Sapna Yeh Sansar #6

Motilal! Scriptures are futile—for you; not for me. They are futile because there is no firsthand experience in you to bear witness to them. Scriptures become meaningful when you can testify from your own seeing. In themselves they are dead—just lines of ink on paper. How can truth be in the scriptures? But if truth descends in your awareness, if the lotus of samadhi blooms within you, if the fragrance of the joy of life arises in you—if you can bear witness and say, “Yes, it is so!”—if you can stamp your seal upon the scripture, then it becomes meaningful. You must pour meaning into it; you must confer glory upon it.

You have always been told the reverse. You were told: read the scriptures, ponder them, memorize them, and thereby you will know truth. You will become a pundit, not wise. Scholarship is a beautiful bondage; wisdom is freedom. Without knowing for yourself there is no path. The Rishis of the Upanishads knew—indeed they knew, deeply and to the brim—but not by reading scriptures; they knew by descending into the depths of meditation. Not by information, but by meditation. Once they knew, then the scriptures flowed.

Wherever the Gangotri of meditation becomes available, the Ganga of scripture begins to flow. Then whether those scriptures are the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Gita, the Quran, or the Bible—it makes no difference. Many streams can flow from the one source. That source is infinite. Not one Ganga, many Gangas can issue from it. It never runs out; it cannot be exhausted. From it flowed the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita, the Dhammapada, the Quran, the Bible—and many more scriptures will flow, will go on flowing; the Gangotri is not about to run dry.

But you will have to seek the source.

If you sit clutching books, you will be crushed under the load. On a pundit’s chest piles up a Himalaya-like burden—of words, dead words, impotent words. He gets so lost in the jungle of words that it becomes difficult to find the path. Even a sinner may find the way; the scholar does not. For the sinner at least is humble. At least he can weep. At least he can bow down. He has nothing to stiffen himself with, nothing to stuff his ego; his eyes are lowered, his head is bowed. He knows, “I am nothing, just a bundle of sin—what is there to be proud of?” But the pundit has much to strut about: bundles of scriptures, a memory packed with maxims. Yet other people’s words have not been truth for you, nor can they ever be.

So whereas you were told, “Know the scriptures and you will gain knowledge,” I tell you, “Gain knowing, and you will know the scriptures.” And where will knowing come from? Knowing comes from meditation. Knowing is the ripeness of meditation.

It is good that you have begun to see you have been entangled in scriptures up to now. Surely a dilemma has arisen, a conflict, a great restlessness—because I say scriptures are futile. I say it plainly: they are futile. You will have to pour meaning into them; then they will become meaningful!

Scriptures are like bottles: pour wine into them and they are filled. But the wine must first be distilled within you; only then can you pour it out. When bliss ripens within you, the scriptures will be filled with your bliss. Not only scriptures—truth will shine in your very gestures; when you look, truth will flash from your eyes; when you walk, rise, sit, the benediction of truth will be scattered in the air. Whatever you do will be truth. You will touch clay, and it will turn to gold. Right now, even if you touch gold, it is bound to turn to dust—because where are the eyes to see gold? Where is the heart to assay it? As yet you are not the philosopher’s stone. One established in samadhi becomes a philosopher’s stone: touch iron and it becomes gold; touch abuse and it turns into song; touch thorns and they become flowers; touch darkness and it turns to light.

In the hands of one who knows, not only scriptures but the smallest happenings of life take on deep and grave meaning.

Tattooed words,
but trenches of meaning being dug—
Sir is busy tattooing,
tattooing and tattooing!

“Malpua” scrawled across the belly,
“house” written on the brow;
“dhoti–kurta” written on the body—
the devils laugh!

On the back, “mountain ranges” inscribed,
on the chest, “cremation ground”;
tears labeled “pearls,”
and read out as “charity”!

On the ears, “sweet jaggery-balls” written,
on the hands, “favor”;
on the cheeks, “Ganga–Yamuna” written—
and they keep taking a bath.

Write “favor” on the hand—will it become favor?
Write “meditation” on the forehead—will it become meditation?

On the cheeks, “Ganga–Yamuna” written—
and they keep taking a bath.
Tattooed words,
but trenches of meaning being dug—
Sir is busy tattooing,
tattooing and tattooing!

The pundit goes on tattooing and re-tattooing. The pundit’s world is profoundly false. He says the world is maya, illusion—but in the kind of illusion a pundit lives, even the worldly man does not live. In the worldly person’s world there is at least some reality; the pundit’s world is made of bare words alone.

“Malpua”
written on the belly—
will the belly be filled? ...
“House” written on the forehead;
“dhoti–kurta” written on the body—
the devils laugh!

The devils rejoice over your scriptural knowledge—for as an obstacle to God, nothing can be a greater hindrance than your scriptural knowledge. One who falls into the delusion, “I have understood the doctrines, the scriptures—what is there left to know?” has fallen into a dreadful pit. To rescue him becomes difficult. A sinner can be awakened; he wants to awaken—because sin burns. But how will you awaken the pundit? His vested interest lies in his erudition; that is the decoration and adornment of his ego.

From a sun printed on paper
no day will dawn—
thus has Time deceived some!

Crows, with rooster’s crests fixed,
posted on every branch,
kept crowing till midday—
poor kin of Death!

Crossroads, sniffing sunlight,
grew proud;
from temple doors
hurrahs in the name of silver,
and wakeful nights in the name of the bed!

