Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #7

Anand Maitreya,
There is only one way to keep life forever fresh—whether the question is of a person, a community, or a nation, it makes no difference. The basic key to staying alive is: die to the past. Die to it every day, every moment. Do not hoard the past.

It is by hoarding the past that rigidity is born. The more the past loads our head, the more we are crushed under its burden; then our legs cannot even walk—let alone dance. Yet life is dance—unceasing dance. We did not imagine God as Nataraj for nothing; we thought long and deep. The essence of the seers’ vision is hidden in that image. Nowhere else on earth is God seen as a dancer. That divine gesture is our gift to the world, because dance has certain qualities that no other act has.

First: you cannot separate the dancer from the dance. Call God a painter, and the painter stands apart from the painting—duality is created. The painter may die, the painting remains. The painting can be sold; painter and painting are two. Call God a sculptor, and the sculpture is other than the sculptor. He cannot merge into it, cannot suffuse it from within, cannot become its soul; he remains on the periphery.

Dance is unique: the dancer is the soul of the dance. He is inside it, not outside. The painter stands outside with brush in hand; the sculptor with chisel and hammer—always outside. The dancer births the dance from within, from the very innermost. He is at the center of the dance, not the circumference. And dancer and dance are one; there is no way to separate them. Nothing else expresses non-duality so precisely.

God is the dancer; existence is his dance. The day a person becomes heavy, that day he is cut off from God. And India’s heaviness is very ancient. We relish oldness. We labor to prove ourselves the oldest people on earth. Which means we are proving ourselves the most dead. Our burden is huge—like the Himalayas on our head. We have not moved an inch for centuries; we are stuck where we were. This is our rigidity. This burden must be dropped.

India can be young—must be. Without becoming young, India has no future. My whole effort here is to help you experience the art of becoming young. Then even the oldest person can be young. And the youngest can be old. It all depends on how much burden you carry on your head.

If a young man carries a heavy load of the past, he is already old: he can neither dance nor walk. His future turns dark; his present is a mere sorrow—a sorrow-dream. His only consolation is to soothe himself with memories—recollecting Rama’s age, the Vedas, the Upanishads, imagining the golden age, the satyug—and somehow endure today. Today is kali yuga; satyug lay behind. That is the sign of old age.

The sign of youth is: today is satyug. Because only today is truth. And satyug can only be what is true. Yesterday is already false—how can it be satyug? Understand the word: where is yesterday? Not even a faint line remains anywhere; it exists only in your memory, in the bundle of junk you carry. Tomorrow has not yet come. Satyug can be neither past nor future. In the world there are only two kinds of mad people: those whose satyug lies behind, and those whose satyug lies ahead. The old-fashioned mad—the Indians—put it behind. The new-fashioned mad—communists, socialists, Russia, China—put it in the future.

Satyug means: what is. What is truth? Neither past nor future; only the present. Satyug is now, here. For this, we must drop the entire load of the past, put aside all our memories, clean our eyes—wipe our spectacles; too much dust has settled there.

An old woman rose at dawn. The window was closed, but she peered out through the pane. Her small grandson stood beside her. She said, “What a fog today!” The child laughed: “No, Grandma, it’s not foggy. The window glass is dusty. I’ve been outside; it’s clear and fresh.”

It never occurred to the old woman that the dust lay on the glass. Seeing the world through a dusty pane, the whole world looked dim.

Your glasses are dusty. Your perception has grown hazy—layer upon layer of dust has accumulated. And we don’t remove the dust—we add to it; we clutch the dust as if it were gold, terrified it might slip away—terrified the scriptures might be lost. We stay engrossed in singing the past’s praises.

India can become young. But courage will be needed. Becoming young is a courageous act—an acceptance of the challenge of the present.

What are today’s challenges? The first is to learn this lesson: that in what we have done so far there were mistakes. As long as you keep the past on your head, you cannot analyze it. Analysis needs distance, dispassion, a little neutrality. We made mistakes, but we do not want to acknowledge them, because that hurts the ego. We identify with our mistakes; anyone who points them out seems an enemy, his words taste like poison. We want to hear only those saints who sing our glory: “You are the most religious people on earth! So meritorious! You must have accumulated countless virtues in past lives to be born on this sacred land!” Hearing this, your heart swells—because you have nothing else left; such consolations are all you have to live by. How will you ever see your faults?

If you want youth, put the bundle down and open it; analyze it. It contains many mistakes. Stones and pebbles are far more than jewels. We are being crushed under those stones.

India’s mistake was giving far greater value to the inner than to the outer—just as the West today, at the opposite extreme, gives far greater value to the outer than to the inner. Both mistakes are the same; their root is one.

Karl Marx says there is no soul, no God—only matter; soul and God are mere illusions. Our so‑called religious leaders say soul and God are true, the world is false—maya, mere appearance.

