Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #10

Swaroopanand! This is life’s greatest problem, the most fundamental question. As long as the ego is, there can be no happiness. Because as long as the ego is, there can be no union with the divine. And when union with the divine happens, a rain of bliss descends—and the ego cannot survive; you will not be able to save it. Only when the “I” disappears do the doors open.

But keep one thing in mind. The disappearance of “I” does not mean that you disappear. That is where your mistake lies. Because of the “I,” you are in fact absent. What are you, really? Because of the “I,” you are missing. Your being is like the head “being there” only because of a headache. It is true that you notice the head when it aches—otherwise who is aware of the head at all? But would you want a headache just so you can be aware that you have a head? When the head doesn’t hurt, the head still is—only you don’t notice it; there’s no need. When the body is perfectly healthy, it is not noticed; it is only in illness that the body becomes noticeable.

We have a beautiful word in our language, found in none other: “vedana.” It has two meanings: knowledge and pain. Vedana comes from the same root as Veda and vidwan (wise one). Vedana means knowledge, and it also means pain. What an unusual word! What kinship can there be between pain and knowledge? There is a link. We come to know things when something pricks like a thorn. If a thorn pierces the foot, we become aware of the foot. If a shoe bites, the foot is noticed. If the shoe doesn’t bite at all, the foot is not noticed.

But there is a difference between being and being noticed. The head will still be there even when the headache is gone; it simply won’t be noticed. You too will still be there when the ego is gone. Ego is a wound, a hurt, a pain—vedana. When the ego goes, you remain—without pain, healthy. All wounds bid farewell. There will be a hush, a peace; a silent music. You will not be annihilated; for the first time you will be. Right now you are missing—like a head fading under a headache.

Until now you have known only one way of living: the way of ego. And because of ego you are ready even to live in misery. You say: better to cling to sorrow, at least I remain. I understand your logic. It is everyone’s logic. That is why people do not drop the ego. They feel: if the ego goes, I go. Then who will be happy? In truth, happiness does not happen “to someone”; happiness happens. Misery happens to someone. In misery there are two: the one who suffers and that which is suffered. When there is a headache, there are two—the head and the ache; duality arises. When a thorn pricks the foot, there are two—the thorn and the foot. When the thorn is removed, only the foot remains—and then joy happens. But to whom?

We don’t even notice joy.
Do you ever? You never go around saying, “Today feels great—no headache, no thorn in my foot, no back pain—such bliss!” If you kept accounts of how many things are not happening, your list of joys would be endless. There are thousands, millions of processes in the body all working perfectly—but you notice none of them. You notice only what is not working. To notice is the body’s way of saying: do something—there’s trouble here; remove this thorn.

The ego is noticed; the soul is not. The soul seems absent. It is realized, but not as an object of experience. It is intuited, but not made visible.

When you disappear, bliss is. Bliss never appears in duality. Even now, if once in a while a ray of happiness descends into your life, in that moment you disappear. You saw the sun setting, the sky streaked with seven colors; birds flying back to their nests, the anklets of evening ringing down the steps of dusk; night was descending, all growing hushed—and for a moment you were lost. Looking at the sinking sun, the returning birds, the drifting clouds—you were lost for a moment; for a moment you were not. Only then was there happiness. Later you say, “What a delightful evening! How beautiful the sunset!” Or a long-lost friend arrives; you clasp him to your breast; for a moment you forget yourself—no ego, a moment’s self-forgetfulness, no headache. Later you say, “Such joy on meeting my friend!” The joy was not in the friend, nor in the sunset, nor in the cuckoo’s song. Joy arises whenever by any excuse you forget the ego.

Those who feel joy listening to me—consider it. Joy is there because in listening you forget yourself. That is all. Whoever cannot forget himself while listening will not find joy. If a thousand thoughts run in your head—calculating, arguing—you will not taste joy. Whoever becomes lost, becomes one with me, forgets he is—where you vanish as ego, as thought, as mind; where there is no vedana—still you are. Look: there is a hush here. Someone passing by would not even notice that five hundred people are sitting here doing something. Where five hundred gather, a marketplace erupts. Yet it is silent.

It happened:
Ajatashatru, a king in Buddha’s time—as kings are, always afraid. He had had so many killed, even jailed his own father—how would he not be fearful? Who might assassinate him, who might shoot, who might stab? His ministers said, “Buddha has arrived. Will you come to satsang?” He asked, “How many have come with Buddha?” “Ten thousand monks,” they said. “Where are they staying?” He inquired about the place. “Then I shall come,” he said.

