Ramnam Janyo Nahin #1

Narendra Bodhisattva, life is an opportunity. Life is not a fact, it is only a possibility—like a seed. Hidden in the seed are thousands of flowers, but they are not yet manifest—they are unmanifest, veiled. If you undertake a deep search, you can find them. If you find them, life is blessed. Then all the fragrance of the flowers is yours, and all their colors, their tenderness, their beauty, and through them the experience of the divine that shines forth.

Flowers are existence dancing. Flowers are the earth’s longing to touch the stars. But the seed that remains only a seed is unfortunate—both happened and yet did not happen; happened in vain. What is the difference between being and not being? If it was only to remain a seed, it would have been just as well not to be born. The difference appears when spring arrives. It appears when flowers dance in the wind and sunlight. It appears when bees and butterflies sing around them. The rasa, the ecstasy of that play, creates the difference. When birds tune their songs to the flute of the flowers, then the seed understands what it truly was. It was not what appeared; it was that which never appeared. It was not the visible; it was the invisible.

But remember: you cannot break a seed to get a flower. If you tear the seed to pieces, not only will the flower not be found, even the possibility of flowers will end.

Reasoning does exactly that—it breaks the seed, fragments it, in the hope… The hope is not in doubt, the intention is not in doubt, the feeling is not evil, but it is deluded, foolish, blind. Reason splits the seed, thinking the flowers are hidden inside like treasure in a strongbox. Break open the vault, the treasure will be found. But flowers are not hidden like that.

That is why reason sets out to search within man but does not find God. It can dissect man and find bone, flesh, marrow—and nothing else. Then it would have been better not to dissect him at all; at least some meaningless stuff remained concealed under the skin. Reason opens that up too. The wounds don’t heal and the pus oozes out. Flowers do not sprout; not flowers—there is not even a possibility of thorns. Reason is the most irreligious thing on this earth.

Therefore, the people who argue in favor of religion are the most foolish of all. They are unhinged. The search for religion is the search for love. The way of love is altogether different.

Do not break the seed; give it deep soil. Clear the soil of stones, pebbles, rubbish. Make the earth worthy to assimilate the seed. Give manure. Give water. The sun’s rays are already coming; let them reach the seed. The sun’s warmth is essential so that the life hidden in the seed can start to move. The sun’s fire is needed so that the inner fire in the seed receives an invitation, a challenge. The sun knocks at the door outside, and revolution begins within the seed.

The soil will digest the seed’s ego. For the husk around the seed is the ego. Because of it there is a barrier, an obstruction, a wall between the seed and existence. The seed is like a prisoner, chained hand and foot. The soil will digest those chains. They are made of earth, so it is not hard to digest them. The walls around the seed will be absorbed, dissolved by the soil. And the soul imprisoned in the seed will be set free.

That very soul becomes the flower. That very soul becomes fragrance. That very soul rises toward the sky. Call that worship, call it prayer, call it meditation, or call it whatever you will. Names are secondary.

Remember one thing: there are things in life that always move downwards, and things that always move upwards. The flame of the lamp always rises upward; the fragrance of the flower always spreads its wings toward the sky. The moment the seed breaks open—not by reasoning, but by surrendering to the earth—melting of its own accord, out of its own longing, revolution happens. A new life begins. If you throw a seed from a mountain, it will roll downward; its fragrance will go upward. The earthen lamp will fall downwards, but the light burning in it will seek the sun; the sun is its source. In the lamp, two meet—sky and earth. So too in the seed—visible and invisible meet. Do not be stuck on the visible.

And millions are stuck on the visible.

This is what Rahim’s couplet reminds us of—
Ramnam janyo nahin, bhai puja mein hani.
Kahi Rahim kyon manihain, Jam ke kinkar kani.
“You haven’t known the Name; worship has suffered harm.
Says Rahim, why would Death’s henchmen heed your pleas?”

“Ramnam janyo nahin.”
Do not take Ram to mean only Dasharatha’s son, Ram, else you will go astray; the seed will lose its chance for liberation. Ram is a far older name than Dasharatha’s son. Naturally—how else would Dasharatha name his son Ram? The name must have pre-existed. Many Rams had been; Parashurama had been—their epithet simply means “Ram with the axe.”

The tale is this: Before Valmiki wrote the Ramayana, he was a robber, a murderer, a bandit. One morning he saw Narada passing through the forest, playing his veena. He stopped him and said, “Whoever you are, hand over whatever you have!”