Both agree on one thing: out of the two, one is false and one is true. In the West the mistake is: only the outer is real, inside there is nothing. So the West grows outwardly affluent and inwardly poor—palaces and heaps of wealth outside, darkness within—new-moon night, not a star, not even an earthen lamp. India made the same mistake from the other end: “Inside is everything; the outside is false.” We did explore the inner a little and brought back a few jewels; we dived deep. But outside we became poor, diseased, depressed. Both are crippled.

As I see it, outside is as true as inside. They are two facets of the same coin. God and his world are not two; therefore neither is false—neither the world nor Brahman. Both are true, equally true—because the relation is that of dancer and dance. If the dancer is true, his dance is true. If the dance is not true, how will you even call him a dancer? And if the dance is true, how can it be true without a true dancer? Either both are true or both are false—but they are equal. Tilt the scales even a little, and balance is lost; where balance is lost, life turns sad and sickly.

A fable from the Panchatantra: a forest caught fire. Two beggars lived there—one blind, one lame. They wanted to survive. They were enemies—same profession, and in the same trade people become rivals. But they quickly realized the danger: this wasn’t a time for petty quarrels. Without joining hands both would die. The blind could run but could not see—he could plunge into flames or fall into a burning ravine. The lame could see a path of escape but could not run. They acted wisely: the blind carried the lame on his shoulders—“Let me be your legs, you be my eyes”—and both were saved.

That is the world’s predicament today. The West is excessively young—full of energy but blind; it can live but lacks wisdom. The East is old—rich in understanding, poor in vitality. The forest is on fire. If the blind and the lame do not join, the danger is immense. India is mistaken to think it can be saved alone; America is mistaken to think it can be saved alone. Neither the materialist nor the spiritualist can survive alone.

Therefore I offer a new vision of life, a synthesis of materialism and spirituality. Only in this synthesis lies the salvation of humanity. India must become young; America needs a touch of wise old age—a few gray hairs of experience. The East needs energy; the West needs experience. The East needs science, technology, industry; the West needs religion, meditation, yoga, tantra. If this confluence happens, a new sunrise is possible on earth. And it can happen. Here people from forty or fifty countries are present, and it is happening: no one asks who is from where. Months pass and we don’t know who belongs to which country or caste. If it comes up, fine; otherwise no one cares. Who is Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jew, Parsi—no one is concerned. A new humanity where being human is enough!

My sannyas will be opposed in the East and in the West—it already is. In the East they say I am making sannyas worldly. There is some truth; I am. In Western countries—Italy, Germany, Holland, now England—hundreds of articles say I am corrupting communists, giving them the intoxication of spirituality. Marx said religion is opium; they think I am intoxicating revolutionaries and destroying their revolution. Many of the young men and women here came from communist movements; among my sannyasins, after America and Germany, Italy is third. So there is anxiety there.

Meanwhile in the East people say I am making religious people worldly. I say: don’t renounce, don’t escape; live where you are—and live rejoicingly. To embrace suffering is not religion. Let there be bliss inside and bliss outside. Why half? When the full moon can be ours, why settle for a crescent?

Both criticisms contain a grain of truth—because this is exactly what I am doing. The East needs a dose of materialism, or its feet will never find ground. India needs science, technology, industry. The West needs religion, spirituality, meditation, yoga, tantra. Then there will be balance.

Anand Maitreya, India can be young—but we must drop our attachment to the past. We are bound to the past badly; whatever we do is based on what was. We do not live today; we live on borrowed answers. The situations have changed completely. Neither Krishna’s answers nor Buddha’s nor Mahavira’s will work today. Yes, take their essence, their fragrance, their insight—but don’t be slavish imitators, or you will be in trouble.

Krishna told Arjuna, “Fight the war!” Today that cannot be said. If Krishna were born again, he could not tell today’s Arjuna—say, Jimmy Carter—“Wage war!” Krishna would not make that mistake. Then it was bows and arrows; the damage was limited—a few die, a few survive; it remained a play, a leela. Now it is no play—now it would be total annihilation. If the atom or hydrogen bomb falls, the Gita will not be born; neither Krishna nor Arjuna will survive. Before Krishna can reveal the cosmic form to Arjuna, the atom bomb will reveal its own cosmic form to both. In today’s conditions that message cannot be valid.

But here we keep reading the dead Gita. As people grow old, they do one thing: read the Gita. Morarji Desai has suddenly become a Gita connoisseur—as though the moment one is as good as dead, one becomes a connoisseur! A Vedanta satsang circle—he delivers discourses; a few decrepit listeners listen.

