Sapna Yeh Sansar #10

Veena! What you have asked for has already happened. Often it is so that even what has happened does not come to our notice. The experience occurs in the heart; by the time the news reaches the mind, it takes time. Sometimes it takes years. And sometimes lifetimes. There can even be a distance of births. For a heart’s experience to be expressed in the mind’s web of words is not an easy matter. The heart’s experience is silent—an undercurrent of humming, an unheard song, wordless; a stream of feeling freed from language. How is the mind to understand it?

The mind understands words, arguments, thought; it has no movement in feeling. For the mind, feeling simply does not exist. And the supreme religious experience is of feeling, of the heart. Therefore the mind remains barren, hollow. If a little echo reaches it, that is much. If a slight shadow falls, that is much. And even that takes time, because the mind is filled with a great deal of dust; many layers of dust lie on that mirror. A shadow of the heart can form; the resonance that happens in the heart can reach the mind—but one must clean thoroughly, sweep the mind well.
What you have asked, Veena, has already happened. It may take you some time to realize it, but I can see that it has happened. Your heart is brimming with feeling. And one whose heart is brimming with feeling has already come near the Lord’s temple. There is no other method of coming near his temple. He is not in Kaba, nor in Kashi, nor on Kailash; he is right where the heart is in ecstasy, where the heart is intoxicated, where the heart is mad in love, where the heart is a moth to the flame.
Not all bees
are the same.
Some,
after sipping nectar,
fly away.
Some,
of their own accord,
bind themselves
inside the lotus’s folds.
Some,
are pierced by thorns,
or are helplessly
impaled.
That is why
I say
from bee to bee
there is a difference.

And the moths—
not all are burned.
Some
hover and circle
around beauty’s flame.
Some,
after burning their wings,
repent.
Rare indeed are those
who at the crest of the flame
can offer
the oblation of their very life.
That is why I say
from moth to moth
there is a difference.

And Veena, you are blessed among those few moths who can offer the oblation of their life at the lamp’s flame.

Rare indeed are those
who at the crest of the flame
can offer
the oblation of their very life.

The happening has begun. Today or tomorrow the news will reach the mind. There is no need to worry about that either. Even if the mind never understands, it will be all right—because the mind will be left behind here. Death leaves the body here, and it leaves the brain here as well. The brain is a part of the body. But within you there is another sky that is not an organ of the body; it is within the body and yet not of the body. It has come from beyond. The body will remain like a cage; the swan of the heart will fly away. That swan is invisible. That swan has found the path. That swan has heard of Manasarovar. But the mind still has a little restlessness. Restlessness is natural. The mind’s very work is to make every single thing explicit; to understand clearly what is happening; to fit it into arithmetic, to gather proofs through logic, so that what is happening does not remain unintelligible.

The mind’s work is to not let mystery remain a mystery, to bind it into clear definition. But there are some things that do not fit into definition. Love does not fit into definition. Try as you may, the definition comes up short. It does not fit into explanation. Great ones have failed; centuries have gone by; so many things have been said about love—and yet not a single thing has truly been said about love. Whatever has been said turned out to be petty. Whatever was said proved hollow. Love is so vast, so immense that even this sky is small. Compared to love’s sky, this sky is small. Many such skies could fit into it. Mahavira called this sky infinite; and he called the inner sky infinity-times-infinite. If infinity could be multiplied by infinity—an impossible thing, for infinity means without limit, so how will you multiply it? there is no number—yet Mahavira said: if it were possible to multiply infinity by infinity, infinity-times-infinity, then a faint outline of the inner sky would appear.

But the mind wants to understand everything clearly, to know and make it explicit. Why? Why does the mind have this urge? Because whatever becomes clear, the mind becomes its owner. Secrets, once no longer secret, the mind begins to use as instruments. But there are secrets that are secrets and will remain secrets. The mind can never possess them, and they can never be used as means. They are the supreme end. All means are for them. Where love points is toward God. Where love’s arrow flies is God. Love’s target is always the Divine. Therefore whomever you love, in them you will begin to experience a glimpse of God. That is why lovers are called mad by people. They say Majnun is mad—because to him Laila seems like God. They say Shirin is mad—because to her Farhad appears as God. If not mad, what else to call them? How can an ordinary woman, an ordinary man be God? But such people have no experience of the mystery of love. Wherever the shadow of love falls, there God is revealed. Look at a flower through eyes full of love, and the flower is God. And look at a thorn through eyes full of love, and the thorn too is God. Wherever the eye of love falls, there God is unveiled.

Veena, when you looked at me with love, God began to appear. I am seeing God in all of you. There is no one who is not God. The day love’s eye becomes so deep that God is seen in all, then say: devotion is love’s pinnacle. Paltu is speaking of that devotion—the supreme form of love: the lotus has bloomed, the fragrance has flown. Love appears a little; if you touch it, it comes a little into sensation—but you cannot grasp it, it scatters away, like quicksilver scattering. But devotion cannot be grasped at all. Love is like the flower; devotion is fragrance, perfume. It has flown into the sky, grown wings, left all that is gross, become subtler than the subtlest. And your love is becoming devotion. So do not get entangled in the mind’s anxieties! Drop this wrangling! The Divine has chosen you.

An old saying of the fakirs is that we are able to choose God only when God first chooses us. First he chooses. We remember him only when he remembers us so intensely that even in our sleep tempests arise; even in our stupor, into the very depths of our stupor, his ray enters. He remembered you; therefore you could remember him. He remembered you; therefore you could come here. He remembered you; therefore your heart began to beat with my heart. He remembered you; therefore your breath is tied with my breath.

