Ajhun Chet Ganwar #12

Existence is one; there is no difference between outside and inside. What you call “outside” is joined to the inside—indivisible. What you call “inside” is joined to the outside. It is like the sky in your house and the sky outside your house—the two are not separate. The walls you have erected are your own making. Those walls do not fragment the sky.

There is no way to cut the sky; neither a sword nor a wall can divide it. You cannot make pieces of the sky. As the sky is, so is the soul. Outside and inside—one. It is only the wall of the body that makes you raise the question of outside and inside. But even the body’s wall does not truly divide anything.

So keep this in mind: when I say, “Live from the inner rhythm,” and when I say, “Accept the outer situation in tathata—do not reject,” there is no contradiction between the two. If you understand, you will see I am saying one and the same thing in both ways. And that is: Do not live from the ego. Do not live from the feeling “I am separate.” If the feeling “I am separate” drops, what difference remains between inside and outside? When “I” is gone, the wall is gone; when “I” is gone, the boundary is gone. It is the ego that draws the boundary line.

But we have great trust in boundaries. We have drawn India’s border, Pakistan’s border; on the ground they do not exist—only on maps. Maps are false, made by man. Yet we trust them. For maps we kill and die; we never look at the earth. Leave aside the earth—we have even divided the sky: India’s sky separate, Pakistan’s sky separate.

Just as we divided land on the map, so we have divided God in thought—mine and yours; inner and outer. But all these divisions and lines are false. Once the falseness of these lines is seen, they disappear. Then you will laugh: Which outside? Which inside? Only One is enthroned.

So begin either from the outside or from the inside. I give you these two entrances only as a beginning. Some people are extroverts; the inner talk does not touch them. “Inside”—what is that? They have forgotten the door to the within. They have stayed outside the house so long they have forgotten they can enter. For them I speak of the outer: be in tathata—suchness—with whatever the situation is. For the extrovert (as Jung called him), let there be suchness with the outer. The Divine is also outside. Let there be oneness, contentment; whatever comes, accept; however it comes, accept. Whatever the Divine gives, give thanks; whatever He does not give, give thanks for that as well. A total accord with the outer—this is the way for the extrovert to reach the Divine.

Some are introverts; they scarcely open their eyes. Their real world is within. They are blissful only when the eyes are closed. Speak to them of the outer and it won’t register; the language is foreign. They should dive within. That is why I say both things: either drown in the inner rhythm or become one with the rhythm of the outer.

If you heard both, you might be puzzled—how can both be together? How can the outer situation and the inner rhythm run side by side? You may think there will be tension if the inner moves one way and the outer another. This has never actually happened. There is no opposition between the outer and the inner. It is you—your presence as ego—that raises the conflict. The world is filled with supreme bliss. You are the one who is miserable. Your misery is produced by your doing—by your “sadhana” for suffering. You are practicing hard to create suffering.

You may be startled to hear me, because I keep saying this: Bliss is your nature; suffering has to be produced. Illness must be brought in; health is. When you are healthy you do not go to the doctor to ask, “Why am I healthy? What infection is this health? From where did it come?” You accept health as natural: it neither infects nor comes from outside—it is. Even the word “health” points to this: health means settled in the Self. It is already within. Illness is from outside—foreign, alien. Illness comes via germs; it is contagious. Health is. Disease arrives; health does not “arrive.”

Exactly so with bliss and sorrow. One who is blissful does not ask, “Why am I blissful?” Have you ever asked that? When you are blissful, do you ask why? It would be irrelevant, meaningless. You do not ask; you do not even think. You simply accept it. The question arises only when you are unhappy: “Why am I unhappy?” The question arises because something is happening that should not happen; something unnatural is afoot. We question the unnatural, not the natural.

In the morning the sun rises; we do not ask “why?” In the evening it sets; we do not ask “why?” But if at midnight the sun were to rise, we would ask “why?” If at noon the sun were to set, we would ask “why?” The question “why” arises only when something occurs that should not have occurred.

Bliss is your simple, natural state. The whole universe is infused with it. You produce the misery. And the first basis of producing misery is ego. The moment you assert “I am,” you shrink. With “I am,” you become small. Without the I-sense you are vast; the whole existence is yours, the entire sky is yours. As soon as the I appears, you become little, poor, petty—bound in this small body. And some, who think even the body is too big, shrink into a tiny skull; their “I” lives only there. Trying to squeeze the vast into such a small space—what can it produce but misery? You are attempting the impossible. Then come the complaints.

Yesterday I was reading a song:

What did You gain by making me so utterly without support, so poor,
forever licking my own longings, tasting only my own blood?
As though lifelong a harsh struggle were the whole of it,
not a single moment of rest ever ordained for the breath.
Has failure alone taken shape in my birth?
Is futility upon futility my entire treasure?

What did You gain, tell me, by giving me such burning—
this life, filled with lacks, that keeps setting me ablaze?
Why did You make my life a smoldering desert,
where not even a thin stream of water ever ran?
You gave so many dreams—how can one speak of fulfillment,
even to speak of their burning was never in my control.
What did I gain, made utterly helpless, relationless, bereft?
Not one of my beliefs could live for even two moments,
not a single fellow traveler met me on life’s hard road,
eyes whose very stumblings drenched me as they fell on me.
What did You gain, that on the sands of time there remained
the half-lived corpse of my long-neglected striving?
Has failure alone taken form in my birth?
Is futility upon futility my entire wealth?

“What did You gain? What did I gain—made so bereft, so helpless!”

This feeling arises in everyone: “What did God gain by making me so miserable? Why so helpless, so poor? Why this dark night all around me? Why was this new-moon night placed within my life? What did He gain?” Remember, this complaint is delusory. That darkness is your creation. The Divine placed a blazing sun within you. You have gathered the new-moon night with great effort—lifetimes of effort.

For lifetimes you have done the wrong thing and lived the wrong way; somehow you have succeeded in producing darkness. To create darkness—this has been your great success.

Hence the sages say: the day you fail, that very day you step out of misery. As long as you keep “succeeding,” suffering will persist, because each success strengthens your ego. A little more money—and the ego stiffens. A higher post—and the ego stiffens. A bit more fame—and the ego stiffens. Your every success is your real failure.

