Ram Duware Jo Mare #6

Anand Maitreya! Truly, nothing in life is without purpose—except life itself. Life is purposeless, because there is nothing beyond it. Life is the goal, not a means to something else. Life is synonymous with the Divine. So life itself has no purpose, but everything within life does.

It is difficult to accept certain things. What purpose could ego have? And if ego is what leads man astray, what kind of compassion is it that God created man along with ego? Why not cut the disease at the root? Then there would be no need for medicine, no illness at all. Why give greed, attachment, lust, envy, anger? Why give so much darkness? If the intention was to make us seek light, why not give the light directly? The question is natural. But if you look deeply, you will soon see that light cannot be given straightaway. Without the experience of darkness, light cannot be known. One who has not known pain cannot know joy. If thorns have never pricked you, you cannot recognize flowers. And if there were no death, the very idea of life would not exist.

Anger in itself is painful, a bondage. But if the energy hidden in anger can be freed through awareness, that very energy becomes compassion. Without anger, compassion cannot be. Do you see?

The Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras were Kshatriyas. Buddha was a Kshatriya; Rama and Krishna were Kshatriyas. All the avatars, Tirthankaras, awakened ones of this land came from the world of the warrior, where the sword is life, where anger surges like an ocean, where war is everything. Yet they all brought the message of love, compassion, and kindness.

The very foundation of Jainism is ahimsa—non-violence. Twenty-four Kshatriya Tirthankaras, and ahimsa paramo dharmah: “Non-violence is the supreme religion.” It doesn’t seem to tally. If Brahmins had said “ahimsa paramo dharmah,” one could understand. But the Brahmins didn’t say it; the Kshatriyas did. Look deeper and the paradox dissolves. Only Kshatriyas could say it, because only they saw the grotesque face of violence, suffered its sting, recognized its hell. Therefore the proclamation “ahimsa paramo dharmah” can arise from Kshatriya hearts. A Brahmin who has neither seen war nor lifted a sword—how can he know the nectar of non-violence? Without tasting poison, how will he recognize nectar? If night is never experienced, how will dawn be known?

Jains possess the most wealth; it’s hard to find a Jain beggar—hardly such a thing exists. And yet among the five foundational vows of Jainism, alongside ahimsa is aparigraha: non-possessiveness, not owning things. Only those who have possessed can awaken to non-possessiveness. Seeing everything is how one sees its futility; then the feeling of renunciation arises. Only those who have enjoyed can renounce. Tena tyaktena bhunjitha—by renouncing, enjoy. Those who renounced are the very ones who had enjoyed. One who has never enjoyed—what will he renounce?

Understand this polarity well—the principle of dialectical growth. Then many confusions will fall away. You will see that until a fish is pulled from the sea and thrown onto the scorching sand, it does not know the sea. The fisherman nets the fish, tosses it on the shore; the sun blazes, the sand burns, the fish flounders. In that floundering, for the first time, the sea is remembered—consciously, vividly. Though born in the sea, grown in it, living in it, the sea was too close to be seen. A little distance is needed, perspective is needed. If you want to see your face in a mirror you stand a little away; with your nose pressed to the mirror you see nothing. A gap is necessary for knowing. Now put the fish back into water—it will be ecstatic, delighted, blissful.

There was a man who had immense wealth—so much that more had no meaning; he could not even use what he already had. Death was approaching. He had neither sons nor daughters, no one behind him. Life had gone by hoarding money. He went to the so-called saints and priests for a formula for joy. He knocked on many doors—returned empty-handed as he went. Someone said, “We know a Sufi—perhaps he can help. His ways are unusual, so don’t be shocked. His methods are his own, a bit outlandish; when nothing else works we send people to him.” That rich man filled a large bag with jewels and went. The fakir sat under a tree. The man flung the bag before him: “I have all these jewels, yet not a speck of happiness. How can I be happy?”

Without a word the fakir grabbed the bag and ran! For a moment the man was dumbfounded—saints don’t behave like this! Then he came to his senses: “I’ve been robbed! My life’s earnings—gone! I came seeking joy and was plunged into sorrow.” He ran, shouting, “Thief! Save me!” The fakir made him run all over the village; he knew every lane and by-lane and slipped through, while a crowd followed—familiar with the fakir’s ways, trusting that there must be a method in the madness. But the rich man knew nothing; he was drenched in sweat, exhausted—he’d never run like that. The fakir brought him back to the tree where the man’s horse stood, placed the bag there, and hid behind the tree. The man returned—saw the bag, hugged it to his chest: “O Lord! Thank you! Today none in the world is as happy as I am!” The fakir peeped from behind the tree: “Did you get a taste of joy? This is the secret. The same bag was with you and there was no joy. The same bag is back in your hands—but in between there was a gap, a brief deprivation. Now you say—don’t you feel any shame?—‘Thank you, Lord; today I had a glimpse of joy.’ Now get on your horse and be off, or I’ll snatch the bag again. I’ve shown you the way.”

Such are people—and not only people, all of existence works like this. We value what we lose; until it is lost we don’t know its worth. What you already have is worthless to you; what is lost makes you weep. Life has been given to you, yet you did not thank God. But when death knocks, you will plead, “Lord, just a little more time—twenty-four hours more.” In eighty years you never thanked him; perhaps you complained often—“Why this life? For what?” Perhaps you even thought of suicide many times.

