), sambodhi (enlightenment). Sam means the midpoint beyond extremes—the transcendence of excess. No excess of indulgence, no excess of renunciation; one who abides in the middle, free of excess. In his life there will be beauty, music, and truth.

Do not worry about laziness. You can do this much. I have this trust—every person can do it. It is your birthright. There is no obstacle in arranging your strings. And once the strings are tuned, the treasure of treasures is within you. Moksha is not up in the sky, not far away, not to be sought on other moons or stars. You have only to dive within yourself.

Yog Pritam,
This is the very longing worth having.
Understand the difference between longing and ambition. Ambition is always for the other, for the outer; hence in ambition there is bondage, there is dependence. If you get what you want, there is suffering; and if you don’t get it—of course there is suffering.

Try to understand this great truth of life. Those who do not get wealth are unhappy—they feel, “We lost, we failed, we could do nothing, prove nothing, that we too were here, that we too were someone! Life went to waste.” And those who do get wealth are also unhappy. They are unhappy because they see: “We staked our whole life, we earned money—and there is nothing in money!” But that becomes clear only after you get it. And then it is too late. Now even to say, “There is nothing in money,” is to invite needless disrepute. People will laugh, “You fool! All your life you chased it, and now you woke up? You had no intelligence earlier?”

So even the wealthy, having attained wealth, keep quiet. Inside they ache, they grieve, they weep. Outside? A smile!

A person who has reached a high post is restless within, for he sees: “I have reached the position, but nothing is gained!” However high the chair, what do you get from it? You remain what you were. The height of the chair cannot raise the height of your consciousness. If only it were so easy—that by raising the chair, consciousness would rise! That by increasing the cash in the safe, inner poverty would vanish! If only it were so easy—that fame spreads, the name spreads, renown spreads, and inside everything becomes contented and fulfilled!

But it doesn’t happen. Even having all, nothing is gained—that is known only upon attainment. But by then the tail has been docked. To tell others, “My tail too got cut and nothing was gained,” would be even more embarrassing. So the tailless one keeps laughing. He says, “Great bliss is happening. Since the tail was cut, it’s been bliss and only bliss. It’s raining joy! You too get yours cut.” And all whose tails get cut join that club. They understand each other’s condition. Now what to say to anyone! Better to keep quiet.

If all the respectable people of this world—politicians, the wealthy—were to open their hearts and tell their life’s agony, a revolution would happen; people would stop running. If all the rich declared in one voice, “We gained wealth and gained nothing,” your rush for wealth would halt at once! But they don’t say it; they can’t—because to say so would blacken their life’s face. People would say, “How foolish you are! Why did you run after things that had nothing in them?” Then the defeated ones would strut, “We are better than you! See, we never ran at all!”

They too had run, they too had lost. But now they will find ego-satisfaction even in their defeat. They will say, “We knew it from the very beginning!” You will meet people everywhere who keep saying, “We knew beforehand this was going to happen!” There is nothing in the world that people do not claim to have known beforehand.

When Columbus first tried to go to America on the basis that the earth is round, no one was willing to support him. Not a single person. A stubborn queen of Spain said, “All right, what’s the harm? How much will it cost? At the most there will be some loss—so let it be. If you’re this adamant, try it.”

Everyone told the queen, “It will be a waste of money. This man will die; he’s taking ninety men with him—their lives are at risk.”

She was obstinate, “Let it happen. Thousands die in wars anyway—what is the price of ninety men! And a man is possessed by such a craze—let him fulfill his heart!”

No one was on his side. Then Columbus reached America, discovered it, and when he returned the whole country was saying, “We always said so!” Columbus was amazed—whomever he met said, “See, we told you! We always said someone should support the poor fellow; he is right. Had we the money, we would have supported him!” Not one man said, “We opposed him.”

Columbus wrote in his autobiography: I was stunned—people are unbelievable! And they said it with such confidence that it didn’t even feel right to tell them, “Brother, you were the one who opposed me!”

The queen hosted a banquet to welcome him. All the rich and the notables were present—courtiers, ministers, generals. They told the queen, “What’s special about it? Anyone could have done it. The earth is round! Columbus hasn’t done anything extraordinary, nothing impossible. Anyone could have done it!”