As they went, he kept asking, “Haven’t we arrived yet?” They said, “Do you see that mango grove ahead? Buddha is there.” The grove was close, only a few steps. Ajatashatru drew his sword. The ministers said, “Why draw the sword?” He said, “I suspect some treachery. If ten thousand people were there, there would be a great commotion. There is no sound, no stir. It seems the grove is empty. Are you deceiving me? Luring me into a trap?” The ministers laughed. “Sheathe your sword, be at ease. You don’t know Buddha’s people. They are such that it is as if they are not. Their presence is like absence. This is their secret, their flavor, their joy: they have dissolved—and by dissolving, they have become. Their way of being is different; they are people of meditation. Put the sword away; do not worry—there is no conspiracy. Just a few steps more and we’ll be in the grove.”

Ajatashatru entered and was astonished. He had sheathed his sword, but his hand still held the hilt. On entering the grove he let go—certainly there were ten thousand people, all in silence, sitting with Buddha. It was the hour of meditation; all were absorbed. As if not a single person were there.

If you ever get a taste of joy listening to me, it is because in those moments you forget yourself. You don’t vanish—you remain—but it is a new way of being, a new style. One way of being is sick, fevered, deranged. Another way is healthy, calm, pure, meditative.

Swaroopanand, your question is important. You say: I seek happiness; I have lived in the hope of being happy. But have you found it? Consider this. If one lives his whole life seeking happiness and never finds it, should he not question whether there is a basic flaw in the very search? And it’s not only you—has anyone in this world found happiness by seeking it? None. Whoever seeks happiness never finds it; the more he seeks, the farther it recedes. Because the more you seek, the more the ego grows. And no one can be happy while clinging to ego.

It is as if you want to keep the headache and yet be free of it. Impossible. You want to keep the thorn—you’ve become attached to it; perhaps it is golden, studded with jewels—and yet you want the pain in the foot to cease. You are asking for the impossible. Not only you; the whole world is filled with people like you, Swaroopanand! And everywhere you see the miserable. When do you meet a truly happy person? Rarely. And whenever you do, he will say to you: disappear, and bliss is. Bliss is only when you are not. Your ego and bliss cannot coexist; you are the thorn. Yet even so, I tell you: when you disappear, another kind of being remains—and that being is utterly different. The name of that being is soul.

So there are two ways of being: ego and soul. Ego is a painful, hellish way of being; soul is a blissful, joyous way of being. If you cling to ego, you keep missing the soul. Drop ego and the soul is instantly available.

Ego must be dropped; there is no other way. And when you drop it you will find: you are not annihilated—you are, for the first time. The small has become vast. Like a drop falling into the ocean. From one angle it seems the drop is lost—but that is ego’s angle. From another angle, the drop has become the ocean.

What happens when the drop falls into the ocean? Its boundaries break, not the drop. The drop still is—but no longer limited. Its petty boundary is gone; it has merged with the ocean’s boundlessness. Now the drop is as vast as the ocean.

You are as vast as the ocean. Remain a drop if you wish—that is the ego’s way. Then you will be miserable. Because limitation is misery; limitation is imprisonment. How will you dance? How will you sing? Walls arise on every side; where is the sky to spread your wings? This is your lifelong experience: you sought happiness and did not find it.

You say: I want to be happy. Everyone does. Yet everyone is miserable—remember that. All desire happiness, and all are miserable! How does this accident happen? If everyone wants happiness, at least most should be happy. Some may err, that can be understood. But the situation is the opposite. So could it be that the very desire for happiness breeds misery? Those who have dropped the desire for happiness speak differently: “We dropped the desire—and we became happy.” Hence they coined a new word for happiness—ananda—so you would not be confused. Otherwise you would think it is the same old “happiness.”

So Buddha never promises “happiness.” If he used that word, it would only reinforce your old delusion; you would continue chasing happiness. Buddha says: drop craving (vasana), drop desire (kamana), drop thirst (trishna). This very desire for happiness is the root of your misery. The day you see this, religion begins. But you say: whatever I do, I do in the hope of being happy. Look and see: you get only misery. What has your hope to do with it? It is as if in great hope you want to squeeze oil from sand—will oil come? Your hoping cannot make oil appear in sand. And look around: all are grinding sand to extract oil; and there is no sign of oil.

You have not found happiness through hoping for it. In the hope of happiness lies delusion. It is hope for happiness that gives birth to misery. How? Understand it.

You think, “If I have a large palace to live in, I’ll be happy.” You have begun the program of misery. Now you cannot be happy in your hut. The comparison has surfaced. The palace gives you a dream of happiness; your hut, by comparison, becomes ugly, base, small, insignificant. In itself, no hut is mean. Comparison makes it so. A hut is simply a hut—a place to live. Neither good nor bad. A convenience. But the moment your eyes fix on the palace, you are miserable. You will still be living in the hut—you won’t arrive at the palace instantly—and you will be unhappy. You have ten thousand rupees and say, “Until I have a lakh, how can I be happy?” Now ten thousand bring no joy; they become a source of pain: “Only ten thousand! Just ten!” Poverty is felt.

