Sapna Yeh Sansar #19

Forceful motion fills the feet—
then why should I stand, waiting from door to door?
Now—today—before me
so long a road lies spread.
Till I attain the goal there is no rest for me,
walking is our work.

Some I spoke, some you heard—
my burden split and lightened.
Good it was that you met me—
a little of the road got spent.
What shall I call acquaintance met on the way?—
traveler is our name,
walking is our work.

Life, ever incomplete,
sometimes finds, sometimes loses;
encircled by hope and despair—
sometimes laughing, sometimes in tears.
Let neither speed nor sense be blocked—
let this be remembered day and night,
walking is our work.

In this vast world-flow
who has not had to be borne along?
Joy and sorrow, like ours—
who has not had to endure?
Then why should I wander crying
that fate is against me?
Walking is our work.

In search of completeness
I kept roaming from door to door.
At every step
some stone kept hindering.
Why then should I lose heart?—
this itself is life’s name:
walking is our work.

Some walked alongside awhile,
some turned back midway—
but life’s pace did not halt.
Those who fell, fell.
He who keeps moving always—
his success is unending delight;
walking is our work.

I only know this much:
who erases himself, he has lived;
who closes the eyes at ease
and drinks two sips with a smile—
he for whom nectar is mixed with poison—
that is the cup of Saki.
Walking is our work.

Dharma is a journey.
What we ordinarily call life would seem like a journey too—but it is not a journey. It is the illusion of journey. A journey is that which brings you somewhere. A journey is that which arrives where there remains no further place to go. A journey is that which joins you to the destination—unites you with Ram. For when Ram is found, there is rest. Until Ram, there is no rest; until then there is feverish haste, running, worry and sorrow.

Until Ram is found, what you take to be journey is the ox at the oil-press. Round and round it goes, the same circle, the same path trodden a thousand times. You will reach nowhere. And like that ox, walking and walking, one day you will fall. The illusion will remain that you are moving. But does one arrive merely by moving? There is an art to walking, a direction to walking. There is a science of walking—and very few know how to walk.

All walk, but only those know walking who arrive: a Buddha, a Krishna, a Kabir, a Palatu, a Nanak, a Mohammed—one who can say, I have come. Who can say, no desire remains. Or if he cannot say so, then the very sound of his life, his grace, his presence, his nearness, his pulsation, give you the proof that what was worth attaining has been attained. Seed has become blossom. New moon has become full moon. When life becomes such a journey, the name of that art, that science, is Dharma.

And how will this be? There are millions of people. All are walking—not just walking, running.

I have heard: a very fast-flying airplane—the pilot announced on the intercom that there are two items, one bad, one good. First the bad news: our compass has failed. We do not know where we are. And we do not know where we are going. Second, the good news: wherever we are and wherever we are going, we are going fast.

People are not merely walking, they are rushing. They do not know where they are. They do not know where they are going. They do not know whence they have come. Yet there is haste, great speed, an impetuous velocity. People have not a moment’s leisure. No time to remember Ram for two breaths, to drown for two moments in prayer. Speak of prayer, meditation, and people say: where is the time? Life’s hustle is so much. No leisure. Where are you going? Why are you going? Ahead of you too people have walked and are falling into graves. You too will fall. However you walk, wherever you go, you will arrive only at the grave. The poor arrive, the rich arrive. On foot and on horseback. Under canopies of gold or sweating in the sun—but all fall into the pit of death.

He who knows the nectar before death—understand, he alone is the traveler.

Then people grow weary of this so-called journey. The same every day—the same shop, the same house, the same eating, the same drinking, the same wealth. And one even sees that those who have wealth—what have they gained? Those who have position—what have they gained? There is no peace in their eyes; no song in their breath; no festival in their life. It is visible even if you do not wish to see. All around it is so—how far will you escape, how will you escape?

But what to do? The whole world is running. If we do not run we will be left behind. This fear keeps us rushing—that we may not be left behind. Whether we reach or not is not so much the worry; the greater worry is that we not fall behind others. Competition is there; an ego which keeps us on the run.

And if ever even this becomes visible, and the understanding dawns that the race is futile, that this journey is no journey, then people set out on pilgrimage: to Kashi, to Kaba, to Girnar. One stupidity is not dropped before the next is grasped. Essentially our stupidity remains the same. Whether you go to Calcutta or to Kashi, what difference? The goer is the same. The drinker is the same. In your vessel even nectar will turn to poison. In your hand even gold will become dust. And I am not speaking of theory—this is your experience: whatever you touched, turned to dust.

Until you change, nothing will happen. Until your inner alchemy changes, your inner chemistry alters, nothing will happen. Until you become Paras—touchstone—nothing will happen. Yes, become Paras, and the iron you touch will turn to gold. The poison you drink will become nectar. The name of this wondrous art, by which you become Paras and your inner chemistry changes—that is Dharma.

These sutras of Palatu point toward that alchemy.

Abandon the company that is hostile to Hari-charcha—discussion of the Divine.

First thing Palatu says: where there is enmity toward Hari-charcha, leave that company soon. Before the disease catches you, run from there—do not even look back. In that discussion there is taste, there is entanglement, there is argument—much possibility of deception. It may appear meaningful. What argument is there in favor of God? God is beyond argument. To this day no argument has been given—for him. All arguments stand against. If you pay heed to argument, the atheist will seem right, not the theist. The theist is a moth, a mad lover. If you focus on argument, the atheist will seem justified. His logic is shapely, strong, based on proper ground. To find fault in what the atheist says is difficult.

Understand this well.

To defeat an atheist in debate is impossible—for debate is his world. With the atheist there can be dispute, not dialogue. He has no address of the Paramatma; but he can give proofs that there is no God. And one who knows God cannot give any proof for him.

