Sapna Yeh Sansar #15

A story of Oscar Wilde:
It was night and he was alone. He — that is, Jesus. He saw, far off, the ramparts of a magnificent city and moved toward it.

When he came near, he heard from within the city the sound of joyous footsteps, the laughter of radiant faces, and the wild jangling of many veenas. He knocked at the main gate and the gatekeepers opened for him. He saw a mansion built of crystal, with beautiful crystal pillars standing before it. Garlands of flowers hung upon the pillars, and sandalwood torches burned within and without the house. He entered the mansion.

Passing through the hall of ruby and the hall of emerald, he came into the banquet room. There he found a man reclining on a sapphire-blue couch, roses woven into his hair and his lips flushed red with wine. Jesus went to him, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and said: Friend, what kind of way of living is this? Is this what life is? The young man turned, recognized him, and said: O Lord! But I was a leper; you yourself healed me. Now what am I to do with this life? How am I to pass it? I know no other way to live.

He left that house and returned to the street. He was somewhat sad. He had not expected this.

A little later he saw a woman, her face and dress all tinted and bright, pearls set in the anklets upon her feet. A youth followed her, slowly, like a hunter. The youth wore a two-colored shirt. The woman's face was beautiful like a statue; in the young man's eyes there was the shine of lust. Jesus hastened after him and, placing his hand upon the youth's, said: My brother, why do you gaze at the woman like this, and stare so? Are eyes made for lust? Are eyes made to look upon the petty? The youth turned, recognized him, and said: My Lord! But I was blind; you gave me sight. How then shall I look, and what shall I look at? What shall I do with these eyes? If there is responsibility, it is yours. What is my fault?

He ran and touched the woman's bright veil and said: Sister, is there no other path than sin? The woman recognized him, laughed, and said: But, my Lord! You yourself forgave my sins. And this path is sweet as well. Nor do I know any other path. Have you forgotten me? I am the very one whom the people had taken to the riverbank to stone, and you said to them: Let him cast the first stone who has never in his life committed sin, nor even desired sin. Then they all dropped their stones and quietly withdrew; for there was not one who had not sinned, nor one who had not had thoughts of sin. We two were left alone on the riverbank. Evening began to fall; the first stars appeared. I said to you: O my Lord! Punish me for my sins. But you said: Who am I to punish? I forgive you. And since then I have lived like this. You forgave the sin — and sin is flavorful too, blissful too!

He became very sad — he, meaning Jesus, remember — and left the city, going out beyond it. There, outside the city, he saw a youth sitting by the roadside, weeping. The youth had tied a rope to a tree, arranging for his own hanging. Jesus went near, touched his long hair, and said: My dear, why do you weep? And what is this arranging for your own death? Is the precious diamond called life to be thrown away like this? The youth lifted his head, saw him, recognized him, and said: Great Lord! I was dead, and you gave me life again. Now I do not understand what I should do with this life. If I do not weep, what else can I do? And how long shall I go on weeping? Of what use is it to live by weeping? Therefore I have decided to die.

Whether Oscar Wilde’s tale is fact or not — the Christian scriptures make no mention of it — whether the scriptures mention it or not, Wilde’s insight is keen. He has caught hold of the essential point. He has placed a question mark upon the entire life of Jesus. It is not enough to give people eyes; they must also be given the art of seeing! It is not enough to give people life — for everyone already has life, and each is squandering it. If a few more are given life, they too will do the same.

Raise the dead — there is no miracle in that. The real miracle is to give the living the art of living. Give sight to the blind — no great secret in it. The real mystery is to give the art of seeing to those who already have eyes. All are living, and all have eyes. Give legs to the lame — where will they go? They will reach the brothels. Give eyes to the blind — they too will be lost in this same race, this same competition, this same marketplace crowd. Raise the dead — they will revive their already dead desires. To raise the dead is to raise their desires. To give eyes to the blind is to give the eyes to desire. To give legs to the lame is to give legs to desire. And if desire is given legs and eyes and life, hell is created, not heaven.

Oscar Wilde’s tale is invaluable. Whether it happened in Jesus’ life or not, it is happening every day in your lives. God has given life; and one day if God asks you, My brother, what did you do with life? — what will you say? Will you be able to raise your eyes to his? Will you meet his gaze? You will sink in shame! Your eyes will not be able to rise from the ground. Looking back you will repent greatly. Life slipped by as if it were a dream. Nothing came into your grasp. No treasure touched your hands. No eternal truth was realized. Yes, money was gained, position was gained, prestige was gained — but all were bubbles upon water — formed and burst. Rainbows they were — beautiful from afar; when you approached, there was nothing. Mirages — enticing from the distance; when you came near, all the gold turned to dust.

Paltu says:
Karamati yeh khel ant pachhtayega.

Wake up now! Wake up this very instant! Do not postpone to tomorrow. If you postpone, you go on postponing. Postponement becomes a habit. Today you put it off to tomorrow; tomorrow to the day after. In the last birth you put it off to this birth; in this birth you will put it off to the next — postponing and postponing. When will you live? Postponing and postponing, when will you see? Postponing and postponing, when will you hear? And day and night his sound is resounding; day and night his dance is happening; day and night his bliss is showering. And you — you remain deprived, deprived.

