Sapna Yeh Sansar #16

Narendra, it is not merely a difference of expression. The difference goes a little deeper. Buddha’s statement concerns the goal; my statement concerns the means.

I am in full accord with Buddha: Appa Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself. There is no other way. No one else can be a lamp for you. Only your own eyes can see, only your own legs can walk.

You must have heard the famous story. Those who fashioned it perhaps thought they were saying something profound. In relation to the world it may even be true; in relation to the inner it is utterly false. You have heard it: a forest caught fire. In that forest lived a blind man and a lame man. The lame man could see, but could not walk. The blind man could walk, but could not see. They struck a bargain: the blind carried the lame upon his shoulders; the lame guided, the blind walked. With their cooperation they escaped the forest fire.

This may be true for the world. Here the blind and the lame make many bargains. Here there are only the blind and the lame—whom else will you find? Friendships with them, enmities with them! But there is no such device for reaching the ultimate truth of life. There you cannot see through another’s eyes. You need your own eyes. Borrowing will not do. Religion is cash-and-carry. Only your own wealth will work.

Before the divine, if you recite the Vedas, hum the Gita, chant the Quran, you will be worth two pennies. Before the divine you must sing your own song, give birth to your own Veda, awaken your own Quran. Only the notes rising from your inner being will be accepted there. Someone else’s song, someone else’s dance will not do. Do not go there like a “His Master’s Voice” record. Records have no value there. There you will be tested; those eyes will look into your innermost core. You will have to stand naked; the borrowed clothes will be taken off at the door. That is why Buddha said: Appa Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself.

Buddhas face a particular danger. Again and again they must alert and warn, because you are lazy. Your habit is: if it can be had for free, why make any effort? Your life’s arithmetic is theft and shortcut. You want to steal truth too, pick someone’s pocket even for that. You want an easy, cheap way to reach truth; if it comes free, all the better; if nothing has to be paid, blessed! But truth is not free. Truth must be purchased with your very life. Truth demands sacrifice. Truth says: cut off your head and offer it. Erase the ego. If you cannot pay that price, then you will have to live in untruth. Light says: dissolve, so that I may be. Darkness says: relax as you are; my existence depends on yours. Ego and darkness are in cahoots. As light comes, darkness disappears; so too, with the dawning of inner light, spiritual darkness breaks and falls away.

All Buddhas must say “Appa Deepo Bhava.” Why? Because when you see the Buddha’s burning lamp you think, now what do we need to do? Lord, you know—please deliver us! You have attained—please instruct us! You have found the path—why should we search? We will follow. We will walk behind you. We will become your shadow. Those who say such things imagine they are expressing great reverence, supreme surrender. But the human mind is cunning. This is neither surrender nor reverence; it is the opposite. It is the ego’s device, its last trick to save itself. You think if you wear Buddha’s robe you become a Buddha? If you carry his begging bowl you become a Buddha? If you sit and rise like him you become a Buddha?

Buddha’s cousin was Devadatta. He grew up with Buddha—played with him, fought with him, quarreled with him, wrestled him; everything—same age, raised in the same palace. Then Buddha became Tathagata, attained supreme knowing. Devadatta felt great envy. He said: whatever Buddha can do, I can do. He came and took initiation from Buddha—but it was shrewdness, calculation, shopkeeping. “Let me watch closely. What is the secret of Buddha’s repute? What does he eat, drink, wear? When does he sleep, rise? Let me observe carefully. In six months I’ll understand, then I’ll do the same and become a Buddha too.”

And within months—Devadatta was clever—he had inspected Buddha thoroughly: he rises like this, sits like that, walks like this. He began to do the same—speaking like him, walking like him—an exact imitation. People began to be impressed. It is a world of the blind! In the land of the blind, the one-eyed becomes king. The blind make peace with the one-eyed, “You are at least half like us.”

In everything else Devadatta remained ignorant and unconscious, but he stood, walked, spoke—uttered beautiful sayings. His words were polished; language well-shaped, elegant. He quoted the great scriptures. His expositions were novel, his analyses deep, his logic brilliant. The blind gathered. He collected five hundred disciples. Then his real ego emerged. He declared: I too am a Buddha!

Buddha heard and laughed. He said: Does one become a Buddha by walking like me, standing like me, speaking like me? Did two Buddhas ever sit, rise, walk in the same way? This is how hypocrisy is born.

Devadatta was deluded—but what of the five hundred who left Buddha for Devadatta? Devadatta split and formed his own sect. Soon his flock scattered. When he died, he died in remorse, in great pain. He realized too late: I imitated outer conduct; the inner lamp never lit.

However well you arrange outer behavior, it won’t light the inner lamp. Making conduct “right” is like drawing a picture of a lamp—color it beautifully, hang it in your room—the darkness won’t be impressed. Has darkness ever fled pictures? The picture hangs; darkness coils there unfazed. A real lamp is needed—even if it is clay, while the picture is gold. A real lamp is needed—even if it costs two pennies and the picture is studded with jewels. Darkness recognizes the real lamp—and must depart.