When the great American tycoon Andrew Carnegie died, he left ten billion rupees. Two hours before death, the man writing his biography asked, “You must be leaving contented? No one has died leaving so much cash!” Carnegie opened his eyes and, with sadness, said, “I am a defeated man; I am going in failure and sorrow, because my plan was to earn a hundred billion. I have lost by ninety billion—a small defeat it is not.”

Understand this. The man with ten billion says, “I lost by ninety billion.” If you think like this, you are more successful: you haven’t lost by ninety billion. If you wanted ten thousand and have only one thousand, you have lost by nine thousand. Your misery is small; Carnegie’s is huge—ninety billion rupees’ worth! It weighs like a Himalaya on his chest.

His ten billion cause him anguish because the plan was one hundred billion. If you fix your eyes on a palace, you are already miserable in your hut—the beginning of suffering. The magnitude of your suffering will match the grandeur of the palace in your imagination. Remember Carnegie’s words: “I am defeated by ninety billion.” A beggar does not die so badly; his plans are small, so his misery cannot be great. Misery grows in proportion to your hopes. And yours are vast: this, and that, and more!

As many desires as you have, that much misery you have. You will live where you are, but your hopes are towering, standing around you like ghosts—they will torment you. You are miserable not because of your life circumstances, but because of your cravings. The greater the craving, the greater the misery.

In Akbar’s time there was a fakir. As he came close to death he said, “Some coins have accumulated with me—people toss them down. I want to give them to the poorest man in the village.” Many came, claiming poverty—naked fakirs, saying, “Who could be poorer than we? We have not even clothes.” He said, “Wait; the greatest pauper has not yet come.” People asked, “Who could be poorer than these—the lame, the leprous, the naked?” More came—an eye gone here, a limb gone there. The fakir kept saying, “No—the very poorest will come.”

The day Akbar’s procession passed, the fakir went out and presented the pouch to Akbar. Akbar had heard of his vow. “What is this?” the emperor asked. “You said you would give it to the poorest.” The fakir laughed. “There is no one poorer than you in this capital. I know your misery. Though my pouch is small—think of it as petals offered—it won’t make much difference in the web of your cravings. But I wish to remind you: you are the poorest man here, because your ambitions are the greatest.”

A man is poor in proportion to his ambitions; miserable in the same proportion. You have many ambitions. You want the most beautiful body—then you become poor, ugly. You want wealth—then you become poor. You want a palace—then the house you live in becomes a hovel. You want the most beautiful woman—like Cleopatra, or Nur Jahan, or Mumtaz—then your own wife becomes ugly, awkward. You want your son to be as brilliant as Albert Einstein—immediately a snag arises: your son becomes a dunce. Misery piles up. Make a list of all you want in order to be happy; it is precisely because of that list that you are miserable.

Dismiss the list. Your son is your son—what has he to do with Einstein? If you do not compare—and one who has no hopes does not compare; comparison is the shadow of hope—if you don’t compare, your son is as he is, and there is no cause for sorrow. You have ten thousand rupees; you will take the joy available in ten thousand. There are many with not even ten rupees—and they think, “If only we had ten thousand, we’d be happy.” And you have ten thousand—yet you are not happy; you think, “If only I had ten billion.” Then remember Andrew Carnegie. He had ten billion—was he happy?

Dismiss your comparisons—and suddenly the mountains of misery will dissolve.

Buddha said: craving (trishna) is the root of suffering.

So first: the larger the craving, the larger the suffering.

Second: even if you manage to fulfill these cravings—spending your whole life in suffering, enduring hell, begging, stealing, cheating, doing every trick—and somehow arrive at the palace, you still will not be happy. Understand the second color of craving: whatever is obtained, craving forgets; whatever is not obtained, craving remembers. With ten thousand rupees it demands a lakh; when the lakh arrives, it demands ten lakh. The distance between you and your craving remains the same—unchanged. The relation between man and craving is like the horizon. It appears the sky meets the earth a few miles ahead; you think, “I’ll reach there in a couple of hours,” or “If I start in the morning, I’ll be there by evening.” But you never arrive. As you advance, the horizon recedes. The horizon is nowhere; it’s an illusion. So is craving—ever receding. In a hut it asks for a house; in a house it asks for a palace; in a palace, a grander palace. Craving means: more, more, more. “Enough” does not exist in its language.

How, then, can there be happiness? Until you arrive, you are miserable; when you arrive, new miseries and new horizons arise. And there is another twist. Imagine—only as a thought experiment—that you obtained everything you ever wanted: the most beautiful woman, the most beautiful palace, all the wealth of the world; you became a universal emperor. Do you think you would be content?