Windows and doors turned
into towers of deceit up to the sky;
Kabir weeps in the lanes—
will mangoes grow on an acacia?

From a sun printed on paper
no day will dawn—
however beautifully the sun is printed on paper, there will be no day!

And the crows?—
Crows outfitted with rooster’s crests,
posted on every branch,
kept crowing till noon.
Neither will a printed sun bring morning,
nor will the crows’ crowing—morning will come only when the sun rises.

In this way we have been thoroughly deceived. Our whole life has become a long sequence of being duped. Motilal, now wake up!

You ask, “What should I do now?”

Now be free of the scriptures; walk into yourself—there is the scripture of scriptures. Now drop words; hold to emptiness. For only from emptiness will arise that majestic experience which perfumes all words—which even perfumes gold. But enough! How long will you go on searching outside? Now within! Now set out on the inner journey.

And what is the process of the inner journey? Drop thought, drop words, drop scriptures, drop “knowledge.” These are what keep you stuck. Stay awake and keep watching. Let no word snag you; do not clutch any word. Be neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist. All these are nets of words. Now seek yourself—ask, “Who am I?” Thought is your surface; no-thought is your center. Now descend into no-thought. Let a single dip happen in no-thought—you will be astonished, struck dumb; you will not be able to believe it at once. Because the moment you dive into yourself, all the Buddhas, all the Krishnas, all the Christs stand proved true—together! Not that Buddha is proved true and Mahavira false; not that Christ is right and Krishna wrong. As long as such things happen, know that you have not yet gone beyond the snare of words. This is the touchstone: when all the awakened ones of the world—however different their language and expression, however varied their colors and styles, forms and features—are all proved right at once, then know that you have known. So long as choice remains—“Krishna knows rightly, Christ does not”—understand you are still stuck in the jungle of words; the jungle is not yet crossed; the home is not yet found.

Yogesh! The attainment of a realized person cannot be directly known by others. At best there can be inference. How can a blind man know that one with eyes sees light? He can infer. He can feel his way and notice that the man with eyes walks without groping. He can check that the man with eyes carries no stick in his hand. The blind man can at least infer that when the sighted man rises he does not ask where the door is—he simply slips out, without asking. Surely he must be seeing, for I must ask to get out. I have to tap-tap with a stick to find my way. I must take each step cautiously. I cannot run, and I see others running. Children squeal with delight around him, running inside and outside the house with such ease—surely they have something I do not. But this remains inference, not proof.

So too, you can make certain inferences about a realized person. In situations that plunge you into despondency, sorrow does not touch him. Where failure pierces your life like a spear, not even a thorn pricks him. Far from a thorn—almost as if even in failure flowers keep showering upon him. Success or failure does not obstruct his centeredness. His equanimity remains. You can infer such things. He rises, sits, lives here, yet part of him is not here at all—he is elsewhere. Being here, he is not fully here; he abides in another realm. Like a lotus in water. You can make such inferences. They are not proofs, only inferences. For you yourself have no experience. Who knows—he may merely be holding himself together from the surface, acting. Doubts will remain. That is why I say: inference. Doubts do not vanish except through experience. Without experience, trust never becomes complete; doubt remains. It may be pushed into the corners of the mind, hidden in the dark, but it is there. Somewhere it will raise its head again—over small matters it will stand up, again and again.

Yet if you become capable even of inference, a door of possibility opens for you. Each enlightened one’s conduct differs, because each enlightened one is a unique, unrepeatable event. Therefore, if you have already fixed ideas about how a sage must be, how a realized person must be, you will not even be able to infer—you will get into trouble. Mahavira is naked, and Buddha is not!

There was a Krishnamurti camp in Holland. A woman went from India to attend it. When she returned she told me, “My illusion broke! I could not even stay for the camp.” I asked, “It hasn’t even ended, and you’re back?” She said, “It’s all useless. The day before the camp I went to the market to buy a few things and saw Krishnamurti buying a tie. A sage—and buying a tie! Lord Mahavira and a tie—imagine the joke! Naked, and then a tie on top of that!” She was a Jain lady. Somewhere the image of Mahavira must have been lurking inside; the same expectation was bound to be there of Krishnamurti, even if not consciously. That is the trouble. “Krishnamurti buying a tie! And not just that—I stepped into the shop to look carefully. He had spread out at least two hundred ties! This one doesn’t feel right; that one’s color doesn’t match; this one’s style doesn’t fit.” She said, “What I saw with my own eyes—how can this man be enlightened? What kind of Buddhahood is this—still entangled in ties!” Then there was no reason left to attend the camp.

But had someone been a devotee of Krishna, perhaps there would have been no obstacle. Krishna does not seem much concerned about minimal clothing. Yellow silks, peacock-feather crown—there were no ties then; had they existed he would surely have worn them; he would not have avoided it—if he did not hesitate to wear a peacock crown, why would he hesitate to wear a tie! But the Jains have consigned Krishna to hell—because of that very peacock crown. And not for a short while—he will remain in hell as long as this creation lasts. When this creation dissolves and a new one forms, then he may be freed. Small sinners will come and go many times, but Krishna lies in the seventh hell and will remain there. They could not forgive the peacock crown!

