Sanch Sanch So Sanch #1

Yog Mukta, truth is eternal, timeless, beyond change. Whatever changes is a dream; what does not change is truth. To find that which is unchanging is religion. Whoever binds their attachment to the changing world finds nothing but suffering—this is inevitable. You can try all you want, you will not be able to arrest what is by nature in flux. And if you fall in love with the changing, you will demand that it stop, that it stay—and it will not. It is already gone—even as it appears. Morning comes, and within it evening is already concealed. With birth, death has already happened. The messengers of death do not come riding on water buffaloes; they arrive riding on birth itself. Once birth has entered, death has entered. Do what you will, you cannot escape death.

To recognize this rightly is revolution in life: the moment you see that binding attachment to the changing is the very arrangement for sorrow, to identify with it is to fall into hell. Hell is not somewhere else—it is here. Heaven is not somewhere else—it is here. Whenever you join yourself to the eternal, the fragrance of heaven spreads; whenever you join yourself to the non-eternal, you begin to burn in hell. Heaven and hell are matters of your vision—just a question of the eye. They are not geographical locations; they are psychological facts.

Dariya speaks rightly—
Gold is always gold; glass is only glass.
Dariya says: the false is false; the true is truly true.

It may happen that sometimes polished brass, in the rays of the sun, appears like the sun, appears like gold. But that is appearance. Come close and the appearance breaks; stay far and the illusion remains. If you wish not to see the truth of this world, keep your distance. Those who have not attained wealth keep hope in wealth: “Once I have it, all will be fulfilled.” Those who did attain wealth found only poverty.

No one on earth is more impoverished than the wealthy, because upon gaining wealth all their hopes turn into disappointments. How many dreams they had woven! How many webs of desires! How many mirages! They worked so hard, staked their whole life to obtain this wealth—and shards fall into their hands. Not even an echo of those dreams remains. The dance they expected in life never begins; the anklets never ring. The songs that were to swell never arise. Hoped-for roses do not bloom; not even stones come to hand. The rich become poorer than the poor. Emperors become beggars beyond beggars, because a beggar at least still has hope; even that hope deserts the emperor. There remains only despair—vast despair, without beginning or end.

In this world, things look beautiful from afar; close up, they become distorted, because from near it is evident: nothing abides. Youth is turning into old age; beauty into ugliness; life into death. What are you clutching? You are building houses in sand, signing your name on water. Here your signature will not even form before it is erased. Has anyone ever lived in these sand-castles? Even if they are built, any vagrant gust will topple them.

But the mind has a trick: if one hope breaks, it quickly manufactures ten more. “So this hope failed—no matter; there are other hopes. This failure—no matter; more successes await. We must not lose; we must not despair. Have courage! Keep struggling! We will get it, surely we will!”

And no one asks: has anyone ever gotten it? Centuries have passed—has anyone said upon getting wealth, “I have found it”? Has anyone, upon obtaining empire, said, “What I longed for, the lord of my dreams, the realm of my imaginings, has come”?

Without exception, this is the tale—the anguish—of the human race: here no one got anything. But delusion constructs great facades: brass looks like gold; shiny pebbles appear as diamonds. Yet, says Dariya, appearances be damned—gold is still gold; glass is only glass. The false is false even if the whole world agrees. Truth and falsehood are not decided by democratic vote—by how many hands are raised.

A man once said to George Bernard Shaw: “Surely the ideas of Jesus must be true; Christianity must be true—after all, the majority of the world is Christian. So many people couldn’t be mad.”

Shaw said something priceless: “Your very argument is sufficient proof for me that whatever so many people believe must be wrong. If the majority ever accepted truth, this earth would already be heaven.”

How many accepted Jesus? A handful, a hundred or so. And how many killed him? Millions by consent. How many stood with Socrates? They can be counted on fingers. And how many decided to finish him with poison? A multitude. Al-Hallaj Mansur, Sarmad—their executioners were the majority. Who stood with Sarmad? A few crazies ready to lose their heads.