A woodcutter was returning with a load of wood. Old now, seventy, poor—still had to cut and sell wood to get one meal a day. Many times he had raised his hands to the sky: “O Death, Lord of Death! You take the young and children—those who came after me are gone before my eyes; what is my fault? Take me too. I am so tired.” One day the load was heavy; he had been hungry two days because of rain. Again he cried, “O Lord of Death! When will you take me?” By coincidence, Death was passing close by and heard him. Death stood before him: “Here I am. You called; I am the Lord of Death. What do you want?” The old man came to his senses: “What have I asked for!” People are not in their senses; if all their wishes were fulfilled they would be in trouble. God doesn’t listen; if he did, you’d hound him for listening: “We were only saying it! Why take it so seriously?” The old man, seasoned by seventy years, quickly found a trick. “Thank you, great thanks! Actually my bundle has fallen and there’s no one to lift it. Please put it back on my head—that’s all. And don’t bother to come again. I’ll never call you. Forgive this mistake.” The bundle on his head, he set off again—now cheerful, his steps lively, a song on his lips: “Saved! Home again, saved and rich!” He had never been so happy in seventy years.

Understand life’s polarity. When death stands at your door, then you will know life’s value. If you are wise, you can know it now. But for that, Buddhahood is needed, the wisdom of samadhi. Then the fish need not be pulled out of the sea to know the sea; gratitude will be there while in the sea. Then no one will need to snatch your bag.

Without that understanding, jolts are needed; you have to be shaken awake.

You ask: “It is said nothing in existence is purposeless. If so, what purpose do ego, jealousy, and hatred serve?” Ego is distance from God—nothing else. Caught in the delusion “I am,” God disappears from your sight. Ego hurts because you fall out of harmony with existence. All joy lies in being in tune, in rhythm with the whole. When you become a note in the great music of existence, a wave in its vast ocean—not separate, not opposed—when you are in a divine dance with the whole, no conflict, no duality, such a deep attunement that you are not, only the Divine is—then the showers of bliss descend, the springs of nectar burst forth. But before that, the pain of ego has to be suffered. Before coming home, one must lose the way. These may seem contradictory, but they are not.

Jesus said: Blessed are those who are like little children, for theirs is the kingdom of God. But little children? Everyone is born a child. Children don’t seem to have the kingdom; they want to grow up quickly. Jesus doesn’t say “children,” he says “like little children.” In that “like” lies the secret. They are not children; they are grown, perhaps old—but again they have become childlike. The circle is complete. As innocent as at birth, so innocent at death; they enter the kingdom—or rather, existence becomes the kingdom for them.

Childhood has to be regained—once lost. All children are innocent, but innocence will go; cunning will come, trickery, cleverness, dishonesty, hypocrisy—hell will be crossed. Only by passing through it does the gold get purified, as gold passes through fire. So do we pass beyond ego. But don’t leave the gold in the fire forever. When the dross has burned away, take the gold out. Ego is fire, a blazing pyre. You burn, but neither are you entirely consumed—so that in becoming nothing you could meet God—nor entirely extinguished—so that at least you could be natural. You smolder—neither fully burning nor fully extinguished.

You are stuck in between—Trishanku; that is the torment.

Either fall back into animality, and you will be natural. Many try that, but it is temporary. A great law of life: what has been known cannot be un-known; you cannot erase experience. You can go beyond it, but not behind it. Even so, people try tirelessly. What does the drunkard do? He tries to drown the little awareness that has arisen, to become like an animal. A drunkard may look carefree, as if joyous; but it only looks so. Inside is a heap of sorrow; the intoxication gives a brief stupor. In the morning it will break, and he will find himself in a deeper pit of misery. Worries grew while he was unconscious—like cancer grows within without your knowing. Worry and cancer are deeply linked; worry is perhaps mental cancer, and cancer a bodily worry. As tensions grow in society, cancer grows. It seems less a physical disease and more mental at its source—excessive worry and stress wear the body down beyond repair.

Even in sleep cancer grows—and so does worry. Intoxication only masks it briefly.

So drinking is an effort to move backward, to trick time. It cannot succeed. I am not against wine; I am against this attempt. It wastes your time. What is wine? The daughter of grapes. There is nothing inherently sinful in it. Take a sip once in a while with friends; you won’t go to hell for that. If those who drink their own urine aren’t going to hell, why would a little grape juice send you there?

But I oppose the craving behind it. That craving is wrong; it cannot be fulfilled.

Likewise, people seek other anesthetics: the race for wealth and position to forget themselves; to be so entangled that they don’t remember themselves. They enter the tricks of politics—that too is intoxication, worse than wine. Wine wears off by morning; this can keep you drunk for a lifetime.

A drunkard staggers out of a tavern. A very overweight, homely woman looks at him with disgust: “Fool, why are you ruining your life with drink?” Her voice was loud enough to startle the drunk; he looked carefully and laughed. “Why laugh?” she snapped. “You’ll cry and repent.” He said, “Ma’am, my intoxication will pass by morning—but you will still be the same in the morning. You’re worse off than I am. What clings to you won’t wear off so easily. And look in the mirror—even through my blurred eyes I can tell! I may stagger now, but I’ll walk straight in the morning; your misfortune will remain.”

He who has drunk wine will be sober by morning; he who has drunk politics may never be. Wealth-intoxication and rank-intoxication are called mad—madira—because they bring swoon. They puff up the ego.

There is no way back. All backward attempts will fail and waste your time. The way is forward—through the fire and beyond it.

