Ram Duware Jo Mare #10

Yog Pritam! That song is neither yours nor another’s. In the realm of that song there is no “I” and no “you.” You have to let go of “you,” and you have to let go of “I” as well. That song rises out of the void; there, neither I nor you exists. It is not Krishna’s song or Christ’s, not Mahavira’s or Mohammed’s; it is not mine or yours. The realization of that song, its very manifestation, is right where “I” and “you” have ended. As long as the mind carries the infatuation, “I will sing my song, it must be mine,” you will not be able to sing. You will keep missing. That very ego will lead you astray.

Other than ego, there is no distraction. Between you and the Divine, there is no obstacle except you. Let the “you” go, and let the “I” go. There is One within you who fits into neither I nor you. Recognize that, the one beyond duality—then only songs pour and pour; then lotuses only bloom and bloom; then there is only fragrance—the fragrance of the eternal, of the nectar. It has no beginning, no end. That song is the Bhagavad Song. Whenever God has sung, He has sung through those who disappeared. God has descended, many times He has descended—but only into those who wiped away their “selfness.” A tiny attachment still grips you. The wall is thin—not iron, but glass, transparent; you can see through it, the wall itself is not seen—hence such entanglement with “I.” Because it is unseen, we remain enclosed by it. If it were visible, we would break it; if we could grasp it, we would drop it. It can’t be seized by the hand, and yet it surrounds us.

Now, what you have said is endearing. The longing is beautiful, the aspiration exalted…what could be more exalted than this yearning? This is prayer. This is worship; this is offering. You have asked rightly. Only, you have slipped a little—and in the Divine’s domain, to miss by an inch becomes an infinite distance. There a hair’s breadth off and you are badly off. The weight and measure there are different; the scales there are not like ours.

There is a famous story. A man knocked on heaven’s gate. All his life he had given in charity; he had built temples and dharmashalas, given water to the thirsty, bread to the hungry, poured out wealth at the pilgrim places, performed yajnas and havans—his whole life had been a journey of religiosity. Naturally he was puffed up, filled with self-importance. When he knocked, there was ego in the knock. The gate opened; the gatekeeper looked him up and down and said, “You knock at heaven’s door—what have you earned? What merit have you brought? What qualification?” He said, “I have given crores upon crores in charity.” He recited the whole list—so many temples, so many dharmashalas, hospitals, schools, widows’ homes, old-age homes… The angel smiled and said, “Perhaps you do not know: what is a crore in your world is a cowrie here. What looks big there is a trifle here—an atom’s worth. The measures here are different, the scales here are different. In your world, millions of years pass; here, a moment passes.” Religious he was only in name; in truth he was a businessman—he had done religion as a transaction, a trade with the beyond. Naturally, he would not accept easily. He said, “If in my world crores are cowries here, then lend me four cowries for a while.” The angel said, “Wait a minute.”

Do you understand? A minute! Where one cowrie equals a crore—then what is one minute worth? An eternity passed; the man still waits, those four cowries have not come. Perhaps they never will.

In this world—the world of mind, of mathematics and logic—what seems right becomes wrong in the world of meditation, of love. What appears a support here becomes a hindrance there; what is a ladder here is an obstacle there; what is a bridge here becomes a detour there.

What you have said is lovely, Pritam! You are a lovely person—that is why I gave you the name Yog Pritam. Beautiful feelings are born within you. You are a poet, poetry flows inside you. You have the capacity to be a rishi. Poet means precisely this: the capacity to become a seer is present. The poet is the seed; the rishi is the same seed become a tree, in full spring, flowers blossoming. There is great potential in you. But remember: a seed is not a flower. A seed can become a flower—or it can miss. And sometimes a tiny thing causes the miss. A little pebble can fall shielding the seed—and that’s enough to ruin it.

Jesus said: When a sower sows, some seed falls upon rock. Those were as much seed as the others, but they fell upon stone—there they remain stone; they never sprout. The potential was there, but the potential suffered abortion. Some seed falls on the path; it sprouts perhaps, but the path is trodden day and night—sprouts get crushed underfoot and die. They too do not reach flowering. Some seed falls on the field’s bunds; there it may sprout and even become a plant—the bunds are not walked as much, but sometimes someone passes; the farmer goes by, his wife brings food. Even that is enough to kill the plants. On the bunds they won’t survive; they die becoming plants, just short of flowering. The destination remains two steps away and death surrounds them. And then, Jesus said, some seed falls into the field, into fertile soil—no rock, no path, no bunds. Those are fortunate seeds; they will bloom, their fragrance will spread, they will become trees, they will dance with the winds as Meera danced, as Chaitanya danced; they will hum with the breeze as Nanak sang, as Kabir sang, as Maluk sang; they will converse with moon and stars. They will have a musical, rhythmic rapport with existence. They will no longer remain virgins; they will be wedded to the Divine; they will circumambulate the sacred fire. But all were seeds—those on rock, those on path, those on bunds, those in field—all alike seed.

The poet is kept from becoming a rishi by ego. And no one carries as much ego as poets and litterateurs. See how viciously they quarrel, how they criticize each other—perhaps no other tribe does it so. Poets make arenas—politics, conflict, strife. None is ready to acknowledge the other. Each poet worships his own ego. He could have become a rishi, but he keeps missing. The seed is not reaching the field; it keeps landing on rock.

