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Destination is only Received by Journey # 6

What? Why?



The month of March 2002 has set in, new buds are coming into Life on the trees. In the same way, new buds are growing on the tree of my existence.
Suddenly an idea crops up and knocks at the door of this being, saying:
“Will anyone feel the spring coming into this being?”
This idea comes and then departs, but this is the Time where only truth blossoms. Everything gets conversant with external change, but there is no proof for internal upheaval.
A thought comes, again and again, in the shape of a question:
Are these questions coming because they are getting such answers or are they only questions, causing these answers to appear?
It seems to be one, the same thing, but in the deep sense, they are not identical.
If questions are bringing these answers, then it is a matter of intellect.
If the answers are already there, then these questions accrue from some sanskar, some deep-rooted impression, a product of the womb of some rare, uncommon moment.
If the question is the outcome of the intellect, then there is the role of ego, and then the inner voyage will stand still.
However, if the answer opens its door at the knock of the query, then the answer is the flower of some fragrant orchard.
No path can ensue, unless there is some trace proceeding to it.
With no recognition of these thoughts, which occurred a few months ago, I travel to India. On the second morning, I go to Ghumar Mandi, in Ludhiana, and stop in front of a store at the sight of countless yellow- coloured flowers, growing at a distance of nearly thirty feet. Enjoying this sight, the fascination of the flowers, causes tears to flow from my eyes. The shopkeeper and my driver standing by me are engaged in talking, as I am lost in the consciousness of flowers.
Suddenly someone makes his appearance and bows a little. With his eyes set on me, the person approaches, face to face, and says, “Well, Time will soon elapse, and Light is coming.”
The shadow vanishes and my concentration breaks down, the shopkeeper and the driver ask me what the stranger had said—I don’t know.
Tonight, as I am going to bed, the same stranger comes into my reflection and monopolizes my mind. His consciousness calls upon the whole incident of today, within my thoughts.
His countenance, the sheen of his eyes, the stir on his lips, the colour of his dress, his personality, divulged—his whole secret—answering exactly my question:
Well, is there anyone who has this knowledge? Who will cleanse, refine and burnish this being further; one who is the object of desire of every breath of my being?
My daily increasing devotion made me pawn this frame of mine in the spirit of self-renunciation. This stranger is DharamShala, a holy place at which my Life acquires its Relaxation.
This exhortation gives my being invisible wings, and again I lapse into thinking.
On the loom of my being, I couldn’t say when and how this earnest desire of mine set its warp, and when with the warp of my heart, I began to trace my path. I came to know of it only when minor desires began to scatter among these warps, the hues of weal and woe and a Beautiful carpet began to emerge before my sight. Now only these peals of admiration indicate the motion of this loom, and the threads of the carpet suggest a new life.
Reflections again make their appearance, to beautify this existence in keeping with the new environment.
Everyone says, “Deep aspiration and deep diligence prove a right approach in very direction.”
Then I start thinking:
When am I so deeply absorbed in this new direction?
Worship and holy invocations are only for a few days, and fasts last only up to midday and then come to an end!
If I resolve and proceed to visit a temple, I reach the theatre.
When I intend to visit the village of my paternal aunt, I reach the house of my maternal aunt.
If I went to a temple, it would only be to have a lunch or the largess of pudding. At what moments, did I display any special zeal for following this path?
Is the longing, which lays in my being, the foundation of today?
What is the unrest that cultivates itself in the soil of this being?
What is the colour that appeals to this existence of mine?
What and whose fragrance is it that has covered my whole being?
I can find no answers to these Beautiful questions, but in the extreme depth of my being, there is a quiet but intense proneness to laughter—which is not only perceived in my subtle shape but also in my ‘self’ (extremely subtle).
Again, I leave home in quest of that stranger, my new guest. There is a great rush in Chaura Bazar but my longing is confined to me alone.

This being cannot stand long; its quietness suggests its existence. Only my tears bring me some repose.
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