Ajhun Chet Ganwar #14

Kali Yuga has always been—just as Satya Yuga has always been. In Satya Yuga there was Rama; there was Ravana too. Do not forget Ravana. How could Ravana not be in Satya Yuga? They were together. Ravana belonged to Kali Yuga, Rama to Satya Yuga.

Satya Yuga and Kali Yuga do not stand in a line, one after the other—as if first Satya Yuga came and then Kali Yuga. Satya Yuga and Kali Yuga are simultaneous, contemporary—like night and day existing together; darkness and light together; evil and good together.

You have always heard that first there was Satya Yuga, the good times, and now there are bad times. That notion is fundamentally wrong. It was like this then; it is like this now. Then too there was the possibility of evil; today too there is the possibility of evil. Then too there was the possibility of goodness; even today the doors have not closed.

And remember, most people have always lived in Kali Yuga. For forty years after his enlightenment, Buddha explained the same things—do not steal, do not be dishonest, do not be jealous, do not be intoxicated with pride; do not be violent—from morning to evening. Whom was he teaching? If it were truly Satya Yuga, would he tell those who never stole, “Don’t steal”? Would he tell non-violent people, “Don’t be violent”? Would he tell the already honest to become honest? Then Buddha would have been mad. No one counsels the honest to become honest; advice is given to the dishonest.

Mahavira did the same from morning to night. Even the most ancient book, the Veda, does exactly that. So in the days of the Vedas there were thieves—likely more than sadhus; there were the dishonest—likely more than the honest. If all were good, if there were no devilry at all, there would have been no need for scriptures. For whom are scriptures written? For whom are moral counsels?

So I want to lay a new idea over your notion of time: Satya Yuga is eternal; Kali Yuga is also eternal. Choose what you wish. If you wish, you can live in Satya Yuga right now. If you become truthful (sat), you enter Satya Yuga. If you become untruthful (asat), you enter Kali Yuga. Befriend darkness and you will live in Kali Yuga. Befriend light and you will live in Satya Yuga.

Satya Yuga and Kali Yuga are two faces of the same coin. Live in whichever you like. Do not blame Kali Yuga.

Man is very clever. He says, “What can I do? It’s Kali Yuga!” You have pushed the matter onto Time itself. You say, “Time is bad; there is nothing wrong with me.” You shrug off responsibility. Naturally, you will live in Kali Yuga—because one who abandons his responsibility will never see even a ray of awakening in his life. And inevitably, living in darkness upon darkness, his notion will grow stronger: “Kali Yuga is terrible; there is no escape.” And you are the one creating Kali Yuga.

Change your life! Your life is yours; no one else is responsible. Do not play tricks. Man forever plays tricks—shifts the blame onto someone else, and then rests easy: “I am not at fault; what can I do? I am helpless.”

But the day you declare yourself helpless, the same day you become impotent. When you say, “What can I do? Times are bad. What can I do? Society is rotten. What can I do? All around there is nothing but dishonesty; I too must be dishonest—compelled!”—that very day you become dishonest, and will go on becoming so. The day you lay your responsibility on someone else, that day you become weak. That day you become a slave.

The master is the one who says, “If I am bad, I am the reason.” The free man is the one who says, “If I am a thief, I am the reason. Yes, I am a thief; but I am the cause. I have chosen to be a thief.” Such a person is clean and straightforward. In such a life a revolution is possible—because he holds the master key to revolution. He says, “If I am bad by my own doing, then the day I wish, that day I shall be good.” The door is in my hands. The key is in my hands.

That is why in this country we call a sannyasin “Swami.” Swami means master—an announcement of lordship: “I am my own master—whether I am bad or good. However I am, I am the cause.”

Do not be frightened that “I am the cause.” It frightens you to think, “I am responsible for my crimes; I am responsible for my vices; I am responsible for my devilry!” You become very anxious. But see the other side: if I alone am responsible, then something can be done; the possibility of transformation remains.

People keep postponing. They shift it onto Time. Where will you catch hold of Time? How will you change Kali Yuga into Satya Yuga? It has slipped out of your hands. Then whatever is, is fine; we must somehow get by—complaining, whining, sniveling, crawling along the roads like insects.

I tell you: Man has always had the possibility—to become bad or to become good. In Rama’s time too, not all were good. If all had been good, why would anyone call Rama an avatar? Have you ever thought? Why such prestige for Rama if all were good? Rama would have been lost among the many good. Who would notice him? Not worth two pennies then. Where everyone is good, where saints are a crowd, who would look at Rama? We have not been able to forget Rama—thousands of years have passed. Why not? Because there was a crowd of Ravanas, and Rama stood out sharply—like a star that shines in a dark night; by day it does not shine. The stars are in the sky by day too, but they are not visible; the sun’s light drowns them out. They shine in the dark. Against black clouds a flash of lightning is clearly seen.

We write with white chalk on a blackboard so that it can be seen. Rama is still visible—there must have been a blackboard of Ravanas. There must have been black clouds; that is why Rama’s brilliance has not faded. Krishna is visible; Mahavira, Buddha are visible. Why? Why such honor? We honor the rare, the unique, the one-of-a-kind. If everyone were the same, we would not.

I have heard: When the first man passed matriculation in Allahabad, he was taken in procession on an elephant! The whole city was decorated. The first man had passed! Now, so many pass matriculation; no one gets a procession, not even on a donkey. If you tell someone, “I’ve passed matric,” he says, “What’s the big deal?” Even you feel your chest sink when you say it.

