Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #8

There are only two ways to live. One is the way of struggle; the other is the way of surrender. In truth, the way of struggle is no way at all, for it brings nothing but pain and misery. Only surrender is a true way. The outcome is clear: through struggle your hands remain empty; the moment you surrender, your hands fill—your whole emptiness is filled.

This may sound upside down, paradoxical: those who fight end up defeated, and those who accept defeat at the very first step cannot be made to lose. The way to win is to lose.

We have heard this about love: the way to win is to lose. The same applies to prayer, for prayer is love expanded. Prayer is love.

In the world, the way to win is to fight; in liberation, the way to win is to lose. And so it is right that the path of the world and the path of liberation are opposite.

Mulla Nasruddin was near death—his last stage, his last breath. His friends asked, “Nasruddin, tell us how we should bury you—give us some instructions.” Nasruddin said, “Do one thing—I’ve always wanted this: bury me on my head, in a headstand.” His friends were astonished: “We’ve never heard of anyone being buried on his head! Why do you say such a bizarre thing?” Nasruddin replied, “I’ve tried standing on my feet my whole life and found nothing but suffering. Now I want to try the opposite—see that other world upside down, because I’ve heard from the wise that the two ways are opposite. In this world I stood on my feet and failed; now I want to stand on my head in that world—so that I don’t fail again.”

He spoke aptly. The laws of this world and that world are indeed opposite. Here, if you fight you may win—but even then it is only a possibility. There, if you fight you are certain to lose—no mere possibility, absolute certainty. There, if you are ready to vanish, to be lost—you alone are entitled to gain all.

Jesus said, “Die like a seed, and you will sprout; the flowers of God will bloom in you.” He also said, “Those who seek to save themselves will lose themselves; and those who lose themselves will alone truly save themselves.”

This story points to that secret. In this short parable, these two pivots of life are revealed. Let us read the story and try to understand each word.

“A river, having arisen far away in the mountains and journeyed on, reached a desert. There, its streams began to vanish into the burning sands. The river panicked, for suddenly it seemed her life-journey was about to end!”

All rivers arrive at the desert—arrive they must. The desert is experience. All life-journeys arrive in suffering, for who has ever matured without it? Every gold must pass through fire. That is the only way the dross can burn away and the gold can be refined.

You too arrive at the desert—every day—where everything scorches, where it seems, “Now I’ll be erased, now I’ll be erased,” and where no path to safety appears, where all roads vanish. “Desert” means: where no path remains, and whatever you do, no escape is visible.

Look rightly and our whole life is a desert. The moment we enter the body, we have entered the desert. Hence the wise have ceaselessly cried one thing: freedom from birth and death—how, O Lord, to be freed from the round of coming and going? How can the river be freed of the desert?

The body is a desert—in it you are being lost. Your life-stream is drying up. That’s why a child is born radiant with life; then day by day the stream dries. The old become sapless. All light is lost; energy is spent.

What is it we call life? The gradual vanishing into a desert. One day the river is completely dry and a corpse is left in your hands.

What we call life is that very desert; the “river” being spoken of is you. It is not about a river of water; it is the river of consciousness.

“A river, having arisen far away in the mountains and journeyed on, reached a desert.” All rivers arrive; they must. Without passing through desert, how is a river tested?

People ask—always they have asked—why is there suffering in life? They don’t know that if there were no suffering, by what would life be refined, shaped, made mature? It’s as if a stone chip asked the sculptor, “Why do you chisel me?” The stone does not know that without the chisel it will remain crude. The chisel seems to cut, but what cuts is what creates. Useless pieces will fall; the statue will emerge. The stone from the roadside will be enthroned in a temple. Those who once walked on it will bow before it. Those who never even looked at it will wave lamps before it. But the chisel was necessary.

Suffering is the chisel. Those who receive it are fortunate; those who don’t are unfortunate. Yet those who suffer think themselves unlucky, because they don’t understand the value and creativity of suffering—that suffering is a creative force, the chisel.

If you can see suffering rightly, you will thank God even for suffering. Without the eyes to see, you complain to God even for your pleasures. With the eye to see, gratitude arises even for pain, for you know that only by passing through it will you emerge, will you be revealed; the useless will be cut away, the essential will stand; the nonessential will fall, the essence will remain.

The Sufi mystic Bayazid said: Those who have not come out of hell never reach heaven. Those who have not known the dark night can have no dawn—nor can there be. And the one who has seen that every dark night hides a morning behind it, thanks God even for the night. Then complaint disappears from life; and a life without complaint is a life of prayer.

