Ajhun Chet Ganwar #19

One morning, a young man came to the Christian mystic Augustine and asked, “I’m uneducated, a rustic, a simpleton. Theology goes over my head. Big sermons don’t land. You have seen the Lord—give me, in just two words, the very essence—something I can knot into my heart; something that, even if I wanted to forget it in my ignorance, I couldn’t; something that becomes a spark within me.”

They say Augustine—who had never hesitated when answering any question—wavered for a moment and closed his eyes. His disciples were amazed. Great scholars came, great pundits came, learned theologians came—Augustine never closed his eyes for their questions. His answers were instant.

He was a brilliant man. And now, for a small question, he shut his eyes. A long time passed, as if Augustine were searching deeply inside. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Then remember just one word—love. In it, everything is contained—all religion, all scripture, all ethics, all ideals. Remember this one word—love. And if love comes into your life, everything else will come. Then stop worrying about God. Hold fast to love, and God comes tied to love’s thread.”

Augustine’s answer is of immense value. Love is the essence of all religions. If love is cared for, everything is cared for. If love cannot be cared for, then no matter what else you hold up, it is mere formality, of no real worth. And note this too: Augustine had to think.

Someone once asked Roosevelt, “When you give a speech, you must have to prepare. How much preparation do you need?” Roosevelt said, “It depends. If I’m to speak for two hours, I need no preparation at all; I can just talk. If it’s half an hour, I have to prepare; it takes a day. And if it’s ten minutes, even two days may not be enough. But if I must say it in two minutes, weeks go by before I’m ready.”

It’s worth pondering. The more concise the statement, the longer it takes. And if it has to be said in a single word, naturally Augustine had to churn deeply. A flood of words must have risen in him as he wondered what to answer this villager. All the scriptures must have whirled within. He knew the scriptures; the Bible was on his tongue. All those words must have raised their heads. But he denied them all. All temples, all mosques, all prayers—he refused them. Out of all that, he chose one word that would likely get lost in the crowd, because love has no demand to stand in the front row; it stands at the end. Yet Augustine found the formula, the essence thread. The heart of devotion too is love.

Today’s sayings set the direction of love in a rare way. Let’s understand each thread carefully.

“Avadh is the city of sheela; Janakpur is the town of affection.
Janaki is married to Truth itself.
Within the mind, Lord Raghunath becomes the bridegroom,
a crown of wisdom is tied upon his head.
When the wedding procession of love sets out in joy,
forgiveness is spread and the guest-tent is raised.
The kingly pride of ego is crushed,
and the bow of steadiness is victoriously won.”

All of Rama’s story is contained in these few words. The entire Ramcharitmanas. Tulsidas had to compose an epic; Paltu gathers the whole thing into a few lines. The rest are symbols and explanations—ways of making you understand. Here the essence is given: “Avadh of sheela.” He says: Ayodhya—the city where Rama was born, lived, and reigned. Which Ayodhya is meant? The outer Ayodhya? If you take it that way, you’ll miss. You can go dash your head in the city of Ayodhya, make a pilgrimage—and nowhere will you arrive. You’ll return with empty pockets, not a brimming soul. What you had, you’ll have lost; you’ll bring nothing back. It’s not that cheap—buy a ticket and off to Ayodhya! Nor so cheap that, dying there, you’ll be saved by Rama’s grace.

Paltu says, “Avadh of sheela.” If you want the real Ayodhya, it’s the Ayodhya of sheela.

Two words to grasp here: “sheela” and “character.” The dictionary may give them as equal, but in the lexicon of life they are worlds apart. Character is organized sheela; sheela is self-sprung character. The difference is vast, like earth and sky. Don’t be deceived by dictionary gloss. Character means conduct imposed on yourself from the outside. You don’t really know what is right. People said, “This is right.” Out of fear and temptation, you began to behave so. Your life has not sprouted from your own realization. Your conduct has not bubbled up from your own seeing. It is not your own direct knowing.

People say anger is bad. They explained it to you from the day you were born: Anger is bad. Books say it; schools teach it; temples preach it. Around you a climate is manufactured that anger is bad. The angry are disrespected; the non-angry are worshiped. Your ego is flattered: if you don’t get angry you’ll be honored; if you do, you’ll be humiliated—here and hereafter. In the afterlife, God will wait to welcome you if you’ve been free of anger; garlands at the gates of heaven. And if you’ve been angry, you’ll be dragged to hell, burned in fire, tormented by devils.

So fear and temptations are being fed to you; your ego is being cajoled: don’t be angry. You get caught in it and manufacture a conduct. Anger arises—you suppress it. Anger comes—you swallow it. Don’t we say, “I swallowed my anger”? Where do you swallow it to? When you swallow something, it goes into your belly. Swallow anger, and anger accumulates in the belly. Swallow anger, and it enters your blood. Swallow anger, and it seeps into bone, flesh, marrow. Swallow anger, and volcanoes of anger begin burning in the unconscious. Outwardly there will be calm; inwardly, fire. You become double. You become a hypocrite. You’ll say one thing, be another; speak one thing, intend another. You begin to live two lives. Your life becomes false, inauthentic.

