Sahaj Yog #1

Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening!
Drowsy, languid eyes, unshutter now;
Gaze into the ever-rippling light.
Wave the lamp for what is arriving,
Let go the gone—its ache, its sorrow.
Gather even a little of the new flame,
Close the chapter of grief’s episodes;
Weigh each fresh grain of life,
Open a new, hope-filled chapter.
It is the hour of inner summons;
Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening.

Garlands of many-hued blossoms bloom,
The intoxicating breeze undulates in waves,
Heaps of rays swell and sway,
Earth’s hem ripples in delight;
Birdsong trills unhindered, swelling,
Fragrances manifold, heady, swelling,
Cluster on cluster beauty plays,
Cluster on cluster fresh joy swells—
Awake, it is the hour of new rejoicing.
Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening.

The cold has passed; a new springtime comes.
Forest and grove are veiled in grace anew,
Trees and vines are crowned with blossom,
Every tender leaf smiles with sheen.
The canopy of sky wears blue’s pure hue,
A sweet scent enters riding the wind,
Each particle is steeped in delicate ecstasy,
Nature, a new bride, smiles forth.
Awake, O mind, it is the hour of spring.
Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening!

Only when you wake is there morning; as long as you sleep, it is night. For the awakened, it is ever dawn; for the sleeping, it is always night. Night is not outside, nor is daybreak. The sun must rise within you—only then is there the real morning. The outer suns rise and set; once the inner sun rises, it never sets.

Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening! And the hour of awakening is always now. There is no moment when you cannot wake. There is no instant when you cannot open the eyelids. Your eyes are closed—this is your decision. If you wish to open them, the revolution can happen this very instant. And all the Siddhas, all the Buddhas, have cried again and again, have said again and again: if you choose, wake now. These dreams are of your own manufacture. These anxieties are of your spreading. This hell is of your building. No one else is responsible but you. Nor can anyone else awaken you. A thousand devices may be tried, but if you have decided not to wake, all devices will fail.

Like one sitting with closed eyes—let the sun come; let its rays pour upon your lids; even if some rays pierce through into your eyes and a faint light happens, if you will not open your eyes, what can the sun do? So too, the true Masters come and go. In their very presence a few rays enter even through your shut eyelids, yet you do not open your eyes. Around those few rays you begin weaving new nets of dreams, new webs of words and doctrines.

The Siddhas come to awaken you, but you become Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist. You do not awaken; you merely turn to a new side in your sleep, you begin a new dream! So for centuries there have been those who call you to wake, and you—still asleep.

It is the hour of inner summons—
Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening.
Awake, the hour of new rejoicing—
Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening.
Awake, it is the hour of spring—
Awake, O mind, the hour of awakening!

Spring has come. It knocks upon the door. But you sit inside with the door barred.

The incomparable one with whom we begin our journey today is among the most powerful beings to have walked this earth. Of the eighty-four Siddhas, the first is Sarhapa; with him we begin our pilgrimage.

Sarhapa has three names. Some remember him as Saraha, some as Sarahpad, some as Sarhapa. It seems the Master called him Saraha; his companions called him Sarhapa; his disciples addressed him as Sarahpad. I have chosen to call him Sarhapa, for I know you can become his companions. You can be his contemporaries. To be a Siddha lies within your capacity.

Between the Siddhas and you there is only a gap of time, not of nature. In your nature you are even now a Siddha. As in the seed the sprout sleeps; with time it will break forth, leaves will appear. As the child in the mother’s womb—given time, birth will come. It is only a matter of time. Between you and the Siddhas and Buddhas there is not the slightest gap in nature. You are just as Buddha, as Mahavira, as Muhammad, as Krishna, as Sarhapa. This is the first sutra to remember, because Sarhapa will remind you of just this. And the one who rightly realizes this sutra, who experiences it, who lets it settle and be treasured in the heart—his work is ninety percent done.

It is not a matter of becoming a Siddha—you are a Siddha; it is a matter of knowing it. Only knowing, only awakening. Spring already is; it knocks upon the door. Open your eyelids and the whole world overflows with immeasurable beauty. Open your eyelids and you are met by celebration! Sorrow is cut, the night’s darkness dissolves. That darkness of night is only because your eyes are shut.

Sarhapa was a Brahmin by birth, but he did not remain a Brahmin by birth alone; through experience he became a Brahmin. Many are Brahmins by birth, but birth-Brahminhood has no value—not worth two pennies. Truly seen, by birth all are Shudra. How can anyone be a Brahmin by birth? It is only a nominal thing. Brahminhood is a matter of experience, of awakening. The one who knows Brahman is Brahmin. The one who recognizes Brahman is Brahmin. So by birth all are Shudra. He who awakens is Brahmin; he who sleeps is Shudra—define it thus. The awakened is the Brahmin.