Whether you chant “Rama, Rama” or not is not essential to prayer; even your chanting can hide complaint. Whether you go to temple or mosque is irrelevant; you might go there because where else will you go to lodge your complaints?

Whether you go or not—if complaint vanishes from your life, whether you “pray” or not, prayer has begun. The absence of complaint is prayer. Then you find occasions for gratitude everywhere—even for suffering, for you know suffering refines, it polishes, it reveals what is hidden, burns the unreal, and preserves the real. Without the backdrop of pain, there is no other way.

All rivers reach the desert. When your river enters the desert, don’t panic. Understand the story:

“There its streams began to vanish into the burning sands. The river panicked, for suddenly it seemed her life-journey was about to end.”

The desert is an examination—not an end. Suffering is not a termination—it is part of the journey.

Understand something important here.

In the East—especially in India—no tragedies were written; no tragic dramas. India created a unique literature, but everything ends in joy—comedies—all happy endings; no tragedies. Western litterateurs are puzzled: why? Such a long tradition, yet no tragedies? The West can hardly consider a playwright great if he writes happy endings. But there is a reason: India holds that the end can never be upon suffering. Sorrow may be in the middle, in the journey—never at the goal. This is a deep inner discovery: the goal is God—there is the great joy, bliss. However many deserts the river wanders through, however often it seems “lost, now lost”—it is never lost. Sufferings are lost; consciousness goes beyond them. Deserts vanish; the river remains. There is no way to erase the river.

How many deserts you have seen! Your river has crossed uncountable sorrows—and will keep flowing until great bliss is attained. Thus India says: life’s journey completes in ananda, bliss. One who attains bliss—his journey is finished. Hence we say: a Buddha is not born again; Krishna does not take birth again. The enlightened do not return—because the journey is over.

How strange: sorrow could not end it, but bliss did! Great deserts, great pains—yet the river was not lost. For births upon births there was anguish, but no one was ever erased by anguish. In the great bliss one is erased: Buddha is lost—you are not.

People asked Buddha: when the Tathagata—an awakened one—dies, what happens? Where does he go? How does he remain? What is the journey then? Buddha said: don’t ask such things. When a lamp is extinguished, do you ask where the flame went? It simply disappears into the great void. So too does the awakened one—into the great emptiness.

The ignorant do not disappear; the wise do! So don’t be afraid of disappearing; you cannot disappear—that is the ultimate fortune. Only the supremely wise disappear. And until bliss, the journey continues, for until the goal is reached, how can the journey be complete? Nothing ends in the middle.

Therefore India wrote happy endings, not tragedies.

If a drama ends in sorrow, it declares life a tragedy. Ending in happiness proclaims that sorrow may exist on the way, like steps—but they all lead to great joy. There will be hardship on the path, but it only heightens the sweetness of the goal. There will be thirst, but that thirst prepares the fullness of quenching when the water comes.

We have used sorrow as a tool to create joy. We have pressed suffering into service to take us to great bliss. We have called death the gateway to immortality. And this is no mere belief—it is experience.

The river panicked—as you would. Burning sand, blazing desert, flames on every side—the river began to vanish. Suddenly it seemed life’s journey was over.

The river knows nothing of the whole journey. You don’t know where you came from; you don’t know how you came. If only you knew your source, you would not be so afraid. If you knew from where you come, you would not be so easily shaken. If you recognized who you are, you would become fearless. Even if death stood before you, even if the desert burned—took the very form of death—nothing inside would tremble, if you knew who you are. But neither you nor the river knows.

The river knows only this: that it is coming from distant mountains. But where did the river come to the mountains? It fell from the sky—descended from the clouds. And from where did it come to the clouds? It rose from the ocean. And the ocean? It received it from the mountains. Then life is a circle—not a straight line. Therefore we say: life has no beginning and no end; a circle has neither beginning nor end. A line begins and ends; a circle does not.

Life is a circle. Where it ends, it begins; where it begins, it ends. Life is a revolving wheel, a bicycle wheel. The river does not know. It may only know, “I come from the Himalayas, I am the Ganga.” But from emptiness no river suddenly descends; something never arises out of nothing. Existence comes only out of existence; if it came out of nothing, then “nothing” would be the supreme existence, for what is not cannot give birth.

