Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #4

Narendra Bodhisattva! This prayer is unparalleled! Nowhere on earth, in any scripture, in any time, did such an incomparable prayer take birth. The entire wisdom of the East is gathered into it. As a single drop of attar is distilled from thousands of roses, so is this prayer. It is not only a prayer; it is the very essence of the Upanishads. Nothing can be added to it. And yet, human consciousness is a ceaseless current, forever moving, without shore or end. Each day it touches new dimensions, new skies. Often it seems we’ve reached the halt—and then brighter peaks appear ahead. It feels as if the destination has come, but every destination proves to be only a wayside inn. And that is fortunate. Otherwise how would we live? Where there is growth, there is life; where there is continuous growth, there is continuous movement. Dynamism is life. So, although strictly speaking nothing can be added to this prayer—it is complete, overflowing—still, a flower can be floated on it.

There is such a story in Nanak’s life. He wandered endlessly—within India and beyond, even to Mecca and the Kaaba. Near one village—a settlement of faqirs—it was a Sufi village. The head of the Sufis heard that a saint from India had arrived, a realized fakir, halting just outside the village, at the border, near a well, in the shade of a tree.

Nanak and his companion Mardana had rested there the night. Wherever Nanak walked, Mardana walked with him—his sole companion. Nanak sang, Mardana played the refrain. Nanak hummed, Mardana kept the beat. Nanak poured out songs in praise of the Beloved, Mardana tuned the notes. Without Mardana, Nanak felt incomplete. The songs were with him; Mardana was like his flute.

At dawn, as the sun was rising, Nanak was singing and Mardana was keeping time. Just then a messenger from the Sufi head arrived. In the Sufis’ symbolic way—the way of the carefree, the way of the intoxicated—he had sent a golden bowl filled with milk. Filled so full that not a single drop more could be added. The bearer had to carry it very carefully, for at any moment it could spill, it was that brimming.

He presented the bowl to Nanak and said, “My master has sent this as an offering.” Nanak glanced at the bowl, then picked a flower that Mardana had placed at his feet that very morning, and floated it upon the milk. A flower has no weight; it floated on the surface. Not a drop of milk spilled. Nanak said, “Take it back. I have added something to the offering; you may not understand, but your master will.”

And the master understood. He came running, fell at Nanak’s feet and said, “Be our guest. I had sent the brimming bowl to say: our village is full of fakirs—what need is there of another? This settlement is overflowing with the intoxicated; why have you come? But you did the inconceivable—you floated a flower. That had not even crossed my imagination, that a flower could float, that it would not sink, that it would remain on the surface, perhaps a very light blossom—of tesu, or moonlight itself! Since it did not sink, not a drop of milk was displaced. I understood your message: you have come to the village and will fit in like a flower. Come, welcome! No matter how many fakirs there are, there is room for you. The flower has conveyed the news.”

This sutra is brimming; this bowl is full of milk; there is no room for even a drop. But a flower can be floated—and should be. Keep floating flowers. Otherwise the Upanishads will die. New Upanishads were written only because flowers were floated; otherwise one Chhandogya would have sufficed, or one Katha; even the tiny Ishavasya—which can be printed on a postcard—contains it all: all the Upanishads, all the Vedas, all the Puranas. Yet they kept composing Upanishads, floating flower upon flower on the ever-same milk.

Thus life remains in motion. Where water stands, it stinks; where it flows, it remains pure.

So let this river flow, and I say to you:

The first step of this sutra is: “tamaso ma jyotirgamaya.”
“O Lord,”—though the Lord is not mentioned directly. That is the beauty. Whatever can be captured in a word is not the Ultimate. He is left unspoken. Understand Him; do not utter Him. Hence, though God is not explicitly named, His presence is felt—because this is a prayer. Where there is true prayer, there is the presence of the Divine. In true prayer one need not say “God”; prayer suffices. The incense-smoke, the rising flame of prayer itself points upward—to that sky toward which it ascends. It is only an indication. So, put in brackets: “O Lord!” Not explicit, not said—but without it the sutra remains incomplete.

The Sufis gave God a hundred names, yet they enumerated only ninety-nine. The hundredth they did not utter—that is the real name. When you count the Beautiful Names you will be surprised: the title says “One Hundred Names of God,” and unless you actually count you won’t notice that there are only ninety-nine. The hundredth is unspoken. The said names are only pointers; the unsaid is the truth. The ninety-nine point to the hundredth, and they still count it as a hundred.

So here too, “O Lord” is hidden between the lines.

Truth must be read between the lines—where the page is blank, not in the inked strokes.

“Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya”—“O Lord,” bracket it in your heart—“lead me from darkness to light.”

That is all that is said: lead me from darkness to light. But to whom is it said? It must be addressed to someone, otherwise the sutra becomes meaningless. Who will lead? Hence, in prayer God is present, though not expressed.

“Asato ma sadgamaya”—the second step: “Lead me from untruth to truth.”
And the third:

“Mrityor ma amritam gamaya”—“Lead me from death to deathlessness.”

The three are not separate; they are intertwined—three facets of the One. Think of them as a Trimurti: as God has three forms, so this one truth is prayed in three ways. Here, a flower can be floated—and should be—so the Upanishad remains alive, growing, flowing; so the Ganges keeps moving toward the sea, the sea rises as clouds, the clouds rain back as rivers. This flow is life.

Therefore I say: one can rise a little beyond even this prayer. To float a flower you must rise a little above it, for the bowl is brimful; there is no space for a drop. Only from above can something be added.