Only a few stand with truth, because standing with truth demands a price. First, truth is not cheap, not for sale in the marketplace, not found in temples and mosques. It must be sought within—not in the Bible, not in the Quran, not in the Vedas. The search is solitary and arduous. The hardest place to go in this world is within, because as you go in, you become more and more alone. A moment comes when even being alone is not left—only the void remains; you too disappear. First companions go, then thoughts, then feelings. A singular, extraordinary instant arrives—death-like—when even the sense of self is lost, the “I” evaporates, the soul itself dissolves. You cannot even say “I am.” And precisely in that moment where no one remains, truth dawns.

Whoever crucifies himself on this deepest cross—surrenders the ego to death, lets it burn to ash in the fire of meditation, and dissolves into the vast emptiness—only he experiences truth. Very few dare so much. The crowd is far from truth. Truth is not decided by votes or raised hands. That is the method of politics, not of religion.

Therefore I tell you: the collectives that gather under the names Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh, Parsi—they are political crowds. Does religion have a crowd? It has satsang—communion with the true—not a faction. One sits in the presence of the realized; one prepares to disappear. To link with one who has dissolved is the beginning of your own dissolution. There is discipleship, but no party. Crowds belong to falsehood—and to the dull-witted. But the dull have one advantage: they can always boast, “We are many! So our belief must be true.”

I too agree with George Bernard Shaw. Seldom does anyone stand with truth. Truth is universally condemned; falsehood is universally worshipped. Falsehood wins prizes, honors, titles. Truth gets the cross, stones, abuse. Even when crowned, truth is given a crown of thorns. The path of truth is no bed of roses; it is arduous—and people make it more arduous. Still, gold remains gold—whether the world acknowledges it or not, even if no one does.

Not long ago—just three hundred years—everyone believed the earth was flat, not round. One man, Columbus, held it was round, and people laughed. They called him mad. He could persuade only a few—just ninety—to sail with him, after years of effort. Even among those ninety there was danger of mutiny; they wavered: “What madman have we followed! No shore in sight.” They had carried three months’ provisions. When only three days’ food remained and land had not appeared—Columbus had thought they would circle the globe in three months and return to where they started—the crew decided to throw him overboard and turn back.

Columbus overheard their conspiracy. He came, opened the hatch, and said, “I understand. You are not my enemies; you fear for your lives. I am willing—throw me overboard; no need for plots. If you wish, I will jump myself, and you return. But answer one thing: we have only three days’ provisions. To go back the distance we have come requires three months’ provisions. With three days’ food, what will you do for the remaining two months and twenty-seven days? One thing is certain—you will not reach home. So turning back is pointless. Give me just three more days. I tell you, within three days we will find land. My calculation cannot be so wrong. Decide as you will. To return you need three months of food; with me, you need three days.”

They thought, “True—either way we die. And without Columbus, could we even navigate back? He brought us this far. Better three more days than three more months.” And in exactly three days, land appeared. The whole world believed the earth was flat. One “madman” believed it round—and that one was right.

Galileo met the same fate. Even today our languages have not changed; we still say “sunrise” and “sunset.” Galileo said there is neither sunrise nor sunset; the earth revolves around the sun. The world believed one thing; Galileo wrote another. There was great denunciation. The Pope summoned him to Rome: “Apologize, or be ready to die.” He was old—seventy-five, sick, dragged from his bed.

Galileo was wise—few appreciate his wisdom. People think he was a coward because he apologized. I do not. He apologized in a way that proved his intelligence and the foolishness of his judges. He said, “If you wish, I will apologize now. What difficulty is there for me? I will write in my book that the earth does not move; the sun moves.”

The Pope was pleased. Galileo stood and added, “But remember—nothing will change by my writing. The earth will still move. I will write—why should I quarrel? Whether the earth circles or the sun circles—what is that to me? But know this: my writing will not alter anything. A thousand Galileos can write the sun moves; the sun will not listen. Nor can you summon it to court. I will kneel and ask forgiveness—clearly I was mad to speak the truth. One should not speak the truth; the result is bad—I had heard this, and today I see it. I will write that the sun moves. But as I depart I tell you: the sun will not accept it; the earth will not accept it. You yourselves do not accept what I say—why would they? The earth will keep moving.”

