Sapna Yeh Sansar #8

Chittaranjan! What is momentary has no value. That which is here now and gone the next instant is a bubble on water. However it may sparkle in the sun, it is not a diamond. What is happening here between you and me has no possibility of disappearing. It is truly happening. It is not your mind’s imagination, nor self-hypnosis, nor a belief of yours. A rain of bliss is falling upon you. The vessel of your heart is filling. Notes of worship and prayer are arising within you. There is no way to erase them. Even if you want to, you will not be able to. Even if you try to avert your eyes, once truths have been seen, there is no way to escape them. What is known is known; it cannot now be denied.

You can go far from me in space; that distance will be spatial. But there is another plane on which distance is impossible. In the realm of love, neither spatial nor temporal distance has any meaning. Love joins in such a way that separation becomes impossible. So do not worry! Anxiety arises—naturally; because in this life, whatever we know, everything is lost. The love of this life is a flower today, ash tomorrow. This life’s fame, honor, respect—all turn to dust. This very life—today or tomorrow—will lie in a grave. This body will become earth. Here, everything is lost. Therefore, when glimpses of the infinite begin, a thousand doubts arise in the mind—will these too be lost?

The doubts are natural, but they are untrue, misleading. Natural—because the whole past experience says that nothing here abides.

So when for the first time the heart feels the surge of meditation, fear arises—will it slip away, will it scatter? When the first ray descends, trust does not come easily. For we have lived so long in darkness that darkness has become natural, and light seems false. People place only a makeshift trust in light. They are Hindus, Muslims, Christians; they go to temples, mosques, churches; they offer flowers, perform worship—but all false, superficial. Inside they know it is mere formality, a social transaction.

But Chittaranjan, what is happening here is neither formality nor social behavior. No one comes to me for the sake of formality. Coming to me is a costly bargain. Who would take on such trouble merely for convention’s sake! To stand with me is to be maligned. To stand with me is to rebel against the whole society, against established interests. Even to link your name with mine requires courage—indomitable courage.

One can go to temple or mosque out of formality—because one gains prestige by going. What is the loss? Only gain. If the hereafter exists, it is secured; and this world too is managed. A temple-goer, a mosque-goer is called religious, respected, honored. The ego is worshiped; it receives fresh ornaments. But if you come to me, society will garland you with thorns. Society will abuse and insult you. It will raise a thousand difficulties in your life. So no one can come to me out of mere convention.

Nor is there any reason to come to me for social custom. Social custom arises where there is an old tradition. With centuries of tradition, social behavior is born.

Here a new ray of the sun is being born—without any tradition. Here something new is descending—without a past. Here a blank page is being written upon; not the Vedas, not the Koran, not the Bible. Only those few will come who are so mad that they can set aside ordinary interests, conveniences, securities. Only moths can come here. The flame is lit here. And for a moth to come to the flame is to come to its own death. What can I give you? I will take away. I will take everything: your knowledge, which you count as a great wealth; your prejudices; your scriptures; your sects; your temples and mosques; your shrines; your idols; your prayers—I will take them all. My effort is to burn you in such a way, to make you flare so fiercely, that your ego becomes ash. What remains beyond the fire—that is you, your eternal nature. Only then will you know the meaning of tat tvam asi. It is you. Only then will you know the meaning of aham brahmasmi—I am Brahman. Only then will Mansoor’s Anal Haq—“I am the Truth”—stand before you as a living commentary—an experiential one.

So close to such great truths, to such vast experience, the mind will often be afraid—“Is this within my capacity? Is this my stature? My worthiness? Perhaps a glimpse has come in a dream and will be lost?”

You say:
“It has vanished, this sacred, incomparable vision,
O Lord…”

This is not something that can vanish. This vision begins, but it does not end. It knows the spring but not the fall.

Old stories across the world say there was a time on earth when there was only one season—spring. As man fell from his innocence, other seasons began. Now spring is lost; even when it comes, we do not notice. In great cities, how would one know—when is fall, when is spring? Roads and buildings of cement; no leaves fall, no flowers bloom; no cuckoo calls, no papiha pleads; the horns of trucks, buses, cars blare incessantly. No concern for autumn or spring. The same scramble day after day. Seasons may be changing in the sky, but who looks up? Who has the time, the leisure? Who looks at the moon and stars? One has no time even to read the posters on the roadside; who will look at moon and stars? And your eyes have become so dim, gazing at the petty and the useless, that even if you look at the moon and stars, you will not be sure they are there—you will think it some illusion.

Chittaranjan, the eye has begun to open. That is the meaning of darshan. Not what people ordinarily think—darshan is not a philosophy. I am not giving you an idea; I am giving you a vision, an eye—so that you may see that which had ceased to be seen. And when the eye is given, then only one season remains—spring. Then autumn never arrives—or even autumn becomes spring. The falling of leaves then is no less beautiful than the blooming of flowers. The vision changes, and creation changes.

You say:
“May I not, in ignorance, again wallow
in the mire filled with self-interest.”

A few things must be understood. First, all the so-called religions have taught you: renounce self-interest; self-interest is sin; be altruistic. And people try to renounce self-interest and become altruistic. But ask them, “Why do you want to be altruistic?” They say: “We want to go to heaven; we want to earn merit; we want liberation.” But all this is self-interest. You have pressed altruism into the service of the self. How is this altruism?

As I see it, in this way altruism cannot be. Its very root-motivation is self-interest—heaven gained; never again the cycle of birth and death; never again the bondage of body; never again the troubles of womb and death; never again be caught in the net of the world—this is all for the sake of the self. Therefore, do service, give charity, become sarvodayi, donate land, build hospitals, open schools, massage the limbs of the sick—do all this—but the motive behind it is self-interest. Therefore, though altruism has been taught in the world, self-interest has continued to thrive. And self-interest, hiding itself, took on subtler forms. In the gross sense people became altruistic, but in the subtle sense they became even more self-centered. Not only the self-interest of this world—self-interest in the other world also seized them.

