Sahaj Yog #11

In the lineage of the siddha Saraha there arose eighty‑four siddhas. Eighty‑four is a symbol of the 8.4 million wombs of becoming. The symbol says that every womb is qualified for liberation. Even a stone will one day be freed—sooner or later. The only difference is of time. The stone has a long journey to make. Between stone and man there is no ontological difference, only a difference of consciousness. The stone sleeps in deep slumber; man is a little awake; a Buddha is fully awake.
Buddhas were the first to have their statues carved upon this earth. And why in stone? There is a hidden secret. Stone is the most asleep thing in the world, and the Buddha is the most awakened consciousness. A bridge is made between the two, a link joined. From stone to Buddha it is one continuous unfolding. In the stone too is hidden precisely that which blossoms in the Buddha. That is the indication of the stone statue.
In the number of these eighty‑four siddhas the same thing is being declared: every womb is entitled to Siddhahood. No one here need be deprived of becoming a siddha, if only one decides. If anyone stops you, it can only be you stopping yourself. Hence Mahavira said: you yourself are your friend and you yourself are your enemy. If you obstruct yourself from becoming a siddha, you are the enemy; if you cooperate in becoming a siddha, you are the friend. No other is your friend, no other is your enemy. You yourself are your hell; you yourself are your heaven. Both are in your hands. The choice is yours. The decisive one is you. Your freedom is supreme.
And if you have chosen sorrow, chosen hell, then do not blame others unnecessarily. Remember: this is what I myself have desired. What you desired is what you have received.
In this world nothing comes without desire. You get what you set your heart upon. Perhaps there is a gap of years between desiring and receiving, perhaps lifetimes; but remember, whenever something comes to you, somewhere you had sown the seed of desire—now you reap the crop. You may have forgotten when the seeds were sown; memory does not return. But the harvest itself is the proof that you had sown. And at any turning of life the course can be changed. At any moment you can turn back. No one is stopping you. Any moment you can leave the path of the world and begin to move on the path of moksha.
In this same tradition of the eighty‑four siddhas, Tilopa also appeared. For a few days we shall walk with Tilopa. Saraha and Tilopa—these two names are utterly unique among the eighty‑four.
Tilopa’s monastic name was Prajñabhadra. But in the ashram of his Master, Vijayapada, he kept pounding sesame seeds, and slowly his original name was forgotten. People began to call him Tillopad—Tilopa—the sesame‑pounder.
This too is worth pondering. The man who pounded sesame—Tilopa—one day became such a great siddha that today the name of his Master Vijayapada is remembered only because of him; otherwise, who would have known Vijayapada? People would have forgotten Vijayapada if Tilopa had not been. The flower of Tilopa made Vijayapada’s tree eternal. And pounding and pounding sesame, Tilopa attained to Siddhahood.
I have often told you a famous Chinese story. A youth came to a Master and said, I too want to know—I want to know the Truth. The Master asked: Do you want to know the Truth, or about the Truth? The disciple thought for a moment, fell at the Master’s feet and said: Since I have come to you, why would I want to know about the Truth? I want to know Truth itself! The Master said: Then it is a little difficult. To know about Truth is easy; to know Truth is difficult. For to know about Truth is information, erudition; to know Truth itself, the lamp of prajñā must be kindled; life must be transformed. Think again: do you want to know about Truth, or know Truth?
The youth said: Until now I had never considered that there is a difference, but seeing you the difference is clear. I have seen many scholars, many who know about Truth. Until today I thought that that was knowing; today, seeing you, all delusions have broken. For the first time I have seen light. Until now I had only seen darkness. Now I want Truth itself. As you have known, so I want to know. Whatever the price, I am ready to pay—even if it be my life, take it.
The Master said: Then do this. In this ashram there are five hundred monks; take charge of pounding the rice for them. And do not come to me again. Pound rice from dawn to dusk. If you grow tired, sleep. When you wake, again pound rice. Pound only rice. Do not think of anything else, do not debate or argue. This will be your sadhana. Do not return to me; when needed, I myself will come.
Twelve years passed like this. The youth kept pounding rice… just pounding rice. Think a little: rising before dawn, when none are yet awake, setting to work at the mortar—because soon the monks will awaken and breakfast must be ready. And pounding late into the night, the provisioning of a large ashram of five hundred! When he was exhausted he would sleep right there in the little room where he pounded. In the morning, as soon as the eyes opened, he would again begin pounding rice. For a few days old thoughts continued, but when thoughts are not fed fresh food, day after day, they weaken by themselves, become feeble, lifeless. Only pounding rice… pounding rice… there was not even the convenience of thinking. Slowly thoughts thinned and dissolved. After a year or two, there remained only silent pounding… and the mind was gone.
Twelve years passed. Then one day the Master announced: my death is near, and I must choose someone to be head of the ashram after I am gone. I have found this arrangement: whoever has come to know, let him write, on my door at night, four lines—four lines that contain his whole experience.