I have heard: as Alexander marched to conquer India, he showed his hand to an astrologer and said, “I am out to conquer the world—no one has done it; I will.” The astrologer read his palm and said, “Fine—but have you considered what comes after?” Alexander asked, “After? After I have conquered the whole world—what after?” The astrologer said, “Only this: there is no second world. If you win, then what will you do?” The story says Alexander became sad hearing there is no other world.

He had not yet conquered this one.
But if he did—then what? All his energy and ambition would fall flat on the ground. What would he do then? He became listless, his limbs slack. “There is no other world.” He hadn’t yet conquered this one; but if he did, what then?

Imagine you got it all. Then what? Your chest will sink with a thud. You had been living in hope of doing this, doing that—enmeshed in it. Now all is achieved—nothing remains to be done. Your past hustle and bustle—futile. What will you do? Consider the melancholy that will engulf you!

No one reaches bliss through hopes, fantasies, desires. He reaps much sorrow.

You ask: “I want to be happy. And whatever I do, I do in the hope of being happy.”
That is true—everyone does. But note well: this itself breeds misery. For once, just for twenty-four hours, drop all wanting—even the want for happiness. In twenty-four hours nothing will be lost; what great harm can happen? After so many days of craving, what have you gained anyway? For twenty-four hours, take my word. For one full day drop all craving. Do not hope to get anything. Do not hope to become anything. A revolution will happen in twenty-four hours. You will suddenly find: what is, is supremely fulfilling—as it is. Even dry bread tastes delicious; because now there is no fantasy, no comparison measuring it. As it is, it is utterly satisfying.

This existence overflows with bliss. But we never get a chance to enjoy it. We are always rushing, running. We never pause, never rest for even two moments. Rest is meditation. Rest from craving is meditation. If you sit for one hour daily, dropping all craving—doing nothing, just sitting—ecstasy will well up. Bliss will flow. Slowly you will see: if bliss flows in one hour, why not live all twenty-four hours in this way?

But you are making a big mistake—the one everyone makes. You say: “Now I’ve come to practice religion, also with the same hope.” Then you will miss. That very hope is irreligion. The desire to obtain happiness is irreligion. If you seek happiness through religion, you have already missed. Happiness does come through religion—but not by desiring it through religion.

This will seem paradoxical. You cannot make it your goal; it is a result. It happens. When all craving drops, when no hope remains, then bliss showers. But if you sit to meditate hoping, “Let’s see—meditation will bring bliss; I will meditate”—you have missed. Because the desire for happiness has remained—and desire breeds suffering. You will sit half an hour and begin to fidget, glance at the clock: “Bliss hasn’t come yet—and time is running! I could have sat at my shop and earned a few rupees. This time is wasted. What foolishness, sitting here when nothing is happening! Again and again you’ll peek: has God come yet? Is there a knock on the door? Not yet! The clock is moving; the hour is passing—wasted. I could have added to my bank balance; or seen a film; or read the paper—something useful. Why sit like a fool? For what? What am I getting?”

If you sit with the hope of happiness, you will never sit in meditation at all. To sit in meditation means you have seen the truth: happiness is not attained by desiring it. You have seen the futility of desiring happiness. Your rush subsides on its own. So sometimes you simply sit—there is nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to seek. You sink into silence; the periphery fades, the center dawns; instantly you are present within yourself. That presence, that seeing—and bliss showers.

So I tell you: meditation brings bliss. But it does not bring bliss to those who want to get bliss from it. It brings bliss to those who, seeing all desire for happiness as vain—trash—throw it away. Who say, “No more wanting happiness. I will live as I am. I will not ask. I have begged enough. No more begging. Whatever the divine gives, however he gives, I will accept it in gratitude. Whatever prasad comes, in whatever form, I shall dance, be drunk with joy.” In this “ahoh” of gratitude you return home. Then you are amazed to find: you are happy—the whole existence is happy. As you are, so the whole existence appears.

In a new sky, a new sun that shines
This vast earth that gleams today
My aura too is in it.
These many blossoms—
softly fragrant, multicolored—
blooming everywhere now:
Yesterday my own breath bathed them,
Yesterday my dreams had caressed them.
The ripe, golden harvest
that fills the threshing floor today—
The drops of my lifeblood smile within it.
In a new sky, a new sun that shines
This vast earth that gleams today
My aura too is in it.

Then suddenly you find your radiance and the vast radiance begin to meet, to embrace. Flowers bloom on trees and you feel, “I have bloomed.” The cuckoo calls and you feel, “I have called.” A stream flows and you feel, “I am flowing.” The moon rises, and it seems the inner moon has risen too. The whole existence fills with an incomparable joy—only stop! Stopping is meditation. When the feet pause, the village is reached. Hopes and cravings keep you running; your feet never stop; you never arrive.

You say: “Now I’ve come to do religion, also with that same hope.”
Then you will miss.

