Sapna Yeh Sansar #5

They say it is the age of rapture,
They say it is wine-worship.
O buyers of the grief of existence,
They say death comes cheap.
Where we live, dying and dying,
They say this is the assembly of being.
Laughter visits the vow of repentance,
They say it is a time of want.
Perhaps once ruined, it never dwells again—
They say it is the hamlet of the heart.
What to do, Adam, that I love the moon-faced ones—
They say it is idol-worship.
They say it is the age of rapture,
They say it is wine-worship.

Those who are mad in the love of the Lord—of course the world will take them for mad. The world has no way to weigh them, no scales, no touchstone.

There is a Baul tale. A goldsmith asked a Baul fakir: Whose songs do you sing? Let us understand a little. In what ecstasy do you beat the mrdang? Let us understand a little. We see no God; life shows no marrow, no meaning. All seems vain.

The Baul was dancing; he stopped. He was playing the mrdang; he stopped. And he said: You reminded me. I have heard—once a goldsmith wandered into a garden of flowers. The gardener was in a drunken spring. Spring had come, the honey-month. Flowers upon flowers—colours upon colours, fragrances upon fragrances. The whole garden dressed like a bride. As if stars had stepped down from the sky, so were the trees adorned. But the goldsmith said: Not until I test these flowers on the touchstone of gold will I believe. He began to rub flowers against the touchstone. On a touchstone for gold you cannot test flowers; and if you do, flowers are not gold. He plucked, he rubbed, he flung them away, for there was no gold. And the goldsmith never understood that beyond gold too there is a gold.

Life is not one-sided; it is many-dimensioned. Those who are mad with love for the Divine, the world will call mad. It has only one scale—how much wealth do you have, what post, how much prestige? The world can weigh only the ego; it has no way to weigh egolessness. It sees matter; it is blind toward the Divine. But who admits himself blind? And when the blind are a crowd, how can a crowd be persuaded? Perhaps Buddha is blind, perhaps Kabir is blind, perhaps Palatu is blind—but can so many millions upon millions be blind? They must be in some delusion, under some deception, lost in a dream, babbling of some frenzy. But so many millions—neither a God appears to them, nor a light, nor a taste of truth—how could they be wrong?

We count heads to decide what truth is—as if truth were decided by vote. Naturally, then, we learn nothing from those who know. Far from learning, we do what we can to despise them. We call those blind who have eyes; those truly intelligent appear mad to us.

This way of thinking must change.

Yes, the saints have drunk a wine—but not pressed from grapes, nor sold in markets. It distils in the soul; it is brewed within. That wine does not bring stupor; it brings awareness. It does not lull you to sleep; it awakens you. Yes, the saints are mad—but their madness is a hundred thousand times more precious than your cleverness. Yes, they have no wealth worth showing—but they possess an invisible treasure that even death cannot steal.

Palatu is speaking today of that treasure. He says:

He who is the Lord’s beloved, he shall gain the ruby.

He who bows at the feet of the Divine, who is surrendered into the Divine, dyed in the Divine’s dye, who has dropped his ego in every way, who has simply become the Lord’s servant—keep me as your servant, my Lord!—he who says: take me into service; let me press your feet, let me lie at your door—he who is the Lord’s own, the servant—he shall gain the ruby; he alone will find the true jewel. Heaps of Koh-i-Noors will arise in his life—though no one else may see them. They will be seen by those whose lives have tasted the same. Only the experienced can appraise the experienced.

To judge Palatu, you need a Kabir; to judge Kabir, a Nanak; to judge Nanak, a Buddha. Only the eyed can recognise the eyed; how will the blind? The blind may grant a belief, but they cannot recognise. And behind all their belief, doubt stands. Your beliefs are worth two pennies. You believe in God, you believe in temple and mosque, you believe in Gita and Quran—but your beliefs are paltry, for in each a worm of doubt is gnawing. Doubt will devour them. And when death knocks at the door, those beliefs will not serve. They will collapse like houses of cards. They will sink—and they will sink you—like paper boats. Believing does nothing; knowing does. Revolution happens by knowing. The treasure must be attained.

But people are not ready to bow. Not even before God are they ready to bow. Somewhere deep inside is the hope that God should bow to them. Whether you say it or not, if God met you on the road your ego would prefer that he greet you first, then you might reply. You would be miserly even with a salutation. You have always been miserly; this is nothing new. Greetings aside, you have killed Jesus, Mansoor and Socrates. You could have passed them by in neglect—that too you could not. You could not even bear their living.

