Sanch Sanch So Sanch #11

Usha, man is an extraordinary state. Mind the word—state. There is a world below man—the animals. They are born complete; they are born as they will be. There is a world above man—the buddhas. They have become what is to be; nothing remains to happen. And between the two lies man’s realm of anxiety. What he has to become hasn’t happened yet; what should not be, is still there. Hence tension, a pull from both sides.

Behind, the realm of animals, birds, trees, rivers and mountains pulls you back. Ahead, the realm of the buddhas, the jinas, the tirthankaras, the avatars draws you on. Both pulls are powerful. The pull backward has this strength: it is our experience, repressed in the unconscious. We have journeyed through all those wombs; they are known, familiar; returning there feels easy.

That is why alcohol and intoxicants have such appeal. Their beauty is: for a little while they drop you below your humanity; they make you part again of the animal world—the same peace, the same silence, the same un-worried state. It feels pleasant. But you must come back. After drowning a little while in intoxication, you return to where you were—with even more worries. For while you were unconscious, worries kept growing; worries don’t care for your blackout. Then every day you need more alcohol, stronger drugs, because you become habituated. People can become so used to it that you won’t even notice they’re drunk.

I have a friend, an old, deep drunkard. He married. Five years later his wife discovered he drank—because one day he came home sober. The day he came home sober, she sensed something was wrong. Every other day he came drunk, and seemed perfectly normal. Sober, he wobbled, was disheveled, uneasy. That day she suspected a problem.

I’ve known him for years. No matter how much you pour into him, you couldn’t tell from the outside that he has been drinking; his body has learned the new chemistry.

And remember: forgetting doesn’t end worry. Worry stands where it is. Nor is worry man’s enemy; it is his friend. The thorn of worry spurs him forward. It is his challenge. From the Rig Veda’s soma to Aldous Huxley’s LSD, man has searched how to go back. Poets feel drawn to fly like birds in the free sky, to bloom in the sun like flowers—the greenery of trees, the gurgling of rivers, storms rising on the ocean, thunderheads and lightning in the sky! The poet aches: let’s go back! It is no accident that poets, painters, musicians often take to intoxicants. There’s a reason: they want to return. And there is only one way to go back: how to forget the place where we are! But you cannot go back in time.

A father was explaining Napoleon’s famous dictum to his little son: “Nothing is impossible.” The boy said, wait, just a minute—I’ll prove one thing is certainly impossible. I’ve tried long enough, it never works. He ran to the bathroom, brought the toothpaste tube, squeezed out the paste with a hard press, and said, now put it back inside; then I’ll believe Napoleon. I’ve tried and failed—what’s come out won’t go back.

That child, in his way, said something important: some things don’t return. Time certainly never returns. There is no way to travel backward in time. Man can only go forward, not back. Time wasted trying to return is wasted. If we use that time to seek the next stage, we can go beyond worry; we can transcend it.

Man carries the capacity to become a buddha. He has come from the animal world, but he carries the songs of the buddhas. Those songs must be sung; only then will the anguish dissolve, the anxiety break, the scatter vanish. We are in this world, yes—but we are not of this world. We are to go beyond. The call from the other shore is coming every moment. The far bank keeps sending leaf after leaf as messages. How long will you ignore it? How long will you keep your back turned?

Bulleh Shah is reminding you of that realm which is truly ours; only upon reaching it will we be content. Let us become what we truly are—our destiny, our innermost nature. When that blossoms fully, life becomes a shower of joy. Otherwise, it’s all a web of delusion. Then keep deceiving yourself with dreams, drowning yourself in intoxications. But there will be no movement, no growth. And one day you will regret deeply. As it often happens: regret after the birds have eaten the crop.

O my companion, come, let’s go elsewhere,
We can’t make a life in this garden anymore.
We could endure if it were only up to the roses,
But now even the thorns deny us our share.

I called you at the gallows, and on Sinai too—
What place is there where I did not call you?
What good are these stumblings you keep making me take?
Say it plainly—that you refuse to meet me.

The rose-garden needed blood, and ours was the first neck severed.
Yet the garden’s people tell me:
“This garden is ours—not yours.”

Oppressors, don’t be proud of your luck—
Times change; that’s how time is.
He will certainly hear my cries:
Is your God not ours too?

