Ram Duware Jo Mare #3

Above, on the kadamba tree,
when you play the flute in the slanting afternoon,
the note rises upward, making the winds ring;
evening, washed and languid, across the Yamuna,
footpaths, village lanes, home courtyards all ripple—
casting a spell upon gods, men, sages, upon inert and sentient alike.
Below, I am a pond,
a raw earthen tank beneath the kadamba;
how could I ever catch the music of the flute?
I received only the burden of your water-shadow—
that fleeting shade which is lost as day declines;
what remains is murky water spread into every corner.
Whatever enchantment you may have sung upon the flute—
but,
by the earth I swear, I gained nothing at all!
The Yamuna’s current may be bound to the flute—
here the water has always been bound, stagnant.
There is mud, there is moss, there are rotting leaves,
there are the crawling traces of foul water-snakes.
There will be some Radha who is drawn here,
enchanted in her gait, veil slipping, anklets half loosed—
within me there are only a few tired ripples,
striking themselves, wounding themselves by themselves.
Upon my upper bank
the flute kept sounding,
kept bewitching gods, men, sages, inert and sentient—
below, I the pond,
remained as I was, filled with sludge.
What Vyasa did not see,
what Sur did not write—
for my sake all this lila remained out of joint;
my being was wholly futile—
under the kadamba, being or not being.
Above, on the kadamba tree,
when you play the flute in the slanting afternoon,
the note rises upward, making the winds ring;
evening, washed and languid, across the Yamuna,
footpaths, village lanes, home courtyards all ripple—
casting a spell upon gods, men, sages, upon inert and sentient alike.

The world is suffused with a magic. The flute is indeed playing. We are deaf. Krishna’s song is indeed rising. We lack the capacity to hear. Paramatma stands right before us, and we stand with closed eyes. His sun has indeed arisen. His sun never sets. Night does not happen in his realm. Darkness has no acquaintance with him. There is only moonlight there, only full-moon there. Nothing becomes less or more; all remains as it is. But we?... We are like a muddy pond—rotting, decaying. In our life the lotus does not bloom. It can. Even in a putrid pond the lotus can bloom. It is in the very putrid pond that the lotus blooms.
The capacity for the lotus to bloom is within us. The power is ours. A little labor is needed. A little sadhana is needed. A little alertness is needed. A little longing, an ardent thirst to seek truth is needed. Then, this very moment, the seed will split. Now the lotus rises. Now the lotus comes up, crosses the mud, crosses the pond, begins to speak with moon and stars; its fragrance arises—and the lotus at once recognizes the flute, and at once recognizes Radha’s anklet-bells.
The lotus has been our symbol for centuries—the flowering of consciousness. The thousand-petaled lotus! When your consciousness is wholly unveiled, all coverings fall, all gates and doors open—then know that you are alive; otherwise you are dead!
Malukdas speaks rightly—
I saw the whole world deceased; I saw no one living.
He says: I saw corpses and corpses. I searched the whole world; apart from the dead I found no one alive.
Think a little: are you living or dead? Malukdas speaks of you, not of someone else. Reflect: is one to remain mud, or become a lotus? Consider, let resolve awaken, let surrender happen—do not merely remain mud and die. Otherwise you will have not truly lived; equal to not living. You will not have lived—only died and died daily. After birth, only kept dying. Whether it took seventy years to die or eighty—what difference does it make? People lie upon their deathbeds already.
That city alone is truly settled where Hari’s servants dwell.
Malukdas says: Know this—that only that city is filled with joy where the servants of Hari reside. All else are cremation grounds. They are not cities.
Ibrahim was a great Sufi faqir. Someone would ask him—he had raised a hut outside the capital, Balkh—someone would ask: Where is the road to the town? He would say: Go to the left. By mistake, do not go to the right. The right-hand road leads to the cremation ground. People believed him. A faqir—one feels like believing him; there is power in his words, light in his eyes, his presence a testimony that he must be speaking true; and for what would such a one lie? Even an ordinary wayfarer does not misdirect someone. But people would return one or two hours later, greatly annoyed, full of anger, ready to quarrel. They would say to Ibrahim: Are you in your senses or mad? You sent us to the cremation ground. Then we inquired of others, we asked the man who sells firewood at the cremation ground—he told us that the town is on the other side. Where you said cremation ground, there is the town; and where you said town, there is the cremation ground.
Ibrahim would say: Forgive me—daily he would say—pardon me—our languages differ, yours and mine. I did not lie to you. What you call a town is no town, for who has ever been able to remain settled there? Town should be called that where those who settle, remain settled. What you call a cremation ground—this I call a town, for there, who settles once, remains settled, never again deserted. And what you call a town—there daily people are being uprooted, there daily people are dying. This you call a town! Where people stand lined up to die—this you call a town! So forgive me, brother. Our languages differ. There was an error of language. I did not knowingly mislead you. Had you asked for the cremation ground, I would have sent you to the place you call the town. But you wanted a town, so I sent you to a town. A town? That place where those who dwell never again are uprooted.
Even our towns are worse than cremation grounds. What is there in our towns besides turbulence, quarrels, entanglements? At least in the cremation ground there is peace, stillness, silence—no strife.
That city alone is settled—know it well; truly settled—know it thus—where Hari’s servants dwell! Where those who love Paramatma, who have known Paramatma, who hold to his feet, dwell—understand, that alone is a dwelling; all else are cremation grounds.
The panorama of graves has never even turned on its side.
Within, the same population; without, the same wilderness.
He who sleeps in the tomb does not even turn. The graves’ vistas never change sides! Once one lies down in the grave, never even a turn. There is not even that much stir. Inside there is population—the tomb, the cemetery—inside the grave only population; outside, the same desolation! What you call the world is wilderness, a desert. If the thousand-petaled lotus has not bloomed, know it is a desert. Only a few have lived here—some Buddha, some Mahavira, some Krishna, some Jesus, some Kabir, some Maluk, some Nanak. Only a few have lived here. You could count their names on your fingers. The rest are all dead.