Yog Pritam, you have capacity, great capacity. You have a poet’s heart. What greater good fortune? But always remember: the greater the fortune, the more peril walks beside it. The higher you climb, the more carefully you must walk—because the fall is from that height. Those walking on level ground do not fear falling. People do not fall from royal roads; they fall from peaks. Hence we have the term “yog-bhrashta”—fallen from yoga. Have you ever heard “bhog-bhrashta”—fallen from indulgence? Where would you fall from there? Can one fall from hell? If one fell from hell, where could he go? People fall from heaven. They fall from heights. Beasts and birds do not fall; only man falls—because man alone can walk the crest, soar in the sky. And the higher you fly, the greater the danger your wings may burn. All the more careful, all the more alert you must be.

Poetry is the highest of flights. What is poetry? The outpouring of the heart. In my vision, poetry is an indispensable step toward religion. One who is not a poet will not be able to be religious. But by poet I don’t mean one who merely writes verse. Many are only rhymers who write “poems” but are not poets—ninety-nine out of a hundred are mere versifiers. Collecting words is not poetry. Buddha wrote not a single poem, yet I would call him a Mahakavi, a great poet—because poetry is an inner vision, a way of seeing. The art of seeing life through eyes of beauty is poetry. To know life not by logic but by love is poetry. The search for truth with the heart is poetry.

Truth can be sought in two ways: by logic, mind, thinking; and by feeling, experience—by working out equations, or by humming in intoxication. Those who have calculated have never reached the Truth; at most they reach facts, not Truth. That is the difference between fact and Truth. A fact seems true today; tomorrow, with more research, it may no longer seem so. Hence science changes every day. What was truth for Newton was not truth for Eddington; what was truth for Eddington was not for Einstein; and what was truth for Einstein will not remain so ahead. In science there are facts that change. As exploration proceeds, new findings force us to rearrange old facts. But what Buddha knew is Truth—still as it was, just as fresh, not stale in the least. Dust never settles on it. However much investigation there is, it remains unaltered.

Facts are outer; Truth is inner. Facts are extrovert; Truth is introvert. Facts pertain to matter; Truth pertains to consciousness. Facts are worldly; Truth is spiritual. Spiritual truths are forever the same, eternal; ancient and brand-new—that is their paradox. The art of knowing these truths is poetry. But if ego comes in between, the seed remains a seed; you will not reach the flower.

Let this go: “I have to sing a song; the Divine’s song must be sung—what mine, what yours?” If you remain caught in I-and-you, you draw a Lakshman-line around yourself with your own hand. To step out becomes difficult. One who remains caught in I-and-you never matures—he remains childish. There is nothing more childish than the “I.” Childish, because by clutching the “I” we are missing an immense treasure. We hold to “I” and miss God—what greater foolishness could there be? And the “I” is utterly hollow—utterly false; the greatest untruth. The “I” does not exist. Those who have searched have not found it. Yes, those who never searched, who merely assumed it—that is another matter.

Search within: you will not find the “I” anywhere. The more you search, the less you find. The day the search is complete, you discover: there is no “I.” And in that absence of “I,” what is experienced is God. Then song arises—the Divine’s song. You become a bamboo reed. Yog Pritam, become a hollow reed—empty. Let His songs flow through you. Only don’t obstruct; that is enough. Don’t come in between—more than enough. If He wants to sing, whatever He wants to sing, let it hum through you. Do not put your stoppages. Your obstruction will become the hurdle.

Whenever Rabindranath wrote songs, he would close doors and windows—sometimes for a day, two days, three days—no concern for food or bath. His wife worried, family worried, disciples worried. But his injunction was: “When I shut my door, no one is to knock. When the song has fully descended, I myself will open and come out. Don’t worry about my hunger and thirst.” Someone asked him, “Why the need to shut the door?” Rabindranath said, “If the other is present—if a ‘you’ is present—then the ‘I’ doesn’t dissolve. I and you stand together. In another’s presence, I too becomes present. So to erase utterly the presence of the other, I shut the doors, so that I too may dissolve. Let there be no obstacle; let it flow as it wants. I don’t compose; I merely transcribe what is being hummed. I do not interfere—neither adding nor subtracting of my own.”

That is why Rabindranath’s songs carry the sap of the Upanishads; in them is the majesty of the Quran, the very heights of Buddha’s utterances. Rabindranath has not been rightly understood; otherwise we would have called him a rishi. We were content to call him a poet, a great poet—our error, our loss.

Rabindranath translated Gitanjali into English. He was somewhat hesitant—it was a foreign tongue; and translating poetry is difficult. Prose can be translated; verse rarely—each language has its own cadence, color, poetic idiom that does not transfer. The gestures of feeling, the meter—these do not cross over. So he sought advice. C. F. Andrews was asked to check if there were any errors. Andrews pointed to four mistakes—grammatical slips. Rabindranath instantly corrected them as suggested.

