Ajhun Chet Ganwar #18

Only the unknown can be loved. Love for the known slowly dwindles to zero. Once we have fully known something, our very savor for it dries up. Turn here, turn there—the juice is gone. The sweetness is only in the unfamiliar; the pull only in the unacquainted.

When two lovers come to know each other completely, love ends. Once all is familiar, nothing remains for the journey—nothing left to search for.

Only the unknown can be loved.

Therefore all loves in this world will one day end—only love for the Divine never ends. Because there never comes a moment when you can say, “I have known God completely.” The more you know, the more remains to be known. The more you know, the more doors open. You climb one peak and it seems the last summit has arrived; before you can get there, another peak stands challenging you. It is an endless procession.

Hence we have called God infinite—without beginning and without end. The journey of discovery is never complete. Therefore love with the Divine becomes eternal; there is no way for it to fade.

Try to understand this in life. And even on this ordinary plane, if you want to keep love alive, do not fall into the illusion that you “know” one another—otherwise love will die. And the truth is: you never really know! You live thirty years with a woman or a man and think you have known them—have you? The wife you’ve lived with for thirty years—do you truly know her? You’ve merely assumed you know. Your eyes have grown dim with assumption. What have you really known? The child born to you, grown from your blood—do you know him? You assume: “He is my son, so I know him.” But what do you know?

The mystery of existence ends nowhere. Look once again into your wife’s eyes—the wife you’ve lived with for thirty years. Slowly, slowly, you stopped looking into those eyes. Slowly, you stopped even looking at your wife. Everything has become a blur. You think: “I already know—what’s there to see?” We look only at what is unknown, unfamiliar. A woman passes on the road—you look; something new draws the eye. The old, slowly, we stop seeing at all.

Psychologists say: close your eyes and try to recall your wife’s face—you’ll be amazed. Thirty years together, and when you try to picture her face with eyes closed, it won’t form; it will scatter, blur. The one you assumed you knew—how long has it been since you truly looked at her face? Since you truly listened to her voice? Since you held her hand? You may have held it, but the sensitivity died long ago. You may have touched, but until touch is aware, what is it?

Go home today and look at your wife as a stranger—you will be startled. Or look at your husband, your son, your friend—and you will be startled to see it was only an assumption that you knew. And life shows you this every day. Every day your wife behaves in a way that unsettles you—you could never have imagined it. The husband does something the wife never dreamed he would do.

You considered a man “good,” and one day he betrays you. You say: “He deceived me.” But the truth is simply that you had assumed he would never deceive you. Your knowledge was an assumption; only your assumption broke—nothing else happened. The man is as he is.

A bad man becomes good, a good man becomes bad—in a moment it happens. No one’s behavior can be predicted. We never know anyone so completely that we can say what they will do tomorrow. Our knowledge is only assumption. And because of these assumptions our life grows dull and love drains out of life.

People begin to think they know God too—and then their prayer dies. Wherever you think you know, God dies, prayer dies, you die. Only death dwells where so-called knowledge grows thick. Where you are like an innocent child who knows nothing, there is mystery. That is why small children seem so full of delight. You walk holding their hand through the same garden—but they are ecstatic! Every fluttering butterfly seizes their eyes. Every flower stops them in their tracks. They stand still; you tug them along: “Come, what’s to see? We’ve seen these flowers before.” Every bird’s call halts them. A rabbit darts, and their very breath runs with it!

But you—you pass through the same garden; no bird touches you, nor the trees’ greenness, nor the flowers’ colors call you; the rainbow spread across the sky doesn’t appear to you. You see nothing. You only think: “I’ve been in this garden so many times.” It is precisely this thought that blocks everything.

The Upanishads say: whoever thinks “I know God,” know that he does not know. That would be the proclamation of the greatest ignorance. One who knows God is left only wonder-smitten—silent. And the day you connect even a little with God, not only does God remain unknown, this whole world becomes unknown again. For one who has related to the Divine, that day his wife becomes unknown, his husband unknown, his own son unknown—because in the eyes of this son, too, it is God who will gaze back; in the hand of this friend it is the touch of God you will feel. This wife is none other than a form of That. It is His green in the trees, His song in the birds, His light in the sun, His dark in the dark night.

Knowing God does not render only God unknown—again the whole world becomes unknown. In other words: the world becomes mysterious again; wonder is reborn; you receive again the child’s eyes; you are reborn—twice-born. This new birth is sannyas.

You ask: “How can one love or be devoted to the Supreme which we do not know?”

I understand your question; it is meaningful. Naturally it arises: how can we love what we do not know? First we must know—only then will love arise. You think love arises because of the qualities of the beloved—then you are mistaken.

Do you think thirst arises because water is present? Thirst comes first; the search for water follows.

Do you think when a child is born he knows what milk is and cries, “I want milk”? He knows nothing of milk; he has never tasted it, never heard of it. Then why does he cry and wail? For what is he pleading? Hunger—he knows hunger.

Understand the difference. If you first know of milk and then feel hunger, that hunger is false. Such hunger often comes to you. You pass by a restaurant, aroma wafts in, your nostrils fill—and hunger comes. Fritters sizzle and hunger comes. This is false; a moment before it wasn’t there. The smell of fritters filled your nostrils and hunger arose—this is mental, hollow. Beware of such hunger. It is artificial; if you live by it you will soon be unwell. It is not your body’s need. If it were a need, the smell of fritters would not be required. If it were a need, hunger would arise on its own; then you would go in search of fritters—that would be different.

A newborn has never tasted milk, never seen it, never known the mother’s breast. For nine months everything came silently in the womb—he never knew how or from where. The life-juice flowed into him quietly—he didn’t even have to move his lips. He never “drank” milk. It is a great wonder.

Psychologists and scientists face an important question: when the child first cries, for what? For milk? For the breast? Impossible. For what then? Hunger. He knows hunger; something is stirring inside; he cries, wails. For whom does he cry? He does not even know that yet—how could he? He simply cries.

Hence the supreme devotee is one who simply cries; who cannot even say, “I am calling Ram,” or “I am calling Krishna”—who can only say, “I don’t know whom I am calling; but a calling has arisen in every fiber of my being; a thirst has come; a hunger has awakened.” He may give it any name—or none. Looking into the sky, he searches; among the moon and stars he searches; in people’s eyes he searches; all around, within and without, he searches. He knows only one thing: something has arisen inside with great force—a squall, a storm, a hunger.

Scientists say: as soon as the infant finds the breast, he immediately begins to suck. He never practiced; there was no rehearsal, no chance for rehearsal. How does he drink right away?

Hunger is enough; practice is not needed. Hunger itself draws the milk. Milk comes afterward; hunger is first. Water comes afterward; thirst is first. Love comes first; God afterward.

You ask, “How can we love the unknown God?”

