Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #6

Narendra! A moment too is a fragment of the eternal—just as the drop belongs to the ocean, the atom to the vast. In a single small leaf the sap of the whole tree is flowing. In a tiny flower the entire existence has poured its beauty, its color, its fragrance—its all.

The great poet Tennyson has said: if we could fully understand even a single flower, we would understand the whole of existence. For what appears small from the outside is, by unending pathways, joined to the whole. This flower would have no fragrance if it were not of the earth. It would have no colors if it were not linked with the sun. It would have no life if the breath of air did not move through it. The deeper you inquire, the more you will find the flower has already disappeared; little by little, the whole cosmos has come into your hands.

As the atom is the name of the smallest unit of matter, so the moment is the name of the smallest unit of eternity. The moment is not the opposite of the eternal; but tell me, where do you live your moments? You live either in the future or in the past. The past is not a part of the eternal, nor is the future. Past and future are the dreams of your mind—either memories or imaginings; either the dust of experiences settled on the mind, or the web of hopes, desires, and longings for the future. The moment is in between the two. When you are not in the past and you are in the present, not in the future and you are in the present—that is the moment. And from that very moment you slip into the eternal. Whoever comes into the moment comes into eternity.

The world is called transient because the world is the name of time. “World” means the memory of what I was yesterday and the craving for what I want to be tomorrow. The world is made of past and future; it is not made of the present. The present stands entirely outside the world—being here, yet entirely outside. And we remain deprived of the present. We are scarcely ever here and now. Whenever we are, we are encircled by thought. When you experience this moment in a state of no-thought—silent, still, unmoving—the temple door opens; the door of the eternal opens.

Nor is it that some shadow from this present moment has never fallen upon you. It does, sometimes—in spite of you. Watching the sunrise, have you ever stood utterly wonderstruck, forgetting for a while salt, oil, firewood? For a while you forgot who you are, where you are, why you are. For a while there was hush. A bridge formed between you and the sun. For a while you were the sun and the sun was within you. For a while the seer and the seen were not two. Even if it be only for a flash, a fraction of a moment—when it happens, beauty breaks upon you. The whole sky showers beauty; you are overwhelmed. Or, in certain moments listening to music, string met string, feeling met feeling, and you slipped outside the mind. Outside the mind means outside the world. The world is the mind. To slip outside the mind is to dive into the moment. And whoever has dived into the moment has tasted the eternal.

Lovers know such moments as glimpses. Devotees know them as settled experience. To lovers they come like lightning flashes; to devotees like a sun that has risen and will never set.

Your question is relevant, for the so‑called monks and saints denounce the world by calling it transient. To say the world is transient only means: it will not last. Therefore do not bind yourself too tightly to what will not endure—and yet you cling exactly there. The past has gone; it did not last, yet you are tied to it. Yesterday someone garlanded you: neither those people remain nor the garlands; the flowers withered and were thrown away. You too are no longer the person of yesterday; nothing of yesterday remains. And still the garlands hang around your neck. Even now, closing your eyes, you suck the juice of yesterdays’ praise, the respect you were given—transient; it came and it went. It was a bubble of water, yet you still clutch it. Nothing is in your hand, but you keep your fist closed lest it be revealed that there is nothing there. Fear keeps the fist clenched. You too suspect: is there even a bubble in my hand or not? You are afraid to open the fist, lest your inner emptiness be exposed. And you grasp the coming tomorrow as well: “May this happen, may that be mine, may I become this, may I become that.”

If you clench your fists around the transient with such force—this is the world. To know it is transient: when it comes, live it; when it goes, let it go—this is sannyas. The sannyasin lives right here where the worldly man lives. Where else will he live? What other place is there, what other space? There is but this one universe: these stars, this moon, this sun, these trees, these people. Amongst these you will live as a Buddha, amongst these as a Krishna; among these you can glow or among these you can remain in darkness. The manner of living is yours. But the place is the same. What is the difference? The Buddha too lives in the moment, in the transient, but with the understanding that the fist must not close upon anything. The moment the fist closes, pain begins. Let there be no attachment; keep the hand open. Let the current of time come and flow on. Let experiences arrive and depart; let no dust settle on the mirror. Keep the mirror clean. What is gone is gone; and what has come—do not fixate on that either. Let only what is be reflected in the mirror. As soon as it passes, the mirror too is empty. Do not hold the mirror.

The awakened man lives without grasping. The sleeping man clings even to what is not. The awakened man does not cling even to what is. That is the only difference.

When the knowers have said that the world is transient, they have said it so you will not cling. Your so‑called monks and saints repeat the same—“the world is transient”—but they say it to make you renounce the world and run away, to make you escapists. Their purposes differ. They tell you, “If you must gain something, gain that which never leaves you.” They are stoking your greed. They say: “Gain heaven, gain liberation; what is there here worth gaining?” The same statement, but in different mouths it takes on different meanings; its gesture changes, its posture changes. The so‑called saint argues against the world. He is anti‑life, life‑denying; negativity is his fundamental stance. He pushes you into negation, tries to uproot you, frightens you, inflames your greed, and terrifies you.

The same statement about transience is used by awakened ones like Doolandas. They too say: the world is transient. What is their intent? They say: live—live to the hilt. Do not grasp. They are not against the world—how could they be? The world belongs to the Divine. To be against it is to be against the Divine. This is His music playing; He is the painter who has filled it with colors. Turn against these, become their enemy, turn your back—and you will have turned against their Owner as well. If you condemn the music, do not forget, you have condemned the musician too. Then pray as much as you like; your prayers will not bear fruit. Your basic vision has gone wrong—it has become negative, denying, opposing.

