Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #6

Premtirth! Take, take as much as you can take. Forget the very idea of offering. You are not becoming indebted to me. There is no debt you must repay. A full cloud will shower—how can it not? When a flower blossoms, fragrance will fly—how can it not? When a lamp is lit, rays will spill—how can they not? We do not thank the cloud, nor the flower, nor the lamp. Nor is there any need for me to thank you. If anything, I thank you—for you spread your apron and gathered the petals that fell, you did not let them drop to the ground. The rain would fall anyway; even if no one received it, it would fall. It is beyond the cloud’s control to hold back what has formed within it. It must give; that is the inevitable law of life. There is no way around it.

So you have heard the phrase “debt to the Master,” guru-rin. But the truth is, there is no debt toward a Master—therefore, there is nothing to repay. A mother’s debt may be repaid, a father’s debt may be repaid, because there is a definable debt. Toward the Master there is no debt at all—how would you repay it? Do not enter that worry.

Therefore the tears that are flowing are enough. In fact, nothing is more beautiful than that. There are no songs on earth more beautiful, no music more beautiful. Flowers may have great beauty, but next to tears, all flowers fade. Tears tell their tale, their own heart’s ache. That is enough. Do not even give those tears a name.

Let love remain nameless. Give love a name and you set a boundary, you impose a condition. Wherever there is condition and boundary, love becomes tainted.

Meera’s words are sweet. Love is certainly mad. That is why the clever are deprived of love. Those poor “knowers,” those smart ones, do not even realize what a great treasure they have lost! They remain stuck in their stiffness—the stiffness of understanding. They remain enclosed in their cleverness. They never come to know that there was another wine which, if they had drunk, would have tasted of the immortal; that there was another stream of nectar flowing close by—only a turning of the eyes within was needed.

But the “wise” look only outward. It is hard to find people more foolish than the so‑called wise. Foolish—because they gather trash: wealth, position, prestige—and miss the real treasure of life, the eternal treasure. Nothing but love is eternal; all else is fleeting. All else is like a rainbow—appearing very colorful, very lovely—but there is nothing there. Close your fist around it and you grasp nothing. All else is like dewdrops sparkling in the morning sun; it seems as if pearls are strewn upon the grass, but when you go near there is nothing there. From afar there are pearls; up close, not even dust. Such are our riches, our position, our prestige. And the race after all of this is fleeting—like bubbles on water. The “wise” get stuck right there. They keep counting their money, and counting, they die. They neither know nor live.

Love is the door to living, to knowing. Love is a unique path to knowing. One path is scripture-knowledge, word-knowledge—that is a fraud of knowing. It only creates the appearance that you have known; nothing comes to knowing through it. Read the Vedas, read the Koran, read the Bible—you will memorize words, you will begin to repeat those words. They are beautiful, lovely words. Repeating them you will even feel good; your heart will feel tickled. But you came empty and you will go empty. Parrots repeating “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram,” muttering mantras, turning rosaries—thus you will die. By intellect one does not know; one knows by the heart. By logic one does not know; one knows by love. Love is the way of knowing. But it is a very mad way, a very crazy way. That is why only a few gather the courage. Only a few dare. Who wishes to get a bad name? Who will drown their social face? Who will dye themselves in love? Because the moment you are dyed in love, the world will laugh at you. Naturally, for you will begin to do things that will seem wrong, useless, foolish to the whole world.

The world does not understand love; it cannot. If it did, this world would already be a paradise! The world readily understands hatred, not love; war, not peace; science, not religion. What is outward the world can grasp; but what is inward and essential, the life of life, slips its grasp. The visible is gross; the invisible is subtle—and that is the foundation. The world is stuck on the visible. Love opens an eye in you to see the invisible. Love opens the third eye within. Naturally, those whose eye has not opened will not understand you; they will call you mad. They will laugh, sneer, and say you’re finished.

They have always said this. They said it to Jesus, to Buddha, to Zarathustra. In this world, whenever diamonds have appeared, the mud has laughed at them. But there is much mud—heaps and heaps of it—and a diamond is rare, only once in a while. Mud has insulted diamonds in many ways. What revenge is this? The very presence of diamonds makes the mud feel mean, wounded, pricked. To know and admit, “I am mud,” goes against the ego. “Someone else a diamond—and I, mud? No! The ego will not accept it. Remove these diamonds! Erase these diamonds! Declare them mad!”

That is why people consider Jesus deranged, Buddha mad. They will. In fact, our word buddhu—idiot—sprang from Buddha. Surely people said, “He is a buddhu!” So much kingdom, wealth, beautiful women, the throne, the only son of his father, assured heir—and leaving all this comfort and grandeur, someone goes to the forest to sit under trees with closed eyes—if you do not call him an idiot, what will you call him! Those who knew called him Buddha—the Awakened One. Those who recognized called him Buddha. But the crowd called him buddhu. The very word has its rise with Buddha. Then, seeing Buddha, intoxicated by his fervor, drunk on his spell, a few more mad ones set out. People said: they too are idiots; they too are mad.

In Bengal there was a tradition of the intoxicated ones: the Bauls. Baul means mad, crazy. Among Sufis, one who arrives is called mast, alamast—drowned in the ecstasy of the Divine. One such mast—Omar Khayyam—wrote the Rubaiyat. People did not understand. They thought he was talking of wine, of taverns and barmaids, drinkers and pourers. It was not about wine; it was about supreme bliss. Omar Khayyam is a mast, a Sufi alamast. But Omar Khayyam has never been understood. Centuries have passed—we still do not understand love.