Those whom you call people of character—their lives are inauthentic. They never live their real life. And the life they do live is fake. Often, at the time of death, a person discovers: Whose life was I living? I never lived my own. I danced to others’ cues. I did as others said. I lived as others told me. I never lived my own life. Whose life was this?

Psychologists say many experience, at death, that they lived someone else’s part—as if, on entering the stage of life, they were handed the wrong role, one meant for another actor, and they performed it their whole life. You’ll regret it. Bitterly. And nothing will remain in your hands but regret. Life will slip by. No juice will arise in it. No celebration will happen. How will you thank God? Your mind will bubble only with complaint. Anger toward God: What kind of life did you give me? I came and went, and nothing came into my hands! Not a single flower blossomed. Not a single song sprang. Not once did I dance with all my heart. No joy, no music anywhere.

How could it, when you were busy trying to become something else? You came to be one thing, and tried to become another.

Character is the most dangerous word in this world. And remember, I am not saying, “Become characterless.”

“Sheela” is the other word to understand. Sheela means: Let your life be decided by your own seeing, your own experience, your own awakening, your own meditation. Don’t live a borrowed life; live your own. Anger is bad—of course it is. If you accept it because I say so, character is produced. If you know it by your own experience, sheela is born. Outwardly the two may look the same. A person of sheela and a person of character can appear alike. But inwardly, the person of sheela will have an incomparable peace, and the person of character will have only anger—repressed. In one, fire will burn; in the other, lotuses will bloom. The difference is vast—hell within one, heaven within the other—though from the outside they may look similar.

Often it will even seem that the “man of character” is more valuable than the person of sheela—because the man of character is only performing, and he can become very skillful at performance. Practice, practice, practice—and one becomes an expert. The person of sheela is not practicing anything. He lives freshly each moment; he may even err sometimes. The man of character never errs—there’s no reason to. He has a dead pattern to repeat.

Have you ever seen machines make mistakes? Machines cannot err. Only man can err—error is man’s dignity—machines cannot. So the man who has made his character mechanical never errs. The person of sheela may err, because he must decide moment to moment: What to do now? The moment stands, and he must accept its challenge and respond. The man of character has ready-made answers. He doesn’t have to craft them; he doesn’t have to search. His answer is prepared even before the question. You haven’t asked, and the answer is there. Ask, and he delivers immediately. His rails are fixed.

The “man of character” is like freight cars running endlessly on the same tracks. The person of sheela is like a river flowing toward the sea. Nothing is fixed: Which direction will it take, which path will it choose, when will it change? No iron rails are laid for a river, and no flag-bearer walks ahead saying, “Follow me.” The river flows in its own joy, determines its own speed. Each moment it decides; it flows where the passage is most natural. The river has no pre-laid path—pathless, yet it reaches the ocean. Therefore, there must be a path—but it is determined moment to moment.

Sheela is like the river; character like the railway tracks. The man of character is rigid, dead, mechanical. He does not err—but he is hardly human. The person of sheela may err, but even his errors are majestic. He errs once, and learns something new. The man of character either never errs, or, if he does, it is the same error again and again, because he has no awareness. If once he adds two and two and gets five, he’ll keep adding two and two and getting five all his life. The person of sheela may err, but never the same way twice. He learns from experience. The man of character is afraid of learning; afraid that learning might bring something that goes against his character. Then what—whom will he obey, himself or the elders? He fears himself, cuts himself to fit the elders. Thus a dead life is born.

“Avadh of sheela...”

Paltu says: Let sheela be born, not character. Let your life spring from awareness. Live awake, moment to moment. Whatever you do, let it be action, not reaction. Action meaning: your response comes out of the living moment itself. Let your answers be alive—not canned, not pre-cooked. Be like a mirror; let the image form of whatever stands before it.

The man of character is like a painted picture—whoever stands before him, it makes no difference; his image is already fixed. The person of sheela is like a mirror; the image forms of what stands before him—and as it is, so the image. The person of sheela is empty, a zero.

From emptiness is born sheela. From awareness is born sheela. And sheela gives life freedom.

“Avadh of sheela...”

If you must go to Ayodhya, Paltu says, go to the Ayodhya of sheela.

“...Janakpur of affection,
and if you would go to Janakpur, where Sita was born—then of affection, of pure love.”

There is a slight difference between sneh (affection) and prem (love). Keep that in mind too. In “love,” a trace of desire remains. In “affection,” no desire remains. Love carries a faint sting of lust, attachment, enjoyment. Sneh is love purified. In love there is a slight shadow of the body; in sneh not even a trace. When love becomes utterly holy, we call it sneh.

Our language is rich. In no other language are there so many words for love, so many fine distinctions. In English there is only one word: love. So whether your love is for ice cream, hockey, wine, or God, the same word must be used. “I love ice cream; I love hockey; I love wine; I love God.” To use the same word for ice cream and God leaves the language impoverished. Ours is rich. Among the many terms, these two are important.