The answers have grown ancient. I do not say there is no essence in the Gita—but you can no longer be a line‑drawer who merely repeats. Mahavira left home; Buddha left home. In those conditions it may have been right—they were born into exploitative houses; whatever they had was soaked in the blood of others. What they renounced was exploitation.

But today if everyone becomes eager to renounce, how will life be enriched? And who will feed all the escapees? Buddha and Mahavira survived because not everyone left; others kept working. Even they had to beg for alms, for clothes, for shelter, for medicine. If everyone had fled, who would have fed them?

If you mechanically repeat those answers today, it becomes dangerous. Take the Jain monk. He can accept food only from a Jain house. There are countless villages without a single Jain; Jains are barely thirty or thirty‑five lakhs in a country of 700 million. He must travel to holy places, passing through many non‑Jain villages. Since he cannot accept food from others, separate hearths travel with him.

Now see the absurdity. He has renounced the house; a single household’s kitchen would have sufficed. But since Mahavira begged from many houses so no one would bear the burden alone, the rule became: take a handful here, a ladle there. It was sensible then—no one would cook specially for him; a handful could be spared. But now, to stick to the rule, he must take from four or six houses—so ten or fifteen kitchens travel with him, ten or fifteen families! Wherever he halts, those families pitch their tents and cook daily—for one man. He takes his handfuls, while fifteen stoves burn, fifteen loads of fuel are consumed—violence multiplies. The rule meant to reduce burden now increases it. It would be more appropriate to take food from one place. To be a slave to lines is dangerous.

I don’t say, “Do not learn from the past.” Learn—but do not repeat it. Take its fragrance, and recognize its mistakes.

Our great mistake was calling the outer false. Then we did not explore the outer at all. You may be surprised: India discovered mathematics first. Why, then, was there no Einstein here? We could have produced Einstein. The numerals used the world over are Indian; even English words carry Indian roots—tri becomes three, ashta becomes eight, nava becomes nine; in Italian, due for two; English two evolves from dvi to tw- to two. We started first—then why did we fall behind? Because we declared the outer to be false. This doctrine of maya drained our life. We could have been the most prosperous people in the world, the first to reach the moon. But how to reach the moon, when the outer is maya? Our saints kept chanting, “Mithya, mithya—maya, maya! Don’t get entangled in worldly attachment.” You breathe outer air, drink outer water, eat outer food—or you die—and yet you call the outer false! Even the saints eat this “false” food daily.

Once in Raipur a monk came begging. I said, “I will certainly give, but first tell me your view of the outer.” He said, “All is false.” I said, “Then have me do a false act! And why food at all? If it is false, here is an empty plate—imagine it full and enjoy! No need to serve or cook—just imagine you’ve eaten, imagine you’ve drunk, feel satisfied. If the outer is maya, why beg?”

But the outer is not false. Your saints know it well. Slap one and he will raise a stick at once. If you say, “But outside is illusion; who slapped whom? It was a dream,” he will not be consoled.

Shankaracharya, the great preacher of maya, was touched once by an untouchable; he grew furious, ready to curse. The man said, “Wait! You say all is maya. Then who is Shudra, who Brahmin? Why this anger?” In his anger Shankaracharya forgot his Vedanta. “I just bathed in the Ganga; you have defiled me!” “Ganga? Bathing? All maya! Who bathed whom in what?” he replied. Shankara came to his senses, bowed to the man, asked forgiveness: “Who is Shudra, who Brahmin? What purity, what impurity?” Yet after that… he went to bathe again, to “cleanse” himself! Understanding does not seem to work. He bathed, then performed his worship. Your saints too accept the outer as true, though they keep calling it maya—because truth does not change by your saying so.

This nation’s greatest mistake was maya-vada. We have to be free of it, and affirm life’s truth. The soul is true, and the body is true. The inner world is true, and the outer world is true. Both are forms of God. This world is God’s body; the consciousness within it is God’s soul. This is his dance; he is the dancer.

So India can still become young. And if it does, it won’t be only for India’s sake but for all humanity—India holds nearly one-sixth of the world. If one-sixth of your body is paralyzed, you will limp. India is a vast land, almost a subcontinent; its paralysis cripples the whole earth. We must help it out of this paralysis.

First: freedom from maya. Second: because we emphasized maya, we glorified renunciation—“whatever is maya, drop it.” We sang the praises of renunciation so loudly that our creativity was lost. Renunciation became valuable; creation became valueless. But creation should be the value.

If someone asks why you go to a saint, what will you say? “He eats only once a day; wears only a loincloth; remains bare-chested in winter; sleeps on thorns; look how he has dried his body to skin and bone—what austerity!” But what is its value? Where is creativity? What has he given the world? Has he added to its beauty, composed poetry, birthed songs, shared love, brought joy, a little intoxication of spirit? Can he say when leaving, “I leave the world a little better than I found it—cleaner, more fragrant”? He cannot.

