Ram Duware Jo Mare #8

Saint! If the ego were something, it could be erased. Ego is only a misunderstanding, a mere appearance. Like seeing a snake in a rope in the dark, becoming frightened, running away, and asking people, “How do I kill the snake?” What would you say to him? Would you hand him a dagger or a sword? You would say: take a lamp, look carefully—there is no snake. It is a rope. In the dark a delusion has arisen.
So it is with ego. You have assumed it; in the dark a delusion has arisen.

The ego is like your shadow—walking behind you, but is it? Has it any existence? And if you begin to fight your own shadow, you’ll land yourself in great trouble. You cannot win; you will break and be badly defeated.
Understand this obstacle well.
Whoever fights a shadow cannot possibly win. Defeat is certain—not because the shadow can defeat you, but because it isn’t there. How will you win? Yet in the fighting your energy will be wasted; the more you waste, the more you weaken; the weaker you grow, the stronger the shadow will seem. If you keep going with this arithmetic, you will break yourself fighting your own shadow.
Do not fight the ego.

And not only are you fighting yourself, saint, you are even asking me to destroy your ego. If ego existed, there might be a way to destroy it. Ego is not. Wake up, and look carefully!
So drop the very idea of destroying ego. Awaken meditation! Light the lamp of awareness. In that light, ego has never been found. Other saints tell you: drop the ego, cut the ego, kill the ego. I do not say that. I say: light the lamp of meditation. Then search; if you find the ego, bring it to me. So far, no one has found it once the lamp is lit. The moment the lamp of awareness is on, what you find is the Self—not the ego. And that you are not to destroy. Even if you wanted, you could not destroy it.

You cannot destroy the ego because it is not, and you cannot destroy the Self because it is eternal Being. Nothing can you destroy—neither ego nor Self. Light the lamp and you will see that the ego is not, and you will see that the Self is. And the Self is not mine and yours; the Self is pure existence—mine the same, yours the same, everyone’s the same. Whoever enters the Self finds Buddha his, Mahavira his, Krishna his, Christ his, Nanak, Kabir, Maluk—all his. Whoever descends into the ocean finds all the rivers too—those that reached the ocean earlier now become his as well.

Am I a drop of water or the shoreless sea?
I am myself the shadow, myself the ground of being.
Bound am I—dream-bound—in a small circle;
otherwise, I am the vast expanse of sky.
The trembling that longs to merge in the lute-heart,
I am the quiver, the ringing of the void.
Wandering, seeking light in darkness,
I have heard—I am the very source of light.
What night seeks by lighting the stars,
it is to That that I set out in love.
Born and dead a hundred times—
have I crossed the unfathomable?
On a bud’s petal, in a drop of dew,
I am the world of rainbow dreams;
so what if I fall today or tomorrow?
I am a flower, a little offering.
I am the burn, the ache, the heart’s pang,
someone’s “alas,” a lost love am I.
Fallen to earth from heaven’s grove,
I am the tender blossom of the deathless tree.

You are children of the immortal.
Fallen to earth from heaven’s grove,
you are the tender flowers of the deathless tree—without birth or death.

Bound, you are small; small, you are petty; petty, you are full of ego. Awake, and you are the expanse of the sky, the whole firmament! Then you have no boundary. Ego is boundary; the Self is boundlessness.

The tremor that longs to merge in the lute-heart,
I am the quiver, the ringing of the void.
Wandering, seeking light in darkness,
I have heard—I am the very source of light.

You have only heard that you are light; you have not known. You have heard that you are children of the immortal; you have not recognized it. I can give you the keys to recognition. I can indicate the way, point the direction. But, saint, if you want me to destroy your ego—this is impossible! Your delusion will go by your awareness. If your delusion could go by my awareness, the whole thing would be easy! If one with eyes could show light to the blind, then truth would be very simple to attain in this world. One with eyes can discuss the remedy, can tell you where the physician is, but the eyes—you must find within yourself. And that is the difficulty.

Ego is not the big problem; the big problem is that the labor demanded by meditation, the sustained practice it requires—that continuity is not in us. Meditate one day, then take two days off. What you build in one day is erased in two. Back to where you were, blank again. A little writing appears, and laziness wipes it away. Continuity is needed. Even drops, if they fall without a break, split rocks.

But you want to avoid that labor. So you hope I will break it for you. If I could, I would not ask you—I would simply do it. That I cannot does not mean I do not want to. Someone who mistakes a rope for a snake must be brought to the rope—and he refuses to go. He runs, he is frightened. You say, “Here is a lamp, come with me, look properly.” He says, “Don’t take me there; there’s a snake. First remove my fear of the snake, then I will come.”

Mulla Nasruddin went to learn swimming. He slipped on the steps—the river had algae. He got up and ran straight home. His instructor shouted, “Nasruddin, where are you going? Don’t you want to learn to swim? You’ve been pestering me for days!” Nasruddin said, “We’ll meet later. When I’ve learned to swim, then I’ll come near the river. I slipped just now—didn’t you see? If I had fallen a bit farther into the water, I would have died today. Now I’ll come only after I’ve learned!”
But where will you learn to swim? You cannot learn upon mattresses and cushions! However much you flail your arms and legs on a bed, it will not help; you will learn only when you enter the river.
There is danger in the river!
There is. Who knows whether you will learn to swim or drown? Who knows whether the one taking you even knows himself? Daring is needed! Indomitable courage is needed! And trust.

Carry me away with a sweet deceiving,
Boatman, slowly, gently—
to that solitude where ocean-waves
whisper deep into the sky’s ears
the tale of a stainless love;
away from the noisy earth.
Where life, like evening’s shadow,
loosens its tender body,
and from blue eyes there drifts and spills
a dense procession of stars.
In whose grave, honeyed shade,
the world—a painted scroll that moves—
shows power powerless,
and sorrow and joy made truth.
Where from the horizon’s edge of toil and rest,
creation keeps its fair,
and dawn’s immortal eyes
scatter a thickening light.
Carry me away with a sweet deceiving,
Boatman, slowly, gently.

