Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #11

If truth could be reached through words, linguists would be the theologians. If the staircase of language could lead to truth, grammar would be enough—no need for yoga or meditation—because then pure language itself would be the path. But truth has nothing to do with words; it has no tie to language. There can be no relation, not even a remote one, with grammar. Yet it has often happened that religion got imprisoned in language, and truth was locked in the jail of doctrines. People concluded that once the scriptures were read, whatever was worth knowing had been known. They mistook a comprehension of doctrines for the state of realization.

There are reasons behind this confusion. The first is that attaining truth is exceedingly difficult; understanding words is very easy—anyone can do it. The grammar of truth is arduous; the grammar of words is simple. To reach truth you must change the grammar of your life; to understand words, linguistics is enough. Language can be taught by another; religion cannot be taught. Religion is like the mute tasting jaggery: whoever tastes it becomes mute. To speak of it is hard, to explain it is difficult. There is no ease in saying anything about it. Whoever speaks—know that he has not yet known.

Buddha speaks, Lao Tzu speaks, Krishna speaks—but whatever they speak is not religion. It is merely an indication, a pointing toward religion. They are milestones with arrows on them. But if you mistake the milestone for the destination and settle there, you will go mad. Yet many have settled there. Those seated with the Gita are sitting by a milestone; those pressing their heads on the Quran are sitting by a milestone. They have taken the arrow for the goal and stopped right there.

All scriptures point toward the void. But the void can have no scripture. All scriptures say, “Become silent,” but silence can never be expressed by words. Understand this rightly, and the dervish-tale will become clear.

A second thing to keep in mind: What you say is not the point; what your feeling is—that is the point.

There is a Jewish tale. Baal Shem, a mystic, was speaking on a holy day. After the talk everyone stood—by custom—for two minutes of prayer. Time passed; Baal Shem stood with eyes closed. People grew nervous. Even two minutes of silence feels long to those unaccustomed to it. And this truly became long! An hour passed; people were restless, yet could not leave until Baal Shem announced that the prayer was complete. He had never done this before. He was a precious man, deeply respected, a true saint.

When he opened his eyes, an old man in front, exhausted, blurted out: “This is too much—two minutes’ prayer took an hour! What were you saying?” Baal Shem replied, “What could I do? There was great confusion. I was entangled myself. Today a certain uneducated man came into our assembly. He offered an upside-down prayer. He is illiterate; he doesn’t know how to pray, he doesn’t know the words of prayer. So during these two minutes he said to God: ‘I don’t know how to pray. I only know the alphabet—A B C D E F G… I’ll recite the whole alphabet; You please arrange it into a prayer. You know everything and You understand my feeling!’ So it took God an hour to assemble the prayer. And until He finished, how could I open my eyes? Such a task had never been left to Him before. Who is this man who made such a prayer?”

Indeed, one man raised his hand: “It was me. I’m in difficulty. I don’t know how to pray. I’m a stranger in this village. Where I come from there is no synagogue, no temple, no priest. I’m the only Jew there; no one ever taught me. When everyone closed their eyes to pray, I wondered what I should say. So I said: ‘You know everything; I’ll recite the alphabet, and the words of prayer are all contained within it. You please put it together.’”

Feeling is what matters. If the feeling is genuine, even the alphabet becomes a mantra. Without feeling, even a great mantra is ash—no life in it. Religion has nothing to do with “what you think”; it has to do with “what you are—what your feeling is, what your heart is.”

How many thoughts are in your mind, how much logic, how much understanding—none of this has any value in the marketplace of religion. How much thirst is in your heart, how much prayer, how much love?

One who goes to “buy God” must rely on the capital of the heart. The capital of the intellect does not work there. Those coins are invalid. There the scholars lag behind; sometimes even a heartfelt ignoramus finds entry.

Now let us try to understand the story.

“A traditionalist dervish was walking along the riverbank, pondering moral questions.”

First, “traditionalist.”

Traditionalist and religious are different. Often, the traditionalist is taken to be religious. We think whoever clings to the old is religious. But the religious person does not deal in the old at all. He has nothing to do with the old nor with the new. The dimension of his search is the eternal—neither old nor new. Religion seeks that which always was, always will be, always is—which never becomes old and never becomes new.

Whatever becomes old was once new. What you now call tradition was once fashion. What you call fashion today will become tradition tomorrow. What you revere today as “very ancient” was once new—and people laughed then at its novelty.

