Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #4

Taru! There is no marvel in it at all. This is simply the truth. The skull is no more than a small tambourine. The din running in the skull is not worth more than the sound of a beaten tambourine. Your skull is not your soul; it is the junk that has piled up over your soul. Thoughts are the dust that has settled upon you. You are a mirror. When the dust falls away and the mirror is polished, whatever is, is reflected in it; truth is experienced, there is direct seeing.

The skull is the obstacle. There is no other obstacle between you and the Divine. That tambourine of the skull keeps beating—and it does keep beating: by day it beats, by night it beats; awake it beats, asleep it beats; stop it on one side and it starts on the other. It knows many ways to keep beating. It can beat as a theist, it can beat as an atheist; as a Hindu, as a Muslim. The pathways of the skull are complex, full of deceptions. However you want it, it will beat that way. But it wants just one thing: that it keep beating, that the noise continue. Because of that noise, the inner resonance of your own life-breath does not become audible. In the very heart of your life-breath the Veda is being uttered, the Vedas are taking birth—this moment, now, here. But the skull must allow it to be heard!

And the skull is clever. It employs many devices to save itself. It finds arguments to protect itself—defenses and comforts. Lest you get separated from the skull, it sets up so many arrangements, hammers in so many pegs, and with such meticulous order, that slowly you begin to feel: this is me. You identify. And once someone has identified with the skull, he wanders for ages. The relationship with the skull has to be broken so that we may know the one we truly are.

So, Taru, you ask: “I saw a wonder: in my skull a tambourine keeps beating, O!”

It is not a wonder. But it will seem like one. Because with that which we have always been identified, if suddenly we come to know that something separate is beating, something other than me is beating, this is not me, then one is bound to be wonderstruck. For a moment everything halts; a silence descends. And for a moment it may seem that perhaps I am going mad. For the skull has claimed that intelligence is its monopoly. The skull has taught you: If I am, you are intelligent; if I am not, you are a fool. If I am, you are sensible; if I am not, you are deranged. The skull condemns love, because love will take you where the skull has no reach. The skull condemns God, because the path to God passes through a kind of madness, through ecstasy. So at first it will feel like some miracle is happening, something unprecedented is occurring. But nothing unprecedented is happening.

“There is a madness that is neither self-admiring nor self-regarding,
nor as short-sighted as the intellect.”

There is such a madness that is greater than intellect and far more intelligent than intellect. Intellect is very narrow. There is a madness vast like the sky.

“There is a madness that is neither self-admiring nor self-regarding,
nor as short-sighted as the intellect.”

Khird means intellect. It is not cramped in vision as intellect is; there is such a passion. That passion is called love. And the supreme expression of that passion is devotion. The path of love is arduous indeed! Only one who is capable of going mad can be a lover. And that ecstasy, that supreme ecstasy, has its virtues.

Two virtues of that supreme ecstasy:
One—
“There is a madness that is neither self-admiring nor self-regarding.”
Madness, in this sense, is not egoic. Where would ego be there? Where is there any sense of “me”? In the vastness, all is lost. Waves become one with the ocean.

Two—
“That supreme derangement we call bhakti, call feeling, does not depend on itself. It depends on the Divine. Its source is in the Divine. A cistern depends on itself, it holds only what is poured into it. A well does not depend on itself; its springs are connected to the ocean.”

“There is a madness that is neither self-admiring nor self-regarding,
nor as short-sighted as the intellect.
There is no danger of highwaymen on this road,
nor does dust of the journey settle on your hem.”

Those who set out on this ecstatic path cannot be robbed. Bandits pose no threat to them. Love is the one wealth no one can steal. Heads may be cut off, life may be taken, but your love cannot be snatched away.

“There is no danger of highwaymen on this road,
nor does dust of the journey settle on your hem.”

Marvelous is this path of ecstasy: no one can plunder it, no robber can attack on the way. And though the journey of love is long—from matter to the Divine, vast indeed—no dust gathers on the garment’s hem. “As I received the pure cloth, so I have kept it; I wore it with great care,” says Kabir. Those who know the way of love bathe every day, indeed every moment. Upon them the rain of the Divine is always falling, the nectar ever drips; dust cannot settle.

“Here both sense and creed are lost—
the delight is, they do not even know it.”

Those who walk this ecstatic path of love lose even their so-called sense and their notions of virtue and sin.

“Here both sense and creed are lost—
the delight is, they do not even know it.”

One doesn’t even notice. Intellect does not realize when intellect departs. When cleverness dissolves, there is no whisper of it. This all happens silently, in silence.

“In the alley of love, we passed beyond thought and sight.”

Those who take this lane of love enter the Beloved’s lane.

“In the alley of love, we passed beyond thought and sight,”

and then their eyes see only the Beloved’s street. In their pondering, reflection, meditation, only the Beloved’s street appears.

“In the alley of love, we passed beyond thought and sight;
wherever we passed, we left our footprints.”

Where lovers pass, temples arise. Where their feet fall, there Kaba and Kailash come to be; there pilgrimage places are born.

“In the alley of love, we passed beyond thought and sight;
wherever we passed, we left our footprints.
Today, O wildness of heart, who knows where we passed?”

And then comes such a moment—the supreme moment of ecstasy—when nothing at all is known of where one is passing. For there remains no distinction between lover and Beloved. Who is I, who are You—no difference remains.

“Today, O wildness of heart, who knows where we passed.
How fascinating were the scenes that passed before our eyes!”

Only then do life’s ultimate mysteries open their gates.

“How fascinating were the scenes that passed before our eyes!”

Then whatever appears to the eyes is the Divine. Whatever is realized is truth. Whatever tastes in the heart is what was sought through many births.

“Today, O wildness of heart, who knows where we passed.
How fascinating were the scenes that passed before our eyes.
We set out with the intention of the mosque, but
taverns kept intervening along the way.”

