Sapna Yeh Sansar #2

Dharmasharan Das, life is made of opposites. There can be no night without day, no life without death. Life is tension between dualities. Where one has gone beyond duality, there is no life, no coming and going. Enjoyment and renunciation are an inner expression of this same polarity.

If you have not enjoyed, you won’t even understand what renunciation means. What meaning is there in renunciation? The taste of enjoyment alone lends meaning to renunciation. Without seeing darkness, can you recognize light? Let the sun, moon, and stars pour their light for ages, but one who has not known darkness will not know what light is; the definition of light is born against the boundary of darkness. Without marking the line of darkness you cannot perceive the circle of light. So darkness is not altogether useless.

Nothing here is useless. Even the useless is not useless, because awareness of the futile leads to the experience of the essential. One who recognizes the nonessential as nonessential finds the door to the temple of the essential.

You say, “If one has to renounce anyway, why speak of enjoyment at all?”

But how will the thought of renunciation arise? From where will it come? The pain of enjoyment itself gives birth to renunciation. The sting of enjoyment, the hell of enjoyment—if you do not go through enjoyment, the dimension of renunciation remains veiled; the doors won’t open. You knock only when the pain of enjoyment becomes so intense that you cannot bear it any longer.

As I said, life is duality, and so this statement too has two facets: “tena tyaktena bhunjīthāh.” One sense is simple: the one who has enjoyed, has let go. Tena tyaktena—he has renounced; bhunjīthāh—the one who has enjoyed. He who has known enjoyment, renounces. That’s one side. The other is: only the one who has renounced truly enjoys. Tena tyaktena bhunjīthāh—he who has dropped, he alone enjoys.

There is a worldly enjoyment which gives pain, because it is built on illusion, on the mirage of desires and ambitions. Distant drums sound sweet; come close and they are soap-bubbles. As long as you haven’t got it—while distance remains—the attraction persists. Once you get it, the charm evaporates. Come near and not only does distance vanish, the very longing is doused. The moment a thing is in your hand it becomes trivial. In another’s possession it seems meaningful; in your own, worthless. The neighbor’s grass looks greener. The neighbor’s wife looks more beautiful; the neighbor’s children more intelligent. Look from up close and the illusion shatters. Worldly enjoyment is exactly this shattering. It is a water-bubble, a mirage seen in a desert by a thirsty man.

Paltu says: This world is a dream. While a dream runs, it appears true. Has anything ever seemed truer than a dream while you are in it? In dreams you trust the utterly unreasonable. You are talking to your wife, she suddenly vanishes, and you begin speaking to a horse—you accept even that! A stone idol walks in the dream—you accept that too.

Yesterday I read a report. In Manila a man started shouting in the night—“Skylab! Skylab!” The whole world was on edge—now it will fall, now it will fall. This was before it fell. It did later fall into the ocean. This man, in his bed, cried “Skylab! Skylab!” The family thought he was joking—perhaps a jocular sort. But he was truly dreaming—a nightmare that Skylab had fallen. He panicked so much that his heart failed.

There was no Skylab falling, nothing, and the man died! He could not wake from the dream. If his soul wanders, it may go on believing that the fall of Skylab made the body drop—because now there is no way to break that dream. And what has caused even death—how could that be false! In panic, his heartbeat stopped.

You too trust like this in dreams. Wealth comes—you strut. Wealth is lost—you weep and wail. In the morning you’re amazed—how did I believe all that?

Enjoyment is a dream. As you awaken, renunciation ripens; renunciation is awakening. If the world is a dream, the Divine is awakening. But how will you awaken if you have not slept? Therefore the world is the school for knowing God. Do not be hostile to it—learn from it; take its lesson. This world is truly a university, and those who took from here the lesson of the Divine—only they passed. Those who went on collecting wealth, status, prestige—wandered within the dream.

Whoever has not awakened in this world has known nothing. This world is God’s device so that you may awaken. And to awaken it is necessary that sleep become so deep—so heavy with its pain—that sleep becomes impossible.

Remember, when you dream a sweet, pleasing dream, it doesn’t break. But a nightmare breaks quickly. No one can embrace suffering long—suffering is unnatural. You dream you are an emperor, with palaces of gold, jewel-studded stairs, a throne of philosopher’s stone—how will the desire to wake arise? Even if someone tries to wake you, you will say, Wait! False it may be, but it is sweet, delicious—let me taste a little more.

Mulla Nasruddin began muttering loudly at night. He seemed to be haggling with someone. “I’ll take exactly a hundred! No, not ninety-seven; no, not ninety-eight; no, not ninety-nine…” Who the other was, one couldn’t tell, but his wife heard Mulla’s words. He was tangled up with some ninety-nine. “No, not ninety-nine either—only a hundred!” The wife woke him: “Why are you spoiling your sleep for nothing? What ninety-nine, what hundred? Are you running a shop even at night? At least sleep peacefully at night.” Mulla got very upset: “You ruined everything! The deal was just about settled. Now don’t interfere!” He closed his eyes and said, “Yes brother, come back.” But who returns now! He tossed and turned, left and right… Then he pounced on his wife again: “Is this any time to wake a man! Everything has its time. Had you waited a little, the deal would have closed at a hundred. An angel had appeared and said, Ask—what do you want? I was asking for a hundred rupees; he was a thorough miser. I started at one; somehow he had agreed up to ninety-nine; only one remained—just a trifle—and I would have had a hundred in hand. Now I close my eyes and say, Come back—even up to saying, Alright, let it be ninety-nine!—but no one appears.”