No matter how many fears and obstacles outside,
you are the beloved Radha
of the Krishna-Kanhaiya of my heart.
No matter how many fears and obstacles outside,
how can Radha remain at home
when the flute has called her to worship.
And in the heart toward the Flute-bearer,
let there be pure, boundless love.
No matter how many fears and obstacles outside,
in the mind, the Flute-bearer; the flute in silence;
the fathomless unstruck sound resounds.
Only one can hear it who has
mastered the yoga of love.
No matter how many fears and obstacles outside,
you are the beloved Radha
of the Krishna-Kanhaiya of my heart.
No matter how many fears and obstacles outside—

Whether the mind understands or not, whether outside there are obstructions, hindrances, obstacles—do not worry; the inner lamp has begun to be lit. Trust the within. The mind will raise doubts, questions; the mind will say the heart is blind; the mind will say love is blind—it has always said so—laugh at the mind, for only love has eyes. If anything is blind, it is the mind. And love alone is healthy—because only in love does one find a resting in oneself. Therefore love is health. Health is love. If anything is deranged, it is the mind. Yet the questions raised by the mind are such that they seem meaningful. The manner of its asking is very well arranged. Be alert to the manner of its questioning!

What is love?
You ask, “What is love?”
Your question is such
that its fulfillment is impossible.
That speech should define love—
this is impossible, impossible.
Love remains stored,
guarded in the heart’s secret chamber,
and of its very marrow
even the lover is unacquainted—
then how, by mere surmise,
can anyone tell the whole truth?
What power would another have!
You ask, “What is love?”
It rings within like the unstruck sound,
it adorns the heart like sweet delight,
it aches forever as a tender pang—
is it a boon of fate, or a calamity!
Love—
I have heard it called a curse
by lovers.
Love—
I have heard it called a blessing
by lovers.
If you must ask, then ask—
in these two-and-a-half letters
how can there be
so much contradiction?
You ask, “What is love?”

The mind will keep asking; the mind keeps raising questions. The answer is neither with the mind, nor can it be given to the mind. From every new answer the mind will sprout new questions. As trees sprout leaves, the mind sprouts questions.

Therefore, Veena, drop the mind’s questions; that hour has passed—now dive into the heart! Even if the mind says it is blind, say: True. Even if the mind says it is madness, say: True; now madness is what I choose, now blindness is what I choose. We have seen too long with the mind’s eyes and saw nothing but matter; now let us see with the heart’s blindness. Where the mind failed, who knows—perhaps the heart will win? We have tried much of the mind’s cleverness; now let us try a little of the heart’s foolishness. We have watched much of the mind’s trickery; now let us recognize a little of the heart’s innocence; let us descend into the heart’s guileless simplicity and take the plunge.

There is only one way: keep increasing love!

Whomever you love,
keep on loving;
do not bring
talk of love
to your lips.
Like a cloud,
hover and spread,
rumble and swell—
do not be such
that you simply pour down in a rush.
Whomever you love,
keep on loving;
do not bring
talk of love
to your lips.

Love has
no need of speech,
love has no concern
with words.
Silence alone
is love’s voice, its language—
then why
babble in vain?
Whomever you love,
keep on loving;
do not bring
talk of love
to your lips.

Love—
is a duet
of two instruments,
where every string
resounds in harmony.
Tighten the pegs of the strings off-key;
whatever is mismatched, keep tuning it.
Whomever you love,
keep on loving;
do not bring
talk of love
to your lips.

Between master and disciple this very duet unfolds.

Love—
is a duet
of two instruments,
where every string
resounds in harmony.
Tighten the pegs of the strings off-key;
whatever is mismatched, keep tuning it.
Whomever you love,
keep on loving;
do not bring
talk of love
to your lips.

The mind will raise many obstacles—because the mind is very afraid of love. Its fear is natural, for the birth of love is the death of the mind. Where love lives, the mind becomes a slave! Where love comes, the soul comes; where devotion comes, God comes—who then will consult the mind! The mind is a one-eyed king in the land of the blind. Among those with eyes, who will ask the one-eyed! The mind rules over us only so long as we do not have a light greater than the mind. So we live by the mind’s flickering yellow candle. But when electricity lights up the house, when morning’s sun has risen, who troubles about a candle—people snuff it out at once! Just such a thing happens: when the heart is illumined by love, when it is stirred by devotion, the mind’s candle is snuffed out just as people put a candle out at dawn.

The candle would prefer the night to remain, to remain, to remain; not just an ordinary night, but the night of the new moon. The mind’s entire vested interest is that your ignorance not be shattered. And ignorance is shattered by love. Ignorance is not shattered by knowledge. Therefore the mind is not at all afraid of knowledge. Read scriptures, understand doctrines; become a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian; memorize grand teachings; chant the Gayatri, recite the Namokar—by all this the mind is pleased. Because none of this harms the mind; on the contrary, it is strengthened by it. Scholarship strengthens the mind. The more the burden of scriptures increases, the more the mind says: pile it on. But love is the mind’s death—certain death. There it has no movement. There it stands utterly defeated, cheated, stranded. Therefore the mind heaps many abuses upon love—be mindful of that. And it abuses in such a manner that perhaps you may find the abuse appealing.

It is a question of the mind. If someone bows before an idol in the temple with the same feeling with which they bow here, then that too is not hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is not in bowing before an image; hypocrisy is when only the mind is bending and the heart feels no experience. If even a stone is worshiped with love, the stone is divine. And if even God is worshiped like a stone, then it is all hypocrisy.
But the one who has asked thinks he is asking a very intelligent question. He imagines he has asked something that cannot be answered. I am certainly an opponent of hypocrisy. Do you understand what hypocrisy means? Hypocrisy means bowing where the heart is not, where there is no attunement with the heart, where no duet of the heart has been struck. Because mother said, father said, the family said—so you bowed in the temple, in the mosque. Do you see? If you bow from your own knowing, if it is your love that bends you down, who can call that hypocrisy? Not a trace of hypocrisy.
A Zen monk, Ikkyu, stayed in a temple. The night was cold—so cold that snow was falling outside. The poor monk had only one blanket; it was not enough to drive away the cold. He got up to look for some wood in the temple. He found no firewood, but there were Buddha statues—wooden ones. There were several, so he picked up one statue and lit a fire.