When a man stands upon the earth with treasure, all the poor in spirit stand against him; those spiritually impoverished are disturbed—they become eager to erase him. For his very presence reminds them of their inferiority. His light makes an intense certainty that they are blind and in darkness—and then there are only two ways: either change oneself, or remove from life those who cause the crisis, by whose presence your life appears futile. And the easier way is to remove them. What is easier than to lift Jesus onto a cross? But to transform oneself is hard.

He who is the Lord’s beloved…

The first step of that process is surrender. The first step is the immersion of your ego. The first step is to bow, unconditionally. And the moment you bow, the treasure showers.

Only he can attain the jewel who dives deep.

Only he can gain this treasure who plunges into the depths. The ego is the shallowest of the shallow. You will not find a shallower man than the egotist. He lives only on the surface—clothes, ornaments, cosmetics, paints and polishes—only on the surface.

Jesus has said: An egotist is like a whitewashed tomb. Snow-white without. A freshly lime-washed tomb shines radiant—and within? Within there is only stench. Bone, flesh and marrow are turning to dust. Jesus said: The ordinary man is like that—a whitewashed tomb. Within there is nothing but putrefaction; above he has sprayed fragrance. There are wounds concealed under flowers. Within pain upon pain; above, a false smile has been pasted.

Not like this. Dive deep. In the vast ocean of the Divine you must take a plunge. Spectatorship will not do. Standing by the roadside will not do. Sit on the shore and you will remain sitting—you will gain nothing. Empty you came, empty you will go. You must enter the ocean. Pearls are found—but only by divers. Pearls rest in the depths. Yes, on the shore you can pick shells and conches and coloured pebbles and play with them. And people are playing—with shells and conches and coloured stones. Building houses of sand; even if you name them palaces. Stone palaces too are sand-palaces, for stone is sand. All stone becomes sand one day; all sand becomes stone. Between stone and sand there is no difference.

He whose chest can endure the spears of that gaze—his is the heart.
Not your life or mine, truly living belongs to him.

This is the banquet of wine; here, with short-handedness one is deprived.
He who reaches out and takes the decanter in hand—his it is.

Whom fate and purification strike as one and the same—
In truth, he is the drinker; the drinking is his.

When hopes exceed their bounds, O ascetic, they are magic-serpents;
He who breaks this spell, friend—his is the treasure.

Keep your heart pure of rancour, O Shad, in your elderhood—
For the one to whom you must show your face—this mirror is his.

This whole existence is his mirror. To whom the face must be shown—this mirror is his. Here every person is but a hidden form of the Divine. And every relationship is a mirror in which you may glimpse yourself—but open your eyes. All eyes are his eyes—but the chest is needed to bear that gaze.

He whose chest can endure the spears of that gaze—his is the heart.
Not your life or mine, truly living belongs to him.

Think a little: through all these eyes God peers out. Let this thought seize you like a storm, just for a moment. All these eyes are his. You will be frightened, restless. He is seeing you every instant. There is no place where you can escape. There is no way to hide. Yes—there is one way to hide: the ostrich’s way—bury your head in sand; close your own eyes. And that is what we all have done. We all live by the ostrich’s logic. Closing our eyes, head buried in sand, we stand—and think: If it is not seen, it is not there. But when you close your eyes the sun does not vanish; only you fall into darkness.

Everyone has closed his eyes toward the Divine—and not without cause; out of fear. People are shaken—can we look into his eye? Can we endure his gaze? Can we stand face to face? And your priests have frightened you badly. They have taught you one thing—fear. They have made you God-fearing. They have set your life trembling—You will rot in hell! And they have filled your soul with greed—Do this and heaven; do that and heaven’s pleasures; do not do it and hell’s tortures. You will be fried in cauldrons, boiled in oil. They have scared you. Fear and greed—two faces of one coin. Here fear, there greed. They have turned religion into a shop of fear and greed. And religion is fearlessness. Religion is non-greed.

Therefore those who are religious out of fear can never be religious. They are ostriches. Eyes shut, head buried in sand. Call them Hindu, Muslim, Christian—no difference. One has buried his head in a mosque, one in a temple. One has hidden in a church. These are the places where you hide from God—though you say you are going for God’s vision. In truth you go to escape. Else God is everywhere present. Grow the chest to endure him. Gather courage. Religion is not for cowards, not for the timid. Religion is for the daring, the brave—those who can risk; those ready to set out on the adventure of life.

But the affair has turned quite strange. All is reversed. In the name of religion people stand on their heads. Those you see crowded in temples and mosques are usually the timid, the frightened. Out of fear their knees have bent. They have not bent in love, nor in prayer; their knees have bent out of fear. Fear makes their lips mumble mantras.