So poor Meera says, “O friend, I am mad in love; none knows my ache.”

What a pain rises within me. When I see that no one can understand me, that no one understands this ache of mine, compassion arises in me—sympathy, kindness for the uncomprehending who imagine themselves to be wise; who are themselves mad and think me mad; who are in truth deranged and deem me deranged. Great pain rises in my heart for them. But they will not understand. What can they understand? What can the blind know of light? One who has not loved—what can he know of love?

And the pain of love is a very sweet pain! You have seen much pain, but if you have not known the sweetness‑filled pain of love, you have seen nothing. You came empty-handed, you go empty-handed.

Meera is right: “I know not aarti and salutation, nor the rites of worship.”

Love does not abide by formalities. Formalities are performed by those whose lives lack love. They are the ones who go to temples and ring bells, offer flowers, to mosques to read namaz, to gurdwaras to recite Japji, to churches to bow before the crucified Jesus. These are the people who do not know love; they are trying somehow to make up for the lack of love. The real coin is not in hand, so they clutch a counterfeit. At least they have something; if not genuine, then something. And clutching that “something,” they hypnotize themselves—“Yes, this is the truth.” And since everyone is holding the same counterfeit coin, “So many people can’t be wrong!” They persuade themselves, they console themselves.

But love knows neither aarti nor salutation nor rite. Love is beyond propriety. Love does not accept limits.

Ramakrishna used to worship Kali. His worship was the worship of a lover; he was no ordinary priest. The temple trustees should have known from the beginning that he was no ordinary priest, no ordinary Brahmin. The temple at Dakshineswar was built by Rani Rasmani. Rasmani was a Shudra. Being a Shudra, no Brahmin was willing to perform worship in her temple. Who would worship in a Shudra’s temple? For years the temple stood without worship; no Brahmin agreed. Who would invite infamy by serving in a Shudra’s temple?

Look at the irony! Even the temple becomes “Shudra” if a Shudra builds it! Temples too are Brahmin, Vaishya, Kshatriya, Shudra! The very God installed there becomes Shudra! No Brahmin is willing to worship him.

I lived many years in Jabalpur. During the Ganesh festival there is a grand procession; tableaux of Ganesha move through the city. The Brahmin quarter’s Ganesha, naturally, goes first. Then, in order, come those of the other varnas. The sweepers and Chamars are at the very end. One year it happened that at the appointed time the Brahmins’ Ganesha had not arrived—there was some delay. The Shudras’ Ganesha reached first. The procession had to start on time, so the Shudras set it off. They thought, why miss the chance! So the Chamars’ Ganesha went ahead. When the Brahmins’ Ganesha arrived, they created a great uproar, stopped the procession: “Move the Chamars’ Ganesha to the back! Until the Chamars’ Ganesha goes behind, the procession will not move forward. The Chamars’ Ganesha ahead!” The Chamars’ Ganesha had to be taken back. If the Ganesha is a Chamar’s, then he too is a Chamar—how can he go first! The Brahmins’ Ganesha will go first!

So Rasmani built the temple, and a beautiful temple of Dakshineswar, but no Brahmin came to worship, no one agreed. Whatever salary they demanded, Rasmani was ready to pay—money was no problem—but she was a Shudra.

Someone told Ramakrishna, “There is a temple standing empty; no Brahmin is found to worship.” Ramakrishna said, “Then I will do it.” He went. At that very moment, Rasmani and the trustees should have understood: this man is no ordinary Brahmin. Ordinary Brahmins were not ready to come at any price. This one must be extraordinary. But they did not understand. They asked, “What will you take?” Ramakrishna was astonished. He said, “I will get to worship—and you ask for something more on top of that? Amazing! Worship is enough! Beyond worship, what more is there? If worship is given, everything is given.” Even then they did not understand. Dull minds are dull indeed. Perhaps they were dyed‑in‑the‑wool Shudras after all. Even then they did not grasp that this Brahmin is no ordinary Brahmin, who says, “Worship, and money on top of that—what are you saying! Not even in the Golden Age was such a thing. And this is the Dark Age! Worship is enough; if that is given, all is attained.”

When he asked for nothing, still they fixed sixteen rupees a month—for those times, much money. Sixteen rupees in solid silver could suffice a man for a year. Sixteen rupees a month Rasmani insisted on giving—“Something should be given.”

But soon they discovered a mistake had been made. This man is not “proper.” He seems a bit crazy. Sometimes when worship started, it would go on the whole day; and sometimes it would not happen at all. Sometimes he would lock the temple for a day or two; he would not go, nor let anyone else go.

People asked, “What is this? Two days without worship!”

He said, “Let Kali stay inside! Let her bear it. Now she must be remembering me. We pine in separation; let her pine too. Let the fire burn on both sides. Why should only we weep?”

And when he worshiped, once it began, there was no end. His wife Sarada would go again and again to see, “Now finish, now finish, so that we can eat…” But if worship began in the morning, it might end at night—it would go on all day. Devotees would come and go, and the worship would continue. People said, “What kind of worship is this?”

Ramakrishna said, “A worship in which time is remembered—is that worship? When I am drowned, I am drowned! When it stops, it stops. As long as it flows, it flows. I neither start it from my side, nor stop it from my side. It is His will!”

Even this could be tolerated. Rasmani thought, “For two years no one worshiped in the temple; at least he skips a day or two, and then he does so much worship that it fills the gap of those days. On balance nothing is lacking—if anything, there is more. Let him be. And dismissing him is not wise—who knows if any other Brahmin will be found.”