What a deep, biting irony! He apologized and still proved them fools. Today we know Galileo was right. This is the eternal story: glass often claims to be gold—and the crowd is pleased, because glass is cheap; it costs nothing.

You believe in God without knowing; therefore your “God” is a piece of glass, not gold. Beliefs are shards of glass; experience is gold.

Gold is always gold; glass is only glass.
Dariya says: the false is false—even if the world believes for centuries—and the true is truly true.

There is no way to change truth. Truth simply is as it is.

But to know truth courage is needed; attachment to the false must loosen. We are possessed by our opinions, bound by them. We care more that our opinions be proved right than that truth be known.

There are two kinds of people. A few are willing to stand with truth—very few. The many want truth to stand with them. And when you make “truth” stand with you, it becomes your level. You yourself are false, filled with ignorance; no ray, no sun, not even a small lamp burns in your life. Whatever “truth” chooses to stand with you in such a state can only be deception.

It is as if every tree were a temple—some ruined, lightless, ancient shrine—
where, for ages, someone has been looking for an excuse to condemn it.
Every roof and door is cracked to its last breath.
The sky is like a priest sitting under every roof,
smearing bodies with ash, streaking foreheads with vermilion,
head bowed, silent—who knows since when.
Behind the curtain there is some magician
who has cast a spell over the horizons.
The hem of time is stitched to the hem of dusk.
Now dusk will never end, nor will darkness lift.
Now night will never wear away, nor will dawn break.
The sky waits in hope that this magic shatters—
that the chain of silence snaps, the grip of time is torn.
Let someone blow the conch in alarm, let some anklet speak,
let some idol awaken, let some dusky veil be lifted!

It has gotten very late. The night deepens and deepens; there is no sign of morning.

Now night will never wear away, nor will dawn break.
The sky waits in hope that this magic shatters—
that the chain of silence snaps, the grip of time is torn.
Let someone blow the conch in alarm, let some anklet speak,
let some idol awaken, let some dusky veil be lifted!

There is a need for someone to lift the curtain. Whoever lifts it will be embroiled; whoever unveils this face is destined for the cross. Those who try to break this darkness will be hunted by the merchants of darkness, whose vested interests lie in it. Yet to be annihilated on the path of truth is a thousand times better than to live on the path of untruth.

I call you to that. Sannyas is the quest of the seekers of truth. I want you to be courageous—blow the conch.

Let someone blow the conch in alarm, let some anklet speak.
It has been too long; life has lost its dance. Without truth there can be no dance. For ages no conch has sounded. In the true temple of life no plates of worship are arranged, no real prayer takes place. False temples, false churches, false mosques abound—full of noise and crowds—but all are shops of the false.

Truth lives with persons, not in scriptures. I want you to awaken this sleeping idol.

Let some idol awaken…
It will not awaken by itself; it must be shaken. And remember: if you shake, you will be abused; stones will be thrown. Yet the stones received on the path of truth turn to flowers; and flowers found on the path of untruth are paper flowers—of no use.

Let the chain of silence be cut…
Enough—let someone break this conspiracy of silence!
…let some anklet speak,
let some idol awaken, let some dusky veil be lifted!

Truth is truth—but even truth needs its proclamation through a person in samadhi. Truth is music, but even music needs a hollow reed through which to flow.

This is how I define sannyas: the hollow bamboo flute. The day you drop your ego and break your mind, you become a hollow reed. Then the lips of the unknown truth play their music upon you; your heart-strings fill with the unstruck sound.

Those who have truly seen You—their eyes are other eyes!
Moments that become verses of worship—those are other moments!
Where the garden blooms in glory—all flowers are Yours,
but that garland which clasps Your neck—those flowers are other flowers!
When You are not seen, even truth becomes a dream to me;
but those dreams that favor reality—those are other dreams!
Let the fire not go out; let tears flow to some extent—
those that lift a higher flame—those salutes are other salutes!
Death too can be an ideal for worldly life,
but those who devote their whole life-and-death to You—they are other beings!
It is wise to watch for deep forests, chasms, and cliffs,
but those who keep walking seeing only You—lost in You—those are other wayfarers!