Love is already within you. Don’t objectify it—it is subjective. Love is already within. In truth, whenever you have loved, you have been seeking God. Let me repeat it: whenever you have loved anyone, you have been seeking God—unknowingly. A child often puts whatever you give him into his mouth. Why? He is hungry; he is searching for the breast. You put a rattle in his hand and he puts it in his mouth. If nothing is there, he puts his thumb in his mouth, even his big toe. Whatever he finds, he puts in his mouth. He is hungry; he thinks, “Perhaps this is the breast.” He does not know the breast.

That is our condition. Whatever appears before you, you fall in love with it. But that love is a search for God. And therefore no love in this world can ever finally satisfy. The child may suck the rattle, but it will not allay hunger. He may keep on sucking, but satisfaction will not come; sooner or later he will throw it away and the search will begin again.

So are our worldly loves—rattles. In them we seek God, and not finding God, boredom and sorrow arise. We drop one rattle and grasp another. We sought wealth and found little juice in it; we sought position, found little juice; we sought a wife, a husband, friends—found little juice. The chase goes on and on. Why no juice? Because until the real breast is found, how can juice flow? The rattle never claimed to give milk—you merely assumed it would.

And because God is unknown, this delusion is possible. Whatever a human being seeks, he seeks God—even if he seeks in hell. He seeks God in wine, in status, in wealth. Try to understand.

Why such craving for money? Have you ever looked into it? The moralists rail against it, but rarely allow you to inquire. What is a man seeking through money? He seeks a condition where all his needs are met, such that if he wants something he has the means—there will be no torment of wanting without having. Through money man seeks a state where no desire remains unfulfilled. And what is this search? That there be more money than desires—that is the chase. If you grasp its essence, it means that through money man seeks a mind free of craving, a state where no longing remains—because longing is beggary: asking, pleading, writhing.

You are not mad for rupees and coins. Who is mad for coins? In money there is a hope, a belief: if I have money, I need not be a beggar; when need arises, I will have the means to fulfill it; I will not burn in need.

Our race is: to have more wealth than passion. It never happens—that is another matter; hence we suffer. But the longing is just this.

And you want high position—why? So that you are not below anyone; that brings shame. You do not want to be behind anyone; being behind hurts the mind. You want to reach a place above which there is no other place: become president or prime minister—reach a place beyond which there is nowhere to go; then you can rest. No more pushing, no more being pushed; the last halt, the destination. But it never comes. You reach Delhi—but not the destination. Still, the search is for God.

Devotees have called God param-pada—the Supreme Station; and param-dhan—the Supreme Wealth. Why? Because on finding God, all cravings are emptied. On finding God, the running ceases; now there is nowhere else to go. Rest has come; home has come; the destination has come. Now there is only to dive—plunge into this nectar; drown in it. Now the moments of delight arrive—lila begins. No tension, no worry remains.

Analyze the human mind rightly and you will see: whatever a person seeks, he seeks God. And because he finds Him nowhere, he returns from everywhere sorrow-laden, scorched.

In your wife you sought a beauty that would never be stained. Your longing is for God—only He is the beauty that never fades. In your wife you sought a youth that would never wither; but that belongs only to God. In this world everything withers. The young will grow old; the beautiful become ugly; what is fresh today will be stale tomorrow. Here fragrances turn to stench; beauty declines; flowers bloom—to wither. You wanted a flower that never fades. The flower you loved faded—and you were hurt. Such wounds are called “the world.” They multiply.

The foolish man is he who again and again clutches at the same rattles, sucking the same toys. The wise one sees that rattles do not give milk.

By wealth no one ever becomes free of desire; by position no one ever reaches the Supreme Station. The one who sees this clearly is left with a pure hunger that nothing in this world can satisfy. From that pure hunger, prayer arises—not from knowing God. Pure hunger, hunger and hunger! You see there is nothing here to satisfy. You have seen and tested it all; nothing satisfies. What will you do? The hunger remains, the thirst remains. Love flames up like fire—and now there are no longer even the objects that once entangled those flames—no wife, no husband, no wealth, no position to entangle. All remain in their place, but none can satisfy this dissatisfaction. In those very moments, eyes lift toward the sky, toward the Unknown. The known has been sifted; now seek the Unknown. What is visible has been examined; now set out toward what is unseen. The outer has been hunted—and each time you fall back into yourself more desolate; now search within; now begin the inward journey.

“How to love or be devoted to the Supreme which we do not know?”

The day your love fails with what you do know—that day. The day you see there is no way for love to be fulfilled here, the journey begins. The essential thing is your inner thirst. Recognize your thirst; forget about God.

That is why there were sages like Buddha and Mahavira who did not speak of God at all. They said, “Why bring God in? There is our thirst; let us understand our thirst and descend into it.” They descended into their thirst and attained the Supreme State. God was found—without talking about God. Those who did not believe in God, we have called God! We called Buddha “Bhagwan,” we called Mahavira “Bhagwan.” They did not posit a God. They were highly rational. They said, “We do not know God; why talk about Him? We have a thirst—let us analyze that; let us search into our thirst; let us go deep, step by step, into the well of our own thirst. Somewhere, at some depth, there must be a vein of water.”

Those who journeyed thus are the meditators—they attained the Supreme through meditation. They themselves became Divine. It is not necessary that all travel this way. Those who are simple of heart, whose minds are not yet overrun by the disease of analysis, who still have some wealth of feeling—let them lift their eyes to the Unknown sky. Weep. If you can sing, sing. If nothing else is possible, at least you can weep—no skill or art is required for weeping. In that weeping, prayer will be born.

Weep for a few moments each day. It is enough. You will be bathed in your tears—lightened. And slowly, slowly you will find that That which you seek begins to draw near.

Who was it that called?
In the dark courtyard, a little lamp was lit.
A small, mute bird sits among two dry twigs,
face hidden in its wings, sulking with life,
the nesting tree a barren stump—
to such a heart-bird she scattered a handful of grain.
Who was it that called?

Tremor on the treetops of the dark,
a rustling on the branch where the gypsy bird
of the road is stirring,
the traveler who steals the heart—
for all of them she cried out the dawn they had desired.
Who was it that called?

On the branches of my eyes a swing of tears,
on the lips’ edges life has swung long,
forgetful in its sway,
the scattered tress of breath she combed with thirst.
Who was it that called?

Even the ocean garlanded with jasmine ran to her,
the rocks at shore plucked flower by flower,
Movement turned its face aside,
and she, with the sand’s embrace, hushed and caressed.
Who was it that called?

Again and again fall the webs of sadness,
steam-breaths smudged with grief,
soiled, stale—
she scoured the clay-stained vessels of the heart.
Who was it that called?

On the huts of dreams, the courtyards of feeling,
on the saplings of hope, on love’s tinkling cups,
upon the coaxing of buds,
she showered fountains of form and fragrance.
Who was it that called?

To find such a nectar-sipper is the whole of life;
the very branch we sit upon is trembling,
a garden of song—
close your fist and, like quicksilver, she slips through.
In the dark courtyard, a little lamp was lit—
Who was it that called?