I teach you something else. I do not say, “Drop self-interest”; I say: drop the “self.” Self-interest cannot be dropped until the self drops. Self-interest is the shadow of the self. If you try to drop self-interest, the self will only become thicker. Your so-called monks and renouncers, the vow-takers—no one is as egotistical as they. You gave up “self-interest,” and the energy that was engaged in self-interest turned to fortifying the self. The labor that was in self-interest is now invested in strengthening the ego. You do not drop self-interest; you condense the self.

I say quite another thing. Do not concern yourself with self-interest; let the self go. Self-interest is the shadow of the self. When the self is gone, how will the shadow remain? Do not fight with shadows; cut the root. Do not go on pruning the leaves; cut the root.

There are only two ways to cut the self. Either be so utterly absorbed in love with the Divine—whenever I say “the Divine,” remember, I do not mean Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva, nor the images worshiped in temples and churches. When I say “the Divine,” I mean the mystery hidden in this vast nature; the music hidden within this vast existence. The poetry in the trees, in the birds’ chattering, in the light of the moon and stars; this unique, beginningless-endless existence—this, in the language of love, is called the Divine. Call it Nature if you wish; call it Existence if you wish.

But the word “Divine” is very dear. In it Nature is included, Existence is included, and something more—what cannot be contained in words—is included too. In “existence,” only that which can be held by words comes; in “nature,” only that which science can test, measure, examine. But “Divine” carries more.

“Existence” and “nature” are small words. Much of the Divine can be contained in them, but much remains beyond. The prose part comes in, but the poetry is left out. The vina may be included, but the music rising from the vina is left out. What appears on the surface can be included, but the inner, hidden current—the stream of consciousness—neither manifest nor manifestable—remains out.

That is why I use the word “Divine.”

Divine means conscious existence—existence plus consciousness. Outwardly it is nature; inwardly, in the inner depths, the hidden is the Divine.

One way is to immerse yourself in the Divine so that the self is erased. No bamboo, no flute. Then there will be no shadow. Stories say that in heaven, when gods walk, they cast no shadow. These stories are delightful. Just as I told you that old stories say there was a time when the earth knew only spring—only one season. It is just a story; there was no time on earth with only one season. But there have indeed been people on this earth for whom there is only one season—Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, Kabir, Nanak, Palatu. For such people, only one season exists. Those who have known the rhythm of existence know only one season. Those who have understood life’s eternal mystery—only spring remains for them. Autumn too, for them, is merely the preparation for spring. For them, death is the doorway to life, the other face of life. For them, darkness is but an opportunity for light to manifest. In the darkest night they glimpse the dawn. In the womb of the new-moon night the sun itself is hidden.

Such people have been—and still are—on this earth for whom there is only one season. I tell you: for me there is only one season—spring. These ochre robes I have chosen for you—the color of spring—are to remind you to come soon to that place where only one season remains.

Let the self go; do not worry about self-interest. If you go, your shadow goes with you. Therefore I cannot teach “altruism.” Many are puzzled. I receive hundreds of letters: “Why don’t you teach your sannyasins service? That they should serve! Teach them a little altruism. Lest they remain selfish.” I cannot ask them to leave self-interest, nor can I teach altruism. As I see it, the arithmetic is different. When the self goes, self-interest goes. And what remains, that is what people call altruism. But even “altruism” is not the right word; therefore I do not use it.

If there is no “self,” who is “other”? Only One remains. When there is no self, who will serve and whom will he serve? Kabir says: now, whether I stand or sit—this is worship; when I eat and drink—this is service; when I walk about—this is circumambulation. Then even breathing is the chanting of mantra—Gayatri, Omkar, Namo’kar. Then mere being is service. But the little word “service” no longer fits. Being is so brimming with love that its spray touches others; your being overflows and begins to pour over; your vessel fills so much that a scent of your bliss begins to reach others; your fragrance rides the winds and fills others’ nostrils. Yet this cannot be called “altruism.” When the self is not, who is the other? Only the One remains. You are that; and that is also all.

Therefore, do not fall into this fear, Chittaranjan, that you may again fall into self-interest. If you remember the old teachings, then you have not been free of self-interest anyway—where is the question of falling back? If you understand my teaching, you will begin to be free of the self. One way is love—dive into the Divine; one way is meditation—dive within yourself. A plunge is needed, that’s all. Wherever the plunge happens, the self goes. Whether in the Divine or within yourself—the self disappears. The self stays with those who walk along the shore. Whoever drowns anywhere, his self is lost. There are only two ways to drown—choose the one that seems easy to you.

And Chittaranjan, love will seem easier to you; it fits your nature. Plunge into this mystery standing all around, dense and throbbing, manifesting in infinite forms! Be stirred with it, dance, sing, drown!

If some cannot do that, let them drown within. Close the eyes and go inside. The deeper you go, the less of “you” you will find.

This is a great paradox.

People think: if we go within, we will find ourselves. Those who think so have read scriptures, not lived experience. They have heard of meditation but have not tasted it. The deeper you go within, the more you will find that “you” are not. The day you touch the ultimate depth, you will discover: there is no such thing as “I.” It was a lie, a falsehood that arose from unfamiliarity with oneself. With self-knowing, the self goes. With the self goes self-interest. Then the music begins; the single-stringed lute sounds!

No, now you will not be able to sink back into self-interest, because I am breaking the self.

You say:
“May I not, in ignorance, again wallow
in the mire filled with self-interest.”