Doolandas also says: the world is transient—wake up. But he does not say: the world is transient—run away. That is the whole difference. The pundit-priest says: run! The awakened one says: wake! Where will running take you? Where has God left any place to run to? He is everywhere. Wherever you run, there too His cuckoo will sing. There too His sun will rise. There too His grass will be green. There too will be His birds, His trees, His people. The same kind of people, the same plants, the same creatures—everything just the same. This entire sky is His, and beyond this sky there is no other sky.

No, you cannot run—but you can awaken. And the alchemy of awakening is entirely different; its scripture is different. To awaken means: live. Doolandas says: drink deeply of the wine of love; live carefree and ecstatic. Wrap yourself in the cloak of love and color and nectar. Make your life a perpetual Diwali—let the lamps go on burning; a perpetual Holi—let the colors go on flying. Make it a great festival. Only remember this: what goes, let it go; do not grasp. What has not yet come, do not think about it; do not expect. Whatever stands before you, live it in gratitude, as Divine grace. It is His gift! The sun has risen—bow to it. Do not keep hanging pictures of the suns that have set, and do not compose songs in praise of suns that have not yet arisen. What is, is God. What has just arisen, what is present—be present with the present. That presence is prayer. To be present with what is present is prayer.

There is no contradiction in Doolandas’ words. Though these two statements have often been spoken by people in such a way that they seem to clash, in one who is awake even apparently opposing statements have harmony; they point to the same direction. There can be no contradiction in his sayings, because there is no contradiction within him. He is non‑opposition, non‑duality—and each of his utterances carries that non‑duality.

Poets too have sung of living in the moment, but their songs are only longings. Buddhas too have sung of living in the moment, but their songs are their realizations. Lovers too have wanted to celebrate the festival of the moment—and they have celebrated—but the lover’s capacity is small, his object of love is small. Someone is in love with a woman, someone with a man, someone with a friend. When the vessel of love is small, love too will be small. You can fill only as much as the vessel can contain. The devotee’s beloved is this whole existence, this vast sky, this infinity. And when the devotee is filled with love, his love is so great, so immense, it includes all within itself.

Ah, this wind from the east—alas, these dark clouds,
the night’s veil drenched with nectar-laden drops.
Bring my goblet—where is my bottle of wine?
Tonight is the joy of drinking—let me drink;
in the shadow of death, let me live one night.

The night is ours, my love—whether dawn comes or not,
whether another moment of love will pass or not,
whether tongues of rapture flare as moist flames or not—
tomorrow God knows where the quest will lead,
into strange valleys where stumblings will be our sport.

I am a traveler; my goal lies very far.
On the way stand hundreds of storming calamities.
Where am I—and where these delights of the gathering!
At daybreak our tent will be uprooted;
who knows where tomorrow night we shall lodge.

Struck by sorrow, tormented by the world,
frightened by the ill‑favor of circumstance,
weary of this tug‑of‑war that life is,
breaking the bonds of the cage, today I have come here,
bringing a heart burning in my breast.

I have come to make a commotion in this assembly,
I have come to forget the bitterness of grief,
today I have come to drink and to make others drink.
You too, my love, drink me in—and let me drink you.
In death’s shadow, let me live at least one night.

Such a statement is a poet’s, a lover’s. It has its limits. Yet even here there is a glimmer of the eternal, a hint of truth. In the utterances of the awakened ones, that glimmer appears in its completeness. They too invite you to drink and to share—but their wine is of another kind, their tavern is another, their cup‑bearer is another, their Beloved is another. Still, the root note resonates:

Tonight is the joy of drinking—let me drink;
in the shadow of death, let me live one night.

There is no certainty about tomorrow—tomorrow is death. What is in hand is today—this night, this day, this moment. If I can drink, I can drink now.

Ah, this wind from the east—alas, these dark clouds,
the night’s veil drenched with nectar-laden drops.
Bring my goblet—where is my bottle of wine?

Those who have sought have sought a goblet of the eternal. They too have searched for a tavern. In the poet’s words there is a faint hum, a distant sound, a faraway light—yet in that light there is truth.

The night is ours, my love—whether dawn comes or not,
whether another moment of love will pass or not,
whether tongues of rapture flare as moist flames or not—
tomorrow God knows where the quest will lead,
into strange valleys where stumblings will be our sport.

Nothing of tomorrow is certain.

At daybreak our tent will be uprooted;
who knows where tomorrow night we shall lodge.

Weary of this tug‑of‑war that life is,
breaking the bonds of the cage, today I have come here,
bringing a heart burning in my breast.

I have come to make a commotion in this assembly,
I have come to forget the bitterness of grief,
today I have come to drink and to make others drink.
You too, my love, drink me in—and let me drink you.
In death’s shadow, let me live at least one night.

In such invitations by the poets, if you catch the scent of outer wine, do not be surprised; if you glimpse an outer beloved, do not be surprised. But turn these very words inwards—shift them toward the inner Beloved. Remove them from the grape’s wine and turn them toward the wine of the soul. Then these same words become the Upanishads. These same words become the Gita. From these very words the verses of the Quran arise. Learn how to turn the words.

You have asked rightly: “On the one hand Doolandas speaks of life’s transience; on the other he invites us to drink the nectar of love and drown in carefree ecstasy.”

Do not take his words the way you have taken the poets’ words. These are not a poet’s words; they are a prophet’s. They are a seer’s words. They demand a very delicate relationship. They are tender words; press them too hard and their life will go. Twist them a little this way or that and their meaning will change. With them you must walk very carefully, placing each step with awareness.