There was a time when a middle-schooler could become a collector. In those days if someone passed matric, drums were beaten: something tremendous had happened.

Rama’s drums are still beating; we called him Maryada Purushottam—the supremely exemplary among men. People must have been without maryada (ethics). People must have been low. Otherwise how would you measure Rama? On what basis would you give him distinction?

Kohinoor has prestige; pebbles do not. Glass shards do not. If Kohinoors lay strewn on streets, in every lane, children playing with them, heaps piled up on the roadside, mixed into cement to build houses—then even if the Queen of England kept one, what value would it have? Value belongs to the rare.

We have not forgotten Rama. We have not forgotten Abraham. We have not forgotten Moses. We have not forgotten Christ. We have not forgotten Mohammed. Why? Why have these names remained stuck in our memory? Because it was a very dark night, and in that darkness these shining stars—how could we forget!

I have heard a poem of the day the Devil died. When Satan died, what happened?

The temples are desolate; the sanctuaries are without voice.
The Brahmin is silent; the muezzin is mute.
No fire is left in the hymns, no music in the songs.
No zeal, no fervor remains in the sermons.
Exhortations to virtue have become futile—
Even the threat of hell no longer frightens hearts.
Now the sheikh has no rival left,
And every topic for preaching is finished.
Today the voices of benediction are faint,
And incense no longer burns in the temple.
What a calamity—suddenly
A stillness has descended upon the assembly of struggle.
O True Lord, O Exalted Creator,
You have succeeded in Your mission:
The chain of guidance is finished—
No more book will descend from the sky.
The Devil has died, O brothers, the Devil has died.

If the Devil dies, what happens?

The temples lie empty. If the Devil himself has died, what need remains for God in the temple!

The mosques are quiet; no call to prayer. If the Devil has died, who will give God’s call! God’s kingdom everywhere—struggle is over.

The Brahmins are silent; the muezzins are mute. Who will chant, who will worship now?

No fire remains in shlokas, no music, no enthusiasm. No heat in religious speeches. If the Devil dies—if darkness dies—what delight remains in light? If disease dies, what glory remains in health? If there are no thorns, who will sing the praise of flowers?

Exhortations to virtue are now fruitless.
Even if we warn of sin—who will fear punishment?
There is no opponent left for goodness,
No rival for the wise.
There is no subject left to address.

The voices of benediction are faint;
Incense no longer burns in the temple.
No prayers rise, no aartis are arranged, no flowers brought—who is there to worship?

What a calamity has happened?
A numb stillness has fallen upon the assembly of holy struggle.
“O True Lord, O Exalted Creator,
You have succeeded in Your mission.”
The Devil has died; God has succeeded—so temples and mosques lie silent.

The chain of guidance is over;
No more book will descend from the sky—
No Veda, no Gospel, no Quran.

Books have kept descending—Quran, Veda, Bible. Prophets kept coming—Abraham, Moses, Mohammed, Jesus. Tirthankaras arose—Mahavira, Buddha, Parshvanath, Neminath, Adinath. Great messengers appeared—Zarathustra, Lao Tzu. Saints shone. Why? What does this show? That Kali Yuga has always been. The Devil never died—neither earlier nor now, nor will he ever. Devil and God are together, like day and night together. Choose what you wish. You can sleep by day and wake by night; or sleep by night and wake by day. Your choice. Sleep in Kali Yuga, wake in Satya Yuga—or sleep in Satya Yuga, wake in Kali Yuga. You can become Rama right now—or Ravana. Rama and Ravana are two possibilities.

Therefore I would change your notion of time. I do not say Satya Yuga came first and then Kali Yuga. That is wrong. Both have always been together—two wheels of the cart of time.

And then another door opens to a new possibility: you can be free of both. Free of time itself. Free of both good and evil. That is moksha, that is nirvana. The bad man is bound by badness; the good man is bound by goodness—both are bound. Better to be bound by gold than by iron if you must wear chains; if you must wear ornaments, let them be of precious jewels—but bound you still are.

The bondage of vice is bad; the bondage of virtue is good—but bondage is bondage. And poison, even in a golden bottle, still kills.

The ultimate quest of religion is freedom from time—timelessness. Neither Satya Yuga remains nor Kali Yuga. He who lives in Kali Yuga is a wicked man; he who lives in Satya Yuga is a good man; and the one who has gone beyond both, him we call a saint. A saint means: one who does not live in time; one who has slipped outside of time. He has moved not only away from evil but also from good. He has left the night—and he has left the day as well. He has left all and turned within, seated in his own emptiness—resting in the soundless.

You ask, “Can anyone realize God even in this Kali Yuga?”

You are really asking, “Can one light a lamp even in this dark night?” Who told you otherwise? When has darkness ever hindered the lighting of a lamp? What power does darkness have? If a lamp is lit, does darkness leap and snuff it out? If you light a lamp, does darkness prevent it from burning? The very strength of darkness is nothing—light the lamp and darkness is gone. Do not use the night as an excuse to avoid lighting the lamp.

The Jains say this is the fifth era—no Tirthankara can arise now. The Hindus say this is Kali Yuga—how can one realize God now! All this is the talk of despair. Such talk makes man impotent. I tell you: It has always been like this; it is like this now. What was possible then is possible today. What is possible today was possible then. Not a whit of difference—this world is the same.

