Sabai Sayane Ek Mat #9

We have a word: neeti. It is essential to understand it rightly.

Neeti is a kind of conduct that does not sprout from within; it is done to show others; its roots are not in our inner being, it is a cloak we wear from above; it is something other than us. Not only other, but opposite. There is no resonance between it and us; yet for respectability, for applause, to please the surrounding crowd, for the group, we drape it over ourselves. Neeti is a donned event.

There are flowers that grow on trees. Those flowers are linked with the roots, with the soil within, with the sun in the sky above, with moon and stars. Then there are plastic flowers too—hang them on trees; they may deceive a passerby from afar, but they do not grow from the tree; they are stuck on from the outside.

Neeti is like plastic flowers. It can create convenient relationships between you and society, but all connections between you and Paramatma are severed. The one who gives too much attention to society will be deprived of the soul.

When neeti rots, politics is born. Neeti, in itself, is a lie, a hypocrisy—but its most putrid, most distorted form is politics. As if even plastic flowers have rotted. Politics means: you have no intrinsic purpose in what you do; your aims are elsewhere. You do one thing, you want something else. Your entire conduct is a means, not an end. You smile if you need votes. Once votes are secured, you turn cold. Even your smile is false. Your smile is not spontaneous, not of the moment, not real. Behind it too is a goal, a means. You do not even smile for free—there is craving behind it. You smile to get something. You behave nicely to gain something. Your behavior is like that of a prostitute.

The politician is the very mirror of the prostitute. The prostitute does not love, yet she exhibits love. Her eye is on your pocket. If the pocket is empty, her smile will vanish. She was not smiling for you—she was smiling for your pocket. If your pocket is full, she will spread herself at your feet. If your pocket is empty, you will be thrown out. She will not even recognize you. She forms no relationship with you. If she relates, it is with your safe—not with your heart. That is why we have considered the prostitute the most fallen. She sells her person, her smile, her heart, her love.

The politician is like a prostitute—and even worse. His entire life is a business. Whatever he does, he does while keeping one thing in view: what will be the result? Ultimately, in the race for position, how much benefit will this bring me? People are not seen as people—they are steps of a ladder to be climbed. And once climbed, they must not be remembered; indeed, they must be erased. Because the very steps by which you climbed are the ones your rivals can also climb. Climb the steps, then demolish them, so they do not remain. Otherwise your rivals will climb those same steps and reach you from behind.

So the politician climbs the steps and digs them as he goes. He sinks the very boats he rides in. Because there is danger. Those boats are dangerous—they brought you to the capital; they will bring others too.

His entire conduct is devoted to the worship of the ego. He wants thrones; he wants honor.

But remember, even in neeti the seed is hidden.

You can divide humans into two kinds. One: those who want samadhi, resolution. And the other: those who want respect, honor. The one who wants samadhi must journey within. The one who wants respect and honor must learn the signals of others’ eyes. He will have to dance to others’ tunes. For others will honor you only if you align with their notions. They will honor you only if you are like a dead statue—even if of marble! If there is not even a glimpse of your own life in you. If there is no risk that your individuality will reveal itself. If you are merely an ideal and there is no soul within you. You will be like a corpse—well decorated, laden with ornaments, but without breath. For where breath moves, there is freedom. And where there is freedom, you can go outside society and even against society.

Hence society trusts dead, outworn ideals. It wants you to fulfill its ideals—then you too will be honored. Remember, society is not concerned with honoring you; it is concerned with honoring itself. If you fit into its mold, if you weigh on its scales, if you match its criterion, then you will be honored. Society has nothing to do with you. Society has its own notions, laid down for its internal security.

You too have nothing truly to do with society. You want your own honor. All relationships between the individual and society are false. Both are watching their own profit. It is a business relationship.

Neeti means the whole ambition of the individual is for honor. You teach your children, and your parents taught you—if you want respect, be honest.

But how honest can honesty be if it is cultivated for the sake of respect! The lie has crept in from the seed itself. And if dishonor is what comes? Then what—be honest or not? Then there is risk.

If you want respect, be honest—but the desire is for respect. Respect is the worship of ego, the hankering for prestige. What connection can honesty have with ego?

Society has taught: if you want worship, be truthful; if you want worship, be virtuous.

But the desire for worship is the greatest vice. Thus you attach conduct to the service of vice. You falsify the individual from the very start.

You have erected the entire structure on the foundation of ego. And whenever a person finds dishonor coming, the ego is hurt. Then he again strives to gain honor. The more honor he gains, the more the ego is worshiped. And the more the ego swells, the more relations with oneself are broken. Ego is the name of your distance from yourself—how far you have wandered from your own home, that distance is called ego.

There is another kind of person—one who does not want honor but resolution. One who wants an extraordinary peace within. A shower of bliss within. One who wants to become fulfilled in life. To come to know what life is. That life not be lost just like that. That he not be consumed in gathering shards of silver and gold. That he not be finished without knowing anything, without tasting any inner nectar. That the inner veena not sound—and somewhere the opportunity of life be missed. Such a person is religious.

Neeti is not Dharma; neeti is a deception of Dharma. A deception—and a very clever one. For the person who seeks inner resolution is also truthful—but the reason for his truthfulness is not the desire for respect. He is not truthful to gain respect. He is truthful, and therefore respect may come—that’s another matter. He will remain truthful even if dishonor comes. He will remain truthful even if he is thrown into hell. Because he has experienced the heaven of truth. Now nothing else can remove his truth.

Let me repeat this difference. The man who seeks inner resolution also fulfills the deepest ideals of neeti—but they are not his aim; they come like a shadow. As inner samadhi deepens, as the inner chaos dissolves, as inner harmony arises, as the inner nada sounds—darkness begins to fall away from that person’s life; his outer behavior also begins to change. But it changes because of the inner. It changes because of an inner revolution.

First the within changes; conduct follows. Then the flowers are connected to the roots. If you have changed the conduct but the within has not changed, then the flowers are paper. They are not linked to the roots—they are false. False flowers may earn you honor, but false flowers will not fulfill you. In the end you will find—all was wasted.

Neeti is not necessarily Dharma. Dharma is necessarily neeti. The religious person is naturally moral. He has nothing to do to become moral. Morality flows from religiosity as fragrance flows from flowers, as light flows from a lamp, as song flows from the throats of birds at dawn. They don’t have to be made to sing. No one needs to flatter them—please sing. No one needs to request—please sing. Whether there is a listener or not, song bursts forth. It is a spontaneous event of the morning. With the sun’s rising, something rises within too. As the whole world awakens, something awakens within as well. Flowers begin to bloom, birds begin to sing. There may be no listener. There is no purpose with the listener at all.

Neeti is such a song that you sang for others—whether it arose in your throat or not; whether it came from your heart or not; whether your very life wanted to sing or not. You are secondary. You are not. You have resigned yourself. You sang for others; for respect; for applause; for awards.

