Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #12

Prem Shakti! When a person is joined to oneself—at once the fountains of bliss begin to gush! When a person remains cut off from oneself—life is gloom, sorrow, hell. Happiness does not come from the outside.

I have not filled your bowl with joys; your bowl has always been full. Bliss is our nature. But the gaze does not turn! The eyes wander everywhere, but not upon oneself. We see everyone else and remain without seeing ourselves. We search in every nook and corner—only in our own inner shrine we do not search.

I have not filled your bowl with happiness; I have only turned your eyes toward your already brimming bowl! If just a glimpse is had, then the whole existence is a festival.

And the great wonder is that this is each person’s inborn right! You are born to be a song of bliss! Your veena is ready—strike it and music will be born. But the veena lies idle; the music does not arise. The eyes do not turn within. The songs remain seeds; they never become flowers. The whole earth is in sorrow. As you were in sorrow, Prem Shakti, so are all people in sorrow. And sorrow is unnatural. Sorrow should not be—and yet it is. Bliss should be—and yet it is not. Such is the paradox.

Yet naturally, when for the first time the fountains of bliss erupt within, we cannot believe they are springing from our own being! So we always think: this stream has come from somewhere else. Because I am near you, naturally when your nature stretches and when the dormant potentials within you become actual, your eyes go toward me; it seems that I have done something.

Do not fall into that mistake. Because if someone else can give you happiness, then someone else can also take it away. If I have filled your bowl, someone can also loot your bowl. Then we become dependent.

The Satgurus have always said: neither can bliss be given, nor can it be taken. Thieves cannot steal it, bandits cannot rob it. Even death cannot snatch it—what to say of robbers!

But your feeling is right, your feeling is full of love. You have lived only in sorrow; I know your sorrow. The eyes you had when you first came and the eyes you have today are not the eyes of the same person. When you came, your eyes were weighed down with deep gloom, a night of the new moon dwelt in them. Now the full moon has blossomed—moonlight everywhere! Even you cannot believe how such a transformation has happened.

Still I remind you: the transformation has not been done by me; it has happened within you. I am not its cause; at best I may be a condition, a pretext. This is the difference between a cause and a condition (nimitta). Nimitta means a pretext. By my pretext your gaze turned within. It could have turned by some other pretext as well. A cause is determinate: only by heating water to one hundred degrees does steam arise; that is causation. Steam cannot arise otherwise. That is not a pretext; it is a cause. But seeing the rising sun in the morning, an inner sun can rise too. Watching a lotus open in a lake, the lotus within you can open too. The night is full of stars, and the sky within you can become filled with stars.

In Nanak’s life it happened so. It was night, and in the distant forest the papiha—the rain-bird—was calling: “pi-kahan, pi-kahan, pi-kahan”—“Beloved, where?” And the blow struck! The papiha became the Satguru. The papiha filled Nanak’s bowl with bliss. The wound was struck: “pi-kahan!” The Beloved was remembered! The village of the Beloved was remembered. He began to call: “pi-kahan!” The mother thought he had gone mad. She came and spoke, but tears of ecstasy were flowing and there was only one refrain: “pi-kahan!” And the mother said, “Now sleep a little, take some rest! What is this you have got into?”

Nanak said, “How can I be silent until the papiha is silent? The papiha is still calling. And perhaps his beloved is not very far. But I do not know where the village of my Beloved is; perhaps I shall have to call my whole life.”

So even from the papiha the bowl was filled—nimitta! A condition can be anything.

There is another condition in Nanak’s life. His father put him in a nawab’s household for a job. He did too much satsang with sadhus; he needed to be saved, lest he go astray. And there were all the signs he would go astray. They tried in every way to save him. First they put him in trade. Sent him: “Go to the nearby town and buy blankets; the cold days are coming, sales will be good, there will be profit. Now you are young, do something. How long will you sit with this Rama—what will come of it? And keep in mind, you must make a profit! Focus on the profit. Buy the blankets, and make a profit.” And Nanak returned dancing. Not a single blanket. The father asked, “What happened to the blankets?”

He said, “I have returned after making a profit.”

“Then where is the money?”

Nanak said, “Money? On the way I saw a band of faqirs resting under the trees. A cold night! I distributed the blankets. I said, what greater profit can there be than this! I have returned with punya—merit; merit is the real earning, is it not? Merit is the true wealth, is it not?”

Troubled by such a son, they placed him in a job in the nawab’s house. A job such that there would not be much mischief, and no handling of money either. He only had to weigh grain daily for the soldiers. And just that one day became the condition, Prem Shakti! It cannot be called a cause.

Remember, I am explaining to you the difference between cause and condition. He was weighing flour for a soldier one day—he used to weigh every day; it did not happen every day, it happened that day. If it had been a cause, it would happen every day. Heat water to a hundred degrees every day and it will become steam; it is not that sometimes it becomes, sometimes it does not; not that sometimes, if in a good mood, it becomes steam, and if not in a good mood, it does not; not that it says, “Leave it, today I will not become steam at all.”

When it is a condition there is freedom. In causation there is no freedom; there is bondage. Cause is entirely mechanical.

He was weighing flour for a soldier. He put it on the scale—one, two, five, six, ten, eleven, twelve... and when he came to thirteen—in Hindi it is terah, in Punjabi tera, meaning “Thine”—as soon as he said “tera,” remembrance of the Divine arose: pi-kahan! He forgot everything; a single note began to resound. This is called bhajan! This is called bhajan!! The chant took hold—Tera! Tera!! He went on weighing; fourteen never arrived. He just kept weighing—Tera! Tera!! The soldier was a little startled. Others standing there were startled too. They informed the nawab that the man had gone mad. He keeps weighing, giving everything away to everyone, and keeps saying—“Tera!” “Thine!”