You came today, you’ll leave tomorrow—
My love does not accept that.
Be a support for a lifetime, if you will;
A prop for two moments is no support at all.

Lift your tresses from your face,
Let me test my love of seeing today.
I left home thinking this:
Either there will be no eyes—or no spectacle.

O my companion, come, let’s go elsewhere…
The sooner this is understood, the better: nothing here is ours. This is a halt, not the destination. Rest for the night, but in the morning, move on. Seek, search. Life belongs only to those whose innermost being is an enquiry. Existence belongs to those who are in perpetual search for truth, who never forget for even a moment that we have come from somewhere and we must go somewhere.

Granted: we don’t know from where we came; granted too: we don’t know where we must go. But one thing is certain: there was a day we were not here, and equally certain: there will be a day when we won’t be here.

Every day you see newborns; every day you see funeral pyres. When will you understand that whoever is born will die? Whatever is made will unmake. It’s a matter of a few moments. This is a house of cards; a puff of wind and it will scatter. This boat is of paper; it will not even sail before it sinks. It has never reached the other shore. Before time slips through your hands, before the supreme opportunity of life is lost in collecting pebbles, it is necessary to awaken.

Bulleh Shah’s kafi points beautifully to this awakening:

“Tight, with no pore in you,
Where not even a speck can enter.”
Beloved, you are so subtle—subtler than the subtlest—that no hole can be made in you. Even if someone wanted to, they could not pierce you.

I have heard of an international competition. American craftsmen made a wire so fine it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye—you needed instruments; without a microscope, it was invisible. They sent the wire across the world: is there any artisan who can drill a hole through it?

If the wire can’t be seen, how to make a hole—and with what instrument? The instrument would have to be subtler still. They say Japanese craftsmen made the hole. The Americans were stunned, unbelieving—but the instruments clearly showed: the wire existed, and it now had a hole.

Then the journey continued. They now wanted a greater artisan to draw a circle around that invisible hole in the invisible wire. The Germans did that.

They thought, now there’s no point going anywhere else. But someone said India has craftsmen; it’s an ancient land—give it a chance. So they came to India. In Ulhasnagar the Sindhi craftsmen—if there are any craftsmen left in this country, they’re the Sindhis—did one more miracle. Around the invisible circle around the invisible hole in the invisible wire, they neatly wrote in English: “Made in U.S.A.”

The Americans’ eyes popped. Amazing! But how did you know it was made in the U.S.A.?

They said, what do you mean by U.S.A.—is it your father’s? U.S.A. means Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association. Who has a monopoly on U.S.A.?

But this “man,” says Bulleh, is such that even the Sindhis couldn’t pierce him—and if the Sindhis fail, all fail!

Bulleh Shah says rightly: beloved, you are so tightly closed, so subtle, that no hole can be made in you; not even a straw can enter you. No one has ever entered you, nor can they.

Yet, in another way, the whole world seems to have entered you. Inside you are marketplaces; shops are open; temples, mosques, the Kaaba, Kailash, Girnar. What isn’t inside you! And yet Bulleh says you are so subtle that not even a straw can enter. Then where has this whole world come from inside you? So many thoughts—count them if you can! So many imaginings—measure them if you can! So many dreams—rows upon rows, layers within layers! Peel them back and they never end. Memories upon memories, like peeling an onion—each layer reveals another. An onion one day finishes; you peel all layers and are left with emptiness in your hand. But keep peeling memories—you will never empty them. Your nature is so subtle that not even a straw can enter. Then where has this whole world fit?

Bulleh Shah says: the world has not entered you; only a notion has. Only an idea!

There was a sage—Nagarjuna, a Buddhist mystic—one of the rare, incomparable ones. A man came to him and said: “I cannot drop the world; what should I do?”

Nagarjuna looked at him and said, “What a strange thing! I try to grasp it and cannot; and you say you try to drop it and cannot? You put me in a quandary! I’ve tried everything to catch it and it won’t be caught—and you say you can’t let it go. Do one thing. There is a cave here. Sit inside for three days. Neither eat nor drink. Repeat only one thought…”

In conversation Nagarjuna had learned his trade: a cowherd who sold buffalo milk. “Whom do you love most? Your wife? Your children?” “No, I love my buffalo,” he said.

Nagarjuna told him, “Go sit in the cave and for three days, without food or water, keep thinking: I am a buffalo, I am a buffalo.”