But we face a difficulty—and there are reasons for it. When you remember the past, you select the good and remember that. You remember Buddha, but the people among whom Buddha moved and lived—you have no memory of them; no history was written of them. They vanished; Buddha remained. The blackboard vanished; only the bright white letters remained in memory. Today you do not remember what people were like in Buddha’s time, in Rama’s time, in Krishna’s time. The shining stars are remembered; the dark night we did not keep in memory. The reverse happens today: among millions, rarely does a shining person appear. The millions filled with darkness are what you meet, morning and evening, at home and outside, in shop and market—everywhere. Buddha you will encounter only once in a while—and even if you do, you will not recognize him. Living among the bad and the mad, you lose the subtle capacity needed to recognize a Buddha. Rubbing against people’s dishonesty and theft day after day, you become hard—necessarily so.

If one has to walk only on thorns, the skin will grow thick. Then one day when a flower touches you, you will not feel it. That is why the soles are rough. If you try to feel a rose with your foot, you will feel nothing—the skin is thick. So it is with the mind.

Daily you meet bad people; only by some coincidence do you meet someone ablaze with divinity—and by then your eyes have lost their capacity. You cannot understand such a person, you cannot accept him. Your heart is full of doubts. Whenever you trusted, you were deceived. Whomever you thought was true turned out false. It has happened so often that now how can you believe anyone? A saint—in this Kali Yuga? Unthinkable.

I forgive you for this. I understand your difficulty. What can you do? You trusted a thousand times and a thousand times your trust broke—now you have become incapable of trust. Faith is no longer easy. Whenever you reached out you found a thorn—and every thorn first deceived you as a flower. Now even when you see a flower you think, “Who knows, perhaps another deception!” The mind says, “Now learn something! In this Kali Yuga, in this dark world—who awakens? Who realizes God? Where is God now?”

Your difficulty I understand. The memory of gods of the past remains; the memory of the people of the past is gone. Today’s people are visible; today’s God is not visible. Hence great despair arises.

Neither a star on the sky, nor a firefly on earth.
The ray of light seems to be losing.
So effective has been the onslaught of darkness—
Has the night become everlasting?

This question arises often. “No star on the firmament; no firefly on earth. The night is so dark there is not even a glimmer on the horizon. So how can trust in the ray of light arise? The ray seems defeated. We feel like giving up hope—Truth will not be; cannot be; how can it be in this Kali Yuga! Perhaps it was in Satya Yuga, in myths. And even that—who knows if it really was! Maybe once it was; now it is not. Now it will never be. The Golden Age is gone.”

The tyranny of darkness has been so effective—
Is the night becoming permanent?

So the doubt arises: Has the night become forever? Will there be no dawn?

That is what Kali Yuga means—that there will never be a morning again; that this is the final night; that the days of day are gone, now only nights.

Listen to people: “Those good old days!” People think backwards. There is a psychological, not historical, reason. Every person has left childhood behind—that is the reason.

In childhood there were no worries, no responsibilities, no anxieties. We did not know what was happening in the world. There was light everywhere; flowers were blooming; butterflies flying; clouds in the sky; the reign of fairies. Everyone has left behind days of happiness. Then came worry, troubles, restlessness, struggle, the marketplace of honesty and dishonesty.

And before childhood everyone left behind the nine months in the womb—those were extraordinary. No question of concern at all. You did not have to eat; the mother did. You did not have to make blood; the mother did. You did not have to breathe; the mother did.

Psychologists say the bliss the child knows in the womb makes him think all his life that the past was blissful. Every person has passed through childhood, so the mind holds: “The past was good.” The notion of Satya Yuga is an extension of this: earlier all was good; now all has gone bad.

Nothing has changed. Everything is as it was.

This pouring season, this night of arrows and clouds—
Not even the faint life of a single star.
Ah, this desolation of the atmosphere, this desolation of the heart!
Perhaps once light rained from the heavens;
Perhaps once the lightning of revelation flashed.
But now do not lift longingly your eyes to the sky—
There is nothing there but darkness.
Look at this earth, which despite the cruelty of night
Is perhaps not yet deprived of light.
Some particle must still be glowing here;
Some firefly must be shining in a corner.
This earth cannot be deprived of light.

This earth cannot be deprived of light! Granted, the night is very dark; still, somewhere, even in this dark night, some star must be shining. Seek—and those who seek, find. Somewhere some lamp must be burning! It is a terrifying new moon night!

This earth cannot be deprived of light.
Somewhere there is the radiance of the Divine.
We call that radiance the Satguru. That is what Palatu meant: take refuge at the feet of the true Master. Seek! Granted, the night is dark—always has been—but those who seek have always found a ray of light.

This pouring season, this night black with arrows of rain and cloud, this storm, this thunder, this frightened night—no faint glimmer of even a little star.

Ah, this desolation without and within—outside a dark night, inside a dark night.

We think: once, perhaps, light rained from the heavens—we have heard stories, read tales: once it must have rained.

You will be startled to know: it is not only you who think “once light must have rained”; even the oldest scriptures say the same—earlier it was good; now all is bad. China has a very ancient text—a single sheet, written on human skin, some six thousand years old, perhaps older than the Vedas. Read it and you will be amazed; it reads like this morning’s editorial: sons have turned against fathers; wives have become deceitful; no fidelity remains; disciples have no respect for gurus; where have the good days gone; O Lord, why have these bad days come? Does this sound ancient? Six thousand years old! People were as you are; the same troubles, worries, quarrels, problems.