Many thought about it. The chief scholar of the ashram wrote four lines. They were lovely lines. Scholars are masters of words, knowers of scriptures. He wrote things of essence. He wrote: The mind is a mirror on which gathers the dust of thoughts, impurities, desires. To wipe away the dust is meditation. He whose dust is wiped away, whose mirror becomes pure, attains moksha.
True enough—words that hit the point. But when the Master awoke in the morning and saw those lines on the door, he said: Which fool has pasted his pulp upon my wall? The scholar, out of fear, had not signed them. He was clever—he had to be. He knew within that he himself did not know. What he had written was the distilled essence of scriptures. His mind had not become a mirror; dust still lay thick upon it. In fact, the more scriptures he had amassed, the more dust had gathered. The mirror was lost under heaps of dust. This was the essence of the texts, not his own realization; not his existential seeing. He was not the witness of it. The wise have said such things. He was learned—a parrot repeating beautiful words, weaving fine lines. Hence he did not sign, out of fear. The mind is always cunning. He thought: If the Master praises, I will announce that I wrote them; if the Master says they are wrong, I shall keep silent.
Mind is always dishonest; and the more scholarly it becomes, the more dishonest. Ordinary people commit ordinary dishonesty in the world; scholars become dishonest even with God. The scholarly disciple even tried dishonesty with his Master. The whole ashram was amazed, because to the people the lines seemed beautiful—the very essence of religion said in four lines. Is this not the quintessence of all the Buddhas—that the mind be purified, stainless; that the mirror be dustless? What else remains to know? In that mirror the reflection of Truth appears; God is recognized.
The words were right, but the Master was hard. People did not like it; they too were small scholars. He was the big one; they were minor ones. They muttered: in old age he has gone senile. Someone said: he expects too much. Even the great Buddhas have said nothing more beautiful than this. The discussion grew hot. The rice‑pounder—the man who had come twelve years earlier—was pounding as two monks passed by, talking. Hearing them, he laughed. In twelve years no one had seen him laugh. The two asked: Why did you laugh? They asked because he had never laughed, never spoken. People had forgotten him; he was not counted in the ashram. He only pounded rice—who counts such a one? There were great knowers, scholars, yogis. Who would ask this pounder anything! He was a monk in name only. His work was merely pounding rice; no one had seen him study or meditate. Hearing his laugh, they were startled: Are you mad? Why did you laugh?
The rice‑pounder said: I laughed because the Master is right. Those four lines are rubbish—worth not even two pennies.
The two asked: Can you speak four lines better than those—can you write them?
He said: I cannot write—I am unlettered. But I can speak; if you will write, I am ready.
He spoke; another wrote on the wall. They even signed it for him, although he could not sign. What were his four lines? Astonishing—peerless in the history of Zen! He dictated: Mind has no mirror—where will dust gather? One who knows this is the siddha. If there is no mirror, where can thought‑dust settle? He who has known this, he alone has known Truth.
He also said: write my name. When the Master saw these lines he came at midnight to the youth, woke him from sleep and said: Take this—my staff… a Zen Master bequeaths his staff as his will… and this, my robe. But now run, it is midnight; go as far as you can from this ashram. You are my heir, but the scholars here will kill you; they cannot bear that a rice‑pounder should be the supreme knower. Run—flee to the mountains. You carry my treasure. You have attained it—pounding rice you attained!
Pounding rice became meditation. Any act can become meditation. Keep this in mind here in this ashram. Pounding sesame, Prajñabhadra became ‘Siddha Tilopa.’ Here, when I give work to sannyasins, remember: no work is small or great. ‘Krishna’ picks wheat all day; ‘Manju’ sorts rice. If someday one of them becomes a Tillu‑pada, do not be surprised. Do not think: How can a wheat‑picker become a siddha?
It is not what you do that matters, it is how you do it. If even in picking wheat you are blissful, quiet of mind, surrendered, attentive—with awareness—then while picking wheat, all the riddles of existence will fall into place. Do not be surprised if ‘Sant’ or ‘Dayal’ awaken while standing on watch—if the watch is kept with awareness. Keeping watch invites awareness!
When you are near a true Master, all the small acts of life become glorified with great majesty. Pounding sesame, Prajñabhadra became Siddha Tilopa—and the sutras he spoke are extraordinary.
Sutra—
Vaḍh aṇaṃ loa a goara tatt paṇḍita loa agamma.
Jo guru‑pā’a pasaṇa taṃhi ki citta agamma.
‘That element, that Truth which is invisible to fools is equally inaccessible to the scholars.’ Do you hear! Between a fool and a pundit there is not an iota of difference. And if there is any difference, understand: the pundit is a greater fool than the fool. Because the fool at least knows he is a fool—there is humility in that, an egolessness. He knows his capacity, his worth. The pundit is not only unworthy, he is a vessel full of poison. The fool is merely unworthy—but empty. Pour knowledge upon him and he will be filled. Upon the pundit even a rain of knowledge fills nothing, for he is already full—there is no space to receive.