Humanity has known many Buddhas: Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu, Nanak, Kabir, Paltu, Farid. For centuries these lamps have burned. Then why did we miss? Where do we keep going wrong? With so many lamps, why doesn’t darkness diminish? The darkness is so much that one begins to doubt whether any lamps ever burned at all. Did Buddhas really happen? Are Mahavira, Krishna, Christ only fabrications?

Those who doubt carry a grain of truth—darkness is so vast; how to believe the lamps burned and darkness did not vanish? The earth remains base, hellish. So many redeemers—why so few redeemed? Where is the mistake?

The error is this: whenever an awakened one appears, whenever a lamp is lit, we imitate the outer behavior. We dress like him, sit and rise like him, eat what he eats, sleep when he sleeps. We think that by becoming like the Buddha on the outside, we will become like him within. No. Life’s arithmetic is not like that. Become like a Buddha inside and the outside will certainly follow. But becoming like him outside has no connection to the inner Buddha. Your perimeter follows your center; your center does not follow your perimeter.

This fundamental mistake has made humanity wander long. And the time to wake up is now—too much delay already. Perhaps not much time is left. If this sleep continues, humanness will soon be finished. The blind hold atom bombs and hydrogen bombs; the unconscious wield dangerous weapons.

Nixon writes in his memoirs: when the final hour came and I felt I would have to resign, I cannot hide that a thought flashed—why not destroy the whole world along with me? Nixon had the power to do it. He had the key. He could have sparked a world war. Everything would have turned to ash. We must thank Nixon; we must respect him for holding himself in check. A thousand Watergates are worth two pennies compared to the value of that restraint. In such moments, self-mastery is hard. When a man is drowning, why not drown everyone? In this world of fools, Nixon at least showed a little sense. He let go the presidency; the key was in his hand—within moments the world could have been aflame.

Terrible weapons rest in the hands of the unconscious. So there is no time to waste: either man must awaken, or he will perish. Perhaps this pressure of time is a blessing in disguise. Perhaps only thus will man awaken. Dawn often comes in the darkest hour—and never has there been a darker time.

So beware the fundamental mistake.

Buddha says: Appa Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself. Do not follow me, do not imitate me, do not become my carbon copy. You are full of consciousness; shake your own consciousness awake; wipe the dust off. There is a mirror within you; polish it, bathe it, brighten it. You are what I am; there is not a hair’s breadth of difference. Why walk behind me?

That is the goal: that each person become his own lamp.

Narendra, and when I say, “Be full of rasa, be full of raas,” I am suggesting the means. I am telling you how to become your own lamp. No one became a lamp by weeping. Whoever became a lamp, first overflowed with an extraordinary dance. With a smile, dance, ecstasy, a love-affair with existence—become drenched in rasa, and you will become your own lamp. Without rasa, your lamp may have a wick, but no oil. And if you are filled with rasa but have made no effort for awareness, your lamp has much oil but no wick. Neither a wick without oil nor oil without a wick is of use.

Then both wick and oil must be there—and if you do not strike the flint, the flame won’t appear. Three things are needed.

You are the lamp—your body is your lamp. Have you noticed? Our language is unique: the word “sneh” means both oil and affection. Someone who knew wove this secret. Sneh carries two meanings—oil and love. The body you have is the clay lamp—made of earth, it will fall to earth. Dear it is, for without a lamp where will you hold the oil? Praise the earth! But what is the point of the lamp alone? Roam in darkness carrying an empty lamp—what good?

A blind seeker once took leave of his master. Night was dark. He said, “It is a dark night and I fear the jungle path.” The master said, “Do not worry; I will light a lamp.” He lit it and gave it to the blind man, who began to descend the steps. The master blew the lamp out. The blind man said, “What a jest! Why light it only to snuff it?” The master said, “To remind you: the lamp I light can help with the outer dark—though breaking the outer dark or not is all the same. My lamp cannot help with the inner darkness. The dangers are there. What danger is outside? At most your body may be taken—bodies are gained again and again. My lamp cannot function within.”

The master’s snuffing of the lamp said it all. The blind seeker’s inner eyes opened. He laughed, bowed, touched the feet, and said: “You woke me at the perfect moment. The night has passed; it is dawn. I go now without fear. There is no death, no end, no fear, no jungle.”

A drunk set out at night. He had taken a lantern to the tavern, planning for a late return. On his way home he stumbled into a buffalo, crashed into a truck, fell in the gutter—astonished. Now and then his stupor thinned and he wondered: I have a lantern—why do I still collide? Where is the light? Why can’t I reach home? In the morning the tavern owner came with his lantern and said, “Here—keep it safe. Last night you walked off with my parrot’s cage!” To an unconscious man a cage and a lantern are the same. He must have grabbed the cage, imagining it a lantern.

So long as you are unconscious, what you hold are parrot cages, even if you call them Vedas, Gita, Dhammapada, Quran. In your stupor, a lantern cannot be in your hands. If a lantern were there, stupor could not be. And even if someone gave you a lamp and did not snuff it, how long could you keep it lit?