I call to those lost-in-love ones—to those who can live these wondrous moments.

Those who have truly seen You—their eyes are other eyes!
I call to those eyes—to such seeing! All have eyes, but keep them closed. Tell them to open, they become angry. With eyes shut for ages, they have forgotten they even have eyes. Like a bird in a cage that has forgotten it has wings. Even if set free, it may not live, may not fly; it has forgotten how to use its wings. So are people’s eyes—bound in chains, covered in stone, wrapped in beliefs, buried under scriptures. They seem to see, but they see nothing.

Those who have truly seen You—their eyes are other eyes!
Moments that become verses of worship—those are other moments!
I call to those moments, those eyes that become hymns of adoration.

Where the garden blooms in glory—all flowers are Yours,
but that garland which clasps Your neck—those flowers are other flowers!
You can become the garland around the neck of the Divine. It is every person’s birthright to seek truth and become its garland. Until one becomes that, life is nothing but defeat; there is no victory. The day you adorn the neck of the Divine, your defeat becomes victory, your disappearance becomes your triumph.

When You are not seen, even truth becomes a dream to me;
but those dreams that favor reality—those are other dreams!
Let the fire not go out; let tears flow to some extent—
those that lift a higher flame—those salutes are other salutes!
Such a flame should rise from your life. But people get angry. While giving sannyas to someone I said: “Zarathustra said: awaken the fire within you, for that fire is life, that fire is God.” And those who claim Zarathustra worship the fire outside. A teaching about the inner fire, when it falls into blind hands, becomes outer fire. Tell the blind the truth—it instantly becomes false.

I love Zarathustra; perhaps no one else like him has walked the earth. In Buddha there is some denial of life; in Mahavira, a great deal. Somewhere a “no” to life remains. In Zarathustra there is a supreme affirmation—full acceptance of life. Religion is the art of living life rightly. In this, Zarathustra’s work is very close to mine.

Yet because of my statement, Parsis showered me with abuse in the newspapers. Why? I had said: “No one honors life like Zarathustra; he has raised life itself to the status of the Divine—life is God. Its symbol is the fire within you.” Science too agrees—all life is fire. If the sun goes out, humans, birds, flowers—everything goes out. It is the sun’s fire that warms and enlivens you. To make fire the symbol of life was profound insight. But to build temples and endlessly worship outer fire is sheer foolishness.

Many letters condemned me—save one from a Parsi woman who wrote: “What you say is true. I am a Parsi by birth, and the more people who speak as you do, the greater the good of humanity.” Others wrote abuse, trying to prove me wrong. I had praised Parsis as intelligent, thoughtful, lovers of life, not negators. Only that woman responded in harmony; the rest were busy proving me wrong: “Where did you get the idea that we are so intelligent? You are wrong to call us wise.”

Truth is not outside; it is within. Call it God, call it fire, call it life, call it nirvana—whatever name you like—but that alone is truth.

And Dariya says: whatever people may believe—Dariya declares: the false is false, the true is true!

We must be free of beliefs and seek experience. Free of doctrines and descend into self-experience. Make the mind thought-free. Thoughts are tinted lenses that color everything and deprive us of seeing. When the mind is without thought, the eye that sees through and through is born—and then nothing but truth remains. Then you know the timeless. Whoever knows the timeless becomes timeless. He attains the deathless. The Vedas proclaim: Amritasya putrah—you are the children of immortality.

But you have made death your all-in-all, because you clutch the changing. Drop the changing and seek within that which never changes. What in you never changes? The body changes daily; the mind changes every moment; the heart even more quickly. These three are your layers. Beyond them is your witnessing consciousness—your awareness. That awareness never changes. It was the same when you were a child, the same when you were young, the same when you are old. In life it is the same—and if only you can hold it in the moment of death, then for you there is no death. You have caught the thread that does not break.