When he read the English Gitanjali to a small gathering of poets in London for the first time, something happened that stunned him: W. B. Yeats stood up and said, “All is fine, but at four places it feels as though the flow is blocked—as if a stone has fallen in the stream. At those four places the words do not seem those of a poet—perhaps of a grammarian.” And the four places were exactly those which Andrews had changed. Rabindranath said, “But my words were wrong grammatically.” Yeats said, “To hell with grammar—what has poetry to do with grammar? Poetry breaks all proprieties. Poetry is not Lord Rama, bound by decorum; poetry is Krishna—beyond propriety.” Rabindranath recited the original phrases he had used. Yeats at once agreed, “These are right. I know they are incorrect grammatically, but what is incorrect for grammar need not be incorrect for poetry. These have flow. There is no pedantry in them—but there is love. And where there is love, there is poetry. Where there is naturalness, there is poetry.”

Yog Pritam, you are a poet; your potential is great. But drop one thing: the sense of “I.” Let it fall. Then you will find the Upanishads are yours, the Quran is yours; what I am saying is also yours. What is mine, after all? “Nothing of ‘mine’ is in me.”

You say:
“One more song I must sing,
one more stanza I must hum.”

Not one—countless stanzas will hum; not one—thousands of songs will be sung. Only bind yourself aside.

You say:
“The true song is the one that,
in swelling joy,
our own throats have sung.”

Are you mad? All throats are His. Whose throat here is “own”? And when the blue-throated One Himself is willing to sing, why thrust your throat in between?

You say, “The true song is the one our own throats have sung in swelling joy.”
Let the swelling joy be—swell to the brim—but the one obstacle in that swelling will be your own throat. It will make everything out of tune; the meter will snap.

You say:
“The true feeling is the one that,
in rising surges,
comes from our very life-breath.”

True—feelings that arise in surges, spontaneously, are true—like leaves and flowers arise on trees. But what is “life-breath”? Life-breath is but another name for God. Do not add the condition of “I.” Drop this condition, and the poet becomes a rishi—and only then is there joy in swelling, joy in dancing in surges.

You say:
“What use are others’ harmonies?
I must come to my own scale.”

Wherever there is harmony, there is neither other nor own. When Coleridge died, forty thousand unfinished poems were found in his house—forty thousand! All his life his friends asked why he left them unfinished—some lacking just a line to complete. Coleridge would say, “I will not add it. The One who sang so many lines—when His will is to add the last one, then I will add it. He stopped there; I too stop there. I am just a vehicle. He calls—I echo. I am a mirror: when He stands before me, His image appears; when He moves away, the image fades. I will not complete it.” He finished only seven poems—but seven were enough to make him a great poet. And that feeling of his places him among the seers. He added no line from himself; he brought in no “own” harmony in between.

That is why we do not know who sang the Upanishads—because those who sang did not sign! The Quran was sung through Mohammed—but Mohammed did not say, “I composed this.” The Composer is He; the Singer is He. Blessed am I that He used me as an instrument, that He mounted me, that I became possessed by Him. When for the first time Mohammed was possessed by the Divine, he was terrified—naturally. As if an ocean entered a drop—would the drop not panic? As if your courtyard suddenly contains the whole sky and the stars begin to dance—would you not be afraid?

When the first ayah descended upon Mohammed, do you know? The story is endearing—the story of all seers. The first proclamation that came was: “Sing—recite!” The word Quran means: recite, sing. Mohammed said, “I do not know how to sing, nor hum; I have never sung or hummed. I am unlettered.” He could not read or write. Frightened, trembling—“Who is this voice saying, ‘Sing, hum’?” Again the voice rose within: “Do not worry—sing, recite! Give way, make the path!” And he saw a miracle: someone was singing through his lips, humming through his throat; words were descending that he had never thought or pondered.

He ran home. He told no one else—thinking people would deem him mad. “Who says inside, ‘Sing, hum,’ and compels you?” Mohammed says, “I do not know singing, I do not know humming; I cannot read, I am utterly uneducated, rustic—choose some scholar.” But God never chooses pundits. He has not made that mistake yet, nor is He likely to. He cannot choose a great scholar, for the scholar would say to God, “Keep quiet! I will sing. What You are saying has grammatical errors; this differs from the Vedas; this does not fit my commentary—I cannot accept it!” The scholar would raise a thousand obstacles. Therefore God chose Kabir, Nanak, Malukdas, Mohammed, Jesus—those with no connection to pedantry. Kabir said, “I never touched paper or ink.” How then did it happen? Kabir himself answers: “Now I understand why. Because this matter is of seeing—not writing. Had it been of writing, I could never have grasped it.”

Mohammed came home and said to his wife, “Quick, bring a blanket; cover me.” He was trembling. She asked, “What has happened?” He said, “Either I have gone mad—or I have become a poet.” He used two words: either mad or poet. The truth is, they mean the same. No one becomes a poet without a touch of madness; and no one can be a poet without going a little mad.

Yog Pritam, you say:
“Dear are—very dear are the songs,
these nectar-drenched songs of Yours;
I lay myself at their feet—
but my songs are still virginal;
their wedding too must now be arranged;
only the instrument of my life-breath has to be played.”