But matters grew worse. News came to Rasmani: “Now there is another issue. The food tray he takes in for offering—first he sits and eats from it himself. He tastes everything and makes it ‘leftover,’ then offers leftover food to Kali!”

Now even Rasmani was alarmed. She sent for Ramakrishna: “What kind of worship is this? Do you even know how to worship? You offer leftover food!”

Ramakrishna said, “Even my mother, when she cooked, first tasted before she gave it to me. So I cannot give without tasting. If you want the worship done, fine; otherwise I will worship elsewhere. Is there only one temple? What do I need with a temple! I will sit under a tree and worship. I will put any stone before me and worship. It is a matter of feeling.”

Ramakrishna said, “I cannot give without tasting. Who knows whether it is fit to be offered? What if the sugar is too much? Or too little? What if the food is not well cooked? Should I feed her anything raw or half-cooked? I cannot do that. If my mother could not feed me like that, how can I feed my Mother?”

Only then did Rasmani and her trustees grasp that a mistake had been made. “He is mad. He is not in his senses. He knows neither worship nor salutation nor the rite of worship.”

And what worship it was—what scenes would arise in Ramakrishna’s worship! There was no fixed account of set mantras. Sometimes one thing, sometimes another. One day he drew the sword—the very sword kept by Kali—and said, “Today either You or I!” The devotees fled in a flash. “This is getting out of hand. What kind of worship is this—with a sword!” And Ramakrishna said, “Today either You or I. Let it be decided today. Why keep up this daily ado! Either give me Your vision, or I will cut off my head!”

The temple emptied at once. People informed his wife. Word reached Rasmani; she too came running. Others came running too, but all watched from outside, because who knew whose head he might cut! He was flashing the sword inside!

And that very day Ramakrishna attained supreme knowledge. The very day the sword was raised. Later Ramakrishna said, “When I lifted the sword and said, ‘Enough; now this head falls—one, two, three!’ it happened on three. The stone idol departed. In its place the living, conscious Divine manifested. The sword fell from my hand. I was lost in an ocean of such bliss that for hours I kept diving. The heart would not be full, though full again and again; the thirst would not be quenched, though drinking and drinking. For hours the ecstasy reigned. When I came to, I was lying on the floor, the sword by my side. The devotees, Rasmani, the trustees, were all standing outside the doors, peering through the windows: What to do now? Go in or not? For six hours I had entered another realm.”

Ramakrishna said, “That day what had to happen, happened.”

That is the “rite” of worship! Such courage to lay your head on the altar! And be sure of this: if it had not happened on “three,” the head would have fallen. Do not think, “All right, let us try it too. Whom is there to cut? We will just flash a sword.” And what need of a real sword? A wooden prop from a pageant will do—buy one in the market. We will flash it and say, “One, two, three!” And if revelation does not happen, we will conclude, “It isn’t real anyway; what is there to reveal!” We will sheathe the sword and go home.

It will not be. It cannot be. Ramakrishna would have cut his head off—he was that mad. Such love has no fixed framework of worship or aarti-salutation, because love is sufficient unto itself. Then whatever you offer—whatever you offer! Two tears. Bow your head. Whisper two words. There is no need to speak Sanskrit; even if you speak in Marathi, the Divine will understand. To outsiders it may sound like a quarrel. But God will understand it is no quarrel. From the formal “you” to the familiar “you,” to the intimate “thou”—in Marathi the talk can sound fierce even when it is love! Here among neighbors, when their love‑talk becomes lively, it seems as if a fight has broken out—yet nothing ever happens. Even if you speak in Marathi, God will understand. There is no need to speak only in Sanskrit or Arabic or Hebrew. Say it in your own tongue. What matters is feeling, not language. It is of the innermost. What you say, how you say it, whether grammar is correct or not—do not worry. God is not a schoolteacher to first check your grammar and demand proper language. God will understand your feeling. Even if you do not speak, it will do. Stand silently, in stillness—that too will do.

“O friend, I am mad in love; none knows my ache.
I know not aarti or salutation, nor the rites of worship;
I have cupped the two lamps of my eyes.”

It is done. If these two eyes become lamps, what more is needed! If these two eyes sink into his waiting, into his prayer, they become lamps.

Premtirth, I have given you the name Premtirth—pilgrimage of love. You are to become a pilgrimage of love. Let these eyes become waiting. The Guest will come—surely he will come. What is needed is an infinite capacity to wait. Such capacity to wait that never exhausts. When you succeed in infinite waiting, one day or another—whenever you are ripe—he knocks at the door.

Krishnatirth! First of all, where are the young? Not in this country. In this country children are born old: they are born reciting the Gayatri Mantra. Someone comes clutching the Rig Veda, someone chanting the Gita, someone muttering the name of Rama. Where are the young here? By looks one might pass for youth, but youth is not a matter of looks. Youth is not a matter of age. Youth is a rare, utterly unique experience—an inner, spiritual realization!

Not everyone who is young in years is young. Not everyone old is truly old. One who knows the art of being young remains young even in old age. And one who does not know the art remains old even while young.

So first try to understand this truth: what is it to be young! Do not fall into the illusion that because you are twenty-five you are young. What has age to do with it? You may be twenty-five—but what are your beliefs? Your beliefs are so hackneyed, so dead, so rotten, piled on you for centuries—you don’t even have the courage to drop them. You take your chains to be ornaments. You live in what is past—gone—and still call yourself young. You are young—and you worship what is dead! What is gone! What has passed!