If you hold fast to one fixed notion, take sides, then there will be trouble. You will not even be able to infer. Only one who is without prejudice, a little free, with no pre-decided conclusions, can infer. And no fixed conclusion will be of use, because Mahavira is Mahavira, Krishna is Krishna, Buddha is Buddha, Mohammed is Mohammed. All attained the One, yet each sang in his own voice, expressed in his own way. These little outer things will not decide it. If you go to the very depths beneath all such things, you will certainly find a few signs—such as a deep evenness in pleasure and pain; in success and failure; in poverty and prosperity. The scale does not sway; both pans remain level. Whether he wears clothes or not, whether he is naked or wears a peacock crown—no difference. What has clothes to do with that centered rightness? Whether he eats one day and fasts the next, eats twice a day or three times—no difference. The difference is in the innermost core. There a lamp remains ever lit. But the glimpse of that lamp is possible only to those who are free of conclusions.

Therefore, when you go to a true master, do not go carrying conclusions. Otherwise those conclusions will become curtains over your eyes. And no two true masters are alike; thus your conclusions are useless, harmful—they will obstruct you even from inference.

So first, you ask: “How can others recognize the attainment of the realized?” By his silence, his joy, his gentleness, his grace, his fragrance; by the flavor of sitting close; by the sudden inner wave of peace that arises in his presence; by your mind suddenly, at times, dissolving and disappearing in his presence; by laying your head at his feet and coming into an experience of “I am not,” the vanishing of ego; by sitting and moving near him, getting dyed in his color so that an unprecedented dance is born within you; some song begins to insist on humming within; your feet feel the thrill and sway of dance; some seed within begins to crack open and sprout; in his presence you start to sense, little by little, that this world is not only as it appears—it is more; you catch a faint fragrance of mystery. But all this is inference. I am not calling it proof. So do not clutch such things tightly, or they will die. They are very delicate flowers. They are fluid like mercury. Grasp them hard and they scatter—and once mercury scatters it is difficult to gather. These are not truths that can be seized in the language of arithmetic, of logic. Yes, in the net of love such fish are surely caught. If, with a loving heart, you sit near one who has attained the Divine, your net will not come back empty—you will return from his ocean with many jewels, many experiences. But let me repeat: until your own experience happens, it remains inference.

You also asked, Yogesh: “What does realization feel like?” Have you not heard? All the wise have said: the mute man’s sugar. Kabir said, “The mute man’s sugar.” Not said casually—said after much effort to say and failing.

Why can that experience not be said? Many reasons. Let me remind you of the important ones.

First, all our words are for worldly dealings; that experience is transcendental. Our words serve in the market, in the shop, in the office—they are makeshift, serviceable for the world. But as soon as you rise toward the transcendental, you find all words are futile. Whichever word you use, it creates an obstacle. For example, if you say the experience is of light—as many saints have said—they said it out of compulsion. You press them, you won’t accept silence, you stand with folded hands and insist on something being said—so saints are compelled to say: it is an experience of light, the supreme light. But saints know that in saying so they do injustice. For as much as the Divine is supreme light, so too is it supreme darkness. Both together. But how to say that?

The Upanishads say: It is farther than the farthest and nearer than the nearest. Think—ordinarily only one of the two could be true. “Farther than the farthest and nearer than the nearest”—it becomes a riddle! Say either far or near. But the Upanishads are right. Both are true at once. All our words are dualistic pairs—darkness-light, life-death, cold-heat, pleasure-pain, beauty-ugliness. And That is beyond duality. How to say it? It is flower and thorn, night and day, birth and death—if you say “birth,” you say it half; if you say “death,” you say it half. Whichever word you choose becomes a half-truth. And remember: half-truths are more dangerous than untruths, because the bit of truth in them can mislead and delude.

Second, our words are limited; that experience is limitless—without beginning or end. Our words are little courtyards; That is the vast sky. How can the sky be contained in a courtyard? It does not fit. Keeping this in view, one must remain silent. But saints also keep you in view—and so they speak. They speak not because the Divine can be spoken, but out of compassion for you. Seeing you, they must speak; seeing That, they would remain silent.

When Buddha became enlightened he sat silent for seven days. The story says the gods in heaven became restless. Sometimes centuries pass before someone attains Buddhahood. Even the gods thirst to hear the Buddha-voice, the lion’s roar. From stones to plants, animals, birds, humans, gods—all beings long for that, for they too are in bondage. They are bound as much as you are. Their chains are golden, yours are iron. Their chains are studded with gems; yours are plain. Their prison houses are of gold and silver; yours are of common stone and mud—this is the only difference. Otherwise there is no real difference.

Indra burns with jealousy as much as you do—though of a different kind. Your wealth doesn’t make him jealous—no matter how rich you become, it is countable; his wealth is infinite. Your high position does not worry him—who sits above his throne? But Indra becomes anxious about ascetics, meditators. They say his throne begins to wobble. He gets scared. Whenever an ascetic starts diving deep, Indra is alarmed that this ascetic may gather the merit to become an Indra—then my post is gone! He burns with envy. He does all he can to corrupt the ascetic—sends Urvashi, the celestial nymphs, raises every kind of temptation—anything to make the ascetic waver from his austerity. It is the same game as in the world. No real difference.

The gods long for someone who has attained to speak, for they know they live in pleasant dreams, but dreams nonetheless—and they too want to awaken.