Lose. Lose totally, and suffering will end. Only in your defeat can ego drop. Only in defeat can the ego be dissolved. In victory, how will you dissolve it? The victorious man has no taste for religion, for God, for prayer, for meditation. He is winning! Yes—when he starts losing, when his legs tremble, when death comes close and it seems “now I’m gone,” then the man begins to think.

Defeat is your great fortune. The sooner you are defeated, the greater your good fortune. Because with defeat a new journey begins.

Defeat means: by my doing, nothing happens. Exhausted, you collapse. In the very moment you collapse, you are astonished, struck dumb—for whatever was happening or not happening through your doing was only misery. The moment you collapse, you discover supreme bliss. In defeat there is deep rest.

“To the defeated, the Name of Hari!” The moment a person is defeated, the Name arises. This saying is extraordinary. Which defeat? The defeat of the ego. It is the ego that separates inside and outside. For a little while, reflect. Sit silently a little and see: if I am not, then who is inside, who is outside? Who will draw the line? Where are you, the divider? The house collapses; only open space remains. The sky within and the sky without become one. Think of a clay pot—when it breaks, water outside and water inside become one.

There are two ways to bring this unity: break the pot from the outside or break it from the inside. Only these two. Strike it from without if you are extrovert; strike it from within if you are introvert. From either side, the pot must break. The art that makes a pot is also the art that unmakes it.

Have you seen a potter shaping a pot? He places the clay on the wheel. What does he do then? One hand goes inside the pot, one hand remains outside. By the pressure of both hands the wall rises. The inner hand supports; the outer hand pats—the wall takes shape. The process that makes the pot can unmake it too—break from without or break from within.

Those who cannot understand the language of the within should see God outside—in the trees, the moon and stars, the sky and clouds. Such a beautiful world spreads all around! Meet it a little. Relate with it a little. Flow, dance, hum along. When the birds sing, you sing too. When trees begin to dance in the wind, you dance too. When the river, full of zest, runs toward the ocean, you flow a little with it. Keep company with the Divine in the outer, and the pot will break. One day, suddenly, while watching the sunrise you will find something is rising within you too. Seeing the stream flow, something begins to flow from within. Watching white clouds scattering in the sky, something scatters within. For a moment there is a glimpse—a flash of lightning. For a moment it seems there is no boundary—only the boundless, the vast, the infinite; neither I nor you. A taste comes. A drop of nectar falls. A path is made. Then bigger draughts come, and soon the rains will pour.

If the outside feels obstructive, do not be disheartened—turn within. For women, for those with a feminine mind, for those with a receptive consciousness, it is suitable to close the eyes and seek inward. For those with a masculine, aggressive mind who go out to conquer, the search outside is suitable.

The three Western religions—Judaism, Christianity, Islam—are extrovert. The three great Eastern religions—Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism—are introvert. The West is outward-looking; hence its science developed immensely, it built beautiful buildings, invented machines, created comfort and prosperity—great growth outside. The East left the outer poor, underdeveloped; but within, great flowers bloomed. Those flowers are such that they are not visible from the outside. Erect a hundred-story building and the world will see it. We raised Buddhas—only the seeing will see them; the world cannot. That too is a summit—touching the sky—yet it is inner, luminous, subtle, not gross. It cannot be examined from outside. From outside, people will see the skyscraper; the Buddha will look like a pauper. Those who look within will see that the dwellers of skyscrapers are the real paupers—whether you live on the hundredth floor or the two-hundredth, your building is nothing but little pigeonholes. The resident is poor. In the Buddha, unparalleled wealth is visible.

The East is introvert—feminine. The West is extrovert—masculine. But there are men in the East and women in the West; there are go-getters in the East and sit-and-receive souls in the West.

Jesus says: Seek—and you shall find. Knock—and the doors shall be opened.

Lao Tzu says: Seek—and you will be lost. Ask—and you will not receive. Stop, be still. Sit down. Close your eyes. Sink into rest. The one who did not seek—received. The one who got lost—found.

This is the language of introversion. It will not be attained by doing, but by non-doing—by dropping into emptiness.

I say both, because both kinds of people are here. Choose for yourself. The result is one. Ultimately the attainment is one. These are two doors to the Divine. Wherever you feel the tide carries you, enter there. Whichever way you come—running or resting, as a man or as a woman, through prayer or through meditation, with eyes open or with eyes closed—it makes no difference.

Once in, the taste is one. And once one side is mastered, the other follows by itself. If you drown in the inner rhythm, you will be amazed to find outer circumstances falling into harmony with it. This whole universe is ready to support you.

See—even when you want to be miserable, it supports you. They say: when you want sorrow, you see thorns everywhere; when you choose happiness, flowers bloom everywhere. Your vision changes, and the whole world is transformed.

One who wants sorrow will find it—there are plenty of opportunities. He will squeeze sorrow even out of occasions for joy. And one who wants happiness—there are plenty of opportunities—will squeeze joy even out of sorrow. Their visions differ. One goes to a rosebush and counts thorns; he seeks sorrow—thorns there are. Another goes and counts flowers—flowers there are. Everything is in the rosebush. The Divine is both outside and inside. However you want to see, in that way it appears. If you insist on seeing the world as sorrow, you will have abundant sorrow. And then you will weep and cry, and again you will say:

What did You gain by making me so utterly without support, so poor,
forever licking my own longings, tasting only my own blood…?
Has failure alone taken shape in my birth,
is futility my entire treasure?

You count the thorns, and then you complain: “What did You gain by giving so many thorns!” Right next to those thorns a flower was in bloom—you did not see it. One who has counted too many thorns gets his eyes so overshadowed by thorns that he cannot see the flowers. One who has counted many flowers becomes so intoxicated with flowers, so surrounded by their wine, that where are the thorns?

For the one who sees flowers, even thorns turn to flowers. For the one who counts thorns, even flowers become thorns. It is all a matter of vision.

The moment you sink into your inner rhythm and become one with it, you start living naturally. You will not make the slightest effort to be unnatural. Whatever the inner voice says, you will walk with it. Stake everything on it. Suddenly you will find: the whole world is with you.

