Ram Duware Jo Mare #4

Gaurishankar Bharati! The ways of the Lord are subtle—impalpable, invisible. When and how he will cast his net over you, when and how you will be caught in it—you may not even have a hint. You may never know. The Divine’s pathways are not gross—visible to the eye, graspable by logic. From which unknown byway the summons will arrive, by what pretext you will begin to approach him—no prediction can be made.

Nor has this happened only to you—it has happened to many through the ages. One had never even thought—and the Ultimate happened. By thinking, it never happens. Unthought, it can happen effortlessly.

Angulimala was a killer—a great killer, the greatest of killers. He had sworn that he would behead a thousand people and string their fingers into a garland to wear—hence he came to be called Angulimala, “garland of fingers.” They say he killed nine hundred and ninety-nine; one was still lacking. Even his mother was afraid to approach him; such a murderer—with just one short of his vow—he could complete it with his own mother. The passes through the forest where he lived were abandoned; people stopped traveling there. Even the emperor, merely hearing of him, imagining him, trembled. A single man shook an entire kingdom.

Buddha passed that way. The villagers said, “Do not go by that path. There is no telling what that wretch will do. There is another route—longer, but safer. Why risk life needlessly?” Buddha’s bhikkhus also pleaded, “Lord, what need is there to go that way?” Buddha said, “If I did not know, perhaps I would take the other route; but now that I know, I must go. This body will fall anyway; let it fulfill that man’s wish! He needs just one more; I have one body. And since it is going to go, what could be more auspicious than that it serves someone a little?”

The monks who always felt proud to walk beside Buddha, showing people how close they were, fell behind. By the time Buddha reached Angulimala, he was alone. His disciples were miles back. From afar Angulimala shouted, “Stop, monk! Perhaps you don’t know who I am!” Buddha laughed and said, “Perhaps you don’t know who I am. And I tell you: I know who I am; you don’t even know who you are.” Angulimala hesitated, paused for a moment—he had never seen a man speak with such force! Still, he said, “It would be better if you turn back. Stop where you are. One more step and you are in danger.” Buddha said, “Angulimala, I stopped years ago. You stop.”

Angulimala said, “You sound deranged. From your first words I sensed you were mad; now I am certain. You keep walking toward me and say you have stopped! And you call me, who is standing still, the one who is moving.” Buddha said, “Yes. For the day my mind stopped, I stopped. Your mind is still moving. The body is standing, but as long as the mind moves, the whole world moves. Therefore I say: you are moving—I am still.”

Angulimala had to think. It was a telling point. Buddha came and stood before him. His hands wanted to lift the axe—but they could not. “This man is not one to kill. To die at his feet would be good fortune.” Yet old habit, old conditioning surged; he raised the axe. Buddha said, “Look, there is no hurry. Kill me whenever you like—this neck is already severed. I am not one to run; otherwise I would not have come. But before you kill me, grant me a small curiosity.” He asked, “What?” Buddha said, “We stand beneath this tree—break off a few leaves.”

“Leaves? Why?” Angulimala swung his axe and cut off an entire branch. Buddha said, “So—half my wish is done. Now fulfill the other half: join it back.”

“You are certainly insane,” Angulimala said. “How can a severed branch be joined again?” Buddha replied, “If you cannot join, you should not dare to break. Any child can break; the art is in joining. You have killed so many—can you bring even an ant to life? If we cannot give life, what right have we to take it?”

As if waking from centuries of sleep, Angulimala dropped the axe, bowed at Buddha’s feet. Buddha placed his hand on his head and said, “Bhikkhu Angulimala, arise!” He said, “Why do you call me bhikkhu?” Buddha replied, “I have given initiation. I seek just such courageous men.” Angulimala had not asked for initiation; when he bowed he was Angulimala the murderer; when he rose he was Angulimala the monk. Buddha said, “I have initiated you. You are my sannyasin now. Come, walk behind me. Angulimala, you are a lovable man—so quickly do few understand.”

Angulimala said, “I am a murderer. None more sinful than I. And what manner is this of giving me initiation? I did not ask!” Buddha said, “Whether you ask or not—you are a vessel, and I give.” Thus Angulimala was ordained.

And the very next day a wondrous thing happened.

When he entered the city with Buddha, such fear spread that people slammed their doors shut. Even knowing he had become a monk—ah, old habits! He might leap and cut someone’s throat! Who would trust such a man? From their rooftops people hurled stones. These brave people, who dared not pass on the road, threw stones at an unarmed man. Angulimala, struck by stones, fell bleeding. Buddha bent over him and asked, “Angulimala, what arises in your heart toward these people?” He said, “Nothing. Only compassion arises—that these poor ones know not what they do. Ah, they are breaking what they cannot mend; killing whom they cannot bring to life. And now, having bowed at your feet, what I have seen within has no death.” Buddha said, “Angulimala, now you are not only a bhikkhu—you have become a brahmin. O monk, O brahmin, arise! Come with me. You have known Brahman.”

That evening Emperor Bimbisara heard and came for Buddha’s darshan—actually to see Angulimala, his lifelong enemy, though the pretext was Buddha. Bowing at Buddha’s feet he said, “I hear Angulimala has been initiated!” Buddha said, “Not that he asked for it—he was given initiation, as grace; he was a worthy vessel.” Bimbisara said, “Angulimala a vessel? Then who is unworthy?” Buddha said, “No one is unworthy. Only he who believes himself unworthy is unworthy. Unworthiness is a belief; otherwise, Buddhahood resides in each. Just stir a little, shake off the ash, and the ember appears—glowing ember, the eternal flame shines forth.”

But perhaps Bimbisara’s time had not yet come. These matters did not kindle his heart. He said, “I want to know—where is Angulimala? I wish to see him. A lifelong longing.” Buddha said, “This monk seated beside me is Angulimala.” The emperor was so frightened he drew his sword at once. Buddha said, “Return the sword to its sheath; there is no need to fear. Even if you cut him into pieces, no ill will will arise from his heart—only blessings will shower. He is not only a monk; he is a brahmin. He has known Brahman.” Still, Bimbisara was drenched in sweat.

Thus did Angulimala attain Buddhahood. He had never thought it, never imagined, never dreamt.

