Sapna Yeh Sansar #7

His is the longing I cannot erase from my heart;
I set out to seek the One whom I cannot attain.
To cool their anger there are a hundred remedies—
it is not some lacquer-flame I could never quench.
Why should they refuse a little teasing at the heart?
A scar is not a pain that I cannot show.
If I step out of the house, why does the house grow sad?
Is it some last gasp and sweat, that I could not return?
Ask Love: what sort of justice is this—
that she forgets me from her heart, and I cannot forget?
The tracings of existence—I would efface them now;
it is no line of fate that I cannot erase.
His is the longing I cannot erase from my heart;
I set out to seek the One whom I cannot attain.

The search for Paramatma is a strange search. Until Paramatma is found, there is the seeker, there is the seeking. The moment Paramatma is found, the seeker dissolves; the seeking dissolves. In truth, when the seeker dissolves and the search dissolves, then Paramatma is. As long as the sense of ‘I’ remains, there can be no relationship with That.
So the search is unique—beyond reason, beyond logic.
Without erasing oneself, meeting cannot happen. The intellect naturally asks: if I am no more, what is the point of meeting? If I am no more, who will receive? If I am no more, who will have the saksatkar? If the mirror itself shatters, whose reflection will be formed? That is why the matter is un-logical, beyond the frontiers of argument.
Logic will say: union is possible only when there are two. Two are needed to meet. Without duality how can there be union? Yet those who have known say: union is only when only One remains. For in the One alone is union. When the two are lost and the One alone abides, there is the taste of union. The taster is gone; only the taste remains.
His is the longing I cannot erase from my heart;
I set out to seek the One whom I cannot attain.

Paramatma cannot be ‘obtained.’ The very language of obtaining is the language of ahankar. To obtain means: I remain, and my possessions increase—wealth in my vaults, positions in my hands; Samadhi too in my keeping; heaven in my keeping; Paramatma as well, not to be missed! Everything locked in my strongbox, clenched in my fist. Paramatma too must be in my fist; I will conquer even That. Ahankar sets out on a journey of conquest. But the way to ‘obtain’ Paramatma is to efface oneself—to be utterly annihilated, to become as the void.
Therefore the talk of ‘getting’ Paramatma is itself impossible. We disappear and Paramatma flowers. Better to say: Paramatma attains us. How will we attain Paramatma? It suffices that we do not obstruct. Only this much is enough—that we do not come in between. Blessed are we if we do not become a wall. Let Paramatma come to attain us and let us not run, not dodge, not hide. This is all the seeker is to do—do not hide, do not defend; open yourself, strip yourself; be naked, ungarmented. No concealment, no duplicity. Open your heart, wholly, wholly. If even a grain of self-protection remains, there will remain a barrier to union.
His is the longing I cannot erase from my heart;
I set out to seek the One whom I cannot attain.
‘I will efface the tracings of existence right now...’
I am ready to erase myself. Ready to wipe off all the marks of this ‘being.’
‘I will efface the tracings of existence right now;
it is no line of fate that I cannot erase.’
This is no line of destiny that I cannot erase. This ego of mine is my own fabrication, a toy of my own hand—I can break it whenever I wish. My ‘being’ is not a real being; it is a lie, sheer lie; an illusion; a mere assumption. There is not the least obstacle in breaking it. And yet we do not break it. The obstacle is not at all there—and yet it is great. It could break right now, yet it does not break for birth after birth. Why?
Paltu gives the reason:
‘The shopkeeper never drops his ways; he keeps pinching the scale.’
He keeps pinching the scale, for he has never known the secret of the Whole.
An old habit—centuries and centuries, births upon births of habit. Beyond this, there is no other hindrance. We have lived this lie so long that the lie has become truth. If truth is not lived for long, it turns false for us; our connections with it snap; its roots no longer remain in our life-breath. And if a lie is lived long enough, it begins to seem like truth. Truth it cannot be, but seeming-truth becomes our truth.
Adolf Hitler writes in his autobiography that the basic law of politics is—repeat a lie, repeat it, repeat it; slowly people accept it. Repeat it so many times that people forget it is a lie. This is also the basic principle of advertising—just keep repeating. At first people pay no attention; then slowly they do; then even without attending they get absorbed. Repeat it from every side, from all directions; people slowly become hypnotized.
Repetition of the lie creates hypnosis.
And once a person is hypnotized, the lie appears as truth—for him it works as truth. It becomes the actuality of his life; for it he will live and die.