But a great wonder: histories are written of the dead; the living are not even mentioned! It is understandable: the dead write history, they will write the history of the dead. If Buddhas had written history, they would have written the history of the living. The dead understand only the dead. The dead have their own language, their own world—position, prestige, wealth, glory, ego; the dead keep running after these.
The form became imperishable,
thirst became eternal;
each particle, a conscious ecstasy,
each instant, a honeyed royal rasa;
in the dark braid of night, woven, golden ray-flowers;
feet became pure gold, dust became sandalwood;
at the head of consciousness,
light fanned like a fan;
verses, bird-like and bliss-drunk, floated in honeyed rhythm;
love flowed from the life-breath, as fragrance from flowers;
within the fist closed
the whole honeyed vast sky.
Hold the feet of Paramatma and such a miracle happens. It has kept happening. Bow before Paramatma and this whole sky is yours, all these moons and stars are yours. Join with Paramatma and earth turns to gold. For now, even what is gold turns to dust at your touch.
The form became imperishable! Only the one joined with him knows what beauty is. What sort of beauty is this which is here today and gone tomorrow! What sort of beauty is this, not deeper than the skin! What sort of beauty is this—fair without, and within? Bones, flesh, marrow! If only you could see yourself within, what is there! A mere skeleton.
I have heard: a skeleton arrived at a doctor’s house. Do not be surprised—skeletons indeed keep arriving. He knocked; it was midnight. But a doctor must be ready twenty-four hours, so he opened the door. Seeing the skeleton, even his breath stopped. He had seen many patients, never such a one. This one had already died. But a doctor, after all—does such a one get frightened! He said: Do come in, sir; but you have come a little late.
What else to say!
O that you could see yourself as you are—there is nothing but a skeleton there. What form, what beauty!
The form became imperishable…
But the one joined to the Lord—his beauty goes beyond decay. Even death cannot snatch his beauty.
The form became imperishable;
thirst became eternal;
each particle, a conscious ecstasy…
Ecstasy arises! Each particle a conscious ecstasy. The whole world appears to be dancing. Every atom becomes dance. The rasa is enacted.
Each particle a conscious ecstasy,
each instant a honeyed royal rasa;
in the dark braid of night, woven, golden ray-flowers;
feet became pure gold, dust became sandalwood.
Join with the Lord and you receive that alchemy, that art…
Feet becoming pure gold, dust becoming sandalwood;
at the head of consciousness,
light fanning like a fan;
verses, bird-like and bliss-drunk, float in honeyed rhythm.
Within you too poetry arises; within you too verses are born; within you too the meters flutter, fly into the sky. Within you too a Bhagavadgita can be born; a Quran can be born.
In honeyed rhythm they float, bird-like blissful verses;
love flowed from the life-breath, as fragrance from flowers;
within the fist closed
the whole honeyed vast sky.
If the feet of Paramatma come into your hand, the whole sky comes into your fist. Then life is. Only when the great-life is, is life! Only when life is eternal, is it life! All else is death. All else is a delusion.
By sight of him, bliss is gained; worship longs for that alone.
And he is not far, his temple is not far. Hindu temples may be far, the mosques of Muslims may be far, the churches of Christians may be far; the temple of Paramatma is not far. Wherever you are, he surrounds you. Wherever you bow, there is the Kaaba. Wherever you become absorbed in his worship, there is Kashi. Wherever you begin to dance, there is the Yamuna bank, there the Kadamba grove of the flute. Wherever, absorbed and intoxicated, you sway—there your hand meets Krishna’s hand.
By sight of him, bliss is gained…
By his sight alone a monsoon of joy descends. Touch is another thing; sight suffices! Let but a glimpse appear and darkness is dispelled forever. And if sight happens, then touch will happen too—first seeing, then touch. And his touch transforms you.
By sight of him, bliss is gained…
Until then bliss will not be found. Try whatever you will, you will only receive sorrow. People are indeed making efforts; all are engaged in one strategy—how to attain happiness? But do you see anyone happy? Wealth is there—no joy. Position is there—no joy. Name, fame, repute are there—no joy.
Peer into the inner life-breath of the wealthy, the powerful, the renowned—only ash upon ash you will find. That same filthy pond upon whose bank the flute kept playing; the pond neither heard nor knew a thing. Krishna’s rasa kept unfolding on the pond’s shore; Radha kept coming; gods, men, sages exulted; but the pond remained a pond—there the mud kept thickening, leaves kept rotting, stench kept rising. Where is joy?
So many people are seen in this world—yet do you feel that within spring has come, that the honeyed month has arrived? Only ash upon ash! Emptiness upon emptiness! Or trash and refuse! Hence people hide themselves—hide in garments, hide behind masks, hide behind smiles. But through all the concealment, the reality breaks out.
You saw Jimmy Carter when he became president—his full set of teeth appeared! Have you seen his new pictures? In two or three years, all the leaves have fallen; of flowers, no trace. Where has that smile disappeared?
The realities of life will snatch all your masks; your smiles will be taken away. In hope you can laugh. While it is far—position not yet attained—you may keep hope; with position comes despair. Until wealth arrives, you may think, dream—when I get it I will do this, do that; let it come, and obstacles commence.
An acquaintance of mine has somehow come upon an ancient scripture: The Chair-Sutra.
Om Shri Chair-aya namah. Thus begins the sacred Chair-Sutra.
Commentary: O Mother Chair, I bow to you. Now I begin the Chair-Sutra.
Question: The word chair is feminine in Hindi, yet the honorific Shri is used. Explain the propriety.
Resolution: The chair is equally dear to women, men, children and old folks, hence Shri is apt. If you wish, you may add the ladyly Suzri and increase the chair’s importance.
The character of Chair, the fortune of the leader—
not even gods can know; how shall man?