Last night I read a story—

God made the world. He made different peoples. He asked the Hindus: What do you want? They said: Gayatri mantra. He asked the Jains: What do you want? They said: Namokar mantra. He asked the Muslims: What do you want? They said: Quran. He asked the Christians: What do you want? And so he kept asking. At the very end he made the American. He asked: What do you want? He said: Dollar! God was a bit surprised. He said: Look—right before you someone asked for Gayatri, someone for Gita, someone for Quran, someone for Bible, someone for Talmud, someone for mantras, tantras, yantras, meditation, prayer, worship— and you ask for dollars! The American said: Don’t worry—just give me dollars, and all the mantra-tantra people will come running after them.

So it has happened. The whole world is running toward America. Now there is no Kaba in Kaba, no Kashi in Kashi. The priests of Kashi and Kaba you will find in California!

A frightened man—even if he asks for Gayatri out of fear—his Gayatri can be bought. If someone takes God’s name out of fear—his God can be bought. For the frightened is fundamentally greedy. Only the greedy are frightened.

And what do people pray for? What do they ask in prayer? More wealth, more post, more prestige. They ask for the world. They go to God—and ask for everything but God.

He whose chest can endure the spears of that gaze—his is the heart.
Not your life or mine, truly living belongs to him.

This is a drinkers’ assembly...

This is the tavern of wine—
Here, with short-handedness one is deprived;
He who reaches out and takes the decanter in hand—his it is.

If you sit with drawn-in hands, frightened—you miss.
Sit timidly and your cup will remain empty. No cup-bearer will come to fill it. No decanter will slide of itself to pour into your bowl.

He who reaches out and takes the decanter in hand—his it is.

And who is the drinker in the Divine’s realm?

Whom fortune and misfortune strike as one and the same,
Whom virtue and sin, earth and sky, become alike,
Whose duality dissolves—
In truth, he is the drinker; the drinking is his.

Only he is the drunk. He has known; he has drunk; he has tasted.

When hopes exceed their bounds, O ascetic, they are magic-serpents;
He who breaks this spell, friend—his is the treasure.

Even your renouncers are asking, asking. And to beggars the treasure of the Divine is not given. A lordliness is needed. The beggar within must be erased.

The arithmetic of life is strange. He who asks does not receive. He who does not ask—upon him the rain suddenly pours.

He who breaks this spell, friend—his is the treasure. The treasure is not far; the treasure is near. Only the courage to dive. It is not that you must dive for miles. Dive—and it is there. The question is only the plunge.

One night a traveller lost his way on a mountain. It was dark, the path unknown. Somehow, groping forward, his foot slipped. He fell—and caught the root of a tree, hanging. The night was cold, growing colder. His hands became like ice. His grip began to slip. But he clung with all his might—life and death were at stake—till morning. When the first ray of the sun came, the hills rang with his laughter. He laughed so that the mountains laughed with him. Why? Because at dawn he saw: he had troubled himself in vain. Just six inches below was the ground. In the dark he hung, out of fear—Who knows what abyss lies below if I let go? In the light he saw—only six inches of air; no danger at all.

If you have the courage to dive, the treasure is not far. His rubies are not far. The distance is only as great as your lack of courage—distance and your timidity are in proportion.

Only he attains the jewel who dives.
Become one who dies while living—and the jewel is revealed at once.

Remember that word: at once. The happening can occur this very instant. No need to wait a moment. But one condition: die while living—become as if dead. Let the ego drop, and the happening occurs. You both are, and are not. The ego gone, you are emptiness. Die-while-living. The ego gone—you gone; only the Divine is.

Become one who dies while living—and the jewel is revealed at once.

Become a zero—and the Whole descends by itself. But we cling to the roots of the ego. Not one night—births upon births we have clung. The night has grown very long. We have suffered much, but cannot release the roots. We fear—If the ego is not, who am I? The ego gives a definition, an identity, a sense that I am this, I am that—so much wealth, such a post, such knowledge, such renunciation. The ego sketches a shape. If all this falls, who am I? A profound question will rise, like a whirlwind—Who am I? Blessed are those in whom this question rises like a storm—Who am I? For then meeting is not far.

The day this question arises—Who am I?—it is clear that all you have claimed to be, you have broken ties with. You no longer say I am the body; you no longer say I am the mind; not Hindu, not Muslim; not Indian, not Chinese, not Pakistani. You have dropped the flimsy wrappers; you have dropped all garments. You stand naked. You do not know—Who am I? Half the happening has happened. Half the revolution is done. The false I has cracked. Now let the intensity of the question grow—Who am I?—grow so deep that it pierces your very life.

Sri Raman used to say: If one simply sits and asks one question—Who am I? Who am I?—and does not accept any answer given from above, from memory, one day the answer arises from within. Not an answer—an experience. Experience itself is the answer. One day there is the direct seeing—who am I. Aham Brahmasmi. I am Brahman. Become a zero and the Full descends. Lose—and you find. Here only the losers can gain. A great chest is needed.