Your prayer is apt; your fear is understandable; I understand your fear… One trembles: for so long one has lived in self-interest; here, in my shadow, in my presence, among these mad ones, the world is forgotten; self-interest is forgotten—will it all return once I go home? Will it be waiting there: “Come home, Chittaranjan, then we will see! Just come once!” If you understand me rightly, there is no way for self-interest to return. And do not call it “mire” in the old sense.

Here too I differ.

Until now, people have said: the world is mire—to denounce it. I too say the world is mire—but not to denounce. I say the world is mire because lotuses are born here. Without mire, lotuses do not grow. I honor the mire, too. For me, the mire is the hidden form of the lotus—an unexpressed lotus. Do not say “mire” in the old way; do not use the old meaning. The moment we say “mire,” a feeling of condemnation arises—ugh, mire! At the word, you want to hold up your clothes and hurry past.

If you avoid the mire, you will avoid the lotuses. And if you avoid the lotuses, life is wasted. Because mire becomes lotus, the mire too is worthy of respect. Because mire becomes lotus, the mire too is Divine.

So there is neither to flee the world nor to renounce it. Even with words like “mire,” be very careful, because old meanings have sunk so deep into them that without your knowing, the echoes of the old meanings will resound in the unconscious whenever you say “mire.” Though I give new meanings, the old are so ancient, centuries-old, stamped deeply—habit. As Palatu says: the shopkeeper cheats by habit; he resolves not to, yet he does. Thus our words have forged associations, fixed meanings.

You are not to drop self-interest; you are to bid farewell to the self. And for the self to go, the inner lamp must be lit—by meditation or by devotion—but let the lamp be lit; the self will dissolve. Where the self goes, there is only service—yet not as duty, not as altruism, but as joy. Where the self goes, lotuses bloom in the mire. There, in the soil, the glimmer of nectar appears. There, the earthen becomes conscious.

We make little clay lamps at Diwali and light a flame within. It is a symbol—that in an earthen lamp the immortal flame can be held; that in an earthen lamp the nectar-flame can burn.

In India Diwali is celebrated for two reasons—one Hindu, one Jain. The Hindu reason is not very precious, but the Jain reason is. Hindus celebrate it as the festival of Lakshmi—worship of wealth. What could be more materialistic? People set silver coins before them and worship! And these same good people proclaim to the world that there is no country as religious as India. Nowhere else in the world is wealth worshiped—except in India. Even Americans, mad for the dollar, do not set the dollar down to worship it; they would consider it idiotic. Lakshmi worship happens only in this sacred land, this land of religion! What greater materialism could there be? Our greatest festival is Diwali—and it is dedicated to silver coins! Worship of wealth! And then we talk of renunciation.

The Jain reason has more substance. Jains celebrate Diwali because on that new-moon night Mahavira attained nirvana. On that night, in the earthen lamp, the conscious flame was lit. Therefore they light lamps. This has meaning. And there is more meaning still: the Buddha attained enlightenment on a full-moon night—easy to grasp: on the night of fullness, one attains the Full. The full moon is in the sky; the inner full moon arrives. Mahavira attained nirvana on the new-moon night—this is more significant, more poetic, more meaningful! When on the darkest night the inner full moon rises, life’s paradox becomes clear. However dark the night, do not fear—on the new moon, too, nirvana has happened. However filthy the mire, do not fear—lotuses have bloomed! If the lamp is of clay, do not worry—what can happen in a clay lamp? The flame can burn. Clay belongs to earth; flame belongs to the sky. Therefore the flame always rushes upward; it is ever ascending.

So Chittaranjan, do not worry about self-interest—because I am cutting the self. Do not worry about the mire—where is the mire? There are lotuses and only lotuses. Some have blossomed, some are about to. Some are seed, some are flower. Where is the mire? This entire existence—including mire—is filled with the Divine. Only That is. And its glimmers have begun to come to you. For now they are glimpses, hence the fear. Soon the glimpses will become steady, and fear will depart.

Junoon-e-ishq ki rasme-ajeeb, kya kehna,
Main unse door, woh mujh se qareeb—kya kehna.
Jo tum ho barq-e-nasheman, to main nasheman-e-barq,
Ulajh pade hain hamare naseeb—kya kehna.
Huzoom-e-rang farawan sahi, magar phir bhi,
Bahar, nauha-e-sad-andalib—kya kehna.
Hazaar kafila-e-zindagi ki taira-shabi,
Ye roshni-si ufaq ke qareeb—kya kehna.
Laraz gayi teri lau mere dagmagane se,
Charagh-e-gosha-e-ku-e-habib—kya kehna.

The strange rites of the madness of love—what can one say!
I am far from Him, and He is close to me—what can one say.
If you are the lightning of the nest, I am the nest of lightning;
our destinies are entangled—what can one say.
Though there is an abundance of colors, still—O spring—
the lament of a hundred nightingales—what can one say.
The night of life’s caravan is dark a thousandfold,
yet this hint of light near the horizon—what can one say.
Your flame trembled because I staggered—
O lamp in the beloved’s lane—what can one say.

When you tremble, even the Divine flame trembles with you. He is with you. He is your very source of life.

Your flame trembled because I staggered—
O lamp in the beloved’s lane—what can one say.

I have seen the Divine dancing with me, step for step. When you dance, He too dances. When you sing, He too sings.

The night of life’s caravan is dark a thousandfold—do not be afraid! However deep the caravan passes into night—do not fear!

The night of life’s caravan is dark a thousandfold,
yet look toward the east, toward the horizon—the sun is about to rise. This glow is lifting; colors are entering the clouds; the first rays of dawn are breaking.

Your flame trembled because I staggered—
O lamp in the beloved’s lane—what can one say.

If you are the lightning of the nest, I am the nest of lightning;
our destinies are intertwined—what can one say.

Our fate is entangled with the Divine. Our threads are knotted with His. There is no way to untangle it. He is within us, and we are within Him.