Ego has to be passed through. It is the necessary process of going far from God, slipping away, getting lost. In that estrangement you will suffer; there will be longing and separation; remembrance will arise, search will begin, prayer will be born, meditation will be sought. Without realizing that God has been missed, meditation does not arise. Ego will hurt you, pierce your heart, fill you with countless diseases; through that very pain you will awaken, your sleep will break, and you will move toward the Source from which you came.

This is the purpose of ego: so that you remember God again. The fish remembers the ocean. The lost wanderer remembers home. That is ego’s purpose.

And of course, Anand Maitreya, nothing in life is purposeless. Jealousy and hatred are part of the same package—shadows of the ego.

What is jealousy? Another’s ego hurts your ego. Someone appears bigger than you, yet the ego wants, “I must be the biggest; none greater than I.” This cannot be met in every way; somewhere, some lack will remain. Existence arranges it so. Even if it gives you ego, it will be one-dimensional, and in many dimensions you will remain poor. If you have wealth, perhaps not status; if status, perhaps not beauty; if beauty, perhaps not intelligence; if intelligence, perhaps not health. Some lack will remain, otherwise you would never seek the Divine. That lack will jab you, prick like a thorn—its prick is meaningful.

Jealousy is that prick. Someone has more money than you, a bigger house, greater knowledge, more renunciation—pain arises.

A friend came to Mulla Nasruddin. As he dismounted, Nasruddin came out. The friend said, “Are you going somewhere? I have come after twenty years!” Nasruddin said, “You rest, bathe, eat—I’ll be back. I had already promised to visit two or three places; they’ll be waiting.” The friend said, “After so long, I don’t want to leave you even for a moment; I’ll come along. But my clothes are dusty from travel—give me something to wear.” Once an emperor had gifted Nasruddin splendid clothes; he had saved them for an occasion. He gave them. The friend put on the elegant turban, coat, churidar, shoes. When he was dressed, Nasruddin felt a sting of jealousy: “Such fine clothes, such a turban, such shoes—I kept them and never wore them! And now he’s wearing them.” He felt small before his own friend because of his own clothes.

They reached the first house. People looked at the friend. People rarely see the person; they see the clothes. “Who are you?” they asked. It hurt Nasruddin—naturally. He had come, yet no one asked about him. With fanfare they seated the friend. Nasruddin said, “He is my old friend Jamal. As for the clothes—those are mine.” The friend was shocked. It was not something to say. Nasruddin too felt ashamed after saying it. But what was said was said. Outside, the friend said, “I never thought you’d humiliate me like this.” Nasruddin said, “What’s done is done. It wasn’t without a cause—the undercurrent of jealousy: my clothes and this fellow strutting for free! What swagger! The shoes creak with pride, the turban sits at a jaunty angle—and I look like a servant before him! I myself committed this folly. That was boiling inside.”

At the next house, the same thing happened. Again people focused on the friend. They said he looked like a prince. That set Nasruddin on fire. “Prince? He’s my friend Jamal, come after twenty years. As for the clothes—these are his.” Half the sentence “As for the clothes…” had already escaped; he caught himself and corrected, “They are his—who says they’re mine?” But the arrow had flown.

The friend said, “I won’t go with you anymore.” Nasruddin pleaded, “Give me one more chance—just one more house. I’ll be careful.”

At the third house the master was away; only the mistress was there—very beautiful. Her eyes stayed on the friend; she didn’t even look at Nasruddin. She seated the friend, took off his shoes with her own hands; Nasruddin remained standing—she didn’t even ask him to sit. She asked, “Nasruddin, who are you—what country’s emperor?” He said, “Nothing like emperor. He is my friend Jamal—childhood companion, come after twenty years. As for the clothes—we are not to speak of clothes at all! Don’t bring up that matter. Whoever’s they are, what’s it to you? Why harp on clothes?”

This is natural. Jealousy is the wound suffered by the ego. The day ego goes, jealousy goes with it. If ego is fire, jealousy is the fuel. Pour ghee on fire “to extinguish it,” and the flames leap higher. The more jealousy you pour, the more the ego blazes. Where the ego wins, you feel happy; those who help your ego win, you “love” them. But your love is only for those who serve your ego. True love is born only when ego dissolves. Love and God arise together; they are names for the same. Love is God’s shadow—or God is love condensed. Between true love and God there is not a hair’s breadth of difference. Hence Jesus said: God is love.

What you call love is only your gratitude toward those who prop up your ego; hence it turns into hatred in a moment. The one you lived for, for whom you could die—you can kill that very person if they go against your ego.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife lay dying. In her last moments she opened her eyes: “Nasruddin, why carry falsehood with me? Let me tell you something and ask your forgiveness; who knows if we will ever meet again? I don’t want to carry this burden any longer; I have carried it fifteen years. Will you forgive me?” Nasruddin said, “Of course—speak.” She said, “I was in love with your friend and deceived you.” Nasruddin said, “Don’t worry! You forgive me too. Do you know why you are dying? I poisoned you. You lighten my load, I lighten yours—finished!”

The one you “love,” you can poison—if your ego is crossed. You can push them off a cliff. You fuss over the tiniest thing—whether they might sprain an ankle—yet you can shoot them dead. So your love is not love; love that can become hatred is not love. Your hatred is your so-called love standing on its head. Those who hinder your ego—you hate them; those who support it—you love them.

When ego goes, neither your hatred nor your so-called love remains; both disappear. Then a new, utterly fresh love begins—the divine love, prayerful love, the very aura of God.

