Sapna Yeh Sansar #20

Kailash! You are already in the state of separation; there is no question of “passing through” it. Your very being is separation; your vanishing is union. Separation is not something you will have to go through tomorrow—you are in it today. You were in it yesterday. And if nothing is done, you will remain in it tomorrow as well.

Separation means: “I am apart, distinct, other than Existence, not one with it”—such a feeling. As if a leaf were to think, “I am separate from the tree.” Mere thinking does not make it so; it remains a part of the tree. But if the belief settles, a delusion is created. We are not separate from the Divine; only the delusion of separateness exists. It is the delusion that has to be broken. It is not a matter of “joining” God—we are already joined. Try a thousand ways, you cannot be torn from That. Separation is impossible, because existence outside the Divine is impossible. Whatever is, is in God. Existence is the Paramatman. You are—and that is enough to know you are in the Divine. Who is breathing within you? Who beats in your life-breath? What is the consciousness inside you? That very One.

But leaves do not make such a mistake; they cannot. They lack the capacity. A human being does make this mistake; he has the capacity. This is the glory of man—and his misfortune too. Glory, because only man can become self-aware. Misfortune, because that capacity can be misused; self-awareness can turn into ego. If it becomes ego, we are “cut off” from the Divine.

Ego is the state of separation.

Then life becomes lament, melancholy, madness—because we are insisting on what is not. If where there is a wall you take it to be a door, what is that but madness? And where there is a door, if you take it to be a wall, you will be in trouble—you will not pass through the door, you will bang your head against the wall. But a door remains a door whether you call it a wall, and a wall remains a wall whether you call it a door.

Man is lost in his beliefs. Apart from belief, there is no illusion anywhere. You have assumed “I am”; not only assumed it, you reinforce it in every way—through wealth, position, prestige. You nourish it. If anyone strikes at it, you are ready to kill and be killed. You stand perpetually on guard, naked sword in hand, to protect your ego. And even if you are compelled to bend, you bend only outwardly; inwardly you wait for the chance to make the one before whom you bent, bend to you.

Separation means: I have taken myself to be apart from the Vast. And then the pain begins, the torment begins. If you grasp this torment rightly, you become religious. You set out to find how to break the illusion, how to re-knit my relation with Truth; how remembrance might dawn again. If you do not understand rightly, you will take separation to be a lack of money, position, prestige—and then the race of the world begins.

Both journeys—of religion and of the world—arise from separation. One is the right journey: if you set out on the path of dharma, of your intrinsic nature, then today or tomorrow separation will dissolve and union will happen—the union that in fact already is. It will only be discovered, revealed; the curtain will lift. At present it is behind the veil; then it will be right before your eyes. The devotee lives in separation, and those you call worldly also live in separation. The difference is only this: the devotee’s separation one day becomes union, and the worldly person’s separation becomes more and more of a hell.

I wrote and sent countless letters,
still, cruel one, you did not come.
The desolate garden’s days rolled by,
dark monsoon clouds kept gathering;
the henna beds breathed fragrance,
the thresholds rang with birdsong,
the neem in the courtyard flowered,
the mango grove at home bloomed.
Everything spoke—only you were silent;
I sat alone, my heart caged.
Laughter lost, joy lost,
sleep was sold, peace squandered.
At whose temple shall I wave the lamp?
At whose door shall I surrender?
To whom shall I send my silent messages,
to whom my tender invitation?
I wrote and sent countless letters,
none ever returned to me.
All came—only you did not;
why this cruel spell upon me?
Such intense longing took hold,
such efforts did it compel.
The threshold fell hush and mute,
the latch kept clicking, waiting;
the clouds swayed low and bowed,
the rains held back, still waiting.
Whenever your memory came,
my helplessness grew deeper;
pang by pang my heart kept aching,
pitilessly the years went by.
Hundreds of times I sent messages,
still, heartless one, you did not come.
I wrote and sent countless letters,
still, cruel one, you did not come.

The devotee is in love with Existence. Where there is love, separation deepens; where there is love, thirst intensifies; where there is love, a call rises day and night, a longing awakens: When will dawn break? When will the night end? When will the darkness of distance clear? When will closeness, nearness, be found? The more intense this love and thirst become, the stronger the possibility of union. A moment comes when the thirsty one melts away and only thirst remains; when the one who cries disappears and only crying remains; when inside there is no one left to seek—only an unbroken seeking breath after breath, heartbeat after heartbeat. Waking or sleeping, the call continues. In that very moment union happens; the veil lifts.

Kailash! You are already in separation. Now you can direct this separation in two ways. One is the ignorant way: “A little money and everything will be fine. A beautiful wife or husband, children—and all will be fine. A high office, status, prestige—and all will be fine. Something is missing outside; let me fill it.” That lack never gets filled. It is not a beggar’s bowl that can be filled. Demand goes on increasing. Like a mirage, the water that shimmers at a distance remains only an appearance; as you reach, only heaps of sand come to hand. By then the mirage has already run ahead; new dreams keep arranging themselves. Distant drums are charming; by the time their truth is exposed, you have woven new dreams and are entangled in them. This too is separation—but misunderstood. The disease has not been correctly diagnosed; so you keep taking random medicines. And the disease aside, the medicines create new diseases.