You are such slippery pots that the water does not even touch you. The Lord rains down and you remain dry as ever. Or you are pots turned upside down — the Lord rains, but you stay empty as ever. Or you are set upright, but full of holes — you seem to be filling yet never become full; all flows out through the holes. Or you are under the delusion that you are already full — so you give the Lord no way to enter to fill you. You have devised who knows how many tricks to waste life! When will you earn?

Karamati yeh khel...

Take heed! This life is a magician’s trick.
This world is a strange toy of magic:
When attained it is dust; when lost it is gold.
And it does get lost. And you depart in regret: How much there was! How much could have been gained! And yet I gained nothing! Where diamonds were to be found, there I went on gathering shells on the seashore — gathering colored stones.

People do not cry at death because death has come. No — at the time of dying people weep because life has been wasted.

Let me say it again.
At the time of death, people do not cling to life because they fear death. That which is unknown — how can you fear it? That with which you have never met — why be afraid? And who knows — perhaps it is better than life? No, at the time of death, people cling to life because this life is slipping from the hands, and we kept postponing it to tomorrow — now there will be no tomorrow; death has come. Now we cannot postpone. Now there is no device left for our old habit. And we do not know how to live today! We have always lived in the tomorrow.

Hindi is perhaps the only language in the world in which we call the yesterday ‘kal’ and the tomorrow also ‘kal’. It is a unique thing. But there is a great secret hidden here. Surely the wise coined these words. The sound of the sages has entered the words of this land. That which is gone — that too ‘kal’; that which is to come — that too ‘kal’. Both are false.

And how did we make the word ‘kal’?
We made it from ‘kaal’. ‘Kaal’ has two meanings: time and death. That too is deeply significant. Time is death. Death is another name for time. In Bengali, tomorrow is also called ‘kaal’... thus, Calcutta got its name.

When the British first came to India, they were seeking a place for their capital. Their engineers and connoisseurs of architecture were looking for a site. They liked a place — charming, beautiful. They asked a farmer working there: What is the name of this place? He did not understand their language. He thought they were asking when he had cut the crop. He said: ‘Kaal; kaal kata’ — cut yesterday. And so Calcutta was born. They thought the name of the place was: ‘Kaal-kata’ — Calcutta.

‘Kaal’ means time; ‘kaal’ means death. Yesterday — death happened. And as for the coming ‘kal’, what remains to happen but death? Life is here. Life is today. Life is not a part of time. Life is beyond time, timeless. Life is the art of living each moment utterly. The one who learns this art does not repent. Otherwise, in the end one repents greatly.

If you must live, live by drinking
To the world and all its people
To all the keepers of religion
Speak the Name and raise the goblet
Flash your eyes and raise the goblet
If you must drink, drink by living
If you must live, live by drinking

Dissolve ‘Pi’s glances and drink
Cry ‘Hail to the Saki!’ and drink
Drink, drink as much as you will
Live, live as much as you will
Who ever repented after drinking?
If you must live, live by drinking

From your mind worry will turn its face
The serpent of sorrow will break its breath
In ecstasy, hope will sway
The starlight will kiss your gaze
O drinker, quickly drink
If you must live, live by drinking

Life is now. Ah, if you could drink — drink now! If this draught could pass down your throat this very instant, and fill the bowl of your heart, you would not repent. Death is tomorrow; life is today. Death is in postponement; life is in living. Hence, I do not call everyone living alive. If you are not really living, what meaning has ‘alive’? You walk and talk, you breathe and eat, you do a thousand jobs; at night you sleep, in the morning you rise; all this goes on — if this is what you call life, as you wish! Then you will never become acquainted with the life of the Buddhas. Then you have settled for the trivial; your choice! Only do not complain later when you repent! This is no way to live. Animals too live like this — then where is the advent of man?

A human life is a new discovery. A human life is an exploration. A human life is a wave touching the heights of the sky. Its art of living is to live each moment in totality, to live every single instant utterly immersed. To live so immersed that neither the memory of yesterday remains nor the anticipation of tomorrow; no past, no future — only the present. Then there is no death. And when there is no death, only then will you know that God is.

If you must live, live by drinking
To the world and all its people
To all the keepers of religion
Speak the Name and raise the goblet
Flash your eyes and raise the goblet
If you must drink, drink by living
If you must live, live by drinking

Dissolve ‘Pi’s glances and drink
Cry ‘Hail to the Saki!’ and drink
Drink, drink as much as you will
Live, live as much as you will
Who ever repented after drinking?
If you must live, live by drinking

From your mind worry will turn its face
The serpent of sorrow will break its breath
In ecstasy, hope will sway
The starlight will kiss your gaze
O drinker, quickly drink
If you must live, live by drinking

The Divine is present, ‘Pi’ is present, the Beloved is present; but the Beloved is here now — you will drink tomorrow — the tuning will not happen. Your cup will never come near the flagon. The flagon is now; the cup is tomorrow. When has the present ever met the future? Has that which is ever met that which is not? Has presence ever met absence? No, this meeting never happens — not on any path, at any door, by any turning. To live in the present is called meditation (Dhyana). To be wholly dissolved in the present is called Samadhi.

Karamati yeh khel — in the end you will repent.
All this tinsel and glitter for a few days, and to hell you will go.