This is a headless riddle.

He who has known—he has found it like jaggery to the mute. He has experienced that no word can reveal it. It does not come into expression. It can be known, but it does not fit into knowledge. It is bigger than us, vaster than us. We drown in it, melt in it, dissolve—become one. Now the drop that has fallen into the ocean, become one—what proof can it give of the sea? Where has it remained? Its separateness is no more, its own existence is no more—what proof, of whom, who will give it?

Those who have known remain silent regarding God. Those who have not known are very vocal. He who gives proofs about God is as ignorant as he who gives proofs against God. About God, proof cannot be given. This is the business of drunkards, not of proofs. This is a matter of ecstasy, not of logic. Yes, it can be known. It is known only in satsang. Those who sit drinking—reeling in ecstasy—who set foot here and it lands there, whose inner being is overflowing with joy—sitting near them, perhaps a little drizzle may fall on you too. Keep their satsang. Wherever Hari-charcha happens, sit there; get dyed in that hue.

But where there is enmity toward Hari-charcha, Palatu says: renounce that company at once. For those words will seem very reasonable to your intellect. They will make a deep impression on your skull. Your skull will become thoroughly convinced: so it is. Your ego desires that God not be. Therefore whoever gives you proofs that God is not will seem pleasing—because it will honor your ego, strengthen it, nourish it.

Friedrich Nietzsche has said: God is not, cannot be, because I am. Two swords cannot fit in one sheath. Nietzsche’s statement is worth pondering. A very thoughtful man’s statement. Though his thoughtfulness took him into derangement—he went mad. He had to go mad. The more you are broken away from God, the more your roots separate from existence. And how long will a tree, severed from the earth, remain green? How long will its buds become blossoms? How long will its flowers have fragrance? How long will birds build nests on it? Soon it will dry. Soon a skeleton will remain. Travelers will not sit in its shade—there will be no shade; birds will not flit and sing around it—there will be no greenery. A tree whose roots are torn from the soil dies; so too man is a tree. His roots are in the Paramatma. Invisible is that Paramatma, invisible our roots. Even trees’ roots—where are they seen? They too are buried in earth, invisible in that sense. Ours are still more invisible, for our roots are not material; they are of consciousness.

Consciousness is an invisible happening. We are connected through consciousness to the Paramatma. The more we deny God, the more our roots break. The more sick and deranged we become. What happened in Nietzsche’s life is now happening in the life of the whole world.

Nietzsche had also said: I am a prophecy. What is happening to me will happen to every man within a hundred years. His prophecy is proving true. The modern man is as anxious, as depressed, as defeated and weary, as crushed under the burden of meaninglessness as never before in any age. Man has cut his own roots. You are all Kalidasa, sitting on the very branch you are cutting. We are joined to the Paramatma and we are severing our joints, breaking our bridges.

Beware of those people; keep away from those places where anti-Paramatma talk is happening. Though your mind will want to sit there—because it is in the mind’s interest that God not be. Your ego will say: hear a little more of this. For the ego can live only so long as you are not joined to God. The more you join, the less the ego.

Keep this arithmetic in awareness.

The more separate from God, the more the ego. The more with God, the less the ego. The day you are wholly with him, that day no ego remains. Within you not even the feeling remains that I am. Only one refrain remains: He is. Only He is. Only He is.

Abandon the company hostile to Hari-charcha.

Questions lie scattered here on every side—
but I have not a single answer.
Evening came; earth and sky fell silent—
in the eyes rose clouds of dusk-dust;
weighted, the eyelids drooped and moistened.
Evening asked: this sadness—what for?
But I have not a single answer.

Night came; blackness kept thickening.
In the dense dark the doors of the mind swung open;
embers of burning began to laugh.
Night asked: this burning—what for?
But I have not a single answer.

Sleep came; all consciousness stilled.
The body, tired, slept—but to the life-breath
came the magic lanes of dream.
Sleep asked: these forgettings—why?
But I have not a single answer.

Questions lie scattered here on every side—
but I have not a single answer.

While the atheists have all the answers—answers upon answers. And the theist has none. The supreme theist has neither answers nor questions—a questionless, answerless silence. Only in that silence is it known. That silence is meditation; that silence is Samadhi.

But if you are in search of answers, you will not escape the net of atheism—because there are answers there. And the questions for which the atheist has no answers—he simply denies those very things; there he uses the logic of the ostrich. Seeing the enemy, the ostrich buries its head in sand. That is the logic of the atheist.

The ostrich buries its head—the enemy is not seen; what is not seen, is not. Matter finished; now why fear the enemy! But because you do not see, a thing does not vanish. If it is, it is—whether seen or unseen. To the blind, light is not seen—that does not end light. Only the blind collides with walls, with stones; he gropes his way. To the deaf, sound is not heard—this does not end music; rivers do not stop their tinkling flow; the clouds do not cease their thunder; lightning does not stop cracking; birds go on singing; ocean waves go on dancing against the shores; only the deaf knows nothing of it. Sound does not vanish.

So is the atheist. He does not see the Paramatma. But God is not an object to be seen. God is that which sees. Who within you is the seer? Even the atheist sees. Who is the one who sees? That very seer is Paramatma. God is not the seen, God is the Seer; the Sakshi within you. The name of your witnessing consciousness in its supreme purity is Paramatma. You will experience him when all objects fall away—when only the seer remains. When there is nothing left to be seen, only the seeing energy remains—then that energy curls back upon itself, like a serpent coiling. That curling upon itself is the experience of God.