The nawab asked, “What happened?” But seeing him, the nawab also felt it would not be right to call this man mad. And if this is madness, then blessed be such madness. Streams of tears were flowing from his eyes. Nanak, intoxicated with bliss! And he said to the nawab, “Today the moment has descended for which I was waiting! Today, while weighing, his remembrance has arisen!”

This is a condition. He used to weigh every day; it did not happen. That day some inner state was in such a wave that it happened.

Prem Shakti, you are listening here; others are listening too. Many people’s bowls have been filled; many have not. And I pour the same upon all. This is a condition, not a cause. If it were a cause, then whoever came here would have to have their bowl filled; whoever came would have to be intoxicated with bliss. It is not necessary. Some return dejected, some return annoyed, some return as enemies. Your bowl has been filled with flowers, with lotuses. I have not filled it; I am only a condition. I gave the call of “pi-kahan,” and you heard it. The number “tera” came, and some memory asleep within you through births upon births awoke.
You have asked: “Please accept my tears.”
Your tears are accepted, for they are not tears of sorrow but of joy; not of torment but of contentment; they are the tears of supreme fulfillment. And in this world, when tears are of fulfillment, of joy, of awe and wonder, there are no flowers more beautiful than they. Ami jharat, bigasat kanval—nectar drips, lotuses bloom! In such tears ambrosia flows, and lotuses open.

There is nothing more beautiful in this world than a tear steeped in joy. Tears are the greatest poetry of existence, an epic! The highest music! The deepest prayer, worship, adoration. All other trays of worship are worth two cowries; but the one whose tray holds the tears of joy—his offering will reach. It has reached! Before the feet even move, it has reached! Before a word is spoken, it has reached! Before the letter is written, it has reached!

You say, “I am leaving your city.”
Now leaving is not possible, because my city is not bound to any place. My city is another name for the city of love. Love has nothing to do with place or time. Wherever you are, you will be in my city.

And I want people to go far and wide, so that my city may spread. Take this dye of love and pour it out! Take this vermilion of bliss and scatter it to the winds!

I have given you a name too—Prem Shakti. For me there is no power greater than love. Love is God. Share it! When your bag is full, learn to give. For the more you give, the more your bag will brim over. The inner arithmetic of life is very strange. In the outer world, in the economics of the marketplace, if you keep giving, today or tomorrow you will be poor.

Mulla Nasruddin, in a certain mood, gave a beggar a five-rupee note. He was high—he had won the lottery; that day his heart was generous. Even the beggar could not believe it. He turned the note over and over to see whether it was real or fake. Then he looked at Mulla Nasruddin. Nasruddin looked him over closely too. The man seemed decent, even well-educated, cultured, of good stock; his clothes, though torn and old, must once have been fine. He asked, “How did you come to this state?”

The beggar laughed, “This is exactly the state you will reach. I too used to give like this. Father left a lot, but I squandered it. Don’t worry—you’ll be here soon enough. And when you do, come to my hut; there’s plenty of room. Keep giving like this and it won’t be long before you end up just like me.”

In the outer world, what you give decreases. In the inner world the law is reversed: if you hoard, it diminishes; if you share, it grows.

The economics of the spirit is different, its mathematics is different. When love rises within you, do not shut the doors and hide it inside, otherwise it will rot; it will turn poisonous, toxic. Springs stay fresh only when they keep flowing. When love arises, share it! And while sharing, lay down no conditions, for conditions obstruct giving. When bliss overflows, lavish it! Pour with both hands! And do not worry about who is worthy and who is unworthy; only misers think in terms of worthiness and unworthiness.

People come to me and ask, “You do not look at the worthy and the unworthy; you give sannyas to anyone!”

I say, “I am lavishly giving! Worthy-unworthy—am I a miser? ‘Give to this one, not to that one; only if he rises at five in the morning—then we will give; if he rises at brahmamuhurta—then we will give.’ What nonsense! If he rises at seven he cannot be a sannyasin? Even if he sleeps the whole day, he can be a sannyasin. If he is nocturnal, that too will do. What has sannyas to do with when you wake and when you don’t? Sannyas is related to an inner state—the one who remains awake even while awake!”

Did not Darya say: Awake while awake! In sleep one day you will awaken—awake while awake!

Let wakefulness endure. When a continuous thread of awareness runs in you twenty-four hours, then what difference does it make when you get up? For him every moment is brahmamuhurta, because he is linked to the Brahman; all moments are holy.

So I do not look at worthy or unworthy. Misers do that. When bliss ripens, who sees worthy and unworthy! When clouds gather, they rain as much on the houses of sinners as on those of saints. And when flowers bloom, they do not test each nostril: whether it belongs to a sinner or a saint—“To which nostril shall we send the fragrance, and from which shall we draw it back?” And when a lamp is lit, its light falls on all, unconditionally.

Your bag is full, Prem Shakti—share! Spend! Give unconditionally! And you will be astonished, left speechless, to find that the more you give, the more it grows. As you give outwardly, inwardly the infinite springs begin to flow. That is the difference between a tank and a well. Draw from a tank and it empties. Draw from a well and it is renewed; it does not run dry—fresh streams keep feeding it. Erudition is like a tank; wisdom is like a well. Within you wisdom is being born, awareness is being born; the first breezes of meditation have begun to blow; the very first flowers of spring have opened. Auspicious signs, profound signs! Share! However much you share will still be too little.

And there is no way to leave my city. My city is the city of the heart. Prem Shakti, you have entered it; you have become a limb of it, a part of it, you have merged into it. There is no way to sever it now; separation is impossible. Does love ever break? If it breaks, know that it was not love; it must have been something else you mistook for love. That was delusion. Love never breaks. And when love is joined to bliss, then there is not even a possibility of breaking.

You say, “I am leaving your city. How I am leaving, only you can know.”
It is true. Each day it becomes harder for sannyasins to go away. Therefore I am hastening arrangements so that those who wish to live here forever may remain here forever. And for you the arrangements have already been made. As soon as the new commune is created, among those who enter first—you will be one of them. You have been chosen.

