Ajhun Chet Ganwar #10

Surati means: ajapa japa. Surati means: you don’t have to remember; remembrance remains. As breath moves—you don’t have to make it move. It remains on its own, natural, effortless. Not a doing. Not our exertion. Even if we want to forget, we cannot. Even if we try to fall into oblivion, there is no way. It permeates every breath. It becomes our natural state of feeling. That is the meaning of surati.

The word surati comes from smriti. Buddha used the word smriti; passing into the vernacular it became surati—remembrance. But mind you, not in words, not in language—in the very life-breath. A remembrance that is in words will sometimes be forgotten; its stream cannot be unbroken. Because the mind has a rule: the mind cannot do two things at once. If you think of money, meditation will be missed. If you think of meditation, money will be forgotten. Think of the home, the marketplace will be forgotten. Think of the marketplace, the home will be forgotten. The mind cannot do two things at once. And the mind is entangled in a thousand things—one thing leads to another, and then to a third. The mind has a big business going.

If you remember the Divine through the mind, it will happen only now and then. And a now-and-then remembrance is not reliable. Then it will happen only when great sorrow comes into life. It will be motivated. There will be a reason. When sorrow comes, remembrance returns—but because of sorrow. And a remembrance that comes because of sorrow is worth a couple of pennies. It is full of self-interest. In that remembrance there is calculation. It is not remembrance of the Divine; it is to get something done by the Divine. The intent is to make God a servant: “I am suffering—what are you doing sitting there?” But when happiness comes, you will forget completely.

And remember, only the one who remembers in happiness attains. The remembrance born of sorrow is false, utilitarian, worldly. The one who remembers in happiness… But in happiness the mind is so full of waves, so buoyant—who bothers about the Divine! In happiness the mind is so entangled in a thousand things that to get out of them is difficult. In sorrow, remembrance becomes possible because sorrow is hard to get involved in.

Sorrow has one virtue: one wants to get out of it; one doesn’t want to go deeper into it. Since one seeks to escape it, not to be entangled in it, to avoid it—perhaps a little remembrance of the Divine happens. But in happiness one wants to go in. One does not want to be saved from happiness. One wants to clutch it tight, press it to the heart. The mind is full of the longing that happiness become permanent. So one cannot let go of happiness; if you let go even for a moment, it might slip away, the thread may slide from the hand, the cord may be lost… Then in happiness the remembrance of the Divine does not arise.

Further, the mind has a thousand tasks. The mind is the mechanism for living in the world, so a thousand tasks will always be there for it. When you ride a bicycle you keep track of the pedals, the road—of passersby, of the policeman, of a thousand things. Remembrance of the Divine will slip again and again. It may come now and then in an empty moment; but unless there is a continuous, unbroken stream, it is not surati.

Surati means an unbroken stream. The devotees have given an image: when you pour water from one vessel to another, its stream breaks; it comes in spurts. When you pour oil from one vessel to another, its stream is unbroken. Surati is the flow of oil. It pervades the twenty-four hours. While awake it remains; in sleep too it remains. The body sleeps, the mind sleeps, but surati does not sleep—unbroken.

So, first, this cannot be done by the mind. In the mind nothing is unbroken; everything is in fragments. This will happen only by going beyond the mind. Where the mind dissolves, there surati is born. Where the mind disappears, there the Divine arrives. So surati is not manan (reflection), because manan is a process of the mind. It is not chintan (thinking), because chintan too is a process of the mind. Surati is a very rare, extraordinary happening.
You have asked: "Where the bhajan comes to completion..."
Well asked: Where bhajan is completed. Where whatever had to be done has been done.
There is doing in bhajan; in surati there is no doing. Where you have done all you could—prayed, worshipped, made offerings, sung bhajans, danced—whatever you could do, you did it all; and you did so much, so much, so much that slowly, slowly... As Paltu said yesterday: place fragrant flowers near sesame seeds and the sesame seeds become filled with the fragrance of the flowers. That is why oil acquires a scent. The fragrance in the oil is not of the sesame—it is of the flowers kept nearby. In the same way, if you did all that was possible with the mind—did it all, all that the mind could do—then in this doing the flower came close. By effort you remembered the Divine many times; its fragrance began to fill you. A day will come when the mind drops bhajan. The bhajan goes, but surati remains awake. The flower goes away, but the scent remains in the sesame seeds. So only after the long process of bhajan does surati ripen. Where bhajan is complete, there surati blossoms.

Surati is the distillation, the essence, the attar. Bhajan is like flowers—one flower, two flowers, three flowers. But all wither; wither they must. How far can human doing go! It can go only a little way. A transient person—how can the act of a transient person reach the eternal! At best it can give a brief glimpse of the eternal. For a fleeting moment, when in the morning a flower blooms in the garden, who could believe that evening will not come and the flower will be lost to the earth? In the morning, when the flower is in its ecstasy, scattering its fragrance—ready to challenge the moon and stars, to meet the sun, to endure the gusts of wind—it rejoices so much it seems it will remain forever, forever. Seeing its joy, it seems: will this ever fade? Never. But evening comes, the flower falls, scatters, is lost in the soil. In the morning, when it was alive, how powerful it seemed! And how beautiful! What a glimpse of the eternal it flashed! By evening it is clear: within time, nothing is eternal.

Just so, when a devotee does bhajan it may seem the thing has happened, it has descended. But bhajan is like the flower; surati is like the attar. The flowers will wither, but the attar can remain. So from each bhajan keep pressing out the attar: let the words be forgotten; squeeze out the feeling. Let the act fall away; hold fast to surrender. One day the moment comes when you have done thousands upon thousands of bhajans; their distillation has gathered, the attar has collected. Now there is no need to do bhajan—you have become bhajan.

Surati means: the devotee has become bhajan. Now there is no practice. Hence Kabir has said: “Whether I rise or sit, that is circumambulation.” He no longer goes to the temple to circumambulate; now, if I stand up or sit down, even that is circling the Divine. “Whatever I eat or drink, that is service.” I no longer go to the temple to offer food to God, nor ring the bells, nor arrange a plate for worship. “Whatever I eat or drink, that is service.” For the One abides within as well as without. Kabir called this: “Friends, the effortless samadhi is best.”

But this effortless samadhi does not just happen like that. Behind this effortlessness are great processes—years, lifetimes of process. So do not take effortless to mean it happens without anything being done. No: when it happens, nothing needs to be done. But before it happens, much has to be done. After thousands upon thousands of bhajans, somewhere a single drop of attar. From thousands of flowers pressed, somewhere a single drop of attar. That is why attar is precious.