He must have stopped many people in his life—that was his trade—but he met a man like Narada for the first time. He had known only two kinds of people. Some, who would quake and tremble at being stopped—his very name was dreadful then—his name was Balya Bhil. People’s hearts would blaze with fear at his name. Mothers would warn their children, “Come inside, Balya is coming; misbehave and we’ll hand you to Balya.” So either people got terrified, begged and pleaded, and gave whatever they had; or swords were drawn and they were ready to kill or be killed. He had known only two types: either frightened, or ready to fight—cowardly or violent. But Narada was a third type of person; Balya experienced this for the first time. And it brought revolution to his life.

Narada’s song continued. When the true song has been found, it does not stop. His veena kept playing. When the inner veena is resonating, who can stop the outer? And even if the outer veena is broken, it makes no difference; the inner veena sounds day and night. Narada’s song went on. He neither ran, nor pleaded, nor prepared to fight. Balya was taken aback. This man was of a new kind. He said, “Didn’t you understand? I said, give me whatever you have.”

Narada said, “I have much, but can you take it? I have Ram with me—but are you ready to receive? I seek only such madmen as are eager to take Ram. Do you think I’m insane? Why else am I playing this veena? Why else is this song? Why else do I wander through forests? I am searching for those who are willing to receive. Are you willing?”

This was even more difficult. Balya had never heard of such wealth. What wealth is this—Ram? He had no idea, no acquaintance with it.

He asked, “What is this? I’ve not heard of it. I’ve never seen these jewels. These ornaments are unfamiliar. Which Ram are you talking about?”

Narada said, “Within me an infinite music has arisen, the unstruck sound. The heart-string within me has begun to vibrate. And now I have only one longing, one single urge: to share as much as I can! The more I share this incomparable treasure, the more it grows. You cannot rob me. And Balya, beware—if you come to rob me, you will be robbed yourself! This is a costly bargain. Think well. If you are a robber, I too am a robber. And what will you rob! You can snatch a few outer things; I don’t have many. This veena—take it, it’s yours. But the veena is only an instrument, a means of translation. What is within me cannot be taken by anyone—not even death. Put your sword back in its sheath. Your hand must be aching in vain. I feel compassion for you. I am ready to give. But the matter is such that the receiver must be ready first.”

Balya asked, “What must I do to receive it?”

Narada said, “This word Ram, this Name—you must raise its call. Let it be so soaked into your heart and breath that awake you are awake with it, asleep you sleep with it; day and night its stream flows within you. Let your heartbeat become the song of Ram. Let each breath utter only Ram. Even if you are outwardly silent, within let the sound continue—unbroken, day and night. Then you will gain life’s supreme wealth. Why are you gathering nonsense? Life lasts four days. What will you do with this trash you collect? And the way you gather it—it is a costly bargain. You will regret it much later. This life was given to attain—what? And you wasted it gathering rubbish!”

Narada’s extraordinary presence, his wondrous form, that unique moment, the hush of the forest, the soft Ram-song strummed on the veena, Narada’s inner fire—Balya was overwhelmed. Often it happens that those you call so-called saints are more calculating, more crafty. Balya was a simple man, a common criminal. A robber, yes—but often simple folk, even if they are robbers, are far more innocent. The words struck deep.

Narada asked, “You do all this looting—for whom? For your children, your wife, your father?”

He said, “Certainly! I must care for my family.”

Narada said, “Do one thing: go ask them whether they share in what you do, and whether they will share in the consequences you must bear for it.”

Balya said, “Don’t try to trick me. Don’t do this—if I go home, you’ll run away.”

Narada said, “Tie me to this tree.”

Balya tied Narada to a tree.

Even bound, Narada’s veena kept playing. One who is free remains free even in chains. One who is free remains free even in prison. And one who is not free is not free even under the open sky; a thousand chains encircle him there too.

Balya went home and asked. His wife said, “How do I know how you earn! You married me; that day you took responsibility for my maintenance. You know your work! My stomach must be filled; my body must be clothed. What share do I have? I don’t know what you do or where you bring money from. I have no share in it.”

His old father said, “What have I to do with it? It is your duty to support an old father. Whether you do it through virtue or sin—that responsibility is yours.”

All refused. Even the little children refused. Balya was stunned. “For those for whom I am ruining my life—none of them will share my sin!”

He returned a different man. He set Narada free, fell at his feet, and said, “Give me that wealth—give me that wealth which you call Ram!”