Dreams, once broken, cannot be joined again. Broken is broken, no matter how much you toss.

Enjoyment is a dream. Once it breaks, renunciation bears fruit. And then renunciation is the beginning of a new enjoyment—the supreme enjoyment, the enjoyment of God. Worldly enjoyment—of wealth, status, prestige—is false, names of dreams. There is another enjoyment—the enjoyment of God, of existence, of truth. Raso vai sah—He is essence, sweetness itself! Then drink His nectar.

So one aspect is: those who enjoyed, renounced. And let me tell you the second: those who renounced, enjoyed. Both sides must be understood. Understand both and you can go beyond both. One who goes beyond—neither enjoyment nor renunciation—has gone beyond duality. We call him gunātīta, dvandvātīta—beyond the qualities, beyond the pairs. That is the supreme state—nirvikalpa samadhi, nirbija samadhi.

But if you get hasty, half-baked, and say, “If one has to renounce, why enjoy?”—then how did it occur to you that you “have to” renounce? The thorn has not pricked you, so why think of removing it? You must have heard the words of one whose foot was pierced by a thorn—one who knew the pain, removed it, and knew the relief—some awakened one. You heard a Paltu, a Kabir, a Nanak, and borrowed their words. The thorn had pricked them, so there was pain; they removed it and found ease. You have not been pricked and you begin to remove a thorn that is not there—what will you remove? You will deceive yourself that there must be a thorn! A sick man takes medicine and becomes well; you, hearing of a sick man’s recovery, buy the medicine—being healthy, you will become ill.

And this is what happened here. One of this country’s great misfortunes is this. Fortune that great fakirs arose; misfortune that the unintelligent seized upon their words and tried to live by them. They started groping for the thorn that had not pricked them. Without a thorn there is no renunciation—so they began to drop a thorn that doesn’t exist. How will you drop what is not? Thus hypocrisy is born.

Hence this land: on one side Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—an astonishing stream of luminous ones; on the other, a vast host of simpletons. On one side a few lit lamps; on the other, the night of the new moon. Aptly, we celebrate Diwali on the night of no moon—it is the symbol of this land. We light lamps—Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, Kabir, Nanak, Paltu, Raidas, Farid! Lamps are lit, and yet the night is dark. We lose ourselves in singing the glory of those lamps and forget that the new-moon night does not vanish by a few lamps; it remains. Until every lamp is lit, until every life is ablaze with consciousness, the night will not end. Hypocrisy spread: on one side the masters’ words; on the other, a horde of pretenders.

Mulla Nasruddin stood in the bazaar reading the Bhagavad Gita to his donkey. A crowd gathered. He read a page and the donkey stamped and nodded. Mulla said, “Good! He’s memorized it quickly!” People could not bear it: “Nasruddin, there is a limit to jokes. Reading the Gita to a donkey! Will a donkey understand the Gita?” Nasruddin said, “I’ve seen no one but donkeys reading the Gita. When all the other donkeys understand it, what fault is this donkey’s? And don’t you see how skilled he is? He nods at once, stamps his foot, as if to say, ‘Right, go on!’ So well committed to memory!”

Memorize the Gita, the Quran, the Bible—you will become a hypocrite. The new moon will not turn full; darkness remains. And the dangerous situation is this: the darkness remains, yet you get deceived into thinking there is light—because the talk of light is on your lips. Yes, Krishna’s words carry light—become Krishna then! Otherwise they are mere words. Repeat them like parrots and nothing will change. You will remain as you were—perhaps sink even deeper, because now the ego of knowledge arises.

Dharmasharan Das, how will you know that you must renounce? How can the thought of renunciation arise? Let enjoyment burn you, make you writhe, lead you astray, leave your feet bloodied—then renunciation acquires meaning; then the sense of renunciation awakens; then you begin to understand: Now I must wake—enough sleep, enough nightmares. Those very nightmares become the cause of awakening. Therefore I surely praise the Upanishadic saying: “tena tyaktena bhunjīthāh.” Only those renounced who had enjoyed!

Do not be in haste! If a fruit is plucked unripe, it remains bitter, sour—certainly not fit to eat. When it ripens, it turns sweet. Ripeness brings sweetness.

Live out enjoyment. Do not be afraid; do not run. No transformation comes to fugitives. Recognize enjoyment—it is a given situation.

Gurdjieff once told a chief disciple, “I have about thirty disciples in Paris—inform them all to meet me on Sunday morning at such-and-such a place, exactly at seven—do not be a minute late. The place is thirty miles away. It’s winter; it’s snowing. Seven in the morning, at a crossroads in the forest—tell them to gather there, something important is to be said.” Who would miss it! They were tempted to skip; but then they might miss something important. So out of greed they awoke, rushed, and arrived on time. Some reached at six-thirty, some at a quarter to seven; by seven, all thirty stood there.

To the messenger Gurdjieff said, “And you—come to my house at seven sharp.” The disciple was puzzled: the meeting there at seven, and he himself must be at Gurdjieff’s house at seven! But without such obedience, one cannot move with a true master. He arrived at seven. Gurdjieff was fast asleep. The servant said, “Sit; he hasn’t risen yet.” Meanwhile those poor fellows were standing in the forest! Around eight Gurdjieff woke, wrote on a slip, “You may go now; there is nothing to be said.” He handed it to the messenger: “Take this to the disciples gathered in the forest.” Since seven they had been waiting—some had risen at four, some at five, some at three; some hadn’t slept at all in anticipation. Seven passed, then a quarter past, then half past; hearts were thudding; all stared down the road—no sign of anyone; not even the messenger. At eight-thirty panic began. At quarter to nine the messenger arrived, gave them the note; they read it, got into their cars, and drove home.