We thought we would pass by the mosque; we considered we would go by way of the mosque. We set out carrying piles of scriptures, doctrines, and questions. We thought the temple would be along the road, the mosque along the road. We thought we would meet the Veda and the Koran and the Bible on the way. But something else happened—something altogether different! And when it happens the first time, Taru, it feels like a marvel.

“We set out with the intention of the mosque, but
taverns kept intervening along the way.”

But something else happened. We set out for the mosque and arrived at the tavern.

Lovers invariably reach the tavern. Love can take you nowhere else. And the tavern means a living satsang. The tavern means a place where heads are being cut off and hearts are being watered. The tavern means a place where thoughts are being dropped and the flowers of love are being brought to bloom. The tavern means a place where scriptures are being burnt and the realizations of truth are being made available. The tavern means a place where the old “sense” is being lost and a new sense, a new awakening, a new consciousness is being initiated.

There is one kind of awareness of the skull, worth no more than the tambourine’s clatter. And there is an awareness of the heart, where the sound of Om resounds. It will seem like a marvel. In the beginning it is bound to seem a marvel.

“This is that destination where even Elijah is lost and Khizr is lost—
alas, the vagrancy of love, who knows where we passed?”

The destination of love is such that great prophets—Elijah and Khizr—are lost there. Even the great guides are of no use there.

“This is that destination where even Elijah is lost and Khizr is lost—
alas, the vagrancy of love, who knows where we passed?”

Yet the mad lovers still arrive there. Where great prophets grow weary and melt away, lovers make headway.

“How many waves of calamity became chains on our feet;
how many storms of events passed over our heads.”

So many troubles shackled the feet; so many tempests and whirlwinds arose; so many upheavals passed over the head.

“What whisperings did not occur among the ascetics and the sheikhs—
seeing us on our way to the tavern as we passed by.”

When going to the tavern—when going to a living satsang of love, to a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna—priests of temple and mosque will notice: Where are you headed? And slanders will arise in their minds; opposition will arise. It is quite natural. For they take the skull to be all in all. For them the skull has not yet become a mere tambourine; they still sit enthroned in it. That is their seat of power.

“The bounty of the tavern is not yet common; otherwise,
who is there who would not desire the pristine wine?”

But one thing: the tavern has not yet spread across the whole earth, because people do not know the taste of the tavern. They have no inkling.

“The bounty of the tavern is not yet common; otherwise...”

They do not know its generosity: how it is poured out; how, worthy or unworthy, it is poured out to all; how there is no small or great, no good or bad, no saint or sinner—love is given without condition.

“The bounty of the tavern is not yet common; otherwise,
who is there who would not desire the pristine wine?”

Who is there who does not wish to be intoxicated? Who is there who would not drink love and dance? But people do not know the generosity of the tavern—that the tavern is ready: cup your hands and drink as much as you like.

But the pundits, the priests, the renouncers, the votaries—standing on the roads—are blocking the way. They are sending people into temples and mosques—sending them where there are only nets of words; where there is a great turmoil of doctrines, a great noise; where not just one skull’s tambourine is beating, but many skulls’ tambourines beat together—a crowded marketplace.

“On the eyes of the one over whom veils of delusion and ignorance have fallen—
what worth has such a cramped vision?”

Where the narrowness of doctrines and words sits upon the mind, how can the eye be vast? How can it experience expanse? Doctrine narrows. Become a Hindu—you narrow; a Jain—you narrow; a Muslim—you narrow. Doctrine constricts. Only when you are free of doctrine do you become vast. And where vastness is taught, there the relationship with the sky can be forged.

“On the eyes of the one over whom veils of delusion and ignorance have fallen—
what worth has such a cramped vision?
Tell Khizr, the guide, this is the destination of revolutions:
now madness will be the guide and life the path.”

Say one thing clearly to your path-showers:

“Tell Khizr, the guide, this is the destination of revolutions—
that now we have found our guide.
Now madness will be our guide and life our path.”

Now our sacred madness itself will be our guide, and life will be our way. We shall walk the way of life, swaying like lovers.

One who walks swaying like a lover arrives. Blessed are those who learn to walk staggering. Their destination is not far. In their staggering, the destination arrives. Their staggering is the destination.

“Tell Khizr, the guide, this is the destination of revolutions:
now madness will be the guide and life the path.
With that heart’s enemy, O Taban, in every circumstance we kept faith
in a way none ever has.”

It is hard to keep faith with this madness. But once you learn to abide in it, its delights are so many, its bliss so abundant—so inexhaustible, so limitless, so immeasurable!

Good it is, Taru, that you felt “in my skull a tambourine keeps beating, O!” It is a tambourine. It is good for nothing. Its old habit is to keep beating, so it keeps beating.

Slowly, slowly, loosen your relationship with it. Let the tambourine keep beating, and increase the distance between yourself and it. The more the distance, the better. The more freedom from the skull, the more auspicious—more beautiful, more true, more Shiva.

Impossible. Because if there is ego, a devotee cannot be a devotee. A renunciate can have ego, a knower can have ego, but a devotee cannot. For the very first condition of being a devotee is that there be no ego.

That is not the first condition for being a renunciate. To be a renunciate the conditions are: leave wealth, leave status, leave the world. But then the ego of having renounced becomes dense: “I left so much wealth, I gave up so much prestige, I left a beloved wife, beautiful children, a full household, all comforts.” The renunciate says, “Give up things!” By giving up things the ego becomes stronger; the ego of renunciation is born. But the devotee does not tell you to leave things; the devotee says, “Drop the ego.” That is his first condition.

So either he is not a devotee at all if there is ego. And if he is a devotee, there is no possibility of ego. The devotee settles the matter with the very first stroke.

The knower and the renunciate take a long time. They keep making you give up more and more things, training you slowly—first leave this, then leave that, then that. In the end the ego will have to be dropped—but in the end. On the path of renunciation, the death of ego is the final event; on the path of devotion, it is the first event. What is the last stage for the renunciate is the first step for the devotee. Therefore, where the renunciate arrives at the end, the devotee has already reached.