Did Valmiki think? He did not. He met Narada by chance. Valya the Bhil wanted to rob Narada. But Narada said, “Before you rob me, go home and ask one thing: the sin incurred by stealing—will your family, for whom you steal—your wife, your father, your sons—share in that sin? Will they be partners?” Valya laughed. “Trying to trick me? While I go to ask, you will run!” Narada said, “Then tie me to a tree.” Valya tied Narada and went to ask.

He asked his father. The father said, “What business is it of mine how you earn money? Serving your old father is your duty; sin and merit—you know. What partnership? I have never asked how you earn, nor will I ask. You think of it.” The wife said, “How would I know? Since you brought me in marriage, it is your duty to care for me. I keep your house, cook your food, raise your children, serve your father—what more do you want? As for sin and merit, you decide.” The sons said, “What do we know? You gave us birth! We are not even grown. We don’t know what is merit, what is sin. You understand.”

Valya was shaken awake.

He returned and said to Narada, “Forgive me. I was mistaken. None of them shares my sin. Then I cannot sin any longer. Give me a mantra, a method, a process of transformation. I am unlettered; I cannot study scriptures. Tell me some simple way for a simple rustic.” Narada said, “Then repeat ‘Rama, Rama.’”

When Narada returned, Valya had attained knowledge. He was no longer Valya—he had become Valmiki. Light was streaming from him; an aura surrounded him. From hundreds of yards away Narada felt his fragrance, his music. Coming near, he was startled. Valmiki had forgotten “Rama, Rama”—he was chanting “mara, mara.” Yet even chanting “mara, mara”… “Chant ‘Rama, Rama’ aloud, again and again, fast: Rama, Rama, Rama, Rama.” He was unlettered; in his confusion he reversed the syllables—‘ra’ went behind, ‘ma’ came before; so he chanted “mara, mara.” But even chanting “mara, mara” he attained Rama. In the japa there was feeling, reverence, simplicity, heartfulness, love. Did Valya ever think that such a revolution would befall his life? You never know by which door and when God will enter you.

You are right, Gaurishankar, that “I came with years of longing for darshan.”

That longing too is a seed. Let it become deep, and the seed will crack, sprout.

You say, “After morning discourse and darshan, a strong desire arose in me to have close darshan.”

The longing to draw near is mysterious. You did not recognize it then. When a seed is sown, who can tell what leaves will emerge, what flowers will bloom, how tall the tree will rise—will it touch the clouds, converse with the moon and stars? Who can say? All is hidden in the seed. You came like a seed; you slipped near like a seed.

You say, “There was no other way to come close except to take sannyas.”

That is exactly why I have made closeness costly for others—so that coming near does not become cheap. Otherwise you would return a seed, un-sprouted. Nearness must have a price. To come close you must bow a little, dissolve a little. Therefore, as the presence of sannyasins around me grows, you will have to pay more to come closer. You thought, “Well, we’ll trick him! We’ll take false sannyas!” But often it happens: one goes to deceive and gets deceived—such deceits are dangerous.

I have heard: a man stole. The household awoke, there was an uproar, he ran. The householders chased him. A policeman on the road joined the chase. The thief was in a panic. It was the rainy season; at the riverbank the flood was high—he did not dare to jump in. With no other idea, he flung his clothes into the river, sat naked on the bank. By the time the crowd arrived, they all bowed low to him: “Blessings, Maharaj! A thief just came this way—you must have seen him.”

A revolution happened within that thief! “They say, ‘Revered sadhu,’ and I am only a counterfeit sadhu; they bow at my feet. If only I were a true sadhu!” Some longing arose—who knows how many lives it had slept! Thereafter he left not only the path of theft but the ordinary world. He settled right there.

Even an emperor came to touch his feet. “Where have you come from? Who are you? Your serenity is renowned; your peace, your glory spreads far and wide.” He laughed, “Don’t ask. I went to deceive and got deceived.” He told his story: “I am that thief. I will hide it no longer. Now sannyas has come to the point where hiding is impossible. Sannyas has come to the point where truth must be revealed. I was a thief; I only threw away my clothes. I never thought when I flung them that I would become a sadhu. With no other way, I posed as a sadhu—naked, smeared with ash lying there on the ghat—I wrapped myself in it. But when those who came behind touched my feet, they initiated me. They touched my feet and I was ordained. Not only the clothes went into the river—the thief, too, was washed away. And when I saw that even a fake sadhu receives such reverence, how much more the true! Something in me dissolved; something new welled up.”

You took sannyas falsely. That is why I do not worry who is taking it truly, who falsely. I say, let them take it. Then all will come right. Even if false—never mind; even that much is a lot. If a finger has been grasped, the goal is not far. I know many—you are not alone—in whom it was perfectly clear to me while giving sannyas that they were taking it falsely. Yet my trust is in man; I hold the highest respect for man. I know that one who today takes it falsely—what can he do? His life is soaked in untruth; birth after birth you have been steeped in lies. How will truth suddenly descend today? The whole long process of falsehood results in this: even when he does something good today, he cannot do it wholly, with all his being. But once sannyas is taken, something is bound to happen in your life. Because you are linked to me. Even a single ray entering your dark night is enough. Holding to that ray you will reach the sun.

Thus it happened in your life. You lied to me that you meditate. But on a right path even lies become truths; on a wrong path, truths become lies. In the right context, a lie becomes a ladder; in the wrong context, truth is a pit. It is all a matter of context. You came to take false sannyas, you spoke a lie; then it would have started pricking, stinging. Again and again you must have felt, “What have I done? Even sannyas, false? At least I could have left sannyas alone; not drowned it in untruth. I lied that I meditate.” Had you told me you did not, there would have been no obstacle; no harm. But the ego made you lie even there.

I have heard: a wrestler entered a tavern. He drank heartily, picked up a half-squeezed lemon from the table and wrung it. Not a drop remained. Then he shouted, “Is there any real man here who can squeeze even one more drop from this lemon? A thousand rupees if you do!” He pulled a thousand rupees from his pocket and slapped them on the table. A thin, frail man stood up. Others lost their nerve seeing the wrestler’s arms and the way he had crushed that lemon—impossible to get even a drop. The frail man picked up the lemon and squeezed out three drops, not one. The wrestler was stunned; even the drink left him. The man pocketed the thousand. The wrestler said, “Brother, at least tell me in which akhara you train.” He said, “I have nothing to do with akharas. I am an income-tax officer. I squeeze Marwaris—what’s a lemon to me!”