Surati is the attar. It is not a matter of your doing. You go on doing bhajan: pray, worship, meditate, dance, celebrate. Remember the Beloved in many, many ways. For now it will be doing; for now it will happen by your doing. For now you will have to pedal a lot; your arms and legs will have to flail about a lot. Right now you are not a swimmer. When you are truly a swimmer, you won’t need to move your hands and feet—you will just lie upon the current. You will not stir at all; the current itself will hold you. But that is the final stage of swimming.

Surati is the last thing. Nanak called it “ajapa-jap”—when the mantra is not chanted, it happens. It happens within you; you hear it. If you do it, the chant will be lower than you; what you do cannot be greater than you. When you hear it—when it resounds within you, not because you did it but it is resounding—you become the witness. You see: what is this happening? It is resounding. It fills every pore of you. From some unknown realm it is entering you. You are swaying with it; it is raining upon you. The day you remain only a witness, not a doer—that day is surati.

But a single drop of surati is the fruit of millions upon millions of bhajans. Begin with bhajan; you are to arrive at surati. Keep the remembrance of surati. Aspire to such a state, long for such a state—where bhajan need not be done, it is. Whether you rise or sit, walk, open your eyes or close them—let your every act be filled with the remembrance of the Divine. Let your every act be his worship. See a tree, and he should be visible in the tree. See the mountain, and he should seem hidden in the mountain. See people, and within them the same lamp of him should appear to be burning. Close your eyes and find him within; open your eyes and find him without. When awake, be awake in him; when asleep, sleep in him.

But this cannot happen today, not yet. Surati is the fruit of countless, countless bhajans. Bhajan is practice; surati is nature.

There is no difference; hence there is no question of a reason. Ramakrishna’s language and my language are different. Ramakrishna speaks in the old idiom. His language is the language of Yoga; mine is the language of Tantra. But there is not the slightest difference in the essence.

Ramakrishna warns: beware of kamini and kanchan—woman and gold. I do not warn you. I say: go down into the world rightly—into woman and into gold—and you will be saved. But the intent to save is the same. In my vision, if you enter totally, you will be saved. If you do not enter totally, you cannot be saved. Warn yourself as much as you like, you will fall again. You will try to be alert, and again and again it will slip.

The language of Yoga is repression. Yoga says: whatever is wrong, cut it off and throw it away. Tantra’s language is acceptance. Tantra says: whatever is wrong, take it up and rise above it by transforming it—but rise above it through acceptance.

Tantra is far more glorious than Yoga. Yoga is understandable to the ordinary mind. Its message is simple: if the hand is diseased, cut it off; if the leg is diseased, amputate it. But if you go on cutting off what is “bad,” you will end up crippled; hardly anything healthy will remain.

Yoga says: if the hand has stolen, cut it off. But then how will you give in charity? Charity too is done by that very hand with which one steals. If, because of theft, you cut off the hand, what of charity? And even if merely “not stealing” could suffice, still, until charity arises, nothing essential has happened. Not stealing is not enough; it is appropriate, it is good—but when life becomes charity, only then is there fulfillment.

You may manage not to be angry: repress anger, cut it off; block yourself completely, control yourself—but if anger is repressed, from where will compassion arise? For it is the energy of anger itself that becomes compassion. Cut off sex—fine—but from where will brahmacharya (celibacy) arise? Brahmacharya is the transformation of sex-energy. If you repress sex, you will be deprived of love. And without love, how will devotion arise?

Yoga speaks a very common tongue, easily grasped by the worldly mind. Tantra’s language is deeply scientific. Tantra says: even poison can be used as medicine. Don’t throw anything away—not even poison. The very hallmark of Tantra is: here nothing is intrinsically wrong; if wrong is happening, the mistake is in us.

A vina lies at home; you do not know how to play it; and you think, “Throw it out—it makes a racket.” Tantra says: learn to play. Great notes sleep in this vina. A great music is dormant here. Immense ecstasy is possible. Do not throw it away. But yes, it’s true: if today you start plucking its strings, you will only disturb sleep—yours, the neighbors’. The police may be informed. Long practice is needed. You must befriend these strings, recognize them, understand their science. There is a hidden secret in them. The day you become an artist, the day you understand the mystery of the swaras, their language, an incomparable music can be born. You have fingers, you have the sitar—but that alone does not create music; in between there must be practice—long practice.

Someone asked a world-famous sitarist, “By now you must not need to practice.” He said, “No, forgive me. If I don’t practice for one day, I myself can tell something is missing. If I don’t practice for two days, my critics can tell something is missing. If I don’t practice for three days, the general public can tell something is missing.” Practice goes on. A moment also comes when one goes beyond practice.

Only then understand that the ultimate has been reached—when the sitarist no longer needs the instrument; he can put it aside and the music arises directly from him. That moment comes—but only at the end. Before that, there must be a long friendship with the instrument.

Tantra is wondrous; Yoga is ordinary. Even the sensualist understands Yoga, because Yoga speaks his language. The sensualist knows that sex brings suffering, and Yoga says: drop it.

Ramakrishna says: beware of woman and gold. Everyone understands this. Everyone knows that woman has brought pain, hurt. Everyone knows that the more one chases gold, money, the more madness comes, and one’s hands close on nothing. Even the sensualist knows this. Yoga speaks the language of the sensualist. This may surprise you—you think Yoga is the opposite of sensuality. Not at all. The true opposite is Tantra. Yoga speaks exactly the language you speak; there is hardly any difference. That is why Yoga has had such impact on sensualists. Tantra found little place, because to understand Tantra a far subtler language is needed.

Tantra says: accept, embrace. What God has given must contain some secret. Do not cut off, do not throw away. Wait—don’t be hasty.

Yoga says: remove it! Why is this dung piled up here? It stinks.

Tantra says: we will make compost of it. We will put it at the roots of the flowers. This very dung, this odor, will reappear as fragrance through the flowers. Wait a little.

Tantra is the work of a gardener. Yoga says: throw it out, the house is stinking. What rubbish is kept here!

Yoga says: get rid of this mud.

Tantra says: wait, we have sown lotus seeds in it; soon lotuses will rise from this mud.

In Sanskrit the lotus is called pankaja—born of pank, of mud. Have you seen this secret? There is no flower like the lotus—and it arises from filth. We have seated Buddha on a lotus, and we have let a lotus spring from Vishnu’s navel; and all the wise have said that when energy reaches the seventh chakra, the thousand-petaled lotus opens, the sahasrar blossoms. Whatever is most exalted in this world, we have likened to the lotus. And the lotus is born in mud. Yoga says: throw away the mud, clean up. You can certainly clean—but then lotuses will not grow.

Tantra says: there is mud; from it lotuses can be. Have patience. Learn the art. When lotuses bloom, only then is there any real excellence, any true intelligence.