Narada gave him the alchemy of remembrance of the Lord. But he was illiterate; the story goes delightfully that he forgot it was Ram-Ram he was to chant; he chanted “mara-mara” (dead, dead). In fact, if you chant Ram-Ram rapidly, it begins to sound like mara-mara. One Ram overlaps the next; no space remains between. Then it becomes hard to tell whether it says Ram-Ram or mara-mara. He was illiterate. But the story says that by chanting mara-mara he attained supreme realization.

This happened before the life of Ram. Ram is an ancient Name.

And remember also the sweet point that when Balya chanted “mara-mara”… Keep in mind: the question is of feeling, not of method. People waste themselves fixing methods and never care about feeling! People die memorizing Sanskrit, thinking a mantra must be linguistically pure to be effective! Yet we have this marvelous tale: never mind linguistic purity—what relation does Ram have with mara? In truth, the meaning is reversed: Ram means the supreme principle of life; mara means death. Ram is life! If by chanting “death” one attained life, what does it tell you? It tells you the real matter is feeling; it is urgency, inward longing, not outward form.

And the Bhil robber Balya himself wrote the story of Ram. This too is worth pondering: before Ram, Balya the Bhil wrote Ram’s story. Ram came later; the story came first. The entire story of Ram was written by Balya Bhil. From the heart where God has been realized, whatever emerges becomes true. From a heart that has had the vision of Ram, falsehood cannot arise. So the story was written first—and then events unfolded. It had to be so; once Valmiki wrote, it was necessary to happen like that.

So remember: Rahim’s saying has nothing to do with Dasharatha’s son Ram—nor does mine. Ram is a symbol. We have an entire text, Vishnu Sahasranama, which lists a thousand names of God—a thousand symbols for the Infinite. All names are His. Do not get stuck on a name.

When Rahim says, “Ramnam janyo nahin; bhai puja mein hani,”
it does not mean you know the sound “Ram.” Who doesn’t know the name Ram? But this is not about having heard a name. Knowing means knowing—not believing. Knowing means realization, taste, experience. Everyone knows the word Ram. Every year you watch the Ramayana, you hear the story, you see the Ram Lila. But that is not knowing. Believing never becomes knowing. Whoever begins with belief remains deprived of knowing. The first step toward knowing is to drop belief. Belief is false—and how can one reach truth by starting from a lie? Start wrong, and you end wrong. The first step is crucial—take it consciously. The first step decides the direction of the journey and the nature of the destination. Truly, the first step is half the journey.

“Ramnam janyo nahin.”
Do not think this aphorism is not for you because you “know” the name Ram. It is for you. Rahim himself was a Muslim, yet he spoke deeply—“You have not known the Name.” And from a Muslim’s lips, the point cuts even deeper.

It is clear Rahim had no blind allegiance to being Hindu or Muslim. No prejudice. No walls of doctrine. His eyes were clear. He could see things as they are—like a mirror.

“Ramnam janyo nahin.”
Do not believe, if you want to know. Drop believing, if you want to know. There will be pain in dropping it, because for centuries you’ve believed, worshipped, installed your idols in the temple of the heart. If you drop them, it will feel as if the temple has gone empty.

How hard it is to know in this world: I am not a Hindu; I am not a Muslim; I am not a Christian; I am not a Jain; I am not a Parsi! It should not be hard. No child is born Hindu, Christian, or Muslim. All children come innocent. They come belief-free. We stuff them with garbage, and then we give the garbage sweet names—call it “sacred cow dung,” whatever you like.

Hindus drink panchamrit—five substances mixed: cow dung, cow urine, milk, curd, ghee—these five are stirred together and called nectar. No one looks at what is hidden behind the word panchamrit. And when the priest gives you panchamrit, you receive it with reverence. If the same man asked, “Will you take cow dung? Cow urine?” your stomach would churn. You’d say, “What are you saying—be sensible.” But panchamrit! It’s a lovely word that hides all filth. Behind lovely words, great foolishness lies concealed.

Understand “Ramnam janyo nahin.” Those who “believe” in God will never know God.

The biggest liars in this world are those believers who, without search, without inquiry, without any exploration, have accepted God.

What impotence is this? The shadow of this impotence covers the whole earth. These grand churches and towering temples and minarets reaching the sky—these only hide your impotence, nothing else. Those temple bells, these calls to prayer from mosques, these church prayers, these lights and incense in the Shiva shrines—all this is pomp, deception, dishonesty. It keeps you complacent that believing is enough, knowing is unnecessary. Go to church on Sunday—enough. Get the Satyanarayana story recited once in a while—on loan from a two-bit priest. Or distribute sweets at a temple, or fast and abstain—job done. Whom are you fooling?

