Udio Pankh Pasar #1

Anand Maitreya! Man is made to fly in the sky. If he does not fly in the sky, he will have to go on dragging his feet. To keep plodding along the earth runs counter to human nature; it does not accord with it. That is why life feels so heavy, so burdened.

The one meaning of suffering in life is this: we are out of tune with our nature, not in tune with it. Suffering is a signal that we are missing our nature somewhere; we have slipped from the track, derailed. The moment we move in accord with our nature, bliss begins, the rain of nectar begins. But a human being’s wings are not like a bird’s wings that can be seen; they are invisible. They are not of the body; they are of consciousness. And the sky I am speaking of is not the outer sky; it is the inner sky—antarakash. As there is a sky outside, so there is a sky within—far more vast, far more expansive, infinitely greater. Perhaps the outer sky even has a boundary; scientists are not yet certain whether it does or not. Albert Einstein thought there must be a boundary. We have not reached it, but someday we may; because in the scientific outlook, how can a thing be infinite? If it is a “thing,” it must have limits; the boundary constitutes the thing. Without a boundary what is the definition of a thing? If it is infinite, it becomes equivalent to nothing.

But leave the outer sky to the scientists. A seeker of the inner does not need to get entangled in that labyrinth. It is neither his concern nor his curiosity. Even if a decision is reached about whether the outer sky has a boundary or not, nothing is gained for him; no essence lies in that conclusion. But the inner sky certainly has no boundary. This is settled, because whoever has gone within—in any country, in any age—has, without exception, found and witnessed the same thing: the inner sky is infinite. Man is born with the capacity to fly in that sky within, and yet he shuffles in the outer sky—he drags himself. Capacity and actuality do not meet. This lack of harmony is our suffering, our pain, our anguish. Let there be harmony, and suffering disappears; music is born, rhythm arises, rasa flows, flowers bloom.

Consider it like this: someone tries to coax jasmine blossoms from a rosebush. They will not come. Let spring arrive as it will, let the rains fall, let monsoon clouds sing all the Malhars, let the gardener sweat his blood—it won’t happen. A rosebush can only blossom roses. And if you persist in trying for jasmine, the danger is you will not even let the rose bloom. Your effort is for jasmine; you will pluck away even the forming rosebuds, saying, “These are not jasmine.” You will destroy opening roses because they don’t fulfill your expectation, they don’t complete your desire.

What can be, can be. What cannot be, cannot be. This is man’s dilemma—he tries to become what he is not and cannot be. What he is, and can be, in that direction he does not even turn his eyes, his feet do not move, his wings do not open. Then he weeps, beats his chest, and invents a thousand excuses: “Perhaps because of this I am not happy; perhaps I lack money, therefore I am not happy.” But many have money—where is their happiness? He thinks, “I lack position, that’s why I am not happy.” But many have high positions—where is their joy?

Peer a little into the eyes of the wealthy. Feel into the souls of the prestigious. Examine their lives. You will not find happiness there either. Then stop inventing excuses: “Society’s structure is wrong, hence no joy; economic distribution is unequal, hence no joy.” These are excuses. In Russia equality came—joy did not. I receive letters from Russia. Not only joy, even freedom has been lost. Letters come secretly—people hand them to travelers to post outside, so they can reach me. The letters all cry about the same pain: “How shall we find happiness? What is meditation? How can peace be found?” You will be astonished to know: people have even taken sannyas in Russia. They cannot wear ochre in public, cannot wear a mala openly—it would endanger their lives. My books are banned, they can’t enter. And yet they have entered. People are sannyasins. At night they secretly wear ochre and the mala and meditate; they gather in their basements. They have translated my books into Russian; hand-copied texts move from one hand to another. So even with equality, joy does not come.

And in America there is so much wealth—piles upon piles. Humanity has never possessed such wealth in any period or country. Yet life feels utterly empty, hollow. Nowhere else is life felt to be so hollow as in America; perhaps nowhere else can it be. A beggar can still hope that today or tomorrow wealth will come and the doors of happiness will open, that heaven will be his. But the one who has everything—his hope has died. No new shoots can sprout in his hope. His despair is thick, perfect. He knows full well: wealth, position, prestige—none will bring joy; another way must be found.

That is why poor countries don’t seem so restless. So many from the West come to me—in the hundreds of thousands. They are amazed: “Indians seem so quiet!” They have nothing, and yet they are so peaceful—why? Our hollow pundits, priests, so‑called mahatmas explain it upside down. They say Indians are peaceful because their lives are religious. This is utterly false—nonsense. This peace is only due to poverty, because a poor man has hope. Let them become rich and their peace will vanish. For as soon as one becomes rich one thing becomes clear: that hope was futile; it proved a mirage. Only desert remains.

The man running in the desert who looks peaceful—know he is seeing a mirage. The water seems near—“I’ve almost reached, just a little more!” But the man who has arrived at all those mirages and found that there is nothing but desert, can you understand his despair, his defeat? The shine leaves his eyes; the lamps of hope go out. Dreams can no longer grow in his life; imaginings no longer taste sweet. He knows it is all false. He will sit where he is; he will not even have the courage to rise, to take a single step.