It is said that when Buddha attained enlightenment, trees bloomed out of season; dry stumps turned green. This tale is delightful. It only says: when supreme knowing happens within you, how can any tree remain dry for you? Whether green leaves actually came or not, I have no rigid insistence—but understand the poetry of the parable. Some fools insist, “How is that possible? Buddha’s enlightenment—how can a dry stump sprout leaves?” For Buddha it did. For you even a green tree is a stump. When did you last see the leaves? You have forgotten how to see greenness. You have forgotten the language of verdure. You only remember the language of stumps. Everywhere you see deserts. Your eyes have gone blind to beauty; you have lost sensitivity.

I am not saying it is a scientific fact that stumps turned green. But when Buddha opened his eyes after drowning in the supreme rhythm, if the dry stump in front of him looked green, I would not be surprised; if he saw out-of-season flowers, I would not be surprised. You also know the converse: flowers bloom and you do not see them. Then the reverse is also possible: even if flowers have not bloomed, someone may see them. Think about that.

You pass by—flowers are blooming—but you do not see. Where is the leisure to see? Your mind is so full of turmoil that it cannot keep company with flowers. The flowers may wish to whisper, but your inner clamor drowns their soft talk. You pass on. Your eyes look at the flower, yet you do not see the flower.

I want to say: when Buddhahood arises within someone, he sees flowers even where they are yet to be—about to come, coming, already on the way. He sees the future. He sees where flowers have been—he sees the past. Hence it is said the awakened ones are knower of the three times—trikalajnani. My understanding is this: what is not yet has also become visible; what will be is visible; what has disappeared into the stream of time—once was—is visible. The world fills with flowers, the world fills with fragrance.

Buddha said: “The day I attained enlightenment, the whole world attained samadhi with me.” This statement has great glory. Certainly it is not a literal fact, because you are still sitting here. You might say, “This is plainly untrue. Whether others became enlightened or not, one thing is certain—I did not. I have not awakened yet.” You might say, “I alone am proof that Buddha’s statement is false.” And yet Buddha is right. Do not be stubborn. He is precisely right. But this is a language of great heights. He is saying: “The moment I awoke, I saw that everyone carries awakening within. The lamp is lit in all—whether they know it or not. You are Buddhas—whether you know it or not. The Buddha knows.”

Suppose you are sitting here and cannot see that there is a diamond in your pocket, and I can see it. You say, “I am a beggar, I am poor,” and I say, “Ever since I saw my own diamond, I can see the diamond in your pocket too. Having seen the diamond within, now I see diamonds wherever they are. I have learned the language of diamonds.” You say, “A diamond—me? What are you saying? I have nothing; I am a beggar.”

This diamond requires the eye of a connoisseur. Buddha is right: with me, the whole existence attained awakening. In that moment I knew that all are Buddhas—some asleep, some awake; some who know, some who do not.

But what difference does it make? If a king sleeps, he is still a king; awake, he is a king. He may be dreaming he is a beggar, but the dream does not make him a beggar.

When your inner instrument gets tuned—have you seen a musician tuning his instrument? He taps, tightens the drum, tightens the strings—likewise, when within you tighten your strings, set your instrument, when music is born within you, when you begin to dance inside, to be ecstatic—then suddenly you see the entire world ready to support you. Helping hands come from all around.

In this land we gave God a thousand hands—for this very reason. A lovely image. How can a two-handed God support everyone who needs support? We made Him a thousand-handed God. A thousand is symbolic—for infinite, numberless. And more than a thousand are hard to carve in paintings or statues. The meaning is clear: awaken just once, and with a thousand hands the Divine supports you. From every side His hand reaches for you. His hand has always been reaching—you have been running away. You keep defending yourself from God. The day you extend your hand, you will find His hand has forever been searching for you. You alone were fleeing.

Once the inner rhythm is set, the thousand hands of the Divine lift you instantly from the outside. Or, if from the outer world the rhythm is set—if the mood of suchness arises, accepting everything as it is, contentment growing—“nothing more is needed; as it is, it is enough; as it is, it is auspicious; as it is, it is complete; I ask for nothing otherwise”—that very mood prepares the supreme state.

In our minds there is always a race: a little more money, a higher position, better health, a more beautiful face—always some race for “more.” As it is, it is not enough. Something more is needed. This sense of lack keeps you from merging with the outer, keeps tathata from arising.

Tathata means: no lack. I am not saying there are no lacks. There are. But for one who has learned the art of suchness, there remains no lack. If he remains hungry, he says to God, “Today I needed to be hungry; You kept me hungry—thank You.” If he is taken to the gallows, he climbs with gratitude: “Surely I needed my neck to be cut. How great Your grace to raise me to the cross! Without Your grace how could it be?”

Jesus dies thanking the Divine on the cross. Mansur laughs aloud looking at the sky. Someone asks, “Mansur, why are you laughing? Have you gone mad? Your hands and feet have been cut off—why do you look up and laugh?”

Mansur says, “I laugh to tell God this: come in whatever form You will, I recognize You. Today You have come in the guise of executioners, but You will not deceive me. I recognize You. Those who are cutting my hands and feet—You are that. So I laugh to give Him the message: see, You cannot deceive Mansur. This time, beloved, You have come in such a way that anyone could be deceived—but I am not among them. I laugh to tell You: Your trick did not work. And before my tongue is cut out, I must say it—so I laughed.”

I am not saying that one who lives in tathata will have no lacks. Others may see lack—he will not. As a beggar he will be a king. Amid thorns he will lie on a bed of flowers. Even on the cross he will be on a throne.

Tathata means: whatever happens is right. What should happen is exactly what is happening.

If such contentment arises with the outer, do you think the inner rhythm will remain unexpressed? In such contentment, will the inner music not burst forth? It will gush in a thousand streams. When inner music breaks open, the Divine spreads out a thousand hands. And if you consent to the Divine hands outside, the inner music bursts open. They are two sides of one coin, two halves of one happening.

Who will stop you? No one but you. You cannot pray because you are not willing to bow. You cannot pray because keeping the head held high has become a deep habit.

You will have to learn to bend. No one else is stopping you; it is your ego that drags you away. The hesitation comes from your ego. Do not think someone else is preventing you. We have the habit of always shifting the blame onto another—someone is stopping me, some devil is stopping me. There is no devil.

Other than you, you have neither enemy nor friend—this is what Buddha said. Man is his own friend and man is his own enemy. Enemy—when you stop yourself from bowing; friend—when you cooperate in bowing.

Who will stop you? But if all your life you have trained the ego, you will not be able to bow suddenly upon entering a temple. You have no practice in bending. Everywhere you stood stiff. Everywhere you fought, struggled.