At Gangotri it appears the Ganga suddenly manifests; but it was previously unmanifest. Keep tracing, and you find it in the clouds; not seen there either. Likewise you did not suddenly appear from your mother’s womb; that is your Gangotri. Before that you too were in the clouds and sky. The womb is not the origin, only a stopover—a lodge where you rested, gathered provisions for the journey, collected energy for seventy years. Not your source—part of your path. But you don’t know; so how would the river know? You too think this birth is everything. You too have forgotten past lives; you too have no memory of the sky-route. How would the Ganga remember? She too thinks: “I was born at Gangotri—and here is the desert—now comes my end.”

Find the source and you have found the end. Know the first and you recognize the last, for first and last are two names for one. Life is a circle.

The river panicked that life was ending. Can life end so easily? Life never ends. Life has never ended. Life is that which does not end. Whatever ends is not life.

Have you seen anything end? Forms change. Ice melts into water; water rises as vapor. Forms change; the life-energy does not end.

Ask the scientist—though materialist he says: nothing ends in this universe. The total energy remains constant. It can neither increase—where would the extra come from?—nor decrease—where would it go? A stone may move from one side of the path to the other; a puddle may rise as vapor, descend to the sea. But nothing can go outside this existence, nor come in from outside.

Nothing is destroyed here; nothing is created here. Only transformation occurs.

“Birth” and “death” are false words. Neither were you ever born nor can you die. You have always been; only forms change. Yesterday you had another form; today another. The form is born and will die. Birth and death belong to form. You are formless. Today you are in this wave; tomorrow in another. This wave will subside; another will be. You cannot end; ending is impossible.

Scientists say: no creation or destruction of any thing is possible. You cannot destroy even a grain of sand, nor create one. You can combine and separate, rearrange.

So if even you are afraid of death, it is no surprise that the river is; it feels life is ending—those acquainted with life never panic even before death.

Life can never die; death can never be life. Death means “that which is not”; life means “that which is.” They have never had any relationship, nor can they ever meet.

Then a voice came from the background: “Just as the wind crosses the desert.” The river felt the wind said something—the desert said something: “Just as the wind crosses the desert, so too can the river.” The wind crosses the desert and is never lost, however burning and blazing the desert. The wind comes and goes beyond; the desert cannot absorb or erase it.

A voice from behind said, “River, don’t panic. As the wind crosses the desert, so too can you.”

Buddha said: a saint is like the wind. One of Buddha’s names is Tathagata—such a lovely name. Of all the names given to Buddha, none is sweeter. Tathagata means: like a gust of wind—thus come, thus gone. Thus came, thus went. No footprints behind, no trace. We don’t know when he came or when he left—no sound of coming or going. He made no noise; only ego makes noise. The “I” creates racket.

He came like emptiness, departed like emptiness. Those who could understand emptiness recognized; those accustomed to noise never heard.

Tathagata—so sweet: came like this, went like this—no one even knew. That is why the names of the awakened are so often missing from history; no commotion was made.

Newspapers catch those who make noise; disturbers are recorded by history. If you have killed and burned, your name appears. But what history for Buddha? What story? Nothing. Like a breath of wind—came and went.

“A voice from behind said: Don’t be afraid; as the wind crosses the desert, so can you. Rather than drying up and ending in the sands, better to become vapor and cross with the wind. Why not ride the wind, instead of rotting here?”

Understand this carefully; it is subtle.

Because even if the river dries, it will still ride the wind—whether it knows it or not. The only difference is one of awareness. If it dries in the desert, what happens? Drying means becoming vapor; it will mount the wind anyway. The difference? Only this: it will mount the wind in torment, thinking, “I am perishing, I am putrefying; I am gone. My journey is finished.” But can your ignorance make life be destroyed? Only you will die in anguish.

When someone writhes, panics, weeps at death—he isn’t really dying by that weeping; the soul moves on. His drama is pointless. The wise also die—but laughing, for they see the journey goes on.

When Ramakrishna died, his wife began to cry. A moment before his last breath, Ramakrishna said, “Don’t cry—I am only changing clothes. These garments are falling; I’ll wear new ones. I will remain.”

His wife Sarada—simple and innocent—accepted it. After he died, she refused to break her bangles, as widowhood custom dictates. She said: “He told me I am only changing clothes; I will remain. So he remains, I am a married woman still. Whether I see him or not, he is somewhere. I am not a widow. If he is not seen, that is my ignorance; his being has not ended.”