We want someone to take us along—and to take us by sweet deception! This path is not like that. Here, everything is made clear to you beforehand—the hardships, the challenges, the dangers. It is a steep ascent toward the mountain peak. There is risk of falling. It is not a downhill stroll; it is a climb. So you will pant. Therefore, lighten your load.

That is why I keep saying: throw away the junk-knowledge you’ve borrowed. With such weight you cannot climb to the summits; make your head light. Don’t carry such burdens. Forget that you are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh! If you don’t forget, these are stones tied to your chest. They will not let you move forward. With these stones, will you swim the ocean? With these stones, will you climb a mountain peak? As one goes higher, one must keep reducing the load. Even a little weight begins to feel heavy. The climb itself wrings sweat and blood—then the load!
Be unburdened, weightless! Drop all your knowledge, all your sects, all beliefs, all faiths. Be empty, be a zero. Then the lamp will not take long to light. It can be lit. But you must take the risk of leaving everything. If you clutch this and also want the lamp of life to blaze, it won’t happen.

So long as you cling to doctrines about the lamp of life, or worship pictures of it, the lamp will not light. However much you expect from pictures, no light will come of them.

Boatman! To this lonely shore,
on what waves have you rowed me?
In this desolate hour,
has anyone ever come?
Where across should I go again
into the soiled hem of night?
It is not life I crave
but the false, masked lure of pain.
On the path of returning
no footprints remain.
The desert of my heart is drowned—
a river of tears is rising.
Space spreads empty—
there is no strength, no support.
A weightless straw—shall I become?
Is there even a bank, a shore?

Panic will come when the boat reaches midstream. The old shore will be lost, and of the new shore there will be no sign. Old supports will fall away, and new supports take time. First the ground beneath your feet disappears; then there is great fear—“I may fall into a void! I may sink into the bottomless!”
Meditation appears like death. That’s why people talk about meditation—but do not meditate. They read scriptures about meditation—but do not meditate. If the time they spend talking and reading, they spent in meditation, everything would be resolved. All disease would end; the remedy would be found. But they do not meditate; they only talk a great deal about meditation. They split hairs about methods. They know so much about meditation—but they have not tasted a drop of it. What lies across, they can describe from this shore! They have looked at pictures of boats; they have heard rumors of midstream storms. All the while sitting on this bank! Not stepped even an inch into water. Not taken a single stride toward midstream; not lifted an oar; never risked. They sit in security—windows and doors shut tight! And the discussion goes on. Discussion of light—while sitting in darkness! Keep discussing for lifetimes—light does not come from discussion.

Saint, the difficulty is nothing else; it is only this: you must create continuity. Even if just for a few moments, sit silently. Drop thinking. Drop imagining, drop the nets of imagination. People weave such dreams! Either they have piled up a mound of memories and keep rummaging through them, again and again looking back—“Ah! How beautiful was yesterday that is gone!” And yesterday too you were there—and you were not happy then either. Then you were saying, “Ah! How beautiful was the day before!” “How sweet the childhood!” “Those bygone days were the golden age, Sat Yuga, Ram Rajya!” Either you’re chained to the past, lost in it—or you’re making plans for the future—vain plans, idle fantasies. Given the slight chance to slip away, you slide either into the past or the future. Caught between these two, meditation does not happen.
Meditation is to be in the present—neither past nor future.

“Why are you so angry and upset, Brother Brahmachari?” said Mulla Nasruddin in wonder. “There’s nothing to get so excited about. And it’s only a mouse that came out of your belly—not an elephant. You’re getting angry for no reason!”
“You don’t know the law of sequential causation,” Matkanath Brahmachari said, rising from his cot. “Until now only ants used to come out of my belly; today a mouse has come. If this goes on, tomorrow cats will come out, the day after dogs. And it won’t stop with dogs. Slowly men and donkeys and horses will come out, cows and buffaloes will come out. One day elephants will start coming out too,” fumed the Brahmachari. “Then no one will be able to stop it. My belly will cease to be a belly; it will become a public thoroughfare!”
People think very far ahead! They account from ants to elephants! So you lose yourself in the future—“Tomorrow it will be like this; when meditation happens, when samadhi blossoms, when the flower of buddhahood opens—what bliss it will be!” For a moment it feels as if heaven has descended.

People are arranging not only for this life, but for lives to come! They fuss about the next world. They want a little bank balance in heaven too; they’re making deposits of merit in the heavenly account. Past or future. And between the two lies the fine line of the present—and you miss it. Miss that, and you miss meditation. Miss that, and ego is created. Your hands grasp nothing.

The past is ash; long since ash.
What is gone is gone.
There was a star in life,
granted, it was very dear—
it sank, and so it sank.
Look at the face of the sky:
How many of its stars have fallen,
how many beloved ones left—
do fallen stars ever return?
Tell me, does the sky
mourn for broken stars?
What is gone is gone.
There was a flower in life
on which you poured your every day—
it withered, and so it withered.
Look at the breast of the grove:
How many buds have dried,
how many creepers have wilted—
do they bloom again?
Tell me, does the garden
raise a din over dry leaves?
What is gone is gone.
There was a cup of wine in life;
you gave your body and soul—
it broke, and so it broke.
Look at the tavern yard:
How many cups are shaken,
fall, and mingle with dust—
do the fallen rise again?
Tell me, does the tavern
ever repent over shattered cups?
What is gone is gone.
Of soft clay are made
the jars of wine—they do break.
With brief lives we arrive—
the cups do break.
Yet inside the tavern
wine-jars, wine-cups abound.
Those drunk with ecstasy
keep pouring the wine.
He’s a raw drinker
whose clinging is to cups and jars.
He who is fired by the true wine—
when does he cry or shout?
What is gone is gone.