You will ask, was this a joke? No. The devices of masters are their own. Not one of those thirty said, “What an excess! There’s a limit to jokes. He ruined our night and made us freeze in the morning!” It was no joke. It was a device: Can you preserve trust even in adverse conditions? When doubt is natural, can you still keep faith intact?

This world is such a device ordained by the Supreme Master. Enjoyment is a device ensured by God—you have been pushed into it. Accept it with trust. Understand it with awareness, analyze, recognize. Sharpen your soul on the pains of the world; kindle your consciousness. Do not miss this opportunity!

Therefore I do not tell you to run away, to drop enjoyment—“What need is there for enjoyment?” There is a need. Because only from enjoyment does the flower of renunciation bloom. Without enjoyment there is no renunciation. It is no accident that all twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were princes—tena tyaktena bhunjīthāh! Those who enjoyed, renounced. Nor is it surprising that the Hindu avatars were princes; the Buddha too was a prince. There is a deep harmony in this—tena tyaktena bhunjīthāh! Those who enjoyed, renounced.

As a society becomes prosperous, the futility of enjoyment becomes clear. As in your life you come to know enjoyment, its attraction begins to depart. Then comes renunciation—an easy, natural renunciation. Not something you do; it happens. When it happens, there is joy. If it has to be done, the charm is gone—doing means force; happening means spontaneity born of understanding. And then begins a new enjoyment—the supreme enjoyment. Sat-chit-ānanda is its name.

You set forth—
See that this gold, becoming clay, does not corrode.
If attachment is vain, so is detachment;
If taking is petty, so is giving up.
Duality is delusion, duality is darkness—
Let not its dark envoy crush the spontaneous petals of rasa.
You set forth—
See that this gold, becoming clay, does not corrode.
Sleep is true, and so the dream’s delight;
Petals are true, and so the lotus core.
In waking or in dream,
If consciousness stays awake, who is there to deceive?
You set forth—
See that this gold, becoming clay, does not corrode.
Desire is Shiva—ever movement and progress.
If Shiva abides, then love or its renunciation—both are well.
Shiva, ambrosial essence, truth, beauty—
Wherever you dwell, remain beneath Truth-Shiva’s shelter.
You set forth—
See that this gold, becoming clay, does not corrode.
If consciousness stays awake, who is there to deceive…

The real question is the awakening of consciousness. Where there is pain, awakening is easy. Pleasure lulls you to sleep; pain wakes you up. Therefore the knowers thanked the Divine—for all the sufferings He gave, and for all the pleasures. Thanks for the pleasures, thanks for the pains—and if you ask rightly, more thanks for the pains than the pleasures. For pleasure puts one to sleep; pain does not. In life one forgets; at the time of death remembrance of the Divine begins to arise. In pain, prayer wells up on its own. Therefore not only blessings are blessings—even curses are blessings; curses are blessings in disguise.

If consciousness stays awake, who is there to deceive?
What is renunciation? To live awake! To live with awareness! Then this very world becomes the Divine.

Do not dismiss things as trivial and renounce them;
Do not call them dream and delusion and wander away; call them your own and love them.
Renunciation is the heart’s weakness; love is the heart’s wealth.
Life sways upon the twin banks of love and renunciation—
Do not flee by sacrificing the invisible upon weakness.
The mind’s stream is free to flow where and how it will—
But if it finds no banks, how will it gain direction?
Direction is life; do not demand love-less renunciation—both are life’s foes.
Without direction all is vain—without direction, where is the goal?
Without love, what breast can ever surge in waves?
Let these impetuous waves of mind be steeped in the sap of life.
Renunciation shrinks and stays confined; love spreads and billows.
He who is silent in renunciation, sings in love.
Do not forget life’s music—awake, awake, awake!

So the question is neither of enjoyment nor of renunciation—it is of awakening.

Dharmasharan Das, do not hurry! Whoever hurries in life, loses much. Let life move at its own pace. Do not impose anything, or there will be hypocrisy. Do not wear things on the surface, or there will be inner conflict. One thing on the surface, another within—wanting one thing, saying another—your life will become a torment. If inner civil war persists, if the sword is forever drawn within, if you go on fighting yourself—what joy, what nectar, what truth can be? For truth, peace is needed; an inner harmony is needed; a state of orchestral accord is needed.

Therefore I tell my sannyasins: live life. Yes, I set one condition—live awake. Enjoy—enjoy to the full—only, enjoy with awareness! That very awareness transforms enjoyment into renunciation. That very awareness turns this world into God. That very awareness is enough to shatter the deception. The deception is not in the trees, the stones, the mountains—it is in your sleep; in your unconsciousness, your stupor.
Someone asked Mahavira: Who is a muni, and who is an amuni? And Mahavira’s definition is very lovely. Mahavira said: asutta muni, sutta amuni. The one who is asleep is an amuni; the one who is awake is a muni. Mahavira did not say that the one who has left his house is a muni; who has left his wife is a muni; who has abandoned wealth and position is a muni. Mahavira gave a very profound definition—asutta! The one who is not asleep. Then, wherever he may be—even in the middle of the marketplace—he is a muni. And the one who is asleep, even if he sleeps in a cave in the Himalayas and keeps dreaming, is an amuni.

Anand Nistha! This is a tavern. Only those who have come to drink have truly come. My door is for those ready to become drunkards. If you wish to drink, decanter after decanter will be poured.