Dharma is such a song that you sang for yourself. If someone hears it—that is another thing. And if someone is delighted—blessed! If no one comes to hear, it makes no difference. For the joy is in the singing, not in someone’s listening. The bliss is in the eruption of song, in its expression. Whether anyone claps or the naked solitude hears it—no difference. Your joy is complete. Your song was born of your joy. It is not that you will gain joy because of the song—song has flowed from joy.

So, one is the court singer; the other are the birds of dawn. The court singer sings for the court.

Once Akbar asked Tansen, I have always thought—none can be a singer superior to you.

Tansen said, Wait. I do not hold such a belief myself.

Akbar said, What do you mean?

Tansen said, Perhaps you may understand, perhaps not—my guru is still alive. And I have seen that man. In front of him, I am not even the dust of his feet.

Akbar’s longing flared. Then invite your guru. Whatever the conditions, we shall fulfill them. We shall make special arrangements.

Tansen said, That is precisely why I have never mentioned my guru to you—because he does not sing on invitation. He sings—and if someone hears, that is another matter. He is not by request; not a courtier. He will not come. There is no way to bring him. We stayed at his feet for years, but if ever we wished he would sing, he never sang. We had to listen on the sly. Hence I never took his name, because you would not understand.

Akbar felt a bit stung. Who is this man? At least tell me his name! We will summon him. Don’t worry about it.

For men like Akbar do not even know that there are things beyond wealth, beyond the hunger for office. For people like Akbar it is almost impossible to meet such people who cannot be lured, who cannot be tempted. Akbar’s understanding is that every person can be bought—only the price differs. One will ask for ten thousand, another for ten lakhs—that’s all. The difference will be in quantity, not in quality.

He said, Don’t worry, Tansen. Tell me the name.

When asked the name, Tansen had to tell it. Haridas. A fakir.

Hearing Tansen, Akbar laughed. A fakir! We will invite him, have him brought—whatever money is needed will be spent. The whole capital shall be adorned.

Tears flowed from Tansen’s eyes. He said, You have not understood at all. That is why I was silent and would even listen to your praise that none is greater than I. I know the greater still lives. Having seen my guru, I can never accept that none is greater than I. But if you have a little love for me, do not trouble my guru—ever. If you truly want to hear, if a genuine longing has arisen, I shall arrange it. We shall go stealthily. He lives on the banks of Yamuna in Agra. Often at three in the night, in ecstasy, he dances and sings. I will find out. We shall hide outside his hut and listen.

Perhaps no emperor has ever listened to anyone in this way. Akbar went. He too was precious—Akbar. It dawned on him that perhaps there could be such a person who sings like the birds. He ought to see. Had he been like Tamerlane or Napoleon or Alexander, he would not have understood. He was a good man in a world of bad men. He went. At two in the night, both hid outside the hut.

At three, an incomparable music was born. Akbar’s tears would not stop. He simply wept. Something struck deep into the heart. As if an arrow had pierced. As if for the first time music was known. As if all that had been heard so far were only false shadows. As if for the first time real music was known. All that was known before were carbon copies. For the first time, the authentic music was experienced. Previously, it was a sound heard from afar. Today, for the first time, there was a near touch. Akbar was no longer a listener—he was lost. He did not even dare to clap. For that would be a disturbance. And clapping seemed obscene. For such great music, clapping cannot be offered. This is not some politician’s speech that you clap. To clap would mark you as a fool—for it would show that you did not understand; otherwise you would be quiet, silent.

Silently—lest even the sound of feet be heard—they ran, sat in the chariot and returned. On the way, Akbar was silent. Tansen too grew a little uneasy—that he did not speak. Not a word. Sometimes there comes such a moment that to speak a word is proof of lack of understanding. Sometimes praise seems small. To say, very good—sometimes proves a small mind. Sometimes only silence is the sole praise. The bigger the happening, the less it fits into words.

But the tears kept flowing. On the palace steps, entering inside, he said only this: Tansen! You are right. I thought none could be a singer greater than you. Now I wonder—why can you not sing like your guru? You are miles away, very far. Hurry—otherwise life will pass just like this. This alone I ask—why is there such a difference? And I know you are skilled. I know you are capable in every way. Then why such a distance?

Tansen said, The distance is very clear. I sing in order to gain; he sings because he has gained. In my singing there is the desire to get—prizes, wealth, fame, prestige, success. Otherwise, why would I be in your court? I am a courtier; he is a bird of the open sky. I am a parrot in a cage. His song is the song of the open sky. In my song, the shadow of my cage will fall. I am in bondage. Craving has not yet fallen. That is why what I sing comes only from the throat, not from the heart. He has never sung for anyone—he sings for the sake of singing. He sings in ecstasy. He has no purpose with anyone. It comes from within. The happening of his song is not social—it is utterly personal. It is the manifestation of his solitude. My happening is social. I prepare, I fret. Even while singing, the worry remains in the mind—will I be praised or not? There is competition, envy, jealousy, greed, lust—amidst all this, how can that great music be born? Such music happens only in the lives of saints. You are right—not miles, but leagues of distance. No one knows better than I how vast the distance is. Until inner craving falls, that distance will not end. It will not end by reducing the distance; it will end only when I change. Only when I die will it end. When the new is born, it will end.

Dharma is music born from within. Naturally, neeti flows along with it. But Dharma does not flow along with neeti.

Understand it this way: if you are beautiful, your conduct naturally becomes beautiful. If you are luminous, your acts too reflect that light—lamps are lit.

You are trying to become beautiful from the outside. You have put on many ornaments, beautiful garments, you have adorned yourself. At most, you will cover your ugliness a little—you will not become beautiful. Covered ugliness does not become beauty; covered ugliness becomes even more ugly. The naked form might someday even become beautiful. If you uncover yourself—as you are, so you are; if there is ugliness, let it be ugliness; Paramatma has made you thus; as He keeps you, thus you will remain—perhaps by the very ease of your acceptance, your ugliness will flow away. Perhaps beauty will be born out of your simple acceptance.

But you cover, you hide. Hiding does not erase wounds; they grow. Gradually the wound becomes a sore; gradually the sore becomes cancer. The epidemic spreads throughout your life-energy.

Neeti is the striving for honor. The most distorted form of neeti is politics. It is a very diseased state of neeti. Then the person has entirely abandoned himself. Now he laughs for someone; he weeps for someone. His entire behavior is outside.

There was a Jewish fakir, Rabbi Liyev. He stayed twenty years with his master. People asked him, For so long, what did you watch at your master’s place?

