Sapna Yeh Sansar #14

Sadhu Sharan! Iron becomes neither gold nor the philosopher’s stone. The philosopher’s stone is only a symbol—precious as a symbol; false if you take it as literal reality. The philosopher’s stone is not a fact; it is a truth.

Understand well the distinction between fact and truth.
- A fact is that which has objective existence: what science can grasp, what can be weighed on a scale, what hands can touch, eyes can see; that which has form and weight. A fact is material.
- Truth is immaterial. No scale can weigh it, no hand can touch it, no eye can see it. Only truth has real worth and dignity. And whenever we use symbols, remember: they are not facts; they are truths.

“Philosopher’s stone” is a truth—a unique, poetic symbol coined for satsang, for communion with the awakened. If someone connects totally with a true Master, then in that touch iron turns to gold. To say “iron turns to gold” means iron was gold already—only asleep, unaware of itself. The awakener awakened it. You cannot awaken a corpse; you can awaken someone asleep.

A dead man and a sleeping man can look alike—but they are not the same. The difference is sky-wide. The dead cannot be awakened; the sleeping can. One who is asleep is fully capable of waking. He has the potential to awaken; that is why he sleeps. Only one who can wake sleeps, and only one who can sleep wakes.

Sleep and wakefulness are two sides of the same coin.

“Iron becomes gold” only means iron was gold in essence. The philosopher’s stone shook it into remembrance: “Who am I?” Not that iron became gold; only that the memory returned. Unconsciousness broke. One had forgotten oneself; awareness dawned. Satsang is the process of awakening remembrance. And of course, only someone awakened can awaken the sleeping—how can the asleep awaken the asleep? The asleep may even lull the awakened back to sleep!

You must have noticed: if someone beside you nods off and yawns, soon you feel drowsy too; you begin to yawn. Sleep is contagious. And that is just ordinary sleep; spiritual sleep goes far deeper. You live surrounded by sleepy people—these are your connections, your relations, your society. A world of the asleep. In such an ocean of sleep, awakening seems almost impossible. Fortunate is the one who finds the company of someone awake!

Stay close to one who is awake. As sleep is contagious, so is awakening.

Satsang means: someone is awake, you are asleep; you take the hand of the awakened. You pray to the awakened, “I will keep falling asleep; do not forget me—keep waking me. I will go unconscious again and again; do not lose hope in me—keep at it.”

Iron does not become gold; iron is gold asleep. As it begins to awaken it becomes gold; and the day total awakening happens—no possibility ever again of relapse into sleep—on that day iron too has become the philosopher’s stone. “Philosopher’s stone” means: now it can awaken others as well.

There are three stages of awakening: the completely asleep; the half-awake; and the fully awakened. The one utterly asleep won’t even admit he is asleep—that is the climax of sleep: to refuse to acknowledge it. He says, “Who says I’m asleep? I am wide awake! Who could be more awake than I?” This is sleep’s own strategy to protect itself: it deceives you, “You’re already awake—so what ‘awakening’ are you seeking?” Thus most people think this way and waste their lives.

They imagine they are awake while they are deeply asleep—muttering in their sleep, taking their mutterings for thinking, their dreams for truth. Life passes like this. Such a rare opportunity turns to dust—you’ll regret it later! But this is the common human condition.

Gurdjieff once took thirty disciples to a remote corner near Tiflis in Russia for a difficult experiment. It is not easy to awaken someone who has slept for lifetimes. The exercise was this: all thirty lived with Gurdjieff in one bungalow. He told each one, “Live here as if the other twenty-nine do not exist. Move as if you are alone. Deliberately forget the others.
Why? Because if you keep the twenty-nine in mind, you won’t be able to remember yourself. The twenty-nine are the ‘crowd,’ the society—the world of the asleep. Forget them absolutely. Even if you pass someone, do not greet, do not smile, do not so much as hint that you acknowledge another’s presence. If you bump into someone, do not stop to apologize—there is no one else here; you are alone. And if anyone shows by any gesture that he acknowledges another, I will send him away.” Naturally, if there is no one else, whom would you talk to? So complete silence.

Within three days twenty-seven were sent away—it was very hard. A small bungalow—thirty people—seven or eight to a room—how to avoid remembering the others? Three remained. By the end of a month only one remained: P. D. Ouspensky, who later carried Gurdjieff’s vision to the world.

After three months Gurdjieff took him to the market in Tiflis, walked him around, and for the first time asked, “What did you see?” Ouspensky said, “I saw everyone asleep. People walking asleep, shopkeeping asleep, buying asleep—an entire township of sleepers! I had never seen this before, because I myself was asleep. I saw madmen—I had never seen that either, for I myself was mad. A distracted, dream-laden, slumbering crowd. Futile noise without purpose; people rushing meaninglessly from here to there, keeping themselves busy. This I saw for the first time. The peace of these three months gave me the capacity, the eye.”

Gurdjieff was awake. Ouspensky was asleep, but he began to awaken; the sleep began to crack, the dreams to loosen; a little awareness started to dawn.