And this is why it is said that the path of love is arduous. Love’s path is so difficult! For the renunciate proceeds slowly, through long practice, and one day, at the very end, when nothing else remains but the ego, he will drop it. The devotee settles it in a single sword-stroke. He decides—this shore or that.

You asked, “Can a devotee have ego?”
Impossible. A devotee cannot have ego. Only by dropping the ego does one become a devotee.

And you say that wherever you searched, you found Shri Hari—You. And there is nothing else to attain; only the Divine is. If only the ego moves aside, there is nothing else to attain but That. It is merely the bandage tied over the eye by ego that makes one see all manner of things. These are the very veils of ego from which arise countless snares, lies, delusions, maya, dreams. When the ego is removed from the eye, when its mesh is lifted, what is—reveals itself. And who is there other than Shri Hari!

Chetana! Sing. Hum. Dance. Where is the question in this? What is there to ask?
As meditation deepens, springs will burst forth. Why deepen meditation at all? So that these springs may gush. Why this longing for depth? So that the hidden song within can reveal itself. So that, if a dance is concealed in your feet, it may find expression. So that, if a fragrance lies asleep in your prana, it may awaken. So that you may become what you are destined to become. So that you do not remain closed like a seed, but blossom like a lotus.
Auspiciousness is happening. Now don’t ask, “What should I do?” The call is coming from within—so sing, dance. Whatever form your creativity wishes to take, let it take that form.
In my understanding, creativity itself is service. Do something—something in which your very being feels fulfilled. And then surely others’ beings will be fulfilled too. If something flows from your supreme contentment, a glimmer, a breeze of contentment will touch other lives as well. A lamp within you is ready to flare, the light eager to spread—let it spread; don’t be miserly, don’t be stingy!
Chetana, surely somewhere in your mind there is a little stinginess!
We spend our whole lives learning stinginess. Parsimony is the economics of our living: whatever it is, hide it. Bury it in the ground quickly so no one finds out, so no one steals it, snatches it, so no one even comes to ask for it, so that out of embarrassment you need not give. Our habits are of theft, and we live among thieves. Our habits are of begging, and we live among beggars. Our habits are of hiding, because all around seems nothing but crisis. These habits do not drop at once even when the door to the inner world opens; they keep following for many days. The economics of inner bliss is different—share it and it grows; hold it back and it diminishes. But the old habits say: hold! Save! Keep it safe! Lest something spill, lest something be lost!
That is why the question has arisen, “What should I do?” Otherwise there would be no question at all. The mood to dance has come—dance! Trees do not ask. When the winds arrive, the trees dance. And flowers do not ask. When they bloom, their fragrance takes wing. And stars do not ask. Night falls and light showers down.
As meditation deepens, the power of expression also grows. The only proof of depth in meditation is that creativity arises within you—the surge to do something, for something to manifest—so strong that you cannot hold it back.
Today, after years, the Beloved met me upon life’s path.
The flowers of dead desires bloomed upon life’s path.
They were clouds, beloved, draped like wisps of smoke;
From the heart of the sky poured the rapture of youthful longing.
In those sorrowed, drizzling moments,
Amid the empty, muddy dust of the road,
Through surrender and sweet entreaty, the Beloved met me upon life’s path.
My heart filled to the brim; longing swelled as tears in my eyes.
The lotus of my heart began to dance, unfolding, joyful, moment to moment.
Beneath that trembling neem,
My eyes bent to bathe His feet;
Overwhelmed by the nectar of love, his lips quivered upon life’s path.
Today, after years, the Beloved met me upon life’s path.
When meditation deepens, the Beloved is found. When meditation deepens, the Dear One draws near. Will you not dance! Will you not sing! Will you not festoon the doorway with garlands! Will you not make a festival of lamps! What is there to ask? As meditation deepens, the Beloved begins to come closer; the sound of his footfall is heard—now there is no way not to dance! You will have to dance! And dancing is not something to be learned. This is not the dance of a professional dancer. Nor is it necessary that these songs be bound by meter and rhyme. I am not asking you to become a poet; I am asking you to become a rishi. Let the songs burst forth however they wish—spontaneous, natural. It is not necessary to fit meter, rhythm and grammar, wasting time in that. Do not get entangled in such futile work. When a song is born within, it makes its own way. You simply give it passage, cooperation; it will sing itself. When the lake fills to the brim, it overflows and finds its own path to the ocean. No one has to pave the way for it.
So do not worry, “How shall I sing now? How shall I dance?” I myself know neither music nor poetry, nor have I ever learned meters. Drop the worry! There is no need to tie ankle-bells; when bells are tied to the soul, the dance happens without any ankle-bells. And when the soul is filled with song, who cares for meter and rhyme?
But if something is filling your being, it will flow.
Today, some beauteous note
has filled my life-breath!
From beyond the horizon he came smiling, drawing near;
In a sweet, enchanting form that image lured me.
What message, friend, did he bring upon the earth?
Today, some beauteous note
has filled my life-breath!
The savage pain of insult had dissolved into my being;
He took with him the sorrow-laden tale of my past.
He came into my eyes today, friend, becoming my tears!
Today, some beauteous note
has filled my life-breath!
He made a request of me: that I sing a sweet song,
That I forget the sorrow of birth and understand death as immortality.
That deathless counsel of his, friend, filled every atom!
Today, some beauteous note
has filled my life-breath!
My tattered hem, O bee, is filled today with dreams alone;
In the fire of pain my prana have been purified, made bright.
He has given me, friend, the beautiful boon of birth!
Today, some beauteous note
has filled my life-breath!
Become a hollow bamboo flute, Chetana! If He has to sing, He will sing; if He has to dance, He will dance. Leave it all to His will. Do not ask me, “What should I do?” This is not a matter for asking. If you do something, everything will be spoiled. The spontaneous will become artificial. You give it a route, you suggest a way, you cut and prune, you calculate—and all beauty will be destroyed.
A Christian priest was preparing his sermon. The next day was Sunday, and a big religious festival was approaching; he was busy composing his sermon. His little son sat nearby, watching.
Small children have a wisdom that even the old have lost. The dust of a whole lifetime settles so thick that wisdom is lost. Small children have a certain freshness, a vision, a guileless innocence.
The little boy said, “Father, a question is arising in my mind. You always say—and last Sunday in church you also said—that the words I speak are not mine; they are God’s.”
The father said, “Certainly. I repeat only His words.”
Then the boy said, “In that case a question arises: why are you making so many cuts and edits in the sermon you are writing? If these words are His, who are you to edit them? And if you are editing them, how do they remain His words?”
This struck me as lovely; that small child raised a very important question: Who are you to edit? Let it descend—as it descends, in whatever mood, gesture, posture; as it pleases.
Chetana, you ask: “What should I do?”
You have nothing to do. You have to step aside. That is all. Step aside completely. As the depth of meditation increases—and it will—simply get out of the way. And whatever happens, let it happen.
But no—the skull keeps returning, saying: Do something! Don’t leave it like this; it will become frenzy, madness. Suppose a song arises in the middle of the road; suppose the dance begins in the middle of the street… It has happened! So it is not that the intellect is entirely wrong. Meera danced just like that in the middle of the thoroughfares—“all sense of public decorum lost.” Meera could have thought too: where to dance and where not to dance; not in the marketplaces. But no—she left it to His will. Then wherever He made her dance… Then we become puppets in His hands. If He makes you dance in the marketplace, how can Meera say no? Let public opinion go if it must. Even if you save public opinion, what finally remains in your hands? One day death comes, your mouth is filled with ashes, everything returns to dust. What is there in public opinion anyway?
Do not think either whether my songs will be liked or not. Do not think whether you will be praised or not.
All such matters are futile; they are not questions for a sannyasin. Whether praise or insult comes, whether a throne or a cross, a sannyasin’s way is simple and clear: whatever He makes us do, that we do; wherever He takes us, there we go. If the world thinks you mad, let it think you mad; if it thinks you wise, let it think you wise. Neither do you become wise because the world calls you wise, nor do you become mad because the world calls you mad. What you are is to be decided by what God understands of you. Your final judgment is between Him and you. Let that be the judgment. Let Him be the decider. He alone is the master who will decide whether your songs were worth singing. And if you let Him sing them, by their very nature they are worthy.
When meditation grows, creativity naturally grows. I take this as the touchstone. If, with the growth of meditation, someone simply becomes sluggish, lazy, inactive, inert, know that meditation has not grown—only laziness has been imposed under the name of meditation. That is not meditation; it is mere sloth, tamas.
When there is meditation, energy manifests. In what color, in what manner—no outer authority can decide. Meera will dance; Buddha will speak; Mahavira will stand silent. What will happen, in what form—no one can know. No prophecy can be made of that form. But one thing is certain: if meditation deepens, something will happen—something rare, something unique.