But if you have questions, people who give answers will gather around you. Whether they are atheists or theists, to the knower they are all atheists. He who gives you answers is an atheist; he who leads you toward the answerless is the theist. And if the awakened one gives you answers at all, it is only to take away your answers—like using a thorn to remove a thorn.

The Buddhas too have given answers—but their answers are not answers; they are only thorns that pull out your thorns of questions and answers. When the embedded thorn is out, you throw away both thorns—the one that was stuck and the one that removed it. Both are thorns, both valueless. Health is in being free of both.

Avoid those places where there is no talk of the Lord. Avoid those places where there is anti-Lord talk. And seek those places—becoming harder and harder these days—where Hari-charcha is not the parroted prattle of pundits, but the voice of some awakened, enlightened one.

These two are two sides of one coin: renounce those hostile to Hari-charcha, and wherever Hari-charcha flows—there, drown.

Today, like monsoon massing in the sky,
your memory gathered again.
The wound was almost healed—then a touch by the south-wind made it green;
Pain had only blinked—when suddenly the cloud called my name;
The heart was hushed a little—then the pitiless papiha cried, my beloved;
The couch was somewhat dry—then the sky played the flute of drops.
Sobs of breath, the eyes rained, the thirsty pupils trembled into hiccups—
By how many ways I cannot tell—
my house was startled by your memory.

Some latch clicked somewhere—the chest began to throb with restlessness.
Some Malhar echoed—shivering, the lamp-wick’s flame went dim.
Some drop scattered—scattering, the threaded garland of dreams fell apart.
Some fragrance wafted—the rainy river of eyes surged forth.
The oar of patience slipped—the boat drifted into some unknown sea—
Where all did it sink, I cannot say—
when your memory flooded in.

Dreams turned to oblation—when the night, by no means, would be cut short.
Tears became ascetics—when the raining pupils would not stop.
Whenever the heart moaned on the breasts of mountain upon mountain—
I gathered embers—but by no means did the embracing arms find sleep.
Sometimes tears, sometimes the burning, sometimes the eyes, sometimes dreams—
Do you know, without you, by what—
by whom your memory was consoled?

Childhood returned—time’s ornaments lay shattered;
Not one, but all the games, all the players—went far away.
Entering the house of the present descended a palanquin of the past.
Whatever moments were left of age—were forced to depart.
Now as birth, now as death; now as sun, now as shade—
How many times here—
your forgotten, bewildering memory came.

Sit where such a forgotten remembrance—forgotten through births upon births—revives again, grows green again. Where some wound, some pain, some love is rekindled.

Today, like monsoon in the sky,
your memory gathered again.
Wherever Hari-charcha is alive, there clouds gather again, monsoon returns.

The wound was almost healed—then a touch by the south-wind made it green;
Pain had only blinked—when suddenly the cloud called my name;
The heart was hushed a little—then the pitiless papiha cried, my beloved;
The couch was somewhat dry—then the sky played the flute of drops;
Sobs of breath, the eyes rained, the thirsty pupils trembled into hiccups—
By how many ways I cannot tell—
my house was startled by your memory.

As the papiha calls to the beloved. As from the far forest a cry—pi kahaan?—where is the beloved?—surrounds you. Wherever satsang happens, where the praise of that supreme Beloved is sung—sit there, rise there, be dyed there. Who knows what touch may happen! Who knows which gust of wind may blow away the dust-layers inside you, cleanse the mirror.

The heart was hushed a little—then the pitiless papiha cried, my beloved.

What do the awakened ones do? Coming near your heart, they say—Beloved! They call the one asleep within you. Someone within takes a long stretch and rises. Then everywhere his knock is heard.

Some latch clicked somewhere—the chest began to throb with restlessness.
Some Malhar echoed—shivering, the lamp’s wick went dim.
Some drop scattered—scattering, the threaded dreams fell apart.
Some fragrance wafted—the rainy river of eyes surged forth.
The oar of patience slipped—the boat drifted into an unknown ocean—
Where all did it sink—
when your memory set sail.

Paramatma is an unknown ocean. There, boats are not rowed by oars. What worth has the oar! There you must leave the boat upon the very ocean—trust to the ocean itself. There, those who dare to take the storm as the shore arrive across.

Wherever satsang is, there is a call. Where it is not—avoid it.

Abandon the company hostile to Hari-charcha.
Before your intellect is injured, run at once.
Do not delay; do not postpone. Do not say—just a little while more. Even a moment there is dangerous.

Before your intellect is injured, run at once.

Whatever you gain by such company—wealth, position, prestige—none of it is of any use, for death will snatch it all.

Ah yes, Palatu: he is no friend but a villain who is hostile to Ram.

Do not honor public opinion, scriptures, lineage.
Place good and bad upon your head alike—keep on worshiping God.

Let go of small things—public honor. How petty the entanglements: caste, clan, lineage, status, decorum—how much value you give to the meaningless! It is only accidental into what house you were born—Brahmin or shudra. Do not strut around swollen with pride. Grow your tuft a bit and wear a sacred thread and smear sandalwood on your forehead—do not strut about vainly! A little wealth, a little position, prestige—do not go mad. These are matters to drown yourself in a palm of water. No depth in them.

Do not honor public opinion, scriptures, lineage.
Place good and bad upon your head alike—keep on worshiping God.

Forget all this. Let people hurl insults—fine. Let people honor—fine. Let them dishonor—fine.

Place good and bad upon your head alike—keep on worshiping God.

Accept all—good and bad; embrace honor and dishonor. But do not drop one thing—do not drop the remembrance of God. If all else is lost, it will do—because all is going to be lost. Let God remain—that is enough. Only one thing death cannot seize—your experience of Paramatma. All else will be snatched. That which death can snatch—this is the touchstone. Its futility is proven. As the goldsmith tests gold on the stone—so in life death is the touchstone. Let death be your touchstone. Test at death’s stone—whatever comes out raw at death is trash.