But people have become very miserly. It’s one thing to be stingy in giving—that much is understandable—but they have become stingy even in receiving. They do not spread the begging bowl; they do not open their hearts.

And this wine is not the sort that can be poured into cups; only when your heart becomes the cup can it be decanted. This wine is not pressed from grapes; it is distilled from the soul. It isn’t drunk with the lips; to drink this wine you must learn upavāsa—drawing near; the art of coming close. You must learn upadeś—receiving instruction; the art of taking in. You must learn upaniṣad—sitting near; the art of listening.

It will pour, and pour abundantly. This whole arrangement is for drinking and for pouring.

I shall leave—
What all should I patch on this leaking, battered pot?
A nest that sinks in water, sways in the wind,
Whose narrow limit can imprison a bird—
Free as the sky, I shall pluck the straws of that small nest.
I shall leave—
What all should I patch on this leaking, battered pot?

I’d forgotten the path in the restless hour of wanting,
I’d forgotten life in the fair of waves;
Now that the goal is found, let me turn my feet to my way—
I shall leave—
What all should I patch on this leaking, battered pot?

I set out—may your auspicious voice be my provisions;
Let the aim before the eyes become song within the mind;
Taking the mortal reed, I vie with the Immortal—
I shall leave—
What all should I patch on this leaking, battered pot?

Your heart must be made the pitcher. In outer pitchers one can only pour outer wine. And all outer pots are cracked pots; nothing stays in them, everything seeps away. You must fashion the vessel of the soul. That alone is discipleship.

Nistha, you say it well: “Merely a lover of the goblet of your wine.”

But loving is a dangerous bargain. Love is preparation to die; nothing less will do. The price of this wine is paid with the death of the ego. Only the crazed, the mad can pay it. This is not the work of the calculating, the clever, the bean-counters.

On the night of separation the heart’s lament gave such a cry,
Those who heard began to pray for the night to pass.
With what glance did you look upon the wounded heart?
Wounds that had begun to heal—you fanned them open again.
Before the gaze, nothing but the dust of the Beloved’s lane;
Whatever door came into sight—we began to call out there.
When the gardener set my nest on fire,
The very leaves I’d used as a pillow began to feed the flames.
At burial time, friends came with fists of dust,
Paying out the price of a lifelong love.
May my love become a mirror to their beauty—
What joy if pain itself begins to offer the cure!
In this burning breast, O Saqib, the smoke is choking;
If I sigh, the winds of the world will feed the fire.

Madness is needed—such madness that “before the gaze, nothing but the Beloved’s lane,” so that nothing is seen but the Beloved. All lanes are His lanes, every home His home.

Before the gaze, nothing but the dust of the Beloved’s lane—
Whatever door came into sight, we began to call out there.

The day the madness arises to call Him at every doorway...

For now you have chosen even His temples. The Hindu goes to a temple, the Muslim to a mosque, the Sikh to a gurdwara. The Sikh doesn’t care for the Hindu temple, the Hindu doesn’t care for the mosque, and why should the one at the mosque look toward anyone else’s temple? All other shrines are the temples of infidels, of atheists, of the lost. These aren’t the words of lovers; they’re the talk of shopkeepers.

Before the gaze, nothing but the dust of the Beloved’s lane—
When nothing is seen before the eyes but Him; what is seen, is Him—every lane is His lane, every door His door:
Before the gaze, nothing but the dust of the Beloved’s lane—
Whatever door came into sight, we began to call out there.

Wherever a door appears, there we sit to pray, there we bow... Such madness is needed; then indeed your cup will be filled with my wine.

Those who come here calculating, come in vain. Those who bring their preconceptions—better they hadn’t come; they waste their time. This is a gathering of madmen. This satsang is not a play of words. These are matters of drinking and pouring. Courage is needed here.

There is one kind of stupor in the world and another in the Divine. Whoever is insensible in the world is in a dream; whoever is insensible in God has come into truth. The world’s stupor is mere stupor; God’s intoxication is unique—it is a drunkenness that heightens awareness, not dulls it.

The wine I speak of will drown your ego and awaken your soul. In many ways—in dance, in song, in music—this wine is flowing.

But taverns do not appear to people as temples. For people, temples are those places where dead tradition is worshiped, where piles of rotting corpses lie. The older the corpse, the more revered! While a Buddha is alive, his satsang is a tavern; once Buddha dies, then a temple is built—a dead temple. When the Qur’an was on Muhammad’s lips, the Kaaba was a tavern; when Muhammad departed and the living Qur’an vanished, the Kaaba became a dead place. Go on worshiping for lifetimes, wander between Kaaba and Kailash and Girnar—you won’t receive even a single drop of nectar! Only with a living Buddha does this unprecedented happening, this miracle, become possible.

This is the greatest miracle. There is no miracle in walking upon water; only fools see a miracle there.

I’ve heard: A man went to a hotel and ordered tea. In anger he called the manager and said, “Look, a fly is walking on the tea!” The manager was a staunch Christian; at once he dropped to his knees, raised his hands to the sky and cried, “O Jesus Christ, so you have come! Never did we imagine you would appear in this form!”

For some, “miracles” mean just this: walking on water, flying in the air, producing ash, pulling out talismans and watches.

I know only one miracle—the miracle that happens between disciple and master. The Upanishad is the sole miracle: truth poured from one heart into another.