Right diagnosis is this: the lack is not outside; the lack is within. The lack is of awareness, not of money. Let awareness grow and union happens. Only in awareness is union possible. In sleep there is separation; in awakening there is union. And if you are frightened of separation, union will never be. If you understand it, separation refines, cleanses, washes off all dust. Separation is a bath. The inner being becomes pure gold by passing through separation. Only then is the worthiness born to receive the Divine.

The Divine is present—why does everyone not receive? Nanak received, Paltu received, Kabir received—why do you not? Nanak was here, Paltu here, Kabir here, Raidas here, you too are here; the same world, the same sky, the same moon and stars, the same people—yet they found the Divine and you do not. Your diagnosis is wrong. You look outside, so you miss—and the more you miss, the more you panic and run faster; the more you run, the more you miss. A vicious circle is created: “It isn’t coming—perhaps I’m not running well. Let me run harder.” It never occurs that perhaps, in the very direction where I’m running, there is no treasure at all; I need a new direction.

There are eleven directions: ten outward, and the eleventh within. Ten are of the world, the eleventh is of dharma. Whoever has walked in that eleventh direction has arrived—till today there is no exception. On that path even tears become offerings; laughter too is poured there; happiness as well—everything is laid at Those Feet. Thorns and flowers, good and bad, night and day—everything.

Blessings of the unsung song be upon you.
Of this tearful smile,
of the lips’ helplessness,
of the unseen tears—blessings be upon you.
Blessings of the unsung song be upon you.
Of vows that were bartered—
of moments before the bridal palanquin—
of the unknown road—blessings be upon you.
Blessings of the unsung song be upon you.
Of the crown as well a blessing,
of the broken lute a blessing,
of the extinguished music—blessings be upon you.
Blessings of the unsung song be upon you.

As you go within, a stream of sweetness begins to flow; you taste a little for yourself—and you find that everything is being offered to That, unconditionally. In that very surrender the door to union opens.

There is a surrender that is forced; and there is a surrender that is voluntary. The forced surrender is false; anger smolders within it—if not today, tomorrow it will erupt. You are sitting on a volcano. Much of what has been made of your “religion” is such forced surrender; hence it is counterfeit. Your family dragged you to temple, mosque, gurudwara, church—and bent you down. You did bend; since childhood you kept bending; it became a habit; the conditioning hardened. Now, as you pass a temple, your hands join mechanically—but your life does not join; a prayer does not arise.

Paltu says: By chanting “Ram-Ram” my tongue has blistered—what’s the essence of it? For ages turning the rosary, we are tired—what have we gained? The rosary is not at fault—remember that. Poor rosary—what fault can be hers! If there is a mistake, it is yours. The name of Ram is not at fault—if there is a mistake, it is yours. If only the tongue chants, blisters are all that will happen. Calluses will grow on your fingers turning the beads, but until an inner feeling connects, nothing will happen. Let that inner joining happen and you have heard the story: Valmiki—never mind “Ram”—by chanting “mara-mara” (dead-dead) found Ram. He chanted the name reversed. Unlettered, rustic, wild—he mixed it up and went on chanting it backward.

Tolstoy has a famous story.
Three fakirs became very renowned—so renowned that the chief priest of Russia grew envious. People no longer came to him; they went to those fakirs. On the far side of a lake, under a tree, the three had made a little camp. Their tales spread from village to village, from mouth to mouth. The arch-priest could not bear it. One day he took a boat with a boatman, crossed the lake, and reached them. The three fakirs rose and touched his feet. From the very way they touched his feet he concluded they knew nothing—an arrogant man. “They are simple villagers, naïve; undeserved fame!”
He asked them, “What is your attainment?” They said, “We have none.” He asked, “What prayer do you do—what is your practice?” They looked at each other: “You tell him.” The priest grew stiffer: “Speak! I am the chief priest; I never initiated you. Uninitiated, have you attained God?” They said, “No, no—how could we attain God? We are lowly, poor; we are not even worthy of the dust of His feet. As for prayer—we are shy to say, because we learned from no one; we made it up among ourselves. It is not big or beautiful—we know no poetry; we are uneducated. We made a little homely prayer for our own use. Forgive us; don’t ask—it is shameful to tell.”
The priest insisted. They said, “If you won’t relent, then hear it. We have heard that God is Three.” In Christianity, God is taken in three forms—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost—like the Hindu Trimurti, a Trinity. “We heard God has three forms, and we saw that we also are three; so we made a prayer: ‘You are three, we are three—now have mercy on us!’” The chief priest started—he had never heard such a prayer. “You are three, we are three—have mercy upon us. You are three, we are three, have mercy upon us.”
The priest said, “Stop this nonsense. That is not a prayer; you are making a mockery of God. I will teach you the prayer.” He recited the long official church prayer. There are official prayers and official saints—the world is a strange place! In English, the word “saint” is often thought to be the same as the Sanskrit “sant.” It is not. The English “saint” is related to “sanction”—state-certified. Whoever has the certificate is a saint.
The priest said, “Stop. Here is the prayer.” It was long. The three listened and said, “Please say it once more, or we will forget.” He said it again. “Once more, or we’ll forget.” Thrice he recited it. They thanked him. He was delighted: “I have set them on the right path.” He returned to his boat; the oars were raised.
When he reached mid-lake, all were astonished—the boatman and the priest alike. The three fakirs were running over the lake. His heart thudded. He had only heard the story that Jesus once walked on water; he had never been fully convinced that anyone could walk on water. But he saw with his own eyes. He rubbed them and asked the boatman, “Do you see what I see?” “I see it,” said the boatman. “I am as startled as you. You at least should not be startled—you believe Jesus walked; so walking must be possible. I am an ordinary man; I am trembling.”
The three reached the boat and folded their hands: “Please tell us the prayer once more—we have forgotten.” The priest’s tongue faltered. What prayer could he teach them now? He bowed at their feet: “Forgive me. Your prayer is right; continue with it. Though there is nothing in those words, your life is surely in it; otherwise how could this miracle that I myself am witnessing be? My faith is not enough to step on water on the strength of prayer, though I have repeated mine all my life. You have won; I have lost. Forgive me! You opened my eyes. I was blind; you gave me sight. I was deaf; you gave me ears. Till today I knew nothing of scripture; today for the first time you have given me its taste—truth itself.”