The gods grew impatient. Buddha was silent—what if he remained silent? Indra came with his whole court to Buddha’s feet and prayed: “Please speak. After ages such good fortune arrives; someone becomes a Buddha. Will you not speak? We have waited seven days for your nectar-words. People are waiting, wandering in darkness, blind; give them eyes, give them a path, a direction.” Buddha said, “It is futile to speak, for what I have known cannot be said. If I speak, I do injustice to truth. Secondly, even if I labor to speak, who will understand? And whoever can understand my words will reach without my words. There is no need to worry about him. Only one near understanding can understand my words—and if he is that near, at the very edge—one more step—he will take it anyway. My speaking does not cause it. At most it may serve as a condition; perhaps he will take the step a little sooner. But what difference do sooner or later make in this endless time? Whoever has to arrive will arrive. And whoever is not going to arrive will misunderstand my words too. After all, words are available; scriptures exist. People have not understood them—have misunderstood them; they have forged chains out of them. They will forge chains out of my words as well. So first: what I would say cannot be said; second: if I try to say it, it will not be understood. Why trouble me? Let me remain silent.”

But the gods would not leave so easily. They consulted among themselves: somehow we must get Buddha to speak. This voice, this nectar, must be shared. A flower blooms and its fragrance does not reach those wandering in darkness? A lamp burns and its light does not reach the lost? That cannot be. They thought deeply and returned to Buddha with an argument he had to accept.

They said, “You are right: what cannot be said is hard to say—impossible. We accept that. But gestures can be made. The mute cannot describe the taste of jaggery, but he can point to the jaggery: ‘Here it is.’ He can gesture for water with folded hands; people understand and fill his cupped palms. Even the mute speaks—if not by words, by expression and gesture. Your eyes, your rising and sitting, your mudras—no worry if you cannot say it in words. Words will at least bring people to you; your presence will say it. People will come to understand words—and go away understanding you.

“And we accept that perhaps one in a hundred will understand. But even one—what a blessing! Where infinite numbers wander in darkness, if even one in a hundred understands, is that little? And he will light another. Thus the chain of Buddhas is formed—lamps are lit from lamps; the flame kindles the flame.

“And you are right that some will arrive even if you say nothing—that is true. And some will not arrive even if you hammer your head—that is also true. But between those two there are people—you cannot deny it—who will arrive if you speak, and will miss if you do not.” Buddha agreed: “I will make gestures. I will speak for those in between.”

You ask: “What does realization feel like?” No one has ever said it. Only gestures have been made. Let me make a few.

In that experience there is no “I.” There is no experiencer—only experience. Now the mind begins to protest: How can there be experience without an experiencer? Yet I tell you as it is: there is no experiencer; there is only experiencing.

Understand through hints.

Sometimes, if you have a feel for dance, you may have known moments when the dancer disappears and only the dance remains. The great Western dancer Nijinsky would sometimes enter such moments. Then he would leap in a way that should not be possible—gravity should not allow it. Scientists were astonished. Such a leap—he seemed to sprout wings; Earth’s pull did not work. And when he came down, he did not thud like a stone or like you and I would if we jumped; he descended like a bird’s feather, swaying, blissful in the air, slowly, gently. His descent was amazing—as if he had no weight, as if he had become weightless.

Whenever people asked Nijinsky how he did it, he said, “Whenever I have tried to do it, it has not happened. I have tried often—and failed. It happens sometimes when I am not. When the dance gathers such speed and intensity and totality that only the dance remains and Nijinsky is no more—then, the way you are astonished seeing it, so am I—astonished, wonderstruck—What happened? How did it happen? Who did it? I am certainly not the doer. I am not there in that moment. Only a trace of wonder remains—a line of amazement, a memory. But it happens only when I am not.”

If you sing, you may know that at times the singer disappears and only the song remains. If you are a poet, you may know that the poet is not there—only then the poem descends. But not everyone has such experiences. Not all are dancers—though all should be. Even now, among tribal peoples, everyone dances. It is only the civilized man’s misfortune that he has forgotten to dance—and with that forgetting some spiritual art has been lost, an entire dimension. Peacocks dance; so too did all humans in the primal state. They still dance among forest tribes. Through that dance something happens in their lives that you are deprived of. Nor do all sing, nor play the flute, nor pluck the strings of a sitar. We have narrowed and cheapened our lives—count money, jingle coins, keep filling the safe! And that very safe becomes weight on your chest and drowns you. Thus the very moments have vanished from your life through which hints could be given.

Have you loved anyone? In love such a thing surely happens—lovers disappear; love happens. Duality dissolves. A single, unique wave remains. The impossible happens. But love too has vanished from the world. In place of love we erected the synthetic arrangement of marriage. We don’t allow love to happen. Out of fear we used to marry off children—small children. Before they grow up and get entangled in love, settle the hassle! No bamboo, no flute. Tiny children, carried on shoulders in the wedding procession, who don’t even know how to sit and stand properly—we married them to save them from love. We deprived them of a natural, thrilling experience.

No love, no dance, no music, no song—snatch all of it away—and you have. Then man asks, “What does realization feel like?” How to say it!

Zen master Rinzai was invited by the emperor of Japan to give a discourse on the Buddha’s teaching. What did Rinzai do? He went up on the dais, took a flute from his bag, blew a single note, put the flute back in the bag, stepped down and walked out the door. The emperor could not understand—so quickly? And where is the discourse? He asked his vizier, “Is this man mad? We waited so many days for a discourse, and this is what happened? Either he is mad or he is mocking us. One note on the flute—only one!—and then he leaves without even a bow!” The old vizier said, “You did not understand. He has given the Buddha’s teaching—concise, in a seed. He played the flute—and indicated: as I am lost in the flute this very moment—had you looked toward that, you would have found inner emptiness; emptiness was playing the flute; there was no one playing; then you would have understood the meaning of the Buddha’s teaching.”