So look closely at those who are wealthy, and those who have rank. Then you will see that the causes you have imagined for your suffering are not real causes; they are excuses—excuses to remain as you are.

There is only one cause of sorrow—not an excuse, but a cause: being contrary to one’s nature. Sorrow lies in trying to be other than our destiny. And we are all busy in just that. Our destiny is to be divine. Our destiny is self-discovery. Our destiny is to fly in the inner sky of the innermost.

So on earth we drag our feet, Anand Maitreya. Nothing surprising—because we are made to fly in the sky.

Think of a simpleton who gets hold of an airplane. I have heard this happened during the Second World War. In a Burmese jungle a small plane was abandoned; jungle tribals found it. What would tribals do with a plane? They didn’t even understand it was a plane. They knew bullock carts—so they yoked oxen to the plane. “A new kind of cart,” they thought. And thus they began to use it. A small two‑seater perhaps—they put oxen to it and drove it. Months the airplane remained a bullock cart. Imagine the plane’s plight! If it had a drop of awareness it would have wept its heart out—“What is happening to me? Was I made for this? On these rutted tracks, with oxen yoked to me… In the hands of fools—this was bound to happen.”

Then a man came from the city. He had no experience of planes, but he had seen buses and trucks. He said, “What are you doing? You don’t need oxen—this is a small bus.” He fiddled and tried; in a couple of days he got it to move. So for some days it ran like a bus. The tribals rejoiced: “The cart moves without oxen! Wonderful!” They came from afar to see it. When the city man returned he told others; someone said, “Fool, that’s not a bus. From your description it’s an airplane.” He brought a pilot back to the jungle, and only then did the plane fly in the sky. The tribals’ astonishment knew no bounds.

Man is not finished as he appears. We have made him a bullock cart—we drag him along. The awakened ones shout: “No! You are made for this! You are heir to infinite riches. The kingdom of God is yours.” But we do not listen. How to listen? We have invested too many vested interests in the outer world. We have woven who knows how many webs of dreams. If we listen, we will have to drop the webs. Listening is costly. We listen and unlisten. We hear and yet do not hear.

Dhani Dharamdas speaks true. He wasn’t a “dhani” outwardly, but having found the inner wealth he came to be called “Dhani” Dharamdas. He possessed nothing, yet whoever came to him discovered something ceaselessly raining within, a stream of nectar flowing. Whoever came drank; whoever drank truly lived—lived a new life. His words are sweet: “Sovat hau kehi neend!” In what sleep are you lying? What are you doing? For what did you come, and what have you become? What sleep is this? You have taken dream for reality and forgotten the real. You have forgotten yourself and chase others. You go everywhere except within. What sleep is this? You amass everything except the one thing—meditation. And that one alone is wealth. Attain it and you are truly rich. Gather all else and you remain poor. You came empty‑handed and will go empty‑handed; you lived weeping, you came weeping, you will die weeping.

One can live laughing. But your laughter is not real. Even when you laugh there is no joy in it; perhaps it is a device to hide tears.

Friedrich Nietzsche said: “People ask me, ‘Why do you keep laughing?’ What should I tell them? I laugh lest I start crying. If I didn’t laugh, tears would spill. Somehow I keep myself distracted by laughter.”

What you call entertainment—what is it but self‑forgetting? One goes to a film, a play, a dance. Ask, “Where are you going?” “For entertainment.” Why such a need? Who needs entertainment? Only the unhappy. What need has the happy for entertainment? What need has the blissful to sit three hours in a cinema hall full of filth—cigarette and bidi smoke, seats teeming with germs, bedbugs lodging there, people of all sorts? And for three hours, what are you looking at? Only light and shadow on a screen. You weep, you laugh, you turn sad, you turn glad. Even stupidity must have a limit! And you know full well the screen is empty. When you came, you saw it was bare; when you go, it will be bare—yet in between you deluded yourself. You call this entertainment—and even pay for it, queue for it, jostle for it.

“Sovat hau kehi neend…”
What kind of sleep is this? What are you doing? People play cards, set up chessboards. Ask them, “What are you doing?” “Killing time.” As if you have too much time—so much that it cannot be killed! Fools, time is killing you, and you say you are killing time! And when death knocks at the door, you will beg for even a moment—and not even a moment will be granted. You will cry, you will plead—and not a moment will come.