The moment too is a part of the eternal—this moment that is present now. In this moment you are sitting near me, listening to me; there is a certain peace, a hush. Even a faint bird-call is heard. If the wind passes through the trees and rattles the dry leaves, it is heard. You are here as if no one is here. In this silence, in this joy, the moment now standing before you is on the earth, yet not of the earth—it has descended from the sky. Live this moment fully. Wrap yourself in the cloak of love, color, and nectar. Be intoxicated in this moment, drown in it, be absorbed—and through this very moment you will find the house of the Divine. This is His doorway. We call the world transient so that you do not grasp at things. And to abide in the moment is what we call meditation—so that you may enter into the Divine.

Mukesh! These are not things one chooses. No one chooses them. It isn’t that Krishnamurti chose as he did, or that I chose as I did. As long as the chooser is there, neither Krishnamurti can be, nor can I be. As long as the chooser is there, Buddhahood does not happen. When the chooser bids farewell, the descending of Buddhahood happens. Then whatever happens, happens; however it happens, so it happens—choicelessly. The leaves of a tree are green—they have not chosen. A rose is red—it has not chosen. One flower is white, another is yellow; one is filled with this fragrance, another with that. Neither champa has chosen, nor chameli (jasmine), nor juhi (jasmine). Choice is not the point at all. Juhi is juhi, Krishnamurti is Krishnamurti, I am I, Maluk is Maluk, Dadu is Dadu, Doolan is Doolan.

If it were a matter of choice, it would only belong to the world. The world means choice. Where you choose, there is the world. Where you allow the Divine to flow through you—however it flows, as is His wish—you do not create the slightest obstruction, you do not carry expectations or ambitions. “Let it be as it is.” You don’t step in between. You give a doorway and step out of the middle. Then if the Divine blossoms within you as chameli, what will you do? If He blossoms as champa, what will you do? Then let whatever arises, arise. That is His delight—and that delight is your delight, your bliss.

Mukesh, do not think Krishnamurti chose not to form a guru–disciple bond because it creates disturbances, because it brings hassles: “Why get into trouble?” He did not choose it; the Divine manifested in him in that way. Nor have I chosen to have disciples, along with the disturbances that naturally come with disciples. Where there is a crowd there are disturbances, difficulties, obstructions. No one comes alone; each person brings a thousand disturbances with him. To accept a person is to accept all that turmoil within him. No one comes alone—every person is a crowd. And when people come to you seeking truth, groping in darkness… If you gather a crowd of the blind, there will be all kinds of commotion. If you assemble the lost in darkness, there will be collisions; people will fall and rise—this is bound to be. If you gather the unbalanced, there will be noise. All kinds of troubles will be there. But don’t think I chose this. It is not my choice. As He wills! If this is His will through me, so be it.

And don’t imagine—as you say—that I get nothing but trouble out of it. Troubles may appear to you; I see none. When there is no choosing, where is “trouble” and where “no trouble”? Whatever is, is right; whatever is, is beautiful; as it is, it is auspicious. I see no trouble.

If you plant roses, thorns will grow—what “trouble” is that? It is simple arithmetic. If you want roses, thorns come along. And without thorns the roses would not be complete roses. Something would be missing—no sharpness, no sword-edge; something essential would remain unexpressed. Their naturalness would be lost. For me there is no trouble.

You think when Mansoor was put on the gallows he must have thought, “What a mess I’ve gotten into! Why didn’t I keep quiet? So many times people warned me: ‘Mansoor, don’t proclaim Ana’l-Haqq; don’t say “I am God”—it will create great trouble.’” Even his master told him many times, “Don’t say it. Do you think only you know? I also know—but I keep quiet, I don’t speak. You too must not speak.” Mansoor would even give his word: “I won’t say it now, since you tell me not to.” But before an hour had passed, the intoxication would seize him again—Ana’l-Haqq!—the proclamation again: Aham Brahmasmi!

So the master asked, “Why do you break your promise over and over?” Mansoor said, “I give the promise; someone else breaks it. When I am present, when you counsel me, it is perfectly clear. But there are moments when I am not present at all—and then He speaks through me: Ana’l-Haqq. What can I do? Who am I there? There is no ‘I’, no promise I gave, no memory of you, no ‘other’ at all. There He is alone—and He is the Master of masters. What of mine could prevail before Him! What He wants said, He gets said. The tongue is His, the lips are His, the throat is His, the very breath is His. What can I do? When I am in my senses I promise you, but there are moments that are not mine—they are His.”

Do you think when Mansoor was crucified he was miserable, regretting, “Why did I make such a fuss—if only I had kept silent”? No—Mansoor was laughing. He laughed aloud as he was struck. Someone in the crowd asked, “Mansoor, why do you laugh?” Mansoor said, “I am laughing looking toward the Divine: you will not be able to deceive me. You have come in many forms—today you have come as the executioner—but you will not deceive me. I recognize you. I know your hands, your ways. Today you take a sword to my neck—perhaps this is your final test. So be it! I will die laughing. This is my touchstone, because I say: there is none but You—so in the executioner, You; in the sword, You. And if this head falls, it will fall because of You. You fashioned it, and You sever it. You know—your work—your understanding. Who am I to interfere! I laugh, watching the whole play.”

No, Mansoor was not in trouble.

Mukesh, you may think, “He has to suffer a thousand troubles.” There is no trouble. It is His play—He knows.

You also asked, “Is there a difference in the compassion of enlightened ones?”

Compassion never has differences. How could compassion differ? Compassion is compassion. There aren’t many kinds of compassion—but there are differences in the personalities of the enlightened.