Perhaps she alone in India lived as a widow who wore bangles and never again shed a tear. Her routine continued as before. Each night she made Ramakrishna’s bed, set his pillow, straightened the sheets, and said, “Now Paramhansadev, please sleep.” Every morning she set his plate, went to the sitting room where he used to sit, and said, “Now, Paramhansadev, come—the food is ready,” seated him at the plate, fanned him. The disciples began to think she had gone mad—after all, even the closest disciples could not see him. They said, “People will laugh, Mother Sarada—stop this. They’ll think you are insane.” She replied, “I too understand it looks like madness, because I have no eyes to see. I am ignorant; I don’t see him when I make the bed, nor when I invite him to eat—but that is my fault, for he said he is only changing clothes. Shall I trust his knowing or my ignorance? Let the world call me mad—he, wherever he is, will understand me.”

The ignorant die weeping; the wise die laughing—as if death were a doorway. On this side the old world remains; on that side a new world begins. Death is another name for birth. The water falls on fire—it does not vanish; it becomes vapor. Here is death; there is birth. On this side of the door is written “Death,” on that side “Birth.” It is but a door; only garments are changed.

Had the river rotted, it would have mounted the wind anyway—but unconsciously. The voice said, “Rather than letting the desert erase you, erase yourself.”

This is the secret: rather than being killed by death, die yourself. Don’t give death the chance. Rather than drying up in torment, dry up dancing, joyfully. Rather than thinking “I am ending as a river,” think “I am riding the wind.” Mount the wind—the wind is like a steed; it will carry you beyond the desert. The wind always goes beyond—take its support. Go with it. Understand this word “with.”

Whatever you go with—there misery ends. Whatever you oppose—there misery begins. “Going with” is the art of the sage. That is the sage’s art in essence: he knows how to go along. If a headache comes, he goes with the headache. If the hand is cut, he goes with the cut hand. If he is defeated, he goes with defeat. Throw him to the ground—he won’t give you the chance to topple him; he lies down by himself. He knows how to go along.

In Japan there is an art: judo—the art of going with. If someone attacks, the master says, don’t fight—go with it. Don’t let him “beat” you—be beaten. Strangely, it takes years to learn, because it is the hardest thing. When a fist comes your way, you stiffen against it; even if you don’t punch back, your bones brace to resist.

Judo’s art is to drink the fist—go with it. As if someone punches a pillow—what happens? The pillow doesn’t fight; it makes space. The punch hurts the hand; the pillow is unhurt.

The masters say: become like a pillow. When someone strikes, give his hand space—go with it. And a unique secret: if you go with the one who punches, the energy coming with the punch becomes yours. You don’t fight—you absorb his force. Thus, if one truly knows judo, the strongest cannot defeat the weakest—because the weak one does not lose his energy; the strong man expends his, and the weak drinks it. The strong will fall, defeated by his own wastefulness. If two are equally skilled, victory or defeat is undecidable—very difficult.

Judo is the essence of spirituality. You needn’t learn it in a wrestling ring; your whole life is a bout—you are fighting every moment. There, don’t fight.

A tree stands; a storm comes. The big tree, stiff with pride, fights; its roots are torn up. Is the storm tearing its roots—or because the tree is rigid, the roots are torn? The storm didn’t come for this tree; it was just passing. Under the tree are small blades of grass; the storm passes over them too. The grass bends, goes with the wind. The big tree will fall; the blade will stand again.

What the grass knows—that is judo, that is spirituality: the art of going with.

You fight needlessly. You think the storm came to fight you! The storm passes in its own nature; you make enmity without cause. The storm has no idea of you, no relationship of like or dislike. It won’t even know whether you bent or stood stubbornly. The grass will triumph over the storm; the great trees will break and be destroyed.

What was the big tree’s weakness? It was strong—far stronger than a blade—but the strength was lost in fighting; the roots were ripped out, and the strength did not remain even to stand up again.

The blade was weak—but it took no stance of struggle. It bent; the storm moved on; it stood fresh again. Only dust was shaken off—some dry leaves fell—and it stood newer, fresher.

Ask the blades after a storm—they rejoice that the storm came, because they went with it.

The voice from behind said: “Don’t fight.” And where there is fear, fighting begins. The frightened man has two options: fight or flee.

Mulla Nasruddin was teaching his son boxing. Neighbors asked, “What are you teaching?” He said, “Necessary. There are ruffians around; on the way to school quarrels happen. So boxing.” Someone said, “But there are stronger boys trained already—what then?” Nasruddin said, “Am I a fool? I’ve already taught the art of running: if you see someone stronger—just run. If weaker—don’t give him the chance to run. And don’t worry who attacked whom—you attack the weak, and avoid the strong.” I’m teaching both!