There is another story. A Zen seeker, taking leave, asked a friend for a lantern. The friend gave it. He had barely gone ten steps when he collided with someone. “Brother, are you blind too? Can’t you see my lantern? I am blind—that’s why I carry it, so at least others can see and not bump into me.” The other laughed: “I’m not blind—but your lantern has gone out.” How is a blind man to know his lantern has gone out? Your Gita and Quran went out long ago—do you know? If you knew that much, what need would there be for Gita or Quran? Your inner lamp is not lit.

The clay body is the lamp. If it is filled with the nectar of love, that is the oil. Therefore I say: be full of rasa, full of raas—dance, sing, celebrate. Thus, juice will ooze from every pore and your lamp will fill with oil. And then I say: in meditation strike the flint—awaken awareness. Watch thoughts, watch desires—not to renounce, simply to see. Anyone who tells you to “give up” is as blind as you. No one “gives up” darkness; light a lamp and it drops away.

So I do not tell you to renounce; renunciation should happen of itself—and it will. It is inevitable. Once awareness arises within you, renunciation happens. Who will clutch pebbles when understanding dawns? Who will gather garbage? Who will grasp the world? You will live in the world like the lotus—among waters, untouched by water.

Therefore I do not tell you to renounce. Those who tell you so are blind like you—and their language appeals to you because the blind understand the blind; the dumb understand the dumb; the deaf signal to the deaf. The difficulty arises when a seeing one speaks among you—he speaks another tongue. Outwardly the same words, but meanings so different that you miss. Or you inject your meanings, which are not his—and your meanings bring disaster.

The lamp is present; love pervades your every hair. Yet for centuries religions have taught against love—opposed life, denied it. They blocked your springs of love, condemned it so that you dried up. The lamp remains; the streams are dammed.

I want your springs to open again.

Hence I speak of love again and again. Without love you will reach nowhere. Without love there is no devotion, and without love there is no God. Love becomes prayer, and in its ultimate flowering prayer becomes the experience of the divine. So let love flow from every pore; let it fill the lamp of your heart. Be filled with love. Therefore I say: be full of rasa, full of raas. I repeat: Raso vai sah—the Supreme is of the nature of rasa. Become rasa yourselves. Do not flee life; use life as the opportunity.

I do not say: leave your wife. I say: love so deeply that the divine begins to shine through your wife. Do not leave your husband; love so much that the divine is seen in him. As love deepens, glimpses of the divine begin. In truth, the divine is nothing but the intensest flame of love. Do not run away from your children. Look into their eyes—there the divine is still fresh, dust has not settled. They have not dried up; they are full of rasa. Learn from them.

Do not be in a hurry to teach children—what will you teach? Hoarding money, fighting for rank and status; jealousy and rivalry; calculation and cunning—what else?

Mulla Nasruddin said to his son, “Climb this ladder.” “Why, Papa?” “I want to teach you a lesson—politics. I am a politician; I want you to be one too. The fun there is in politics is nowhere else. Your target is to reach Delhi. Let nothing stand in your way. Here is your first lesson—it will help you reach Delhi.” The boy climbed about ten feet. Nasruddin spread both arms and said, “Jump! Don’t fear; your father will catch you. Jump—have faith.” When the boy jumped, Nasruddin took two steps back. The child crashed, skinned knees, began to cry. “Quiet—learn the first lesson!” “What lesson is this? You deceived me.” “Exactly. In politics, don’t trust even your own father. Remember it well: if you want to reach the capital, do not trust—keep suspicion alert.”

What will you teach your children? Exactly what you know. And what do you know? What wealth of experience do you have? Nothing. You are a hollowness. Your eyes are full of melancholy; your heart is empty. You have known nothing great, recognized nothing vast. Petty is your life. You picked shells on the shore, never dove into the sea for fear of storms and the unknown far shore. You stayed stuck in the mud. What will you teach? Learn from the child.

In a good world we would teach children less and learn more. And what we do teach we would teach with clarity: these are two-penny skills—useful for livelihood, for earning bread; they do not give life. And from the child we would learn life—his shining love, his wonderstruck eyes; his capacity to be awed into silence; his ability to be absorbed in a butterfly and forget the world; to stand still before a flower, incredulous that such beauty exists. Children ask question upon question, tireless, because their curiosity is endless, their longing to know has no end. If we had understanding, we would learn their simplicity, their love, their innocence, their capacity to be wonderstruck. Then perhaps a new rasa would begin to fill your heart. Perhaps you too could dance with little children, play like them; a lila might blossom in your life. The Divine is playful—be a little playful and you will understand His language; a bridge will form; a bond will tie you.

Therefore I say: be full of rasa—be full of love. Therefore I say: be full of raas. The moon and stars are dancing; beasts and birds are dancing; the earth and her planets, the whole existence is dancing. Why do you stand apart, sad, alienated? Why sever yourself from this vastness? In what ego are you stiff? What dullness binds you? Bow. Surrender. Embrace existence. Dance with it.