I look into your eyes and see you are not fooling anyone but yourself. And the greatest deceit in this world is to deceive oneself.

If you want to know—do not believe. The first step in knowing is to be free of belief. If you ask my mathematics, it may sound upside down, senseless, but I am compelled to say truth as it is. If you truly become an atheist, perhaps one day you can become a theist. Atheism and theism are not enemies; atheism is the ladder—the first rung—to becoming truly theistic.

If it were up to me, I would make every child an atheist. I would give every child curiosity, questions, the urge to seek. I would fill every child’s life with an intense inspiration: know—do not believe; and do not stop until you know. If Buddha knew, Buddha reached; if Nanak knew, Nanak reached; if Kabir knew, Kabir reached. Their reaching cannot become your reaching. Only if you know will you reach.

First, the slate of your mind must be wiped clean. Erase what others have written. Wash the slate, make it clean. Make your book blank.

And the wonder is: the moment the book is blank, it’s as if Ram receives an invitation. Upon blank pages that flower descends. Upon blank pages that ray arrives. Upon blank pages the explosion happens. A blank book means an innocent mind—free of beliefs and opinions.

“Ramnam janyo nahin.”
Only then will you know. Only then can you know.

“Bhai puja mein hani.”
Rahim says: Worship is lost—because people have forgotten the Name, forgotten how to recognize Ram. Between you and Ram stand the pandit, the priest, the purohit, the imam, the padre, the pope—God knows how many! The crowd between you and Ram is so thick that you see only backs. How will you see the face of Ram?

Remove this crowd. Worship has been harmed. Yes, worship goes on, but hollow. You yourself know it well. You bow in the temple, but your ego does not bow. In fact, if the temple is crowded, you bow with more pomp and show, making a bigger noise.

When I was small, they took me to our village Jain temple. All year few people went, but in the ten days of Paryushan there was a big crowd. Those ten days are like harvest for such things! People have their calculations—those days come in the rains, when there is neither farming nor business nor other work. Shops are empty, farmers at home, rain pounding down. How clever—choose ten days that cost nothing. They are free anyway; and if Ram comes free, why not take Him!

In those ten days I saw a fun thing: when the crowd was big, people danced with the arati trays—the very people I had never seen dance alone. If only two or three were present, they danced half-heartedly. If there were ten or fifteen, their feet began to throb. And if a hundred or two hundred gathered, they wouldn’t stop—you had to restrain them. They’d be beside themselves, slip from your hands, pick up the tray again and again. After all, others had things to do—go home, eat. What was the secret?

One such dancer I followed home. He asked, “Why are you following me?”

I said, “To ask a secret. I’ve seen you in every color. When you’re alone, you don’t even pick up the plate. With a few, you pick it up, circle it once and set it down. With ten or fifteen, your feet begin to twitch. And with a hundred or two hundred, we have to catch you—yet you slip away, and lift the tray again. What’s the secret?”

He said, “What secret? What’s the point of dancing alone—there must be someone to see! Only a few times a year do all gather.”

On the last day of Paryushan he would create such a ruckus you’d think he’d drunk.

Even when people bow in the temple, their bowing is not the surrender of ego. They bow—but it is the worship of their ego.

And what all goes on in the name of worship! No feeling, no love, no surrender. Only hypocrisy. You get prestige, respect. People say, “Very religious!” You gain saintliness, honor. But these are ornaments of the ego.

And what will you do in worship? Parrot out memorized texts. Alas, if salvation came by such repetition, parrots would reach before you.

A Tibetan lama once stayed with me as a guest. Tibetan lamas keep a small prayer-wheel, like a spinning wheel with spokes, and on each spoke is a mantra. Instead of reciting verse after verse, they spin the wheel. They keep doing other things; they give it a push and it keeps turning. As many revolutions as it turns, as many spokes come up and go down, so many mantras’ merit accrues.

This lama was my guest. I said, “This is a great device. I’ll make it even easier for you.”

He asked, “How?”

I said, “Wait.” I called a neighbor engineer and said, “Fit a plug and connect it to electricity. The poor man gets interrupted. Let it spin by power, and his merit will keep accruing.”

Some sit writing “Ram Ram” in a notebook. Some sit in their shop with a rosary hidden in a bag, rolling the beads secretly. The bag is there so no one sees when they forget to pull a bead—because they do forget. A halwai (sweet-maker) lived near me. Customers would come; he’d roll the beads and signal his servant to shortchange them! A dog would wander in and he’d gesture: “Drive it off!”

