Sabai Sayane Ek Mat #5

There is an old tale. An emperor grew disenchanted with the world; a longing for sannyas arose. He left home, left the kingdom, and set out to seek a place of solitude in the distant mountains—where shall I stay, where shall I abide? He traveled by boat on a river. Both the banks were beautiful, otherworldly, enchanting. It was hard to choose—should I settle on this shore, or that one? He thought, I will ask the people.
He asked those living on the left bank. They said, there is no question of choice. If you are to live, live here. You are welcome! For this side is called heaven. And that other side, the opposite bank of the river, is hell. Do not go there, even by mistake. There you will suffer, you will rot. There dwell people of a most wicked nature.
The emperor found the bank heavenly indeed, but it did not sit well that those who lived in heaven should harbor such ill-will toward the people across the water.
He went to the other bank as well. That bank too was exquisitely beautiful. More beautiful, even, than the first. He asked the people, I am thinking of settling—on which bank should I choose to live?
They said, there is no question of choice. If you must live, live here. On this side the gods dwell; on that side, demons. Do not settle there even by mistake, or you will repent forever. If you are caught there, it will be hard to escape. They are of a supremely cruel nature. May Paramatma protect you from those wicked ones. Even their shadow can cause a man to go astray. Do not even step onto that shore by mistake; do not even bring your boat near.
The emperor was thrown into great dilemma. Both banks were beautiful—but the people on both sides were unlovely. On both sides there was heaven, yet the inhabitants were deprived of it. For as long as one keeps seeing the fault of others, one never gets the chance to savor the goodness hidden within oneself. And as long as the habit of counting the thorns of others persists, one will not find the fragrance of the flower blooming within. One who keeps counting thorns gradually forgets the very art of smelling flowers. The one whose eyes remain fixed upon hell loses the very capacity to see heaven. One whose hands have labored day and night with rough stones can no longer recognize diamonds; diamonds too begin to look like stones.
The converse is also true: one who has seen the flower blooming within begins to see flowers everywhere. For in the end a person finds his own Self reflected on every side. The whole of existence is a mirror. In it, in a thousand forms, we see only our own face. What appears on that bank is our own face. What appears in the enemy is our own face. The flames we see burning in hell are our own face.
The emperor said, it is precisely to escape such disturbances that I fled the empire. But among those living by this mountain lake, in this quiet valley, the same old conflict persists.
So he urged the boat onward. He said, now I will stop only where there are no people. For where there are people there will be mind; and where there is mind, there is no way out of the world. Mind is the world. As far as mind extends, there will be duality, there will be conflict, opposition, partiality, mine-and-thine, I-and-thou. The river will not be seen; only the banks will appear important—our bank, their bank; the far bank, the enemy’s bank. He went further. A point came—no people at all, the settlements ended. Now he could have stayed. But he said, even now if I settle, it will be on one bank or the other. I am still a man. I have not yet been freed; I am trying to be free. I am breaking my chains—they have loosened a little, but the fetters have not fallen away. If I settle on one bank, who knows—perhaps the other bank will begin to look bad to me as well!
Human weaknesses are natural. Wherever you are, in order to prove that place exalted, you inevitably have to slander the place where you are not. To satisfy the ego of what you are, you must refute the other.
The ego knows only one way to make itself great: to make others small. The path of Atman the ego does not know. The path of Atman is to make oneself great. And the wonder is—when one enlarges one’s own Atman, others grow great along with him.
But when the ego wants to grow great, it knows but one arithmetic—make the other small. And there is a second point: the smaller you make others, the smaller you become. For there is no way to live big among the small. If you must live among the petty, you too must become petty. To live among the wicked, you must become wicked. And if you have seen only evil in all, how will you remain good? You will have to live among those in whom you have seen evil. You too will become evil.
Perhaps, deep down, you want the convenience of becoming bad—that’s why you see badness in others. You call the other small so that your own smallness may not sting. You make the other small so that at least among the small you may appear big. The smaller others become, the more it seems—you are a little bigger.
But one who makes others small becomes small himself. You cannot endeavor to belittle without becoming little. For each act of yours molds you. Every deed of yours leaves an imprint upon you. What you do—doing and doing—you become that.
The emperor thought, shall I stop at this bank? Both banks are beautiful. I could stop at either. But who can trust the human mind! I too might begin to think my bank is beautiful—because it is mine, it must be beautiful. My bank—and if it is not beautiful? And to prove that my bank is beautiful I will begin to belittle the other.
So the emperor said, the people are gone, but the banks still remain. I will stop only where the banks too fall away. He urged the boat onward. He reached the river’s very source. There the river ended, and the banks ended as well. The mountain from which the river issued stood neither on this bank nor on that; it stood in the middle. Not in the bed of the river either—far above the river it stood. He built his dwelling upon that mountain. He remained there. He named his house: Neti-Neti. The ancient Upanishadic utterance: Not this, not that. Neither this bank, nor that bank.
When his friends and loved ones came to visit him, to have his darshan, they would ask, why is this house named Neti-Neti? Then he would tell the whole story I have just told you.