Darkness does not exist. It has no being of its own. Hence, this prayer—“O Lord, lead me from darkness to light”—gets itself filled with darkness. Darkness is only absence. It has no status, no power. That is why if you want to do something to darkness directly, you cannot. If your room is dark and I say, “Throw the darkness out,” you can shout, push, draw your sword, fire your gun—nothing will happen. However strong you are, you will be defeated—not because darkness is stronger, but because it is not. How can you win a fight against what isn’t? Punch the dark and you will tire and fall, and your logic will conclude: perhaps darkness is more powerful than I!

Such are the deceits of logic.

Were darkness something, you could shove it out, heap it on the street like trash.

And here everyone is a philosopher. Mulla Nasruddin was passing under a balcony when a woman overturned a basket of rubbish. A tin can struck his head. He shouted, “Are you blind?” She said, “Be grateful only a can hit you. There were bricks and stones in there too! Thank God it was just a can. Why be so pessimistic?”

What am I to do? She was newly married. “Yesterday my husband told me to look down before throwing. I waited a full half-hour and when a man appeared, I threw it. He came to fight. My husband beat his forehead and said, ‘From now on throw without looking.’ So today I threw without looking—and now you fight. What is one to do?”

If darkness could be thrown, streets would be piled with it. And you could not bring darkness in either: when you wish to nap at noon, you cannot gather darkness and carry it inside. If you want to do something with darkness, you must do something with light. To remove darkness, light a lamp. To bring darkness, extinguish the lamp. Light has being; darkness is only its absence.

The prayer says, “O Lord, lead me from darkness to light.”
But darkness is not; why trouble God? Know this: that there is no darkness, and in that very knowing light dawns.

So, beyond the Upanishads a step was taken: Buddha did not speak of God. Why bother the poor fellow! If the matter can be resolved by awakening, why pray? If it can be resolved by oneself, why knock at His door? Whether He is or not, what does it matter? Buddha would laugh and say, “It is inexpressible. Don’t ask.” My emphasis, therefore, is not on prayer but on meditation. That is the difference.

The difference between prayer and meditation is this: prayer, with folded hands, asks, “O Lord, do this.” However lofty, prayer contains a demand: You do it. Meditation carries the strength to do it oneself, the flavor of self-responsibility.

A society full of prayers becomes lazy. Inevitably. If one can pray for the ultimate, why not for the small? If God can remove darkness and grant light, remove untruth and grant truth, remove death and grant immortality, can He not remove poverty and grant wealth? Unemployment and grant business? Of course He can. These are trifles. His servants—the gods and goddesses—will handle them: Kali, Durga, Santoshi Ma, Dhandhan Sati—anyone will do. For uglier tasks there are ghosts: pick a pocket, poison someone, cut a throat—someone will do it. We don’t have to.

Prayer’s basic mistake is to shift responsibility onto another, and laziness follows.

It was the rainy season, midnight in Bhadon.
The ashram was away from toil; listen to what happened there.
Listen: after jalebis, milk, parathas,
the guru was snoring.
He woke and called to his disciple:
“Boy! Why is the light still on?”
The obstinate lazy disciple, Guru Ajagaranand’s chela, replied:
“Revered sir, just close your eyes.
Close them and the problem will solve itself.
Pull the quilt over your face and consider the lamp extinguished.”
The guru said, “Tell me, O spinner of laziness,
has the rain stopped or is it still pouring?”
“Guruji, our cat has just come in from outside.
Stroke her fur—see if she’s dry or wet.
If she’s wet, the rain continues;
if she’s dry, it has stopped.”
“Stopped? Have you no shame?
You avoid every task—at least shut the door!”
“I’ve done two tasks—now let me sleep.
As for the third, Bhagwan, please do it yourself.”

This is what happens. Where prayer dominates, people become beggars. India’s entire psyche has become that of a beggar. If asking gets you things, why act? Bang your head in temples, vow at tombs, petition at shrines—and hope all will happen. “When He wills, it will be”—so nothing happens by our doing. “Not a leaf stirs without His will”—so they don’t stir even themselves.

The natural result was a nation sunk into sloth, torpor, sleep—poverty, destitution, helplessness. Then we invented new rationalizations: the poor are those who sinned in past lives; the rich are those who did virtue then. Soothe yourselves thus.

Then Gandhi came and said: the poor are no small matter—they are Daridra Narayan, God as the poor. Then the poor must be worshiped, their feet washed. So once a year Gandhi would wash the feet of a poor person—ceremonially, like tree-planting day! Today saplings are planted; tomorrow they vanish. For thirty years millions of trees were “planted”—by now the country should be green! Where did the trees go? They keep getting replanted from place to place.

So, a symbolic service to Daridra Narayan—he pressed a leper’s feet—and we began to honor poverty, as if being poor were a virtue, a mark of greatness.

Earlier logic was Lakshmi-Narayan’s. The new logic became Daridra Narayan’s. And yet Gandhi lived by Jamnalal Bajaj’s wealth. Jamnalal built a temple at Wardha and named it Lakshmi-Narayan. I asked his wife, Jankidevi, “Since Jamnalal was a devotee of Gandhi, at least this temple should have been named Daridra Narayan.” She said, “How can that be? We are staunch Vaishnavas—our temple must be Lakshmi-Narayan.”