Sarhapa was Brahmin by birth, and by experience too. He was a great scholar—and it is a rare occurrence when a scholar becomes a Siddha. This is very difficult. For the ignorant to become a Siddha is not so difficult; but for the scholar, it is very hard. Why? The ignorant at least has the sense that “I do not know”; hence there is no arrogance. In ignorance there is an innocence. A child’s unknowing, the unknowing of a forest-dweller—you will find an innocence there, not the vanity of knowing. And vanity is the great barrier to knowing. The ego misleads—misleads much.

Sarhapa was a great scholar, an Acharya of Nalanda. To gain entry to Nalanda was itself difficult. Students waited at the gate for months; until the entrance examination was passed there was no entry. It was a wondrous university—ten thousand students, thousands of teachers, each one unique. To be an Acharya at Nalanda made your scholarship unfurl its flag across the land.

Sarhapa was an Acharya. Great was his fame, great his learning. One day he kicked all learning aside. Money is easy to renounce, position is easy to renounce—learning is very hard to drop. Money is outside; thieves can steal it, governments change, coins are demonetized, banks go bankrupt. What trust in money? Money depends on outer recognition. Knowledge is within—neither thief nor robber can snatch it. Hence one’s grip on knowledge is deeper; it seems one’s own, none can take it. It does not depend on others, it seems more secure. And with knowledge we identify; with money, never. Even if you have heaps of coins you do not say, “I am this pile of coins.” You know the coins are with you; yesterday they were not, tomorrow they may not be. At most you own them—an ownership that is shaky, dependent on a thousand circumstances.

But with knowledge, identity happens. You become what you know. The knower of the Vedas feels “I have become the Veda.” The one who has the Quran by heart feels “I have become the Quran.” Knowledge is so deep in mind that the soul is overwhelmed; it is so close that identification occurs. Hence people give up everything else easily.

I knew a man who left all and went to the forest. Passing near that forest on a journey, I said to the friend driving me, “It will be a five to seven mile detour, but an old acquaintance of mine has left all—wealth, status, everything—he lives there; let us visit him.” He had left everything—but he was still Jain! I said to him, “You left society, home, wife and children, money—but the society that gave you the delusion of being Jain you have left, and the delusion you carry! Still you are Jain.” He could not at once see how that could be left.

What is it to be Jain? A certain heap of knowledge. What is it to be Hindu? Another heap. Christian? A third heap. The one who chooses knowledge from the Bible is Christian; from the Gita is Hindu. People leave everything; you see sannyasins who have left all, but still they remain Hindus. Knowledge is not dropped. And until knowledge is dropped, know that nothing has truly been dropped. Do not leave society; that is fine. Do not leave house and home; that too is fine. But drop knowledge; for because of knowledge you are deluded that you know, while you do not. You can know only when first you concede: I do not know. The pilgrimage of knowing starts from the realization of unknowing.

Sarhapa must have been extraordinary. One day he kicked scholarship aside. Became ignorant. Left everything—scriptures, information, titles—everything. Became a carefree fakir. Wandered like one unknowing. Announced: “I know nothing.” The one who so announces—the day of knowing has drawn near, the time has come; the ego has fallen; the wall is broken.

Know well: to know, one must become simple like a small child. To know, your eyes must carry the same wonder as a child’s—the same clarity, the same innocence. To be struck dumb by the smallest thing—a coin of sunlight falling through a tree and the child is wonder-struck, as if a heap of gold has been found. The wind passing through trees, the trees dancing, the sound made by wind colliding with leaves—and the small child begins to dance, is entranced. Flowers open, butterflies take wing, the cuckoo calls—and the child’s whole being is intoxicated with nectar.

But you pass as if nothing is happening. The sun filtering through leaves, and the mystery in that light does not stir you. Neither dancing trees touch you, nor the stars in the sky. You pass untouched. You have piled so many heaps of knowledge all around you, so many layers, that your knowing has killed your wonder. Only through wonder can God be experienced. The wonder-struck are those who are already in prayer. Wonder is the beginning of prayer. Your knowledge strangles wonder.

Sarhapa must have seen that what he had learned from scriptures was not his own—borrowed, stale. It had no value. He had not known; another had known. What good is another’s knowing? Another saw the light; that does not make me a seer. Another ate; I am not nourished. Another walked; my destination did not arrive. If I walk, my destination arrives. If I see, vision is mine. If I drink, my thirst is quenched. One day this must have dawned.