Ramchhabi Prasad! Inhibition not only reinforces the ego, it is the ego’s hidden form—a face concealed behind a veil. Inhibition is the ego’s image, only veiled. From the outside you don’t see the ego within. Inhibition is ego wrapped in polite coverings, draped in cultured garments. But probe a little, scratch a little, and you’ll find the ego inside. The egoless person is without inhibition. The egoless person is exactly as he is. If he feels like touching someone’s feet, he touches them; if he doesn’t, he doesn’t. He lives simply, spontaneously. Nothing in his life is superimposed from above.

The egoist is busy every moment calculating: What will serve my ego more? Should I stand stiff? Will not bowing before anyone help? Should I make my face into a stone idol so people say, “Look, the Iron Man!” An egoist can also think, “Here, touching feet might be useful—people will say, how humble, how egoless.” Then he will touch feet for the ego. And if he doesn’t touch feet, that too will be for the ego. The center of all his procedures, actions, and behavior will be the ego.

You say: you feel like doing something, yet you don’t—who knows what people will say? You feel like seeing something—yet you don’t—who knows what people will say? You long to fall at someone’s feet, yet you don’t—who knows what people will say?

Will you keep listening to “people”? Will your life be spent tallying what people will say? Then what will you attain? At the time of death, when these very people carry your bier, they’ll say, “Poor fellow, he went like this too—always thinking what people will say!” You will do nothing. You will never live.

You’ve heard the old story: a father and son went to market to sell their donkey. On the way, some people said, “Look at these fools! Both are walking while the donkey goes along. If you’ve got a donkey, ride it!” That sounded reasonable—it did look foolish. So both climbed onto the donkey. A little further, others said, “Look! Poor donkey, two of them perched on him! Have some compassion.” The father said, “That’s true.” He got down and seated the son. A little further, people said, “See this dutiful son! The father walks, the son rides! It’s the dark age!” So the son got down and seated the father. A little further, others said, “Look at this old man—got no sense! The son trudges while he rides!” Now it was a real quandary. Father and son sat under a tree and thought: What now? We’ve tried everything; only one thing remains. So they tied the donkey to a pole, hung him upside down, and carried him on their shoulders. They crossed a bridge; a crowd gathered, laughing, “We’ve seen many riders—men on donkeys—but never donkeys on men!” Amid the ridicule, the donkey thrashed about, slipped, and fell into the river. The father and son, too, fell; somehow they swam ashore—but the donkey was gone. The donkey was lost, yet they somehow returned home—escaped with their lives, as the saying goes, “Saved a life, saved a fortune; the fools returned home.”
Ramchhabi, if you go on thinking about people—what they say—you’ll one day find yourself in the same plight, carrying a trussed-up donkey on your shoulders. And who are these “people”? More often than not, they’re donkeys themselves.