Jealousy, hatred, greed, attachment, envy—these are all different reflections of ego. Ego is a shape-shifter. What is greed? Ego is empty: “Fill me. If I have much wealth, I will have much ego; more swagger. If wealth decreases, the ego shrinks. If I have a high post, I have more ego; lose the post, and ego collapses.” Ego drives greed: “Fill me. Make me big.”

Mulla Nasruddin and his son both tried to leap across a stream. The old Mulla jumped and reached the other side. The young son thought, “If my old father can do it, I must!” He leaped—and fell into the middle. “Explain this, Father. You’re old and crossed; I’m young and gave it my all, yet I fell.” Mulla shook his pouch; silver coins jingled. “What do you mean?” “When you have coins in your pocket, there’s heat in the body. With empty pockets—where will the warmth come from?”

Wealth is the lifeblood of ego. So is position.

You’ll be surprised: while in office, a politician’s gait and tone are one thing; as soon as he’s out, all swagger is gone. During elections he stands before you with folded hands; don’t think he’s only deceiving you—that is truly his state then. Ask him to touch your feet and he’s ready. A servant of the people! Once in power he becomes your ruler. He won’t even recognize you; as if he never saw you. Service forgotten—power is in hand. Service was only a ladder to it.

If you want to grab someone’s neck, begin by massaging their feet—that is the formula of “service.” First massage the feet; no one refuses that. Then gradually move up; as their trust grows, you can pick their pocket, later their throat, and they won’t know—just do it slowly. Don’t leap from feet to throat in one go, or they’ll wake up.

A scientist experimented: he put a frog into boiling water; the frog leaped out at once. Then he put the same frog in tepid water and heated it very slowly over twenty-four hours; the frog was boiled to death—it never leaped, because the heat rose so gradually that it kept adjusting. I know a wrestler who, from the day a calf was born, would lift it and walk around daily. The calf grew into a bull, and the wrestler still lifted it—slowly both had adjusted.

So don’t jump from feet to throat; do it gradually. That’s what your politicians do—begin with “service.” If not people, then the cleverer begin with serving the cow; from the cowshed to Delhi! Someone starts with serving the “untouchables,” someone opens an orphanage, a hospital, a widow’s home. Slowly, slowly—Delhi arrives.

Ego is hollow, unreal; it has only the support of belief. To sustain a belief you need crutches: money, position, prestige, name, fame, glory. For these the ego is ready to do anything. If people honor only the “virtuous,” the ego becomes virtuous. If they honor fasting, it will fast. If they honor naked renunciates, it will become a naked fakir. If they honor tearing out one’s hair by hand, people will even do that. Whatever the condition, the ego is ready—just keep feeding it. Greed, attachment, possessiveness, illusion—all are conditions for feeding the ego. The whole web of desires rises from one basic thread: ego. Ego means, in my vision, taking yourself to be separate from God, separate from existence. Ego can even declare: there is no God.

Friedrich Nietzsche said, “God is dead,” and, “Even if God existed, I could not accept him. Should I choose myself, or choose God?” He is honest—more honest than you. He chooses himself: “I am; God is not.”

This is your condition too. Outwardly you say God is, but inwardly you know: “I am; what God?” Yes, you may offer two flowers in a temple—“just in case” to cover all bets. Light incense, chant a little—what’s the harm? Turn the rosary while watching television; run your shop and chant “Rama, Rama”; chase a stray dog from your shop while chanting. Tibetans devised a prayer-wheel: mantras written on spokes. They do their work, and from time to time give the wheel a spin; the account is that however many rotations it makes, that many mantras are accrued. A Tibetan lama stayed with me; I said, “Foolish man, why keep pushing it? Attach a plug and run it on electricity; it will spin all day, even while you sleep. Write mantras on a fan’s blades—problem solved!”

If spinning mantras gets the job done, people think: “Let’s do it—what’s the harm?” A Satyanarayan puja here, a little prasad there; feed some girls; keep a fast; nothing much lost, and if there is a God, at least we can say, “See how much we did for you!” And if there isn’t—what’s lost? Society gives you prestige; the ego gleams with a few sequins added. People say, “Very religious man!” And if you have the reputation of being religious, it’s easier to rob people. A shopkeeper with a tilak—you won’t bargain hard; you think he must be truthful. A big tuft of hair—you think he must be honest. Draped in “Ram-nam,” you can’t imagine he’ll shortchange you or pass fake notes.

Hypocrisy becomes profitable if people think you’re religious. But none of you really believes in God—because you haven’t met the first condition: drop the “I,” then you will know God; only then does believing have meaning. Belief without knowing is hypocrisy. Your so-called believers are hypocrites until the experience happens. Whom are you deceiving? Inside there is a crowd of doubts; you only painted your face as a believer—inside you are an atheist. Scratch an “theist,” and you will find an atheist within. Sometimes the atheist is more honest than the theist: at least he says plainly, “I have no hint of God—how can I believe?” He may discover someday because not-believing keeps inquiry alive: “So many have known—Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, Jesus, Mohammed—can all be wrong? Let me search.” The theist thinks there is no need to search; belief has murdered inquiry.

Ego has a single purpose: to take you away from God—so that you can return.

Nothing in life is purposeless—except life itself. Life is joy, music, dance, celebration.

And listen:

Also see the ember that glows within you, friend!
You see the ink, the dark, the vast encircling shadows
that gird the ray—see too that which can sweep
this outer night away, the stream of light
veined and pulsing in your blood, friend!