Therefore beware: those who journey toward Truth—if they are ignorant, it is no great harm; but they must not be scholars. If they are sinners, it will do; but if they are pundits, it will not do. The sinner can ask forgiveness and can be forgiven. The pundit cannot even ask forgiveness—how then can he be forgiven? The sinner can bow—he knows he is a sinner. The pundit cannot bow—his stiffness is terrible.
In this world the stiffness of wealth is not so great, nor of position, as the stiffness of erudition. Scholarship is the most precious ornament of ego. That is why you see a certain stiffness in the brahmin. What is his stiffness? What does he have? Words—empty words memorized like a parrot, repeated like a gramophone record.
Tilopa’s utterance is decisive: Vaḍh aṇaṃ loa a goara tatt paṇḍita loa agamma. What is unknowable to the dull is unreachable to the learned. He is not making even a hair’s difference between fool and pundit. And do not think Tilopa was anti‑brahmin—Tilopa himself was a brahmin! But when his Master Vijayapada gave him the task of pounding sesame, Tilopa did not protest: I, a brahmin, a scholar, should pound sesame? Give this to low castes—I was not made for it! No. The Master said ‘Pound,’ and Tilopa pounded. And pounding with such love, such bliss, such attention, such Samadhi, that all was dissolved; the inner sky of shunyata was born.
He is right: what is invisible to fools is inaccessible to scholars. ‘Truth is realized only by that blessed one upon whom the Sadguru is pleased.’ Do you hear! The Master said: pound sesame—and who knows for how many years he made Tilopa pound; yet Tilopa says, upon whom the Sadguru is pleased. Even the command to pound is his grace. He gave a task—this itself is his grace, his joy. He deemed me worthy—what more is needed! Truth is realized not through scholarship; it happens through the prasad of the Master. And who receives the prasad? Only the one who surrenders the ego.
So the essence is: the one who drops the ego attains the vision of Truth. The Master is but a device for dropping the ego—a pretext, a door. Without a Master you will find it hard to let go of ego; hence the need. If you can drop ego without a Master, the happening will occur without one. But it is exceedingly difficult. Even in the presence of the Master the ego refuses to drop; how will you drop it alone? You need a pretext. If there are feet in whose presence you can lay your head, then put it down. If there are no feet, where will you place your head?
But let me remind you: if you bow your head anywhere—wherever—you will find Truth entering you. Truth is given to the humble. From where humility is learned does not matter. But in ninety‑nine cases out of a hundred it is almost impossible to drop ego without a Master. And if someone can, good; but it often happens that because of ego some proclaim: we will drop ego without any Master. So it is no surprise that around a prajña like Krishnamurti you will find the most egoistic people, for Krishnamurti says: there is no need of a guru. He says: knowledge is possible without a guru—and he speaks rightly, not even slightly wrong. For the essential thing is surrender; to whom it is made is meaningless. If you can, without dedicating to anyone, simply awaken within and see the mistake of ego and let it fall, the happening happens—because it happens with the fall of ego.
Krishnamurti is right—but those who come to listen misunderstand. They hear something else. They gather around him because there is no need to bow—there is no Guru, no disciple. Those who find it hard to bow gather there. Years pass; they neither bow nor does revolution happen. They listen and polish the ego with what they hear.
One in a hundred can arrive without a Master, and he will not go to Krishnamurti at all. Why should he? If he can do it without a Master, he does not need to learn this from Krishnamurti. If even this must be learned from him, then a Master is already needed. He will understand this himself; the feeling will arise from his own depths. He will not go to listen. The one for whom Krishnamurti speaks will never come. Those who come are from the ninety‑nine percent—and Krishnamurti is not speaking for them. Hence fifty years of his labour have flowed like water—without result. The one for whom he speaks does not arrive; those who arrive are seeking a Master. Their egos blossom hearing that one can know without bowing. All true Masters say: without a guru, no knowledge—for they speak for the ninety‑nine percent. Krishnamurti speaks for the one percent. But the listeners belong to the ninety‑nine. Hence words continue, listening continues; nowhere is there a flowering of light, of the clouds of Samadhi, of the rain of nectar.
‘What is invisible to fools is inaccessible to scholars.’ Be not deceived by information. Do not think that because you know scriptures you know Truth. However erudite, you remain ignorant—do not forget this, or you will remain blind.
A great musician of Germany, whenever someone came to learn, would ask: Have you learned music elsewhere? Do you know something of music? Practiced? If one said, I have practiced nothing, he would name one fee; if another said, I have worked for ten years, he would charge double. Strange arithmetic! Those who have worked are charged double? Naturally they protested. He said: Yes—first I must erase what you already know. That labour is separate; you must pay for it. With the blank ones I can begin straightway.
That musician knew a key. With pundits there is endless and useless head‑banging. Here, when pundits arrive, we persuade them gently from the gate. Why waste time! Time is precious, and for those thirsty to drink. The pundit thinks he knows. First his mountains of knowing must be cut. And as the mountain is cut, he grows smaller—and who can bear becoming small?
One cold morning an elephant was sunning. A mouse came to look, circled around and asked: Brother, how old are you? The elephant said, Two years. He was a two‑year‑old calf—but an elephant is an elephant. The mouse pondered. The elephant asked: And how old are you, brother? The mouse said: I too am two years old—but my health is not quite right.