The state between sleep and wakefulness is called tandra in yoga—drowsy twilight: partly awake, partly asleep. The ordinary person is fully asleep; one in satsang dwells in tandra—half-awake. “Iron has become gold” is this symbol. When awakening is complete—when the disciple is no longer merely a disciple but attains to the state of a true Master—meaning not only has he awakened, he can now awaken others—then he has become the philosopher’s stone.

Sadhu Sharan, iron remains iron—how will it become gold or the philosopher’s stone? But we are not talking about iron; iron is a symbol. “Iron” is the name for the sleeping man; “gold” for the half-awake; “philosopher’s stone” for the fully awakened Buddha-like one. If you understand the symbol, you have understood the truth. If you clutch the symbol as literal fact, you fall into folly. Many foolish people have done just that—searching for a physical philosopher’s stone for centuries, wasting lives, thinking it lies in some lake, on some mountain, in some mine; touch iron and it becomes gold! There is no such stone anywhere.

It wasn’t only in the East; in the West, too, alchemists spent whole lives trying to discover a formula to turn iron into gold. When a poetic symbol is grabbed as a physical fact, such confusions and mischief arise.

Not only this one symbol—religion’s symbols generally have been similarly mistaken.

Buddhist scriptures say: when Buddha awakened, flowers showered from the sky—supernatural blossoms with unearthly fragrance, not of this earth. Buddhists insist it literally happened, that it is historical. They know nothing of history here. Why should the sky shower flowers? Do flowers ever fall like that? Moreover, there is no such account in the lives of other awakened ones—Mahavira, Neminath, Parshva, Krishna, Patanjali, Zarathustra, Jesus. This is a poetic symbol—a way of saying existence exulted, blossomed with Buddha. As when the morning sun rises and flowers bloom, as when spring comes and blossoms cascade, so with the arising of Buddhahood within Buddha a wave of joy ran through existence. How to say that existence became festive?

Buddha has said: “The day I attained Buddhahood, the whole existence attained it with me.” He means: since that day I have never seen anyone as other than a Buddha—sleeping Buddhas, wandering Buddhas, but Buddhas all the same. A diamond is a diamond—even if flung into mud, the mud cannot destroy it. When I awakened and saw who is within, I began to see the same light, the same nectar, within all.

And when a single person attains Buddhahood, it is natural that a wave of delight pervade the whole, because we are not other than existence. If your hand was ill and becomes healthy, does not your whole body feel it? If a mote troubles your eye, does not your whole body share the pain? And when the mote is removed, does not your whole body share the ease? We are not separate; we are one with existence. To indicate this, the symbol says, “Flowers showered from the sky.” The sky celebrated; lamps were lit; out-of-season blossoms bloomed; dry trees leafed out. If you take this as fact, you will miss.

In this world there are two kinds of fools: those who insist such things are literally true, and those who argue it is impossible and can never be. They bash each other’s heads—and both are wrong. This is not how to understand poetry.

Of Jesus it is said that after death he was resurrected. This is a poetic symbol. But Christians cling to it as literal; their whole religion rests upon it. If it is shown that Jesus was not resurrected, Christianity’s life trickles away; Rome’s Church collapses; the cornerstone slips, the papacy dissolves. Their entire edifice depends upon this untruth.

No one is resurrected after death in this world. There are no exceptions to the laws of existence. Here rules apply equally to all—no privileged, no inferior. It must be so. If existence were partial—Jesus dies and is revived, while some Tom, Dick or Harry dies and is forgotten—existence would be unjust. Two thieves were crucified beside Jesus; they simply died while Jesus revived? No. Resurrection is not a fact—but it is a truth, a symbol.

The symbol holds a profound message: one like Jesus never dies. Kill him if you will—he does not die. For Jesus came to know life’s eternity, its deathlessness. He saw that there is neither my birth in birth nor my death in death; I was before birth, I am after death. For those who attain samadhi, what death? To convey this incomparable truth, the story of resurrection is told. But if you insist on facts, trouble ensues.

I heard of a mathematician who married a poetess. On their wedding night the wife, heart brimming with verse, wrote a poem for her husband and recited it—forgetting he was a mathematician. Mathematics speaks a different tongue than poetry—their worlds and skies are different. He listened as if she were mad, because she said, “Beloved, when I look at the moon, I see you there; when I look at your face, I see the moon.” He said, “Wait—what has the moon to do with a human face? The moon is vast and heavy—put it on my head and I’d be crushed! And the moon is full of craters—do you see my face full of pits?”

The wife must have been stunned. Dialogue became impossible: two languages, neither understanding the other.

This confusion has been growing, because you are trained in mathematics, science, physics, chemistry—your mind is prepared for facts. Hence poetry dies day by day. The chance of a Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti, Milton, Shelley, or Rabindranath arising dwindles. Even poets now write trash; even they speak of facts, not truths. They hardly dare to speak truths—people will call them mad.