He asked, “What will that do?”

“We’ll decide after three days. What can you lose? Life has been wasted anyway; give me three days.”

A simple man, he went in. He truly loved his buffalo—his life, his wealth, his prestige. He was aching, separated from her. The thought gave him relief: I am a buffalo. He repeated it endlessly for three days.

After three days Nagarjuna came and called, “Come out!” He tried, but couldn’t. “What’s the problem?”

“How can I come out? My horns get stuck in the narrow door.”

There were no horns; nothing was stuck. Nagarjuna went in, shook him, said, “Open your eyes! Three days of repeating ‘I am a buffalo’ created a delusion. Look! Here is a mirror. Where are the horns?”

He looked: no horns, no buffalo. He began to laugh, fell at Nagarjuna’s feet: “It’s over. I used to think I couldn’t drop the world. You were right: how can you grasp it in the first place? There are no horns—only notions, thoughts, desires.”

Bulleh Shah says: “Search and see where this world’s abode is; the non-existent appears.”

Man has grown horns—the horns of a buffalo! The impossible is appearing.

“Search and see where the world’s foothold is.”
Look carefully: where is the root of this world? Does it even exist? Has it any roots—or is it only a tree of imagination, a wish-fulfilling tree that is not, but if you assume it, it seems to be? We erect a world out of beliefs.

“Search and see where the world’s abode is; the un-happened appears.”
What has not happened appears to have happened. Look at the fetters that enslave us—what absurd infatuations bind us! We are chained by chains that are not there—not iron, not even garlands of flowers.

George Gurdjieff wrote that as a child he lived among a nomad tribe. Their women knew a trick. Being nomads—like the Baluchis who once came to India—their women were strong; a nomad life demands it. Gurdjieff says the women, busy with the day’s work, would sit their children down, draw a white circle around them with chalk, and tell them, “You cannot cross this line. Try as you may, you won’t be able to.” From childhood this suggestion was planted.

Not only children—Gurdjieff saw women draw circles around their husbands too and say, “Don’t cross this.” The men would come up to the line, grope as if an invisible glass wall stopped them, and turn back. There was no wall—only autosuggestion.

Gurdjieff writes: there I first understood what self-hypnosis is, and there I understood the mischief of this world. We are all self-hypnotized. Whatever we were told is wealth, we took as wealth; what we were told is status, we took as status; what we were told is valuable, we took as valuable. We worship pebbles as diamonds. We run our whole life after two-penny things.

Bulleh asks: “Search and see—where is this world’s abode?”
The source of your “world” is self-hypnosis.

“The un-happened appears.”
What is not, appears to be. A miracle—what does not exist, appears.

“Freed from the prison of delusions, thought and vision are set free;
Lamps are lit in minds dark as night.
Those who wandered among moon and stars
Found the hint of the goal in particles of dust.”

Do not go searching on moons and stars. The secret is here, near you.

“Freed from the prison of delusions…”
Lay aside your superstitions. Cut away the cobwebs over your eyes—the webs you yourself have spun. The day you decide, you can break them.

“Freed from the prison of delusions,
Lamps are lit in the dark chambers within.
Those who wandered among moon and stars
Found the hint of the goal in motes of earth.”

Here and now, the path can be found. If not here, then nowhere.

A man stopped his car at a crossroads and asked an old fellow under a tree, chewing tobacco, “Baba, which road goes to the station?” The old man kept kneading his tobacco, as if in a daze—perhaps opium. “Station? What is that?” The driver thought, if the man doesn’t know what a station is, how will he tell the way? With no one else around, he explained: “Where people board the train.” “Ah, that. Go left for a mile, then turn right—no, no, you can’t reach that way.” “Then tell me a way by which I can reach.” “Go right. After a furlong, turn right again. Then another crossroad—no, you can’t reach that way either. Take the third road.” And again: “No, you can’t reach that way.” The fourth was longest—with many turns—and finally he said, “No—by that way neither.” There were only four roads. The driver cried, “Then what do you mean? There’s no way to the station?” The old man said, “If you ask me, from here there is no way at all—otherwise I myself would have gone. There are only four roads, and none will take you there.”

If there is no way from here, then from where? The way must be from here.

“In the relish of death, life was finally found;
Sinners found the path to salvation.”