The crackling of the wood, the sudden light—this woke the priest. He rushed in, enraged. He could not believe his eyes: a mendicant, whom people took to be an enlightened man, was burning the image of God! What greater atheism, what greater blasphemy could there be? He shouted, "What are you doing? Are you in your senses or mad—burning the image of God!"

Ikkyu laughed. He picked up his staff lying nearby; the statue had burned down—only ashes remained. He poked in the ashes with the stick.

The priest asked, "What are you searching for now? Everything is ashes."

Ikkyu said, "I am looking for God's bones."

The priest slapped his forehead. "You are certainly mad. Where would bones be in a wooden idol?"

Ikkyu said, "Exactly my point. The night is still long, the snow is coming down hard, and your temple has many images—bring one or two more! And why should I alone warm myself? You are shivering too; you warm yourself as well. If there are no bones, what kind of God is it!"

Letting such a man remain in the temple was dangerous—after all, the priest would sleep, and he might burn more statues, precious sandalwood statues. He pushed Ikkyu out. Ikkyu pleaded, "It is snowing, and you are throwing God out! You save wooden images and throw out a living Buddha like me!" But the priest would not listen. "You are mad. You—and Buddha!" He shoved him out and bolted the door.

In the morning, when he opened the temple door, he saw Ikkyu sitting outside, having placed flowers on a milestone by the road, bowed in worship, tears of joy flowing from his eyes. The priest shook him and said, "Do not trouble me anymore; do not confuse me, do not throw me into such turmoil! At night you burned God’s image in the temple, and now in the morning you are offering flowers to a milestone!"

Ikkyu said, "Where there is worship, there is the worshiped. Look even at a stone with love and it is the Divine; look even at the Divine only through the intellect, and it is not the Divine. The idol I burned at night—I did not burn it to warm myself; I burned it to burn your hypocrisy. I wanted to remind you that this worship of yours is futile, for you yourself said, ‘Madman, where would bones be in wood?’ Had you truly worshiped, such a word could never have come from you. Within, you know it is only wood; outwardly, you pretend it is God."
Hypocrisy means: one thing inside, another outside. The friend who has asked does not even know the meaning of the word “hypocrisy.” Hypocrisy means: one thing within, a different—indeed opposite—thing without. But if the inner and the outer are of one piece, in unison, in duet, then where is the hypocrisy!
So if someone bows before a stone out of love—love is the touchstone—then the stone is God. Because wherever you bow, there is God. Your surrender is God. But if someone bows merely out of formality, out of social convention—because others bow, so one should bow; seeing others bow, he bows; bows out of conditioning—then it is hypocrisy. The verdict on hypocrisy will not be decided by the bowing; it will be decided in the innermost depths of the heart.

How will you decide? If it is the cry of their hearts, it is not hypocrisy. And if they are only performing a formality, then certainly it is hypocrisy. But how will you determine that? Who are you to judge? Decide only about your own heart—that is enough. Do not pass judgment on others’ hearts! You do not yet know your own heart; how will you know another’s?

And what is happening here, this satsang, concerns the ineffable. We are attempting to say that which cannot be said. A person like you, still entangled in the petty mesh of the intellect, has no business here. Even your coming here is in vain! The friend who has asked is himself a sannyasin. Your sannyas too is in vain. Your sannyas is hypocrisy!

Now understand the meaning of hypocrisy.
Your sannyas is hypocrisy because if within you there is no feeling of worship, if devotion has not arisen, and you have merely dyed your clothes and put on a mala—that is hypocrisy. When the inner is colored and the outer is colored too, when there is a duet between within and without, then it is not hypocrisy.

You must have thought I would denounce all those who are doing such “hypocrisy.” You would never have imagined I would tell you that you are the hypocrite. Be a little careful when you ask me questions. You are an utter hypocrite! Your sannyas is false, a pretense! You have not bowed. There is no surrender in you. You will not be able to understand what I am saying, because you catch hold of words. You have only caught words. You have asked, “You oppose hypocrisy so much, and here your sannyasins are being hypocritical; why don’t you stop it?” I do oppose hypocrisy. I will tell you to drop sannyas. I am an opponent of hypocrisy. As yet no wave has arisen in your heart, no ripple; you have not heard my silence; you have not connected with my emptiness; the unstruck sound has not yet arisen within you.

Binding into words the felt experience
that till now has been unbound,
that till now has flowed free—
I am binding into words that
pure, riverine Source.
Binding into words the felt experience.

Becoming eyes-that-hear, I have listened; listening—
becoming the seer, I have seen that;
I am giving words to that very
insight beyond logic.
Binding into words the felt experience.

What I had held only in the secret heart,
what I had long preserved,
I now express—that very
stainless treasure of the inner.
Binding into words the felt experience.

What I am saying to you is of a kind that cannot be said; it cannot be defined; it cannot be explained. If you understand it, you will understand only through the heart, not through the intellect. The intellect is hypocritical. It cannot rise above hypocrisy. The intellect is a trickster. The intellect is dishonest. The intellect is very cunning.

Mulla Nasruddin had gone with a friend to see a movie. Everyone in the theater was bored. The picture was beyond their understanding. A bald man was sitting just a few seats ahead of Mulla. Mulla’s friend said to him, “Mulla, the movie is boring; do something for entertainment. If you give that bald man a slap on his shiny head, I’ll give you ten rupees. But on one condition—he must not get annoyed or angry.” Mulla said, “Oh, that’s nothing—done!” When the interval came, Mulla got up, went from behind, landed a slap on the bald pate and said, “Hey, Chandulal, you’re sitting here! We went to your house to see you.” The man said, “I’m sorry, brother, I’m not Chandulal. You must be mistaken; my name is Natwarlal.” Mulla said, “Oh, forgive me, brother, I was mistaken.” Then Mulla puffed out his chest with pride, came back to his friend, and said, “Come on, hand over the ten rupees!”

