Meaning of being Spiritual

I am the universe, and the universe is within me.

To know this and to live accordingly, is to be spiritual.

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Its fashionable for people to say, 'I am not religious, I am spiritual'. They usually mean that they do not go to Church, Temple, Gurdwara or Mosque, but they believe in God. Probe further and one can expect silence or a scowl.  What does spirituality mean?

Nearly all people are seeking heaven and trying to avoid or atone for sin.

We indulge in many rituals, do all sorts of things to ourselves, and to others in an attempt to get to heaven, failing which we try to avoid hell.

It is the arrogance of man,to place himself or herself above all of creation and decide, what is right and what is wrong? Who must do what and how?  

For ourselves we indulge in rituals, penances, prayers, charity, pilgrimages etc. Others we seek to seduce, persuade, bribe, coerce, and threaten, even wage war, and smugly kill other humans and creatures to this end

Alas the only truth is that, heaven and hell, God and devil, are within us. We cannot discover God, we can only discover ourselves. We cannot acquire God we can only dissolve within this ocean of creation.

The ocean beckons us just as this drop seeks the ocean, and once it returns to the ocean it dissolves into it. 

That ocean is within us and we are within the ocean. All that is stopping us is we ourselves and our ego.

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Quote  by Gurvinder Singh

Image: by unknown artist

To a Great Being, Nothing is Little.

Dada J. P. Vaswani

Many years ago our local MP (Member of Parliament), returned to Pune from Delhi after his release from prison on bail. He had ben indicted for his alleged excessively creative management and accounting skills while heading a very prestigious and prominent sports body.

Coincidently my wife Mohini and I were at the small airport at the same time to receive our guests when the MP was also due to arrive. Present there was a huge crowd of his followers shouting slogans, making a nuisance of themselves, disrupting passenger traffic.

After a little while the mob just outside the arrival hall, broke into loud cheering and slogan shouting and a band began to play. We turned around and saw the MP enter the arrival hall as he marched towards his band of noisy supporters.

The MP's mob covered his entire body with garlands. After a few announcements the MP gave a impromptu speech at the exit of the arrival hall blocking the exit of all other passengers for about 20 minutes and causing general inconvenience to everyone.

This rousing welcome reminded me of another incident I and my wife Mohini had witnessed a few years earlier.  We  had travelled to Pune airport to see off a friend.  At that time the airport was small and security was not a big deal, so non passengers were also permitted to enter the terminal building which had a common lounge area for  both departure and arrivals for visitors to the airport.

An acquaintance in the arrival area waved at us and we walked over to her. She was with a small group waiting to receive the frail 90 year old Dada Vaswani, a living saint.  After a brief wait, we saw a radiant Dada enter the arrival hall and his followers walked forward greeting him by bowing and touching Dada's feet*.

 Dada smiled, greeted them and blessed them all. Then casting an eye around the hall he noticed two very old and invalid ladies offering their salutations sitting a bit away, unable to stand up and greet Dada because of their poor health.

Dada extracted two roses from one of the bouquets offered to him and slowly shuffled to the old ladies, greeted them with folded prayer hands, offered them each a rose and spent a few minutes enquiring about their lives and then left after blessing them.

We were surprised to observe that accompanied by his tiny entourage he left the airport in an unescorted car without any fuss.

A great soul revered around the world, so humble, gentle and magnanimous walked amongst us sharing his message of love without troubling anyone or anything, while spreading his wonderful aura all around him.

Both Mohini and I  received two valuable lessons, 
The truth always walks alone, and the false travels with the mob.
Nothing is too small for a Great Being.
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Bowing to touch the feet.  This is the traditional Indian way where followers and disciples greet their Gurus, teachers and revered elders.

'Moksha' - Liberation

'Moksha' - Free from the Dance of Life.

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Some lose all mind and become, soul

Insane

Some lose all soul and become, mind

Intellectual

Some lose both and become,

Accepted

Happiness, wealth, health, comfort, power etc. we humans as long as we live, are always seeking to expand who and what we are. 
Sooner or later we also begin to ask ourselves, "What will become of us at the end of all that expansion of the Self?"

Seeking to learn and understand, we talk, listen and discuss with others. 
The more I listened, read, and introspected, the greater grew my confusion. The Eastern philosophies which is inherent within me and the Western philosophy in which I have been educated in and greatly exposed to, provide contrary views on almost everything. 

That's it. 'Views' and views are all we have, shaped by others and circumstances, all external to us. Rarely are we guided by what is within us. 

There can be no greater source of learning and awakening than by engaging with masters, reading and listening to them.  The master called, Guru or Murshid functions as a vital bridge between the energy of the universe and the eternal which is manifest with us.

 To absorb and digest we need to reflect and introspect, for which many hours alone and in silence are necessary.

The majority of people are merely 'accepted'.  They go where the forces of society and power of nature takes them.  Their body is alive, the mind functional but the soul deadened. For them there is little hope. They are unfortunately of little consequence to themselves and the universe.

The 'intellectuals' are not so many as the 'accepted', but their numbers are on the rise. 
The easy access to information, so called 'facts' and opinions gives them the feeling of knowing the truth. They follow a linear way of thinking, often starting with erroneous assumptions and following a faulty logic to conclude things that suit their predisposed biases.