So the old consolation continued: the wealthy are God’s favorites—else why would they have wealth? Gandhi reversed it: the poor are God’s favorites—else why would He make so many of them, and so few rich?

All these are sophistries. We fail to see the root within: our habit of asking, the fruit of our laziness. The world grew wealthy; we grew poor.

My emphasis is not on prayer but on meditation. Understand the difference.

Prayer says, “Do this, Lord.” Meditation looks within and sees “how it is.” And the meditator discovers: darkness is not—what is there to pray for! Go within and see: it is light, only light. Why waste time in prayer? “Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya”—from what darkness, to what light? Had you gone within, you would know: only light is.

Then if, after light, an upwelling of gratitude arises, and if your prayer is not a demand but thanksgiving, then its form changes. If you must use the language of prayer, let it be: “O Lord, lead me from light to more light!” That is how the flower can be floated. Why even mention darkness? Why say “lead me from untruth to truth”? Say, “from truth to greater truth!” Why “from death to immortality”? Death is a falsehood. One who feels death to be real has not yet known. One who has looked within has found only the immortal. You were never born, you never die. Meditation reveals this. Untruth is not; truth alone is.

Still, if you must put the experience into prayer, if you love that tone, then pray thus: “Lead me from light to more light. From truth to greater truth. From immortality to more spacious immortality. From the whole to the more whole; from the fuller to the fullest.”

But such an addition is possible only when meditation happens.

The Upanishads are scriptures of prayer; they are of wondrous poetry. But my leaning is not toward prayer, because prayer requires a basic assumption: that God is. I do not want you to assume anything. To assume is to believe without knowing. That is blind faith. How will the blind see truth? He has already concluded—on what ground? What foundation?

Heard from others. Others say so, so we accept it. But others say a thousand different things: the Hindu says one thing, the Muslim another, the Jain a third, the Buddhist a fourth—whom to believe? People accept by accident—according to the house in which they are born. Born in India, you are “religious,” ring bells, perform aarti; born in Russia, you would be “irreligious,” an atheist. Raise a Hindu child in a Muslim home—he will never go to a temple when grown. There is no Hinduism in the blood, nor Islam in the bones. Can any doctor, by examining bones, declare a man to be Christian, Jain, or Parsi? These are only outer conditionings.

A tailor went mad, though he was a devotee of Chaturbhuja—God with four arms. A stranger brought him a shirt to stitch. The villagers had stopped going because you asked for a shirt, he made pajama; buttons at the back, drawstrings for the neck—madness! The stranger returned to find four sleeves. “Why four?” he asked. “I am a devotee of the Four-armed God,” the tailor said. “I see four arms everywhere. If yours are only two, you should have told me! I stitched as I saw.”

One believes in Ardhanarishvara—half man, half woman; another in Narasimha—half man, half lion. What all beliefs there are! Others laugh at them, and you laugh at theirs. The wise man laughs at himself, seeing his own beliefs are just as childish.

Prayer contains a basic flaw: you must assume God. Otherwise whom will you address? The foundation of prayer is blind belief. Therefore I am not its advocate.

Meditation has a scientific beauty. It requires no belief. Even an atheist can meditate; that is its dignity. Meditation does not say, “First become a theist, then meditate.” Atheists come to me and ask, “Can we meditate? We are atheists.” I say, meditation does not even ask who you are. It is a scientific method of becoming quiet. If an atheist wishes to be quiet, he can; meditation is the art of silence. Whether atheist or theist, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Parsi—anyone can be silent.

Its great glory is that it needs no sect, no creed, no belief, no conditioning. It is an experiment that demands no prior assumption. It says: as you are, you can become still. And once still, knowing dawns; curtains lift. Whoever became silent, knew.

Certainly the Divine is knowable; but why believe? If it can be known, never believe it—because belief will block knowing. The believer is unfortunate; the knower is blessed. Freedom comes through knowing.

So I say: know! And when you awaken within, you will find: there is no darkness, no untruth, no death. There is only truth, only light, only immortality. Then, if in your joy you must sing, I do not prevent you. Who am I to prevent anyone! If, after knowing, you feel like dancing, sing—but then your prayer cannot be, “Lead me from darkness to light.” It will be: “Light already is—O my Lord, lead me to more light!” Who knows? If there is so much light, perhaps there is more! Then your prayer contains truth, not blind belief—an experience, a realization. If you permit, I would float just such a flower upon your brimming bowl of milk.

Your bowl is full of prayer; I wish to float the flower of meditation upon it. If this flower floats, four moons can be added to your life.

But try to understand me rightly, Narendra Bodhisattva. Often there is danger: what I say is my experience, not yours, and you hear it from your own place, soaked in your assumptions. Your beliefs may be hurt. I do not wish to hurt you, but hurt may happen. If you cling to a wrong vision, you will smart, become restless, misunderstand. I am not speaking against the Upanishads—I love them. But beyond them too lies a world—more skies, further flights. When you have taken wing, set no limits—not of Upanishad, Veda, Koran, or Bible. Do not accept any boundaries. Give your wings total freedom.

A story from Delhi: a man asked a rickshaw-wallah, “Brother, what will you take for the Red Fort?” The rickshaw-wallah replied, “Is the Red Fort my father’s property?” What you say—and what others understand!

Two opium-eaters sat together—under the influence. And who here is not under some influence? There are many kinds of opium. Karl Marx said your so-called religion is opium. With him I agree ninety-nine percent—as far as the crowd’s religion goes, it is narcotic, it keeps you asleep. But I don’t agree hundred percent, because he knew nothing of the Buddhas’ religion. He made an absolute declaration. I will not. Religion as lived by you is opium; mine is not.