I speak the language of Tantra. I tell you: from sex, love is born. Love is hidden within sex. Sex is not love. Mud is not the lotus—but the lotus is concealed within the mud. Separate them! Save love. Do not, in cutting sex, accidentally cut love too. That is what happens. Your so-called saints cut off sexual desire; love is also excised from their lives. Then they sit—dull, corpse-like. The lotuses of love do not bloom in their lives; no notes of love arise. This is a great mistake. They got free of the “bad,” but the “good” did not flower. Why not? Because they also discarded the energy that would have turned into the good.

Whatever energies are within you are to be evolved, not excised. They need stairways.

So Tantra says: go into the world. Go into every kind of experience. From sex, love will be born. Then, if you continue the inquiry within love—separating, sifting, going deeper—devotion will arise. Do not stop till devotion arises. And the day devotion arises, you will suddenly find that the note of sex is nowhere. The day the lotus appears, can you find mud in it? Forget mud—water itself does not touch the lotus. Not to speak of mud, even water cannot cling to the lotus. That is why all the wise have used the lotus as a symbol.

A sannyasin should be like the lotus: in water, yet untouched by water. In the world, yet untouched by the world. If the world does not touch you because you have fled from it, where is the glory in that? Run away from the world—and then the world does not touch you; what is great about that? Come back; you will find it still touches you. That is why escapist renunciates are afraid of returning to the world; they tremble. Is this liberation? Such fear-filled “liberation” is not worth a penny.

So what Ramakrishna says—beware of woman and gold—I say the same. But Ramakrishna speaks the language of Yoga; I speak the language of Tantra. Like Ramakrishna I say: you have to go beyond; but not by cutting off—by living, by experiencing. You have to squeeze the divine out of life. God is hidden here—like gold in ore, mixed with earth. Remove the earth, keep the gold.

Sex brings life—anyone can see that. Do you only see that sex creates bondage? Do you not see the other fact—that through sex you were born? All life arises from sex-energy. So sex has two aspects: on one side the world and its bondage are born; on the other side life itself blossoms. These flowers are the flowering of sex-energy. The birds’ songs—all this is sex’s call. The peacock spreads his tail and dances—is he doing devotion? The cuckoo calls—has she gone mad? All that is the cry of love—the forms of sex.

If you look closely you will see sex everywhere in this living world. Scientists say even the fragrance of flowers is sexual—through scent the flower sends its pollen, its seeds, to other flowers, where a new life will begin.

This entire living world is an expansion of sex. Whatever is alive is sex. Where there is such a source of life, there, somewhere, the divine will have to be sought.

So I tell you: whatever brings life, do not be afraid. Go with awareness—only that much, keep awareness intact, and go. Keep awareness, so you can see what is what, and you can squeeze the essence out of experience. The day all experiences are complete in you, you will also go beyond them.

Beyond you must go—beyond woman and gold. But the path to beyond passes through woman and gold. There is no bypass. If you are to be free of the marketplace, the path goes through the marketplace. Don’t try to escape around it; otherwise you’ll remain inexperienced. You can sit on a mountain, but the marketplace will go on echoing within. What you have not experienced is never renounced. Experience alone brings freedom.

It depends on how you look. Yesterday I was reading a little poem:
On the road I found something.
One said: Oh! this is art.
Another said: Ugh! what a curse.
A third looked closely and said: Tch! it’s the sole of a shoe.

Look at life closely. Whatever is useless will be seen—and, as soon as it is seen, you drop it. First, beauty appears in the body; look closely and you will say, “Tch! this is the sole of a shoe.” Later beauty appears in the mind; one day you will see: there too nothing. Then beauty appears in the soul; you go deeper. One day you see: here too, nothing. Then the beauty of the divine is seen. The beauty of the divine is the last depth—bottomless depth. But one must move step by step—from the shallow to the deep.

There is no liberation without experience. And when experience is complete, something extraordinary happens.

There is an account in the life of Buddha. On the night he attained enlightenment—samadhi—after six years of relentless effort, he dropped all effort. For six years he practiced severe austerities and Yoga. He wasted the body away, skin and bones. It is said his stomach clung to his spine, his skin was dry, the juice of life gone; only eyes remained. Buddha said: my eyes were like a little water left in a deep well in summer—deep in the darkness. Just a faint glimmer. He was in such a condition that one moment more and he would be gone. That day, after bathing in the Niranjana river, he was too weak to climb out. He seized the root of a tree to stop himself, otherwise the river would have swept him away. Hanging to that root the thought struck: what am I doing? I have ruined the body; through all kinds of yogas I have destroyed myself. I am so weak I cannot cross this small stream, and I am thinking of crossing the ocean of becoming!

A flash happened. He said: what have I done! This is suicide. If I cannot cross the Niranjana, how will I cross the ocean of existence? I have erred.

That evening he dropped everything. He had already left home, the world, kingdom and power—now he dropped renunciation and Yoga as well. Sensuality had fallen earlier; that evening he dropped renunciation too. His five disciples left him when the master abandoned renunciation. And a woman of unknown lineage—most likely untouchable, for her name was Sujata—appeared.

It often happens that if a woman is named Sundarbai, you can assume she is not beautiful—names deceive, covering what is lacking. Sujata means “well-born.” Had she been born in a “good” family, the name would not be needed. She was likely born in an untouchable home. Not certain, but the name suggests it.

You’ve heard: the blind of eye is named Nayansukh. Sujata’s name hints at a father’s hurt: my daughter is not born in a good clan—let the name make up for it.

The disciples left Buddha. They said: he has dropped renunciation, and now this unknown village girl—who knows her family, where she’s from, who she is... Sujata had vowed to offer kheer on the full-moon night to a certain tree which people believed was the abode of a deity. When she arrived she saw Buddha sitting there. She thought the tree-deity had appeared. She offered the kheer to Buddha. She felt blessed. She had offered to the tree-god—but Buddha had dropped all renunciation, so he accepted the kheer. On any other day he would not have. The disciples left, saying: Gautama is corrupt. That night Buddha slept utterly at ease. For the first time, utterly relaxed. Neither world nor liberation remained. When there is nothing to gain, what worry can there be? Worry is born of wanting to gain.

You know: if at night the mind clings to some desire—to buy a house, to start a new business, the lottery result comes tomorrow—if the mind keeps racing, worry arises.

That night there was no worry. Not even for moksha. He dropped the whole thing. Buddha said: it is all meaningless. There is nothing to get here or there. There is nothing to get, period. I am unnecessarily running. I drop the journey. He slept at ease. That night he surrendered his life to the flow of life. He went with the current—like one who stops swimming, leaves arms and legs loose, and the river carries him. A deep sleep. In the morning he awoke to find he was in samadhi.