Do not take my words as if they belong to someone else. They are yours—they are everyone’s. I am merely giving voice to your own songs. What lies asleep in you, I wake and give voice. I call out. What you have not said, I say; what you will one day say, I am saying today. I am your future. But I am not other than you. And what is “mine” in me?

“Until that Guest arrives
I will wave the lamp of my tears;
until I meet the ocean
I will call out, as the pain of my own stream;
I have to smoulder in my own fire;
I must awaken love in my depths.”

On the surface this seems perfectly right. But go a little within—you will find this is precisely why hindrance persists. He alone is; there is none other than He.

I tell you again and again: Wake up! But I am not saying that when you wake you will find that you are. When you awaken, you will find you are not. These are the statements of sleep, seen in sleep—dreams. This “I” is a dream. And in a dream, whatever you understand will be wrong.

A little school was staging a play. Small children performing. Annual day. The teacher had prepared them: a classroom scene—teacher in front, students before him, asking questions. To make it realistic, he told the backbenchers, “Don’t sit quiet—keep whispering.” The curtain rose. The teacher began to teach—and then, to his amazement, all the boys in the back began to chant aloud: “Whisper-whisper, whisper-whisper!” The whole play was ruined. The audience burst out laughing. Poor little children—told “whisper,” they began to say “whisper” out loud.

I too say to you: Wake up. But don’t begin to chant “wake up!” You have started whispering. You think I’m saying: You—the “you”—wake up. I have said to you repeatedly: Drop second-hand knowledge. And you start whispering again!

You say: What use are others’ songs?
On the surface your words sound just like mine; inside they have shifted. In your words, ego has crept in. That is the slip. Correct that much and all will be set right.

You say:
“Grant me such a boon, O God,
that, lost, I may return to my home.”

I am giving you the boon every moment. I am a boon. There is nothing to give. Boons are given by those who also curse. I give only blessings. My very being is a blessing. And in it, nothing is “mine”—I must repeat this, otherwise you will start whispering. I am forced to use language; the word “I” has to be used, your language is built around it—without it, speech will not proceed; if I avoid it, difficulties arise. Swami Ramtirtha would not use the word “I.” But what difference did it make? It produced more trouble. If he was thirsty, he would say, “Ram is thirsty.” In a new place, people would look around: “Who is Ram?” He would say, “Ram—meaning me.” That is an even more roundabout way of grabbing the ear! He could have simply said, “I am thirsty.” First he says, “Ram is thirsty”; then someone asks, “Who is Ram?” and he has to bring in the “I” anyway. Social convention: the whole language is practical.

I am bestowing the boon—but you do not receive it. To receive a boon, courage is needed—great courage! You must dare to disappear; only then can you receive it.

You say:
“Grant me such a boon, O God,
that, lost, I may return to my home.”

When did you leave home? Understand my predicament: I see you sitting at home, and you ask for a boon to return home! Should I join you in whisper-whisper? You never went anywhere—no one did. You are where you ought to be. You only fell asleep.

A man got drunk, then set out to find his home. Even drunk, by habit he reached it—turned where he must, arrived at the door. He knocked. His mother opened. He did not recognize the old lady. He fell at her feet: “O mother, where is my home? Take me to my home. You must know. I live somewhere in this very neighborhood.” She said, “My son, what has happened to you? This is your home; I am your mother—and you call me ‘mother-lady’!” He said, “No, no—don’t try to fool me. Tell me my home.” He wept; tears flowed. Neighbors gathered, explained with logic: “This is your home, madman—look carefully!” If he could look carefully, he would have seen by himself. He could not hear, could not grasp. Just then another friend, also drunk, came along. He said, “Wait—I’ll hitch up my bullock cart. Sit in it—I’ll take you to your home.” The drunk said, “That sounds reasonable.”

You are in your home. Beware of those who try to carry you there—they will mislead you. They have misled you enough. One made you a Hindu—that’s one kind of cart; one made you a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain, a Buddhist—carts of many colors. Some with horses, some with oxen—and each claims only his cart can take you there—and all will mislead you. “Come, sit in our cart”—and you are disgraced in the marketplace; one pulls your hand, another your leg: “Come here,” “Go there.” Someone grabs your leg and makes you Christian; someone takes your hand and makes you Hindu; someone seizes your head and makes you Jain. You think you are one thing, but today your pieces are scattered. If you look carefully, you will find one part of you is Hindu, one Christian, one Muslim, one Buddhist—everything mixed. Never before was man in such a plight. Once at least people sat in one cart; now they sit in many at once. “Allah-Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan”—now only God can help; may He give good sense! You have boarded every boat; you are mounted upon who knows how many horses.

No carts are needed, no boats, no horses. Where you are, there is God. Without Him you cannot be. He is your life-breath, your ground. So you do not have to go anywhere, Yog Pritam—you have to wake up. Right where you are, wake up. Shake yourself a little.

You say:
“Do something, O my Master,
that I may find my Beloved.”

The Friend is already found—He sits within you. And this is why I can tell you, Yog Pritam: if only you can hear me after brushing aside the fog of mind, the layers of thought and borrowed knowledge, there is no possibility of your leaving this life empty. You will be filled—you are already full. Only recognition is needed—remembrance, recollection.

You say:
“Those hours of the Supreme Celebration—
I must not return without having sung them.”