Understand this: if a master of the veena attains enlightenment, he will not speak as I do; he will play the veena. He will pour his realization into the notes. I cannot play the veena. Mira realized—and she danced. Buddha realized—and he sat silently; for seven days he did not speak, became a vast emptiness. The personalities of the awakened differ. As with lanterns—you can make many kinds: some with red glass, some blue, some yellow; some of gold, some silver, some brass, some iron, some clay. But when you light the lamp inside, the light is one. The light is not different—yet, coming through blue glass it appears blue; through yellow, yellow. At the source where it is born, it has one color, one manner—but by the time it reaches you, its color and manner seem changed.

Through Krishnamurti, the light takes on one hue; through me, another; through Nanak, one; through Muhammad, another. Hence the world’s endless quarrels. People cannot decide who is truly enlightened. If you take Mahavira as the standard of enlightenment, how will you include Muhammad? Mahavira placed each step with such care; a sword is out of the question—he did not even hold a staff. Muhammad, by contrast, bears a sword. If Mahavira is your measure, how can Muhammad be? And if Muhammad—with a sword—is your measure, then Rama can be enlightened, with his bow; Krishna too, with his flute and strategy—but Mahavira will not fit.

Humanity has been stuck in controversy because we grasped personalities and not the essence hidden behind them. What gleams in Mahavira’s nakedness is what flashes in Muhammad’s sword. To see this, you need eyes. What appears in Buddha’s silence is what jingles in Mira’s anklets. A pundit will not see it—what “eyes” has the scholar? The differences are many: where Mira, where Mahavira, where Buddha, where Muhammad—how many differences! And how could there not be?

If you list a dozen enlightened ones—their names, their lives, their modes, their expressions—you will go mad. You won’t be able to decide whom to accept and whom to reject. On one side Jesus hangs on the cross; on the other, Krishna plays the flute. Where is the harmony? A Christian says, “Christ is he who gave his life for humanity’s salvation.” If that is your criterion, Krishna’s flute seems in poor taste. In a world of so much suffering—people starving, sick, dying—how could Krishna think of playing a flute? It appears a luxury. How could he don a peacock-feathered crown? Are these the marks of an enlightened one?

If you accept Christ as the yardstick, Krishna is in difficulty. But the same will happen to Christ if you take Krishna as the measure. For Krishna says, “All existence is God-filled. What remains for us but to dance? Where is sorrow? And if you see it, you are dreaming—truth knows no sorrow; only the dream does. You are seeing a sorrow-dream. And when you see a sorrow-dream, how you tremble, how you sweat! On a cold night, you break into a sweat, and even after you wake, your chest still pounds. You know it was a dream; you recognize it—yet the body takes time to calm. You were badly shaken.”

Krishna says, “This whole world, seen with closed eyes, is a dream. And in the dream you suffer much. Because the suffering is dream-born, why weep and wail? Wake up! I play the flute to awaken you. No salvation is needed—only awakening. And what could be a sweeter way to wake you than the flute? What is more graceful, more beautiful? Where did you bring in this cross! And does anyone’s salvation happen because someone else is crucified? If that were so, after Jesus everyone would be saved. But those in darkness remain in darkness; those who wish to dream, dream on; those who want suffering, go on suffering. Whether many are crucified or not, it changes nothing.”

If Krishna is your standard, Christ seems sickly; if Christ is your standard, Krishna seems indulgent. What will you do? I tell you: in all of them the same light is manifest—the light that shone in Jesus on the cross is the light that shimmers when Krishna’s flute plays. The lanterns’ colors differ; the styles differ; the light is one. And it is not a matter of choice. It isn’t that Krishna chose, “I will only play the flute,” or that Jesus chose, “I will hang on the cross because I must save the world.”

For those who have dropped the ego, where is the possibility of choosing? They are in His hands. If He wants to play the flute, He plays it; if He wants to hang them on a cross, He hangs them. As He wills! But in the flute there is the same bliss as on the cross. Bliss does not change.

And it is good that enlightened ones are not alike—otherwise life would be drab, saltless. The world would lose its flavor. It is tasty because enlightened ones bloom in different forms and colors. Imagine a world with only roses—nothing but roses—what would you do with them? Feed them to buffaloes like grass? Heap them at home like weeds? What meaning, what respect would remain for the rose?

No—the world is lovely because many kinds of flowers bloom. And Buddhahood is the supreme flowering; there, an incomparable uniqueness appears. Enlightenment is a great paradox: from one side, toward the Divine, it is universal; from the human side, utterly unique—none like it before, none ever again.

So do not ask whether compassion differs from compassion. Compassion is one. But through the personalities it pours from, differences appear. Compassion does not differ, but the medium does.

And there is no question of choosing—none at all.

And Mukesh, is it not possible that behind your question you are revealing your own anxiety? You ask about me—“Why have you taken on troubles?”—but perhaps you are afraid now that, by being connected with me, you too will be splashed when the storm comes. When it rains on me, droplets will fall on you. Is there a fear deep inside that you have gotten yourself into trouble by becoming a sannyasin? People will laugh at you, call you mad, oppose you, create obstacles. And naturally, they can create more obstacles for you than for me, because you are in the marketplace, in the shop, in the office, in your work. You must meet those very people all day long. You have a thousand ties and relationships with them. Perhaps some other fear is inside you? If there is, try to see it consciously.

It happens often: you ask one thing, but your unconscious wanted to ask something else. People do not ask their questions nakedly; they dress them up. If troubles seem to you to be there, accept them—for without passing through difficulties no one is refined. Accept them as a blessing. Only by walking on thorns do you learn to walk. It is in challenge that your talent gains an edge. The more the flames around you, the more you will be tempered.

I must test, O Taba’n, the fire of my stride today;
I must make the hardships of the road grow easy;
Whatever comes, I must keep moving my steps ahead—
I have to go far.