When Buddha first spoke, people laughed: “This is not tradition—he speaks new things. Who will accept the new?” Today Buddha’s words are tradition.

When Jesus first spoke, the Jews crucified him for speaking new things. Today Jesus’ words are tradition.

Time turns every new thing old. But is the mere passage of time the criterion of truth? Is becoming old the sign of realization? Will the dust of time, by piling up, sanctify a fashion into a temple? Yet so think all the so-called religious.

All religions claim, “Our book is older than any other.” Ask Hindus: they say no text is older than the Vedas. Ask Jains: they say, “However old the Vedas, our first Tirthankara is honored within them—so he must be older than the Vedas, because honor takes time. No contemporary gets honored quickly; even a prophet needs time to become tradition.” If the first Tirthankara is honored in the Vedas, it means that by the time the Vedas were being composed, he was already ancient. He was no young revolutionary; his tradition had formed. The Jains say: no religion is older than Jainism.

Such are all religious claims.

Why this insistence on the old? Because our collective notion is “the older, the better.” But religion is not wine, that the older it is, the better it is. Religion is the very opposite of wine: it wakes, it does not put to sleep; it brings sobriety, not intoxication. Yet all the religious have turned their faiths into liquor shops: they boast of age—as if age alone confers value. The traditionalist is not religious; he is an antiquarian.

The old is easy to accept—you don’t have to search. Others have already searched; you need no effort, no discipline, no fire—just borrow. And the older it is, the more have accepted it. Thousands have believed; it gains prestige. “What thousands have believed must be true.” Do not be deceived.

Truth is no democracy; the number of votes in its favor has nothing to do with it. Often the crowd never accepts truth. It is the seekers—individuals—who find it. Truth frequently shocks and unsettles the crowd. Yet the traditionalist thinks, “Since many have believed it—since time immemorial—that must be truth.”

“Long time” hypnotizes because repetition etches grooves into the brain. Kabir says: Just as the rope passing over a well’s curb, pulling water daily, carves marks into the stone, so a word or scripture repeatedly crossing your skull leaves a trace. But truth leaves no trace. Truth is attained only when all traces are wiped from your consciousness—when you become blank, a clean slate.

So age has nothing to do with truth. But this dervish is a traditionalist—thus, not a dervish in the true sense. Dervish means Sufi; in Islam, a dervish is a yogi. But a traditionalist can never be a yogi. The yogi is always revolutionary. There is no greater rebellion than religion, no greater revolution, no greater transformation.

“He was pondering moral questions along the riverbank.” Traditionalists only ponder. They do not “do”; they merely think. They do not change; they compute the costs of changing.

Traditionalists draw blueprints of houses—they never build them. They know all about houses, how to build them; they keep blueprints ready, but never build. You cannot live in blueprints. In the rain, blueprints won’t keep you dry; in the sun they won’t give shade. A hut is needed—even a hut is enough. No grand architect is required. A hut will give shade, rest. But traditionalists won’t build a hut; they carry plans for palaces. They ponder mighty questions, and fail to solve even small ones in life.

They think of right and wrong, auspicious and inauspicious, truth and untruth, good and evil—but these are mental weavings. If you search their lives, you’ll find no hint of these. You won’t find even a hut there.

In fact, the easiest way to forget that you don’t even have a hut is to fantasize about palaces. If you sleep under a tree, dreaming of palaces makes sleeping under the tree easier; the dream fills the space, and the absence of a hut is forgotten. Petty lives often ponder grand questions.

This dervish is neither dervish nor religious. He is walking, pondering morals.

Another point: For a religious person, morality is not a topic of speculation; it is a discipline. He does not worry about what is right and what is wrong.

I have heard: A man came to the Sufi Junayd and said, “I am a great sinner. I heard you say: Repent, and all sins are forgiven. God is compassionate and merciful; His grace is boundless. So I have come. I am a great sinner—but I don’t know how to repent. Teach me, what is repentance?”

Junayd asked a strange question: “Before you sinned, did you know what sin was?” The man was startled. “No, I did not. I learned it only by doing it.” Junayd said, “Then repent. When you sinned you did not ask anyone what sin is; you did it—without thinking. And you learned by doing. Now you want to understand repentance first and then do it? Do it—then you will know. This is man’s deep trick: What he wants to do, he does without thinking; what he does not want to do, he broods over endlessly.”