Commentary: The character of Lady Chair and the fortune of the leader-like seated creature—even the gods cannot know it; how shall man?
Question: Master, explain the meaning of this profound verse.
Resolution: Child, look at politics as it is, and chant Narayan—then all will enter your understanding.
Thou art the mother and father—thou alone, O Chair.
Commentary: The chair is my mother and father; in this world I have nothing else; hence to attain it, all means—conciliation, gifts, punishment, division—are proper. Those who do not accept this truth will be partakers of sorrow.
In the field of the chair—Delhi field—the warriors have gathered; what do the leaders and lady-leaders there do?
Commentary: The field of the chair is Delhi, so the scriptures say. What are leaders and lady-leaders doing there?
Resolution: To every leader, as to Arjuna, only the chair is visible; and for this chair he fights and dies, whines, and performs every possible act.
O Chair, more fortunate are you even than leaders; even the savior—
when he begins to drown in the work-ocean called elections,
clings only to your breast-hands.
Commentary: O Chair! Leaders ferry others across the ocean of becoming, but when they themselves begin to drown in the work-ocean called elections, only by grasping your breast-like arms (handles) do they cross.
Question: If the chair has no handles, then what?
Resolution: In that case, grasping the legs or the tail of the chair, there is also the ordinance to cross the ocean of becoming.
Protector of all—chair. Protector of chair—leader.
Commentary: The chair protects all, and the leader protects the chair.
Question: How can a leader protect the chair?
Resolution: It seems you do not read the newspapers these days. Leaders chase chairs just like boys chase maidens. Tease them—sorrow; do not tease them—sorrow.
Enthusiastic and industrious men attain the chair.
Commentary: Men of zeal and toil obtain the chair.
Question: Can work not proceed without obtaining the chair?
Resolution: The common man’s work may proceed, but in the animals’ barn all want the chair, hence their work does not proceed. Go and read George Orwell’s novel.
Your right is to work only—never to the fruits of chair.
Commentary: Keep doing your actions; someday the chair-fruit will be attained.
Question: But this verse was spoken by Krishna in the Gita.
Resolution: So what, child? Even then, the fight was for the chair.
The owner of the chair becomes a dictator.
Commentary: The owner of the chair becomes a dictator.
Question: Give an example.
Resolution: Look into the history of the Emergency, child! There every Tom, Dick and Harry did not think himself less than a dictator. And some truly became so.
To the high seat, high post, proud with high youth,
endowed with high powers—O Chair, salutations to you!
Commentary: O high seat, great post, endowed with the youth and powers of height—salutations to you!
Question: How can a chair have youth?
Resolution: Fool, the chair is ever youthful; the chair never grows old. Yes, sometimes it begins to limp like the Government of India.
Counter-question: When does a limping chair become steady?
Counter-resolution: When Emergency is declared.
That Chair, present in all beings in the form of modesty—
salutations to her, salutations to her, salutations to her again and again.
Commentary: The chair-goddess pervades everywhere and to her repeated salutations are offered.
Question: But this verse is from the Durga recitation.
Resolution: So what? Now it is included in the new Chair-recitation as well.
Those humans who worship—by them the chair is obtained.
Commentary: Those who recite this sutra regularly will easily obtain the chair.
Question: Is the chair necessary?
Resolution: Yes, Rahim has said—chair gone, none returns: leader, man, lime.
Counter-question: Do leaders not come under the category of men?
Counter-resolution: This question is pointless; understand it yourself.
As fruits are obtained by those who recite at dawn,
Rati, Rambha become maidservants, and Lakshmi a companion—
Commentary: He who recites this sutra at dawn—Rati and Rambha-like companions, and Lakshmi as fellow-traveler, the Chair-goddess will grant for amorous rendezvous.
Thus ends the sacred Chair-Sutra.
Commentary: Now I bring the Chair-Sutra to a close.
People are running, running like the deranged—for wealth, position, prestige. What do they gain? After the entire labor of this life, what is the outcome, the result, the end? The one who has once even considered, will be a little startled: how do so many keep running—after the futile, the insubstantial! They see others daily lowered into graves, see daily the bier being carried—and still remain in the race as if they shall never leave this world! Even while dying, till the last breath, they keep fighting.
Malukdas has said a most wondrous thing. He says: They die, and still they keep fighting.
Into the house of the power-worshipper, the true seeker does not enter—even in dreams.
Those who are engrossed in the worship of shakti—power, prestige—such are sakat. To worship power is man’s greatest misfortune. Worship peace, not power. He who worships power will find neither peace nor power. He who worships peace—something astounding happens. Peace is certainly gained, and an extraordinary power manifests—a power that is not yours, a power that is Paramatma’s. You become only an instrument. He who worships power—be it wealth, position, knowledge, renunciation—whoever worships power, even if he worships God so that he might gain some power, whether gross or subtle, miraculous—whoever worships power—the true seeker, the genuine sadhu, does not come even into his dreams. To arrive in truth is far; even the shadow of sainthood does not fall upon his dream.
Those cities are desolate where no sadhu dwells.
And where there is no sadhu, that city is desolate. The city concerns you. Man is called purusha. The word is lovely; it is made from pur—city. Pur means city; purusha means the dweller of the city of your body. Your body is a great city—not even small. Within your body are seventy million living cells. Bombay’s population is less, Calcutta’s less, Tokyo’s less—Tokyo is the world’s greatest city—ten million. You are seven times bigger than that city. Within you dwell seventy million living cells. Amidst those seventy million living cells is your residence; hence you are called purusha.
Those cities are desolate where no sadhu dwells.
And within you, until saintliness is born, it will not become a city. As long as you are engaged in the worship of power—wealth, position, prestige—this-worldly or other-worldly power…
A man, after years of effort, learned to walk on water. Naturally his fame spread far and wide—such a miracle, walking on water! It is said that he came to meet Ramakrishna—to show his miracle, to show that you, what kind of paramahansa? I am the paramahansa! He said to Ramakrishna: Come to the riverbank—Dakshineswar is on the Ganga, where Ramakrishna lived—come to the Ganga; I will show you a miracle there.