I am no income-tax officer. If you had said you do not meditate, I would not have squeezed you—even if you were a Marwari! What could I do? But the ego protects itself on every side; it makes one lie.

Yet afterward you must have repented—because to lie to a man like me, with whom there is no need to lie, nothing to gain—yet you lied! And I trusted your lie. I accepted your false sannyas. I accepted your false answer. From that, a pain must have risen within you. Thickening, it slowly dyed you in the ochre. It was bound to happen. It put the mala on you; it dipped you into regular meditation. Even with false sannyas you would have gotten a glimpse of peace. Then would have come the thought: what of true sannyas! Here you must have seen sannyasins dancing, singing, rejoicing, intoxicated. Their memory would have floated within you like a soft fragrance. You would have seen them meditating, peered into their eyes afterward; all this was creating a milieu within you. It happened to fall upon you suddenly, but perhaps lifetimes of practice stood behind it. Perhaps you had been a sannyasin before and left midway. Perhaps across lives you meditated at other times.

There is a law of life: nothing we do here is lost. It is gathered within us. One day the strings match, the instrument is tuned—and music rises.

When the garden blooms in flowers,
whenever your remembrance returns,
what is sannyas? Only that remembrance. My presence means nothing more than to awaken that remembrance in you and then step aside—to place your hand in his and step aside.

When the garden blooms in flowers,
whenever your remembrance returns;
may your remembrance flash
like lightning in the monsoon;
the life-bird calls piu-piu
and awakens memories bright;
when clouds mass upon the sky,
whenever your remembrance returns.

O my vernal splendor!
your cooing pours ambrosia;
your fragrance, a sorceress—
in this ecstasy body-mind sway;
the ocean heaves wave upon wave,
whenever your remembrance returns.

You are the orchard of my breath!
your humming delights my heart;
your beauty I desire,
your world intoxicates—
it awakens love within me,
whenever your remembrance returns.

Your remembrance is so mellifluous,
so silvery, so many-hued;
it makes the body sway, the mind go astray—
your remembrance is so heady;
it lights a hundred lamps in the courtyard,
whenever your remembrance returns.

Slowly the remembrance begins to come. Step by step the Divine enters within you. Now do not be afraid. Keep moving on. There are more milestones yet—beyond the sky as well. One must reach the supreme state. Sannyas is the first step. Meditation is a bridge—one has to reach the far shore. One has to reach that place where meditation becomes natural. That moment too comes one day—and as suddenly as sannyas came, as meditation came. Draw trust from this; draw faith; nurture your reverence. It is not only you who are seeking God—this proves that God is also seeking you. You have not set out alone on the journey to him—he too has set out toward you. The Sufis say: take one step toward him—he takes a thousand toward you. And I say: even if you take not a step, only let a call arise—and he comes running. Meditation is that call. Sannyas is giving the call a tangible form.

Gaurishankar, it is auspicious! Do not ask forgiveness. If you had not taken false sannyas, then perhaps there would be something to forgive—for how would the true have happened? If you had not falsely said to me that you meditate, how would you now be truly meditating? What forgiveness! You are blessed—that the false led you to the true, that the illusory brought you to the temple of truth.

That is why I do not ask who is worthy or unworthy. Old-style sannyasins sometimes come and say, “You neither see who is a vessel nor who is not—you simply pour.” I tell them: if you have nectar, will it become nectar only when poured into a golden goblet? If you pour into a clay cup, is it not nectar? For drinking, gold or clay—it is all the same. And it is nectar only if it fills even a cup that has long held poison. Nectar is not defeated by poison; poison is defeated by nectar. Therefore I am ready to give sannyas even to the most “unworthy,” because I know what I give is nectar, what I give is the Divine. And what limit can there be to the Divine? What helplessness? Even if you choose him with a lie, he chooses you with truth. He trusts you even upon your lie—his trust in you is that immense. And in that very trust you were caught—transformation happened, revolution occurred.

Do not ask! There is no need to ask forgiveness. You are blessed—that by the pretext of coming near me you took sannyas; by the pretext of coming near you spoke of meditation. From that the thread of revolution began in your life. My blessings are with you. I shall not “forgive,” for there is nothing to forgive. You came. How you came—by bullock cart or airplane—what does it matter? You came. Whether riding on falsehood or truth—what difference does it make? You came. Once you come to me, the work is mine.

When Vivekananda was going to America, he was a guest of a royal family in Rajasthan. The king arranged a celebration to honor the sannyasin departing for America. A king is a king—he also summoned a famous courtesan from Kashi. For him, a celebration without a courtesan was unthinkable—what kind of festivity would that be? Like Diwali without lamps. A courtesan must be there. When Vivekananda learned—only at the last moment, in the evening as the carriage arrived at the door to take him—that a courtesan would dance before him, he refused to go. “I am a sannyasin. To watch a courtesan’s dance!” The pavilion for the event was close by. But a king is a king. He said, “If he won’t come, so be it; the celebration will go on. The courtesan has arrived, the guests have arrived, the wine has arrived—the revelry cannot be stopped. It will proceed without him.”

The revelry began. But that courtesan sang a most wondrous song—a bhajan of Narsi Mehta. The pavilion was near; Vivekananda heard it. The courtesan’s streaming tears and Narsi’s bhajan! In that bhajan it is said: the philosopher’s stone does not worry whether the iron it touches is iron destined for a temple or iron used in a butcher’s shop to slaughter animals. The touchstone turns both to gold. In her song the courtesan began to say, “What kind of touchstone are you, that you still see a courtesan? I came with so much feeling; I brought so many hymns.” She had indeed brought hymns—thinking, “To sing before a sannyasin like Vivekananda,” she had brought Meera’s songs, Narsi Mehta’s songs. She had considered her life blessed—that today even her dance would be meaningful.

Vivekananda was deeply struck hearing Narsi’s bhajan. He rose and went to the celebration, asked the courtesan’s forgiveness, and said, “I erred. My mistake. I am not yet a touchstone, that I thought which iron is worthy and which not.” He said that day his eyes opened. From that day he stopped dividing worthy and unworthy. That old habit the courtesan broke. “She became my guru.”

Life is very strange—mysterious. From where the door of the Divine will open, it is hard to say.