Always ponder: whatever you are investing your time in—can you carry it beyond death? If you can, then it is right—stake yourself. If you cannot, do not waste time.

If the whole world laughs, do not mind.

People will laugh; do not be offended. What is their fault? They laugh to protect themselves. They feel threatened by one who is immersed in Hari-ras. Seeing one who is engaged in the flavor of God, they become restless—because they too begin to remember that they are doing something wrong, that they are missing. This man provokes them. He pierces their chest like an arrow. For self-defense they will laugh, insult, abuse, throw stones, offer poison, hang you on a cross—whatever they can do, they will.

You, do not worry.

Death is going to happen here anyway. What difference whether today or tomorrow? In a world of four days what difference whether you earn honor or insult? Emperors die; beggars die—and alike. Only a very few are those who, dying, do not die. Become one among those few—then life is fulfilled.

They will laugh—they must. For when someone is lost in Hari-bhajan, what is the one gathering money to do? If the one immersed in God is right, then gathering money is foolish. And the crowd is gathering money—the whole world is. So, seeing the devotee, the whole world feels uneasy. The world wants to prove him wrong—for only then can it go on with its business. If he is right, then the world is wrong. Both cannot be right together. He must be proved wrong.

And naturally, the crowd is of the ignorant; the mob of the foolish. In this world, things are decided by numbers. Numbers have a great strength. Those who have numbers can believe themselves to be truth. Though truth has nothing to do with numbers. Even if it is with one person alone, truth is truth; and if untruth is believed by many, it is still untruth. Numbers do not make untruth truth, nor does truth become untruth by being with one alone. Truth has no relation with numbers.

But the crowd has the power of numbers; it can laugh at the Buddhas. Forgive them. By laughing they only reveal their stupidity. There is no need for you to be disturbed.

If the whole world laughs, do not mind.

Ah yes, Palatu: know this in all four ages—worldliness is hostile to the bhakta.

In all centuries, all times, all four yugas—the world, full of crowd and bustle, opposes the bhakta. For the devotee’s values are different—otherworldly. His way of seeing life is different.

For example:

Jesus is sitting on a riverbank. Evening time. A prostitute is brought by the village people. They say to Jesus: This woman is adulterous. We have caught her red-handed. What punishment do you decree?

They were crafty people: the village priest, pundit, rabbi; the esteemed gentlemen, the mayor, the headman—all were there. They had devised this trick to trap Jesus. Because Jesus would say again and again: It was said to you of old—but I say unto you. It was said play tit for tat—but I say: if one smites you on the left cheek, offer him the right. If one takes your coat, give him your shirt also. If one asks you to carry his load for one mile, go two. Of old it was said an eye for an eye—but I say offer the other cheek.

Hearing such statements repeatedly, they were troubled. They wanted a decision. They thought this is a good opportunity—today all will be decided. They had come already decided what Jesus must say now. For their scripture said: the adulterous woman must be stoned to death. Now the strange thing—no woman can commit adultery alone. Some man must have been involved. Yet the scripture says nothing about the man. The adulterous woman must be stoned. Did she commit adultery with gods, with ghosts? Some man only! In truth, some man committed the outrage—for a woman cannot commit rape; her physiology is not such. Have you heard of a woman raping a man? Impossible. A man can rape; a woman cannot.

For the woman there are rules—stone her to death. For the man there are none. Surely cunning men wrote these scriptures—the same who wrote that the husband is God. The same men wrote these books. There is no justice for women in them.

They thought they would trap Jesus. If Jesus says: Yes, the old prophets are right—stone her—then they will say: What of your talk of love, of loving even the enemy? What of your principle that he who forgives shall be forgiven? What of your principle of not judging even evil? But if Jesus says: No, do not stone her—then the very stones they were carrying they would hurl at Jesus: You oppose our scripture! So all our prophets were fools and only you are wise! This carpenter’s son, unlearned—this great knower! Moses, Ezekiel, Abraham—those who had vision of God, who brought commandments from his hand—were all ignorant, and only you are sensible!

They had prepared well. A neat trap. Jesus could say only one of two things. If he said forgive—then they would kill him. If he said kill—then his teachings are finished.

They did not know that with a man like Jesus, your victory cannot be. You can kill Jesus—but victory cannot be yours. Impossible. Where is the victory of untruth before truth? Satyam eva jayate—truth alone wins. Winning is its nature. Yes, you can cut Jesus—but truth cannot be cut, nor killed. You will kill Jesus; truth will rise even more, become more nourished by his blood.

Jesus heard and said: Do this—the old scripture says so, it must be right—pick up your stones. They had brought stones indeed. They said: Stones are in our hands; just your command is needed. Jesus said: Let the one who has never sinned—and never even desired to sin, never imagined, planned, dreamed of sin—let that one throw the first stone. Those headmen and mayors dropped their stones in the sand and moved back.

Slowly the crowd thinned—who could throw the first? Who is there who never sinned or even thought of sin? Yes, you might find those who never did—but thought and deed are not different in religion. In law they are different.

This is the difference between sin and crime.

Sin means: the idea of doing evil arose in you. Crime means: you translated it into act. Police and law can only catch acts, not thoughts. For thoughts you are free—even in front of the court, close your eyes and rape as much as you like—no magistrate can do anything to you. Murder the whole world in your mind—no police will chain you. There is no law to catch the thought.

But in religion, only the thought matters—for if you thought, you have done. There the intention is valued, not whether it was done.