Even the loves of this world, when they come, arrive unknown, unfamiliar. Ask a lover, “Why did you fall in love with this woman? Did you know her? Did you love after knowing?” The lover will say, “There was no question of knowing. I saw—and love happened.”

“How did love happen?” the lover says, “Hard to say. ‘I did it’ is wrong—it just happened. It was not my doing. A wave arose—someone bound my heart. … Who was it that called?”

Lovers do not recognize each other beforehand. A call, a wave rises in both hearts at once. Some unknown string vibrates. Why? There is no answer—and never will be. If you can give a reason for love, know that it is not love. “I loved her because she had wealth, an only daughter—everything will be mine”—that is not love. If you can give a because, it isn’t love. “Her nose is beautiful”—no one loves a nose. And tomorrow the nose—after all, it’s a nose—may be injured; then what? “I loved her eyes.” No—these are excuses you often find, but they are not true.

Love happens first; then the eyes seem beautiful, the nose seems beautiful, the hair seems beautiful. The truth is the reverse. It isn’t that the eyes were beautiful, so love happened. Because love happened, the eyes appear beautiful. For these very eyes seem beautiful to no one else—only to you.

Laila is beautiful only to Majnun. The whole town laughed at him, thought him mad. Majnun has come to mean mad; the word itself has come to mean that: “Have you gone majnun?”—lost your mind? The whole town laughed. They said, “You are insane; there is nothing in Laila—we see nothing.” The king summoned Majnun: “Drop this madness. You want a beautiful woman?” As always, the sensible offer sensible bargains. The king lined up twelve of the most beautiful women in his realm. Majnun came, looked at each, and returned sad: “Laila is none of these.” The king said, “You are mad. Laila is nothing—dark, ordinary; these are the most beautiful.” Majnun said, “They may be, but to me no one is beautiful but Laila. Beauty is revealed in the one I love.” The king said, “Am I blind? I see no beauty in her.” Majnun’s answer is lovely: “If you would see beauty in Laila, you must have Majnun’s eyes.”

This is important: Majnun’s eyes.

When you fall in love, the world will think you mad. Lovers have always seemed mad—because they cannot offer logical answers. That is why people say love is blind—because love has no argument, no clever reply. So the very clever invented marriage. Marriage is the invention of the shrewd. Marriage means: first know properly, then fall in love. Check house and home, consult the astrologer, fix an auspicious hour, examine lineage, family tradition, reputation, wealth, position, education—test everything. First know—then love.

Your question is of this kind: first know, then love. Then there will be marriage—but love will not happen. And marriage is not love—remember. Marriage is plastic; there is no authenticity in it. As a social arrangement it is fine—less danger, more convenience, more security. Society is safer with marriage; with love there is danger. How to trust that which descends from the unknown and is not in your control? It came like a gust of wind—and may go just as suddenly. There is risk.

Marriage you bring about by effort; by effort it can be undone. You bring marriage with great ceremony—hence a divorce needs equal ceremony; courts, cases, law, hassle. If you build a structure, demolishing it is just as much a project.

Love comes like an unknown breeze. How to trust it? Only the very courageous can trust it—the daring. The weak, the merchant-mind cannot trust it. It is for warriors, for kshatriyas.

And I am still speaking of ordinary love. Love for God is a tremendous storm. Will you first know God and then love Him? Will someone first introduce you to God and then you will love? That is exactly what science demands: first prove God—in the laboratory, in the test tube; let us test, dissect, know every fiber—only then shall we accept. Love is far off; first acceptance—then perhaps love.

Then you will never relate to God.

God is unknown—and remains unknown; unseen—and remains unseen. God means: the energy contained in this vastness; the hidden dancer behind this dance; the celebration that is happening; the life-thread behind it all. You never get a direct introduction to that thread—only indirect; it comes through love.

That is why the saints have spoken so much of the true Master. “Sadguru” simply means: you have no direct introduction; first fall in love with one who has the introduction; step by step.

When a man goes to learn to swim, he begins in the shallows; he does not leap straight into the ocean’s depths. First he swims near the bank, slowly practicing; then goes deeper. One day he becomes capable enough that even the Pacific’s depths do not matter—he has learned to swim.

First, satsang—holy company. Satsang means: sit with those like you who are thirsty, world-weary, defeated, tired—who have looked at the world well, tested it, and found no nourishment or satisfaction. Sit with them, be in their presence. Their company will refine your thirst; it will surface, clarify. You will also gain courage—“I am not alone; I am not the only one for whom the world has been futile.” Alone, doubt arises: “Perhaps it is my delusion. While the whole world runs after wealth, I seek meditation? Am I going mad? What trouble am I inviting?” Where the crowd rushes, to go that way seems easy and safe.

We assume truth lies where the crowd is. “How can I alone set out on a footpath?”

Satsang means: I am not alone—there are others. It means: there are more crazies like me, more thirsty ones. Courage grows.

So the first step is satsang: learn to swim neck-deep near the shore. From satsang, the second step is the Sadguru: go a little deeper. Take the hand of one who has dived into God. First hold the hands of those eager to dive; then hold the hand of one who has dived. And the third step: total freedom—dive straight into God yourself.

Satsang, the Sadguru, and Truth—these are the only three steps in devotion.

Liking something in itself solves nothing. Sometimes it may appeal for the wrong reasons. And man is so mistaken that the wrong reason is the more likely one.

Understand. You hear talk of surrender and conclude you have nothing to do, just leave everything to him. That can sound pleasant because you escape the hassle of doing. But that is a wrong reason for your liking it. You think, “How wonderful—nothing to do!” You have not understood. Non-doing is the greatest doing in this world, and the most difficult. Try sitting for even half an hour doing nothing; then you will understand. Doing is always easy. You have been doing for lifetimes; that is easy. A man can accomplish the most difficult tasks, but this simplest of all—just sitting for half an hour without doing anything—is very hard, very hard. Even if you restrain the body, the mind will run about; it will keep doing. It will scheme, it will return to the past or race into the future, scatter here and there. You will still be doing.

Non-doing means the body has become a zero, the mind has become a zero. Non-doing means as if you have died; as if for those moments you are not; the very sense of being is absent. No ego, no doer, no doership. The wise have said: if such a void happens even for a single moment, everything has happened.

So when you hear me say that in surrender there is nothing to do, everything is to be left, the words appeal—but for a wrong reason. You think, “Good! I had thought I would have to do something. Even this trouble of doing is gone.”

You are lazy. The idea that there is nothing to do appeals to you. But you have not understood. It appealed for the wrong reason; you fell into a delusion. I spoke of emptiness; you understood laziness. You thought “nothing to do” is an easy thing; I was speaking of dissolving the ego.

The doer is the “I.” Only when you become a non-doer can the divine enter you. As long as you are there, there is an obstruction, a barrier.

You ask: “Tathata and surrender feel especially dear to me, but why can’t I abide in them?” They must be appealing for the wrong reason. If they appealed for the right reason, you would be established in them instantly. Tathata—suchness—also appeals to many: “Accept whatever is as it is.” But you imagine that is easy, to accept whatever is as it is. The mind is habituated to saying no, to complaining. The mind is used to finding faults everywhere. It says, “It should have been like this; had it been like that it would have been good. What is this that has happened?”