“You say—dissolve the ego. And it seems to me that if I dissolve the ego, I myself will be dissolved.”
It seems so; it is not the truth. The ego is not you; so how would you be dissolved when the ego dissolves? Ego is your illusion.

It is like this: a man plays the role of Rama in a pageant and then imagines he is Rama. He comes home with bow and peacock-crown. His wife says, “Put down the bow and the crown. The play is over!” He says, “If I put these down, I will be no more. I am Rama.”

You would call him mad—mistaking acting for reality.

What is your ego? A role played on the grand stage of life. When you were born, you came without a name. Then a name was given: “Your name is Ram.” And you became Ram. You came like a blank page; others wrote “Ram,” and since then you have believed you are Ram. Someone insults “Ram” and you are ready to fight. You have forgotten that you are nameless. Had you been born in a Muslim home, you’d be Abdullah; in a Christian home, Albert; if a sannyasin of mine—Albert Krishna Ali! It’s all coincidence. Any name would do. The name is not you. You took the name to be yourself.

Nor are you the body. Consider: on the first day in your mother’s womb you were invisible to the naked eye—that was your body. With a great microscope you could have been seen. If today I showed you a picture of that body, would you recognize it as yours? No one could. Then, if I showed you a photo of the day you were born—would you recognize that body as yours? How much you have changed; how much water has flowed down the Ganges. You change every day. Today’s body will not be tomorrow’s. Yet you cling to today’s body and say, “This is me.” How many times has the body changed? Scientists say the entire body renews every seven years. If a man lives seventy years, ten times his whole body changes. The chain continues; because of the chain we are deceived.

Buddha said: in the evening we light a lamp—do you think in the morning we extinguish the same lamp? We think so. But Buddha made a profound point: that lamp kept dying all night; a new flame kept arising; the old turning into smoke—that is why there is smoke. The flame you lit keeps dying, becoming smoke; a new flame springs up and takes its place—but it happens in such a flash you cannot see the gap. In the morning the flame you extinguish is not the one you lit; it is the descendant, in the same lineage—not the same. The body in your mother’s womb and your present body are in the same queue, the same stream—but not the same.

And you tie yourself to the body: “This is me.” The skin is a shade lighter and you strut. What is the difference between fair and dark skin? A trifling chemical difference. In ten or fifteen years there will be injections—take one and become darker, take another and become fairer. A few pennies’ difference. Remember: the dark-skinned man is richer than you; he has more pigment. You have less—so you are a little poor. A slightly longer nose and you swagger. You are neither the nose, nor the color, nor the eyes. You are the witness seated within.

As you sever identifications—“not the name, not the body, not the thoughts”—for thoughts too are borrowed, put into you by others; “I am not mind”—this is the process of neti-neti: not this, not that. What remains at the end that cannot be denied? Only the witness. Everything else can be negated; the witness cannot. The witness has no ego—only a presence, a state of consciousness, a condition of pure knowing. No ego, no form of “I” forms there.

Those who go deep in meditation quickly discover: I remain even when all “I” dissolves. The “I” is just theater, a role on a stage.

The day you understand this, your delusion will end: “If the I dissolves, who will be happy?” Bliss is the witness’s nature. It does not happen; it is your nature. Because of the rock of “I,” the spring cannot flow.

I have heard:
At the last judgment we shall behold a beauty that fills the world—
God knows whether we shall see You or our own image.
When the divine is realized, your own image appears—it is nothing but the picture of your own soul. You are God in your purest form. When your soul is freed of all egos and layers, when only witnessing, only pure awareness remains—that is the state of the divine. There is no “encounter” with God as an object—standing there, greeting, conversing, praying. God is not to be met outside; he is hidden within your consciousness. “God” is another name for your own consciousness. Because of the boundaries of ego, consciousness cannot manifest. Let it be revealed.

When ego dissolves, it is not your end; it is your real beginning.

But man blunders. Swaroopanand’s mistake is everyone’s mistake. That is why I thought this question would help all.

I have heard a story—
A great emperor got lost while hunting, separated from his companions. He caught nothing; he didn’t know where his friends were in the forest. Tired, hungry, thirsty, he arrived at a farmer’s hut. The farmer welcomed him warmly. He did not know he was the emperor. He seated him on his cot, gave him dry bread, cool water, plucked some fruit from the garden. The emperor was astonished. He was used to delicacies, but had never known such taste. Truth is, being emperor he had never been truly hungry. Food arrived before hunger. Today he was hungry! He had toiled, wandered in the forest. He had no expectations—this or that dish. Today there was not even a likelihood that anything would be available. He received without expectation. The farmer’s love—though the cot was dirty, a poor man’s cot—seated there he felt a joy never felt on a golden throne. Two mangoes he brought, and cool water from the well.