These are the two options: fight or flee. But in the depth of life—where is the option to run? Where will you go? If the river has reached the desert, how can it return? If you’ve arrived in suffering, how to go back? The past is gone; there is no path back.

Then what is the deep option? Escape is impossible; what will you do when sorrow arrives? There are then two other options: fight with a heavy heart, or go along with a light heart. If you fight with a heavy heart, what will happen will happen anyway. If you go along with a light heart, what will happen will happen anyway. This is destiny’s dictum. This is the deep meaning of fate.

What must be, will be; your doing or not doing changes little. Then why this needless trouble? If your doing doesn’t change it—the river will dry in the desert anyway, will become vapor anyway—what remains in the river’s hands? Vision. What remains is attitude, orientation, interpretation. The act will be what it will be; how you think about it is in your hands.

In the Gita, Krishna says just this to Arjuna, as the voice said to the river. Arjuna stands on the battlefield; there is no way to return. In life there is no way back. Where will you run? Wherever you go you’ll find struggle. Does the enemy stop chasing because you run? Stand, and perhaps he stops.

What you run from pursues you. What you fear, scares you more. What you are afraid of becomes like a ghost, haunting you.

If Arjuna ran, the Kauravas would pursue him forever; enemies would meet him everywhere; inner guilt, the pain of defeat, humiliation—would haunt him. Krishna says, that is not the way. The war will happen.

Krishna says something astounding: “Don’t think you are killing them. I see them as already killed. Destiny has finished them; these are dead men standing. You will only give a push—your push is needed; they will fall. Their necks are already severed; they have cut themselves. The play in destiny is complete. You are merely an instrument; do not become the doer. Don’t think you are fighting. You are an instrument in the hands of the Divine—go with it. Don’t obstruct God; let Him flow through you. Let what He wants, happen. Go along.”

The whole Gita can be summed up in this small phrase: “Go along.” Do not go contrary to what is happening. Melt into what is happening. Do not take yourself so importantly that by your doing anything different will be.

Ego insists on doing. Hence ego never accepts fate. The more egoistic a person, the more he insists, “You can do.” Ego stands on doing. If it is certain that nothing can be done, there is no foothold for ego. Where will you stand? Only if you can do, do you exist; your posture depends on doing.

The deep meaning of destiny is simply this: whatever you do, what must be will be. But by your attitude you can be needlessly miserable or quietly happy.

The river can be miserable if it thinks, “I will be lost.” Or it can be happy if it thinks, “I will ride the wind and cross the desert.”

Therefore the non-sage is always miserable; the sage is always happy—because the sage has learned the art of going along. The non-sage is fighting. “Non-sage” does not mean “bad man.” He may be a good man. In depth, “non-sage” means the fighter, the one who creates obstruction, retaliation; the doer. “Sage” means: God is the doer; I am only a conduit.

So do not take “sage/non-sage” to mean good/bad; often the non-sage may be good, but even in goodness he remains the doer: “I gave charity, I practiced nonviolence, I served, I did this, I did that.” He builds mansions of doership around his “I.” “I did.”

I have heard: two men knocked at heaven’s gate together. The doorkeeper opened. The first had been a drunkard and debauchee—no sin left undone; even now his feet staggered from drink. He wobbled in. The second was religious, virtuous; he had built temples, given generously; his intoxication had not subsided either—he entered with a swagger. You could see from his gait: not ordinary; village chief, perhaps! His name engraved on many temples; his deeds still being praised on earth—those who took him to the pyre must be singing his glory.

As for the other—probably no one even accompanied him to the cremation; maybe the municipal cart took him—still drunk, still staggering.

The gatekeeper asked the drunkard, “What did you do in the world? We’ll send you to heaven or hell accordingly.” He said, “Did? Nothing worth saying. And to find a sinner like me would be hard. No need to ask; don’t tally accounts—just tell me the way to hell. I’ll go by myself; don’t trouble yourselves to escort me. It’s certain—hell is mine; I knew that already.”

He asked the other. He rattled off the list—so many temples, so many feedings of sadhus, so many fasts, so many malas, so many lakhs of times the name of Rama written. He too said, “No need to ask—just show me the way to heaven.”

And when they were sent, the drunkard was in heaven and the doer of charity in hell. For the one who accepted, “I did nothing,” who accepted, “I am a nothing”—all his sins became zero. Without ego, no sin can stick—there is no place to stick—and all his sins sank. And the one who said, “I did”—all his virtues sank; for once joined to ego, virtues become vices.