When clouds gather and peacocks dance, do not sit there reading the newspaper. When a shepherd plays the algoza in the distant forest, does nothing play within you? Nothing at all? Are you alive or dead? When someone plucks a string on the sitar, does nothing vibrate in the strings of your heart? You stand dry and far, untouched.

Be a little poetic, a little musical, a little celebrative. This is what I call religion. My definition of religion is celebration; my definition of religion is the capacity for joy. I do not say belief in God is necessary for religion. It is not. God is the final experience of religion—how can we make it a prerequisite? It is the conclusion. People perversely insist on the conclusion first: “Believe in God—then you are religious.” I say: be religious—and one day God will reveal Himself and you will have no choice but to bow. Be an atheist if you like—come along!

Theists may come, atheists may come; believers and non-believers—belief is irrelevant. When the Vast reveals itself, what will you do? Cling to your petty corner? When the sky falls upon you, what courtyard will you protect? When the ocean seeks your drop, where will you flee? None can flee then.

Yet people say: first believe in God! In my definition of religion, God has no place. Whether God exists or not is beside the point—let there be rasa! Where there is rasa, God will one day be. The stream of rasa reaches the ocean. Let there be abundance of rasa.

Therefore I give you a life-affirming religion—not life-denying. It emphasizes not fasting but festivity. Yes, if fasting fills you with joy, I have no objection. If fasting becomes your celebration, if it makes you dance, I accept it wholly. But if fasting torments you and you call torment “religion,” you are in great error. The Divine is not mad, nor cruel, nor a tyrant that He would be pleased by your self-torture. He delights in your delight, rejoices in your “Aho!” When you brim with rasa, existence is deeply gladdened.

Even scientists now report: if someone plays the flute or sitar with joy near trees, they blossom more; fruit set earlier, ripen sooner, and taste better. This is research, not poetry. When milking cows, if sweet music is played, they give more milk. Experiments are being done worldwide. Seeds sown together in two fields, both given equal water, manure, sunlight; only one difference—music for one half. The half with music grew plants twice as big, fruits twice as large; they grew faster and bore more, with greater savor. Plants understand music—will God not? Stones understand—will God not?

If you are full of rasa, God begins to flow toward you. Out-of-season flowers will bloom in you; new leaves will sprout; greenness will abound. Fruits and flowers will come. A deep contentment will surround you. You will know for the first time the meaning of contentment. What you heard before was rubbish—like the fox saying grapes are sour because she could not reach them. Your “contentment” has been just that—self-consolation. You too wanted wealth but could not attain it in the ruthless race of millions; you were knocked down and, lying flat, declared, “We are content. We need nothing. We are happy in our dust. We do not want thrones.” This is consolation, not contentment.

You are dead, and with you even noble principles have died. Whatever gold falls into your hands turns to dirt—you are astonishing magicians. True contentment is when flowers and fruits arise within you, when life expresses its full potential; when you sing the song you came to sing, dance the dance you came to dance. Then contentment wells up by itself—no need to impose it. It rises within, awakens, envelops you, overflows. To know that contentment, make life full of rasa and raas. Miss no occasion for song, dance, joy. Therefore I say: be full of rasa, full of raas. That is the second step. When love fills you, your lamp is filled with oil.

Then the third, meditation—the science of striking the flint so the flame leaps up. Witnessing is its method. Watch thought, watch desire, watch craving—do not fight, only see. Sit silently and watch. Watching and only watching, becoming only a witness—such fire is kindled that the lamp flares up.

Buddha spoke of the goal; I am speaking of the means. Without the means, talk of the goal is meaningless. Keep repeating “Appa Deepo Bhava, be a light unto yourself,” carve it on your chest, make a lamp and hang it, even tattoo it—the repetition will not bring light.

Forget tomorrow’s tales—celebrate today
Yesterday’s stories breed sorrow, poison in a cup
This whirl of tomorrows has trapped you in the impossible
Step out of that maze—do not repent too late
Forget tomorrow’s tales—celebrate today

What you dreamt last night—do not mistake it for life, my friend
Fall in love each day with today’s beautiful dreams
Do not lose your years in yesterday’s lies
Forget tomorrow’s tales—celebrate today

Today’s magic, today’s talk—is your garden’s gift
Today’s troubles are only for today—tomorrow they will be defeated
Today is sure—do today’s work today
Forget tomorrow’s tales—celebrate today

Mind lives in yesterday and in the yet-to-come; these two keep the witness from awakening. Do not give much value to the past or the future. This moment—here and now—shake yourself awake.

A Sufi master told his disciples: snap your fingers, slap your face—and wake up now! Like a drowsy man stretching as he rises—the master was right: snap, stretch—and if that fails, give yourself a slap. Jolt yourself—and wake! Then you won’t say “the flint of consciousness won’t strike.” It will. The two millstones that grind you become two flints when you are a witness. The very wheels in which people are crushed—rubbing those same stones, people become Buddhas. The stones are the same, the opportunity the same, life the same; only the way of using it differs.