As far as man extends, you will not be able to go beyond mind. The very spread of mind is called man. Our word ‘manushya’ is precious—it is born of ‘man’, the mind. The English ‘man’ too is but a transformation of ‘man’; it too is only half of ‘manushya’. Mind means: choice. Mind means: this bank, that bank; this side, that side. Hindu, Muslim; Jain, Christian; Brahmin, Shudra; Indian, Chinese—the mind always splits into two. It clings to one and fights the other. The mind cannot live without enmity. That is why the mind can never be at peace.
People come to me and ask, how can the mind be stilled?
I tell them, the mind will never be stilled. You must go beyond mind; only then is there peace. The mind never becomes quiet. Only when the mind is not, is there peace. The absence of mind is called peace. The presence of mind is unrest. Mind is unrest; so do not even think in terms of quieting the mind. That will be an error. You would be mistaking disease for health, and then polishing the disease. Yes, mind can be refined, can become very subtle; great miracles can arise from it—but it will not be quiet. It can become powerful, but not peaceful.
There is a famous story of the Zen master Rinzai. He was in his master’s monastery and for years he was striving to quiet the mind. His mind grew powerful. He began to see far-off scenes. He could read the thoughts of others. He would touch and sicknesses would vanish. Miracles began to happen. His shadow would fall and withered flowers would bloom again; a drying tree would turn green once more. His fame spread to the horizons. And still he continued to labor. His mind became purer day by day. New powers kept appearing in the mind.
One day his master came and sat at his door. Rinzai was meditating—polishing his mind. Right before him the master began to rub a brick against a stone.
Rinzai kept pulling himself into his meditation. After a while he grew puzzled—what has happened to the master? Has he gone mad? To create such disturbance, to obstruct a disciple at meditation—is that the way of a master? Is the guru there to save, or to bring obstacles? Then he thought, perhaps he is testing me—to see if I still get disturbed or not. So he sat firm. Evening fell. And the master remained—rubbing and rubbing. Rinzai’s head began to throb. Finally he shouted, stop it! What are you doing? What will come of rubbing a brick?
The master said, by rubbing this brick I think I will make a mirror.
Rinzai laughed, have you gone senile in old age? Has your wits fled? Where has a mirror ever been made by rubbing a brick!
The master laughed, then your awareness is not lost yet. A mirror does not arise by polishing a brick; does the Atman arise by polishing the mind? You too are rubbing a brick. Yes, by rubbing it will become clean, smooth, subtle, even beautiful; you can give it form and shine by polishing—but it will not become a mirror.
By polishing mind many forms will arise; many inner rainbows will appear—but That which is beyond all forms will not be found. By polishing the mind, peace will not be.
There are two kinds of meditation in the world. One trusts in polishing the mind. They attain siddhis, miracles happen—but the Atman is not found. They get lost amidst inner riches. They escape the outer marketplace only to be entangled in the inner marketplace. They could not rise above the bazaar.
The other methods of meditation are not for polishing the mind but for renouncing it. Renunciation of mind is meditation. Not the cultivation of mind, not the practice of mind—the immersion of mind is meditation. And where mind abides, sides abide. As long as mind is, party remains. Think as you may to be impartial—you will become partial to impartiality; nothing more. You will make even impartiality your stiffness and your grip: I am neutral, I am impartial. Then you will begin to fight for impartiality. But the fight will continue—the end of fighting will not come. For you have missed the root.
I have heard—two men were fighting on the road of a village. Abusing loudly, nearly at blows, bricks and stones in hand. A wise man of the neighborhood said, brothers, what is the matter? Why this quarrel? Why gather the whole village? If there must be a dispute, appoint a panel of elders; it will be settled. Why fight?
This made sense. Others said too, very well, appoint three elders on each side.
In the evening, when that man returned from his work in the market, an even greater fight was raging. In the morning two men were fighting; now eight were fighting. He said, what happened? It has only grown worse!
It turned out the appointed arbitrators were now fighting as well. The original two were still fighting—and the three-and-three elders on both sides had joined the fight.
If the root is not changed, if there is no awakening, whatever you do will be the same in a new form. Nothing will change until the root vision becomes clear. Cutting leaves will not help; until your hand reaches the root.
That emperor did rightly not to stop at the banks. For had he stopped at a side, he would have stopped in the mind. The house of Neti-Neti stands beyond mind. It is Advaita. There, neither this bank nor that bank exists.
What is the entire dilemma of your life? That you have never had even a moment’s experience of Advaita. You have heard the word—Brahman, Advaita, the One—but whatever experiences you have known in life have all been of duality. Even your highest experiences are of duality.
You have fallen in love with someone. With a woman, a man, a friend, a child—you have loved someone. It is a deep experience—but even that is of duality, between two. It is not yet beyond mind. You have listened to music. Sometimes you were carried away with it, traveled a far journey. But even that experience is dual; music is there and you are there. It has not happened that only music remained and you did not. Search as you will, you will find yourself. Even in that deepest music, duality remains.
You may have come very near the source, but you have not gone wholly beyond the source. The banks have remained. The river may have grown small. As the origin nears, the river becomes small; perhaps only a little spring remained. But even a small spring has two banks. Look closely—even a single drop has two sides. However small the drop, it has two aspects.