A scholar seldom allows this to dawn. Even if it dawns he resists, because it would mean that all the years of accumulating learning were to be dropped. All those years wasted; all that effort—the head-banging with scriptures late into the night, collection of words, the respect gained through them, the garlands on the ego—wasted! It takes uncommon courage.

As a man becomes famous, it becomes more difficult.

I have heard of a poet being honored on his sixtieth year. Great garlands, great hymns in praise. But the poet sat somewhat sad. A friend asked, “This is not a day to be sad—why so?” The poet said, “The truth is, this entire ceremony reminds me that I never wanted to be a poet. I never desired it. For money’s sake I began writing. I never found taste in it.” The friend asked, “Then why did you not leave? Why sixty years?” He said, “How could I? By the time I had enough money to leave, I was famous. People began to think me a great poet. How then to leave?”

When the ego is being gratified, to leave is almost impossible. The mind still may not be in it, yet one drags the load—“A few more years, death is anyway coming. Sixty years have gone; drag five or ten more. So much recognition—why throw it away?” Often for fame people lose their souls, the whole potential of life.

Hence I tell you: for the scholar, knowing is difficult.

Sarhapa must have been a man of courage. His very words reveal a man of fire. Centuries later his words are still embers that can sear you. He dropped scholarship, left Nalanda—and at that time there was a certain fraternity of free wanderers: Vajrayana. He joined them. This was a company like my own—those whom you might call respectable never joined; rather you could find there the rebellious, the revolutionary—those who could kick all respectability and social honor.

Vajrayana was a brotherhood of the daring. Its core vision: what is, can be known as lightning flashes—one instant, and all is seen. No need for gradual ascent to truth, for truth is not far that time is needed to reach it. Truth is present here; like a flash of lightning it can be seen—now, this very moment. Courage is needed. Urgency is needed. As with one stroke of the sword a head is severed, so with one stroke Siddhahood is attained. This too I say to you: the idea of gradual attainment—slowly, slowly, in lifetimes—is false. It is comforting to the mind that wants to postpone. Tomorrow, the day after, next birth—then today carry on as you are; worry about tomorrow.

Vajrayana says: it can be had now, here, this very instant. Either now, or never. And whenever it is had, it is had now. For there is no time except now. No day except today. Has “tomorrow” ever come? You postpone to “tomorrow”; it is only a device of your dishonesty. Time is your invention. Flowers are blooming now, trees are growing now, birds sing now, the sun rises now—and you—you will bloom tomorrow. You will sing tomorrow. You will rise tomorrow. Does tomorrow arrive? Flowers did not postpone, trees did not postpone, birds did not postpone—only man lives in the future.

Except man, none lives in the future. Hence only man is troubled; none else. Trees are not neurotic—you do not see them visiting psychologists. Nor are animals and birds restless.

Have you seen lines of tension on an animal’s face? Have you heard of animals going mad in their natural life? Yes, circus animals go mad, zoo animals go mad—that is because of man. Put the blame on man. No animal is made to live in a circus or a zoo.

Imagine a world of animals with zoos in which men are caged—what would be their state? Elephant, horse, donkey come to see the man in the cage—and the man goes crazy. So your animals go mad in your zoos. Because of you. In nature, madness does not happen. Nature knows no madness. Why? There is no restlessness; where time is not, how can there be anxiety?

Grasp this, and these sutras will be easy.

To be restless needs time. To be anxious needs a sense of past and future. For anxiety you must have memory—the insult of ten years ago must still prick; the event gone, the giver of insult gone, the time gone—yet you carry the thorn. You cling to it and drag it along. Old memories weigh upon your mind—then you can be restless. And projections of the future—tomorrow I will do this, day after that. Plans, fantasies of the future, and memories of the past—between these two millstones you are ground. And the fun is: both stones are false. The past is gone, the future not yet. Only the present is true. Only this moment is cash in hand. In this moment—what anxiety? Think, ponder—what anxiety in this moment? Do not let the past enter; do not let the future intrude. Then even trying, you cannot be anxious. The present knows no anxiety.

The strange thing is: man, by imagining the future, creates anxiety, and then again plans to be peaceful—in the future. Anxiety is multiplied. We keep expanding the future—not only in this life, but into next lives; desires are so many that their fulfillment cannot even be imagined in this one—they will happen next time. More births, further births—you spread ahead. The whole load falls on your chest. You are crushed. Under this load man is restless.