Ramakrishna asked: What is your miracle?
He said: I can walk on water.
Ramakrishna said: A great wonder! Why did you not learn, like everyone else, to swim! How many years did it take you to learn to walk on water?
He said: Eighteen years of sadhana.
Ramakrishna said: This is the limit—eighteen years wasted! As for me, whenever I wish to go across, for two paisa the boat takes me over. For two paisa you have earned what took you eighteen years! And I rarely need to go across—once or twice a year. In eighteen years I have gone across at most ten or five times. So what you have come to show me with such pride is worth four to six annas! Have some shame, have some modesty!
Ramakrishna spoke exactly right. After all, even if you walk on water—what will happen? If you fly in the air—what then? Fish are already walking in the water and birds are flying in the air. If you fly in the air, you will look like a fool; people will laugh, nothing more. You would not even look fitting, flying in the air.
Yet all this in the name of religion.
Ninety-nine percent of people, even in the name of religion, keep imposing the same old stupidity. Here in the world they sought to be stronger than others; in religion they seek the same. It is the search of ego. Where ego is, you will not recognize the sadhu. Recognition of the sadhu happens only in egolessness. You will not even be able to behold the true guru. In egolessness alone is sight, in egolessness alone is touch.
They worship images much, they call the Name day and night—
but those who have slain their Atman for cheap things—
are greater butchers than a crore of butchers.
Many worship images, and chant the Name at length.
But those who have sold their very soul for paltry things—
than a crore of butchers, they are greater butchers. Those who have sold their Atman.
In this world, all are ready to sell the Atman. Ready to sell it for two pennies! If someone shows you ash falling from the hand, at once you are ready to be sold! And you go running behind the baba. Even if a lifetime passes, now you have one fixation—how to make ash fall from your hand. Even if you heap mountains of ash from your hands—what then? You are ash already; what further ash are you producing? And if from an ashen body ash falls, what miracle is that? This all will become ash when you die—what are you making fall!
But no—people are impressed by such things. People are stupid and are impressed by the great-stupid.
We asked
an acquainted leader
a question:
‘The way you have
placed the cap upon your head
has confused everyone’s sense;
seeing you, people
are making all kinds of guesses;
so please tell—are you
entering the party,
or leaving the party?’
He smiled like a trickster and said,
‘Neither am I
entering the party
nor leaving it—
I am only showing
that my legs still have strength,
that I can walk about;
if I get a ticket,
I will stick here;
otherwise,
whoever gives a ticket,
into his hands—
I will be sold.’
This selling—that is what Malukdas calls slaying the Atman. You see, here every person is ready to be sold! Upon every person the price tag is hung.
Mulla Nasruddin entered an elevator. A beautiful woman was in it too. They were alone. Mulla saluted and said: If I give you ten thousand rupees, would you spend a night with me? The woman flared up: What do you take me for? I will stop the lift and call the police right now. Mulla said: No need for police; I will give twenty thousand. The woman softened. Mulla said: Ask whatever you like—thirty, forty, fifty. Her heat turned into a smile. The woman said: Fifty! Fifty thousand rupees for a night! I agree. Mulla said: And if I give twenty-five rupees? The woman flared again: Do you know who I am? Mulla said: That we have settled—when you agreed at fifty thousand, that was settled. Now we are only fixing the price. There is no need to call the police. Whether you sell for fifty thousand or for twenty-five—what difference? That is settled. Now let us bargain. What will the police do?
Mulla speaks truly. You also think—at what price will you be sold? What is your worth? Whatever the price—who can be sold has not known himself, for the soul has no price. If the whole world were obtained—one who has known himself cannot be sold. Place the whole world upon one pan of the scale, and the Atman upon the other—the pan of the Atman will remain heavier. Atman—that is Paramatma! Atman—that is the seed of Paramatma, his potential. The Atman, purified and refined, expands and becomes Paramatma. There is no other Paramatma somewhere else.
He who has learned the art of surrender has the secret of refining himself in his hands. His soul, becoming ever purer, becomes the Supreme, becomes Paramatma. But people do much worship—yet all false. For their worship is not of Paramatma—they are seeking something. One wants a job, one wants money, one wants a post.
They worship images much, they call the Name day and night…
They have fixed the tune—wrapped in the cloak of Rama’s Name, sitting with rosary, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram. But look behind—some desire stands there. They chant even Rama so that some desire be fulfilled. There is some asking. And one who has chanted Rama with desire—he has not chanted. Chant Rama in the mood of delight. In exultation. What is there to ask? Do not go before him as a beggar! Go before him as a sovereign! Bow indeed—but intoxicated with bliss. Do not spread your bowl—and your life-breath will be filled with infinite treasures! Spread your bowl—and you will not receive even pebbles.
Than a crore butchers, greater—but he who slays the Atman.
He who grieves at another’s grief is the true devotee, dear to Rama.
This is a sutra to be understood. Only he who becomes sensitive to another’s suffering is dear to Rama.
But who can become sensitive to another’s suffering?
Only he whose own suffering has ceased. You will find this first a little reversed, puzzling. Ordinarily you think that a person who is suffering will feel another’s suffering. You are mistaken. The one who is suffering, to bear his own suffering becomes hard—if he remains sensitive, he will be broken. To endure suffering, he must deaden his sensitivity; he becomes insensate.
From the West many come here. Many of them write to me: What is this? On the roads are beggars; seeing them we feel great pain. We cannot pass by without giving them something. We feel much guilt, much remorse. But the Indian strolls past with ease—humming film tunes! He has no concern with the beggar! If the beggar comes forward, he says: Move aside! Make way!
There is a reason.