Yes, you will say: We too are living. But what is your living? Tinsel and glitter! A crowd of gaudy trinkets. What is your life? A show, as if you live to show others. You put on fine clothes, apply a little rouge and powder, a little perfume, and off you go! Are you showing people you are living? How can there be depth in your living? You have become mere actors. And on your face there are many masks; as the need arises, you put on that mask. Somewhere you must wag the tail, so you wag it; somewhere you must growl, so you growl. But there is no force in your growl, no truth in your tail-wagging. Your life is a lie — a long lie you keep dragging on, a lie you go on believing. You have never truly loved; you have never truly been a friend.

Have you known such friendship that, if needed, you would give your life? Then you have not known friendship. Have you loved so that you are ready to lose all that is yours? No, you love not to lose but to take from the other. Love is a bargain. Have you ever offered such devotion that you laid your head upon the altar? Devotees do not offer their own selves; they pluck flowers from the neighbors’ gardens and offer those. Not even from their own gardens! From the neighbors’ gardens they pluck flowers and offer them! Offer the flower of Chaitanya, offer the flower of your own soul — then the meeting with the Beloved happens. You have invented cheap tricks; you are engaged in trying to deceive even God. You light a lamp, you wave the aarti. When will you light the lamp within your life-breath? There is where the aarti is to be offered! You burn incense and lamps and let the scented smoke rise. When will you burn yourself? When will fragrance rise from your very life-breath? When will your very life rise as smoke toward the sky? Then you will be able to touch his feet; not before.

But people are engrossed in tinsel and show. Some are crazy for diamonds, some for pearls, some for wealth, some for position — and they are greatly deluded. They think: If position is gained, if wealth is gained, all is gained.

I have heard: A minister got lost in the jungle. Gandhi cap on his head, achkan and churidar pyjamas — thoroughly a leader, not a trace short of a leader. Behind him was the secretary, with a tricolor flag in his hand. Anyone could recognize: These are the minister sahib. Wandering, they spotted a man — a rustic. The leader put his hand on the man’s shoulder and asked: Brother, can you tell me where I am? The rustic looked him up and down many times, looked at the flag behind, and then said: Maharaj, right now you are still on the chair. But the day it is gone, that day it will be known where you truly are. Before that I cannot say anything.

You have money and you are puffed up. It is the cheat of money. Tomorrow when money is not there, then it will be known who you are, where you are, what you are. Even your own will not recognize you. Others are others, even your own will become others. They will step aside from the path. While you hold a post, a flock of flatterers will surround you. Tomorrow when the post is gone, then see. Then you yourself will have to become a flatterer in someone else’s flock. But chairs deceive — and not only children; they deceive the old as well.

Little children, often when father is reading the newspaper, climb upon the arm of the chair and say: I am bigger than you! The father smiles and says: Yes, right. The child is delighted — he has become bigger than his father. You laugh at them: Children — lacking sense. But those who sit upon the chairs in Delhi — are they not children? Some have crossed seventy, some seventy-five, some eighty, some eighty-four... They should by now be resting in their graves. But the chairs keep them alive. Because of the chairs they cannot even die. Who knows — some may already have died! But because of the sherwani and achkan and Gandhi cap, it cannot be known who is dead and who alive! The chairs give them such power they keep going on.

I have heard: In a Ford showroom a man liked a car. The manager sat him in the car to take a round of the nearby hill and show it. After about ten miles, the car suddenly stopped on the hill. The prospective buyer asked: A new car and it stops right on the hill — what’s the matter? Good you took me driving; otherwise I would have been trapped. The manager said: Do not worry, there is no fault in the car. Actually I forgot to put petrol. The man asked: How then did it come the ten miles? The manager said: There is no special merit in that; ten miles a Ford runs on the name ‘Ford’ alone! Ten-five miles is nothing — the name ‘Ford’ is enough!

If in Delhi a careful post-mortem is done, many leaders will be found to have died long ago — but the heat of the chair is tricking the thermometers! The throb of the chair and you think their hearts are beating!

A girl was saying to her mother: Mother, the young man I love must love me much, because whenever he embraces me I can hear his heart beating — dhak-dhak, dhak-dhak! Her mother said: Wait a bit. Your father too deceived me for two years. The daughter asked: What do you mean? The mother said: He kept a big pocket watch near his chest — dhak-dhak, dhak-dhak. I thought it was love beating. It was only the pocket watch.

There ought to be an inquiry into the leaders of Delhi — an inquiry commission! The Shah Commission did not work; a Badshah Commission should be set up! First of all, this should be investigated: How many of these people are dead and how many alive? Those who are dead should be farewelled — with honor! The heat of the chair can keep one animation going. And remember, chairs have heat — a great heat. Money too has heat.

Mulla Nasruddin and his son were crossing a stream. Mulla leapt and crossed to the other bank. An old man! If the old father leaps and the son remains behind, it looks odd; so the son leapt too. He made a spectacle! A bad spectacle! Better if he had stepped into the stream and crossed easily. He fell in the middle — flat on his back! Went under water. Coming out he asked his father: What is your secret? You are old and you jumped the stream; I am young and I fell in the middle. Mulla laughed: There is a secret, son! I have not wasted life for nothing — my hair has not whitened in the sun! He jingled his pocket: inside were cash coins. The son said: I do not understand — jingling pockets, cash coins — what does that mean? Mulla said: I never go out without cash in my pocket — it keeps the heat. With that heat I leapt. What is in your pocket? An empty pocket — where is the heat? Ah, heat is needed!

Without money, there is no heat.