The strange rites of the madness of love—what can one say!
However far you stay from Him, He remains close to you. Wherever you go, He is near.

Chittaranjan, your destiny has become entangled with mine.

The strange rites of the madness of love—what can one say.
I am far from Him, and He is close to me—what can one say.
If you are the lightning of the nest, I am the nest of lightning,
our destinies are entangled—what can one say.
Though there is an abundance of colors, still—O spring—
the lament of a hundred nightingales—what can one say.
The night of life’s caravan is dark a thousandfold—
this glimmer of light near the horizon—what can one say.
Your flame trembled because I staggered—
O lamp in the beloved’s lane—what can one say.

Anand Bodhidharma! Kabir meant one thing; you understood another. Kabir spoke symbolically. He said:
“Guru and Govind both stand before me—whose feet should I touch?
If it could happen that the Guru and God both stood before me, whose feet should I touch first? If I touch the Guru first, might that not insult God? And if I touch God first, might that not insult the Guru? For after all, it is the Guru who showed me God, who gave me the recognition. So gratitude should first be to the Guru. But if God is standing right there, in thanking the Guru first, might there not be some lapse of decorum?” So Kabir says, in a symbolic sense:
“Guru and Govind both stand before me—whose feet should I touch?
Blessed is the Guru who showed me Govind.”

The second half can be taken in two ways. The usual meaning is this: “Blessed is the Guru” because he points and says, “Touch the feet of Govind! Why are you thinking about it? What is there to ponder? When God himself stands before you, forget me—touch his feet.” This is the traditional reading, the way the Kabir-panthis have taken it for centuries.

I do not read it that way. In my view, the Kabir-panthis have missed. Sectarians often miss; why blame only Kabir-panthis?

The chief abbot of the Kabir order wrote to me: “You are giving Kabir meanings that go against our tradition.” I wrote back: “They may go against your tradition, but I will say what I see. If it seems right to you, correct your tradition. If it does not, that is your problem, not mine—so you can be troubled. I will still say what I see. Because this is not merely about meanings; it is about vision.”

My meaning is different. When Kabir says, “Blessed is the Guru who showed me Govind,” I understand it thus: Seeing the disciple’s dilemma, the Guru immediately… The disciple must have looked toward the Guru: “What am I to do now?” That mood must have been in his eyes, a hesitation in his whole being—this way or that? Wavering. Seeing this, the Guru instantly raised his hand and pointed toward Govind. But the disciple touched the Guru’s feet, not Govind’s. The word balihari—“blessed, I am a sacrifice to you”—reveals it.

The Guru, of course, pointed to Govind—he must. That is the whole meaning of a Guru. What is a Guru but a pointing toward God, an arrow toward God? Seeing the disciple entangled, the Guru pointed. But what should the disciple do? The word balihari says it all. Kabir says, “Blessed is the Guru…”—meaning that Kabir, in that very moment, fell at the Guru’s feet. In that very “blessed,” he touched them. How could he not? If you do not touch the feet of such a Guru, what will you do? And God will not be displeased—he will be delighted.

What was right happened. The Guru pointed to God—that is the Guru’s glory. The disciple still touched the Guru’s feet—that is the disciple’s glory. And God rejoiced—that is God’s glory.

You ask:
“When Guru and Govind both stand before me, whose feet should I touch?”

I will point toward God. I am a pointing toward God. Forget me. Do not be concerned with me. This dilemma should not arise.

Zen masters say: If you meet the Buddha on the road, cut off his head. Zen masters—devotees of Buddha! They live from morning till night in the climate of “Buddham sharanam gacchami,” their whole life dedicated to Buddha—and they say such a thing. They are repeating Buddha’s own words. Very meaningful words. Buddha said: Do not let even me come in your way. When the moment of witnessing the ultimate truth arrives, leave me and go beyond. If I stand in the middle, push me aside—raise the sword and cut me in two.

This is the Guru at his peak.

Only a false guru says, “Hold on to me.” The true master says, “Hold on to me only until you can hold the Divine. The moment God’s hand is in your hand, do not hesitate. Do not keep clutching my hand out of habit, conditioning, practice. If I have any purpose, it is only this: to take you to God.”

So I say to you: if such a moment comes that “Guru and Govind both stand,” then utterly forget the Guru—as if he is not.

But does such a moment really come to a devotee? To a disciple? That is why I said Kabir is speaking only symbolically—an indication for those who have not yet reached that height. At that height, where are there two?

I cannot say this to you; but if I meet Kabir, I will surely tell him: Why write such things needlessly? At that height, where are there two? If I meet Kabir, I will certainly be in trouble, because I will say it. Somewhere, sometime, we shall meet. I will say to him: When that supreme moment arrives, when the vision of God happens, will two remain? There, the Guru is God, and God is the Guru. How can there be two?

And will any dilemma remain there? If God stands before you, can confusion remain? It would be the limit—like the sun has risen and darkness remains! The sun rises, darkness is gone. There is no question of touching feet; bowing happens by itself, uncontrived. To think and ponder—to even wait for the Guru’s signal—can that much deliberation remain there? Not duality, but here three are imagined: Guru standing, God standing, disciple standing—three! In that supreme moment, three? There, only One is.

Someone once brought Sri Ramakrishna a photograph of himself. He began to touch its feet. Overwhelmed, tears flowed from his eyes. Vivekananda could not bear it. Sitting nearby, a man of thought—Ramakrishna and Vivekananda are not of one type. They cannot be. They are complementary. Hence what Ramakrishna did Vivekananda could not; and what Vivekananda did Ramakrishna could not. Ramakrishna realized; Vivekananda beat the drum across the world. Ramakrishna could not do that; it was not part of his nature. He knew, but could not make it known. Vivekananda did not know directly, but made it known. Hence the great tangle: the one who knew did not speak; the one who did not know spoke—so confusion is bound to result.