Just yesterday I was reading: when China attacked India, there was a shortage of pack animals in the Himalayas—mules were needed. So mules had to be imported. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru put a proposal before Parliament to import mules by the thousands. A member didn’t know what “mule” meant. He asked his neighbor, who said, “Mule means donkey.” The member at once flared up and stood: “This is too much! Are we short of donkeys in our own country that we’re importing them?” Nehru replied, “As long as people like you are here, there’s no shortage of donkeys! But we’re not importing donkeys—we need mules.”

Things have fallen so far that even finding mules is difficult; it’s donkeys, donkeys everywhere. Not even mules, forget horses!

Whose opinions are you following? On whose cues are you moving? Have you ever thought they’re as afraid of you as you are of them? You’re thinking, “What will they think?” They’re thinking, “What will you think?” Dying in each other’s thoughts! Start living a little from within. Real life is lived from the inside, not by imitation of the outside. And if you imitate the outside, you’ll lose—everything. And there are so many outside—whom will you imitate? One says this, one says that, a third says something else.

I was a guest in a home. I asked a little boy, “What do you intend to become when you grow up?”
He said, “As far as I can tell, I’ll go mad.”
“You’ll go mad? I’ve asked many children this, but not met a wiser child than you. You’re saying something amusing, but meaningful, to the point. You want to go mad?”
He said, “I don’t want to, but I will. Because my mother wants me to be a doctor; my father wants me to be an engineer; my uncle wants me to be a musician because he can play the harmonium; my elder brother says I should become a cricket player because he’s crazy about cricket. If I tell you about everyone in the house, each wants me to become this, that, and the other. No one asks me what I want to become. So I feel I’ll go mad. If they keep at it—one making me an engineer, one a doctor, one a cricketer, one teaching me harmonium, another the tabla—if I’m left in their hands, one thing is certain, I’ll go mad.”

And that’s how it is. I’ve even seen homes where the child isn’t yet born and the husband and wife fight over what the child will be—doctor, engineer, musician—though the child hasn’t even arrived!

In one court case two men had a brawl—sticks flew, blood was shed. The magistrate asked, “But tell us the cause!” They looked at each other—“You tell him.” Because the cause was such that whoever told it would look a fool. The magistrate pressed, “Will you speak or not? Why stare at each other? What happened?”
They said, “What can we say? It’s embarrassing. We’re actually friends. We were sitting by the river, chatting in the sand. He said he’s buying a buffalo. I said, ‘Don’t buy a buffalo, because I am buying a field. If your buffalo wanders into my field, a lifelong friendship will be ruined in a minute. I won’t tolerate it. You know I’m hot-tempered. I’ll set your buffalo straight and you too. Why spoil an old friendship for a trifling thing? Buy something else—no hassle.’ But he got stubborn: ‘I’ll buy a buffalo. Who are you to stop me? If you’re so scared, don’t buy a field! And if I do have a buffalo, it may wander in—so what? We can’t shadow it twenty-four hours. And don’t you dare raise a hand on my buffalo! You know me too—if I get angry, anything can happen! The buffalo is one thing; I’ll set fire to your field! I’ll break your bones! We’re old friends—why ask for trouble? I’ve decided to buy a buffalo; you don’t buy a field!’
“The argument escalated. I drew a line in the sand and said, ‘Here is my field. Let’s see anyone’s buffalo enter it!’ This idiot pointed to another line and said, ‘There, my buffalo has entered! Try and do something!’ And the rest you know—this bandage on my head, a stay in the hospital.”
But neither field had been bought, nor buffalo! The quarrel was symbolic—but heads were truly split.

Whom are you listening to? Into whose eyes are you looking? To whom have you handed over your life’s right of decision? Let decision arise from within.

Ramchhabi, do what you want to do—even if you have to pay any price for it—even if your very life is at stake! Then at least at the moment of death there will be one contentment: I did what I wanted to do; I did not sell myself; I did not put my soul up in the market; I did not compromise. I am dying, but dying doing what I wanted. There will be the contentment Socrates had as he drank poison, Mansoor as his neck was severed, Jesus as he mounted the cross—the supreme contentment: I did what I wanted; I made no compromises at any price.

In this world, supreme fulfillment belongs to those who do not compromise, who live from inside outward. And the life of those who live from the outside inward is hell—busy meeting everyone’s signals, trying to please everyone, wanting everyone to be pleased with them. Note this: no one is pleased with them either. And they squander their lives—on rubbish.

No, Ramchhabi, do not make that mistake. Do what you want to do. I am not even saying it is right or wrong. That too your inner consciousness must decide, not the outside. Who will decide what is right and what is wrong?

Buddha left home. Father thought it wrong; wife thought it wrong; family thought it wrong; everyone thought it wrong. But twenty-five centuries later, will you say Buddha did ill to leave home? Had he not, humanity would have been deprived forever. A stream of nectar flowed. But when he left, there was no one in favor—no one! Buddha even left his kingdom because wherever he went people came to persuade him, so he crossed the borders. Then neighboring kings came—friends of his father; childhood companions; people with ties. All came to advise him: “What foolishness are you doing?”
An emperor even said, “I have no son. If you are cross with your father, don’t worry—my kingdom is yours. I have a daughter; I will wed you to her; rule here. Perhaps father and son don’t get along—happens often; no worry. This is your home. And don’t worry, my kingdom is bigger than your father’s—you won’t be at a loss. And you’re your father’s only son; today or tomorrow he will die; that too will be yours. This too is yours. Pure profit—come!”
Whoever came, advised. Finally Buddha had to go so far that no one knew or recognized him. He cut his beautiful hair so none would recognize him—shaved his head. He donned poor, humble robes—looked like a beggar. He avoided villages, wandered forests to escape the persuaders. For a voice had arisen from the inner being: Do not die without seeking truth. If you remain entangled in these things, where is the time, the leisure, the opportunity to seek truth?