Meanwhile, the beads must stop. And even if they didn’t, the mind had gone to the dog—what has that to do with the rosary?

That halwai had a huge belly—as halwais often do—and not just a belly; a big bulge hung from it—Tunda Halwai they called him. He was like a balloon. Whenever he sat devoutly repeating his beads, I would arrive. He feared me on sight. He’d signal, “What do you want?” I’d signal toward the sweets in his cupboard behind him: “I want that one.” He looked back—and I tapped his bulging belly. Then the abuse that poured out—he forgot his beads. I would remind him: “Tunda Baba, what about the rosary? What about Ram?” He’d say, “To hell with the rosary!” He was so fat he couldn’t get up, couldn’t run, couldn’t chase me.

What all goes on in the name of Ram! Your worship, your offerings, your devotion—it’s all a cheat.

“Ramnam janyo nahin, bhai puja mein hani.”
So it must be. Worship has vanished from the world—not because of atheists, not because of scientists. It has vanished because of priests and clerics, because of your so-called religious people. If the world is to be re-established in religion, it must be freed from “religious” people. It must be brought out of temples and mosques—these are prisons. It must be freed from Vedas, Quran, and Bible. Then perhaps curiosity will arise again. Then perhaps man will ask, “Is there God? If so, where? How can He be found?”

Until the supreme truth is realized, flowers will not bloom in your life. Until then you remain stale—sad. Flies will sit on your face; you will be dead. You are a corpse dragging itself along. Every man is carrying his own corpse.

“Ramnam janyo nahin, bhai puja mein hani.
Kahi Rahim kyon manihain, Jam ke kinkar kani.”
Rahim says: Remember one thing—you can fool the pandit, the priest; you can fool people, because they are blind—blind like you. You can fool stone idols in the temple; you can fool books written on paper. But you cannot fool death. And when death knocks at the door you will regret deeply—very deeply—because not a moment’s chance will remain.

“Says Rahim, why would they heed—”
When the messengers of death stand at your door, they will not accept your fraudulent worship and prayer. Death is conquered only by the one who has known the nectar within.

And that very nectar is what is called Ram—or call it Rahim, call it Rahman, call it Allah—no difference. The nectar hidden within you—whoever knows it, death can do nothing to him. This is the touchstone. Death is the only touchstone. He who can conquer death—whom death cannot harm. The body will go—the body is earth. The seed’s earth will merge back into earth. But you are not only body. The seed is not merely seed; within it are hidden the sky’s flowers. Whoever has seen his inner flower bloom, whoever has seen the lotus open within—whoever has been bathed in the radiance of that thousand-petaled lotus—death cannot harm him. Death cannot even come near him, much less harm him. Where the inner lamp is lit, can darkness approach? Death is darkness. Because your inner lamp has not been lit, darkness surrounds you—has always surrounded you. Light the lamp and the darkness is gone.

Lighting this lamp is what Rahim calls the Name of Ram. Recognize your inner Ram. Make acquaintance with your inner eternal. Befriend your inner infinite. And whoever has known the infinite within—how he knew is secondary; by which method, it doesn’t matter.

You came here. Whether you came by train, by bus, by plane, on foot, by rail, by bullock cart—what difference does it make? You arrived—that is what matters. You must know the eternal within. There are a thousand paths. Whichever appeals to you, whichever you love—take that. But don’t sit idle—move.

Buddha has said: Charaiveti—charaiveti.
Do not stop, do not sit—keep moving. Seek, walk, inquire. And do not believe others—otherwise you’ll remain seated.

Everyone has remained seated. People have become cow-dung Ganeshas. If you believe others and sit, you will remain like that… They too were sitting because they believed someone else; you are sitting because you believe someone else. There is no greater insult to a human being than to sit because of someone’s belief. You need not even believe me. Walk! Seek! It is your life—you must explore, you must know: What is this life? What is this consciousness? What secret lies hidden within you? Who are you at your innermost core? Who is hidden in the cave of your heart—what sound? What music? What truth? What beauty?

Whoever recognizes the center within finds nirvana, finds liberation, finds Ram. Ram is not a person you will meet outside. Ram is your inner possibility. That is why I warned you at the outset: my concern is not with Dasharatha’s son Ram. My concern is with the sound of the eternal seated within you.