“Drink down every humiliation—what else is there to do?
You wanted to live with self-respect—there was your mistake.
Was any wise man’s opinion on your side?
It is not only your lips that carry a bitter taste;
everyone’s ego is broken—you are no exception.
Your failure was predetermined,
you never accepted any compromise either.
How will you become the leader of these mad crowds?
You do not even have a seductive slogan.
Wipe every crease from your brow, every tear from your eyes.
Look at the whole game—you have not lost yet.”

This ego keeps losing, keeps losing; yet it whispers to you: Wipe every crease from your brow, every tear from your eyes. Look at the whole game—you have not lost yet. Where is the total defeat? There is still a way, still a device; fight some more. One more throw. One more gamble. Perhaps you will win.

The ego keeps enticing hope.

And why does insult happen in life? Because there is a craving for respect.

“Drink down every humiliation—what else is there to do.”

You keep convincing yourself: Drink it down; what else can you do? It is a compulsion! There is no compulsion at all. There is no need to swallow insult. If you drop the hankering for respect, how can insult remain? If the desire for respect disappears, no one can insult you.

Lao Tzu said: No one can push me back, because I am already behind. No one can defeat me, because I am already defeated.

When Lao Tzu went to a gathering, a meeting, he would sit where people take off their shoes. People invited him in, “Please come inside, come here.” He would say, “No, I am better here, because from here I cannot be pushed any further back. This is the last place. Here I can sit in peace.”

That is his whole vision of life; that is his entire philosophy. How will you insult such a man? The one who does not ask for honor is free from the possibility of insult. But the ego keeps saying: Wait, the time to pray has not yet come. Struggle some more. What, have you given up?

The ego says: Are you going to bow more? That is not your habit. Prayer—this is for the weak and the cowardly. Not for you. You still fight. Struggle more. You have not lost the whole game yet! One more clash—wait a bit.

This is the feeling that must be stopping you. Prayer means to bow. Surrender—total-hearted surrender.

“Let the body endure any heat, let the mind bear any suffocation,
but pain has no right to come to the lips.
Spring dances in every particle, mustard blooms field to field,
the cuckoo calls in the mango-grove, the west wind sways, lost in itself;
I am such a flower as is harried by dusk, made to weep by dawn—
even in the season of honey, I have no right to bloom.

At first I wanted to live, but the very basis of living was taken away;
now to burn away bit by bit has become the business of breathing.
The moth of the mind wanders drugged, far from you;
it has no right to burn in the flame it longs for.

The golden body is being scorched, the sun of age climbs higher;
the flowers in the tray wither, the worship-lamp’s flame grows dim;
with the temple door shut, how long have you sat estranged?
My hands have no right to rattle the chain on the latch.”

You have made up terms for yourself on your own account—that you have no right to weep, that you have no right to rattle the latch! Who told you that? If you can do nothing else, at least you can weep! If prayer does not come, have you even forgotten how to cry? You can weep! Tears can stream from your eyes. Prayer will happen.

Sometimes, for a few minutes, sit and weep before the Whole.

I am not even telling you to perform some fixed, formal prayer—repeating a Hindu, Muslim, or Christian prayer. The prayers that are memorized and repeated have no value at all, because they do not come from the heart, they come from the throat. Prayers that are stuck in words have no value. What is needed is a wordless feeling. Do not repeat mechanically. Otherwise, done or not done—it is the same. Let feeling well up.

Sometimes just sit in silence. There is no need to say anything in prayer, that you must say something. What is there to say, anyway? Sometimes, simply sit before That in silence. And “before” does not mean that only when you turn your face toward the Kaaba there is a facing. Wherever you turn your face, you are before That. Just sit sometimes. Leave the daily disturbances aside for a little while. Close your eyes for a little while. Be heartful for a while. Sway for a while in the gusts of the breeze. If tears begin to flow, let them flow. If only silence is there, good. Or if a song bursts forth, let the song burst forth. It is not necessary that it be written by a great poet; let your own song arise. That is what I call spontaneous. All right, there will be lisping in your verse, it will not be some great poetry. But lisp by lisp, prayer takes hold.

Look at this Paltu, that trader of the Formless! Poor fellow, just weighing with his scale day after day, spoke such incomparable words. He says: “I am Ram’s grocer! I am Ram’s trader.” Yet he said things of deep essence. Saying and saying, it took root. All children begin by lisping. All prayers begin with a lisp. Before the Divine, we are small children.

Do not display great skill. Do not sit like some great expert to pray. You can at least lisp. The Divine—think of your mother. Even if you fall there, even if you crawl on your knees—what harm? Dust-covered, even naked—standing before Her—what harm? She knows you as you are. There is nothing to hide. If off-key notes come, let them come. You are His; He will accept your voice too. Before Him you need no embellishment. No makeup is needed. Whatever plain, rough petition you have, make it. No need to gather much arithmetic or knowledge.

You ask: “I cannot pray—as if something holds me back.”

You yourself must be holding yourself back. Do you want to pray like Meera? Like Paltu? No one can pray like that from the very beginning. A small child lying in the cradle cannot walk like you. Walking, he will learn. He will fall many times. Your vanity even enters prayer—that some lofty thing, some high note should come. You want to perform even before the Divine. There, drop it. Do not act there. There, be as you are—simple, natural. Lisping if lisping. Stumbling if stumbling. Crawling on your knees if crawling on your knees. Before Him, leave yourself utterly helpless; because only when you are helpless does His support come—not before. Only when you are utterly helpless does His support come. The moment He feels you are standing on your own feet, entrenched in your own pride, His support withdraws. You do not need it. Prayer is the petition of need.

And this petition need not be expressed in language, because God does not understand your language; He understands only one language—the language of feeling.

Have you noticed? Wherever in the world someone is, when love surges in someone’s heart, the same glint comes into the eyes! Whether he speaks Hindi, Chinese, or German. Love has one language. When someone becomes peaceful, the same kind of light appears on the face—whether it is Eckhart, Kabir, Lao Tzu, or Muhammad—it makes no difference.

When man speaks to man, there are many languages—thousands. When man speaks to God, none of these languages works. Neither Sanskrit is His language, nor Arabic, nor Latin, nor Greek. Drop this nonsense that Sanskrit is the language of the gods. No language is a divine language. Silence is the divine language. When you are in silence, you are connected with Him.