Thus “sage/non-sage” has nothing to do with good/bad. The knowers say: the sage is the one who goes along; the non-sage is the one who fights, who insists. The big trees that stand rigid in storms are non-sages; the bending plants are sages.

Said the voice from behind: “Do not panic. Better than drying up in the sands—become vapor and cross the desert with the wind.” Hearing this, the river asked, “If I dissolve into the wind, how will I know that I am still me?”

That is the ache—the single thorn in everyone’s heart—river or man: “All right, but if I dissolve into the wind, how will I know I am me? My form will change—what will remain of my identity?” Identity—recognition—this is the essence of sin. “How will people recognize me? My identity will be lost.”

The Ganga has a name; the Yamuna has a name. Dissolved into air, no name remains. Ganga’s water cannot claim, “I am holy Ganga water.” It will mingle with a dirty puddle. It can no longer boast that on its banks thousands attained liberation. The claimant is gone; name and form are gone.

The urge to preserve name and form is the world. You want your name to remain, form to remain, “I” to remain—even if there is suffering, no matter—so long as I remain. You would even prefer hell if your identity is acknowledged—people greeting you on the road.

Bernard Shaw said, with biting humor but truth: “I’d prefer hell, provided I can be number one. Being number two in heaven? Not my preference. Standing in a queue? No thank you. Hell is fine—so long as I’m number one!” Such is the intoxication of identity. When you stand number one—even in hell—you are President. All your Presidents are in hell—and can be nowhere else. Yet the relish of being number one is such that one is ready to endure hell.

Jesus said, “Those who stand first in line—beware—shall be last in the kingdom; and those who stand last shall be first.” But who wants to stand last? The very thought hurts. “Identity will be lost; no form, no color, no body; no banks, no mode.”

So the river said, “How will I know I am me?” That is why we cling so tightly to the body. However many sages shout that you are soul, you cling to the body, because it is your “bank”—within its edges you feel sure who you are.

If we accept the sages, the soul becomes like air—formless, nameless; no address, no whereabouts. “Formless soul”—we hear it, but the mind grasps form, for with form identity stays. Identity is petty—shallow.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin came to a village during a fair; no lodging was available. With difficulty, a hotel owner agreed to put him in a room with someone else. Nasruddin went in. The other was already there. Nasruddin said, “All fine—only one problem. But never mind...” He lay down in shoes, turban, coat—then tossed and turned. The other man couldn’t sleep either. “This fellow is strange—doesn’t even remove his turban or shoes! How will he sleep? And if he tosses, how will I sleep?” He said, “Brother, at least remove your clothes, your shoes and turban.” Nasruddin said, “In the morning how will I recognize who I am? This turban, these shoes, this coat—these are my identity. Then there will be a mess!” The other said, “We’ll find a way. But don’t keep me awake all night.” A child had left a toy balloon in the room. The other said, “Take off your clothes; I’ll tie this balloon to your leg. That will be your identity in the morning—you will know you are you.” Nasruddin said, “Good—that will work. Some identity—small is fine—a balloon is fine.”

In the night the other thought of a prank. When Nasruddin began snoring, he untied the balloon and tied it to his own leg. In the morning Nasruddin woke, panicked, woke the other, and said, “I told you there would be a mess. Now there’s a big trouble. One thing is certain: I am not me—there’s no balloon! But it’s very hard to accept that you are me—that’s an even bigger problem.”

Our identity is all with the body—that’s why memory of past lives is lost. People ask me: why don’t we remember? How could you? The body you had then is not here—the balloon is gone. The name is gone; color and form are gone. The nose was different, hands different, feet different, the manner different—everything changed. Your identity was the sum of those—so the memory bridge is lost. That identity card of the last life is not here—without it memory cannot link.

Unless you have looked within and seen that to which balloons are tied, you will be in trouble—each time memory will be lost; each time you’ll wander. That’s why past-life memory doesn’t remain.

The river trembled: “All this is fine—go along—but this seems like suicide.” Remember: to the ego, religion always looks like suicide. It seems to mean: we must be destroyed. Going along means our identity will be lost. If we bow, we are gone. What of our prestige, our glory?

The river felt: “This is self-slaughter. Better to fight—at least for a while we will be. We may break into pools and dry, but the fight will remain—at least the desert will know we did not yield easily; we did not throw down our arms.”

“My form will change—what will remain of my identity?” The voice replied: “The Air will preserve your essence—your swarupa.”