Only hints are possible. The experience—you must have it yourself.

You ask: “How can a seeker know that something has truly happened?” When you have a headache, how do you know you have a headache?

When I was in school, I had a Muslim teacher—perhaps he is still alive—Rahamuddin, a lovely man, but very strict in one thing: it was almost impossible to get leave from him. He himself never took leave and would not grant it to students. I often needed leave. I would say my stomach hurts, or my head hurts. He said, “Listen, I accept fever; I do not accept stomachache or headache. If you have fever, I can at least take your hand and feel it. But how am I to know whether you truly have a stomachache or headache?” I said, “Since you ask, let me ask you—have you ever had a headache? A stomachache?” He said, “I have.” I said, “What proof can you give that you had it? Whether you accept it or not, my head hurts and I need leave. What proof can there be for a headache? If you have some means to test it, do so.” Later he called me aside and said, “If you need leave, tell me in advance. This business of headache and stomachache—if it spreads, I will be in trouble. You are right—though I know you don’t have a headache, neither can I prove that you don’t. You want leave—I know that. But don’t let this ‘headache’ disease spread.” He laughed. “Go quietly. Use this trick no more.” Because there can be no proof, no test. Even a doctor cannot do anything—if you say you have a headache, what can he check?

But when you have a headache, do you know it or not? You know it clearly—whether the world accepts it or not, whether there is proof or not. Exactly so, this experience is self-evident.

You ask, “How can a seeker know that something has truly happened?” Yogesh, when it happens there is no way not to know. When a blind man’s eyes open and he sees light, will he ask: “How shall I know that my eyes have opened?” When he sees, the question does not arise. Your question arises because you are less concerned with entering the experience and more with deciding everything in advance—How? It is a hypothetical, philosophical question. Such questions have no value. You ask: “When I fall in love, how shall I know?” You will know—rest easy. Every fiber will know. Every heartbeat will know. Even if the whole world says, “You are mad; nothing has happened; you are imagining,” you will not agree. Who accepts others’ proof against one’s own direct evidence?

Whether the world accepts it or not, when the event happens, it is known. And this event is so great, so vast, so overwhelming—it comes like a flood, from all directions, a flood of light. It fills every corner of your life; it drives out all darkness. All pain gone, all sorrow gone, all worry gone; the ego gone, and with the ego all its griefs and afflictions—how could you fail to know? Such a great event occurs, and you would not know?

But if you only ask philosophically, in advance, there is a problem. As long as this question arises—“How will the seeker know it has truly happened?”—know that it has not yet happened. When it happens, no questions arise. The event is so great, and so self-evident, that when it happens no doubt remains. Trust—complete trust—is born.

And you ask, “How can one distinguish reality from self-created imagination?” There no “self” remains, nor does imagination—thoughts themselves do not remain, how will imagination remain? Sleep breaks—how will dreams remain? The “self” itself is gone; a vast silence remains—dense, profound silence. And in that silence there is a festival of bliss, the dance of bliss, the play of bliss.

When it happens, you will certainly know. Therefore, instead of worrying beforehand about how you will decide, enter the search. Prepare yourself so it can happen. Become the vessel. The Divine is ready to rain every single moment.

Narayan Das! The crowd takes this to be life. But the crowd is a flock of sheep. Where is a true human being in a crowd? This is not a human life; it is a sheep’s life. If human life is so paltry, so small, so mean, so trivial—then what remains the difference between humanity and animality? Animals are born, animals manage to find their food—and they do it far better than you! Among humans you will find the unemployed; among animals and birds, none are unemployed. You will see humans standing in queues outside employment offices, but you’ll never see queues of animals and birds. Humans are anxious to store tomorrow’s bread today; animals have no worry for tomorrow.

The python does no service, the birds do no job.
Said servant Maluka, Ram is the giver to all.

Animals, birds, even plants gather their nourishment—gaily, without working; God gives. To reduce life to earning bread, being born, then producing children… and producing children—is that any art?

Some people think that bearing children is a great art. Those who cannot have children feel dejected, as if their lives are wasted—deeply unhappy, as though life has lost all meaning. Those who line them up, one after another, strut about as if they’ve accomplished something great. But animals and birds do it—and better than you. Even insects do it, laying thousands of eggs at a time. What are you capable of! In a year, a year and a half, you manage one child or two. Is that any record? Insects do far more. Mosquitoes would beat you hollow. Each mosquito breeds so many that man kills and kills and dies killing, yet the mosquitoes don’t die out.

No, this is not life. This is a counterfeit of life. Not life, but a burden. Life is a dance. Life is a joy. Life is an incomparable song—of nectar, of essence.

Life
not lived
but endured,
tilling a barren field!

How ill-mannered it is—
unsown, strange weeds spring up and up,
and when I sow—alas—blood-seed!
What a beginning!

Hives upon hives, a frolic of clouds,
around the fields it rains only thirst;
to the lips drums the feeling—
what a calamity!

As if they themselves were Salim,
from the ridges ak, dhak, neem stare,
tongues smeared with opium
whenever a petition was made!

Sky within the eyes—
where have the walled ears gone this time?
Each breath has turned a tax;
what thought can one give to the after?

Life
not lived
but endured,
tilling a barren field!

This is not life; this is cultivation in a wasteland. Where nothing grows, you try to force something to grow. It is like trying to press oil from sand. What you take to be life is a deception. Enduring it somehow is another matter. But where is the dance? Where the celebration? Where the joy? You are dragging a load, waiting for death to come and set you free.