Liyev said, In the temple his conduct was wondrous—but I had not gone to see that. What to say about his beauty amidst the crowd! My eye was not on that. When he spoke, flowers showered—but I was not in search of that either. His commentaries on the scriptures were unique, unparalleled. The earth has rarely seen such interpreters. But no, I had not gone to hear those either. I had gone to see how my master behaves in his solitude. How—when no one is watching—he unties the laces of his shoes. And how—when no one is watching—he ties the laces of his shoes. That I had gone to see. Certainly it took twenty years, but the time was not lost. I have returned with much. I had gone to see the master in his solitude—the purest! Where not even the shadow of another falls. Where the question of acting based on the other does not even arise. I had gone to see the master asleep—does he mutter in his sleep? Do dreams harass him? Does he ever wake startled in fear? That I had gone to see. Not his images and reflections formed in others’ eyes. Those forms were beautiful—beyond compare. But that was not my search, hence it took me long. Had it been to see his form in the temple, a day would have sufficed. To see his form in the marketplace—two days. To hear his words—by the third day it would be done. But I had gone to hear his void, his inner resonance. Where he is alone—absolutely alone. Where no one’s shadow falls. Where not even Paramatma is.

For when in the temple you stand before Paramatma, then there is the presence of two—Paramatma and you. You will behave as befits prayer. But where you are entirely alone—in your bath, where you stand before the mirror with yourself there alone—there your true form appears.

Neeti is not the goal; Dharma is the goal. Dharma means: a person’s behavior with himself in his own solitude. Remember this definition. How you behave in aloneness—that reveals your Dharma, whether you are religious or not.

Surely, behind it all the chariots of neeti follow on their own; they need not be brought. They race along of themselves, they run by themselves. But even if they do not come, the religious person has no concern. And if the depth of Dharma keeps increasing—just as the most distorted form of neeti is politics—so the most profound, most developed flowering of Dharma is nirvana, moksha, mukti.

These are two separate journeys.

Do not mistake neeti for Dharma; otherwise you have settled for counterfeit coin. With that coin you may gain much in this world, but with that coin you will not cross to the other shore. It works only on this bank. You will not even be able to sit in the boat—for the boatman will say: That coin does not work across the river. It works on this shore only. Spend it here.

The words of Dadu we are going to understand today are related to this very mystery.

On the surface everyone displays, said Dadu; only the sadhu works within his own vessel.

On the surface everyone shows off. On the surface everyone decorates. On the surface everyone tries to become beautiful.

On the surface—that is what the entire world is doing. For others can only see your circumference. Who but you can see your center? There only your own solitude has entry. No one else can enter there. To the center of your innermost heart—only you can go. But your body is visible to all.

Whether you have meditated or not—no one can see. Whether you have bathed or not—everybody can see. Whether you have refined the inner beauty or not—where will you find eyes to see this! But that you have bathed, you step out fragrant, you wear fresh clothes—even the blind can understand. Slowly you forget that there is also a form of yours that you alone will know. And there is a form of yours that appears from the outside. If you remain occupied only in adorning the outer form—then even if you gratify the eyes of others, you will be deprived of the search for your own life. You will go on persuading others that you are beautiful—and you will not become beautiful. For this is not a matter of persuading anyone. If you are beautiful, you are beautiful—there is nothing to convince anyone about. If someone understands—fortunate for him; if he does not—his misfortune. If he understands, he too will set out on the journey. If he does not, he will remain stuck where he is and rot. But you have no longing to convince the other.

Ordinarily, however, we have no vision about ourselves. Even about ourselves we borrow others’ vision. If people call you good, you consider yourself good. If people call you bad, you consider yourself bad—as if you had no direct acquaintance with yourself. You consider yourself to be what others say.

This is the trouble. That is why you are so frightened of people—that their mind may not change; that they may not stop voting for you; that they may not start thinking something else about you. The whole time you are suspicious, anxious, pained—restless to keep your image beautiful in their eyes.

And the images of you formed in others’ eyes are worth no more than reflections formed on water. The eye too is but water. There are reflections upon it. They wobble in an instant. What trust can there be! Today someone’s mood was fine—he told you, You are beautiful. Tomorrow he is not fine and he says, None is more ugly than you. Get lost! Even to see you fills me with disgust.

You know—this happens every day. One day you tell someone, I love you. I cannot live without you. And a day comes when you say, I have so much hatred for you that I cannot live with you. Now there must be a way to live apart.

People’s minds change like smoke. Their minds are like shapes of clouds formed in the sky. Before you can fully see them, the change has begun. Like the currents of a river—the minds are flowing; nothing is stable. And you are peering at your reflection in them. A fish leaps—the reflection wavers. A thought leaps in the other’s mind—the reflection wavers.

If the lake is still, the moon appears. A slight breeze—ripples— and the moon is torn into pieces. If the moon too were to rely on the lake, he would cry himself to death—what has become of me! I have been shattered into a thousand pieces! All was fine just now. Why did the lake change its mind?

No lake is changing its mind for the moon. The lake has its own troubles. What has the lake to do with the moon! Perhaps the lake knows not that the moon’s reflection is being formed.

Those eyes in which you place such trust—they may have no news of you at all; perhaps no concern either. But your concern is that in those eyes my reflection be good; that there be an ideal image; that people grant respect, honor.

Life is very short. People’s minds are very flux-like. In this way you will be lost. Gazing at the lake, your moon will be destroyed. Look to yourself. What has the lake to do with it? Seek the inner integrity. Then let the lakes say what they will—at least you should not be distressed. You know—I am whole. What difference does it make what the lake says?

But the lake has the slightest doubt and you too begin to doubt. Obviously—you are unfamiliar with yourself. The self-ignorant person seeks self-knowledge in others’ opinions—what are they saying about me? If people say good, then I am good—therefore they say good. If people say bad—then naturally there is doubt within: I must be bad. How to please people so they always say good of me!

On the surface everyone displays; only the sadhu works within his vessel.

Only the sadhu sets out on the inner journey. Within the vessel—there he inquires: Who am I? There he reflects, contemplates, meditates—What is my image? Who am I? He asks himself, not another, Who am I? He does not stand begging in front of your house—Give me alms of self-knowledge! Tell me a little—Who am I? Just say!

How many people bleat before each other—Just say that none is more honest than you. The lotus of my heart will bloom. Just say that your nightingale throat has no equal. Every fiber will be thrilled. Just say that in your eyes is the tranquility of lakes; that in your eyes is the beauty of the Himalayas—and every breath will be fragrant.

Everyone stands begging before one another—Say it! And in return, he is ready to say, No, I am nothing. Before you—what am I? The dust of your feet! It is a give-and-take. A mutual understanding. We are supporting each other. We pat each other’s backs. The one whose back you pat—he pats yours. He will pat only as long as you pat. Thus we are partners in deceiving each other.

This deceit is called maya, prapanch. This deceit is called the world.

Do not think the world means trees, stars in the sky, oceans, mountains. The world has nothing to do with these. These belong to Paramatma. The world is the name of the deceit that man has created between man and man. It has nothing to do with Paramatma. Paramatma created creation—not the world.