Remember the difference between form and essence. Form is what is outside you; essence is what is inside. Form changes with every birth; essence never changes. If you think form is “you,” you will be in trouble every time. Banks change; the river does not. Even if the banks disappear, the river does not. The inner essence remains the same. But you have no relationship with it; you have not looked at it.

You fear losing form because you do not know your essence. One who has known essence has no fear of losing form.

The voice said, “Your essence will be taken care of by the wind. Do not fear. Through rain, the wind will carry your essence up—into the sky—and then set you down again upon the mountains.”

The river did as told. It seems a very intelligent river—far more so than you, for she agreed so quickly.

How many times have you not been told from the background? How many Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Christs have not said around you: “Let go the grip on form so essence may be recognized. That never dies. Then you will never be afraid.” But you have not listened.

The river did. Rain fell upon the mountains, and the river was a river again. And the river learned.

No one learns without disappearing; no one knows without passing through experience. However many voices speak from behind—until you experience it yourself, it is secondhand.

Trust the Buddhas—you may, for they are authentic, their eyes carry proof. But you must experience for yourself. When you yourself pass through the art of disappearing—your river vanishes in the desert, rides the wind, and rain falls on the mountains—then you will know no desert can erase you, no death can erase you. You are eternal, deathless.

Then the river was a river again—and learned what her essence is. She knew, “Being a ‘river’ is my mode, not my essence. It is my garment, not my soul. ‘River-ness’ is my behavior, not my innermost. River is my outer dress, not my inner essence. It is not me. I was there even when the river vanished; I was there when I flew in the sky; and when I rained on the mountains, I was still the same.”

You are always the same—one flavor. Whatever happens in between is the rising and falling of waves; it does not alter your inner nature at all. Your Brahman-nature remains untouched, unstained, virgin—no blot can come upon it.

And the river learned what her essence is. While the river was learning, the sands said, “We know—we see this every day. For from riverbank to mountains, we stretch everywhere.”

While the river was learning and passing through a new experience—of dying and being, of death and immortality—she lost her form and found her essence. Her eyes turned from outer to inner; she recognized herself.

You have an identity that comes from outside. Your name—you did not bring it; it was given to you. When you were born, you were nameless; no one asked you what your name is. Your mother, father, family, society gave it. It is from outside; it is not your identity.

Those who gave you your name know your name; it is guesswork, a convenience, a label—needed for practical dealings. It isn’t you.

Someone told you that you are beautiful—someone said you are clever, someone said foolish—you believed them all. You are carrying what others have said—you are that heap and you call it your identity. You struggle to preserve it. There can be no greater foolishness: trash given by others—which you did not bring...

Do others know you? They don’t even know themselves—how will they know you? The blind are guiding the blind. Jesus said: the blind lead the blind. Kabir said: the blind man leads the blind; both fall into the well.

Those who don’t know themselves tell you who you are: your name, your beauty...

Note: to some you look beautiful, to some ugly; to some likable, to some disliked. Hence your identity is bound to be confused. To some you are a friend, to some an enemy. Your enemy says you are wicked; your friend says none is as compassionate as you. Your wife says you are handsome; your husband says you are the most beautiful woman—yet this is not true for everyone. Someone thinks you are ugly. Someone wonders how this husband bears this wife—how he carries on! Why hasn’t he committed suicide!

Thus a thousand kinds of people say a thousand kinds of things. Your identity is confused. You hold contradictory notions about yourself—someone called you foolish, someone wise—both have gone in. You are a crowd, a marketplace of heard opinions. That’s why you never feel peace within; you cannot be certain of anything about yourself. How could you be, with voices all around? You can be certain only when you look within and stop listening to others.

So long as you listen to others, your identity will be deluded, tangled, a riddle. The day you close your eyes and look within and know yourself, your identity becomes certain. None can shake you then. You know what you are. We have called this self-knowledge.

While the river learned, the sands said, “We know—we see this every day. From riverbank to mountains, we stretch.” Many rivers come—the sands have watched their stories; some wander fighting in the desert and go, others go along and go.

The wise say: worlds change, the sky does not. Today this earth is; tomorrow it will be gone. There are thousands of earths, with thousands of peoples—but the sky is one. The sky knows all—the ignorant and the wise. It has seen those who die fighting, countless times; and Buddhas dissolving laughingly.

It has seen great trees torn down fighting; it has seen small, bending grasses that know the art of Tao, of judo; that bend. The sky has known all. Hence, in all the religions of the earth there is an intimation: if you seek life’s ultimate secret, ask the sky—it has known all the awakened and all the asleep.