Kailash, separation is not a “scriptural” matter. It is not that you sit counting beads and chanting “Ram-Ram” as a pretense. Separation is of the heart. When your very life flutters like a bird shut in a cage—like a fish hauled from water and thrown on the bank—when your being thrashes on the shore in the sun, then know it is the state of separation. When one remembrance remains and all other memories fall away—when only the Divine is remembered, and even the self is forgotten—when such a blazing thirst arises within, union happens. The supreme pitch of separation is union. Therefore you will have to pass through it.

Your question suggests you want union but hope to avoid separation.
You ask, “Is it necessary to pass through the state of separation for union with the Divine?”
Your intention is not noble; your motive is not clean. You want a way to slip by without separation. You want to pay no price and yet receive the Divine. You want no thorn in the foot and the journey complete. You seem unwilling to pay even a little. You want it for free.

Remember: the Divine is not obtained gratis.
I do not mean you can buy God with money. I mean: to receive the Divine, you must offer yourself. Not by giving wealth, position, prestige—but by dedicating your very life-breath does the Divine come. For the one who is ready to pay with life itself, union is possible. And the day union happens, you will know that what you paid was nothing—two pennies—and what you received is infinite. As if for two coppers someone received the Kohinoor diamond. But you need a connoisseur’s eye; without it you might save the pennies and leave the diamond.

I have heard this: A potter found a diamond on the roadside, a big one. Thinking it a shiny stone, he picked it up; not knowing what to do with it, he hung it around his donkey’s neck. He loved his donkey—so it pleased him to adorn it. A diamond worth lakhs, around a donkey’s neck!
As he walked toward the market with his pots, a jeweler’s eye fell on it. He had seen many diamonds, but never one so large. And here it dangled from a donkey! “Stop, brother,” he said, quickly sensing the potter knew nothing. “What will you take for that shiny stone?” The potter thought hard: “All right—give me eight annas.” He gathered courage to ask that much. Who would give eight annas for a stone? Perhaps the jeweler was a miser: “Eight annas! Shame on you. Two annas. All right, take three. Last—four.” He thought, “He’ll sell; who else would pay even four?” He walked a few steps away, expecting the potter to call him back. But the potter did not, so the jeweler returned—and missed his chance. Another jeweler had seen it and bought it for one rupee.
You can imagine the first jeweler’s heart! A serpent rolled on his chest. The greatest wealth slipped from his hands—for the sake of four annas! Burning with envy at the second jeweler, he scolded the potter: “You fool! Don’t you have even that much sense? This diamond was worth lakhs, and you sold it for one rupee!” The potter said, “That I am a fool is obvious; otherwise I wouldn’t be a potter. But what shall we say of your foolishness? You knew it was worth lakhs, and you let it go for four annas! For me it was only a stone. I asked eight annas; I got a whole rupee—double the price. But think about yourself—you wouldn’t give even eight annas when I offered it to you!”

At present it may seem that what we give in separation is very precious—because we lack discernment. Those who have known the Divine say: What do we have to give? Whatever is, is His. “Tvadiyam vastu tubhyam eva samarpayet”—what is Yours we offer back to You. Where is the bargaining in that? This life is His; these eyes, these tears, this heart—all His. We return His own to Him. Why such miserliness?

No, Kailash—let this stinginess go. Pass through separation dancing, singing, celebrating. This separation too is His; it is for Him. This very pain points to Him. These tears are falling at His feet. If you are miserly, if you want to be spared, to get it for free—without even a tear shed—you will not receive. Then it is impossible. Then drop the whole matter—make money, climb the ladders of politics, hang in your house the sign “Delhi is not far,” make Delhi your goal!

And the irony is: those who reach Delhi are ready to stake everything; they surrender all. The mad for wealth—what do they not wager? They stake their entire life. They never ask, “Can we get wealth without staking anything?” Did Alexander not stake everything? Did he not lose his whole life? People hoard copper coins and never ask whether these coins are worth hoarding at all. But regarding separation they often ask, “Must one really weep to find the Divine?”

Weeping feels like weeping only to those who have no true love for the Divine. To those who do, even tears are a benediction. On His path, if thorns come, they are flowers. If stones rain down while reaching Him, they fall as pearls and rubies.

Union is such a vast happening that a thousand separations can be borne.

Kusum Rani! There is no getting rid of death. One will have to die! Death is the other side of the same coin as birth. Once you are born—once you have taken one side of the coin—how can you avoid the other? Death already happened in birth. It may take you seventy years to find out, that’s all; but the event has already occurred.