Vincent van Gogh was a great Western painter. In his lifetime his paintings were not understood, because they were not factual; they were full of truth, but devoid of fact—often contrary to fact. In one painting trees are so tall they rise beyond the stars. “Where are such trees?” people asked. Van Gogh replied, “Whenever I see trees I see the earth’s soul reaching for the stars. If not today, then tomorrow. I see the future—the earth’s aspiration to touch the stars. Whenever I look at a tree I see earth’s outstretched arms, raised toward the sky, a longing to touch and go beyond the stars. If not today, then tomorrow—but I will paint what I see.”

Such seeing belongs to a seer, a rishi, a poet—not to a scientist. The scientist shrugs and walks off: “Nonsense—talk sense!”

If you can remember this, Sadhu Sharan, then I say: iron can become gold, and one day iron can become the philosopher’s stone. But understand it as a symbol; otherwise you will start looking for a magic stone.

There are tales everywhere about a philosopher’s stone in some lake. I went to such a lake where the story goes that a king tried hard to find it. He chained iron shackles to elephants’ legs and sent them walking through the deep lake. One elephant returned with gold chains—so “it is certain the stone is here, but how to find it?” Many elephants were sent; perhaps one chain casually brushed the stone. For centuries people have gone to that lake searching.

Do not fall into such folly. There is no such stone, no such lake, no such iron. You are the iron in question. Awaken, and you become gold. And when the capacity to awaken others flowers, you become the philosopher’s stone.

What are thorns? Sweet remembrances of honey-laden flowers.
What are sighs? The forgetfulness of those love-filled “mistakes.”
What is pain? The inner throbbing of the afflicted.
What is modesty? The deathless playing in youth.
What is splendor? A dream of this brief life.
What is truly ours? To lose the very sense of “mine-ness” in life.

Begin to understand the language of poetry—religion’s language is very close to it.

What is truly ours? To lose the very sense of “mine-ness” in life.
A paradox? Yes.

What is truly ours? To lose the very sense of “mine-ness” in life.
He who loses himself, finds himself. Mathematics will not agree with such language, but poetry will. In poetry’s world even thorns can be flowers.

What are thorns? Sweet remembrances of honey-laden flowers.
What are sighs? The forgetfulness of those love-filled “mistakes.”
What is pain? The inner throbbing of the afflicted.
What is modesty? The deathless playing in youth.
What is splendor? A dream of this brief life.
What is truly ours? To lose the very sense of “mine-ness” in life.

Religion is close to poetry; mathematics is far. And you have been soaked in the language of mathematics—the marketplace’s tongue. Poetry’s language is nowhere in use; not even between lovers, nor between mother and child, brother and brother, friend and friend—there too it is calculation, bargaining. We have made life a bazaar, every place a shop. No wonder we cannot understand poetry—and he who cannot understand poetry will not understand God, for the Divine is supreme poetry.

This existence is fact; God is the supreme poetry hidden within it. If, hearing raindrops drum on the eaves, you sense only H2O, where will you find God? Analyze water all you like—you will reach H2O, not God. But there is another way to listen to those drops—another eye, another mood of absorption. Then in the patter you catch a music; you feel something beyond H2O, beyond science. You sense the earth’s thirst and the sky’s longing to quench it. Go on deepening this language, and one day you will see earth and sky are not separate; they are bridged by rainbows. The whole exists as one pulse, vibrating in infinite forms. The knowers speak in many words, but the experience is one.

Step from science to poetry, then leap from poetry to religion—three steps, the three steps to the temple. Then you can enter the sanctum.

So I say: iron can become gold; iron can become the philosopher’s stone. But you are that iron. Through satsang become gold. Let satsang flower fully and you can become the philosopher’s stone. To become that is your possibility. But you will need a new language, a new style, a new way of living—that I call sannyas. The journey from iron to philosopher’s stone is sannyas.

For this journey you need divine madness. Intellect is two-penny stuff; the heart is needed. Intellect is bound to facts; the heart enters truth.

I choose the Beloved’s path,
I sing whatever arises in my heart.
I can only say this much: I scarcely know myself;
for that I am not to blame.

A mind forever flitting with joy and sorrow,
I am human, life is incomplete—
so how can I be content with this life?
For that I am not to blame.

They say I am rich with hopes and desires,
they say I am in the bloom of youth—
tell me, who has not been intoxicated by youth’s wine?
For that I am not to blame.

There is no “thus it ends” in this;
life is an immortal path of sadhana.
Let the world say what it will—I am angry with none;
for that I am not to blame.

I choose the Beloved’s path,
I sing whatever arises in my heart.
I can only say this much: I scarcely know myself;
for that I am not to blame.

Choose the path of love—not logic, but love. Bind yourself by love. Until you take the marriage-rounds with love, you cannot relate to the Divine. And be ready: the world will call you mad. It always has. Sages have been called utterly mad. They were called “paramhansas”—a fine word, yes, but its implied meaning was “mad!”

Ramakrishna would break into dance in the street if someone greeted him with “Jai Ram!” People said, “Paramhansa”—meaning, politely, “mad.” Shirdi’s Sai Baba in his last days abused people and threw stones. Ask a question and he would chase you with a stick. People said, “Paramhansa.” They used polite words, but they meant “mad”—“he’s no longer in his senses.” And truly, one who has come to his true Self seems no longer “in himself.”