The mouse cannot admit being a mouse: It’s just that my health isn’t too good!
Two donkeys stood in the sun. One was rolling in joy, kicking his legs. The other asked: You look ecstatic—what’s the matter? Always you seem sad; today so blissful! Why? He said: Now it’s fun—my long‑awaited good fortune has arrived. The other said: Tell me straight—what has happened? He said: The washerman whose donkey I am—his daughter has grown up. Whenever the girl makes a mistake the washerman gets angry and says, See, if you don’t behave, I’ll marry you to a donkey! Any day now, when she slips badly and he gets worked up—and you know his temper!—this marriage will happen. My lucky day is here. But don’t be sad—I’ll take you in the wedding procession too!
Donkeys also dream! Fools gather heaps of knowledge. When you cut those piles there will be pain. The pundit will defend, struggle, devise defenses. Time is wasted.
Seekers of Truth must drop scholarship. Whatever they have ‘known’ is rubbish—until they know for themselves. Trust only your own witnessing. Pursue that tirelessly—dig until you reach your own spring of life.
‘What is invisible to fools is inaccessible to scholars.’ ‘Truth is realized only by that blessed one upon whom the Sadguru is pleased.’
How then will Truth be realized? Tilopa says: upon whom the Sadguru is pleased. But a Sadguru is always pleased. Then what does this condition mean? Sadguru means joy. It is not that like the sun he will shine on some and leave others in darkness. The sun is at your door—but open your eyes. You sit with eyes closed; for you, night remains. Day is for those who open their eyes. And eyes open only for those who remove the veil of ego. When your eyes open you will know the Master’s joy. The Master is prasad. He can give nothing but light. Around him is a wave of celebration—but it is a festival only for those who dare to dance, to merge, to find rhythm with him. In that instant you will feel the Master’s joy; his prasad begins to flow towards you; his stream of light begins to pour.
And the Master gives you nothing as a thing; he simply stirs the field of light around you so that, under its impact, the sleeping light within you awakens. The Master does nothing else; his work is the work of an alarm clock. In the morning you lie asleep; the alarm rings loudly. The ringing does not give you awakening; awakening arises from within—but the sound creates an outer situation that provokes the inner to rise.
The Master gives nothing. Truth is not an object to be given. There is no transfer of Truth. Yet the Master creates an indispensable climate in which you cannot go on sleeping—except for those who insist on sleep. What will an alarm do for one who has decided to sleep? He will turn over and sleep again. Or if the decision is deep, the alarm will keep ringing and inside he will dream: Ah, the bell of Shiva’s temple is ringing! You invent the dream to save your sleep. The outward alarm becomes an inward dream. Then the thought never arises that awakening is needed.
Thus one can come to a Master and still remain asleep. The Master’s effort yields, for such a one, nothing but information—he returns a pundit. The scholar who wrote the lines about the mirror and the dust had been with the Master for years; and the rice‑pounder who wrote ‘There is no mirror—where will dust gather?’—he too was with the same Master. But they lived in different ways. One received the joy of the Master; the other collected information.
The Master pours, but some will pick pebbles, others diamonds. Diamonds are within you; in the shock of the Master, your inner wealth should be revealed—then the company was meaningful; then it was satsang. If you collect outer words while the inner treasure remains untouched—layering your inner poverty with outer heaps of words—you will leave worse than you came.
Do not become a pundit near a Master—or you will miss the prasad.
Open the doors of the house, open the shuttered windows,
I, the sun of life, am coming to your home.
Remove all coverings that keep out the light.
I bring the golden blooming of flowers,
I bring the fragrance of the unbounded groves;
I bring the sun‑warmth of my rays,
I bring the coolness of snow crystals.
Rise, rise—lift your head from the pillow,
Open your eyes and see how crimson the dawn is.
I, the sun of life, stand at your door—
Remove all coverings that keep out the light.
Open the wooden‑house‑like windows of your heart,
Windows that have been shut for so long.
And let me spread within your temple
My aura, my warmth, dew, blossoms and forest‑scent.
Open the doors of the house, open the shuttered windows,
I, the sun of life, am coming to your home.
Remove all coverings that keep out the light.
The presence of the Master is the presence of the sun. But if you keep your eyes closed, the sun is wasted. If your doors and windows remain shut, curtains drawn, the sun is wasted. It is in your hands to waste or to make it meaningful.
Bow, open, remove veils—and the sun is meaningful. The wonder is: when you remove coverings, the sun works as a catalytic agent. In his presence the great inner sun is born. Nothing passes from guru to disciple; in the guru’s presence something happens in the disciple. Seeing the guru you remember your own hidden guru. Seeing his awareness, your awareness stirs. Seeing his fire, you remember the ember buried in your ash. The Master gives you nothing but self‑remembrance.
Open the doors of the house, open the shuttered windows,
I, the sun of life, am coming to your home.
Remove all coverings that keep out the light.