By the heat of the new age’s youthful pace, I swear,
By lightning’s speed, by the storm’s wild gait, I swear—
I must erase the line between far and near—
I have to go far.

The step that has moved forward cannot retreat;
Whatever happens, I cannot turn back;
Now I must go on, go on advancing—
I have to go far.

Stumbling, wavering, tripping, taking blows,
I will go on, casting my shadow on the near and far;
I must make a speck of dust a shining star—
I have to go far.

If on the road there are angry winds and looming storms—so be it;
If every speck is bent on testing endurance—so be it;
Even seated here, still I must move my steps ahead—
I have to go far.

What of thorns—can a sword become a roadblock?
Can an iron wall become a roadblock?
With revolutionary resolve made firm, I must show—
I have to go far.

I will keep playing with the road’s hardships,
I will keep playing with its roughest stretches,
With blistered feet, O Taba’n, I must still smile—
I have to go far.

Mukesh, sannyas is the beginning of a long journey—the first step, nothing more. Don’t be afraid already, don’t panic so soon. Remember always: no hardship borne in the search for truth goes to waste. It is the price you pay for truth. Pay it gladly—laughing, with a smile. If you pay it weeping, what have you paid? Only if you pay it laughing have you truly paid.

So beware of hidden fears in your unconscious! They are there; from that fear this question has arisen. It has taken on a beautiful form—now search within and you will also find its ugly, coiled form. Man is cunning; he finds great justifications, big arguments and calculations to save face, builds screens for himself, convinces himself, “What I’m doing is right.” But with a little awareness such self-deception is not possible, because deep down you know what is right and what is not, when you have covered your wounds, when you have suppressed your weaknesses, when you have draped your lies with the veils of truth—veils of words, of doctrines.

Perhaps you think Krishnamurti calculated and avoided trouble—then you are mistaken. What happened was spontaneous. And it is not that there were no troubles—there were. Time has passed; people have slowly forgotten. Those days of trouble were fifty years ago. Now he is aged.

Fifty years back, lovers and devotees of Krishnamurti from around the world gathered in Holland. Six thousand came from everywhere. As today people from all over gather around me, then they gathered around him. The conference was specially organized because he was to declare himself the World Teacher. All preparations were complete. People came from afar with great expectations. No one could have imagined what would happen. Even those closest to Krishnamurti did not know. Annie Besant—who raised and nurtured him like a mother—did not know. Krishnamurti himself did not know what would happen the next day. And the next morning, when he went to the conference and stood on the stage, what happened startled everyone—and startled Krishnamurti too. The statement that poured out was unprecedented: “I refuse. I am no one’s guru. World Teacher is another matter—I am not even anyone’s master. No one is to be a disciple and no one a guru.”

Think a little: those six thousand had come for that very proclamation. Years of preparation had led to it. Poor old Annie Besant—consider her! She took on every kind of trouble. Krishnamurti had been prepared over years, made a fit instrument for the manifestation of the world-consciousness; his vessel purified in every way, every possible discipline given. And there were many obstacles. Krishnamurti’s own father created many. As always, disturbances arose. He was a poor man; he had given the boy to Annie Besant to be brought up, educated—his son would study in Europe. He had not imagined she would make him a World Teacher. Being a Brahmin, he was pressured by Brahmins; politics erupted: “Making him World Teacher means a religion opposed to Hinduism is being formed.” “Take your son back.” There was a court case. Krishnamurti was a minor, so the father had the right to reclaim him. And accusations were made of the sort that would force the court to hand Krishnamurti over.

Leadbeater, Krishnamurti’s teacher, through whom the preparation was being conducted, was accused of sexual misconduct with Krishnamurti—of being homosexual. Such allegations were in court. The case proceeded, and it became clear the court would decide to return Krishnamurti to his father. So Annie Besant had to leave India with Krishnamurti—flee beyond the reach of Indian law—so that he could at least grow to legal adulthood, and then decide for himself where and with whom he wished to live.

All these troubles, all this litigation, all the quarrels—after so much preparation he was brought to that morning. And then Krishnamurti said, “I am not anyone’s guru, nor is anyone my disciple. Forgive me.” Do you think it all ended easily? Those who had come as friends departed as enemies. They felt insulted, betrayed. In their eyes Krishnamurti had committed treachery. The Theosophists who had prepared him became his enemies. Every kind of obstacle was placed in his path.

Do you think the troubles that come to me are new? In a society of the blind, such troubles for a man with eyes are perfectly natural. Today there is no trouble around Krishnamurti because no one feels threatened by him. What power does he have? A solitary man saying what he has to say—say it! What will it change? When I too was just a lone man speaking, no one worried. What can one man do amid this tremendous noise? It is only now that difficulties begin—because I am no longer alone, and it seems to them that my words will gain strength; people will stand behind this. So anxiety arises. Hindus are annoyed because Hindus have taken sannyas—and stepped beyond their fold. Muslims are annoyed because Muslims have taken sannyas. Christians are annoyed; Jains are annoyed. In truth, a man can hardly annoy more people than I am annoying. But don’t think I am doing it. There is no striving in it. As He wills! This time, this seems to be His intention; let it be so. And with the same delight with which I take it, each of my sannyasins must also take it.

The step that has moved forward cannot retreat;
Whatever happens, I cannot turn back;
Now I must go on, go on advancing—
I have to go far.

Dharma means your intrinsic nature. Dharma means your spontaneity. As fragrance is to a rose, as heat is to fire, as coolness is to water, so you too have a nature of your own; living in tune with that nature is called dharma, living against it is called adharma.