There is no need to go back unsung. But you have been born many times and have returned unsung many times. Repetition becomes habit. We mechanically repeat the same old mistakes—we do not even invent new ones.

There is no reason the song should remain unsung. No reason you should not awake. Awakening is your possibility—your nature, your very privacy. My blessings are available. I am doing what I can—and I do not worry whether you like it or not. When do sleepers like being awakened? They feel hurt. And if he is in the midst of a sweet dream, he feels very hurt. In his dream he is digging a mountain of gold, an emperor—when in fact a beggar—and you wake him: he becomes your enemy. This is why Buddhas were stoned, Jesus crucified, Mansoor’s limbs severed, Socrates forced to drink poison. Who did this? People like us—but asleep. You wake them against their will.

One good thing: you yourself ask me to wake you, to do something. Remember then, if I act—do not run away. At first what I do will not please you. That is why I am showered with abuse—and will be. If you wake sleepers, be ready to be abused. If you don’t want their abuse, sing them lullabies—deepen their sleep. That is what your so-called saints do—whether Acharya Tulsi among Jains, or the Shankaracharya of Puri, or Imam Bukhari of Jama Masjid—it makes no difference; their work is one: sing lullabies. People are asleep; make their sleep more comfortable. If their cover slips, tuck it back in. If their sleep is about to break, give them another sedative. Keep them asleep. Their sleep profits the pundits: as long as you sleep, your pockets can be picked; you can be exploited; you remain helpless, dependent.

My effort is to wake you—and the greatest turmoil in waking is that you yourself will be angry.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife woke him early one morning. At night he had said, “Wake me early—six o’clock; I have to catch a train to Bombay.” She woke him at six. He sprang up, furious: “Wretch! Is this a time to wake me?” She said, “You yourself said so. Aren’t you going to Bombay?” Mulla said, “To hell with Bombay! One must think before waking a man!” He pulled the blanket over his head, lay down, muttering. Wives listen closely when husbands mutter. She leaned in. Under the blanket Mulla was saying, “All right, ninety-nine then.” She snatched off the blanket: “What is this? What ninety-nine?” Mulla said, “You’ve ruined everything. I was seeing an angel in a dream who said, ‘Ask for whatever you want.’ I asked for a hundred rupees. He said, ‘Not a hundred—take ninety.’ Our bargaining was on; he was a miserly angel. He said, ‘Take ninety-one; ninety-two; ninety-three…’ And I wasn’t born yesterday. Just then you woke me! I was about to say, ‘All right, ninety-nine’—the deal was about to close. Now even if I shut my eyes, the angel doesn’t appear. I say, ‘If not ninety-nine, give ninety-eight—okay, your ninety!’ Give something. But the angel is missing!”

People are dreaming. They aren’t merely asleep.

It may surprise you that modern psychology has probed sleep deeply—and its most important discovery is that dream is not the enemy of sleep but its ally. Commonly people think dreams spoil sleep. They are mistaken. Research says the opposite—and I agree. Dreams protect sleep. At night you feel hunger—say it’s the Jain Paryushan fast; you have kept a fast through the day; somehow you passed time in the temple, listened to the monk’s discourse. He too spoke to forget his hunger; you sat to forget yours, nodding; you saved your dignity, he his. In company you braced yourself. But at night you must return home—and in sleep it becomes hard. Scriptures and doctrines don’t work then; the body demands. Somehow you managed all day; in sleep the belly rumbles, the fire burns. Because of that hunger, you would not sleep. The mind produces a dream: “What need to stay hungry? You are invited to a royal banquet—fifty-six delicacies await.” People who want to enjoy fifty-six delicacies in sleep fast by day. Otherwise, who has time? In the dream you feast; you deceive yourself; and then you roll over and sleep peacefully—meal done; what’s the worry? Dreaming has deceived the body. Otherwise sleep would break. Dreams are sleep’s security.

Hence psychologists analyze dreams—to see where your life lacks. What you lack, you dream. Dreams reveal what you hide from the world. Gandhi wrote in his autobiography: “By day I manage to remain celibate; by night in dreams I cannot. Lustful images arise.” Dreams tell the truer tale: what is suppressed by day breaks loose by night, because the suppressor sleeps. You cannot stand guard twenty-four hours. By day, somehow; at night the guard sleeps—and what you repressed by day emerges. Your dreams reveal what you repress—the root of your ailment.

Dreams guard sleep. And when you wake someone, his dreams will break; his sleep will break. Sleep takes one beyond worries; life has many anxieties and pains; in sleep all is forgotten. Beggars become emperors; losers become winners; the weak become strong; the ugly become beautiful; the lame climb mountains—but only in dreams. If you break such dreams, of course people are angry—they want you to sing lullabies and deepen their sleep.

Yog Pritam, I am ready to break your sleep. My blessings can only do that. But your dreams will also have to break. You too will be angry with me many times. This happens here every day. Even my sannyasins get angry when their cherished beliefs are touched. As long as I agree with their notions, all is well. When I don’t, they are angry—because it means their sleep is breaking; I am going against their habits and fixed patterns. You walk along with me only in thought; you hear only what suits you, what does not disturb your sleep; the rest you push aside.