The emperor was deeply satisfied.
He conversed with the farmer, asked, “Who is your emperor?” He could see the farmer didn’t recognize him. The farmer said, “I don’t know his name, but I’ve heard he is very compassionate, beautiful, powerful.” The emperor asked, “Would you like to see him?” The farmer said, “It would be my blessed fortune to have his darshan—but how could it happen?” The emperor said, “Come, sit on my horse. Show me the way to the capital, and I will show you the emperor; I’ll have you stay at the palace.” He thought, “I’ll astonish him.”

They set off. On the way the farmer asked, “One question. I’ve never been to the capital; it must be grand. There will be ministers, generals, the court filled with great men—how will I recognize the emperor? I’ve never seen him.” The emperor said, “Don’t worry. As soon as we enter the city, whoever all the people remove their hats and turbans for, and who himself does not remove his turban—that one is the emperor.” He knew people would start bowing the moment they entered; the farmer would recognize and be amazed to see he’d ridden with the emperor; he would be overjoyed. “As much joy as he gave me, I will give him a thousandfold.”

They entered the city; people began removing turbans and caps, bowing. But the farmer said nothing. He remained silent. The emperor asked, “What is the matter? Do you understand?” The farmer said, “I am in a fix. You don’t remove your turban—and I don’t remove mine. So who is the emperor—you or I? This is a serious tangle.”

Ego is such a delusion. Ego mistakenly believes itself to be the soul. Ego is not the soul—but both ride the same horse, very close. As a man rides a horse, his shadow too rides the horse. Similarly, with the soul rides the ego’s shadow. If the soul does not remove its hat, how will the shadow remove hers? The shadow too has a hat; she too struts, enjoying the full fun. You have taken the shadow to be yourself. When the shadow disappears, you will not. And the shadow must vanish if you are to come into the light; in the supreme light, shadows cannot survive.

You have heard the saying that gods cast no shadows. This is a symbol: those near to God have no shadow—no ego. In heaven gods cast no shadow. They walk—but no shadow forms. Shadows are born in ignorance, in darkness, in unconsciousness. Ego is the shadow of unconsciousness.

I have heard: one morning a fox came out of her den; the sun was rising; she looked back and saw her long, long shadow! Morning sun makes a long shadow. She said, “Today, if an elephant turns up for breakfast, it will do!” She knows herself only by her shadow. How else? She has no mirror—and what is a mirror? A place where only a shadow appears. Don’t laugh at the fox; that is your condition too.

We are not different from the fox. What can she do? Seeing such a long shadow—such a big belly, such a vast form—“If I get an elephant for breakfast, it will suffice!”

She spent the morning looking for an elephant. And even if she had found one—what would she have done? She would have died under it! Thankfully she did not find one. In the same way you are seeking happiness—it is an elephant hunt. It’s good you haven’t found it; if you did, it would crush you.

By noon she was very hungry; she again looked at her shadow. The belly must have shrunk—she thought. Indeed, the shadow had shrunk—now the sun was overhead. The shadow was so small she laughed, “Now even an ant will do.”

You are living by shadows.
Don’t laugh at foxes; they are very clever—no less than men. You know Aesop’s tale: a fox kept leaping for a cluster of grapes, but they were out of reach. She tried many times, falling repeatedly. She looked around—no one watching—shook herself and leaped again. A rabbit was hiding in a bush and burst out laughing. Hearing him, the fox straightened herself and began to walk off grandly. The rabbit asked, “Aunty, what’s the matter?” The fox said, “Nothing—the grapes are sour.”

This is Aesop’s famous story.
I have heard another. Times have changed; now there are adult-education classes—even for foxes. A fox attended one, heard Aesop’s tale, and was enraged: “This is an insult to foxes. If I find that Aesop boy, I’ll teach him a lesson!” One day Aesop was strolling in the forest—perhaps looking to see a fox jump. The fox lunged and tore a chunk of flesh from Aesop’s shoulder. Aesop screamed. She tasted it, spat it out and said, “Sour! Now write that story.”

Foxes are not less clever. Don’t laugh at the fox; and Aesop’s story is not about foxes—it is about man.

Man is very cunning—and in his cunning he saws the very branch he sits on. One day he falls badly, dust-covered. In this whole pursuit of happiness, only death comes to hand—nothing else.

Drop this chase, Swaroopanand! Consider your very name: Swaroop-anand—bliss is in your own nature. Joy is your intrinsic form. Turn within. Be established in yourself. From there, joy arises.

Happiness is not found by hoping for it; happiness is found by abiding in oneself.

The difference is not in that ultimate state; the difference is in the experiencer’s mode of sensitivity. Everyone’s sensitivity is different. A blind person, for instance, can also experience the divine—blindness is no obstacle. God is not experienced through your eyes, nor will God be withheld because you lack eyes. Eyes have nothing to do with it. But if a blind person has the experience—say Surdas—then it will not be an experience of light. “Light” is not in his repertoire; it exists nowhere in his felt world, nowhere in his lexicon.