There will be slight differences in each person’s nature—there must be, because existence does not make carbon copies. Therefore each person’s dharma will also differ a little. What is medicine for one can be poison for another, and what is poison for one can be medicine for another. Hence each person has to search for his own nature in the depths of meditation. No one else can give you a clear, definitive statement about your nature. You yourself have to recognize, slowly, your naturalness in the depths of meditation, and then gather the courage to live according to it. Courage is needed because when you live by your nature it is not necessary that you will live as society calls “religious.” You may live differently. In truth you cannot live exactly as society prescribes.

What society calls religion is average religion. And remember one thing about averages: there is no bigger lie in the world than the average. Imagine there are a million people in Pune, and you ask, “What is the average height?” The result comes out: three feet three-and-a-half inches. Mathematically it means the heights of all one million have been measured—someone seven feet, someone six, someone five, someone four, little children, some only twelve inches long. All heights are totaled and divided by a million; the result is the average height: three feet three-and-a-half inches. Now if everyone had to live according to the average height, imagine the mess! If a rule were enforced that everyone must be average height, living in Pune would become impossible. What will a six-foot person do—walk bent over so he looks three feet three-and-a-half? Or cut off hands and feet? Or ask wrestlers to squeeze him from both ends so somehow he is reduced to the average? And what will a two-foot child do? Get massages, stretch himself to become three feet three-and-a-half?

Great trouble would follow; people in Pune would go mad. Apply just the rule of average height and you will see people losing their wits. And everyone would become a criminal, because no one can really be three feet three-and-a-half. Perhaps by chance you might find one person in a million who happens to be exactly that—but even that is unlikely; and he would not remain so for long. A year later he’d be four feet—he would grow.

If the average height becomes the rule of life, then guilt will arise in everyone: “I am wrong, I am a sinner, I’m not as I should be.” And this is what has happened. Because of religion, guilt has spread all over the world. Everyone feels, “I am a sinner because I am not as I ought to be. I am different; I am not religious, because a religious person should be like so-and-so…” Who decides what a religious person is? How is dharma determined? From the average. And the average is false. Nothing is more false than averages.

Therefore, the first thing I want to say: each person has to discover his own dharma. That is what Krishna means: swadharme nidhanam shreyah, paradharmo bhayavah. Dying in one’s own dharma is blessed; another’s dharma is fearful. It does not mean what Hindu pundits keep saying—that it’s best to die in the Hindu religion. Krishna does not even use the word “Hindu.” He says: swadharme nidhanam shreyah—better to die in one’s own dharma; paradharmo bhayavah—another’s dharma is terrifying. To live in another’s dharma brings fear; even dying in one’s own dharma brings fearlessness.

Understand this well; it is profoundly scientific. It means: do not learn religion from others. And what does “others” mean? If you ask Hindu commentators of the Gita, they will say “paradharma” means Muslim or Christian: do not become a Christian or a Muslim. But in Krishna’s time there were no Christians, no Muslims—remember that. So “paradharma” cannot mean that.

Even the Jains were not yet separate from the Hindus in those days. Krishna’s cousin Neminath was a Jain tirthankara. The Jain branch had not yet broken off. When Neminath attained enlightenment, Krishna himself went to honor him. Adinath, the first Jain tirthankara, is mentioned with respect in the Vedas. There was no “second religion” in that sense on earth then. The Buddha was yet to be born; Moses had not been born, Zoroaster not born, Lao Tzu not born. Christ was far in the future, Mohammed farther still; Nanak and Kabir were beyond calculation. When Krishna said, “swadharme nidhanam shreyah,” it could only mean what I am saying: it is blessed to live in one’s ownness, in one’s intimacy, in one’s natural disposition—that alone brings the ultimate good.

And “paradharmo bhayavah”—to live by another’s dharma is frightening. For whom was Krishna saying this? Do you think Arjuna was planning to become a Muslim, or that a Christian missionary had beguiled him with promises of schools and hospitals? Arjuna was not thinking of becoming Christian or Muslim. Arjuna was thinking of renouncing the world, taking sannyas—not the kind of sannyas I speak of; that would come much later, but the old kind. Krishna was telling Arjuna: sannyas is not your nature. You are by nature a kshatriya, a warrior, a fighter. To live and die amid flashing swords, to pass through fire—that is your nature. Even if you flee to the forest thinking, “I’ll become a renunciate, why get into quarrels, why kill my own?”—even if you run away, I tell you, you will be in trouble. You will not be able to sit quietly in the forest. And I think if Arjuna had gone to the forest he would have stirred up some upheaval there too—gathered the tribals and become their chief, or at least he would have hunted. He would have taken his bow; he wasn’t the sort to leave it behind. If there were no men to kill, he would have killed animals.

Krishna says: recognize your ownness. If you truly feel that under a tree in the Himalayas, in a cave, you can be blissful and absorbed, your flower can bloom and your song arise—then go. But be sure it is your own dharma, your swadharma. If not, then the reasons for your escape are false. You say: “They are my loved ones; I will have to kill them.” If they were not your loved ones, you would cut them down as a farmer cuts radishes in the field—you wouldn’t care. You are not afraid of violence; you are afraid because on the other side stand your guru Drona, Bhishma Pitamah, and your kin. How to kill them? You grew up with them, played with them; the colors of life were with them. If I win after killing them, whom will I announce my victory to? It is they I wanted to show, “See, Arjuna made them chew hard chickpeas!” If they perish, what is the point of the throne? Those whose praise I longed for, whose eyes I hoped would say, “Yes, Arjuna, now you are something!”—if they go, what is the point? Better to go to the forest. He is not going because nonviolence has dawned or meditation has awakened; his reasons are wrong. He says, “What is the point of killing one’s own? Even victory will be tasteless; whom will I announce it to? Will I beat a drum in the city of the dead? Better I lose this.” He wants his near ones alive so that his victory has relish.