You never praise a saint for playing the veena beautifully; if someone does, you say, “Then he’s a musician—what has that to do with saintliness?” If he sculpts beautifully: “A sculptor, perhaps—but a saint?” If his life is gracious and aesthetic: “Cultured, maybe—but a saint? Saintliness comes from renunciation!”

That is where maya-vada leads. If the world is false, there is nothing to improve—only to drop. Who improves a non‑existence? So we created an uncreative tradition. The result was inevitable: our talented people got entangled in absurdities—fasting, headstands, mortification. The very people who could have been Einsteins, Nijinskys, great poets, sculptors, scientists—our talent was diverted into non‑creative channels. In our land, gifted people renounce; the only use for talent is to flee.

What will the world gain from your fleeing? You make it uglier. The world is ugly enough; you become another cesspit—and we even worship the filth as spirituality. If someone defecates where he eats, we call him a paramahansa! See his non‑dualism—no discrimination between excrement and food! This is sheer foolishness. We honor it: “He is beyond discrimination.” Even he is not so beyond discrimination as to eat excrement; he still eats food—this is just an eccentric habit. Sanitation workers who carry night soil daily feel no stench; will you call them paramahansas? They balance baskets of filth on their heads and hum film songs unbothered—out of mere habituation.

In one village I was told, “We have a paramahansa.” “What is his special quality?” “He eats from the same plate with dogs.” I saw him under a tree sharing food with dogs. His drool hung from his mouth; he looked mentally dull. I told people, “Respect the dogs; only stray dogs can eat with him—no self‑respecting hound would.” They said, “You don’t understand; he is great. He drinks tea all day—half a cup, drool dripping; he passes it to others as prasad. Whoever drinks it is faithful—and gains benefit.” People sat around and drank, hoping to win lawsuits or elections. Inevitably, out of a hundred, some win anyway. Those who lose are told, “Your faith was lacking,” and they accept it—because who can be perfectly faithful while swallowing someone else’s drool? Those who win spread the miracle; those who lose remain silent. This is how such games flourish—and you honor them.

Honor creativity instead. Honor the person who builds something.

I want my sannyasins to be creative, to contribute to life. But our idea of sannyas is strange. Old‑style sannyasins come here and protest: “What is this—sannyasins making furniture, shoes, weaving cloth, building houses? A sannyasin working?” For them, a sannyasin must be idle under a tree. His one job is to let others serve him. He is doing the world a great favor—by allowing you to serve, because service brings merit! And see his sacrifice—he forgoes service himself so you may serve; he forgoes the merit so you may earn it! What greater renunciation?

My sannyasin does not want to receive service. He must be creative.

Because my sannyasins create—and with what labor and beauty, pouring their life into it—income‑tax officers are troubled. They say, “What kind of ashram is this?” They won’t recognize it as a charitable trust, because to them a charitable trust must live on donations. I do not ask for donations; my intention is that we soon begin to give them. To me, that is what “charitable” means. The officers cannot understand. Cases have dragged on for years. I brief the lawyers; the officers beat their heads: “Never seen a charitable trust that earns! If you earn, pay tax; otherwise live on alms.” As though self‑reliance were a crime!

Concepts harden over centuries; we refuse to budge an inch. That is India’s rigidity. Sannyas needs a new color, a new form; religion needs a new definition.

Live! India’s future is not in escapism. Live—intensely, swiftly, totally. Whatever you do, take it as service to the divine; as worship, as prayer. Then many flowers can bloom in this garden. This land where Buddha, Krishna, Kabir, Nanak, Farid, Bulleshah blossomed—their seeds are here; their legacy is with us; we have the capacity to be like them. But remember: their time is gone. Do not imitate. You must be new—in new circumstances, in new challenges, accept a new responsibility.

My sannyasin is preparing to face the new winds and new conditions. In facing them one remains young. And circumstances change every day—remember. Do not keep carrying old answers. I do not want to give you answers; I want to give you vision. Vision arises through meditation. I want to give you enough vision that in every situation you can find your own answer. The old way was to hand you ready‑made answers to recite by rote.

Life isn’t a place where two and two always make four. Sometimes two and two make five, sometimes three. Life’s arithmetic is not a straight road but a maze of winding footpaths. Here nothing is fixed; everything changes moment to moment. You need awareness to see that things have changed—and when they change, the answer must change.

Old sannyasins were ordered to go on foot—because riding a cart oppressed the oxen; riding a horse oppressed the horse. But now? Sitting in a car harms no animal; to insist on walking is to oppress yourself—and this body, too, is God’s. In a car no horse is hitched—though out of habit we still say “so many horsepower.” On the railway even insects are hardly harmed; trains run on fixed tracks—no creatures loiter there for Jain monks’ sake. Tracks shine like silver; on foot you crush far more. Jains should fix wheels to their feet and walk on rails—then no question of violence!