If the golden age of your beliefs lies in the past, you are not young. Ram Rajya, Satya Yuga—all gone. That is where your faith is. But you neither think nor ever enter into your faith to see whether there is faith at all, or just a hollow husk. The bird has long flown; only the cage remains. You go on believing anything! In such blindness you cannot be young.

For example, if a Christian says, “I am young,” and still believes that Jesus was born of a virgin Mary, I cannot call him young. Such a foolish idea—how can Jesus be born of a virgin Mary? If you can believe that, you are blind; you have no faculty of discernment. And without discernment, what kind of faith can there be! One who has no capacity for doubt has no possibility of true faith either.

But your priests and pundits instruct you: do not doubt. Believe whatever we say. And they tell you such things that you could not accept them if you were even a little alert. How can Jesus be born of a virgin girl? Yes, if you are a Hindu you will say: never possible! It’s sheer falsehood! If you are a Muslim you too will agree it is sheer falsehood. But a Christian—a Catholic Christian—will not be able to say it is sheer falsehood. His very life will tremble. His hands and feet will shake with fear. He will be afraid: how can I call this false! It has been believed for two thousand years; my ancestors believed it, my forefathers believed it, their forefathers believed it. Were people foolish for two thousand years, and only I have become wise! He will hide his doubt; he will cover it with a blanket of faith and suppress it. It is easy to doubt another’s religion. The young one is he who doubts his own beliefs.

Now take a Hindu. A Hindu believes that the Gita was delivered on the battlefield of the Mahabharata, and that the Mahabharata war took place on the field of Kurukshetra.

How many people can stand on the plain of Kurukshetra? The Mahabharata says eighteen akshauhinis of armies stood there. And in that war one billion twenty-five crore (1.25 billion) people were killed. If 1.25 billion were killed, at least four billion must have fought—for if so many are to die, someone has to do the killing; they didn’t all stab themselves in the chest and fall dead!

In Buddha’s time the population of India was twenty million. In Krishna’s time it was not more than ten million. Even today India’s population is seven hundred million. Even if all of India today stood in the field of Kurukshetra, it could not make up eighteen akshauhinis. And today the world’s population is four billion—of the whole world, today! If you stood every human being on earth in Kurukshetra, only then might 1.25 billion be killed.

And even then, how could so many stand in Kurukshetra—have you ever thought? Yes, if they were ants, that’s another matter; if mosquitoes and flies, that’s another matter. But if they were human beings, so many cannot stand there. And there were elephants, there were horses, there were chariots—and they too need room to move, not just to stand jammed, each wedged where he is, no way to turn, no way to go, no way to move! Even the corpses of 1.25 billion people could not be laid in Kurukshetra. The field is small. Leave a billion aside—you couldn’t stand even ten million there.

But no; people will go on believing—because it is written in scripture! Whatever is written, there is no difficulty in believing it.

You still give respect to people like Dronacharya! Even today the story of Ekalavya is read with great feeling and you praise Ekalavya—but you do not condemn Drona. Yet Drona should be condemned. Is this man fit to be a guru? He refused Ekalavya as a disciple because he was a shudra! And this is a guru of the Golden Age, a great guru! And look at the man’s dishonesty! First he refused him; later, when the boy made an image of him in the forest and, practicing before that image, became an archer, this guru went to claim his fee. Not a trace of shame! You did not even accept him as a disciple, and you went to take your dakshina from him! And what did you ask for as dakshina? His right thumb! Because this man was afraid that Ekalavya had become such a great archer that he might surpass his royal pupil Arjuna; that a shudra might outstrip the kshatriyas. This dishonest, scheming man you still call a guru—Dronacharya! Even today you call him Acharya! Just as you burn effigies of Ravana, you should be burning Dronacharya. What harm did Ravana do to you? Ravana harmed no one.

And even Ekalavya I cannot praise. When Drona came to demand his thumb, he should have shown it—there was no question of giving it. Was he young? He needn’t have beaten the man up, fine; he didn’t cut off his nose, fine. But at least he could have shown the thumb—shown it, not cut it off and given it!

And for centuries his praise has gone on. Even now in schools the lesson is taught: ah, we need disciples like Ekalavya! Who teaches this? Your teachers, gurus, lecturers, professors—they all teach it: we need disciples like Ekalavya! They are eager to cut off your thumb. If given the chance, they would cut off your head. Your pocket they cut anyway. And they go on praising! And you too—and still you claim you are young!

Have you ever condemned Rama? You have not. Then how are you young? He made a helpless woman, Sita, undergo a trial by fire—shameful in itself. If a trial was needed, both should have gone through it. You took the seven rounds, the wedding vows, together; then too both took them. And when the fire-trial came, only Sita. Why? Because Sita stayed in Lanka, so she lived apart from Rama. But Rama too lived apart from Sita. Some historians even suspect that Shabari was not an old woman at all, but a young woman. The story of her being old is phony. And that Rama ate the jujube fruits from her mouth—only a lover does that. Otherwise no one eats another’s leftovers, take it for certain. Yes, if there is love for a woman it is possible, if love for a man it is possible. In love one can eat each other’s leftovers; even enjoy feeding each other these leftovers. But in the Shabari episode as pictured in the Ramleela, she is shown as utterly old. Researchers say Shabari was not an old woman. Those who have investigated say she was young, beautiful.