The first sutra of meditation: what is gone is gone. Do not keep looking back. Do not keep stirring memories. If you keep waking them, they will keep waking; you will keep breathing life into them. You will remain surrounded by them.

Ask people what they’re doing as they sit—they will be doing one of two things: either turning the past over, or worrying the future.

Past is gone, future not yet come. Both are absences. And you live in absence. From that absence the ego is built. Live in presence; live in Being. In the dense light of existence the shadow of ego does not arise. In the dense fire of existence all the trash burns away. And however many plans you make, however you decorate imaginations, however many dreams you adorn and build—they will all crumble to dust. Existence does not run by your dreams. Existence is not obliged to you. Existence has its own way, its own style, its own rhythm. If it listened to each and every person, it would get into hopeless trouble. Whom would it listen to?

So existence flows on, impartial. If you flow with it, meditation happens. But how will you flow when you have your own plans? You want the river of life to turn left, or right; to stop now, to rest now; not to fall into the ocean yet; now this, now that—you keep laying down conditions. Are you alone? There are endless others, each with conditions. Whose should existence accept? It moves silently—in its own gaiety, its own intoxication. If only you could flow with it—meditation would happen. Then you must have no demand.

For me, sannyas means just this: no demands, no expectations. To be contented with what is—that is sannyas. To be absorbed in what is—that is sannyas. To be dissolved in what is—that is sannyas. To be satisfied with what is. Then where is ego? Past gone, future gone. Ego stands only on those two crutches. Come into the present, and the crutches fall.

Remember, most of the sorrow in the world is due to expectations. If expectations are there, today or tomorrow when they break, storm-clouds gather over life.

My rich widowed aunt had no children, but plenty of money. She loved keeping dogs. She had five hundred and ten dogs in the house. All my life, in the greed for her wealth, I tried every way to please her—patted her filthy, stinking dogs, stroked the tails of mad bitches, cuddled mangy pups to my chest. Yesterday my aunt died, Dabbuji told his friend Mulla Nasruddin.
“What did she leave you in the will?” Nasruddin asked eagerly.
Dabbuji wept: “Those same five hundred and ten mangy dogs, bitches, and pups!”
What you want, existence will not fulfill that way. What existence wants—agree with that. The road to misery is to demand of existence: “It should be like this.” The road to joy is to be able to thank existence for whatever is: “Great grace, I am grateful, I am obliged!”

Free yourself from past and future, saint, and meditation will settle easily. Between those two is meditation. Meditation means the present moment is everything. Behind and ahead—all false. Truth is here and now. If in this moment not a ripple of thought remains within you—then where is ego? Where are you? Then there is silence, an incomparable silence! In that silence is self-knowing, nirvana, liberation, samadhi. In that silence the arrival of sat-chit-ananda. In that silence blossom the flowers of the True, the Good, the Beautiful. That silence is spring.

I cannot do it for you. I can show the road; you must walk. I cannot walk for you. Buddha has said: Buddhas can only give the path, give indications. Buddhas are milestones with arrows saying, “Walk this many miles and you will reach such a place.” You cannot be dragged by force; what comes by force cannot be liberation. Liberation and compulsion?

Nor can liberation be gifted. What is given as a gift—no one knows how to value. How many things have been given to you in gift—did you value them? Life has been given to you as a gift—did you ever thank the divine: “Lord, I am obliged to you, for you gave me life”? What could be more precious than life? No, gratitude did not arise in you. You have been given consciousness—did you thank for your awareness? No—you have complained, you have doubted; neither gratitude nor trust arose. If even liberation were handed to you for free, you would complain in liberation too—“Too much sun today,” “It rained today,” “I had clothes to dry,” “I had this to do, that to do.” If liberation were given free… Existence has given you everything, but kept back liberation. That you must find. So that you can value it.
Existence has seen that whatever is given, you do not value. Only what you gain through your own effort do you value. You even value trifles if they come through toil; if free, instantly they lose worth in your eyes. Your only measure for value is: how much labor did you give?
So the last, most precious treasure—the supreme life—has been withheld. Everything else has been given—the capacity to seek it, the means, the strength to reach it. But that supreme summit is kept aside. This is good. It is right. You must attain it yourself. No one can give it to you. And if someone says he will give it—be careful: some fraud, some cheat! Whoever says such a thing will rob you. There is no greater deceiver.
Truth must be realized. Liberation must be realized. These things are not transferable. Otherwise one Buddha would have sufficed—he could have distributed buddhahood to all.

Saint, labor! I called you “saint” because I see the possibility. I see the sun hidden in your darkness, the dawn hidden in your new-moon night. In the womb of the dark night there is a morning that can break any moment. Get up a little, walk a little, drop laziness! And drop the trust that someone else will give it to you; otherwise that trust only hides your laziness.

We invent great arguments to hide our own things.

A friend of mine has been coming to me for years. He touches my feet and says, “Now that I have touched your feet—what more is there to do!” I told him, “If that is true, then close your shop as well!” He is a big businessman. “You have touched my feet—what need of shopkeeping?”
“How will that do?” he said. “I have to run the business.” I said, “Then whom are you deceiving? You will run your business—touching my feet won’t do that for you. But as for God—you think touching my feet will do it. What you want and must gain—wealth—you run for yourself; you do not leave that to anyone, not even to my feet. What you do not truly want—and if it were free, what loss is that?—that you leave at my feet! If your trust were complete, leave everything. And if it is not, then labor. Do not let ‘devotion’ become a cover for laziness.”

The mind has many arguments, much cleverness. It finds a way out of everything.