But we often ask the wrong question. We are wrong, so the wrong question arises in us. A blind man asks: Where is the light? A deaf man asks: What music? The deaf one does not ask how he might gain ears. The blind one does not ask how he might gain eyes. The blind need eyes; the deaf need ears. Yet their questions are very strange. The deaf man says, “Music? I don’t even admit such a thing exists. If I can’t hear it, how can it be? People must be lying.” How is a blind person to believe that there is light? And a blind man can offer a thousand arguments.

Buddha once stayed in a village. The villagers brought a blind man to him. They said, “He is blind; even if he were only blind it would be one thing, but he is very argumentative. He has harassed the whole village. He says there is no such thing as light. He proves us—the sighted—wrong. The whole village is on one side, this blind man on the other, and we can’t prove it to him. We’re exhausted. He demands proof of light. He says, ‘Bring it so I can touch it. Bring it so I can taste it. Bring it so I can make it ring.’ This blind man says, ‘Look, when a man buys a clay pot for a couple of coins, he taps it first! Where is light? If it has a fragrance, let me smell it. If it has a taste, let me savor it. If it has a sound, let me hear it. If it has a form, let me see it—but where is it? If it exists, let me feel it by touch.’ But we can neither make him touch it, nor make him smell it, nor make him taste it. And since he has no eyes, seeing is out of the question. And light can only be seen; it cannot be touched or tasted. Light enters you by only one door—your eyes. And because we cannot prove light, this blind man says, ‘You’ve invented the notion of light just to prove me blind! You won’t make a fool of me.’”

“We’ve brought him to you,” the people said to Buddha. “Please explain it to him.”

Buddha said, “The blind man is right. You are wrong. Your mistake is that you try to explain to him; is a blind man ever explained to in that way? Take him to a physician! My physician is Jivaka… whenever I fell ill, Jivaka treated me… take him to Jivaka; he is the finest physician. If anything can be done for his eyes, it will be done.”

And it was. In six months the film that covered his eyes was removed. By the time his eyes opened, Buddha had gone on to another village—he must have traveled quite a distance in those six months. The man reached the other village, fell at Buddha’s feet, and begged forgiveness: “Forgive me; I was greatly mistaken. Had you not come to our village, my life would have passed away in argument, and I would never have known light. The poor people of my village were right! But what could they do—and what could I do? I was blind, and my ego wouldn’t allow me to admit it; and the proof I asked of them was beyond their power to give. You did me a kindness in not offering proofs, but sending me to the physician.”

Buddha says again and again: I too am a physician—the physician of the inner eye. Nanak also has said: I am a physician—the physician of the inner eye. That is what I say to you as well: I too am a physician—the physician of the inner eye.

Do not ask, Ramtirtha, when the dawn will come! There is only dawn. There is nothing other than dawn. There is only light. This entire existence is made of light. The saints have always said existence is made of light; now even scientists say the whole existence is made of electricity—that light is the basis, that all around there is only light, an ocean of light in which we live, in which we are born, from which we are made, and into which we will dissolve. But eyes are needed.

And you are not even blind, Ramtirtha!
No one is born blind inwardly. So far I have not seen—and no Buddha has ever seen—that anyone is born blind within. Within, people have only kept their eyes closed, that’s all. You look only outward; the capacity to see gets bound outward, and you forget that this capacity can also turn back within. It can indeed turn within; this fact has simply slipped from your memory. All that needs to be done is this: the very energy that is flowing out through the eyes must begin to turn back within; then the third eye—there is no actual third eye, it is only a symbol—opens. Two eyes are needed to look outward, because outside there is duality, polarity. To look within one eye is enough, because within there is non-duality, oneness—so one eye suffices. With these two eyes you have seen a lot—what have you gained? Now close these eyes for a while, and let this same energy begin to flow inward. The inward movement of energy is what meditation is. Meditation means nothing else: the inward migration of energy, the inner journey. You are asleep, that’s all; the morning is here—wake up!

The night’s tresses have flowed down to the waist—
who shall wake the sleeping?
The river of breath runs so swift,
and sleep is so storm-tossed;
the shore of awareness seems far away,
and life here seems helpless,
youth worn out and spent—
in such exhaustion, who would disturb?
Who will wake the sleeping?

But it is very difficult to wake one who sleeps. Why? Because each person has gathered many dreams in his sleep—golden, sweet, pleasing, honeyed. If you wake up, those dreams shatter. Suppose someone wants to be president; he has built a dream: elections are near, I’ll be prime minister, I’ll become president. If someone tries to wake a Babu Jagjivan Ram at such a time, he will be annoyed. Is this a time to wake someone? Let me sleep a couple of years more! Now the opportunity has come—my dream looks close to fulfillment, though no dream ever truly fulfills; it only appears to be fulfilling. Have dreams ever become real? First people dream; then they fear awakening; and they get angry at the one who wakes them.

That is how you crucified Jesus! Jesus must have annoyed you. The fault is Jesus’, not yours. Wake the sleeping and you destroy their dreams—dreams they have cherished for so long; you reduce them to ashes, to dust. They wanted to turn over and sleep a little more, and you came to wake them—what will they do but be angry? They have always abused the Buddhas. The fault lies with the Buddhas, not with the simpletons. What else can the simpletons do? That is why Jesus, at the time of death, said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Socrates drank the hemlock and died, yet he did not utter a single word against those who made him drink it. He knew: the fault is mine.

…Sita is our sannyasin. She has a husband—very much a man of his own whims. People think him eccentric. He keeps the neighbors distressed. He will get up at two in the night and go wake the next-door neighbor. If asked, “At two in the morning what are you saying?” he will ask, “Has the milkman come or not?” At two in the night, to wake someone and ask whether the milkman has come; “The newspaper still hasn’t come yet!”… No one says anything to him, because people think he is eccentric; but they nag poor Sita: why don’t you stop your husband? As if he is someone who can be stopped! Can he be stopped by anyone? He harasses the whole neighborhood. When they lived in Bombay, the people of Bombay were after Sita… Sita started living here… “Take him to Poona, because he keeps troubling us. He turns up at all hours. And he asks questions that make no sense—what newspaper at two in the night! What milkman at two in the night! Even milkmen must sleep, mustn’t they? Even newspaper boys must sleep! And you won’t let others sleep… he himself can’t sleep. He has grown old and rests all day—then how will sleep come?”

Even from ordinary sleep, if someone wakes you, you feel offended.