People come to me and say, “We agree with so many of your points—but not with these others.” Let me tell you: either you agree with me wholly, or you do not agree at all. There can be no bargain, no compromise. What I say is an organic whole; all its threads are connected. If you say, “We agree to this much, not that,” it will not work. Either wholly yes or wholly no.

My blessing is to wake you. But gather courage to awaken. Dreams will break; perhaps your sleep is sweet—but it must be broken. Truth is very bitter at first. Buddha said: the false is sweet at first and bitter later; truth is bitter at first and sweet later. That is why people quickly accept the false—who embraces bitterness at the outset? But the willingness to endure that first bitterness—that is sadhana, tapascharya, yoga, the drinking of truth’s bitterness—only then does great sweetness arise within. I assure you, Yog Pritam, revolution can happen in this very life. But not by my blessings alone—you must be willing to walk with me.

And tiny things create big obstacles. People come and say, “We want to take sannyas, but we will not wear the saffron robe, will not wear the mala.” That is like going to a doctor: “We want treatment, but we won’t take your medicine.” Why bother then—and why bother the doctor? If you won’t take the medicine… And this is only the beginning—the saffron robe. I know well a robe will not give you God, a mala will not deliver you. But they have a purpose—they are my way of holding your finger; when the finger is in the hand, the whole hand can come. It is my way of receiving your consent: that if you have to be taken as a “madman” with me, you are willing. It is a deliberate craziness: I dress you in saffron, put a mala on your neck—wherever you go, there will be trouble. If you are not ready to bear even this little—people will laugh, slander, oppose—if you cannot endure this, what will you do when the steeper climbs come?

Yog Pritam, show your readiness to receive blessing—hold out your bowl. Your “I” is not letting you hold it out. Blessings are raining—and your pitcher is empty because you keep it upside down. Turn it upright. I am ready to pour the ocean into your cup. It can happen in this very life—why “this life”? It can happen today; now; here. With God there is no need to defer to the future—no need to postpone. It can be today. The delay is on your side, not His.

People are very clever. They say, “In God’s world there is delay but no darkness.” Clever indeed—they invent two tricks: if there is delay, it is on His side—what can we do? And “no darkness”—so reassure yourself: don’t worry, it will happen someday—if not in this birth, then the next, or the next after that. I tell you: on His side there is neither delay nor darkness. Delay and darkness are yours.

Drop delay; stop postponing; stop putting off till tomorrow—and darkness will also vanish. Revolution can happen in this very life. I give you that assurance.

Surendranath! God’s grace is upon you—great grace, and rare! It is as if, just before you topple into the pit, a hand has caught you. Becoming a minister is not the end. Then who will become chief minister? And with chief ministership, is there any end? Then who will be a central minister? And from central minister to deputy prime minister and prime minister! It is a long chain of madness. Best to climb down at the very first step, because it becomes very hard to step down later. Once you’ve climbed a few steps, then public opinion starts to bite. People begin to say, “Hey, you’re deserting the field? Now stand your ground!” If you drop it now, nobody will say anything—there’s nothing to drop yet; you haven’t even become a minister, only the chance is approaching. And that a chance is approaching I understand—yours, yes, Surendranath, but not only yours; every donkey’s chance is approaching! The bigger the donkey, the bigger the opportunity. Donkeys are flinging their heels high! And as for those who have become—ask about their condition! Look at what befell them:

Sowed basmati,
reaped millet,
threshed sorghum,
ate pebbles!
Riddle me this, Chaudhary!
Go on—ask the Chaudhary himself!

You are truly fortunate—few are so fortunate. Surely some merit from past lives is bearing fruit at the right time. Otherwise, politics is a game of great mischief.

A doll within
a doll,
a doll within that doll,
and then within the doll
again a doll,
and in that doll a doll;
to the smallest doll
I asked,
“Doll,
within how many dolls are you,
do you know that?”
Hearing me, the smallest doll said:
“A world within
a world,
a world within the world,
and then within the world
again a world,
and in that world a world;
Human, within how many worlds
are you—do you even know?”

Politics is circles within circles, and then more circles. Where does it end?

Surendranath, the moment you awaken, it is morning. And the traveler who strays in the morning and reaches home by evening is not called lost. And it isn’t even evening yet. You haven’t become a minister—after becoming a minister, evening begins; then comes night; then the dark night of the new moon! Don’t come to me then. Now you feel a dilemma; had you already become a minister, it would be very difficult. Some who have become tell me, “What you say rings true, but now what to do? It’s too late. Since we’re caught in this circle, we might as well complete it!” Who has ever completed a circle? Do circles ever complete? A circle means: keep moving, keep moving, keep moving. Like the bullock at the oil-press—that is the circle of this life.

If you have paused a little in this round-and-round, and come this far—had you been a minister, you couldn’t have reached here. See—one benefit of not being a minister! Ministers too wish to come here, but first they send word ahead. What do they send? “Please arrange an invitation.” Because “How can we come without an invitation?” And I tell them: I can arrange invitations for everyone—except ministers. You come as everyone else comes.