To this Arjuna Krishna says: swadharme nidhanam shreyah—better to die in one’s own dharma. Why? Because only the one who moves in tune with his ownness attains joy, attains the ultimate good. To be aligned with one’s ownness is called joy; to be misaligned is called sorrow. What accords with you brings health; what goes against you brings disease.

Ask physicians for the definition of disease; the definition of disease is the definition of adharma. Adharma is a spiritual disease. Disease means: you have clutched at something not in accord with your nature; drop it and you will settle into your nature and health will arise of itself. Our word “swasthya” (health) is very lovely; it means: to be established in oneself; to be situated in one’s own—swastha. To abide in swadharma is health; in health is joy; in health is life’s “ah!” of wonder.

You ask me to say something about the real nature of dharma.
First: neither Hindu nor Christian nor Muslim nor Jain—these words do not indicate dharmas. They indicate different averages arrived at in different lands; beware of them. They impose upon you the averages extracted over centuries. They say, “Mahavira lived like this; live like that and you’ll be a Jain.” But you are not Mahavira, and this is not Mahavira’s time. Twenty-five centuries have passed; much water has flowed down the Ganges. To live like Mahavira now is utterly irrelevant. You are not Mahavira, this is not his era, even the air is not his. If you try to live as he did you will become empty and futile; that is why Jain monks have become hollow and insipid. The same is the case with others—someone lives by Buddha, someone by Shankaracharya. Centuries have gone by; how transformed life has become! Where have we come from and to where! And what are you doing?

So religion is not tradition. These are traditions—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist; they are sects, not dharma.

This one’s a Muslim, that one a Hindu; this one Christian, that one Jew.
On this one these restraints, on that one those fetters.
What fools the sheikh and pundit have made of us—
They’ve seated us in cramped little cubicles.
On the palace of humanity, rains of oppression and ignorance pour down,
So many flags can be seen waving.
In this darkness there’s not even a hint of light;
Some ritual or other has stamped every heart with its seal.
Shrunk, from the sun’s great disc into a tiny star,
Man stands beaten by creed and culture.
Some are wards of “civilization,” some are sons of religion,
Dwellers of the open seas are trapped in bubbles.
This boundedness of man is a spectacle to learn from:
Different faith-labels pasted upon him.
Man wanders lost and astray,
Some label or other stuck to every forehead.
Why is man poured into such narrow molds?
Why is he ashamed to call himself simply “human”?
What can Hindustan do—this too is Allah’s gift:
Let tea be Hindu, milk Muslim, coconut Sikh, jujube Jain!
What gain is there in spite against our own kind?
What gain is there in living split to pieces?

Look a little toward Man! We have locked human beings in pigeonholes.
In this darkness there is no hint of light;
Some custom or other has sealed every heart.
Within those seals, love is imprisoned. Within those seals, your nature is imprisoned. Within those seals lies your dharma. If those seals break, your dharma will flow. If those seals are prised off, your dharma’s plant can grow.

Shrinking and shrinking from the great sun-disc, we have become tiny stars.
Man is beaten by faith and culture.
Those meant to live in oceans are confined in bubbles.

Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh, Parsi—these names have nothing to do with dharma. Dharma has no adjective. Dharma is each person’s very ownness. And no scripture can be decisive about your ownness. Yes, scriptures, a true master, satsang can help in the search—but the decision happens in the meditation of your own interior. Remember: that many people have done something does not mean it will liberate you. Because many believe, your believing will not free you until the light of your own knowing is lit within.

Dharma is not belief; it is knowing. Not blind faith, but experience. Not walking by someone else’s hand, but lighting your inner lamp. And a true master is one who helps to light the lamp of your ownness; who does not make you a fake person; who does not make you an average man; who does not bind you in labels and adjectives; who gives you courage, not creeds; who gives you the urge for adventure, not scripture; who calls and challenges you to a journey into the unknown and the infinite. A true master gives you the method to recognize your ownness. Then live from your ownness. Very often, those who do not live from their ownness find their lives filled needlessly with sorrow and despair.

A young man was brought to me in a very bad state. I asked, “What’s the matter?” His parents, who came along, said, “He is very religious—excessively religious. We can’t even say he does anything wrong; he does nothing wrong at all. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink tea or coffee, doesn’t go to the cinema.” I said, “Then he should be very blissful.” They said, “But he is not; he is becoming deranged. He rises at three in the morning—brahma-muhurta—and sleeps no more than five hours. He makes no mistakes. He used to eat vegetables, now only milk—he’s become milk-only. The sages say milk is the purest food.”

His condition was so poor; his body had withered; his eyes looked deranged. He was young—he needed at least eight hours of sleep. Without sleep his eyes burned; drowsy all day, how could he study or write? He had been failing at the university for two years. He ate only milk. How much milk can one drink?

Except for humans, no animal drinks milk after a certain age. Good that animals never heard the sages! The calf of the cow whose milk you drink doesn’t drink milk after a certain age. Milk is only until the body can digest other foods; it is an initial preparation for children. Fine for children, perhaps again for the very old; but a young man should digest everything. He stopped all other food; many nutrients must have become deficient; his body became frail; his intelligence began to fade. The brain needs certain vitamins; without them it shrinks; brilliance dies.

When things worsened and he began talking to himself alone, his parents brought him. I asked, “Since when?” They said, “Recently. Earlier he used to chant ‘Ram Ram’—that was fine. Now he talks as if to someone, though nobody is there.” I said, “It was the same madness before—only hidden under a religious cover. Sitting and mumbling ‘Ram Ram’—what for? It is a sign of a disturbed mind. Why turn a rosary? Do you have no intelligence? Counting beads—what for? But hidden in religious garb it goes unnoticed.”