Your very foundation was laid in moon and sun’s bright light,
in tapasya, in blood, in fire, in sword and spear.
Do not be cowed by hopelessness—how could it be,
when an inexhaustible treasure of flame
shines within you, friend?

The whirlwind shrieks and turns back, the storm departs;
to frighten you, new quakes arrive.
A new field awaits, traveler—roar with newer strength!
Rise—let this time be that final battle-cry, friend!

Within the melody of humility these harp-strings sing—
lament sounds, then wakefulness, upheaval, and outcry.
Strike now the Lamp-Raga, in a last pure note;
within this very lute a fiery string lies hid, friend.

Just peer within—within your ego, within your darkness. Look, and you will find a cluster of light. Look within ignorance, and you will find an unbroken Ganga of knowing. Go down into the depths of ego and you will find God concealed there. Ego is only a covering, a shell on the surface.

Also see the ember that glows within you, friend!
See, too, that which can sweep away this outer night—
the stream of light long-buried in your blood, friend!
Do not be cowed by hopelessness—this cannot be,
when an undying treasury of flame is within you, friend!

Strike now the Lamp-Raga in a last pure note;
within this very lute a fiery string lies hid, friend.

Ramesh! You too are a siddha, you too are a buddha—only awareness is missing. It is simply a matter of being reminded, that’s all. There is no lack in you. There is nothing to gain; everything is already given, given from the very beginning. Inexhaustible wealth is yours; the kingdom of God is yours. But you do not remember—you have fallen into forgetfulness. You have lost nothing. Gold is still gold; it has merely been forgotten. You never look toward yourself, and so you forget. Your eyes are turned outward. Then how will remembrance arise? How will self-remembering happen? Your eyes wander throughout the world; you can see distant moon and stars—yet you have not seen yourself. Man has walked on the moon, and he will walk on other stars too; but within himself, no movement yet. He has dived into the deepest depths of the oceans—the Pacific sinks five miles and he has touched even that—and he has climbed to the summit of Everest; but within? He does not go within at all, as if it has never occurred to him that there is an inner sky, a height and a depth, a wondrous realm, a music in which the life-energy is tuned and harmonized; that within, the unstruck sound resounds; that within, the Brahman, the divine, is enthroned.

Here I am only reminding people. Your so‑called religious folk—your pundits and priests, mahatmas, sadhus and saints—tell people: become religious! I tell them: you are already religious—just remember! That is why things happen easily here. Because acquiring is a long affair; it would take lifetimes. And they have spread it out even more: first, they say, you must atone for the sins of your past lives. Now how many births have you had! And how many sins must you have committed! Just to atone for them would take endless births—and while atoning, you will commit endless more. For while you’re busy canceling sins, you will also be doing other things. Even to cancel sin you will have to do something. Suppose you want to build a temple; first you will have to run a shop. To donate wealth, you must first acquire it. And how will you acquire it? You will have to rob someone, exploit someone. Even your merit depends upon prior sin. You will cheat, you will be dishonest. Then it becomes an eternity. And the tricksters have crafted this doctrine very cleverly—by it they can keep you deceived forever.

First, they say, your karmas from infinite births are such that you cannot be liberated today. Therefore if the methods the mahatmas give you don’t succeed, how can it be their fault?

There is a famous story of Khalil Gibran. A man went from village to village proclaiming, “Come with me, I will take you to God.” But no one ever came—who has the time to go meet God? People said, “We will come, certainly we will come, one day we will come, but for now there are a thousand other things. The harvest is ready; fruits are ripening in the orchard; the children are growing; I have just opened a shop; the house is half built. We will come, surely we will come—at the right age we will go with you.” The man roamed the villages; no one ever followed him to God, and he remained untroubled.

In one village, trouble did arise. A man stood up and said, “I’ll come. I have no house to build, no wife, no children, no wealth—no encumbrances at all. I was looking for someone just like you.” The guru became a little nervous—because in truth even he did not know the way to God’s house. The work ran smoothly only because no one ever actually went along! Still he said, “We’ll manage”—he was no ordinary guru, he was a guru of gurus, a crafty guru! He thought, “I’ll bewilder him with such tricks!” But the disciple too was no less than a guru. The guru was molasses; the disciple was sugar. Once he gave chase, he would not let go. The guru said, “Stand on your head.” The guru said, “Half an hour,” and he stood for an hour. The guru said, “Chant Ram for an hour,” and he chanted for twenty-four. He caught hold of the guru and would not release him. The guru led him into mountains, here and there, made him spin in circles. A year passed.

The guru grew tired.

His reputation began to suffer, because word spread from village to village that he still hadn’t delivered the man despite his big talk. The disciple began telling people, “Nothing is happening; and I’m doing exactly as he says.” The guru grew despondent—the old pride of “I’ll take you there” began to sag. People asked, “At least deliver one!” He would go to preach in a village and they would ask, “What about your disciple?” The disciple would sit right there and say, “Nothing has happened.” The guru’s tongue was tied. For six years he dragged him through mountains and deserts; but when you drag the disciple in circles, you end up dizzy yourself. The disciple was persistent; he had a longing, a hope that God would be found. The guru did not even have that hope. And slowly he lost hope that the disciple would ever give up. “He’ll chase me to the last breath! He will finish me!” The guru withered and dried; one day he fell at the disciple’s feet and said, “Forgive me, brother! Earlier I at least had an address for His house; since I met you, in your company I have lost even my own address—I no longer know the way to His home! Now please let me go! Forgive me; I made a mistake!”