Columbus listened. The banquet went on, and they kept saying, “We always said there’s nothing special here; just wasting money. But you were stubborn, so you did it. It was bound to happen; it was certain.”

Columbus could not resist. He picked up an egg from his plate and said, “Can anyone make this stand upright?”

Many tried. How would you stand an egg? It rolls over at once. People said, “How can an egg stand?” They began to say, “Columbus has gone mad. This must be the result of the long voyage—three months on water, water, water! He must have fretted whether land would appear or not, and on the return whether he’d reach home or not; no instruments, no charts—where would he crash, what would happen… His brain is spoiled. How can an egg stand?” All tried, and then told the queen, “This can never happen. The man is mad. We always said he’s mad!”

Columbus took the egg, gave it a sharp tap on the table so its base dented inward, and it stood. He said, “Look, it stands!”

They said, “Ah! Anyone can do that. What’s special in it? Why didn’t you say so earlier? We too could do it; even a child could do it.”

Columbus said, “Think a bit about what you keep saying! Once a thing is done, anyone can do it. And what is not yet shown—until it is done—no one can do it. Think a little!”

People are like this. They cannot accept another’s success, nor their own failure. Therefore those who succeed lack the courage to say plainly, “We got nothing.” They fear all the failures will say, “We told you so.” So first they waste life earning shards, and then they must endure people’s ridicule and scorn. Better to keep quiet: what’s done is done. Don’t say it. Keep smiling outside, and let others go on running.

Thus this mad race continues. Ambition never brings fulfillment—not if you succeed, and of course not if you fail. Longing is a greater, opposite thing. Ambition is for the other; longing is for the self—for self-experience.

Yog Pritam, this very longing is essential. Let it seize you wholly, body and breath—like a whirlwind; let it seep into every pore, settle into every fiber. Then revolution will happen. And I see day by day this longing is growing denser in you. You say rightly:

“To plunge into the deep abyss of silence,
to drop this circumference and surroundings,
the great commerce of words,
all the learned knowledge,
and in my own dense solitude
sitting quietly,
turned inward,
to go on listening to the music of the void,
moment to moment.”

It will happen. Only when this happens is life fulfilled. Only then are you blessed. One who dies having done this does not die—he attains the deathless.

But let the longing not remain merely longing—not just a notion, a dream. Transform the dream. Don’t only say, “May I dive into the deep abyss of silence”—dive! Who is stopping you?

A very amusing fact: if you want wealth, thousands will stop you—because they too want it. Hence competition. If you want to be president, in a country of six hundred million, you collide with six hundred million—because everyone wants to be president.

An Arabic saying is that God plays a fine joke with everyone. Having made a person, just as He is about to send him into the world, He whispers in his ear, “I have never created anyone superior to you!” He says this in every ear. Therefore each one hides this within; whether he says it or not, he keeps it inside: “I am the most superior.” The world is foolish, crazy, uncomprehending; it has not recognized me—otherwise the president would have to be me. There is no other competent person! If anyone is worthy, it is me; the rest are unworthy.

This is the struggle of politics: everyone thinks, “I am worthy. I will solve all problems.” Though no one is interested in solving problems. Each has only one problem to solve: “How do I get the post?” The one real problem; all other problems are chatter, devices to hide that one problem.

On the inner journey there is one beautiful thing: there is no competition.

Yog Pritam, who is stopping you? No one. If you want to be silent, there is no obstacle. There is no clash with anyone. This is the most beautiful truth of the spiritual life: there is no rivalry, no grabbing from anyone. Spiritual wealth is such that however much you gain, no one else has less. In the outer world, if you gain, someone loses.

I have heard: a young man and his sister both reached Hollywood. The man wanted to be an actor. He became one, but always in difficulty; his debts kept growing. He earned a lot, but spent more. He was being crushed under debt—any day he’d go bankrupt. His sister became a prostitute. Her earnings grew and grew; piles of money. One day they met. The sister said, “Brother, I’m in Hollywood, you’re in Hollywood. Your debts keep growing; my money keeps growing. What are you doing?”

The brother said, “What’s the use of hiding from you? The very reason your money is increasing is the reason mine is disappearing!”