Habit lends strength to the ego. From childhood we are taught ego. Our entire education revolves around ego. Our morality fattens the ego. And this is not a matter of one life; in life after life the same has been done. So the ego, which is not, has become all-in-all. The servant has seated himself as master. And the Atman, who is the true master—we have no news of That.
Paltu gives an example: like a shopkeeper who acquires the habit of nudging the scale.
‘The shopkeeper never drops his ways; he keeps pinching the scale.’
He is no longer consciously cheating; under-weighing has become his habit.
I have heard a story.
Saint Eknath used to go on pilgrimage. A company of a hundred or a hundred-and-fifty would go with him. The whole village would go—Satsang with Eknath, and pilgrimage besides: fragrance upon gold. The village thief too insisted: take me along. He was a declared thief. Eknath said, Brother, I have no difficulty, but you will create trouble. Stealing is your habit, your style of life; you will steal in the pilgrims’ company and daily there will be turmoil. I do not wish to forbid you—for who am I to forbid anyone a pilgrimage! And it is fortunate that such a good impulse has arisen in you; perhaps this will become your transformation. But one promise—one assurance: from start to finish, until we return to the village, suspend the habit. Forget stealing altogether. The thief caught Eknath’s feet: I swear, I will not steal.
But a thief is a thief! Come night and he grew very restless; his hands began to itch; no sleep; tossing and turning. Finally he found a trick: keep the vow and still scratch the itch. He would lift things from one traveler’s bedding and put them into another’s. No stealing—he did not take anything for himself—so who could call it theft? But the old habit found relief; like itching a scab gives a feeling of relief—though in truth it hurts. After he had mixed up ten or fifteen people’s belongings, he could sleep! Morning found everyone perplexed—someone’s lota missing, someone’s bucket gone, someone’s rope disappeared. They would be found—some in someone else’s bundle, some under someone’s bedding, some hidden somewhere. Even in Eknath’s bedding people’s things would turn up. Who would suspect Eknath of stealing! Daily this happened. Who is doing it?
At last Eknath decided to sit awake and watch. The thief got up, put this one’s belongings in that one’s bedding, dropped this blanket there, dragged that pillow here... Eknath caught him red-handed: You promised! He said: Master, I promised not to steal; I did not promise to stop practicing. You yourself said, after the pilgrimage do what you will, but let me practice! Otherwise what will I do after the pilgrimage? I will die of hunger—this is my art. I am not stealing; I’ve not taken a penny; I am bound to my vow; but I never said I will not practice, nor should you expect it. People suffer a little—I know—but this is my life-routine! Should I look at their discomfort or my own? If I cannot sleep at night, and must walk all day, I will die and never return home; their murder will be on your head! Eknath found the argument reasonable.
A thief is, after all, a thief. Habits do not drop easily. Habits find new ways, new channels of expression.
‘The shopkeeper never drops his ways; he keeps pinching the scale.
He keeps pinching the scale—for he has never known the secret of the Whole.’
Paltu’s words are simple, but filled with nectar. He says: he weighs short because he has never tasted the joy of the Whole. A deeply symbolic statement: he does not know the mystery of being whole, of being clear, clean, transparent. And if this habit of falling short goes deep, he will never find the Whole, the Paramatma. If he clings to the incomplete, how will he find the Complete? Possessed by the fragment, he will miss the Full.
The Upanishads say: from That Purnam, even if Purnam is taken away, Purnam alone remains; and if we add Purnam to That Purnam, Purnam still remains Purnam. When will you taste that Whole? You have trained yourself in the incomplete.
The statement is straightforward, but its philosophy is deep. Take a dip.
We have all made a habit of the partial. Someone says, I am the body; another says, I am the mind; another, I am the intellect; another says, I am my wealth, my position, my house... Someone goes bankrupt and commits suicide—‘now what remains, what is the point of living!’ As if money was life. Someone’s wife dies, someone’s husband dies—suicide! As if the wife was life, the husband was life. As if life ends within the boundary-lines. Will you weigh life with such petty weights? And these weights are false; they are a shopkeeper’s weights. This habit of identifying with the incomplete—of binding yourself to the petty, being covered, veiled by the small—this is why we do not know the Whole. The Whole is our birthright. We are the Whole. Tat tvam asi. Thou art That—the same that is Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna. Tat tvam asi—thou art the same that is Christ, Zarathustra, Mohammed. Thou art the same that spreads through this vastness, that blossoms in flowers and smiles in the moon and stars.