So if one was to undergo a fire ordeal, Rama should have gone ahead and Sita behind. But there he accepted the principle of “ladies first”—you first. When you take the seven rounds, there is no “ladies first.” Then the brother goes ahead and pushes the lady behind, to teach a lifelong lesson: remain like this—we in front, you behind. Wherever we go, you follow! We the engine, you the carriage.

And what happened at the fire-trial? Why didn’t he say then: fine, I go first, you follow? Was there some fear—of getting scorched? Otherwise it would be quite disgraceful.

He made Sita pass through the fire. And even after the fire-trial, at the remark of a washerman he abandoned a pregnant Sita in the forest. Yet women raise no protest. Women should stop taking the name of Rama altogether. But they sit in Rama’s temples. No one chants “Rama-Rama” as devoutly as they do. Who knows what they have with Rama! What conduct of his supports them?

When Rama brought Sita back from Lanka, the very first thing he said was crude. He said: O woman, don’t think I fought this war for you. I fought for the honor of my lineage! What need was there to say such a crude thing? He was saying: a woman is property; who fights for a woman!

By comparison, Ravana behaved more nobly with Sita. He did her no violence, committed no rape. He hosted her respectfully in the most beautiful Ashok-vatika. No misconduct of any kind was done. Ravana did not perform a single indecent act. You burn Ravana—and worship Rama! And women most of all lead the worship!

Where are the young?

You carry the Vedas on your head, but never look into them to see what rubbish is inside! Ninety-nine percent rubbish. One percent are certainly jewels—pick those, but set fire to the trash.

There is so much garbage in your scriptures that if you were to open them and look you would be shocked: what should we do with these? Preserve them or drown them in the ocean? There are obscene stories, ludicrous characters—and they too are honored! Yudhishthira gambles, yet he’s “Dharmaraj”! He stakes a woman in the game—and still he’s “Dharmaraj”! And you still consider yourselves young.

Turn back and look at your past. You are glued to it.

Krishnatirth, where are the young? The young one is he who is free of the past. This is my definition. One who has no vested interest in the past. The young cannot be Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—because all these are boundaries of the past. The young will be free of all boundaries. The true young person will be neither Indian, nor Pakistani, nor Chinese, nor Japanese. The true young will proclaim the oneness of the whole earth: this entire earth is ours, and we belong to it. What is this—these little fragments! And then fragments within fragments, and further fragments within those. The young will proclaim indivisible consciousness. The young will live in the present. For him, today is everything, sufficient.

Some live in the past; and some, who have rebelled against the past, have begun to live in the future. As in Russia and China people live in the future. Their golden age lies ahead. One day communism will come! Some have a golden age that has gone by, some have one that will come someday. But today? Today both live in misery. The young one is he who transforms today; who lives today; who says: both yesterdays are meaningless. What has gone, has gone. What has not yet come, has not yet come. What is before me now—let me change it, let me live it—totally, wholly. Let me sprinkle gold on it. Let me turn this very earth into gold. The one who is adept in this alchemy is the young. I call the art of living in the present meditation.

You ask me: “What is your message for the young?”

Meditation is my message.

Change the century, or dam the river,
or join the torn threads of the mind—
Awaken, read the time.
Young ones! Awaken, read the time.

The dust has put on new adornment,
the flowers have drunk in sparks,
the earth has stretched again,
again the shehnai has begun to play—
Let this shehnai be heard at every village, at every door.
Awaken, read the time.
Young ones! Awaken, read the time.

A new story of a new land,
new priests, a new Bhavani,
the temple’s festivals are new,
the mind’s festoons are new—
The world looks on in wonder today at your greeting.
Awaken, read the time.
Young ones! Awaken, read the time.

Your garden is filled with peace,
the breeze of dawn calls out,
the sun is sending a message—
How can one sleep in such a season!
Princes of creation, bring spring into the fall.
Awaken, read the time.
Young ones! Awaken, read the time.

The one who is awake is the young. Then it makes no difference whether by age one is old or a child. Age is utterly irrelevant. One who is awake is young.

And when will you awaken if not in the present? For sleep there are two ways: sleep in the past or sleep in the future. For awakening there is only one way: awaken in the present. And the process too is only one: meditation, the state of witnessing.

Omprakash! There is a vast difference between a disciple and a follower—earth and sky. A follower is someone who wants to be a disciple and yet keeps saving himself; he keeps avoiding becoming a disciple, even though somewhere inside he is stirred, some strings of his heart-veena have been touched, some note has begun to arise—yet he panics and evades.

A follower is a coward. A follower means: I accept you, I respect you, I honor you—but I will not live you. No, the hour to live what you say has not yet come. What you say must be right; if you say it, how could it be wrong! It must be true. I don’t doubt, I believe—says the follower—but I still cannot live it, cannot walk it now. The path you indicate must lead to the goal. But I am not ready to walk it yet. I have other matters to settle first.

A follower is cunning. If he were to say plainly, “That path is wrong,” even that would be okay; if he said, “What you say is wrong,” that too would be okay—because someone who says you are wrong can be explained to, wrestled with, engaged in dialogue. But he is clever. He says: No, what you say is right. If you say it, it must be right. How could you be wrong? In this way he doesn’t want to enter into any dispute either, because he fears that too. He knows that in a debate he might get pulled under; it might turn out to be true; he might have to accept it, to say yes. So before any hassle grows, he says yes—an insincere yes. A follower is always phony. Christians, Hindus, Jains, Buddhists—these are followers; they are all inauthentic.