Go—bring a new dawn
How long will you sit in darkness, making small talk?
How long will you deck this palace with dry leaves?
Autumn will pass—monsoon will come
On life’s branches the cuckoo will sway and sing
Erase your mourning too
Forget the bonds of silence
Sing songs of meeting—sing!
Go—bring a new dawn

Autumn’s harsh season has hurt you
It has yellowed you like the dead leaves
This yellowing will fade when flowers bloom everywhere
In the gardens, a heady fragrance will dance
Leave the tales of that night
Forget those burning nights
Light the immortal flame of love
Go—bring a new dawn

Make the lamp of the soul—but make it a lamp of love.

Light the immortal flame of love—
Go—bring a new dawn.

And where do you have to go? Light the flame of love—and the dawn comes by itself; it comes seeking you.

Narendra, Buddha speaks of the goal; I speak of the means. Both express the same truth from different dimensions. Without the means the goal has no meaning. If the means are there, the goal will be reached. If there is a path, you will arrive at the destination. Keep talking of the destination without knowing the path, and you will be left with talk alone. Therefore even if you forget the destination, it will do; do not forget the path. Forgetting the goal may be forgiven—forgetting the means cannot.

That is why the fundamental cornerstone of dharma is the means—hence dharma is called sadhana, disciplined practice. If the means are rightly in our hands, the goal will bear fruit. No need to worry about its ripening. If you give the right manure, water in time, allow sunlight, and sow the seed in its season, then at the right time shoots will appear. Then put a fence so tender sprouts are not destroyed—and only for a little while. When the tree grows, it will protect itself—then even the fence can be removed. Sannyas serves both purposes: it gives you the means—what to do—and it gives you the way to protect the new shoots. A moment comes when there is no more need of protection, no more concern for manure and water; the tree is great, its roots reach deep, its branches talk with the stars; it stands on its own. You can sit at ease. That state is Buddhahood—when means are no longer needed and you have attained the state of Siddha.

You must become your own lamp. How will you? Gather as much love as you can—that is auspicious. And strike the flint of awareness as much as you can—that is blessed.

Haridev! Satsang delivers you in a moment; the saints are right. But who told you that study and contemplation are satsang? Study and contemplation are a way to avoid satsang. They mean: “We’ll manage with a book—why go to a living master?”

A book has one convenience: open it when you feel like it, close it when you don’t. If you get angry, throw it away. If you feel devotional, offer flowers to it. If you’re not in the mood, leave it unopened for months—let the dust settle. If you are in the mood, open it daily and sit with it. The book is in your hands; you are not in the book’s hands. You can do whatever you want with a book—but what can a book do with you?

And then you can impose whatever meanings you wish upon it. Who can stop you? A book can’t say, “Wait, my friend—that is not what I mean.” A book cannot speak. What is a book? Lines of ink drawn on paper. Who will give it meaning? You will.

Understand.

Your Gita is lying there, and an ant is walking on it. The ant will know nothing of what Krishna is saying to Arjuna. It keeps going round and round the same place. You toss it away; ants are stubborn, hatha-yogis—they come back to the very spot. Don’t think that means it has some deep attachment to the Gita. “Look, I throw it off, and it returns—circling around ‘Bhagavan uvacha.’” But the ant doesn’t know what is here. It doesn’t even know it’s a book. But don’t laugh at the ant. If you don’t know Arabic, what is the Qur’an for you? If you don’t know Sanskrit, what are the Upanishads for you? There is no meaning left in them—meaning is something we put in.

And when you read a book, what do you read? Can you truly read what was said? Impossible! The Gita was spoken five thousand years ago. In five thousand years everything has changed. Everything! Nothing is the same. Those to whom the Gita was addressed were different; their ways of thinking and understanding, their styles of living, were different. There is no connection between their way of life and yours.

Do you think that if Krishna met you today he would speak the same Gita—“O Arjuna! Why have you dropped the Gandiva?” First he would be startled: where is the Gandiva to drop? He would be puzzled: where is the chariot? Where are the elephants and horses? Where are the Kauravas and Pandavas? And Arjuna is standing at a station, a pen tucked behind his ear, issuing tickets! Or in some office, eyes buried in files, forever sliding his spectacles down his nose! Seeing such an Arjuna, Krishna too would exclaim, “O Arjuna! What has happened to you? Spectacles on your nose—being a kshatriya? ‘Swadharme nidhanam shreyah, paradharmo bhayavahah!’ What are you doing—paradharma? Sliding spectacles down your nose, sitting with a pen behind your ear? What happened to your swadharma?” And Arjuna would reply, “Sir, come to your senses! What are you talking about? What age are you speaking of?”

In five thousand years even the meanings of words have changed. Words travel long journeys. Honored words become dishonored; dishonored words become honored. Even garbage heaps have their day! As time moves on, words pick up new meanings. Old meanings slowly fade. Words have no inherent meaning; they must take their meaning from the age.