As Sigmund Freud probed ever deeper into the human mind, he found two drives in life: one, the life-instinct—he called it libido; the other, the death-instinct—he called it Thanatos.

A desire for death!

When he first announced that there is a fierce longing for death hidden in man, nobody believed him. Who, ordinarily, wants to die? Ask anyone, “Do you want to die?” and he’ll be ready to quarrel: “What kind of question is that?” However lovingly, however respectfully you ask, “Do you want to die?” he’ll flare up. And yet Freud is right.

Psychologists say it’s hard to find a person who has never, at some time, thought of suicide. Hard to find one who hasn’t, at some point, felt: Enough now, I’m tired—let death take me! Let there be some escape from this bondage!

That from which such a deep longing to escape arises—this cannot be life.

All Indian religions strive for release from the cycle of birth and death: “O Lord, take us up! Send us no more. Enough now, forgive us! You’ve punished us quite enough!” Life is felt as a punishment. Surely, we are missing somewhere—making some grave mistake. We mistake birth for life; hence the error. Life has to be crafted, created.

Life is available only to those who create it, who refine life within themselves. With birth you get only the opportunity for life, not life itself. Birth is an unhewn stone, not a statue. Then you must pick up the chisel and become a sculptor. It depends on you what statue you will carve, how beautiful it will be—of Ram, of Krishna, of Buddha? The beauty of it depends entirely on you. You are born as a rough stone, but most people die as rough stones, because they mistake birth for life—that’s where the slip happens.

The heart is a sky
in which
sun, moon, and stars
keep shining—
by whose light
we see things and paths.
But the sun
is not in every heart;
it has to be raised.
When we
come to know
that the cool light
of moon and stars
will not warm
the soil of our body
in whose soft folds
our seed of vision
lies mute.

One thing is given with birth—it’s mere blank opportunity, like a blank book. Will you write abuse in it, or a song? Your blank book can become the Bhagavad Gita, or it may end as an account ledger. A blank book is a blank book. You can draw beautiful pictures in it—or only ink blots. Or you might leave it blank, living just so, dying just so—neither truly living nor truly dying. No strength in your living, none in your dying. But most people dirty the book before they die, filling it with accounts.

I used to be a guest in Calcutta at a most unusual man’s house. He had several peculiarities. One was that he was India’s biggest speculator. I befriend gamblers quickly… He was a gambler. His specialty was that he kept no ledgers. When I first stayed at his home, I discovered why. Everything was written on the walls of his bathroom. Being a speculator, he couldn’t keep regular books—everything was about gambling, all had to be kept hidden. He gave a lot in charity too. As much as he gambled, he donated as well. But he never paid taxes. “No ledgers—what will you levy tax on!” Yet he gave to everyone—to Gandhi, to Nehru, to all.

When Nehru became Prime Minister he said, “Now make arrangements to pay some taxes.” The gentleman’s name was Sohanlal Kothari. He replied, “I will pay as much tax as you ask, but I have no ledgers. Nor will I keep them. Why get into that hassle!”

But when I bathed in his bathroom, I saw the whole bathroom was scribbled upon—things written everywhere.

If you don’t write in a ledger, you’ll write somewhere else.

And whatever you write becomes your law, your destiny, your fate.

You are born a blank book. If you go on hoarding wealth, position, prestige—your life will be just what it is now: a crowd’s life. But if you wish, this rough stone can be carved. This blank book can become the Gita, can become the Quran. After all, Muhammad made the Quran out of this same blankness. Krishna made the Gita from this same blankness. Why do you only read the Gita and the Quran? You have the same capacity. Why not become the Gita or the Quran yourself? Why not let a few roses blossom within? Why not set a few lotuses floating on the lake of consciousness? It can happen. Let a little awareness awaken, a little love awaken—and the revolution begins. Then you will no longer remain a sheep.

Narayan Das, as of now, life is as you describe it. It is life in name only—hollow, two-penny. But treasure is available. You are entitled to it. The kingdom of God is yours. But gather some skill. Put an edge on your intelligence. The divine is not for dullards. Intelligence needs a keen edge. Talent is needed—and everyone is born with talent. But you never sharpen it. It rusts; dust settles on your mirror. You die like that, in futile hustle and bustle.

All that can be found outside is in vain. The meaningful is within. You beget children—this won’t do. Beget yourself. Give birth to yourself. I call this process of self-birth sannyas. It is the decision to become twice-born. It is the decision to move from shudra to brahmin. All are born shudra-like; a few die like brahmins—a Buddha, a Krishna, a Kabir, a Nanak, a Paltu—just a few. The rest are born like shudras and die like shudras.

No one is a brahmin by birth. No one can be a brahmin by birth. A brahmin is one who knows Brahman. And one who has not even known himself—how will he know Brahman?

There is still time. It is not too late. Wake up; awaken yourself. Wipe off the dust and grime, remove the junk; empty the mind, silence the mind. Silence is alchemy. Silence is art—and you will surely become a statue. And when you become a statue, life is a temple.

Surajmal! How could I possibly think that! Half of my sannyasins are husbands. I can’t afford to annoy so many sannyasins.
No, not all husbands are donkeys. Nor are all donkeys husbands. But wives tend to think so.
What I was saying that day was to explain the wives’ point of view to you. I wasn’t speaking from my own side. Wives do think that all husbands are donkeys. They may not say it directly—or sometimes they say it indirectly.