You may find this distinction a little difficult, for you have always considered both the same. The world is made by man. Its creator is man. Creation is Paramatma’s—but the world is man’s. The world is the name of that prapanch— the game—that men are playing between themselves.

Just look a little into your own life—you will find that knowingly or unknowingly, twenty-four hours a day, this is what you are doing. Playing a game. Someone on the road—you bow to him. Not really to bow; you watch whether he returns the bow or not. If he does not, there is pain.

The Sufi fakir Hasan was passing through a village with his disciples. A man met him on the way—Hasan bowed, as was his habit. Known or unknown, familiar or unfamiliar—he bowed to all. For within each one is hidden the One worthy of bowing. What matters the outer label? Those are labels. Within is the same One. He bowed. But the man was stiff. He was no small man—he was the landlord, the wealthy man of the village. Are we to bow to anyone! He went his way without even noticing—he did not even pay attention.

Hasan’s disciples felt hurt. One said, This is too much. This man must be taught a lesson. What does he think of himself!

Hasan said, Seeing him I felt pity; seeing you too I feel pity. That man is sick.

Hasan said, Fools! If someone limps, you feel pity—for his leg is broken. This man’s entire soul is broken—and you do not feel pity, you feel anger? He is utterly lame within. How much suffering must he not be bearing! Now why add to his suffering? He must already be suffering much. The one who has become incapable even of bowing— is there any end to his misery! This can only be if one has utterly forgotten the Paramatma within. For when the inner Paramatma is remembered, the other’s Paramatma is immediately seen. There is no need to be angry, fools—pray for him today. And I feel pity for you too. Bowing is not done to be returned! And where there is the feeling for it to be returned—then bowing has become a deal. We bowed—our submission is: How beautiful! How Paramatma walks in this form. We bowed to Paramatma. Whatever form Paramatma is in, we will recognize Him. Sick or healthy, awake or asleep—we shall recognize Him. We bowed to express our recognition. He did not return it— that is his matter, his pain. Why are you angry? Surely you have the expectation that a bow should be returned.

Even an act as sacred as bowing has been sold in the marketplace. It has become a part of mutual business. We bow only to those from whom we are assured the bow will be returned. Otherwise we too slip past. For it seems a great unease that we bow and you do not!

On the surface everyone displays; only the sadhu works within his vessel.

The sadhu disciplines the within. He sets out on his search, but not through others. He goes straight. What madness is it that I catch my ear by circling the whole head! Why give the hand such unnecessary trouble? The ear can be caught directly—why make the hand take a round of the entire head? To know myself through you—that is futile. I can know myself directly. I reside within myself. Close the eyes and see yourself. Close the eyes and ask yourself—Who am I? Why should I ask you? And the great fun is—you do not know yourself; how will you know me! How will you recognize me? You have not yet recognized yourself. It is like this: two beggars stretching hands to each other—hoping for alms. Both are beggars. Both can ask, neither can give.

When two ignorant ones begin assuring each other about knowledge, the world is created. Neither do I know who I am, nor do you know who you are. I explain to you who you are; you explain to me who I am.

I have heard— a hunter wandered three days in a jungle. Exhausted, torn and bleeding all over, pricked by thorns, hungry and thirsty—no path, unhinged, almost deranged. On the fourth morning, as the sun rose, he saw—Ah! A man standing under a tree. He ran with joy—the end of this mess! He embraced the man.

But that man stood like a stump. The hunter grew uneasy. The man said, Don’t be too happy. I have been wandering seven days. You rejoice thinking the path is found? That is why you dance and jump? We ourselves are lost. At most this will happen—we shall now wander together. No greater benefit can be had.

But have you noticed—wandering together seems better than wandering alone. At least there is company. At least there is some support. One can at least talk. One can weep one’s sorrow, tell one’s grief. That is why people pour their grief. If someone is met, they do not wait to begin.

Grief upon grief. Ignorance upon ignorance. But when a crowd forms, confidence arises. That is why there is a deep desire in the mind to belong to a crowd.

Think: if you are a Hindu, you are part of a crowd of thirty crores. Alone, you would be very frightened. Alone, a thorn would hurt. But you are a Hindu—thirty crores cannot be in illusion! Alone you might be. The other thirty crores are thinking the same.

You are a Muslim—eighty crores in the world cannot be in error. Or you are a Christian—one billion Christians. Yes, you alone may be mistaken—but a billion! And the other billion too are thinking, I may be mistaken, but the rest cannot be. Such foolishness cannot be in the world.

Hence there is a deep urge in each mind to be related to a crowd. It is a way to hide one’s ignorance. So people find a thousand devices—Hindu, Muslim, Christian. If not satisfied, they become Rotarians, members of the Lions Club. Many more kinds of foolishness. Something or other they become. But joining feels good.

An acquaintance of mine in Bombay has started a new club: Giants International. Little men! They themselves are small men. Giants International! Now people are joining. Because if you join the giants, you become a giant too. Not some small organization—international! Its branches are opening— Pune too has one.

Everywhere you will find short-statured men eager to be giants. Alone they cannot say they are giants—but with an international association they must be. If alone the hand does not reach, we will stand on each other’s shoulders; make a long column; reach heaven. Alone the hand may not reach, with everyone’s hands together it will.

These are the states of man’s sick mind. He seeks a group everywhere—belonging. Something that proves I am with someone, not alone. He seeks slogans. Crowds take to the streets—processions, demonstrations throughout the world. Who joins them? And why? There must be some deep pleasure.

That pleasure is this: with the crowd, you do not remain alone. And when the crowd shouts very loudly, the sheer volume pushes down your fears and doubts. You too begin to feel—these people must be right. When they say it so loudly—who says a wrong thing with such force! You too shout loudly. Alone you could never shout—you were afraid you might be wrong. Now ten thousand are with you.

Have you noticed: ten thousand shout slogans, your legs begin to throb, your heart fills with fervor—

"The wish for martyrdom now resides within our hearts.

Let us see how strong is the slayer’s arm."

Great fervor arises. All world politics and all worldly foolishness runs because of your need for crowds. Otherwise who would be mad!

I lived many years in one city and studied closely—I was astonished. Almost the same people join every procession. At first I thought different people would go. One of my acquaintances is a member of all political parties. I asked him, What are you doing?

He said, What have I to do with that! It is fun.

He goes to Jana Sangh, to Congress; he does not mind the Communists either. Ecumenical—equal to all. Present in every procession! You will always find him near the flag! Any slogan—he is ready to shout it.

It is not about the slogan. It is the fun of shouting—the sense of power that ten thousand shout with me. Man is mad. Your capitals are full of madmen. Your leaders are more ill than you. Sometimes doubt grips you—doubt does not grip them. They take it for granted that the world will be saved by them. You at least doubt—will the world be saved? For even your own salvation is not happening. The one who thinks the world will be saved by him is utterly mad; he has lost all sense—drunk.