Your priests keep handing you methods—and the methods keep running. However foolish a method may be, it will do, because first you must cancel the karma of infinite births. That cannot be finished in this very life. It is a perfect insurance policy. Infinite births will be needed—and who returns from the next life to report back?

I believe in a cash-down religion. I say you have no karmas to cancel. Whatever you did in past lives is like what one does in dreams. For deeds done in dreams, who needs to atone? If in the night you dreamt you were a thief and a murderer, do you, upon waking, perform penance for last night’s theft and murder? Do you arrange rituals and sacrifices to cancel the sin? You wake, you know it was a dream, and the matter ends. I wake you up—and the moment you awaken, all your past lives are seen as dreams. You lived in unconsciousness; whatever you “did,” you did not do—it happened, in sleep. It carries no ultimate weight.

Nor do I say that after many lives you will attain. I say: here and now. If any preparation is needed, there is only one: to awaken. Meditation is the process of that awakening.

So Ramesh, here you will see a lightness, a celebration, a springtime. Flowers seem to be blooming. These are people just like you—exactly like you. They live in the same world, they run shops, they do jobs, they have children and wives, everything. I do not want to tear anyone away from anything unnecessarily. I am against the renunciation that teaches escape. That escapist sannyas has given the world much suffering. No one has kept the account: when millions became renunciates, what happened to their wives? What happened to their children? The children begged, became thieves, became killers; the wives became prostitutes, or were forced to beg, to scrub other people’s pots. What happened to those wives and children—no one kept the reckoning. If the reckoning were kept, you would be shocked. Your so-called sannyasis have inflicted more suffering than anyone else. A single renunciate may have left ten or twenty-five people in pain—the mother is old, the father is old, the children are small, there is a wife, there are relatives—and he runs away! At the very least he brings sorrow to all who are connected to him.

And your renunciate becomes a burden on society—a freeloader. He loses his creativity. He starts sucking your blood. He abuses the world—and lives off worldly people. He eats their food, wears their clothes. They earn, he eats—and then he calls them ignorant and sinful, while he is “holy”! He is the exploiter.

I do not support that sannyas. My sannyas has a new vision, a new understanding. Stay where you are, as you are. Awakening can come right there; there is no need to go anywhere else—because awakening is your nature. Give yourself a little shake. Become intent. Surrender a little. Dissolve the ego. And spring arrives—spring does not delay.

Slowly, softly, descend from the horizon—
Come, O night of spring!
Bind up your new starry tresses,
Crown the moon with a fresh blossom,
Veil him with a halo of silver rays and cloud;
Strew tender pearls of delight
With the glance of your eyes!
Come, O night of spring, a‑tingle with joy!

With anklets murmuring a melodious hush,
With the tinkling of lotuses where the bees hum,
Let languid ripples fill your footfall;
Pour a stream of trembling silver
From your soft, smiling lips, beloved!
Come laughing, O night of spring!

With goosebumps of quickened dreams,
With a handful of remembered moments,
With Malayan breezes fluttering your robe,
Come like a shy, dark shadow
To embrace the world!
Come blushing, O night of spring!

The river’s heart trembles and thrills,
Blossoms open, brimming with nectar,
Moments surge, restless, again and again;
Listen—the beloved’s footfall
Has made this earth ecstatic!
Come shivering with delight, O night of spring!

That is all that has happened here: we have called to the spring—and spring has begun to arrive.

Listen—the beloved’s footfall
Has made this earth ecstatic!
Come shivering with delight, O night of spring!

You already are what you are meant to be. You have nothing else to become. You only need to know yourself as you are—and the honeyed month arrives; flowers open!

Friend, spring has come.
The forest-heart brims with joy,
A fresh radiance spreads.

Ramesh, this happiness you see, this thrill, this intoxication of bliss, this peace and love in people’s eyes—this too is your nature, your capacity. Only, you haven’t felt your own pockets. You go around holding out your begging bowl to others for that which lies within you.

Friend, spring has come.
The forest-heart brims with joy,
A fresh radiance spreads.

New-leafed, the young vine of life
Has found her sweet beloved, the tree’s heart.
Swarms of bees pay homage—
The cuckoo’s song has sweetened the sky.

Garlands of buds, heavy with fragrance,
The same breeze moves now gentler still;
In waking eyes, the forest’s
Young magic dances.

From the veiled lake the lotuses rise;
Saffron filaments loosen from their buds;
A golden shawl
Ripples over the earth.

Friend, spring has come.
The forest-heart brims with joy,
A fresh radiance spreads.

For me, sannyas is not renunciation; it is the supreme art of enjoyment. Sannyas is the science of savoring the divine—an arrangement to dance, to sing, to hum with God. I do not teach the sorrow of life here, but the celebration of life. The old so‑called renunciation was life‑denying; its fundamental note was “no.” My fundamental note is “yes.” Live—live to the full! Live each moment in completeness! Then there is no other heaven elsewhere—heaven descends here. One who lives with totality has heaven woven into every breath.

Ramesh, learn something! Catch a wave from these dancing, drunk-with-ecstasy people. This is a gathering of drinkers—have a sip. This is a revel of rinds, a tavern of wine; do not return empty-handed. The flagons are brimming—just bend and drink. And here we do not drink from teacups; we drink from the jars themselves. Why bring a little cup in between!

Good that you have come! Good that you can see! For the Indian mind has become so sick, so blind—centuries of negation have filled it with such futile notions—that to recognize what is happening here seems almost impossible. You are fortunate that you could look into people’s eyes and see peace there. You are fortunate that you felt a little heaven descending here. Otherwise the so‑called traditional, orthodox mind comes with expectations.