Vajrayana says: live in the present. Only this moment is true. The day you live in this moment, you become effortless. Vajrayana is Sahaj Yoga.

Why the name Vajra—Thunderbolt? Because it strikes like a thunderbolt, and with one blow decides all.

Sarhapa was contemporary of Pala king Dharmapala, whose time is reckoned circa 768–809 CE. He lived in some royal city of the eastern country; the city has vanished—no trace. Once a great metropolis; now not even ruins remain. So too our cities will go. Where towns are now, cremation grounds will be; where cremation grounds are, towns will arise.

In the excavations at Harappa seven layers were found—Harappa was settled seven times and deserted seven times. Beneath one city how many cities lie buried? Where you sit, scientists say, beneath every person there lie at least ten bodies. So many have lived and died that the whole earth is a graveyard. Do not fear to go to a cremation ground—you are already on one. There is no place left that is not a burial ground. Everywhere graves. Again and again temples arose, houses rose—and fell to dust. Yet man remains strange, preoccupied as ever.

I was at Mandavgarh with a friend. Mandavgarh once had a population of seven hundred thousand—evidence remains. So many ruins that once it must have been a great city. Then it was called Mandavgarh. Mosques so large that ten thousand could pray together. Now only ruins. Inns so vast that ten thousand could lodge. Stables for thousands of horses and camels. When all travel was by camel, Mandavgarh was famed.

Now it is not Mandavgarh; now called Mandu. Only three hundred and five persons live there. I stayed in the single hotel. The friend with me was planning a building in Indore—he had brought designs, showing me which to choose. I felt the irony. I said, “Come outside.” He said, “What for?” I said, “See—this Mandu, once Mandavgarh, with great palaces—now all fallen. And you are so eager to build a palace; twenty-four hours obsessed that none in Indore be like it. All will fall. People are lost, let alone their things. Yet we stake everything on these—and never search for the real treasure.”

Much effort was made to find that ‘royal city’—no trace. So everything is lost. If you do not wake, if you do not become alert, you will go on doing what will leave not a footprint in the dust.

Awake! This is the very hour. Awake as Sarhapa awoke.

Sarhapa’s tone is the tone of revolution. The tone of all knowers has been revolutionary. Where there is no revolution, know that there is no knowing. Knowledge is like fire—living fire. Whoever passes through it is refined to pure gold. Without passing through fire there is no purity.

Yet people do not like linking religion with revolution. They link religion with peace, not revolution; with consolation, not truth; with sect, not sadhana. Religion is not a sect, it is sadhana. Religion is not consolation, it is truth. Religion is not peace, it is revolution. Though out of revolution a unique peace comes—that is secondary, not the goal.

No conservative is religious; cannot be. The tradition-bound are not religious. Religion has no tradition. Has revolution any tradition?

Religion does not tread old ruts—it finds its own footpath, makes its own way. On the rutted road sheep travel—crowds travel. Sheep-walk never made anyone soul-ful. A declaration of individuality is needed, a freedom from convention; courage to come out of superstition. And remember: in superstition there is much safety; no hassle. To follow tradition is convenient because all others do so—consolation comes. When everyone believes something, there is no trouble of search—you accept for free what crowd you fell into by chance; Hindus become Hindu, Muslims Muslim. Only chance determined which crowd you fell into.

But truth is not so cheap. Truth is found only by searchers. A seeker can never walk the sheep-walk; he must walk alone. Ekla chalo re—walk alone! He must set out on an adventure, go against many accepted notions, demolish many blind beliefs.

In Sarhapa’s words you will find such tremendous demolition. But demolition is not the goal. Denial is only to let the true remain after the false is destroyed. The revolutionary is negative—his tone has the sword’s edge. He breaks and breaks until there is something that cannot be broken. Neti, neti is his method: this too not, this too not. You will find Sarhapa’s voice saying: not this, not this, not this. Do not be alarmed. Do not be disquieted by his negations.

Negation is only the method to find the affirmative. Only when all has been negated and nothing remains to negate—what remains is liberation, Nirvana.

“Artificial are the boundaries—what nation, what abroad?
I am human; the expanse of the cosmos is my homeland.”

The truth-seeker has neither country nor foreign land; neither “mine” nor “other.” All boundaries are artificial, contrived lines drawn by man; remain bound in them and you remain blind.

“With this same vagabond pace—how long will you wander here?
Become the lord of the caravan—how long the dust of the caravan?”

How long will you remain the crowd’s dust? For births you have wandered—this herd, that herd—eating dust. Will you keep dragging along bound to the feet of the caravan?