Indians themselves are suffering. Beggars and they are not very different. What will they give to beggars! They have nothing to give; they themselves are asking. And they have become hard—if they are not hard, they cannot remain alive. In India, to remain alive you must harden. If your heart here is tender, soon your condition will be like the beggar’s. No beggar will be helped; beggars will only increase—you will join them.
Centuries of poverty, abjection and suffering have turned the Indian heart to stone; none melts. In the West there is affluence. Beggars do not appear on the streets there; only in India do they see beggars for the first time. They are bewildered.
Two things trouble them most—
In nearly all letters I receive, two things are mentioned. One—the beggars. Little children! The Westerner cannot believe that such small children we have left to beg. Two—the moment they land at Santa Cruz and move toward Bombay, people on either side of the road are defecating! They cannot fathom what is happening. Indians are not offended at all. They do not even look this way and that; they have nothing to do with it. The whole country is a latrine! And what wrong is being done—fertilizer is being increased! It seems natural to the Indian. It is happening in every village; people sit here and there. Now should you keep watching them, keep grieving for them—you would find it hard to live. For whom will you grieve! People have gone blind. They do not see. Indians do not see.
When for the first time a Westerner writes of this, Indians are affronted; they feel hurt—he is defaming our country. They do not see the fact is true; no defamation—the matter is correct. You talk so much of cleanliness—how much awareness do you have of it? Wherever the mood comes, you pass stool—no hindrance at all. In the West this is impossible, beyond imagination. The beggar has gone; none remain. Sensitivity increases there.
In this world, those who have tasted a little inward joy—only they can feel the state of others’ inner sorrow; otherwise, none.
People ask me: The country is suffering; and you are teaching people meditation! I say: There is no other way. Meditation will give them a little joy. Let them have a little joy; their sensitivity will increase. If they taste a little joy, they will see that all around there is sorrow. Otherwise they will not see it. There is no way to compare. They are themselves so miserable—whose misery should they see? Theirs or another’s?
Whose own problems are solved can perceive the problems of others. Whose inwardness becomes quiet sees the unrest of others. In whose being roses flower, the thorns in others’ lives become apparent. Then something can happen.
He who grieves at another’s grief is the devotee, dear to Rama.
He who is dear to Rama can feel another’s grief. And the one who can feel another’s grief becomes dearer to Rama. These two are interdependent.
Now the boundaries of seeking are ending.
God begins to appear to me in the perfected human.
Once Paramatma is seen, he will be seen in humans too; in trees, he will be seen; in stones, he will be seen.
If for a single wink the Lord gives himself—he does not keep you apart.
And if you link with him, you will be amazed. You will be astonished to know that he did not keep you distant for even a wink. If you were distant, it was because of yourself. You turned your back—it was you, not he. And once you recognize, you will see that not for a moment does he keep you away.
If for a single wink the Lord gives himself—he does not keep you apart.
He cares for you every instant. The whole existence is your ally, not your enemy.
He whose gesture rules the order of dawn and dusk—
behold my heedlessness: I take him to be heedless.
He who moves the moon and the stars, on whose gesture the order of morning and evening runs—this whole world poised upon his fingers…
He whose gesture rules the order of dawn and dusk—
behold my heedlessness: I take him to be heedless.
Do you think he is unconscious? That he does not know of you?
Existence cares for you. The whole attempt of existence is that you too awaken, that you too be blissful, that in your life too songs arise, that in your life-breath the flute may play. But you are your own enemy. None greater than you is your enemy.
Mahavira has spoken truly: Man himself is his friend—none greater than he is his friend. And man himself is his foe—none greater than he his foe. Both are true. Turn toward yourself and you become a friend; keep your back to yourself and you become your own enemy. By your own hand you are killing your own soul.
O friend of the poor, ocean of compassion—such is the Raghu-king.
Says Maluk, which of us lowly ones did he not grace?
Malukdas says: One such as me, ignorant—one such as me, ordinary—who else redeemed me? Listen! Attend to this. Maluk says: One like me, unworthy—who redeemed me? He himself! What was my worth? What was in my power? What was my capacity? What was my sadhana, what my worthiness? I was weak, crippled; but his grace, his prasada—though I limped, I climbed the mountain. And though I was blind, I saw moon and stars. And though I was deaf, his flute sounded in my ears. It is his grace, his prasada!
I saw the whole world deceased; I saw no one living.
Says Malukdas: I have wandered far; I have seen the world; I saw only the dead; no living one did I see. If sometimes you behold the living, you are fortunate. The living ones we have called the true guru—those who are truly alive.
Where will this boat find a shore?
Darkness here, darkness there.
With new zeal yesterday new helmsmen
tied new sails to fresh mast-poles;
with youth’s girdles wrapped around their waists,
with fresh intent they set their oars anew;
they set the boat free upon the new flood,
raising waves of fresh courage;
in the creative sound of the new tide
they sang songs of earth and sky’s embrace.
Those travelers grew fearless who were distraught,
in the double delusion of uncertainty and disbelief;
for a new liberation they will dive,
will build a new bridge at Rameshwaram.
But they began panting in the very first moment,
never daring even to break the oar;
sometimes bewildered by their own delusion,
sometimes turning their tongue to their own side.
They had hardly moved a little from the shore—
still ahead the revolving, rolling cloud of darkness;
still the midstream’s challenge remained,
still to be seen the power of the ocean.
He who has poured every breath for the motherland,
who has with great longing arranged his dreams—
all limbs oozing with sores—
where shall the Messiah apply balm?
Here a well, there a trench is being dug—
who will end the sorrow of the people’s heart?
There faith is sacrificed on ignorant children,
here factionalism and masquerade!
High talk, lofty promises—
vanished into air like a shy gazelle;
these who profess to fight the darkness—
will step aside from the shore if a ray appears.
In the horizon’s haze the boat will capsize—
where again light, where again dawn?
Where will this boat find a shore?
Darkness here, darkness there.