Just a few days ago, the deputy chief minister of Madhya Pradesh was in Poona. His secretary phoned that he wished to come. We said, “Fine—certainly, let him come.” He said, “But how can he come without an invitation?” We replied, “If he wants to come, what question of invitation? It is he who wishes to come—we have no eagerness to invite. If the thirsty wants to drink, let him come to the well; the well does not go around issuing invitations: ‘Do come, please come, we insist!’” The secretary said, “Perhaps you misunderstand—do you realize he is the deputy chief minister of Madhya Pradesh?” When the secretary’s argument didn’t work, the deputy chief minister himself took the phone—must have been sitting nearby! For how to say directly, “I want to come, so send me an invitation”? But having seen that the secretary route wouldn’t work, he said, “I, the deputy chief minister, am speaking. I wish to come; please send someone from the ashram.” I said, “Please come. The ashram’s address has spread to the farthest corners of the world! A lot of bad press! That’s why defamation doesn’t bother me—if not fame, then infamy! At least the news reaches far. Then whoever wants to come can come and taste whether the water is salty or sweet. But let the news reach once!

“You’re sitting right here in Poona—of course you can come. Any rickshaw-wallah will bring you. And if you feel shy to ask, just put on an ochre robe and stand by the roadside—any rickshaw-wallah will seat you and bring you straight to the ashram! You won’t even have to say a word. They don’t even ask where you want to go; they bring you to the ashram. No one is going anywhere else in Poona anyway!” But they could not muster the courage.

Good that you aren’t a minister yet—so you could come! And if you do become a minister, what will happen? What will you gain? There are so many former ministers in this country. I never used to believe in ghosts—but now I do! With so many “former” ministers, ghosts must surely exist. Everyone you meet is a former minister! What else has happened in India in thirty years?

To become a minister—woof-woof—has a dog bitten you!
Ever since I reached the Rajya Sabha,
close friends come,
take me aside and whisper,
“Brother, when is your turn to become a minister?”
To become a minister—woof-woof—has a dog bitten you!

For sixty years the one
who piled letters and meanings on his tongue
will raise a ruckus
in the hullabaloo of politics!
A hypocrite is born; he is not manufactured.
To become a minister—woof-woof—has a dog bitten you!

The bird that chirps to bewitch
the dull mass-mind,
the python that sits so still
the country cannot stir an inch—
on the land of Das Maluk, what shortage is there of such!?
To become a minister—woof-woof—has a dog bitten you!

Has a dog bitten you? And if a dog has bitten you, do what Mulla Nasruddin did!

One day a mad dog bit Mulla Nasruddin. His family rushed him to the hospital. The doctor said, “You’re very late. I can’t say whether the injection will work. The fear is he may go mad.” Nasruddin heard this and said, “Quick—give me paper and pen.” The doctor handed them over. Nasruddin sat down at once and began to write furiously. So fast that the doctor asked, “Are you writing your will?” Nasruddin said, “Will? Not at all. I’m writing the names of the people I shall bite once I go mad. Else, once I’m mad, I may forget! I’m making the list now.”

You say, Surendranath, “I have wasted my life in politics.” If you have truly seen that you wasted it—what dilemma remains? Had you gained something, a dilemma would be understandable. You wasted it. Even now—wake up. Even now—be alert. It is not too late. You can still earn something. Even a moment before death, if a person fills with awareness, then the wasting of an entire life on one side, and the earning of that one moment on the other—the scale tips to that one moment.

But I can see the snag: all your life you ran and sweated to become a minister; now the chance is near. And now everyone’s chance is near. In truth, if we had any sense, we would declare the whole country ministers. What is this fuss? What is this silly assembly! Go to the tehsildar’s office, deposit a rupee, take a certificate, come home—minister! Declare everyone a minister. The race is such that everyone will become one—and when everyone becomes one, the country will be ruined. Because until a man reaches power, he pours all his energy into attaining it; once he gets it, he pours all his energy into clinging to it. Who, then, does the work of the country? Who has the leisure? First spend your life to gain power; once you gain it, spend your life to keep hold of the chair. If the chair is snatched, then spend your life to regain it—because then it feels like an insult, having climbed so high, to live again as an ordinary man. That becomes unbearable. This turmoil is spreading so wildly that, in my view, we should announce that everyone is a minister. Just as every person is an Indian, so every person is a minister. What difficulty is there? Indian and minister—synonyms. It would reduce complications, end the fuss—maybe some work might even get done!

In thirty years nothing has been done. It cannot be done. And it will only get harder, because everyone’s ambition is waking up, everyone feels they can become a minister—just a matter of a little deal-making.

Now you say the time to become a minister is at hand, the chance is in your grasp, and sannyas is attracting you. It is an auspicious hour. It is as if Existence has called you in time. Do not miss it. Take sannyas. You have seen politics—seen it enough. Now taste the color of sannyas! Taste this joy too. Politics means: to possess the other, to lord over others. Sannyas means: to be master of oneself. And the delight of being your own master is unmatched.

Alexander is a pauper before the Buddhas. Whether a Buddha has anything or not—not even a penny—Alexander is still a pauper.