Man needs consolation—two ways of getting it. Either look backward: once upon a time, in the beginning, all was well—then you feel, “At least once it was good.” Today is bad—never mind; once there were the days of the ancestors. That is why ancient Chinese texts glorify the ancestors’ days.

Or look forward, as communism does: the golden age is coming in the future. Religion looks back; politics looks forward. But between them there is no difference: both agree that today things are a mess. Religion says: in the past it was good. Politics says: in the future it will be good. But today—both agree, it is not. The past is gone; the future has not come. What is gone lives only in your idea; what is to come lives only in your imagination. The only thing that keeps arriving is the present—today, and today again.

Perhaps once light rained from the heavens;
Perhaps once there was revelation.
But now do not lift your longing eyes to the sky—
There is nothing there but darkness.

This is the notion of Kali Yuga: Do not look to the sky. No revelation flashes; no books descend; no prophets come; no angels fly; no fairies descend; no Tirthankaras—only darkness.

But where there is darkness, there is light. Where the night grows very dark, the dawn draws near. When the night is very dark, do not be frightened; it is proof that morning is close. And when the night is very dark, search—that is the moment to find a burning ray. By day it is difficult to search. Use the night as opportunity.

Look upon this earth, which despite the tyranny of night
Is perhaps not yet deprived of light.
Seek! Clouds have covered the sky; stars are not visible. Search in someone’s eyes—you may find a star there, a star that never goes out. Look into someone’s heart.

Some particle must still be glowing here;
Some firefly must be shining in a corner.
Perhaps in someone’s lap a firefly is glowing—once in Buddha’s lap, once in Christ’s. Even now it glows. Eyes are needed—seeking is needed.

This earth cannot be deprived of light.
Abandon the despair that says, “It is Kali Yuga; what can happen now?” Light cannot be utterly extinguished. It may be less, much less—very, very little—but it cannot be gone. If light were gone, life would be gone. So long as there is consciousness, so long as there is awareness, light cannot be extinguished.

Kindle a little awareness. Open your eyes rightly. Learn new ways of seeing—fill your eyes with love, or fill them with meditation.

On the brow of some brave one there is still the majesty of martyrdom—what Mansur had.
In the eyes of some courageous one you will still see the courage Jesus had upon the cross.
In some helpless heart there is the surge of revolt.
Some maiden’s lips still carry the line of a smile.
In the lover’s heart, the longing to meet the Beloved still throbs.
Seek, and you will still find a devotee, engaged in worship with great hope—whose love has made the idol before him alive; from whose mouth words do not fall dead but pour from the heart.

Do you think there is not even one devotee on earth? Not even one Meera? Not even one Chaitanya? That has never happened—and never can.

There are devotees who feel the sting of sins they have not even committed. Today too. There are those who sin and do not repent—they live in Kali Yuga. And there are those who repent for sins not done—they live in Satya Yuga. Thorns of uncommitted sins prick their hearts—such simple hearts you will still find—crying, “Forgive me,” though there is nothing to forgive. This is the highest peak of devotion—to seek forgiveness for what was never done. The lowest depth of irreligion is to feel no remorse even for what you have done.

Somewhere the flame of feeling is alight;
Somewhere the lamp of thought is burning.
Some firefly, some particle is shimmering—
This earth cannot be deprived of light.

This earth has never been, nor will it ever be, empty of God’s light. God has never exiled this earth. So why talk of Kali Yuga?

You ask, “Can anyone realize God even in this Kali Yuga?”

God is eternal, beyond time. Whoever rises beyond time can realize God—any time. All times are equally good for going beyond. That is why Palatu Das said: all lucky moments and auspicious timings are futile—drop this madness. You have dragged in muhurta again; you have dragged in Kali Yuga! Palatu says: time and auspicious moments are useless—care for the essential. How to step outside time—care for that. And whenever anyone has tried to step outside, the same obstacles were there then as today. Do you think five thousand years ago when someone sat to meditate, no thoughts arose? They did—only the objects differed. There was no thought of a car—certainly—but of a bullock cart: “Let me buy a cart!” Maybe not a thought of becoming president, but becoming king—what difference? Politics was as much; ambition as much.

You fall into a mistake because you feel, “When I sit, thoughts of buying a car arise; five thousand years ago people sat and had no such worries—Kali Yuga has come!” But is there any difference between worrying about car and cart? The vehicles differ, not the worry. Then too people pined for a splendid horse. You lament not having a Fiat; he lamented not having a horse. Is there any difference? Even now we say, “How many horsepower?”—still the horse’s language. In those days, one with an Arabian horse had a special pride—imported horses then; imported cars now.

Man’s anxieties are the same. In those days too, one had to struggle just as much to come beyond the mind. Do you think in your sitting you think of film actresses, and in those days there were no beautiful women? There were. The same lust arose. Everything is as it was. Whatever changes occurred are outward; the mind of man has not changed.

Yes, if Buddha returned today he would fail to recognize many things. Show him a helicopter—he would be startled. Naturally. But show him the human mind—do you think he’d be startled? He would be startled that after twenty-five hundred years the mind is exactly the same: the same race, the same ambition, the same jealousy, the same anger, attachment, greed. What difference?

People could realize God then; they can realize Him now.

I repeat: Do not try to escape. Do not search for excuses. Even if you do not want to realize God, at least accept within: “I do not want it; therefore I do not attain.” Remain the master. Do not lose your lordship. One day this lordship will help you—on the day you wish to attain, you will. Do not take cover behind Kali Yuga and such. Those covers are dangerous.