There is only one eternal thing: consciousness. That is sat-chit-ananda. Seek that—and lay your whole life at its feet.

Rajendra Agney, to be a poet and to be in politics—that is a great calamity. How will you be both at once? Riding two boats. And the boats aren’t even going in the same direction; they go in opposite directions. What kinship between politics and poetry! Is there any realm more devoid of poetry than politics? And what, apart from a poetry-less void, can politics be?

Politics is the outer race. Politics is lordship over others. And poetry is to come to rest within and give expression to the inner effulgence. Politics is other-dependent; poetry is self-reliant. Where will you reconcile these? And if you are in both, then understand one thing for sure: your poetry is false; only your politics will be true.

Whenever someone asks, “I have a diamond and a stone—which should I save?” what will we understand? Only that he has no eye for a diamond. Otherwise, where is the question of which to save between a stone and a diamond! If he had the discernment, he would already have saved the diamond and thrown the stone away.

You ask that you are in politics and also a poet...

This is impossible. Whenever someone asks, between the futile and the meaningful, “Which should I choose?” know that the meaningful is not yet visible to him. Your poetry will be like Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s poetry. He too “does” poetry! Rhyming—and takes it for poetry. A very accomplished gentleman! Atal Bihari Brahmachari should be his real name—instead of Atal Bihari Vajpayee. He can make rhymes. He can scribble tuktak—doggerel—and take it to be poetry. Anyone can do rhyming. Rhyming achieves nothing.

A famous politician and poet once went to a brothel. He must have been like you, or like Atal Bihari Brahmachari. Going to the young courtesan, he began to make long-winded speeches, as is the habit of poets and politicians. And a double ailment—poetry and politics both. Double pneumonia! He said, “Beloved, I can pluck the stars from the sky for you.” The young woman said nothing, remained silent. The leader spoke again, “Beloved, I truly love you very much. I am no less than some Majnu or Farhad. If you say, today itself I will give a contractor the contract to bring a canal of milk up to your house, as Farhad did.” The young woman still kept quiet. When even after quite some time she did not reply to anything, the leader said, “Beloved, I can even give my life for you. Whatever you ask me to do, I can do—but at least say something!”

The young woman, by now exasperated, said, “Netaji, if you want to pluck stars, then pluck stars; if you want to have a canal dug, then have it dug; and if you want to give your life, then give your life—but whatever you are going to do, do it quickly; other customers are waiting outside.”

Rajendra Agney, you seem to be that sort of poet.

I have heard: Seth Chandulal, a Marwari, had a daughter who went touring in Punjab, and there she fell in love with the famous Punjabi poet Sardar Vichittar Singh. In the end she married Sardarji. When Sardarji came to his in-laws’ house for the first time, his mother- and father-in-law and other relatives honored him greatly, addressing him as Kunwar Sahib. Whoever met him would say, “Please come, Kunwar Sahib! Do come in, Kunwarji,” or, “Kunwarji, come for your bath; Kunwar Sahib, come for your meal,” and so on.

For one day Vichittar Singh bore it all, but the next day he could not. Angry, he said to his father-in-law Chandulal, “Stop this nonsense. What is this ‘Kunwar Sahib, Kunwar Sahib’ you have set off? I am a Sardar, yes, but not as foolish as you take me to be. I am a poet. The syllable ‘ku’ is used for bad things—like kutsit (base), kukarm (evil deed), kurup (ugly), ku-guru (bad teacher), ku-dev (false god), ku-khyat (ill-famed). And the syllable ‘su’ is used for good qualities—such as su-shabda (good word), sundar (beautiful), sushil (well-mannered), suramya (lovely), subhashit (well-said), sukhad (pleasing), etc. Mind you, if you address me as Kunwar Sahib even once again, I will divorce your daughter!”

And Chandulal, being a Marwari, said, “Arrey, Suar Sahib—Mr. Pig—what are you talking about!”