Be quiet, be silent, be wordless. Little by little step out of the crowd of the mind. Set off toward your inner home. When perfect stillness remains—when not even a ripple arises—when the lake of consciousness becomes like a mirror—then all secrets are revealed—inner and outer. In truth, inner and outer secrets are not separate. We use the words “inner” and “outer” only because of your ego. When the ego falls, then the inner is the outer and the outer is the inner. Then only One remains.

Nāmā gayā, koi na koi nāmabar gayā.
Terī khabar na ā’ī, zamānā guzar gayā.
The letter-bearer came and went,
but no word from You—an age has passed.

Hansta hoon yun ke hijr ki rāten guzar ga’īn,
Rota hoon yun ke lutf-e-du’ā-e-sahar gayā.
I laugh as if the nights of separation have slipped by,
I weep as if the sweetness of dawn-prayer has been lost.

Ab mujhko hai qarār to sabko qarār hai.
Dil kya ṭhahar gayā, ke zamānā ṭhahar gayā.
Now that I am at rest, the whole world seems at rest—
Did my heart become still, that time itself stood still?

Ya Rab, nahin main wāqif-e-rūdād-e-zindagī.
Itna hi yād hai ke jiyā aur mar gayā.
O Lord, I am not familiar with life’s story;
I only remember that I lived—and died.

Nāmā gayā, koi na koi nāmabar gayā.
Terī khabar na ā’ī, zamānā guzar gayā.
Messengers came and went, letters came and went—
no news of You; a lifetime slipped away.

What is your intention? To die just like this?

Ya Rab, nahin main wāqif-e-rūdād-e-zindagī—
What, to die unfamiliar with life’s music? To die a stranger to life’s tale?

Itna hi yād hai ke jiyā aur mar gayā.
Is that all—to live and die? To eat, drink, sleep, rise—and die? Or are there greater longings, deeper urgencies? Does the call of the vast not stir you?

That would not be a human life. The very beginning of a human life is the search for Ram. The difference between man and animal is only this: animals live and die; a man, between living and dying, attains the nectar.

Deewangi kuchh is tarah had se guzar gayi,
Duniya ki har nigah jo mujh pe ṭhahar gayi.
My madness crossed all limits—
every eye in the world paused on me.

Jab gardish-e-hayāt par meri nazar gayi,
Tapki jigar ki chot tapak kar bikhar gayi.
When I looked upon life’s whirling,
the wound in my heart dripped and scattered.

Peekar teri nigah se ik sāgar-e-karam,
Main dhoondhta hoon gardish-e-dauran kidhar gayi.
Drinking one ocean of grace from Your glance,
I search—where has the world’s turmoil gone?

Aate hi tere ahl-e-chaman mein, ai dilruba,
Fasl-e-bahar choom ke zulfain bikhar gayi.
As you came into the garden, O beloved,
spring kissed your tresses and they scattered.

Sadqe main us nigāh ke teri nazar se jo
Mere jigar mein teer ki tarah utar gayi.
My life be sacrificed for that glance of yours,
that pierced my heart like an arrow.

Aakhir vo beniqab sare bām aa gaye,
Ik badnaseeb “Raj” ki duniya sanvar gayi.
At last the veiled one came barefaced to the rooftop,
and a wretch named “Raj” saw his world transformed.

The divine is willing to reveal Himself—He waits. Call out! Knock! And you need knock at no other door; knock at your own. God is hidden nowhere else; He is hidden within you. God means your nature, your essence. You are made of Him. He pervades every fiber of you. But asleep, lost in dreams, weighed down by a thousand fantasies, you have forgotten who you are.

Religion is the recognition of that which is already within us. Irreligion is the attempt to find what is not within us—and even if by any means we seem to attain it, we never truly can.

“Ramnam janyo nahin, bhai puja mein hani.
Kahi Rahim kyon manihain, Jam ke kinkar kani.”
Do not postpone—do not say “tomorrow.” Whoever postpones till tomorrow, postpones forever.

Kareeb maut khadi hai, zara ṭhahar jao.
Fizā se aankh ladi hai, zara ṭhahar jao.
Death stands near—wait a moment.
Your eyes have met the skies—wait a moment.

Thaki-thaki si fizāein, bujhe-bujhe tāre,
Badi udaas ghadi hai, zara ṭhahar jao.
The airs are weary, the stars are dim—
it is a very melancholy hour—wait a moment.

Nahin ummeed ke hum aaj ki sahar dekhen,
Ye raat hum pe kaṛi hai, zara ṭhahar jao.
No hope that we will see today’s dawn—
this night presses hard upon us—wait a moment.