The ignorant does not know; the ‘knower’ knows falsely. Both are astray. The essential need is for the company of one who is neither ignorant nor merely so‑called ‘knower’; one who knows from his own; who is not repeating the Buddhas of the past, but is himself a Buddha; who confirms the Buddhas of the past with his own: Yes, you too were right—I say so from my experience.
Understand the difference. The pundit says: Gautama the Buddha said thus, therefore it must be true—because Buddha said it. It is written in the Vedas, therefore it must be true—because the seers wrote it. The Qur’an says it—therefore it must be true, for God spoke to Muhammad. But first you already assumed that there is a God—who knows? Then you assumed he spoke to Muhammad—who knows? Perhaps Muhammad was mistaken in believing God spoke to him. And even if God spoke, and spoke to Muhammad—why must that guarantee that what was spoken is true? What proof is there?
Therefore Buddha said: Do not believe my words because I say them. Believe only when your meditation attests them. Until your own capacity witnesses, do not accept. All other reasons are dubious. The only certain trust is in your own realization.
The pundit says: Since Buddha said it, it must be true—he was virtuous, why would he lie? Yet even the most virtuous can sometimes, at dusk, mistake a rope for a snake. What then?
The wise do not say: because the Veda, the Qur’an, the Bible, the Buddha, Mahavira say so. One who is himself a Buddha says: I have known—and by my knowing I testify that the Veda is true, the Buddha is true, the Qur’an is true. But he will also say: you too should accept only when you become a witness—like me. Trust your own experience. To trust another’s realization is to live on borrowed capital, not cash. Truth is a cash experience.
Beware of pundits—knowers of scriptures! Seek a Sadguru, one who knows by himself. In his nearness, revolution can happen in you—like when one cuckoo sings and another’s throat tingles to sing; someone sings and you find humming rising within; someone dances and your feet begin to throb; someone plays a veena and your head nods in rhythm. Why? There is no causal law that says, If veena is played, your head must nod. Yet sometimes it happens.
Just so it happens in satsang. His mridang resounds; you remember yours. A thrill runs through your hands; the current begins to flow within. His veena strings vibrate and set your veena’s strings quivering—strings you had forgotten. He has begun to dance; his anklets ring and a longing arises to tie anklets to your feet. You recall: I too have feet—I too can dance. Of the same bone, flesh and marrow; of the same nature and source.
Who, where, in what direction is the Hidden One?
Someone tell me—just a little… just a hint,
Let a finger be raised!
Who, where, in what direction is the Hidden One?
Along the paths of breath he walks,
In my heart he burns like a lamp,
He melts into tears in sorrow,
Moment to moment he turns like change, teasing.
Let my restless ears
Hear some message of him!
In dense darkness, a faint radiance,
In endless despair, a soft hope,
Trust that rises each moment from each fall—
The dice throw of destiny,
Let my anguished eyes
Be granted his auspicious glimpse!
He is the path‑guide and the sustenance,
He is life’s ultimate aim,
He is the drink for a thirsty heart,
He is the prose and the song—
Let someone sound for me
The soft chime of that music of emptiness!
Where shall I seek—will I ever find him,
Or lose myself seeking?
What sadhana must there be
In which I too am lost?
Which path reaches to him—
Reveal just that much!
The tangled threads of worldly dilemma
Lie before his steps;
My stunted, ill‑fated feelings—tell me,
When will new awareness awaken,
By whose strength my feet may move
And carry me to the goal!
Just a small sign, a ray, a whisper—and the life asleep within the disciple begins to stir; movement begins! Let a seed fall into the heart and the heart gathers all its wealth and blooms into endless flowers, countless lamps are lit. Let there be just a little remembrance—only a trace!
‘Truth is realized only by that blessed one upon whom the Sadguru is pleased.’
Sahajen chitta visohahu chang. Ih jammhi siddhi mokkh bhang.
‘By the path of spontaneity, purify your heart thoroughly. In this very life you will attain Siddhi—and moksha too.’
A Sadguru always points to sahaj—to the spontaneous. Sahaj means: do not put on artificial garments and conduct. Do not fall into false pretenses. Do not wear masks. Accept life’s truth as it is—naked—and live it blissfully. As you are, you are beautiful. As you are, you are acceptable to God—just so! You need no paint and powder. Do not make life a stage of acting. Live simply—uncontrived, guileless. However you are—good or bad—do not be afraid. As you are, you are his. As you are, he made you. As you are, his signature is upon you. If there is fault, it will be his. Do not try to make yourself more beautiful, more virtuous, more holy—for all such efforts belong to ego. Who is this within that says: I must be superior, I must be a saint, I must be worshipped by the world? Ego speaks thus—and quotes scriptures. Ego is a great scholar. It says: Look, the books say: be truthful—like King Harishchandra! Harishchandra was spontaneously so; for you it will be unnatural. You are not Harishchandra. What was sahaj for him will be asahaj for you.
Mahavira stood naked—that was natural to him. If you stand naked it will be practice, not naturalness. In your nakedness there will be hypocrisy, acting, untruth.