Understand this: You do the things you want to do. If you want to be angry, you become angry. You never ask what anger is—what is its psychological meaning, its biological process, its chemistry, its purpose in existence. A child does not ask; elders do not ask. You just do it.

But if someone says, “Compassion,” you ask, “What do you mean by compassion?” Even the Buddha grows weary explaining.

Junayd was right: First do it. You learned sin by doing; learn repentance by doing. Other than doing, there is no way to know.

He is strolling the riverbank, thinking—this man is avoiding doing. For one who must act, where is the time to lose? When the noose is at your neck, the sword at your throat, death knocks every moment—any instant you may be gone—who has the leisure to indulge in philosophy? But people think—lifelong.

A gentleman has been coming to me for three years, on and off, thinking about sannyas. I told him this last time: Will you finish thinking while still alive? You might not be here. In thinking you have lost three years; you can lose three hundred. Tell me straight: Is there a trick here? Are you hiding behind thinking to escape sannyas?

He said, “But the wise also say: Don’t take a step without thinking.” I told him: And all the other steps you take daily—you set the wise aside! Only regarding sannyas do the wise appeal to you?

A man can deceive himself; contemplating is the greatest self-deception. Thought casts such a fog that doing never arrives.

This man is pondering moral questions—an image of all who avoid through thinking.

Religion is action; it is not thought. Religion that remains only in your thinking will not descend into your heart, will not enter your marrow. It is smoke, not flame. It will blind you further.

“...Suddenly the sound ‘oo-hoo’ reached his ears from afar, and his train of thought broke. Somewhere in the distance a dervish was reciting a mantra.”

“Allahu” is the mantra. The mantra you use in meditation—“Hu”—is the final part of “Allahu.” It is a Sufi mantra.

The Sufi recites “Allahu, Allahu, Allahu.” When the chant gains a certain rhythm and the life-energy is absorbed in it, speed increases—Allahu whirls faster and faster; the initial “Al” drops—“Lahu, Lahu.” With more speed, even the chanter disappears, and only the life-force intones—then “Hu” remains; the “La” of “Lahu” dissolves. Only “Hu, Hu, Hu” resounds.

But the pronunciation carried across the river was not pure; the man was saying “oo-hoo, oo-hoo.” It was neither “Allahu,” nor “Lahu,” nor “Hu.” He had added an “oo” in front from who knows where. The thinker stopped. He knew the correct pronunciation—though he had never practiced it.

Knowing correctly does not mean you will do. Who doesn’t “know” correctly?

Augustine writes in his Confessions something precious: “O God, I know what is right; and I do the not-right. Now only You can save me. I cannot claim I don’t know what is right—that won’t excuse me. I know it. Nor can I say I don’t know what is wrong—I know that too. Now You save me. Though I know, I do the wrong.”

This man knows the correct pronunciation, though he has never practiced. If he had, he would have become a different man; he would not be thinking about morality. He would have eyes and would see for himself what is auspicious and what is not.

The blind think; the seer sees. The thinker thinks; the knower sees. That is why in our language we call philosophy “darshan”—seeing. Seeing is not thinking.

If he had seen, what was there to think? The blind sit and think about light and colors and rainbows; one with eyes looks—why think?

You’ll notice: people close their eyes to think. To think, one must become blind.

“...The sound reached his ears. The mantra was being mispronounced.”

The pronunciation was impure. Pandits are violently offended by impurity—of words, not of life. A grammatical error feels like a catastrophe—yet grammar is only a game.

There are some three hundred languages on earth, three hundred grammars. Each language has its own grammar, its own way—and all ways are invented. A child isn’t born with language; it is taught. All languages are made up, mutual agreements. We decided to call a chair a “chair,” or a “kursi.” The object is neither “chair” nor “kursi.” The chair does not know its name. Say “kursi,” nothing changes; say “chair,” nothing changes. Neither word has any intrinsic value. Language is only a convention, an imagination.

Language is social in origin, not natural—no relation at all to existence. Language is man’s invention; and man is enchanted by his inventions.

The dervish’s train of thought broke: “The mantra is being mispronounced.” He thought, “As a knowledgeable person, it is my duty to go and teach him the proper method of recitation.”

We must distinguish between the “knowledgeable” and the “knower.” The knowledgeable has correct information; the knower has true experience. Knowledgeability means information. He has solid news—he can prescribe the pure pronunciation, though he has never chanted, never drowned in the mantra. “Allahu” has never become his experience. He learned grammar at the university, sat at the feet of pundits and gathered language.