Then occurred the event I want to tell you. Sujata had left the kheer in an earthen bowl—poor girl; the poor eat from clay bowls. The bowl lay there. It is a very sweet story. Buddha picked up the bowl and went to the river. He said: if it is true, as it seems to me, that samadhi has happened; for the first time I know—an incomparable light fills me—all sorrow has ended; no anxiety remains; “I” itself is gone; I am finished; I have the solid experience that I have attained what is to be attained; this samadhi that comes once in millions of years has blossomed in me—still I want proof. I want a sign from existence. It seems I have attained—but what proof is there from existence?

He placed the bowl in the Niranjana and said: if this bowl does not go downstream but floats upstream, I will accept that it has happened. And Buddha watched—and the fishermen on the bank watched in astonishment—the bowl began to float upstream! Swiftly it went, and soon disappeared from sight.

This story is sweet, symbolic, meaningful. In the night Buddha surrendered himself to the river’s current. When one has surrendered completely to the downward current, the next morning the river gives its certificate: now you can go upstream as well. Not only you—even a bowl released from your hand will float against the current.

This is Tantra. This is Tantra’s fundamental. Enter the world—wholly, totally, without quarrel, without friction—keeping only awareness. And one day you will suddenly find: you had surrendered to go downward, and you began to rise. Not only you; even the bowl released from your hand will begin to journey upstream in the river of life.

So I speak the language of Tantra—but the result is the same. Ramakrishna says: stay away from woman and gold. I say: you will become free of woman and gold—by entering the world rightly. The words differ; only the manner of saying is different. The truth is one.

It happened that two men were fighting by the roadside. One had a big stick, the other a long knife. Both were ready to kill, and many people were trying to pacify them: “Brother, don’t fight. What’s the use? You have children; he has a wife and home; you have old parents. What are you doing? If someone dies, then what?” A big crowd tried to explain, but the more they explained, the more the fighters’ fury rose.

In fact, if the crowd did not interfere, the fury might subside. But when a crowd comes to persuade, the fury never subsides. If no one stood there, they might quietly go home. But now so many are watching—ego and force get aroused.

Just then a man stepped out of the crowd and handed each fighter a leaflet and disappeared. The two read it. It said: “Brothers, at my clinic I have fine facilities for dressing even the deepest wounds. My clinic is just a few steps from here—if needed, come.” Reading this, both became calm. Something extraordinary happened. Both must have thought: “This is too much! Our lives are at risk here and someone is advertising his clinic!” They dropped the leaflets and went home by their separate ways. They could not be persuaded by the crowd—but that man’s handbill did the job.

When I say “go into the world,” I am not saying there is something to be had there. I am saying: you will get plenty of wounds, you will have to suffer much. But until you suffer the misery of the world, you cannot be free of it. Only by suffering it do you understand that this race is futile, there is nothing here worth attaining. How else will you understand? If you could understand by my saying so, it would be very simple—but then truth would be borrowed. It is good that someone else’s words do not convince you. Otherwise, enlightened ones have always said the world contains nothing, and still you go. You feel there is something. The real question is: how will it become your own seeing that there is nothing? How will my saying make it so? Ramakrishna may go on saying it—how will it become yours? And Ramakrishna is right: there is nothing. But you have not yet seen. And “heard by the ears is false; seen by one’s eyes is true.” Ramakrishna speaks—who knows what the matter is? He might be crazy, self-deceived, or deceiving others; perhaps they have some vested interest—or neither, perhaps they are not deceivers nor mad, just in illusion. The whole world is moving toward woman and gold, and this gentleman stands and says: beware, don’t go toward woman and gold! He seems an exception. Should we listen to the crowd or to him? Where all go—wise and foolish—one man stands outside the crowd and shouts. It is like a flute in a drum-house.

I don’t say that to you. I say: run a little faster. See life quickly, lest death come before you have seen. The sooner you see through life, the better. The earlier you are weary of it through seeing, the earlier experience shows you it is a mirage—the sooner you are free.

My language is the language of Tantra. There is no opposition to life; life is to be known. And to know, one must go without prejudice. Don’t form a bias beforehand toward what you want to know.

You will be surprised: humankind is approaching a point where, on a large scale, people can become free of the world. Until now it happened to a rare few. But before this century ends, at least in the West, many will certainly become free. Because so many means have been found to see and live the world that what once took many lifetimes can now be seen in one. A thousand years ago in the East, or even today in an Eastern village, a man marries once and that’s it. All his life he will see only one woman—and the doubt will linger: with this woman I didn’t find bliss; perhaps with another I would. That suspicion remains. So many beautiful women—actresses—colorful images on screens draw one’s attraction. You didn’t find happiness with your wife; she gave much pain; this “woman” proved dangerous. Ramakrishna is right about this woman—but what about Hema Malini? The image on the screen is made alluring by every device. How will you be freed? It may take many lives.

Modern civilization is eliminating the need for many lifetimes.

In the West a person marries eight or ten times in one life. You are deceived by one woman; he is deceived by ten. You are deceived by one husband; a Western woman is deceived by ten or twenty. How many times will you deny it? This time you say: “The man wasn’t right; the next will be.” You marry him—and after a few days, when the honeymoon is over, the same cycle repeats. Faces differ, styles differ—but the same inner diseases emerge: anger, jealousy, enmity, hate, the same upheavals. After changing five or ten partners, will it not arise in your mind that the whole thing seems illusory, a mirage?

It is not surprising that Western people are becoming interested in religion. There are reasons. Eastern people are not so interested. If you look closely, all their interest is in the West—how to get good machines, how to make atom bombs, how to learn the latest sciences. The East’s mind runs Westward. The West’s mind turns East—people come searching: what is meditation, what is devotion, what is prayer? Do you not see what is happening? Why? The Eastern man is harassed by lack of wealth—wealth not attained. A beautiful wife, a fine house—not attained; there is no experience, therefore there is no release. The Western man has everything: the finest car, the finest house, the finest wife, husband, children—and hands empty, mouth filled with ash. The taste of ash. This is leading to a great revolution. The Western man is getting interested in Buddha’s words, Christ’s words. A new awakening is happening.

Here, you will be amazed. Among my Western sannyasins there are scientists, doctors, engineers, professors, even church priests. These people have seen life there. And here Eastern people laugh at them!

Naturally, one longs for what one lacks.

It happened that Emperor Akbar used to visit a fakir; sometimes the fakir came to the emperor. Finally Akbar could not restrain himself. One day, when they were alone, he asked: “May I ask something? Whenever you come to me, you ask for money. Whenever I come to you, I talk of God. What kind of fakiri is yours? I seem more religious—I come to speak of God. But when you come to me, you ask for rupees, for wealth.”