So even if you have had glimpses in life—deep glimpses—they have not gone beyond duality. Advaita is only a word; it has no experience in you. And it cannot be understood from scriptures; it needs taste.
There was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. One day he was instructing his disciples. When he came to speak, he brought a basket in his hand. The disciples were a little surprised, but he had covered the basket. Curiosity arose. He had never brought something like this before—why the basket today?
If I were to come tomorrow carrying a basket, you would be in trouble—what is this basket for?
All sat alert, composed—something is about to happen. He began to speak, explaining about pears. He said there are such-and-such pears in the world. He described them in different ways—their different kinds, their tastes, their colors, their shapes, their freshness. Then he said that a scientist, gathering all the varieties of pears in the world, had developed a new pear. A fruit you have never seen. He described it in great depth. People’s mouths watered. Then a suspicion arose—what is in the basket? But he went on talking. He discussed at length and filled people with feeling for that pear. They were ready to run to the market the moment he stopped. When he had finished, he said, I ask you: after all this talk, did you get the taste?
They said, the taste did not come, but the appetite arose.
Then he uncovered the basket and distributed pears. He said, now take the taste. Then tell me—did whatever I said give you even a glimpse of this?
They tasted the pears. They said, we used to think your words are unique, that you can reveal anything. Now we have seen—even the taste of a pear you could not say. This is another thing altogether. What you said had nothing to do with this. It was like the dry talk of a desert; and this is a green garden. That was like a dead corpse; this is a living dancing statue. That was a stale, lifeless flower of ages past; this is a freshly blossomed rose.
They said, we too cannot say anything. A young man stood and said, you also taste a pear. For how can we express what has happened within us, the flavor we have known from the pear?
Bayazid said to them, what I have told you about Paramatma is the same. And my helplessness is that I cannot bring Paramatma in a basket to distribute like pears. I can give you appetite. But remember—the appetite I have kindled within you, the longing I have evoked, is like the sweet talk about pears. However poetic, however song-filled, it cannot compete with taste. Do not be satisfied with my words—set out to taste Paramatma. Do not stop until the taste is found; until then the journey is not complete. Most stop at feeble words. Very few set out on the journey of experience.
Advaita is experience—it is taste. No other can give it to you. From another you may receive a little thirst—that is enough. Paramatma is not received from anyone.
Dadu’s words are very sweet. In these verses he has poured all that he could pour. But do not stop at understanding these words. Do not think: having understood the words, what remains? Only when the shastra is wholly understood does the real journey begin. After you fully understand the scripture, do not think: what remains? I have understood fully! When you have understood fully—the whole is still ahead. The matter has not even begun. For the taste has not come yet. You have only been awakened from sleep. You have not risen; your feet have not begun to move; you have not set out toward that temple. Only the echoing bells of the distant temple have fallen upon your ears. The temple is still far. However sweet the sound of the bells, do not sit listening to it.
The voices of the saints are the ringing of bells echoing from the temple. Those tones come from the temple—but they are not the temple. Many cling to them; then great delusion arises. Then life becomes a stagnant pond; movement disappears from life.
Do not turn your life into a stagnant pool. Understand Dadu’s words, let them thrill you—and set out on the journey. Take a little momentum from them; take a little push. Just as when we start a car: the battery gives a small push. No one runs an engine on the battery alone; a small push—and the engine starts. If there is no battery we get someone to push. That too works. If no one is there to push, we park the car on a slope and roll it—that too works.
Just that first thrill and momentum! The words of the saints can do no more. But even that is great. Even that, if it happens, is grace.
Samarth sab bidhi Saiyan, taki main bali jaaun.
Antar ek ju so base, auran chitt na laaun.
That Saiyan—the Beloved—is all-capable, in every way; to Him I offer myself.
Let the One alone dwell within; I bring no other into my mind.
Attend also to these words. If you go to a philosopher, he will say “Truth.” If you go to a bhakta, he will say “Saiyan,” “Beloved,” “Dear One.” There is great difference. “Truth” is a dry word—of mathematics, of logic. It is not a word of the heart, of poetry. It smells of thinking; it has no bubbling of feeling.
So when Dadu, Kabir, Nanak, Meera, Chaitanya use a word for Paramatma, they use sweet words. For the experience of the saints is that you cannot join with That as one joins with mathematics and logic. You can join with That as a lover joins with the beloved. Love melts your duality more and more. Not completely—not wholly—but love melts your duality more and more. The river no longer remains vast; the banks no longer remain far apart; a thin, delicate stream remains. The banks come very close—sometimes they even touch.
I lived for many years in Jabalpur. There the Narmada flows through a beautiful world of marble cliffs. If you have ever been, or ever go, there is a place called Bandar-kudni—the Monkey’s Leap. There the two cliffs on either side come so near that monkeys leap across overhead. Whenever I went I would say, love comes this close. Love is Bandar-kudni—the Monkey’s Leap. The two banks remain; duality has not been erased; but the cliffs on both sides rise so near above that if one has courage even a man could leap—monkeys certainly do.
So love is the Monkey’s Leap. The distance is minimal. That is why the saints have used words filled with love. Though duality is not wholly erased, when we must speak, words of love are nearest. “Truth” is very far.