Someone told Mulla Nasruddin, “What are you doing in the hotel? Your wife is at home with a man.” Nasruddin said, “I’ll fix him right now! I’ll flay his skin! I suspected as much. I’ll teach him a lesson!”
He ran home, leapt in through the window. The man with his wife leapt up and hid in the wardrobe. Nasruddin was raging, opened the wardrobe—and instantly his anger vanished. It was the village wrestler. He said, “Master, standing here like a ghost in the daytime scaring my children—have you no shame? That’s why Fazlu keeps telling me, ‘Father, there’s a ghost in the house!’ He must have seen you and been frightened. Go to your own home and do some work, brother!”
See—he found a trick!

But people don’t accept so easily. And when you speak like this to a wrestler, he also understands what’s going on.
The next day Nasruddin comes home, sees an umbrella outside, shoes taken off. From the size of the shoes he knows—it must be the wrestler. He looks at the umbrella; his name is written there. He puts the umbrella across his knee and snaps it in two. “O Lord, now make it rain! Let him taste it!”

The mind finds countless ways to avoid what it does not want to face! Be alert with your own mind; it is very skillful in argument. It can call laziness ‘devotion.’ It layers word upon word. It turns dishonesty into religiosity. It turns hypocrisy into dharma. It makes hollow show into virtue. It calls display before others morality.
Watch your mind’s tricks with great awareness.

Saint—saintliness is an event; it will happen. And I am happy with how you are unfolding. In these five to seven years, much has happened; much has changed in your life. But much more is yet to happen. The very longing that the ego should go—this itself is not small. People long for the ego to fill and grow. In you the longing has arisen that the ego should go—this is an auspicious sign. It is the first flower of spring! Other flowers will be arriving. The first has announced that spring has come; it is not far.

I am happy with your growth. But a long journey remains. When I say I am happy with your growth, understand only this: I am giving you strength, assurance—encouraging you: you’ve walked this far, walk a little more, a little more. Slowly, step by step, a journey of a thousand miles is completed.

Buddha was walking a hill-path. He hoped to reach the village by noon, but evening fell. Ananda was very tired; Buddha too. They stopped by a hut near a field. Ananda asked the old farmer sitting outside—with his old wife spinning beside him—“How far is the village?” The old man said, “About four miles.” Hearing “four miles,” Ananda’s face fell further. He didn’t have the strength to walk four steps; he could drop any moment, hungry, thirsty, from the day’s heat. The old woman stopped her spinning and said to her old man, “Speak with a little sense. Can’t you see how tired these travelers are? Two miles at most! I say it’s two miles. Don’t listen to this old man; he’s addled.”
A little courage returned to Ananda. But Buddha laughed.
On the way, Ananda asked, “Why did you laugh?” Buddha said, “Because what the old woman did is what I must do twenty-four hours a day. Whether it is four miles or forty, I say: it’s only two miles, only two miles!”
And so it was. After walking two miles and the village not coming, they asked a passerby. “How far is the village? We were told two miles; two miles have passed.” He said, “It’s about two miles. Almost there!” After another two miles, still no village. Buddha said, “Now do you understand? I understood the old woman’s language. The old man was not addled; he was truthful. But the old woman had compassion: ‘Don’t you see how tired they are? Aren’t you ashamed to say four miles? Two miles is plenty!’”
The road is long. But not so long it cannot be completed. The goal is difficult, but not impossible. Practice must be done; the fruit is attainable. Hard, steep—not unachievable! And since you have come thus far, there is hope the rest of the way will open well.

Do not leave it to me! There is danger in leaving it to me—you will simply sit down.
This is the misfortune of this whole country: it has left everything, believing, “If it is God’s will, it will all happen.” By God’s will, yes, all can happen—but first you must put your own whole will into labor. When you engage your will wholly in effort, at that very moment God’s energy begins to flow into you—never before.

Put your whole effort into meditation. I am standing with you! And the divine stands with you. The whole existence is with you. Whenever one sets out toward meditation, the whole existence, in bliss, extends help—for someone lost is coming home; someone far away is returning; a seed is sprouting, shooting, leafing. The sky gives it shade, the sun warmth, the clouds water. The earth gives it life. The whole existence becomes a helper.
Yes—if you move against existence, then you are alone. The journey of ego is a solitary journey. In the journey of meditation, the whole existence is your ally. But do not leave it all to existence; you must labor. Existence will support.

And what you have done so far is auspicious, in the right direction. Your steps are falling in the right direction. Look back and remember your face of five or seven years ago, saint! Everything has changed!

When Saint first came here and did meditation—do you know what he used to do? He’s Punjabi! He would throw punches, hurl abuses—as if beating someone, killing someone. Even when a Punjabi meditates, he is still Punjabi! And when he went deep in meditation, he would stop speaking Hindi and start speaking Punjabi. All that has changed now. The Punjabi-ness has left Saint’s face; a glimmer of humanity has appeared. A simplicity has come. A calm has come into the eyes. A gentleness into the person. That brawler’s energy has gone. Those fists that flew in meditation, that violent tendency that arose in meditation—they have quieted. Half the work is done. And when half is done, the rest will also be done!
Keep going! Keep going!!

Hari Krishna! You are bound to fall into the hands of a swindler—remember that first of all. People with these kinds of ambitions are the natural prey of tricksters. If you want to be rich, someone will surely sell you an amulet and rob you; even what you already have will go. Walk carefully—this is a very wrong kind of longing!

A Muslim youth once came to me and stayed for a few days. He was a trickster. I told him, “Drop this trickery, otherwise you won’t last here.” But he had come precisely because so many people pass through here—he hoped to snare someone. Soon people began to complain: “He took a hundred rupees from me.” Another said, “He took my ring.” Another, “He took my watch.” I asked them, “How can someone take your watch? How can someone take your ring? How can someone walk off with your hundred-rupee note?” They said: “He first did a miracle. He took a one-rupee note and made it two. When he doubled one rupee, we thought he would double a hundred too. He took the hundred and disappeared.” Of course!