Those two, under a full moon, and one said, “Ah! What a lovely moon! I feel like buying it. Even if someone asks a lakh today, I’ll pay.” He shouted, “Is anyone selling?” The other burst into laughter: “Stop this nonsense. Even your father cannot buy the moon!” “What did you say? Mind your words. I’ll stake everything today.” The other said, “Stake the world; but when we are not selling, how will you buy?”

Your beliefs are the world of your intoxications. You do not know yourself, and you talk of God! You cannot answer who you are, and you talk of moksha, nirvana, the afterlife! And you feel no shame? Then my words may hurt.

Where shall we set our feet?
Whom shall we remember?
This is an unknown path,
a city of strangers.
Faces of darkness
rise all around—
here a serpent’s hiss,
there ghosts keep watch.
In the cellars of night
the dead are traveling—
a city of strangers.
All faces look frozen
in layers of ice,
like mummies sealed
in pyramids of rooms.
On the eyes are tablets
of sleep—poisoned—
a city of strangers.
Legions of headless torsos
wander everywhere,
the dead surround the living
and celebrate—
here a scream of life,
there death’s abode—
a city of strangers.
Each lane is a cold prison,
the streets bleed,
the walls are scorched.
Every word
is news of an accident—
a city of strangers.

You know neither yourself nor the other; all is strange, and you keep moving in the crowd, jostling, imitating. Your father told you there is God; his father told him; and so on. Perhaps no one knew. Perhaps, thousands of years ago, someone knew—perhaps. Even that is uncertain. Here, rags become snakes; rumors grow wings; tales swell and swell—and people are ready to live and die for them.

Do not live by imitation. Prayer has that danger; meditation does not. In prayer you follow someone; in meditation you go within. Imitation never works. “Taught boys do not climb doors; they don’t vault walls.”

I’ve heard of two prisoners. One was a Marwari, Chandulal—caught perhaps in some smuggling. The other, Sardar Vichittar Singh. They plotted escape. Holi night came; the guard was high on bhang. “Tonight is the chance,” they said. Chandulal slipped first. The guard, though intoxicated, out of habit barked, “Who’s there?” Chandulal, a shrewd Marwari, meowed, “Meaow, meaow.” “To hell with you,” the guard muttered, “these damn cats,” and sat back.

Sardar Vichittar Singh heard and exclaimed, “Wah! Chandulal got away!” He slipped out; the guard asked, “Who’s there?” He replied, “The Marwari cat just went by; I am the Punjabi tomcat—name Sardar Vichittar Singh.” He was caught at once.

When the magistrate asked, he said, “That rascal Chandulal only meowed and escaped. I gave a full, proper answer—and still I was caught! I don’t understand the rule.”

This is what happens with imitation. Parrots repeat the Upanishadic prayer endlessly. But does their darkness diminish? Do you see lamps lighting up? Any Diwali within? The same old darkness.

A Hindu sannyasin, Swami Divyanand, was a guest at my home when I was a child. He recited this prayer daily. I took him on morning walks. Year after year I listened. The fourth year I said, “How long will this go on? Has light not come yet? Has He not heard you yet? For three years I’ve heard you; you must have been doing this for at least thirty. How long will you go on praying, ‘Take me from darkness to light’? He doesn’t hear, and you don’t get the idea that thirty years have gone by—if He hasn’t heard by now, will He ever? Either He is stone-deaf—as Kabir asked the mullah shouting the azan, ‘Is your God deaf that you scream so loud?’—or…”

I said, “When will you understand? Why not light your own lamp? You sit with a lantern and keep praying—‘O Lord, light it.’ Thirty years have gone by; clearly, lighting your lantern doesn’t interest Him. He said, ‘Don’t disturb my prayer!’ I said, ‘I have endured you for three years—think of the poor God! He has been hearing Indians for three thousand years; his head must be buzzing. What will you do when He lights your lantern? Will you do anything yourself? Where is your lantern—let me see!’”

He told my father, “I cannot walk with this boy. I go at dawn to be alone, silent, to repeat my prayer—and he asks such upside-down questions! He asked, ‘Where is your lantern that you want lit? If God won’t light it, I will.’”

And you still believe you will die, though you pray for immortality? Then what have you known? Not even a taste of your own life; otherwise no one is born and no one dies. Before this body you were; after this body you will remain. You are eternal.

He stopped taking me along, but he continued his prayer—with someone else to escort him. I warned the new escort, “If he recites the same prayer, interfere—else you’ll be stuck every day. I interfered and got relief.”

Prayer will not do. A whole religion built on prayer is childish. This is not about asking; it is about living. Live and you will attain. Seek and you will find. Sloth will not do.

The words are lovely; but what can words do without the meaning of experience? Who will pour experience into them? Only you can. The Upanishads are dead until you breathe life into them. When the cuckoo within you coos, when the papiha within cries “Beloved! Beloved!”—then there is juice, rasa: raso vai sah. Then you will taste what the Divine is.

Matadin Shukla! On the one hand you say, “I want to be free of the net of maya.” That makes it sound as if you have already realized that all this is maya. On the one hand you say, “This world is a dream,” which clearly suggests you have recognized the world as a dream. And on the other hand you ask, “How do I get free of it, how do I cut it?”