When Alexander came to India, he went to meet a fakir. Alexander was arrogant. He had been conquering continuously; he had never lost. He did not know defeat; it was not his experience. Hence the world calls him “Alexander the Great.” Napoleon had to taste defeat; there is no one else who never tasted defeat—Alexander alone knew only victory. Great he must be indeed. But that fakir looked him up and down the way a policeman looks at a thief! Alexander was a little nettled. He said, “How dare you look at me like that! I am Alexander the Great.” The fakir said, “Silence, simpleton! What makes you great?” Alexander said, “What makes me great? I have conquered the whole world.” The fakir said, “Listen: suppose you get lost in a desert, lose your way, thirst torments you, and I arrive with a small lota of water. You beg for water. I ask, ‘What will you give in exchange?’ Tell me—what is the most you can offer?” Alexander said, “If such a situation arises, dying of thirst in the desert, I will give half my kingdom.” The fakir said, “I do not sell so cheap. Did you think I would? Push yourself a little; no stinginess will do.” Alexander said, “If the situation is that dire, I could give my whole kingdom.” The fakir said, “Then our meaning is settled: the price of my lota of water is your entire kingdom. My lota is not smaller than your realm. Why this swagger? For a lota of water you will be sold. And I tell you, when death knocks, you will offer your kingdom and still not buy even a single moment.”

And so it happened. Returning from India, Alexander died on the way—only twenty‑four hours from home. He had promised his mother: “Whatever happens, I will return and lay the world’s empire at your feet.” He said to his ministers and physicians, “Take whatever you want, but somehow save me for twenty‑four hours.” The physicians said, “Impossible. Nothing can be done. Death has arrived. We cannot even save twenty‑four hours.” Alexander laughed. They asked, “Why do you laugh?” He said, “I remember that fakir’s words. I hadn’t paid them much attention then—he was a fakir; fakirs talk topsy‑turvy. But today I see he was right. Today I cannot buy twenty‑four hours with my entire kingdom. So what did I gain? This life was written on water. I was drawing lines on water.”

“Sovat hau kehi neend…”
Dhani Dharamdas says: What kind of sleep is this in which you slumber? Foolish, ignorant! And don’t think only you sleep—your pundits sleep, your priests sleep, your sadhus sleep, your mahatmas sleep—everyone sleeps. Have you seen the swagger of your sadhus and mahatmas? The same ego, the same disease that the ordinary man has—only magnified upon their heads. No difference. They may even renounce the world, but their conceit does not drop. And conceit is the real issue. Whether you renounce or not, conceit must go. Some strut because of wealth: “We have so much.” Some strut because, “We have renounced so much.” Yet the cause of both prides is wealth.

Read the Jain scriptures—how many horses, how many elephants, how many palaces Mahavira left… The numbers are unbelievable! Mahavira wasn’t a great emperor—just a petty landlord. If he had not become Mahavira, no one would know his lineage; even a footnote wouldn’t exist. Even today, apart from Jains, who knows his father’s name? And that too because of Mahavira. There were two thousand kingdoms in India in his time; if India is divided into two thousand realms, each is but a district-size fiefdom. Where would you keep so many elephants and horses? But the numbers had to be inflated, else the renunciation seems small. And the fun is: as time goes by the numbers keep increasing. The older the scripture, the smaller the count—because they were debating with Buddhists. The Buddhists inflated their numbers; the Jains inflated theirs. Who could remain behind? If Buddha renounced so many elephants, Mahavira renounced double. Childishness! Like children praising their fathers, each outdoing the other: “My father is always one step ahead of yours—whatever you say, one step more.” The same madness infects all religions.

The Mahabharata says over a billion died on Kurukshetra. A billion cannot even stand in that field; if they die, where will they fall? Imagine a billion people! India’s population has not even just now reached a billion. You couldn’t stand the whole of present-day India on Kurukshetra field; perhaps if you stacked people one upon another, like a staircase. And then how would you swing swords? Even pickpocketing would be difficult, what of beheading! And there are elephants, horses, chariots. Sheer madness. In Buddha and Mahavira’s time, India’s population was around twenty million; in Krishna’s time, not more than ten million. From where did you bring a billion? The entire world’s population then could not have been in the billions; even now the world is only four billion. Five thousand years ago it would have been in the millions. And that too on Kurukshetra! The field is big enough for hockey or football—yes, one could imagine Kauravas and Pandavas gathering to play a match! But the rest is nonsense. Eighteen akshauhini armies! They couldn’t even stand there.

But we measure by “how much.” To impress, the numbers must be big. So Mahavira left this much, Buddha that much—renunciation weighed on the same scale as wealth. If the scale is the same, the pride will be the same.

“Sovat hau kehi neend, moorakh ajyani.”
Some are proud of wealth; some are proud of knowledge. One has the Gita by heart, another the Bible, someone the Upanishads—parrot pride. They are only parrots; nothing more. Machines could do that; there is nothing to boast of. But man finds any excuse to stuff his ego. And as long as ego is, sleep is; as long as ego is, you are foolish and ignorant. However much knowledge you have, your stupidity will not be cut by it; your knowledge will only feed your stupidity.

“Bhor bhaye parbhat…”
A human birth is like dawn. How many centuries have passed, how many births, how many wanderings through the wombs of animals and birds, how many journeys before this morning came—before you became human! So much night and darkness spent, and the morning has come—and you still sleep! If you do not awaken now, when will you?