Have you seen how young leaders appear while in office? Like freshly ironed clothes! And when the post goes — look at their condition. How bedraggled! The ironed look disappears. As if they have been wearing the same clothes for days. No bath, no wash — they sleep in the same clothes, wake in the same —

They say the cobblers can identify, by looking at shoes, who is succeeding in life and who is failing. True enough. Shoes hold a story. The successful man’s shoes shine; the unsuccessful man’s shoes are in the same condition as the man — wrinkled, creaking here and there, unwaxed for years, split in places, patched.

People take show for life! The heat of the chair is not the ardor of life. And the heat of money is not the ecstasy of bliss.

And remember, it is easy to be lost in the glittering life, for the crowd is of just those people. All around they are staging the spectacle. They do not live rightly, nor do they let anyone else live rightly. The neighbor has bought a new car — now you must buy one. Otherwise it looks bad. The neighbor struts by, his gait changes — he has a new car. You — still in the tattered Ford T-model in which Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden! The neighbor has new clothes — women are very keen in this matter: Who came out wearing which sari?

Mulla Nasruddin one day said to his wife: Your extravagance is beyond limit! I can no longer bear it. I am sinking in debt and you come home with a new sari again! There is no shortage of saris; when will you wear so many? I have counted three hundred already. When will you wear this sari? The wife flared up, flung the sari down, and said: You are teaching me thrift! And that fire-extinguisher — that big red cylinder you brought that hangs like Hanumanji in the house — it has been three years; what use has it been? And you accuse me of wastefulness!

Women have their own logic, their own way of thinking.

There are more glittering obsessions. Their whole juice is in how many ornaments, how many garments — this has become their very soul. Men are not much different; both live the same lifestyle.

Paltu says: Beware a little —
Chhatak-matak din chari, narak mein jayega.

And this tinsel will lead you into ever-deeper layers of sorrow. Because the more you become uprooted from life, the more miserable you become. Sorrow means: the roots pulled up from life. As when the roots of a tree are uprooted from the soil. It will suffer. Its leaves will wither; its flowers will droop; its buds will shrivel. No birds will sing upon it. Travelers will not rest in its shade. The moon will rise, the sun will rise — but no stream of sap will flow in its life, no festival will be. Spring will come — but no flowers will bloom, because the roots are no longer in the earth. Life needs roots.

By sannyas I mean: the art of letting roots spread into life. Let your roots spread wide and deep into life! But your interest is not in roots. Your interest is in leaves. Because roots are not visible — who cares! Leaves are visible — so color the leaves! Paint the leaves with lipstick. Dress the leaves in beautiful saris. Hang necklaces around the leaves’ necks. If there was a little life in the leaves, it will die. Your necklaces will kill them! People are dying like this.

This whole vision of life must be changed.

Think a thousand times: How are you living? What is your style? What is the arithmetic of your life? Glitter? Are you living only to show others? Or truly within... The things you bring home — were they needed? Or did you buy them to show others? Did you really need them? People buy things they do not need — even on loan. People buy things they cannot even understand. People buy Picasso’s paintings and hang them on their walls — though they do not even know whether the painting they hang is upright or upside down!... For in Picasso’s works it is hard to say what is up and what is down.

In an exhibition — an exhibition of Picasso — all the connoisseurs stood around one painting. It was the most unique; they were building bridges of praise: a unique creation! From this a new era begins. Such a creation has never been made. Just then Picasso arrived and said: Hey, who has hung this upside down? He quickly hung it right. Because it had been hung upside down, it seemed unique — no one could understand anything. People are such fools that the less they understand the more they think it must be deep.

A lady had her portrait painted by Picasso. He took six months and asked for millions of dollars. She was a billionaire. She said: Take millions, but paint it! The painting must be by your hand. It was finished; she came, looked — she could not make any sense. She could not see where she was in it. But how to say this to such a great painter? She only said, hesitantly: All else is fine, but my nose is not quite right. Picasso said: That is a great bother! Six months I have wasted; now to alter this will be very difficult. The lady said: Spend more if needed, but make the nose right. Picasso said: Lady, forgive me! I do not even know where I have drawn the nose. Where shall I look for it now?

But such paintings people hang. Even the painter did not know where the nose is! Yet there must be a Picasso on your wall — then you are refined, aristocratic. In America, madness — the one whose house has no Picasso is middle class, not aristocracy. Picasso, Dali, Van Gogh, Cézanne — their paintings must be there; then you are cultured; then you have an eye for art.

But all this is for show.

I know many houses where libraries full of books are displayed. But those books have never been read. I have opened them — many pages are still uncut. No one has ever read them.

I was a guest in such a house, in a king’s home. He had a great library. He took me to show it. I opened a few books — the pages were uncut. I asked: Has anyone read these? The king laughed: Read? No question. They look beautiful. They add to the beauty of the house. Books — and beauty!

Whom are you deceiving!

But this is our style of living. From poor to rich — living in this same way. This style must change; otherwise the arrival of God in your life cannot be.

The art of life must be learned slowly, slowly. It does not come all at once. Therefore I am not saying: fill yourself with self-condemnation. It is natural — you were born in a world where everyone lives by glitter; you grew among them; you learned their habits.