The very day a child is born, cry then and there; death has arrived. Now, whether anything else happens in life or not, one thing is certain: there will be death. Life is wondrous! In it, nothing is certain except death. Everything else is uncertain—may or may not be; but death will surely be. However much you run and hide, no one can escape death, no one can outrun it.

And the more you fear, the more you die.

Death comes only once, but to the fearful it stands before them every moment, clutching at their throat. The fearful person never truly lives; he only keeps dying and dying. It is said, the brave die once, the coward a thousand times. It is rightly said; the proverb is meaningful.

You say: “Forget talking about death, I am afraid even of the word ‘death.’”

It isn’t just your situation; it is the situation of most people. They are afraid of the very word death. So they avoid using it. Even when someone dies, we do not say it plainly. We say: “He became heavenly (swargiya),” or “passed away.” We don’t say, “He died.” Everyone becomes “heavenly.” Then who goes to hell? Those whom you know perfectly well could only be hell-bound—people who perhaps wouldn’t even find a place in hell, not considered worthy even for that—you still call them “heavenly.” “Heavenly” is a sweet word. We sugarcoat death. We sweeten the poisonous pill.

People have found such marvelous expressions. “He went on the supreme journey.” They have died, but people say: “He has set out on the ultimate pilgrimage.” They have died, yet people say: “He has become dear to God.” They never even took God’s name, never loved God; but now that they have died, they have become God’s beloved! These are tricks to avoid the word death—so that we need not use it. We protect that word. As soon as anyone dies, people start talking of soul and immortality: “The soul is immortal. No one really dies. The body is like clothing; old garments wear out and fall away, new ones are obtained.” And the very people saying this have pounding chests; they are shaken. Because every person’s death brings news of your death. Whoever dies, it is your death’s news that comes.

By inventing nice words we are not deceiving the one who has died—he has died—we are deceiving ourselves. We are convincing ourselves that there is no death.

In the West an entire business has arisen around this. When someone dies, depending on his or his family’s means, money is spent after death. The body is decorated. If it is a woman, lipstick, hair, beautiful clothes; a handsome coffin, a costly coffin. They say that in the West the art of dressing up corpses has become so refined—there are specialists who charge thousands. To decorate the corpse! Then once the body is adorned and the flowers are placed, people come to view, to bid a final farewell. The deception is for them. Rouge is smeared on the cheeks, lipstick applied, hair arranged—if there was none, a wig is put on; beautiful garments, garlands—so it seems as if the person is not dead at all, but alive, as if he is setting out on some great pilgrimage, on the path of a grand departure.

I heard of one incident. A man died. They decorated him splendidly. He was a big man, a wealthy man. People came to pay their last respects. A couple came. The wife said, “Do you see? How beautiful he looks! How dignified, how serene! How full of grace!” The husband said, “Why wouldn’t he? He has just returned after six months in Switzerland!”

The poor fellow had gone to Switzerland for treatment of tuberculosis. He died there. They brought the body back. The husband said, “Why wouldn’t he look so good? He’s just returned after enjoying six months of Switzerland—its air, its freshness, its mountains and seasons, why not!”

We can make a corpse look so attractive that the living may feel envy. The husband speaks as if filled with a deep jealousy.

But what is there in death to be afraid of? What will death take from you? What do you have that can be snatched away? Kusum Rani, sometime sit quietly, close your eyes, and ponder: when death comes, what of yours will be taken? What do you really have? Breath will not move. But what is happening by its movement anyway? It goes in, it comes out; if it doesn’t come in or go out, what is lost? What was ever achieved by this coming and going? This thud-thud of the heart—if it stops, what great majesty was it creating by running? What delight are you getting from its beating now? What shower of bliss is pouring forth? In this life, what is it that you have that you are afraid to lose? This is a question worth pondering—and precisely because it is so, you are afraid only because your life has nothing in it.

This may strike you as odd, even contradictory. But try to understand carefully.

Because there is nothing in your life, death frightens you. Why? Because nothing has yet been attained, and death might arrive and end it all halfway! Your hands are still empty. Your life-breath is still hollow and vacant. What if the curtain falls in the middle of the play? The drama has not reached completion. Nothing has been known, nothing has been lived. There is not a single satisfaction to say you were truly alive. No gift of life has yet been received. And death might come and drop the curtain suddenly! Then empty you remained and empty you went.

I want to say: it is not death that you fear; it is because your life is empty that you are afraid of death. A fulfilled person does not fear death. Buddha does not fear death. Jesus does not fear death. Mohammed does not fear death. The question of death does not arise. Life is so full, so brimming with awe and gratitude, so abundant, that if death is to come tomorrow, let it come today! If it is to come today, let it come right now! There is such contentment that what was worth attaining has been attained—what can death spoil now? What was worth knowing has been known—what can death take away now?

And what is worth knowing? Your own being is worth knowing. Your own state of consciousness is worth recognizing. The wealth of the soul is worth attaining. For in attaining that, God is found. One who has known himself has known God.

Kusum Rani, don’t weave needless bonds of fear with death; weave bonds of love with life. Live life in its integrity, in its wholeness—and in that very living, in the ecstasy of that living, death is eclipsed. The body will die—it is already dying; what is already dying will die. But the consciousness within you has never been born, so it will not die either. Come to know that. Do not ask how to get rid of death. The real element within you is already beyond death; there is no need to get rid of it. And that which lies within the circle of death—your body—cannot be gotten rid of.

There are two within you.