The crowd is a great intoxication. There is no liquor greater than the crowd. That is why crowds have committed greater sins than individuals have. The Muslim crowd burns temples and sets Hindu homes aflame. The Hindu crowd destroys Muslims and pulls down mosques.

Ask a Muslim alone, who burned the temple—he too will say no. Ask him—could you do this alone, if there were no crowd? He will think— a thousand questions arise: What would I gain by burning a temple? And is there not Allah in the temple too—Paramatma only?

Ask a Hindu alone—what you did to Muslims, the killings, the fires—could you do this alone? Would it not occur to you that a small child will burn, a woman will burn, an old sick man will burn? Would it not occur to you? He too will say—alone, it would be difficult. I would not be able to fling kerosene so easily. It was the crowd. I was nothing.

In a crowd your responsibility ends. Then you have no responsibility. You are a part of the crowd. Remember—beware of crowds; otherwise the lamp of saintliness will never be lit in your life.

On the surface everyone displays; only the sadhu works within his vessel.

Come toward the within, toward solitude, toward aloneness. For there is the truth—and there is the door of Paramatma. In your own vessel is seated the One you seek—unbeknownst—from vessel to vessel.

Dadu says: There is so much difference—and hence there can be no harmony.

This utterance is wondrous!

Dadu says: Between the sadhu and the worldly there is just this much difference—therefore they do not get along.

The sadhu never gets along with society. And if you find a sadhu who gets along with society—know he is not a sadhu. How can a sadhu get along with society! Impossible. Because the sadhu’s journey is the very opposite. He walks leaving the crowd.

Kabir has said: lions have no herds; the sadhu has no sect.

Lions do not take out crowds, parades, processions. What sect can a sadhu have! He has known—I came alone, I will go alone, I am alone. The companionship between these two alonenesses is false; it is prapanch. I came alone, I will go alone—in between how can companionship become true? Aloneness is my nature. Born alone, I will die alone—then companionship is a deceit.

The name of this companionship is the world. The world is man’s invention. You and I have made it. We have dreamt a dream—of companionship! There is a husband, a wife, a son, a mother, a brother, friends, fellow-disciples— a thousand ways of man: I have company; I am not alone. You were born alone; at death you will be alone—between, for two moments, you have created the world of companionship.

No—the sadhu does not trust it. The sadhu says—As I came, as I will go, so I will remain: alone. Aloneness is my nature. I shall discipline myself. Whatever life is formed from that discipline, I shall accept. I will not peer into others’ eyes. Respect and honor have no value for me—for death will snatch all away.

So what society values, the sadhu does not value. And what the sadhu values is beyond society’s understanding.

Dadu says—There is so much difference. A small difference seemingly—both are walking. One turned toward himself, the other walks toward others. Walk both do—there is just a little difference in direction. Turn a little yourself—and you will walk toward the sadhu.

Dadu says—Therefore the sadhu is always rebellious, insurgent. A sadhu cannot be governmental. And if he becomes so—be alert. When the sadhu becomes governmental, he is an agent. Then his job is only to serve the state—to soothe people, to explain, to prevent people from being inflamed. He becomes a balm-bandage between state and people. He always explains to the people so that no possibility of revolution can arise. That is why Karl Marx called religion opium. He did not know true sadhus. He took governmental sadhus to be sadhus—and so he called religion a narcotic, a technique for making people unconscious.

If you are poor, the governmental sadhu will say— it is due to fate. What can you do? If you do bad karma, you will remain poor further. Now do good karma so that in the next life you become rich. If you are unhappy, suffering, the sadhu will comfort you. Keep patience, keep faith, do not disturb things—for disturbance will create more disturbance.

Remember—the real sadhu will create the possibility of contentment. The false sadhu, the governmental sadhu, will give consolation. Between contentment and consolation there is a difference like earth and sky. Contentment is the name of that state in which you have become so gladdened that outer sorrows are no longer sorrows; the small pains fall away; they have no value. Whether your clothes are old and torn or studded with jewels—there is not much difference. You have been studded within with such jewels that outside everything has become trash. Contentment is the fruit of the experience of bliss. Consolation is merely persuading yourself so that you do not disturb things—that you keep rubbing along with society as it is. As it is, is fine.

The sadhu and society do not get along. Mahavira and society did not get along. Buddha and society did not get along. Jesus and society did not get along. But now it gets along well— with the dead Jesus and Christians. With the living Jesus it did not. With the living Mahavira it did not. With the dead Mahavira it gets along splendidly. No problem at all.

Because when the sadhu is dead, he cannot change you. Instead, you change him. You interpret him in a way that suits you. While the sadhu is alive, you cannot interpret him—he is alive. He will not let you spoil things. He will not let you draw him to your meanings. He will not let you drown in your delusion. He will not let you sleep—he will keep awakening you. He will keep startling you. However angry you get, he will shake you—Wake up, you have fallen asleep again. But when the sadhu is dead, you sleep comfortably. In sleep you dream that you are awake. Now there is no fear. All is well. The sadhu is dead; you are asleep. The living sadhu does not let you sleep—he will keep awakening you.

That is why the worship of dead masters continues for thousands of years. Living masters get stones. Living masters get abuse. Living masters get dishonor; dead masters get honor. This is your arithmetic.

If Mahavira were to return now, the Jains would be the first to deny him. None else would be so troubled. Perhaps in others you might find a few who would say—he could be a right man. But the Jains would deny him first—for this man would totally ruin their sleep.

Dostoevsky has brought Jesus back in one of his stories. He has a novel, The Brothers Karamazov—very precious. Eighteen centuries have passed, and Jesus thought—Now at least half the world is Christian; now I shall return. Now I will be welcomed. I had arrived a little early. People were not ready. Now there are churches in every village; a Bible in every home; a cross hanging at every throat; millions of my priests. My followers number in the billions. Now the time is right. The season now is. I should go.

So he descended in the little village of Bethlehem, where he had been born. He chose a Sunday— because on the other days Christians are not Christians; only on Sundays. For six days no one is Christian. In the marketplace—who is Hindu, who is Muslim, who is Christian! All are thieves, all are exploiters. On the seventh day, closing their shops, wearing clean clothes, people go to church—they become Christians, sing hymns to God.

Jesus stood under a tree in the marketplace before the church. He thought—now people will recognize me. Before—when I came—I had to shout that I am the messenger of God, and still people did not accept. Now people will recognize by themselves. Now I need not tell. He stood silently.

A crowd gathered. Street urchins began throwing stones; people laughed. Someone giggled: You have made your face exactly like Jesus. But be quick—escape from here. If the police find out, you will be in trouble. And soon the priest will come—the church service is nearly over. If the priest finds out, you will be in a mess. You will be handcuffed. Such mockery will not be tolerated.

Jesus said, I am not mocking. I am Jesus!

People said, Wonderful! You mock and you are deranged too. Flee while there’s time!