Have you ever thought? Touch Truth—you cannot touch it. See it—it does not appear. Hum it—no music arises in the throat. Remember Truth—who knows where it is, how it is! How will you join with Truth?
But Dadu says:
Samarth sab bidhi Saiyan…
You can join with the Saiyan—the Beloved. The matter comes very near. Paramatma must be brought near. The Upanishads say: farther than the farthest, and nearer than the nearest. If you use words like “Truth,” it is very far. If you use words like “Saiyan,” it is very near—the breath of your breath. Closer to you than you are to yourself. You can be a little distant from yourself, but He is not even that far. But this—when you see with feeling.
There is one way—seeing with the intellect. The intellect is a desert; utterly dry. No streams of water there; no trees of poetry grow; no cuckoo sings; no rainbows of love arise. Only desert—shoreless desert.
Then there is the oasis of the heart. There is the cool shade of trees; there are refreshing springs; there one who wants to rest can rest. For the tired and worn traveler, life is revived again. The broken, the dejected—there finds rejuvenation.
So one is the way of feeling, and one of intellect. The pandit sees with intellect; therefore Paramatma seems as far away as can be. The pandit always looks yonder in the sky; his God is forever distant. The bhakta sees in the heart; his Paramatma is always near. His Paramatma is so near that, little by little, he sees none else—only That appears.
I have heard—there was an atheist; the village was vexed by him. All tried to explain, the pandits offered great arguments, but he refuted them. All arguments can be refuted; there is no argument on earth that cannot be refuted. If you cannot refute, it only means you need to be a little more clever at argument; nothing more.
So the pandits argued, tried to persuade him—but the atheist youth refuted all. No way remained. They said, do one thing. Only one man remains—perhaps he can help you. Go to the saint Eknath.
The youth went, thinking perhaps there my arguments will find peace. He arrived and saw Eknath sleeping in a Shiva temple, his feet resting on the Shivalinga. The atheist too was a bit shaken. He said, I may be an atheist, but even I have not the courage to rest my feet upon a Shiva image. This man is a great atheist! I am only probing; he is a consummate atheist. And they sent me to him! He was shaken—but he sat. Having come so far, let me take some knowledge—but there is little hope now. Around nine, Eknath opened his eyes. The youth raised his first objection: you are a holy man; the shastras say a saint rises at Brahmamuhurta, and you sleep till nine! And never has it been heard that a saint sleeps with his feet on the deity’s image.
Eknath said, wherever I rest my feet, I find Paramatma. Then the question where to place them remains no more; for Paramatma is everywhere. Then only this question remains—where the feet find comfort, rest them there. On this lingam there is great comfort—cool, soothing, and supportive. Sometimes I rest my head too—not only my feet. As convenience dictates.
The youth said, and Brahmamuhurta?
Eknath said, when the Brahman within opens the eyes—that is Brahmamuhurta. We recognize no other rule. We recognize only Brahman. That alone is within, that alone is without. When the eyes close—we sleep. When the eyes open—we wake.
A Zen master would have agreed with Eknath. Zen says: when sleep is gone, you are awake; when sleep comes, you sleep. No other rule. For whoever imposes rules from without is imposing human rules upon Paramatma.
The supreme sannyasin is beyond discipline. In the beginning rules must be made, for you are not yet worthy of the supreme. The day the worthiness becomes supreme, rules remain no more. The supreme sannyasin is beyond all bounds; he has no boundaries. For the supreme sannyasin means—everything is left to Paramatma. Let Him know the discipline. Who are we to prescribe discipline? If He does not want to rise—let Him sleep.
The youth was astonished. To argue with this man is difficult—he is out of reach. But he seemed very lovable; a great sweetness around him. The air around him hummed with some melody. Something rings—bells echoing from some other realm. He is a sight to behold—his beauty unmatched, otherworldly. He walks this earth, yet he is from elsewhere; of another realm.
The doubt was not yet gone—he slept with his feet on Paramatma’s image and says, when the sleep of Paramatma opened, I awoke; that is Brahmamuhurta.
Eknath went, begged alms, prepared bati bread. Just as he was about to dip the bread in ghee, a dog came and ran off with a piece. Eknath ran after him; the youth too ran behind—this is too much! Such a saintly person—what need to cause such a fuss over a dog taking a piece of bread? Eknath ran for two miles; the youth ran, exhausted. He said, I must see what this man does—will he beat the dog, or what? The suspicion had already arisen—this man is dangerous; perhaps mad.
But when Eknath finally caught up, he said to the dog, see, I’ve told you a thousand times, O Ram—do not take the bread before we dip it in ghee! When we ourselves do not eat without ghee, how will we let you? The same Ram within me, the same Ram within you.
Holding the dog by the ear he brought the bread back, dipped it in ghee, put it in its mouth and said, remember from tomorrow! When you must run off with a piece—do it after we dip it in ghee; not before.
Here is a person for whom Paramatma cannot be a doctrine. He is no mere concept, no philosophical conclusion. Paramatma is the very spread of life around him. The dog is included. Trees and rocks are included. The whole is included. Paramatma is not a person; He is the totality.