Buddha came to a village. The kingdom’s vizier said to his king, “We should go outside the town to welcome him; the Buddha is arriving.” The king said, “Why should I go? He is a beggar; I am a king. Why should I go to greet him?” The vizier looked at the king and said, “Then accept my resignation. I cannot work under you.” The kingdom could not function without this vizier, for he truly held it together—the king was immersed in pleasure. The king said, “You resign—over such a trifling matter?!” The vizier replied, “Not trifling. How can I serve under a man who can’t see that the one who thinks wealth and kingdom are something, and meditation and samadhi are nothing—such a man is blind. Samadhi is the real wealth. Either come with me to welcome the Buddha and bow at his feet, or accept my farewell. I will not work under you again. Why work under such a petty man!”

Whether a Buddha has possessions or not, he has Buddhahood—his own being, his peace, his bliss. The eternal veena is playing there, the melody of sat-chit-ananda. And you are worried about a minister’s post?! I am ready to play your heart-strings—give me the chance to pluck your strings, to awaken in you the song you were born to sing. Why wander with folded hands? Why beg?

Abbar-Devi, Jabbar the Goat,
Tagad-dhinna Nagar vine.
A small name, but grand “darshan,”
fame of glory everywhere;
greater still the priests,
drunk on power and perquisites;
devotees bring offerings, get shoved and kicked,
while they make merry.
Abbar-Devi, Jabbar the Goat,
Tagad-dhinna Nagar vine.

Throne there is, and government too,
officers, offices, files and notes,
police, courts, battalions,
but the most powerful is the vote;
why didn’t you get the vote?
You failed at intrigue.
Abbar-Devi, Jabbar the Goat,
Tagad-dhinna Nagar vine.

Rose of a socialist society—
capitalism bloomed instead; what a farce!
We set out toward Calcutta
and arrived at Jaisalmer!
After long the secret opened:
it’s the camel that’s pulling the rein!
Abbar-Devi, Jabbar the Goat,
Tagad-dhinna Nagar vine.

Income in units, budget in tens,
plans in hundreds, debts in thousands;
expenses in lakhs, credit is tied,
every nation advances loans;
fifteen generations mortgaged—
Leader-ji gambled them away.
Abbar-Devi, Jabbar the Goat,
Tagad-dhinna Nagar vine.

Surendranath, what circles are you caught in! Slip out—don’t delay. The mind is cunning. If you delay, it will coax you, “At least have a little look. You stayed this long—taste the chair a bit!” But do you not see the condition of those on the chair? Will you taste any joy? The moment you sit, someone will pull your leg; someone will yank your arm; someone will run off with a leg of the chair—this one doing this, that one doing that! And as for Surendranath—you must be from Bihar, where the humiliation is thorough. If in this country you want to be fully disgraced, play politics in Bihar. Just recently the “total revolution” began there—and after throwing the whole country into recklessness, anarchy, and stupidity, that total revolution petered out. Politics is mischief—rowdyism. Politics is the respectable name for goondagiri. Donning khadi does not make goons into saints.

Mulla Nasruddin, dressed in white khadi—Gandhi cap, khadi kurta, churidar pajama, a spotless “leader”—went to an exhibition. Seeing a beautiful woman in the crowd, he began to jostle her. She bore it for a while and then said, “Aren’t you ashamed? In white clothes, wearing khadi, and behaving so lewdly?” Nasruddin said, “Ah well, why hide it from our own? Only the clothes are white—the heart is still black!”

And the blacker the heart, the more it must be covered—the more layers needed to hide it. What is the pleasure of politics? To gratify the ego—“I am somebody.” And this “I” is what devours you; this “I” is the disease. Sannyas is the renunciation of the “I”—freedom from the “I.” I do not call sannyas leaving the world; I call it leaving the “I,” leaving the I-sense.

If the auspicious hour has arrived and a dilemma has arisen within you, do not choose wrongly. The mind’s old habits will urge the wrong choice. But this time, with courage, step out of your mind. Do at least once in life something that links you with the Buddhas—links you with that luminous lineage of those who have known and lived, who have recognized the ultimate truth of life and tasted its supreme dignity.

Since you have come, do not go empty-handed. To come is rare; to have the feeling for sannyas arise is rarer still; and for it to arise in a politician—almost impossible. When such an unlikely flowering has stirred within you, it seems a special grace is upon you. Someone is taking special care of you, Surendranath! Do not miss such an opportunity. Drop the dilemma, drop the duality—take the leap! Live life in another mode—playfully, humming a song, dancing. Live by bhajan. And you will be amazed: each moment is precious; each moment, day and night, his shower descends; each moment, nectar is eager to rain upon you. And you—standing in a queue in front of the poison shop! You say, “My turn is just about to come, and now you arrive bringing the news of nectar—and I fall into a dilemma! I’m right at the front—another one or two move aside and it will be my turn; my cup will soon be filled—with poison!”

Politics is poison. The world should be free of politics. I am not saying the world can run without the state; it can run without politics. The state is one thing; politics is quite another. A state is fine—necessary, a framework. Politics is not needed at all. Politics is a disease, a poison. The more people step out of it, the better. The more people in this country begin to live beyond politics, the better. A breeze will arise; new blossoms will open in the garden. Become a partner in blooming these roses—the roses of sannyas. Let your hand join in. I invite you.

That’s all for today.