You write, “You have filled my begging-bowl with your happiness. Fountains of joy are springing within and without. Yet there is a deep sadness in the heart, and at the thought of going my breath begins to stop.”
It is natural. Those who are connected with me, their breath has become linked with my breath. To be far from me will be painful. But hold yourself. Do not drown in this pain. Take this pain as a challenge. Make it a base for growth, a step in your ascent.

My life’s pain will not sing,
however much the mind may tremble.
I too must keep some heed for you.
A wounded heart does tend to sing,
to tell the world its sorrow,
but now my lips will not break into song—
modesty has sealed them.
No song shall rise to call you near from far—
I have the support of restraint too.

Springtime has made me mad,
the stars have shown me grace.
Everything about Her delights me,
moonlight showers songs on me—
how could I not go near the moon?
In the dark I shall lie quiet and sleep—
I owe you this kindness too.

Moonlight calls everyone close;
not just I—the whole world sings.
Some find solace in songs,
some wounds time heals by itself.
There is a sweet faintness in sandalwood shade,
and if flowers’ villages are silent,
that too is a hint for living.

What veils the flowers and the bees,
thorns themselves have cast that fate.
Whomever the flowers call near,
the thorns themselves make his path.
How can I not sweep over every obstacle?
What can I do if I cannot come to your door?
You have called me, after all.

The call has been given to you. And you have heard it. Your coming will happen soon. Soon a Buddha-field is in preparation, where I want a minimum of five to ten thousand sannyasins to reside. Ten thousand people, drunk with bliss, can create such a great energy that it will change the very air of the earth. If one atomic explosion can annihilate a great city like Hiroshima in five moments, turn a hundred thousand people to ash, then the explosion of joy of ten thousand souls can inaugurate a new era on this whole planet.

A new human being has to be born. You are all most fortunate, because in the birth of that new human being your hands will be there, your imprint will be there.

Difficulties will come. Prem Shakti, the invitation from my side has arrived. You too must come. You will have to come. You will come—there is no other way. But there will be obstacles, hindrances. There is family, society, relatives—barriers of every sort. Accept all those obstacles with great joy; they too are allies in your inner growth.

A hidden footpath steals along
beneath the shade of paddy fields.
Some unsung songs resound
in the laughter of the rays;
a restless summons trembles
in every breath of the east wind.
Emptiness plucks at the hem’s edge,
and even the water-laden boats
of clouds are calling!

There is a lissome sway in every limb,
as though dawn rose in youth;
with the sky’s dream-shadow
I line the corners of my eyes.
I make my path through shell and reed,
through thorn and bramble;
mud and mire keep clinging,
hugging at my feet.

Beyond the boundary the smoky brows
have arched like a taut bow—
who is this hunter
loosing arrows of keen light?
Every pore is pierced as if by shafts,
the limits of decorum break,
and losing sense, I set out
for my Beloved’s uncharted village.

The anklet’s jingle, the crickets’ trill,
cranes in serried rows—
a madwoman, self-choosing her groom,
what is day, what is night?
As sentries, a few acacia trees
with yellow crests
forbid me: “Girl, don’t place
your feet where danger lies!”
Is not your own courtyard enough,
that you go to another’s village?

Many people, like thorny acacia trees, will obstruct, will hinder. When a traveler sets out on an unknown journey, all the frightened, timid ones try to stop him. They too have their reason: when even one slips away from the flock, from the herd of sheep, and sets out along an uncharted footpath… And I am an uncharted footpath! My invitation is the invitation of the unknown. I want to take you into a realm of which you have no idea; and even if I wish, I cannot provide proof for it. Only if you go will you know; only by experiencing will you recognize; only by drinking will you taste. Before the taste, I can give no proof, no guarantee. There is no way to guarantee.

To walk with me demands courage, even audacity. So people will say a thousand things. They will think you crazy, licentious, unruly. They will create all kinds of hurdles. Accept those hurdles too, Prem Shakti, with great love, great joy, great wonder. For in my seeing, all the obstacles on the path can become steps; they must become steps—that is the art of life.

You said, “You are present in every pore of my being. Give me strength that until your call comes, I may remain away from you.”
But the call has already been given. There is no need now to remain far. Even distance will not feel like distance. There is one kind of nearness of the body—and it can be that you sit close to someone, bodies touching, and yet you are thousands of miles apart. And it can also be that there are thousands of miles between you and yet there is no gap at all. Life is such a mystery; it is not solved by straight arithmetic. Lovers are close even across thousands of miles; and those with bodies pressed together, if they are not in love, remain far. Love is nearness. And the love has been born in you. So how far can you be? Nearness will remain. I will now surround you like a shadow. I will be present around you like a fragrance. In every breath, remembrance will arise, awareness will be awake. There is no need for any worry.

Nor is there much delay. Despite every obstacle, the village of sannyasins will be founded. Soon it will be founded! Because that work is not mine; it is the work of the Divine—no obstacle can impede it.

And the more the obstacles, the greater the gain. Perhaps the delay too is needed—so that you ripen, so that you mature. But the moment you consent, that very moment the new village will come into being. No barrier can stop it.

And such a vast experiment has never before happened on earth: that ten thousand sannyasins live in one place, bound in one love, and raise a united note of prayer and meditation. It has become necessary now. This earth is terribly unsteady. The powers of hate are strong, and the power of love has grown feeble. Here love must be kindled. Here the flickering flame of love must be fanned, guarded, turned into a torch. And if ten thousand people, utterly surrendered, cease to live separately and become a single mighty pillar of energy, this earth can be saved; a new human being can be inaugurated here. It must happen. Man has lived in darkness too long; now some great arrangement must bring light.