“Love” means: hidden in it is the hope to get something from the other—avowed or unavowed, but one wants to receive. “Affection” means: only to give, with no desire to get—not an atom of wanting—only giving. When love becomes pure giving, an incomparable light kindles in your life. A rare fragrance arises. You’re filled with a new rhythm. As of now, life is one race: how to get, how to grab. One way to live is: how to snatch from all—that’s the worldly way. The other way is exactly opposite—the sannyasin’s way: how to give! How to share whatever I have!

The day the giver is born within you, that day sneh is born. What the master feels for the disciple is sneh. What a mother feels for her child is sneh. It is sheer giving. Blessed that the other accepts. There is no desire to receive. Where receiving enters, distortion enters. Where receiving enters, the pure flame is clouded by smoke.

Notice, when we burn wood and fire appears, smoke appears too. But you know the smoke does not come from the wood; it comes from the moisture hidden in the wood. If the wood is utterly dry, no smoke arises. The wetter, the more smoke. So it is with love: smoke never comes from love; it comes from the dampness of lust clinging to love. When the moisture of lust is dried out, when the wood is completely dry, not a wisp of smoke remains. Love often produces thick smoke. That’s why lovers are often seen fighting, quarreling, trying to possess each other, filled with jealousy. Envy, hatred, disgust, anger—so many illnesses travel with love. With sneh there is no illness.

Think of it this way: love is sneh fallen ill. Sneh in the hospital is called love. When love is healed, we call it sneh. When love returns home healthy and whole, we call it sneh. No more disease; dis-ease ends. Now the joy is only in giving. And there is an incomparable joy in giving. In begging there is beggary—how can there be joy? Who has ever found bliss as a beggar? Whenever you have asked, you must have felt inwardly demeaned. Whenever your hand has stretched out, smallness has entered. And in smallness, how can anyone be happy? Even if you get a diamond by begging, the joy of the diamond will not be as much as the sadness spread inside by the begging itself—you had to shrink, take up the bowl, extend your hand. There is no joy in stretching the hand. The real delight happens when you give. And when you give in such a way that you do not even ask for thanks. You do not even pause to let the other say thank you. On the contrary, you give thanks yourself.

Look—there is a custom in India. When a Buddhist monk or a Brahmin was invited for a meal, he was first fed, then given dana (a gift), and after the gift, dakshina (an honorarium). Dana means: we take joy in giving what we have. Dakshina means: thank you for accepting. If you had refused, then…? Dana is the gift; dakshina is the gratitude for your accepting it. This is remarkable. The one who receives is not expected to give thanks. The giver gives thanks. That is the meaning of sneh.

“Avadh of sheela, Janakpur of sneh...”

If you want the Ayodhya where Rama can be born, cultivate sheela. If you want the Janakpur where Sita can be born, cultivate sneh. Rama will be born where there is sheela. Sita will be born where there is sneh.

Notice in the story of Rama and Sita: Rama is ready to lose everything for his sheela—even Sita. And Sita, because of her sneh, is ready to give everything—even herself. There is no complaint in her. Not the least reproach in Sita’s heart that Rama sent her to the forest. Even in the forest, she remembers only Rama, immersed in his remembrance. Sita is sneh; Rama is sheela. Hence Rama is called Maryada Purushottam—the highest of men, the utmost of manly dignity.

But Sita has not been contemplated as much as Rama. Paltu did well to remember both in a single saying. And note this: sheela is precious, but not more than sneh. Sneh is greater because sheela is still a kind of order, a discipline; sneh is a profound inner revolution. For a man, it is easier to dive into sheela; for a woman, easier to dive into sneh. Women have given the world more sneh than men ever could; it is their capacity. Men have given the world sheela; women have not given it in the same measure; it is not their gift. And where sheela and sneh meet in one person, there gold is scented—Rama and Sita are both present.

Have you noticed, in remembering our saints we often put the woman first? We say Sita-Ram; we say Radha-Krishna. We place the feminine first. Because the value of the feminine heart—of sneh—is greater than sheela. In sheela there is still some thinking, some calculation; in sneh there is none. In sheela the head has its role; in sneh only the heart beats. Sneh is heartful.

“Avadh of sheela, Janakpur of sneh,
Janaki is married to Truth.”

And if you are eager for marriage—if you must walk around the sacred fire in this world—then circle only around Truth. All other weddings lead to prison. All other circlings make you a captive, a slave. Only truth liberates.

Jesus’s famous saying is: Truth liberates. And nothing else does. If you must bind yourself, bind yourself to that which frees. That is the meaning here. Do not bind yourself to that which binds you more. You are already bound enough; there is no need for more chains. Now take the company of that which sets you free.

Hence we call the master a sadguru—satguru—the guru of truth. In whom truth has taken its seat. Through whom you can be freed.

“Janaki is married to Truth.
Within the mind, Lord Raghunath himself becomes the bridegroom,”

And if a bridegroom must be, let it be the hidden “you” within—the self, the soul. Marry Janaki of Truth, and let your own soul be the groom.

“Within the mind, Lord Raghunath becomes the bridegroom,
and tie upon your head the peacock-plume of knowing.”

