I have never asked anybody whether I am right or wrong. Wrong or right, if I want to do it, I want to do it and I will make it right. If it is wrong then I will make it right, but I have never allowed anyone to interfere with me. That has given me whatsoever I have – nothing much of this world, no bank balance, but what really matters: the taste of beauty, of love, of truth, of eternity…in short, of oneself.
What is the time, Devageet?
“Three minutes before eight, Bhagwan.”
So good. I have been hard on you too this morning. I will not say anything about it, only this much: with whomsoever I love, I forget that I have to behave. Then I start doing or saying things which are okay if I am alone, and that’s what love is – to be with someone as if one were alone – but sometimes it can be hard on the other person.
I can always say “sorry,” but it is so formal. And when I hit, and I hit often, it is so loving that a formal “sorry” won’t do. But you can see my tears, they say more than I can…many times more. I remind you, in the future too I will be hard, perhaps harder, on you. That’s my way of being loving. I hope you will understand; if not today then tomorrow, or perhaps the day after tomorrow. More than that I cannot say, because at least for these two days I am booked. I am going to be here. It remains open, but for the next two days I am certainly going to be here.
I was saying that after one year we had left that state and that village. I have told you before that on the way my grandfather died. That was my first encounter with death, and it was a beautiful encounter. It was not in any way ugly, as it more or less happens for almost every child around the world. Fortunately I was together with my dying grandfather for hours, and he died slowly…by and by. I could feel death happening to him, and I could see the great silence of it.
I was also fortunate that my Nani was present. Perhaps without her I may have missed the beauty of death, because love and death are so similar, perhaps the same. She loved me. She showered her love upon me, and death was there, slowly happening. A bullock cart…I can still hear its sound…the rattling of its wheels on the stones…Bhoora continuously shouting to the bullocks…the sound of his whip hitting them…. I can hear it all still. It is so deeply-rooted in my experience that I don’t think even my death will erase it. Even while dying I may again hear the sound of that bullock cart.
My Nani was holding my hand, and I was completely dazed, not knowing what was happening, utterly in the moment. My grandfather’s head was in my lap. I held my hands on his chest, and slowly, slowly the breathing disappeared. When I felt that he was no longer breathing I said to my grandmother, “I’m sorry Nani, but it seems that he is no longer breathing.”
She said, “That’s perfectly okay. You need not be worried. He had lived enough, there is no need to ask for more.” She also told me, “Remember, because these are the moments not to be forgotten: never ask for more. What is, is enough.”