You are That. But how will your eyes rise in that direction? You have built too small a courtyard. You forgot the sky and fixed your gaze on the little yard. You are stuck in the yard. In such a small enclosure what else can there be but sorrow, but hell? Here your breath is choked, life cannot expand, your wings cannot open. The cages are too small. The art of being outside the cage—that is Dharma.
But the habits are of cages. We have become habituated to confinement. Our practice in being small is so entrenched that we are afraid of vastness. If someone tells you that you are Paramatma, you refuse to accept. The awakened ones have always said it, but you refuse. You do not accept even that Buddha is Paramatma, that Krishna is Paramatma. You want to avoid the Vast so much that you cannot even concede divinity to the Buddhas. Because if you concede it to them, today or tomorrow you will have to accept that you are That too. For their bones, flesh, and marrow are just like yours. They too fall ill, grow old, and die. There is no difference as far as the body is concerned. If there is a difference, it is only of bodha—awareness. They know who they are; you do not know who you are. They are awake; you sleep. And sleep has become your habit.
Sleep has some small comforts—no worries, no anxieties. But the suffering of sleep is immense—because attached to sleep are all nightmares. And the greatest suffering of sleep is that you will miss the festival of awakening—the blossoming lotuses of awareness, the dance of consciousness. Not a single drop will touch your throat. Life will dance past you, singing; and you will lie asleep. You will never know what an incomparable opportunity was lost. The obstacle is one—habit. Habit turns man into a machine.
William James mentions sitting at a hotel with a friend, chatting. A retired army captain passed by, carrying on his head a basket filled with eggs. They were talking of habit. James said, Let me give you an example. He looked out and shouted: ‘Attention!’ The man—retired for twenty years—instantly dropped the basket and stood at attention! All the eggs broke on the road. Furious, ready to kill. He barked: Is this a joke? James said: I did not even speak to you; I have a right to use the word ‘attention.’ You could have ignored it. The man replied: Is it in my control? When ‘attention’ is said, attention it is. I did not do this knowingly; it has become part of my unconscious habit.
A soldier is prepared like a machine. Soldiering is the greatest fall of human-ness. As long as there are soldiers, man cannot reach great heights. We honor soldiers, for we are buying their soul. We give them handsome salaries, for we are destroying a precious life. We give them medals—Maha Vir Chakra, and so on—great prestige.
Why? Because he sells the most precious treasure of life—for a pittance. What is a soldier’s training? Its essence is: destroy the man and leave only habits—Right turn, left turn, attention. If every day for hours a man must turn right, turn left—how long will he keep thinking? He will tire of thinking. Soon the word ‘right turn’ will be heard and the turn will happen; between hearing and doing, thought will not intrude.
A woman went to a psychologist: My husband troubles me. Not much, he is in the army and rarely at home. But when he lies on his left side, he snores so loudly that I cannot sleep, the children cannot sleep, even the neighbors complain—a lion’s roar! But he snores only on his left side. Any trick? The psychologist said: Easy. When he turns left and starts snoring, whisper in his ear: ‘Right turn!’ She said: In sleep? He answered: Where sleep, where waking—the soldier is always sleeping. We never allow him to awake. We feed him opium; we keep him asleep. For we need sleepers to kill people, to fire guns, to drop bombs—can the awakened do such things? We need corpses—strong corpses. Try it. She tried; to her amazement, as soon as she whispered ‘Right turn,’ the husband instantly changed sides and the snoring stopped.
Even in sleep our unconscious habits function. It does not require waking. For years the soldier is made more and more unconscious. When he is utterly mindless—this is called training! Parades, drills—left turn, right turn. What value is there in such things?
A philosopher once enlisted. When ordered ‘Left turn!’ everyone turned; he stood still. The captain asked—he was famous; the captain could not swear at him as is usual in army language—he had to be polite: Sir, when I said ‘Left turn!’ why are you still standing? The philosopher asked: But why should I turn left? What is the purpose? What is gained? Those who turned left, what did they gain? And I noticed you then ordered ‘Right turn!’ and they returned to where I am already standing. Why should I take the trouble? First prove the meaning, the use—and also promise that you won’t say ‘Right turn’ afterwards; otherwise, after all this fuss we are back where we started—better remain where we are! The captain said: This man is useless. If you think like this, you lose the capacity to be a soldier. Thought has nothing to do with soldiering.