The one with eyes saw but remained silent. The one without eyes heard talk of light from the one with eyes and spread the news everywhere.

In truth, the Ramakrishna Mission is not Ramakrishna’s mission; it is Vivekananda’s. There is little of Ramakrishna in it; what is there is of Vivekananda—his interpretations imposed upon Ramakrishna.

This has often happened. Rarely do both flowers bloom in one person. When they do, we call him Buddha, Tirthankara. Many knowers have been born, but they could not speak. Many speakers have been born, but they spoke without knowing. Sometimes someone appears in the mold of Gautam Buddha or Tirthankara Mahavira, in whom both happen—he not only knows, he makes others know. Him we call the true Guru.

If I meet Kabir, I will say: What is this? Three standing before the disciple? If the disciple is still so entangled, so divided, God cannot manifest. And if God has manifested, the disciple cannot be in doubt.

Ramakrishna placed his head at the feet of his own picture. Vivekananda could not tolerate it. “Paramahamsa Deva, what are you doing? People will laugh—worshiping your own photograph?” Ramakrishna said, “Ah, you reminded me at the right time. I had forgotten. I did not see that it was my picture. I saw only His picture. I saw the picture of samadhi.” It was taken while he was in samadhi—standing ecstatic, both hands raised to the sky, lost in bliss. He did not see it as his own picture. What ‘mine,’ what ‘yours’? He saw samadhi—and to samadhi the head bowed.

If Ramakrishna can bow to his own picture… and if God stands before you, will the disciple ask, “When Guru and Govind both stand, whose feet should I touch?”

No. Kabir speaks in symbols. He is explaining to you. It is not a factual scene; it is a method of instruction. He is saying: If ever it seems that Guru and God both stand before you and a dilemma arises, look at the Guru. He will signal you: touch God’s feet. But remember, the gratitude is to the Guru, because even in the last moment he pointed the way.

Buddha said: remove me from the path. Does that mean Buddha’s devotees removed him from the path? No one has as many temples and statues as Buddha. Why? Because one who said the incredible—“remove me from the path; appa deepo bhava, be a light unto yourself”—if we do not make his statue, what else can we do? We must. How can we not bow with unique gratitude at the feet of such a master!

Kabir spoke a symbol.

But Anand Bodhidharma, you are thinking literally. There is your mistake. Go by love or go by meditation—on the day you reach depth, there will be no Guru, no disciple, no God. Only One remains. Even “one” cannot be said, because saying “one” evokes the thought of two. So the knowers called it advaita—not two. They did not say “one”; they only said, “there are not two.” It is not that the knowers were fools who could not say “one.” Why this roundabout, calling it “not two”? There is a reason: saying “one” risks birthing the sense of “two.”

How will you define “one”? Without two, how can there be one? How will you draw its boundary? Whatever draws the boundary becomes the second. You fence your house because a neighbor exists. If there were no neighbor, what use is a fence? Where will you draw a line? Only with a second can a boundary be drawn. The second makes the boundary.

Suppose you were utterly alone—imagine a third world war, and by chance only you survive; all are dead, you alone remain. What would be your name? Your caste? Your religion? Would you be black or white? Indian or Pakistani? Tall or short? All these disappear. You will be, but neither tall nor short—those were comparisons with others. Neither fair nor dark—also comparison. Neither beautiful nor ugly—comparison. Neither intelligent nor stupid—comparison. If you remain utterly alone, you will suddenly find all definition gone. You are, certainly—but now there is no definition.

But even a third world war will not make you wholly alone. Trees will remain; some animals and birds will survive.

There is a story: the third world war happened. A monkey sits sadly on a tree. From a nearby cave a she-monkey comes out and says, “Aren’t you hungry?” The monkey looks sadly at her, at her hand—she holds an apple. She says, “Eat this apple.” The monkey smacks his head: “Then the same story begins again!” The Christian story—Eve gave Adam the apple, the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Eating it, the fall occurred; children were born; the world began. The monkey beat his head: “Start again?” He remembered the old tale. Somehow, peace had finally come to the world; and here stands the she-monkey with an apple!

So monkeys, trees—some will survive. You will not be utterly alone.

But one who goes into meditation becomes utterly alone—absolutely alone. There, no one remains. No boundary can be drawn. There you are an infinite ocean without shore, you are sky. What talk then of “Guru and God both standing—whose feet should I touch?”

You took this line of Kabir and began to think, “What shall I do now?” You have not yet reached that state. Had you reached, this question would not arise. There, no one remains—no God, no Guru, no one to touch and no one to be touched. There is an eternal silence. A perfect void. In that void is supreme bliss. The other name of that void is sat-chit-ananda: truth, consciousness, bliss. But there the other is not. There is no duality—no two.

Anand Kapil! If there is such ecstasy in the fall, then in spring it will be billions upon billions of times more. The difference will not be only of quantity but of quality. When the dark night is so luminous, what can one say of the dawn! If even the dark night is lit, the morning will be lit—very lit. That light will be qualitatively different. But you cannot estimate it now. It will have to be experienced; conjecture will not do.

Yet this much is enough for trust: that there is so much light even in darkness; that there is such bliss even in the season of falling leaves. The hint is enough—if you understand. If there is so much joy while still bound to the body, how much will there be when you are free of the body! If there is so much joy while living in the world—market, shop; a thousand disturbances, rush and scramble—and still such joy, then when you rise beyond this whole web, how much will there not be! I understand your question. Imagination becomes difficult! Calculation becomes difficult! The matter is beyond reckoning.