When I lived in Jabalpur, a wrestler lived next door. He would get up at three in the morning and begin his squats and push-ups. If anyone needed to catch an early train, to go somewhere in the morning, they would tell the wrestler. Once I had to catch a six o’clock train, so I asked him, “Brother, wake me at five.” He came and woke me first at three. I said, “Brother, is this any time? It’s too early; I have a six o’clock train!” He said, “I might forget while doing my exercises. I thought I should wake you before I start.” He woke me again at four. I said… He said, “I take a little rest between sets; I thought I should get this done now, otherwise I might forget again.” And at five—he did forget!

When I woke up at seven and went to see him, he said, “Forgive me; what can I do? I woke you twice, but you didn’t get up! Then I forgot. Precisely to prevent forgetting I woke you twice—at wrong times, unnecessarily, disturbing your sleep.”

Even out of ordinary sleep, if someone wakes you—even if you yourself had asked to be awakened—you feel annoyed. Your rest feels broken; your dreams feel broken.

The night’s tresses have flowed down to the waist—
who shall wake the sleeping?
The river of breath runs so swift…
Here, life is racing by at great speed; try to stop someone, shake him, wake him, and he says, “Wait, don’t spoil my sleep! I have some desires yet, some longings—let me fulfill them! Life is slipping away; I’ll wake later. I’ll take sannyas in old age; I’ll remember God at the time of death; I’ll go to Kashi and breathe my last there—but not now!”

The river of breath runs so swift,
and sleep is so storm-tossed—
so many gales and tempests rise in sleep, yet even pushing aside all those storms and squalls we keep sleeping.

The shore of awareness seems far away…
The shore of wakefulness seems very far.

And life here seems helpless,
as if life is compelled to remain immersed in sleep.

Youth worn out and spent—
in such exhaustion, who would trouble?
Who will wake the sleeping?

The question is not of the morning. The question is that you are tired, exhausted; you are filled with dreams. Granted there are gales and tempests—but the shore of awareness seems very far; it is not even visible, hidden in the mist. You hear the words of the Buddhas, but you hardly trust that a Buddha can truly be. Or if ever you muster great courage and trust, at most you think, “Yes, someone could have become one; but me—it is impossible! Gautam Siddhartha may have become Buddha, Vardhaman Mahavira may have become the Jina, Krishna may have been an avatar of the Divine—but I am an ordinary man: my limits, my incapabilities, my desires, my passions, my ambitions—how can I?” That shore is too far. It is not coming to you today. “Let me sleep today; we’ll see tomorrow.” That is why you do not see the dawn. You postpone to tomorrow. And you will postpone every day. You have postponed for centuries. Postponement has become your habit.

And in this very unconsciousness you have met Buddhas as well—believe me, in the infinite journey it cannot be that you never met a Kabir, a Maluk, a Dadu, a Farid. In the infinite journey, who knows how many times you must have passed close by men of awakening—but you would not have seen them. In such sleep, who sees anything!

I have heard: in an American hotel two old ladies were staying. No one paid them any attention. Why would anyone? People’s attention clings to youth. Those old ladies were very hurt by this, because the ego always craves attention—that people should notice. One day they got so angry: “People behave as if we don’t exist. They come and go in the hotel, pass by—no one even looks! No one even says hello. No one asks, ‘Greetings, how are you?’ No one looks!” Everyone is absorbed in their own intoxication. Who has the time? They got so angry: “We must do something. We must attract attention.” Both were eighty. But in America this can happen. They threw off their clothes and walked nude into the hotel lobby: “Now at least people will look!” But no one did. Only two old men sipping tea at a table said, “Hey, who are these ladies?” The other replied, “Whoever they are, what old-fashioned clothes! They could at least have ironed them!”

Even those who noticed were like that! They too could only see that at least the clothes should have been ironed—what outmoded fashion, what kind of dress!

Who has the time? Who looks? People are lost in themselves, drunk on themselves. They pass by Buddhas—asleep, sunk in slumber.

A languor settles on the face,
a streak of intoxication in the breath,
eyelids heavy,
blood seeming to flow at the lips—
Who has come, who is this who has come?
Swaying and coy,
preening and shy,
turning buds into flowers,
stealing the colors of flowers—
who has come, who is this who has come?
The veil flies, the head is tossed,
weaves veils upon the breath,
fingers the edge of the sari,
listens for every rustle—
who has come, who is this who has come?
I would have palaces made of stars,
adorn lamps of flowers,
spread a carpet of eyelashes,
recite Ghalib’s couplets—
who has come, who is this who has come?

Nothing is visible to us. Spring turns to fall, fall to spring; flowers bloom, wither, and drop; birds sing; the sun rises; the sky fills with moon and stars—but we are unconscious, our eyes closed, lost in our dreams, absorbed in our thoughts, drowned in memories of the past or fantasies of the future, moving on mechanically. That is why the morning is not seen. Morning is. Dawn is—and always.

Let me repeat: outside there is sometimes day and sometimes night, because outside there is duality. Everything there is in pairs—the polarity of darkness and light, of life and death, of cold and heat, of beauty and ugliness, of youth and old age. Outside there is duality. Hence there is evening and there is morning. But within there is a state beyond duality. There there is only One. There is neither morning nor evening; neither day nor night; neither heat nor cold; neither I nor thou. Then what is there? Inexpressible—beyond words—something is. To awaken to that is awakening. To know that is dawn. And that is always present within you.

Ramtirtha, turn within. You have wandered long outside—what have you found? How long will you drown in outer desires? Come within! Seek your source! Let the Ganges flow back toward Gangotri! You have flowed outward long enough—now move toward the root, toward the origin. Only there will you find contentment; only there will you find peace; only there will you find bliss. That is what we have called the Divine—sat-chit-ananda—what we have called satyam, shivam, sundaram.

Jyoti! Human beings live in unconsciousness; that’s why repetition happens. We live like machines; that’s why repetition happens. You only have the illusion that you are aware. Hence the same mistakes keep repeating. Yesterday you got angry, the day before yesterday you got angry; every time you get angry you regret it, and every time after regretting you decide, “No more, now it’s enough!” Yet today you were angry again. Again there is regret. Anger is old, regret is old. Anger repeats, regret repeats. And tomorrow again you will be angry, and again you will regret. That’s how the whole life passes—morning and evening—inside a kind of stupor, a fainting fit.