So I would ask them, “Will you blame only him—or yourselves as well? He’s a cheat, that’s obvious. But you aren’t exactly paragons of honesty either. You too are confirmed cheats! You were getting him to turn your hundred into two hundred. If he cheated you, nothing wrong was done—you got the right punishment. You wanted to turn one ring into two, and he knew a few sleights of hand. He could take one note and ‘make’ it two. All false—just hand tricks. But the moment someone shows you a one-rupee note becoming two, or one ring becoming two, greed arises in you. Greed is a dangerous state. Sooner or later someone will harass you; someone will fleece you.”

Those who came to complain would say, “He’s dishonest. Why do you let him stay here?” I would say, “Then you shouldn’t let me stay here either—you’re no more honest than he is.”

A Jew was advising his son: “Son, start sitting in the shop now. But before you do, learn a few things—just as my father taught me. He gave me two maxims. First: always keep your word, so the shop earns a reputation. Second: never give your word, even by mistake. No flute if there’s no bamboo!”

In the shop you must live by business ethics. The father said to his son, “Just take yesterday. A man mistakenly handed me, instead of one hundred-rupee note, two notes stuck together. He thought it was one. As he was going down the stairs, I noticed they were two. Now the question arose—purely a matter of business ethics—should I tell my partner or not?”

You see? That’s honesty! Business ethics! The man was still on the stairs—telling him doesn’t even arise. The question is: should I tell my partner or not?

You say: “I want to be rich, I want a beautiful woman, I want a high position.”
You will be deceived. And what will you really get? Those who have gotten these things—what did they get?

We bought the resonance of oceans,
the illusions of friendship we bought;
in the longing for delight
how fascinating sorrows we have bought.

Fascinating perhaps—but sorrow all the same!
We bought the resonance of oceans,
the illusions of friendship we bought;
in the yearning for happiness…
how fascinating sorrows we have bought.

Wealth, position, prestige, beautiful women, handsome men—all are interesting sorrows. They can entertain for a little while; afterward, a noose tightens.

Be warned now, Hari Krishna! You must have heard that I accept life in its totality, so you thought: “Let’s ask this man how to get wealth, position, and a beautiful woman. He doesn’t preach renunciation.” Perhaps that misunderstanding brought you here. Yes, we do not talk of renunciation here—but a very subtle renunciation happens. Here the talk is of meditation. And when meditation happens, renunciation comes on its own. One begins to see the futility of things. When their futility is understood, the grip loosens.

You’ve come to the wrong place.

A man once placed an advertisement—meant for people like you: “Send two rupees and learn the formula to become a millionaire overnight.” Now who wouldn’t want to become a millionaire for two rupees! Almost a hundred thousand people sent their money. A week later, everyone who had sent the two rupees received the reply: “Do exactly what I did.” He had indeed become a millionaire overnight! One lakh people sent two rupees each—two lakhs landed in his lap.

This is how you’re being duped—through gambling, matka. And it’s not only people who run these scams; governments do it too. Governments that claim to be Gandhian run lotteries! A lottery is gambling—a cheat dressed up nicely. But the greedy get hooked: “Just one rupee for a chance at lakhs. If it comes once, that’s enough…!” But what will you do after getting lakhs?

There’s a famous story by Tolstoy:
A tailor used to buy a lottery ticket for one rupee every month. He had done this for twenty years. He never won, and had stopped even thinking he might win; it was just an old habit—one rupee didn’t hurt.
In the twentieth year, the impossible happened! A Rolls-Royce stopped at his door. Men got out carrying big bags full of notes. “Brother tailor, why sit there stitching buttons? Throw it all away! You’ve won—ten lakhs!”
He didn’t look left or right. Ten lakhs! He locked his shop and threw the key into the well. What use for a shop now!
Within a year the ten lakhs had blown away. Things that come flying from the sky fly back the same way—remember that. Because for a year he lived like a king: big cars, big houses, the most beautiful women, the finest hotels, a tour around the world—whatever could be enjoyed, he enjoyed. And what follows indulgence followed. After a year, not only were the ten lakhs gone, his health was ruined: his eyes were dim, he needed glasses, he walked with a stick, tapping along. Indulgence is never cheap. He was broken. He came back to his door and remembered—he had thrown the key into the well! So he climbed down. It was the Russian winter, water like ice. He dived in and somehow found the key. People pulled him out with great effort.
He opened the lock and from the next morning began work again. But in that one year it seemed as if twenty years had passed—twenty years shaven off his life.
Old habits die hard. The next month came; on the first, he bought the lottery ticket again. Though he prayed to God daily: “No more now. Don’t let me win! Enough! I’ve seen what there is to see, and the ruin too. No!” On one side he prayed; on the other he kept buying the ticket. The human mind is full of such strange contradictions—look closely and you’ll find the same in yourself.
A year later, the same car stopped again. He beat his chest, “I’m finished! Trapped again!” He knew he shouldn’t, but came out to the door anyway. The bags were unloaded; the money. He locked the shop again. “Oh Lord, what are you making me do! Don’t show me this! What am I doing!” He locked it, and as he was about to throw the key into the well, he said, “Oh Lord, why? Will you make me go into that icy water again?” And he threw the key.
But that year he didn’t have to go down into the cold water again—because he died.

What will you do with a lot of money? Ruin yourself? When foolishness gets money, what else can happen but ruin? Very few in this world know how to use wealth; very few know how to use anything at all. Everything becomes harmful in their hands. It’s better that people don’t have too many things—otherwise those very things will harm them. I know the wealthy: what they got with wealth was worry, sorrow, restlessness, even derangement. I know those who married the most beautiful women, and got nothing but anxiety and trouble. A beautiful wife brings worry. A beautiful husband brings worry. The worry has a simple arithmetic: when a woman is very beautiful, will you be the only admirer? There will be others. And if you alone admire her, then how beautiful is she really? The more beautiful, the more admirers. The more handsome a man, the more women who desire him.