Theosophy, in this century, spoke of the Akashic Record: whatever happens is inscribed in the sky; what is significant is never lost.

In this story, the sand is that sky in your story. And the sand said, “We know; we see this daily—from bank to mountains, we spread.”

From your Gangotri to your Ganga Sagar, from your birth to your death, through your countless births and deaths—sky spreads. Your story, your essence is hidden in the sky.

The sky knows all. Until you become like the sky, you cannot know all. The omniscient becomes sky-like—so melted, so empty, that no wall remains between inner sky and outer; no curtain, no screen.

The day you become zero, the inner sky meets the outer sky; that day you are omniscient. That day you know all that the sky knows; that day the sky pours all its secrets into you.

Therefore it is said: how the river of life should flow is written in the sands. This is a deep Sufi dictum: how the river of life should flow is written in the sands. But there is a problem: the river and the sand speak different languages. The sand keeps speaking; the river cannot hear. The languages differ.

The sky speaks continuously—but you cannot hear. Your language and the sky’s differ. The language of the sky is silence. Until you learn silence, you cannot understand the sky’s words.

The voice from behind resounds every day; it tells you daily: don’t fear—you will not die. Do not be afraid. Suffering surrounds you—it is not inside you. However many failures in life, your inner victory is assured. No defeat ever enters there. There you are nectar. There you are sat-chit-ananda. But we do not hear the voice behind; our language is different.

There are some three hundred languages on earth; the sky has only one. Until you learn the sky’s language, the “sands” cannot tell their secret to the “river.”

The name of the sky’s language is meditation—silence. As the sky is in empty stillness, so become empty stillness. Only when you speak nothing will the sands begin to tell you their secret.

And what is that secret? This: that life is infinite. No river ever perishes here. This: that life is beginningless. This: that life is eternal.

Your fear of death is because you made a false identity. Your false identity will die—you will not. You connected yourself to form, not to essence. You are so frightened that even the slightest crack in your form makes you uneasy.

The smallest crack... You come home and your son does not stand up—you are the father—uproar begins: no respect. You are a teacher; you enter the class and a student smiles or laughs—trouble starts. You go to the market; those who usually greet you don’t—anxiety spreads.

In every small thing where your form—your identity—seems to be cracked, you get into trouble. Then when the whole form seems to break in storm and hurricane, will you not tremble? People say, “Once burned by milk, one blows even on buttermilk.”

Mulla Nasruddin was in haste. He ran down the stairs to the garden, then remembered he had left his watch and handkerchief upstairs. He called to his wife: “I forgot my watch and handkerchief. I’m in a hurry.” She came down the stairs with them. He said, “I’m in a hurry—throw them carefully from there.” She threw the watch; she missed; it fell and shattered. Nasruddin said, “Fool, wait—the watch is broken anyway—don’t throw the handkerchief now. I’ll come up myself.”

Once burned by milk, one blows even on buttermilk.

Your lifelong experience is that your identity shatters with trifles. How will you believe it won’t shatter in death? Someone doesn’t greet you—you melt. Someone laughs—your prestige is lost. Someone insults you—a few words—and your very life seems at stake. How will you believe death won’t erase you? If people’s opinions erase you, if their words shake you, will you survive the desert? No—this identity will not. If you break your tie with this identity, then you will survive.

He who breaks his tie with this “identity” before reaching the desert—his joy has no end. Even the desert gives him joy; he enters it dancing. Even death finds him dancing; his feet wear anklets when death arrives.

This is the mark of sage and non-sage: how you accept death. Do you go with it—or do you fight it? Do you mount it, stand up and say, “Let’s go—I agree”? Or do you quarrel, do you scheme to buy a little more time?

The non-sage—though appearing like a saint—will fear; his identity is borrowed. The sage’s identity is essence; none can ever erase it. “Swords do not pierce it; fire does not burn it.” There is no way to erase it. The unerasability—the deathlessness—is his essence, his nature.

Let this story sink deep, for not much time remains—your river will also reach the desert. Prepare yourself to hear the voice from behind.

What I am telling you now is the voice from the background. You will hear it only if you are ready.

And if, hearing it, you agree to “go along,” your great good fortune. If even a little hesitation remains, if you don’t flow but fight, you will miss this life too.

You have missed many lives like this; each time you fought and lost. This time, do not fight—go along.

The one who goes along—wins. The one who goes along—none can erase, for he has erased himself. He has dropped identity, given up struggle.

Struggle is the world; surrender is religion.

That is all for today.