This is a city of death—a cremation ground. Someone dies today, someone tomorrow; some have already gone, some will go later. It’s a travelers’ inn. Yet even in this city of corpses, those who searched—even the sinners—found the way to freedom.

I tell you: scholars may miss—and they often do, because they suppose they know and so they do not seek. Sinners often reach. The sinner suffers: How do I find? What do I do? How long must I remain in this misery, this bondage, this darkness?

“In the relish of death, life was finally found;
Sinners found the path to salvation.”

Though this is a city of the dead, those who sought still found life. Even from graves, those who knew how, made roses bloom. Whoever has been liberated was once a sinner. Before Buddha became Buddha, he too was a sinner. Before Mahavira became Mahavira, he too was a sinner. Sin is like night; buddhahood is like dawn. Every night has a dawn, and every dawn has a night behind it. Don’t be crushed under the weight of your sins.

If anything hinders, it is hollow scholarship—not sin. What sin can you commit? What is your capacity? In a four-day life, what great crime? And if you err, the root cause is only this: you don’t know yourself, so you wander. You are not culpable.

Once, as Emperor Akbar’s procession passed, a man climbed his thatch roof and hurled the foulest abuses. He was seized and brought to court. He fell at Akbar’s feet: “Forgive me.” Akbar said, “Not so easy; your crime is grave.” “My crime? What crime?” “You abused me before thousands!” The man replied, “Think a bit. I was drunk; I was not in my senses. If a man did something unconscious, should a now-conscious man be punished for it? The alcohol abused you; why would I?” Akbar thought and agreed: “True. You seem a different man—so humble, so gentle. The alcohol must have abused me.”

I say to you: if in your stupor you sinned, it wasn’t you—stupor did it. The day you awaken, sins vanish. You never really did them—and you’ll find you cannot do them anymore even if you try. It’s only a matter of waking up.

“On the world’s garden fell many autumn’s blows;
Life was stamped many times by death.
Storms rose—now from Greece, now from Rome;
From the valley of the Nile surged blood-red floods;
Fire flared from Persia’s fire-temples.
Life, tempered in the flames, kept becoming purer;
The more it was battered, the more it was adorned.”

Do not be afraid. This is how life is refined.

Do not fear mistakes; only through mistakes does man learn. Do not fear sin; from sin rises prayer. If you fear anything, fear hollow erudition—for it breeds ego. Ego becomes the wall, the densest veil over the eyes. Sinners may arrive, but your pundits and priests cannot.

All you need do is empty your eyes of inherited, stale beliefs—what others have stuffed into you on loan.

“Search and see where the world’s abode is; the un-happened appears.”
What never happened seems to be happening; what should not be, seems to be; what cannot be, seems to be.

“As dream-thoughts occur to one asleep,
So many forms appear.”

A Chinese emperor had an only son. The boy was dying. Physicians said: no hope—tonight is the last night. The old father sat by him all night, watching—the face he would never see again. The boy lay unconscious, a beautiful prince, raised like a flower, cared for in every way. It was as if the emperor’s very eyesight were fading. Toward four in the morning, exhausted from weeping, the old man nodded off and dreamed: he had twelve sons—handsome, wise, strong; countless palaces of gold; a realm so vast he himself did not know its bounds. Just then his wife beat her breast and cried—the boy had breathed his last. The emperor woke, stunned—then began to laugh. His wife thought he’d gone mad. An only son dies—and the father laughs? She shook him: “Are you sane?”

He said, “I’m thinking: just now I was dreaming—twelve beautiful princes, palaces with jewel-studded stairs, a limitless empire. Then I opened my eyes—everything vanished in a blink. For whom should I weep—those twelve princes or this one? With my eyes closed, I forgot this world; with my eyes open, I forgot that one. Which is true? For whom should I weep? I laugh because that was a dream with eyes closed—and this is a dream with eyes open. Both are dreams. Nothing here is truth.”

“As dream-thoughts come to one asleep,
So many forms appear.”

You have hoarded your dreams; you keep projecting them.

“You changed as if we’d never had a bond at all—
I never imagined you could change so much.
We rose from the gathering—and were still in a gathering;
What seclusion was that where there was no spectacle?
You changed—and the whole era changed;
If you weren’t burdened, no one else was either.
And we, should we complain of cruelty? Our heart—
Wretch, had no relish unless it bled.
‘Taba’—sincerity dwelt even among the pious of the sanctuary,
But in that assembly there was no confidant of ours.”