The friend gave ten rupees and said, “Mulla, this time I’ll give you twenty rupees if you give that bald man another slap.” Mulla said, “Done—what’s the big deal!” He went again, slapped the bald pate, and said, “Hey, you scoundrel, Chandulal—trying to make a fool of me? I know you well. Will you drop this habit of acting or not?” The man again said, “Brother, forgive me, I am not Chandulal, I’m Natwarlal. I don’t even know any Chandulal!” Mulla apologized again, returned, and collected the twenty rupees.

Handing over the twenty, the friend said, “Mulla, if you can manage one more slap to that bald head, these fifty rupees are yours! But the condition remains—he mustn’t get angry.” Mulla said, “Don’t worry. Let the film end, we’ll go outside; I’ll deliver one more.”

The film ended, everyone came out. Mulla went over and, with even more force, planted a slap on that shining skull and said, “You rascal, you Chandulal’s brat, you’re out here, and because of you, inside the hall I gave two slaps to poor Natwarlal by mistake!” In a tearful, almost dead voice the man replied, “Brother, why are you after me? I’m not Chandulal; I’m Natwarlal.”

The intellect is very clever. It can find ways—ways you cannot even imagine. The intellect has found many ways; it has led man astray. From everywhere the intellect finds an exit, invents a trick. I am anti-hypocrisy—your intellect even finds in that a way to escape me, a way to protect your ego, a way to condemn others. What I said you did not understand; you understood only what you wanted to. And perhaps you think that you are my real sannyasin—see how perfectly you follow my word! Not a trace of hypocrisy! You have even changed the meaning of the word hypocrisy.

Hypocrisy means inner conflict, duality within. One thing outside, another inside. But if within and without are in harmony, then what hypocrisy? Then there is no reason to call it hypocrisy.

Be a little alert to your cleverness. In this world, the greatest need for alertness is toward your own cleverness. The greatest deceptions arise there. The greatest trickery is born there.

A recluse who loved solitude lived happily with his wife in a small hut in the forest. But often travelers in the forest lost their way or were overtaken by evening, and seeing the hut they would ask for shelter. The recluse was much troubled by this. One evening, as he and his wife were enjoying the dusk, he saw Mulla Nasruddin approaching. He was an old acquaintance; if he asked for shelter, it would be difficult to refuse. So the wife suggested a plan: “Let’s lock ourselves in the room and act as if we are in a fierce quarrel. Seeing that we are fighting, perhaps Mulla will think, ‘What shelter from such people?’ and go away.”

They did exactly that. They shut the door; the recluse began to hurl abuses and beat a pillow with a stick. They were skilled actors—old hands at being recluses! The wife began to cry loudly, “Save me, save me—don’t beat me!” They kept it up for about half an hour. When they felt sure Nasruddin must have left, they came out and sat on the cot in the courtyard. The recluse laughed and said, “The fellow ran away! See how I thrashed!” The wife smiled, “And see how I cried!” Just then, from under the cot Mulla Nasruddin poked out his head and said, “And see how I ran!”

Be a little careful. Be a little watchful. In this world there is no greater robber to loot you, no greater swindler to deceive you, than your own intellect. It deceives with such skill, with such simplicity, that it doesn’t even occur to you that you are being deceived.

Love is never hypocrisy. Reasoning is always hypocrisy. Love is never blind. Reason is always blind. Love is never mad. Reason is itself a process of derangement.

Veena, within you the “blindness” of love has arisen—meaning, eyes have arisen. And within you the “madness” of love has awakened—meaning, for the first time you have begun to be healthy. Drop the worry! What you are asking for has already happened.

You have already come inside the temple! You are in the temple. This whole existence is his temple. Let love arise within, and the whole existence becomes the temple.

"We are at his feet." There is no way to be otherwise. Wherever you are, there are his feet.

Let me remind you of Nanak’s story. He went to the Kaaba. At night he slept. The priests were very upset, because his feet were pointing toward the sacred shrine. They came and said, “We thought you were a holy man; you look like a fakir and speak such wise words—yet you lack even this much courtesy, to sleep with your feet toward the holy stone!”

Nanak said, “I too was in great difficulty. Night came on, sleep was coming, and I was worried: where should I point my feet? You place my feet where God is not.”

Historically, this much is known—and it is enough, for Nanak’s point is made. But the story then turns poetic. Where history cannot work, poetry is needed; what history cannot say, poetry can. Up to here it is history; beyond this, a very sweet poetry!

The priests, already angry, grabbed Nanak’s feet and turned them the other way—and were astonished: the Kaaba turned that way too! They tried every direction; wherever they turned his feet, the Kaaba turned. Then they fell at Nanak’s feet, asking forgiveness. This part is poetry. The Kaaba does not turn. Be certain: the Kaaba cannot turn. But the poetry points toward a profound truth: God is everywhere. Everywhere are his feet.

I have heard a story about Eknath as well. In a village there was a staunch atheist who had shaken the believers. Exasperated, they said, “If anyone can make you understand, it is Eknath—no one else.” He asked, “Where is Eknath?” They said, “In the next village, by the river, in a temple.” He set out and arrived at the Brahma-muhurta, thinking it best to meet a sadhu at that hour before he goes for alms. He sat at the temple door at five. The door was open, and Eknath was asleep.