So prayer can be silent. There is nothing to be said. But man is so dishonest and so greedy for display that, just as he goes to court and hires a lawyer to speak on his behalf—because he is not so adept in legal speech; the language of law is not his—so “you speak for me.” He gets the lawyer to speak; and when he goes to the temple, he gets the priest to speak. At home, people call the pundit: “Pray on my behalf, because you are the expert; you will do pure Sanskrit; I do not know Sanskrit. And as if God knows only Sanskrit! So you do it.” You have appointed brokers—middlemen, mediators. At least between God and yourself, bring no one. There, let the cry of your heart arise.

No one else is stopping you; you yourself are stopping yourself. Perhaps you were taught this in life—because a man has asked the question. Perhaps you were taught that crying is not befitting a man. This stupidity is taught all over the world. Women may cry—excuse them, they are women. A man should not cry. A man is macho. It does not suit a man to cry like a child. Tears in a man’s eyes do not look good.

So perhaps your tears have dried up through practice; you have repressed them. But let me tell you: Nature has made exactly as many tear glands in a man’s eyes as in a woman’s. Not a jot of difference. Ask an eye specialist. The same number of tear glands are in men’s eyes as in women’s. Nature has provided for both to cry equally.

Prayer means: become a little moist. Rough, dry—you may manage meditation that way, but prayer cannot happen. Prayer needs a little dampness. Let a little rain fall.

Tears are the water of your heart. They wash not only the eyes; they wash the impurities of the heart. What you cannot say in any other way, you say through tears. Weep a little, and you will feel very light.

Psychologists say: women go mad less often because they cry. Women commit fewer suicides because they cry. Twice as many men commit suicide. Twice as many men go mad. And you have seen—men live fewer years; women live more—five years more. If men die at seventy, women live till seventy-five or eighty. Longer. Women have greater capacity to endure disease; they have stronger resistance; men do not.

Men strut needlessly, thinking, “I am strong.” Ask scientists. They say: woman is stronger. True, it is not the strength of muscle. But it is deeper strength.

Just think: you are a man; had you to give birth to even one or two children, you would have been finished. Consider carrying a child in your belly for nine months! And then raising that child for nine months afterward! Either you would have killed yourself, or strangled the child. You could not have borne it. A woman’s forbearance is profound.

Psychologists say: the secret behind this forbearance is that a woman does not suppress feelings; she expresses them. When she is angry, she is angry. When she is happy, she is happy. Simple. In a woman, a little of the childlike remains. Hence a trace of childhood stays on a woman’s face. A certain innocence remains on a woman’s face. That is her beauty. And the inner secret of that beauty is not in cosmetics. The inner secret is in the flow of feeling.

Man has become very dull. You never laugh with an open heart, lest it be uncouth. You never weep with an open heart, because that would go against your manliness. You cannot even be properly angry, for that too goes against your ego: that a gentleman and a knower like you should be angry—shout, scream, stamp your feet? That too you cannot. You keep collecting all these feelings. And feelings that are not expressed become wounds. From them, fistulas arise. There is full possibility—scientists are slowly beginning to suspect—that cancer is caused by the repression of feelings. That is why cancer does not yield to purely physical treatment—because its birth is in the depths of the mind.

You say: “I cannot pray.”

It only means that you cannot become feelingful. No one else is stopping you—your own conditionings are stopping you. What you have been taught from birth till now is what is obstructing you. Drop all that. Remove these conditionings. In the beginning there will be difficulty. Gradually, the bonds will open.

If you can descend into prayer, you will have an experience like love—but what love is on the plane of mind, prayer is on the plane of the soul.

“Nature has again drenched man with the wealth of fragrance;
the shelterless have found shelter, the body freed from bonds!
Across the horizons appear again the rainbow hues;
Malaya-scented motes of dust fly with the wind;
the night, anointed with moonlight, rings its anklets;
the love-weary idol of the body loosens limb by limb;
the ray-bearing particles from the golden summit’s wick
are once more pouring love-soaked showers of nectar.
The body freed from bonds…!!

Love-lipped, moist speech begins to tremble again;
dream-driven eyelids begin to flutter again;
Madan, conqueror of the worlds, makes one helpless;
in the conjoined river of breaths, dreams float again;
like meanings enclosed in words—measured arms—
bind the sky with spellbound surrender!
The body freed from bonds…!!”

As in love the body is freed from bondage…

When you take your beloved in your arms—when you fall into your beloved’s embrace—what is the experience? As if all the body’s knots have opened! As if all the tangles suddenly loosened! As if the whole body became slack! In the embrace of your beloved, how does it feel? As if the body has become light, free of burden.

Exactly such a happening occurs in prayer—at a deeper level. Prayer means to let yourself fall into God’s arms. Prayer means to embrace the Divine. Prayer means to be bound for a little while in oneness with the Invisible Beloved.

It is an incomparable experience. And not only does the body relax, not only does the mind relax—in prayer the soul too becomes a void, becomes still. In prayer you are not. Do not keep yourself deprived of this incomparable experience. Do not be your own enemy. Begin. In this world, the supremest thing worth knowing is prayer. Hoard as much wealth as you wish—you will remain poor; if even a particle of prayer is gained, you become rich. Let your name become great in this world—you will remain empty and blank; nothing will be inscribed on the inner book. And if a few faltering lines of prayer are inscribed on the inner book, the Veda is born; the beautiful verses of the Qur’an begin to arise within you.

I have seen that when even the most rustic, the most unlettered, becomes drenched in prayer, such astounding words arise from within that the greatest poets blush. So it happened with Kabir. So it happened with Paltu. They were not great poets. They had never practiced prosody. They knew nothing of meter and measure. But when the inner meter opened, when they became spontaneous within, when all the bonds fell, when that supreme embrace happened—then the river flowed. The stream ran.

So it happened with Meera. She had no training in dance; but when the Divine descended in the moment of prayer, the dance descended with Him.

Do not needlessly keep yourself deprived. And no one else is stopping you. Do not raise even this deception that someone else is stopping you. Because to say someone else is stopping you is just an excuse. You are stopping yourself. It is your own conditionings up to now that are stopping you.