But a blind person’s ears are highly attuned. The energy that normally flows through the eyes—about eighty percent of the body’s energy—now becomes available to the ears. That’s why eyes are our most vital organs, and why we feel such deep pity for the blind; not so much for the deaf, the lame, the maimed, or even the mute. The reason is: eighty percent of life’s current is blocked for the blind; they have never seen light, never seen color. This “Holi of colors” Jagjivan speaks of—no blind person could say that; he has no sense of color. But a blind person will speak of anahat nad—the unstruck sound. He will hear music, because his ears do double duty: they hear and they “see.” His ears are both his hearing and his sight. Hence the blind often become skillful in music, able to go very deep; their sense of sound is profound.

A blind man cannot see you, yet he recognizes you by your voice. The sighted often cannot: they’ve never needed to identify that way. A blind person will recognize you by the sound of your footsteps—who is approaching. The sighted remain oblivious: who ever listens to footsteps! A husband, eyes closed, cannot tell his wife’s footfall—even after years together. But a blind man knows, because those are his channels of knowing, his sources of recognition. He listens, and through listening he forms acquaintance.

So when a blind person experiences the divine, it will come as tone, as music, as sound. Within him will be the resonance of the unstruck.

Our personalities differ—each one. Some have great depth in taste. Have you seen wine tasters? With just a sip they tell you the country, the vineyard, even the vintage: a hundred years old, two hundred, three hundred. If such a person experiences the divine, it will come as taste; God will arrive like flavor, because his life-energy is rooted in taste. He will know the nectar-essence—as if someone has poured ambrosia down his throat.

Hence the difference appears. Not in the experience itself, but in the experiencing personality.

I have been searching so long
for my ray of light—
along the shore of darkness
is etched the script of fathomless destiny.
The Giver—till now
I have not been able to see.
Yet I have seen a moment’s joy,
and a moment’s sorrow.
Whose radiance is it from the sky
that scatters sun, moon, and stars?
What darkness do the black clouds carry
when they gather?
That painter—till now
I have not been able to see.
But I have seen the paintings
form and then fade away.
To rise, to fall again—
hope here, despair there.
Is the beginning and end of the world
only longing upon longing?
To come from an unknown land,
to go to an unknown land—
Unknown! Ah, is that
our very definition?
For a moment the groves and gardens are familiar—
each speck of the world familiar—
and in the next, all is unfamiliar again:
you, I, joy, beauty, life!
Is there a secret in becoming?
What truth is there in dissolving?
O my Light, reveal to me
my lost belonging!
O my Light, reveal to me...

Now, a person who prays, “O my Light, reveal yourself!”—his eyes are sensitive. For him the divine will not come as sound; it will come as light—luminous! As though a thousand suns have risen at once; light spreading everywhere; within and without an ocean of light surging. “O my Light, reveal my lost belonging!”

Or—

I am enamored of colors, not of flowers.
When the golden dawn scatters life’s splendor,
when the silver night sings songs of love,
when in the blue sky absorption trembles,
when in green nature new grace smiles,
then the world pours dreams into these eyes;
I am enamored of colors, not of flowers.
When full-bodied clouds come gathering,
when the sea heaves with the stir of motion,
when in the heart of lightning an ache keeps flaring,
when heaving storms crash into one another,
then the beating of my heart grows strong;
I love the current, not the shores.
When enchanted feeling quivers with the scent of the south wind,
when pure awareness is tinged with fragrance,
when the forest bursts into idle laughter,
then my mind grows apprehensive—
lest adamantine feet should pierce the buds.
I am fearful of buds, not of flowers.
When I hear talk of hard truths,
when the nights of slander begin to weep,
when before unfettered, liberated man
the ranks of propriety suddenly stand in the way—
what is cramped by limits and stained by blame,
it is that knowledge that wearies me, not mistakes.
I am enamored of colors, not of flowers.

There are some who are enamored of fragrance—the divine will come to them as scent. To Mohammed, surely, the divine came as fragrance; hence the exaltation of perfume in Islam—attar became precious. This is because Mohammed’s nostrils must have been profoundly sensitive.

“I am enamored of colors, not of flowers.”
Some are enamored of flowers; to them the divine will blossom like the thousand-petaled lotus. And some are enamored of colors; Jagjivan must have been drawn to colors. Hence at the advent of the divine the feeling arises, “How shall I play Holi? How shall I scatter colors, work the water-syringe, fling the gulal?”

Each person’s sensitivity is distinct. Therefore the sayings of the world’s saints have differed. Religion is one, truth is one; yet its realizations appear very diverse. When the moon rises in the sky, its reflection forms in the ocean, in rivers and streams, in wells, ponds, and pools; yet in each, the reflection carries a slight difference. The medium carries its stamp into the reflection. In the ocean the reflection becomes a little salty; it cannot be sweet.