Bind on the bridegroom’s head the plume of wisdom—let it be the crest of meditation, of awareness, of wakefulness.

“When the wedding procession of love sets out in joy,”

And when this incomparable adventure begins—when the wedding procession of love moves—let it move in jubilation. Let it not be morose. A wedding party, and gloomy faces? But look at your so-called monks—how they appear as if attending a funeral. Mourners! As if escorting someone to the cremation ground. Not like revelers in a procession. To join with the Lord you need the joy of a wedding party—dancing, singing, overflowing bliss! Not weeping. And if you do weep, let your tears be of joy, not sadness. Let there be dance in your feet, delight in your life, energy and enthusiasm. Make such a wedding party.

“When the wedding procession of love sets out in joy,
forgiveness is spread and the guest-tent is raised.”

And if anywhere this wedding procession must be lodged—let it be in forgiveness. Its guest-house must be forgiveness.

No gloom, no indifference, no neglect—this is the essence-thread of devotion. The gloomy person loses touch with God. How will you connect through gloom? You must have noticed how hard it is even to converse with a gloomy person. Go to a sad person and you’ll find a wall around him—hard to enter. The sad man closes in on himself. Sadness brings contraction; delight opens. Like a bud opening, like a seed sprouting. It’s easy to relate to a joyful person—very easy. One who smiles—you can befriend easily; dialogue flows easily. Long faces, sad faces, grave faces—hard to connect, no bridge forms. If this is true in ordinary situations, think of the state when you go to meet God. Go with a sad face, and union will not happen. Your sadness itself will be the obstacle. Go dancing. Whoever has gone, has gone dancing. Sometimes the dance is visible, sometimes not—that’s another matter. Buddha too went dancing. Yes, not outwardly like Meera—Buddha’s dance is very inner. The body is still; inside, meditation dances. Meera dances within and without. If you can dance in both, why be stingy? Dance in both. If there is an obstacle to outer dance, at least dance within. But at your center, the event of dance must happen.

“When the wedding procession of love sets out in joy,
forgiveness is spread and the guest-tent is raised.”

Let the joy of love surge within you, and let forgiveness rain all around you. Let no anger arise from within. Even toward those who harm you, who are your enemies, let only love rise—this is forgiveness.

“The kingly pride of ego is crushed,”

There is an ego, the pomp of which must be crushed. A pride that stands like a curtain between you and God. In every love, the veil of ego is the obstruction.

“The kingly pride of ego is crushed,
and the bow of steadiness is victoriously won.”

Steadiness! The unmoving state of consciousness—what Krishna calls sthitaprajna. When consciousness is utterly still, no tremors arise. Tremor means: wanting, desire, craving—running, restlessness—“as I am is not enough, I want something more: wealth, position, prestige.” Tremor means: anyone can shake me. Someone praises you, and you puff up at once.

I’ve heard: A politician lost his way in a forest. He was caught by cannibals. They dragged him before their chief. The chief immediately had his chains removed, seated him on a fine seat, and praised him highly. His followers were astonished. The other cannibals said, “What are you doing? We are hungry; for days we’ve had no meat to eat—and you’re seating him and praising him? Quickly finish him and prepare the meal!”

He said, “No, wait. I know politicians. Once I went to Delhi for a Republic Day parade. I know politicians. Just wait.”

They asked, “We don’t understand. What’s the matter?”

He said, “First let us praise him—he will puff up. When he swells, more bellies will be filled. First let him inflate. You don’t know politicians. Eat him now, and he’s scrawny, no use. Let him swell—fill him with hot air! Then eat, and everyone’s hunger will be satisfied. I know you’re all hungry.”

Someone flatters you and you begin to swell. Someone criticizes you—your balloon is punctured, all the air rushes out. If such small things can shake you, you will never find God. To find him you need a supreme peace within that nothing can fragment—neither praise nor blame, neither success nor failure, neither life nor death. If something is gained, fine; if something is lost, fine. Inside, a “rightness” that never breaks. Jains called it samyaktva—well named. Samyaktva means “rightness”—the rightness that remains steady within, unbroken. The one who is steady, still, unmoved.

“And the bow of steadiness is victoriously won.”

Here the whole Ramayana arrives—told so sweetly. This is the essence. The rest of the Ram-story spins around this essence. This is the attar distilled from a thousand flowers. Rama’s tale is a vast garden; many blossoms. Paltu has distilled them all and stored them in a small vial. Priceless points.

The gist of it all is this, remember two things: Within you let there be the Ayodhya of sheela, then Rama will be born. Many seek Rama and cannot find him. Why? You never build Ayodhya—yet you set out to find Rama! Only in Ayodhya does Rama take birth. So build Ayodhya. Chanting “Ram Ram” will do nothing. Repeating the name will do nothing. First earn the worthiness. Make the vessel. Nectar will rain—certainly, inevitably. Whenever a vessel has been readied, nectar has rained without exception. But make yourself capable. Become Ayodhya; Rama is ready to be born within you—eager, waiting for you to say yes so he may enter.