But those who could see, saw something else. In Sai Baba’s abuses they saw the last efforts to awaken people—a final, tireless compassion. “If you won’t wake, I’ll hurl a stone; if still not, I’ll whack you with a stick.” What compassion! Who else would take such trouble? Most would call once or twice and be done: “If you hear, good; if not, your problem.” But great compassion will not let go: “I will awaken you somehow—even if I must scold.”

Some can awaken only through scolding; everything else is a lullaby for them. Their sleep deepens with gentle words; they dream sweeter dreams. Perhaps only abuse can jolt them; perhaps only a thrown stone or the fright of a stick can bring a flicker of awareness.

The knowing will say: a tireless effort of the awakened is at work. In this sense Sai Baba showed even greater compassion than Buddha. But those who don’t understand will think inside, “mad,” and outside say, “paramhansa,” because they lack the courage to call him mad.

People will think you mad; but your connection with the Divine will begin to grow. That alone has value. That alone is decisive. What people think has no value at all.

Gurudas! If you ask those who have not found, what can the poor fellows do! Understand their dilemma too. Those who themselves have not received—how are they to preserve their self-image unless they devise some defense? That is their defense. They tell you it takes lifetimes upon lifetimes; it is not a matter of a day, not even a matter of one lifetime.

There is a very famous Tibetan tale.
A fakir arose whose fame began to spread—fame for the strange reason that he did not take disciples. People are strange! Who knows what it is they make famous. Because he did not initiate anyone, they said, “Ah! Such a great saint—devoid of ego. He won’t make anyone his disciple. He does not carry the idea that ‘I know and you don’t,’ so how could he make disciples? Only the arrogant make disciples.” The fakir himself would say the same: “I have no ego—so how could I take disciples? Who is disciple, who is master?” It appealed to people. Those who came to be disciples were delighted to hear, “There is no difference between us and the master.” That is exactly what people want to hear—who wishes to bow? And he was so sweet—he never even spoke of bowing. If someone tried to bow, the fakir would push him out: “Run along! I do not make anyone a disciple.”

The more he shooed them away, the more people came. People have their own peculiar arithmetic: “If he chases us off, he must be guarding a diamond, knotted tight, unwilling to give.” The crowd swelled. People pleaded, “At least whisper into someone’s ear, grant realization to someone. You have attained; one day you’ll go—leave us the key.” But he remained adamant.

Gradually people tired. Patience has its limits. They stopped coming. Only one man stayed on—mostly because he had no other work. He looked after the fakir a bit, got food and clothes—there was convenience.

One morning the fakir suddenly said, “Up! Don’t delay. Run down to the plain and bring anyone who wants to be a disciple. There’s no time to lose.” The attendant couldn’t believe it. “What are you saying? Are you in your senses? Has your mind gone astray? Great scholars and wise men came and you threw them out—I myself pushed them out! Now you say ‘Anyone at all!’ No consideration of fitness or unfitness?” The fakir said, “Don’t waste time. Whoever agrees to come, bring him. Don’t raise the question of worthiness.”

So he went and beat the drum in the village: “Whoever wants to be initiated…” Many had visited before precisely because they assumed, “He never initiates—so even this chance shouldn’t be missed. At least we can say we went!” That day, despite the announcement, by evening he could gather barely ten or twelve—and almost all of them were the “unworthy.” One man’s wife had died; at loose ends, he said, “Fine, at least this will be something to occupy me.” One had no job for a long time: “I’ll come too.” One joined out of curiosity: “Let’s see!” Such ten or twelve he brought back by dusk.

He was worried: “What will the master say seeing these? There isn’t one worthy among them. One lost his wife, another’s business won’t run, another can’t find employment; one lost at gambling and is miserable; one went bankrupt and was thinking of suicide and thought, ‘Before I kill myself, let me take a mantra, take initiation. I’m going to die anyway; at least I’ll have something to say before God.’” These useless types! “What knowledge will the master give them?” But the master welcomed them joyously, took them one by one into the cave and gave them the very key by which he had attained. The twelve were stunned. They gathered and asked, “We know our own unworthiness—and we know each other’s very well! Great worthies came and you refused them, and today you call us unworthy ones and are distributing your treasure!”

The master said, “If you won’t accept, I’ll tell you the truth. When people came asking to be disciples, I had nothing to give. I had not attained. There was only one way to protect myself: I said, ‘I don’t make disciples. I have no ego.’ What disciples could I make! I had nothing to give. So I spoke of the disciple’s fitness and said, ‘When a worthy one comes, I’ll initiate him.’ The truth was the opposite: it was I who was unworthy. Now I am worthy. My vessel is brimful; it overflows with that nectar. Now the question isn’t whether you are worthy. Cup your palms and drink. Bring a clay pot or a golden pot—come as you are; you are accepted. Today I have something to give. Today I put no conditions. Today I give unconditionally. And I have little time—only three days to live. My boat has reached the shore; soon I will journey to the other bank. Before I go, let me fill as many vessels as I can. Why should I ask if your pot is gold, brass, iron, clay? Whether poor or rich, whether gold-plated and studded with diamonds or worth two pennies. Even if you have no vessel, make your palms a bowl; if even that you cannot, then open your mouth and I’ll pour it straight in—only drink!”