Yes, when all is pleasant you may perhaps accept. But that is not the point; the question arises when the unpleasant happens—can you accept then? Sweet—gulp it down; bitter—spit it out. The sweet was never the issue. It is the bitter you spit out that must be accepted with the same “ah!” of gratitude. Everyone accepts pleasure; the talk was of accepting pain.

When I speak of tathata, I mean: whatever the Lord gives—flowers if he gives flowers, thorns if he gives thorns; success—fine, failure—fine. Not a trace of complaint will arise even in failure; not for a single moment will the thought come, “Failure happened—what is this? What have you done? To your own beloved, your devotee—you put him in such a bad way? Thieves and rogues are succeeding while I, who have prayed and worshipped, keep losing. The bad win and raise palaces; the good break stones all day. What are you doing? And I had always heard that your world is just; but this is injustice.”

You will often find “good” people weeping. They come to me and say, “What is happening in this world? We had heard, ‘Truth alone triumphs!’ Here, falsehood is victorious and truth is beaten—everywhere truth lies flattened. Speak truth and you lose; lie and you win.”

People come to me: “We live with character and virtue and we are starving. We cannot arrange education for our children, a house, any comforts. If only we too were thieves, scoundrels—we too would live in comfort.”

What does this mean? It only means that these who speak of goodness—virtue, moral conduct, and so on—are good merely out of fear. The thief takes risks; he has the readiness to face danger. He not only builds a palace; sometimes he also lands behind bars. See his risk! He places a bet. He is a gambler—either he loses all or he gets all. You run a small shop and never stake a gamble, and when a gambler wins sometimes you are upset. But look at his risk! He had accepted the risk of becoming a beggar—or of building a palace. You will never become a beggar. Somehow you will keep managing dal-roti. He was prepared either to be a beggar or to be a palace-builder. He took the risk in both directions, so sometimes he will win, sometimes he will lose. It is happening on account of his courage.

Your “morality” is often your inner fear—lest you be caught, lest some trouble occur, lest your reputation be shattered. This is no true religion; this is the religion of the timid—the weak and the impotent.

Hence complaint lingers in your mind. Envy lingers in your mind toward that “bad” man. You too want what he is getting, but you are unwilling to take the same risk. You are more of a trickster—you want to get without risk. You think that if you chant a little, turn the rosary a bit, the mansion a thief gets should also come to you. But there is no connection between chanting and getting a palace. There is a connection between chanting and becoming a king within—but none between chanting and acquiring wealth. You will become a king—you will be a king even living in a hut. And having a palace does not make one a king. How many beggars live in palaces! But you see only the palace. You notice the palace, not the beggar within—the thief who cannot sleep at night, whose life knows no peace and is poisoned all around.

You too are a thief, only a weaker thief. You did not dare risk being caught. You turn the rosary as if turning the rosary had anything to do with getting a palace; you read the Gita as if reading the Gita had anything to do with producing money.

The truly religious person has no complaint—only gratitude. He says, “The Lord’s grace showers every moment. Sometimes it comes as sorrow, sometimes as joy, but I always recognize it. Even when it comes as sorrow I recognize his grace.” For sorrow is not always sorrow; sorrow refines and polishes; it burns the dross; it reveals the pure; sorrow is a process of growth.

A blacksmith puts iron into the fire, hammers it, puts it back into the fire, hammers it—then something can be fashioned. Gold must pass through fire; then the dross is burnt and it becomes pure.

So too sorrow is a fire. And it often happens that God passes his beloved ones through a greater fire of sorrow. Naturally, they are his beloved; naturally, their capacity is such that they should be passed through more fire. Naturally, greater potential lies hidden in them; they should be hammered more, so the hidden seeds within them may sprout.

Often the bad man lives in comfort. There is nothing in him; there is no need to hammer him. The good man passes through a thousand inconveniences. But once love for God awakens, then sorrow does not feel like sorrow; failure does not feel like failure; defeat does not feel like defeat—every defeat becomes a step toward a new victory.

Now you say “Tathata and surrender feel especially dear to me.” They likely please you because you take tathata to mean a kind of fatalism: “What can we do? Whatever God is doing, he is doing; whatever he will do, he will do; nothing will happen by our doing.” A kind of indolence, lethargy, laziness—this is the negative aspect of tathata you are grasping.

Then there is surrender: “We have nothing to do; we just have to place our head at his feet.” But do you think placing your head at his feet is easy? You have to take off the head and lay it down. To just bow and come away—that is mere calisthenics of the head. That won’t do. Did you hear Paltu’s saying yesterday? Paltu said: cut off your head—and not only cut it off, then dance upon the severed head yourself. What an extraordinary thing to say! First behead the ego, drop it. And not only drop it and stand there thinking, “Look how much I have renounced,” standing there gloomy and grave, demanding a reward—no: dance! Dance with joy, with the “ah!” of gratitude, with celebration. It is in that moment of celebration that the meeting with God happens.

So if some things feel pleasant to you, don’t assume you will therefore be established in them. If you do become established, then know they truly appealed—and for the right reasons. If you cannot be established, know they appealed for the wrong reasons; change your reason.

In this world, great and extraordinary principles have gone wrong in the hands of the wrong people. In the wrong person’s hands, even a right principle goes wrong; in the right person’s hands, even a wrong principle becomes right. Remember this. Everything depends on the person.

How extraordinary was the principle of fate: “Whatever is being done, God is doing!” But it fell into the hands of the wrong people. This extraordinary principle became the cause of the whole trouble in the East. “We have nothing to do. Whatever is happening is fine. There is suffering, poverty, disease—everything is fine.” A kind of inertia arose.

Fatalism killed the East—killed it badly! This happened for wrong reasons. Real fatalism does not mean we have nothing to do. Real fatalism means we do what God has us do. He is the one who has it done; we are the ones who do. We still do. Mind this: the man of personal effort also acts—but he says, “I am doing.” The fatalist also acts—but he says, “God is having it done.” That is the only difference. There is no difference in the doing. In truth, the man of effort will tire quickly—how much energy does ego have, how much capacity? The fatalist never tires; the one who lives by God’s energy—who is having it done—has no cause to be weary.

Had the countries of the East taken fatalism for the right reason, the West would have been far behind. The West has lived by the ego; the West has become so materially affluent through ego, and we—linked to God—could not become affluent. Surely, somewhere we have made a mistake, a deep mistake. We did not link up. We turned fate into laziness. We thought surrender meant “finished”—go to the temple, bow your head, and the matter ends.

Surrender is the transformation of the whole style of life. Surrender means: Now you are; I am not. Now whatever you have me do, that is what I will do. This is the very foundation of the Gita. Arjuna must have had a very Western mind. He says, “I should strike, kill, commit violence in this war—do such bad deeds—for what? I will go to the forest; I will leave everything; I am becoming a renunciate.”