This world is crowded, yet finding a confidant is rare—someone who understands the secret of your life, with whom you can share the intimacy of truth. Where such a confidant is found, know that the true Master is found, that is satsang—the company where truth is spoken. Otherwise it’s all the spread of falsehood.

Your education teaches you falsehood, because it gives you only one disease: ambition. Ambition is the root of this world’s spectacle—the talisman that keeps the mischief going. Ambition means: to be ahead. But why? For what? To be in front—but why? Will you spend these four days just trying to get ahead? And who ever is ahead? We stand in a circle; wherever you are, someone is ahead.

Napoleon had everything—but he was short. Seeing a tall man felt like a dagger through him. Lenin had Russia—but his legs were short; he hid them behind oversized chairs and draped tables so no one would see his feet dangling. He was forever uneasy about them.

What will you do? Something will be lacking; someone will be ahead. One has money, no status; another has status, no wealth; another has both, but no beauty; another has beauty and wealth, but no intelligence; another has intelligence, but is ugly.

You know the story of Ashtavakra—perhaps no one more intelligent ever lived, but his body was crooked in eight places; hence his name. Imagine: a man like a camel! His father was at King Janaka’s court and delayed coming home; Ashtavakra’s mother sent him to fetch him for lunch. When the boy entered, the courtiers laughed—one foot here, one there; one hand this way, one that; eyes looking in different directions. Seeing them laugh, Ashtavakra laughed louder. Janaka asked, “I know why they laugh; but why do you?” He said, “I thought there would be wise men here, but it’s full of cobblers—they know only skin and bones. Invite brahmins who know Brahman! Is Brahman crooked? This is only my body. What does that matter? Your jewel-courtiers see only the body.”

Ashtavakra was brilliant. His Gita is unmatched; even Krishna’s Gita pales. I call Ashtavakra’s Gita the Great Gita—thousands of Gitas could flow from it, every sutra so precious. But the poor fellow was ugly.

Ambition teaches these troubles: you must be ahead. You cannot be first in everything; even in one thing it isn’t easy; in all, impossible. But education pours this poison into you. Parents push you into the race: uphold the family honor! Preserve prestige! It’s ego that’s taught. Out of ego the world is born. Then dreams of wealth, status, prestige. In these dreams we lose all.

Bulleh Shah says: “Nothing is outside of you; it is your delusion that deludes you.”
Nothing is outside; it’s your illusion that misleads you. All is within. Do not search outside. Go within; close your eyes; look into yourself.

“I am a dream—take me also as its interpretation.
Know me as the question—and the answer too.
I live like a wave sitting quietly—
Take my calm also as unrest.
There are a thousand explanations for life’s sorrow—
Know someone’s delight, and someone’s reproach as well.
Take my sincerity also as my defeat;
My fidelity also as my accountability.
Let the time of joy acquire some dignity—
Take the brimming cup also as a fountain of water.
Roads are more delicate than travelers—
They may be twists and turns, yet take them as grace.
Who am I? Even I don’t know, ‘Taba’—
Take my very existence as my veil.”

My existence itself hides me—it is my veil, my curtain.

Lift the veil and go within. Meera says: lift the veil’s flap! Do not wander outside. If you wish to attain, come within. And within you will find That—by finding which, all is found.

Krishnatirth Bharti, the very race for “more” is what the world is. “Just a little more… more.” In that tiny formula, the whole world—its entire arithmetic—fits. If there is wealth—just a little more. If there is position—just a little more. Knowledge—just a little more. Renunciation—just a little more. Austerity—just a little more. Meditation—just a little more. The “more” remains the same; only the objects change.

Now you say:
How can I keep quiet when I’ve hardly drunk at all?
Some sobriety is still left.
Give me a little more, O Saki,
A little more, more…

This race of “more” never ends—never. The more you get, the more the demand for more grows.

America’s billionaire Andrew Carnegie died—leaving ten billion rupees. He was born poor. By his own effort he made ten billion. Rarely has a man earned so much by his own labor. Yet at the time of death he was sad. Two days before he died, his biographer asked, “Why are you sad? You ought to die rejoicing! You are one of the most successful men in history. You alone have earned ten billion rupees with your own hands.”