Light the lamp of Tur! The darkness is great.
Lift a little the veil! The darkness is great.
They who keep the sun tucked in their sleeves—
Call them from somewhere! The darkness is great.
I do not trust your eyes—
Come not close to me! The darkness is great.
From the ridge of the Throne a fallen star—
Fetch it from somewhere! The darkness is great.
Even the dawn’s forehead is dark as yet—
Be not deceived! The darkness is great.
What in the language of reason you call wine—
Pour me that light! The darkness is great.

Look closely—how much darkness you are ringed by. Is this what you call life? These thorns—are these your flowers? This gallows? You hang upon a cross—upon not one but a thousand crosses—and think this is life. Hanging and hanging, you will break; the breath will break—and you will never know what life was. You will live in darkness and die in darkness.

Light the lamp of Tur!

On the mountain called Tur, Moses beheld the light of God. That is called charag-e-Tur—the lamp of Tur. There the Divine appeared like a blazing fire before Moses. Such a fire that for a moment he was bewildered. A mysterious fire—for from the midst of a fresh green bush the flame arose. Fire burned and the bush remained green—flowers unwithered, leaves unwithered. Fire it was, yet a very cool fire.

God is fire—a very cool fire. Light without heat; a most soothing flame.

Light the lamp of Tur!

You too must kindle such light within—light without heat.

Lust is a fire that burns. Prayer too is fire—but it does not burn. Fire has two natures—to burn and to illumine. Lust burns; it is fever; it kills. This very fire must be refined, purified. If its lust is removed, its heat is gone—this becomes prayer, it cools. A cool fire.

Seeing such cool fire, Kabir uttered his paradoxes—ulatbansis. The truths of life are not logical; they are trans-logical. Kabir says: The river has caught fire. A river does not catch fire. Yet Kabir says—I see truths you cannot trust. As if someone came and said: I saw a river aflame—and you would say, Come now, don’t lie so brazenly.

Two opium-eaters sat under a bush gossiping, deeply stoned. One said: My grandfather’s house was so big that a child once fell from the top floor and became a young man by the time he reached the ground. The other said: That is nothing—my grandfather’s house was so big that a monkey fell once and became a man before he hit the ground. The first said: Don’t brag so far. All right, I’ll trim mine a little. He wasn’t a child—just a shadow of a moustache had sprung. He fell and by the ground was a full youth. Now you also correct your tale. The second said: If you can do that much, I can too. It was the day of Muharram. He wasn’t a real monkey—he was dressed as one. On the way down, from panic and sweat, the paint ran—and so he became a man.

It is easy to laugh at opium-eaters. But your Puranas do not appear much more than the stupor of opium-eaters. Every Purana, every religion, claims big claims—claims an opium-eater could be forgiven, but priests make them. Look closely at the claims—you will see these books were written in darkness, by the blind, with the ink of darkness. Light is nowhere visible in them.

The Jains say Mahavira excreted not. You will eat and drink and not excrete? Mahavira did not sweat. Naked in the blazing heat of Bihar—and Mahavira did not sweat? Then who does? Was his skin plastic? On a living skin each pore breathes. Each pore cools the body—therefore sweat. Sweat has a scientific process, a chemical purpose. A man who cannot sweat cannot live; he would die. Only a corpse does not sweat. Sweat is necessary to keep the body at a constant temperature.

Have you seen—cold or heat—within the body the temperature remains near the same, around ninety-eight. However hot it is outside, you do not become one hundred and ten within; else you would be finished. However cold outside, below zero, you do not drop below zero; else you would be gone, with no return. You remain near ninety-eight.

This body is a wondrous device. In heat the pores stream sweat. Why? The body’s heat will turn it to vapour and carry it away; heat will not pile up within. In cold, you shiver, teeth chatter. Why? The body’s trick to produce motion—movement keeps you from freezing solid. Movement keeps warmth alive within.

Mahavira did not sweat! Not only Mahavira—no Tirthankara sweated, say the Jains; all twenty-four. This is the special definition. If someone claims to be a Tirthankara, first you must prove whether you sweat. If you do—the case is closed; you cannot pass the Tirthankara’s exam.

Christians say Jesus was born of a virgin. Such talk as opium-eaters talk. Jesus walked on water; Jesus raised the dead; Jesus touched the blind and they saw. The same Jesus, hanging on the cross, thirsted and asked for water—no miracle was of any use. The same Jesus turned a sea into wine by miracle.