A Sannyasi goes beyond thought; a soldier falls below thought. In one respect, both are alike—both are without thought. The Sannyasi is thought-free by transcending it, becoming a witness; the soldier is thought-free by dropping the whole business and becoming inert. The similarity is superficial; the difference is vast.
The captain decided: You are unfit for drill. Since you are already enlisted, we’ll put you in the kitchen—no left turn, right turn. He gave the simplest task: separate the peas—big on one side, small on the other. Two hours later the captain returned; the philosopher sat with chin in hand; not a single pea moved. Any difficulty? he asked. The philosopher replied: A difficulty indeed. There are medium peas—where to put them? Until everything is absolutely clear, I don’t act without thinking. The captain folded his hands: Please go home and think. This place is not for you.
We mold the soldier into habit. Slowly he becomes mechanical. Only then is it possible to drop an atom bomb on Hiroshima. Otherwise a man would think: a hundred thousand will die by my act! Better I say: shoot me; at least children, pregnant women, newlyweds, the old and the ill, a green city—how can I turn them to ash? But the question never arises. He obeys orders. He does not think of responsibility; the word has no meaning for him—what inner conscience? We erase the inner voice.
After dropping the bomb he slept well. When reporters asked next morning: Did you sleep?—who could sleep after killing a hundred thousand?—he said: I slept most peacefully; the task assigned was accomplished; what is sleep but this? Deep sleep came to me. A hundred thousand burned to cinders, and this man slept soundly. We have erased the man within.
As long as there are nations, armies will remain. And as long as arms remain, millions will live without a soul—behaving as machines.
The Indian government has done the right thing. Soldiers write to me from many places—some are Sannyasis interested in me—that they have been instructed not to read my books, not to listen to my tapes, not to have any connection with me. Any connection with me will be considered a mutiny against the army. It is true, and right—because what I say is not mutiny against one army; I want armies to disappear from the world. My words should not reach soldiers. If they begin to see how their lives are being destroyed, how their consciousness is being buried under habits, how they are being turned into machines, they may refuse the destruction of their souls. My word is dangerous.
The foundational truth of my word is this: the most precious thing in man is consciousness—and whatever destroys it is lethal. Habit is the most lethal of all.
You have been told that there are good habits and bad habits. I tell you: all habits are bad. Habit as such is bad. A man smokes; we call it a bad habit. What is bad in it? Smoke goes in and out; it harms health, perhaps shaves off a couple of years from seventy. He is foolish not to breathe clean fresh air which gives life; he draws dirty fumes inside—ignorant, but not a sinner. Yet when the time for a cigarette comes and it is not there, he feels a craving. I do not call the smoke sin, or nicotine sin; if there is sin, it is in habit. Then our whole perspective must change.
A man strings a rosary every morning; if one day he cannot, he suffers the same craving. He may say: without my rounds I feel uneasy; I am devoted to Ram; I remember the Lord; he uses religious words—but it is craving. Moving the beads while muttering Rama, Rama—until the count is done; if one thousand and eight is the vow and he stops at a thousand and seven, all day he will feel a pinch—something lacking. This is a spiritual nicotine. No essential difference. The habit is religious but as lethal as the first—perhaps more, because the first is publicly known to be bad; the second is taken as good.
Once I was a professor. I would walk every morning; another professor joined me. He had the habit of folding hands to every temple on the way. I was troubled; we would pass a little Hanuman shrine, a Shiva linga, a Rama temple—and he would stop, forcing me to stop out of courtesy. I asked: What is this? He said: Sanskar—good upbringing—my parents taught me. I said: This is not sanskar; it is dead habit. I explained; he understood a bit. I said: Then decide—tomorrow, whether it is Hanuman or Shiva or Rama—do not fold your hands. As we neared the first Hanuman shrine, his state was worth seeing—morning chill in the air and sweat on his brow; his hands stiff, lest they fold on their own. I said: Today it will be decided—either my company or Hanuman’s; choose your party. He did not want to leave me—nor Hanuman. And Hanuman is looking on! As the shrine came near, he pleaded: Forgive me; I do not have the courage to pass without saluting—I will fall; my legs tremble. I said: And you called this sanskar? Religiosity? What Hanuman—some stone smeared with vermilion. When the British first built roads and placed mile-stones painted red—red shows at a distance—in this land people began worshiping the stones. For here Hanuman is made like this: place a stone, smear it red, lay a couple of flowers—and those who come after will bow down. Try it—put a stone at your door, paint it red, offer flowers—watch people bow. Their wishes will also begin to be fulfilled—for if fifty fools come, five or ten will see their wishes fulfilled anyway. The British had to explain to villagers with great difficulty: these are mile-stones, not Hanuman. I told him: Which Hanuman? He said: Your argument makes sense, but why does my heart pound? Right in front of the shrine he folded hands: Keep my company or not, but I cannot leave Hanuman; my whole day will go wrong.