Gurudas, when you went to those people and told them, “I have been chanting the Name my whole life and nothing happens,” understand their difficulty. What can they do? Either they say, “Nothing happens through name-chanting,” in which case their whole trade collapses, for their business rests upon name-chanting. Or they admit, “We don’t know—ask one who is awakened,” and their business collapses again; you only go to them so long as they claim to know. They can say neither of those two things. So a third thing remains: “You are not yet worthy; worthiness takes lifetimes.” Not a day’s work.

The angler Dhabbujī once took Chandulal with him to the riverbank and handed him a rod. Poor Chandulal knew nothing of fishing. He ran around for three or four hours, sweating. When darkness fell he came to Dhabbujī crestfallen: “Not a single fish! I’m ashamed.” “What’s there to be ashamed of?” Dhabbujī said, eyes wide in amazement. “Learn from me. I’ve been fishing for twenty years and haven’t caught one yet. You’re a strange coward—giving up in a single day!”

Gurudas, you should have looked into the eyes of the ones you asked. Was the fish caught there? You should have taken their hand in your hand—was there the current of divine bliss? Sit silently with them, empty, in stillness—taste them. Is there the flavor of nectar there? Close your eyes and look toward them—do you feel light flowing from that side? Does any stream of light descend into your heart? Then ask. You were asking those who themselves had not received. If they didn’t invent excuses, what would they do? If they didn’t make you responsible, what would they do?

That is why, naturally, when you come to me you may feel surprised, because I say: God can be found in a single instant. Because the phrase “God will be found tomorrow” is nonsense. For God there is only the perpetual today. “Tomorrow” does not exist for God; tomorrow exists only for us. For God there is only the now.

You want to meet God tomorrow, and for Him there is no tomorrow—how will union happen?

God is here now—in the rain falling from the sky, in the green of trees, in this hush, in this drizzle, in your presence, in my presence; in my speaking and in your listening; in the beating of our hearts, in our very breath. Why speak of tomorrow? Is God far away that we need to travel to find Him? God is nearer than near—closer than your own life-breath. The heartbeat is a little distance away; God is closer still. Because God is the witness who sees your heartbeat. God is closer than your breathing, for He is the witness who sees the breath going in and coming out.

That is why Buddha devised Vipassana. Watch your breath—that is all the process he gave to the world. The essence of Buddha is Vipassana. Vipassana means seeing the breath: the inbreath, the outbreath. The breath goes in—watch; the breath goes out—watch. Just watch; do nothing. No Ram‑Ram, no Omkar, no Gayatri, no Namokar—nothing. Simply, when the breath goes in, be aware of it; be the witness. Then it goes out—be aware. Soon two more things become visible: when the breath goes in, it pauses for a moment; when it goes out, it pauses for a moment. First, the coming and going—elementary stage. With growing depth, you see the inner pause and the outer pause. Those pauses are tiny, a mere instant; but in that instant the eyelid opens, the door opens; the witness is experienced. Because even the breath is no longer there to be seen; only the seer remains. When there is nothing left to be seen, the seer sees himself. When all objects dissolve, all scenes vanish, the seer experiences himself. That experience is called God.

You have spent your life in name‑chanting; I tell you, even if you spend many lives, nothing will happen. Chanting the Name is not what is needed. What will you do in name‑repetition? Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram—repeating like a machine. Soon it becomes habit. People sit in their shops weighing goods, even cheating a little on the scale, and chant Ram‑Ram—“Ram on the lips and a knife under the arm.” Such a proverb must have arisen from much experience in this religious land.

I’ve heard of a jeweler whose shop was large. As soon as a customer entered—he was famous as a great devotee; people even called him “Bhagat‑ji”—and he was a “devotee,” the way cranes are devout. Have you seen a crane stand? As if dressed in pure khadi, on one leg—crane‑asana! Even great yogis struggle to perfect it. It stands motionless. If it moves, how will the fish be caught? If the water ripples, its reflection wavers; the fish becomes suspicious: “Something is wrong—Bhagat‑ji is standing there!” So the crane stands so still that nothing stirs; then fish pass by without fear—and are caught. Our Bhagat‑ji was that kind of obvious “devotee.” The fish—meaning customers—knew nothing. At the sight of a customer he would begin “japa.” Sometimes, “Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram…” Ram‑Ram meant: “useless, let him go; don’t waste effort.” He was signaling his staff: don’t bother, there’s nothing to be had here. When Bhagat‑ji said “Ram‑Ram,” the clerks would fob the client off politely.

Seeing another, Bhagat‑ji would say, “Hari‑Hari!” meaning, “Take, take!” In Sanskrit “hari” also means “that which takes away, snatches.” His code words! “Ram‑Ram” meant useless—get rid of him. “Hari‑Hari” meant: don’t let this one go; fleece him. He had assigned meanings to mantras. When he started chanting, his staff knew what to do: what price to quote—double or triple; whether to reduce or not. All with “religious mantras.” Symbols!