You make much noise about Rama, but you never prepare the worthiness. You invite a guest with no place for him to stay. You yourself sit on the threshold and invite him. Not a small guest either—you call Rama. First prepare some fitness. Before inviting, get ready. The guest will come—become a host. If the guest arrives and the host is not prepared, you won’t even find a mat to spread. It will be a great embarrassment. To save you from such embarrassment, Rama doesn’t come just because you call.

Become Ayodhya. Rama will be born. But if only Rama is born, it’s incomplete—Sita must be born too. If only Rama is born, you will be half a human—merely male. What is feminine within you—so precious—will be lacking. The Supreme Person contains within him the best of woman as well as the best of man. The Supreme Woman too contains both. The Ultimate is harmony—final synthesis—where all notes become one music. In the final state of samadhi there is neither male nor female. There is no Rama, nor Sita; there is Sita-Ram—their confluence. Like the meeting of the Ganga and Yamuna. And here is the marvel: not just two rivers meet; three do. A sangam is formed.

Our stories say Prayag is the king of pilgrim places. Three rivers meet there—Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati. Two are visible, one invisible. This is not mere mythology; it signals the final event within you. Within you two rivers are visible—the masculine and the feminine. The day they meet, a third, invisible river of the divine also joins. The day Sita and Rama are born within you, that day the invisible stream of Brahman enters and flows.

Understand it like this: neither a man alone nor a woman alone can give birth to a child. When man and woman unite, in a certain moment life enters from some unknown realm—that invisible stream. In the ordinary world too the same thing happens daily, but you do not see. You have eyes and yet are blind; ears and yet deaf. In the union of man and woman, life enters from an unseen domain. You cannot see where it comes from or how. But when these two meet, the third arrives.

As it is with bodily life, so with the ultimate life of the soul. When Rama and Sita unite within you, the river of the Absolute flows in. That is supreme life. The same event happens daily when a child is born. If you begin to look at life with open eyes, you need not go to any scripture. The whole thing is written here. Not in the Vedas, not in the Koran, not in the Bible—here, all around you. In life’s small events is hidden the scripture of scriptures.

Every child is a Triveni (confluence of three), and every realized one too is a Triveni. Hence we say that when someone attains the state of a paramhansa, he is twice-born; he becomes childlike again. He has given birth to himself.

A little more on Rama and Sita. In the West, much research has been done on the mind. They say the human mind has two halves: half masculine, half feminine—in everyone. Not one mind, but two. The masculine mind reasons, thinks, calculates, does science, argues—aggressive. The feminine mind loves, feels; from it spring songs, not logic; surges of feeling, not thoughts; dance, not mathematics; poetry, not science. And when these two minds wed, when they interpenetrate and dissolve into each other—what is born is religion.

There are three scriptures in the world: science, art, and religion. Science is man’s search; poetry is woman’s. Religion is born of their union. And when two meet, the third also comes—the invisible, quietly. You don’t even notice when it arrives; no sooner do the two meet than the third is present. Where there are two, the third is also. An ancient Egyptian text says: Where there are two, the third is also. And where the third is, the two become secondary—because the third is ultimate.

Within you, the head and heart must meet. The head—masculine; the heart—feminine. Within you, feeling and thought must meet; logic and love must meet. If they remain in conflict, tension persists—you remain split in two. And as long as you are divided, there will be inner strife, no peace.

Why are people so restless? Because two journeys go on—half moves west, half east. You experience it daily: in any decision, half the mind says do it, half says don’t. Whether the decision is big or small. Which film to see today? Half says this theater, half says that. Trifles: which sari to wear? Why do women take so long before a wardrobe? The husband is honking and the wife is still scanning saris. She cannot decide which to wear. She takes one out, then another; none pleases. One she even half-wears, then discards.

The mind is always in duality—this or that—because there are two within, both speaking, both demanding: listen to me. Listen to either and you’ll suffer—because the other will resent it and say, “Didn’t I warn you?” You will be only half-happy, never wholly. Whether you get money or love, happiness is only partial. If you gain wealth, half rejoices, half remains unsatisfied: “What is this? What’s in it?” That half was saying, “Seek love.” If love comes, the other half says, “Now what? Where will you live? What will you eat? Better to have earned money and lived in comfort.”

Whatever you do, you will regret—because only half of you is doing it; the other half stands in opposition. Your misery is certain. This or that—misery is certain.

How will happiness happen? When harmony arises within. When these two opposing halves—the Kauravas and Pandavas within—stop fighting and become friends. When this Mahabharata ends.

All meditation and devotion finally bring about this state within you—a unison, a rhythm—where opposites dissolve, where conflict melts, where you are one, not two. This is the whole teaching of advaita—nonduality: where you are one, not two. So long as you are two, there is hindrance. That is why the ultimate culmination of devotion is to become one with God or to draw God into yourself—either dissolve into God or drown God in yourself. But let only one remain. “The lane of love is too narrow, two cannot pass abreast.”