What will you call this? A habit of wine, of opium, of cigarette—and this habit—what is the difference?
In wine there are chemicals that bring intoxication; opium has something that makes you high—whether a Hindu drinks or a Muslim or a Christian, all will get intoxicated. But before Hanuman only the devotee of Hanuman gets high—no one else. So the matter is purely psychological. Outside, nothing. Before a mosque, a Hindu walks by as if nothing is there; before the same mosque, see a Muslim—he is transported: the house of Allah. Does a Jain temple stir a Hindu? Scriptures on both sides say the same kind of foolishness: better be crushed under a mad elephant than take shelter in the other’s temple. The mind-game is purely psychological—a net of your own making.
What you call good habits—if they are habits, they are not good. Freedom is good; liberation is good.
If a man is compelled to go walking at three in the morning—even if he is ill, even if there is a storm, even if snow is falling—this is a psychological disease, not Brahma-muhurta.
A woman once came: My husband comes to you; please do something. Perhaps he will listen to you—he listens to no one. What is the trouble? She said: He gets up at midnight—he was a Sikh, a military man—strong—then recites Japji so loudly that no one in the house can sleep; neighbors complain. If told anything, he says: You are all atheists; you hinder religious work! Get up and recite Japji yourselves! I recite loudly so that you too may be benefitted; even in sleep these words will pour nectar into your ears. At two in the morning he begins. I asked him: Your wife says you recite at midnight. Midnight? he said. Brahma-muhurta—two in the morning! According to the English clock, two is morning; twelve ends one day. Who says midnight? Don’t listen to my wife; she spreads false stories. She says I shout; this is my natural voice! And are you, a religious man, also against it? I said: It is good that you recite; just have a little compassion on these poor irreligious ones—if you change from two to four, it will be better. He said: Very difficult. What will I do for those two hours? I will go mad. After two I cannot sleep—the practice of a lifetime. Japji keeps me engaged; otherwise I would create other nuisances. I said: That needs thought indeed! His wife had no clue. I told her: He says if not Japji he will create other troubles. She said: Then let him recite Japji!
Good habits are also habits. In whatever robs you of mastery, the soul gets destroyed.
Paltu says:
‘The shopkeeper never drops his ways; he keeps pinching the scale.
He keeps pinching the scale, for he has never known the secret of the Whole.
Day and night he weighs short—an old disease.’
An old habit, he won’t leave it—cheating each day.
‘Such was the timing of Time’s deceits—
King Nala even lost at dice.
Grain turned to water; youth was torn to tatters—
like an old man’s cough.
Spring passed, and vowels with it;
stars fell into shards—
Dreams lay broken here and there.’
In the end, life is found to be just this: squandered. One dream breaks here, one there; along the whole path pile heaps of shattered dreams—and truth never found. Because truth is in your inner freedom; that freedom we have called Moksha—your supreme blessedness. To find it, you must be free of habits—good or bad, it doesn’t matter. Bondage is bad; freedom is good.
‘How much have they cried and called, yet the foolish do not act.
Fallen by greed, they suffer many heavy pains.’
How much the awakened have called: Rise beyond habit, live in freedom! But you remain trapped in greed. Greed too is a habit—the habit of ‘more.’ You have ten thousand; when you had none you thought: ten thousand will be enough. When ten thousand arrive, you say: a lakh will suffice. When a lakh comes, you say: a million. The ratio of ten remains. And you never notice: ten thousand came—nothing happened; a lakh came—nothing; a million came—nothing. Even a hundred million—how will anything happen? Mere addition in quantity does not bring revolution; a qualitative transformation is needed.
One house becomes two, two become four—what then? You are the same—whether you live in one or four houses. The number of notes in your safe does not increase the riches of the soul. You remain the same—poor, a beggar. Your bowl will never fill.
‘Fallen by greed, they suffer many heavy pains.’
How much pain you endure—yet you do not awaken. The very things that caused yesterday’s pain—you chase again today.