These two statements contradict each other. Either you have not seen that it is maya, a dream—or if you have, then what is left to cut? The matter is finished. Has anyone ever woken up in the morning and said, “How do I cut the dreams I saw last night? Where is the pair of scissors to snip the night’s dreams? Where is the fire into which I can throw them?” Has anyone said that on waking? When one wakes, one knows the dream was a dream. In a dream, no one knows that it is a dream. And if in the dream you come to know it is a dream, it breaks instantly. That is the simple science of dreaming.

George Gurdjieff used to explain to his disciples: if you can learn just one thing—to recognize, while dreaming, that you are in a dream—the dream breaks. And that very day the big dream too will break. But it is very difficult to know, while in the dream, that it is a dream. For this Gurdjieff gave his disciples a particular meditation process to cultivate for years. After years, sometimes—only sometimes in a few lives, not in all—someone would know the dream as a dream, and then Gurdjieff’s truth would be revealed. The moment you know it’s a dream, the dream vanishes—because you have awakened.

But you, Matadin Shukla, are parroting stock phrases. You’ve picked up this nonsense by hearsay. From pundits and priests you have memorized these pretty, pretty words like a parrot. Here everyone repeats: “It’s all maya and attachment!” Whoever you see repeats: “All is maya and attachment!” Here it is hard to find a person who does not have Brahman-knowledge. I haven’t yet found a person here who lacks Brahman-knowledge! Everyone here is a knower of Brahman. This country is a wondrous country. No wonder even gods long to take birth here. Whoever you see is a Brahman-knower. Everyone talks of Brahman—and speaks as if he knows. But look at their lives—filled with delusions; there is no sign of Brahman anywhere.

You have learned the talk well—like parrots chanting “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.”

When Shankaracharya went to Mandla to debate with Mandan Mishra, he asked the young women at the well outside the village, “Ladies, I have come to debate with Mandan Mishra; can you tell me the way to his house?” The very name Mandla arose from Mandan Mishra. Mandan Mishra was a marvelous scholar of that time. Those women laughed and said, “Do not worry at all. Enter the village—you will certainly know which house is his. Impossible to pass by unnoticed. Even the parrots by his house recite Vedic mantras. From afar you’ll know you’ve reached his house.”

And Shankaracharya was astonished. Truly, the parrots perched on the trees were chanting the Vedas. Under the trees, the disciples sat reciting the Vedas too. Parrots are mimics: listening to this prattle day after day from the disciples, they too must have begun to babble. Why should parrots care? If they live in a prostitute’s house, they speak the language of prostitutes.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife once bought a parrot. The seller refused many times, “Madam, don’t take it! Please, don’t take it!” She wouldn’t listen, because the parrot was beautiful and spoke very floridly. The seller finally said, “As you wish, but let me warn you—tomorrow don’t come back complaining. This parrot hasn’t lived in the best of places—its company has been questionable. Sometimes it says improper things. So don’t blame me.” She said, “But it is saying such fine things!” He replied, “Yes, it says fine things too; it recites amazing poetry; sometimes it even sings hymns—after all, what does a prostitute not do? Sometimes she too will sing a hymn—because occasionally sages arrive; then hymns must be sung. Sometimes roguish rascals arrive—then qawwali must be sung for them too—poetry and couplets as well. A prostitute has to keep all kinds of goods. As the customer, and as the price he pays—so the goods are sold. And in a prostitute’s house, drunkards arrive too—there is abuse, fights, riots—everything happens. So this parrot knows all of it. I am telling you clearly—I won’t take it back.” But his speech charmed her—such refined manners, pure Lucknowi grace—perhaps the prostitute had been from Lucknow. The parrot’s words were luscious, full of flavor.

She brought it home.

At the sight of the house the parrot said, “Ah! What a lovely home! A new house!” The wife was delighted: see, the moment it saw the house it spoke auspicious words! When her daughters returned from college, the parrot said, “Ah, such pretty daughters, such lovely girls! What a charming home, what a lovely family!” The girls too were pleased.

And in the evening, when Mulla Nasruddin returned from his office, the parrot took one look and exclaimed, “Why, you scoundrel, you’ve come here too! New madam, new girls, new house—but the customer is the same! Hello, Nasruddin!”

Only then did Nasruddin’s wife understand. Until then she believed Nasruddin was a very innocent man, reciting the Quran from early morning, fingering rosaries, discoursing on knowledge.

Matadin Shukla, you say, “I want to be free of the net of maya.”

If you have known that it is the net of maya, then what freedom? From what? Maya means: that which is not, that which is false. Have you ever asked someone, “Please forgive me for the abuse I never gave you”? What would he say? “What are you talking about! What a bizarre thing! You must be speaking the language of accomplished sages! Why should I seek forgiveness for an abuse I never gave? Then what will I do for the abuses I actually hurled? Nothing will be left for them!” Maya means: that which is not. How can there be a question of freedom from that?

That’s why I do not tell my sannyasins to renounce the world because it is maya. If it is maya, why renounce it? What will you renounce? And those who have “left” maya and think they are ascetics are saying absurd things: they left something that never existed—and now they strut and preen their mustaches: “See, what a renunciation! We kicked maya!”

Maya, which never was—and you kicked it! You defeated a foe who never existed, flattened him—and now you flaunt your loincloth, proclaiming conquest in all directions! If the world is maya, what is there to leave? If it is maya, the matter is over. And if it is not maya, then why leave it? My accounting is clear: if it is maya, what on earth is there to leave? And if it is not maya, why leave it? In both cases, do not leave. Stand your ground! Live fully! Live to the brim! No escapist talk.