Prem Shakti, for you there is an invitation, a summons. You are to take part in that great undertaking. If a little time passes, pass it too with joy, with song, with love. Welcome even that delay and pass through it. Let my sannyasins drop the language of melancholy. Speak the language of joy. Live the language of joy. Sever all ties with sadness. In this world nothing is worthy of sorrow, because God is present everywhere, pervades every particle, flows in every particle. To be is such a great joy that no other joy is needed. Breathing itself is such a great joy—what more joy need you desire, need you seek?

Sahajanand! First, even the attempt to attain God is part of the ego. Why do you want to attain God? What need has arisen? What obstacle is there? Some people want wealth, some want position; you want God! Do you also want to defeat those who have wealth and position? Do you want to tell them: “Ah, you petty worldly creatures—I am spiritual! I don’t chase small things; I seek only God!”

The ego’s pathways are very subtle. Keep one thing in mind: wherever there is desire, there is ego. God is not to be desired; God is indeed found, but he is not to be desired. And the condition for finding God is precisely that there be no desire—no desire at all: not for wealth, not for position, not even for God. Where all desires fall away, what remains is God. There is no difference between the desire for God and the desire for wealth—not even the slightest. Desire is desire; its nature is one. On what object you fasten it—someone on A, someone on B, someone on C—what difference does that make? The object of desire does not change the nature of desire. Desire remains desire; it is craving. It is the play of the mind, the race of the ego. It is ambition.

God is certainly found, but to those whose minds hold no desire. Where there is no desire, there is no mind. Where there is no desire, there is no “you.”

Just consider—meditate for a moment. If there were no desire at all, would “you” remain? There would be a hush, an immense emptiness within you, a deep silence. But you would not be. In that deep silence, in that very void, God makes an entry, an appearance. In truth, that void itself is fullness. Desire is creating the obstruction, the interference.

You change the objects of desire, but you do not drop desire. Worldly desires are replaced by otherworldly desires; ordinary desires are replaced by extraordinary desires. But desire continues. And wherever there is desire, there is an obstacle; wherever there is desire, there is a wall. In desirelessness there is a bridge.

So, Sahajanand, the first thing: do not desire God. If you want to find, do not desire.

Now the second thing: the mind is very cunning. The mind will say, “All right! Very well, Sahajanand—if you want to attain, then don’t desire! Drop desire so you can attain!”

Then the mind may start working at dropping desire—because it wants to attain. But that is simply desire in a new form: desire sneaking in through the back door. You said goodbye at the front door, and the guest slipped in from behind.

You must understand this distortion of desire so that it does not creep in through the back door. When desire comes from the back, it becomes even more dangerous, because this time it wears masks. At the front door it is gross; at the back, it turns subtle. And since it comes from behind you, hiding at your back, you cannot even see it. An enemy in front of your eyes is better—at least he is in front! When the enemy hides behind, you become very helpless. Your monks and saints are afflicted by just such desire. Your desire stands before you, out in the marketplace; theirs is hidden behind them, stuck to their backs. They cannot see it at all. Even if they turn around, it makes no difference, because the desire is attached to their back. Whenever they turn, the desire moves to the back again. It never comes in front of them; they never get to see it.

So the second thing: don’t protect desire in this way, hearing me say, “If you want to attain, you must drop desire.” I am not saying that. Attainment happens when there is no desire. I am not telling you to drop it. You will drop it only when you are offered some bigger desire—otherwise how will you drop it? To extract a thorn you use another thorn, and that is exactly how it goes with desire: you take out one desire with another. And note, to remove even a weak thorn you need a slightly stronger thorn. So to remove the first desire you need an even stronger desire that throws it out—but then you are caught in the second desire.

Desire has to be understood. Neither expelled nor renounced—only understood. Understand the nature of desire: what is it? What does it do?

Desire does a few things. First: it never lets you live in the present; it always keeps you in the future—tomorrow. Desire exists in tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes. Hence desire is never fulfilled. You are today; desire is tomorrow. So desire does not let you be one with yourself; it splits you, scatters you into fragments.

Truth is now, here—and desire keeps you stuck in tomorrow. Thus you are deprived of truth, deprived of existence, deprived of God, deprived of yourself. The doorway is in the present, and desire gropes in the future; there, there is only a wall upon wall.

Understand desire. What does it mean? It means you are not content as you are. Why do you want God? Because you are not content with your wife, with your husband, with your son, with your brother. You are dissatisfied with the world; hence you want God. Behind your desire for God, only your discontent is hiding.

And that is where the mistake happens. God comes to those who are content, to those whose lives are filled with deep satisfaction—so content that even if God does not come, it is perfectly all right; so content that even if God does not appear, there is no problem. To them, God comes!

God’s law is almost like the law of a bank. If you have money, the bank is ready to give you more. If you don’t, the bank turns its face away: “Take the road; go elsewhere.” The one who has credit in the market, to him the bank gives money. He has no need of money; that is precisely why they give him money. Strange rules—but these are the rules! The one who has no need of money—the bank runs after him. The managers themselves come: “Please take some, avail yourselves of our services.” And the one who needs it goes around the banks, and no one gives him anything.

God’s rule is something like that. If you are content, God says, “Go ahead, take me—let me come in.” He wants to make his home in your contentment.
Only in contentment do you become a temple. And the deity of the temple knocks at the door: “Let me come in.” Now you have agreed. Now you are a temple; now I will come and be enthroned. The throne has been prepared; there is no need to keep it empty.

But you are filled with the flames of discontent. There is no temple at all; you are a funeral pyre, blazing away. If God were to come, where would he come?

You say, “I want to attain God.”
Why do you want to attain him? Look into the reasons; they are strange indeed. Someone’s wife died—and he set out in search of God. Someone went bankrupt—shaved his head and became a monk! If you’ve gone bankrupt, what is left to do sitting in the shop! Now at least enjoy being a sannyasin!

People should at least look at the reasons why they set out to seek God. You’ve seen it: when you are in sorrow, you remember God. And when you are in happiness—then? Then you completely forget.