What meaning will you impose on the Gita when you read it? Haridev, what will you do with study and contemplation? You will install your own meanings—meanings that are not there. You cannot install any other meanings, because those other meanings are not in you. To understand Krishna, you need a consciousness like Krishna’s—nothing less will do. To understand Buddha, you need a consciousness like Buddha’s—nothing less will do. Buddha is not in Buddha’s words; Buddha is in Buddha’s consciousness. From that consciousness the words arose; so they carry Buddha’s resonance. But by the time they reach you, that resonance is lost; your resonance gets mixed in. You will not hear what Buddha said; you will hear only what you are able to hear. You will grasp only what you are capable of grasping.

By study and contemplation you do not reach truth. Yes, you can become a scholar—but not wise. You can gain intellect—but not Buddhahood. Your information will increase immensely, but not a single drop of knowing will descend. Books are like dried flowers: no fragrance, no nectar. Dried flowers may deceive people, but if you place dried flowers out, bees will not come humming and dancing over them. The bees will not sing. You cannot deceive the bees.

There is a story from the life of King Solomon. Solomon was one of the few truly wise men in the world—a man like Janaka, who attained supreme enlightenment while seated on a throne. His fame for wisdom spread far and wide—it has not faded even today. And it is not only that—Solomon was a Jew—his renown did not remain confined to the Jews; it spread to the far horizons. In every corner of the world, in every people, there are sayings of this kind—even in India. If someone begins to display great cleverness, people say, “What a Suleman he’s become!” That “Suleman” points to Solomon. The speaker may not even know that in his language Solomon became Suleman, yet he still says, “Suleman’s child! What do you think you are?”

Solomon’s wisdom was legendary. The Queen of Ethiopia came to test him. In her two hands she held flowers. She had summoned master craftsmen to make artificial roses—fake flowers. In one hand, the fake; in the other, the real. She appeared in Solomon’s court and said, “O King, I have heard much of your wisdom. Can you tell me in which hand is the real flower and in which the fake?” Solomon looked intently for a moment and understood the trickiness of it. Both looked identical. In truth, the fake appeared even better, so artfully made. Solomon said, “I am getting a little old, and my eyes are weak. Open the doors and windows so that more light can come in, then I can see clearly.”

The doors and windows were opened. He kept watching, and then he said, “In your left hand is the real flower.” The whole court was astonished! The Queen of Ethiopia, too, was amazed. She asked, “How did you know?” Solomon said, “Why hide it? I did not have the windows opened for more light—the light was enough. I had them opened so that a bee from the garden might come in. What I cannot discern, a bee can. And one bee did enter. The flower on which it sat—that one is real. The one it did not sit on is fake. You didn’t notice. Look closely: on the real flower a bee has come to rest. A bee was found sitting there.”

You cannot deceive a bee with a false flower—but a man can be deceived. Man himself has become so false that all the falsehood around him easily ensnares him.

Haridev, you have been studying and contemplating the words of the saints. What will you accomplish by study! You will have memorized things like a parrot. You will begin repeating Kabir’s sayings, Rahim’s sayings. But how can you be certain that Kabir arrived? And how could you be certain? Without arriving oneself, no one can ever be sure.

And who else will bear the weight of the gun on his shoulder! When so many Buddhas are around, available and willing, and of their own accord come and say, “Master, when will you choose my shoulder?”... Paltu had been after me for many days: “You’ve spoken on Kabir, on Dadu, on Farid, on Nanak—why leave out a poor one like me?”

I am firing with the gun placed on Paltu’s shoulder because among you there are some who once passed by Paltu and missed him. Yet some faint remembrance must still be swaying somewhere; some fragrance must have brushed an inner chamber. If I can revive that memory, perhaps by that very pretext you will come close to me. I speak on Nanak, on Buddha, on Mahavira, on Krishna, on Christ, on Lao Tzu only for this reason: you are travelers without end, and who knows in whose satsang you have once been. Some echo is bound to remain—even after births upon births—I am calling to that echo again.

It will make things easier. Perhaps you cannot grasp me at once. Then understand by way of Paltu. Perhaps you cannot grasp me directly—then understand by way of Mahavira. For me, all these are pretexts. I could just say it straight: whatever I have to say, that is what I am saying… Do you think I worry about Paltu! Wherever I feel, I turn him around. He may shout and make a clamour; I tell him, “You are Paltu—the one who turns—be quiet! If I’ve turned you a little, what of it!... Times have changed, people have changed; I will have to give many turnings.”

What would you read, after all? But since you carry such an itch for study and contemplation, I speak on the enlightened ones so that the itch of your study and rumination may be soothed. Let that itch be satisfied too. Then I will set you to the real work, which is satsang. Satsang does not mean scripture; satsang means to join with the living Truth—the company of Truth. Not of words, not of doctrine. To be joined to the one who has known. But the courage to join only gathers gradually. This is a thing that comes about as it is wooed; it doesn’t happen all at once. You have to be coaxed—coaxed with great skill. Melting your ego is no ordinary game. And without the ego melting, there is no satsang. When you dissolve, satsang happens. I have dissolved; if you too dissolve, then at once our two zeros become one.

Zeroes are not two. Bring two zeros together—there are not two, there is one zero. Add two zeros, or three, or a thousand—only one zero results. There the rules of mathematics do not apply. Zero is outside the rules of mathematics.