And Krishna is pulling him back, persuading him back into battle. Krishna says: drop the delusion that you are the doer. The doer is the divine. Who are you to come in between? Those people you see standing are already dead. You are only a mere instrument. As if someone is already dead and only your push is needed for him to fall. If you do not push, someone else will—but he who is to die will die. Do not run away. Serve the divine. You have been given a little opportunity—do not miss it. The divine has made you a vehicle—be the vehicle. This is an extraordinary opportunity; do not run from it. This is sannyas—true renunciation.

Arjuna cannot understand: what kind of renunciation is this! The debate goes on, long. Krishna says this alone is renunciation: that we do what the Lord has us do. Then we will not even ask whether it is good or bad—who am I to judge? Wherever he makes me an instrument… This is a revolutionary vision: to accept even the “bad” in silence. There will be insult, defamation, the loss of reputation—fine. If that is the Lord’s will, so be it. That is the work he has to take from me. It will be necessary to put me in a state of disrepute; therefore he does.

One who surrenders with such simplicity has nothing left to do in life—nothing is left to avoid.

Grasp the right reason. Understand the right reason. Otherwise you will keep misusing the words of the sages. You spin meanings of your own. Set aside your meanings. Try first to understand exactly what is being said—as it is. Do not be hasty. There is no hurry to do. First, be concerned with understanding.

My constant experience is: people are in a hurry to do; no one is in a hurry to understand. People say, “What is the point of understanding?” They come to me and say, “You understand everything—just tell us what to do!” But if I tell you and you do without understanding, you will do wrongly. Why? Because then it will be in the hands of the wrong person—one who lacks understanding—and error is inevitable.

You must have understanding; do not be in such haste to act. Only the action that arises out of understanding is beautiful—and it is from understanding that true action arises.

So first, understand tathata and surrender rightly. There is no need yet to practice tathata or surrender. First, understand. Once understood, you will find practice comes by itself—like a shadow.

You are the greatest obstacle. There is no other. The “I,” the ego, is the biggest hindrance. The devotee himself stands in the way of God. The devotee has to be effaced, to melt, to disappear.

Even in ordinary life the obstacle in love is ego. Leave God aside for a moment—you have no experience of the Divine yet, so the talk may become abstract. In ordinary life too, what blocks love? Ego. The wife tries to take possession of the husband, to prove “I am the master.” The husband tries to prove “I am the master.” The quarrel goes on.

In all kinds of lovers one conflict persists: Who is the master? Whose word prevails?

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting in a teahouse telling people, “There is never any quarrel in my home.” People didn’t believe him. “That we can’t accept. It has never happened that there is a home and no quarrel. What kind of home would it be if there were no quarrels? If it is so, tell us your secret. How is it possible? It’s impossible that there are no quarrels.”

Mulla said, “On the day we married, we made a decision: I would decide the big issues, and my wife would decide the small ones. Since then there’s been no quarrel.”

No one believed it. “Explain a little more. Spell it out. What’s big and what’s small?”

Mulla said, “Small matters—like which house to buy, which car to buy, what business to do; which school the boy should attend; what clothes to wear—these small matters my wife settles. And what are the big issues? Whether there is heaven or not, whether there is hell or not—such big questions I settle. There’s simply nothing to quarrel about. Why would there be?”

Deep down, a man’s effort is continuous. Now, even by declaring that he settles the “big issues,” Mulla is still trying to save his ego in the name of the big. The small things the wife handles. And women are more earthly, more practical, more sensible. They know the “small” matters are the big ones. What’s in the big issues? Whether there’s hell or not—go decide that! Such theoretical matters—let him decide. No woman much cares about those. She has kept the real, meaningful matters in her own hands. Both are satisfied. The wife knows what truly matters, and Mulla thinks he handles the big issues.

The ego’s constant effort is that by any pretext I may be the greater.

In love too it is only ego that creates mischief. The conflict that runs in love is not love’s conflict—it is ego’s conflict.

“My life, I cannot erase you from my heart;
Yet this is something I cannot bring to my lips.
Even knowing that making you mine would bring relief,
I cannot even allow myself that imagining.
Again and again I have felt this truth:
Even near you, I still cannot attain you.
The reach of my lusting hand extends only to your body—
I know I cannot seize your heart.
And if I should long for your heart, on what assurance?
I cannot bring such an offering to your sanctuary.
My compulsions intrude much into this matter—
I cannot lay the blame at your feet.
I love my honor more than I love you;
I cannot cast off my honor and respectability.
How could I mock the baseness of your milieu,
When I myself cannot free myself from mine?”

There is but one difficulty: I love my honor more than I love you. I cannot renounce my honor and respectability. I cannot throw away my pride.

The lover says he cannot even go to your door to make a plea that he is your lover. “I—and make a petition! I cannot abandon my dignity. I would burn first. I know being with you would bring joy, but my ego holds back my feet. I cannot even plead. I cannot bring myself to say with my own tongue that happiness will come to my life with you. I cannot even say that it will be because of you.”

Have you ever confessed? Truly told someone, “Because of you there is happiness in my life; happiness is happening”? The mind stops you: This is not to be said. Women have, over centuries, become so filled with pride that they never confess love. Even if love happens, they wait for the man to speak it.

Even making a simple confession of love meets such resistance! To say it wounds the mind: that I went to beg, to ask alms; that I admitted before someone, “My happiness depends on your happiness.” That itself becomes the obstacle.

So before God the same hindrance operates. There you must offer yourself completely: “I am the obstacle—erase me! End me! Help me so that I may somehow go beyond myself!”

You ask, “What is the greatest obstacle on the path of love for the Lord?”

“I love my honor more than I love You;
I cannot cast off my honor and respectability.”

Have you not heard of Meera? She lost all concern for public opinion. There could have been many more Meeras in the world, but no one is ready to lose social respect. Reputation was thrown away.

In this society a devotee can have no reputation. If even God Himself has none, how will His devotee have it? God has become disreputable—how then will one headed toward God be honored?

It’s all very entertaining. You go to the temple and offer a couple of flowers, but if your son truly becomes a devotee you will be distressed. A sannyasin comes to the village and you touch his feet, but if your son becomes a sannyasin, you will be upset. Strange! Do you truly honor renunciation in your heart? If you did, you would wish your son to become a sannyasin too. But that you do not want. Yes, if some other family’s son becomes a sannyasin you join his procession. What’s it to you! You loot with both hands—plundering the world through your own son, and bowing your head at the feet of someone else’s sannyasin to secure the other world as well.

You listen to Meera’s songs with great delight, but have you ever thought: if your wife became a Meera—wandering from village to village and door to door, dancing in the streets, singing Krishna’s songs—you too would send a cup of poison. You would! Though whenever you read the story that the Rana sent Meera a cup of poison, you thought, “What kind of man was he? Such a sweet woman, such a devotee, and he sent her poison!” What would you do? You too would send the cup. You would behave no differently than the Rana.