Mulla Nasruddin sat at breakfast, reading his paper silently. His wife grumbled nonsense; he kept reading. Will you eat or drink anything? he said: I am eating the abuses printed in the newspaper; you keep quiet—these are enough; you are also eating my head. She knocked her head—her habit: Whose lap have I fallen into! Life ruined! At least speak sweetly in the morning; start the day well. You spoil it from the morning—how you speak, how you behave! I didn’t chase you—you chased me. Who wrote the first love letter? Who came skulking into my lane? Who knocked my door at night? Did I come to your house? Did I write? Did I come to your lane? Mulla said: No, it was I—because the mouse always goes to the mousetrap; the trap never goes to the mouse. The trap sits in its place; I was the fool.
Another story: his wife fell seriously ill, near death. She said: You have given me only sorrow in life; grant me one comfort in death—one assurance. I know the moment I die you’ll marry. Mulla said: Never—one experience is enough! Not just this life—ten lives I won’t marry. I will never forget the lessons you taught me. Don’t bring it up. She said: Stop this nonsense; I know you. Give me one vow: that my clothes and jewelry you will not let your new wife wear; my soul will be hurt. Mulla said: Now that you bring it up, I must tell you plainly—Razia won’t even fit your clothes.
She hadn’t died yet and he already prepared the new mousetrap!
One habit hasn’t yet fallen and we prepare the next. We even prepare in advance lest we remain empty. People keep changing habits. A smoker begins chewing betel. He says: I quit cigarettes. The betel-chewer gives that up and rubs tobacco. Another stops that and begins snuff—his nose red, snuffbox out every few minutes. I told him: At least when you smoked, others didn’t see; cigarettes look a little better; how did you learn this snuffing? But something is needed. Drop one, grasp another.
Look closely at your life: this is your way. This is the mind’s net.
‘This mind is shameless; it does not feel its own shame.
It does not know the One who gave it birth.’
The mind is utterly shameless—repeating the same stupidity daily—and feels no shame. And people are entangled in such useless games! When nothing else, someone collects postage stamps; someone plays chess or cards—and they are so entangled as if it were life and death. And all the games of life are like this: politics, money—as if the only work is to leave heaps of wealth at death. Not a penny will go with you. And the essential is being missed.
‘It does not know the One who gave it birth.’
The Source from which you have come—when will you seek That? The inner-most—your real life, your very being, your essence—its secret you have not known.
‘After revolving through eighty-four lakhs of wombs, Paltu still gets his sandals thrashed.’
After such a long circle, you have become human—and even now you are being beaten by shoes! And the illness is small, not big. Paltu says: the illness is only this—that your consciousness is not yet free; it is dependent; it is caught in the net of habits. The illnesses are small, straightforward; perhaps that is why you don’t see them.
I have heard: Mulla was dragging his feet along the road, cursing loudly. A doctor met him: Why so many curses? He said: My foot hurts badly. The doctor: Come to my clinic; what good will cursing do? After much examination he said: Your appendix must be removed. When a doctor examines much and finds nothing, he removes the appendix. Keep it in mind. The appendix was removed; the pain continued. Another doctor: Tonsils must go. They went; the pain remained. A third: Your teeth must be extracted. The teeth went; the pain remained. Now nothing remained to remove—only these three things can be removed. He became a wreck, walking bent with a stick. Then one day people saw him throw away his stick, stand straight, smiling, humming a filmi tune. Did you find a healer? he was asked. He said: To hell with doctors! There was a tack in my shoe; it was pricking me. Their tests are big... but no ECG reveals a tack in the shoe!
Your life too has no big questions. And pundits sit with big solutions. Your questions are small—like taking a tack out of a shoe—if there is understanding.
Be free of habits!
That is why I give my Sannyasi no discipline—disciplines become habits. People ask: What time should a Sannyasi rise? I say: When sleep ends. What should he eat? When should he eat? How many times? If I answer these, they will become habits. Your consciousness should decide. If you do not have even this awareness—when to rise, eat, drink—give up hope of ever knowing the essence of life. If you ask even these things of others—if you do not know how to live your own life, to make it a little beautiful—what else will you do?
Eat what does not put you in trouble. Sleep when it is healthful. Rise when life is freshest—when you can sing and dance. When the sun wakes, birds speak, trees arise, it is not right for you to lie on. Eat just enough that the body is not burdened. Eat in a way that harms none. Simple matters. If you cannot decide even these, will some discipline be given? Then fixes and loopholes begin. If I say: rise at five, you will ask: and in fever? If I say: eat twice, you say: my doctor says I must eat five or six small meals. Then exceptions multiply.