Then doubt arises; suspicion arises. People live on suspicion and die rotting in it. And even the most beautiful woman is not beautiful for more than two days. Once you’ve known her, then what? From a distance she was beautiful; the closer she comes, the more the beauty fades. The moment you bring her home in a palanquin, your troubles begin.

Mulla Nasruddin married the ugliest woman in the village—he was a clever man! People asked, “Nasruddin, you could have had the best of women—so many invitations came for you. Why did you choose this one, at whom even ghosts would flee?” He said, “There’s a secret. If she’s at home, I’ll have no worries. First, I’ll never have any doubts about her fidelity—this is a big advantage. She will always be faithful; whom could she possibly deceive with? There is no one in this village who would even go near her!”
As is the custom among Muslims, when he brought his wife home, she asked, “Nasruddin, according to custom, before whom may I lift my veil? In front of whom may I remove my burqa?” Nasruddin said, “Lift it before anyone you like—except me. And I won’t be home during the day anyway; I’ll only come at night. Frighten as many as you can! After all, why did I marry you!”

Beautiful women bring anxiety. Wealth brings anxiety. Handsome men bring anxiety. Doubt is natural—there is a clear math behind it.

Hari Krishna, wake up, understand!

Dhabbhu-ji came running to the post office, panting. “Listen, my wife Dhanno’s life is in danger. She’s sleeping deeply with the door bolted from inside. The house has just caught fire. I shouted and shouted, but she didn’t open. Now it’s impossible to get inside. You tell me—what should I do?”
The postmaster said, “Dhabbhu-ji, why have you come to me? What can I do! You should go to the fire brigade!”
“No, no, I won’t go there—absolutely not,” said Dhabbhu-ji, almost in tears. “Last time I made that mistake, and those blasted firemen actually saved my wife!”

Today or tomorrow you will want to be free. Marriage is easy; divorce is hard.

Mulla Nasruddin went to his lawyer for a divorce. The lawyer said, “Nasruddin, divorce will be expensive—four times the cost of marriage.” Nasruddin said, “Let it be. The fun of divorce is something else! What comparison between marriage and divorce? Whatever it costs, let it cost! I tasted marriage and now I know—divorce is a different kind of joy!”

There’s an Arabic saying: There would be great peace and great joy in the world if every man were a bachelor and every woman were married. Difficult! How can that be? So misery is bound to remain in the world.

Hari Krishna, why are you seeking misery? You have come to me—ask about meditation. You ask about money! Ask about God. You ask about a wife! You ask about position! Ask about nirvana. All this you ask for is the world—everyone is drowning in it. Looking at them, does it not occur to you that if they were truly getting something from it, their faces would glow, their eyes would shine, a lamp would burn within their being, their life would be Diwali? Look closely at them! They have wealth, yet you will not find anyone poorer than they are. They have beautiful wives, husbands, children, yet you will not find people living in a more ugly condition. They have position, prestige, name, address—inside only straw. Nothing within.

Like the scarecrow set up in a field—a fake man: a pot for a head, a Gandhi cap on it, the pot on a stick, another stick across for arms, a khadi kurta and an achkan. If the farmer is very fancy, a churidar and Lucknowi shoes. From afar you’d think Netaji is out for a morning walk! The animals and birds take fright.

Khalil Gibran tells a story: I asked a scarecrow, “Brother scarecrow, standing here in the field through rain, sun, and cold—you must get tired. Twenty-four hours—no entertainment, no films, no radio, no TV, no friends, no Rotary, no Lions, no hotels to go to nor hotels to come here. You must get bored and sad. Yet I see you always standing proudly, happily! What is the secret of your happiness?” The scarecrow said, “Listen, the secret of my happiness is this: the joy I get from frightening others—what worth is there in your entertainments compared to that! The joy of scaring others is such that let rain come, let sun come, let cold come—I’ll endure it all for that joy!”

It’s a pleasing story. What is the joy of leaders, of those on high seats? The joy of frightening others! Of suppressing others! What is the joy of the very rich? The joy of making others bow, of extracting “Yes, sir!” from them. They are all scarecrows—stuffed with straw. Strip off their achkan and look inside—you’ll be shocked. As Hanuman tore open his chest and revealed Rama within, tear open a leader’s chest and you’ll be shocked—only straw! So rotten that even cows and buffaloes would refuse to graze on it. Cows and buffaloes aside—even donkeys would turn away. What is there inside them? Even when they sit on high thrones—what is inside?

If you too get a high position, wealth, fame—what will you get? In this world, fame is like lines drawn on water: drawn now, gone now. How many came and how many went—does anyone know their names, addresses? They had palaces of gold, chariots of gold—and what became of it all? It all turned to dust.

Do something else—something that cannot turn to dust. Something death cannot wipe out. Something that connects you to the immortal. If you have come to me, seek the nectar, seek the eternal. That is the real wealth. That is the real position. That is the real beauty.

Sudhir, understand what ritualism means. Ritualism means an act in which your heart is absent. And wherever the heart is absent, falseness will inevitably be there. So the issue is not the act; the issue is the heart.

Meera danced; you too can dance in just the same way. Tie on the ankle-bells the same way, take the same ektara in your hand... after all, there are film Miras, aren’t there? You too can be a film Meera!... And you can dance exactly like that, but that will be ritualism, because your heart won’t be there. It is a dead act, with no stream of life flowing through it.