What is sahaj for Krishna is not sahaj for you; what is sahaj for you is not for Krishna.
Sahaj means: discern your own nature and move according to it. Do not impose ideals. This is the wondrous message of the siddhas: do not impose conduct upon yourself; do not construct ideals. Ideals have made people hypocrites. The higher the ideal, the greater the hypocrisy—because those ideals cannot be fulfilled. If a rose wishes to become jasmine, it cannot. Then the only way is to cover its roseness and buy plastic jasmine from the market and plaster them upon itself—but those jasmine are false.
Polish what you are; do not try to become something else. This is my message too. I am against all ideals. I give you no ideal. Hence idealists are shocked here. They say: Give your sannyasins an ideal, rules, discipline. Who am I to give rules, disciplines, ideals? I give only awareness—so that with awareness you can live as existence made you—in totality.
I do not give you a goal of perfection; I give you a taste of wholeness. There is a vast difference. Perfection is a faraway goal—man should be such and such. Wholeness means: dissolve totally into what you are. If you can dance, dance totally. If the lame try to dance, they will fall and break their limbs. If you can sing, sing—but if crows try to sing like cuckoos, they will be mocked.
A crow was running. A cuckoo asked: Uncle, where are you rushing in such haste? The crow said: I am going east. People here are tasteless; they don’t understand classical music. Whenever I begin a raga they clap and chase me away. I have heard that in the east people are connoisseurs. I will sing there. The cuckoo said: As you wish, but remember—people everywhere are the same; your ‘classical music’ will be liked nowhere. Better to stop calling it music. Better to accept yourself as you are.
And remember: as you are, it is not necessary that others accept you. When others do not accept, what then? Our usual craving is that all should accept us—due to which we become false, showing ourselves as people like. Because we crave respect.
A sannyasin is one who says: I need neither honour nor respect; nor do I fear insult. I will live as I am. Honour me—fine; insult me—fine; that is your problem, not mine. I will be neither delighted by your honour nor dismayed by your insult. I give no value to your coins of honour and dishonour. You will not be able to manipulate me; you will not be my master.
These are the coins by which others become our masters. People say: We will honour you if you obey us. If you want their honour you must pay. And when you obey, you become false. One who wants to be sahaj must understand: I want neither honour nor fear dishonour. I will declare myself as I am. In this naturalness the heart is purified.
Tilopa says: By the sadhana of sahaj, purify the heart thoroughly. Why does naturalness purify? Because where there is no hypocrisy there is purity. Where nothing alien is imposed, there is purity.
What is purity? If you mix water in milk, why is it called impure? Because you added impure water? Then add the purest distilled water—still the milk is impure. Why? And not only milk, the water too has been made impure—though no one cares for water’s value. Two pure things are mixed and both become impure! Impurity means: the alien. Milk is milk, not water; adding even pure water destroys milk’s nature. And the water’s own nature is destroyed.
Impurity means: to impose what is contrary to my nature. Purity means: to live in one’s own nature. Not to compromise even a little. The sannyasin does not compromise—even at the cost of his life. Nor does he pressure anyone else to compromise.
Remember: whenever you pressure another to compromise, you will be forced to compromise with him. Masters become slaves to their slaves. If you make a relationship based on compromise, you will have to give and take, both bending. Then both become impure.
People hide impurities under fine names. Do not try to become Mahavira—or you will be impure. Do not try to become Buddha—or you will be impure. Be yourself. And to be yourself, no effort is needed—you already are. Only declare it—and whatever the cost, live it. Your heart will be purified.
This is the sahaj‑yoga method of purifying the heart. You have heard many other ways: give up lust, greed, attachment… Sahaj‑yoga says something astounding: the heart is already pure—just do not add the alien. It is not a question of giving up kama, lobha, moha; drop hypocrisy. Throw away the garments you have artificially wrapped yourself in. Remove the masks. You are pure. This is a great vision.
Hence you will be surprised: those wondrous eighty‑four siddhas came, yet no sect ever formed around them. Why? Because people could not reconcile with their words. People thought: dangerous teachings! They never allowed the tradition of the eighty‑four siddhas to cast a shadow upon ordinary life.
Again I speak the language of a siddha. There will be opposition—by pundits, priests, politicians, social leaders—on all sides. Because the language I speak is the language of the siddhas. I say to you: honour your innermost uniqueness. As God has made you, live that—unconditionally! Do not move even an inch from there. You will attain purity of heart. And where the heart is pure, God is found.
Tilopa says: In this very life you will attain Siddhi, and moksha too—not after death. Here, now! True religion is cash. Fake religion is on credit: heaven after death. Who has returned to report? Meanwhile they make you fast, suffer, sleep on thorns—because after death you will have heaven. Live in hell now—in hunger, thirst, heat. Torture yourself, because after death you will be rewarded. How foolish are those who throw away half a loaf in their hand for a promise of a full loaf after death! What arithmetic is this? What a fraud—how many businesses running on this cheat! Temples, mosques, gurudwaras—all on the promise of after death.