And if, living with me here, you cannot drop your conditionings, where will you drop them? Here the whole program is to burn all conditionings. Here the effort is to become free of conditioning. That is what I call a sannyasin—one who is free of conditioning; who lives simply. Not by system. Not by discipline. He lives by inner inspiration. There are no rules or codes imposed from above upon him. All his codes and rules arise from his inner awareness.

My sannyasins say to me, “Give us some rules, give us a structure for life—how should we get up, how should we sit; what should we eat, what should we drink—explain everything to us in an ordered way.” Their asking is natural, because for centuries this is what has been done.

For Buddhist monks there are thirty-three thousand rules. It is hard even to remember them. Great scriptures are filled with rules upon rules, rules upon rules. And naturally, when you make one rule, you must make ten more after it, because then you see ten loopholes have been left in that rule—just as with laws. Laws keep increasing day by day—because one law is made; then it is seen that people have found a trick to evade it. So to block that trick, make ten more laws. And each law brings ten further laws. Gradually a jungle of laws arises. Then an ordinary person cannot even enter it. Even specialists get lost. Trifles get blown out of proportion.

Have you ever seen a lawyer’s letter? You cannot even understand what he is saying. To say some small thing, he uses so many devices, goes so roundabout—because he has to proceed according to all the rules.

Thirty-three thousand rules—for a sannyasin! That would be a worse plight than a householder’s. He would remember rules twenty-four hours a day. Where would he find the leisure for prayer, for meditation?

No—I am not giving my sannyasin any rules. I say: whatever emerges from your naturalness, from your simplicity—that is right for you. And if it is not right, you will suffer. Learn from suffering. Then do that which brings no suffering. I am giving a touchstone, not rules. That which brings suffering—do not do it; for who wants suffering! And that which brings joy—do it. As at a jeweler’s shop a stone is kept on which he assays gold—so I give you a touchstone.

It is also possible that what brings joy to you may not bring joy to another. Rules are rigid. It may also be that what brought sorrow to you may not bring sorrow to another. People are so different! And the world is lovely because people are so different. If all were the same, all the beauty of the world would be destroyed. People are different, so the world is rich. Otherwise it would be terribly boring.

So I give only the touchstone: that which brings you joy—that is dharma; that which brings you sorrow—that is adharma. And I have observed that what brings you sorrow brings sorrow to others too. What brings you joy brings joy to others as well. A happy person spreads happiness. An unhappy person spreads unhappiness. We can only give what we have.

There are no rules for prayer. Prayer is a simple, natural state of feeling. You only need to begin. And do not expect perfection today. That very expectation creates the obstacle. Today you will totter—fine. To totter in the direction of God is auspicious; to walk with great orderliness in the direction of the world is not auspicious. To win in the world is inauspicious, and to lose in God is auspicious.

Religion is born of courage; therefore, certainly, adharma—unrighteousness—too is born of courage. When courage moves in the right direction, religion is born. When courage moves in the wrong direction, adharma is born. When courage journeys free of ego, it leads you to the Divine. When courage travels with ego, it drops you into hell.

Indeed, even to do evil one needs courage. And that is why a strange and wondrous thing often happens: sometimes sinners and criminals become religious in a single instant—because they already have one thing ready: courage. That is why the Bhil bandit Baliya became Valmiki. That is why the murderer Angulimala, in a single moment, became a Brahmin. It didn’t take time. One element was ready—courage was ready.

Now Angulimala had decided to kill a thousand people, and he had murdered nine hundred and ninety-nine. A lone man—yet the whole country trembled! People had stopped going to the mountain where he lived. Paths around it were blocked. To avoid passing near that hill, people would go ten, twenty, fifty miles around. Emperors were afraid. In King Bimbisara’s realm lived Angulimala. Even Bimbisara trembled at his name. He was an extraordinary killer, murdering without reason—simply because he had decided to make a garland of one thousand human fingers. He had killed nine hundred and ninety-nine and wore their fingers as a garland. He was angry at society and was taking his revenge.

His mother used to visit him sometimes, but when there was only one killing left to complete the thousand, even she stopped going. When people asked, she said, “Now there is danger; he is going completely mad. He is seeking just one more person. Last time he even told me, ‘Come carefully now, because if I can’t find anyone else, I will kill you. I must complete the count of a thousand.’”

Such a man—and he was transformed in a single moment! Courage he had. But his courage was linked with ego. How did Buddha change him? Buddha broke his ego. The event of that transformation is worth understanding. Buddha did just that: he shattered Angulimala’s ego but preserved his courage. Courage is needed. What did Buddha do?

When Buddha was passing near that mountain, people warned him: “Don’t go. Angulimala is there. He will kill you. He won’t care that you are the fully enlightened one. He doesn’t spare saints; he has killed mendicants before. He won’t think ‘This is Gautam Buddha, a Bhagwan.’ He thinks nothing—he will kill.”

Buddha said, “Had I not known, perhaps I would have taken another path. But now that I know, how can I avoid him? He needs me. And he is a man of courage. Something can happen in his life. Should he fear me, or should I fear him?”

This is a rare statement of Buddha’s: Should he fear me, or I him? “He can cut my body; I, too, can cut him. And my cutting goes deeper. He can cut my body; I can cut his ego. And that is the deeper killing. I too am a killer,” Buddha said. “I too kill.”

Buddha went on. The monks who always walked with him slowly fell behind. Buddha went alone. As he neared the mountain, he was completely alone. He looked back; those who always boasted they would stay by his side had all slipped away into the village. “Who will take such a risk!” they must have thought.

When Angulimala saw Buddha, compassion arose in him for the first time in his life—compassion because that mendicant in yellow robes approached with such peace. He had killed monks before—those monks wouldn’t have been monks! This one was so calm; the very air around him was serene that Angulimala began to feel fear. From far off he shouted, “Bhikkhu, turn back! I am a dangerous man. See this axe—I am sharpening it. I need one person. I will kill you. Turn back. Do not take another step.”

But Buddha kept walking. Angulimala shouted again. He grew very agitated, afraid. He feared that perhaps his hand would hesitate to cut this man. For the first time he was facing someone who did not feel like someone to be cut. He wanted Buddha to turn back so the trouble would pass; otherwise his pride as a killer might be broken. He had never cared for any man; he had cut men down as one cuts grass. Men had no value for him.

And truly, those men had no inner value—just weeds; human in name only; their real humanity hadn’t been born. Here was a man in whom true humanity was born. His aura, his grace, his benediction!