I’ve heard of a great saint of Maharashtra, Jnandev, of Gorakhnath’s lineage. Truth travels by lineage—ear to ear. What is written often loses its living meaning. A lineage means: the one who knows makes another know. A chain—what the Sufis call silsila. One master to one disciple to another. From Buddha to Mahakashyapa, down to Bodhidharma, who went to China and a new lineage began. From Muhammad to his faqirs, a lineage.

Sometimes, with the first one, God speaks directly—no intermediary. Those whom we call prophets, tirthankaras, avatars—they learned from no man; God spoke directly within them; God was their guru: Buddha, Mahavira, Muhammad, Christ, Nanak, Kabir. Then a lineage begins; those who cannot connect directly can connect through them—and through them, to God.

Very few can know without an intermediary—that requires a surrender most cannot muster.

Jnandev traveled across India with a few accomplished disciples. Another famed saint was Namdev, who was not yet a saint. He requested to join. Jnandev said, “You’re still raw.” The word stung him—raw! He had great devotion, spent days and nights in the temple of Vithoba repeating Vithoba’s name. And Jnandev called him raw? He asked, “What rawness?” Jnandev said, “That you still keep chanting ‘Vithoba, Vithoba, Vithoba.’ There are still two—so you are raw. When only one remains, you’ll be ripe. Your pot has not yet been fired. What is this hullabaloo of Vithoba, Vithoba?”

As long as you have to remember God, there is still distance. As long as God appears separate, the happening has not happened. The day God sits within, the day no distinction remains between devotee and God—the day the devotee is God—that day you are ripe.

Jnandev said, “I am taking the ripe ones; I can’t take the raw.” But Namdev pleaded, held his feet: “Take me as raw; have compassion. I’ll stay with you; perhaps I’ll ripen.”

After much pleading Jnandev allowed him along. But secretly, when no one was around, Namdev would sit and chant his Vithoba; he feared that among these strange people he might lose God—they did nothing, just sat! No name-chanting, no remembrance. Outwardly he pretended; inwardly he had even hidden a small idol in his bundle. When all slept, he took it out and said, “Forgive me, Vithoba. I have fallen in with these nirguna people; they don’t understand form. Back home I’ll worship You properly. Here I can’t, it won’t fit.”

In one village the host was a potter. In the morning, they all sat in the sun, the potter among them—a realized man of the same lineage; that’s why they were staying with him. Jnandev said, “Brother, you’re a potter—you know the difference between raw and fired?” He said, “All my life—by night I can tell which pot is raw, which is fired.”

Jnandev pointed to his disciples: “Here are our pots—tell who is raw, who is ripe.” The potter brought his testing stick, with which pots are tapped. He tapped everyone’s skulls. All sat unmoved—fired pots. When he tapped Namdev’s head, Namdev jumped up: “What madness is this?” He got angry, ready to fight. The potter said, “All others are fired; this one is raw.” Jnandev said, “See, even a potter can tell. Now reveal where your rawness is hidden.” They opened his bundle, and Vithoba’s idol came out. This was the rawness: the sense of two. Is God someone else? Must you call him? Dress a statue? Load a tray with offerings? These are childish ways. Even if not bad, they are childish—like children playing with toys.

Remember the essence: you must become one. First, unite your inner duality into one rhythm. Then, as soon as this rhythm arises, grace descends and you become the Triveni. Two you were—Ganga and Yamuna—and Saraswati joins.

Saraswati is called the river of knowing, the goddess of knowledge. Rightly so. As soon as the woman and man within unite, knowledge appears; bodhi blossoms; Buddhahood is born.

“Brahmins, it seems, became Brahmins by wearing the sacred thread,
but I saw nothing around the neck of the Brahmin woman.”

Now Paltu pokes fun at those stuck in duality who haven’t understood love’s essence.

“Brahmins, it seems, became Brahmins by wearing the sacred thread,”
All right—though no one becomes a Brahmin by a thread. A Brahmin is one who knows Brahman. The thread won’t do. The three strands of the thread are symbolic of the confluence: when two meet, the third joins. Only then are you a Brahmin. But they cling to the symbol.

It’s as if someone tells you the symbol for water is H2O—two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen. Thirsty, you sit with “H2O” written on paper, or you chant “H2O, H2O, H2O!” Your thirst won’t be quenched. The formula is correct, meaningful—but chanting it won’t help. Thirst is quenched by water—by realizing Brahman.

“Brahmins, it seems, became Brahmins by wearing the sacred thread,
but the Brahmin woman has nothing around her neck.
Half the household is a Shudra,
yet you eat the food she cooks—how do you account for that?”

He mocks: The woman does not wear the thread—women cannot. Man has so oppressed! Even the religious have—indeed, especially they. No liberation for women; no right to the Vedas. They classed women among Shudras. That is injustice. And the woman is your other half. The day you barred women from liberation, you barred yourself; because what of the woman within you? You were not born of man alone—half of you is your mother’s. Fifty percent of you is feminine. Where will you run? You must liberate both your woman and your man within.

Among Jews, women cannot enter the synagogue, or if they do, they sit apart on a balcony behind a screen.