You can mouth Ram‑Ram—your tongue and throat humming mechanically—and nothing will happen. What is needed is awareness. If you do take delight in Ram‑Ram, then remember: chant and be inwardly aware, “I am chanting.” Ram said, Ram said—keep watching within. Just as Buddha said, “Watch the breath,” you watch “Ram‑Ram.” But why entangle yourself in Ram‑Ram when breath is simpler? Breath goes on by itself; Ram‑Ram you will have to keep going. And there is danger: you are driving and chanting—accident is possible. On a bicycle, chanting—accident is possible. You chant Ram‑Ram and a truck honks; you may not even hear.

There can be harm in ordinary life.

So people carve out a separate arrangement for chanting—half an hour in the morning, bathe, sit in a corner, make a little temple at home, do their Ram‑Ram there. Ram‑Ram has no relationship with life; it becomes a compartment.

No—Buddha’s method is more scientific. Let awareness of the breath dawn naturally. You will be amazed: as you watch the breath, thoughts diminish. There is an inevitable relationship between breath and thought. Even scientists now agree: if one watches the breath, thoughts reduce proportionally. For those who are crowded with thoughts, watching the breath is difficult, because the two processes are opposed; they cannot coexist fully.

So, Gurudas, I say to you: drop name‑chanting; steady attention on the in‑out breath. Let that be your Ram‑jap. Because the one who is looking is Ram—the witness is Ram. Then the happening can be in this very life. Why postpone to the next? Why defer? It depends on your urgency, intensity, density, and totality.

You kept to ritual worship. What will you do there—recite mantras, ask for this and that? No one chants the Name gratuitously! People do not pray without motive; there is desire in their prayer.

I’ve heard: A man died—very annoyed. His business partner died with him in a car accident. The angels came to take them. The one who had been given to prayer and ritual—sometimes sponsoring nonstop recitations, blaring loudspeakers through the neighborhood; having the Satyanarayan story read, distributing prasad, visiting the temple regularly, wearing tilak and sacred thread, doing everything a “religious man” should—him the angels began to drag toward hell; his partner, a thorough atheist, one who never took God’s name nor gave a penny in charity, never set foot in a temple—they led him toward heaven. He protested: “Stop! There’s a mistake in your office.” The angels said, “There is no mistake. God’s office hasn’t yet become a government office. Though there is a danger—too many people dying from Delhi, and they must be employed here and there; then confusion will come. For now, all is in order.”

He insisted, “I must first be presented before God. All my life I prayed and performed rituals—and this loafer, my partner, a sheer atheist—he to heaven, I to hell! I will ask God. Two words must be exchanged today! I cried and pleaded my whole life—this is my reward!”

They had to take him to God—he raised such a clamor.

He asked, “What is this injustice? I’d heard there may be delay but no darkness—now I see there is darkness too. Is hell the fruit of my virtuous acts? And what is he receiving the fruit of? Did I not pray to you, worship you, fast and take vows?” God said, “You did all of that—that is why I am sending you to hell. You never let me live in peace. My head rang day and night with your babble. I will not let you stay in heaven. If you insist on staying here, I will go to hell instead. You stay and do your nonstop recitations, set up loudspeakers, do whatever you wish.” And to the partner: “Brother, come along with me. Let this one remain in heaven. Either you will live here or I will.”

I understand the point; it is apt.

Even when you pray, there is desire behind it. That is where you miss—and you will miss for lifetimes. The priests are right in one way when they say, “Son, this matter is difficult.” They say lifetimes; I say to you: if there is desire in your prayer, then even in infinite lifetimes there will be no attainment. Prayer must be desireless. Prayer must be a sense of awe, of joy; gratitude—not begging.

Those I had long pressed down
and kept concealed with effort,
today my songs, unbidden,
have returned into my throat.
Today I have laid my heart open—
do not listen to my songs.
See my long restlessness,
see failure at every step,
see my moistened eyelids,
see my heart aflame—
ah, lest you grow tender and impatient with love—
do not listen to my songs.
Face soiled, mute, and pleading,
see my tattered attire;
see the withered lotus‑petals of my heart,
see this dried lake—
ah, lest your eyes overflow with tears—
do not listen to my songs.
A mind turned from the world now overflows with song;
the sky resounds with echoes.
Sensing the hint of irony
on the smile of my lips today,
ah, lest pain rise in your heart again—
do not listen to my songs.

Do not weep, do not grovel, do not ask. Do not fling your pain at God. Why speak of your aches and thorns? Offer your flowers. Whatever moments of joy your life contains—dedicate them. And are there few? Are moonlit nights few? The delight of sunrise, of sunset, the beauty of mountains and hills—are these few? Life is such a unique opportunity, such a priceless jewel—will you not give thanks? You go to the temple to complain. Rare is the one who goes to express gratitude. Complaint is the sign of the irreligious; thankfulness is the hallmark of religion.

You ask: “I spent my life chanting the Name; nothing ever came into my hand.”
It is precisely the thought that something should come into your hand where you miss.