Surely God scolded Moses—You did not do right; you shattered that simple heart’s prayer. But God has not scolded me in the least. Because those whose prayers I tried to break were not simple-hearted people. They were not like that shepherd. They were false and hypocritical. God has often said to me, “You did well—bravo!”

Keep the distinction clear. Never break the prayer of a simple heart. But the prayers of the false and the hypocritical must be broken; otherwise they will never become simple-hearted. I have never broken the prayer of a simple heart. Whenever I saw a simple-hearted person, I said: Keep doing exactly what you are doing; you don’t need to change at all. That’s why I sometimes run into trouble with people. One person asks something and I tell him, “Yes, do exactly that.” Another person asks the same thing and I say, “Don’t you dare do that.” Then there is a big problem. People think I make contradictory statements.

If someone’s prayer is true, heartfelt, I don’t touch it. I say, “Good—dive into it completely. Tell me how I can support you so you can drown in it.” But if a prayer is false, I have to break it. Moses broke a simple-hearted man’s prayer. I am breaking the prayers of those people whom the likes of Moses taught how to pray—prayers that have become false.

Understand it this way. Add a little more to the story—after all, it is only a story, what’s the harm in adding to it? When Moses had gone, I went to that shepherd and said, “Throw away that nonsense Moses taught you. There is no essence in it. Return to your simple heart.” So I too am “breaking,” and Moses also “broke.” Moses broke a man’s direct, innocent faith. I am breaking the pedantry handed down by Moses. I am breaking a false prayer. Yes, I am breaking—and Moses also broke. If you see only the breaking, you will be worried. But I am the negation of the negation.

In logic there is a rule: the negation of negation. When you cancel a negation with a negation, what remains is the supreme affirmation.

Someone told you, “There is no God.” You had believed there is God; he negated it. You came to me. Now you believe “There is no God.” I negated that. I said, “No, this notion of yours is wrong.” I too negated—but it was the negation of a negation. You returned to your original simplicity.

Those whose “faith” I broke had no faith at all. And it is rare to find the other kind of person… Even Moses does not find such a man again and again; in Moses’ whole life he meets that shepherd only once. And God has to scold Moses only once—then never again. Why? Because that simple heart is very rare. It is a problem.

I was once at a camp—Matheran. In the morning I spoke and I said: No worship of anyone, no bowing at anyone’s feet, no prayer, no faith. Drop it all. Be free of it all. I said this and walked out. The whole talk was along those lines. As I stepped out, Sohan was standing there, and she bent and touched my feet. The well-known Hindi and Marathi writer Rishabhdas Ranka was next to me. He said, “Why don’t you stop her? You just explained all this. Why don’t you stop her?” I said, “I will not stop her. Tears are pouring from her eyes. She is touching my feet—and I have spoken against touching feet; I’ve just come from saying it, and having heard it she is touching my feet. She is so moved by what she heard!”

Rishabhdas’ point is correct, logical. Whom should I heed? And Rishabhdas’ case is open-and-shut. In court he would win—because I had just said it, not even a moment had passed; the words were still echoing. People were still dispersing, and there Sohan stood, eyes brimming, touching my feet. But I told him, “I will not stop her. If you touch my feet, I will stop you.”

He was upset from that day and never came back. He felt this man is contradictory, and hurried away. I never saw him again. When I told him, “If you touch my feet, I will absolutely stop you—because that would be false, hypocritical. There would be some motive, some purpose in it. If you touch my feet, you will do it with a motive, some self-interest. But these feet that are being touched now—there is no motive in it; it is pure feeling. She isn’t touching the feet; the feet are being touched. There isn’t even a doer inside it. It isn’t descending from mind. How could it descend from mind? I have just been explaining to the clever ones. This is coming from the heart. I have never negated the heart.”

So I want to tell you: God has always said to me, “You did right, you did right.”

There is love, and there is duty. When you pray out of duty, it becomes false; when you pray out of love, it becomes true. The prayer may be the same, the words the same, the manner the same, the outer form the same—so look into the devotee’s eyes, see the feeling of the devotee. Do not look at the act. If you look at the act, you will be confused; outwardly there may be no difference at all—the priest and the devotee may look the same. You give the priest a hundred rupees a month and he comes—and how choked with “devotion” he appears while praying! If you say tears should flow, he will even produce tears—even if he has to put something in his eyes to make them water, no problem. Actors do it: when they have to weep and there is no other way, they put something in their eyes so the tears come. The priest dances with emotion—but all that swelling is on the surface. And if he does swell up, it is because, “Well, I have got a job; the hundred rupees will soon be paid.”

The devotee also dances, the devotee also chokes up—but the meaning of his emotion is different. There is no motive. The joy manifesting in him is of another order. Outwardly the two can look the same—so do not judge from the outside. Do not ask the devotee’s caste. Do not ask his method. Ask only his feeling—his inner mood.

“That dour sheikh, enemy of all joy—
If I take even an empty goblet in my hand,
He is enraged.”
He never even looks to see whether the cup is full or empty.

“And now whom can I tell what passed over my heart?
Life was a duty—and I merely lived it.”

The life of one who lives in the mood of duty is very painful—because duty has no joy. This is your condition—your misfortune. You sit in your shop, you work; if someone asks, there is no juice in it for you. You say, “What to do? I married, there are children, there is a wife; it has to be done.” You do it out of duty—so all the juice is gone. If you were doing the same out of love, there would be great joy.