Dharamdas is right: “Bhor bhaye parbhat!” Morning has come—but when will your dawn come? You are human, yet no true reflection has arisen in you; you are human in name only. The birth of man happens when you go beyond mind. When you enter what lies hidden beyond the mind, then true reflection is born. Only with the experience of that which is beyond mind do you truly become human; otherwise you are human only nominally.

Diogenes—a Greek fakir—wandered his whole life with a lit lantern. Naked—like Mahavira. In the West he is the only one comparable to Mahavira—Diogenes, who lived nude. I would say his nakedness was even more valuable; in India it is easy to be naked—it’s hot. Here wearing clothes is difficult; nakedness is not. In the West, where blood freezes—there to remain nude! Diogenes must have been a man of great courage. Mahavira going naked in Bihar is no big deal. Here there is an old tradition of nudity; Naga sadhus have been for centuries. And people are nearly naked here anyway—what do they have? A loincloth at most. But Diogenes stayed naked in the West. And he carried a lit lantern—even in the day. People were astonished. Whoever saw him felt compelled to ask; better not to ask, but you would ask! His nakedness was less curious than his lantern: “Why in the day?”—and lit! “You have nothing else—what is this?” People asked, “Why the lantern?” Diogenes said, “I am searching for a man; I have not yet found one.” When he was dying, the lantern lay by his side—still lit. Someone asked, “Now you are dying—did you find a man?” Diogenes said, “I did not find a man, but thank God, no one stole my lantern—what more can I ask! I die thankful that people’s eyes coveted it, yet no one stole it. That is much. A man I did not find.” He would raise his lantern to peer into each man’s eyes.

We are only “look‑alike” men. Until there is inner entry, you may collect knowledge, wealth, sit in high office, become renowned in the whole world—worthless, not worth two pennies.

“Bhor bhaye parbhat!” This is not an hour to waste; this is not a morning to sleep through. But often it happens: one does not feel like getting up in the morning. Those who have stayed awake all night will fall asleep at dawn. Man is so senseless: up till midnight he will remain awake; but at daybreak he pulls up the blanket! As morning approaches he shrinks into the bed, thinks, “One more turn.” The alarm rings—he switches it off in his sleep; or he weaves a dream around the alarm: he is in a temple, bells are ringing—so he can continue sleeping. I know people who have smashed their alarm clocks in rage! They themselves set them at night—“It will wake me at dawn”—and in the morning, angry… because one doesn’t feel like rising; the air is cool; one wants “just a little more… half an hour.” But that “half an hour” never ends. The same happens in life: “half an hour, half an hour”… and a whole life passes. “Tomorrow!” Does tomorrow ever come? Has tomorrow ever come? “Tomorrow I will meditate; today I am busy.” But you have only today; do not rely on tomorrow. Who knows if it will come? “Tomorrow I will take sannyas; tomorrow I will practice.”

Ego is wondrous! It will not admit, “I will not practice.” “I will—certainly I will. Am I a fool not to? Shall I not meditate? I am born in the land of rishis and munis! In the land that gods yearn to be born in!” Sometimes I wonder—where are new gods born now? Thirty‑three crore gods in our pantheon; seven hundred million already have been born in India—where are these other gods coming from? All gods have already been born here! Now imagine: perhaps devils and their disciples are being born—that must be it. It looks as if even hell’s residents are longing to be born here. Or those who are punished in hell are sent here: sinners don’t stop sinning—you can send them to hell; they’ll make trouble there too.

Mulla Nasruddin died, I’ve heard. When he went to hell he strutted so much that the devil said, “Old man, why do you strut as if hell belongs to your father?” Nasruddin said, “If not to my father, then to whom? My wife sent me to hell; it is her gift. Who are you to interfere? My wife told me all my life, ‘Die and go to hell!’—so here I am. Why shouldn’t I strut? It’s my wife’s gift.”

People going from here will not change, not even in hell. I’ve heard that now in hell they ask at the gate, “Where from?” “From Earth.” “You have suffered hell enough; go to heaven. Hell you have already endured.” A man knocked on heaven’s gate. The gatekeeper asked, “Married?” “Yes.” “Then come in—hell you have already endured.” Another man behind heard this and thought, “Good trick.” The gatekeeper asked him, “Married?” “Not once—three times.” He said, “Once is forgivable; thrice is not. To err once is understandable, but you are mad. Go back to Earth; get treatment first. We do not admit madmen here.”

We have made Earth into hell—worse than hell. And the cause of this whole perversion: morning has come and we do not awaken.

“Bhor bhaye parbhat, abahin tum karo payani.”
The time has come—rise and set out. Journey forth! Which journey? The inner journey—the journey of becoming truly human.

Right now you are human only in name—a mere seed of humanity. You must become a tree. Spring has come and you will lie there as a seed? Will you not sprout, not leaf? How then will flowers come? How then will fragrance fly into the sky?

“Ab hum sanchi kahat hain…”
This is a very dear line of Dhani Dharamdas.