I asked him to tell me his whole story. He said, “I am a disciple of Swami Sivananda of Rishikesh.” This was when Sivananda was alive. “I read in his book: one should sleep only five hours; whoever sleeps more is tamasic.” What a joke! The child in the mother’s womb sleeps twenty-four hours—terribly tamasic then! After birth he sleeps twenty-three, then twenty-two, then twenty—tamasic, tamasic. Then it stabilizes around eight hours; one-third of life is needed for sleep. Only in old age, when death nears, does sleep diminish—because the body stops rebuilding; rebuilding happens in sleep. What you eat and digest is turned into body during sleep. When death approaches, the body stops building, hence the old sleep less. Surely the books that prescribe five hours “sattvic sleep” were written by old men; they could not sleep—five hours was generous! The “more enlightened” say three hours.

I told him, “You are young; you must sleep eight hours.” He said, “I can’t. That would be against the Guru’s instruction. He said five.” And since he began sleeping five, drowsiness plagued his days. Of course. But he was told that daytime drowsiness is a sign of tamas—that he must be eating tamasic food! See how foolish logic wanders down wrong paths. The straightforward fact is: he sleeps too little, hence drowsiness. But the logic goes, “If you are drowsy, your food is tamasic; change your diet.” Gradually he changed until he drank only milk. Then the body weakened further; mental freshness and brilliance faded. The brain requires certain vitamins; without them it shrivels; intelligence dies.

When his intelligence began to fail, he was given a mantra: “Chant Ram Ram, for now only calling God can help.” Wonderful! First make him helpless, then tell him to call God. Even God will dodge him; God hears a healthy voice. The voice of one settled in himself reaches Him. This man has gone completely outside his health, against his nature.

I had to work hard to persuade him. It is very difficult to persuade someone against his “religion.” He felt I was tempting him into sin. I said, “Sleep eight hours.” He said, “That is sin!” “Eat properly.” “Sin!”

For centuries different kinds of people have made different statements about dharma; those statements may have been right for them, but they have nothing to do with you. You will have to find your own dharma. Yes, listen to them; understand them; take thirst from them—but do not take their words. Each person must light his own lamp. Only then will there be exuberance in your life—wrap yourself in love’s hues and savor! You will dance when you are healthy, established in yourself.

Swadharme nidhanam shreyah; paradharmo bhayavah. When it begins to be your experience—“This is my own dharma, this my ultimate good; this delights me; this befits me”—then live that way. Do not worry about average doctrines. You yourself are the authority. And you have the touchstone for decision: that which brings you happiness, peace, bliss—that is dharma. Let bliss be the criterion, the test. As a goldsmith tests gold on a touchstone, let bliss be your touchstone. Test everything upon it. If bliss arises, it is dharma; if it does not, it is adharma.

If flowers remain closed in the fist for a little while,
A scented dewiness appears in the hand.
In the same way, when for a little while I contemplate Beauty,
My breath is perfumed, and my eyes moisten—
And it feels as if the Beloved
Has held me long in a tight embrace and only just now let go.

If even for a moment you dive within, it will feel as if you have returned from the embrace of the Divine.

If flowers remain closed in the fist for a little while,
A scented dewiness appears in the hand—
Even if the flower slips away, its fragrance lingers on the hand. Walk through a garden; even without touching a flower, the drifting pollen will cling to your clothes—you become fragrant. So too, when someone dips within even for an instant, fragrance spreads through their life.

If flowers remain closed in the fist for a little while,
A scented dewiness appears in the hand;
So when for a little while I imagine the Beloved’s beauty,
There is fragrance in my breath, and moisture in my eyes—
And it feels as though the Beloved
Has clasped me tight and released me only after a long while.

That from which meditation arises, from which bliss, from which love, fragrance, and beauty are born—know that to be dharma. Dharma is not to dry you up; dharma gives a thousand flowers a chance to bloom. Dharma is spring, not fall. Dharma is a festival of joy. And once its remembrance settles, it does not fade. Once the inner taste is known, even if you wish to drop it, it will not drop.

The map of that face from the heart is not erased, not yet—
Heartless One, I have not forgotten you, not yet.
This head which bowed only in your path,
I have not bowed at any other step, not yet.
In the arch of the soul, the lamp you yourself once lit—
That lamp in my breast I have not extinguished, not yet.
You fainted and soon you came to your senses;
Ill-fated me—I have not come to my senses, not yet.
Even after death this cry will rise from “Josh’s” grave—
“Heartless! I have not forgotten you, not yet.”

Once one glimpse of the Beloved is had, it cannot be forgotten—even in death it cannot be forgotten.

The map of that face from the heart is not erased, not yet—
“Heartless! I have not forgotten you, not yet.”

And once someone has experienced That, the head bends nowhere else; all temples and mosques become futile, all Kaba and Kailash are of no use.

I have not bowed my head at any other step, not yet—
This head which prostrated only in your path.
In the arch of the soul, the lamp you lit yourself—
That lamp in my chest I have not put out, not yet.

Dharma is a lamp ready to be lit within you. Dharma is self-experience; it will not be found in scripture or doctrine. That is why all my emphasis is on meditation. Meditation means: dive within; stop within; be still within. Go as deep as you can; keep attempting. Even if you fail many times, do not give up; keep knocking. One day the inner door will open. And if even for a single moment the glimpse is had, from that moment your life is different. Then you are on the earth and yet not of the earth. Then you will live in the world and yet not be of it—because the Divine will dwell within you, wherever you are. It will surround you. Then a thousand flowers will bloom.

Wrap yourself in the shawl of love’s color and nectar!

Enough for today.