“No awareness of being, no strength of rapture
with which to offer you thanks.”
There is no need to offer thanks at all. The greatest gratitude of the disciple is that the one who says “thank you” does not remain. Then thanks have been given! The greatest thank you is that you disappear—so completely that even your whereabouts are lost, so completely that no trace of you remains. That is gratitude! Because the teaching has been fulfilled. The Master’s instruction has come to completion: you heard, absorbed, lived.

“When this is our state in autumn—
what will we do when spring arrives!”
This is the difficulty. If there is so much intoxication in the night, what will the morning be! The morning is very near. Ecstasy has come—so the morning is near. That ecstasy is because the winds of dawn are already blowing. The sun is about to rise; that is why joy is welling up within. Do not worry; the happening will occur soon. And only when it happens will you know. About that I can say nothing to you.

“If the tightly sealed secrets of love were to reach the tongue,
God knows how far the matter would go.
To reach your destination was no easy task:
only by crossing the frontier of intellect did we get this far.
Those whom at the beginning we took for the hue of fidelity—
in the end they turned to mere complaints, to the prettiness of speech.
Ah, those words of longing that never reached the lips—
alas, those utterances that reached everyone’s tongue!
No trace of milestone, no news of the guide—
in seeking you, your mad lovers have come this far.
It is a clear insult to the pain of love, O ‘Hafeez’,
if the secret of Beauty should reach my tongue.”

No, I cannot tell you. No one has ever been able to tell.

“It is a clear insult to the pain of love, O ‘Hafeez’,
if the secret of Beauty should reach my tongue.”
To put it in words would be an insult—an affront to that experience of love.
No, it cannot be said in words. Words are too small, too poor, too narrow. The experience is vast, immense, infinite.

“No trace of milestone, no news of the guide—
in seeking you, your mad lovers have come this far.”
A stage will come where even milestones vanish. All maps become useless. All heard-and-said things become useless. Even what the Buddhas have spoken, what the awakened ones have said, is left behind. Because as you draw near that destination which cannot be spoken, all speech falls away.

“No trace of milestone, no news of the guide…”
There, no milestones, no maps, no accounting, no paths—and not only that, even the guide you had been carrying along—your “rahbar”—is no longer to be found. Even the Guru is not found.

“No trace of milestone, no news of the guide—
in seeking you, your mad lovers have come this far.”
The one who keeps seeking, whose quest is so mad that he must arrive—the moth that is ready even to die—he surely reaches that destination where everything is left behind: scriptures, doctrines, words, companions—even the guide. One remains utterly alone. Only pure consciousness remains.

“To reach your destination was no easy task:
only by crossing the frontier of intellect did we get this far.”
There is just one difficulty in reaching such a destination: your intellect—your mind, your thinking, your chitta filled with imaginations and alternatives, the ripples of your mind.

“To reach your destination was no easy task:
only by crossing the frontier of intellect did we get this far.”
Only the one who goes beyond the limits of intellect arrives there. Whatever I say, if it is to be meaningful to you, will lie within the boundary of the intellect. Whatever you understand will lie within that boundary. Speaking and hearing are within the intellect’s limit; reaching is beyond it.

Your question is right, Anand Kapil: if there is already such ecstasy, such sweet dizziness, such a current of nectar flowing—while it is still autumn—what will happen when spring comes? Let it come, then you will know. Only then will you know. About that I cannot say anything.

“It is a clear insult to the pain of love, O ‘Hafeez’,
if the secret of Beauty should reach my tongue.”
Let this secret remain a secret. This secret does not break; this enchantment does not shatter; it is magic—let it remain magic. It cannot be opened up and explained. Yes, I can take you to the boundary beyond which this entire secret comes in experience. I will push you beyond that boundary.

“To reach your destination was no easy task:
only by crossing the frontier of intellect did we get this far.”
That is why I say: dive into sannyas. Because this concerns what lies beyond the frontier of intellect. And only a sannyasin can I push. One who has come this far, who is this mad, will take even this last push and will not be offended. That push is difficult. When it is given, there is much pain. We cling very tightly to our understanding. Whatever does not fit our understanding—we do not even want to look that way; it makes us restless. And the Divine is precisely that which cannot be grasped. That is why people have turned their backs on the Divine, turned their faces away. They do not even look in that direction. They deny that it exists—because if it does, then someday they might have to look; and if you come face to face, there is unease.

“No trace of milestone, no news of the guide—
in seeking you, your mad lovers have come this far.”
Keep going! Buddha has said: chareveti, chareveti—keep moving, keep moving, keep moving! Do not stop anywhere. Do not halt at any wayside station. Go beyond the boundary of the intellect. Autumn will end. You will surely know a spring whose end never comes. One day only one season remains—spring. That is the state of siddhahood. That is Buddhahood. That is nirvana, moksha, kaivalya.

Anand Satya! Education is not meant to make you free. The entire purpose of education, as it is, is to keep you enslaved. Education is enlisted in the service of the past. It has no concern with the future. Education is the handmaiden of vested interests. Whoever is in power, it sings their praises.

When the British ruled this country, education glorified the British. The Union Jack flew over schools and colleges. Songs were sung of “Long live the King!”—Hail the Emperor! Then came independence. The tricolor began to wave in place of the Union Jack. The very people who made students bow to the Union Jack began to teach them: “Jhanda ooncha rahe hamara!” and “Sare jahan se achha Hindustan hamara!” The very people who yesterday aped the white sahibs suddenly donned khadi, put on Gandhi caps, and at once became patriots. The same history teachers who used to call Shivaji a hill-rat now declared him a great national hero. Those who used to call the uprising of 1857 a mere minor rebellion began to call it the Great Revolution. Where were these educationists in 1942? Now they lecture on freedom, hoist flags on the fifteenth of August. If tomorrow communism comes, these same people will hoist the red flag with hammer and sickle.

They are slaves. Their trade is exactly this: to extol whoever holds power. They are flatterers. They have no soul of their own. And this is not only in this country; it is the same the world over.