He says, “Now I speak the truth…” This is said to disciples, not to everybody. It cannot be said to all; not all can understand it. It is not matter for the general crowd. The crowd needs the Ramayana tale—“There was Lord Rama and there was Lady Sita…” People already know the whole story. They will listen all night and in the morning ask, “Lord Ramchandra’s Sita—who was she?” For the masses there are Puranas, legends—like fairy tales for children, so religious tales for the masses. Here he is speaking to disciples.

Disciple means: one ready to listen; one to whom the essential can be said; one who will not be upset, not startled, not dazzled; one to whom light can be shown; one who can be shaken; whose eyes one can splash with cold water; whom, if needed, one can dunk completely into cold water. A disciple is one willing to learn.

“Ab hum sanchi kahat hain…”
Only to such can the truth be said. Otherwise there are false stories—and people enjoy them. They hold Satyanarayan katha—neither truth (satya) nor Narayan is anywhere in it. Only the name is Satyanarayan’s story. People perform it, readers read, listeners listen—no truth enters the lives of either. Neither readers nor listeners care.

What falsehoods people have concocted: a sinner, Ajamil, was dying; he called his son, whose name was Narayan. In olden times, names everywhere were of God—across the world. Fashions change with time; now such names seem old‑fashioned. But then all names were of the divine—in India, in Arabic, in Hebrew. Perhaps the device was that maybe by such constant remembrance the memory would someday strike a chord. So Ajamil’s son was named Narayan. Ajamil was a great sinner. He called his son. But the story says the Narayan above was confused—what a limit! You malign even the Narayan above! He couldn’t tell that Ajamil was calling his son? Ajamil died and went straight to heaven—because at death he took God’s name. Most likely, if he called his son, it would have been to pass on tips of the trade: a life‑long thief, robber, murderer—“Listen, son: where I have buried money, whom I have killed, whom you still must kill.” He must have given some lessons. But the God above was fooled!

People delight in such stories. They think: “If Ajamil crossed over, we will too. We haven’t sinned that big. Took a bribe sometimes, gave some; traveled without a train ticket. What has God to do with the railways—checking tickets! Who can keep account of who boarded with or without a ticket? Told a few little lies—who doesn’t? Didn’t fulfill a few promises—natural in this world. Mistakes happen; that’s our nature. Therefore we keep praying, ‘We are fallen; you are the purifier of the fallen. We will err—that’s our nature. You show compassion—that’s yours. We give you a chance to reveal your nature. Without us, on whom will you show compassion? Without us you will regret; without us you will sit sad; without us your shop is closed. Because of us you are Compassionate, you are Ram, Rahim, Rahman!’”

Omar Khayyam wrote a sweet verse: “I don’t accept those who say, ‘Do not drink wine.’ I will drink, because I am certain God is supremely compassionate. Those who say ‘Do not drink, or you’ll go to hell’ are atheists—they don’t trust God’s compassion.” He speaks to the point. If God is compassionate, how can he send one to hell? For a little wine—to hell? Impossible! And to a Muslim like Omar, this cannot sit well: in paradise rivers of wine flow. If where God dwells there are streams of wine, will he send small-time drinkers to hell? Does this make sense? Gods bathe in wine, gambol in wine, drink, pour—those mahapurushas who reach heaven—do those fountains run for nothing? Surely someone drinks and pours! Here you drink by the cupful and are sent to hell—if that is the punishment, what punishment should those in heaven receive? No—God is compassionate, says Omar Khayyam. We trust his compassion. We are theists. We will drink, and we will see—his compassion must be tested, put on the touchstone.

Man is clever; he invents according to his convenience. Dhani Dharamdas is speaking to disciples: “Now I speak the truth.” The truth is: spread your wings and fly in your inner sky. Do not get entangled in stories; do not get trapped in word-webs. Borrowed knowledge will not help. Spread your own wings. Mahavira flew, Buddha flew, Krishna flew, Christ flew—none of that will make you fly. You must fly yourself. Only your own wings will serve.

“Udiyo pankh pasaar!” Spread your wings. Weigh them; dare. Fear arises: when one first goes within one becomes utterly alone. Outside are our own—loved ones, relatives, friends, wife, husband, sons, parents, brothers. Outside is the whole world. Inside? No brother, no friend, no familiar. Inside, we are utterly alone. We fear aloneness. It feels so unsettling; all supports drop, all securities break. “What if I drown in this loneliness? What if I cannot return? What if I melt away?” So we clutch others. Husbands clutch wives; wives clutch husbands. And not only in one life—“in lives and lives we will remain together.” Lovers fall in love and say, “One life is not enough; we will be together for lifetimes.” Those who cannot trust tomorrow talk of lifetimes! The same people will stand in court tomorrow for divorce. Yesterday they were saying “for lifetimes.”

Mulla Nasruddin told his beloved, “I can even face death for you! What would I not do—I would wrestle with death!” By chance, next day they went strolling in the jungle; a cheetah leapt from the bushes. Mulla hid behind his beloved. She said, “What are you doing, Nasruddin? You said you would face death for me!” Nasruddin said, “Certainly I would face death for you—but this cheetah is alive! If it were dead, you would see how I’d face it—I’d show my moves!”