He felt, “As a knowledgeable person, it is my duty to teach him the proper method.” Whenever you have information, the ego pushes you to go “set others right”—even if you know nothing of the method’s taste.

Ego often makes you an adviser. Thus the world overflows with advice-givers whose advice they themselves do not follow—yet they dole it out to others.

They say: the thing given most in the world is advice; the thing taken least is also advice. People won’t take it even when free.

Mulla Nasruddin went to his doctor. He was old; old habits cling—more so in old age, when strength to change is gone. Tottering steps, smell of liquor on his breath. The doctor said, “Nasruddin, you are beyond medicine. Drop your habits: stop drinking, stop the hookah, stop eating and drinking wrongly, come home on time, stop chasing women.” Nasruddin stood, “Thank you,” picked up his cane and headed out. “Wait,” said the doctor, “my fee for the advice?” Nasruddin said, “I’ll pay if I take the advice. Who is taking it? Advice is free everywhere. And you want me to pay for it here?”

No one is taking advice—and rightly so. Typically the knowledgeable advise—without experience. Perhaps people sense the danger; such advice can push you into a ditch. Your ignorance, at least, is your own; your feet are your own—wobbly, but yours. The adviser has no feet of wisdom, no eyes of awareness—only a web of words. To take from him is risky.

So he thought, “As a knowledgeable man, it’s my duty to teach the proper recitation,” and he took a boat to the small island. There he found the fakir reciting the mantra wrongly. Up close, he taught him the correct recitation—and returned, pleased at having done a good deed.

But tell me: Can giving another what you yourself do not live ever be a good deed? Impossible. If it were good, you would be living it already; then you might not need to advise—the life itself would be a living counsel, a proof, a witness.

You are offering ambrosia you have never tasted! That means you never believed it was ambrosia—otherwise you would have drunk it first. What you haven’t lived is not knowledge; it is trash. Don’t think you are fulfilling a duty; you are just dumping your trash on someone else’s head. Much evil is done under the pretext of good words.

“It was believed this mantra had great power—that by its recitation a man could walk on water. The first dervish had only belief; no experience.”

Remember: belief has no value; experience does. In fact, without experience how can belief be real? Somewhere disbelief will lurk underneath. If someone had told this dervish, “Walk on the water,” he would have protested, “Is that possible? People say so; I’ve read it. I believe the mantra has great power.” But if you believe, why not walk? What’s missing? He refuses; he took a boat to go and a boat to return. The mantra has not become his boat yet. Still, he is eager to correct another’s pronunciation.

There is great pleasure in proving another ignorant. You advise not out of compassion; the real pleasure is subtle: you know and the other does not. It’s a covert way to establish the other’s ignorance. But who is more ignorant than the one bent on proving others ignorant? The wise declare: supreme wisdom is hidden within you. The pundit warns: you are ignorant, you’ll go astray, you’ll end up in hell—mispronounce a Veda mantra and you’ll fall into hell. Pundits frighten you; the wise awaken you. They say: there is nothing to fear; hell is nowhere but in your fears.

He had “faith”—but I say it was only the belief that “I have faith.” If we cut it open, we find disbelief underneath. The scholarly mind cannot be free of doubt. Whatever he “believes,” doubt gnaws. Otherwise he would walk.

I have heard: A village suffered drought for a year; a second year approached with no sign of rain. The land cracked; people withered; animals died. People began fleeing. The village pundit said, “We must pray. Only when divine power descends—when God supports us…” The whole village gathered by the dry river to pray. Perhaps the prayer would be heard.

Everyone went; the pundit went. All were astonished: a small child brought an umbrella. “Foolish boy!” people said, “Why an umbrella? Don’t you know it hasn’t rained for two years? We are going to pray for rain.” The boy said, “I thought when the prayer is heard and the rain falls, we’ll need the umbrella to return.”

Only that boy had faith. His trust was beyond doubt. If he prays, rain could fall. The pundits’ prayers will achieve nothing; in what they are about to do, they themselves have no trust. They do it as compulsion.

Faith cannot exist without experience. Experience is faith. As you experience, trust deepens; as the nectar of experience rises, roots of trust spread in your heart. When experience is complete, trust is complete. Reverence is not the beginning; it is the consummation.

The dervish had gone only a little way back in his boat when he again heard the mispronounced chant. The fakir had reverted to “oo-hoo,” forgetting “Allahu.” That fakir must have been precious!