Today you will not say Buddha did wrong. He bestowed a great blessing on humanity—no other human has done such good. Yet even you, if you had been there, would have lectured him: “What are you doing? Listen to your father—he’s old; don’t hurt him. Your wife is young; don’t give her pain. Your son is newborn; you’re running away! This is escapism.” All that was said. But Buddha lived from within; hence his majesty and grace.

Wise men advised Socrates to leave Athens; if he stayed he would surely be executed; go elsewhere. But Socrates did not leave. He said, “What I have to say can only be said in a cultured society like Athens. If this cultured society is ready to kill me, I’d be in even worse trouble among the uncultured and uncivilized. Still, there are a few here who may understand. Death will come anyway; let it come—but I will say my say. If someone hears and understands, I will be fulfilled.”

Jesus did not balk at climbing the cross.

Whenever someone lives in his own way, in his own style, out of his own joy, death becomes worth two pennies. He knows he has lived, and so completely that such a complete life cannot end. Death will come and pass; I will remain.

But, Ramchhabi, this cannot happen for you—because you are not living from yourself. How will you ever know the soul? The only way is to live in your own way. See what you want to see; do what you want to do; live as you want to live. If you feel like falling at someone’s feet, fall. If you do not, then do not touch feet even if your head is cut off. But give your soul its dignity.

“What will people say?”
Who are people? What are they worth? What is their own selfhood? Would you be content if a thousand fools clap for you? Or would you choose the touch of blessing on your head from one enlightened person? Which will you choose? A thousand fools by counting numbers?

If you live by numbers, you’ll miss—badly. The glance of one who knows is more than enough. The flower garlands of those who don’t know are useless. And be careful: those who garland you with flowers today will bring garlands of shoes tomorrow—the very same people. They change in no time. They are not. Do they have a soul? Any steadiness? Today they honor, tomorrow they abuse, then honor again. Their words have no value.

If you want a witness, seek the witness of an awakened one, of a true master. Ask him, “What do you say?” If there is any approval to be taken, take it there. But why wander the marketplace polling people—looking into their eyes to decide your steps? They don’t know themselves. They are lost like you—perhaps deeper in the pit. Are you going to the sick for your treatment? Will you attain wisdom among the mad?

Drop such foolishness. The world sinks under it. Countless come and go—without living, without knowing, without tasting.

And remember, behind all this is the ego: “What will people say?”—their praise, their attention, their honor. And people don’t honor for free. Why should they? Honor is a bargain. Society says, “Walk by our rules, and we will honor you. Want more honor? Obey more.” If you want us to call you a “mahatma,” then obey us to the last grain—totally.

Your mahatmas—your saints—are prisoners in your social jail, bigger prisoners than the ones behind bars. Those prisoners sometimes escape—scale a wall, find a door ajar, saw through the grille, bribe a guard; and if nothing works, they at least commit suicide, and the soul gets a holiday if the body doesn’t. But your mahatmas cannot escape. Their walls are of gold; their grilles inlaid with jewels; their chains are ornaments, not shackles—honor, respect, adulation of thousands. Their eyes are fixed on that. Such adulation feeds the ego so richly they cannot leave it. Therefore they will do whatever you say. Tell them to eat once a day, they will—starve if needed. Tell them to stand on their head, they will do headstands. Whatever you say, they will do—just give honor.

And what are your so-called sadhus and saints? They have struck a deal with you: you do this much, we’ll give you this much honor; the more you comply with our prescribed things, the more honor we’ll bestow.

You know there are different societies in the world, each honoring different things.
In an African tribe, a “holy man” cuts off the front half of his hair—then he’s “renunciate.” If someone did that here, you’d think the circus had come. But there it is honored. In another African tribe, women are considered beautiful if their lips are very wide and large, so they hang stones to stretch them—grotesque lips, but “beauty”! Women consent because honor feeds the ego.
People tattoo their faces—becoming ugly. But if society honors it, they’re ready to be tattooed—tattoo the whole body.

Whatever society honors, people are willing to do.

In China for thousands of years, women were crippled. Iron shoes were put on little girls so their feet would not grow. Small feet were a sign of nobility and beauty—so small that truly noble women had to walk supported by two attendants. The feet remained stunted; how to support a full-grown body on tiny feet? Yet women endured it—because small feet brought praise.

In Europe women wear very high heels. It’s not comfortable to walk in them—try and you’ll fall flat. But they practice. The higher the heel, the more “beautiful.” They are ready for that too.

As women will do anything for “beauty”—paint lips with garish colors, eyes thick with makeup, false lashes—so too your mahatmas and your women are not very different; psychologically there is no difference. Hours are spent painting bodies with ash, applying tilaks. That too needs a mirror. Ornamentation—because that’s what gets honored. Give a person honor and you can make them do anything—unnatural things. Your saints live unnaturally. But keep feeding them honor and you can make them do whatever you like.

I read yesterday: someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “If you wanted to torment your wife, what’s the best trick?”
He said, “The best trick would be to buy five hundred new saris, fill the room with them, and remove the mirror. She’ll go mad! A mirror is essential—and the more saris, the cleaner the mirror must be, to decide which one will please people.”

Women can spend hours just choosing a sari—make the body “beautiful” and parade it. And if you watch your mahatmas you’ll be amazed—hours go into smearing ash, applying marks, doing their adornment. Because that’s what gets honor. Hand out honor and you can make people do anything.

Remember, Ramchhabi, these are all gratifications of the ego. I’m not telling you to touch anyone’s feet. If a feeling rises in your being—do! If it doesn’t, even if the whole world says, “There is no greater saint than this,” do not touch. Make a small declaration of privacy. Adopt your own style. Shape your own life-pattern. Fix your own way of living. And let your inner voice be the arbiter—no one else. It is through your inner voice that the Divine conveys messages to you. Your real master is seated within.