Wherever Mohammed went, a cloud moved shading him. What an umbrella found! Why carry an umbrella—let a cloud hang over the head. And in the desert’s fierce sun, an umbrella is needed. But what an umbrella! The wind may go any way, Mohammed goes his own—yet the cloud goes with Mohammed, not with the wind. Do clouds pursue Mohammeds? Or perhaps Mohammed watched the cloud—going wherever the cloud went.

Mulla Nasruddin one day, riding his donkey, was hurrying through the bazaar. People asked: Where are you going so fast? He said: Ask my donkey. He does not listen to me. Sometimes he disgraces me in the marketplace— I want to go left, he does not. Donkeys are donkeys. And if four people watch, in a crowd, their arrogance increases. Donkeys are great politicians. They see many voters and puff up: What do you think I am?

Mulla said: Alone I can take him where I wish. But in the bazaar if I restrain him he sprawls in the dust, creates a scene—my reputation ruined. So I devised a trick. He is a donkey—but I am not without wit. In the market I do not try to guide him. I go grandly wherever he goes. Once outside the village I will take him where I want. But inside, wherever he goes—my honour remains; the villagers think: what a dear donkey.

This dear donkey once Mulla took to sell. He was tired. He bathed him, Lux soap, combed him, set out. A rich man saw—never had he seen such a splendid, fragrant donkey—and Mulla was walking, not riding. The rich man said: Such a fine donkey—why don’t you ride him? Mulla said: No—he is very dear, I do not want to trouble him. Hence his glory. Among donkeys he is accomplished—a siddha. The rich man’s heart melted. He bought him, paid whatever Mulla asked. Next day he returned to Mulla’s house: You cheated me. This donkey is strange. If I try to sit, he won’t let me. He kicks, he rolls on the ground. He demands the best of food, nothing else will he eat. What mess have you given me! Mulla said: He has no other fault—only this: never try to ride him. In everything else he is beautiful—only do not sit on him.

If you cannot sit, what use a donkey?

So too your scriptural tales—you cannot bring them into life. You cannot walk on water, fly in the sky, stop sweat, drive clouds over your head, raise the dead, give eyes to the blind. All these tales are meaningless. They were told in stupor. They are only attempts to prove: If your Tirthankara can do this, our Avatara will do greater. And if we are writing tales, heart’s fancy—anything can be done.

Do not mistake such tales for religion. Because of them there is deep darkness. Religion is the lamp of Tur—not tales, not legends. Religion is a transformation of fire into cool light. When this lamp lights within you…

The Jews keep searching where Mount Tur is—here, there. I say: Tur is not outside. Tur is within. The bush in which Moses saw the fire—that is you. Do not go looking elsewhere. Those flowers are yours, those leaves are yours.

Light the lamp of Tur! The darkness is great.
Lift a little the veil! The darkness is great.
Lift a little the bridal curtain. Lift the veil—your Beloved will be found.

But courage has left us. Courage has departed from our lives.

Only he attains the jewel who dives.
Become one who dies while living—and the jewel is revealed at once.

Night and day he plays in delight—now the thing long sought is his.

Then only delight, delight. The unattainable attained. The impossible becomes possible.

Night and day he plays in delight—now the thing long sought is his.
Powers, perfections, and liberation bear water in his house.

They who have known this inner light—whose lamp is lit—who have lifted the veil, dropped every screen, recognised their nature in its total nakedness—now they care not for powers nor perfections nor even for liberation—these carry water in their courtyard.

They are the King of kings; they desire no second.
Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh— all worship them.

One in whom the inner lamp is lit—whether by dhyana, by bhakti, by love—he needs go to no temple or mosque. The reverse happens: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh worship him. He is the Shah of shahs. His treasure and kingdom none can steal.

Palatu says: Without the guru’s devotion, all disguises are paupery.
He who is the Lord’s beloved—he shall gain the ruby.

There are many sannyasins in the world—sadhus, mahatmas, munis, renunciates, vow-takers—but Palatu says: Because one thing is missing, they are all beggars.

Without the guru’s love, all garb is poverty. These are only varied forms of poverty—some a muni, some a mahatma, some a sadhu—the beggar is hidden in all. Those who can do nothing have become sadhus. Those who could not succeed anywhere have become sadhus. Failing everywhere, they thought: become a sadhu—at least we will get respect—for free. Honour for upside-down acts. Someone sleeps on thorns—he is honoured. Someone has thrust a spear through the cheeks—he is honoured. Someone fasts—he is called great vow-taker. He is simply starving. These are just paupers.

The true sannyasin is an emperor of emperors, a sovereign. He has the ruby. He has the Divine’s diamond.

He hunts diamonds, but has not even the price of a bead.