Become the leader of your own caravan. Take your life into your own hands. Accept responsibility. Do not leave the search for God to any temple, mosque, gurdwara. Do not leave worship to priests. Let your heart itself engage.

Sarhapa’s sutras—

“Manta mante ssanti na hoi.
Padil bhitti ki utthai hoi.”

“By mantra-chanting peace does not come.
A fallen wall does not rise by mutterings.”

The blow begins! The first revolutionary sutra: By chanting mantras peace is not attained. By mantra you get sleep, not peace; swoon, not peace. A mantra is a lullaby—like a mother crooning to her child, “Sleep, my little prince.” The same word repeated brings boredom; out of boredom drowsiness begins; and the child cannot run—he slips into sleep. Likewise you sit repeating “Rama, Rama,” one word again and again; trance will come. Repetition hypnotizes. Hypnosis gives a little relief—good sleep—but neither truth nor peace. Peace will come only when you drop the causes of unrest.

A politician came: “My mind is restless—give me a mantra.” I said, “You will not drop the causes. You are restless because you want to be Chief Minister.” He said, “True. Ten years I have tried; I remain only a minister. Those who came after me, neither went to jail nor did any sacrifice—became CM. Because of my simplicity I am stuck. My mind is restless; I cannot sleep.” I said, “Two ways. If you go to an honest man he will tell you: drop the causes that create unrest. If you go to a dishonest man he will give you a mantra and say, ‘Repeat; all will be well.’ If you are sick, repeating mantras only deceives; the illness remains. The root causes must go. Your political mind—ambition—is the cause. The ambitious must be restless. If the ambitious could be peaceful, what would be left for the non-ambitious? He gets nothing outside—at least let him have the within.

He said, “I cannot drop it now. One day I must, I have seen all this.” I said, “You have not seen. If you had, you would not say ‘one day.’ You would drop now. If you have seen, what remains to see? Drop it. Peace will happen by itself. You lie on a bed of thorns and say you want peace—give a mantra. I say: do not lie on this bed. The thorns hurt—leave it.” But this is all excuse.

In the West, mantras are becoming popular—because the West has collected much unrest through ambition. Now mantras are needed. Mantras are only deceptions.

“Manta mante ssanti na hoi.
Padil bhitti ki utthai hoi.”

By mantras peace does not come. The wall that has fallen will not rise. Repetition may let you dream for a while that the wall has risen; when you open your eyes you will find it fallen. Mantras give short delusions. A mantra is a kind of intoxication.

You will be surprised: mantra is a drug. Ask a psychologist—he too will say so. The musical repetition of one word again and again creates biochemical changes: the same as an external intoxicant. There is no fundamental difference between a drug and a mantra. One man drinks bhang and is high—false, you know it. Another repeats “Rama” for years—the repetition makes the neural network vibrate in one pattern; he begins to secrete his own inner drugs. Words intoxicate.

You know soldiers go to war with certain drumbeats, certain songs, and they are drunk on blood; their chests throb, the urge to kill and die arises. Modern film music inflames sex at once; classical music can soothe it. Sound has biochemical effects. Words strike; one provokes, one soothes. Sound is vibration; particular clusters produce chemical change. Scientists say trees grow better to certain music; to other music they wither. Flowers blossom larger with suitable music. In America they play music for cows; they yield more milk. You cheat not only men—you cheat cows. The cow does not know your trick; music alters her chemistry; her udder gives more milk.

Peace will not come through mantra—because mantra is not the cause of your unrest. A man is crazed for wealth—that is his agitation. Until he sees it and drops it, he cannot be peaceful. Those who give mantras only tempt you; a few days you are cheated, then the cheat breaks. The fallen wall of your mind will not rise by mantras; something else must be done.

“Let the clamour of existence pause a little;
I am listening to the voice of my conscience.”

If the hubbub within—the shouting of ambitions, posts, prestige—if this stops, you will hear the inner voice, the voice of your conscience. That voice is peace. No mantra can give it. Man is dishonest—deceives others, himself, and finally tries to deceive God.

When the inner voice, the Anteratma, is heard, it will feel like the resonance of Om. It will be Om, but not of your making—you will be the witness. The sound arises on its own. You are not the doer; you are only the witness.

But man began to cheat—sits chanting Om, thinking by this he will one day find the inner Om. No; by this clamour you will not. If you wish to hear the Omkar one day, then never recite Om; otherwise you will erect a deception. The Om you chant is mind’s play.