He expects to find people sitting gloomy beneath trees, tending sacred fires, smeared in ash, hungry and thirsty, dry and desolate like a desert—because that is his idea of a mahatma. And when he comes here and sees people dancing, when he hears flutes instead of seeing ritual fires, when he finds music rather than ash-covered bodies—people with beautiful bodies and beautiful minds, eager to drown in song, ready to move into dance—he is shocked. “What kind of sannyas is this? What kind of ashram? What kind of austerity?” It contradicts his notions. He goes blind—so blind he cannot see anything. Or he begins to see only what he projects. If he spots a couple walking hand in hand, his very life feels endangered. He has suppressed desire all his life; it rears up. He projects it outward. He imagines himself in the young man’s place and thinks, “If I were in his place, why would I hold this woman’s hand?” He has never seen a woman otherwise than through the lens of lust; that is the extent of his understanding. He imposes the same on others. You can see only what is crammed inside you. You plaster your own rubbish upon others.

You are fortunate that you could see—you are free of rigidities, the weight of tradition is lighter upon you. These are good signs. It is for such people that my sannyas exists. My invitation is to you: come, join this melody, this color!

Dharmesh! Whatever is pleasing to Him! What is my wish? Here my will does not prevail. And here your will will not prevail either. Here we have all drowned our will in His will. What He makes happen, happens. And there is a certain joy in leaving it to Him.

If you observe this family of sannyasins a little, you will be quite surprised. We don’t go begging from anyone, nor do we ask for donations; we don’t hold out our hands before anyone. We have held them out before Him—now before whom else shall we hold them out? And obstacles simply do not arise. Everything keeps happening. Today a thousand sannyasins are part of the ashram. And my sannyasins do not believe in living with meekness and poverty. What is truly necessary for a human being must be available. They live in ease, in joy, in celebration.

The moment you leave it to Him, something unique begins to happen... Just five or seven days ago, Laxmi needed a million rupees. She said to me, “Where will a million rupees come from all at once?” I said, “The way the others come, so will these!” And they came! Laxmi herself was amazed! A man arrived the day before yesterday from Switzerland, and he said, “I have deposited one million rupees in the name of the ashram, in Switzerland—full one million.” Laxmi asked, “For what? Who told you to?” He said, “No one told me, but suddenly I made a profit—one I had not expected, for which I had made no effort. So I thought: that for which I made no effort, which I did not expect, which came accidentally—is not mine. It should be put to God’s work somewhere.”

Life can be lived in this way too. One can live by leaving everything to Him. And this is the lineage of Malukdas—surely you remember his saying; everyone knows him for that one saying, people don’t know his other words—

The python does no service, the bird does no work.
Servant Maluka has said, the giver of all is Ram.

Malukdas could not have said this lightly. Malukdas’ work also ran in just this way!

Now you ask me, what is my will? His will. If you ask for His will, Dharmesh, then the first step is sannyas! Because when your “knowledge” has been shattered, and the delusions you had—that “I know”—have broken, now simplicity will arise naturally. And simplicity is sannyas. When the illusion of knowledge breaks, meditation becomes easy. And meditation is sannyas. Sannyas is simply an arrangement so that meditation can happen, simplicity can happen, the mind can become innocent—like children.

And your knowledge was not yours; that is why it broke. If it had been yours, why would it break? It was borrowed, it was stale; it was of the Vedas, of the Koran, of the Bible—not yours. It was of Buddha, of Mahavira, of Kabir—not yours. Had it been yours, how could it break!

What is one’s own never breaks. Fire cannot burn it, weapons cannot pierce it, death cannot erase it.

People say that I am a magician of speech,
a president of meanings, a judge of words, a prince among poets—
and till yesterday, to tell the truth, I too held this notion,
that in the art of poetry I am among the masters.
But now that a certain ripeness has come in me,
on the mirror of the mind the image of awareness has trembled.
The sky has awakened in my head and the earth in my chest—
now I feel that I am nothing at all.
On the stage of ignorance I was proud of my knowing.
Such an unbounded world—and my poetry!
The tresses of Existence, with such boundless twists and turns—
the hue of vainglory has flown, my illusion has been exposed.

People say, “You have great knowledge; you are a great scholar...”
People say that I am a magician of speech,
a president of meanings, a judge of words, a prince among poets—
and till yesterday, to tell the truth, I too held this notion,
that in the art of poetry I am among the masters.

And when people say it, we too come to believe it. You also believe it: when such a crowd says you are very knowledgeable, a great poet, a great saint, a great renunciate, a great mahatma—when so many say it, when so many certificates, so many testimonials are given, you too accept it. And there is hardly any way not to accept it. In just this way you believe who you are—taking others as the basis, you believe who you are. And taking you as the basis, they believe who they are. What a game is going on! The blind are instructing the blind. Those who do not know themselves hand you their delusions.

But now that a certain ripeness has come in me,
on the mirror of the mind the image of awareness has trembled—

and when a little ripeness comes, a little maturity arrives—surely, Dharmesh, a little awareness has dawned in you, you have matured a little, awakened a little, turned over a little.

But now that a certain ripeness has come in me—
a little maturity has arrived...
on the mirror of the mind the image of awareness has trembled—

then that notion of cleverness has shivered a bit. Its reflection has flickered. As the moon is in the sky and appears in the lake, and you take the lake’s moon to be the true moon—until the lake is still, you cannot tell. Toss in a pebble, the lake ripples, and it becomes clear the moon is shattered into pieces. That was not the real moon. Your “knowledge” that has shattered—I only tossed a pebble. But it was a moon formed in the lake. Your delusion has broken.