Millions worship Jesus. But if your son did what Jesus did, and it came to the point that your son had to be crucified, what would you do? It is said that even Jesus’ parents disowned him—declared they had nothing to do with him. Naturally today millions worship Jesus—Jesus on the cross! Have you ever imagined your own son on a cross? It’s very easy to hang a cross as a symbol around your neck—there’s no cost in that.

Religion has always been dangerous, because to move toward God means your footing in this world will tremble. You will be displaced from where you stand. What is considered valuable here becomes valueless in the search for God. Then there is no husband, no wife; no son, no mother; no brother, no friend. The values of this world no longer hold meaning. A new value is born in your life. To move toward that new value requires the courage to be mad—positively mad. That is precisely the obstacle.

You ask, “What is the greatest obstacle on the path of love for the Lord?”

You cannot lose your honor and reputation. You want to keep your status intact and still attain God. You’re very clever, very shrewd. What Meera could not do, you want to do. What Buddha could not do, you want to do. You want to save the world as well and somehow get God too; to save yourself and get Him too. You want to get God the way you get wealth—into your fist. You are not ready to lose yourself to attain Him. And whoever is not ready to lose himself has never attained. There is no other way but to be annihilated.

You are the obstacle.

But falsehood prevails. False religion prevails. All kinds of lies succeed here. Hypocrisy works. Cheap religion: go to the temple and perform a ritual; bow before a stone idol; get a Satyanarayan story recited at home; go listen to a fakir’s words—heard from one ear, let out the other; or don’t hear at all. Most people sleep anyway; listening doesn’t arise.

A man returned home. The neighbor’s children and his own were playing together. He asked, “What game are you playing?” for they were all sitting utterly silent. “What game is this?” They said, “We’re playing church.”

“Church? Then why so quiet?”

They said, “In church it’s written, ‘Be silent.’ So we’re sitting in church.”

He asked, “Do you know why it’s written in church, ‘Be silent’?” His son said, “We know—so people’s sleep won’t be disturbed. Everyone is asleep.”

Who listens even with the ears? Who will take the trouble to listen? Because if you listen, then you must forget, then you must clean it out again. So people don’t listen at all.

This is cheap religion, false religion. And it seems so convenient. It brings you prestige; it doesn’t take it away. You are regarded as religious. People say, “Ah! What a man—see how he fasts in Ramadan! What a man—during Paryushan how he undertakes austerities! What a man—fasting every new moon and full moon, going to bathe in the Ganges each year! What a man—he’s been to every holy place!” Prestige increases; it does not diminish.

True religion uproots you from this world. Fake religion brings you lots of status here.

Here the currency is formal religion—counterfeit coin.

I have heard: In a Delhi museum there was a big bear—a white one, a Siberian bear. He suddenly died. Children loved him, and without him they were very upset. They came from far to see that bear. His enclosure stood empty. For some days the manager was worried. Getting a replacement bear quickly wasn’t easy. Where to find one? Then one day he met a politician on the road. The politician had just lost an election and was looking for a job. The museum manager had an idea. He said, “I have some work for you. I’ll give you three hundred rupees a month. The bear has died; we’ve taken off his skin. Put it on and just sit there for the children. Jump and prance a little. The children are very sad; they used to come for that bear. The museum’s glory has faded.”

Three hundred rupees—he thought, not much hassle. And as for jumping and prancing, he knew that well—that’s what he did in Parliament! He said, “This will fit.” Next day he put on the bearskin and began to leap about, and he enjoyed it greatly. The children were delighted. For eight days it went splendidly. On the ninth day, at midday, he saw the door open. Usually he was given leave at night, went home to sleep, and at dawn returned to don the bear suit. But at noon the door opened—not just opened, a lion walked in. He was petrified. He shouted, “We’re dead, we’re dead—help!” He forgot he was a bear and that speaking human language wasn’t right. When calamity comes, the real nature shows itself. He screamed, “Help, help, I’m done for!”

But then a miracle: the lion came near and said, “You fool, keep quiet! Do you think you’re the only one who lost an election? If you shout like that, you’ll lose your job and I’ll lose mine too.”

This is the kind of fraud that runs here. Someone here is posing as a bear, someone as a lion. People are pretending to be what they are not.

A religious person takes a great risk, because in this false society he dares to be true. In a crowd of masks, he removes his. He says, “What I am, as I am—this is me. If it’s bad, it’s bad; if it’s good, it’s good. Accept it or don’t—either way is fine. But I will no longer wear masks.”

A religious person takes risks for himself and becomes a cause of others’ annoyance too. Because when someone removes his mask, you are reminded of your own. That’s why we have never been able to tolerate the religious person. In a crowd of liars, if someone speaks truth, all the liars will get together and kill him—because he has become a disturbance. Everything was going smoothly; everything was fine. This gentleman has created the trouble of truth-telling.

A truth-speaker in a crowd of falsehood becomes everyone’s enemy. All look at him as an enemy. Because each person is jarred by him. His truth exposes everyone’s lies. The lightning of his truth reveals each person’s disease. So we crucified Jesus, gave hemlock to Socrates, killed Mansoor. We could not bear them. Yes—let Mansoor die; then we worship him. Let Jesus die; then we build churches. We remember Socrates for thousands of years, offer flowers of reverence. But the living religious man gives us great pain—because the living religious man is pure, authentic, just as he is; and he cares neither for honor nor for propriety.

This world’s entire arrangement revolves around the ego. Even small children we tell, “Be careful—remember what family you belong to, whose house you come from, whose son you are!” We tell little children, “Come first in school; keep up our reputation; no one in our home has ever come second.” We teach ego from the first day. We tell people, “Behave such that you gain respect.” We even teach such absurdities as: be humble, be egoless—that way you’ll gain prestige.

Now this is the real joke: one who wants prestige, how can he be egoless? He can only fake egolessness. “Be humble so that people honor you.” To gain honor people put on humility. How will they become humble? Humility means one who has no desire for honor, who has no resistance to dishonor; whether someone praises or slanders—both are the same. Such equanimity is humility.

But we teach absurd things. We say, “Honesty is the best policy.” Policy! The one who lives by this policy cannot be honest. This is the beginning of dishonesty. Honesty—a policy, a tactic! Then it becomes politics. If honesty is a policy, it means this person is honest because there is profit in honesty. But if tomorrow there is profit in dishonesty, will he remain honest? He was honest for gain. Gain was his goal. Today gain lies in dishonesty—he will become dishonest. He never worshiped honesty; he worshiped profit.

All our honesty, our truths, are tactics; behind them all is one craving: that our ego somehow be honored. This whole world revolves on the peg of ego. And in attaining God, ego is the obstacle.

To realize God, a person has to do only one truly important thing, take only one decisive step: self-annihilation—cut the ego off completely; say, “I am nothing; I am as a void.” And not merely say it—live it. If someone abuses you, what obstacle can there be to a zero? If someone praises you, what delight can there be for a zero? Zero remains zero. Go into an empty house and sing its praises or hurl insults—both will echo, both will fade. The empty house remains empty. Only such a person becomes capable of attaining God.