I’ve heard: when Golda Meir was Prime Minister of Israel and Indira Gandhi of India, Indira visited Israel and wanted to see the synagogue. They took her to the largest. Ordinary men were below, but these two prime ministers—women after all—were seated on the screened gallery. Back in Delhi, someone asked Indira for impressions. She said, “All else was fine, but I saw something odd: in Israel, the common folk pray in the main hall; the prime minister prays up on a balcony!” She didn’t know it was because they were women, not because they were prime ministers.

Jains say: women cannot be liberated in a female body; they must be reborn as men first. Only men can be liberated.

This is a great crime. Hence Paltu’s satire.

“Brahmins, it seems, became Brahmins by wearing the sacred thread,
but the Brahmin woman has nothing around her neck.
Half the household stays a Shudra,
yet she cooks, and you eat—what kind of accounting is this?

By a Sheikh’s circumcision he becomes Muslim—
but what about the Sheikha? You don’t call her a Sheikh.
Half your household remains Hindu in your midst—”

He says: The Sheikha has had no circumcision; without it, she cannot be Muslim—so she’s Hindu!

“Half your household remains Hindu in your midst—
Paltu says: now cut through both marks.”

He says: The wise way is to go beyond both—beyond male and female distinctions. Finish both within—neither remain a man nor a woman. When neither remains, when both meet, the third is born.

“The Turks bury their dead in graves,
the Hindus burn them in fire.
One faces east, another west—
both fools, sifting the same dust.”

He says: Turks bury the dead; Hindus burn them. Bury or burn—what difference? In both, the body becomes dust. And you make such a fuss. One prays to the east, one to the west—to the Kaaba. Both are foolish—lost in dust, in ritual.

“This one worships stone idols; that one worships graves—
wandering, they bang their heads before the dead.”

One worships the stone; the other opposes idols but worships the grave—also stone. What’s the difference? Both bow to the dead.

Worship the living. The living is all around. God is present every moment as the living. Worship the dead, and you will become dead. You become what you worship. If so many dead men walk about, it is because they worship the dead. Connect with the living.

“Says servant Paltu: the Lord is within you—
lacking your own understanding, both sides are lost.”

God sits within you. Muslims and Hindus are both lost because they lack their own understanding. Neither the Koran nor the Veda can be your understanding. You need your own. Polish your insight. Awaken it through experience. See life with open eyes. Remove the veils of conditioning. Open the doors. Only your own understanding will serve.

“In the company of saints they stand stiff,
yet they build monasteries to charm the world.”

Priests and pundits, mullahs and maulvis, are afraid of saints. Even if you take them to saints, they stand rigid, unbending. They will prostrate before stone and graves, but before a living saint they stiffen.

“They recruit ten or twenty disciples,
have them press their feet...”

This world is such that even the dimmest can gather disciples. No difficulty. One or two, they will bring ten or twenty.

These diseases are contagious. One starts pressing the feet, others catch on—“something must be there!” Humans are imitators.

Once I was a guest in Bombay at Mridula’s house. Two gentlemen came who had known me for years—regular visitors. They had never placed a coin at my feet—there was no need. That day, by chance, a new gentleman came with them. He quickly touched my feet and placed a hundred-rupee note there. I was surprised. The two regulars immediately pulled out hundred-rupee notes and did the same! I asked, “What’s gotten into you? He’s new; I was about to return his. But you?”

Contagions spread. One coughs, many begin coughing. One goes toward the bathroom, suddenly you feel an urgent need.

Man is a mimic. Make one disciple, he’ll bring ten or twenty.

Paltu says:

“They recruit ten or twenty disciples,
have them press their feet.
They cut and paste the saints’ words
and fashion themselves by repeated gestures.”

They have no experience of their own, no direct knowing—only borrowed bits, quotations—from the Vedas, from the Koran. But neither Veda nor Koran has any value unless the Veda is born within you, unless your eyes open. Until then you are a gramophone record—able to repeat. However pure your language, your repetition is worthless. If you have your own experience, even if you don’t know Sanskrit or Arabic, even if grammar escapes you—no matter. In your broken speech, in your lisping, there will be a glimpse of God. Religion has nothing to do with erudition—only with experience.

“In a radius of a few miles they gather four or five,
and call themselves emperors.”

A great comedy is on. In a few miles they gather a few followers and feel like world-conquerors. Paltu says: Don’t get entangled in these small things or with these little shopkeepers. If you have courage, marry the one who has found Truth. If you have courage, look eye to eye with someone who sees. If you have courage, befriend someone brave. That friendship can bear fruit. Don’t sit around extinguished lamps—go to a lit one. In its presence, at some moment, the flame will leap into you; your wick will catch fire. The lit lamp loses nothing. Light a thousand lamps from it, nothing is lost. It does not become poorer because others are lit. Consider how much the unlit gain!

Who is the lit lamp? The one who has his own light. Our trouble is we cannot recognize the luminous. The luminous speaks his own language while we recognize sectarian tongues. If you are a Hindu or a Muslim, you won’t connect with me unless you are courageous. If you come expecting me to repeat the Vedas blindly, you will not relate.