Abhi na jao ke taaron ka dil dhadakta hai,
Tamām raat padi hai, zara ṭhahar jao.
Do not go yet—the stars’ hearts are trembling,
the whole night lies ahead—wait a moment.

Phir iske baad kabhi hum na tumko rokenge,
Labon pe saans aṭki hai, zara ṭhahar jao.
After this, never again will we stop you—
breath clings to the lips—wait a moment.

Dam-e-firāq mein ji bhar ke tujhko dekh to lein,
Ye faisle ki ghadi hai, zara ṭhahar jao.
In the last breath of parting let me see you to my fill—
it is the hour of decision—wait a moment.

Death stands near always. And it is always the decisive hour. Do not postpone, do not defer, do not say “tomorrow.” Yet this is what people do: today the trivial; the essential, tomorrow. Today they seek wealth; meditation, tomorrow. Today position and prestige; God, tomorrow.

No—change this arithmetic completely. God—today! Meditation—today! Only then can revolution happen in your life. Such a revolution as will drown you in the ocean of nectar. Such a revolution as will take you beyond death. Such a revolution that, upon attaining it, all is attained.

Darshan Singh, this is almost everyone’s condition. This is how people have lived for centuries—postponing the real questions of life, hoping that tomorrow they will grapple with the essential problems, while first they deal with the small ones. But the small problems never end. Life ends; problems don’t. So one keeps deferring—and one day death ends everything in a single stroke.

In a world where death is certain, what is there to be afraid of? Where death is unavoidable, what need is there for fear? Sooner or later, you will die.

All I can say to you, Darshan Singh, is this: if you are listening to me, if you understand me, and if somewhere in your being a thirst for sannyas has arisen, then don’t postpone. And don’t go on telling yourself, “I am timid.” At the most, people will call you mad—so what harm is there in that? You already know what people say about you, and they know it too.

A news item appeared about a politician. He was furious. He said to his wife, “I’ll file a case.” The wife said, “Don’t get so worked up. Of the people who read it, ninety percent already believe you’re dishonest, a thief, a looter. Not just you—the whole business of politics seems like that. Even if it hadn’t been printed, they would have believed the same. So for ninety percent, nothing changes—they’ll just say, ‘We knew it already.’ Of the remaining ten percent, five percent won’t even read it; they only flip through the paper. They have their own troubles—who has time to worry about yours! Of the last five percent, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never persuade them, because they’re your partners in all the dishonesty and fraud. Better keep quiet. What’s the point of kicking up a fuss?”

Darshan Singh, it is the fear of “What will people say?” that keeps you from sannyas. But what will they say? At the most, they’ll say you’ve gone crazy. Yet it is better to go mad than to live meaninglessly and die meaninglessly. The truth is, these are the same people who called Buddha mad; the same people who called Mahavira mad. If they call you mad too, they are placing you in good company, counting you among the right people. Nothing wrong with that.

To be mad with the Buddhas is a thousand times better than being “sensible” among the foolish. What’s there to be nervous about? What is the fear? Your wife will laugh? Let her—she’ll get a bit of entertainment. The kids will ask, “Daddy, what happened to you?” Just say plainly, “I’ve fallen in love with madness.” You are a Sardar anyway—what will be lost by a little craziness?

And it’s nothing new. Those who went with Nanak were mad. Those who went with Jesus were mad. It’s an old story.

What is there to lose? What can anyone take from you? And every moment is a moment of decision. Don’t let it happen that, worrying about the opinions of two-bit people, you waste your life—and then the same people carry your bier to the cremation and never look back. In a world where even your trace will vanish, why keep accounts of public opinion? You will lose nothing, but you can gain a lot. It’s a bargain worth making.

But I know where it sticks. Our ego depends on other people’s opinions. When their opinions start changing, our ego begins to slip—because it is built from their bricks. When they said you were smart, you puffed yourself up and strutted about. When they start saying “mad,” your crease disappears.

Are you living on borrowed credit? Before they call you mad, return their respect yourself. Why accept their respect at all? Accepting it is dangerous; there are big secrets hiding behind it. Society has concocted strange ideas.

Yesterday I received a letter—from not very far, from Ahmednagar. The writer has never come here; a few miles only, he’ll come to Pune one day. What he wrote is worth considering. He said, “Great men always go to the masses. Why don’t you go to the masses?”

First he tempts me with the bait of being a “great man.” Such tricks don’t work on me. Naturally, anyone could get trapped: “If you want to be great, go to the masses—because great men go to the masses.” First the bribe. But take bribes with care.