You will be amazed: Buddhist scriptures contain thirty-three thousand rules for the monk. Who will even remember them? If a monk memorizes them, when will he practice them? He will die memorizing. Yet they must have been made just like worldly laws—one rule, then someone finds a loophole; then another rule to plug it; again a loophole; rules upon rules until the web is so entangled that it is difficult to decide which applies; rules even contradict one another. Then specialists are needed—lawyers, courts.
A Sannyasi must be self-reliant. He must live from swacchaitanya—self-awareness. He is not to be a slave of habit. Life should be spontaneous.
This does not mean you must wake at a different time each day because habit is bad; or sleep at a different time each day. No—do what feels beautiful and easeful, but do not make it a habit. If circumstances require, doing otherwise should not distress you. Keep the possibility open—situations change. We are not slaves of rules; rules are our servants.
‘After revolving through eighty-four lakhs of wombs, Paltu still gets his sandals thrashed.
The shopkeeper never drops his ways; he keeps pinching the scale.’
After so long a journey, still you do not awaken—still you get your shoes beaten! None other beats you; you beat yourself. If others beat you, it is because you invite it.
‘I have seen the seven sacred cities; I have seen the four dhamas.
I saw the four dhamas; in all I found but stone and water.’
Paltu says: I have seen everything—pilgrimage places and the four dhamas; I found nothing—stone and water. Living Dharma is not there—only dead corpses of Dharma, with vultures sitting on them—the pundits, priests—vultures.
‘Bound by karma, the path to liberation grows lost.
Walking and walking, the feet grew weary, the body thin.’
They have traveled and traveled; the body has grown frail; the feet are worn; the path lost in the web of karma—and nothing is found at the pilgrim spots.
‘I saw the four dhamas; in all I found but stone and water.’
What now? Where to go?
‘Lust and anger did not disappear, though I bathed and bathed.’
They scrubbed and bathed—nothing was erased.
This land is wonderfully steeped in stupidity—not only this land; the whole human race. Even those you call intelligent—leaders—astonish me.
Recently the newspapers reported: Jayaprakash Narayan, returning to Patna after three months of treatment, did not thank the doctors of Jaslok Hospital—he thanked Mother Ganga! If Ganga Maiyya had to save you, why trouble Bombay? Why turn Jaslok Hospital into a public hall? If the river is enough, drink her water! And he himself is not on dialysis—having organized ‘total revolution,’ he has put the whole country on dialysis. Returning to Patna he says: by the grace of Mother Ganga I returned.
Leave aside the small folk—even those you call wise—Loknayak—what difference is there between them and you? The same Mother Ganga! Then Mother Ganga was available in Patna—flowing behind his house—why trouble others? Doctors from England were called—not thanked; the doctors at Jaslok strained every nerve—not thanked; thanks to Mother Ganga.
Will India ever be free of this un-intelligence? These great fools! But people love such talk—therefore the politician is clever. Because people believe in Mother Ganga, the politician says: by Mother Ganga’s grace. And by the same grace, Bihar has famine each year; by the same grace, who is poorer than Bihar? By the same grace, riots, strikes, shootings—where more than there? Such is Mother Ganga’s grace.
Days ago, Morarji Desai returned from bathing at Ganga-Sagar—see the grace! Ganga Maiyya is very gracious. After going to Ganga-Sagar and returning to Delhi, his step faltered—he did not guess that suddenly ‘Ram Nam Satya Hai’ would happen—yet it did. Someone asked me yesterday: Will you say something now about Morarji Bhai? What remains to be said? May God grant peace to his soul.
‘Lust and anger did not disappear, though I bathed and bathed.
The outside garment was washed; the filth is lodged in the heart.’
The dirt is within; the darkness is within; the unconsciousness is within. You are washing the outside. It will dissolve by Dhyana, not by bathing. It will be cleansed by Love, not by water.
‘You wandered lost in stone; you did not know the worth of the saint.’
You are wandering among stone idols—here is Hanuman, Shiva, Rama. Seek the living Sadguru!
‘You wandered lost in stone; you did not know the worth of the saint.’
If somewhere a living saint is, drown in his vibration—there flows the Ganga; there is pilgrimage.
‘Before Your splendors I laid down the courage of commentary;
I stilled the tongue that does not see, and gave the eyes a speechless gaze.