As dawn grew, he was shocked; he could not believe his eyes. He rubbed them, washed them, looked again and again. Even as an atheist he could hardly believe it. “This is a supreme atheist!” he thought. Eknath was sleeping with his feet resting on the Shiva lingam. At least Nanak had only pointed his feet in a direction; he had not used the Kaaba for a pillow. Eknath had gone a step further! He had propped his feet on Shiva’s lingam and was blissfully asleep—using it as a pillow!

The atheist’s chest trembled. “I am an atheist,” he thought. “I don’t even believe in God. But if someone told me to put my feet on Shiva’s lingam, I still wouldn’t dare. Who knows? Later there may be trouble after death—‘Now speak, why did you do that?’ Though I believe there is no God, a belief is only a belief, an inference is only an inference, logic is only logic. Who knows? No one has come back after dying to say ‘There is no God’—nor to say ‘There is.’ Both possibilities remain open. Fifty-fifty! It may be so, it may not be so. But this man—he’s gone to the limit! He’s a hundred percent sure there is none. He’s using the lingam as a pillow. What good can come of this?”

He thought of leaving: “Why ask anything of him? He will only spoil me.” But having come so far, he decided to speak; the man seemed vibrant, and the way he slept was so carefree! Six struck, seven, eight… “Enough!” he thought. “What kind of sadhu is this? A sadhu should rise at the Brahma-muhurta. This is the way of the indolent—to sleep till eight, nine. This man is utterly irreligious.”

At nine Eknath awoke. The man said, “Master, I came with many questions, but now others have arisen. First: a sadhu should wake at the Brahma-muhurta.” Eknath replied, “And what makes you think I did not? When a sage wakes, that is the Brahma-muhurta. Who will fix it otherwise? Has someone taken a contract on it, stamped and sealed it? What does Brahma-muhurta mean? The hour of Brahman—when one who knows Brahman awakens. Can the awakening of the ignorant make it Brahma-muhurta? The whole world’s fools could rise at five and nothing would happen. When I wake, know it as the Brahma-muhurta.” The man said, “It does sound convincing. But another question!”

“Granted: when a sage wakes, that is the Brahma-muhurta. But why are your feet on the Shiva lingam? Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t you feel any hesitation? Are you a theist or an atheist?” Eknath said, “This question is a little tricky. For years I have been asking God myself: Tell me, where should I put my feet? Wherever I place them, there you are. Somewhere I must place them; I cannot place them on my own head. They will fall on your head. So he himself said to me, ‘Don’t fuss. Rest them on my lingam—there, at least, I am scarcely present. Because of the priests I can hardly dwell there!’ Since then I rest them on the lingam. What am I to do? When he says so, I must obey.”

Spoken from such incomparable love, even placing one’s feet on Shiva’s lingam is within one’s right. See the reason: supreme theism. If the theist bows, that is devotion; if he burns the image, that too is worship. The issue is inner, not outer. Keep feeling into your own heart; there is the compass.

Veena, drop the worry of the mind. You are at his feet, in his temple. There is no way to be anywhere else but in him.

Ramnarayan Chauhan! There aren’t walls, there is just one wall. Only one wall: the wall of man’s ego, of man’s stiff-necked pride. “I am something. I am superior; others are inferior. I am above; others below.” That’s the only wall. The day this ego is gone, all walls are gone. And since you don’t let this one wall go, many people have gathered who keep choosing new bricks for it. And whoever brings bricks for your wall is exactly whom you find dear. There are pundits, priests—their job is just this: to decorate your ego; to give your ego new forms and colors; to hand it new styles; to trim it so that it no longer even looks like ego. They even dress your ego in the robes of humility, adorn it with the jewelry of renunciation, and teach it the claptrap of “knowledge.”

The wall is one—ego. Yes, many are busy decorating it. From all sides your wall is being ornamented. Parents tell you: “Remember which lineage you were born into.” As if we are born into different lineages! There is only one lineage—the lineage of the Brahman, of the Absolute—no other. But parents say, “Remember the family’s prestige, honor, lineage-glory.” Ego! They are handing a little child an ego. Then school, college, university—everywhere worship of the ego is taught. Come first; not number two. Don’t even tolerate second place. You must be first.

Someone asked George Bernard Shaw, before he died, whether he would prefer to go to hell or to heaven. He said, “Hell or heaven—it makes no difference; that’s not the real question.” The questioner asked, “Then what is the real question?” Shaw said, “The real question is: wherever I can be first, that’s where I would like to go. If I get the chance to be first in hell, I’m ready for hell—I’ll kick heaven away. And if in heaven I must stand second, I’ve no wish to go there.”

Once, in a lecture, Bernard Shaw said that Galileo was utterly wrong to say the earth circles the sun. “I say: the sun circles the earth.” By now it is scientifically established that the earth goes around the sun. When Galileo said it, there was great trouble. He was harassed, tormented by Christian priests, punished. Brought to court and made to ask forgiveness. Old Galileo—what a biting wit he had, what a sense of humor! He must have been a very wise man. When the Pope summoned him and said, “Kneel and ask pardon. Proclaim that the Bible says the sun circles the earth—all the scriptures say so. That’s why all languages speak of ‘sunrise’ and ‘sunset’; the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening. The sun circles the earth. And you say the earth circles the sun? It is against the Bible, against scripture. Ask forgiveness! Otherwise it will cost you dear. Either be ready to die.”

Galileo knelt.

I consider Galileo a very blissful man. Many have condemned him, saying he got frightened, he begged pardon; he should have become a martyr. I don’t agree. I think Galileo was very intelligent. What sense is there in dying over such a petty matter? And what difference does it make who circles whom! To me, Galileo had no suicidal streak—otherwise he would have become a martyr. Most martyrs have a suicidal tendency: ninety-nine out of a hundred are eager to die, only they don’t take responsibility for killing themselves; they want someone else to do it. Such people are eager for death but lack even the courage to plunge the knife into their own chest; they provoke others: “You kill us.” Galileo was a healthy man. That’s why I make a statement contrary to the whole world’s: I hold Galileo to have been very healthy, and only a very intelligent man could say what he said. He said, “O Lord, I ask forgiveness. I declare that the earth does not circle the sun. What I said was wrong; it is the sun that circles the earth.”