What then to do? Sarhapa says—and I say—drop all mantras, all words. Be silent. Silence is the only true mantra—where there is no mantra; not Om, not Rama, not Allah, not Navkar, not Gayatri. You sit quietly—a vast hush. As if you are not; emptiness sits. In that emptiness the Om arises. In that emptiness is heard the unstruck sound. In that emptiness the veena of your soul is played.

“Let the clamour of existence pause a little;
I am listening to the voice of my conscience.”

Your noise should cease. But you do not stop the noise—you give it a religious form. One sings a film song—noise; another sings God’s praise—noise again. Only the style is religious. Whether you chant “Rama, Rama” or “Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola,” there is no difference—the same alphabet builds both. Only your belief differentiates.

When all the hubbub ceases, then the wall that never falls will rise.

“Prayer changed a thousand forms;
The God who was, is still the same.”

Prayers change, mantras change, rituals shift, temples and mosques vary, colors and styles change—but He who is, is unchanged.

God is still the same. Whether you pray in Arabic or Sanskrit—He is the same. He knows neither Arabic nor Sanskrit. His one language is silence. Be still. The moment you are still, you are neither Hindu nor Muslim. Notice—silence has no boundary; it is boundless. If you sit utterly silent even for a moment—in that moment are you Jain, Buddhist, Parsi, Sikh? In that emptiness there is no scripture speaking. With language gone, all ideologies go, all scriptures go. Who remains? Only your pure is-ness. That is God.

By silence you connect with That. No one has ever connected by mantras; none can.

Such words seemed dangerous then; even now they seem dangerous.

“To those astray in cleverness we showed the path;
We spent our lives being called mad.”

All who knew and honestly told you the truth have been called mad. Centuries pass; still people do not understand them.

Only one thing to do: drop the inner bustle. Why such bustle? Because of great cravings. Cravings create noise; noise creates unrest. You come asking how to fix unrest; someone gives a mantra and adds more to the noise.

“The secret of desire’s fulfillment lies in renouncing desire.
I left the world, and the world fell into my lap.”

In this world there is one way to fulfillment: drop desire. Learn this upside-down appearing sutra well: the courage of desire is in dropping desire. If you want contentment, let desires fall. The one who wants nothing receives all. The one who does not want victory attains victory. Do not even carry the desire for peace—else it will become a hindrance. Desire is desire, whether for money or for peace.

“Tarufal darisane nau agaghai;
Vejja dekkhi kin roga pasai.”

“To see fruit on a tree is not to smell it; to look at the physician—does the disease disappear?”

Listen—how contemporary these words sound, as if spoken today. Such is the beauty of truth—it never grows old; it remains ever new; it always has an edge.

Seeing the fruit from afar brings neither fragrance nor taste; how then nourishment? And people relate to religion like this. They do not come near. They see fruits from afar. In truth, they do not even see fruits; they see pictures of fruits. When you read the Gita you do not see Krishna—you see a picture. To see Krishna, the Gita will not be the path; you must take the hand of a living Master where Krishna is present, where Buddha still speaks—peer into eyes in which you find the depth of Buddhahood. That is to see the fruit. Sarhapa says: even that is not enough. Seeing the fruit will bring only trust that fruit exists. The lamp burning in someone’s eyes will birth a new hunger: “Let this lamp burn in me too—how, when?” But do not think that because Buddha attained, if you sit by him you will attain.

“To see fruit on a tree is not to smell it. And seeing the physician—does the ailment go?” You must follow the prescription. Seeing the doctor cures nothing. So seeing the Master is not enough.

Buddha said: “I am a physician.” He used exactly that word. Coming to me will not help unless you undergo the treatment. Do what I say.

A young philosopher came to Buddha with questions. Buddha listened and said, “Do one thing. Stay two years. Sit in silence. Then ask; I will answer.” The youth said, “If you know the answers, why not now?” Buddha said, “I know—but you cannot receive; you are not a vessel. I may pour nectar, your pot is upside down. For two years make it upright—be silent.” A monk sitting under a tree laughed. The youth asked why. He said, “Do not be deceived—ask now. He told me the same—two years. I sat in silence; now questions do not arise. Such taste in silence that who cares for questions! Ask now; my experience.” Buddha said, “I do not give answers; I give medicine. I am a physician, not a philosopher. My prescription is: two years of silence.” And so it happened: after two years the youth, Maulunkaputta, sat silent. When the time ended, he did not ask, but Buddha said, “Two years are over—ask.” Maulunkaputta laughed: “The medicine worked. What was to be known is known. If I had insisted on answers, I would have missed. I took the medicine—the answers came.” Health comes by the medicine itself—that is the answer.