We are under the illusion that we are awake; this wakefulness is not real.

The buddhas speak of four states of consciousness. What we call the waking state, they call the so‑called waking. The second state they call dream, the third deep sleep, and the fourth they simply call “the fourth”—turiya. The fourth is real awakening. Self‑realization is real awakening. If you receive the answer to “Who am I”—not from the Gita, not from the Koran, not from the Bible, not from me or anyone else, but from yourself—then mistakes will not occur at all; the question of repeating them doesn’t even arise. From that awareness, mistakes cannot be born. Just as where there is light, darkness does not remain, in the same way, where there is self‑awareness, mistakes do not survive. In the eyes of those who know, there is only one sin—unconsciousness; and only one virtue—awareness. Otherwise, of course there will be mistakes.

A railway officer was interviewing a job applicant, Chandulal. He asked, “Suppose early in the morning you are strolling near the tracks and you see that the rails have been torn up, and a train is approaching. What will you do?” “Sir, I’ll wave a red flag,” replied Chandulal. “Suppose you don’t have a red flag at that moment. What will you do then? The lives of thousands of passengers are in danger—speak up!” “Sir, I’ll take any red cloth—my shirt, a handkerchief, anything—and wave it like a flag.” “Suppose you have no red cloth at all, and your handkerchief is white. Then what?” “Then I’ll run home and bring my wife and children.” “I don’t understand,” the officer said in amazement. “What will you do after bringing your wife and children?” “Sir,” said Chandulal, “I’ll gather the kids and tell them, ‘Look, what a mess I’m in! My dear children, never take a job with the railways. And if someone must, then never, ever go for an early‑morning stroll near the tracks.’ Then I’ll tell my wife, ‘Beloved, behold—such an accident you’ve never seen in your life! At least have a look!’ We’ll get free entertainment—‘haldi lagi na fitkari, rang chhókha ho jaaye’—without spending a thing, and the color will still come out bright!”

I’ve heard of a similar incident—Mulla Nasruddin took a job on a ship. Before the job there was an interview. His work was to drop the ship’s anchor. The officer asked, “A storm comes—what will you do?” “I’ll drop the anchor,” said Nasruddin. “Suppose the storm is very fierce—then what?” “The second anchor.” “It’s no ordinary storm!” “Then I’ll drop the third anchor.” “It’s a storm the likes of which you’ve never seen—terrible! Lives are at stake; the ship could sink any moment.” “Then I’ll drop the fourth anchor.” “Where are you getting so many anchors from?” asked the officer. Nasruddin said, “From the same place you’re getting so many storms. Where you are imagining from, that’s where I’m imagining from. Neither your storms are visible, nor my anchors.”

People live in imaginations.

Today you live in unconsciousness and imagine that tomorrow you’ll set everything right. But you’ll fix things tomorrow and live today—and tomorrow never comes. When it comes, it is today. And today you say, “Let it pass as it is!” Today anger has arisen—fine; but tomorrow we won’t get angry. But when will tomorrow arrive? Tomorrow has never come; it never does. Tomorrow is impossible. Whenever it comes, it is today. And today you are in the habit of anger. That habit grows denser and denser.

Jyoti, mistakes? First thing: what others call mistakes are not necessarily mistakes. So first decide whether what others call mistakes really are mistakes. Decide first whether the life you’re living is really as full of mistakes as people say—or whether many so‑called mistakes are only called mistakes because people say so, and you’ve simply accepted their label. The truth is, in many matters there is no mistake at all.

A young man came and said, “What should I do? My father says, ‘Wake up in brahma‑muhurt’—before dawn. And I fail at this; I can’t get up then. I can’t wake before six in the morning. He says, ‘At least get up at five if you can’t at four.’ He himself gets up at three. What should I do? How can I get rid of this mistake?” I told him, “There is no mistake in this. The very assumption that it’s a mistake is the mistake. If your sleep naturally breaks at six, then that is your brahma‑muhurt. There’s no need to get up at five. And if you force yourself up at five, you’ll suffer the consequences—you’ll feel dull all day, tired, your eyes lackluster, sleepy. You’ll feel all day as if something is missing, something is off, a bit unhinged. You’ll yawn again and again, you won’t be able to focus, everything will feel like a burden. There’s no need.”

What happens is that as people grow old, their sleep decreases. The child in the mother’s womb sleeps twenty‑four hours… It’s good the great saints don’t start preaching there. If they could enter the womb, they’d shake the child and say, “Boy! Twenty‑four hours? At least wake up for brahma‑muhurt!” In the womb the child must sleep twenty‑four hours. Only then can he grow. Growth happens in sleep; because in sleep there is rest, all activities pause, and all your energy goes into development. After birth the child sleeps twenty‑three hours, then twenty‑two, then twenty, then eighteen. As he grows, sleep decreases. Then there comes a stage where sleep stabilizes around eight hours. A young person will naturally sleep seven to eight hours—he should. Then there comes an age when sleep is four or five hours. Then later two or three hours. As death approaches, little sleep decreases; the great sleep is drawing near. And as death approaches, your life‑energy no longer builds anything inside you; construction stops. What is broken stays broken, it’s not rebuilt—so sleep is not needed as much. Sleep is a process of construction.

But here’s the danger: scriptures were written by the old. The elders sit in control at home; they are considered wise. And the poor old folks speak from their experience: “When we sleep three hours, why do you need eight?” “We, old as we are, wake at three; you, being young, wake at six—shame on you!” I’ve heard many say this. Their argument looks right on the surface, but it’s completely wrong—unscientific. It’s precisely because they are old that they wake at three. Just ask them to sleep till six—then we’ll see how easy it is. They can’t sleep till six, and the young can’t get up at three. If the old sleep till six they’ll be irritable all day—because it was forced. If the young rise at three, they’ll be irritable all day.

So it isn’t necessary that what people call mistakes are mistakes. First decide what is being labeled a mistake.

In Africa some tribes eat only once a day. If someone eats twice, they think he is doing wrong. Here we don’t consider two meals a mistake; everyone eats twice. But if someone eats three times, we are sure to say he’s a bit indulgent—given to eating, drinking, and fun, always at it! In America people eat five times a day; no one calls them indulgent. Everyone has their own way, and no one knows whose way is perfectly right.