Jesus said: Even one who has merely thought should not throw—else he will err. Only the truly virtuous may throw. Who was virtuous! They all left.

Soon the woman was alone with Jesus. She fell at his feet: Give me a punishment—I am guilty. Before them I could not confess, for they hurt my ego greatly. And I know them and their intentions. Not a single one stood there who could throw a stone—for many among them have often knocked at my door at night. Many are my customers. That priest who struts as holy—he is my customer. When you said let him throw who has not sinned, I was at ease—none can throw. And when you said even one who has thought cannot throw—the matter was finished. I know them. They are the priests of this village; I am the prostitute of this village. Who knows them better than I? I know their every nerve and fiber. Before them I could not accept guilt—they themselves are guilty. In truth, they made me a prostitute. They pushed me into this pit.

But I fall at your feet; I accept my guilt. Whatever punishment you give, I accept it. Jesus said: Who am I to punish? Who am I to come between you and your God? Pray to the Paramatma—he is great compassion. Forgiveness is certain. Our sins are small courtyards; his compassion is vast sky. Ask forgiveness of him.

But such a person will naturally be very different from the ordinary views of the world. The world cannot forgive such a person. The whole world will stand against him. Jesus was hugely maligned, tortured—the cross was the final act. Before that, everywhere he suffered.

Palatu says rightly:

Ah yes, Palatu: know this through all ages—worldliness is hostile to the bhakta.

He who is devoted to the Paramatma inevitably gets entangled with the world. What he says, the world cannot accept. What the world accepts, he cannot consent to.

The world is politics. Where is there room for Dharma in politics? There the game is of adharma. There, the more false, the more cunning, the more crafty—his speed prevails. Where is there place for the simple and straightforward? Success is for those who go crooked. Who say something, do something, speak one thing, think another. Whom you cannot find out—what is his aim? Who tells one thing to one person, another to another, a third to a third. With whom you cannot settle any guess—what is his intention? Who keeps all in deception—such succeed in the world. But the bhakta is simple—his gait is clear, guileless. He is naked—uncovered by masks. He appears as he is. No hypocrisy in him. Hence, in a world full of hypocrisy, if he is opposed, it is no wonder.

Leaving gods and ancestors—what can the world do to you?

Remember, the world can do nothing—however it opposes. Palatu says: do not worry about it. What can the world do!

Go on your straight path—let all cry and die.

Walk your straight walk. Do not get into their crooked ways. And do not worship their false gods. The icons in the temples are man-made.

People have invented gods in their own images. Therefore the Chinese god’s nose is flat. The African god has thick lips and curly hair. You will not give such thick lips to Krishna; if you do, no one will buy your image—because in India, the thinner the lip the more beautiful. Make for Kanhaiya a flat nose—they will beat you, saying you are spoiling our Krishna! Here, a parrot’s beak nose is beauty.

Look carefully—every nation, every race has made its deities in its own likeness—its own projection. Then worship of those very self-made toys goes on. What stupidity! You yourself make the god; then you kneel before it! What greater ignorance can be?

The Paramatma is to be sought—not made. To be discovered—not constructed.

Then you are at liberty—make whatever you like. People have made gods per their likes. Ganeshji! Look at his body! And a mouse is his vehicle! Laddoo in his hand!

A great scholar of Pali and Sanskrit, Rahul Sankrityayan, used to say that it is not a laddoo but an egg. He tried to prove on scriptural grounds that it is an egg. I said to him: whether your point is theoretically right or not, I do not care—but it appeals. For this trunk-bearing Ganesh and motichoor laddoos! Surely an egg would be easier.

You made Ganesh, you made Ganesh-festival, with much noise—and you think you became religious. And then you also go and immerse them! In dissolving them you do not take long! Your own game—made by your hands, destroyed by your hands.

Leaving gods and ancestors…

Palatu says: drop such gods. And the dead—the ancestors—you worship. Where will you find ancestors? You feed them—crows eat. Do you think all your ancestors have become crows? When alive you never cared. It seems since they died you are afraid—that maybe they will trouble us now. So once a year in the ancestor-fortnight, feed them and settle the matter. People are afraid of ghosts. Palatu says:

Leaving gods and ancestors…

Stop this nonsense. Worship life. You worship the dead; life you destroy. For destroying life you have swords, guns, bombs, atom bombs, hydrogen bombs—and for the dead, plates of worship! Are you in your senses? By what reckoning does your life run?

Leaving gods and ancestors—what can the world do to you?

Do not worry!

Nanak went to Haridwar. People were offering water to the ancestors at a well. He too went straight to the well, asked for a bucket, drew water and poured it on the ground near the well saying: reach to my fields! A crowd collected: What is this? Where are your fields? My fields are in Punjab. Are you in your senses? Pouring water on the road in Haridwar will reach the fields in Punjab! He said: I did not know earlier. When water can reach your ancestors—where are your ancestors? Most are in hell; maybe one or two reached heaven. If it can reach there, Punjab is not far at all. Seeing your wondrous art, I thought this is fine—no need to go to Punjab now, I will pour from here.

Nanak was reminding them of their stupidity. All the saints have reminded you that what you are doing in the name of religion is foolishness. Why do people do it? Because of public opinion. Everyone does it—if you don’t, it doesn’t look good. People ask: why did you not? People want you to be their carbon copy. They do not allow you an original soul. You stand apart—the crowd cannot tolerate it. They want you to do as they do. If they carry tazia, you carry tazia. If they beat the chest—Ya Ali, Ya Ali—you also beat your chest. If people do it, you do it; they are pleased—because you support them. Why pleased by support? Because they too suspect whether what they do is true. The more support they receive, the more their courage that it must be right—so many are doing it. If it were not right, how would so many do it? They have no direct experience of truth. Their only basis is numbers. Many are doing it—then surely it must be right. Perhaps I am foolish, but the whole world is not foolish. When so many are doing it, it must be right. And the fun is—the others are thinking the same.