Rajendra Agney, brother, stick to politics. Poetry will be hard. If you wish to enter the world of poetry—and if you ask me—there is only one way into poetry, and that is meditation. Otherwise it will remain mere rhyming. However beautiful, rhyme is, after all, rhyme. If you truly want to enter poetry, first become calm, become silent. Become so silent that the Divine can speak from within you. Become so quiet that none of your own voice remains, so that his spring can flow through you. Then poetry is born. Then true poetry is born.

Nikhilanand, many times Rabindranath has given voice to very lovely words — words that bring him very near to the rishis; words that carry the flavor of the Upanishads; words that make one wonder how he could have woven them. For he never practiced meditation, never knew samadhi. But he was supremely sensitive, and that extraordinary sensitivity brought him very close to much truth.

Yet remember one thing: however near you may come to truth, until you become truth-filled, even nearness is a distance. You may sit right beside truth; it may begin to glimmer and shimmer in you, as an image forms in a mirror — but the mirror’s image is still only an image. The moon reflected in a lake is not the moon; it looks exactly like the moon, and when the lake is utterly still it can seem even more beautiful than the moon.

A person like Rabindranath is a little difficult to understand, because he is the moon in the lake. At times he can appear more beautiful than the real moon, for the beauty of the lake lends depth and a certain enchantment — a magic! But the moon in the lake, however moon-like, is not the moon; it is only a reflection.

If only Rabindranath had also entered meditation, even this distance would not have remained — not even this nearness-distance. This almost-being-truth is still a gap. And even if the gap is that of a transparent wall, it is still a gap. You can make a cage of glass for a bird, so transparent that the bird does not even know there is a wall between it and the sky. It may feel, “If I want, I can fly right now. The whole sky is open — no bars anywhere, no fetters on my feet, no walls.” But the moment it takes off, it hits the wall and falls fluttering.

Between Rabindranath and truth a transparent wall remained — just a transparent wall. Yet he did glimpse, across that wall, the realm of the moon and stars; their glint is in him. With such words I can agree — but I must add a small condition. I cannot agree wholly, unconditionally. These words are lovely. Perhaps no poet has come as close to the rishi as Rabindranath did. In this century two persons, Rabindranath and Kahlil Gibran, came very near; and a third, Mikhail Naimy, came almost as near. Apart from these three, no poet in this century has reached such heights. But they could not be rishis; the lack of meditation remained. What he says is beautiful.

“Through the practice of renunciation, the liberation that comes is not mine.”
Now let me show you where he and I part ways. Had he practiced meditation, he would have said: Liberation does not come at all through the practice of renunciation. As it is, he still concedes that “the liberation that comes through renunciation is not mine.” That it is not his — that is true. But the illusion that liberation does come through renunciation has not broken. He accepts that it also comes — it has come, it keeps coming; he does not deny it. He is saying it is not his path; but that it is a path, he does not reject. That much is where he and I diverge. Otherwise I would agree completely.

Renunciation is not my path either — but precisely because no liberation comes through renunciation. If liberation did come that way, it could be someone else’s path — what difference would it make if it weren’t mine? But no liberation comes through renunciation, because renunciation is only desire turned upside down — desire doing a headstand. Desire does not end; it is merely repressed. You can rot yourself, wither yourself. You can dry out the body so only a skeleton remains; then certainly it may seem desire is gone. But it is not gone. Feed the body again, give it life-energy, and all the desires will return.

Bring those who sit in Himalayan caves back into the marketplace. You will be astonished to find them more worldly than you. For if they have repressed for thirty years, thirty years’ worth of diseases have piled up. They will burst forth in the marketplace. Their pot of sin is far fuller than yours. Yours gets emptied a little every day; theirs has been filling and filling for thirty years. Their pus has greatly accumulated.

This line is indeed lovely:
“Through the practice of renunciation, the liberation that comes is not mine.”
Rabindranath says, “That is not my path.” With that I agree; it is not my path either. But I would add: it is not a path at all.

He says, “Amidst countless bonds I shall taste the bliss of freedom.”
But how will you taste it? In fact he could not. Rabindranath lived with worries, with disturbances, in restlessness. Honor gave him pleasure, insult gave him pain. When he fell in love, union brought joy, separation brought suffering. How will you live in bliss?