Angulimala began to fear. His eyes moistened. He had never seen such a man. When he said “Go back, turn back,” it wasn’t to save Buddha; it was to save himself. “Something could go wrong in front of this man.” He was trembling before him.

Two courageous men were face to face: the courageous Buddha and the courageous Angulimala. But Angulimala had a flaw—ego. That was the alloy. Buddha had no such flaw. Buddha was pure gold—no alloy at all. Angulimala was “Morarji gold”—with plenty of alloy; fourteen carat. Gold, yes—but mixed with something else. Ego. A man of courage—who had made emperors tremble and the world shake.

Yet Buddha kept walking. Angulimala said, “Bhikkhu, don’t you hear? Are you deaf?” Buddha said, “No, I hear. But I want to tell you something: long ago I stopped walking. I no longer walk at all. I am already at rest. It is you who are moving.”

Angulimala laughed. “You are mad. I am sitting, and you call me the one who moves! You are walking, and you say you have stopped walking!”

Buddha said, “Try to understand. Since the day the mind stopped moving, what difference does my outer walking or not walking make? Inside, everything is still. There is no movement, no vibration, no coming and going. The inner flame is motionless—like a lamp in a windless chamber, in a vacuum where no breeze enters. Within me everything is at rest. This body’s walking is one thing. And you—though you sit—where are you sitting? See how your mind runs! Look at your mind.”

The words struck Angulimala. “He is not mad; he speaks truth. He speaks rightly.”

Angulimala was a straightforward killer, not cunning. Had he been cunning he would have become a politician; why be a bandit? There are more adroit ways to loot. He was simple. Buddha came and stood before him. Angulimala said, “Very well, then I must take on the sin of killing you.”

Buddha said, “Before you kill me, will you fulfill one small wish of a dying man, Angulimala?”

Angulimala said, “Any wish. What is it?”

Buddha said, “There is a tree before us. Pluck a few leaves from it.” Angulimala swung his axe and cut off a whole branch.

Buddha said, “Half my wish is fulfilled. Now complete the other half—rejoin it. Then you may kill me.”

Angulimala said, “Are you in your senses? Who can reattach a severed branch?”

Buddha said, “Breaking is something even children can do, Angulimala. What great courage is that? The real matter is joining. What childish work have you been doing—breaking, breaking! You’ve broken so many necks; did you ever consider whether you could join even one? And if you cannot join, then breaking is not right. If there was a skill worth learning, if you had courage, if you had to do something, you should have learned the art of joining. Now you may kill me.”

But now killing became difficult. The axe dropped from his hand. He said, “I was already afraid. Since I saw you down the slope, I have been afraid. My hand trembles; the axe has fallen. You are right. You have broken my pride. A child can do this. What is the glory in it? And this is what I kept doing—spent my life breaking. No one told me that my strength could be used to join, that my power could become creative. Take me in hand—save me.”

He fell at Buddha’s feet. Do you know what Buddha said as he lifted him up? “Rise, Brahmin!” The word he used was Brahmin.

Angulimala said, “You call me a Brahmin? Me, a murderer?”

Buddha said, “You are no longer a murderer. That is over; that dream of sorrow has ended. You are a Brahmin.”

News spread through the land that Buddha had transformed Angulimala, that Angulimala had become a monk. Emperor Bimbisara came to see Buddha; he could not believe it. He wanted to see with his own eyes. “Angulimala transformed? That is the last possibility. This must be false—perhaps the monks have spread it as propaganda that our Lord transformed Angulimala.” So Bimbisara came. Sitting before Buddha he said, “I have heard, Bhante, that the murderer Angulimala—that heinous killer, that great sinner—has become your monk. I cannot believe it. I have come to ask you directly. I want to hear it from your mouth. I cannot trust others. This cannot be. It would be a miracle.”

Buddha said, “Why ask me? Angulimala sits here.” Angulimala sat beside Buddha in yellow robes. Hearing this, Bimbisara drew his sword. He panicked: “This man is here—what if he leaps…! What kind of man is he! He killed nine hundred and ninety-nine just to make a garland of fingers!”

Buddha said, “Sheathe your sword, Bimbisara. The Angulimala you fear is no more. This is Angulimala the Brahmin. He has never killed anyone. That one is gone; that sorrowful dream is gone. This is a stainless man—rarely is there one as pure as he.”

How did such a transformation happen in Angulimala? Because the courage was there. So I tell you: within the greatest criminals lie the seeds of the greatest saints. The bigger the sinner, the greater the possibility of a great saint. The real difficulty is with those who have no courage at all. Those you call respectable, “good people,” are often impotent—without courage. You say, “He is a good man; he doesn’t steal”—but the reason he doesn’t steal is not that non-stealing has blossomed within him. The reason is simply fear—fear of the police, fear of the courts, fear of being caught. Give him a perfect guarantee he won’t be caught and he will steal. He has no objection to stealing; he fears being trapped. Or perhaps he fears hell, or that God will be displeased. Fear is the basis. Goodness born of fear is not deep—it is superficial, like a skin. It is not in the heart, not in the soul.

Therefore, the so‑called respectable—the honored pillars of society, the village chiefs, the mayors, the decorated, Padma Bhushans and Bharat Ratnas—those called respectable because no obvious evil is seen in their lives—rarely does revolution happen in their lives. They lack the basic element that triggers transformation. They have plenty of ego—and no courage.

Understand this alchemy. If there is courage and there is ego, the ego can be broken easily. The more courage, the easier it is to break. That same courage can be turned against the ego and the ego will shatter. But those who have plenty of ego and no courage are very hard to change. Because without courage, there is no fire to burn the ego—only ash remains in the name of courage.

So I say to you: courage is decisive. If you are a bad man and have courage, there is hope. If you are a good man and have courage, there is hope. I am not saying every good man lacks courage. In truth, even to be good requires courage. To refuse to lie, come what may—this too takes courage. People lie out of lack of courage. They think, “If I’m caught, I’ll lie.” A courageous man does not lie.