This wine which I sit holding in my decanter—may it reach your cup. But give the opportunity. It is not a matter of words alone; open the heart! Only in unbroken trust is this possible. In doubt a person is closed; in trust, he opens. In trust your vessel comes to rest before me.

Nistha, this can happen. It will happen. It should happen. For that very reason this vast arrangement is afoot—that in thousands of lives this event may occur. Not to pour for one or two, but to pour for multitudes. To increase the number of drinkers until this breeze of ecstasy, this hue of rapture, begins to stir the world.

Before the gaze, nothing but the dust of the Beloved’s lane—
Whatever door came into sight, we began to call out there.

Now, frightened, they say, “We shall die;
And if even by dying we find no peace, where then shall we go?”
Even the fire of hell will be shamed to water
When these sinners are drenched in the dew of modesty.
We are not such as to lay a claim of blood upon you;
Even if God should ask, we will deny it.
I could flash the flame of my sigh like lightning—
But I fear that seeing it, they would be terrified.
O Zauq, those mullahs spoiled by the seminary—
Bring them to the tavern; they will be set right.

Nistha, you have come—and bring along those ruined in the schools too!

O Zauq, those mullahs spoiled by the seminary—
Bring them to the tavern; they will be set right.

We must set them right as well. Not only be set right, but set others right.

My sannyasins must remember: not only to be refined, but to refine; not only to awaken, but to awaken others. Why? Because when you set about awakening others, your own awakening deepens. When you call out to others, your own soul begins to hear that call. When you become eager to pour for others, you stop being stingy in drinking. Explaining to others is one way of explaining to yourself. If you wish to learn anything in this world, the most wondrous art is this: begin to teach.

When we rolled up our selfhood, that thin veil which lay between us was gone;
The veiled one is veiled no more—there remains none other than He.
When we had no news of our own condition,
We kept looking at others’ faults and talents;
When at last our gaze fell upon our own flaws,
No one remained bad in our sight.
In the thought of your face, tell me which day
Did not rise for me like the terror of the Judgment?
In the meditation on your tresses, which night
Did not bring a host of calamities upon my head?
If you, O cupbearer, should delay to give the sea and the goblet,
Alas—this age of delight, this season of ecstasy
Will not remain forever; it will be gone.
I wanted to hold him back—even if my life should leave me, I would not let him go;
I tried a hundred thousand ruses, a million charms—
He was gone, gone, gone, gone.
Zafar says: Call him not a man, however wise and keen,
Who in pleasure does not remember God,
Who in anger does not fear God.

There are but a few lessons—in truth, just one. And you have asked exactly that. Then hurry to drink!

If you, O cupbearer, should delay to give the sea and the goblet,
Alas—this age of delight, this season of ecstasy
Will not remain forever; it will be gone.

Who knows—today there is a tavern; tomorrow it may not be. Who knows—today the wine is being poured; tomorrow it may, or may not, be poured.

If you, O cupbearer, should delay to give the sea and the goblet,
Alas—this age of delight...

Will this night abide, or not? Will this talk remain, or not?

...this season of ecstasy...

This season, this atmosphere; this movement of time, this pace, this rhythm...

...this season of ecstasy will not remain forever; it will be gone.

One thing is certain: Buddhas come and go; those who drink, drink; those who get lost in idle matters remain deprived.

You have asked well. But remember one thing: on the sake-bearer’s side there is no delay at all; if there is delay, it is on the side of the drinker. In the realm of spirituality the true master is eager to distribute; it is the disciple who hesitates to receive, who searches for a thousand pretexts, contrives a thousand ways to save himself. For this is a matter of dissolving. Who wants to dissolve! Even a seed doesn’t wish to dissolve. Yet until it dissolves, no sapling is born. A river too resists dissolving—but until it does, it never becomes the ocean. If you save yourself, you will remain a dewdrop; if you dissolve, you are the sea, the vast sea!

When we rolled up our selfhood, that thin veil which lay between us was gone;
The veiled one is veiled no more—there remains none other than He.

There is nothing between you and the Divine—only a gossamer veil. And it is not laid over God; you yourself have veiled your eyes. Remove this veil. Lift the bridal curtain—and you will meet the Beloved! The Beloved is already met, but you clutch the veil so tightly! You have gripped it with all your life.

I am ready to pour, Nistha! You dissolve! Make room! Empty a space! Where shall I pour this wine if within you “I” is filling the place, if the ego is packed inside? Empty the cup! On my side there is not the slightest stinginess; there is over-eager haste. For whether you know it or not, I know—this season will not last; this rhythm will not last. What can happen today—who can speak for tomorrow? Tomorrow never comes.

Yog Pritam! Even if I try a thousand ways to entangle you, do not get entangled. Even if I say a hundred times, “Be there at seven,” don’t bother to arrive. If both are giving you taste, then dive—dive into both. There is no such opposition between them that you cannot savor both together. Ultimately, the two become one.

Yet I draw a clear distinction for a reason. Not everyone has the capacity to carry both together. If even one can be carried, that is much. So I draw a clear line lest, in trying to carry two, you end up carrying none. Out of a hundred, if ninety percent can manage even one, that is a lot. When one alone is not managed, what to say of two! Yes, those who can manage both are fortunate.

You need not worry. All dimensions are his. Ultimately my effort is that in each person all dimensions flower. But I don’t want to make my effort so impossible that it falls outside anyone’s reach. I have to keep everyone in view—even the last.

Educationists say: the best teacher is the one who speaks so that even the very last student understands. You will understand this rule of pedagogy… Yog Pritam is a teacher at a university… A teacher should speak such that the last can grasp it. If only the first ranker understands, what of the rest? But what is spoken for the last is not a bondage for the first. The first is not to stop there. That does not define his limit. It is only to ensure that even the last does not remain asleep.