You say, “This world is a dream.”

Your words soar very high. In high talk, Indians have no rival. And then, Matadin Shukla, you are a Brahmin—what to say then! You are a master of words—and in these very webs of words you will stay entangled and waste your life.

Nothing to leave, nothing to grasp. Here there is nothing to grasp and nothing to abandon. Wake up! With the language of grasping and dropping, the running away begins.

There are two kinds of runners. One runs toward wealth; the other turns his back on wealth—but both are fugitives. There is no difference between them. Both are covered by wealth. Both value wealth. The one going toward wealth has his faith in wealth; the one running from wealth also has his faith in wealth. Why run? If there is wealth, fling it around. If not, bathe to your heart’s content—when the naked bathe, what is there to wring! If you have a sheet, cover yourself; if not, sleep without it and sell your troubles cheap—what worry! Whatever the condition—if you have a hut, it’s a palace; if you have a palace, it’s a hut. But let your joy not be hindered. Let your ecstasy not be obstructed. Let the intoxication flow. This being intoxicated is what I call sannyas.

But people say one thing and do another. They must—because what they say they have never carefully thought about. We have lost even this much honesty. We lack even this much authenticity—that before we speak, at least once we should consider what we are saying.

A leader returned home after a speech and told his wife, “All the listeners today were fools and donkeys.” The wife replied, “No wonder you kept addressing them again and again as ‘my dear brothers’.”

If they were donkeys, why call them your dear brothers! This is the double standard.

Two opium addicts were brought before a court. The judge first asked, “Where do you live?”

The first said, “Sir, I have no house. I’m homeless. A vagabond.”

The judge asked the second, “And where do you live?”

The second said, “I am his neighbor.”

At least think about what you are saying! Rethink your question before you ask it!

A pickpocket stole a lovely gold-nibbed fountain pen from someone’s pocket and went to sell it at the market. When he returned, another pickpocket friend asked, “Well, brother, how much did you get for it?”

The first said, “The same as I paid for it.”

The second said, “What do you mean?”

The first said, “Someone cut my pocket and stole it from me.”

Even the pickpocket is speaking with more sense—straight talk: what came as it came, went as it went. We neither bought nor sold.

But you say, “I want to be free of the net of maya.”

No one becomes free of maya’s net. Yes—through meditation it becomes clear that maya is not; there is no net; you are not bound; bondage is only a delusion. If you believe it, it exists; if you do not, it falls away. Belief itself is bondage. And if you try to run without knowing, the bondage will only become stronger—your very running gives it strength, energy, nourishment. Your running proclaims your fear. And what are you afraid of?

When I was a child, we had a headmaster in our school—what a terror, what a presence! People trembled at the mere sight of him; children lost their wits completely. He looked frightening. I’ve forgotten his name—no one remembered it. People called him “Kanter Master,” because he had only one eye. By that he was known.

One eye, a massive body, six and a half feet tall, so strong that if he gave someone a shove—even in affection—the fellow would be knocked flat. Stories were told that in 1916, at the fair in Lucknow, he had defeated the wrestler Gama. Who knows how true—but to look at him, you’d think he could have. Gama must have lost just by seeing his face. He must not have needed to wrestle; Gama likely said, “Kanter Master, I surrender.”

Even teachers feared him. He never really taught; he never took classes. No one could complain to the municipal committee that he did not teach. He just did headmastering. Although by rules he too should have taken a class, he never did. The other teachers taught his class. His work was to roam around: cuff this one, slap that one, carry a cane, punish throughout the day. They said he even beat teachers off and on—then what were children!

When I reached fourth standard in Hindi, by rules he was our assigned teacher—but he did not teach. He would come once or twice a day to beat someone. He looked here and there, grabbed this one, that one—pounced on a few, pulled someone’s hair—he had all kinds of techniques; he should have been in the police. He would wedge pencils between fingers and then press the fingers—little children would scream! He would lift boys by their hair—and my hair was very long, so he greatly enjoyed it. He never let me be—on one pretext or another he would lift me by my hair.

Every night he passed in front of our house. He had no wife or children; he would eat in a hotel and around nine or nine-thirty walk past. His house was further on. When I couldn’t bear it anymore, one day in the market I saw a man selling rubber snakes. I bought one. I tied a black thread to it and put it in a drain across the road, stretched the thread over to my side, and lay on my cot with the thread in my hand—it was summer; in summer, villagers sleep outside. When he came by at around nine-thirty, I slowly pulled the thread. In the dark, when he saw the snake coming out of the drain, he lost all presence of mind. He had a stick in his hand—it fell; he ran so fast that his dhoti caught and he went sprawling. I had hidden four or six boys inside the house; we quickly brought lanterns—so he’d know we’d seen it and that his condition was bad.

He stood up, saying, “No, no—nothing, no snake! What snake are you talking about? There is no snake.” I said, “Which snake are you talking about? We don’t see any snake. Did you see one?” He said, “Just my little hallucination.” I said, “If it was a hallucination, why did you run? And your stick’s over there. And your dhoti’s come undone! Put on your glasses!” One boy quickly helped him put on his glasses. The glasses had fallen and cracked. I said, “When there was no snake, then why did you run? Your stick fell, your glasses broke, your dhoti came undone! If we hadn’t come, your heart might have failed—who knows what would have happened?”