The Upanishads say: like two birds sitting on a tree. One sits on a high branch—just sits, watching, only watching. Neither stirring nor moving, like a stone statue, just watching. And one is hopping on the lower branches—pecking at this fruit, pecking at that fruit.

This is a beautiful symbol. It is your story. These two birds are within you. One on the upper branch—the seer, the witness; and one on the lower branch—the enjoyer, pecking here, pecking there. This enjoyer will die. This bird of the lower branch will fall today or tomorrow. But the one sitting on the upper branch is eternal. Within you there is a witness—the seer of all—who observes your body and observes your mind; the one who sees never becomes the seen. The seen will die; the seer is immortal. The seen cannot be preserved. It is made and will be unmade. It is a water bubble: here now, gone the next; but within you there is one who sees these bubbles—sitting on the upper branch, the mere witness. Call it meditation, call it devotion—give it any name you like! The devotee calls it remembrance of God; the knower calls it witnessing. But the meaning is the same. The day you recognize that one, that very day there is no more death.

Today is the eve of Diwali, the anniversary of lamps in every home,
yet you sit in your palace wrapped in perpetual darkness.
Such a heap of sadness, as if laughter never visited your life,
such dim, dim breaths, as if they never once grew warm,
your mirror lies dusty, as if you were an exile in your own home,
your adornments scattered, your youth faded and worn,
today is the season for some lover’s hand to line your eyes with kohl,
yet you sit with raincloud melodies pooled in your gaze.

Today you are so withdrawn; perhaps till yesterday it wasn’t so,
so blind, so empty—this is not a full-moon night!
Tell me, what toy has broken to make a mourning hall of you?
What whirlwind has plundered the greenness of these lamps?
Spring blooms in the garden; on every bud is youthfulness,
yet you seem to have borrowed wounds from thorns and nursed them.

The body’s compulsions will yield when the heart is gently counseled,
some in tears, some in sighs—your pain will be shared and lightened.
Anoint your dreams with turmeric, who knows when the bridegroom season returns?
The weather is uncertain—what moment turns what into what?
Doorways are garlanded everywhere; it is the twilight of monsoon songs—
yet on your lips you sit holding a hundred embers.

Now let the corpse be taken out of the courtyard; the day has long since set.
How long will you play with tears? The ache has reached your throat.
Two days of weeping is all; after that this wound will settle into your very age.
Do not bare your gashes before all; the world will give them a hundred names.
Everyone worldly has returned to the shore stitching up their thirst,
yet you still sit making vows and pacts with the waves.

Who can stay here? On this shore no one can stay.
Everyone worldly has returned to the shore stitching up their thirst—
and here thirst is never quenched; the lips themselves must be sewn.
No one can remain here. One has to go to that other shore. But there is something within you that even now is on that shore. The body is on this shore; you are on that shore. Those who have known, have known thus. One is here—your body, your visible form; and one is there—your non-bodily, your invisible essence. You can identify with either of the two. If you identify with the body, the fear of death will haunt you. Even the word death will panic you. For the word does not remain just a word; it stirs emotions within us. If someone were suddenly to run in here and shout, “Fire! Fire!” many of you would jump up, begin preparing to flee. In a cinema hall, when the lights are out and the film is on, if someone shouts, “Fire! Fire!” there is a stampede. Then even if someone assures you there is none, no one wants to stay inside. Many will begin to see smoke, many will see flames. A stampede would ensue; perhaps in it a few might break their arms or legs, someone might be crushed to death. There is no fire, nothing—only a word! Yet words take on meaning inside us.

The word death, too, unnerves us. We keep it out of our conversations.

Bertrand Russell wrote of a lady he knew who was very “spiritual.” When her husband died, Russell went to offer condolences. Russell didn’t believe in soul and such—he was an atheist—but the lady was spiritual. So, in the course of conversation, he said, “You must be certain—your husband was spiritual, you are spiritual—you must be sure he has reached heaven.” The lady looked at Russell with grief and anger and said, “Yes, certainly he has reached heaven. But please don’t bring up such upsetting topics!” To reach heaven—and that is an upsetting topic! If the husband has reached heaven, what could be more delightful? What greater joy is there than heaven? On the one hand she says, “Yes, certainly my husband has gone to heaven,” and immediately on the other she says, “It is not proper to raise such disturbing matters.”

The very news of death shakes the heart. The so-called spiritualists, too, are afraid of death.

In this country there is a lot of spiritual talk! Yet perhaps nowhere in the world are people as afraid of death as here. This is worth pondering. Otherwise, who could have kept you slaves for a thousand years? If you had not feared death!

No one tells you the plain truth: Why were you slaves for a thousand years? Because of your hollow spirituality. If there had been truth in your spirituality, who could have enslaved you? You would have agreed to die but not to be slaves. And who could have slaughtered millions in this land? Those who came, came with small numbers; small armies—Mughals or Turks or Huns or Greeks. Even if their entire nations had arrived, this country is so vast that if they had set about killing, their whole lives would have been spent cutting—and still they could not have cut down this land. Yet to enslave this vast country, no one took a moment.

The reason?

And then for centuries this land remained enslaved! There is one reason: your spirituality is false. You believe the soul is immortal because you are afraid of death; therefore you believe. It is not your realization; not your witnessing; not your own experience; it is merely scriptural knowledge—borrowed, stale, worth two pennies. It has no value. Experience the witness. Then for you there is no death.