The fakir laughed: “It is simple—what is there to explain? You have wealth; that’s why I ask you for wealth. I have God; that’s why you ask me for God. I don’t have wealth; that’s why I ask for it. You don’t have God; that’s why you ask for God. A man asks for what he does not have.”

This impressed me. The fakir spoke a profound truth: a man asks for what he lacks.

The East asks for wealth: bread, livelihood, clothing, housing. The West asks for something else—bread, clothing, housing are done; they are attained—and having attained, nothing is gained.

The Western mind is bemused by Ramakrishna’s constant refrain: renounce woman and gold. “But that is already dropping away; what is there to repeat?”

You will be surprised. Here in India a sannyasin of sixty-five came to me a few days ago. He said, “Everything else is fine. Meditation is helping a lot—but this sexual desire does not go. The mind is calmer. The craving for wealth has lessened; the restlessness is not so much.”

Tears were in his eyes. He said, “I am sixty-five. I know my age—why does this remain? It doesn’t leave me; it keeps raising its head.”

He is a simple, honest man; not deceiving. He brought his wife; tears in her eyes too. “What to do?” he asked. “The body is weak, but desire still pushes.”

By coincidence, that very day an American youth of twenty-three came after him and said, “I have no interest in women, because since I was fifteen I have lived with so many girls. The taste is finished. I simply have no juice in women. Is something wrong with me?” He asked, “Because you say: go and experience the world. I feel no interest—should I force myself? I’m only twenty-three—and listening to you, I’m afraid perhaps something is wrong; at my age I should have desire!”

Now, the old man says, “There must be something wrong—at my age desire should be gone.” The young man says, “At my age desire should be there; there must be something wrong since it’s gone.”

What is happening? The old man repressed his whole life. He followed Ramakrishna’s dictum: beware of woman and gold—and by “carefulness upon carefulness” he fell into the pit. The young man understands the language of Tantra. In seven or eight years he has seen what the old man could not see in sixty-five: he lived with many girls, enjoyed many—and saw the pointlessness; the dream broke; illusion ended. Illusion ends only through experience.

What I am saying and what Ramakrishna says have no difference in conclusion; but my process is Tantric—modern, future-oriented.

Ramakrishna spoke an old tongue, of tradition and convention. He used Yoga’s language. If you read Ramakrishna’s Gospel you will be amazed: hardly a day passes when he does not admonish his devotees: renounce woman and gold, woman and gold, woman and gold! In the West this makes psychologists suspect that Ramakrishna was fixated on woman and gold. Why this constant refrain?

I know Ramakrishna was not fixated. He was beyond. But those around him were fixated; he was speaking to them. India’s mind has been repressed for centuries; its grip is on two things: woman and wealth.

George Mikes, a Western writer, came to Delhi. He wrote in his memoirs that at the station a Sardarji grabbed his hand and said, “I am an astrologer; I can read your palm and tell your future.” George Mikes said, “I have no interest in the future. The present is enough. Forgive me.” But the Sikh did not listen—Sardar is Sardar! He started telling the future. Out of politeness—Mikes writes—I said, “Brother, you won’t stop, so I listened.” Two minutes later he said, “Now let me go. I’m not interested in the future—wealth, wife, house.” He said, “I already have these; I need no more. I’ve come to India to be free of them. Please, Sardarji! I’ve come to get rid of things—and you’re telling me how to get more.”

The Sardar said, “My fee is five rupees.” He gave five rupees just to end the hassle. But as he paid, the Sardar started telling further. Mikes said, “Please stop, otherwise you will ask for another five. Now don’t speak.” But the Sardar continued—and at the end he again asked for five rupees.

Mikes wrote: this was too much. Courtesy has limits. I already gave five rupees so the hassle might end—though I owed none, since I didn’t ask you to speak. You insisted, holding my hand. Then I told you I wouldn’t pay; if you speak, you speak, but I’m not interested. Still you spoke—and now you demand five rupees.

Do you know what the Sardar said? Releasing his grip: “Ah, you money-grabber, materialist!”

Who is materialist here? Mikes wrote in his diary: I was stunned—who is materialistic? I’m not interested in the future—yet I am the materialist? I have no taste for future wealth and women—and I am the materialist? He wrung five rupees from me by force—yet I’m the greedy one? Now he is asking again—and because I refuse, he abuses me as materialist!

Look closely. People in India call the West materialist. But you will hardly find a country more materialist than India.

I cannot speak in Ramakrishna’s language. That language is worn out, and psychologically wrong—Ramakrishna may be right in himself, but his language is wrong psychologically. It belongs to the bullock-cart age. Now man flies in the sky, walks on moon and stars. Everything has changed. Today the language that fits is Tantra. Hence my emphasis on Tantra.

I do not say: renounce money. I say: live money, enjoy it, it will drop. It should drop—and if you live it rightly, how can it not? I don’t say: keep away from women. I say: pass rightly through the company of women; gradually you will find the matter has ended.

Do not run from what frightens you. Escapists are cowards. Whatever you fear—pass through it. Accept it, make it a challenge: “I will pass through, I will see it.” Even if it takes the whole life, stake it. You will return victorious.

Runaways don’t win—and God loves the victorious, not the defeated. This world exists so that you may conquer it. It is a challenge, a call: come, conquer. Its temptations are devices for your victory. Your situation is like this: all is arranged for the game—the field laid out, the sticks and balls placed, players on the ground—and you run away, saying, “What’s the point?” This world is a play. That is why we have called it lila. In this play are hidden lessons. If you play, you learn. Learn, and you need not return. You become anagami—non-returner. If you do not learn, you will come again and again.

So don’t get lost in idle talk. Only that is yours which you have seen with your own eyes. Eye-witness is true. Only what you have experienced is truth; don’t accept a grain more as truth.

Ramakrishna’s truth is Ramakrishna’s truth. He is repeating his own truth. He has gone beyond woman and gold. He is saying: you too go beyond.

It is like an old man telling children: go beyond sexual desire. The old man speaks rightly—but to whom? He forgets that these are children; how can they go beyond before they have gone within? Before asking them to go out, at least let them go in. Let them see a little of this circus of the world. You are old, you are outside—don’t turn them old too soon.

I am against nothing. My acceptance is total. Because I trust that if this is God’s world, then it must be a school; there can be no other reason. If it is God’s world, it has a purpose.

Gurdjieff used to say: it seems your saints are opposed to God. It seems true. Your saints appear to be against God—God creates the world, and your saints say: run away. If God himself is against the world, why did he create it? Even if by mistake he created it the first time, now he should stop. But he does not tire. New people come and go daily—new seeds sprout, new flowers bloom, new birds, new humans. The world goes on. God is not tired; he is not disappointed.