Gently, gently pluck the strings of the instrument of life
The strings are frightened
They are full of pain
Breathless, near-dead
When the wounds are fresh
What color will they pour forth?
The instrument will break
Gently, gently pluck the strings of life

Bring flowers with you
Give it the wine of love
Coax the instrument
Then begin to play
The instrument is not a bud
Not a lump of color
Gently, gently pluck the strings of life

Lo, the strings begin to tremble
They open without restraint
Now in the notes the heart is poured
A continuous pulse runs through
The colors will open
Clouds will gather and cover the sky
Gently, gently pluck the strings of life

No haste. These things do not happen in haste. Patiently, calmly, review your life. Then slowly, slowly, begin to change one aspect after another. Gently pluck the string of life. The strings are delicate; do not snap them. Some people rush — the results are bad. You hear this glittering life is useless, and you say: Then drop it all. You run to the jungle and become a mahatma. But what will you do there? The old frameworks of life will go with you. What will you do there?

Have you seen the mahatmas? At least one mirror they keep in their shoulder-bag. For when they smear ash and apply tilak and sandal-paste, a mirror is needed. Without seeing in the mirror the sandal may go askew, the tilak crooked... different sects have different tilaks — one must apply it with great care! The ash must not be missed anywhere; the whole body must be plastered here and there... there is a way to that too, a style, an art. So the sadhu too must keep a mirror. The same gentleman who yesterday stood for hours before a mirror arranging his hair — now sits hours before the mirror disarranging his hair! Filling it with dust and grime. The same gentleman who yesterday stood before the mirror smearing powder on the face — now smears ash — but the same mirror. And the man within — the same.

Yesterday he wore fine silken garments and puffed his chest before the mirror; today he wears coarse sackcloth — but he dons it standing before the mirror. No difference has happened. In fact, things have worsened. So do not hurry — in haste one goes from one extreme to the other — and revolution does not happen by extremes; it happens by resting in the middle.

Gently, gently pluck the strings of the instrument of life
The strings are frightened
They are full of pain
Breathless, near-dead
When the wounds are fresh
What color will they pour forth?
The instrument will break
Gently, gently pluck the strings of life

Bring flowers with you
Give it the wine of love
Coax the instrument
Then begin to play
The instrument is not a bud
Not a lump of color
Gently, gently pluck the strings of life

Lo, the strings begin to tremble
They open without restraint
Now in the notes the heart is poured
A continuous pulse runs through
The colors will open
Clouds will gather and cover the sky
Gently, gently pluck the strings of life

Songs will arise, the sound will resound, clouds will gather; your dance will not go in vain — the clouds will shower and shower in ecstasy — but the art of life comes only as it comes, slowly! And sannyas is the greatest art of life.

Bhir-bhar se sant bhag ke lukat hain.
Haan, Paltu — siddhai ko dekhi santjan thukat hain.

Paltu says: The saints avoid the crowds; they hide. Whose crowds? Of the foolish. They are flocks of sheep. Saints take delight only in those who are disciples — who have the capacity to bow, whose vow is to transform themselves, in whose life a resolve has arisen that will take no obstacle as an obstacle — who have decided: whether life remains or not, we will unfurl our wings and set out on the journey to the sun. Saints belong only to the disciples; not to the world, not to the marketplace, not to the crowds. Saints are only for the chosen.

People come to me and say: Why is the ashram not open to all? Not all need an ashram. It is certainly open to those who need it — but they will have to be tested; they will have to be examined. People say: Why can anyone not meet you at any time? Because I do not want to gather an unworthy crowd here. If anyone could meet at any time, I would become unavailable to the worthy and surround myself with the unworthy.

Only if you can pass through many steps will you come to me. And the longer you delay, the more the steps will increase. I will hide farther and farther away — so I may be available only to those who truly need. The capacity to drink the nectar must be accumulated. If you bring filthy vessels, what will happen? First cleanse the vessels.

Crowds are eager to come. Their eagerness is only curiosity. They have no intention, no search. Where there is searching, the person is ready to pay the price, to pay the cost. The crowd is ready to put nothing at stake — rather, the crowd wants a free offering. Priests and pundits are keen for crowds; they live by the crowds. The saint and the pundit differ: the saint hides.

Bhir-bhar se sant bhag ke lukat hain.
Haan, Paltu — siddhai ko dekhi santjan thukat hain.

And when siddhis arise in the saint’s life, he spits upon them. The saint who begins to display siddhis is a showman — of no value; in the realm of existence he has no meaning, no glory. Though crowds will gather behind him — for crowds relish showmen. The crowd is voyeuristic. Someone pulls a talisman from his hand, produces ash — the crowd is thrilled! Someone materializes a watch — the crowd’s thrill knows no bounds! The crowd feels it has found God! That ash can be produced anywhere — common roadside jugglers produce it. There is nothing in it. No value. But what intelligence has the crowd? What capacity? What understanding? Where has it the discerning eye? It is satisfied with pebbles. Saints distribute diamonds — but diamonds are for those who can discern. Become a connoisseur first — then the meeting with saints is possible.

Kya lai aaya yaar, kahan lai jayega?
Sangi koyi nahin, ant pachhtayega.

Sapna yeh sansar, raat ka dekhna.
Haan, Paltu — bazigar ka khel bana sab dekhna.

This world is like the show of a juggler. The magician beats his drum, blows his mantras, speaks out grand words — false mangoes sprout; they only appear — they are not. It is hypnosis. Your eyes are deceived. Your belief is tricked — therefore you see.

Understand one important thing about the human mind: that which he believes in, that is what he begins to see. If you believe in ghosts, you will see ghosts. You will see ghosts in everything.