And I want to tell you: call in joy and he will come; call in sorrow and he will not. For the call of sorrow is false. The call of sorrow is for consolation, for support. In sorrow you want to exploit God, to use him, to take his service. Call when you are brimful with joy.

I want to say to my sannyasins: pray when you are joyous. Why take your sorrow to his door? Close the doors and weep it out; why offer it at God’s feet! Yes—when joy arises, when ecstasy wells up, then dance; tie the bells to your feet; strike the mridang! In celebration you will meet him, because in celebration you are at your peak. In moments of celebration all inner conflicts dissolve—you are beyond duality. In celebration a lamp is lit within you; there is light.

And who would not want to embrace one filled with celebration! God too longs to embrace the one who is full of festivity. You yourself avoid tearful faces—and so does God. Have some compassion for him too! Spare a thought for him! And it’s not just you; the earth is full of long, weeping, gloomy faces. God avoids these, I tell you! Wherever they arrive, God slips away.

God comes where some song resounds, where there is dance, where the veena is played. God comes where joy ripples. God comes where love takes wave. God comes where the lotus of your soul blossoms.

God will come of his own accord—don’t you worry. Do not search for God; I will show you a way by which God searches for you. And then the joy is of another kind. God can indeed seek you—be still, be joyous, be radiant, be intoxicated with bliss. Then he will have to seek you.

I kept practicing for godliness,
yet I could not fill the void of the heart.
At the dwelling of the blue sky,
I remained intent on questing.
The answer to the question never came—
I kept on merely surmising.
Even at the forge of my stinginess
I could not climb to the peak.
The destination stood before me,
yet my feet could not advance.

I kept worshiping manliness,
yet I could not let the seed of fear die.
Tightly bound in empty weavings,
carrying the corpse of craving,
drinking the soul’s suffocation,
my eyes thrashed and fluttered.
Sacred nirvana was lost—
I strayed into a blind alley.
Some black worms clung
to the bud of a pure body.

I kept desiring immortality,
yet I could not still the surge of lust.
I wanted the whole world
to lay flowers upon me,
to take me for an idol,
to anoint me with love’s sandal paste.
But the mind, ensnared in ill-will,
calling it “existence,”
my own stupidity deceived me,
masquerading as “personality.”

I longed for totality,
yet I never learned to love everyone.

Drop worrying about God! Where will you even search for him? He has no address. There is no fixed color or form of him. Even if he suddenly appeared, how would you recognize him? He has no picture, no figure, no shape, no name, no abode. Where would you go? How would you search? Whom would you ask? If he is, he is everywhere—then there’s no need to search. And if he is not, he is nowhere—then again there’s no need to search. The question of searching simply doesn’t arise.

Drop the search. In searching there is a race; in racing there is tension. In search there is mind; in mind there is ego. Drop the search.

This is all meditation means: for an hour or two each day, drop all search and sit silently; do nothing. Do nothing at all—sit blissfully, carefree. Sway. If a song arises, hum it spontaneously. If you can play the flute, play it; or let a note ring out on the algoza. If nothing else comes—if you can manage a crooked little dance—then dance! At least you can sit.

If for just one hour in twenty-four you sit, having dropped all search and all desire—as if there is nothing to do and nothing worth doing—then, sitting thus and thus, one day a silence will descend in your mind, a silence unfamiliar to you. That silence is the tidings of God’s coming; right behind it, God is on his way. There will be deep peace, a void—and immediately behind it, fullness will pour in.

Sahajanand! You ask, “What is necessary to do?”
Nothing is necessary to do. Because God already is; he need not be made, nor constructed. Nor even unveiled—he is already unveiled, standing naked. Only your eyes are closed. And how are they closed? Closed by desire, by craving, by longing: “If only I get this, if only I get that…” Layers upon layers of such thought have blinded your eyes.

Nothing is needed; what is, is enough—sink into this feeling! What is, is more than enough—guard such contentment. Give thanks for what is. Do not ask for what is not. And I assure you: God will come searching for you. He will surely come! This is how he has always searched.

Madhavi Bharati! This is natural. There is no need to be concerned. In this indirect way they are accepting me. For now it’s indirect; as their courage grows, some day they will accept openly as well. And how many days can they keep up the deception? Millions are reading my books and listening to my words; they will be speaking among the same people—how long can this trick last? Don’t worry about it.

It is quite natural. Whenever something begins to attract people, imitations arise. Counterfeit coins exist because real coins exist. If there were no genuine coin, the fake would vanish too.

And it is necessary that they oppose me, because if they don’t oppose me and then repeat my words, they will be caught. So first they oppose me—so it’s clear they are my opponents, so that no one suspects that what they are saying are, roundabout, my very words.

The monk I mentioned—Muni Nathmal—I call him Muni Thothumal! Utterly hollow! All borrowed! But he is skillful at repeating. Even repetition has a skill; not everyone can do it. And repetition is not easy; it is quite hard. Saying your own thing is very easy; there is no hindrance, it comes naturally.

So I greatly respect Muni Thothumal. I respect him because he can repeat it exactly. He must be putting in tremendous effort. One must acknowledge his skill. And in the Terapanth order of Jain monks, for centuries a certain experiment has been going on—an experiment in memory: shatavadhan. It polishes memory: how to remember more and more things. If you recite a hundred names, a Jain monk will recite those very hundred names in the same order you gave them. You yourself will forget the order you used; you will have to keep a list to match. In Terapanth this process has continued: a training to sharpen recall. In olden days it had a use, because scriptures were not printed; people had to remember. For centuries people preserved scriptures purely by memory. That same ancient process they are still repeating. Now there is no such need; but it can be used in other ways.

When, for an hour, an hour and a half, I spoke with Acharya Tulsi, and Muni Thothumal repeated the whole conversation exactly, word for word, one must admit his memory is beautiful, good. Intelligence is absent!