Here I sit as zero. This sound that is here is the sound of zero. You can be joined to this sound—if you become zero. Satsang will happen, Haridev! From reading the words of the saints at least this much has happened, that you have come here. You must also have come thinking that there is discussion going on about the saints. Caught! There is talk of saints, but behind it the matter is something else. Just as when one hooks a fish, a bit of dough is put on the hook. The fish will not come to be caught by the hook itself; seeing the hook she flees far away. Seeing the dough, she comes near. Here the dough sticks in the throat, and only then does she realize she is caught, entangled in the hook. But by then it’s too late. There is no way back.

These Paltu, these Kabir, these Dadu, these Maluk—all are the dough. The hook is satsang.

So, by this pretext you have come. Perhaps you had a relish for Paltu, so Haridev thought, “Let’s go!” You read Paltu so much, studied him, pondered him—now let’s hear what an awakened one says about Paltu. But now it is beyond returning! Haridev, the hook has taken hold! You have even taken sannyas! You had not come with that in mind. The things that truly matter do not happen by your thinking. Many things happen without your thinking, and truly, only those things that happen without your thinking are precious. What you think out is petty. By leaning on scriptures you will not reach—no one ever has.

Will you cross the Vaitarani
on others’ shoulders,
and act the cripple
in a congregation of the blind?
Cut off your own legs,
hang them upon the trees—
the nakedness of autumn
will be covered a little.

New flowers, new leaves—
without being watered by blood
they cannot withstand
the gusting breath of hot winds.

The craze is new
to deck the garden
with plastic flowers—
perhaps the water has died
in the generations of gardeners;
no one is ready
to become manure.

And when people are not ready to become manure, where is satsang? When people are not ready to become manure, then one has to make do with plastic flowers. Scriptures are plastic flowers. Satsang is the art of coming near—the art of coming near the Master.

If you fall in love with someone—with a woman, with a man—will a photograph suffice? Will your heart be satisfied pressing a picture to your chest? No, you will want to be close to the living person; you will want to take their hand in your hand, to embrace, to immerse yourself in their life, to immerse their life in yours. Satsang is just like that, on a higher dimension—it is a deep love, love deeper than love.

Do not stay so far
lest the fragrance be lost somewhere;
let the warmth come near,
lest the light grow dim.

I have seen you after lifetimes—
sunlight like champa, half shade all around;
the world spun, I forgot even this much;
time has swept away, taking all my palash.

Take these words,
lest even the song fall asleep somewhere;
let the warmth come near,
lest the light grow dim.

Tempting arches of festival adorn the body;
why raise glass walls over sweetness?
The boats of desire have crashed and sunk;
all my resonances keep returning and returning.

Tender is the flower of love—
may its blooming not cease;
let the warmth come near,
lest the light grow dim.

Was there some lack in my abundant giving,
or did your eye miss in recognition,
or was it all your play in your surmise,
or was it my mistake in your smile?

Unfasten the body’s bonds—
let the mind become the ocean of samadhi;
let the warmth come near,
lest the light grow dim.

Do not stay so far,
lest the fragrance be lost somewhere.

A lover longs to be close to the beloved. The beloved longs to be close to the lover.

Do not stay so far
lest the fragrance be lost somewhere;
let the warmth come near,
lest the light grow dim.

On a still higher plane the same event happens between disciple and master. Its name is satsang. When the master’s warmth begins to reach the disciple’s ego and melt it. When the master’s blazing fire begins to turn the disciple to ash.

Come near, Haridev! Closer and closer! Do not stand far off. From being sunk too long in scriptures, you acquire the habit of staying at a distance. Between a scripture and a person, nearness never happens. A scripture has no warmth—what is there to fear? A scripture is cold, a dead corpse!

You are fortunate: you have come to a place where scripture is still alive, where scripture is taking birth right now. But come near! Endure the heat! Burn! Let the warmth melt your ice-like state. Let the coldness of the ego flow away. Let this ice of yours melt—let yourself flow away completely; when within only the empty zero remains, then the Full will descend. Then you will know. Before that, there is no knowing.

Hari Bharti! You have said something to the point—but it is not your own! It is to the point, yes. Whoever first said it must have known; for them it was apt. For you it can even be dangerous.

You say:
“What can a human really give to another?
Man is only a pretext; only God gives.”

Said by one who knows, it is right. But in the hands of the unknowing, its meaning turns upside down. For the knower it means: only God is—where is man? So what can man give? And what can he take? The giver is He, the receiver is He.

But when the unknowing clutch this phrase, its meaning becomes: what is there in man anyway? What can a person give or receive? If the giver is God, you will drop gratitude toward people, drop love, drop the feeling of grace. It becomes your condemnation of human beings. “What can a human give to a human!”—so why bow at anyone’s feet? Why thank anyone? “The giver is God!” This “God” is only your alibi—so that you don’t have to thank the person. A fine cover, a lovely cover—you have found a sweet pretext! In such matters people are great tricksters. It happens unawares, in a kind of stupor.