Science hasn’t settled it yet. Some scientists say the right way is to eat a little at a time, but several times, so the stomach isn’t overloaded. If you eat twice while an American eats five times, you’re likely to eat as much in two sittings as he does in five. The body’s needs must be met. So if your belly grows and your body goes out of shape, don’t be surprised.

The African tribe that eats once—they all have big bellies, surprisingly. Their stomachs should be the healthiest, not the biggest.

Digambara Jain monks eat once a day; they should have no bellies at all. But you’ll find many with big bellies. Because when you eat only once, the body tries to store up everything it needs in that one go; it will overeat.

There’s nothing wrong with five meals if each is small—some scientists say that’s more useful. Other scientists say there should be at least six to eight hours between two meals so the first is fully digested and the system isn’t overtaxed. There’s no final decision yet.

My own view is that both can be right. For some, the first way; for others, the second. People differ. Look at yourself. What keeps you healthier, calmer, in better harmony—that is right for you. Forget what the world says. The world hasn’t taken any contract for you; what concern does it have for you? You have to decide your own life. If a person takes his own decisions, my understanding is that roughly ninety percent of things called mistakes will turn out to be no mistakes at all—others foisted them on you.

For example, Jains don’t eat at night. The whole world eats at night. If eating at night takes you to hell, then except for Jains no one can go to heaven. And then the Jains will be in trouble in heaven! Because Jains don’t know how to do anything—can’t make shoes, sweep, weave; not a blacksmith’s trade, not a carpenter’s—only sit at a shop and run it. So there will be shops upon shops in heaven—but what will you sell, and to whom?

That’s why I call the Jain community a religion, not a culture. Culture means: being able to do everything needed to make a complete life. The one who stitches shoes is a Hindu chamar; the one who weaves cloth is a Muslim julaha; the one who wears it is a Jain. The one who cleans latrines is a Hindu; the one who tailors clothes is a Muslim; the one who does medicine is a Christian. If only Jains go to heaven, there will be real trouble there. Ask the Jains to build a settlement—only Jains—then I’ll accept that you have a culture. Otherwise, what culture? Try building a township of only Jains; then you’ll know—your sixth‑day milk will be remembered! Because then who will be the sanitation worker, who the cobbler, who the tailor, who the oil‑presser? Then sit and remember Lord Jineshwar! He won’t come to that village either.

The whole world eats at night. If someone eats at night, he isn’t committing a great sin that will send him to hell. And when Mahavira said this…

…I was a guest in Kolkata at the home of a friend, Sohanlal Dugar—one of the most prominent wealthy Jains in India. A courageous man—only then could he host me! Because inviting me home is not free of risk. He said it was fine despite all the Jains’ opposition. I told him at the airport, “You’re putting me up, but you’ll get into trouble.” He said, “You know I’m a gambler. All India knows I’m a bookie; betting is my business. I’ve placed all kinds of bets—this one too! Although I’ve been warned by Jain monks not to host you.” The whole house was air‑conditioned. Not a single fly or mosquito. But no night meal. They don’t even drink water at night. When Mahavira said don’t eat at night, there was no electricity. There weren’t even oil lamps in every home. People ate in the dark, as many villagers still do—right in the dark. If you eat in the dark, a fly, a mosquito, a cricket—anything can fall in. It’s bad for health; food can become contaminated. And it’s violent too—the insect dies: harm to you, harm to it. So Mahavira said don’t eat at night.

I tell you, if Mahavira came now he would certainly say, “If there is electricity in the house, you can eat at night—no problem.” I say it on his behalf: you can eat at night. And if someday I meet him in moksha, I’ll settle it—don’t worry! If there is electricity at home, there is no mistake in eating at night.

But Sohanlal Dugar—habits are hard to drop—when he seated me for a meal, he started fanning me. I said, “The house is air‑conditioned—no flies, no mosquitoes—why are you fanning?” He said, “Good you reminded me! When Jain monks come, I fan them. No one ever said a word, and I never thought what I was doing. Old Rajasthani habit!” Right then he threw the fan aside: “You’re right. Let Jain monks come now—I won’t be fanning anyone! This is the limit! But why did no one remind me? It’s so obvious—no flies, no mosquitoes—what’s the fan for?” Old habits hold us; they pursue us.

Remember, even about things that have been called wrong for centuries—re‑examine them. Maybe they’ve just become habits.

A learned judge banged his hand on the table and announced: “The accused has been charged with six marriages, but for lack of sufficient evidence, the court acquits him with honor.” The defense lawyer, pleased, said, “Go, Nasruddin—now you can go happily home; your wife must be waiting impatiently.” Mulla said, “Truth always triumphs. I am delighted to know that our laws, constitution, police, and courts are all dedicated to the service of truth. You have proved that ‘Satyamev Jayate.’ Now please tell me one more thing—at which wife’s house should I go? So there won’t be any legal trouble later.”

He does have six wives! How will he forget that? That habit, that old pattern…

You are not making as many mistakes as you think. Many are only conventions. Cut those off at one stroke. Then very few mistakes will remain, and the work becomes easy. Ninety percent will be gone; ten percent will remain—and those can be resolved. Amid the crowd of the ninety percent, it’s hard even to identify the real ones. You’ve been burdened with such petty things that it’s impossible to keep accounts! You torment yourself over trifles, worry endlessly. Someone drinks tea and thinks he’s doing something wrong. Tea is such a harmless thing. Yes, it contains nicotine; but so little that if you drank twelve cups daily for twenty years and then collected all the nicotine and swallowed it at once—you might die. What kind of logic is that! And the body doesn’t store things for twenty years. You drink tea; in a little while, you pass it out in your urine!

People are so troubled over tiny things!

They come to me: “What to do—tea won’t leave me!” Why should it leave you? You’re not committing a sin, not killing anyone, not drinking anyone’s blood… And when you do drink blood, you don’t worry. Let someone fall into your clutches—like a spider sucks a fly caught in its web—so you suck him dry. You don’t even strain it. You drink blood straight—interest, compound interest. Once someone gets caught in that cycle! But over tea you worry: “Am I doing something wrong? Committing some sin?” Buddhist monks all over the world drink tea—and have no anxiety. In Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram tea was forbidden. As if there were no bigger work left in the world! Just don’t drink tea and the work is done! Those who didn’t drink tea walked about puffed up, as if they had accomplished something tremendous.