You heard the story? A king announced in the capital that each person bring one pot of milk and pour it into the cistern before the palace. Everyone thought: so many will bring milk—I will quietly bring one pot of water at dawn. Who will know? But everyone thought the same. Human thinking does not differ much; arithmetic is alike. In the morning, the cistern was full of water—no milk. The king asked: what is this? His ministers said: nothing—this is how people think. Each one thinks—so many are doing it, why should I speak? Otherwise I will be taken for a fool. Celebrate the ancestor-fortnight—so many are; it must be right. Each one thinks so.

If only you could open your hearts—your religions would vanish. If only you could honestly tell your neighbor your inner state, all temples, mosques, pundits and priests would bid farewell to the earth. Their way of living depends on one thing—that no one tells anyone. Why should I get into trouble?

Another story you know:

A man came to the king’s court and said: You have everything—but one thing is lacking. What is that—speak quickly! I do not want any lack. I thought I had all. I am emperor. The six continents are mine. All wealth and earth are mine. What is lacking? The man said: you do not have the garments of the gods. The king said: that is true. I do not have divine garments. The man said: a person like you and garments like ordinary men do not suit. I have access to the gods; I can bring the garments. But the bargain is costly. The king said: do not worry about money. How much? The man said: crores. And I cannot say exactly—after all, reaching heaven is a long journey, bribing gatekeepers and gods—no easy task. But I will bring them. Approximately crores. The king said: let there be expense—but do not cheat, for I am dangerous. One condition: I will give you a palace. Soldiers will surround it. Do whatever you need to do inside—tantra, mantra, sadhana. How long? He said: at least three weeks. The king said: right.

Three weeks passed in great expectation. No fear, for soldiers surrounded the palace. After three weeks the man emerged with a beautiful wooden chest. He said: I have brought the garments. The king called him into court. All courtiers were gathered. The capital was abuzz—only one talk for three weeks. Some for, some against. But today the matter ends—he has brought them. Crowds gathered—millions outside—shouting for darshan of the king.

Placing the chest in the court’s center the man said: one condition the gods have put—the garments are visible only to him who is born of his own father. Now this was a tricky condition. He asked the king: are you sure you are born of your own father? The king said: what do you think? Of course I am. Then, he said: no worry. He asked the courtiers: is any one of you not born of his own father? Courtiers said: what are you saying? We are nobles—of pure lineage. Then, he said: no worry.

He opened the chest. All saw—there was nothing. The king saw too. But none spoke—who will speak? Whoever speaks is caught. All thought—something is wrong with me! Others are praising—ahh, blessed! Such garments never seen! Seeing all praise, the king also said: ahh! Inside he trembled: this is too much—but it was never imagined that my father deceived me—or my mother! Now this secret is out. What is—let it be. Best to hide it. What use telling others?

But the matter could not end there. The man said: remove your turban. Taking the turban he put it in the chest, then brought out his empty hand, placed it on the king’s head: this is the gods’ turban. See—this is called turban. Nothing—yet courtiers cried bravo! The king said: yes, beautiful—never seen or heard! Slowly the robe went, the trousers, the waistcoat—when the last underwear was to be removed the king hesitated. But now it had gone too far—no turning back. He hesitated a little. The man said: hesitating? The king said: should I hesitate? I am born of my father! He removed the underwear. In such situations a man has to do all.

Naked he stood—and the whole court praised the garments. Every courtier saw the naked king—but who will say it? The man said: Maharaj, the public is outside. They want darshan of the divine garments. The king thought: now I am dead—but I have come so far, how to return? There are limits to returning. Beyond some point, you cannot go back. The disgrace has already happened—courtiers have seen. Now what is the use turning back? If so many can see, then they must exist. He had to come out.

And the crowd—jubilation! For the man had already announced that only he who is born of his own father will see the garments.

Only one little child, sitting on his father’s shoulders, said: Papa, the king seems naked. The father said: hush, brat! You are too young. When you are big, then you too will see the garments. Be quiet! The child said: what does this have to do with age? The king is naked. The father clapped his hand over his mouth: ill-mannered! You will ruin our honor. Let us go home! I had said not to bring him; your mother insisted. I feared some trouble.

Only the child had the courage to say the real thing. Only because he was a child—he did not know the dangers of status and public reputation. The father was right—son, grow up a little and you too will see the garments.

Have you really seen God in Ganesh? Or did you just grow up—so then you see. In temples and idols have you seen God—or because everyone sees, you too? Do crows seem to you as ancestors? When there is no ancestor-fortnight, you throw stones at the cawing crow. These same gentlemen in ancestor-fortnight treat crows as your ancestors’ vehicles. What happens?

Have you ever seen a noble statesman in politicians? Yet you touch their feet and praise them—that by you the moon and stars are held, else they would fall; by you order stands, else anarchy would prevail. And these are the very sources of disorder. But Gandhi cap and khadi’s pure cloth make them look innocent. You too know full well that however white the cloth, your blackness will not be hidden. Yet face to face you praise.

The whole world praises those in power. When one descends from power, praise goes, condemnation begins. What blindness! And this is not in one direction—this blindness runs through your whole life. The religious person must pull himself out of all these directions—whatever the price, it is worth paying. Do not support these illusions.

Leaving gods and ancestors—what can the world do to you?

Walk your straight walk—let all cry and die.