That affair ended—who would bond with such a man! With another beloved he said, “My love is immortal; I will love you for lifetimes.” She said, “Nasruddin, I have heard things about you. Is your love truly immortal?” “Certainly! For lifetimes.” They were on the seventh floor. She said, “Then jump.” He said, “That I cannot do. I already told you my love is immortal—I cannot die! I will love you forever; I cannot die. My love is immortal.”

People weave relationships, spin webs of immortality, give one another false assurances. If you go within you become alone; and we are afraid: who knows what will happen! At first, when one enters within, one meets darkness—not light. Light comes after digging through darkness. We have gathered only darkness for lifetimes; its layers have piled up. A deep excavation is needed. When you dig a well you do not get water at once—though water is there. First stones come, then debris, then dirty earth, then dry soil, then damp soil, then dirty water. Dig and dig, and one day a pure spring appears. So is the inner digging.

We lack patience; we want everything quickly, instantly. “Let someone else do it.” Because of this, we fall into the web of priests and pundits: “Let them pray for us; let them worship for us.”

People come to me and say, “Please pray to God for us.” This is rich! You sin—and I should pray? You don’t come when you sin. But prayer—I should do! You find prayer not worth doing; dump that burden on someone else. And how will my prayer help you?

A gentleman has been coming to me for years; his line never changes. He touches my feet and says, “I only need your blessings! With your blessings anything can happen. I don’t want to meditate or pray—just your blessings.” I told him, “If you trust my blessings so much, then shut your shop and quit your business. Say, ‘What do I need business for? I only need your blessings.’” He said, “That is difficult.” I said, “Then you understand very well: if you drop your business, my blessings won’t keep it going. What you want to do—only you can do. And what you don’t want—you hope to get for free. If God were free, who wouldn’t take him! But free?”

No one is ready to labor; within you must labor, you must practice. “Spread your wings”—flap them. For lifetimes you have not moved them; you have even forgotten you have wings. Often a bird caged for long, when released, cannot fly; it has forgotten it has wings. If it tries it may flutter and fall. Parrots kept in cages for long, when freed, soon die; a cat eats them or an eagle swoops—they cannot save themselves. They have forgotten flight. A great curtain of forgetfulness has fallen.

When did you last go within—do you remember? If you think, you will find: never. When you have never gone within, fear will arise today at the thought of going—fear of the unknown.

Therefore this can only be said to disciples. A disciple means one who has courage.

“Ab hum sanchi kahat hain, udiyo pankh pasaar.
Chhuti jaihō ya dukh ten, tan‑sarovar ke paar.”
If you can spread your wings—fly in your own nature, your own essence, your innermost—you will cross beyond suffering; you will go beyond the lake of the body. This ocean of becoming will be crossed.

These are dear words—priceless words.

Anand Maitreya, you asked me to kindly explain the purport. The purport is straightforward—but understanding the purport alone will not do. It must be experienced. Only experience truly explains the purport. I can explain the meaning, but my meaning will be my experience. You will hear the words; the experience will not reach you. You must open your wings. You must undertake the inner journey.

I can point, give indications—how to flap your wings, how to take the first step within. Such guidance can be given. But the journey you must do; no one can travel for you. Each person must walk to God himself; this journey cannot be borrowed.