Life flows with juice where love is. Where duty is, the juice dries up. If your life has become like a desert, it is because whatever you do, you do as duty. “He is my father, so I must serve him. She is my mother, so I must serve her. She is my wife—well, I’m caught now, so I’ll have to do something for her! I have children—so I’ll have to send them to school, I’ll have to marry them off.” Everything “has to be done.” But there is no joy left in anything. If your life becomes a desert, what is surprising in that? This is not the way of a lover. The lover’s way is different.

In Maharashtra there is a tale about the Vithoba temple: A devotee was massaging his mother’s feet, and every day he called to Krishna. That night Krishna felt playful and arrived. He knocked. The door wasn’t latched, just pushed to. The devotee called, “Come in—who is it?” When Krishna came in, the devotee’s back was to him; he was massaging his mother’s feet. Krishna said, “I am Krishna—you call me every day; I have come.” The devotee said, “You’ve come at the wrong time. I am massaging my mother’s feet. Come another time.” Such uncommon reverence—such feeling in serving the mother—captivated Krishna! He said, “Then I will stay and wait—first serve your mother.” The devotee slid a brick over and said, “Stand on this.” And Krishna stood on that brick, and stood, and stood. That is why in Vithoba’s temple the image still stands on a brick.

This was not duty. There was such love in it that the love at the mother’s feet and love for God cease to be opposed; they become one. Where there is love, all loves become one. They are waves of the same river.

So those who pray out of duty—“I am a Hindu, so I have to go to the temple; I am a Muslim, so I must keep Ramadan, I must fast; I am a Jain, so I must observe Paryushan vows”—I criticized them for fifteen years. It was necessary. By breaking that I sought those who were ready to drop the false and had the courage to move toward the real. That is why I have now stopped traveling anywhere. I knocked on the doors I had to knock on. I left the message: “This lamp is lit; if ever the darkness troubles you, come.” Now it is up to them—their whim.

But remember, what I broke were not prayers. And what rites and rituals I opposed, I opposed because they were mere rites and rituals. Otherwise I have no opposition to anything. How could I? Wherever there is a glimpse of truth, I support it.

“Those who claimed ‘Anal Haq’—
They played Holi with their own blood,
They lost their lives for their word,
They paid off the debt of grace with their heads.
But the claimants of rebellion even now
Sing songs of the gallows and the rope;
When they reel in the intoxication of wine,
They set off toward the killing ground—
Yet most often these people
Return safe and sound from the killing ground.
Who ever stains his blade
With the defilement of his own blood!”
Those who claimed “Anal Haq”—Mansur al-Hallaj—those who said, “I am the Truth,” “Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman,” who made such a claim to Truth, such claimants to Truth—

“Those who claimed ‘Anal Haq’
Played Holi with their own blood,
Laid down their lives for their vow,
Paid off the debt of grace with their heads.”
They repaid the world’s entire debt. They played Holi with their own blood. They gave their lives for Truth. For Truth, anything can be given—everything can be given.

“But there are still the claimants of rebelliousness.
They sing of the gallows and the rope,
And when they get drunk on wine
They talk big, and set out for martyrdom—
But most often they return from the killing ground safe and sound.
Who would ever stain his sword
With the impurity of his own blood!”
These clever ones will never let their swords be stained with their own blood. They only talk. In their life nothing ever happens—except mental gymnastics. No revolution ever descends into their life. They talk of martyrdom and become adept at talking of martyrdom. Whenever they stagger in drunkenness they say, “Now we go; now we go to the cross.” And in the morning they return home. They never go to any cross at all.

See the difference. However high the words you speak in intoxication, they have no value. What value can the words of drunkenness have? When you pray to God, are you in awareness? What are you doing? Is this call rising from your innermost core—or are you merely making a show? Are you ready to lose your life—or are you just enjoying talk?

I certainly criticized those who got lost in pointless talk; who know nothing; who display scriptural knowledge; who have not tasted even a particle of Truth; whose only possession is borrowed memory of scripture. I most definitely opposed them.

When I opposed the pandits of Kashi or the Shankaracharya of Puri, I did not oppose Adi Shankaracharya. I did not oppose the rishis of the Upanishads. In truth, in favor of the Upanishadic rishis I opposed these hypocrites. In favor of Adi Shankaracharya I opposed the Jagatguru of Puri. I criticized hypocrisy. When hypocrisy breaks, true dharma is revealed.

The devotee has the strength of God. The jnani walks on his own support. The devotee walks supported by God. The jnani is alone; the devotee is not alone. The jnani is like someone who rows a boat with oars. The devotee is like one who raises the mast and lets the winds drive his boat. Keep this difference in mind.

When you row with oars, you must rely on your own arms. You will tire, be harried, be drenched in sweat. At times you will have to set the oars down. At times you will need to rest. At times you will lose. At times the other shore will seem to recede. Sometimes it comes near, sometimes it slips away. There will be struggle; there will be labor.

The devotee does not row; he does not take oars in hand. He unfurls the sail; God’s winds carry him.

Ramakrishna has said: Why do you row? When His winds are ready to take you that way, why don’t you open the sail?

This is the difference.

The jnani moves trusting himself. Jnani means self-effort. He says: I will attain. I will try. I will fight. I will swim. The devotee says: What can I do! Who am I! When has anything ever happened by my doing! Nothing is going to happen through me! The most I can do is to cling to Your feet—now You do it.