Memory and intelligence have no necessary link. In fact, if you have to say your own thing, memory is not needed; you can say it any time—it’s yours. If you have to speak the truth, memory is not needed. The liar has to hone his memory, because he must remember that he has lied, to whom, what he said—lest he say the opposite somewhere!

Those who repeat others’ words—have compassion for them, for their labor. They toil hard. Madhavi, there is no need to be angry.

Anger arises; it’s natural.

Mulla Nasruddin said to me one day that he had a fight with his brother and today it went a little further. Quarrels had happened many times; today it came to blows. I became so angry, he said, I landed him two or four resounding slaps. Now my mind is a bit stained.

I asked: What happened? You two get along quite well.

He said: It is precisely because we get along that the mischief kept increasing.

Mulla said: For years he was wearing my clothes. We’re twins. He was using my shoes. I didn’t say a thing. He even snatched my beloved from me, still I kept silent. He withdrew money from the bank in my name; I tolerated it. He borrowed from people in my name, which I had to repay. But tolerance has a limit. Yesterday he put in my dentures and started making fun of me! Then I gave him two hands. There is a limit to everything.

So Madhavi, I understand your hurt and your pain. Such hypocrisy offends my sannyasins—because my sannyasins know what I am saying, and when they hear the same things being repeated by someone... And there isn’t even the honesty to clearly say where the ideas come from. Not just honesty—there isn’t even the courtesy to at least not oppose me.

But even opposition has a logic. By opposing, it becomes certain that these ideas cannot be mine—at least not of the one he is opposing.

Bertrand Russell wrote that if someone’s pocket gets picked, and the man who shouts the loudest against the theft—“Beat him, catch him, who picked the pocket!”—grab that man; in all likelihood, he did it. Catch him at once.

This is true. I know it by experience. In my village, in my childhood, there wasn’t much to steal. But the watermelons and melons by the river were easy to steal, because the fence is put up in sand; you can pull it up easily and slip in anywhere. A few friends would slip in. But I learned quickly that if the owner comes, do not run. The rest would run; I would shout: “Catch them!” I was never caught, because the owner would take me to be with him. Naturally, when I wasn’t running, it was obvious I hadn’t stolen.

They speak against me; it’s only a preface so that when they repeat my words you won’t even imagine that anything has been stolen. But no matter how precisely they repeat, no matter how verbatim, the foundational pillars of my words are not just different from the foundational pillars of their lives—they are opposite. So if you watch closely, from their mouths my words become utterly crude. And they have to mix in a little something, otherwise there will be no alignment with their worldview.

For example, I am on the side of life, while your monks and sannyasins are anti-life. The coherence of all my words is woven with love for life, and the basis of all their thinking stands on the idea that life is to be renounced. Now if they repeat my words, there is great difficulty; there is dissonance. So either they have to twist and mangle my words, add a piece here and there; or my words, spoken from their mouths, become downright meaningless.

Mulla Nasruddin went to the post office and said to the postmaster: Please write this postcard for me, the address too.
The postmaster wrote the address.
“Thank you,” Nasruddin said. “Now write four lines about my well-being.”
The postmaster was not pleased—“This is not what the postmaster is for”—but since the old man, he had already written the address, so he grudgingly wrote four lines. Then he asked: Anything else?
Mulla said: Just one more line—please add, “Forgive the dirty and clumsy handwriting.”

This is how it becomes. What I am saying has a harmony with me. They are the strings of my veena. If you take those strings and fix them on some other instrument, they will turn tuneless, crude. What I am saying is an entire vision of life, a complete philosophy. If you take pieces out of it—no matter how pleasing those pieces may seem—once you take them out of their context, they will become lifeless.

You may find a child’s eyes very lovely—calm, clear, innocent. But don’t think that if you pluck out the child’s eyes and place them on the table as decoration they will look beautiful. There will be bloodshed. All the simplicity and innocence of the child’s eyes will be lost. The eyes will be dead, turned to stone. Their beauty lies in their alignment with the child’s whole personality, in their context, in their connection with his very life-breath.

Each of my words is connected with my whole vision of life. You can break them off. You can try to play them on different instruments. But it won’t work.

Mulla Nasruddin bought a fine piece of cloth and took it to a tailor to have a suit made. The tailor measured it, thought a bit and said: The cloth is not enough. A suit cannot be made from it.
He went to another tailor. After measuring, he said: Come back in ten days and take your suit.
At the appointed time Mulla went; the suit was ready. As he was paying, the tailor’s five-year-old son entered the shop wearing a suit from the same cloth. Mulla was startled. He said: What’s this? You stole some cloth!
After a bit of argument the tailor admitted it. Now Mulla went to the first tailor and hissed: You said the cloth was short, but your rival not only made my suit, he made one for his boy as well!
The first tailor listened patiently and then asked: How old is the boy?
“Five years.”
The tailor chirped: That’s what I thought. Sir, my son is eighteen.

In one context a thing fits; in another it doesn’t. It simply doesn’t. I see this too: people send me articles and books saying, “These are stolen from you.” There is no coherence. But with the hope that these words are affecting millions, that there is some power in them, they think wherever they place these words perhaps people will be impressed.

I want to tell all such Thothumals: there is no power in the words; the power is in the person. What is there in words? I am speaking the same words that you all speak. I don’t have many more words. My vocabulary is quite small. If you were to count, I don’t use more than four or five hundred words. But the turnover is substantial! The real point is turnover.

I am not speaking any unusual words—make-do words, everyday words, the words of conversation. But behind them is someone else. Behind the words is the life of the wordless. Behind the words is the music of emptiness. Behind the words is realization.

Mulla Nasruddin came one day and began to exaggerate his travel tales to people. And I know he hasn’t gone anywhere. He was telling them in front of me: I went to America, to England, to Africa. Saw the wild countries of Africa. Got stuck in snowy lands. I hunted this way and that.
I listened quietly and asked him: Then you must have acquired a fine knowledge of geography?
He said: Oh no, I didn’t go there at all.