But if indeed it is God who gives through man, if within man it is God who lives, then bow at human feet. Then bow at the feet of whomever you meet—because only the Divine is, there is none else!

There are two ways to take it. One: that God is in everything—so bow even before a stone. Even in the worst of people, God is. However filthy the garments he wears, God is there. In whatever guise He comes, it is God.

A brahmin used to bring food every day to Shirdi’s Sai Baba. Baba lived in a mosque. No one knew whether he was Hindu or Muslim. With such people it is difficult to tell. Now, will you ever be able to tell about me—am I Hindu or Muslim, Christian or Buddhist, Jew or Parsi? You will never be able to tell. Why? Because such people are not confined within any boundary. … He lived in a mosque, and this brahmin brought food daily. He had a vow: until Sai Baba had eaten, he himself would not eat. Sometimes it got late. Sometimes Sai Baba was lost in bhajan; sometimes lost in pelting stones at people, or chasing them with a stick; sometimes lost in scolding and abusing—the crowd in an uproar! So delays would happen.

One day Sai Baba said, “You walk five miles for nothing. By the time you arrive it is evening, and only then can you eat. From tomorrow, I will come. You don’t come.” The brahmin was delighted. Next day he cooked very delicious food, made sweets. From early morning he prepared everything, wondering when Baba might arrive. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one—no sign! Two o’clock—no sign. Four o’clock—nothing. He ran off with the plate. At dusk he reached Baba and said, “Did you forget?” Sai Baba said, “I—and forget? You think I can forget? I came, but foolish one, you drove me away from the door! Not only drove me away—you chased me with a stick!” The brahmin said, “This is too much—what are you saying? Are you in your senses? I’ve been sitting since morning with the plate laid out; not a single person even showed up!” Sai Baba said, “When did I say I would come in a human form? Did a dog not come?” The brahmin had forgotten. Then he remembered—yes, a dog had come. Not only come, it tried several times to approach—and it headed straight for the plate! He said, “Yes, a dog came, and it kept going straight for the plate.” Sai Baba said, “I thought the plate was set for me, so I went straight to it. And you struck me with a stick! You didn’t even let me enter the house, so I went back.”

The brahmin said, “Forgive me. I made a mistake. I didn’t know. You have given me a wonderful message—that only the One is enthroned. Come tomorrow! It won’t happen again.”

Next day the brahmin set the plate and sat waiting—for the dog to arrive. But there was no sign of a dog. He even went around the neighborhood lest the dog had strayed. He found one or two stray dogs, tried to bring them in, but they wouldn’t come! He threatened, even showed the stick—and they ran farther away! He was baffled. Again dusk approached; he went to Baba and said, “Master, the whole day I have been troubled, chasing the strays of the village. I never imagined the village’s stray dogs would refuse delicious food! I try to call them, they won’t come; I show them bread, they run. I feel as if I got caught in some trap.”

Sai Baba said, “I did come—but you turned me away. I came like a beggar.” “Oh,” he said, “then why didn’t you say so yesterday! Today I waited for a dog, and You thought to come as a beggar! A beggar did come two or three times; I was so annoyed—‘Will you go or not? This food is not for you.’ So You came as a beggar? Tomorrow, then!”

Sai Baba said, “This won’t work for you. Tomorrow you will wait for a beggar. Who knows in what guise I will come tomorrow! Better you bring it yourself. That is easier. Otherwise you get entangled in confusion.”

Existence is vast.

For those who know, Hari Bharti, these very words on their lips carry this meaning:
“What can a human really give to another?
Man is only a pretext; only God gives.”
There is no opposition to man in this. It is an acceptance of the Divine in each person. But without knowing, in unawareness and ignorance, the meaning turns completely. Then “God” becomes only your pretext. What do you know of God? Have you ever met God? You have met a man, a dog, a cat, an elephant, a horse, a tree—but have you ever met God? In the name of God you will deny everyone. And such a God, as whose cover you are taking, is nowhere. God is hidden in everything. Wherever there is the feeling of “I-ness,” there God is.

See that you don’t regret it later.
In every home the same seven-hued song of the One whose remembrance haunts you—
See that you don’t regret it later.

You gaze at your face in the mirror, and stretch your hand behind the shadow;
Sitting between walls, you search for your world;
In every home that same One laughs when a new bud blushes—
See that you don’t regret it later.

Somersaulting, little children frolic and squeal;
Into the house a new deity descends when the vine bears fruit;
When night falls, in blue eyes that same One smiles—
See that you don’t regret it later.

Listen: sorrow is His slanting glance, joy His smile;
Within yourself He is called your own; in the enemy, God;
In this roadside inn, in changing disguises, the same One comes, the same One goes—
See that you don’t regret it later.

Hari Bharti, keep it in remembrance: only That is! Even when He gives through man, it is He who gives. But for that very reason, do not forget gratitude toward the person. If He gives through trees, it is He who gives. But do not forget gratitude toward the trees. The more one is filled with gratitude, the nearer one comes to God. To be suffused with gratitude is the supreme refinement of prayer.

Enough for today.