Tagore says in a poem: it is a wonder that God is not yet disappointed with man—he still creates children. Man commits so many mistakes—yet God is not disheartened; he still hopes. If you lose once, he sends you again; lose again, he sends you again—and again. Until you take a certificate from this world that you have known and realized there is nothing here, you will be sent back.

Why this return? Have you ever thought why you are sent back again and again? And have you thought why we say that Buddha, Nanak, Kabir, Paltu never returned? Because they knew. A student who has graduated does not go back to university. Those who fail must return—repeat the same class.

You will have to return if you do not go rightly. Do not accept borrowed truths. Ramakrishna is right. He speaks from experience. You too must experience. When you do, you will find the same thing is true—but through your experience. Another’s hearsay will not do.

The goal of knowledge is liberation. The goal of meditation is liberation. The goal of love is celebration. The goal of love is bliss—even though liberation and bliss are two sides of the same coin. Whoever attains liberation also attains bliss; whoever attains bliss also attains liberation. They are not separate. But since the wise man speaks of meditation, and by walking the path of meditation gradually frees himself, when the moment of moksha arrives he will naturally sing the glory of moksha. For him, bliss is secondary—like a shadow.

When your friend comes to your house, you welcome the friend, not his shadow. The shadow also comes—just as the friend comes, the shadow comes—but you don’t greet the shadow. You garland the friend, not the shadow. You hang festoons for the friend, not for the shadow—although the shadow is right there.

One who has sought through meditation has desired that moksha come, that liberation arrive. Liberation has been his aspiration; so when the event happens, his words will praise liberation. Bliss has followed behind, like a shadow, but he will not talk of bliss.

Buddha did not even use the word “bliss.” Even when pressed, he only said: there is the cessation of suffering. He said merely that there, there is no suffering—he did not say there is bliss. This is the language of the sage, and it has reasons; it has meaning. The wise and the devotee do not speak without cause. Why did Buddha not say there is bliss? Was he not aware of bliss? Who else would know it! Where will you find anyone more blissful than Buddha? And yet he says only that suffering ceases. Why?

Because Buddha sees that people’s longing is distorted. If you tell them of bliss, they don’t understand what bliss is; they only imagine their own pleasure magnified. They think bliss means a great heap of the same old pleasure—“mega-pleasure.” They cannot grasp a qualitative difference; they think only in terms of quantity. They think: if I have a sesame-seed’s worth of pleasure here, bliss must be like the whole sky of it—more of the same. That would be a misunderstanding.

So Buddha says: what you know as suffering, that will not be there. What will be there, you have no experience of; therefore I will not use any word that will create further obstacles for you. You don’t know bliss; how can I speak of it? You do know suffering; so by that doorway I say: suffering is not there.

Understand. Suppose a man has never seen light. Someone who has seen light returns, and the one who has lived only in darkness asks, “What is there?” If the man says, “There is light,” it is meaningless—because the listener has never known light. Instead, he says, “There is no darkness.” That communicates. However much the dark-dweller insists—“All right, I get it, there is no darkness, but what is there?”—the other can only say: “Go and see. There is something, but it is beyond words, inexpressible, unsayable.”

When Buddha entered a village, he would have it announced that there were eleven questions not to be asked. In those eleven he included all that cannot be explained—the inexpressible, that which can only be known by knowing, seen by seeing: “Know the river only by seeing it.” These things cannot be conveyed; and any attempt to tell them invites misunderstanding—people will take something for something else.

So Buddha did not use the word “bliss.” This does not mean that there is no bliss. Meanwhile, Kabir, Dadu, Raidas sing the glory of bliss; they sing songs of joy. “The unstruck flute sounds!” They say a vast, unstruck flute is playing; that nectar is raining—“Amrit showers!”—clouds gather; the whole sky trembles with bliss; a thousand suns arise; a thousand lotuses bloom.

The devotee sings drunk with ecstasy. The devotee’s language is different. His quest is celebration, bliss; not freedom, not moksha. The devotee says: keep your moksha—I do not want it. Let me have your darshan. “These eyes thirst for the Beloved’s sight!” Let me behold you, let there be touch and seeing. I need nothing more. Keep your moksha; for me, the bond of your love is enough. Bind me in a thousand bonds—let your arms encircle me. Let me live in your embrace. Let me hold your feet. Do not take these feet away from me. That is enough for me.

The devotee’s search is different—it is a search for love, for bliss, for celebration. When the event happens in a devotee’s life—it is the same event—but the first thing he sees is bliss. Freedom comes like a shadow, following behind. It comes—both come together; they are two names for the same energy. But what you see depends on your way of seeing.

Understand it this way: you bring some friends into this garden. A woodcutter comes; he looks at the bushes and trees—at the same tree you are looking at—but he sees only wood. He thinks of firewood, of furniture, of prices in the market. Nothing else is visible to him—only wood. A painter stands there and sees greenery, flowers; he doesn’t see wood—he sees beauty. And note: the painter sees colors in a way you do not; he has a mastery over color. To you all trees just look “green”; to him, each tree is a different green. There are thousands of kinds of green—shades within shades—seen by a trained eye.

If you bring a musician, he won’t see colors; his mastery is through the ear, not the eye. Often the blind become great musicians, because the musician’s grip is through hearing—color is irrelevant, sound is everything. Standing by the same tree, he hears the wind: the hush of leaves, the breeze passing through the branches. The painter won’t notice this—this is not a matter of seeing—but the musician will hear it.

Bring a scientist, a botanist—his concerns are different still: what species, what country did it come from, how old is it? And all of them stand in the same garden. Bring a little child—he may not be interested in the tree at all, but become ecstatic over a butterfly perched on it. Different people, different frames, different ways of knowing.

The meditator has pondered freedom for years—thought it, contemplated it, meditated on it. In every fiber of his being one cry has resounded: freedom! freedom! freedom! When he approaches the divine, what he has longed for appears. Something else also arrives as a gift, along with it—but what he has sought is what he notices: freedom has come!

The devotee has longed for love, bliss, celebration; for intoxication. He has longed for the Lord to become wine in his throat so he may dance—drunk and adrift in delight. “Meera danced with bells tied to her feet!” For so many lives the devotee has sat with anklets ready, waiting: “When will union happen, and I will dance?” Lifetimes have passed waiting for the hour of dance. When the Divine arrives, the devotee bursts into dance. Meera danced. Buddha remained still like a statue—silent. You cannot even imagine Buddha dancing; it is not the tone of his being. The first statues ever made were of Buddha, because he himself was statue-like—marble-still. When the supreme event happened he neither stirred nor moved. It is said he remained seated without moving for seven days. Even the gods became afraid: “Will he just end like this?” They touched his feet, gently shook him: “Lord, please speak. After so many centuries a man attains Buddhahood. Many will benefit—please speak. Why do you sit silent? We have been waiting these seven days.”