Circumstances then were different; then the rule made sense. Now? If a “saint” is seen on a bicycle—“corrupt! Kali yuga has come!” If a plane—no tracks at all—still he won’t sit; “sin will befall.” Old answers, new situations—no harmony. Hence old age, hence rigidity.

Anand Maitreya, this rigidity can melt; a new birth is needed. Letting go of the old is hard—but possible. And the time has come: if you won’t let go, you will die. If you do, a new life is possible.

Ram Saraswati,
There is nowhere to go. The very talk of going is talk of the ego. To get something, to become something—these ambitions, these desires are the ego’s journeys.
A sannyasin has nowhere to go and nothing to become. What is, is enough. As it is, it is blissful. Sannyas means supreme contentment—a deep fulfillment in one’s being.
You ask: ‘Where shall we go? It isn’t clear.’
There is nowhere to go. You are already where you need to be. You are in the Divine; where else could you go? Like a fish in the ocean—where else can it go? If it gets into the fuss of going, one day it will end up on the shore and then it will writhe. All goers arrive at the shore in this way. Someone reaches the shore of wealth and then writhes: “Ah, life slipped through my fingers—what have I done!” Another reaches the shore of position and then writhes, roasting on hot sand. And now he can’t even tell anyone, because how hard the fish had leapt! How it tugged and was pushed by other fish. It was a fierce competition. One fish suddenly clambered onto the shore and became president. Now it writhes. Breath is panicking. What to do now! Out of embarrassment… even going back isn’t possible. Once you’ve spat, you can’t lick it back. A mistake was made once; you can’t keep making it again and again.
Mulla Nasruddin got his pay. A hundred rupees extra—two notes had stuck together. He was to get seven hundred, he brought home eight hundred. He counted them on the way, delighted. In the evening the cashier balanced the books and realized he had given that extra note to Mulla—a hundred short. He kept quiet, waiting to see if Mulla would return it next day.
Why would he bring it back! Is anyone that naïve in our land? He must have thanked God: “O Lord, you heard my prayer! Delayed, but not denied! And when you give, you tear the roof open—bang! A hundred at once!”
Next month the cashier gave six hundred instead of seven—cutting the hundred. Mulla ran off, thinking maybe again… Outside he quickly counted—only six. He returned and said, “There’s a mistake—only six notes.”
The cashier said, “And last month?”
Mulla said, “Listen, if a mistake happens once, we let it go. But repeated mistakes—we cannot tolerate.”
Now, one mistake was made—the leap to the shore. Why make a second mistake and get even more disgraced by jumping back into the water, so people will say, “Brother, we told you so!”
And people are like that—they always say, “Brother, we told you so.” Whatever you do, they say it. If you lose, they say they told you. If you win, they say they told you. “We were already saying this would happen.” No shame in saying it. Everyone knows in hindsight. All are experts on the future. All astrologers: “We told you earlier.”
No one says it beforehand; all tell you later that they had said it before! “You turned out to be a fool, had to come back—see, we’re the wise ones. That’s why we never went anywhere, never tried.”
Though they too had tried, flailed about, but couldn’t reach. When they can’t reach, they say, “Sour grapes.” Those who can’t reach begin to abuse the grapes: they are sour, we never wanted them anyway, what’s there in them! The defeated start saying, “What’s the point?” Yet look into their eyes—at the sight of money they sparkle. And they say, “What’s the point!” Examine their lives and you’ll see the same ambitions. But they refuse to admit they failed, they got tired, they couldn’t win.
A sannyasin, Ram Saraswati, has nowhere to go. He is in the Divine.
Sannyas is not an urge, not an ambition—sannyas is a celebration; the art of being joyous where you are. You are already in God—sing, hum, dance!
Why do you ask: ‘Where shall we go—we can’t see!’
It’s good that you can’t see. If you could see, you’d be in trouble, rushing off to do something upside down. Look at those who “see.”
People say: “A blind man sees far in the dark.”
Only the blind see far in the dark. Those with eyes don’t need to “see” in that way. Sitting at home—why go anywhere? You are at the destination. If you stop, you are at the goal. If you don’t stop, there are endless roads, but no path will be found—and where will a destination be found? Roads and more roads. And the dilemma will be great, the irony acute—“Shall I grasp this or that; do this or that; become this or that.” So many temptations, so many options—each calling, “Come!” Wealth calls, office calls; indulgence calls, renunciation calls; knowledge calls—each advertises, “The real fun is here, the joy is here, heaven is here.” Whom will you listen to, whom will you believe?
So you get into a rush. One step here, one there. You climb into many boats. Then you’ll fall flat—what else can happen! You’ll be torn to pieces. You’ll scatter like mercury. Then gathering yourself becomes difficult. This is how everyone is scattered.
No, there is nowhere to go. We are already in his kingdom. No heaven to gain, no liberation to attain. My proclamation is this: wherever we are—if we simply stop, taste a little rest, a little quiet, become a little absorbed, connect a little with existence…
Because of running we can’t connect; we get no leisure. And running won’t let you connect, for existence isn’t going anywhere, the world isn’t going anywhere. Existence is where it is. If you become available to a little rest—and I call that rest meditation; the ultimate rest I call samadhi—if you sit for a while and all becomes empty, all becomes silent, then in an instant you’ll see: “Why was I running? For what was I running? That for which I ran is enthroned within me.”
Then a new mode and a new dimension opens in life, a new door. You will still do many things—but the reason for doing changes. Before, you did to get; now you do because you have. And when one does from having, from joy, then whatever he touches turns to gold. The word he touches becomes poetry. The leaf he touches becomes a flower. His hand carries magic. He is no beggar—he is an emperor. So much bliss overflows within him that it spills over. Whoever sits near him is drenched; he too gets soaked; he too becomes sweetly intoxicated. Sitting near him is like drinking wine. Sit with him—you’re a drunkard. Sit with him—you’re seated in a tavern. His very being is a wine-house.