I stayed in a village for a while. A friend stayed with me. He kept saying again and again, without cause or occasion: I do not believe in ghosts. I said to him: You say it so often — this shows you believe. Otherwise, what need? I have not said it even once! If ghosts are not, what is there to believe or not to believe? You say you do not believe — but it seems you believe inside, and are trying to hide it. He said: You are a contrary man; your head is upside-down! I say I do not believe, and you want to prove that I do!

I said: Then wait. I know where ghosts are. Tonight it will be decided. He asked: What do you mean? I said: That house opposite — you go and sleep there on the upper floor tonight. It will be decided. Morning will tell. In fact, even morning will not be needed — midnight will decide. He had boasted — could not bow at once. He had great degrees in Sanskrit from BHU — a PhD. He was stiff. He said: I do not believe! I said: I am not arguing — when they are, what difference does your belief make?

I arranged his bed in the house opposite. In that house there was nothing — only empty kerosene tins. Tins and tins, the whole house filled with them. I knew the owner and asked his help. He asked: What is the matter? I said: Do not worry; night will reveal it.

As evening neared, the PhD’s ground began to slip. He asked me: Do you really believe ghosts exist? I said: This is a useless matter — when tonight it will be decided, why talk? I do not trust in arguments, but in experience. By dusk his face had turned pale; his hands were shaking. I saw him in the bathroom reciting Ram-ram; repeating the Gayatri; all he knew... the Hanuman Chalisa! While going he began to take little booklets. I asked: What is this? He said: The Hanuman Chalisa. I said: Why take it? When ghosts do not exist what will poor Hanuman do? What need? He said: I always keep it with me. What has it to do with ghosts? I love Hanuman. I said: As you wish.

It was summer. His bed was spread upstairs; I locked the door below. He said: Give me the key. I said: Why should I give you the key? When they come at night and ask me for it, what shall I do? He asked: Who? I said: Those you call ghosts. After all, they will ask me for the key! You have kept the Hanuman Chalisa; they will trouble me. I want to sleep in peace — so I will hand them the key and sleep. He said: Your words make no sense — what key, what ghosts! I said: It will all be clear.

I took him up. I had to take him up; otherwise he would have found a thousand excuses: Why go now? It is early. I will not sleep now. I said: I too want to sleep. At eleven I settled him upstairs.

In summer, empty tin cans expand and contract; they make sounds. When cans are stacked upon cans, one sound carries into another.

Around twelve, half past, he suddenly screamed. I knew it. I had even seated the house-owner to see the fun. He stood on the terrace, trembling, shaking. I said: Come down; I will open the door. He said: I cannot go on the stairs — they are right there! And it is terrible — from one can they go into another! Not one — thousands! I said: There is no other door. Come down; I will open. He said: Not by mistake! Bring a ladder — I will come down from here. We brought a ladder and two men climbed and helped him down. His fever was 104; he was sweating. We called a doctor, gave medicine, put him to bed. All night he held the Hanuman Chalisa to his chest.

I said: Do not again say ghosts do not exist. You believe they do. There was nothing in that house — only empty tin cans. You are a PhD; at least enough sense to know: empty tin cans in heat expand and contract; they rattle. Stacked one upon another they rattle into each other. He said: Now do not try to trap me again; I cannot step into that house. To hell with the PhD! A fool going home safe counts as having found millions. He said: I am now convinced — they exist! I will not argue with you — because of this argument I got into unnecessary trouble. I tried to explain he had been deluded — he would not listen.

What you believe, that becomes. Your belief constructs a world around you. You brought nothing; you will take nothing. The world you made is belief-made. With a woman, you circumambulate seven times; she becomes your wife. What a game! Band plays, shehnai plays, you catch some simpleton and he mutters mantras and ties a knot — and you are tied!

A gentleman told me he wanted to leave his wife, but how? The knot was tied; the seven rounds have been done. I said: Bring your wife; if she too agrees, I will make you take seven reverse rounds — and untie the knot! The mantras were chanted then; we will chant them now — in reverse! The matter will finish. After all, the knot was tied, so it can be untied. The seven rounds were taken in one direction — now take them the other way. They have not come since that day. He was only talking, as people do: No meaning remains in the world — wife, children — it is difficult. He had not thought I would offer so easy a way — take reverse rounds!

What did you bring? Paltu says:
Kya lai aaya yaar, kahan lai jayega?
Sangi koyi nahin, ant pachhtayega.
Sapna yeh sansar, raat ka dekhna.

In darkness you have woven a web of dreams — which you call the world. All this will remain shattered, lying here. This marketplace will be uprooted. Death will come and all that you did will be undone.

Haan, Paltu — bazigar ka khel bana sab dekhna.

These scenes you see — of maya, of attachment, of clinging, of mine and thine — how you fight over each inch of land, swords drawn; life passes in lawsuits — and all will lie here.

And look at the wonder:
Jeevan kahiye jhooth, saach hai maran ko.

Paltu says: This life of yours is utterly false; your death is far truer!

Moorakh, ajahu cheti, gaho guru-saran ko.

Fool, even now awaken, before death arrives — awaken! Do not take the dream to be true. Die to the dream — that dying is sannyas. And the one who has died to the dream — within him a lamp of awareness is lit.

But this is possible only when you connect with a master. A lamp that has gone out comes near a lit lamp; from flame to flame the flame leaps.