So either you will identify with the body—then there is death, and there will be fear of death. Or identify with the soul, which is your true destiny, your nature; then there is no fear. Then even if the body is cut or burned, you will know: fire cannot burn you—“nainam dahati pavakah.” Weapons may pierce your body, but you will know: “nainam chindanti shastrani”—weapons cannot cleave me. And you will not be parroting the Gita’s words; if you are, it is useless. It must be your own experience! And it can be your experience.

Do not ask me, Kusum Rani, how to get rid of death. In “getting rid” the flavor of fear is already present. Yes, one can awaken from death. If identification with the body breaks, that is awakening from death. Then there is no death. Then death is the greatest untruth.

In this world there are two greatest lies—and they are not two, but two sides of one coin. One is called ego, the other is called death. As long as there is ego, there is death. The day there is no ego, there is no death. What we have manufactured—ego—will perish. The body is a conjunction that will disperse. But there is something within us that is not of our making, upon which is God’s stamp, His seal, His signature; something within us that is otherworldly, that comes from far horizons, that is not of this earth; that lives in the body, yes, but only as a guest, an atithi. Recognize that guest—and then there is no death.

Swaroopananda! First of all, you are not ignorant. You have read the Vedas, the Puranas, the Gita, and so on. You—and ignorant! You are saying you are ignorant out of modesty.

We say many things out of modesty. Don’t take them literally.
People come and say, “We are but the dust of your feet.” Don’t take it as the literal truth—otherwise they will never forgive you. If someone says, “I am the dust beneath your feet,” don’t reply, “Exactly! I already knew you were the dust of my feet. You speak the truth, Maharaj!” Don’t say that, or that person will never forgive you. He will spend his whole life trying to prove that you are the dust under his feet.
People say, “I am nothing; before you, what am I?” But their intent is something else. They are really saying, “Praise my humility; honor my egolessness! See what I am saying—I am nothing!”

At a crossroads three Christian mendicants met, each from a different denomination. One was a Catholic. He said, “As far as knowledge is concerned, no one can match the people of our monastery. Our whole discipline is the discipline of knowledge. No other monastery has produced the kind of scholars we have. Even our enemies must accept this.”
The second was a Protestant. He said, “That is true; the scriptures are not exactly our forte—nor our interest. What’s in scriptures anyway? Our emphasis is on renunciation. Renunciation is the real religion. And as far as renunciation, austerities, vows and fasts are concerned, no one can match us.”
The third was from the Trappist order. He smiled and said, “We have neither knowledge nor renunciation, but in humility no one is above us. In humility, no one is above us. In humility, we are unmatched.”

To say “no one is above us in humility”—what a thing to say! Then humility too becomes a proclamation of ego. Humility becomes the ornament of ego, a new defense, a new disguise—and the most beautiful disguise. The ego becomes so subtle you won’t even see it; you won’t be able to catch it.

So, Swaroopananda, don’t say, “I am ignorant.” To be truly ignorant is no easy matter. To be truly ignorant is a great discipline. I don’t call those ignorant who haven’t read the Gita, the Vedas, or the Koran—they are unlettered. And I don’t call those wise who have read the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible—they are merely “read.” I call a person like Socrates ignorant—who, before dying, said, “I know only one thing: that I know nothing.” That is ignorance. And such ignorance is the first step of wisdom. One who can say, “I know nothing”—and not just say it, but feel it; who doesn’t claim it as a pose of the ego, but as the dissolution of ego—then knowledge showers on its own.

Ignorance is attained by being free of knowledge. It is a state above knowledge. The Upanishads are right; there is a most wondrous statement in the Upanishads, found nowhere else. The Upanishads say: The ignorant wander, yes—but the learned wander in a greater darkness. That the ignorant wander—this everyone says, monks, saints, pundits, priests. But the Upanishads say: the learned wander in an even greater darkness. Which learned ones? Pedants—hollow, borrowed, stale.

You can read the Vedas, the Puranas, the Gita—and you may “understand” them—but when you read the Vedas, can you understand the rishis of the Vedas? To understand the seers you need the consciousness of the seers, the experience of witnessing that they had. To understand their riks there is no way but to become a rishi. What will you understand of the Vedas otherwise? Swaroopananda, you will understand only what you are capable of understanding. You will make your own meanings. You won’t even get a glimpse of what the seers were pointing to. How could it be otherwise? Do you think ten people will read the Vedas and arrive at one meaning? They’ll arrive at ten meanings. There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. Either Krishna’s mind was deranged—so many meanings!—or Krishna said just one thing and the commentators dragged out a thousand. Words are helpless. Twist them this way or that, push from here, pull from there—you can wring out whatever meaning you wish.

A psychologist opened a school to teach small children. His idea was that children should not be punished for mistakes; it destroys their natural genius. He advertised in the papers for a teacher who was peace-loving, affectionate, and forgiving. The first candidate to show up for the interview was Mulla Nasruddin—scarlet loincloth, twirled mustaches.