The jasmine scents the whole night—
for whom?
The heart wanders the whole night—
for whom?
Thirst as if bathed in ecstasy,
one’s own breath as if another’s.
A tear, as though bought,
a smile, as though stolen.
In a trembling throat,
like a lamp’s flame,
songs quiver all night—
for whom?

Sleep came and went from the eyes,
anew became an age of unrest.
Moonlight, glittering like ice,
turned dusky in memory’s arms.
A lantern-like
moon hung in the sky
burned all night—
for whom?

Dipped in the river of oblivion,
swept by a wave of awareness.
Like lightning flashing in the life-breath,
that uninvited one came again.
Shimmering,
upon the lake of dreams,
a form rippled all night—
for whom?

Known and yet unknown,
a tale as if already bygone,
the unspoken sting that kept aching
has become fragrant night-blooming jasmine.
In love’s restless,
stirring night,
pain flared all night—
for whom?

For whom did so many flowers bloom? For whom are so many birds singing? This moon, these stars—for whom? Existence is absorbed in itself—for no one. It has no destination. Existence is not a means to any end; existence is its own end.
And this recognition is what I call the religious experience—call it nirvana, moksha, kaivalya, God-realization—whatever word you love. But this experience that existence is neither a means to something else nor an end for something else; it is its own end, its own means. Nowhere to go, nothing to become, nothing to gain, nothing to lose. To recognize ourselves as we are is enough. In that recognition God, too, is recognized. He who has known himself has known all.
Ram Saraswati, you say:
‘Where shall we go—we can’t see.
We set out but there is no path.’
If you set out, there is no path. Then you will be in great trouble. Whoever sets out falls into trouble. Stop!
You ask: ‘What are we seeking—we’ve no idea.’
There is no search—so how would you know? Here there is nothing to seek. That which you seek is what you are. What search can there be? In the seeker himself is hidden that which he seeks, about which he talks and thinks.
You say: ‘We keep weaving dreams, breath by breath.’
You can only weave your own. There is nothing else at hand.
Wake from the dreams! You’ve woven enough. What have you found? People keep weaving dreams. They’re Sheikh Chilli—building castles in the air. “If this happens, that happens; if I get this, if I get that.” Not only you—those you call great yogis, sadhus, mahants, saints—they too weave dreams. They too sit dreaming. Someone thinks the kundalini will awaken and there will be only light within. Someone thinks he’ll find an inner treasure, diamonds and jewels. Someone thinks he’ll perform miracles and produce ash from his hand. And what will that do? Is there any shortage of ash in the world? And you will add to it!
What dreams people weave! And all dreams are futile. Waking from dreams is meaningful.
Your condition is like this: in the night, someone in a dream is lost in a jungle, crying, “Where is the path? How do I get home?” He’s lying in his own bed, never went anywhere—but in the dream he’s lost in a forest. And a forest is a forest—a wolf appears, a cheetah; he runs for his life. The wolf is behind him, and he feels its hot breath on his back. He is drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, he thinks, “Now the heart will fail.” In that panic he wakes up. No wolf, no forest—your wife is there. She’s breathing on your back. Her warm breath, her hand resting on your back. For wives keep watch even at night—that you don’t slip away!
A film actress gave a party for her birthday. She invited all the actresses—stars, not-so-special, extras, everyone. A friend asked, “We’ve seen many parties, but people invite the special ones, friends. Why invite the extras, the unknowns?” She said, “So that my dear husband is present at this party too. I left him no way to go anywhere else. All doors and windows closed—now let’s see where he runs! He’ll have to stay.”
Wives keep a close account too.
A wrestler came to a doctor. His head was cut, one eye swollen. The doctor asked, “Got hurt in the arena?”
“In the arena, who can throw me?” the wrestler said, offended.
“Then thieves…?” The doctor left the sentence hanging.
The wrestler growled back, “Do thieves have such courage?”
Defeated, the doctor asked, “Then how did this happen?”
He said, “What to say, doctor—yesterday my wife finally proved her bangles’ silver is poor, so now she needs gold bangles.”
An astrologer told a young man, “You will have as your wife the only daughter of a very wealthy and beautiful father.”
The youth said, “Wonderful! But tell me—what will happen to my wife and our three children?”
A woman told her friend, “My husband has never disobeyed any of my orders.”
“Oh? Then why was he trying to kill himself by jumping from the third floor yesterday?” the friend asked.