Maans ke upar chaam, chaam par rang hai.
Haan, Paltu — jaihai jeev akela, koyi na sang hai.

What do you have? Bone, flesh, marrow — a skeleton.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was dying. Between them began a discussion: After death does the soul remain or not? The wife said: It remains. Mulla said: It does not. In truth, Mulla did not want it to remain. He had been pestered by his wife his whole life; and now the possibility she would remain even after! And at least in the body she was confined — she only harassed him at home; freed from the body, who knows where she would harass! She might appear even in the Madhushala! If Mulla were singing his tunes with some other woman, she would come and make a scene! Mulla said: It does not remain. The wife said: It does! The argument went to the point where the wife said: Then let it be so — whoever of us dies first will swear that immediately after death they will come and inform the other: Look, I am alive. I still am.

Mulla said: Good. Agreed.

Then he got a little afraid. He had spoken in enthusiasm... and said: But keep one thing in mind — if you ever come, come during the day; not at night. The wife asked: Why, what fear at night? I am your wife. He said: That I know — you are my wife now! After death, who knows in what form you will appear! No — come by day, in full sunlight. And in any case at night if you come you will not find me at home. Because your dying does not mean all women will die! So do not trouble yourself. Either I will be in the Madhushala or with some woman. Come by day, in bright noon — and come only once — enough!

The wife said: All right, I will come by day — in full noon! Mulla thought again, took his wife’s hand in his, and said: My dear, forgive me — I accept that the soul remains. No need to come. For even at high noon you will make my chest tremble! While alive you make it tremble; seeing you my legs shake, I am afraid of coming home. Only last night I was walking — it was two — circling around. The policeman said: Nasruddin, it is two; for two hours I have been watching you circle here. Have you any answer for why you circle? Nasruddin said: If I had an answer I would have gone home! I am circling to find what answer I can give my wife. And the later it gets the worse it gets. Constable sahib, if you have any answer, tell me! Sometimes this trouble must come to you too!

Coming home, a husband must prepare an answer. Coming home, his condition is like a student going for exam. Whatever answer he prepares, the wife is not ready to accept. She will find some error in every answer.

This is the world we have made — and in it we have found no joy, much sorrow. We desired joy, but did not get it.

Ideals are asleep,
Mirrors are weeping.
We will do as we please —
Who are you to be?
Blind brothers — eyes’ delight,
Grandsons of the sun.
Pain beyond measure —
We weep beyond measure.
Joy never sprouts —
Yet daily we sow joy.

Daily you sow joy — in hope and expectation and desire — but when does joy sprout? When it sprouts, sorrow sprouts. You want heaven — hell arrives. Surely some fundamental mistake is being made. You are taking the false to be true.

Bhooli raha sansar, kaanch ki jhalak mein.
Banat laga das maas, ujda palak mein.

How much labor you put in to build this dream — and in the blink of an eye it is ruined. One breath breaks, and all is gone.

Rowanwala roya apni dah se.

And mark this: those who weep when you die are not weeping for you; they weep for themselves. The wife weeps, the husband weeps, the children weep, the parents weep, the friends weep — but do not fall into the delusion that they weep for you. They weep for themselves. The wife weeps: What will happen now? The husband has slipped away — what of me? The children weep: Father is gone — what of us? The parents weep: The son is gone — who will be our staff in old age? Here no one weeps for another — each weeps for himself.

Haan, Paltu — sab koyi chenke thadh, gaya kis raah se.

And when your life begins to fly — like camphor — when your life-bird takes wing, all will stand trying to block the way; yet none can. For you are invisible. The wife may beat her head — she cannot stop you. The husband may cry — he cannot stop you. These attempts to stop are of a day or two. Then the wife builds a new dream; the husband builds a new dream.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife died. She had a lover. All the friends, and that lover too, joined the last rites. At the cremation ground the lover beat his chest and wept more than Nasruddin — as if he were the real husband. Nasruddin could not bear it. He put his hand upon the lover’s shoulder and said: My brother, do not be so distressed; I will marry again. Do not worry so much — I will marry again.

Kaccha mahal uthay, kaccha sab bhavan hai.
Das darwaza — beech jhankta kavan hai?

‘A raw palace is raised; all buildings are raw.’ All you build here is raw. Only one thing can be made ripe: the maturity of your soul, the awakening of your consciousness.

Within ten doors — the senses — who peers? The one who peeks there, he has built a solid palace.

Kacchi raiyat basai, kacchi sab joon hai.
Haan, Paltu — nikar gaya sardar, sahar ab soon hai.

And today or tomorrow the prince laughs and flies away; the city is left empty. To build this city how you labored! How much effort you bore! What did you not do! You put all at stake — but these are houses of cards; a gust of wind and they fall. Paper boats — before they even sail, they sink. Do not trust them.

Haath god sab bane, nahin ab dolta.
Naak kaan mukh wohi, nahin ab bolta.
Kaal lihis aguvay, chalai na jor hai.

In one instant — the breath flies — the hands and feet are all as they were, but no longer move. The nose, ears, mouth — all the same, but no longer speak. Death has come; time stands at the gate; pushing, it leads you on — and you have no power. Not even a moment’s reprieve can be begged. Not a moment’s leave is granted. Say you: I am no ordinary man, I am a VVIP. Say: I am Prime Minister, President, this, that. Death does not listen. No certificate works. Not a moment is given.