“Until you have known yourself, do not make any disciple.”

“Jav na appa janijjai, tav na sissa karei.
Andha andha kadhaava tim ven vi koov padei.”

Until you know yourself, never preach or teach—whatever you say will be false. It may be erudite, but not wise. Do not be like the blind leading the blind—both fall into the well. This image perhaps originated with Sarhapa. Sant Kabir echoed it: “Blind leading the blind, both fall in the pit.” In this world many blind lead the blind. You scarcely care if the one you follow even sees. You never ask, never search, whether those ahead have known.

Vivekananda searched for a Guru. He went to many. He went to Devendranath Tagore, famed as a Maharshi, living on a barge. Vivekananda swam at midnight, climbed aboard, the whole barge shook. He pushed open the door. Devendranath in meditation, startled at this dripping youth. “What do you want?” “Is there God?” Such a time to ask! Devendranath hesitated a moment—Vivekananda at once leapt back into the river. The Maharshi called, “At least take the answer!” Vivekananda said, “Your hesitation said all—you do not know.” And it was true. Devendranath later wrote, “That struck my heart—I did not know, though I was prepared to answer.”

Then Vivekananda went to Ramakrishna. Same question: “Is there God?” See the difference: Ramakrishna grabbed his neck—“Do you want to know now? Right now? Are you ready?” Vivekananda, who had embarrassed Devendranath for hesitating, now hesitated himself. Before he could speak, the mad lover Ramakrishna placed his foot on Vivekananda’s chest—he fell unconscious. Three hours later, the one who awoke was not the same; another had returned. He clutched Ramakrishna’s feet: “I was wavering—you gave the answer.”

Seek the true Master. But scholars speak like Masters—beware. Counterfeit coins abound. And the counterfeit has a trait—ask an economist: if both real and fake coins are in your pocket, you spend the counterfeit first. It is eager to circulate. So too pundits, priests, mullahs circulate; they are cheap, convenient, sectarian, supporters of tradition; they will not disturb your life; they offer consolation—laying a flower on the wound rather than healing it. How could they heal? Their own wounds still fester.

“Brahmanehi na jananta bheu,
Evai padheiu ecchao veu.
Matti paani kus la’i padhanata,
Grahahi vaisi aggi hunanta.
Kajja virahai huava hoema,
Akkhi dahavai kadue dhumme.”

“Brahmins do not know the secret. They study the four Vedas. With earth, water, and sacred grass in hand they recite mantras, pouring ghee into the fire at home. Whether homa brings liberation or not—at least acrid smoke burns the eyes.” That is all that happens. Yet we follow such as these, whose eyes sting with bitter smoke. The blind like to follow the blind; there is harmony. With the seer, there is no compromise; he cannot adjust to your blindness. He sees; you do not. He cannot accept half-half. The pundit will adjust—he depends on you. Tell him how to ring the bell, he will. The blind and the blind get along. The seeing will not. Hence only the courageous can follow the one with eyes; they must surrender wholly, with no expectation.

“Jai nagga vai hoi mutti ta sunai siyalaha.
Loma parane atthi siddhi ta juvai naimbaha.”

“If nakedness brings liberation, the jackals and dogs should have been liberated first. If plucking hair brings liberation, then buttocks should be liberated—whose hair is plucked by rubbing!” These are fiery words. By hair-plucking there is no liberation. The slang “naked lout” once was used for Mahavira—naked and hair-plucking. Words travel strange journeys; honorifics become insults, insults become honorifics. “Buddhu” once meant “Buddha-like”—one who left the world; now it means a fool. “Ganesha” began as a trouble-maker deity—worshiped first to prevent his mischief—slowly became the god of auspicious beginnings.

If nakedness brought liberation, all animals would be liberated. If hair-plucking did, the buttocks would be free. Sarhapa mocks to say: such small things have nothing to do with Moksha.

“Picchi gahane ditthi mokkha ta moraha chamraha.
Unchhe bhoana hoi jana ta kariha turangaha.”

“If carrying a peacock-feather whisk brings liberation, peacocks should be liberated already. If eating only gleaned grains brings freedom, then elephants and horses are foremost, for they pick fallen grains.” The point: these are formalities—rituals; do not make them the heart of religion. Religion is fire; these are only smoke. Yes, where there is fire, smoke rises; but bringing smoke into your house does not bring fire. Mahavira attained knowing—nakedness was a smoke from the fire of knowing. By being naked you will not become a knower. For Mahavira, innocence like that of a child appeared; clothes fell—not dropped, fell. Nothing left to hide; body-identity gone; then who is male, who female—shame gone. But first came knowledge; nakedness was a shadow. You are doing the reverse—bringing smoke and hoping for fire.