Look around a little—it is a congregation of the blind! A crowd of corpses. And these corpses are the leaders. These corpses are the followers. These corpses are the priests. These corpses conduct temple worship, perform havan and yajna. And corpses join them. Kumbha-melas of corpses are being filled; millions of corpses gather. For the Hajj, corpses go.
I saw the whole world deceased; I saw no one living.
The dead marries the dead woman,
and a dead priest performs the wedding with incantations.
The dead go as the wedding party;
a dead one receives them with felicitations.
The dead goes to fight the dead, and the dead takes up force.
A great fun is on—the dead thump their chests! Eager to fight one another, their arms flutter.
Dead fight with dead, die; and the dead who remain regret.
Behold this dead settlement closely!
Two old women were talking. One said: The young man who has come to live opposite called me the moon.
The other old woman asked in wonder: How?
The first said: Last night my daughter was walking in the street, and that young man, seeing her, said: What a fragment of the moon!
Old age may come, but awareness does not. The same unconsciousness, the same childishness. People grow by age, not by awakening.
Chandulal said: There are countless things in the world. Whatever you see, you feel—if only it were mine! But man’s capacity is small; he must always choose.
Dhabbu said: Give some examples, then your point will be understood.
Listen—Chandulal explained—man can marry only once; yet there are so many beautiful and enticing women that even a married man thinks—if only I were still a bachelor!
Dhabbu said: Now I understand. In my life too there is such a woman; seeing her I feel—if only I were still a bachelor, how wonderful it would be!
Who is she?—Chandulal asked impatiently—does she live in this neighborhood, in this city?
Dhabbu said: In this city, in this neighborhood, in this very house—my lawfully wedded wife! Seeing her I think only one thought—that if only I were bachelor still!
In this world, lack pinches; if nothing is attained, it hurts; if something is attained, it hurts. The poor are troubled—no wealth. The wealthy are troubled—wealth is there, but nothing else. What shall be done with wealth? The poor are troubled—no bed to sleep on; the rich are troubled—there is a bed, but sleep does not come. The night passes in tossing.
Seeing this truth, are you startled or not—that in poor countries suicides are fewer; in rich countries more? What is the reason? It should be the reverse. In poor countries there should be more suicide. People have nothing. But it does not happen. In rich countries more go mad; in poor, fewer. It is strange. Arithmetic is reversed. In poor countries people should go mad. But in the poor country there is hope—what has not come will come, tomorrow it will come, the day after tomorrow—hope keeps one alive. But the rich has attained; all hopes are shattered. Now ahead is only darkness. No hope. New moon night, with no prospect of ending. Now what shall the rich do? Either go mad, or end himself. What use living a life where there is not even hope! The poor sustains a little hope. A little glimmer remains—now I will reach, now I will reach, the goal is two steps away. That goal never arrives—it remains two steps away; and if it arrives, no greater misfortune.
I saw the whole world deceased; I saw no one living.
The dead marries the dead woman…
The dead marry the dead; wedding rounds are taken. And if you wed the dead and have the rounds performed by the dead, the fruit will be accordingly.
After a quarrel, Mulla Nasruddin’s wife picked up a suitcase and said: I am going to my mother’s house!
Go by all means—said Mulla—but you do not know, it is too late now.
His wife said: What do you mean?
Nasruddin said: I mean, your mama, after quarreling with her lord, has herself gone to her mother’s. Today’s letter says so. And I think she will scarcely find her mama there.
Malukdas speaks rightly: The dead marries the dead woman; the dead performs the marriage.
Nasruddin said to Dhabbu: My wife is a celestial nymph from heaven, an apsara!
Dhabbu said: Nasruddin, you are fortunate.
Nasruddin said: Meaning?
Dhabbu said: Mine is still alive.
The dead go as the wedding party; a dead one receives the congratulation.
The dead goes to fight the dead; the dead takes up strength.
Dead with dead fight and die; the dead who remain regret.
All this struggle, this disturbance, is because of the dead. The dead fight, and only then do they feel a little that life is; they clash and feel a little—yes, we too are something! Try a little strength—and they feel—not dead yet.
I was reading an American story—only in America can such a story happen; other countries have not yet become so fortunate. A seventy-five-year-old woman said to her friend, another old woman: Last night I spent with an old man. But four to six times I had to slap him.
The other asked: Was the old man flirting too much? How old was he?
She said: About eighty-five.
The second said: Unbelievable! You had to slap him four or five times!
She said: Yes, I had to slap him a few times. But you misunderstand—not for flirting. I had to slap him two or four times to find out whether he was alive or dead. When I slapped, he twitched a little; otherwise he lay like a corpse.
Dhabbu is standing for election. He chose the cracker as his symbol. Someone asked: So many symbols we have seen—why a firecracker? What is the secret?
Dhabbu said: Because it can either explode or fizzle. It has both qualities—whatever may happen. If it goes off—an arrow; if it does not—a guess. Either way, the game is mine.
People fight. The reason—greatest reason—is that in fighting they feel some heat, some life; they feel—I too am, I too am something! The ego gets a little food. If people did not fight, they would lose the assurance—are we alive, or have we died?
The husband comes and says nothing, sits silently; the wife is annoyed—what has happened, cat got your tongue? Why are you silent? If the husband speaks—quarrel.
One small boy said to another: My mother is amazing! Give her a little topic—and she talks for hours!
The other said: That is nothing! My mother—forget the topic; she talks for hours without any topic! Father sits completely silent, and my mother keeps talking. She does not even care whether there is a subject or not.
There is a reason: If the husband sits silent, the wife feels—life has gone! Life for her is the clatter—pots clashing, some noise, some commotion; seems like life.
Think—if all falls silent, if people stop fighting and quarrelling, sit quietly, calm, silent—suspicion will arise—what happened? Where has all the hubbub gone? Why so much silence? Silence will begin to cut.
Malukdas’ observation is correct: Dead with dead fight and die. The dead draw their swords.