The sky has awakened in my head and the earth in my chest—
this is an auspicious moment; do not waste it.

The sky has awakened in my head and the earth in my chest—
now I feel that I am nothing at all.

Blessed are those who begin to feel, “I am nothing.” For then the whole sky is theirs, the whole earth is theirs.

On the stage of ignorance I was proud of my knowing—
as long as there was foolishness, the journey of foolishness...

On the stage of ignorance I was proud of my knowing—
till then there was the pride of knowledge. Only the foolish are proud of their knowledge. Only the foolish have the delusion of scholarship.

On the stage of ignorance I was proud of my knowing—
such an unbounded world—and my poetry!

And I used to think I was a great poet. And now that I have seen such an unbounded world, such an infinite expanse of beauty—what of my poetry! What of my verses! Such beauty! Each leaf is God’s epic. Each flower, each waterfall is a Bhagavad Gita. Each star a Koran. His marks are everywhere. Everywhere are His signs. On every particle are His signatures. He alone is the one great poet.

But until this infinite beauty is seen, you sit with your flickering candle and think: this is light. Look at the suns!

Such an unbounded world—and my poetry!
The tresses of Existence, with such boundless twists and turns—
so many countless mysteries! Count them—you cannot; measure them—you cannot; such immeasurable existence!

The tresses of Existence, with such boundless twists and turns—
the hue of swagger has flown—
the hue of vainglory has flown, my delusion has been exposed.

But this is auspicious. If this delusion breaks, if this illusion shatters, then the beginning of true knowing can happen in your life. To know that “I am ignorant” is the first step of knowledge. To know “I don’t know anything” is the turning toward knowing. To know “I am nothing” is the way to be everything.

Anand Maitreya! Stupor is the only cause, and Buddhahood is the only remedy. Buddhahood means awakening—being filled with awareness. Stupor means living as if drunk, staggering along the road. One who does not know oneself is unconscious; one who knows oneself is a Buddha.

A philosopher heard his wife say early one morning, “You know, our little boy has started walking!”
The philosopher, thinking it over, asked, “Since when?”
“Oh, about a week now!”
“Oh! Then he must have gone quite far by now!” the gentleman exclaimed, worried.
Where is awareness? Lost in his philosophy—with no time to look around.

Chandu Lal went to a hill station for his honeymoon. Seated in the back of the car, he was making love to his new bride, Gulabo, but he was worried the damn driver might be watching.
The driver had lost the way, but love-drunk Chandu Lal had no idea the car was circling the same area. When they passed the same crossroads again, the driver asked, “Sir, this is the seventh time, isn’t it?”
Pushing Gulabo away a bit, Chandu Lal snapped, “Seventh time or a hundredth—what’s it to you? You do your job; I’m doing mine.”

People are shut inside themselves; their eyes are closed, their ears closed! Sensitivity is closed.
Stupor—a deep stupor. We walk, we get up, we even work; somehow life goes on. But just somehow! We have no idea where we were, why we were, for what we were. Why we were born, why we lived, why we died; who it was that came and who it was that went—we know nothing! Will you call this awareness? Yes, we can tell a name—but that name is not ours; it was given. We can tell an address—but that too is not ours; it was given. You do not know your own whereabouts. Wake up! Shake yourself! Link every single act to awareness!

Suddenly Dhabbuji heard that Chandu Lal had been admitted to the hospital. His body was covered in wounds, about twenty fractures; the condition was critical. The moment he heard, Dhabbuji ran to the hospital. He saw bandages all over, an oxygen mask on, a glucose drip hanging, and nearby Gulabo was tearing her hair, sobbing uncontrollably, beating her chest. Dhabbuji asked, “Sister-in-law, what happened—some accident?”
“Why are you asking me?” Gulabo wailed. “Ask your dear brother!”
“What happened, brother Chandu Lal?” Dhabbuji asked sadly. “What did you do? What mistake could land you in plaster from head to toe?”
Poor Chandu Lal managed to open his mouth and whispered, “What can I say, friend—I only said the dal was a little low on salt.”
At this, Gulabo’s eyes flared with anger. “Aren’t you ashamed to lie?” she shouted. “You didn’t say ‘a little low.’ You said there was no salt at all!”
“But sister-in-law, that was no reason to be so upset,” Dhabbuji tried to soothe her. “You could have just added more salt to the dal.”
Gulabo said, “If there had been any salt in the house I would have added it first. There hasn’t been salt at home for a week. Tell your brother—why doesn’t he keep the house stocked?”
“What are you saying!” protested Chandu Lal. “Just last Saturday I brought you ten kilos of salt.”
Now Gulabo’s anger hit the sky. “You wretch, why didn’t you tell me it was salt? I thought it was sugar and I’ve been putting it in your tea every day!”

This is how life is going!

You ask: “Christ said, ‘Let the dead bury the dead.’ Kabir said, ‘O seeker, this is a village of the dead.’ And Maluk says, ‘The dead fight the dead and die.’ The common life is dead—what is the reason?”
There is only one reason: people are unconscious, in a stupor. And there is only one medicine, a sovereign remedy—and that is Buddhahood. Other than this there never was, is not, and cannot be any other way.

Wake up! And you can wake up—that is your potential. It is your birthright!
Enough for today.