This is a meeting between a “knower” and a “knowledgeable.” The knowledgeable went far to teach; the knower silently listened and did not say, “Stop—whom are you trying to teach?” Had he said even that, he would have shown ignorance. He agreed to learn.

No one is as ready to learn as the knower. The truly wise learn most readily. He said, “You are right; the pronunciation is incorrect—please teach me.” He did not say, “No need; as is, it’s fine.” He was immediately ready. Wisdom is an eagerness to learn. Wisdom is not a hoard; it is a state of learning. What you have “known” is dead; wisdom is an open sky in this moment—ready to receive from all directions. The one whose doors are shut is a pundit, knowledgeable; the wise are open. They will learn from trees, from animals, even from pundits—from whom there is nothing to learn. This fakir even agreed to learn from this pundit. He did not say, “Leave it; my mantra is perfected.” That would have proved ignorance. He said, “You are right; thanks for your grace. I was mispronouncing; now I will pronounce correctly.”

But the boat had gone only a little distance when the wrong chant was heard again. The knowledgeable, the pundit, became angry at the man’s obstinate mistake. A pundit’s “compassion” is only a facade; anger is the truth. He had gone with compassion—and in a moment compassion turned to anger! True compassion never turns into anger.

A disciple asked Jesus, “You say if someone slaps one cheek, offer the other. How many times? Three?” Jesus said, “No.” “Seven?” “No—seventy times seven is not enough. Your very question is wrong. Is there an end to it? Keep doing it. If he does not tire, why should you? Tire him out!”

Learning has no end. Where does compassion end? If it ends, it was not compassion—anger was hidden underneath; compassion was a cosmetic, like make-up that the first sweat washes away. Within, there was anger.

Even your “compassion” is a mode of anger. If the other refuses your compassion, your anger emerges. But why anger if someone declines your charity?

Had the fakir said, “Leave it; I know,” this man would have flared up then and there. His compassion was false—a refined form of anger. What appears quickly is your truth. If compassion swiftly turns to fury…

The fakir did something astonishing: first he agreed to learn; then he began the “wrong” chant again—as if he were set on waking the knowledgeable man up.

The knowledgeable was enraged. Pundits are quick to anger. The vessel of the pundit is so thin. Deviate from his line slightly and he is offended.

No great mistake had occurred; the mantra was the fakir’s, the realization his. Why should you be angry? You did your “duty.” So the Sufis say: “Do good and drop it in a well.” This man did good but kept it on his shoulder—not into the well. He was returning elated—his ego gratified: an ignorance corrected, a wanderer set on the path. It was ego. If you do good and keep memory of it, you have earned something, you carry a balance-sheet home.

The fakir reverted to the old chant; anger arose. Can good ever become anger? If you carry it on your shoulder, it will. Do good, drop it in a well. If no well, drop it by the roadside—but don’t carry it. If you remember your goodness even for a moment, you have wiped it out. Let your right hand do good without the left knowing—only then is it good. But he was returning with a swagger. He had set a wanderer right!

Angry at the man’s obstinacy—then a startling scene: someone was running across the water toward him. No boat needed. As the storm of footsteps neared, he saw: it was that same fakir!

The mantra’s very siddhi is that one who perfects it walks upon the waves; he needs no boat; water cannot drown him. The mantra becomes the boat.

The knowledgeable must have been in great difficulty—more so when the fakir came close and said, “Forgive me, brother; please be kind enough to teach me once more the correct pronunciation. I forgot. You went to such trouble to teach me, but out of old habit I slipped back into ‘oo-hoo.’ Teach me once more; it will be a great favor.”

What an extraordinary story! This other man is wondrous. Many things to understand.

First: God is not related to pronunciation and grammar. He does not hear what you say or how you say it; He hears from what heart you say it. A childlike heart is needed—one that has not even learned language, that does not know pronunciation.

I have heard: A small boy was saying his bedtime prayer. His mother overheard: “Ditto today—same as before.” And he quickly slipped under his blanket. In school he had learned that “ditto” suffices. Why repeat the same prayer every day? “Same again—understand!” The mother was upset. But I know this child’s prayer could be heard—because hearts are heard, not intellects. The voice that reaches there is the voice of trust, of a child.

These clevernesses—of grammar and calculation, these refinements—have nothing to do with it. Otherwise Kabir and Mohammed would never have reached. Their pronunciations were all “wrong”; their grammars crude. They never studied grammar. Kabir said he never touched paper—yet he arrived.