Buddha had no mind to speak—speech would cause a ripple, a stir. He was drunk in a silence without movement, free of vibration.

And when the same event happened to Meera, she danced—danced and danced. Now you might ask: did two different events happen? No, the event is one, the persons are different. One is the mind of a meditator; the other, a lover’s heart.

Remember: these are the two principal distinctions. And clarify your own. Otherwise great difficulty arises. Do not be greedy. Do not try to walk both paths.

Often the greedy come to me: “Shall we do a little devotion and a little meditation—what’s the harm?” There is no “harm,” but you will not arrive. If a man walks one road in the morning and another in the evening, he will reach nowhere. He will stroll around and return home, stroll again and return again; but there will be no journey. A journey happens only on one road; you must dedicate your whole life to one path.

Both paths are true. If you wish, walk the path of love. Look within; take a quiet look. What calls you—the cry for freedom or the call of bliss? What do you want? Do you want a life full of dance, with flowers and fragrance? Or do you want a life of such quiet that not even a ripple remains? If you want the motionless, go by meditation. If you want dance, drunkenness, festivity—go by devotion.

That is why there is a difference in the words of devotees and of sages. But one who really sees hears the same note in both. The flutes are different, but the music played through them is one.

Floating straws the current rocks,
A sinking pebble is helplessly lost.
Who is heavy and who is light?
Weighing is the wave’s own sport.
A single black thread knots the sky,
This weary earth is bound in ties.
The petal bound as best it could,
But fragrance would not heed the line.

“The petal bound as best it could.” When fragrance is born in a flower, the bud tries to hold it in. “The petal bound as best it could, but fragrance would not heed this boundary.” Fragrance will not obey—it will pry open the petals and fly free.

The meditator is like a closed bud. The bud has its own charm. The devotee is like a flower in full bloom; the flower too has its charm. Tastes differ. Some prefer garlands of buds; others garlands of flowers. Both have their virtues.

A garland of buds has a special beauty—like the crescent on the second night of the moon. Something is about to be—has not yet happened. The fragrance is held, only a hint escapes now and then; it stays longer. You can rely on buds—the scent will last two or four days at home. With a blossom—now it is here, now gone; the winds will soon steal it away.

They say a Muslim emperor once sent his ambassador to India—in Aurangzeb’s time. When the envoy arrived he said to Aurangzeb, “You are the full moon.” News of this reached the emperor of Iran. He was astonished: “He called the Indian emperor the full moon! What will he call me then? There is nothing beyond the full moon.”

When the envoy returned, the courtiers, as courtiers do, had primed the emperor against him: “He has insulted you. He called the Indian emperor the full moon—what can he possibly call you now? Test his loyalty: ask, ‘If the Indian emperor is the full moon, what am I?’ He is a cheat; beware.”

As soon as the envoy entered, he was seized and brought before the court. The emperor asked, “You called the Indian emperor the full moon—what will you call me?” He replied, “You—You are the second-night moon.” The emperor was furious: “A tiny crescent—and the full moon so great!”

The envoy said, “Do not be upset. Beyond the full moon, there is only death—decline. Darkness follows. The second-night moon has immense possibility—your future is vast. The Indian emperor is a dead man; I called him dead. You did not understand. I told him his days are over and ours are coming. For the full moon, the glory is past; for the young crescent, the glory lies ahead. What do you want?”

The envoy asked, “Do you want future—or past?”

It was a matter of meaning. The second-night moon has its beauty. Hindus worship the full moon; Muslims revere the first crescent. Both have their virtues. The full moon is completion—symbol of fulfillment. The crescent is growth—symbol of movement and becoming.

So with bud and flower. The bud is the crescent—so much possibility still. Not yet bloomed—will bloom. The fragrance is still closed, the fist is clenched. And they say: “A closed fist is worth a lakh; opened, it’s dust.” The mystery is held in the petals.

Look at Buddha’s statue: everything is closed, turned inward; all is contained within.

The meditator sits with all within—steadfast, brimming, full to the brim; nothing spills from his cup. That is his beauty. The devotee is like a flower—he spills everything, gives it all away. He has his beauty too. He is not miserly; there is no stinginess. And he knows: the One who gave this fragrance will give again. Why hoard? Why fear to share? Share—for this is a thing that grows by giving, does not diminish. The more you sing, the more new songs are born. The more you dance, the more new dances arrive. The stream is inexhaustible.

The devotee has his virtues; the flower has its virtues. In both, the fragrance is the same. In the flower it spreads; in the bud it is hidden within. But the fragrance is one. The Divine is one. The experience is one. Samadhi is one. In the devotee, samadhi dances; in the meditator, it rests. Let me say it again: in the devotee, samadhi dances—the Divine dances. In the meditator, it rests. And rest is needed somewhere too! You cannot only dance; and only resting would not do either—somewhere there must be dance. So God dances somewhere and rests somewhere: he rests in Buddha, he dances in Meera. Both are his aspects.

And still you ask what to do! Then whatever you do will be wrong. When will you understand? This is not about doing—it is about dropping doing. Let God do. You don’t do; that will be your great blessing. You have done enough; by doing and doing you have spoiled everything. Don’t be the doer. The Doer is He—the Doer, the Purusha! He alone is the Doer. Let Him do. Become His vehicle. Become His flute; let Him sing His song.

This is what I keep telling you again and again: I say something, you understand something else. I said: whatever you do will be wrong, because you are wrong. When I say you are wrong, what does it mean? It means that you are—and therefore you are wrong. Your very being, your ego—this is the mistake. Disappear, and you will be right. If you are gone, all is right; if you remain, it is wrong. You take it upside down. You think: “All right, I am wrong—so how do I become right?” But you want to remain; you don’t want to disappear. You say: “There must be some fault; we’ll remove it and put on rightness. This sheet is not good; I’m ready to wear another sheet.” But inside you will remain the same; you will change the sheet, change the clothes, change the disguise. You are ready to change everything—everything but one thing: the inner ego, the “I.” That alone keeps swelling. You keep decorating it. You say: “These ornaments aren’t right; I’ll wear others.”

When will you disappear? I do understand your difficulty. You have a fixed, wooden language—a language shaped by your life’s experience. When my words fall into that language, their sound gets distorted.

I have heard: a donkey, standing with his ear to a wall, was asked by another donkey, “Why are you standing here? What are you doing?” The first donkey replied, “My child is lost. From this house the sound of a quarrel is coming. One says, ‘You’re the son of a donkey,’ and the other says, ‘You’re the son of a donkey.’ I’m thinking: when the fight ends, my child will come out of the house, and I’ll take him home!”