I was a guest in Surat. A friend told me: There is a sect here with a strange doctrine. Their head lives in Surat. When anyone dies, he donates money to the head; and the head writes a letter—to God! He writes: This man gave a lakh of rupees; please take care of him… When the man dies the letter is placed upon his chest in the grave. The lakh is received by the priest—and the corpse holds a letter which may never go anywhere. I said: Dig one or two graves and see—you’ll find the letters lying there. The man could not take his body—will he take a letter?
But deceptions continue: after death! True religion says: here, now. I say: bliss is available here; dance can happen here, now. Why postpone to tomorrow? Perhaps you are so habituated to misery that you cannot trust that it can be today. You feel only after death can it be. Your addiction to sorrow makes you exploitable. The priest shows you rosy pictures of the hereafter and robs you.
Tilopa says: In this life you will attain Siddhi and moksha. Moksha is not a geographical state elsewhere; nor is Siddhi related to death. Siddhi is the emergence of your natural state—so it can be now. And what is moksha? Freedom from conduct, ideals, hypocrisy. The proclamation of inner freedom is moksha. The veena is present; perhaps the strings are tangled—untangle them; perhaps too loose—tighten; too tight—loosen. Sit in satsang and let your veena be tuned—and the song will arise!
I have not sung any song—
In my own drab life,
I have poured a new delight!
In my empty heart‑forest,
Beloved, I have brought the spring!
I only untangled
The snarled strings of my own veena—
What song have I sung!
I have no shame that my
Language lacks grace;
I have no shame that my feelings
Wear no pretty garments.
I have not written for the world—
I have merely cheered my own heart—
What song have I sung!
You alone taught my joys
To drink back their tears;
You alone taught the inner notes
To come to my lips.
What you had taught me,
I have only repeated—
What song have I sung!
Just steady yourself a little—and God will sing through you!
In my own drab life,
I have poured a new delight!
Dance! Fill with exuberance, with zest!
In my empty heart‑forest,
Beloved, I have brought the spring!
Spring will arise within. Outer seasons come upon trees; your season is to come within.
I only untangled
The snarled strings of my own veena—
What song have I sung!
One does not have to sing; when strings are tuned, song happens. Some wondrous, unknown, other‑worldly hand touches your veena.
Here is Siddhi; here is freedom. What is not here is nowhere; what is here is everywhere. One who understands the meaning of life while living will understand it while dying—and after death too. What you hope to gain after death—gain it today, only then will you gain it after death, because you will remain you. Whether a crow flies east to west or west to east, it caws the same caw. You will remain you. What will death change? The same mind, the same ego, the same diseases will enter a new body. Nothing changes by dying.
Not death—but life—has to change. And it changes not by someone else’s ideals, but by accepting your own nature.
‘All conduct and behavior is either moving or still.’
Sachal nichal jo sa‑āchara.
‘But the Shunya, the stainless, is free of all alternatives. Do not think about it; it is beyond thought.’
Suṇa nirañjana na karahu vichāra.
Tilopa says: conduct is a matter of thought—social policy and arrangement. What is considered proper in one place is improper in another. What is auspicious in one caste is inauspicious in another.
A book came to me the other day—how to make insects into food. Ants coated with chocolate! How to dry butterflies and fry them. The title is ‘Butter‑Fly, Butter‑Fly!’ Vivek began to read and felt queasy. In English ‘butterflies in the stomach’ means jitters; and when she read how to dry and fry butterflies, to sugarcoat, her stomach turned. She said: What a dangerous book! Do people really eat butterflies and ants? How to make them delicious… I told her: There is nothing in the world that someone does not eat. In China people eat snakes—cut off the head and make curry. Scorpions too—when fried they are crispy. Everywhere people eat everything. I told her: you lived in England—did eggs and meat not make you queasy? She said: After seven years vegetarian here, I now wonder how I could eat eggs and meat. But one who eats meat cannot understand what is wrong with eating ants. And one who eats ants cannot accept that eating eggs is right. You will say: eating snakes and scorpions is not fitting; fish is fine. Those who eat snakes may not like fish. The world teems with conduct—and each holds his own to be right and another’s wrong.
Tilopa says: ‘All conduct is moving or still. But the Shunya, the stainless, is free of all alternatives.’
Do not get entangled in conduct and opinions. Seek that which within you is shunya—empty. Seek the stainless that is free of all options; which has no side, no belief, no policy or non‑policy; where there is neither virtue nor sin. Seek the witness who sees all. In doing there are countless alternatives; in seeing there are no alternatives—note this. One eats bread, one eggs, one fish, one snakes. In eating—the options are many; the seer is one. Eat fish or snakes—the witness is the same.
There are two kinds of people. Some keep changing: what to eat, what not to eat… You will be in trouble.
A Quaker Christian visited me. I asked: Tea, coffee or milk? He said: Milk! You drink milk! I was taken aback—milk? Then I recalled: Quakers do not drink milk; they consider it blood. It is blood. Hence milk increases blood. The mother’s blood is divided at the breast; red corpuscles separate and white constitute milk. The mother feeds her blood to the child. Quakers say: Milk is bad—it is like meat. Blood and flesh—what difference? They do not drink milk, eat curd, butter or ghee.