The Pope and his priests were delighted, people clapped. And then Galileo added, “But let me say one more thing: what I say changes nothing—the earth still circles the sun. What difference does it make what a poor man like me says?”

This is what I call real intelligence. He delivered a resounding slap—worse than death. He said, “What can I do? Things are as they are. If you make a fuss, I’ll ask pardon—once, thrice, as many times as you like. But don’t remain under any illusion: the earth does circle the sun.”

Centuries later—three hundred years on—Bernard Shaw declared in a lecture, “I say Galileo was wrong. The sun circles the earth; the earth does not circle the sun.” A man stood up: “You’re going too far. What proof do you have?” Shaw said, “The proof is that the earth on which Bernard Shaw lives cannot circle anything; the sun will have to circle it!”

Shaw is satirizing our ego—making fun of it! He’s saying: man’s stiff-necked pride. Out of that same pride the scriptures declared that the sun circles the earth; out of the same pride they declared the earth the center of the universe. Why? Because man lives on earth, man is the center of all creatures, man is supreme. Scriptures inflate your ego; education encourages it, stirs up ambition. Your pundits and priests prescribe all kinds of tricks to inflate it—and to inflate the ego you must resort to upside-down means, because the ego is unnatural, against nature.

Stand on your head in the marketplace and a crowd will gather. Stand on your feet for hours and nobody comes. Strange people! Stand for hours on your feet—no one comes; go up on your head and instantly a crowd forms: “Has a yogi arrived? A great saint?” To be a saint you must stand on your head. To be a saint, you must perpetrate some stupidity. Shave half your hair and walk through town, and the whole village will know a “realized soul” has arrived. If it doesn’t sound plausible, try it. Shave half your beard and half your head—within three days your photo will be in all the papers; everywhere people will ask, “Brother, what is the secret?” And if you’re a clever fellow, start disclosing “the secret.” Don’t be surprised if others start shaving half-and-half. Fools always find greater fools who become their disciples.

Four Crows, a.k.a. Four Howlers
They weren’t many—just four black crows.
They decided that all who fly
must fly, stop, eat, and sing their way;
what they call a festival, all must celebrate.
Sometimes magic happens in this world—
every virtue is seen in the unworthy;
these unworthies became great sovereigns,
their servants became kites, Garuds, and falcons.
Swans, peacocks, chataks, sparrows—what count are they?
Hands folded, all stood pleading.
An order came: let the chatak bird drop its chant;
forsake “piu-piu”—croak “kaaw-kaaw”!
Twenty kinds of chores were thrust on the sparrows;
food and fun were left to the petty henchmen.
The crows had it so good—ghee on all five fingers;
grand designs swelled in their hearts.
They even reshaped the rules of flight
till fliers were left just sitting idle.
What happened after is hard to tell—
this is not the poet’s day; it is the day of four crows.
If curiosity is stirred, drop by my house;
how to tell a long tale in so short a span!

Crows want everyone to croak. Their rule should be everyone’s rule; they must be the rulers. The crows’ total expertise is to croak loudly—make a racket; they are blabbermouths. Pundits and priests have filled the air with a great croaking. And they’ve made rules for how a person should rise, walk, sit; what to say, what not to say—they’ve prescribed the whole code of conduct. They have dragged man out of the uncontrived world and made him artificial.

The crows had it so good—ghee on all five fingers;
grand designs swelled in their hearts.
They even reshaped the rules of flight
till fliers were left just sitting idle.

You who could know the Divine are reading the Gita, the Quran! You who could know the Divine sit chanting “Ram-Ram,” parroting! You who could experience the Divine who sits within—you're made to croak at him! Mantras, Gayatri, Namokar—they make you chant to the very one you’re seeking. He is within you. But your ego enjoys what is upside down. Lie on thorns, and the ego gains prestige; fast, and the ego gains prestige.

A Zen fakir, Bokuju, was asked by a man, “You praise your master so highly—what is so special about him? My master is miraculous. I’ll tell you a miracle I witnessed. One day he told me: ‘The river is in flood; go to the far bank in a boat. I will remain on this side. I will hand you a blank sheet—hold it up, and I will write from here with my pen, and letters will appear on your paper.’ And they did! My master there, half a mile away; me here; he wrote from there and the letters rose on my page. That’s the miracle my master showed me. What about your master? What miracle has he performed?” What Bokuju said is worth engraving on gold, carving into the heart. Bokuju said, “My master’s miracle is that he can perform miracles—and he does not.”

He can perform miracles—and he does not! Such is his strength. That is a hard strength. If you can do a miracle and refrain! Learn a little trick and the itch to show it off appears: the urge to perform, because the ego is worshiped only when there is performance. If you can produce ash from your hand, you won’t be able to hold back. You will go hunting for fools eager to see the ash, so it may be called a miracle. If you can do a little juggling, some street-magic, you’ll start doing it. People are so foolish that their curiosity is wasted on the unnatural, not on the simple and natural.

Bokuju also said that he once asked his master, “What is the greatest miracle of your life?” His master replied, “When I am hungry, I eat; when I am thirsty, I drink; and when sleep comes, I sleep.” That’s all he said—and now I speak from my own experience: there is no greater miracle than that.

I too, from my own experience, tell you: there is no greater miracle than being simple and natural. But the natural is invisible to the world; the unnatural stands out. Hence the more unnatural a thing is, the more valuable it has become. Fasting is valued—because hunger is natural. Without hunger a man cannot live; without food he cannot live. Hunger is natural; food is essential, a primary need of life. That’s why fasting became important—because it is upside down. The man who fasts evokes your respect. Why? He goes against nature; he stands on his head. So fasters are worshiped everywhere. The greater the faster, the greater the saint. In truth he is only abusing the body, committing self-violence; torturing and killing himself; he is suicidal. But pundits and priests have handed you such devices—these are the bricks that keep strengthening and raising the wall of ego.