When I speak, I speak keeping the last in mind—so that not a single one misses. When we set out on a great journey, we must take care that no one is left behind. In the caravan there are elders, there are little children; there are the unwell, the frail. So sometimes even the healthy and the young have to walk slowly so that the sick can walk, the frail can walk, the old and the children can keep up. Otherwise some will go far ahead, some lag far behind, and the bridge between them will break.

And I am building a sangha. Bridges are not to break here; they are to be built. The first and the last must remain linked, a chain must be forged.

All the buddhas created sanghas—for a special reason. The Buddha is here today; tomorrow he will not be. But a chain can be created that holds his treasure, his gift, his offering; that can carry his light a little further even after he is gone. The more skillful that chain, the farther the flame can be shared—even after the Buddha departs.

Sannyas is a religious order. It is a fraternity of drunkards. All kinds of people are in it. I am speaking with everyone in mind. So when I speak keeping the first in mind, the last need not worry. And when I say something the last cannot grasp, he should not be troubled. I have him in view too. I will speak for him as well. He has to be brought across. If he cannot walk, we shall arrange a palanquin and bearers; he too has to be brought. We will carry him on our shoulders; we will fashion a kavad if need be—but we will not leave him behind. And when I speak for the last, the first need not be uneasy.

Yog Pritam, if you are savoring both devotion and meditation, bathe in both—both are ours. Devotion is his ghat, and meditation is his ghat. Whichever bank you step in from, you reach the same. And if you learn to swim from both banks—what is there to say!

Even after realization, Ramakrishna experimented with other methods for which there was no personal need—just to see whether other ghats too lead to the same place. There are many ghats, but all lead to the same. Ramakrishna made many experiments. For six months he became a Muslim. For six months he would not come to the temple; he lived at the mosque. The image—the image of Kali, whom he could not forget even for a moment—he turned his back to completely for six months. Because for a Muslim, image worship is kufr. For six months he practiced the formless. After six months, when he returned he told his disciples: The ghats are different, but wherever you launch the boat, it reaches the same shore. From the mosque too it reaches there, and from the temple too it reaches there.

Ramakrishna conducted a very unique experiment as well. In Bengal there is a sect: the Sakhi Sampradaya. Its adherents hold that Krishna is the only male and all others are female. The devotee of Krishna takes himself as Krishna’s sakhi, a gopi—not merely as an intellectual belief, but as a heart-deep acceptance. Ramakrishna also practiced in this tradition. Others may believe only on the surface—because it is not easy. You are a man and you must accept “I am a woman.” However much you insist, again and again the memory will return that you are a man. Even if you wear a woman’s clothes, your gait will give you away, your behavior will betray you. How will you hide it? This feeling runs very deep. As long as we identify with the body, it is not easy to drop this feeling, because the body is male or female. However much you insist on the surface “I am a sakhi, a gopi,” a little jostle and the gopa will appear—the gopi will flee! Someone steps on your toes and you’ll forget you are a sakhi—you will fling off your garments, plant your feet, and twirl your moustache! So long as there is identification with the body.

But a person like Ramakrishna, who has no identification with the body—when he practices the Sakhi path, he becomes a woman. There are scientific witnesses to this. Doctors examined him and were astonished: his breasts grew. It was unbelievable that identification could drop so completely, that feeling could become so intense that a man’s breasts would develop. Not only that—Ramakrishna began to have monthly menses. The unimaginable occurred. The acceptance was so heartfelt that when the six months of Sakhi practice ended and he returned, even then the change did not reverse quickly. It is said it took about six months for his gait to become male again; otherwise he had begun to walk like women. It took another six months for the breasts to recede and for the menses to cease. Then he told his disciples: The ghats are many, but wherever you launch the boat, it reaches the same shore. That side is his shore.

So whether you proceed by devotion or by meditation, the point is one; though on the two paths the experiences along the way will differ. Therefore, Yog Pritam, when meditation happens, even the memory of me will drop. If my remembrance still continues, then meditation has not happened. So do not think, not even for an instant, that some ingratitude is happening. Never, even by mistake, entertain a sense of guilt that you are being discourteous to me. The very meaning of meditation is that everything there drops away. When all thoughts drop, how will you remember me? Remembrance too is a thought. When the thoughtless arises, even the thought of God will not remain there. Leave aside the guru—even the memory of the Lord will not remain!

This is why on the path of meditation—such as among Jains and Buddhists—God has no place. Not because God is not, but because on the path of meditation no support is required—not any support at all. From one route you will reach the very same peak of the mountain, but the vistas along the routes differ. On Mount Everest there have been ascents from different sides; the views from each side are different. On one side there is nothing but snow—eternal, never melting. On another, there is nothing but rock—so smooth you cannot climb; you slip again and again. One who climbs from one direction will bring news only of rocks—smooth rocks. One who climbs from another will bring news of the eternal, virgin snow—never touched. Their reports will not tally. They will seem quite opposite. But when they speak of the summit—if both have truly reached—their words become one.

Therefore, in all scriptures, at the summit the word is one. But scriptures do not speak only of the summit; there is much debris there too, preliminaries, descriptions of the paths—that part varies greatly. If you grasp the summit of the Gita, it is the same as that of the Quran, the Dhammapada, the Bible. But the paths? The views along the way? Very different, very diverse.

On the path of meditation, everything drops. Buddha even said: If I ever come in your way, raise your sword and cut me in two.