And: “Whenever I asked the so‑called priests and holy men, they said, ‘Son, this takes lifetimes.’”
What else could they do? They consoled you, patted your back: “Keep at it; surely you will get it—but not so soon. Be patient. It comes after many lives.” They do not know that if desire is present, prayer is never fulfilled—not even in many lives. And if desire is absent, it is fulfilled this very instant. With desire, always barren; without desire, always fruitful.

Take note of this reverse arithmetic, this paradox.

Do not go to God’s door as a beggar. There, emperors are welcomed. Beggars are shooed away everywhere: “Move along!” You go to God as a beggar. Go to give thanks: “How much you have given—boundless, measureless; far beyond my capacity, beyond my worthiness.” Then see how gold rains upon you, how jewels shower!

And remember, I use gold and jewels as symbols. Otherwise you will keep peeking with one eye open: “Has the shower started yet? Not even pebbles are falling—where are the jewels! Not even iron—where is the gold!”

And don’t think, “All right, if dropping desire brings attainment, I’ll drop desire.” Then you have not dropped desire at all. You have dropped it for the sake of attainment—what kind of dropping is that!

Understand me rightly; there is much scope to miss.

When Vivekananda was speaking in America he quoted the famous Biblical line: “Blessed are they who have faith, for faith has great power. Faith can even move mountains.” An old woman heard it. Behind her house was a mountain that blocked the breeze; its rocks heated by the sun, the air baked day and night. She said, “I’ve read the Bible often and seen ‘faith can move mountains,’ but never used it! How foolish I am. This man reminded me—today I’ll settle it!”

She opened her window to take one last look at the mountain—“now for the last time”—then shut it, closed her eyes, and said, “O mountain, I speak with perfect faith: move away, forever! Go thousands of miles so that even if I seek you, you cannot be found!” She sat for a minute or two—she couldn’t sit longer—then curiosity seized her: “Did it move?” She opened the window—the mountain stood where it was. And what did she say? “I knew it! Nothing was going to move. Not a mountain—not even a stone. All nonsense.”

“I knew it beforehand!” Then where was the faith? Faith means there isn’t even a sliver of doubt. This is not faith; it is exploitation of faith.

People come to me. I say, “Your prayer will be fulfilled—but drop desire.” They say, “If we drop desire, then will it really be fulfilled?” They are even ready to drop desire—if the prayer will be fulfilled. I ask, “Fulfilled…then what is it you still want? After dropping desire, what ‘fulfillment’ do you seek?” It is the same desire, unchanged.

A gentleman told me he had no son. “I have prayed for years; sponsored rituals, fire sacrifices—everything; exhausted, I’ve come to you now.” I receive patients only when no other physician can do anything. Only incurable cases arrive here. So long as some other doctor can be found, people would rather finish it there—because here the matter is troublesome! Here there is danger the disease may leave, but the medicine may seize you—and then the medicine is very hard to drop. He said, “I have tried everywhere. As a last resort I have come.” I said, “Drop this desire—and your prayer will be fulfilled.” He brightened, beamed, smiled: “You told me exactly what no one else told me—that this desire is the obstacle. All my life I have prayed, worshiped, done sacrifices—still no son. Others, even while practicing birth control, keep having children—tricking the pills, still having children! And here I am dying for one…” He said, “Good—now I’ll drop this desire.” As he was leaving he asked, “Then the child will come, right?”

Such is the trickster mind—it will deceive itself by any means. What do you want to get? What is to be gotten has already been given. You asked—the gift preceded the asking. Now give thanks. Change the whole color of prayer. Make prayer a feeling of grace received. Bow—but to give thanks for the boundless compassion.

Gurudas, the happening will happen. But I am not speaking to what you want; when I say “it will happen,” I mean: from within you the web of thought, desire, ambition—the entire darkness—will break. Light will dawn; emptiness will descend; in that emptiness, fullness will also descend. You will know the nectar. But you ask for trifles; you ask for the useless. Those do not come. Then you fall into the circle of priests and pundits. If one can’t give, you go to another, and keep wandering, battered and pitiable—when you are in fact an emperor and God resides within you. You need go to no temple, no Kaaba, no Kailash, no Kashi—just look within; lift the veil, and you will meet your Beloved.

Those you went to must have filled your bag with trash. Those who cannot give truth cannot refrain from giving falsehood; they will give something. If they cannot give diamonds, they’ll give stones. Shake out your pouch! Empty everything the priests and pundits stuffed into it. If they had anything real, they would not be priests and pundits; they would be Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Christs.

Priests and pundits live off the words of Krishna, Christ, and Buddha—on their wealth, on their prestige. They have no right of their own, no experience of their own. If only they had something, they wouldn’t be in these petty trades—tying charms and amulets for you. What Buddha will tie an amulet for you! They read horoscopes—what Buddha will read your horoscope!

I lived for years in a town where a pundit neighbor was famous because, when other priests said, “These two cannot marry—there are obstacles, signs don’t match, danger—Mars, and heaven knows what,” he would match every pair. I asked him one day in his garden; people told me, “Even in Kashi they said no, but he fixed it!” He said, “Matching is in my hands. Is there any truth in horoscopes? It is all a game. If horoscopes were true, the world would be full of bliss. Everyone marries after matching, and then hangs himself! If matched and still hangs—what more is there? If unmatched, it will also do. I make it fit somehow. My fee is a bit high—whoever pays, I match them. Others follow the book; my way is different.”