To be a disciple is something far greater. To be a disciple means: you have thought, understood, reflected, contemplated—and found it right. The moment you see it is true, you gather the courage to live accordingly. Then, whatever the stake, you will risk it. Then, this shore or the other—win or lose the game.

A follower is a shopkeeper; a disciple is a gambler. The follower moves by saving himself, cautiously, gingerly. For each inch he slides forward, he first checks carefully: Is there any profit in it? Only if there is profit—what if there is some loss!

People come to me and say: We want to take sannyas, but if we don’t wear the ochre clothes and the mala, would that be all right?

So I say: Then why do you want to take sannyas at all? You’re already a sannyasin. What frightens you about ochre clothes and a mala?

No, they say, people will come to know and they will create obstacles.

They want a cheap sannyas—so that people shouldn’t even find out. So much fear of people? Which people? It’s a very amusing world. Often it is the very same people who, because they fear you, aren’t taking sannyas—and you, because you fear them, aren’t taking sannyas.

Mulla Nasruddin was standing near a cremation ground—near a cemetery. Evening time. The sun had set; night was about to fall. And he saw some people arriving on horseback, with swords, with a band playing. He had just come from home, where he’d been reading a novel called The Bloody Claw, so scenes of danger were still dancing before his eyes. The Bloody Claw! He thought, surely enemies are coming. Who knows who they are, what the matter is! Still under the spell of The Bloody Claw, he thought it better to run and hide. He vaulted the wall. A grave had just been dug; the diggers had gone to fetch the dead man. He saw it and thought, I should lie down in this one. So quickly he lay down in that grave.

The wedding party, seeing a man standing there suddenly climb the wall and jump down, thought: Whoever he is, he must be an enemy, some mischief-maker—he might throw a bomb, create some trouble. So the procession stopped; the band fell silent.

Mulla’s breath stopped. He said to himself: They’ve come. My guess was right. The whole story of The Bloody Claw began to run through his mind—what will happen now, what not. But there was no way out now.

Those people too climbed the wall very slowly, cautiously. When he saw them climbing the wall, he thought: I’m done for! They are after me. In his mind he bid farewell to his wife and children: This is the end. They saw a living man lying in a grave holding his breath. He is up to mischief, intending some trouble. So they came very, very slowly. The slower they came, the more Mulla panicked. The more he panicked, the more he held his breath: Stay absolutely as if dead. If they see I am alive, they’ll hit me. Who hits the dead! If they see I’m dead, they’ll go away. So he lay there stiff, managing his limbs with great care—do dead bodies ever manage their limbs like that! Like someone standing at attention, he lay at attention, all rigid. They came and bent over to look. How long can one hold one’s breath? In the end he had to breathe. They too were startled when he inhaled. At first they were thinking perhaps he really was dead. When he breathed, they were shocked. One of them asked angrily: What are you doing here?

Mulla asked: That’s exactly what I want to ask you—what are you doing here?

They said: What are we doing here! We’re here because of you.

Mulla said: That’s the limit—I’m here because of you.

The people you fear are afraid of you. Husbands come to me and say: I want to take sannyas, but my wife! And wives come and say: I want to take sannyas, but my husband!

People live afraid of each other. What kind of society is this? Fear and only fear. So people think it is better to be a follower. A follower means: do nothing, change nothing; remain as you are. Just from time to time nod your head: Yes, yes.

Followers are yes-sirs, yes-your-command—nothing more than that. They will do nothing.

Mulla Nasruddin became a follower of a fakir. The fakir already suspected that the man didn’t seem to be of much substance, but he insisted so much that he said, All right. The very first night, as they were about to lie down, the fakir said to Mulla: Nasruddin, just go out and see whether water is falling—is it raining?

Nasruddin kept lying there. He said: There’s no need to go out. That cat has just come in from outside; she’s standing right by you—just feel her. If she’s wet, understand that it is raining; if she’s not wet, understand that it isn’t.

The master said: This is too much! Well, let it be. Still he said: At least go and see whether the outer door is latched or not.

Nasruddin said: What kind of talk is this! We are fakirs—whether the door is latched or not, it’s all the same. What do we have that anyone could take? If someone does wander in, in a scuffle something of his might get left behind; what of ours will he take? What do we have?

The master fell silent again. Nasruddin didn’t budge. Finally he said: Well, now it’s time to sleep—you at least blow out the lamp.

Nasruddin said: Gurudev, I’ve done two tasks; now you do one.

A follower means: do nothing—just talk. People take satsang to mean just talk. Don’t go beyond talk. So talk of Brahman—the world is maya, and so on, and so on. Every morning go, have the discussion, then come home. The same maya, the same world, the same ocean of becoming goes on. The next day again you go, again the satsang happens, again lofty talk, and again you come home. Life remains exactly the same; talk goes on above it.

This talk is dishonest; this talk is hypocritical. As for the people you find going to temples and mosques—you won’t find greater hypocrites anywhere. Hypocrites go there; hypocrites are found there; they are manufactured there. The whole mischief of hypocrisy is this: people learn fine things to say, and there is no harmony between their life and those words.

To be a disciple means: I will bring harmony between my life and my vision of life. I will live a musical, harmonious life. The vision I have will be the life I live. There will be no split between my life and my vision. My inner and my outer will be one. There won’t be two faces within me; there won’t be double standards. I won’t carry different masks. I will have a single face—the original face. I will live in my nakedness. I will live as I am. I will not throw a coverlet of God’s name over it. I will neither deceive nor be deceived.