Meera’s dancing is not ritualism, and your dancing exactly like Meera’s... it may even be that you can dance better than Meera, because perhaps you have learned and trained, you have mastery in dance. Meera took no lessons—of course not. It was a mood, an ecstasy! That dance was no instruction from the outside; it welled up from within. So from the viewpoint of the art of dance there must have been slips and mistakes. There must have been... had Lachuji Maharaj or Bichchuji Maharaj been watching, they would at once have found this or that error. But in that dance there is love, exultation, offering, prayer, worship. It is the process of placing the heart upon the altar. Meera came to the temple door carrying only her heart. That dance is not ritualism. You perform the very same dance and it becomes ritualism.

So remember: it will not be decided from the outside whether ritualism is futile or not; it will be decided from within. And only you can know your within. Your inner being—Sudhir—who else could know it? What you are doing, is it real? Or are you merely putting on a show? Is there a surge of life in you, or are you simply fulfilling a duty? Are you doing it because it “ought” to be done? Or are you doing it because you cannot not do it?

Meera’s family opposed her. They sent her poison, thinking it would be better if she died—because it was a disgrace. A royal lady dancing in the streets! And that too in Rajasthan, where for centuries women had never lifted the veil. There, the veil might slip, the pallu might fall! Now in dancing, will one keep watch over the veil, over the curtain, over the pallu? Dance is dance—and then Meera’s dance! She was dancing, forgetful of body and mind. She had no idea of people; she knew only the Divine. What is there to hide from him, before whom all is already revealed? Before him all is naked. So her family was pained, their prestige took a blow; people must have come and said: a queen dancing in the streets, beggars crowding to watch, passersby stopping to stare, mocking and laughing—is this good? Compelled, the family must have sent her poison: drink it and die.

Meera’s dance is not ritualism. You, dance as Meera danced. Only you can test it—who else will? Does it fit, ring true to your inner being? Do you drown in the dancing—so completely that the dancer is gone and only the dance remains? Then understand, it is no longer ritualism. Then there is the “ah!” of love; it has become celebration.

And this same truth applies to every ritual.

People come to me. Someone comes and bows at my feet, and I see that there is no inner accord in it. His ego stands stiff. The ego is not bowing. Perhaps his bowing is even puffing up his ego: “Look, this is called etiquette; this is called religiosity!” He looks around to see if people have noticed: “See, this is humility! This is saintliness, simplicity!” This was no bowing. Though he bowed, the bow was wasted. It was a physical exercise. The soul was not in it. This is ritualism. Better he had not bowed.

But someone bows, truly bows. He becomes like water, he melts, he flows. He has no thought whether someone is watching or not watching. No thought that he is doing something special. No thought at all! A mood of bliss has seized him. An ecstasy has descended. Both bowed...

I was in Matheran for a camp. A Gandhian thinker and writer, Rishabhdas Ranka, had gone out with me for a morning walk. From the other side ‘Sohan’ came; she quickly bent and touched my feet. Rishabhdas Ranka tried to stop her, but she did not even see him. Later Rishabhdas said to me, “You should stop this; you should not encourage such ritualism.”

I said to him, “You touch my feet, and I will stop it. Not only will I stop it—I will have to wash my feet! Because they will become impure. From that day he was so upset with me that I never saw him again. I said, ‘If you touch, it will be ritualism; when Sohan touched, it was not. Who is to stop, and whom? It was her inner feeling. To stop it would have been impossible. To stop it would have been wickedness, cruelty.’”

Yes, I said to him, “You bow, and I will give you such a taste in the very act of bowing that never again in your life will you bow before anyone—even by mistake! Why don’t you try the experiment?”

But he disappeared from that day; I never saw him again. He became my enemy. Though the point was plain and simple.

There is bowing—and there is bowing. Worship—and worship. Adoration—and adoration. The whole difference is decided by the heart.

You ask, Sudhir: “Is it really true that all religious rituals are futile?”
If it is ritualism, it is futile. If there is a flowering of the heart, it is not.

This lamp of the temple—let it burn in silence.
Silver conches and bells, golden flute, veena’s notes
once filled the hour of arati with a hundred rhythms;
when throats in chorus made a fair,
pebbles smiled, darkness played;
now in the temple the Beloved is alone—
let it melt, melting the emptiness of the forecourt.
The hall’s floor, gold with the prints of feet at his steps,
the sandal threshold cradling bowed heads;
flowers have fallen, white grains of akshat lie scattered,
incense, libation, countless offerings—
in the dark all will be absorbed;
let everyone’s worshiped story nurse in this one flame.
Counting the mind’s beads, the priest—the world—fell asleep;
the history of echoes slept among the stones;
the life of breath’s samadhi
turned into the path of an ink-ocean;
the chatter-still pulse of each and every speck—
in this flame let life take form again.
A gale blows; the night’s confusion, the swoon is deep;
today, become priest, O little sentry of light;
until the bustle of day returns,
stay awake each instant,
fill the lines with shining glow;
O messenger of dusk, keep going till the dawn.
This lamp of the temple—let it burn in silence!

And if within you there is an arising of emptiness, of peace, of silence, then whether ritual happened or not; whether arati was arrayed or not; whether the plate of worship was prepared or not—no difference is made.

This lamp of the temple—let it burn in silence!
Then silently, quietly, let the lamp of your very life burn—this is worship enough!

Silver conches and bells, golden flute, veena’s notes
once filled the hour of arati with a hundred rhythms;
when throats in chorus made a fair,
pebbles smiled, darkness played;
now in the temple the Beloved is alone—
let it melt, melting the emptiness of the forecourt.
This lamp of the temple—let it burn in silence.

One thing alone is desired: that the lamp within you be lit. Then let it be silent—no conches, no bells, no veena’s notes—so be it. Because its being is enough.

Only let the lamp within you keep burning. All is accomplished! Or, in the light of that lamp, if you spontaneously begin to dance, if the veena’s notes arise, if songs burst forth from your lips, then let the song burst forth.