Naturally! This is exactly what sannyas means—a journey into the unknown. Going within is not like traveling without. Outside there are straight, clear roads. Milestones are set. Maps are available. The inner journey is a journey through the sky.
Just now you heard Dhani Dharmdas’s song—“Spread your wings and fly!” That is a journey in the sky. In the sky there are no roads. Not even footpaths. Even if you want to make them, they cannot be made. There are no milestones. Birds fly in the sky and leave no footprints behind.
Buddha has said that buddhas leave no footprints, because their journey is through the sky. So anyone who wants to walk in their footprints cannot. Footprints simply do not form in the sky. One has to walk like that—into the unknown. The destination is not clear; it is very misty. There is only a powerful longing, a thirst in the very breath. Whether there is water or not is not even certain. But there is at least this much trust: if there is thirst, there must be water. Because this is the law of life: here, where there is hunger, even before hunger there is food.
Have you not seen? When a child comes into the mother’s womb, then as soon as the child is born the mother’s breasts brim with milk. As the child is arriving—he is just about to arrive—the preparation is already done. The child is not even born yet and the breasts are full of milk. The child’s hunger has not yet awakened and the food is ready. In the mother’s womb the child’s eyes are formed; there is nothing yet to see. He will be born, then the eyes will open; then the whole scene, the whole world will be there to behold.
This is the rule of existence, the eternal rule: wherever there is longing, even before the longing there is some provision for it. This is no anarchy. A deep inner order is at work here. The name of that inner order is dharma. Dharma means: the principle that sustains all of life. If there is a thirst for truth within you, then truth must be. So one has to move like this.
“We have set out, moved by the heart’s passion—
we do not know where we are to go.”
It cannot be known. And the one who thinks, “We will first know everything in advance and then we will begin,” will never begin. He is a coward. He is like the man who says, “Until I learn to swim I will not go into the water.” But how will you learn to swim if you do not enter the water? Only by entering the water will you learn to swim. No one can learn to swim without getting in.
People come to me and say, “Until it is completely certain what meditation will give, until we get full proof, we will not meditate.” Then I tell them: you will never be able to meditate, because these matters do not come with proof. If there is a longing within you, then try, search. I can tell you this much: I searched, and I found. I can tell you this much: whoever searched, found. “Those who seek, find!” But the seeker must have at least that much audacity: one day he must set out—only on the basis of longing, of aspiration, of thirst.
“We have set out, moved by the heart’s passion...”
One must move by feeling, not by argument. By the heart, not by the head. By love, not by proof. Not by logic. The one who wants to move by logic never moves at all—he will remain standing on the shore. He will go on thinking, entangled in thought. He cannot even take a step—the very first step he cannot take.
“We are proud of the journey’s beginning;
the journey’s end, we do not know.”
Yes, this is what is needed. This is the cornerstone of sannyas: that there be pride in the beginning of the journey—that we have set out, that we dared, that we gathered courage, that we cast off the boat into the infinite ocean. Whether there is another shore or not—who knows! But is there ever only one shore? There are always two shores. Whether you see it or not, whether it is hidden in the mist, whether it is so far that the eyes cannot reach—yet there are two shores. The other shore also is. For now there is only trust that the other will be. No conclusive certainty can be had today.
One has to cast off the boat—and yes, there is storm too. And remember, on this shore there is safety. Tied to the shore, the boat will not sink. There is no possibility of swimming, but there is no fear of drowning either. And when you want to swim, when you want to cross, you will have to take the risk of drowning. Although I do want to tell you this: those who set out with courage—even if they drown, even if they drown midstream—still they find the shore. They find the shore even through drowning. There is a shore that is found only by drowning. There is a fullness that comes only by becoming nothing. There is a life that is available only through the death of the ego.
“We have set out, moved by the heart’s passion—
we do not know where we are to go.
We are proud of the journey’s beginning;
the journey’s end, we do not know.”
Who knows it? How could the journey’s end be known in advance—what the end will be? Only trust is possible, faith is possible; no proof can be. In the presence of those who have attained, love can arise, faith can surge, thirst can be born—but proof cannot be given.
Someone asked Buddha, “Can you provide proof of the ultimate truth?” He said, “No. I can give you thirst, not proof.” And thirst is the real thing. That thirst is already within everyone. The true master’s work is to kindle it, to feed it. The master’s words become fuel. His posture, his feeling, his very presence becomes fuel. A thirst within you flares up and begins to burn; your feet start aching to move; the boat grows eager to cast off; the chains begin to break by themselves. From the other shore a ceaseless call begins to reach you: Come! You must go! The invitation grows so intense that you are ready to stake everything.
“When will the goblet be filled, when will the round begin?
When will he come this way—who knows?
And if he rises, where will he stay?
Where the Cupbearer’s gaze will fall—who knows?”

Nothing can be pre-decided—such is the nature of things, Swabhav. Had everything been fixed beforehand, the whole affair would become cheap. If it were fixed, it would be worldly. If it were fixed, an insurance company could insure it. It cannot be fixed. That is the fun, the secret, the mystery. Nothing is certain—“When will the goblet be filled, when will the round begin?”

Sit with your goblet ready; wait. Clean the goblet. Purify your cupped hands and keep watch—silent, still, prayerful.

“When will the goblet be filled, when will the round begin?”

It is not in our hands when the round will start. But one thing is certain: whenever the inner vessel is ready in someone, the round begins. It always has. There will be no exception made in your case. Whenever one has become willing to endure the Divine, the Divine descends. Until it descends, know that we were not yet willing; know that we were not yet ready; there was some flaw, some crack in our vessel. Delay occurs because of us, not because of That.

People have a saying: “There may be delay, but there is no darkness.” There is neither delay nor darkness. If there is delay, it is because of us; if there is darkness, that too is because of us. From that side there is neither delay nor darkness. He stands there with the ewer in hand. The Cupbearer is present, standing before you, yet you sit with eyes closed. And your vessel is not yet fit to receive the nectar. In it you have been filling only poison—the poison of hatred, of jealousy, of illusion, of attachment, of rivalry, of anger, of hatred, of greed. You have poured every kind of poison into it. Where is there any space left in your vessel?

There is a Zen story. A university professor went to the famed Zen master Nan-in and requested, “Explain something to me about God, about nirvana. What is the secret of meditation? Please explain something about that!”

In a single breath he asked for everything—God, nirvana, meditation; nothing was left out. What did the master say? He said, “You have climbed the mountain; you are tired, beads of sweat on your forehead. Sit, rest a little. Meanwhile I will make tea. Have a cup of tea and then, at leisure, we will talk. Once some of the burden of travel has dropped, the fatigue has eased, you’ve had a little rest, then we will speak. And it may even be that the matter happens while we drink the tea. Who knows,” Nan-in said, “the matter may happen while I pour tea into the cup! It may happen right in the pouring.”