An Indian mind will be perplexed. In India milk is sattvic! One who drinks only milk is revered. I once met a mahant of an ashram in Raipur named ‘Doodhadhari’—milk‑drinkers only. I told him: What sin you impose—milk only! It is blood only! He said: What are you saying! Milk and blood! Rishis have always drunk milk. I said: Rishis or no rishis, truth is truth. Milk is blood. Then you will be in great difficulty—what to eat, what to drink? Even breathing you kill—countless microbes die in a breath.
Hence sahaj‑yoga lays no emphasis on conduct. Where you live, what is convenient, what the people’s behavior is, and what you were raised in—go on with it; it has little value. The real value is elsewhere—in the stainless emptiness free of all alternatives—the witness within. Whether you eat fish or drink milk—awaken the witness. Know: I am the seer, not the eater or drinker. I am the non‑doer.
And do not sit to think about this witness: do not repeat mentally ‘Aham Brahmasmi, I am the witness.’ Do not think it; experience it—because it is beyond thought.
Haũ jag haũ Buddha haũ nirañjana.
A great, revolutionary proclamation: ‘I am the world, I am Buddha, and I am the stainless.’
Haũ jag haũ Buddha haũ nirañjana.
Haũ amaṇasiyāra bhava‑bhañjana.
‘I am the mental non‑doer; and I am the destroyer of becoming.’ This witness within you—your ultimate ‘I’, your Atman—is all. Awaken to it. I am the world… and you will see—this is your world. I am Brahman; I am Buddha; I am the stainless; I am Truth. Anal‑Haqq, said Mansoor. Aham Brahmasmi, say the Upanishads. Tilopa deepens the proclamation.
Viyogi Hari, in his Sant‑Sudha‑Sar, writes that like the Advaitins, Tilopa too says: I am the world, I am Buddha, I am the stainless. I do not agree. The Advaitin does not dare so far. He says only: Aham Brahmasmi. He never says: I am maya too. That courage belongs to the siddha. Understand this difference. ‘Haũ jag’—no Advaitin has said: I am the world. It is easy to unite with Brahman—who would not? Sweet is accepted; bitter is spat. But a siddha swallows both sweet and bitter. His chest is broad; the Advaitin’s is not so broad.
Haũ jag haũ Buddha haũ nirañjana—
‘I am the world, I am Buddha, I am the stainless. I am the mental non‑doer.’
Know the non‑doer and you will know all. Recognize the witness and you will recognize all.
‘I am the destroyer of becoming.’ The day you know the witness, all becoming is broken—dreams dissolve.
Tittha tapovana na karahu sevā.
Deha succhi hi na ssanti pāvā.
‘Do not serve the holy places or the hermitages. By bathings and purifications you will not gain peace.’ If you must bathe—bathe in witnessing. That is Ganga; there you are freed and purified. Do not wander without.
Deva na pūjahu, tittha na jāvā.
Deva‑pūjāhi na mokkha pāvā.
‘Do not worship idols; do not go on pilgrimages. By deity‑worship you will not gain moksha.’
Do not worship stones—awaken consciousness. Outer journeys—how will they take you within? The market is outside, the temple is outside; you are within. Whether you kill or worship—it is outside; and you are within. By worship you will not gain moksha. Leave the outer—come within. He is within you.
I am the wave of consciousness from the abyssal ocean,
I am the beautiful watch of awakening, the auspicious hour,
I am the conscious ray of the light of knowing,
I am the spark of the infinite power of creation!
This earthen body is not my prison,
Life and death as dream are not my business.
I am the intoxicating flute in someone’s hands—
On which the even and uneven notes of existence are all absorbed!
Remember—remember: Who are you? You are only the witness. You have seen many scenes—good and bad, success and failure, sorrow and joy. You have seen darkness and light, fame and insult; childhood, youth, old age; health and disease. You have seen all—except the seer. Now see the seer. Recognize him—and there is moksha; recognize him—and there is Siddhi. He is not far—he is you.
Haũ jag haũ Buddha haũ nirañjana.
With this proclamation of Tilopa, we shall walk a few days, in meditation. Awake. Awaken what sleeps within.
Open the doors of the house, open the shuttered windows,
I, the sun of life, am coming to your home.
Remove all coverings that keep out the light.
I bring the golden blooming of flowers,
I bring the fragrance of the unbounded groves;
I bring the sun‑warmth of my rays,
I bring the coolness of snow crystals.
Rise, rise—lift your head from the cushion,
Open your eyes and see how crimson the glow.
I, the sun of life, stand at your door—
Remove all coverings that keep out the light.
Open the wooden‑house‑like windows of your heart,
Windows that have been shut for so long.
And let me scatter within your temple
My aura, my warmth, dew, ripeness and forest‑fragrance.
Open the doors of the house, open the shuttered windows,
I, the sun of life, am coming to your home.
Remove all coverings that keep out the light.
Enough for today.