The bulbul would have perished before the rose’s colored radiance—
who hid within these veils the lightning of the nest?
What do you know of the oblation of love, O foolish preacher?
Wherever I placed my brow, thousands of Kaabas were born.’
Learn the art of placing the head down—the art of bowing—and Kaaba is born; thousands of Kaabas arise.
‘What do you know of the oblation of love, O foolish preacher?
Wherever I placed my brow, thousands of Kaabas were born.’
Wherever I bowed—whole-heartedly, with awareness, with wakefulness—wherever I dropped ego, there Kaaba arose, there Kashi, there Kailash.
‘In the cage’s memory—this restlessness of heart? God forbid!
I broke every twig of the nest and laid it down.’
‘Perhaps the miracles of beauty were hidden in the dance of the slain—
thinking much, the tyrant laid down the blood-dripping sword.’
‘O God, what have You done, that the world is in turmoil!
How wondrous—a handful of dust You placed under the sky!’
O Paramatma, what marvel have You done that such a storm has arisen in the world! Man is a handful of dust—yet what fire You have placed within!
‘O God, what have You done, that the world is in turmoil—
a handful of dust under the sky!’
What magic You have hidden in this handful of dust! And where are you searching—outside? Search within. And the knack of searching within you will find where there is one who has searched within. Find a Sadguru.
‘Paltu, do not waste yourself in useless entanglements; do not trouble yourself in vain—He is hidden among the saints; He is manifest among the saints.
I have seen the seven sacred cities; I have seen the four dhamas—
in all I found but stone and water.’
‘May the critic live for ages; it serves our work.’
Paltu says: Since I have known, since I recognized, since my eyes met His—slander began from all sides. It has always been so. How strange is man! Those from whom you might receive the keys to life—you abuse them. And those who sow only thorns—you honor them. Your stupidity has no bounds. Your skull is upside down. The politician is worshiped; the saint is crucified.
‘May the critic live for ages; it serves our work.’
Paltu says: Abuse us; even that benefits us.
‘May the critic live for ages; it serves our work—
a servant who costs not a penny.
He girds his loins and makes it known in the three worlds.’
He moves about with zeal—one work alone—and advertises everywhere.
From all over the world people come—do you know who brings them? The slander that goes on. And what slander! People ask: Why don’t you do something against them? I say: Why should I? They are engaged in my service.
Recently a friend brought a Punjabi magazine, in Gurmukhi—a writer claims he stayed in the ashram and writes from experience. Whoever comes after reading this will be mine for life. He writes: The ashram spreads over fifteen miles. Fifteen miles! Six acres turned into fifteen miles! At the gate, as you enter—an upright statue of a nude woman. The friend who brought the magazine looked for that statue—where is it? Ask the one who ‘experienced’ it! He writes: underground halls hold five thousand people each; and what happens there—wine, marijuana, opium, bhang—and new things the gods themselves don’t have—LSD, marijuana—and five thousand men and women naked, engaged in ras-leela. Whoever comes after reading such things will certainly conclude: even a lie has a limit. Those who lie like this must have vested interests. I could sue them—what will they prove? It will suffice to ask: where is the fifteen-mile ashram? Where is that statue? But why file a case!
Paltu is right:
‘May the critic live for ages; it serves our work—
a servant who costs not a penny.
He girds his loins and makes it known in the three worlds.
He cannot forget us even for the blink of an eye—
he remains obsessed day and night, lovingly hurling abuses.
The saint says: he strengthens us; he frees the world of delusion.’
If there is a mistake in us, he frees the world of that delusion—good! If there is no mistake, even then he frees the world of delusion; for he spreads a falsehood and people come and see. In every way, it is better. Not bad in any respect.
‘The critic is our guru—he connects us to the Name.’
Paltu goes so far: we take him as guru. Guru—gurughantal!
‘The critic is our guru—he connects us to the Name.
Hearing that the critic died, Paltu began to weep.’
When the critic died, Paltu says: Tears came to my eyes. Poor fellow—so much effort; out of love he abused me. This too is a bond, a love, a link, a relationship. He thought of me day and night; who knows how many he sent to me; he spread the news in all directions.
‘Hearing that the critic died, Paltu began to weep.
May the critic live for ages; it serves our work.’
Those who know—who have tasted truth—even the lies spoken about them, they press into the service of truth. They turn darkness itself into a stair to light. They turn even death into a door to nectar.
Enough for today.