One is hunger; another is sex—both natural. Through sex mankind itself is born. Priests seized on that too: “Suppress sex!” So celibacy became highly valued. Suppress your sexual energy completely and you become great. It will remain inside, smoldering like fire; push it deep into the unconscious. From there it will rot you, defile your soul—and nothing separates one from the Divine more than repressed sexuality. The one who suppresses sex is full of it twenty-four hours a day. The one who fasts thinks of food twenty-four hours a day; even at night he dreams of food.

Your ascetics and renunciates dream only in two genres—food, and sex. Either beautiful women torment them in dreams… Which beautiful woman is so bothered? And it isn’t only true of today’s “Kaliyug” ascetics; it was even more true of “Satyug” sages—apsaras descended from the heavens to pester them! Which apsara would be so harried? These dried-up skeletons, unwashed for years—never even heard of Lux toilet soap. Come near them and you’d smell the stench—sweat, dust, grime—and that’s not enough: smeared in ash besides. As many lice in their hair as no one else has. When even birds build nests in their hair—then why count lice and fleas! If birds have built nests and they don’t budge, what is there to say? And the celestial nymphs are bewitched by them? By what?

No apsaras exist anywhere who come to harass anyone. These are the very impulses they repressed, returning from the unconscious. Repress them a little and you’ll dream with closed eyes; repress them more and you’ll dream with open eyes. They fall into delusion. They claim to have dropped worldly illusion—but now they weave their own. They dream of sitting on Indra’s throne; and so they spin the fantasy that perhaps Indra, seeing his seat wobble, has sent apsaras to corrupt them.

These are the very rishis who wrote: “Woman is the gateway to hell.” They must have written from experience—sages do speak from experience! They must have gone to hell through the gate of woman. How else did they know? Sages supposedly go to heaven—how did they experience hell? They saw hell in this very life. They suppressed woman—and she created hell within. If woman suppresses man, man will become the gateway to hell.

I have heard… the story goes on… Hema Malini died. She came to the Vaitarni River. Chitragupta stood waiting. He said, “Dear, read the signboard carefully.” A big board showed two bones crossed with a skull above, and written in English: Danger; in Hindi: Khatra—Beware! As on spirit bottles, or where high voltage is posted. Below, in big letters: “While crossing the Vaitarni, keep this in mind: for those in whom no lust arises, the Vaitarni is shallow—not above the knees. But the moment lust arises, Vaitarni becomes deep; in an instant one goes under. And once you go under, you are in hell.” He said, “Dear, read it carefully; many have drowned.” Hema Malini said, “Don’t worry.” She set out to cross. Halfway across there was a loud splash. She looked back—Chitragupta was going under! She asked, “Oh father, what happened?” Chitragupta said, “The scriptures are right—woman is the gateway to hell. I went under—straight to hell!”

The more you repress, the more it resurfaces—today, tomorrow, or the day after. And repression is the biggest process for feeding the ego. Be simple, be natural; live a spontaneous life—in accord with nature, in every sense. You will not reach heaven by tormenting yourself. The Divine cannot honor self-violators. At the very least, honor the life the Divine has given you. It is in that very life that the Divine is hidden.

Ramnarayan Chauhan, you ask: “What walls are there between religion and man?”

There aren’t many walls—just one: ego. Though there are many bricks in that wall, and they all get mortared in the same way: whatever is against nature becomes a brick for the ego. I teach a natural life. My message is straight and simple. Live simply. Don’t run away from anywhere; don’t avoid anything. Whatever God has given is auspicious—give thanks. And if he has given mud, he gave it in the hope that lotus flowers would bloom from it. And if he has given iron, he did so in the hope that you also have the philosopher’s stone within—find it. At its touch, iron becomes gold. And not merely gold—fragrance comes into gold. And don’t keep asking the pundit-priests. Avoid them. They neither know nor have experience. But in this world very few are simple-hearted enough to say, “I don’t know.” If someone asks you something, even if you don’t know, you answer—because no one is ready to admit, “I am ignorant.”

I had a professor at the university—no matter what you mentioned, he would say, “Yes, I’ve read that book.” From his manner and speech I never felt he was any great scholar or well-read. His style was like the priests of Kashi—big belly! He was famous on campus for eating and drinking. His talk was very ordinary; he kept chewing tobacco. Paan-juice dribbled from his mouth onto his clothes. To see him, you wouldn’t think… I visited his home many times; I never saw him with anything but a newspaper—yes, he read the paper. I never saw him in the university library. I even checked the records—had he ever borrowed a book? In ten years, none. They said they don’t keep records beyond ten years. Within ten years—never borrowed a book. But name any book—he’d say, “Yes, I’ve read it.”

One day in class I invented two fake authors and two fake books—neither the writers nor the books existed. I asked him, “What do you think of these?” He said, “I’ve read them. Beautiful books! Good authors. They write to the point. Worth reading.” Nothing he said would make you think he hadn’t read them—but what he said could be said about any book. Just like astrologers: show them your palm and they say, “Money comes, but it doesn’t stay.” Whose does? “You suffer greatly from your own people.” From whom else? Why would strangers take the trouble—don’t they have their own people to trouble? “Success will come, but later.” True for anyone—success is always at a distance. “You do good, but people do you wrong.” What sweet and stunning truths! Great revelations—and they fit: “Yes, that’s exactly my experience; I do good and others do bad.”