Andrew Carnegie opened his eyes, glared at his biographer, and said, “Stop the nonsense! I wanted to die having made a hundred billion. Only ten billion! Who could be more defeated and beaten than me? I lost badly.”

But do you think if Andrew Carnegie had made a hundred billion he would have died content? No. By then the demand for “more” would have moved further ahead. Understand this “more” as a horizon touching the earth: as you move forward, the horizon moves forward. This “more” is a mirage.

Krishnatirth, drop this “more,” and fulfillment is here and now. Let the thirst be quenched here and now. But drop the “more.”

Today even the ache is somewhat less, the pain is somewhat less;
Turn up the lamp—alas, the light is less.
The gathering is desolate, the goblets are empty;
Is it the wine that is scarce, friends, or the thirst that is less?

What is less? The wine—or the thirst? Ask this rightly. Wine is outside; thirst is inside. Whoever thinks the wine is less will wander in the world. Whoever sees that the thirst is less, his outer race stops. He will dive into his own thirst. And let me tell you a paradox: no one’s thirst has ever been quenched by drinking wine; but the one who plunged into his own thirst—his thirst was extinguished forever.

Today even the ache is somewhat less, the pain is somewhat less;
Turn up the lamp—alas, the light is less.
The gathering is desolate, the goblets are empty;
Is it the wine that is scarce, friends, or the thirst that is less?

Come with us today all the way to the slayer’s lane—
Those lust-driven ones who think life is too little.
As yet the wayward tresses have only reached the shoulders;
As yet, in the world of longing, the turmoil is too little.
Let no extinguished lamp be lit; let the nest itself burn—
Along the thoroughfares of ecstasy the light is too little.
What more shall we say to our dear, sarcastic friends?
Awareness is little, vision is little, the fire itself is little.
Lost in rapture, taking the beloved for God—
I hear that these days, O “Tabaan,” your waywardness is a little less.

Drink as much wine as you will; it won’t do. Even if oceans of wine were found, it wouldn’t do; the oceans would prove small. But if you take a plunge into the thirst within—and that is what I call meditation—if you set out to find the one who is the seeker; if you lay hold of the one who sets out to grasp everything; if you drop concern with the destination and sit in the innermost of the traveler; not the destination, not the path—who is this traveler? Who am I?—then surely the sky of fulfillment will break upon you now.

But we do not ask the real question. We ask counterfeit questions—then counterfeit answers. Counterfeit questions cannot have real answers. And then you go on collecting counterfeit answers. From that, punditry arises—cleverness and cunning. But your life remains as it was: blind, dark. No morning dawns, no sun rises. The sun? Even the moon and stars do not appear. The moon and stars are far—no fireflies even glimmer.

A tear is only such when it trembles like a star upon the lashes;
A pain is only such when it melts into sweet, sweet songs.
Upon cheeks drenched in the blush of modesty the tresses are strewn,
As in deep evening shade a lotus seems to burn upon the water.
How long has it been since the bond of longing with them broke;
Yet when they stand before me, my heart still skips a beat.
I am but a vagabond poet, estranged from sobriety and reason—
Why then does some sober rationalist keep coming to my lips?
When the blood of stars mingles with the blood of longing,
The many-colored hem of morning turns more variegated.
That one moment which, O “Tabaan,” turned the current of life—
It billows before the eyes as sweet, sweet dreams.

What is it that turns the current of life?

That one moment which, O “Tabaan,” turned the current of life—

Which is that moment when the river of life takes a new turn—from discontent to contentment, from sorrow to bliss, from hell to heaven? That very moment is when you stop looking outward and begin to look within.

Truth is within you. Drink that—and there is fulfillment. Outside, all is false; outside is nothing but racing, bustle, anxiety, grief. But bliss is not there.

So, Krishnatirth Bharti, I say to you: move into yourself. There you will find gold. Outside you will only heap up mounds of clay. There you will find the conscious light. Outside, even if you collect them, you will gather only extinguished earthen lamps. Those are what you will find in the scriptures—clay lamps whose light went out who knows when. But if you want the light that burns within—without wick, without oil—then do not beg. Drop asking; do not desire; do not lust. Do not say “more! more!” Say “enough.” Stop; come to rest. Put a full stop to the race. Close the eyes within. Dive within—and you will obtain the secret of all secrets.

Gold is ever gold; glass is only glass.
Says Dariya: the false is false; the true is true.

That’s all for today.