Seeing his wrestler-like bearing, the psychologist asked, “Sir, did you read the advertisement properly?”
Nasruddin glared at him and said, “Yes, I read it—that’s why I came. Otherwise I wouldn’t even have known that jackals like you live in this corner of the city.”
The psychologist was rattled. Frightened, he asked, “Forgive me, brother! I called for a peace-loving, affectionate, forgiving gentleman; do you have any proof that you possess these qualities?”
“Not one—hundreds,” Nasruddin thumped his chest. “My neighbor woman’s name is Shanti—Peace—and I’m fond of her; therefore I am peace-loving. In the last twenty years I’ve sired twelve children of my own wife and around a hundred and fifty with other women; so you can imagine what superhuman affection I possess! In the last thirty years I’ve worked at about three hundred places; there were always fights and brawls with the bosses. In the end they would say, ‘Brother, forgive us, go work somewhere else.’ And every time I forgave them. Therefore I am forgiving. And as for being a gentleman—listen, you scrawny mouse, if I weren’t a gentleman, for the impertinence of asking for proof I’d have broken your legs by now!”

What meaning will you derive? How will you derive it? The meanings will be yours. You will read the Vedas, yes—but under the pretext of the Vedas you will only be reading yourself. Books are mirrors; they show you your own face.

I’ve heard that while walking along the road Nasruddin found a mirror. It was the first time he had ever seen one. He picked it up, looked, and exclaimed, “Oh! This is my father’s picture! I never even imagined my father was such a fancy man he had a portrait made. Good thing I found it—there’s no picture of Father at home, he’s long gone. I’ll keep it safe.” He brought it home secretly, thinking it best not to tell his wife—she had a strong dislike for his father. She would throw it away, or burn it. She wouldn’t tolerate the picture. When his father died, she had distributed sweets in the neighborhood! So he sneaked upstairs and tried to hide the mirror in a box—but has any husband ever managed to hide anything from his wife? It hasn’t happened yet; centuries have passed, but no husband has ever hidden anything from his wife. Every husband tries, every husband gets caught. The very effort gives him away.

Nasruddin tiptoeing into the house—his wife sensed something was up. She kept an eye on him. When Nasruddin had eaten and fallen asleep, she went upstairs, opened the box, took out the mirror, looked—and said, “Aha! So this is the witch you’re after!”

A mirror reflects the face of whoever looks into it. Nasruddin thought it was his father’s picture; his wife thought he was after a witch!

You will read the Vedas, Swaroopananda—you will be reading yourself. You will read the Gita—you will be reading yourself. Where are you in awareness? You are still unconscious. Your unconsciousness will show through. That is why the Quran and the Puranas are easy to “understand”: they cannot resist you; they cannot say, “Hold it, Swaroopananda—you’re reading it wrong. That’s not the intent, that’s not the meaning.” But when you come to a living person like me, you can’t impose on me the meaning you want. I will shake you out of it. I will jolt you again and again. I will hammer you daily. I will keep telling you, “That is not what I mean.” I won’t let you live at ease until you do understand.

A classical vocalist was singing with great fervor. As soon as he finished, a voice came from the audience: “Once more! Once more!” He was delighted, and sang again. When he finished, the crowd again shouted, “Once more! Once more!” He sang a third time; the same thing. When the crowd began shouting “Once more! Once more!” after the fourth time, he said, “Brothers, will you let me sing the next song or not?” A man stood up and said, “Not until you sing the first one properly—we’ll keep saying, ‘Once more! Once more!’”

A book cannot do that! But until my words are properly understood, I will keep saying, “Once more. Once more.” I won’t let you live in peace, sit in peace, or stand in peace. I will pursue you, day and night, until it is understood rightly—until you sing it right. If you keep missing even a little, my hammer will continue. That is why you feel obstructed.

You say, “You explain with so much love, but nothing gets through to this ignorant one like me.”
Don’t be frightened. I have a firm hold on your hem—I won’t let go! I am not going to give up until it becomes clear.

You say, “Whereas the Vedas, Puranas, Gita, etc., I understand easily.”
They are easy to understand because they cannot oppose you in any way. Whatever you impose on them stands. You will project your unconsciousness onto them. And you are deeply unconscious! Without meditation, where would awareness come from?

“My husband is so forgetful,” said Nasruddin’s wife to her neighbor, “that last evening while eating khichdi he said, ‘Guljaan! It’s been so long since you made khichdi—make it one of these days!’”
“That’s nothing,” the neighbor said. “My philosopher-husband, Professor Bhondumal, is even more astonishing! Just last night—he came home around eleven from the library. I had already fallen asleep. He laid his umbrella on the bed by my side and went and stood in the corner of the room himself. Now tell me—who could be more forgetful and unconscious than that? It’s good that I woke up around one; I brought him back to bed, otherwise he would have stood there all night! Such intoxicated people—God save us!”
Guljaan asked, “Sister, but how did you wake up? I heard you sleep very deeply.”
“Yes, I do,” the neighbor said, “but however deep the sleep, within two hours one realizes that the one you’ve been making love to for so long is not Professor Bhondumal but his umbrella.”

Unconsciousness everywhere. Not only is Bhondumal unconscious—Mrs. Bhondumal is even more so. It took her two hours to realize she was making love to an umbrella! So what special crime did Bhondumal commit by standing in the corner!

And this is not merely a story.
A great Western thinker, Immanuel Kant, could regularly do such things—regularly. Not a fable—actually. His servant caught him many times: the umbrella lying on the bed, and he standing in the corner. He never married; the servant was everything. The servant had to keep constant watch. Who could trust such a man? Even forgetfulness has its limits.