Outwardly we call one a true master only if he awakens the master within you—if he becomes a reflection of your inner master. And the outer master is needed only until the inner master is active. As soon as the inner master awakens, the outer master himself will say, “Now go, Ramchhabi—get on with your own work. Now the inner lamp is lit; live by its light. You now have your own illumination. You have become your own lamp.”

But it is very difficult to drop the ego. Very difficult to drop prestige, honor. All dreams are false, yet so hard to let go.

“You will not be able to snatch my dream-world from me!
On my eyelids, weighted heavily,
I carry the burden of countless dreams.
The traveler moves in darkness,
Keeping a lamp of hope alight—
You shall not steal
The final adornment of his path.
You will not be able to snatch my dream-world from me!

What is the lamp of existence?
A golden line of flame—
Even amid this deep anguish
I have seen it smiling.
You shall not take away
This right to live by burning.
You will not be able to snatch my dream-world from me!

I gather and sing
The scattered strings of the vina,
Reflecting, again and again,
Life’s tender pleadings.
You shall not steal
This resonance of my vina.
You will not be able to snatch my dream-world from me!

I endure with laughing grace
Life’s whims of joy and sorrow.
The very ground of my life
Is a nameless, felt knowing.
You shall not take away
This ground of my life.
You will not be able to snatch my dream-world from me!”

It is very difficult to drop dreams. And I understand why. Because apart from dreams you have nothing else. Only dreams. The fear is: if I drop them I’ll be utterly empty. Our logic is: better something than nothing. A dream is better; at least one feels filled, at least one stays occupied.

But I remind you again and again: unless you become empty of dreams, you cannot be filled with God. That condition is unavoidable. You must drop dreams. You will have to forget what people say—neither their honor nor their dishonor, neither their praise nor their blame. As if they do not exist. Live as if you are alone on the earth, the very first human being; there has been no one before you to show the way; you must find your path from within. Then little by little the faint voice within will become audible. And one who walks by that voice arrives.

Drop dreams so that you can attain truth. In dropping dreams, nothing is lost—because dreams are nothing. Nothing will be lost; everything will be gained.

But as of now you know nothing of “everything”; you have taken dreams to be everything. Someone says, “Ah, how virtuous you are!” and your heart becomes a blooming garden in an instant; flowers open. Another says, “Just look at your face in the mirror! What filth are you dragging about! What a look you’ve made!” and as if a needle has pricked a balloon—pfffft—the air is gone; you are punctured.

You are so much in others’ hands—someone can blow you up, someone can let you down. When will you become your own master?

Sannyas means the declaration of your own mastery.
God has made each person his own master. Those who don’t declare their mastery and keep serving others’ slavery insult God—refusing his gift, declining his offering. They are not lovers of God. A lover of God allows decisions to happen between himself and God.

And I am not telling you to unnecessarily hurt society, to harass people, to deliberately go against them—that’s not what I’m saying. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying that if society says, “Walk on the left,” you must walk on the right. These are formal matters; they have no value. I’m not saying if society says, “Wear clothes,” you should go naked. But I also cannot say that if one day a Mahavira-like inner impulse arises to be naked, you must not become naked. I cannot say that either. If one day a Mahavira-like inner feeling wells up and clothes fall, then let them fall! And accept the consequences. People will throw stones—they threw them at Mahavira; they will at you. They released dogs after Mahavira; they will after you. You will be driven from village to village. Accept it. Don’t then cry, “Why is this happening to me?” It is natural.

But I am not telling you to become naked. As far as possible, do not entangle yourself in society’s useless trivialities. Observe formalities—these surface things do no harm. Wear clothes to the market; greet people; walk on the left as required; fulfill the ordinary arrangements of daily life. But do not sell your soul. And where the question arises—“Here my soul is up for sale”—there, stake everything and save your soul. One who has saved himself has saved all. One who has lost himself loses everything.

Rakesh! And where are you anyway? You are in the world. Wherever you are, there is the world. There is just as much world at home as in an ashram. “World” is the name of the whole of existence. Some live the world as householders, some live the world as renunciates. But where will you go by “living” or “leaving” the world? Living itself is the world.

I understand what you really mean. Inside you a furrow of old tradition is etched and it is troubling you. It keeps whispering: Don’t descend into worldly life—run away, become a sannyasin!

If that voice rises in your very life-breath with such force, if you hear it day and night, and you have no doubt that this is your path—then go! Why ask me? Did Buddha ask anyone whether to realize truth by remaining in the world or by leaving it?

A young man once came to me: “Should I marry or not? My parents are after me.”
I said, “Go ahead and marry.”
He said, “How can you advise that? Why didn’t you marry?”
I said, “I never went to ask anyone! If even the thought of going to ask had arisen in me, I would have married. The very fact you have come to ask makes it clear you are doubtful. And wherever there is doubt, it is better to experiment; otherwise the doubt will trail you your whole life. If I tell you, ‘Don’t marry,’ and you don’t, then for the rest of your life a thought will return again and again: Who knows what those who marry find? How will you ever know? You will be deprived. And you will be angry with me all your life, holding me responsible. I take responsibility for no one, for I do not want to be anyone’s owner. The very fact that you have come to ask exposes your inner dishonesty.”

With me, it was the opposite. I never went to ask. A gentleman—a lawyer—used to come to persuade me that one should marry. I told him, “Then bring along a magistrate as well.”
He asked, “Why?”
“So that someone can decide. Let us argue properly. I am against marriage; you are for it. If you win the debate and the magistrate says, ‘The lawyer has won,’ I will marry. If I win, you will have to divorce your wife. You should also have something at stake. Why should only I risk anything? That would not be just.”
The lawyer never came again. I went to his house a few times; his wife would say he wasn’t home. I asked her, “How is it that whenever I come, he isn’t home? What’s going on?” She said, “You don’t need to come. Why are you after me?” I said, “I’m not after you—he is after me.” She said, “He has told me everything. He’s a little frightened of you—who wants to take on that hassle! And to tell the truth, after the experience of marriage who can still argue for marriage? Those who are not married can argue for it, because they still have hopes. But for the married to argue in its favor—that is very difficult, almost impossible. Their experience refutes their arguments.”