Samarth sab bidhi Saiyan, to Him I offer myself.
And He is Samarth—all-capable—because He is all. Had He been something particular, He could not be all-capable. The particular has limits; in limits, incapacity arises.
Samarth sab bidhi Saiyan…
He is capable in every way. He is Saiyan, Swami, the Master.
…taki main bali jaaun.
Let me be sacrificed to Him—that alone is the bhakta’s longing.
Antar ek ju so base, auran chitt na laaun.
Let only the One abide within me; let no other come into my mind.
You cannot link the remembrance of Paramatma with other remembrances. You cannot say: I have a list—will build a house, earn in the shop, accumulate wealth, gain fame, and I will also attain Paramatma. Among these many things there is also Paramatma.
If your Paramatma is one desire among many desires, no relation, no rasa has yet joined you to Paramatma. When all your desires pour into Paramatma, as all rivers pour into the ocean—when one desire alone remains—only then does His tone begin to sound; not before. If you have taken Paramatma as just one aspiration among many, better not to take Him at all. At least be honest. That belief would be false. When all your desires unite in Him—when He alone is the sole desire—only then can He be Truth for you.
But not only have you taken Him as one desire among many—you have placed other desires before Him; He is the last desire.
People come to me. They say, we wish to meditate—but we have no time.
There is time for all else. Surely meditation is the last desire. They are saying, if time is left over after all our other work, then we will meditate—but none is left. “No time” is false; for they have the same twenty-four hours as anyone else. In regard to time there is no rich and poor. In regard to time all have exactly the same.
But when they say, “no time,” they mean: there is time, but none is left by the time Paramatma’s turn comes. He stands last in the queue. In the ration line of the shop, the goods sell out among those ahead; Paramatma never gets reached. What can we do?
There is time to go to the cinema. Time to sit in hotels. Time for the club. Time to meet friends, to attend weddings. And these same people you will sometimes find—playing cards; ask: what are you doing? “Passing time.” There come hours when even time will not pass. But even behind this comes Paramatma’s turn—after even the card game. When time will not pass by any trick, when no measure remains, when the whole world is exhausted, when the queue is finished—then, out of compulsion, they say: let us go to the temple now.
That is why people have postponed Paramatma to the last moment of dying. A man nearly dies; the priest comes and whispers God’s name in his ear. This too is strange. All his life he had no time. Even while dying he had other business—dictating his will; in doing so his breath began to fail and he lost consciousness. Now he has not even the convenience to utter Ram’s name on his own. Now the priest recites Ram’s name on loan in his ear. And do not think the priest has time to take Ram’s name for himself; it is his profession. Even for himself he has no time. In his ear another priest will recite on loan. He does business for others; it has nothing to do with him.
So if Paramatma does not come to you, do not be surprised. You have not fulfilled the very condition for meeting. The condition is: Paramatma becomes the sum of all your aspirations. In all aspirations you seek only Him. All desires begin to run towards Him. Your every pore, every breath moves toward Him. Rise—for Him. Sit—for Him. Sleep—for Him. Eat—for Him.
Mahavira said to his disciples: eat only as much as is needed for meditation. Why more? Preserve the body only as much as needed for meditation. What use beyond that? For if Paramatma is found, all is found; if Paramatma is lost, all is lost.
Samarth sab bidhi Saiyan, to Him I offer myself.
Antar ek ju so base, auran chitt na laaun.
Let You alone abide in my heart; let no other come into my mind.
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge…
This is a very lovely line:
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge, apne bal nahi.
This is the bhakta’s feeling. This is his prayer, his worship, his offering. He says:
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge, apne bal nahi.
If even in attaining Paramatma you rely on your own strength, you will not attain. For your trust is not yet in Paramatma; your trust is still in yourself. This self-trust was there in the world—you thought on your own strength you would gain success, you would earn wealth, you would do this and that. You bring the same trust here, to the temple. Now you say, on my own strength I will gain God too.
How will ego attain Him? This trust in oneself is the ego. You are the obstacle. By your strength you will not attain. Only becoming strengthless will you attain. This arithmetic is inverted—nirbal ke bal Ram: the strength of the strengthless is Ram. Here the strong are defeated; the weak are the blessed victors.
Jesus has a famous saying: Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. It sounds like fancy, like a dream.
Lao Tzu keeps saying: if you want to win, drop the desire to win. Be ready to lose—then no one can defeat you. Nirbal ke bal Ram—the arithmetic is one.
The worldly man lives by his own strength. Even if he practices religion—he is worldly; does austerity—worldly; fasts and vows—still worldly—his own strength. He is not surrendered; he struggles, he fights. He says, we will obtain Paramatma and show it; we will bind Him in our fist and show it; we will bring Him to stand where we have collected our trophies and certificates of victory and success—there we will hang Him on the wall as well.
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge…
The bhakta says, as You keep me, so I will remain. Now I drop my stubbornness. I drop my being. I end this very notion that I too can do something.
…apne bal nahi.
By my own strength—I have done much; nothing happened. By my own strength I only perished; I only wandered; I created darkness; ignorance grew; hells and great hells were constructed. By my own strength no joy came, no peace came. For this “I”—this ego—is the root of all suffering, the seed of all hells.