I don’t accept that there are great men and lesser men. The very idea is wrong—absurd. That division is of the ego. Who is great, who is small? There is only one divinity.

I am not a great man. The longing to be great belongs to those who suffer from an inferiority complex. They want to hide their inferiority by pretending to be great. That trick doesn’t work on me. I am simply what I am—not great, not small. So why should I go to the masses?

And the one who is thirsty comes to the well. Wells don’t go wandering after people: “Hey brother, where are you going? Wait, taste a little water.” If a well did that, it wouldn’t be a well; it would be a water carrier.

That gentleman also wrote, “You should go to the masses and serve them.”

Why? I haven’t harmed the masses, nor have the masses harmed me. Why should I serve them? God has given them hands and feet—let them massage their own hands and feet, or one another’s, as they wish.

And what is that gentleman doing in Ahmednagar? This notion of service! These are society’s tricks. Society teaches: “Serve others, and you will be great.” Then the poor man who wants to be great has to serve. He looks for some Parchure Shastri, as Mahatma Gandhi did, and then sits massaging a leper’s feet. If you want to be a Mahatma, you must massage a leper’s feet.

I don’t want to be a Mahatma. I have no need of any Parchure Shastri. I am fine as I am. What will I gain by becoming a Mahatma?

These are our fixed ideas, woven over thousands of years. The net is so deep we have forgotten. On one side, produce the poor; on the other, serve the poor! Let people remain naked and hungry, then go distribute clothes! What sort of conspiracy is this? The world has no need of great men and lesser men.

We go on telling everyone… He wrote to me, “We expect from you that, like the sages of our past who lived ideal lives and taught people the ideal life, you should do the same.”

Why should I fulfill anyone’s expectation? I am my own master. I have to live my life. Why should I fulfill the expectations of some fool residing in Ahmednagar? I expect nothing from him; why should he expect anything from me? What relationship has expectation with anything? If your sages liked doing something, they did it. What I enjoy doing, I am doing. I don’t tell your sages to live according to me, and they have no right to tell me to live according to them. I don’t see anything special in your sages either. Yes, they fulfilled your expectations; that’s why you see something special—because under the name of expectation you had made them your slaves.

It’s a fine joke! Your “great men” are slaves to your two-bit crowd. The trick is subtle: those two-bit people set the expectations. If they decide a Mahatma should stand naked, then the Mahatma stands naked. If you want to be a Mahatma, stand naked. If you don’t, that’s your choice. The arithmetic is simple. But who is the decider? Those two-bit people decide that if you want their certificate of sainthood, you must fulfill their preferences, desires, expectations.

Anyone who lives to fulfill someone else’s expectations is not even a person—let alone a Mahatma. He is a machine. The soul hasn’t even begun in him. There is no inner light. He is a slave. And that slavery is coated with syrup and served sweetly: “Behave like our Mahatma and we will fall at your feet.”

I have no need for anyone to fall at my feet. There’s no benefit in it either—only bruises to my feet, or injuries to your head. What’s the point? And if you’re so keen, learn a little yoga and touch your own feet! You’ll be self-reliant, get some exercise, and it all stays within the house.

Darshan Singh, your obstacle will be: “What will people say!” People do exactly what fishermen do with fish—they put dough on the hook. The fish won’t swallow the hook; it swallows the dough. And once the dough is swallowed, the fish is caught. The fish can protest, “I only wanted the dough!” That was the fish’s intention. But the one who dangled the dough—is he a fool? His purpose was something else.

So, Darshan Singh, people are dangling dough all around you. If you swallow it, they’ll shout, “Wahe Guruji ki Fateh! Wahe Guruji ka Khalsa!” Hearts will be pleased, hands will clap. If you don’t swallow it, they’ll be angry, because their intention failed; the hidden hook went to waste; the fish slipped away.

Sannyas is the name of freedom from social expectations. Sannyas is freedom from slavery to two-bit people. Society is a chain of bondage; sannyas is the declaration of freedom. I give you no other temptation—only this: have a little respect for your own soul! Make your own being worthy of honor! Don’t sell yourself for pennies.

The day a person begins to honor what is within, that very moment he begins to come close to the divine. Society’s expectations keep you wandering outside; the moment you drop them all, your homeward journey begins.

If this speaks to you, if it delights you, then set all your fears aside. To live in fear is to let your life rust, like a sword eaten by rust. Live fearlessly. There is only one way to live—fearlessly. And the one who lives fearlessly, God himself is his reward.

That’s all for today.