First the root cause; then the consequences happen by themselves. Those who have known become non-violent; to avoid harm to any being, a Jain monk carries a peacock whisk—to sweep gently so even an ant is not killed. If meditation appears within, love appears without. Then carry the whisk. But to think that a splendid whisk ensures Moksha—no. Sarhapa is not saying, “Do not do this.” He is saying: let the inner happen first; the outer will follow, as a consequence. Otherwise you will waste your life in formalities.

“Whether temple-church, or Kaaba-idol-house—
Curtains, deceits, shows of words.”

Whether you go to temple, mosque, church—there are formalities, rituals. Curtains, deceits, shows of words. The one who wants to awaken must drop temples and mosques and their formalities.

“Standing at the crossroads of temple and mosque
Are those who journey in search of You.”

Those who seek You go neither to temple nor to mosque; they stand at the very junction where the two part. Where temple and mosque part, falsehood begins. Where temple and mosque are one—there is truth. Where Hindu and Muslim are one, there is truth; where they divide, the seeker has no place. From that very fork the seeker sets out in quest of the Divine.

Truth can be found—if only we drop formalities.

“If I die in the failure of vision—search in my alley.
There, somewhere, rolling in dust and blood, you will find my longing.”

“Mindful and alert, O traveler on life’s path—this is that road
Where, in the guise of guiding, you will find robbers everywhere.”

On the path of religion, choose your guide with care; it is the path where in the form of guides stand bandits. In the name of temples and mosques exploitation thrives. In the name of truth the untrue has great establishments. Counterfeit coins move freely.

Live very mindfully, place your steps thoughtfully—perhaps you will meet a true Master. Perhaps then your life will not end in rituals. One who can teach you the fifth Veda, who can turn you to the eleventh direction—the ten are outward, the eleventh is within—who can connect you to your source, join with him. And yet, Sarhapa says, even joining is not enough.

Some come to me, one friend for years touches my feet: “Give your blessing—everything is done.” I say, “You’ve taken blessings for ten years—has anything happened?” He says, “It will—your blessing is there.” I say, “It has been ten years; I am certainly blessing—yet nothing happens. When will you take the medicine? Will you only take blessing?” Blessing is free; medicine is bitter, comes with discipline. He says, “Your blessing is enough—now that I have you, I have all.” Sarhapa says: not so. “To see fruit on a tree is not to smell it. Seeing a physician does not remove the ailment.” Even if you find a Master, accept his medicine. Walk the path he shows. Make his treatment your life—then one day light will dawn within; clouds of joy, of Samadhi, will gather; nectar will rain on you.

“Pour, pour, O monsoon clouds!
Swell, thunder, pour—
In anklet-rhythms of the drizzle,
Shim, shim—
Pour a water filled with nourishing sap,
Pour water like nectar.
Pour, pour, O monsoon clouds!

In fields may grain-sprouts break forth,
Let the green beauty break in forests,
Over the open spaces
Spread the sheet of greenness.
Moistened, thrilled, encouraged,
Let the earth bring forth its opulence.
Pour, pour, O monsoon clouds!

Let pains sleep,
Let peace awake,
Let every afflicted being be delighted,
Let the human mind rejoice,
Let nectar rain in every inner corner.
Let water-songs arise,
Let life smile in every corner of the earth.
Pour, pour, O monsoon clouds!
Swell, thunder, pour—
In anklet-rhythms of the drizzle,
Shim, shim—
Pour a water filled with nourishing sap,
Pour water like nectar.
Pour, pour, O monsoon clouds!”

The clouds can gather—indeed they have. If your call rises rightly, if prayer is born within, if the journey of right sadhana begins—nectar will rain. Bathe in the Eternal. Know That, without which life is in vain, and by knowing which supreme contentment is born.

Sarhapa’s sutras are clean and clear. First he negates—the formal, the secondary, the outer. After that neti, neti, he gives the straight Vajrayana: Sahaj Yoga—utterly simple; fit for all; even a small child can do it. That process I call meditation.

This unique revolution can happen in your life; there is no barrier except you. Other than you there is neither friend nor foe. Keep your eyes closed—you are your own enemy. Open them—you are your own friend.

Awake! Spring knocks at the door. Break open. Let this seed split. What you are meant to become—you must become. Do not postpone to tomorrow. Whoever postponed to tomorrow postponed forever. Now—or never. This is Vajrayana’s proclamation.

Enough for today.