Therefore the devotee has a strength the jnani does not have: the strength of God. The devotee is not alone. Someone is always with him. The Vast is with him. By losing himself he has befriended the Vast.

The jnani befriends the Vast by finding himself. Understand the difference: the devotee befriends the Vast by losing himself; the jnani befriends the Vast by finding himself.

Therefore the jnani says: Know thyself. The devotee says: Forget thyself. Let there be self-forgetfulness. Forget.

These are their fundamental differences. Mind you, I am not saying: become a devotee. I am not saying: become a jnani. I am saying: understand the difference rightly; then choose what appeals to you. The essential thing is to reach the other shore. If you enjoy rowing, there is no harm. By all means, row. Take as long a route as you like. Sweat as much as you like. To each his own delight. Recognize your own inclination. But if that is not your inclination, there is no need to panic, no need to be despondent. There is another way: open the sail. Surrender to the wind. Say to the wind: carry me. Let go—surrender.

The jnani is resolve. The devotee is surrender.

So the devotee has great strength. Therefore the devotee does not have to go to the forest. He says: Where shall I go now for a forest? Is the marketplace any less a jungle? Is there any less jungle in the crowd of people? What difference will a crowd of trees make? If I sit among rocks and mountains—what then? Are there any fewer rocks and mountains here? It is rocks upon rocks that are walking all around. Why run to the animals? Are the people here any less than animals? Animality rules everywhere. Where is there to run! I will remain here—but I will take the Lord along. I will be with the Lord. I will place my hand in His hand.

Then there is peace even in the marketplace. Then there is solitude even in the crowd. Then, in the clamor of the bazaar, the note of prayer begins to rise. Then, wherever you are, the path begins to open.

The question is meaningful. The jnani has to strive greatly. The devotee only longs for grace. The devotee is like a small child. He knows how to cry. One thing he knows for certain: when he cries, the Mother comes—however busy she may be, wherever she may be, she comes, she finds him. The devotee is a small child.

The jnani sets out to find the Mother. He trusts his own feet. The jnani arrives too. The jnani reaches God. God reaches the devotee. A call is needed.

The matter is straightforward; there's really nothing to explain. He shouts because you are deaf. Even when he shouts and shouts, do you hear?

Jesus said to his disciples: Climb onto the rooftops and cry out. People are so deaf—if they hear even then, it’s a miracle. Again and again Jesus says: If you have eyes, see. He says to those with eyes, If you have eyes, see; to those with ears, If you have ears, hear. Because that which you have longed to see for lifetimes is here. And that which you have been weeping to hear for lifetimes is being spoken. But if you have ears, then hear; if you have eyes, then see.

The saints have always been shouting. Yet when have you listened? Your sleep is deep. You even get annoyed when a saint shouts. You turn over, pull the blanket up, and sink deeper into sleep. You say: Brother, don’t wake me, don’t bother me. Don’t rouse me in the middle of the night—I’m seeing a beautiful dream. Who is this man calling at such an hour? Let me sleep.

Your deafness! That’s why the sadhu shouts. And what is man after all? Clay! A doll of mud!

“Ram-ram bhaj le re, maati ke dhonda.”
He’s right. We are dolls of clay. We will fall back into earth. But within us there is something that is not clay. There is something in us that is not of earth—something that comes from beyond.

“Ram-ram bhaj le re…”
Within us there is a song that is not of clay. Within us there is an inner attunement that is not of clay. Within us there is remembrance, awareness, wakefulness, a knowing—none of it is clay. Clay will return to clay. If you die without remembering the Divine, only clay will remain and fall back into clay.

Something else too is contained within you—sky. You are not made only of earth; within you there is a little sky as well. In these earthen walls of yours there is sky too. In your courtyard there are earthen walls, and there is the sky above them.

To remember Ram means: take your attention off the clay; remember the sky.

The courtyard is a precise symbol. We look at a small courtyard enclosed by walls, yet the sky within that courtyard is the very same sky that spreads outside. There is no difference between the sky in the courtyard and the vast sky beyond.

Even the sky “enclosed” in a small pot is no different from the vast sky outside. The pot breaks, and sky merges with sky.

Now it is a matter of your vision. Either bind your gaze to the clay, take yourself to be the body—body, body, body—and let that be your sole conviction; then the sky within you remains unseen: you grasp only the earthen wall and stop there; you remain clay.

So he is right: then you remain a “maati ka dhonda,” a mere clod of earth. You become a gobar-Ganesh—a Ganesh made of cow-dung. You fail to recognize the real, though the real was present; you clutch the counterfeit.

The false exists, and the real exists. Only change your attention. Slowly withdraw your attention from the body and place it upon the consciousness within you. Join with that consciousness. Feel that consciousness day and night. Let your worship be of that consciousness. This is the meaning of: “Ram-ram bhaj le re, maati ke dhonda.”

But with the clay we have attached much ego. With the clay we have linked many vested interests. We think that being this clay is everything. How much you worry about your body! Have you ever worried about yourself? You stand before the mirror for hours morning and evening. Have you ever stood before yourself, even for a moment? Will you go on staring only at the mirror? When will you look into the real mirror? From the mirror you see only the body; only this lump of clay will glitter—nothing else. The one who is looking into the mirror—when will you look at him? When will you see the seer? When will you return to the capacity for seeing that is hidden within you? When will you take hold of it? When you take hold of that, you have taken hold of God. If you don’t, all this is but a matter of moments. This life of a few days—and then the dark night. For a moment, strut and swagger. All this will fall to dust. Dust unto dust!