When you meet any Thothumals, ask them a question: Brother, did you go to geography? They will say: No, we didn’t go there.

Don’t be angry, Madhavi. Enjoy it! Enjoy all this too. This too happens. This is natural. These are good signs. These are signs that even those who oppose me cannot save themselves from me. They are reading my books, hiding them.

One of my friends went to meet Kanji Swami, a great Jain saint. He was reading something; he quickly turned the book over. Seeing my friend in ochre robes, with the mala, he at once began to speak against me. It is precisely for this that I have given you ochre robes and a mala: just as a bull is provoked by a red flag, to provoke such people I have given you this red flag—so that the moment they see it they get agitated and immediately start speaking against me! But seeing that book, my friend grew suspicious. He had turned it face down, but, you see, I have my photo printed on both sides! Even if you turn it over, how will you hide it? He said: You speak so strongly against him, then why are you reading this book? If these are useless words, why are you wasting your time? Why not read something meaningful like the Samaysar, read the Jain scriptures? Why this book... you are wasting your time. And may I see that book? Because I suspect that for three days I’ve been listening to you and you’re speaking from this very book.

Although everything gets distorted. It has to. Pick words from the most beautiful song and the beauty doesn’t remain in the words. Beauty always resides in the whole context. Pluck a flower from the tree and it dies at once. On the tree it was alive, the sap was flowing.

But this will go on. There is only one way to stop it: get my books to as many people as possible. There is only one way to stop it: let people become more and more acquainted with me. Then it will stop on its own. Either it will stop—or those who find this acceptable will have to muster the courage to acknowledge it openly.

People come to me. They say: Such-and-such monk speaks only your words.
I ask: Does he ever take my name?
They say: He never takes your name! But he speaks your words. He reads your books.
Then I say: Until he takes my name, consider him dishonest. To read my books and speak my words, and yet create the illusion that these words are his... I have no difficulty with it; but they themselves are deceiving themselves. Even the benefit they could have gotten, they are not able to.

And how long can you deceive others? You can deceive a few people for a few days, but for how long? Deceptions will break. They will break.

Now I have a hundred thousand sannyasins around the world. They will break these deceits everywhere. And it’s not going to stop at a hundred thousand; it will soon become a million. It is spreading... as if the whole forest has caught fire! A single spark lit it, but the whole jungle is aflame! How long can this fraud go on?

So, Madhavi, don’t worry about this. Let them preen, let them speak, let them repeat. They are parrots; one shouldn’t be angry with parrots. Treat parrots as parrots, that’s all. There is hardly any intelligence. They are gramophone records—His Master’s Voice. Those “His Master’s Voice” people had a great idea: they seated a dog in front of the horn! For who is more a servant of his master than a dog? His Master’s Voice! The master says, “Wag your tail,” he wags. The master says, “Bark,” he barks. Sometimes when the dog is in doubt he does both.

You must have seen it: you go to someone’s house, the dog meets you. And the dog isn’t sure whether you’re the master’s friend or enemy, kin or stranger, and how to behave with you—so the dog does both: he barks and he wags his tail. This is politics. He is watching which way the camel sits; whichever way it goes, he’ll go that way too. With the tail he is shouting “Long live!” With the mouth he is shouting “Down with!” And he waits until the situation becomes clear. Then the master arrives and embraces you—barking stops, the tail keeps wagging. Or the master comes and says, “Drive him out, guard the door!”—then the tail stops and the barking increases.

Right now those who are repeating my words are in a double bind: they bark and they wag. They’re not yet sure what decision to take regarding what I’m saying—whether to accept it and start walking with it. Do they have the courage? They cannot do without acknowledging, either. There is something that touches the heart. There is something that shakes them.

Many monks and sannyasins write to me that they are ready to leave. They want to get out of this net. But will there be a place for them in your ashram?

Now I know these Jain monks and Hindu sadhus are good for nothing. And my ashram is going to be creative. What will I do by seating them there? Swat flies? What are they good for? At best you can take service from them; they are good for nothing else.

And their habits have gone bad, because they are served. They have no qualities, no talent. One is worshiped because he has tied a cloth over his mouth. Another because he stands naked. Another because he plucks out his hair. Another because he fasts. But none of this has any value in my ashram. You may pluck your hair as much as you like—no one will even stand and watch, no one will bother—pluck away, your wish! People will think you’re doing catharsis, that some posture of active meditation has come over you—“All right, do it”—that perhaps kundalini energy has reached the head! Who here will understand you are practicing hair-plucking? And no one will touch your feet.

If you fast here you will not receive any respect. For what is honorable in starving? Neither is there anything in overeating, nor in undereating. Right food! Take as much as is necessary, always. If you stand naked here, endure sun and cold, people will think you’re a bit cracked. And you are of no use.

And I do not want my sannyasin to be non‑creative. It is precisely because sannyasins have been non‑creative that sannyas has not earned respect in this world. Here you will have to do something. In the ashram there are three hundred sannyasins—perhaps no other ashram in India has three hundred—but all are engaged in work. They are making things. And naturally they must make what the worldly cannot; then there is some excellence. As soon as a village of sannyasins arises, you will see we can give this country a thousand creative directions. From small to great, we can make things. We must, because this country is poor; we have to make it prosperous. Small things can bring a revolution to the life of this country. Even little things make a big difference.

Then what else is the work of a religious person but to make this world more beautiful? Do not leave the world as you found it. Make it a little more beautiful. Add one link to the chain of song. Add one note to the music. Play one rhythm of dance.

So what shall I do with these monks here? That is the difficulty. Many of them are ready to leave. My words have touched their heart. But they have to live among those on whom their bread depends.