There is a Japanese saying: Only when a man dies does he realize—Ah, I was alive! The incident of death shakes one. Awareness comes—Ah, I was alive! Life cannot shake so much. Until death shakes you, until it uproots your very roots, your sleep does not break, your dreams do not break. Such deep stupor! And those who remain behind are dead too—they regret.
A very famous saying of Jesus—I love it dearly.
In the morning Jesus stopped by a lake. The sun was rising and on the lake a fisherman had thrown his net. Jesus placed his hand upon his shoulder. The fisherman turned to see who it was. A stranger—yet a wondrous man! Such a man as he had never seen. The lake itself would be shy before his eyes. His eyes deeper than the lake. The blueness of the lake nothing; the blueness of his eyes something else! Upon his face a stamp from another realm—as if just descended from the sky! Fresh like the morning dew, like the first ray of the sun. He stood dumbstruck, kept looking!
Jesus said: What are you still looking at? Come with me! How long will you keep catching fish? You have caught enough. Life is not to be wasted catching fish. Come with me, I will teach you to catch men.
The fisherman must have been courageous. Such faith—in a stranger! And people like Jesus are always strangers. Meet them the first day—strangers; live with them for years—strangers. For they are from another realm. Until you awaken, they remain strangers. The fisherman threw the net and followed Jesus. They were leaving the village when a man came running and said to the fisherman: Mad fellow, where are you going? Your father was ill; he has breathed his last—come home! The fisherman said to Jesus: Forgive me. I was to follow you, but this misfortune has occurred. I shall go home, perform the last rites; in two or four days I will return. Jesus said: Leave your worry. There are enough dead in the village; they will bury the dead. You come with me!
Jesus’ word is astonishing: There are many dead in the village; they will bury the dead. What is your worry! You come with me—I will show you the secret of being alive! I will bring you to life! I can make you living—come! Your father has gone anyway. He was dead—nothing new has happened. The dead man’s breath moved; now it does not—understand only this much. But there are many in the village with breath moving; they will bury him.
The fisherman must have been brave. He did not return. He walked behind Jesus.
Only this much courage is needed to walk behind the true guru—then one day one can awaken. The true guru is alive, aflame. Join with him; let his flame become your flame—you too can be alive.
One day you will die; the skin will rot in lanes and alleys.
Before that, awaken!
Breaths have again and again called—
O wanderer, time does not tarry!
Breaths have again and again called—
O wanderer, time does not tarry!
Whatever the bonds of memory—
once drowned, that same moon does not rise again.
Dreams again and again were tricked;
wasted was the vigil of the eyelids!
From a single drop, the whole sky peeks in—
who knows which watch will become history.
Is it a flute-charmer or a snake-charmer who sways—
that the dancing snake is deaf!
Missed were all occasions, all nets were empty;
we kept asking only lisping questions.
The fisherman hums his song—
a pond can be deeper than the sea!
All pieces are spent; only the board remains;
noise has passed; again a desolate night.
A familiar face peeps in—
who can say, perhaps it is my own.
Breaths have again and again called—
O wanderer, time does not tarry!
Time is calling, summoning. It will not stop even a moment. Death will knock at the door; it will not wait. And when death may come cannot be said. Whether there will be a tomorrow is not certain. Nothing is certain except this moment. Use this moment! Do not lose this opportunity. Awaken! Break your sleep!
One day you will die; the skin will rot in lanes and alleys.
From such a false body, why not take the true Name!
This body is false; its relations are false.
What soiree of the world—this is only my narrow-mindedness:
I take a moving shadow to be a banquet.
A moving shadow—that is all our address. This shade may vanish at any moment. A little deeper sun and the shadow is gone. What reliance upon this shade?
This world is slipping from your hand. As mercury scatters, so all this will scatter. All these relations, these kith and kin, friends, loved ones—none will be of use. This does not mean you should run away—leave the world, leave wife, leave children. It means only this: remain where you are, as you are—but let attachment go, let clinging go, let insistence go. Do not leave the wife—but drop the hold upon her. Do not leave the children—but drop the insistence that they are mine.
But people are strange! They say: Either we will keep attachment, insistence, chains; and if you tell us to drop desires, chains, insistence—then we will leave all and run to the jungle.
Seeing again and again the headlines about ministers’ sons and relatives in corruption cases, a Chief Minister’s wife grew very anxious about her young sons. She thought she should advise her husband to sever ties with their sons, to stop recognizing any relatives.
After finishing work the Chief Minister came home. Before sleep she said to her husband: You should simply stop recognizing all relatives. The Chief Minister listened gravely, stared with a stranger’s gaze at his wife as if she were almost unknown, and asked: What is your good name?
So soon!
But people are like this; either the well or the ditch! Either they cling like mad—and if they are asked to drop the madness, then they leave like mad, but do not drop the madness! Your hedonists are mad; your yogis are mad. The hedonist clings like mad; the yogi drops like mad. I wish my sannyasin not to be mad. What is there in holding and dropping! It is only shadow—hold it, nothing of essence; drop it, nothing of essence. Who holds or drops a shadow! Only know it as shadow; let this much awareness remain.
To the passion of the heart, that manner of the tavern suits—
let me sit among the drinkers, yet let not my hem be soaked.
Sit even in the tavern, no harm; sit among drunkards, no harm; sit among the bibulous, no harm—only keep your hem un-wet; remember only this much.
To the passion of the heart, that manner of the tavern suits—
let me sit among the drinkers, yet let not my hem be soaked.
Even drinking has a manner, a secret, an art. But people are such that they remain entangled in the world while living; when they die, they die entangled in the world.