Jesus grew a little afraid, and worried—what is this matter! Perhaps these people are not Christians. The Christians must be in church.

When the congregation came out, the crowd scolded Jesus even more. There, in church, Jesus hangs dead upon the cross! Here stands a living man. They scolded—This is not right. It is an insult to our Lord. Get down from the tree and change these clothes.

But Jesus looked around—surely the priest would recognize him. He had studied for years; had broken his eyes over the Bible; had sung Jesus’ praises. He at least would recognize. These people are laymen; they may not know.

Then the priest came. People gave him way, bowed repeatedly. Jesus was surprised—no one was bowing to him. They were bowing to his priest, with a cross hanging on his neck.

The priest came under the tree and said, Get down! This mischief will not be allowed here.

Now Jesus was shocked—he does not recognize me. My own servant—my own priest! He got down. People surrounded him and took him toward the church. Inside, they locked him in a room. Midnight—Jesus wondered—will I be crucified again? All has remained the same. Nothing has changed.

In this world nothing changes. All remains as it was. Mahavira comes, Buddha comes, Jesus comes; they go. Not even a line is drawn upon people’s ignorance. They again sink into sleep. For a while they wavered—made some disturbance. Then they say—Now let there be peace. Sleep again.

At midnight Jesus is awake, sitting in the dark, thinking—this is futile. Earlier I thought it was the Jews who crucified me. Now these are Christians. My own people will kill me? This is more absurd. Then at least they were of another faith. Now they are of my own faith.

Then at midnight the door opened; the priest came in with a lamp, placed it down, and fell at Jesus’ feet. Jesus said, What are you doing! In the morning you behaved so rudely!

He said, Let me tell you plainly—I recognized you. I did not ruin my eyes in vain. I spent my life singing your hymns—will I not recognize you? But do not make me recognize you in the marketplace. In the crowd I cannot recognize you. And we beg you—there is no need for you. All is going well. We are running it nicely. Your coming will create upheaval again—for you are always an agitator. Revolt runs in your blood.

That priest spoke very important things.

Do not come. Otherwise you will be crucified again. And we will feel pain in crucifying you, but we will do it. For either you will survive or the Church will. Both cannot survive together. If you survive, the Church will be destroyed. What we have spread in these eighteen hundred years—this great expansion—you will bring to dust. Your teachings are good for preaching; dangerous to practice. We have amassed so much money, so much property, so many churches—no one could have done this by following your teaching that if someone slaps one cheek, offer the other. Had we done that, all would be plundered. For this, strength is needed. Your teachings are very beautiful, but not for the world—for saints. We recognized you even in the morning—but we are compelled. Do not compel us. Your kindness will be that you depart from here. Do not let this matter grow. Otherwise, at the hands of your own people prepare to face the cross—if that is your wish.

Exactly this will happen. The story is absolutely right. If Mahavira returns, the Jains will be the first to report to the police—This man is causing trouble. He is imitating our Mahavira. Standing naked— and standing naked is most indecorous. Lock him up.

If Krishna stands somewhere playing the flute, what will you do? Peacock-plume on his head—great laughter would arise. The police would say—You cannot stand on the street in such attire. You obstruct traffic. Seeing you, crowds gather. This is a road, not a theater. Do not act a farce here. And if the gopis begin to dance, the police will say—This dance will not do in Ganpati. Not here. Gentlefolk live here— cultured people.

You have always misbehaved with the living master. You are compelled. The very nature of the living master is such.

Dadu says: There is so much difference…

Because you are going outward—he is going inward. You go east—he goes west. Your backs are to each other. You cannot meet. And his going inward pains you deeply—for if this man is right, then we are wrong. To protect yourself, you do all you can to prove him wrong. It is your self-defense.

…therefore there can be no harmony.

Hence the sadhu and society do not get along. And if they do—then either the sadhu is dead or he is no sadhu at all.

Tried all that was false, says Dadu—took poison for nectar.

Dadu says, I tried everything. It is not that I turned within without trying. Who turns within? One must experience the outer.

Tried all that was false…

Everything false and true—I tried it all.

…took poison for nectar.

Even poison was taken as nectar—this too I tried.

The world calls suffering happiness—such is the world’s madness.

And the crowd of madmen told us too that suffering itself is happiness—and we too took it as happiness.

The world calls suffering happiness—

Because everyone said so, we too believed it. What else was there to know? We took others’ belief. A child is born—he knows nothing. What mother calls joy, what father calls joy, he calls joy too. The mother and father do not know what joy is. They repeat what their parents said.

This child will grow; go to school; study; meet teachers. What they call joy and sorrow, he will accept as such. They all say—happiness is in success. None says—success is in happiness. The whole society keeps saying—happiness is in success. Thus madness for success is born. Run— succeed. If you do not succeed you will be miserable. And no one looks to see—those who have succeeded, are they happy? They reached high positions; amassed piles of wealth—are they happy?

Where is the time to see! If you pause even so long, others will overtake you. The race is heavy. Struggle is precious. Competition is every moment. You must run waking and sleeping. Do not stop. If you stop—you lose. Others will not stop! If you begin to think—then in that time you will fall behind. Then you will never reach Delhi. Run! All that thinking—do it later. When you sit as President, then think whether there is happiness in success or not.

But by then it is too late. By then your condition becomes like the story of the monkey whose tail was cut off. Your tail has been cut. Now if you say to someone that having the tail cut off is not happiness, you are a fool. Now you must explain that having the tail cut off brings great joy—such joy that cannot be measured. So that others too will cut theirs. Yours is already gone. What point to saying it now? None. Keep quiet and bear it. Life is gone; let not people know that you wasted it running.

The misery of all successful people is this—their tails have been cut. They are very unhappy. I know them closely. There is no end to their suffering. They are more miserable than you. But this cannot be announced. When they step outside, they wear a smile; they spread the fragrance of cheer—so that people see they have succeeded and become happy. And the old delusion is strengthened.

Dadu says: The world calls suffering happiness…

All was suffering—there was no happiness. But because all said so, we too believed it. Now it has become clear—how insane is the world! How mad people are!

But no one is at fault. Because everyone comes here and finds the world already made. When you came, three billion had already erected the world upon the earth. Their net was ready—you fell into it. You are alone; their net—three billion—how to fight! A small child—how can he fight! He is initiated, educated into that net. Schools, colleges, universities are run by that net. Scriptures, their commentaries, literature are created by that net. Naturally, a little child, knowing nothing, writes upon his clean slate what is available. Only rarely are there courageous ones who look back and recognize—

Tried all that was false, took poison for nectar.

The world calls suffering happiness— such is the world’s madness.

And then they gather the courage—We have come this far in madness—how to drop it now? Fear arises, for this is the only support. If this goes, we are utterly empty. Courage to understand—and then courage to step out of it.