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge, apne bal nahi.
The day this insight dawns, nothing remains to be done. For the very notion that “I can do” is your illusion. You can only be—you cannot do. Even when you think you are doing—you are not. Only you carry the illusion.
I have heard—by a palace there was a heap of stones. A small boy passed by; he picked up a stone and threw it toward the palace window. The stone began to rise. All stones dream of wings, of flying in the sky. Find me a stone that has never dreamed of flying. This stone too had dreamed of flying. Today the event happened. It said to the companions lying below, friends! I am off to tour the skies.
Those stones below must have writhed. They too had the same longing; but only the fortunate, the lucky, get wings. Not in everyone’s reach. This stone is blessed, exceptional—a great one, unique. The eyes of the stones below were startled. Hard to speak, hard to deny. They burned with envy, but there was no remedy—the stone was going; the flight was evident. Some event had happened—the stone had grown wings!
The stone was thrown. But the stone thought—it is I who am flying.
It struck the glass window of the palace; the glass shattered. The stone said, I have warned a thousand times—let none come in my way. Whoever does will be shattered. Now suffer!
Yet the stone had not shattered the glass. What act of the stone is there in shattering glass? It is simply the nature of glass and stone that when they collide, glass breaks and stone does not. What is there of the stone “doing” in this? Was it in the stone’s hands to collide and not break the glass? Was it in the stone’s power to break if it wished and not break if it wished? It was not in its hands at all. It was happening—not being done.
But colliding with the glass, the stone’s motion too ended. The “wings” were broken. The force lent by the boy’s throw was spent. The stone fell with a thud upon the palace carpet inside.
It fell, but the stone said, I am tired. A long journey—some rest is needed. Then it looked around and said, so—the arrangements of welcome were made in advance. News of my coming reached earlier. Carpets are laid, paintings hung, chandeliers, lights aglow. I am a guest. Naturally—since I am no ordinary stone; I am the leader of stones, the honor and glory of stones. For me their history will be written—there was once a stone that flew. Children will read the tales for centuries.
Just then a servant came running. He heard the sound of the stone shattering the glass; he picked up the stone to throw it out. But the stone said, very well—even the emperor of the palace welcomes me with his own hands.
It was a servant; the emperor had no idea. The servant was not welcoming—he was preparing to throw it out. The stone was thrown back. Even then the stone did not see it was being thrown back. It said, I was missing my loved ones. Home is heaven. What charm in foreign palaces compared to one’s own huts? Just as when people are thrown out of Delhi, they say, what is in Delhi compared to Poona! Going home. What is there in capitals!
The stone fell back on the pile. It said, I missed you. In palaces I was a guest; I toured the distant skies, the stars. What welcomes! What carpets! You cannot even dream of them. Emperors welcomed me, lifted me in their hands, gazed upon me with love. But still, I missed you. Home is heaven. The pull of the birthplace tugged at my heart. I left the palaces, carpets, pomp, emperors—and returned. I will remain among you.
This is the story of all persons; it is your story. What has happened you call “I have done.” You fell in love with someone—you say, I love this woman. Did it happen, or was it done? Can one ever do love? If it happens, it happens; if it does not, it does not. Is there any way to do? Do you have that strength?
As a person begins to see the real situation of life, he naturally says: Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge. For whether we say it or not, He keeps us as He wills. Our saying or not saying changes nothing in His conduct. It changes only our direction. The river is flowing east—whether the river wishes to flow west or not—it will suffer, be troubled, feel defeated, dejected, say life is a failure, life has no meaning. I want to flow west, yet I must flow east. It will flow in sorrow. Flow it will—to the east.
But if the river understands and says, Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge—even then it will flow east. But now the flowing is different. No opposition; it flows in joy. Now it is His will. And He knows more, for He is the whole. We are fragments; He is indivisible. We are parts; He is the Whole. We are very small, atomic; He is vast. We are with the Vast. We are small participants in that great festival. We are a small note in that cosmic music. Only when our note flows with that music is there grace. There is no way to flow against it. Whoever tries to flow against it experiences defeat—his life is filled with melancholy, that’s all. The Vast is not affected. But one who begins to flow with it—his melancholy falls away. The stream of his life is unbound. He walks in joy. There will be dance in his step, song in his voice, wonder in his eyes.
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge, apne bal nahi.
Sabai tumhare hathi hai, bhaji kat jahi.
Where will you run? Wherever you are—you are within His hands. Wherever you go—He is there.
Sabai tumhare hathi hai, bhaji kat jahi.
Where is the escape in running?
With this awakening, a person stops running. You have heard—people call religious ones escapists—that they are deserters, they fled. The truth is the very opposite. The worldly are the deserters. The religious one has stopped running. He has surrendered himself: now You take me where You will. The worldly is still running. He still has private will. He says, let me earn a bit more money. If it is not Your wish, no matter—we will still earn. We will devise means, use our cleverness, resort to theft, to fraud—we will find some way. If You do not support, fine. If You do, better. If You support, we will offer You a little prasad too. If You don’t—remember, we will stop offering in Your temple; we will have the temple doors shut.