A majority of intellectuals are a menace, because they are always argumentative and therefore  consume huge mental resources unduly strain the mind, both their own and that of others. Intellectuals however are essential to society, for they churn the pot. They are provocative and hence force society and individuals to always question themselves and their actions. However rarely do they awaken the individual.

The mind is a virtual world that we beings create, and the 'insane' are of two types. The mad person and the awakened being. 

Sometimes the mad person falls below the mind. Usually the whole world of the mad person is contained within his or her mind. They have not lost their mind they are merely trapped within their minds. 

The awakened being is also 'out of the mind',  but rises above the mind. Such beings are no more restrained by the mind and the body. This is the state of great masters and sages. A state of mindlessness, just pure spiritual energy.

The masters know that the body made up of the 5 elements, is temporary and will perish, and the mind is a virtual world. They know that the indestructible soul is all that matters, which is unbounded and eventually migrates to a new body in each life.

That is why the masters transcend the body and the mind to become pure energy, which is free from physical and emotional and intellectual factors. They are unaffected by incidents, relationships, cravings, etc. They simply dissolve into the Creator from where their energy  originated from. 

This is what it means to attain 'Moksha' or liberation.

Victory of a Loss. (Haar ki Jeet)

It was a fine horse that the highly revered Baba Bal Bharti had. A mere sight of the stallion evoked excitement and awe in all who gazed upon. The king pleased with the Baba’s accurate predictions, had gifted him that horse. Baba, a fakir, lived in a village temple premises where he had built his hut and a stable for his horse whom he named Sultan.

Khadag Singh a much-feared dacoit used to 
visit Baba as a devotee. Baba never judged anyone, embracing all who came to his door.

“I’ve heard a great deal about your horse,” Khadag Singh said, “I would like to see it too.”
The ever enthusiastic Baba took him to his stable.




“Incredible!” Khadag said, patting the glistening black down of the glorious animal. “Indeed, this is the finest steed I’ve ever seen.”
“My life has found a new meaning with the arrival of Sultan.” Baba’s chest swelled with pride and he ran his hands through the horse’s mane. “Every day is a beautiful day now!”

At Khadag’s bidding, Baba let him take Sultan for a ride. The majestic stallion galloped faster than the blowing wind. What strength, control and speed! The swell of envy washed Khadag’s heart with feelings of covetousness and jealousy. Of what use was a horse to a saint; Sultan should have been his property, his companion, he thought. He tethered it in the stable and they went back inside the hut where Khadag offered to buy it.

“Not in a million years!” Baba protested.
After a bit of haggling when Khadag realized that Baba was not willing to part with Sultan at any cost, he warned, “One day, I’ll take this horse from you.”
“No, Khadag, please. I can’t live without my Sultan. He is like my son”
“Whatever,” Khadag said shrugging, in a disrespectful manner “I’m going to get him by hook or by crook.” And with that he left. 

Baba would ride Sultan taking the stallion for a run each day. One fine evening, as Baba was riding in the forest on the outskirts of the village, he heard a faint voice filled with agony, “Please help me, I’m dying,” 

In the fading light Baba ji saw someone curled up on the ground, completely smeared in dust.
“What happened?” Baba asked, still on his horse.
“Please take me to a safe place, I need medical help.” he pleaded. “Khadag Singh and his men mugged me.”
“But, I don’t even know you.”
“I’m the brother of the famous doctor Durga Dutt,” he said in a strained voice, clutching his stomach. “Please, I beg you. Help this needy person.”

No true Baba will refuse someone who needs help.  He got down and helped the man climb on the horse with great difficulty. Before Baba could mount, however, the supposedly injured man took the reins in his hands and gave Baba a mighty kick in his chest leaving him sprawled on the ground.

“I told you,” the rider said victoriously, “one day this horse would be mine.”
He heeled the horse but barely had he gone a few yards when Baba roared, “Stop! Khadag Singh.” Khadag couldn’t ignore his Guru’s voice, plus he had nothing to be afraid of. He was armed and on the horse. So, he halted.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Baba murmured as he got closer and dusted his robe. “Just don’t make any mention of this incident. You can have Sultan.”
“Why?” Khadag chuckled, stroking Sultan. “Are you afraid that people will say how can this Baba bless us if he couldn’t even save his own horse?”
“You see, Khadag,” Baba said, “if people find out, no one will ever trust another person in need. People will stop helping each other.” And with that, Baba Bal Bharti turned around and walked away from Sultan like he never loved him and with the detachment befitting a saint.

Khadag rode away with great pride and Baba took solace thinking now he had nothing to worry about for there was nothing left to lose. With each passing day, Khadag became increasingly restless. How could I do that to my Guru? What beast in me made me stoop so low? 

Rather than getting mad at me, Baba thought compassionately about the world. How calmly he walked away from the horse he had said he couldn’t live without… many similar thoughts plagued him. 

In the dead of the night, he went to the temple, quietly tied the horse to its post and sneaked out.

In the morning, one weeping and one neighing, both Baba ji and Sultan were overjoyed to be reunited. Baba ji leaned against his Sultan resting his face on his long neck, caressing and stroking, tears streaming from Baba’s eyes. “Oh Sultan,” he said, “now people will not be afraid to help those in need.”

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This story (Haar ki jeet) was penned by the phenomenal Hindi writer Pandit Sudarshan (1895-1967).
You can also view 'Haar ki Jeet' short movie in Hindi
My thanks to Ram Chhetri ji for sharing this wonderful message.