I told him a story: An emperor was passing through a village. He was astonished. His only passion was archery; none could match him, and he honored great archers. He had gathered the best at his court. But in this village he felt a little deflated. Everywhere he saw arrows stuck exactly in the center of drawn targets—on trees, on barn doors. So many, not off by a hair! He said, “Stop the chariot—find out who this man is. We have no news of him.” The villagers laughed: “Don’t worry—he’s the village madman.” “Mad or not,” said the king, “that is not the point. We sane ones miss sometimes; this man has not missed once! Bring him by royal command; we will honor him.” They said, “You don’t know his trick: he shoots first, then draws the circle. Where else will the arrow be but in the middle? He shoots anywhere and later draws the target around it. He is mad—don’t trouble yourself.” I told the pundit, “Now I understand—you first marry them, then draw up a horoscope that fits.” He laughed: “That is exactly my secret.”

Those you asked—did you see whether they themselves received the Name?

In old age, Dhabbujī developed a mental ailment. He grew depressed. He had a repulsive recurring dream: he was frying dung in a wok. Night after night the same dream—three or four times a night—frying dung! His condition worsened—as it would. After all, if you fry dung all night, your head will ache by morning; all day you worry, “Night is coming again!” Finally he saw a psychotherapist and described the dream. The therapist said, “The disease is a bit difficult. The treatment fee will be five hundred rupees.” “What!” Dhabbujī flared up. “Five hundred? Talk sense! If I had that kind of money, would I be frying dung? I’d buy fish!”

Those advising you to chant, those telling you it will take lifetimes—Gurudas, you should have looked into their eyes: “Have you attained?” Ask them, “How many lifetimes have you been seeking? You still haven’t found? How long will you seek?” And consider this too: you are not new either—you too have been seeking for many lives; infinite lives. What remains to be done?

You are as ancient as existence. If there was a beginning, you were there from the beginning. How many scriptures have you not recited; how many Gitas read; how many religions have you not been born into; how many foolishnesses of priests have you not followed; how many fasts and vows have you not taken—an infinite journey—and what has come to hand? And still the same question: “Later something will happen.”

In Bombay a new hotel opened with a big sign outside: “Do not worry—your bill here will be paid by your grandchildren.” Mulla Nasruddin, walking by with friends, saw the sign: “When did this open? What a wise thing written: ‘Your bill will be paid by your grandchildren!’ Come, let’s feast!” They went in, ate and drank their fill. When they were ready to go, the waiter brought a bill for 120 rupees. Mulla was furious: “What is this injustice? Outside there’s a big board that your bill will be paid by your grandchildren—aren’t you ashamed to bring a bill?” The waiter replied, “Sir, this isn’t your bill—it’s your grandfather’s.”

How long have you been here! How many times you have lived, died! In this endless chain of birth and death, has anything been attained? And priests say, “A few more lives!” What will you add that you haven’t already done? No—the language is wrong. The language of the future is wrong. The language of religion is the present.

I tell you: here and now, in this very instant, God can be attained—because God is already available. You never really lost Him; you only turned your back. Like someone turning his back to the sun—the sun is not lost. Just a slight turn, and the sun is in front. Or the sun may be in front and your eyes are closed—just open them, and the sun is there. So it is with God; so it is with life’s ultimate meaning; so it is with nirvana. Nirvana is your nature; God is your very being.

Therefore, whoever tells you “many lifetimes,” know it is trickery. I tell you: leave aside lifetimes; even talk of days is useless, even talk of moments. The question is not of time; the question is of waking up now. When you awaken, it is morning—because morning already is; only you are asleep.

Gurudas, wake up!

And to wake up I say: you have done enough name‑chanting, turned enough rosary beads; that racket will now do nothing. Sit quietly; watch the breath; be a witness. There has never been, nor will there be, a simpler way to become a beautiful witness than watching the breath. Breath is moving by itself, unforced—coming, going; you need do nothing. There is no act to perform. Ram‑Ram requires doing. You will forget sometimes; a neighbor whispers and you want to listen—Ram‑Ram is forgotten. Dogs fight in the street, there’s commotion—thousands of obstacles arise, because Ram‑Ram must be done. But the breath goes on regardless—whether you watch or not, its untiring stream flows.

The breath is the mala, the true rosary. Its beads are the real beads. And witnessing is the true bhajan, the true kirtan.

Watch the breath moving in and out. Gradually, when the intervals become visible—the slight pause inside, the slight pause outside—be utterly alert, utterly watchful in those gaps. What you will see is the supreme treasure, the ultimate wealth—that is God. Seeing that, all the sorrows of life melt away. Seeing that, all is truth, all consciousness, all bliss. Seeing that—sat‑chit‑ananda.

Ravindra Satyarthi! No, he is not a dweller of a distant land! He dwells within! You are that. Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu!
That’s all for today.