The professor was a bit puzzled: “He doesn’t seem insane. And yet—God, nirvana, meditation—the matter will happen while tea is being poured into a cup! Why did I come? I have made such a long journey. Climbed in the blazing midday sun. All right, but now that I am here, at least let me drink the tea. There seems little else to hope for.”

Nan-in made the tea, handed him a cup, and poured from the kettle. He kept on pouring. The cup filled; tea began to overflow. The saucer filled as well. When even the saucer was about to overflow, the professor shouted, “Stop! Are you in your senses? Are you mad? The tea will spill on the floor now. Not one more drop can be held in this cup.”

The master said, “I had thought you lacked intelligence, but you are an intelligent man! You grasped that the cup is so full it cannot hold even one more drop. And in your inner cup you think nirvana can fit, meditation can fit, God can fit? Have you ever looked to see how full your inner cup is? Filled to the brim! Ah, things are already spilling onto my floor from your inner cup! When you leave I shall have to scrub the floor clean. First empty and cleanse your cup, then ask such deep questions. These are not questions to which just anyone can give answers. One needs receptivity!”

“When will the goblet be filled, when will the round begin?”

Swabhav, the goblet will be filled—and the round will begin.

“When will he come this way—who knows?”

He will come. In truth, he is already here.

“And if he rises, where will he stay?”

Do not be afraid that the Cupbearer might pass you by, that he will pour into someone else’s vessel and leave yours empty. “Who knows where the Cupbearer’s gaze will fall—whether it will rest on us or not?”

No. From the side of the Divine there is neither delay nor darkness. Call it God if you wish; call it the ultimate law of life if you prefer—that is up to you. These are only words. Call it Dharma if you like. These are the Sufis’ words—“the Cupbearer’s gaze,” “the goblet,” “the round that moves.” These are Sufi symbols. This is the Sufi tongue—so sweet, and so full of meaning!

Do not be anxious. Simply keep your vessel polished. Let there be no lack in your trust; let your surrender be total. Then the happening happens. It becomes inevitable.

“When will the goblet be filled, when will the round begin?
When will he come this way—who knows?
And if he rises, where will he stay?
Where the Cupbearer’s gaze will fall—who knows?
We have indeed set out, impelled by the heart...”

Just keep walking.

“We have crossed even the boundary of intellect...”

One must cross it. Those who remained within the confines of intellect lived in vain and died in vain. The limits of the skull are a very small boundary; the cranium is a tiny thing.

“We have crossed even the boundary of intellect,
We have searched the desert of madness, too;
Where else will it take us now—
Where the Cupbearer’s gaze will fall—who knows?
We have indeed set out, impelled by the heart...”

Wherever his gaze leads—beyond reason it will take you, into “madness” it will take you, into divine craziness it will take you—but remember, one must go beyond both reason and madness. To go beyond intellect, a certain holy madness is useful. Madness is like using one thorn to remove another lodged in your foot. Thus the devotee becomes a “madman.” Through that madness the thorn of intellect is drawn out. But then do not cling to madness either. Both thorns are useless; throw them both away. One must go beyond the intellect and beyond madness. Only then does one arrive. Madness, too, is just the other face of intellect—its negative pole.

And wherever his gaze leads, keep moving. Trusting yourself you have seen plenty—where did you reach? Now try trusting the Unknown. The taste of trusting the Unknown is altogether different!

“If possible, for a single moment
Take on the trouble of a smile—
How many of us, even now,
Know not the meaning of dawn.
We have indeed set out, impelled by the heart...”

“A hundred realms of passion we have crossed,
Centuries of feeling have gone by;
From these eyes to those Eyes,
How long the journey is—who knows?
We have indeed set out, impelled by the heart...”

The journey is not long. The Eyes are right before your eyes. But veils cover our eyes; no veils cover the Divine’s eyes, and the Divine is not far away. Our eyes are veiled. There are cobwebs on our eyes—who knows how many webs—of doctrines, of scriptures, of words; who knows what snares! All these nets must be cut. It is essential to become simple like a small child.

Blessed are those who become simple like little children. The entire process of meditation is just this: to make you simple like a child—pure, clear—to wipe all the dust from the mirror. Then no time is needed; in an instant eyes meet Eyes. In an instant heart meets Heart. In an instant your drop dissolves into his ocean.

And in dissolving you lose nothing—remember this. In dissolving you only gain. You vanish as a drop, but you become the ocean. Is that a loss? It is gain upon gain.

On the path to the Divine it is gain and only gain—but if you consult the intellect, a difficulty arises. The intellect says, “It is loss and only loss. Beware! Protect yourself!” From the intellect’s point of view, all is loss; from the heart’s perspective, all is gain.

Meditation draws you away from the intellect and brings you into the heart. And as you come nearer to the heart, receptivity is created. The sole meaning of sannyas, Swabhav, is this: simplicity, trust—faith in this infinite existence. And that faith is liberating, nirvana-giving, bliss-bestowing!

That’s all for today.