Therefore Dharma is audacity. There is no greater courage. Going to the moon is not great courage—it needs training. Climbing Everest is not great courage. But to be religious is the greatest audacity. For it means accepting: that which I took as nectar was poison; what I took as happiness was suffering; what I took as truth was falsehood. To accept this means: I have been foolish, stupid, ignorant. This is the pain. You are fifty, sixty years old—you spent sixty years in stupidity? Where will your ego stand then?

Ego says: What is done is done— now tell no one. Keep quiet. Already you are looted. What point is there in telling it now? Then others will know you were foolish; they will laugh. They will not understand you became wise—they will say, Now you are a confirmed fool. Sixty years—wasted? If you were so clever, why did you not awaken earlier?

So when a man sees life is wasted—even then he cannot gather the courage to say it. The one who gathers such courage—I call him a sannyasin. Sannyas is the declaration that now I declare—with proclamation—that what I took as happiness was suffering; what I took as nectar was poison; what I called intelligence was stupidity; those I trusted were insane, mad; and I was part of the mad crowd. Now I rise up, become separate—whatever the result.

The lord of the true, the master, the all-capable Creator.

If you can feel even this much truth—that you have been wandering—then the goal has come near. For the one who sees— I have been wandering—has glimpsed the goal. Otherwise how will you know you were wandering? The one who sees that the false is false—has the first intuition of truth. Otherwise, by what measure do you call the false false? The one who knows this is poison, not nectar—he has heard the whisper of nectar. His pores have sensed it. Something has awakened within him that says—all this is futile.

The sense of futility is the beginning of the meaningful. The perception of the untrue is the first step toward the true. The feeling of ignorance is the dawn of the revolution of knowledge.

The lord of the true, the master, the all-capable Creator.

And the one who begins to journey toward truth—Paramatma is his master.

…the all-capable Creator.

And the One who made all—whose all this is— you are His. He is capable. You have now left your boat in His hands. Now you say—Wherever You take me. Until now I tried to steer— I only wandered. I did not come near the shore—rather drifted away. Until now I rowed by my own oar. Ramakrishna has said—there are two ways to move the boat: row it yourself, with your oar, your strength—or leave the sail open and rely on His winds.

Until now you have been rowing with your own oar. Great trust in yourself—I am right, I know. What is truth—I know. What is happiness—I know. Thus you row your own boat. You have arrived nowhere. You drifted away from the shore. The more successful you became, the more you failed. The more you thought happiness is near, the more you found yourself in a great pit of suffering. You thought you climbed a mountain—when the eyes opened you found you lay in a ditch. In dreams you climbed mountains; in reality you kept falling into pits. The outcome of your life is nothing but hell.

The lord of the true, the master, the all-capable Creator.

This world that men have made— it is all false. False games are being played. Mutual relations of untruth are going on. We move as if what is not were there.

You bring a woman in marriage; you circle the fire seven times—has she become yours by those seven circles? Yesterday she was no one; today she has become everything—by seven circles! Even seventy—what will it change? What has circling to do with someone becoming yours! But a delusion is born—she is mine. A support is gained. She too gains a support—you are hers. Now you can rely on each other. Lean your hands upon each other’s shoulders. Now you can think—someone is yours.

This is prapanch. No one is anyone’s. If you become your own—it is enough.

I am not saying abandon wives and run away. They are not at fault. I am saying—wake up where you are. There is no need to leave the wife. Only this feeling should drop—"mine"; "I am hers". Then both of you belong to Paramatma. Right now you belong to your wife and she belongs to you. You have made a separate world—apart from Paramatma’s creation. Your children, your wealth, your safe, bank-balance—you have separated yourself. You are no longer part of the whole.

Running away will do nothing—awakening will. Awakening means—you suddenly see—what a dream I am dreaming! Who is mine! I came alone; I shall go alone; I am alone. However near the wife, the distance is infinite. There is no question of running. Wake up yourself—and awaken her too—that we both belong to Paramatma. This private world we made between us—this little personal world— is false; it is prapanch.

This is the earth of hypocrisy, says Dadu; the world of prapanch.

Dadu is calling the earth of hypocrisy—the earth of "mine"— not the earth itself hypocrisy. Understand this.

This is the earth of hypocrisy…

He is not calling the earth hypocrisy. The earth is utterly true— it knows no hypocrisy. But the earth upon which you live is an earth of hypocrisy. You have fenced a piece of land, put up boundaries—you say: mine. This "my earth"— that has become hypocrisy. All is His. What is yours? When you were not here, the earth was. When you will not be here, the earth will be. When humanity was not, it was complete; when humanity is gone some day, it will remain. Birds will sing as they do; trees will be green as they are; the winds will blow as they do. None will even know that you are not. Whether you were or not—no difference. The story of the world will go on just so.

No, this earth is not yours. But you have made another earth—India! That is hypocrisy. Pakistan! That is hypocrisy. The earth is His— how are you making fragments? Where do you draw the line for Pakistan? On what basis do you draw it? Your line only reveals your madness—it does not reveal the earth’s partition. The earth knows not where Pakistan begins—where Hindustan begins.

I have heard—when India and Pakistan were partitioned, there was an asylum. Politicians were busy partitioning; no one remembered the asylum—where would it go? It was right on the border—half here, half there. Who cared for an asylum! Who was eager to take it! Anyone could take it. So no one bothered. When all partitioning was done, it was noticed— the asylum’s fate was not decided. Where would it go; what to do? As in the big asylum they asked—ask the Hindus, ask the Muslims. People said, Use the same rule—ask the lunatics: Where do you want to go?

Now if lunatics knew where to go, why would they be lunatics! When asked, they said—We want to go nowhere. We want to stay right here.

They were explained much—Please understand.

But the lunatics were simple—as lunatics are. They were not crooked like your politicians. They could not understand. They pondered— all night they did not sleep, explaining to each other—what is the matter! The officers said you will not go anywhere—you will remain right here; and yet they ask—Where to go? To Pakistan or Hindustan?

To them the matter was senseless—a riddle. They say we will not go anywhere, we will stay here— and yet they ask where to go. If we are not going—what is there to ask! If they must ask, why do they give a false assurance—You will stay here. There must be some trick.

No decision could be made. The officers said—Do what was done in the big asylum—raise a wall right down the middle. This side will be Hindustan, that side Pakistan.

A wall was raised down the middle. Those whose cells happened to be on that side—became Pakistanis; those on this side—Hindustanis.

I have heard—even now the lunatics cannot trust what happened. For they are where they were. Sometimes they climb the wall and talk to each other—What happened? We are where we were. You are there—we are here. A wall drawn in between— you became Pakistani, we became Hindustani. You became our enemies; we became yours. When the officers come, we get down from the wall and hide in our cells. For the officers do not tolerate direct conversations between Pakistan and Hindustan; that Pakistanis and Hindustanis meet. No; they have posted policemen.