“That’s what I told him—aren’t you ashamed to attempt suicide from the third floor?” the woman said.
“So what happened?” the friend asked.
“What else? An hour later he jumped from the seventh floor and killed himself,” she replied casually.
Understand? Obeying the wife—he didn’t do it from the third, he did it from the seventh—because she said, “Aren’t you ashamed to jump from the third!”
In sleep there is no jungle, no wolves—nowhere; you are where you always were. So are these dreams. And within dreams are more dreams. Not that the wife is false, but the relationship called “wife” is a dream. The wife is as true as you are. But the relationship is a fabrication, a dream. A social invention. And being invented, it has proven very costly and has given people much suffering. Yet till now the pundits and priests have not opposed it. The reason is that the whole business of religion depends on the suffering produced by this institution. The day marriage ends, so do the priests. Who will visit them? It’s distressed wives who go—“Let’s attend Baba-ji’s satsang.” Distressed husbands go—“Let’s listen to the saint; perhaps there will be some relief, some consolation.”
Marriage has run the business of religion. It gives people such distress that the talk of renunciation appeals to everyone. It is very difficult for a married man not to be attracted to renunciation. That’s why people understand my talk, yet it doesn’t appeal. I say: do not renounce.
People come here and write to me, “We came because we are exhausted. And you say don’t renounce. Should we go back then? We barely escaped and you are sending us back! Why ruin us? Life is already destroyed.”
Women come and say, “We want to stay in the ashram. We don’t want to go home.”
I say, “My whole teaching is: give your home the beauty of an ashram. Take this ashram as a symbol. Learn here, but make your home an ashram.”
They say, “We can make an ashram anywhere else, but not in that house. The moment we see the husband, it all goes wrong. All peace, meditation—forgotten. Such bad company!”
Religious leaders give blessings at marriages. Whenever there is a wedding, the guru blesses. It is a whole conspiracy. He blesses: “Live long, may your sorrows end now.”
Three months later the young man returns: “Master, we don’t want to live long! Take back your blessing! And what was that you said—that now our sorrows will end—what did it mean? I wasn’t suffering before!”
The priest said, “Child, I didn’t say which end. Sorrows have two ends. One where they begin, and one where they end. Two extremities. I never said which end had come. Now you know which end arrived.”
And the priest said, “Don’t worry—however soon you die, it will feel as if you lived for ages.”
For a married man, life feels long indeed. It just doesn’t pass. He devises ways to kill time—playing cards, reciting ballads of Alha-Udal, as if there’s nothing else to do in the world. Chess spread out, moving wooden elephants and horses. Ask, “What are you doing?” “Killing time!” Something as precious as time—doesn’t get cut! Inventing techniques to cut it—cards, cinema, lingering in hotels as late as possible.
Mulla Nasruddin is staggering home at three in the morning. A policeman asks, “Where are you going?”
“To listen to a discourse,” he says.
“At three in the night! What discourse at three?”
“You don’t know my wife,” says Nasruddin. “She’ll be awake. And until she gives the discourse, neither will she sleep nor will she let me. Often it goes on till morning.”
Your relations and ties are dreams. Your rank, fame, name—dreams. Dreams within dreams. Boxes within boxes—and within those, more boxes. And within those boxes—then, somewhere, you. And you keep making these boxes, decorating them, making new ones.
One must come out of all these boxes. And you will be surprised—the way out is by going within. The only way to get out of this whole net is to go into yourself.
A middle-aged, very plain-looking woman pointed to a man and told a policeman, “Arrest him—he whispered in my ear that I am the most beautiful woman in the world.”
The policeman looked at her, then with pity at the man, then back at her and said, “Madam, what shall I charge him with—lying or insanity?”
You keep creating new troubles. You get trapped in lies. And there is no end to madness. Until you become quiet, you are mad, deranged. In such derangement, Ram Saraswati, you ask for a path? First bid farewell to this derangement. How will a path be found in it? Even if one is, it will be the wrong one—imagined. It won’t be there—only appear so. You’ll end up doing something or other. When a person is unconscious, the first thing he should do is be absolutely still—don’t even move; because whatever he does will be wrong. In unconsciousness the right thing is to be utterly motionless. Don’t stir at all. Otherwise some mistake will happen, a step will fall in the wrong place. How can it fall in the right one?