A husband says to his wife, “Now go and explain to your darling! He’s insisting on riding on a donkey’s back.” The wife replies, “Then why don’t you seat him on your back and take him for a ride?”
They don’t say it straight—indirectly they do. On the surface they say, “Husband is God; I am the maid at your feet.” But inside they know very well who is actually the servant at whose feet. Wives are clever: they say “slave at your feet” while keeping a slave at their feet.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was writing a letter. When it was finished, their son said, “Give it to me, Mommy, I’ll go and mail it.” She said, “No, son, can’t you see it’s pouring outside? In such rain even donkeys hide. You can’t see a single donkey on the road, not even a dog. In this kind of downpour you’re going to mail a letter? No—wait! Let your papa come; he’ll go and post it.”

Chandulal’s wife writes poetry. There is a poets’ gathering, and she is reciting—and being loudly hooted. People are shouting, banging their shoes, creating an uproar. Chandulal, standing at the back, is getting very restless. Again and again he calls from behind to his wife, “Munnoo’s mother, hey, why don’t you recite that poem—How many horns on a donkey’s head? It’s a comic verse.” Chandulal thinks if she reads that one, the effect will be great, people will be delighted; this hooting and uproar will stop. But the wife is upset by the hooting—and by Chandulal’s voice too, from behind—he keeps saying, “Munnoo’s mother, why don’t you read it—How many horns on a donkey’s head?” At last it became unbearable for Munnoo’s mother, and she said, “Munnoo’s father, please stand up a bit; I can’t see from here. If I can’t even see the head, how can I count how many horns are on the donkey’s head?”
That’s how they say it—indirectly, not directly.

I was only presenting the wives’ perspective. It seems Surajmal felt hurt—he must be a husband. And he must have thought, “What is this—husbands and donkeys!” The scriptures call the husband God. Of course, those scriptures must have been written by husbands! Had they asked the wives while writing, it would be different.

The truth is: to forge the relationship called husband and wife is, in a way, a kind of stupidity. Love is fine, sufficient, natural. The other ties we manufacture are practical, social, artificial. They are institutions; they don’t have much intrinsic value. And the harm they do is obvious.

The moment you start taking a woman as your wife, you stop really seeing her. You take it for granted that she is your thing, your property. They even say “stri-dhan”—woman as property. What could be more insulting than that? And as soon as someone is accepted as a husband, the matter is settled—as if you’ve secured a bonded servant; now you can depend on him.
Love confers glory on one another, while this husband–wife bond snatches all the glory away. Husband and wife keep quarreling constantly, at each other’s throats. What kind of love is this that yields nothing but strife and brings only melancholy into life?

Of course we keep up appearances.
If a husband and wife are fighting and a neighbor walks in, the quarrel instantly subsides; the wife begins to smile, the husband starts speaking lovingly—though a moment ago it was on the verge of blows!
We show one face to the neighbors. We maintain a deception. Because of this deception there is a great confusion in the world. Each family thinks that other families live in peace and love; only we are in misery, only we are mistaken. But just as you deceive others, they are also deceiving you.

People in this world have two faces. One is their real face, which they never show; and one is their mask, which they do show. Because of this mask, every person has become political.

I have heard: it was Holi, and the villagers caught hold of their local leader. In their hearts they had long wanted to bring him down—who doesn’t want to bring down a leader! The village could no longer tolerate his swagger. So they opened their hearts and smeared not color but tar on his face—liberally smeared tar! And he was an accomplished leader: he kept grinning and smiling through it all! People said, “He is accomplished, a realized man, a yogi! We are smearing tar, even sewer muck, on his face, and he keeps smiling!”
In the evening the neighbors went to see what had become of him—after all, the tar was applied so thickly that it couldn’t come off for a month. But they found the leader sitting there, his face clean, not a trace of tar. They were amazed. “Leader-ji, how did you wash it off so quickly?” He pointed to a mask lying in the corner: “See that? The one you were smearing tar on wasn’t my real face. That’s the face I wear when I go out.”
Everyone has masks. Husbands and wives put on masks to go out, masks to appear before the children; when no one is around, they take off the masks and their real faces are seen. Then you would be surprised—there isn’t even an echo of love anywhere. Humanity is living in a state of lovelessness. And lovelessness breeds stupidity in human beings. Love brings talent, sharpness; it awakens consciousness. Love is God’s grace. But those who live without love gather dust within; they rust; life becomes a burden.

So it has been up to now.
And up to now man has made the earth very much like hell. In the future we will have to find a different arrangement. There is no need for anyone to be a wife or a husband. To be lovers is enough. And if love is not sufficient, nothing else can make up the lack—the law cannot compensate for it.

People live together for many reasons. Wives stay with husbands because we have made them economically crippled. For centuries they were not allowed to be educated, nor given the courage and confidence to stand in society. Out of fear that the wife might fall in love with someone else, the husband kept her hidden in the house, behind veils, removed her from society, confined her to the courtyard—gave her a prison. What is a home? A prison! Yes, sometimes the husband takes her out—but only as decoration. If there is a wedding somewhere, he goes, the wife puts on jewelry and arrives as an exhibit. And the exhibit is the husband’s: the jewelry shows how much he earns, how wealthy he is. The wife is merely a medium to display the husband’s wealth. Yes, sometimes to the cinema, sometimes to the temple—but these are all exhibition halls where the wife is to show her saris and jewelry, and the husband his wife—and the jewelry adorning her. Otherwise we have completely separated women from society. So much so that they are forced to depend on husbands. They cannot even imagine being apart from the husband.