Man’s mind is partitioned; the earth is not. The earth Dadu calls hypocrisy is the earth of your divided mind. It is the earth of your notions. The real earth, upon which you stand, is indivisible—Paramatma’s.

And…the world of prapanch.

The world is not prapanch; prapanch is the world. The games you have created—of husband, wife, brother, sister, friend, enemy— a thousand games. Customer, shopkeeper, master, servant— countless games man plays. For twenty-four hours, observe— how many games you play.

You sit in your room reading a newspaper. The servant enters—you keep reading as if no human being has entered. For this is not a human—it is a servant. His coming and going—you need not notice. You do not even raise your eyes from the paper. You act as if a dog or a cat had gone past. Even when a dog or a cat goes by, one glances. A servant!

A servant is no human. He is not someone’s husband, someone’s father. There is no heart beating in his chest. There is no breath in his breath. He is a servant! A label. You stand on this side of the label—you do not even see the human on the other.

For there is danger in seeing. If you look beyond the game, it may be his wife is ill; and the salary you pay is enough to die on—not enough to live. His child is hungry. If you see the man—you will be in a fix. Do not see the man. Put a big label—servant. Hide the man behind it. Now we have to do with the servant—hundred rupees a month—take it. Work to be done—do it. We have to do with work and with paying you—no other relationship. Beyond this we will not see in you, nor should you try to see in us.

Then your master comes, of whom you are the servant. You spring to your feet—this is the master. You wag your tail. Seat him on a chair, welcome him. He is also just a man. But the label on him is different. That one was a man—the servant. Now you are the servant. He will behave with you as you behaved with your servant.

This is the game. This play goes on. Your wife, your son— if your son is ill, you are troubled; the neighbor’s child is ill— no difference. It is only a game. Are you certain your son is your son? Perhaps he belongs to the neighbor—who knows? But once labels are tied, accounts are straight.

Then the limits of the game are set. There are rules—according to which we move. As on the road—rule—keep left. In America—keep right. That works, this works—both are rules of the game—necessary. Because there is such a crowd—if all begin to walk straight in the middle— where they like—moving will be difficult; there will be obstruction. For strollers there is no issue; for those who must reach somewhere, great trouble. So rules are made; games are arranged.

Prapanch means—the rules man has imposed upon the reality of life, and around which he lives, and whose beyond he never looks.

You are going on the road—Gogol has a short story— two policemen are walking. A man holds a stray dog by a leg. A crowd has gathered. The crowd is always eager to see such things— nothing much is happening, yet as if a great miracle! The man holds a stray dog. The man too is a stray. He is trying to kill the dog— for the dog bit him. The two policemen join the crowd.

Policemen know dogs are their mortal enemies. Dogs have something against uniform. Policeman, postman, sannyasin—the dog is against uniform. Wherever he sees a uniform, the dog is agitated—he is rebellious; the enemy of uniform. So dogs do not allow policemen to walk at night.

One policeman said, Kill the dog. The dog is a devil. At night he troubles us too. End this nuisance.

The other looked closely and whispered— This is the police commissioner’s dog. Not an ordinary dog—fool. We will be trapped.

The one who had said, Kill the dog— at once he leaped, seized the man by the neck—You wretch! Whose dog are you killing? He lifted the dog onto his shoulder, began to fondle it. He handcuffed the man—Take him to the station.

But the other policeman then said—No, brother, we made a mistake. It looks like the commissioner’s—but it’s not. It’s a stray.

Immediately the dog was flung to the ground—Filthy! All my clothes are soiled! I will have to bathe! The man was released—Take the dog. Kill it here, right now.

But again the policeman said—Brother, I have doubts. It is risky. I think it might be the commissioner’s dog.

The matter changed again—the man’s neck was seized— You stray! In truth, you are the stray. Come to the station! Which dog are you killing? The dog was lifted onto the shoulder, and the policeman was fondling it.

No one has anything to do with the dog, nor with the man. If the dog is the commissioner’s—everything changes.

Think— in your life daily you will find such incidents. The police commissioner’s dog—the matter is different. The minister’s brother-in-law— another matter. What has anyone to do with it—dog or brother-in-law! But the matter changes at once. Just now this man looked like a derelict, then suddenly it was known he is the minister’s brother-in-law— you bowed. But someone whispered—He is the ex-minister. The matter ended. Let him die, let him go—what have we to do with an ex-minister!

In India, if nothing else, there are at least a thousand ex-ministers— ghosts. How many brothers-in-law of those thousand! Among them some only claimed when a man was a minister—We are your in-laws. When he ceased to be, they dropped their claims— now they are in-laws of someone else. I know such people—who are related to whoever is in power.

This is natural—this is prapanch. Here no one is concerned with people or with truth. Here there is a game—a dream. Your greed, your profit, your ego—whichever is gratified.

Dadu: With hypocrisy you will not find the Beloved—

If you live in such hypocrisy, in deceit—you will not find the Beloved.

Dadu: With hypocrisy you will not find the Beloved— if within there is no truth.

If the inner truth is not found, then through this outer prapanch you will not find Him.

However you are on the outside— wash the inner filth.

However you are on the surface—Paramatma will ask about your inner stains. Whether you bathed five times a day or not; whether you applied tilak, chandan, wore a tuft, a janeu— Paramatma is not mad; He will not check such things— Where is your janeu? How long is your tuft? Is the knot tied? Which tilak do you apply?

Paramatma will ask about your inner— Did you wash your stains? Did you awaken within, dissolve your stupor? Remove ego, cultivate awareness?

However you are on the outside— wash the inner filth.

So outside—live as you must. Live in the world—I say. Inside, be a sannyasin. Sit in the shop—sit. But do not leave the temple within. Live in the marketplace—live. But keep the thread of inner meditation in your hand.

Those who reached have all said—

Those who reached have said the same thing.

…their one, same message.

All the wise are of one mind; they have one caste.

Those who became wise, who awakened, who knew life—their view is one; their caste is one. Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ—one caste. You have thousands of castes. The enlightened speak one; your pundits speak multitudes.

Those who reached have said— their one, same message.

And that message is this: Wash the inner filth. Surrender within. Drop the ego. Find the inner truth. Do not worry about changing conduct to show others—transform the within. Conduct will change by itself. Conduct is the shadow, the consequence, of the inner.

All the wise are of one mind…

One is their view. Their message is small.

…their caste is one.

Their caste is one.

On earth there are two kinds of people: the wise, mature, awake—and the sleeping, immature, childish. The wise and the childish—these are the two castes in the world.

The childish have thousands of castes—sects, denominations, doctrines, scriptures. The wise have one doctrine, one caste—for their statement is one: Die, and Paramatma happens. Your being—prapanch, hypocrisy. Your disappearing—the door for Paramatma’s arrival. Lose yourself, so that Paramatma may be found. When the drop sinks into the ocean—it becomes the ocean.

Enough for today.