Just so, the professor said, “Beautiful books, good authors, worth reading, full of practical wisdom.” I said, “Come with me to the library. Show me these books.” He became a little frightened, a little hesitant. “Why, what’s the matter?” I said, “Today we’ll decide whether you’ve read them or not.” He said, “I did read them, but many years ago; I don’t recall the details. But these authors are well-known, and these books are famous.” I said, “All the more reason—come.” I took him along, with the whole class. He began to sweat; the drool flowed more; he panted; his paunch went up and down. There were no such books. I said, “Today, whatever happens, we won’t leave without seeing them.”

I dragged him through the whole library, from one section to another—“Maybe in that subject? Maybe this?” In private he folded his hands before me: “Forgive me; what’s the use of shaming me in front of everyone? I won’t hide it from you—I’ve never read those books, and I don’t even know if they exist.” I said, “Then drop this habit—that ‘I know.’ Drop it.”

But this habit is universal. Few have the courage to say, “I don’t know.” Someone asks you, “Is God?”—you’re ready with an answer: yes or no, both are answers. Rare is the courageous person who says, “I don’t know.” Go ask the pundits—they will certainly answer. Ask anyone—he won’t miss the chance. No one misses the chance to give advice. The thing most given in the world is advice, and the thing least taken is also advice. Givers keep giving; takers don’t take. Advice keeps wandering!

Which path is it?
On the road an anxious, impatient traveler cried,
“Which path is it?”
“The way the great walk,” thundered the scriptures.
“Whichever way your inner voice leads,” said the judge of conscience.
“Come with the common people,” cried the voice of revolution.
But for the great man’s path I have neither means nor chariot;
the inner voice is clouded by uncertainty and doubt;
and I have neither strength nor stride to follow revolution’s pace.
Which path is it?
On the road the anxious, impatient traveler cried again,
“Which path is it?”

And everyone is asking: What is the path, what is the goal, how do I go? And those who tell have opened shops. They say, “Come, we will tell you.”

I was reading a Sufi story yesterday. Two so-called Sufi gurus met. After the formal courtesies, one said, “Brother, one disciple has put me in a fix. I explain to people—‘Attain samadhi.’ It’s such a difficult subject, and I make it even more difficult; I spin such a web of words that no one understands anything. When people don’t understand, they think, ‘What lofty, deep talk!’ And then no one comes asking to attain samadhi—because I make it so hard: so many fasts, celibacy, austerities, emaciating the body; no small thing—takes lifetimes! People listen and say, ‘Master, you speak rightly,’ and my business runs well. But one wretch has stuck to me—he says, ‘I’m ready to do anything, but I will attain samadhi.’ I prescribed fasts—he did them. I said, ‘Stand on your head for an hour’—he stood for two, right in front of me, rubbing my nose in it. I’m getting nervous—whatever I say, he does. I told him to shave his head and go naked—he did, and now he hovers around me all day, asking, ‘What next? When will samadhi come?’ Hearing him, others have stopped coming: ‘Master, first give samadhi to your chief disciple!’ He’s ruining my whole shop.”

The other said, “Don’t worry. I had just such a disciple; I set him straight. I told him, ‘Drink a bottle of petrol—samadhi will happen.’ He was a fool—he drank it. He attained samadhi!”

The first said, “Wonderful! I never thought of that. I’ll go right away.”

He told his disciple: “Just one last remedy—an infallible one. Drink a bottle of petrol!” The disciple, being a disciple, brought a bottle and drank it—and died on the spot. The guru panicked: “Another problem—at least he was alive; now they’ll say I killed my chief disciple!” He ran to the other guru: “What have you done? I told my disciple your method—he drank a bottle of petrol and died!” The other said, “That’s exactly what happened to mine—he died too. This is what I call samadhi. I built him a samadhi—that platform outside is his shrine. You also build a samadhi and announce, ‘He attained samadhi!’”

You will keep asking; the pundits will keep answering. There is no path to That—because it isn’t far that a path be needed. It sits at the very heart of your life-breath. There is no method to attain it—methods are to get what is other than you. It is your very self. What method can there be to get your own self? No mantra, no technique. Become quiet and silent and simple and natural—and you’ll find you already have it. In the silence of nature you will be suddenly astonished: what we were seeking is hidden in the seeker. It is the seer within you, the witnessing consciousness within you.

There is no wall. The wall is of our making. And the pundit-priest collaborates in raising that wall—because the bigger the wall, the more you are cut off from yourself; and the more cut off you are, the more you fall into their grip, under their control.

A true master is one who pulls the wall down—who snatches away your “knowledge,” your rituals; who takes everything from you so that no space remains for ego; who takes away renunciation, austerity, fasting, celibacy—everything—and leaves you utterly aligned with your own nature. Then the rose becomes a rose, the champa a champa, the jasmine a jasmine. Right now the condition is miserable: the jasmine wants to be champa; the rose wants to be lotus—and since it cannot, there is great pain, great sorrow. You are you; you can only be you. When you become authentically yourself, the Divine is attained.

Dharma means: swabhava—one’s own nature. Be absorbed in your own nature and dharma is realized. To find religion you need go nowhere, nor do anything. Drop all seeking and all doing—and religion is found, now, this instant.

But we keep raising questions, and the answer-givers keep handing out answers. Our compulsion is that we cannot live without asking; their compulsion is that they cannot live without answering. The net remains, the mischief goes on.

The world has no need of religions—neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain. The world needs a quality of religiousness; it has no need of religions. And I call that person religious who is natural, who lives in his own uniqueness, who plants no hypocrisy upon it, who imposes no conduct by force upon it; who lives from his inner being, from the lamp of witnessing within. In living by witnessing there is liberation, there is religion, there is nirvana. He who lives in witnessing is a Buddha.

“Appo deepo bhava”—be a light unto yourself. There is no other lamp. Don’t hope for any other lamp. That very hope has deluded and led you astray.

Enough for today.