Thanking Nisargadatta

The dismal alley stank of sewage and garbage. As I approached
the house, a stray dog slunk away, its eyes full of fear. It was
an emaciated young dog, almost a puppy. Stray dogs don’t grow
old in Bombay. I gave a sigh of relief as I entered the narrow
stairwell smelling of dust and cheap incense. Going up, the
steps groaned menacingly under my weight.

In a small second floor room sat an old man dressed in white.
The massive head with prominent cheekbones seemed
misplaced on his frail body. The moment I entered, he opened
his eyes and stared at me without surprise, or any hint of inquiry.
The eyes dwarfed the head, as the head did the body. From then
on, I only saw the piercing eyes, as if, disembodied, they floated
in the room’s penumbra. After my salutation, he gestured toward
a cushion.

“Where do you come from?” he asked.

“I come from the future.”

He laughed, and his chest rumbled with phlegm. The laugh
sputtered, and then, exploded into a fitful cough.

“I have no future.” he said in a strangled voice.

“Your words do. In the future your words will be read by millions.
They will liberate hundreds of people.”

“They are not my words, and I’m not interested in those imaginary
hundreds. Have those words liberated you?”

“Yes, they have, and I thank you.”

He laughed again, but cut it short and clearing his throat with a
painful grimace, said, “If you were truly liberated, would there be
any need to thank someone who never existed?”

Now was my turn to laugh. “Yes, I see what you mean. That would
be the only way liberation could work. To liberate one individual at
a time is a hopeless task. Once the dreamer awakes, all the dream
characters are seen as unreal.”

“Nevertheless, you are still trying to awaken the characters in the
dream,” he said.

“Yes, I am. Does it mean that I’m not awake yet?”

“You are dreaming that you are awake, the dream still goes on.”

“But wait, you are fully awake and you still teach.”

“I exist and teach only in your dream.”

“So, when will the dream end?”

“The day the body dies.”

“You mean I had no need to study and meditate all these years
that I could have had any dream I wanted?”

“No. There is no ‘you’ apart from the dream, and there is no
other dream, but this one.”

“Well, If I am the dream, I will that you get well, and live as long
as I do.”

He laughed and began to cough again. “Get out,” he yelled. “You’re
an idiot. Get out. Out!”

His cough echoed behind me as I hurried downstairs.