We even strike bargains with Paramatma. We say, we will give You a little—You too become a partner. Our plan—if You lend some help, You too will gain. Otherwise, we will gain anyway. If You do not help, You will be deprived—do not regret later. When we win, You will get no share of our booty.
This man is the escapist. He runs from the reality of life. The reality is this: neither your life is in your hands, nor your birth, nor your death, nor your love. Even the breath that comes and goes is not in your hands. It is He who breathes, who moves within you, who wakes, who sleeps. This is the reality. Whoever tries to do otherwise is the escapist. And one who becomes one with this reality—you call him escapist? He has stopped running. Dadu has used exactly the right word:
Sabai tumhare hathi hai, bhaji kat jahi.
Where will we run? Wherever we run, there we will find You. Wherever we reach by running—Your hand will be there.
Dadu duja kyun kahai, sir pari sahib ek.
So humko kyun bisarai, je yug jahin anek.
Why speak of a second? Over our head there is only One Master.
How could He be forgotten by us, though countless ages pass?
This needs to be understood a little. Even while forgetting, He cannot be forgotten. There is no way to forget. Try as you may—you cannot forget. For that which forgets is also He. There is no running from Him.
People ask me, where should we search for God?
I ask them, where did you lose Him? Before searching, be certain you have lost. If you are certain, come—then I will show you the way. But whoever goes to ascertain where he lost Him, one day suddenly finds—He was never lost.
You never peered within. Where did you lose Him? That which can be lost is not Paramatma. Take this as the definition. Paramatma means your nature, the ultimate state of your being, your deepest life—your depth, your height. Your everything is Paramatma.
Where will you lose Him? Where will you forget Him? If you could forget Him, how would you be? How would you be here after forgetting Him?
The one who is searching, the one who asks “where is Paramatma”—is He. He is hidden in the seeker. The goal is not after the journey; it is in the traveler. Therefore the day you recognize, the day you shake yourself and awake—you find Him there. Not an inch elsewhere—neither Kaba nor Kashi. Not a grain of doing is needed—no worship, no recitation; no temple, no mosque; no renunciation, no austerity. Only awakening is needed. What you are—you are. You have dozed a little, slept a little, begun to dream a little—but nothing is lost. Like an emperor who falls asleep and dreams he has become a beggar. In his dream he cries and trembles, asks people—what happened to my empire? My throne? How did I become a beggar? How will I regain my kingdom? He weeps, goes village to village asking for mantras and initiations to regain his empire—and in this panic his sleep breaks. He sees—it was a dream. The palace is as it was. My being an emperor is intact. For a moment I went nowhere; I only entered a dream.
To attain Paramatma is not to get something; it is to drop something—the dream. To attain Paramatma is not to add something; whatever has gotten attached to Paramatma—that much to cut away. There has been a little sleep. No sin has occurred. No mistake has been made. No mistake can be made. For if He is in all, how can a mistake be? There has only been rest; not error. You have slept a bit too long; wandered a bit too far in dreams.
But however far you wander in dream—travel a thousand miles—on waking, do you travel back a thousand miles? You wake and find—you were already back. Sleep in Poona, dream of Timbuktu; you will wake in Poona, not in Timbuktu. It is not that you must now run back—catch a plane and return to Poona.
You have slept in Paramatma; you will wake in Paramatma. In between is the whole world. Many Timbuktus. A long journey.
Dadu duja kyun kahai, sir pari sahib ek.
So humko kyun bisarai, je yug jahin anek.
Though countless ages pass—there is no way to forget Him. Even by mistake, no way to forget. That which, even if lost, cannot be lost—that alone is Paramatma.
Karm firavai jiv ko, karmon ko kartar.
Kartar ko koi nahi, Dadu feranhar.
Karma turns the being. What he does—he thinks, “I have done.” “I have done”—and ego is formed. Then ego leads him astray.
Karm firavai jiv ko, karmon ko kartar.
And the delusion is this—that the One who moves the karmas is the Kartar, the Creator—not you. The day you understand that He moves the karmas, not I; I am not the doer—He is the Doer—that day you are out of sleep. The entire art of sleep is this: you think, I am the doer.
The Doer is Paramatma. As someone makes puppets dance. The strings are hidden within. The one who pulls is hidden behind. The strings are invisible. You see only the puppets—doing acts. The audience may be deceived—that is understandable. They cannot know who is behind; the strings are hidden; the puppets dance, fight, love, marry—everything happens. But even the puppets can be deluded if a kind of awareness arises. For a puppet will not see strings tied behind, someone pulling from behind. The puppets will think—we are dancing. The very story that happened to the stone will happen to the puppets.
This is the story of man’s delusion. All action is of Paramatma—of the Whole. If you do not want the word Paramatma, no harm. Action is of Existence. You are but a puppet made of five elements. The strings are hidden behind. According to those strings the whole play unfolds.
But you think, I am the doer. Then karma begins to delude you. You sink into deep sleep. The moment you understand—the only Doer is Paramatma; He alone turns the karmas—you are out. Then dance as a puppet.
In the Gita, Krishna says to Arjuna: become a puppet. Do not think you are the killer, or the killed, or the doer. Become nimitta—an instrument, a puppet. Let Him pull the strings; let Him play the play; do not come in between. Then no karma is yours. Then no karma binds.