People seek the diamond, but they do not have the price even for glass trinkets; and they set out to buy diamonds.

People ask: Where is God? How to attain God? What is the proof? Prove God.

He hunts diamonds, but has not even the price of a bead.

No one asks: What capacity have I to know God? What right? What worthiness? The true seeker does not interrogate about God; he asks about himself—What fitness can I cultivate so that the experience may happen? Teach me a way to wash my eyes so all dust may fall and I may see that which is. Give me the alchemy to refine my heart so love within may become prayer.

The true seeker does not ask about the Divine; he asks about himself. How can my wretchedness be transformed? He does not ask whether God is or is not; he asks how this darkness can be cut, how this blindness can go.

He hunts diamonds, but has not even the price of a bead.

Not the price of a bead—yet he wants the jeweller to open his pouch.

He lacks even the coin for glass beads, and reaches the jeweller’s shop, wanting the jeweller to open his pouch and show his priceless gems. In the marketplace you may deceive a jeweller—how will he know if you have money? Ask him the price and he will tell. But in the Divine’s market, you will not deceive a guru; you will not deceive a Buddha.

People came to Buddha asking: Is there God? Buddha deflected the point. Many said to him: We ask one thing, you say another. Why not answer plainly? Buddha said: The time to ask has not come. You must wait. I am answering only what you can understand. What you are asking you may someday understand—but not today. Today you are unripe—no worthiness, no right.

Therefore Buddha kept silence about God. People made theories: Some believed he knew God exists, but since it is the sweetness of the dumb—ineffable—he remained silent. If so, he could at least say—It is ineffable—hence I am silent. He did not even say that. Some think he knew there is no God and did not wish to hurt people—so he kept quiet. That is not true.

Buddha does not fear hurting people. Without hurt, has any stone ever become a statue? He does not fear to shake you. Without shaking how will the dust fall? He is not stingy in striking; he strikes mercilessly—for the blow is needed. Your neck must be cut—your ego felled—your house set on fire—only then will you wake. Small measures will not do. Your laziness is such that only when the house burns will you perhaps move; seeing flames, you might run out. Buddha strikes hard.

So it is not because he feared to hurt that he was silent. The reason is otherwise. You were not worthy to ask. You were asking a question for which you did not have the price. Therefore I agree with none of the explanations. If Buddha does not know, then none knows. If he does not know, no one will ever know. He was not silent because it is ineffable; not because he wished not to hurt. The reason is—

He hunts diamonds, but has not even the price of a bead.
Not the price of a bead—yet he wants the jeweller to open his pouch.

You cannot force open Buddha’s pouch. He is no ordinary jeweller that a customer can cheat. When he has tested you and sees you have the capacity to receive, he speaks. He has said everything—but only to those who had the capacity to receive. Those messages were given in utmost intimacy, in nearness, in silence. They were never recorded in scriptures, for they were not public statements. Scriptures record the public. But what Buddha whispered to his closest disciples in solitude was not written. Even if written, it cannot be received by one who lacks the price.

Therefore religion has two faces. One public—what can be said to all. That is the most elementary. And one the true esoteric form—spoken only to those with the worthiness to hear. That is passed ear to ear.

You hear that the guru blows into the ear. Now every village has gurus blowing ears. We spoil everything. What does it mean now? Now it has a fee—three rupees, two and a half. The guru blows the ear. What does he say? Here is your mantra—Ram Ram, Ram Ram—chant it; and tell no one. Because if you tell, the game will be exposed. If it is told that the guru said only this for two and a half—Ram Ram—people will say: We knew that already. So tell no one—this is the condition. Sin will ensue if you reveal it. This is ear-blowing.

Ear-blowing meant something else. It meant there are truths that can only be whispered—secretly, silently, mouth to ear. They are so precious they cannot be made public. They are given in secrecy, only to the nearest disciples. They are not stored, not recorded.

Not the price of a bead—yet he wants the jeweller to open his pouch.
Long talk only delays the jeweller.

The customer talks long, loads words upon words—What is the meaning of tat tvam asi? Of aham Brahmasmi? What do the Upanishads say, the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible? Great doctrines people ask. You can entangle pundits, not Buddhas. Their eyes will recognise you at once where you are—and they will answer only from there, only as much as you can bear. And that is right.

No shells in his pouch—yet he talks so much.
The jeweller understands, and sees the customer is empty—
He gathers up his bag, and gently turns the customer away.