All will die weeping—do not worry for them. Walk your straight walk. Live according to your own spontaneous nature. No one has the right to make you walk against your nature. Yet you are being made to do headstands—told that without shirshasana heaven will not be attained. You do it too. You are told—twist your limbs this way and that—you do that too. Have you ever asked what relation these bodily contortions have with moksha?

Lose caste, varna, lineage—do your bhakti.

Ah yes, Palatu: close your ears—let the world laugh.

Let the world laugh. You close your ears to the world. Look within and live from within. Listen to the voice of your inner being. If your inner being says the king is naked—the king is naked. However much the crowd says the garments are beautiful—do not care. Jesus is right: only those simple as children will enter the kingdom of God. In that crowd only one child spoke truth. Sometimes in this crowd of lies, some courageous, simple-hearted person speaks straight. Though he must suffer many abuses.

How many ages have gone by turning the rosary.

For how many ages you have been turning the mala. Have you ever asked—what will happen by rolling these beads? Others do it; so you do it.

I fear to bow my head,
to lay my own worship-flowers—
what if your pure feet
smear a blot upon my brow?

What foolishness the mind did—
that it stirred to attain you—
as a tiny firefly
sets out to worship the sun.

How shall I tell you my pain?
From where shall I bring such strength?
The sky will become monsoon and Bhadon—
if your eyes become my cleansing.

For a lifelong smoking of smoke
the buried fire of the mind is enough.
For the moon’s defamation—
one blot is enough.

Take me into your arms—
spread your arms with care—
the ornaments of your smiles
may blacken.

On my criminal lips
only your name remains—
like a clay pitcher
filling with Ganga-water—
a hymn is being poured.

If your notes join mine,
my songs will become mantra;
let life be a plate of worship—
its flowers your remembrances.

Your darshan—as if some
renunciate found a pilgrimage;
or a birth-blind beggar woman
found, on new moon night, the path to full moon.

Shy, impoverished pranams
are stirring morning and evening—
perhaps for a moment may slip aside
your bashful veils.

By your turning of the mala—did the veil on God’s face lift? Did it slide even a little? Was there any glimpse, any touch?

Your darshan—as if
some renunciate found a pilgrimage;
or a birth-blind beggar woman, on amavas,
found the path to purnima.

For so many births you have turned the mala—did full moon ever happen? The new moon remains new. You lie where you were, like a lump of stone. Not an inch moves—because your mala-turning is false. No revolution in the heart—only the hands clutch the beads—mechanically.

On my criminal lips
only your name remains—
like a clay pitcher filling
with Ganga-water—a hymn is being poured.

If your notes join mine,
my songs become mantra;
life becomes the plate of worship,
its flowers—your remembrances.

Then malas need not be turned. Whatever you speak becomes mantra. Whatever you hum becomes a hymn.

But revolution must happen in the heart. It is not by turning malas.

How many ages have gone by turning the mala—
blisters have formed on the tongue chanting Ram’s name.

Some keep chanting Ram Ram, Ram Ram. It remains only on the tongue—it does not even descend below the throat. They hardly know whether they have a heart. On the tongue is Ram; in the heart—its opposite—kam, lust. Inside is craving; on the surface—prayer. Such raw colors wash off at the first splash of water.

For lifetimes we change lanes—
as birds change gardens,
as butterflies change groves within groves.

One changes bangles,
another dyes her veil—
our beloved changes courtyards—
we change our anklets from house to house.

Nights we stare at the moon,
waiting out a lifetime for the path.
What autumn, what spring—
when with thorns we change buds.

We deck the bed with flowers,
yet the beloved remains far from our lane—
from the constellation of the beloved,
we change our Diwali lamps.

The business of lifetimes we live—
a trap of hide and seek.
The moon changes a thousand forms,
clouds change a hundred thousand hues.

Year upon year clouds rain,
at the water’s edge we thirst and yearn—
whom to catch, whom to touch?
At every step the path changes lightning.

We have counted only thousands of trees—
we ate the fruits only through the eyes—
at fate’s final time
we changed only the seeds.

To the beat and meter of the song of fate
we change village, path, house—
as wave after wave, swaying—
fish change streams within the water’s flow.

When the wind changes course—whoosh—
change the scale, the tinkle—
change the strings, the sitar’s jhanan-jhanan—
but the fingers never change.

We are occupied with surface changes. We change the sitar—but what of the fingers? Do you know the art of playing? People do not know how to dance and say, the courtyard is crooked. In your heart no song has arisen; no prayer has awakened; no seed of love has sprouted—then go on doing a hundred thousand devices—

How many ages have gone by turning the mala—
blisters have formed on the tongue chanting Ram’s name.

Throw away the mala—turn the mind.

Palatu says: throw this mala; turn the mind; transform the mind.

Throw away the mala—turn the mind.

Ah yes, Palatu: by words of the mouth it is not found—seek within the heart’s midst.

By mouth’s words it will not be found; it must be sought in the very center of your life-breath.

You wait for me by the path—
I come bearing songs of union.

The sins I committed, let me confess;
the pain I received, let me make it my adornment.
Those lips which have remained silent for ages—
let me fill them with the love of wet eyes.

Seated in the palanquin of eyelids—
I come with the music of unseen dreams.

Weaving my story with sunrays,
and my frail youth,
hiding the storm of fate within my veil,
lighting the wick of breath in this unknowing body—

Having lost a hundred times in the battle of darkness—
I come with victory for the light.

Let me introduce contentment to thirst;
let me introduce love to despair.
What resounds unspoken in my sky—
let me wed feeling to language.

That which even the senses could not touch—
I come bearing that song of the heart.