I told him, “Just remember—don’t you ever lift me by my hair again.”

He understood. From that day he never touched my hair. He realized: this boy is dangerous. If today he could scare me with a fake snake, tomorrow who knows what mischief he might make—and every night I have to pass his lane at nine-thirty. Better not make trouble!

In my village there is an animal like a snake called Sita’s Lock—Sita ki lat. It looks exactly like a snake but isn’t one. It can deceive anyone. Once I learned that it is not a snake and does not bite—you can recognize instantly by catching it: a snake can coil back and in a flash strike; that is the danger. If you catch a snake by the tail, it is dangerous—those who catch snakes catch them by the head; if the head is caught, there is no danger. But if you catch the tail, you are finished—he will coil and bite.

Sita’s Lock cannot coil back. Just by pressing its tail you know. If it cannot turn back, it is Sita’s Lock; otherwise it looks exactly like a snake.

So we began taking Sita’s Lock to school. The moment he saw me with Sita’s Lock he remembered the whole night’s scene. He would say, “Leave it, leave it! Why remind me?” I would say, “Remind you of what?” He wouldn’t pursue it further, for if he did others would learn. Though I had told everyone. Everybody knew—the teachers, the peons, every child. The whole village knew what had happened to Nema-ji—how Kanter-ji had fallen.

I carried Sita’s Lock to remind him. Anywhere, even in the market, if I met him, I would take it from my pocket and show him, and he would at once… The whole village knew: if Kanter-ji fears anyone, he fears this boy. Who knows what the matter is? He’d say, “Enough, enough—let it be, don’t remind me. What’s done is done. Let bygones be bygones.”

And you say, “I want to be free of the net of maya.”

Then be free! What is not, be free of it!

“This world is a dream—how do I cut it?”

If a thorn is real, a real thorn can remove it. But if you want to cut a dream, you will have to use false means. Then tie amulets and charms—all false remedies. For false diseases, false medicines are needed. That is why there are three hundred religions in the world and three thousand sects. The true medicine is one: meditation. False medicines are countless. Truth is one; untruths can be infinite.

I will only say this: dive into meditation; drop this nonsense—maya, dream; repeating fine words leads nowhere. Practice only the discipline of no-thought. Be a witness to your thoughts. As you witness, as you watch thoughts, a unique experience arises—by being seen, thoughts die; they end. When thought dies, desire dies, because desire is a form of thought. When thought dies, memory goes, because memory is the storehouse of thought. When thought goes, imagination goes, because imagination too is a ripple of thought.

With the going of thought, all its forms go—like leaves falling in autumn. When all the leaves of the mind have fallen and the mind stands naked, leafless, like a tree in autumn, then you will see: nothing has ever bound you; you were never bound; you can never be bound. What abides within you is ever free, eternally free. The realization of that—here itself is moksha, here itself is nirvana.

In an ocean of fire
a paper boat—
this is our village.

Walls carry
the tale of smoke.
On faces is plastered
the ache of burning.
All through the settlement
a naked terror dances.
Here, life is like
a scorpion’s sting.

At high noon, aflame,
the feet of a leper.
This is our village.

Encircled by flames
the last house stands.
Busy giving assurances,
the sky.
Sometimes we hear
the noise of clouds—
and still unbroken
the round of conflagrations.

On embers lying,
the banyan’s shade.
This is our village.

In an ocean of fire
a paper boat—
this is our village.

You are sitting in paper boats and thinking, “How shall we cross?” What is thought? A paper boat. A paper boat is at least something—thought is not even that: just a ripple on water, a wave of air. And you live in thoughts. There is no disturbance in the world; the disturbance is in thought. You are not to be free of the world; you are to be free of thought. But for centuries you have been told: be free of the world. So you try to be free of the world and never try to be free of thought.

I know such Jain monks and Hindu sannyasins who have practiced austerities for years, fasted and vowed—and reached nowhere. They left the world—wife, children, house—but the garbage in the skull remains as it was. They carefully preserve that sacred cow’s dung. The skull is full of dung. They won’t drop that. And that is the real mischief. Empty the skull of dung. Even if it is “holy cow dung,” it is dung—throw it out. This skull is not meant to be a gobar-gas plant! Only gas is coming out—and then stench spreads all around.

Dhabbu-ji went to the discourse of a matted-hair swami. The swami extolled the glory of charity—this is the favorite work of swamis. They glorify charity! And to whom to give charity? They will tell you that too. With such a definition of worthiness that, practically, no one remains worthy except themselves. If you read the Buddhist scriptures, the described “worthy recipient” of charity is the Buddhist monk alone. If you read the Jain scriptures, the only worthy recipient is the Jain muni. All others are false gurus, false scriptures, false deities. Do not give to them—giving to them is sin. Give to the true guru. And who is the true guru? If you read the Digambara texts—he who is naked. If you read the Shvetambara—no mention of nakedness; the one clad in white with a mouth-cloth. If the mouth-cloth is missing—finished! Ask the Brahmins—to whom to give? To the Brahmin.

The matted-hair sannyasi explained the glory of charity at length. If Matadin Shukla were to meet such a swami and say, “I want to be free of maya’s net,” he would say, “Do it, brother! Give charity. Your trouble will end. We are ready to take everyone’s troubles. Give it to us—why should you suffer? We are ascetics; we will bear it. You need to renounce dreams—hand them to us.”

What a charming net! And what a flock of fools that keeps getting trapped in it!