Another great Western scientist, Edison, once forgot his own name. It’s a bit tricky to forget your own name! People forget others’ names, yes—but have you ever seen someone forget his own? Edison did.
During the First World War he was standing in a queue to buy rations. When his turn came, the clerk called out, “Who is Thomas Alva Edison?” Edison looked around to see who Thomas Alva Edison might be. He stood there. When no one answered, the clerk called again, “Brother, who is Edison?” About ten places back in the line a man said, “As far as I can tell—from the newspaper photos—the gentleman standing first in line is Thomas Alva Edison.” He was a very famous scientist; he made a thousand inventions—more than anyone.
Then Edison remembered. He said, “Brother, thank you, you reminded me well! Otherwise I’d still be standing here. And my wife would be waiting at home.”

People can forget even their own names. Truly, who knows their own name? The name you think is yours is not yours; it is given. Your parents stuck a label on you. If they had stuck another, that too would have become yours. They called you Ram—you became Ram.

There was a gentleman named Ramdas who became a Muslim. I met him long after. I said, “Ramdas…” He said, “My name is not Ramdas—Khudabakhsh!” I said, “Just think a bit, both mean the same! Say Ramdas or Khudabakhsh—what’s the difference?”

Remove one name, attach another, or a third—any name will do. It’s not your name. You came nameless, you will go nameless. If one day you look within this name, you will find the Name of God. That day you will know you have only one true name: Aham Brahmasmi. Right now, what will you understand of the Vedas, what of the Gita, what of the Quran, what of the Bible?

Swaroopananda, first understand a true Master’s satsang. Only there can you be awakened; books cannot awaken you. Books are dead—how will they awaken you? Wherever you place them, they lie. Offer flowers to them—fine; throw them out of the room—fine!

There is a woman in Poona who loves me—I won’t tell her name, because her husband would go mad. He doesn’t even allow her to come and listen, nor to read my books. But sometimes she sneaks in to meet me—once in a year or two, somehow.
She told me a delightful thing: “My husband flies into a rage just seeing your book. I do read, but in hiding. Sometimes he catches me. If he is in the bath and I am reading, suddenly he will come out—just at the wrong time—and throw the book out the window. I don’t want to make a scene with him, so I keep quiet. But here’s the miracle: when I’m not home, he picks the same book up and touches it to his head. He throws it—and he also touches it to his head. I can’t figure out the secret.”
I said, “The secret is simple. In front of you, to show his swagger, he throws it. Then he fears, ‘What if it is a sin? What if something goes wrong? What if there is harm? Who knows—maybe this man is right!’ So he touches it to his head to apologize: ‘I’m not throwing you away; I’m only throwing for my wife’s instruction. You don’t get offended.’ People do very strange arithmetic in their minds.”

Just now telegram after telegram is coming to me from all over the country: Congratulations! Because Morarji-bhai has sunk. People think I sank him. Even from Delhi, telegrams of congratulations. I have no hand in it. What do I have to do with sinking him? His own deeds are enough to sink him—why would I need to? But people think I drowned him—and perhaps he too, inside, thinks, “What trouble did I get into!” Because he too reads my books on the sly.

I told that Poona woman, “He probably touches the book to his head to say, ‘Pardon me; I’m not throwing you away—only to teach my wife a lesson. Please don’t be angry.’”

People aren’t ready to listen even to a living man; what to say of books! Put flowers on a book—it can’t do anything. Burn a book—it can’t do anything. But if you come and sit in my satsang… And Swaroopananda is a sannyasin! He has shown courage. For one who “understands” the Vedas, Puranas, Gita—to become a sannyasin is an act of bravery. If he had become a sannyasin in some old-style monastery—that was easy. He became my sannyasin—he is courageous. There is strength there, inner strength.

Don’t be afraid! Perhaps my words are not getting through because the Vedas, Gita, Upanishads are stuffed in your head—rammed in. First they have to be taken out. I will take them out—don’t worry; that is my job. That is my skill. I speak on the Upanishads—and then I remove the Upanishads from your skull. I speak on the Gita—and you think, “We’re going to listen to the Gita,” not knowing that the business here is different—your pocket will be picked! Surgery is my profession.

But it takes a little time. Stay a while; don’t be anxious. If you don’t understand today, don’t worry. What is old, which you “understand,” is creating the obstruction. Let me remove the old junk and litter; then the new will begin to be understood on its own. What I am saying is straight and clear, crystal-clear. There is no jargon in my language. I am not speaking some heavy theoretical, scriptural, technical language—I am speaking the language of daily life. This is not a sermon; it is simple conversation. It is not a lecture; no moral is being handed down here. I am opening my heart before you. The day you also open your heart before me—the happening will happen, the revolution will occur. Right now you are closed. Your books have closed you. You are listening, but not quite hearing, because the Vedas come in between. I say something—and your inner Rig Veda says, “Yes, correct—this is what the Rig Veda says.” You miss! Or your inner Rig Veda says, “No, this cannot be right—this contradicts the Rig Veda.” Again you miss.

The day you can hear what I am saying directly, with nothing in between—no interpretation, no theory, no scripture—then you will find my words so simple that nothing could be simpler. Right now you are not ignorant—you are learned, Swaroopananda. Become ignorant—and you will be blessed! The ignorant are innocent. And those who willingly agree to be ignorant—on them the rain of knowing descends. Those who become empty are filled.

Become shunya—be empty of knowledge—and I tell you: you will become full of knowing.
There is a difference between knowing and knowing. One kind comes from scriptures; the other descends from the sky—revelation. I want to lead you toward that knowing.

Enough for today.