You will be surprised to know that there is no one in this country more enslaved than your monks and sannyasins. Their slavery is deep. They depend on others for bread. You feed them, they eat; you make them drink, they drink. You have made them totally crippled. And the more crippled they are, the more you honor them. So even if they understand me, the question arises: How to leave? If they leave, what will happen to them? You will be amazed to know that a householder would not feel as much anxiety leaving his home as a Jain monk would feel in giving up his monk’s garb, because he depends totally on society. He has no other quality except that he is a monk and thus receives respect.

A Jain monk gave up his monk’s robe. I was in Hyderabad. He found my words apt. He left the monk’s attire and came to where I was staying. He had been greatly honored. But the Jains were very angry—naturally, that the one we honored so much betrayed us like this! Treachery! So they were after him to beat him up. Beat him—the same man! First they served him in one way; now they would serve him in another.

I told them: What do you gain from this? If the man wanted to remain a monk, he would have; if he didn’t, he didn’t. Why are you after him? If you want to be monks, go ahead.

They said: No, we won’t let him go like this. This insults our religion. His leaving causes doubt in people’s minds.

I went to speak in a meeting; the ex‑Jain monk went with me. The old habit of sitting on the stage, so he came and sat on the dais with me. The Jains stood up: First make him get off the stage. We won’t let him sit on the dais.

I said: You’re letting me sit, and I’ve never been your monk nor hope to be. What harm has this poor fellow done? He is at least a former monk—something he was.

No, they said, he must be brought down. We cannot tolerate him on the stage. He betrayed us.

You take Jains to be non‑violent; they are not that non‑violent. They started pulling him. Someone grabbed his leg, someone his hand. But the monk, monk indeed—he held on to the stage!

I said: This is too much! You’ve left the monk’s garb; at least leave the stage. Come on, let these poor people have their fill; go sit among them. You sat on the stage and gave them trouble long enough; now let them enjoy a bit. Go sit among them—what will it harm?

But he wouldn’t leave the stage. His honor was at stake. And the community wouldn’t leave his legs. In this tug‑of‑war I said: Then I’m going. You people settle it. There’s no meaning in this. This is sheer madness. You are mad and your monk is mad. He wants the same old respect. How will he get it? The reason for which they respected him is gone. And you don’t have the decency to let the poor fellow sit; what is he spoiling? The stage is big; he is sitting in a corner; let him sit. You cannot even tolerate that!

Jain monks or Hindu sannyasins... Hindu sannyasins come here sometimes. They say: We feel like coming, but the Hindus...

I went to Amritsar. A Hindu sannyasin came with everyone to welcome me. He had read my books and loved me. The RSS people created a rumpus at the station against me—some two hundred volunteers gathered with black flags. That’s all right; nothing is lost in that. They’re your flags. If you want black, take black; if white, take white—your whim. What is there to gain or lose for me! They shouted and made noise. I went my way. But they caught that Hindu sannyasin—“Why did you come to welcome him? Being a Hindu sannyasin—an insult to Hinduism!”

The next day the sannyasin came to meet me—bandages and all. I asked: What happened to you?
He said: This is the fruit of going to welcome you.
I said: But they didn’t hurt me; why did they hurt you?
He said: Because I’m a Hindu sannyasin, a Hindu, and I went to welcome a man who is cutting the roots of the entire Hindu religion!

Countless sannyasins want to come! A Muslim fakir wrote that he wants to come, but is afraid of the Muslims. Jains want to come, afraid of the Jains. Hindus want to come, afraid of the Hindus.

My words are making sense to them. So their state has become such that my words make sense, they touch the heart—so they slip out of them knowingly or unknowingly. And then the thought of their listeners arises; immediately they also begin to oppose me. They will have to oppose me if they have to live among their people. And they cannot escape my words either, because there is some power in them that is touching their souls.

Madhavi, there is no need to be distressed by any of this. Be delighted! It is all natural.

Vijay Satyarthi! When there is bliss, if not tears, what else should flow? When your heart comes into tune with my heart—if tears do not express it, how else will it find expression?

Do not take me for the tear of some impoverished eye;
I am the supplication that could not reach the lips.

They are your prayers! Your tears are not your helplessness. They are your prayers, your pleadings. Your heart wants to make an offering, to say something. The words do not come; language falls short. How to say it? The eyes grow moist! That moistness is the symbol of your love.

The more the pain was imprisoned on the lips,
the more the tears kept brimming over, again and again.
When the feeling of every absence came as a guest,
the monsoon of songs turned back from the door.
Each breath, even touching the Malayan breeze, grew choked,
the budding of blossoms turned into an autumn.
The more hope was shut in a coffer,
the more the mind’s bumblebee throbbed and ached, again and again.
The more the pain was imprisoned on the lips,
the more the tears kept brimming over, again and again.

When the locks of restraint grew dense,
the inner blisters began to ooze and burst.
A restlessness laden with ecstasy spread,
the goblets of wine slipped from the hands.
The more the mind’s modesty was bound in fetters,
the more the virgin veil kept slipping, again and again.
The more the pain was imprisoned on the lips,
the more the tears kept brimming over, again and again.

When longing was looted by every returned letter,
all dreams burned upon the lamp’s wick.
Only ember-like memories remained,
lying like volcanoes in the chest.
The more the image of dreams grew dim,
the more the lamp’s flicker kept glimmering, again and again.
The more the pain was imprisoned on the lips,
the more the tears kept brimming over, again and again.

A love is being born. Here with me in this satsang, in this Buddha-field of energy, a love is being born. Your hearts are singing, dancing, humming.

The more the pain was imprisoned on the lips,
the more the tears kept brimming over, again and again.

A dense pain of love is gathering within you. And when the clouds grow heavy, they will rain. There is no expression more precious than tears. With the simplicity and ease with which tears speak love, nothing else can.

Vijay Satyarthi! Something auspicious is happening. It is good fortune. Unfortunate are those whose eyes cannot grow moist—unfortunate, because their hearts are not moist.

Enough for today.