To be a disciple is arduous, difficult—an austerity. To be a disciple means you don’t take truth as mere talk; it is a question of life and death—as if everything is at stake. Not mere curiosity, not idle inquisitiveness. People take metaphysical discussion to mean just that: empty curiosity, idle inquisitiveness.

People come to me: Is there a God or not?

I ask them: What business is it of yours? Do you have something to do with God? Some dispute? Are you going to file a case against him? If you meet him, what will you do?

No, they say, we just wanted to know whether he is or not.

Why bother? And what will you do if he is?

I was staying in a village. Two old men came to see me there—one was a Jain, the other a Hindu. Neighbors; old friends since childhood. Now grown old. They said: Our dispute has been going on all our lives. I say there is a God, he created the world. And this Jain says: there is no creator; existence runs by itself. The dispute never ends. We are close to death now, and still it stands where it was. Every day, on some pretext, it starts again. Since you have come, we thought we’d ask you: What’s the matter—is there a God or not?

I said: If there is a God, what will you do then?

They said: What is there to do!

And if there isn’t, what will you do?

They said: What is there to do!

I said: Then the best thing is to let your dispute go on. At least you have something to do in old age. If this matter gets settled, what will you do then? You’ll have to create another dispute. Let this one continue. It’s old. You’re practiced in it: you know all the arguments for God; he knows all the arguments against. And God has had no business with it either—otherwise, since you’ve been arguing for fifty years, he himself would have come and said, Brothers, why the hassle—I am!

And you say you won’t make any difference in your lives either way. If there is a God, will you live any differently? Is there any difference between the two of you in your living?

No, they said, what difference! We are partners; we run the same shop. As dishonest as he is, so am I. What difference is there!

What difference is there between a Jain and a Hindu? A Muslim and a Christian? None. All are living in the same way. Yes, they go to different temples, bow to different scriptures. There is no difference. These are followers. They have no intention of bringing any difference into life. They have no eagerness for revolution in life.

A disciple means one who is eager to be transformed; in whose life there is no longer intellectual itch, but who truly wants to know what is—and whatever price has to be paid, he is ready to pay it. If life itself has to be given up to find truth, he is ready to give it up. Only then does one become a disciple.

To be a disciple is for a very few fortunate ones—a few courageous ones. One should say: audacious ones. Only such people can be disciples.

The literal meaning of shishya is: one who is eager to learn, ready to learn. A pundit cannot learn—he already sits as the learned. Readiness to learn means one who has accepted before himself: I know nothing; I am ignorant! Only such a one can be a disciple. The moment one admits, I am ignorant, the ego dies instantly—and only on the death of the ego does the flower of discipleship blossom.

Siddharth! In poetry there is only a glimpse; the truth itself is not there. The poet has no realization of truth, no direct encounter with it. But he does get a glimpse. A glimpse—as when the moon is reflected in a lake and someone sees the moon in the lake. It is the moon’s reflection, but seen in water. Toss in a small pebble and the reflection scatters, breaks, fragments. Such is poetry—only a glimpse.

That is why even those who give birth to the most beautiful poetry live just like ordinary people—often worse than ordinary.

If you read Khalil Gibran—how lovely the sayings! What wondrous poetry! Each word as if dipped in honey; each word seems a chalice of nectar. Certainly the words are delightful, bearing the very color and cadence you find in Jesus’ sayings in the Bible. But if you were to meet Khalil Gibran, you would be in difficulty; you would not be able to reconcile the two—Khalil Gibran’s extraordinary book The Prophet and the man himself. Gibran says such amazing things about love, and yet in life he was a very angry man, wrathful—furiously so! At the smallest matter he would start throwing things—hurling books, breaking chairs. Those who lived with him, who knew him closely, were amazed: these are two different persons. When he writes, it is as if pearls are showering. When a poetic wave takes him, his words are more delicate than flowers, more precious than diamonds—the Koh-i-Noor would pale beside them. And his life? Utter rubbish—very ordinary, very jealous, intent on possessing others, deeply egoistic.

And this is not only about Khalil Gibran; it is true of most of your poets—even the great ones. So I say: if a poet’s poems charm you, do not meet the poet; otherwise the flavor of the poems will be lost. In his poems there may be the fragrance of the Upanishads. But if you meet the poet—there he is, sitting in front of some dingy hotel, flies buzzing over his face, smoking a bidi. Your stomach will turn. You will not be able to fathom how those Upanishad-like words could have been born from this fly-buzzed visage, this stale hotel, this bidi-smoking “maharaj”!

A poet is a seer only once in a while—just in certain moments. And it is not in his control. Some accidental happening gives him a lift. The full moon is in the sky, and on seeing it something happens within the poet—as if a lamp is lit. Or the sun is setting, birds are returning to their nests, their calls ring out, golden hues spread across the clouds—and within the poet something stirs—a sequence, a chain; songs begin to form. But he is not the master of it. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. When it doesn’t, he can try a thousand tricks—sit at the table, bang his head, hold the pen—nothing will come. And when it comes, it flows so abundantly the pen lags behind; so much comes that he cannot even put it all into words.

In the poet’s life this event does not occur by his own mastery; in the seer’s life it does. Its cause is not sunset, nor moon, nor birdsong. In the seer, it happens through meditation. Meditation makes him pure, tranquil, silent. He is silent twenty-four hours a day. Therefore wherever his eyes fall, there is a vision of the divine, the grace of the divine. If a seer sings, in his songs there is not merely a glimpse, there is experience. If a seer speaks, his words carry authenticity—self-evident authenticity; his words are the utterance of one who knows.