If you would move toward him—light a lamp in the heart. Advance with a flame—of consciousness, of awareness, of bodh. Scatter light of love all around you. What will come by chanting Ram? Live Ram. Do not turn the mala—turn the mind. The mind now runs outward; pull it—lead it within. It is entangled in objects; free it from objects; fill it with emptiness. Then you will know—what Dharma is. Then you will recognize—what the Paramatma is. That recognition will be filled with fulfillment—such fulfillment as never ends.

Thirty fasts you kept—yet you went on wandering.
All day long you battered your head in namaz—and died.

They went to Mecca—the grave has only dust.

Ah yes, Palatu: the name of one Nabi is forever pure.

But if ever you find such a one who has known the Lord—whom we call Buddha, whom the Muslims call Nabi; whom we call avatar, they call Nabi; whom we call Tirthankara, they call Nabi. Nabi means one who knows. He who has known can give birth to knowing in others. Therefore he is paigambar—a message-bearer. His very being is a message. His every breath is a proof of God.

Ah yes, Palatu: the name of one Nabi is forever pure.

Find a Sadguru—only that is a sacred place upon this earth. Wherever the Sadguru is, there is tirtha. Sit by the Sadguru—dropping your vain prattle—and you too will drown. Your boat will also be launched into the ocean of the unknown.

Today, new clouds have massed again—
it seemed you called to me.

With free hands you will tilt
pitchers of nectar and smile.

Into my tired body-mind
you will pour a new consciousness.

In these new, new curtains of cloud—
it seemed you adorned me.

Your songs will resound
in thunder in my ears.

Again and again, as you always do,
you will return in calls of love.

In the flight of new clouds—
it seemed my quest spread wide.

I forgot the burning noon
of the desert’s ancient thirsts.

Like cool sandal, like fragrant blooms—
the east-wind’s breath has stirred.

It seemed rock and stone and cliff—
made me into a flowing stream.

What happened, that what was a brine-tormented ocean for so long—

Rivers had grown thin; the earth’s youth was all withered—

Now it seemed sky and earth, water and land—
had looked at me for their own fulfillment.

Today, new clouds have massed again—
it seemed you called to me.

Sitting by a Sadguru, you will feel—Paramatma has called you. The Sadguru’s call is his call. He speaks through him. The Sadguru himself is scripture. He is the Koran, the Veda, the Bible, the Gita—for within him the song of God resounds. He has become a flute—a hollow reed that, placed at the lips of the Lord, fills with wondrous music. Whoever consents to be empty becomes full. He who, becoming empty, is made full—call him paigambar, Tirthankara, avatar, Nabi—no difference. Palatu says: only that is a pure place. Find him.

Knowledge holds the beam; compassion is the weight.

If you have reached a Sadguru, you will understand: knowledge holds the balance. What he gives you casts itself into your heart—this is gnosis. And that knowledge is a scale upon which everything can be weighed—the weighable and the immeasurable.

Knowledge holds the beam; compassion is the weight.

As soon as you awaken in knowledge, compassion arises—karuna is born.

With the remembrance of the Shabd, measure the mind’s change.

Then surati—remembrance—arises of your own being. Who am I—awareness dawns.

With the remembrance of the Shabd, measure the mind’s change.

Know then—the mind has changed—when knowledge’s scale is in your hand, the weight of compassion, and the remembrance of the Shabd—the Paramatma’s memory—weighs in your balance. Then know—transformation has happened; revolution.

Good and bad—he lives them in one flavor.

Then nothing is good or bad. The art of living both alike arises—equanimity, samyakta, samata.

Ah yes, Palatu: the shop of contentment—his is the true merchant’s strength.

He is the mahajan, the great one, in whose life the shop of contentment opens. Palatu was a simple, poor shopkeeper; the imprint of his life’s experience is in his language. He measured all his life—stone-weight measures, seers, pasharis, the wooden or iron beam of the scale. He sold wheat, rice, lentils. Even now he uses these symbols:

Knowledge holds the beam; compassion is the weight.
With the remembrance of the Shabd, measure the mind’s change.
Good and bad—he lives them in one flavor.
Ah yes, Palatu: the shop of contentment—his is the true merchant’s strength.

Blessed are they, special and rare, who hold the beam of knowledge—and who can weigh the immeasurable upon this scale.

What is the immeasurable?

Surati—remembrance of the Paramatma.

In this world, if there is any treasure worth having, it is only the remembrance of the Lord. All else is futile. No other wealth but a mirage. All else is calamity. The one treasure is remembrance—smaran of the Lord. For that alone will carry you beyond death, beyond body and mind. That remembrance will unite you with the supreme light—after which there is no separation, no longing.

Because of your love for me
I rose to the extraordinary—
otherwise under my feet
there was nowhere to stand.

Had you not touched me,
how would the rock have melted?
How would the blazing fire
have turned to light?

Drinking your drops of light,
I have become the moon on earth—
otherwise moonlight
would not die for me.

Once you were turned away—I was only a heap of ash;
Since you have moistened me—
even my thirst begins to be worshiped.

At your indication
springs stand at the door—
otherwise the waters of fulfillment
would not fill for me.

One Paramatma found—everything found. One God found—nectar found. Therefore Palatu is right:

Abandon the company hostile to Hari-charcha.
Before your intellect is injured, run at once.
Even if they offer you everything—none of it is of use.
Ah yes, Palatu: he is no friend but a villain who is hostile to Ram.

Where Hari-charcha happens—where a few mad ones sit remembering the Lord—sit there; sing, listen, understand, drown, live. Then, in this very life, the nectar-life can be tasted. In a moment the eternal can be felt. And within your own being can be found that which you have not found outside through births of running—and cannot. It is not outside. How can it be found outside? Dharma is the science of the inner journey.

Enough for today.