This is coercion. This coercion is not love. Love is when someone stays together out of their own free will, for the joy of being together. We have tied a thousand legal knots. When two people want to marry, we don’t obstruct at all—we get ready with band and drum, everyone becomes eager, garlands are offered. Strange! But if someone wants a divorce, then it’s police and courts and laws and lawyers and such a long process that a person, instead of suffering for three or four years in litigation, thinks it is better to suffer the kicks of the wife—or of the husband. What’s the point of all that trouble? And after divorce your social standing falls as well. People think you have fallen below humanity. Divorce! Who will bear so much insult? Endure it—the life isn’t very long anyway; fifty years have passed, twenty or twenty-five remain—somehow we will manage. Having borne fifty, we will bear twenty-five more.

I have heard: a man was celebrating his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. All his friends had gathered. But where was he? A close friend went out to look for him and found him sitting in the garden, very dejected. The friend said, “Dejected—and you—and on such an auspicious day? Twenty-five years of marriage! We all have come eager, with gifts—and you sit here?” He said, “Today I am the most miserable man on earth.” “I don’t understand,” the friend said. He replied, “Listen—you are the reason for my misery.” The friend was even more puzzled. “You’re crossing the line—what wrong did I do to you?” The husband said, “Twenty-five years ago, fifteen days after my wedding, I came to you—you were a lawyer—and I asked you: if I kill my wife, what will happen to me? Because in fifteen days she had tormented me so much I was ready to kill her. And you frightened me: ‘If you kill her, you will get at least twenty-five years.’ Today I am sad that if only I hadn’t listened to you, I would have been released from prison today! I would be breathing the air of freedom! This moon, this open night, these stars—I would be the happiest man on earth. But you—you ruined my life!”

People are afraid of prison, of the courts, of the law, of the police, of society. Then children are born; then the worry for the children, their attachment: What will happen to them? Thus people are bound by fear. Ninety-nine out of a hundred couples are bound by fear. And where there is fear, how can there be joy? Where there is fear, how can genius be born?
Fear is the opposite state of love. And what we fear, we come to hate. And what we fear, we show one thing to it while thinking something else entirely.

The arrangement of life man has made so far is fundamentally wrong—it is built on fear. Our religion stands on fear; our God stands on fear; our temples and mosques stand on fear; our nations and states stand on fear; our families, husband–wife relations—our ties and bonds—stand on fear. We have created a world of fear. And if in this fear we are rotting as if in hell, it is no surprise.

The world must change. We must create a world of love, upon which no fear is imposed. Only through love does one find the true God. Only through love does that rare happening occur between two persons: love slowly becomes prayer, becomes a door to the divine. With love, there will be no quarrels of Hindu, Muslim, Christian—nor any need for them. No quarrels of temple, mosque, church—nor any need for them. With love, no need for India, Pakistan, China, Japan as separate nations—this whole earth can be one. And if there is love, people will certainly live together, in pairs. Men will love women, women will love men—but they will live together because of love. Then the quality will be different. There will be wonder, and a gratitude toward God.

Vijayanand! When the remembrance arises, “I am a broken man,” the journey has begun. When ignorance is recognized, the first step of wisdom is taken. When sorrow is felt, then dropping sorrow becomes easy—not difficult.

In the current of this river, a cool breeze still arrives;
The boat may be battered, yet it still strikes the waves.
Bring a spark from somewhere, friends,
For this lamp has a wick soaked in oil.
Like the heart of a ruin, like a wildflower,
A man’s pain, mute though it is, still sings.
Dusk has spread a sheet over the whole town;
This road of darkness still leads to the dawn.
The river that lies naked in the open fields
Goes, under cover of stones, and whispers to them.
No cause for grief—whatever else is or is not attained,
There is at least a heart as vast as the sky.

Do not be frightened. If this remembrance has begun to arise that “I am a broken man, a worn-out boat,” do not be afraid; even a worn-out boat can reach the other shore. Only the courage to leave this bank is needed—guts are needed.

You ask, “Is there any hope for me?”
Vijayanand, there is complete hope.

Bring a spark from somewhere, friends,
For this lamp has a wick soaked in oil.

Everything is there. Only a tiny spark is needed. I am ready to give that spark. It is for that spark that I have chosen these fire-colored robes (agnivesh) for the sannyasin—as a symbol of that spark. A fire burns here—the fire of love—bring your lamp to this fire and you too will be lit.

Like the heart of a ruin, like a wildflower,
A man’s pain, mute though it is, still sings.
Dusk has spread a sheet over the whole town;
This road of darkness still leads to the dawn.

Do not be afraid, do not be sad, do not despair; however dark the night, the road leads to morning. The road of the dark night leads to dawn. And the darker the night becomes, the nearer the morning. Night is not the enemy of morning. In the womb of night, the child of morning is conceived and nourished.

Keep hope. Keep hope aflame. Keep trust. There is no human being on earth who cannot attain the Divine. There is no sin that can bar you from the Divine forever. There is no weakness, no infirmity that can become an eternal obstacle between you and the Divine. The Divine is hidden within you, bearing your profound energy. If you seek, the meeting is certain. Only seeking is needed.

Do not just sit and believe. Set out to search. Do not believe—investigate. Become a seeker of truth. You will surely reach the morning. Reaching the morning is certain.

That is all for today.