Understand the difference. One is a “respectable” man—good out of fear. The other is a saint—good out of courage. He says, “Even if I must go to hell, I will not lie. Whatever the consequence, I will not lie, I will not steal.” He is not refraining out of fear. Even if the situation were reversed—suppose God went mad and changed the rules—people say He is omnipotent—suppose He declared, “Those who steal will go to heaven, and those who keep the vow of non‑stealing will go to hell.” The respectable man would steal; he wants heaven and to avoid hell. The saint would not steal and would be ready to go to hell. He would say, “So be it. Heaven and hell have no value. Consequences have no value.” Only the fearful give value to consequences. To the courageous, the deed itself matters, not the fruit.

That is why Krishna said to Arjuna: Abandon all hankering for the fruits—because only the fearful hanker for fruits. The courageous simply do the deed wholly and leave the result. If good appears good to him, he does the good; if the bad appears good to him, he does the bad—whatever the result.

The one called a sinner also does not care for consequences; and the one called a saint also does not care for consequences. Both are courageous. The difference is slight. In the sinner, ego is present as alloy. In the saint, the alloy is gone; the saint is pure gold. But the sinner, too, is gold—given a chance, transformation is possible.

But those who stand in the middle, who have no spine—who live without vitality, quivering in fear like a leaf in the wind: “This might happen, that might happen”—afraid of everything; whose whole life is a long tale of fear; who avoid evil out of fear, and even do “good” out of fear; whose entire foundation is fear—in such a life the revolution of religion does not happen.

Consider the veena: in skillful hands, supreme music is born; in unskilled hands it only produces jarring noise. When courage is lived rightly, a saint is born. When courage is lived wrongly, a sinner is born. But the instrument is the same.

That cry, that broken, anguished wail—it too lies hidden in the very instrument.

In courage both adharma and dharma are hidden; both are two sides. It depends on you how you use courage.

Alexander had courage, certainly—but not as much as Diogenes. Alexander had courage—he set out to conquer the world. Diogenes, too, had courage. They were contemporaries; so it is apt to mention them together. Both were courageous. Alexander’s courage was aimed at conquering others. Diogenes’ courage was aimed at conquering himself. Diogenes renounced everything, for he felt the more possessions, the more bondage; the more things, the more worry—the more fear of theft, of loss.

So he left everything—even clothes—and went naked; he kept only a bowl to drink water. One day, thirsty, he went to the river with his bowl. A dog ran alongside him, reached the river first, and quickly drank. Diogenes was astonished. He bowed to the dog: “You taught me well! Even without a bowl! You have gone beyond me!” He tossed his bowl into the river. “If a dog can live without a bowl, surely I, a man, can live without one. Why carry even this? Even this I must guard; at night I must feel for it once or twice, lest someone take it.”

Diogenes was a beggar, lived naked; he had nothing else. He let the bowl float away. On one side is Alexander, out to conquer the world. On the other is Diogenes, who let even his bowl go—he lost all. Both require courage.

You will be surprised to know that even Alexander heard of Diogenes. When Alexander was coming toward India, he went to meet Diogenes. He was awed; even he felt, “This man is astonishing. I too should be like him. What is there in the world—what will I do even after conquering it? I have conquered so much—nothing was gained; even if I conquer the whole world, what will I gain? If one must be a man, be like Diogenes.”

Such feelings must have arisen in him; otherwise why go to meet him? When he went, Diogenes was lying on the riverbank, sunbathing—naked. Alexander saw his abandon. He had seen many men—he had the most handsome, the bravest around him: commanders, soldiers. But such a body and such abandon, such a golden, deer-like grace—he had never seen! Like the grace sometimes seen in a deer, such was his body. Naked, Diogenes lay carefree—as if there were no worries in the world; as if anxiety did not exist. Not a wrinkle on his face.

Alexander stood a while and said, “I feel envy toward you. You arouse jealousy in me. So much peace, so cheerful, so blissful—and you possess nothing! And I, possessing everything, am so restless. If I am given another chance to come into the world, I will ask God to make me Diogenes, not Alexander.”

A courageous man was recognizing a supreme courage in another. Diogenes laughed. “Who knows,” he said, “if there is another birth, whether God exists or not—and even if there is, will you remember to ask? Better to become Diogenes in this very life. Why not now? Who stops you? Look—this riverbank is empty, there is enough space. I am not occupying it all—just six feet. The whole ghat lies open. You too can lie down; throw off your clothes. As I am carefree, you be carefree. Why not now? Why push it to another birth? Who knows if there is another? Who knows if there is a God? And when you go to take another birth, will you remember? Don’t get lost in such complications. This ghat is large enough—for two of us, and even two thousand. Why not become it now?”

This was a challenge of a different kind of courage. Diogenes challenged him. Alexander must have felt embarrassed, abashed. He said, “What you say is right. I have no answer to your argument. But I cannot do it now. I have set out to conquer the world, and the work is half done. Until I complete it…”

Diogenes laughed again. “This work will never be completed, because nothing in this world is ever completed. It will remain unfinished—and you will die. Remember my words when you die.”

Is anything ever completed here? And that is what happened. When Alexander died, he had not conquered the whole world. And at the moment of death, if anything was in his mind, it was not conquered empires, not golden palaces, not thrones, not wife or children, not friends or enemies—it was Diogenes. That naked fakir had spoken the truth: here, everything remains unfinished. The bigger the task, the more it remains incomplete.

Alexander said, “Thank you. I cannot answer what you said. And it seems true that work is never finished. But I am on my way; I cannot turn back now. If I can do anything for you, tell me. I will gladly do it. I want to do something for you. Count me among your devotees.”

Diogenes said, “Then do just this: step a little aside and leave the sun. Since you arrived, your body casts a shadow over mine. Needlessly you have robbed me of my sunshine. What else can you do? Everything else is complete; there is no other impediment.”

There is one kind of courage—like Diogenes’, like Mahavira’s. And there is another—like Alexander’s, like Hitler’s. But Alexander can become Diogenes. The aspiration is in him—he says, “In the next birth.” He lacks the nerve now, but he is impressed.

A sinner can become a saint. But the respectable—well, they can’t even become sinners; becoming saints is far beyond. Beware of becoming “respectable.” If you must become something, become a saint. Do not become respectable. Respectability is counterfeit coin—appearing decent outside while full of wickedness within. Beautiful on the surface, ugly inside. A double life. Double language. Hypocrisy.

Courage is the one value—and the one energy: empty of ego, it unites you with the Divine; full of ego, it throws you into the bottomless pit.

That’s all for today.