Yog Pritam, do not think for a moment that ingratitude is happening. The truth is, on the path of meditation, by forgetting me you are fulfilling my word, my teaching. This is exactly what I am saying—that if I come into your way, raise the sword and cut me in two. No one should remain there! Only the zero of consciousness should remain—without stain, without alternatives, without thought, seedless. Only in that zero will the Whole descend—but not as a thought, as an experience; not as an idea, as a feeling. And that will be your gratitude to me. The day you attain the samadhi of meditation, that will be your thank you. Whether I come to mind or not is irrelevant; you have attained meditation—what greater thanks can there be? Thanks have happened.

But on the path of devotion, when you do kirtan, when you dance, you will not forget me; I will dance with you. The dance will be together—hand in hand. For on the path of devotion duality is affirmed. That is why on the path of devotion rasa, sweetness, arises. Devotion is love; and love wants two. Meditation is zero—there, one. Devotion is love—there, two. So when you do devotion, my remembrance will remain. That is natural.

Do not compare the two; these are different ghats. And if you savor both, sometimes take the boat from this bank, sometimes from that; do not worry—the far shore is one. For both my blessings. On the path of devotion, remember me; on the path of meditation, forget me utterly. There is not the slightest contradiction between the two. In both senses you are fulfilling my vision.

And now do not stop—if taste has begun to arise, do not halt. Energy is alive now. There is surge now. There is enthusiasm now. You are young now. Push this boat into the ocean now.

I will not stop today—
temperance is gone, youth is intoxicated—
I will not fail today.
Waves have risen on the current, wave upon storming wave;
breaking the bondage of the shore, the mad one goes to meet her Beloved.
The mind, midstream, is lost in joy today, instruments unmasked;
the heart is fulfilled only when it overflows—what knows it of fetters?
The weave of waves covers the banks;
let the bank be lost—hiding from the waves I will not be today.
Banks or no banks, the heart’s movement is its own—why lose courage in thinking?
How can I forget the indomitable excitation of breath?
Let the cataclysm stretch itself as far as it can—I will not bend today.
I will not stop today.

March on, march on! By devotion, by meditation, by love, by knowledge—march on, stay awakened!

I sit wherever the shade grows dense—
ah, what a thing exile from home can be!
By day, a light showers upon my grave;
by night, a sheet of moonlight is spread.
Whoever set foot in your lane was plundered—
is there anywhere such highway robbery?
In separation, to put one’s mouth to the ocean is poison,
while a drop of wine is a diamond.
Drinkers never worry about more or less—
such people have a generous temperament.
A cry rises if I restrain my lament;
when breath halts it is like the point of a spear.
Drink two sips, that the cupbearer’s word may prevail, O “Hafiz”—
for a blunt refusal bruises the feeling.

Yog Pritam, you have come to a lane where you are bound to be looted.

Whoever set foot in your lane was plundered—
is there anywhere such highway robbery?

India alone gave God one special name: Hari. Hari means “the one who snatches away.” He who takes, who steals away—Hari! In the world’s languages God has many names. The Sufis have a hundred. But none compares with this one, Hari. All other names pale. Say Rahman, say Rahim—names are many; but none like Hari. Because if God is truly something, he is a plunderer. He robs.

Whoever set foot in your lane was plundered—
is there anywhere such highway robbery?

And what a looting! If someone snatches your wealth, that is understandable, but here your very life-breath is taken! And once taken, it never returns. Yet the mad lovers do not worry.

Drinkers never worry about more or less—
they have no concern at all. They do not calculate: how much gained, how much lost, how much remains.

Drinkers never worry about more or less—
such people have a generous temperament.

Such people are magnanimous; drinkers have large hearts. If God knows how to plunder, drinkers know how to be plundered.

Jesus said: If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt as well. If someone slaps your right cheek, offer the other too. If someone asks you to carry his load for one mile, go with him for two.

Such people have a generous temperament—
broad-hearted, big-spirited.

You have been looted, Yog Pritam! And you are being looted from both sides—through meditation and through devotion. Now make your temperament generous. Be liberal. Open your heart and be plundered. In being plundered, it will happen. In being erased, it will happen. This happens only in being erased, only in being plundered.

May there be no lessening of the heart’s ache—
may friendship not turn into enmity.
Do not boast of my friendship—
lest the sky itself become a plaintiff.
He sits always among the drinkers—
may the ascetic not become a saint!
May ill luck not follow me there as well—
may even death not become life!
I fear my own nature of loyalty—
lest love turn into worship.
O “Bekhud,” beware that your proud selfhood
does not become the enemy of self-forgetfulness.
He sits always among the drinkers—
may the ascetic not become a saint!

You have come among drinkers!… Yog Pritam is from a Jain family—from the Terapanth. You would never have imagined, even in a dream, that one day you would be counted among the folk of a tavern.

He sits always among the drinkers—
may the ascetic not become a saint!

Even an abstainer, if he keeps company with drinkers, becomes a seer, a friend of God. What your monks are not receiving, you are fortunate to receive. What Acharya Tulsi is deprived of is showering upon you. You had the courage to sit among the drinkers! Courage bears fruit; it brings its reward.

He sits always among the drinkers—
may the ascetic not become a saint!
I fear my own nature of loyalty—
lest love turn into worship.