Nasruddin’s wife died. Nasruddin had died long before. The wife died; at the gates of heaven she asked the guard: Can you tell me any whereabouts of Mulla Nasruddin? My husband has been dead ten years. The guard said: Here there are countless Nasruddins—people have kept dying for centuries. Give some definite sign of your husband; the name alone will not suffice. Which Mulla Nasruddin? There is no lack of mullas here, no lack of Nasruddins. It is a crowd here, hundreds of millions. The wife said: What other sign shall I give? Only this I can say—that while dying, Nasruddin told me: Look, remember one thing. I am dying, but after me do not even raise your eyes toward any man. If you so much as raise your eyes toward a man, I will turn in my grave. The guard said: Then do not worry; we have recognized him. You mean the screwball Nasruddin who turns twenty-four hours a day? Since he came here, that is all he does.
Some live in the world and let the world not live in them—these alone are sannyasins. And some die, yet the world lives in them.
Even after death the heart remains in hundreds of sorrows;
we are not in the world, but a whole world is in us.
They die, they leave the world—but the world is settled inside; how will they leave that? Those who run away from the world are only escapees, not sannyasins. Even seated in caves they worry only of this world, are concerned with it, keep doing its accounts; and there too they will build a world. They will have to, for the mind with which they built the world here will build it there too.
I know a friend—he had a passion to build houses. Such a passion! He built his own house—beautiful, very beautiful. He believed in Plato’s dictum; Plato said: Every man should build at least one beautiful house upon earth. Plato, too, had great relish in beautiful houses. This gentleman had written Plato’s words upon his wall: Every man should build at least one beautiful house before dying. He built not one, but many. When one was done, he sold it and built another. Not only that—if friends were building, he stood day and night there.
Then he became a sannyasin—not mine, a runaway sannyasin. After ten years I passed by his ashram. I thought, let me see how matters are. He was standing with an umbrella in the blazing noon, having an ashram built. I asked: Good sir, what are you doing? He said: I am having an ashram built! Do look! All the art of all the houses I have poured into this. One thing will remain! I said: You left the world and ran—but you are you. There, you built houses; here, you build ashrams. What difference? You could have stayed there and kept building. Only the name of the house changed to ashram—what difference?
If the mind remains the same, the world will be constructed as before. In the mind are all the seeds. Freedom from the mind is sannyas—not freedom from the world. When the mind goes, the world departs on its own.
This death of the mind, this passing of the mind—Malukdas has expressed in very lovely words—exactly like the words of Gorakhnath. Gorakh said:
Die, O yogi, die—die, for death is sweet.
Die that death by which Gorakh beheld.
Die, O yogi, die—there is an art of dying, the greatest of arts. Die, O yogi, die; die—for death is sweet! Much sweetness is in death. But in which death? Not the death of this whole world where corpses roam—not that death. Another death is being spoken of—that death which joins you to the great-life; showers an eternal sweetness; a fragrance descends—of truth, beauty, goodness, immortality.
Die, O yogi, die; die, for death is sweet;
Die that death—
die in that manner—
by which Gorakh beheld.
As Gorakh died—by killing the mind! And when the mind dies—there is vision. The death of mind is the sight of God, the touch of God.
Malukdas says in just the same way—
Deaths differ, O friend—
there is dying and dying. One is of the whole world—dead while alive; and another is the dying of the sannyasin, of the wise.
Deaths differ, O friend—if only one knew how to die.
If the art of dying is known—if one knows how to die—there is a difference between deaths. Two kinds of dying. One—the world’s dying—people are unconscious and dead; and the other—the dying in awareness.
Deaths differ, O friend—if only one knew how to die.
He who dies at Rama’s door—he never dies again.
He who dies at the gate of Rama! Who surrenders the ego to Paramatma! Who says: Now you live within me; I shall not live; I have gone, I am departed! Who makes his heart the abode of God. Do not make temples! Temples of bricks and stone cannot be his abode. Make the temple of the heart! Travel to the heart—that is the pilgrimage. He who dies at the door of Rama! To die at the door of Rama—there has always been one condition: leave yourself outside, then you may go in. The condition is a little puzzling, an inversion—at once not understood—because you will say: If I leave myself outside, then who will go in?
You are two. One you is the false—that is your ego. And one you is truth—that is your soul. Leave the false outside, let the truth go in. But for now you have believed the false to be you—name, address—this body I am, this mind I am. You are not this. You are neither body nor mind. Neither thought nor desire. You are the witness of all these. You are other than all these and beyond all these.
Awaken that witness. Look at your body and break the identity with it. Do not say: I am the body. Say only: I am in the body. I dwell in the body. The body is my house—an inn, a hospice. Today we lodge; tomorrow we depart. And I am not the mind either. For whatever I can see cannot be me. You can see the mind; thoughts flow. You can see—this thought came, another went; a desire rose, another rose; the stream flows there ceaselessly. Anger came, delusion came, greed came—you can see. Thus one thing is certain—you are not anger, not delusion, not greed. You are the seer, the drashta. Join yourself wholly with this witnessing. This is your true form. This is your truth. This is your Paramatma. Then ego goes—just as linkage with body and mind is severed, ego goes. This is the death being spoken of.
Deaths differ, O friend—if only one knew how to die.
Die to the body-side, die to the mind-side—then you will be alive as the witness!
He who dies at Rama’s door—never has he to die again.
This is the art of dying at Rama’s door. And one who has died at Rama’s door—he does not die again. Nothing remains which could die again. You have had to die many times, and will have to die many times—until you die at Rama’s door, you will die at door after door. Infinite is the chain of birth and death. But one death suffices—by that one death the great-life is found, which has no death.
Seeing this their condition, I wander here and there saddened.
Maluk says: Seeing their condition—how many born, how many died—yet engaged in the same! The same circle, the same disturbance continues; the same swoon, the same unconsciousness! Seeing them, the mind grows sad. Compassion arises. What shall I do, how to awaken them? This is the anguish of all true gurus.
Seeing this their condition, I wander here and there saddened.
The deathless, the immortal Lord I have found—so says Malukdas.
Malukdas says: Listen—I have found the deathless, immortal Lord—by a small thing, a small key: I died at Rama’s door. You also die, so that you may find the Eternal!
He who dies at Rama’s door!
Enough for today.