The donkey is looking for his child. How would he know that these men calling each other “donkey” are not donkeys? How would he know that their ‘donkey’ means something else? How would he know they are only abusing, not stating a fact? But how is a donkey to know? He has gone out to find his child. He thinks, “Wonderful! Inside this house is my donkey’s child. When he comes out, I’ll take him. Let the quarrel end, then I’ll take him.”

When I speak to you, this is what happens continually. I say one thing; you understand something else. I said: whatever you do will be wrong, because you are wrong—because your very being is the mistake. In your not-being everything will be right. When you are not, God is. As long as you are, God is not. And when you are no more, then God can be. God is right and you are wrong. You can never be right, and God cannot be wrong. That is the arithmetic. If you preserve even a little of yourself, the mistake will continue; you will keep producing off-key notes. You should bid farewell.

That is why Paltu said: this is the work of the brave. Only the one who is ready to dissolve, who is ready to take off his own head with his own hands—only that audacious one becomes worthy of the supremely beloved state; only he can enter the Beloved’s gate.

You ask: “Why don’t you tell us clearly what we should do?”
Do you think that, clearer than I already speak, it could be said? I speak clearly. Daily I repeat the same thing again and again. There is nothing new to say. There is only one thing to say. The message is small; it can be written on a postcard. Yet the world’s scriptures, even writing and writing, cannot say it fully. The message is only this: become zero, and into your emptiness God descends. Become zero and you become whole. The drop lost in the ocean becomes the ocean.

But I understand that you don’t understand clearly. You say to me, “Why don’t you tell us clearly?” Better say: Why don’t we understand clearly? Up to there, it is right. From my side I am speaking absolutely clearly. Never has it been told more clearly, nor can it be. What more clarity could there be? Every single weave and thread I have laid out before you. Nothing has been hidden. There is no secret. All the cards have been laid out before you.

Yes, I understand it isn’t clear to you, because you are not eager to understand. You are eager to quickly do something; your very approach is wrong. While listening to me, you keep calculating within, “What here is actionable so we can go and do it?” Because of that very eagerness to do, you miss understanding.

A doctor used to come here. I noticed that as soon as I said something, he would quickly pull out his notebook and jot it down. I told him: when I am explaining, if you won’t understand then, how will you understand from a notebook? He said, “I quickly write the useful points; they may come in handy.” I said: first understand; only then can they be of use. If you understand, they are useful right now. And if you don’t understand and only write them down, what will happen? So many scriptures already exist in the world—what more notebook are you making? Everything is written in the Gita, the Koran, the Guru Granth—what new notebook will you make! Your notebook will not be of much use.

When I told him this, he said, “You are right. Because of this I also get into a mess: while I am writing, I miss what you say; then when I stop writing to listen, the continuity breaks, so many parts in between are missed, I can’t grasp it properly; and by the time a way to grasp forms, you say something else that needs to be written.”

So I said: you are creating your own obstacle. He said: “I won’t do this anymore.” I saw he was in great difficulty. Earlier he used to sit in front; then he began to sit on the side. One day I saw, at the side he was secretly taking out his notebook and writing. I had him called and said: at least write openly like a moneylender; that was better. This way, as a thief! Now another sin of theft will fall on me—that I have made you into a thief!

I don’t want to make anyone a culprit. Write in front, at ease—now you cannot refrain from writing; it’s your whim.

He said, “But trouble is, if I don’t write, it feels like I have missed it; who knows if I’ll remember or not.”

What you have understood—how can you forget it? Has anyone ever forgotten something truly understood? Only what is not understood is forgotten. What is understood enters every fiber. It becomes your consciousness. That is never forgotten. But there is no concern for understanding.

He said, “Still, sometimes it might be needed in life; who knows when it may come in handy, in what circumstance. So I note it down and keep it.”

You may not write in a physical notebook, but you write in memory too; there isn’t much difference. While I speak, you keep writing inside memory: “Yes, this point is useful; we’ll try doing this.” But your emphasis is on trying to do. Understanding can happen now. Doing will be tomorrow. Doing cannot be now. Doing will be when circumstances arise. Doing has been postponed into the future. Understanding happens in the present; doing belongs to the future. The future never comes. What comes is the present.

Understand—I am speaking clearly. My fist is completely open. But you are not prepared to understand; you are eager to do. Doing is the disease of the ego: “Let me do something!” And the ego wants to escape understanding, because if understanding happens, the ego has to die. Understanding is the suicide of the ego. One who understands does not remain as he was. Understanding itself removes the head. Understanding itself functions like a sword.

Then, by mere listening and listening, you become “knowledgeable”—without understanding! You keep making notes in memory; your scripture grows; and you think you are becoming wise. Day by day you listen to me, and day by day you think you are getting wiser. Your memory grows, and each day understanding becomes more difficult. Understanding starts to seem impossible, because what you gathered yesterday in memory forms veil upon veil.

It becomes very difficult to explain to the “knowledgeable.” Very difficult to awaken the pundits. Those who think, “We already know”—to awaken them is very hard.

So this is your hindrance. First, you do not understand. In the name of understanding you keep writing false annotations in memory, keep making notes. Then that dossier of memory stands between you and me. You listen to me, but in between there is a great crowd of thoughts!

Mulla Nasruddin was ill. And his doctor said—the old saying—“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” So the doctor said, “Mulla, if you eat an apple a day…” Mulla said, “What’s in that! I know an even bigger thing!”

A knowledgeable man, a pundit, a maulvi! The doctor said, “You know something greater than this?” Mulla said, “Eat one clove of garlic a day—forget the doctor, it keeps the whole neighborhood away.”

Now with such people—those who have the notion that they know—there is great hassle. That doctor, too, was startled: he’s saying something very high indeed! Eat garlic every day! And if you want experiential proof, then ask Maitreya-ji—Maitreya-ji is a lover of garlic. Garlic keeps the whole world away. No one even flutters near. Renunciates and sannyasins should eat garlic; it keeps the world far away. No one will come close. There is no need to keep yourself away from woman and gold; woman and gold will run away by themselves!

So first you don’t understand; second, you misunderstand something; then you collect that something; you keep building a collection. That becomes your scripture. Give that scripture to the fire. Throw that scripture into the fire.

Things are absolutely clear. Nothing is being hidden here. I have no faith in keeping anything secret. Truth should be revealed—naked. And I am giving you naked truth. It has no clothes. It has not been decorated or adorned. I am giving it to you just as it comes raw from the mine. If you don’t understand, then you are putting some obstacle. Remove your obstacles.

Enough for today.