Aaya moothi baandh, pasaare jayega.
Chhoocha aavat jaat, maar tu khayega.

And what a joke: a child arrives with clenched fists; he goes with open palms. How strange! If he came with open hands and went with clenched fists — that would mean: he came empty and took something. But it is the reverse. The child arrives with clenched fists — perhaps he brings something: a certain innocence; a simplicity; a freshness — like the drop of dew on a morning petal, like the petal of a lotus at dawn — blank he comes, nothing printed, an empty page; no conditionings; no writing. He comes like a zero, like a silence — no words, no thoughts, no language. No desire yet, no lust yet. No yesterday, no tomorrow. Moment to moment he thrills, rejoices.

And the child is authentic, true. He does not deceive. If there is anger, he shows anger; if there is love, he shows love. He is not entangled in logic and consistency. Just now he was saying: Without you I cannot live; now he is angry and says: I will never look at your face again. And after a moment he is sitting in your lap. He lives moment to moment — spontaneous.

Surely he brings something precious. Hence Jesus has said: If you would enter the kingdom of my Father, you must become again like small children.

Aaya moothi baandh, pasaare jayega.
Chhoocha aavat jaat, maar tu khayega.

And the emptier you go, the more you will be thrashed. For before the Divine, before existence, what answer do you have? How did you waste life? Some account — so that at least you can say: I wasted it thus. But you will stand like a fool; words will not come; the tongue will falter. For whatever you spent life on will appear futile to you. It was all a dream — and you took it as true. You will not be able to raise your eyes.

Kite Vikramajit saka bandh mari gaye.

And leave aside ordinary people — even the great emperors, Vikramaditya-like emperors, whose name gives the Vikram Samvat — who impressed time so deeply...

Kite Vikramajit saka bandh mari gaye.

They built a pillar of fame in the form of a calendar; they carved such an indelible mark upon time — even they vanished in dust and water. Where are they? Perhaps they walked proudly; sat upon golden thrones; no dust touched their feet; they knew not the thorn; the sun did not burn them; sweat did not flow; they were drenched in flowers, in perfume; they bathed in rose-water — and the same body, bathed in rose-water, one day merges with the earth. When such great ones vanish, what of the small!

Haan, Paltu — Ramnam hai saar, sandesa kahi gaye.

And when even men like Vikramaditya die, when the bier is lifted, do you know what we say? ‘Ramnam satya hai’ — the Name of Ram is true. With every bier we chant: The Name of Ram is true. Very late! It should have been chanted earlier!

I say to you: Those whom you love — catch them, tie them upon the bier and go off chanting: The Name of Ram is true! In life say something, so that they may hear and get some sense! Now he is dead — he cannot hear — and you shout: The Name of Ram is true!

And notice: For the dead you say: The Name of Ram is true; and: Speak truth if you would reach — and what about yourself? You leave that for others: As you spoke ‘Ramnam satya hai’ upon our corpse, when you die, we will speak it for you. A formality.

Go to the cremation ground and listen — people gossip there of the marketplace — which film is good in the town? Who knows what idle talk they chatter! Go sometimes to the cremation ground. When the bier goes, they chant: ‘Ramnam satya hai!’ When they place the bier upon the pyre, then turn their backs to the bier and listen to what they talk! What astonishing talk they engage in!

In my village I have seen men gambling even as the corpse burns — at the cremation ground. There is convenience there; the police never learn that gambling is going on. And what else to do while sitting? The gentleman will take time to burn — three or four hours, six hours — and if the wood is wet and it is the rainy season, who knows — the whole day will be wasted. So they take cards along to play right there. What a strange world — someone has died and you still are intent on cards.

I understand the psychology behind it: it is a way to escape. To save the mind from the truth that death is, that it comes. It has come to him; tomorrow it will come to me. To deny this. Others die — others do the business of dying. I am not going to die — this is the feeling within, said or unsaid.

Haan, Paltu — Ramnam hai saar, sandesa kahi gaye.

Jo janma so mua, nahin thir koi hai.

Who is born will die — none will be spared. With birth, death arrives.

Raja, rank, fakir — gujar din do hi hain.

Whether rich or poor — two days of life! Thus or thus, in comfort or discomfort, in huts or palaces — it makes little difference.

Chalti chakki — beech para jo jaikay.
Haan, Paltu — sabit bacha na koy, gaya alag aikay.

This grinding mill of birth and death — whoever falls between its stones is crushed. None was saved, says Paltu — except the one who stepped aside.

The one to whom the inevitability of death becomes a deep realization cannot remain irreligious. For there is only one way to go beyond death — religion. The only boat that takes one across the ocean of death is religion. The only door that can grant the eyes the vision of the immortal beyond death is religion.

Attend to Paltu’s word. Life here is very lovely, sweet — but do not stop here!

Behold the Beloved’s beautiful face — do not halt, O traveler
Traveler, do not halt
Your work is to keep on walking
The dust of the road is your adornment
Seek new lands daily amid the storms
Traveler, new lands daily

Let it be hot or cold
Season of flowers, or yellowing leaves
Because of love, sitting to burn is not your task
Traveler, that is not your task

The sun kisses your feet
The earth turns with you
Sing the songs of love’s devotion and chant the Name of Hari
Traveler, chant the Name of Hari

Behold the Beloved’s beautiful face — do not halt, O traveler
Traveler, do not halt

Enough for today.