And a man, out of fear that he might step on the wrong path, walks and is afraid, and is anxious—he cannot walk properly. So he is half-hearted everywhere. Part here, part there; some west, some east; some south, some north. Divided into fragments. Out of fear…
You are seeking not because seeking is natural—but because your pundits and priests have schooled you since childhood: seek. Seek God, seek liberation, seek truth. And seeking naturally implies: go somewhere, take a path. And whom will you ask about the path? The very ones who told you to seek. First they create the urge—seek. They won’t let you sit in peace. They’ll prod you—“Seek! Why are you sitting? Won’t you seek?” Once you set out, whom will you ask for the road, the method, the way, the abracadabra? You’ll go to them. Then they’ll give you their charms and formulas.
Religion’s trade is strange—first they create demand, then they supply. This demand has been manufactured. Otherwise, there is nothing to seek anywhere. You are. And your being means the Divine is within you. Without him, you could not be. He is the being—he is the very is-ness. He is breathing in you. He is beating in your heart. Where to go? What to seek?
But the priests have scared you thoroughly—“If you don’t seek, you’ll fall into hell. If you seek, you’ll gain heaven.” So greed holds you for heaven, fear grips you to escape hell.
A certain rich gentleman, very famous, a connoisseur of art, named Subhan, went outside the village under a jujube tree to relieve himself. No one around. Ripe berries were falling. He couldn’t resist—a paramhansa mood arose—he began eating the berries as he squatted. A courtesan passed by, on her way to dance that night in the village.
At night, the dance began. Subhan went to watch. He was seated in front, being a man of status.
The courtesan began to sing: “Subhan, I have come to know your secrets, O Ram.”
Hearing the song, Subhan became frightened. “This courtesan means to disgrace me in public. She’ll reveal that morning’s paramhansa mood! She’ll tell the berry-eating story in front of everyone—needless disgrace, loss of prestige.” So to please her, he took off his shawl worth two hundred and fifty rupees and gave it to her.
The courtesan was delighted, danced with gusto, and sang the next line: “Subhan, I will tell your secrets, O Ram.”
First she sang, “I have come to know.” Now she sang, “I will tell.” She grew more excited.
Subhan thought, “First she said she knew; now she says she’ll tell. This courtesan is wicked, shameless—such is their tribe. Why did I come here!” He took off a costly ring and gave it to her so the wretch would be pleased and not tell the story in the assembly.
Receiving the ring, she grew even happier. Never had she got such rewards. She sang the final refrain: “Subhan, I am telling your secrets, O Ram.”
Now Subhan could bear no more. Five or six hundred rupees’ worth gone—and this insolence! He stood up and shouted, “You’re telling, you’re telling—what are you telling, O Ram? Say it! What’s there to hold back! That Subhan, in the morning, was squatting and eating berries! Say it! Say it!”
They are dying in their own fear!
Those in temples, mosques, churches—half are gathered out of fear of hell. Because they know what they’re up to—stealings and little cheats. And God is watching. God, astonishingly, only watches—thousand eyes! As if the skull had no space left—only eyes! Watching from all sides so no one escapes. Investigating who is doing what!
Now man is man—little slips happen to all. So fear arises: “He must have seen, written it down in the book. Now we’re done.” So off to the temple, the mosque—do worship and ritual. Somehow appease: “Brother, what mistake happened, happened. We won’t do it again. We swear. We repent.”
So some gather out of fear of hell. Some out of greed for heaven: “If we worship, pray, we’ll get heaven.” Otherwise, what search is there? Do seekers go to temples and mosques? He who truly seeks need go nowhere—he must go only within. Those are assemblies of the frightened, the timid, the greedy. They are not religious. The religious person sits within himself. And there everything is found. It is already found—only recognition happens.
When Buddha attained supreme knowing, he said, “How mad I was! I was seeking that which is my very nature, which I have always been, which I never lost.”
Ram Saraswati, drop the dreams. All “seeking” is born of dreams. Come home, return, sit within. Do not fear. No God is tailing you like secret police. Nor be lured. There is no heaven somewhere else. Whoever is still within is in heaven. Whoever is running outside is in hell.
That is all for today.