You ask, “What is the greatest obstacle on the path of love for the Lord?”

You. Nothing other than you. Step aside, give the Lord the way. God is eager to come—just open the doors. But you stand stubbornly at the threshold. You want God—and that His coming should increase your prestige. You have gained wealth and position; now you want God too. You don’t want anything left that you cannot say you have attained; God too must not remain beyond your reach. You want to show the world: I got that too. I got everything.

You want to conquer God as well! To be a victor over God! Then you will never experience God. And love will not be born; the spring of love will not burst forth.

Know yourself as defeated. To the defeated belongs the Lord’s Name. Know yourself as vanquished. Lose—and be effaced. Become one who has lost everything. You have tried long enough being the doer and found nothing; now, for a while, let the doer go. The moment the doer goes, the door opens; the stone rolls away, and the spring gushes forth.

What else can it do? Love means madness. Love means going beyond logic. Love means being freed from the hassles of intellect—overstepping the mind’s limits. Love is a kind of wine, a kind of ecstasy you distill within yourself.

Have you seen a lover’s eyes? They always seem as if forever drinking. Have you seen a lover’s feet? He places them one place and they land in another—he is always swaying.

The alchemy of love is precisely this: you begin to brew the wine within yourself; it starts arising from within—no tavern is needed. You yourself begin to secrete the honey.

So of course the lover will be mad. Ordinary love makes one crazy—then what to say of love for the Divine! Fall in love with a human being and you go mad. Fall in love with trees, with their beauty, and a sweet craziness comes over you. Have you seen poets? Enamored of flowers, stars, clouds, they sink into such intoxication!

Where there is love, there is ecstasy. And the love of God is supreme love—hence the supreme ecstasy.

Yesterday I was reading a song. A lover is speaking to God. He says: It is not my fault that I loved that woman; she herself was such. Such beauty, Lord, that if You too had seen her, You would have been astonished, left speechless.

If beholding beauty is a crime, then I am guilty.
O Judge, apart from this there is no other fault of mine.
In my sight was the freshness of paradise, yes,
but how verdant was that lane of hers—what can I say!
By Your own ordinance, O Judge, I swear,
I truly did great violence to my own heart.
I knew the outcome of wayward glances—
but what to say of that coquettish one’s spellbinding gaze!
O Judge! Your august majesty was before my eyes,
but oh, if only I could show You her beauty as well!
O Judge! How heart-ensnaring were her features and her ways—
and then, what to say of the way my eye beheld that beauty!
If beholding beauty is a crime, then I am guilty!

The lover says: If there is any crime in the eye that beholds beauty, then I am the culprit, the offender.

If beholding beauty is a crime, then I am guilty.
O Judge! O Lord! O arbiter! Apart from this, I have no other fault. There was beauty—and I had eyes to recognize it. What else could I do?

If beholding beauty is a crime, then I am guilty.
Apart from this there is no other fault of mine.
In my sight was the freshness of paradise—but...

The lover says: I know Your heaven is lovely; I know there are great joys there, great beauty. And yet—what shall I say?

In my sight was the freshness of paradise—but...

I knew the radiance of heaven; it was in my mind. It is not that I had forgotten. I had not forgotten You—no.

In my sight was the freshness of paradise—but...
how verdant was that lane of hers—what can I say!

Her alley, too, was so lovely. What can I tell You? Your heaven is dear—that I know. I had not forgotten it. And yet, her alley was so dear.

By Your own ordinance, O Judge, I swear,
I truly did great violence to my own heart.

And I want to say to You: forgive me. But let me also tell You the truth—it isn’t that I failed to keep control over myself. I tried to be very restrained.

By Your own ordinance, O Judge—
I swear by You, O Lord—
I truly did great violence to my own heart.
I tried in many ways to hold back my heart, to keep control—but all control broke. Such was that beauty.

If beholding beauty is a crime, then I am guilty...
I knew the outcome of wayward glances—

And I also knew what would come of letting my eyes stray so—what the consequence would be. It’s not that I was unaware: the result would be troublesome; I would wander; I would fall from the path; the wheel of the world would set in motion. I knew it.

I knew the outcome of wayward glances—
but what to say of that coquettish one’s spellbinding gaze!

But her eyes! What can be said of that beauty!

This lover is speaking to God:

O Judge! Your awe-filled majesty was before my eyes—
I know Your radiance, Your grandeur. It’s not that I do not know You. I remember Your glory.

O Judge! Your august majesty was before my eyes—
but oh, if only I could show You her beauty as well!

If only I could show You her beauty, You would understand my predicament—I went mad.

O Judge! How heart-ensnaring were her features and her ways!
So many hearts were stirred by her lineaments—was I alone the mad one?

O Judge! How heart-ensnaring were her features and her ways!
And then, given the eye for beauty You Yourself gave me—what to say! I went mad.

This is ordinary love being spoken of. If ordinary love can drive a person so crazy, then how can one measure love for God? And the difference between the two is not only in result; it is in kind. It is not merely a matter of degree. It isn’t that here is a small love and the love of God is a magnified version of the same. Not only quantity, but quality differs. That love belongs to a wholly other dimension. It is perfect love. It is eternal love. Once it happens, it happens—and does not fade. Here, loves arise and vanish like bubbles upon water—momentary. In the morning the flower blooms, by evening it withers. But that lotus never withers—a golden lotus. And if your eyes meet His gaze, your heart joins with His heart, your hand rests in His hand, your dance merges into His dance, you enact the rasa with Him—if you do not go mad, what else will you do? How will you keep your wits about you—and where? And what would you do with those wits anyway? That is why the clever do not reach there; the mad reach there! There, the pace belongs to madmen. The clever remain outside the temple. Where you set down your shoes, your cleverness is left as well. The one who leaves his cleverness there is the one who enters within. There, the mad have right of way.

God loves the mad, because only the mad can love Him. Every real longing brings a divine madness.

Today, unbidden, once again in the courtyard of this sky-like heart of mine,
your rainbow memory has hung a swing.
At the very remembrance, a new swing is set up in the courtyard of your being.

Today, unbidden, once again in the courtyard of this sky-like heart of mine,
your rainbow memory has hung a swing.
Gently, gently, the Taj Mahal of my feelings smiled;
on the deserted ghats of my eyes, bustle returned.
Hopes mixed the henna; desires adorned the parting of the hair;
who has stirred such commotion today in the waterfall of my life-breath?
Courtyard wet, veil wet, my body-mind drenched;
on the shores of my eyes, the crazed pitcher poured out molten gold.
Today, unbidden, once again in the courtyard of this sky-like heart of mine,
your rainbow memory has hung a swing.

With the very remembrance of Him you are transfigured into another realm; a stream of nectar begins to flow.