You came and fell in love with me—love! And then you did not even notice when love began to become worship. How love, silently, becomes prayer—we never know! Love quietly becomes prayer: no noise, no clamor, no drumbeat. As silently as a dewdrop slips off the lotus leaf; as silently as a night-blooming jasmine opens and fragrance spreads—no footprint is heard, and such a revolution happens. Let someone come, sit, be a little open, a little free of prejudices; a little conscious, not utterly dull; a little intelligence, a little awareness—and it does not take long. Becoming a seer is not difficult; it is our nature.

Now let both be perfected. Let meditation flow, let devotion flow. Keep the double-edged sword—sharp on both sides. These two will erase you. You will be lost, but what remains is God.

Chinmayananda! Now be even more intoxicated! What else will you do? What is left to do now? You cannot go back; there is no way back. No one truly intoxicated has ever returned—there is no path of return. Whoever turns back was never really drunk with it. How can one come back from ecstasy? Now your ecstasy will only grow: new shoots will sprout in it, new leaves will unfold, new flowers will bloom.

Let those who burn, burn! In the beginning they will burn; it has always been so. They will slander, they will oppose, they may even throw stones, but do not abandon your ecstasy—do not abandon it at any price. Never, ever compromise when it comes to your ecstasy. Lose everything, but do not lose your ecstasy. For ecstasy is the one ray by which one can reach the divine.

And this is only the beginning—wait and see what all unfolds! Much more is yet to come. As yet they have not stoned you, as yet they have not crucified you. They may be slandering you, laughing behind your back: “He’s gone mad—what happened to him? A perfectly fine man; who could have imagined such a calamity would strike his life!” But if your ecstasy keeps on increasing, keeps on increasing, those who condemn today will praise tomorrow. Esa dhammo sanantano! Such is the eternal law: first they condemn, then they praise.

And let the ecstasy go on increasing. Remember, some people get frightened by criticism; they shrink and panic—then only criticism remains. Those who don’t bother about blame, who go on dancing and singing carelessly, who beat the drum all the more with every abuse, who pluck the veena all the louder—then praise becomes inevitable. The very people who condemned begin to praise. People are strange! The same ones begin to say, “We said it from the very beginning!... The very same people!... This man has arrived!”

But don’t stop even at praise. Condemnation can stop you; praise can stop you even more—because praise fills the ego. If you don’t stop even at praise, those very people will begin to be dyed in your color. Don’t stop at condemnation, don’t stop at praise; then you become a proclamation of revolution in their lives.

Why this uproar, just because I had a little to drink?
I haven’t committed robbery, I haven’t stolen a thing.

Don’t be afraid! There will be an uproar—even a little drinking causes an uproar. And you still have a lot to drink!

Why this uproar, just because I had a little to drink?
I haven’t committed robbery, I haven’t stolen a thing.

Hang a plaque on your door:

Why this uproar, just because I had a little to drink?
I haven’t committed robbery, I haven’t stolen a thing.

And what is the value of the condemnation of those who condemn?

These are the words of an inexperienced preacher—
what would he know of this hue? Ask him—has he ever drunk?

These “great wise men”—the scholars and priests, the renouncers and ascetics—have they any real experience? Any taste?

These are the words of an inexperienced preacher—

Forgive them, excuse them; don’t even pay attention to them. Poor fellows—without experience, they don’t know.

These are the words of an inexperienced preacher—
what would he know of this hue? Ask him—has he ever drunk?

Have they ever danced in divine intoxication? Ever drowned in prayer? Ever plunged into the satsang of a true master? What value, then, do their words have?

And then, who is “one’s own” here, Chinmayananda, and who is “other”? Here there is no one who is truly one’s own, no one who is truly other. All are notions with which the mind consoles itself. It’s all a play. A dream—just a dream. Lift the eye of your ecstasy now toward the sky, toward the moon and stars; forget about them. Let the dogs bark. Will you spoil your gait for that? Does an elephant ever run after dogs, chasing them one by one? In doing so the elephant would only make a fool of himself. Even the dogs would laugh and say, “We have seen many elephants, but never one like this!”

Every particle sparkles with the divine radiance;
every breath whispers, “Since we are, God is as well.”

Raise the eyes of your ecstasy upward and you will see: every speck—every particle of life—shimmering with the light of God.

Every particle sparkles with the divine radiance;
every breath whispers, “Since we are, God is as well.”

Dive within! Dive into the moon and stars—outside—and dive within—into the inner sky. And within you this sound will begin to arise:

Every breath whispers, “Since we are, God is as well.”

Now what worry about people? If there is any concern, let it be for God’s doing. What do people know? Poor things—what do they know? They themselves are lost, and if ever someone finds the right path, they think he has gone astray.

But the crowd is theirs. So if it were to be decided by votes, they would win. How many would vote for Gautam Buddha? And how many would vote for Jesus? Not even a hundred, two hundred votes for Jesus would be found; millions would be found to vote against him. Why? Because the crowd is blind. How many here have eyes? And only one with eyes can recognize one with eyes.

They even put spots on the sun—quirks of nature!
Let them call us “infidel”—it is Allah’s will.

Let them laugh. People even find blemishes on the sun; it is their habit to find spots.

They even put spots on the sun—quirks of nature!
Regard it as a marvel, a miracle of nature.

They even put spots on the sun—quirks of nature!
And if they call us heretics—well, that too is God’s will.

Those who themselves are faithless, brimming with unbelief, who know nothing of religion—such people condemn those who know, who have begun to know, or who have set out on the path, who have begun to sip a little. It’s a marvel!

Don’t worry. Smile and move on. Offer thanks and move on. A sannyasin needs at least this much preparedness. Sannyas is an ordeal by fire.

Enough for today.