I am not a Hindu. I have nothing to do with the Vedas. If I sometimes call a Vedic saying true, it’s because I have experienced it. I speak what is true in my seeing. If it is in the Veda, I may quote it. But it is not true because it is in the Veda; it is true because it is in my experience. And if my experience contradicts the Veda, then the Veda is wrong. If the Veda is right, it will be so by my touchstone; if wrong, then by it as well.

The pundit and the sectarian say: The Veda is right; no other test is needed. Because it is in the Veda, it is true.

Buddha told his disciples: Do not believe what I say until it becomes your experience. Listen, understand—but don’t believe. Believe only when you know. Then it will be true because you have experienced it. Otherwise it remains a lie.

My truth is mine. If you repeat it, it becomes false. When you too bring it into experience, then it is true—true because it is yours. Borrowed truth becomes false.

But we lack courage. Our conditionings bind us. A Muslim coming to me unconsciously compares what I say with the Koran: if it matches, fine; if not, wrong. The Koran cannot be wrong. That is the obstacle. The Koran is a book fourteen centuries old, in the language of that time. Muhammad was one sort of man; I am another. His expression was his; mine is mine. If you judge me by Muhammad, you won’t connect. If you had gone to Muhammad with me as your yardstick, you wouldn’t have connected with him either.

So I warn you: after I’m gone, do not judge anyone by my standard, or you will miss them. When you test someone, do it with an open mind. Take no yardstick, no bias. Set aside all prejudice. Listen in quietness. And whatever you hear, do not rush to believe or disbelieve. Both are hasty. Some believe immediately; some disbelieve immediately—both are rash. Neither rush is needed. Seek experience. Pour your energy into experiencing.

If you hear something from me, now test it in your own life. If experience says “yes,” then yes. If it says “no,” then no matter who said it—even a sage—it holds no value. Ultimately your experience is decisive. Ultimately you are the judge.

This scripture of love must speak against hypocrisy—because through hypocrisy love has been lost. Your worship has wandered into temples and mosques. Your intelligence has tangled itself in scriptures. Hence saints like Paltu are compelled to speak against scripture, against the pundit, the maulvi, the Brahmin and the Sheikh. They take no pleasure in opposing; they must, because these are the places where you are stuck. To free you, they speak so. Otherwise, the scripture of love has no quarrel; it is the scripture of pure joy, of exuberance.

“Today there is a Christlike healing in the air;
the heart is cured of the sickness of separation.
In rhythm with the heart’s own beat, the breeze is dancing—
as if it carried a message of faithfulness from the Beloved.
Of the heart, once thought the haunt of despair,
now it is the center of a hundred splendors.
A new radiance of delight has arisen—
this intoxicating dark cloud that veils the sky.
In imagination, what scenes are dancing!
What ornaments the heart has drawn from love!
The heart is in ecstasy, wholly intoxicated, dancing—
ever since love’s ache colored the soul with wounds.
Fill the goblet with fire today, O Saki;
the hidden heart longs for the taste of delights.
What ever broke under autumn’s assault—
look, the garden blooms with spring’s full force.
Perhaps the flames have cast off their veil today—
every speck is dancing in the sun’s blaze.
Amidst the rose’s petals waves of sorrow once rolled—
who is this walking now through the garden’s courtyard?
It’s not without cause, preacher, that the eyes are drunk—
each gesture of the tyrant-beloved is almond-sweet.
In the world of love, what temple, what mosque?
Here there is only love—no infidel, no believer.
Applaud me, O moralist—by a word here and there
I’ve led you into the alley of the wine-seller.”

In the lover’s world, where is temple, where mosque?

In the world of love, what temple, what mosque?
Here there is only love—neither blasphemy nor faith.

Here no one is infidel, no one Muslim—only love is.

Here there is only love—neither blasphemy nor faith.
In the world of love, what temple, what mosque?

Applaud me, O preacher—by a word here and there
I’ve led you to the tavern’s alley.

If saints have ever refuted, it was only to break you free from the wrong places. Negation only to make affirmation possible. To see the false as false makes it easier to see the true. Otherwise, lovers have no disputes, no scholastic debates. No quarrel with temples or mosques. They don’t care whether you’re a kafir, a Hindu, a Muslim, a man of faith. They have only one care, one attachment, one suspicion: love. If there is love in your life, all is well. Stay in a mosque or a temple—fine—only stay in love. If there is joy in your life, the intoxication of God’s love, all is well. Then it makes no difference whether you go to the Kaaba or to Kailash. Wherever you live, however you live, in whatever dress, in whatever land, color, or style—it all goes. But remember two things: let there be love for God, and let there be joy for God. Love that dances—exuberant love—love blooming like a lotus. Then everything else follows by itself.

If you go on understanding these sayings of love, slowly, surely, you will come near the tavern.

In the world of love, what temple, what mosque!
Here there is only love—neither blasphemy nor faith.
Applaud me, O preacher—by a word here and there
I’ve led you to the tavern’s alley.

That’s all for today.