Education does not give you freedom, nor does it give you a voice of rebellion, nor the spirit of revolt, nor the capacity to think, nor a personality. Education’s business is… education is a factory where your humanity is destroyed and machines are cast! Clerks are produced, deputy collectors are produced, stationmasters are produced; patwaris and tehsildars, policemen—education is the factory that molds them. Human beings are not born here, not yet. And as for the soul, don’t even bring it up. How will they tolerate a sannyasin? For a sannyasin is a proclamation of rebellion, of revolt. The target of a sannyasin is not the past but the future. And a sannyasin wants to live as an individual, not as a sheep. Pedagogy manufactures sheep. That is its very purpose.

That is why the government spends so much on schools and colleges. You think it is to educate you? Then you are mistaken. So much is spent to mold you into machines; that when you come out of the university you are useful like an efficient instrument. It is not expected of you that you should begin to think in your own way. Politicians do not want people to think. If people start thinking, who will make these foolish politicians into leaders?

If only you could think, you would be amazed to see that the games played in Delhi are so childish, so stupid… and these are the makers of the nation’s destiny! Their only aspiration is somehow to hold office. There is no question of principle, no question of the nation, no question of public welfare—yes, they talk of public welfare; because if they don’t talk of it, they won’t get votes. Everyone is only concerned with themselves. “How can I stay in power?”—they are willing to do whatever it takes. Ready for all kinds of compromises—but they must have the post.

Busy propping up their egos, these people—do you honor them, respect them? Surely you have no capacity to think. Otherwise the country could not have fallen into the hands of people so blatantly dull-witted.

Therefore the politician does not want thinking, reflective people to come out of universities. He wants the university process to kill your thinking. And in the university, respect is not given to those who think.

I was thrown out of a college—while I was still a student! My fault? My fault was only this: I asked questions the teachers could not answer. Now how is that my fault? The teacher should cultivate the capacity to answer. And if he cannot, he should at least have the humility to say, “Forgive me, I do not know the answer.” Neither that humility nor that competence was there; so a restlessness arose.

I was a student of philosophy. The situation became such that if the professor of philosophy saw me in the classroom, he would turn from the door and go away. So I had to devise a strategy: I would not enter the class beforehand. I would wait until he had already come in, and then enter from the inside; for then it was harder for him to run away. At the mere sight of me he would break out in a sweat. And I was not asking him any questions that should not be asked. Philosophy is the science of questions! It is the inquiry into life’s ultimate riddles. I knew he was a devotee of Hanuman. So after every question I would say, “Place your hand on your chest and swear by Lord Hanuman—have you experienced God?” He could not swear by Hanuman; his very life would fly out! How could he say he had experienced God? And if he had not, I would ask, “Then how are you answering?”

He kept the Hanuman Chalisa in his pocket. I would say, “Take out the Hanuman Chalisa—hold it in your hand! And then don’t accuse me if anything happens. But I will accept only an answer that you have experienced.”

At last he wrote his resignation and said, “Either I remain a teacher or this student remains. We cannot both stay.” The principal called me and said, “I know you are not at fault. But I also know that if I were in his place, I would have to do the same. I have heard the whole story from him and also inquired from students—you are putting him in difficulty. And I cannot say you are wrong. The purpose of philosophy, as written in the books, is indeed to inquire, to investigate, to be curious. But we are not concerned with such things. Our purpose is that students somehow pass. Nine months have been spoiled; you do not let them move an inch forward; in everything—Hanuman, Hanuman Chalisa! And he is such that he cannot hold the Chalisa in his hand. You will not let him answer. So all these students—what will happen to them? And he is our old teacher, a good teacher; many of his students have won gold medals, he is the prestige of our college; we cannot let him go. So our request is: you yourself leave the college.” He folded his hands before me and said it is his request—because they cannot even expel me, since I had committed no fault.

I left that college. No other college was ready to take me, because the news had spread. Of course it had been spreading for nine months that a problem had arisen. Wherever I went, they would say, “No, brother, there is no seat!” One principal said, “There is a seat—there is a seat in every college you have gone to—but we can keep you on one condition: you will not ask questions. Not at all! The day you ask a question you will have to leave the college.” On that condition I was admitted. The exams were nearing; I had to be admitted somewhere. I said, “All right, I agree—but I have a condition too: I will not be present in class.” Because that would be awkward: if a teacher is standing before me, talking nonsense, I might forget the condition and ask! “Please add one more concession: even in my absence I should get attendance.” They agreed. So I never went to college. And I got attendance. In this way I had to make my path. They said, “Fine, we will do that too. We will give you attendance. But do not come. Because if you have this difficulty that you cannot stop yourself from asking…”

Your so-called colleges and universities work to kill people’s consciousness, not to enliven it. They do not sharpen consciousness; they blunt it. They do not polish the mirror; they pile dust upon it. It is very difficult to come out of a university with your intelligence intact. A hard matter. Very few escape. It is astonishing whenever anyone emerges from a university with their intelligence preserved.

Some teachers in the university loved me. They felt I was being wronged. But their mouths were shut—because their jobs were also at stake. They could not even say that I was being wronged; for whoever stood by me might also be forced to resign.

It was my final examination. All written papers were done; the viva voce for M.A. remained. The head of my department was very affectionate to me. He called me home and said, “Look, the chairman from Aligarh University is coming for your viva. He will have no experience of a student like you! We have gradually become reconciled to you, but he knows nothing. Don’t say anything to upset him. Whatever he asks, you are not to counter-question him—which is your habit. Remember, you are not examining him; he is examining you. I will be present right there, and if you slip even a little, I will tap your foot with mine—then you understand. Because I know you; nothing is certain with you. You may say yes now and forget there. If I tap your foot, pull yourself together—you are messing up!