Then the stealing began. People drank tea secretly. Wherever you make petty rules, petty crimes multiply. People will drink tea—but in secret; they’ll shut the door and brew tea. And when Mahatma Gandhi found out someone had drunk tea, he would fast for three days—for self‑purification! He drank the tea, and Gandhi would purify himself! If someone else drinking tea makes your soul impure, then give up the idea of a pure soul—it can’t exist in this world! What all is not happening here! But it’s as if you’ve taken a contract. And then the master—like Gandhi in his ashram—his gaze becomes less that of a sage and more that of a detective. Naturally—interfering in everything.

Vinoba Bhave used to go every day to each room. Is there any need to go daily to check if it’s been cleaned? Not just rooms—he would peer into every latrine to see whether it had been cleaned! If you don’t trust your ashram residents even this much, if they don’t have even this basic decency… The name is “Brahma‑jnana Vidya Mandir”—a temple of the knowledge of Brahman—but they don’t have the decency to clean a toilet! And Vinoba would make rounds every day, checking. Naturally, such people would be astonished here; I never inspect this ashram. I simply come here in the morning and again in the evening. I don’t even know who lives in which room. If I had to go looking for someone, I couldn’t—impossible. I’ve not been inside the houses of this ashram even once. Not even once into the office. What’s the need? Don’t you trust people at all? Those who have come have some responsibility; they have come to transform their lives, in search of freedom. That’s not an ashram of Vinoba’s—that’s a jail, watched twenty‑four hours a day. Not Vinoba—a head constable.

And yet people praise this!

A devotee of Vinoba came and said, “Vinoba‑ji inspects the whole ashram every day—do you?” I said, “There’s no need. Each person has to look to himself, keep his own account. Each must do what feels right to him. I give awakening—but I won’t follow you around with a stick! Has awakening ever come that way?”

So when Vinoba would come, rooms would get cleaned. Tea things would be hidden under the bed; film magazines would be pressed inside the Gita; and when Vinoba left, the real things would come out again. “Sometimes he comes unexpectedly,” they said. I said, “That’s police method! Sometimes the police makes a ‘raid,’ unexpected.” But that’s not the gaze of a true master. First, there is no trust in the other—only suspicion. And if you suspect people, do you expect them to feel reverence for you? Impossible. Doubt breeds doubt; trust breeds trust.

As for the mistakes that do happen, Jyoti—first cut out the ones fools taught you to call mistakes. Then, with the few that remain, don’t repent. Don’t resolve, “I won’t do it tomorrow.” When a mistake is happening, do it attentively. I don’t even say don’t do it—because if you suppress, repression will happen, and then it will erupt again. Do it with awareness. Anger arises—be angry, but inside remain fully awake, alert: “I am getting angry; this is anger; this is its smoke rising; these are the words I’m speaking in anger; these are the things I’m breaking.” Do it with total awareness. You’ll be astonished—if you do anger once with awareness, it won’t happen again. Awareness is such a great thing, such a wondrous art, such an alchemy, that anger, greed, attachment all slowly bid farewell.

Some mistakes people create with their own hands. For example: fasting. One mistake is fasting itself—yes, if a physician advises you not to eat for a day, fine. On medical advice—then it’s for health, not spiritual value. But to fast in the hope that you’ll gain the soul—nothing of the sort will happen. If you fast, you will think of food all day. Then you’ll feel guilt: “How petty I am, thinking only of food! What a glutton!” You’re not a glutton; because of fasting, thoughts of food arise. If you repress sex, you’ll be haunted by sex day and night. Whatever you repress will seep into every vein.

Don’t make the mistake of repression.

I tell you: right nourishment. Neither overeating nor undereating. Give the body as much as it needs. I tell you: keep balance in every area of life. My meaning of restraint is balance; not renunciation. Neither indulgent nor renunciant—exactly in the middle. Not overeating, not fasting—just what’s necessary. And only you can decide your necessity; no one else can. Each person’s needs are different. A man working eight hours in the fields will eat more—that doesn’t make him a glutton. But if a university lecturer eats as much, then he is gluttonous. It’s natural. So each person should cultivate the capacity to decide for himself. Be your own master. That’s the meaning of sannyas: take your ownership into your own hands. You’ve been slaves of others and their scriptures long enough—now become your own master. Even if you make a mistake, make it out of your own mastery. And don’t condemn yourself—because if you condemn, you won’t be able to stay awake. Don’t rush to judge: “This is a mistake, this is a sin.” Observe first.

Keep one sutra in mind: if you do something with awareness and, because of awareness, it stops by itself—know that it was a mistake. If even after awareness it continues—know that it was not a mistake.

Awareness is the decisive criterion.

Satyānanda! This song is not mine. It is the song of the Divine. It is as much mine as it is yours—as much mine as it is the birds’, the trees’, the mountains’. I have no claim over it. Certainly it is not mine. I disappeared; then this song was born. I am no more; then this song arose. It has emerged from my death. It has awakened out of my emptiness. It plays upon the veena of the void. In other words, this is the Bhagavad Gita—the song of God. My throat is simply put to His use. I am a flute, a hollow reed of bamboo; when someone places it to the lips it becomes a flute, and if no one does, it is just a hollow reed. Songs do not belong to the flute; they belong to the flute-player. That Player is invisible. The flute is what you can see—that is why you are drawn.

Keep being drawn, and slowly this song will blossom through you as well.

Each of my sannyasins will sing this song—if not today, then tomorrow. They will dance this dance. This celebration is about to be infused into every sannyasin’s life. This is certain. One can prophesy it. This song will resound across the whole earth. No obstacle will be able to stop it; every obstacle will turn into a challenge. And you are fortunate that you have begun to hear it, for there are many unfortunate ones who are deaf, and many who are blind.

This song is that enchanting monsoon
in which the heart’s spring is inscribed,
the warble of imagination’s bird,
a shower of delicate, lovely words.
This song is that rainbow-colored hem
filled with blossoms of romance,
pearls of tears, flowers of longing,
the blooms of insight, the roses of knowing.
This song is that ringing anklet
within which lies a hidden gushing spring,
the swaying pace of flirtatious youth,
the intoxicating jingle of playful graces.

Someone is singing. Keep coming to me, again and again, and gradually I will no longer be visible; the One who is singing will be seen. The One who is calling you will appear. You are drawn not because of me—the magnet is His. I am only a vehicle, a pretext. All is His. “There is nothing of me in me.”

That is all for today.