There have been two kinds of people on this earth—two kinds—devotees and meditators. Existence is divided in two—like woman and man; like negative and positive; like darkness and light; like birth and death—so too meditator and devotee. For the meditator it is enough that the inner lamp keeps burning—silent, empty—no sound at all. With Buddha there was no flute, no bells, no plates of worship, no incense, no fragrance—nothing. But with Krishna there was adornment, the peacock plume, the flute at his lips, the flute’s music, Radha dancing, the rasa circle enacted. These are two types of beings: one in whom there will be meditation and expression in emptiness; and one in whom there will be meditation and expression in sound. Both are beautiful. Just keep watch over the inner; the decision lies within.

You can sit just like Buddha, hands folded in your lap, and do nothing at all—no ritual—but inside if thousands upon thousands of thoughts are running, that too is ritualism. This sitting, hands upon hands, in siddhasana—this too is ritualism, because there is no life within it. And you may dance like Chaitanya—no asana, no siddhasana—the mridanga is playing, Chaitanya is dancing, his lovers are dancing with him—yet this is not ritualism. From mere action, no “kand” is made. If behind the act is the heart, it is not ritualism. If behind nonaction is the heart, nonaction too becomes worship. Everything depends on your heart. And who but you will make this appraisal? Only you can know your heart. Keep testing there; there is the touchstone.

Music! Darkness is only proof that light can be. Darkness is only evidence that light is possible. So do not look at darkness with a negative outlook. Do not look with the eyes of an atheist; look with the eyes of a theist. Then even in darkness you will sense light hidden within it. Darkness is the womb of light. Do not be alarmed by darkness, nor afraid, nor anxious—be blissful, for the morning must be coming! And the denser the darkness, the nearer the dawn.

Deep is this darkness;
by the veils of selfishness
we have been plundered.
A wall of dead matter stands encircling,
people speak as if turning their faces away;
in this sky there is no sun,
no moon, no star.

An infinite ocean of imagination this,
roaring as it girds the body, fierce—
nothing is understood;
where is the dusky shore?

Beloved, give me that awareness of the body
by which the memory of home stays far;
I search and search and do not find—
my heart is spent.

Deep is this darkness;
by the veils of self-interest
we have been despoiled.

You speak truly: it is dark; deep darkness, darkness all around! We have been badly looted in the dark. Darkness is robbing us. But the darkness is because of us. The day this is understood, in that very instant the darkness will begin to break. Why don’t you light a lamp? Who is stopping you from lighting the lamp? It is for lighting that very lamp that I keep calling to you.

It is a dark night, but when has it been forbidden to light a lamp?

The temple that the hand of imagination had skillfully built;
whose canopies feeling had stretched;
which dream with its own hands had lovingly adorned—
dyed in heaven’s hard-to-attain colors and essences—
if that has collapsed, then gathering bricks, stones, pebbles,
when is it forbidden to build a little hut of one’s own peace?
It is a dark night, but when has it been forbidden to light a lamp?

The sky-blue sapphire washed by the tears of clouds
had been fashioned into a bewitching, beautiful honey-goblet;
wine red as the blush of the first ray of dawn
was shimmering in it, skittish as new clouds.
If that has shattered, then cupping both palms together,
when is it forbidden to quench thirst from a pure spring?
It is a dark night, but when has it been forbidden to light a lamp?

What an hour that was—no worry came near;
far from darkness, not even a shadow touched the eyelids;
merriment winked from the eyes, intoxication dripped from the speech,
such laughter that even the clouds blushed to hear.
If that has gone, taking the very support of joy,
still, when is it forbidden to smile at time’s impermanence?
It is a dark night, but when has it been forbidden to light a lamp?

Alas, those gusts of ecstasy in which song awoke,
turning eyes away from splendors, we asked for the boon of music;
what resounded in one within kept sounding in the other,
filling sky and earth with songs of intoxication—
if their end has come, then, to soothe the heart,
when is it forbidden to hum some unfinished line?
It is a dark night, but when has it been forbidden to light a lamp?

Alas, those companions who, like magnet to iron, drew near—
not merely near; as though they entered the very heart.
The days passed as if someone had tuned the vina’s strings
and was singing a sweet, dear song of life.
If they have gone—and knowing they will not return—
when is it forbidden to set your heart on seeking a friend of the soul?
It is a dark night, but when has it been forbidden to light a lamp?

The night is dark—certainly it is dark—but light the lamp! The name of that lamp is meditation. Light the inner lamp, because the darkness is within. And it is because of you—why don’t you light the lamp? Why such stinginess, such miserliness?

I have heard: A man set out on a journey—he was a Marwari, a consummate miser. He had gone some seven miles when he remembered, “I left a lamp burning. Who knows whether my son will put it out or not? Who knows how much oil will burn? And it will take me two or three days to return.” So he turned back—came back from seven miles. Reaching home he knocked and asked his son, “Did you put out the lamp or not?” The son said, “This is the limit! Do you take me for a fool? I too am a Marwari. The moment you left, I put out the lamp. In fact, the delay you were making in leaving, I was thinking, ‘When will he shove off so I can put it out? The oil is burning for nothing!’ When you had to go, then go! But you have no shame—walking seven miles back; your shoes must have worn out!”

The father said, “What do you think I am? I came back with the shoes tucked under my arm! I’m your father—what do you take me for? My shoes and I, wear out?”

What miserliness is stopping you from lighting the inner lamp? And this lamp is such that it takes no oil—you could be a Marwari and still light it! Without wick, without oil! It needs no wick, no oil. Truly, this lamp is completely ready to burn within. Only the flint of your consciousness is not striking!

You’ve seen a flintstone: rub two stones together, fire is born, the lamp is lit. The flint of the mind is not striking!

Just strike the flint of your consciousness a little—and the lamp is already lit, and within there will be light. And for the one in whom there is light within, let there be darkness outside—what worry? For the one whose within is illumined, the without is illumined too. And for the one whose within is dark, even if there is light outside, of what use is it?

Enough for today.