Even a common jeweller will understand soon. How long can you talk? In a little while one knows. He may show you coloured glass to test whether you can tell. In Pahalgam I was. Some friends were with me. An intimate satsang on Mahavira. One morning a man came and opened his bundle—lovely stones; in Kashmir they are beautiful—deceiving like diamonds. They cost nothing. Manik Babu was with me; he liked them—and cheap. Four, five, six, seven rupees. A diamond for seven rupees. He thought to buy ten-twenty to gift friends in Poona. But as a shopkeeper, he bargained. The price seemed low already—but he said: No, one and a half. The man agreed. Then a little fear, a little worry. But for one and a half—such shine—no harm. He said: No, twelve annas. The man agreed. Then they must be bought. Next day it turned out even that was a loot—they were selling in the market for two annas. He had bought many; perhaps gifted many in Poona.

A jeweller does not take long to recognise whether you know stones. Those extraordinary jewellers we speak of need only glance into your eye.

Social shame does not leave—and Palatu wants the Divine’s Name.

You are still trapped in social regard—and want the Name—want God’s vision.

Social shame does not leave…

Ego does not leave, post and prestige do not leave—and you want the Name.

He hunts diamonds, but has not even the price of a bead.

It will not do. The price must be paid. Without price nothing is given here. And because the Divine is the greatest treasure, the greatest price must be paid. You must surrender yourself. Then joy—only joy. Then a stream of nectar flows.

When he appears in delight to me,
Light is everywhere.

Once a glimpse of him is had, the whole world is illumined.

When he appears in delight to me,
Light is everywhere.

I am the drinker—why are you, cup-bearer,
Drenched in the intoxication?

Not only do you appear drunk—the Divine appears even more intoxicated. He is drunk. He is in ecstasy. Hence the sages called him Sat-Chit-Ananda—Bliss as the final definition.

I am the drinker—why are you, cup-bearer,
Drenched in the intoxication?

I raised my hands from pride,
You seem so far.

I am not alone, bound by the heart—
You too seem compelled.

To hide your dust-like humility,
O Wajd, you appear proud.

When he appears in delight to me,
Light is everywhere.

Open your eyes—see yourself. Open your eyes—recognise yourself. Your recognition is the doorway to the Divine. No other support, no other prop, no other staff.

Who will share our pain, who will hold our hand?
In their city there is shimmering light; in our land only night.
On the blue vault that moon, that shower of rays—
We two lost and drifting—ah, that heady, lovely night.
You, pouting through gardens; I, wandering the deserts—
It is a barter of hearts; else what link have you and I?
All worldly talk—another on the heart, another on the tongue—
Loving you more and more, at last I learned your worth.
Take this now, or with pride reject—
From today my hand leaves the string of my heart in your hands.
The world would have us choke and die;
But the heart whispers—one day the times will change.
With a strange cadence I have melted all hearts;
And the world imagines that on my lips is its own speech.
Take this now, or with pride reject—
From today my hand leaves the string of my heart in your hands.

The day you can say to God: Now I leave all in your hands; I place the thread of my heart in your hands—now as you will, do; make if you wish, unmake if you wish. From my side no signal, no desire—that day you are ready to pay the price. Then life changes—new colour, new manner, new fragrance.

The sandal-mark upon the brow now abides for the heart’s sake;
The temple turns mosque; in the mosque a Brahmin dwells.

The particle in the sun and the sun in the particle shine;
Now the Beloved lives in the heart, and the heart in the Beloved.

The sandal-mark upon the brow now abides for the heart’s sake—
There is the outer mark, placed from without; it has no value. And there is the inner fragrance—the sandal within, its mark upon the brow—that has value.

The temple turns mosque; in the mosque a Brahmin dwells.

Revolution happens. Temple becomes mosque; mosque becomes temple. Temple and mosque distinctions fall. The One indwells everywhere.

The season of rains is gone, yet yellow with longing we sit;
Those who weep—monsoon abides in their eyes.
A single sigh was the sign of living—now even that is gone;
Why this straw-like body, to count the beads of sorrow?
Breaker of the heart—attend: two bonds still remain—
One thread of breath still clings; one bond of love abides.

When all breaks, still—
Breaker of the heart—attend: two bonds still remain—
One thread of breath still clings; one bond of love abides.

Those who have surrendered learn two things. First: the thread of Existence—the thread of breath—never breaks. We are eternal, parts of the Eternal. We have always been and always will be. Ego is a bubble of water; not we. The ego forms and dissolves—not we. We neither form nor dissolve. Second: the fragrance of love that rises from our being—that remains forever.

The mill of maya grinds—the world is ground to flour.

Palatu says: Awake, be alert. Stake quickly. Seek the Divine quickly. Dive deep, bring up the pearl. Delay—and who knows whether time will remain in your hands.

The mill of maya grinds—the world is ground to flour.

This mill is turning; it grinds the entire world.

Ground is the world; not one is saved by any defence.

In its two stones none stands firm.