In the outer world, if your pocket grows heavy, someone’s pocket becomes empty. Someone gets looted for you to settle. One settlement is razed for yours to flourish. Life here is grabbing; each exploits each. The more clever, the more cunning, the more dishonest—he grabs more.

But in the inner realm the economics is different. There, however much your wealth increases, no one’s decreases; on the contrary, your increase augments others’ too. If from human history we remove Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed, Zarathustra—what will remain in man? He will again be seen perched on trees, again a savage. Nothing of worth would remain. Those few who attained the inner treasure raised the energy of human consciousness.

When one person attains Buddhahood, all humanity, as if, rises one step higher. You may not notice it, yet within you a revolution occurs. A Buddha’s radiance, his glow, unbeknown to you, stirs your life-breath. His fragrance fills your nostrils. Whether you recognize it or not, whether you feel grateful or not, it makes no difference. When spring comes, thousands of flowers bloom. Whether you look or not, the air is fragrant; your nostrils fill with scent; the air is fresh; birds sing. Whether you listen or not, even if you remain deaf, the songs enter your being silently, without footfall. One person’s awakening sends a wave of awakening through the life of the whole of humanity.

So the inner economics is quite the reverse: there, when one gains, all receive. In the outer world: when one gains, many are deprived.

“To plunge into the deep abyss of silence”—you say, Yog Pritam.
Plunge! It is auspicious for you and for others.

“To drop this circumference and surroundings,
the great commerce of words,
all the learned knowledge.”

Knowledge hasn’t caught hold of you. You fool—you are clutching it.

There was a Sufi fakir, Shaikh Farid. A man came and asked, “How? How does this world drop?”

Farid was a very carefree, exuberant man—his answers too. He suddenly stood up. The man said, “Where are you going?”

Farid said, “To give you the answer. Sit!” He rose at once, grabbed a nearby pillar, and began shouting, “Help! Help!”

The man said, “What are you doing? Are you in your senses? Have you been drinking? What is there to rescue?”

Farid said, “Get me freed from the pillar!”

The man said, “You’re being ridiculous. You yourself are holding the pillar, and you say, ‘Free me from the pillar’!”

Farid said, “So you are a sensible man. If you understand that since I am holding the pillar, no one can free me until I let go myself—apply that. Are you holding the world, or is the world holding you? The day you want to drop it, drop it. What is all this racket? What all this asking?”

We ask so that we can postpone. We ask, “Show a way by which the world drops!” No one will be able to show a way… and even if someone shows, will we follow it? We will go on inquiring. A man buying a two-rupee pot taps and thumps it. We will test every path, visit gurus here and there, search the scriptures. Until we find the “right path,” we won’t set out—are we that foolish, that ignorant?

Thus neither will a path be found, nor will the world be dropped. And even if a path is found, we say, “It’s very difficult! The web of the world is great!”

Die right now—and in a single instant you will be free. The world will not be able to stop you, and the whole web will remain as it is.

A woman wanted to take sannyas. She thought about it for three years. I kept saying to her, “You are quite old—seventy. How long will you think? If death comes first, don’t blame me!”

She said, “No, no—what are you saying! You shouldn’t speak such inauspicious words!”

I said, “I am not speaking inauspiciously. Death will come. At seventy, how much longer do you plan to live? Take sannyas before death. After death, even if you want it, it will be hard for me to give. And after death, please do me a kindness—do not come. There is no tradition of giving sannyas to ghosts and spirits. I am already in enough trouble; why take on the trouble of giving sannyas to ghosts! Forgive me—if you die, please don’t come.”

By sheer coincidence, the next day she was hit by a car. She was hospitalized. Her son came running. He said, “What have you done! You said inauspicious things; my mother was hit by a car. Had you not…”

I said, “You too are crazy! Those who get hit by cars—does it happen because I utter inauspicious words? How would the driver know what I told your mother?”

I said, “Hurry! Go ask her: if she wants to take sannyas, take it now.”

But his mother said, “I will think.” And twenty-four hours later she died. As she died she told her son, “This is very strange! I am going—and truly, the world remains as it was, the web as it was. My not being will change nothing. And I could not take sannyas! Please go and request at least that they put a mala on my corpse.”