Hakīr-o-nātavān tinka,
hawā ke dosh par parrān,
samajhtā thā ki bahr-o-bar par us kī hukmarānī hai—
magar hawā kā ek albela jhonka,
beprawāh, keś-tosne vālā,
jab uske jī me āye rukh palat jāye—
hawā ākhir hawā hai, kab kisī kā sāth detī hai?
Hawā to bevafā hai—kab kisī kā sāth detī hai!

The poor, feeble straw sometimes climbs upon the wind. Sometimes the wind lifts a trifling straw, and it begins to circle in the sky.

We too have climbed onto the wind. This breath is wind. Upon this breath we have climbed. This small straw—this little lump of clay—has mounted the wind. It is puffed up by the wind.

“Hakīr-o-nātavān tinka”—a trivial, feeble straw. “Hawā ke dosh par parrān”—perched on the wind’s shoulders it imagines it has wings. It thinks, I have wings. It thinks, I can fly; look, I can fly! Because it is flying, it thinks, I can fly. Riding the wind’s wings it thinks, I am winged; I am a bird.

Hakīr-o-nātavān tinka, hawā ke dosh par parrān,
samajhtā thā ki bahr-o-bar par us kī hukmarānī hai—
and for a little while it thinks it rules over winds and storms, over the moon and stars, over the sky.

Magar hawā kā ek albela jhonka—keś-tosne vālā, beprawāh—
what trust is there in the wind’s gusts! Who knows when they will change their course! Wayward gusts—now they blow, now they stop; they may come, they may not.

Magar hawā kā ek albela jhonka,
keś-tosne vālā,
beprawāh—
jab uske jī me āye rukh palat jāye.
Hawā ākhir hawā hai—kab kisī kā sāth detī hai?
The breath going in and out of you is also not one to stay with you forever; who knows when it will turn. Now it is here, now it is gone. Just now it entered, just now it went out; and if it does not return, you can do nothing. You will not be able to take even one more breath. Once gone, it is gone.

Hawā to bevafā hai—kab kisī kā sāth detī hai!

“Ram-ram bhaj le re!”
The wind turns, and the spell of loftiness shatters.

And as the wind veers, the straw falls from the sky to the ground. That enchantment of height—that fancy, I have become high, I have become big, I have become great—collapses in a single instant.

Isn’t this how it goes? Today you have wealth; you walk in the sky, your feet don’t touch the ground. Tomorrow the wealth is gone. Today you have position; tomorrow the position is gone. All this is but the wind’s gusts. Ask Indira. The gust passed. Tell Morarji too that the wind belongs to no one.

Hawā to bevafā hai—kab kisī kā sāth detī hai!

Hawā palṭī, bulandī kā fusūn tūṭā—
hakīr-o-nātavān tinka!
The dream is broken. The trifling straw was, after all, trifling; it has fallen back.

Hakīr-o-nātavān tinka,
paṛā hai khāk-e-pastī par—
now it lies on the dust of abasement, down and out, flat on the ground. “Khudā jāne koi rāhgīr-e-beparvāh”—and what concern has a passerby that once a lofty straw lay here, one that used to fly in the sky! They’ll tread it down with their shoes and move on. They will trample it underfoot and pass by. You know, today or tomorrow this body of yours will lie in the earth, to be trampled by countless feet. Don’t needlessly waste your time standing before the mirror. Sing Ram! Ram-ram bhaj le re!

Paṛā hai khāk-e-pastī par—
khudā jāne koi rāhgīr-e-beparvāh,
jab apne pāon se usko masaltā hai,
to apnā khvāb-e-az̤mat yād karke uske dil par kyā guzartī hai!
Just think: its dreams of exaltation must return. Memories must come back again and again—I used to fly in the sky; once I too was something; once I too had height; once I too was an Alexander.

Khudā jāne koi rāhgīr-e-beparvāh,
jab apne pāon se usko masaltā hai,
to apnā khvāb-e-az̤mat yād karke iske dil par kyā guzartī hai!
But clay is clay; it will fall into clay.

The sadhu is right: “Ram-ram bhaj le re, maati ke dhonda.”

We are of earth; into earth we shall fall. Dust unto dust! And if we were only earth, there would be no problem. But in this clay there are rays—from beyond the clay. Within us there is a drop of nectar. In this muddy clay there lies a drop of immortality. In this mine of earth there is a diamond. Blessed are those who recognize that diamond—before the breath flies away, before the wind’s course turns.

For the wind is only wind—when has it stood by anyone!
The wind is faithless—when has it stood by anyone!

Blessed are those who change their own course before the wind changes; who find their own wings before they fall from the wind’s wings; who do not remain tangled long in the wind’s false dream of grandeur; who find their true height; who find their real home; who know that the houses here are inns. These are sarais—stay for the night; in the morning, you must go. And do not forget your home.

Girah hamārā sunn mein, anhad mein bisrām.
That great Void—call it God, Self, meditation, samadhi, whatever name you wish—nirvana, moksha, kaivalya, whatever appeals—that is our true home. And only there is repose. Before that, do not be deceived. Here there are many deceptions; here, countless delusions.

The sadhu is right. Even now, wake up, O ignorant one!

Enough for today.