But Dhabbu-ji is also a seasoned one—hence Dhabbu-ji! The swami explained a hundred times, but Dhabbu-ji didn’t budge. He nodded, “Yes, yes,” but didn’t take out a single coin. Finally the swami’s patience broke; in anger he said, “You Dhabbu brat! I’ve explained so much—you understand nothing; your skull is full of dung!” Dhabbu-ji said, “It surely must be, Maharaj—why else would you be licking it for an hour? But one thing I do not understand.” The swami asked, “What don’t you understand?” “You see my skull—smooth like a fresh cement road: absolutely bald, no hair grows. And your hair—such dense matted locks!”

The swami said, “I don’t get your point. What do you mean? What is the purpose of your question?” He said, “The purpose is this, Maharaj: I have heard that ground rich in dung grows more grass. So I wonder—in which skull is there more dung, mine or yours? Because on yours there is more vegetation. On mine all grass has shed long ago—who knows when! If there were dung, grass would grow—especially in the rains!”

The world is not outside; it is the name of your skull. And in the skull there is trash: thoughts, desires, cravings, schemes, ambitions: to be this, to become that, to get this, to get that. Even in this question—“How do I be free of the world, tell me; how do I be free of the dream, tell me”—you imagine it is a true spiritual inquiry. No—not at all. Behind it too is greed—how to get heaven, how to enter paradise. And what will you do in paradise? If you carry the same skull there, nothing much will happen even there.

Chandulal died, reached the gates of heaven, and knocked. The gatekeeper peeked out and asked, “Who are you?” He said, “I am Chandulal.” “We have no information of any Chandulal arriving. Have you come before your time? Which doctor were you being treated by? To hell with these doctors—they send people before time! Those who are not to die, they die; and those who must die, keep living. Everything is in a mess. I’ll have to go and check the office now—midnight, and you show up and wake me! Give me your full details. What’s your full name?”

He said, “Chandulal Lohawala.” “Lohawala? Is that a caste?” “No, not a caste—I deal in iron scrap. I buy and sell old iron—that’s my trade; therefore my name is Lohawala.” In Bombay they have such names—Chandulal Lohawala, so-and-so ‘Bottlewala’. In Bombay, all kinds of amazing names.

The celestial guard went into the records at midnight, flipping pages, searching, couldn’t find Chandulal—after an hour, hour and a half, he came back to report: “No trace.” He looked—and Chandulal was missing. Not just Chandulal—so was the iron gate of heaven!

Would Chandulal miss such a chance? Seeing that an hour and a half had passed, he thought—might as well take the gate.

Since then—let me tell you this news—heaven has no gate. Chandulal Lohawala sold it in Bombay. Now you don’t need to knock on heaven’s door; go straight in. Leave maya or not—no worry. Matadin Shukla, go at night sometime. And if anyone raises a fuss, just say: “Meow!”

Greed is what is devouring you—from behind. To dwell in heaven, to live in Vaikuntha—as if Urvashi and Menaka are waiting just for you: “When will Matadin arrive so we can dance!”

Live life! Here and now is Vaikuntha. He who lives free of inner crampedness, he lives in Vaikuntha. Let crampedness go, and Vaikuntha arrives. Drop the crampedness! The Indian mind is so full of crampedness that there is no measure. And your questions only increase your crampedness. This maya, this attachment, this evil, this sin, drop this, drop that—you become more and more constricted; your life shrivels, it does not expand.

The Indian psyche has forgotten to expand; it has learned to shrink, to live in inhibition. You speak of Brahman, but live in constriction. The word “Brahman” means: that which expands, which ever widens. Only he knows Brahman who knows the art of widening.

Expand—do not be narrow.

Smoke is rising from the lamps again—do something.
Now even in this house the breath is choking—do something.
Today, how shall we open our windows—how?
The illusion of these lights is breaking—do something.
If it were night, it would be one thing;
but in broad day a man is being looted—do something.
Friends, vultures circle this city again—
the goods of death are being amassed again—do something.
Let no forest descend upon this age again—
the greenness of life is fading—do something.

But here the greenness of this country’s life faded long ago. We live like stumps. How we have been looted—beyond reckoning! How this caravan was plundered—beyond reckoning! And the looters—good people! Had bad people looted us, there would at least be something to say. Those we call virtuous, saints, mahatmas—because of them we are ruined. They did not teach us the art of living; they taught fear of life. They frightened us! They pasted the label of sin on everything, and forced merit upon us. When merit is done under compulsion, there is no joy. And when sin is dropped under compulsion, it does not drop—it oozes within.

So I will not tell you that the world is maya. The world is not maya. These trees are not maya. These mountains, these moon and stars are not maya. If there is maya anywhere, it is in your imaginings, in your desires, in your wants. Drop desires—set them aside. And included in your desires is the desire for heaven—remember that; included is the desire for moksha—do not forget; even the desire to be free of desire is a desire—do not overlook it. Put all desires aside and live life simply, joyously. Whatever God has given you, live it in gratitude—and here is Vaikuntha, this very moment. Instantly the gates of heaven open. Nectar showers.

Heaven is within you—and you go groping here and there; knocking at doors everywhere; where have you not prostrated? To whom have you not prayed? Whom have you not asked? Now wake up! Recognize the light within.

The moment you recognize that light, there is no dream, no maya. There is God, and only God. Outside He is, inside He is; in you, He is; in others, He is. There is nothing but the one God.

Tat tvam asi—you are That.

That’s all for today.