Kartar ko koi nahi, Dadu feranhar.
And there is no one beyond Paramatma to turn Him. Yet your effort is not only to believe you run yourself—you also try to run Paramatma. You go and pray—see, my wife is sick, cure her. We will offer coconuts, do worship, pray with faith. We have no son—give us a son. There is a case in court—make us win. You try to turn Paramatma too. All your prayers are attempts to turn Him. That is why your prayers go to waste. They have no result—because their basis is wrong. To try to turn Paramatma is the height of madness. It was delusion to believe you run yourself—now you try to run Paramatma! You do not even accept that your strings are in His hands; your effort is to have His strings in your hands. And you call this prayer! You call this religious!
This is the mark of the irreligious. Ninety-nine out of a hundred prayers are irreligious. Only that prayer is religious which Dadu speaks:
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge, apne bal nahi.
Sabai tumhare hathi hai, bhaji kat jahi.
Enough! If only this feeling of your heart begins to arise day after day—if this small line echoes within you day and night:
Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge, apne bal nahi.
Sabai tumhare hathi hai, bhaji kat jahi.
It is sufficient. What more prayer is needed?
And these are not words to be chanted—let the feeling resound within; let it overtake your heart. Rise, sit—let it remain within. There is no need to speak to Paramatma in words. He understands your wordless; He recognizes your emptiness; He reads your silence. To be articulate is a mistake. Nothing to say to Him—only to be before Him.
Among the Sufis there is a saying: when the fakir truly arrives at prayer, he does not use a single word—neither outwardly nor inwardly. He simply stands—silently.
Someone asked Bayazid, what is your prayer? We have never seen words come from your mouth. What do you hum within?
Bayazid said, do not speak of humming. What is there to hide from Him? What is there to tell Him? What is there to explain? What is there to say? My condition is like that fakir who once stood before an emperor—naked, tattered clothes, thin body, belly pressed to the backbone, only a flicker of life in the eyes. The emperor asked, speak—what do you want? He said, if by looking at me you do not understand what I want, what on earth will you understand if I say it! Look at me—that is enough. Bayazid said, an earthly emperor may not understand—but the ultimate Emperor will. I only stand at His door.
He would go and stand before the mosque—stand for hours, then return. Never a word—neither outside nor inside. Prayer has nothing to do with words. Prayer is to stand before Him just as you are—in your bare intimacy, in your nakedness, hiding nothing—manifest before Him. Prayer is self-manifestation of your heart’s state.
If you cannot escape some repetition—if something in you wants to repeat—then Dadu’s line is good: Jyun rakhai tyun rahenge. Make it your mantra. Let its echo reverberate day and night. Slowly the echo will remain and the mantra will be lost. Then even the echo will be lost—and the feeling will remain. Then even the feeling will be lost—and your pure being will remain.
Aap akela sab karai, aurun ke sir dei.
Dadu sobha das kun, apna nam na lei.
Dadu says: He alone does everything, and places it on the heads of others.
Aap akela sab karai, aurun ke sir dei.
The Doer is one—but He lets everyone have the pleasure of fulfilling their own ego. Someone says, I am a great knower! The Doer is One. Someone says, I am a great meritorious soul! The Doer is One. Someone says, I am a great renunciate! The Doer is One.
But these heads grow heavier and heavier.
Do not fall into this deception. When He begins to put it on your head, say to Him: You hold it. Do not put it on our heads.
Dadu sobha das kun…
This is the glory of the servant, Dadu—
…apna nam na lei.
Say: do not bring my name in. You alone are doing. You alone the Doer; You alone the Non-doer. Do not bring me in between.
If you can remember this—if this remembrance settles in your life, a little lamp burning within—that whenever delusion of doership begins to seize you, drop it at once. Smile, look at the sky and say: again! Again the same! You have put it on my head! You take it.
In a few days the lamp will burn steadily. Then there will be no need to think or say. Whatever happens, you will know—He is doing it; whether it seems good or bad. Then when you are not in between—what good, what bad! When all is His—then it must be good. Then both banks of the river are heaven. Then the other bank is not hell.
I tell you, there is nothing but heaven. Hell is man’s invention. Heaven is existence. Hell is man’s idea. For you must create hell—where will you put your enemies? Your foes? There must be some place. And the heaven you imagine along with this hell is also false. It cannot be the real heaven. In real heaven there is no hell. There is no “bad” at all. This is the supreme revolution of the religious one—where he sees no bad at all. Only good—for upon all there is the signature of the One. All notes are His; how can there be bad?
If even “bad” appears to you, understand—there must be some fault in your eye, some fault in your vision, some fault in your interpretation. But bad cannot be.
The day only the auspicious appears to you, that day you have attained Paramatma. That day you have found the house named Neti-Neti—not this, not that. Duality is gone. The taste of Advaita begins to come. And that alone is the taste worth having. Taste whatever else you may—no taste will satisfy you. There is no fulfillment in those tastes. Only by tasting that One taste is all hunger gone, all craving for taste ends. The deep contentment is attained—for which there is no end.
Enough for today.