Desire, anger, pride, greed—these are the grinders.

Desire means: Let this come, let that come—forever chasing what is not. Anger means: whosoever blocks your chase—rage to erase him. Pride means: if what you seek comes—ego, arrogance. Greed means: even if you receive, the hunger for more. These are faces of desire. When desire is blocked, anger; when fulfilled, pride; and even when fulfilled, nothing is fulfilled—lust never fills.

A Sufi was asked by a youth: How can I find God? The Sufi said: I am going to the well to draw water—come with me. Perhaps the answer will come there. One condition: swear. This is the first test whether you are fit to be a student. Whatever I do at the well, do not question—only watch. Your work is witnessing.

The student was excited—witnessing is the essence. He had read it, heard it—what an amazing master, giving the final key at the first moment. They went. At the well came disappointment—for the Sufi looked mad. He pulled from his bag a bucket without a bottom. The student thought: We are lost. He tied a rope and lowered it. Again and again the question rose to the student’s lips—What are you doing?—but he remembered the oath: do not ask—only witness. This witnessing became a great bother. The question reached his tongue—he swallowed it back. The Sufi rattled the bucket in the well. The more it rattled, the more the student’s chest rattled. When the bucket is in the water, it seems full; as he pulls, it is empty. Again he lowers. One, two, ten times. The student forgot his promise. He said: Stop! Have you any sense? You will ruin your life and mine. What a mess have I entered! With this bucket water will never be drawn.

The master said: The matter is finished. Now go your way. You could not keep the first word. I was to lower it only once more. If you had held on a moment more, I would have accepted you as a disciple. Now go. He put the bucket in his bag and returned. The student thought: I erred—who knows what he would have given. Just once more— I missed. But this man is not trustworthy. Had we stayed one more, he might have said the same again. He had not told beforehand that it would be eleven times. Even if we had endured a thousand, he might have said one more. Cunning and mad both.

He returned home; yet thoughts came: Cunning or mad, there was a certain ecstasy in his eyes—a halo, a coolness. I missed. My mistake.

He could not resist. At midnight he returned. He fell at the master’s feet: Forgive me—I erred. The Sufi said: If you have understood and ask forgiveness in understanding—then the lesson is complete.

This is your life so far. Lust is a bottomless bucket. Lower it in the well of the world again and again; it rattles; each time it seems full, and when you pull it to the bank it is empty. It will never fill. This is the first lesson. What I did with the bucket—understand, and now do it with yourself. The day it is clear, return; I will give the second lesson. Now daily watch your bucket of lust—how you lower it into the well and it returns empty.

Desire is blind lust. Anger—whoever obstructs your lust. Pride—if by accident, in some conjuncture, your bucket fills a little. Greed—no matter how much fills, the mind says: more. The mind never stops saying: more. The mind is like a gramophone whose needle is stuck in one groove—more, more, more.

I have heard— a new aeroplane was built—fully automatic, pilotless—no hostess, no steward—only passengers. A button for food, another for tea. A button for intercom—height, destination, time. People were pleased. They had struggled for tickets. The plane took off, climbed thousands of feet. Then the intercom spoke: Relax. Unbuckle your belts. Do not worry that there is no pilot. No mistake can ever occur, no mistake can ever occur, no mistake can ever occur, no mistake can ever occur… The passengers’ hearts sank: we are finished—already a mistake. What next—who knows.

So is the mind. It keeps saying: more, more, more. The demand for more never ends. Ten thousand—then ten lakhs; ten lakhs—then ten crores. It expands, expands. In these the man is ground. These are the grinders.

Desire, anger, pride, greed—these are the grinders.
The three gunas stoke the mill; catching hold, they grind all out.

Craving is a harlot; she ravages every house.

This craving is a courtesan. It has no loyalty. It drags you wherever it will—how many births, how many wombs has it led you through.

Time is a mighty eater; it makes one mouthful of them all.

Death comes and makes one single mouthful—not even two—to give you a moment to think.

Palatu says: Without the Lord’s song, none crosses over.
The mill of maya turns—the world is ground to flour.

If there is any way to cross this sea of becoming, any boat— it is the remembrance of the Lord, love for the Lord.

But how will love arise? The price must be paid. Worthiness must be grown. A deep dive must be taken.

Sannyas is the training in this—to courage, to audacity, to diving deep. The pearls are yours, but without plunging you will not get them. Sitting on the shore you will only lose life, not gain. Dive.

He who is the Lord’s beloved, he shall gain the ruby.
Only he attains the jewel who dives.
Become one who dies while living—and the jewel is revealed at once.

Learn only one art—living, be as if you are not. This is sannyas. This is the essence of sannyas.

Enough for today.