A poet too sometimes speaks such words—but he himself does not know who made him speak them. When a seer speaks, he knows who is speaking through him. Consciously he has surrendered himself into God’s hands—God flows through him. The poet is unconscious.

Hence you will often find poets drinking, taking opium, indulging in ganja, bhang, charas—poets for centuries have had a taste for all kinds of intoxicants. Why? For one reason only: poetry arises in the poet out of his unconsciousness; the more he is unconscious, the greater the possibility that poetry will express itself.

The seer’s process is exactly the opposite. The more aware he is, the more God flows through him. That is why all seers have opposed intoxicants: do not make yourself unconscious. Awareness has to be awakened.

Understand the difference.

From seers too poetry descends—the Upanishads descended, the Gita descended, the Dhammapada descended—but they descended out of awareness. From poets too many wondrous utterances have descended—but they descended out of their unconsciousness. There is a drunkenness of awareness—you are ecstatic yet you do not lose consciousness. And there is a drunkenness of unconsciousness—you are ecstatic because you are unconscious; the moment awareness returns, the ecstasy is gone. The intoxication of unconsciousness has no value; the intoxication of awareness has value.

As much as was ever said
by memories—by images,
by dream-filled eyes,
that I have given—all of it—
to my poetry.

As much as was ever received
from scent-drunk clouds,
from silence-enraptured anklets,
that I have given—all of it—
to my poetry.

As much as I ever drank
of the color and form of flowers,
of the song and scent of the riverbanks,
that I have given—all of it—
to my poetry.

But what I did not receive
in the darkness,
in the weariness of searching,
that I did not give
to my poetry.

A poet can only give what he has received. What he himself has not received—how can he give it? The poet does not know God; he does not even know himself. He has not encountered his own self. So whatever he has received…

As much as was ever said
by memories—by images,
by dream-filled eyes,
that I have given—all of it—
to my poetry.

As much as was ever received
from scent-drunk clouds,
from silence-enraptured anklets,
that I have given—all of it—
to my poetry.

As much as I ever drank
of the color and form of flowers,
of the song and scent of the riverbanks,
that I have given—all of it—
to my poetry.

But what I did not receive
in the darkness,
in the weariness of searching,
that I did not give
to my poetry.

How will the poet give what he himself has not received? First attain; then sharing happens. The poet is distributing what he has not found. Therefore there are only words. He can craft beautiful words, arrange them beautifully, string garlands of words—lovely garlands! But they will be without life, without breath. There will be language, style, meter—but no life, no essence, no presence of the divine.

Saint Maharaj! At least not today—it’s the first of April! Any day but today, as you please.
Have you seen those signs: “Cash today, credit tomorrow”? Flip it—“Credit today, cash tomorrow.” Just get through today. If saintliness starts descending today, fold your hands and say, “No, no,” because even if it happens today, no one will believe it.
Have you ever heard of anyone attaining Buddhahood on April First? Not yet. Unless you’re set on proving an exception—then that’s different. Don’t panic: the tail has slipped out; the elephant had already passed—only the tail was left, and that too has gone. Now don’t worry. When it has to happen, it will happen. Drop the fretting and fuss.
And for today, just pull a sheet over yourself and go to sleep. Bolt the door from the inside. However much God knocks, say, “Tomorrow! Not today, brother.” Today we are not going to be Buddha. Today, a fool will do!

Sahajanand! Two false jokes.

First—
After the Vedanta Satsang Mandal meeting there was a community meal. Everyone present was a toothless old man. That’s what a Vedanta satsang amounts to. Among them was Shri Morarji Bhai Desai as well, who has remained only a bhai—just “brother”; the jaan, the “life,” has gone out of him. So don’t mistakenly call him bhaijaan—just call him bhai; where is the jaan now!

Because of one incident he became the special attraction that day. It happened that when the person serving asked him, “Would you like a little more parmal curry?” Shri Morarji Bhai suddenly sprang to life—meaning, he flared up in a rage. Eyes blazing, he said, “Aren’t you ashamed, you scoundrel? You talk such filthy things to me!”

The server was dumbfounded. He thought the former prime minister was joking. It was the first of April; perhaps he was making an April fool of him. He again said politely, “At least taste it, sir. It’s a very tasty parmal curry.”

Hearing this, Morarji Bhai’s blood boiled. He kicked his plate. The clatter startled everyone. Morarji Bhai shouted, “Bastard, even insolence has its limits! In a full assembly you insult me! You forget your place! Don’t you know who I used to be?”

All the Vedantins in the satsang pressed their fingers to their gums in astonishment. No one could make out what had happened, what he was so furious about. When someone asked, Morarji Bhai explained: “This loafer is making a mockery of me. He tells me to eat tasty par-mal. The wretch! Is the taste of my own mal so bitter that I should go around eating any Tom, Dick, or Harry’s mal? I eat atma-mal—my own—why would I eat par-mal, others’!”

And the second false joke—
I have heard that poor Charan Singh, ever since he was unseated, has been getting angry at every little thing. Say something, and he hears something else. One afternoon some journalists came to meet him. When they entered the room, the former prime minister was resting on a lounge chair—sad, eyes closed. Seeing this, one journalist asked out of politeness, “Excuse me, sir, are you relaxing?”

Hearing this, he flushed with anger and said, “You ingrates! Four days ago you circled around me, massaged my feet, and now you don’t even recognize me! You ask, ‘Are you Relaxing?’ Damn it, I am not Relaxing, I am Charan Singh. Have you forgotten even my name?”

Enough for today.