You say, “Amidst countless bonds I shall taste the bliss of freedom.” You want to, but how will you? Without meditation it is not possible. It can be done — I also say it can be done. There is no need to run away anywhere. Even in the midst of all bonds one can be free; that is my sannyas. One can remain untouched in the very midst of the world. This world is a chamber blackened with soot, a kohl-lined room; you can pass through it and your garments can remain utterly clean, not even a blemish, not even a stain. Did not Kabir say: “With great care I wore the cloak, and returned it exactly as I received it!” With such care!

But that care is precisely what Rabindranath did not have. That care is called meditation. That effort, that sadhana — that Rabindranath did not have. He never sat with a true master, never sat in satsang. What he says is sensitive, but it is not truth-experience. He came very near, yet remained stuck at nearness. He climbed the stairs and sat on the last step, but did not reach the terrace.

“I shall taste the bliss of freedom amidst countless bonds.”
The words are lovely — do it by all means. But how? Where is the method?

“This earth’s clay vessels, filled again and again,
will pour ceaselessly your nectar, tinged with manifold colors and scents.
Like lamps, the whole world will set alight my myriad wicks
with your very flame, to illumine your temple.”
Beautiful, delicious, exquisite — but how will you do it? From where will you bring the nectar to fill this clay vessel? The aspiration to fill this earthen cup with nectar and offer it at the feet of the Divine is auspicious — but the road to hell is paved with auspicious aspirations. Aspiration alone achieves nothing. How will you give it form? Where is the alchemy?

Rabindranath never really spoke of meditation and samadhi. Where will you bring the nectar from? The clay cup is fine — everyone has that — but the nectar? Has anyone ever attained the nectar without meditation? The nectar is within you — but how will you seek it? The very method of seeking is meditation.

Therefore, in this poem — this lovely poem — if you add meditation, if you place samadhi as its backdrop, then I agree entirely. Without that background, these are beautiful words, lovely words — but meaningless, lifeless.

He says, “Like lamps, the whole world will set alight my myriad wicks with your very flame, to illumine your temple.”
But where is that temple? Where, as yet, is the recognition of that supreme flame? You are saying it — but this is the flight of poetry. Sometimes the poet takes a very high flight. But it is the flight of imagination, not the experience of truth. And imagination is imagination; the true is the true.

“The yoga that seals the doors of the senses is not mine.”
Again the same thing — not my path. But he does not deny that through yogasanas it can also be attained. I tell you: practice a thousand yogasanas, you will not attain. You will attain something else — health. You will fall ill less. You will live longer. But what will you do by living longer? You will live the same life, the same wrong life. Better then to live it shorter. By lengthening it you will only multiply your mistakes. You will remain healthy — granted — but what will you do with that health? Drink more alcohol. Gamble more. Visit prostitutes more. What else?

Yogasanas can give you health, can give you long life — there is no doubt. They are fine exercises; but exercise does not go beyond the body. Bend and twist the body, stretch it this way and that. Naturally, the body will remain supple, youthful longer. But what will you do with youth? Without right vision, what will change? Do you think the right vision is born from doing yogasanas? Impossible.

India has wandered much under the name of yogasana, greatly deluded. Someone sits with a finger on his nose, breathing a certain way; someone stands on his head; someone practices this bandha, someone that bandha — their lives pass in practicing bandhas. And when will you practice liberation? These are only bonds! This body will go — whether strengthened by yogasanas, by push-ups and squats, or by Western exercises — it will go. With it, all yogasanas will also go. Practice something that will go with you beyond death!

So Rabindranath is right to say that the yoga which seals the doors of the senses is not his path. But is it a path? He does not gather the courage to say it is not. That indomitable courage is not there. Hence Rabindranath met with no disrepute in India; he received only honor upon honor. I too say the same, but I add one condition — I call the false false. For me it is very clear: unless the false is called false, the true cannot be shown. Only against the black of night do the stars stand forth. One writes with white chalk only on a blackboard so that it can be seen. First I must name the false, to make the blackboard; then the white letters can be inscribed.