The son came. I said, “I told you—after death, don’t come. Putting a mala on a corpse—what will it do? The one who had to take sannyas, that bird has flown, has entered another body. This body is empty now. Still, if it consoles your heart, I’ll give you a mala—go put it on and console yourself. But better still—take sannyas yourself.”

He said, “What are you saying! Home, family, children. My mother just died and I take sannyas? There’ll be an uproar at home.”

I said, “Has there been an uproar because your mother died? Death does not cause an uproar; taking sannyas does! This is the very mistake your mother made.”

He said, “Please, enough—don’t say more. Yesterday you spoke, and within twenty-four hours my mother is gone! I will come, surely.”

It’s been about eight years. He hasn’t come.

People cannot even arrange to be quiet, to be silent. No one is stopping you. Who prevents you from dropping borrowed words and knowledge? Knowledge cannot hold you, scriptures cannot hold you—you are the one gripping. Open your fist; all will fall.

You say:
“And in my own dense solitude
sitting quietly,
turned inward,
to go on listening to the music of the void,
moment to moment.”

Dive! Do not delay. Not even a moment’s delay is right.

This is not a flower; it is the language of my heart!
In Earth’s heart
there is the longing to unite with the Sky!
The eye’s smile has become word,
the heart’s silence has found a voice,
in some unknown corner of the inner mind
a honeyed mood has surged;
this is not a flower,
it is the definition of my unwritten verses!
For a moment in the stillness of the fleeting
a wave of fragrance, color, and juice arose,
in the sequence of withering and falling
to open and fully bloom for but one watch;
this is not a flower,
it is the hope that deed, word, and mind may blossom!
This wide-open, unblinking gaze
is the meditative eye of the inner being;
on the lash-petals there laughs
a sun-ray-kissed, playful flake of snow;
this is not a flower,
it is the deathless thirst of mantra-enchanted eyes!

This longing of yours is auspicious, benedictory. It is the language of your life-breath; the yearning of your innermost being. Fulfill it; let it be fulfilled; support it. Surrender everything for it. And the time has come to dive into your dense solitude. The more intelligent one is, the sooner his time comes. The more foolish, the longer he delays.

Now the season for rippling and surging has passed!
For long I played the games of life and mind!
Let the waters settle, let them clarify and shine;
let the lake be left alone!
Let the particles of clay sink to the depths,
let no waves now arise in the tranquil waters!
Let the sky descend as reflection,
let the light awaken in the depths of the mind!
What attachment to this sheath of iron?
What grief at time’s theft of the body?
Why should life and mind grieve in the moment’s separations?
Let the inner sky not be far from the inner heart!
The lotus smiles; speech has become a smile!
The hidden secret opens; the silent sage speaks!
Image within image, a stream of reflections at dawn—
the sky is open now, the mirror-clear waters are open!
Now the season for rippling and surging has passed!
The lake of mind is unmoving; no fair of waves!
On the stalk, eyes closed, the meditative lotus—
in the mid-lake, the swan-soul alone!

The days of rippling and surging are gone. The moments of running and hustle-bustle are over. Your supreme inquiry has arisen within. Give value to these moments—for who knows when such inquiry will arise again? Who knows when this longing will awaken again—or not awaken? In rare fortunate moments such a longing seizes a person’s life-breath. It is not right to miss such moments. Surrender everything.

And this revolution will happen; it can happen. There is not the slightest obstacle—except you. If you truly want it to happen, it can happen now, here. There is no need to postpone even for a moment. Do not talk of tomorrow. Whoever leaves it for tomorrow leaves it forever. Whoever does not want to do it leaves it for tomorrow. Do it now, today. Not even a moment is reliable.

Go within yourself; let everything settle—in peace, in silence. Be a witness. It is an old habit: waves of thought will come for a few days—let them come. Keep watching with detachment, unmoved. Call nothing bad, nothing good. Take no judgments, make no choices. Keep yourself untouched by identification. Just keep watching. Waves arise in the mind—let them. Know: “This is not me.” I am neither body nor mind. The day, the moment, this settles deeply—“I am not mind; I am not body”—that very moment you will know who I am. I am Brahman! Aham Brahmasmi!

Enough for today.