You ask me, Rakesh, “Is it necessary to live a worldly life for self-realization?”
This is precisely the process of the divine. That is why you have been given the world, given life. Life is a school. Live it. Live it fully. Live it to the brim, so that from living you gather conclusions and outcomes—so that by living you come to know life’s sorrows and joys, life’s impermanence, its futility, the mad running about, the scramble, the ambitions—and in the end, nothing in your hands. So many hopes—and finally only ashes.

These are very important experiences. Whoever misses them, his soul remains unripe; it does not get baked. He is like an unfired pot that has not passed through the flame. Your question is as if a potter asked, “Is it necessary to pass a pot through fire to harden it?” How else will it be fired? An unfired pot looks like a pot, but it isn’t. The first rain will wash its clay away. It must pass through fire; only fire bakes, matures.

The world is fire—vast, blazing. All around you are flames. It is necessary to pass through these flames, for each flame carries a lesson, a teaching, and each will make you stronger. By knowing and knowing again, by falling and rising, one day you will recognize that here everything is insubstantial. The day you know this, the flower of supreme renunciation will bloom in your life.

I can tell you, “All is insubstantial,” but will it become insubstantial for you just because I said so? Without tasting, it will not. I can tell you, “Neem is bitter,” but if you have not tasted it, will neem be bitter for you? Even if you trust me, somewhere a doubt will slip in: Who knows, perhaps the man is lying? Perhaps he himself was deceived? Perhaps his tongue is odd, and to him it tasted bitter? Apart from one’s own experience, there is no liberation.

“I have drunk the brimming oceans of the wine of pleasure.
I used to think the world was made only of springtime,
That the gardens of existence held nothing but blossoms.
My days passed in amusements with friends,
My nights in the bedchambers of the beautiful.
Every moment was consecrated to luxury and delight—
In dance halls, in spectacles, in taverns.”

“And I have drunk the bitter draught of affliction as well.
I had thought the flowers were the only harvest of the garden—
Alas, the thorns shattered the enchantment of spring.
O friend, the smoldering atmosphere of grief around me
Took from my hands and broke my instrument of ecstasy,
And the awakening of my once-sleeping sensitivity
Burst the bubble of revelry and color.”

There are two sides. The first side:
“I have drunk the brimming oceans of the wine of pleasure.
I used to think the world was made only of springtime.”
Everyone sets out with this assumption; this is everyone’s childhood—that the world is all spring, all blossoms, the paths strewn with flowers, life a bed of roses, happiness waiting everywhere for you.

“I have drunk the brimming oceans of the wine of pleasure…
My days passed in amusements with friends.”
Time went by in entertainment, in music, in drink, in passions.

“My nights in the bedchambers of the beautiful…”
Nights in the bedrooms of beauties, days in diversions with friends—drinking, being drunk; life was a sweet dream.

This is one side—half a life. Whoever has not really lived only remembers this side; he remains childish, thinking life is nothing but flowers.

But there is another aspect to life, and from that second aspect alone maturity comes.

“And I have drunk the bitter draught of affliction as well…”
I have drunk the bitter poison of pain, sorrow, and suffering.

“I had thought the flowers were the only harvest of the garden—
Alas, the thorns shattered the enchantment of spring.”
Thorns came, many of them, and they tore up the magic that spring had cast.

“O friend, the smoldering atmosphere of grief
Took from my hands and broke my instrument of ecstasy…”
That veena of indulgence I was playing—the music of pleasure and intoxication—life’s sorrows snatched it from my hands and snapped its strings.

“And the awakening of my once-sleeping sensitivity
Burst the bubble of revelry and color.”
The music, the pageantry, the magic—all is broken. It has proved false.

These are the two aspects of life. Only in the life of one who has lived life to the full does dispassion arise. Only one who has suffered the pain of attachment knows detachment. And only in the life of one who has lived as a householder with intensity does the flower of sannyas bloom.

No, I will not advise you to run away from the world. I will advise you to stand your ground and live the world completely, so that both sides of the coin are revealed to you, so that you recognize the coin through and through. In that recognition the coin drops from your hand. Once the spell breaks, it doesn’t take long.

But without experience the spell does not break. And once it breaks, you are free.

“Alas, the thorns shattered the enchantment of spring…
I had thought the flowers were the only harvest of the garden.”
Once the spell of lust and craving breaks—how will it break?

There is a great misunderstanding about me in this country and beyond. People think I am teaching lust. Nothing could be more opposite. I am teaching dispassion. But dispassion ripens only when people become acquainted with passion. Otherwise the man who becomes a renunciate without knowing passion keeps smoldering inside. Hidden smoke keeps rising. In his chest the fumes of attachment will echo; somewhere the wings of desire will keep fluttering; somewhere ambitions will look for new routes. They will take new births; they will have to return again and again. Those who fled the world without living it will have to come back. This test must be taken; this trial must be passed.

The one I call a sannyasin—if he can understand me rightly—will have no need to come into this world again. His detachment will be the fruit of attachment; his sannyas will be the outcome of the world. His freedom will not be imposed from above; it will be created by his own experience. His experience will mature him; life’s pains themselves will awaken him; from his hands, on their own, the goblets of luxury will fall and shatter; on their own, the instruments of indulgence will break, their strings will come undone. And it will all happen so quietly—no noise, no processions, no display of renunciation—so silently, secretly, inwardly. Then there will be no need to come again.

I am giving you a sannyas that is the most powerful means of being beyond the world. But only a few truly intelligent ones will understand. Most will misunderstand. That too is natural; one cannot expect great understanding from the many.

Absolutely essential, Rakesh! Without it, no one has ever been freed from the world, nor can anyone be.
That’s all for today.