But Rabindranath never called the false false. He could not — he had no experience of it. It is the poet’s flight. Sometimes the arrow hits; if it hits, it is an arrow; if not, it is a lucky guess. Out of a hundred poems, one occasionally comes near truth.

He says, “Whatever joy there is in sight, in fragrance, in song — within that your joy will abide.”
But beyond that there is much more!

Granted, there is joy in the visible, in fragrance, in song — but all that is nothing compared to the joy of the Invisible. The fragrance that is in the Void — this is nothing before it. Where all words are lost, where songs dissolve, where even the vina’s resonance no longer arises, where silence is complete, where the Void is whole — before that, all scents, all songs, all dances grow pale. And one who has known That — it is present in his song too; not only in song, it is present in his rising and sitting. If he blinks an eye, it is there; it is in his gaze. That magic surrounds him.

Rabindranath has no inkling of That. If you have not seen the Invisible, what relish will the visible hold? At most you can speak of colors and fragrances in the flower. But the Divine is present in the flower too, godliness is present — of that you cannot speak. Yes, you can imagine it if you wish, but imagination is imposition, projection.

“My delusion will flare up as my liberation.”
But from where will your liberation come? Where is that fire in which delusion blazes up and burns? The very fire is missing. That is why, even at death, Rabindranath did not die in joy — he was sad, full of melancholy. The melancholy was: what I had to sing, I could not sing; what I had to say, I could not say. In truth, this is no different from another case.

Andrew Carnegie died unhappy because he could not earn what he wanted to earn. He left ten billion, but his intention had been to earn a hundred billion. A shortfall of ninety billion is no small matter — it is a defeat. Ten billion? That’s worth a few coppers compared to his aim! Where are ninety, where are ten? He still had to become nine times more. You will laugh at Andrew Carnegie, for he says he could not earn what he wanted to.

Rabindranath wrote six thousand songs — no poet in the world wrote so many. In the West, Shelley is called a great poet because he wrote two thousand songs; no one in the West wrote more. Rabindranath surpassed him three times over — six thousand. And all six thousand are metrical and lend themselves to music; thus “Rabindra-sangeet” became a distinct tradition in Bengal. Yet even after writing six thousand wondrous songs, Rabindranath died in melancholy. That melancholy is not much different from Andrew Carnegie’s; it is the same. Though in Rabindranath’s case you will not laugh. Carnegie’s case you understand: what would you do with a hundred billion; even with ten, what did you do?

Andrew Carnegie lived like a peon and died like a peon. In fact the peons came to the office later than he did; he arrived an hour earlier. His office routine was that the office opened at ten, but Carnegie came at nine. Peons at ten, clerks at eleven, managers at twelve, directors at one; by three the directors had vanished, by four the managers, by five the clerks, then the peons — and Andrew Carnegie sat there till seven. Worse than a peon’s condition! And if this was the state with ten billion, imagine a hundred billion — there would have been no question of going home at night. It is said he had no time to speak to his wife, to his children. Where would the time come from?

You will not laugh at Rabindranath, but the thing is the same — the same race of the ego, subtler, finer, delicate — yet the sadness remains: the songs I sang are not enough; more were to be sung. He died saying, “I had only just tuned my instrument; the song had not even begun, and you took me away!”

How will you live in bliss? How will your delusion blaze as liberation? The delusion is still there — bound to song: more songs, more songs! Stories written, plays written, novels written — more and more! The race of “more” is the world. That is delusion. You say, “My delusion will flare up as my liberation” — but in the fire of meditation delusion does indeed burn. You do not have to drop it; it catches fire like incense in a temple — becomes fragrant.

You say, “My love will remain ripened as devotion.”
The words are lovely — but only words. Inside, there is nothing. The love in which Rabindranath lived is the same old love — attachment, delusion, jealousy, hostility — the same love; a little cultured, a little polished, a little shining — but the same. Nothing essential has changed. Nor can it. However much you polish a stone, it remains a stone.

Gold is always gold; glass is only glass.
The sea of the false is false, the true alone is true.

Enough for today.