“And answer only what is written in the book. Not an inch here or there. Do not worry whether the book is right or wrong. Is your task to pass the exam or to worry about the correctness of the book?” I thought, it’s all nearly over; this is the last hassle; after this it will be finished. I said, “All right.”

But I forgot. The very face of that gentleman made me feel it would not be right to let him go easily. He carried the stiffness of someone who knows. He asked me, “What is the difference between Indian philosophy and Western philosophy?” I asked him, “Are there two philosophys? What is the difference between an Indian eye and a Western eye? An eye is an eye. What nonsense is this!” My teacher at once began to thump my foot hard; I said to him, “Keep your leg to yourself! Don’t interfere. I will handle him alone; you please do not come in between! Philosophy is one—what Indian, what non-Indian? Is philosophy politics? What does ‘non-Indian philosophy’ even mean? Philosophy means the experience of truth, the realization of truth! What Indian, what non-Indian in that? If Jesus realizes truth—does it become non-Indian? And if Mahavira realizes it—does it become Indian? Truth is truth. An eye is an eye. Light is light. Light is neither Eastern nor Western. Nor is the eye Eastern or Western.”

He was so stunned he forgot he had come to examine me. And you know my habit—once I start, I go on! When an hour and a half had passed and I had said my piece, then I let him go.

Outside, my teacher said to me, “You have ruined everything! Now who knows what that man will think, what he will do.” But he turned out to be a good man. He gave me ninety-nine out of a hundred. And he called me aside and said, “Forgive me for not giving you a hundred; it might seem excessive, that I have been partial, so I’m giving ninety-nine. I should have given a hundred, because you are the first student who has behaved like a student. Otherwise they are dead—parroting books! Though you angered me a lot, many times I felt rage rising, still what you said was true. You were speaking rightly. Although my ego was hurt, my soul bore witness that you were right.”

This educational system, Anand Satya, will create obstacles for you. If you want to be a teacher you will have to make some compromises. If you do not want to—my advice is: don’t. Because what will you gain by compromise? You will get bread and butter. Bread and butter can be earned in other ways too. One need not sell one’s soul for bread and butter. But these hassles will come. You cannot have laddus in both hands. Either you can be a man of the soul, or you will have to make some compromises.

I do not tell you what to do. I only make the situation clear. It is this clear: if you want to be a professor in some school or college, you will have to compromise. Keep the mala inside! For now, slowly start wearing white clothes, then little by little begin to tint them. Once you get the job, within six months bring the color to where you want it. One day take the mala out too! Still there will be trouble. If you want to live life in your own way, you will have to accept the hassles.

I used to go to the university to teach wearing a lungi. My principal was a little afraid. Several incidents had already occurred in which people had gotten into trouble with me and difficulties arose. He was newly arrived. And that was the very year Dr. Radhakrishnan’s birthday was declared “Teachers’ Day.” He delivered a lecture and said, “It is a supreme good fortune that a teacher has become President.” I could not contain myself. I stood up and said, “Wait a moment! What is so excellent about a teacher becoming President? And if you celebrate Teachers’ Day in this manner there will be great difficulty. If tomorrow Jagjivan Ram becomes President, then celebrate ‘Chamar Day’! A chamar…! Now if Chaudhary Charan Singh becomes something, then celebrate Farmers’ Day! Then there will be great difficulty. Some barber becomes something, some washerman becomes something—three hundred and sixty-five days will go just like that.

“As it is, there are already six months of holidays in the year.

“And I do not understand at all how a teacher becoming President is an honor to teachers. A teacher should be honored when some President becomes a teacher; leaves the presidential post and becomes a teacher, and says: The President’s chair is worth two cowries compared to being a teacher! Then celebrate Teachers’ Day. I know well how much sycophancy Radhakrishnan did to become President. This is no honor to teachers. I know how many compromises, how much flattery, how much massaging of politicians it took for him to become President. This is no honor to a teacher.”

From that day he was afraid of me. And when I started going to college to teach in a lungi with a shawl over my shoulders, it became a great problem; from many places people, professors, said this should be stopped. If it goes on like this, there will be trouble. If you don’t wear a tie—fine; if you don’t wear coat and trousers—fine; but a lungi and a shawl! And I wore wooden clogs too. So when I entered, the whole college knew—khatt, khatt, khatt, khatt. No one had a chance to sit in peace.

At last he called me and said, “Forgive me, it’s a compulsion; many people come and complain.” I told him, “Here is my resignation…” and I took it out of my pocket and gave it to him. He was amazed. He said, “You keep your resignation written and ready!” I said, “I always keep it ready—who wants the hassle of writing? I carry it in my pocket. The day anything happens, not a moment’s delay—here is the resignation. That’s the end of the matter! No one else can decide how I will live and dress. I am not objecting to your pajama—who are you to object to my lungi? Do you think you look very elegant in your churidar pajama? You look like a monkey!”

But then you will have trouble. Trouble has its own joy. My advice is: don’t be afraid of trouble. If you take my counsel, bear the hassles—fine. If you don’t get a job in a university or college, you don’t. Do some other small work. But with dignity, with self-respect. It is not right to be humiliated, to bend, to be a slave. It’s an expensive bargain. Bread is not everything.

But don’t do anything just on my word. Think for yourself. Otherwise you will blame me. I am not telling you to do anything. I have only made the situation clear. If you want to be a professor in a college, you will have to make some compromises. I have been a professor; I know. I know the consequences of not compromising! There will be a thousand hassles. Compromise, and you will live in comfort.

If you compromise, there will be comfort outside; inside, the soul will begin to die and rot. If you don’t compromise, there will be discomfort outside, insecurity—but inside, great flowers will begin to bloom in the soul. Now choose what you will.

That’s all for today.