Courtyard wet, veil wet, my body-mind drenched;
on the shores of my eyes, the crazed pitcher poured out molten gold.
Today, unbidden, once again in the courtyard of this sky-like heart of mine,
your rainbow memory has hung a swing.

One does go mad. Blessed are those who gather the courage to go mad.

Walk slowly. Slowly, grow your courage—step by step, inch by inch. But start laying aside your cleverness, a little at a time. With that cleverness you will miss. For lifetimes you have missed because of it. That cleverness has become the noose of your hanging. Because of it, in the marketplace you keep gathering mere shards.

If you would yearn for the Vast, this cleverness is too small—the Vast cannot fit into it. Your heart can carry you to God; your head cannot. The head is too small; the heart is enormous.

People ask me: Where is the heart? One day a young man asked, “Where exactly in the body is the heart located?” I said to him, “Your head is inside you; you are inside the heart.” The heart is not inside you. Do not mistake these lungs, pumping air, for the heart—they are only an apparatus for purifying air. You are within the heart. The heart is bigger than you. The head is smaller than you. The web of thoughts that spreads inside the head—that is yours, your private world. It is not the world of truth; it is the world of falsity, the world of dreams.

The moment your energy slips out of the noose of the head— the moment you step outside the head—the courtyard of the Vast opens: the courtyard of your heart. It is as vast as the sky. Within you lies a sky as immense as the outer one. When you descend into that sky, the petty concerns of the intellect that until yesterday seemed so important will no longer seem so. And to those for whom they still seem important, you will indeed appear mad—no surprise.

Imagine children playing with pebbles on the seashore, gathering shells—green, blue, red stones. If one child happens upon a diamond, he will drop all his pebbles and shells, tie the diamond tight in his knot, and run home. The other children will think him mad: “Crazy fellow! He spent the whole day collecting these shells, and now at dusk he has thrown everything away and run off. Mad!” They do not know he has found a diamond. What is there to do now with pebbles?

Kabir has said: “I found the diamond; I tied it tight in my knot.” The moment the diamond is found, one knots it securely. And all that until yesterday seemed valuable suddenly loses all value.

There is a little Sufi tale. A fakir sat beneath a tree and daily watched a woodcutter come, chop wood, and return. One day pity arose in him and he said to the man, “You fool! Why don’t you go a little farther in?”

“What would be the point?” the man asked. “What would be there?”

“Go a little farther,” said the fakir. “Take my word.”

The fakir had never said anything before; he always sat silently beneath the tree. Over time the woodcutter had come to feel great reverence for him. The fakir never asked for anything, never seemed to do anything, just sat quietly. Sometimes the woodcutter brought him two flatbreads from home, sometimes offered a couple of flowers.

Since the fakir spoke, the woodcutter said, “Perhaps there is something,” and the next day he went a bit deeper into the forest. To his amazement, there were sandalwood trees. What he earned in a month cutting ordinary wood, he now earned in a single day. He was delighted and brought many sweets to the fakir’s feet.

A few months later the fakir said, “Fool, have you gotten stuck there too? Go a little farther.”

“What more could there be now?” the man said. “This is wonderful! I work one day and rest for a month or two. And no one else knows of it. There is no other cutter—the whole sandalwood forest is mine. Why didn’t you tell me before, Master? You were silent all this time—why?”

The fakir said, “Only when the right time comes can one be told. Had I spoken earlier, you would not have listened. When I saw that love and trust had grown in you, then I spoke. I knew; I know more still. So I tell you: go a little farther.”

The woodcutter thought, “What sense is there in going farther? I already have so much. What could be beyond this?” A woodcutter’s language can go only as far as sandalwood—beyond that there is no wood. He hesitated for a few days, then thought, “There is no harm in looking once. If the fakir insists every time, perhaps he is right.” He went—not with great hope, not with much faith—but went. He was astonished: there was a silver mine. This had never entered his imagination. From sandalwood to silver—no connection!

Reason proceeds in orderly steps; it has limits. From sandalwood to silver is a leap; there is no rational bridge. But life is not reason. Life is full of leaps. From sandalwood you can arrive at silver.

He was ecstatic. “I was a fool not to listen to this fakir!” He filled his bags with silver. Now one trip sufficed for a year or two. Years passed. One day the fakir said, “Will you ever have sense on your own, or must I keep telling you again and again? Why don’t you go farther, you dullard?”

“What more could there be?” he said.

A poor man’s mind does not go beyond silver. Gold belongs to palaces. In those old days a poor person did not even have the right to wear gold. Even today, a village woman hesitates to wear gold on her feet—that was for queens. Even though kings and queens have gone, in the villages no woman dares to wear gold on her ankles; the memory lingers. Silver was the last word in ornaments.

“What more could there be?” he said. “I have silver. What else is possible?”

“Still, try,” said the fakir.

Now some trust had grown: the man who led him from sandalwood to silver—who knows? Gold had never even entered his dreams. He went farther and found a gold mine. Now he was certain this was the final station. Years rolled by. The fakir had grown old. One day he said, “My last time is near; I am going. Let me tell you one last thing: Will you ever awaken seeking from within yourself, or will you remain tied to me? Why don’t you go farther?”

“Master, now please be silent,” he said. “I have gone far enough. There is nothing beyond this; there cannot be. I no longer believe you. I have found gold—what more could there be?”

The fakir said, “I am dying; take the word of a dying man—go once more beyond. Before I leave the body, I want to see you having gone farther.”

Because the fakir was dying, the woodcutter went. He found a diamond mine. “Now, at last, the final station!” he thought, and thanked the fakir profusely. The fakir said, “Do not take this to be the final station. A little farther still.”

“I will not listen now,” he said. “Now you are jesting, needlessly entangling me. Beyond this, nothing can be.”

The fakir said, “Beyond this is me. Beyond wealth is meditation. From wealth to meditation—again a leap. As from sandalwood to silver, from gold to diamonds—so from wealth to awareness. And from awareness to God.”

“Walk on,” said the fakir. “Until God is found, keep going, keep going—do not stop. Whoever stops before that is lost and astray.”

But the other woodcutters still chopping ordinary wood called him mad. “Where do you keep going?” they asked. “The wood is here. You disappear for days—what do you do? Lazy fellow! No word of your doings.”

He laughed; he smiled.

“I found the diamond; I tied it tight in my knot—why would I open it again and again?” What is there to tell them? He knows well they will not believe—he himself had not believed. And the one who tried to persuade him was a great fakir; he himself is nothing. They will not accept his word.

They think him mad. “His mind is gone,” they say.

So the day you turn from the marketplace toward the temple, the people of the market will take you for a madman. They are woodcutters; they do not know sandalwood. Then, as you go further and further, those left behind will go on deciding that your mind has deteriorated. And the day you arrive at the ultimate depth of meditation—samadhi—and have the vision of God, that day this whole world will appear as rubbish. Everything here will appear worthless. So if those who see value here call you mad, do not be surprised. They are not entirely wrong.

And this madness is a benediction; it comes to one by great good fortune. Take my word—and go further.

That is all for today.