When Kabir was dying, he left Kashi and went to Maghar. There is a saying: whoever dies in Maghar is reborn as a donkey; whoever dies in Kashi attains liberation. People go to die in Kashi—“Kashi deathbed.” The city is full of those already dead or about to die—widows, courtesans, old folk, sannyasins, sinners—crowded to secure liberation.

When Kabir was near death, he said, “Quickly take me to Maghar.” People said, “Have you gone mad? People come to Kashi to die; you are going to Maghar! Haven’t you heard that whoever dies in Maghar becomes a donkey?” Kabir said, “If He hears my voice, it makes no difference where I die; and if He does not, what difference does it make where I die? And if dying in Kashi guarantees heaven, then I would not wish to go—because the glory would belong to Kashi; what of mine? If I reach by dying in Maghar, then something is mine; I will know my voice was heard—my prayer fulfilled. I will die in Maghar. Becoming a donkey is fine, but it will be for my own reasons. Let it be known that my voice reached.” Kabir had perfect trust; therefore he died in Maghar. The distrustful go to Kashi.

This fakir who ran over water—consider his humility! The mantra is perfected, yet he is ready to learn more—even though there is nothing more in the mantra; it has become a boat. This is a symbol: a realized one cannot be drowned by this world. The world is an ocean of becoming; even a boat of paper might float a while, but you load it with so much—possessions, hoards—that the very weight sinks it. What you accumulate drowns you.

The symbol says: when the mantra is perfected, the realized one walks upon water: nothing in the world can drown him.

Yet though perfected, he is still eager to learn—this is the religious man’s humility, egolessness: when nothing remains to be learned, still he is ready.

And your condition? When everything remains to be learned, you are unwilling to learn—eager to teach. Not even the alphabet begun, not a foot on the first step, and you are ready to instruct.

A man came to the Zen master Bokushu’s monastery: “I want to live here.” Bokushu said, “There are two ways to live here—either as teacher or as disciple. Which do you choose?” The man pretended to think and said, “If it is up to me, then as teacher will be best.” Bokushu said, “Then this monastery is not for you. Find another. You have come to teach; you have not learned yet, but the delusion of teaching has seized you.”

Those who have learned are humble—and ready to learn. The perfected fakir stood upon the water by the boat: “Brother, please teach me the pure pronunciation once more. I forgot. My memory is weak.”

Here the story ends. The Sufis had compassion on the “knowledgeable,” so they ended it here. As far as I know, he must have taught the “correct” chant again. They spared him; but a pundit will not miss such a chance—someone is asking for advice!

And it is hard to find people as blind as pundits. Perhaps the miracle did not even register: that the man came running upon the water. Rightly, he should have fallen at the fakir’s feet and learned—because the question is not whether the mantra is “right” or “wrong”; the man is right. He went from “wrong” to right; I carry “right” in my head and have reached nowhere, needing a hired boat to cross. I erred in presuming to teach him!

He should have collapsed at the fakir’s feet: “Forgive me. I know the ‘right,’ yet have not arrived. You, not knowing, arrived.” It is not the path; it is the walker. It is not the mantra; it is the one who chants. People have arrived with wrong mantras; others have failed with the correct ones. Some have arrived without any mantra; others have memorized great mantras and gone nowhere.

The heart is measured; love is weighed. Your feeling is everything. Drop worries about mantras and scriptures. Words are worth two pennies. Awaken feeling; live from the heart. It is not necessary to mechanically repeat “Ram, Ram.” What is necessary is that in sitting, rising, walking—Ram not be forgotten. It isn’t about repetition; a broken gramophone needle also repeats. If the needle sticks—Ram, Ram—nothing will happen.

Let there be feeling: in rising and sitting, walking and moving, let only Him be seen—in the tree, the bird, the plant, the stone, the friend, the foe—His glimpse everywhere. Whatever you do, sense His fragrance—rising, sitting, sleeping.

Feeling is the door, not the intellect. That is the essence of the story.

Your information will not become a boat. Your beliefs will sink you like stones. Experience becomes the boat—and experience alone births trust.

Do not trust this trash-heap of how much you “know.” That alone will drown you. Remove the trash. Nothing is more futile than pedantry. Drop it; be empty; be pure; be humble.

In that purity and humility, all happens—that siddhi which gives you the strength to walk upon the river without a boat. This entire ocean of becoming, the world, will not be able to drown you. Your very heart, your very being, becomes the boat.

Enough for today.