Countless beings have known the divine—but we are little pools, little mirrors; in them the shadow of God appears. Our mirror can reveal only what it can.

There was waiting, there was hope, there was faith—
and, Beloved, on the burning heart lay
a colossal history of pains!
Life itself was poised in your remembrance.
The heartless world was taking its pleasures here
in that soul-piercing strain of “Where is my Love?”
I liked neither the dark rain-clouds
nor the spectacle of the monsoon;
all seven seas seemed salty to me,
the swelling rivers all seemed bland;
never could that lake of Mount Kailash
rise upon my mind.
Scattered and split into fragments—
blessed! O Swati’s clouds, blessed are you!
Parched with ancient thirst, this chataka bird—
you came; what could be lacking now?
Having had your darshan, my eyes grew cool;
all reproachful feelings fell asleep.
Now life has truly entered life!
I have drunk the nectar!
Four drops were enough for me.

For someone else, the divine comes as taste.

“Life itself was poised in your remembrance—
I have drunk the nectar!
Now life has truly entered life!
Four drops were enough for me.”

Because of this difference, so many religions arose in the world—and so much quarrel and dispute. Mohammed is indeed different from Mahavira; Christ differs from Krishna; Buddha from Zarathustra; Lao Tzu from Kabir; Nanak from Jagjivan; Jagjivan from Meera—naturally their expressions will differ. But those who know, who are awake, know that the moon is one—even if it is reflected in a thousand rivers and seas, there is no difference in the moon.

Therefore I tell you: in all the scriptures it is the One alone that is spoken of—though spoken in very different ways. And I have no quarrel with this diversity; I welcome it. Diversity is flavorful; sameness becomes monotonous. Imagine only Mahaviras everywhere—what monotony! It is beautiful that there is also a Krishna. If there were only Krishnas—again, monotony. Beautiful that there is a Christ as well. The world is diverse, and by being diverse it is rich. Imagine only one kind of flower—only roses. The rose is lovely, but if the earth were covered only with rosebushes, its charm would be lost; who would even notice the rose? But there is jasmine, and juhi, and champa, and bela—thousands of flowers, each blossoming in its own ecstasy, swaying in its own color. All of them reveal Him, for it is He who blossoms in all—yet in new hues, new modes, new expressions, new forms, new adornments. The world is rich because it is diverse.

That is why I tell you: all religions speak of the One, yet they are different. The Gita is the Gita; the Quran is the Quran. The Gita is not the Quran, nor the Quran the Gita. Nor would I wish one to be subsumed into the other. The Quran should remain as the Quran—its savor is distinct, its lilt is distinct, its style is distinct, its relish is distinct.

Have you heard someone chant the Quran? Even if you don’t understand the language, something begins to stir in the heart; such is the wave of the Quran! It is not “polished” like a philosopher’s treatise; Mohammed was illiterate. But in the unlettered there is a simplicity—and that is in the Quran. The Gita does not have that. The unlettered are simple, direct, clean; they lack grand words, they lack metaphysics; their symbols are drawn from life. But there is great savor in the simple songs. The Gita has its own glory—its own poise. There are high peaks of philosophy there, subtle heights, veils of mystery being lifted one after another. It is the statement of a refined mind.

Both are needed. Without the Quran, the world would be emptier; without the Gita, something would be missing. All the world’s scriptures are wondrous, unique; all should be preserved—they are the heritage of humankind.

And I want my sannyasin to declare himself heir to all—reject none. Why reject? The rejecter is small-hearted. Think of the one who says, “I accept only Mahavira”—how small-hearted he has become! No wonder he remains poor—spiritually poor. Another says, “I accept only Kabir.” He too will remain poor—though Kabir is very dear.

All the wealth is ours. Every human being is the legatee of the entire history of the human race. My sannyasin is the heir to all religions. That is why I am speaking on all religions and many saints—so that you may taste all the hues a little, see how the divine has been seen through different doors, how his image has arisen from different windows, how variously and deliciously he has been described: some as light, some as fragrance, some as essence, some as taste, some as sound. All this is yours—do not deny any of it. For whatever you deny, by that much you become less; by that much you become small. You are to become vast—to spread like the sky.

The sky denies nothing: it welcomes jasmine and champa alike. The sky embraces champa with joy, the rose with joy, the lotus with joy. Therefore the sky is rich: all fragrances enter into it, all colors dissolve into it, all tones resound in it; all music is its, all beauty is its.

Become like that—such is my sannyasin. Let him have no “own” religion; let all religions be his own. Yet, let him practice what suits him. One cannot practice everything, but one can accept everything. Practice will be of one; acceptance can be of all. Choose what feels right and practice that. But because of your practice, there is no need to deny the rest. If roses are dear to you, cultivate roses. Fill your garden with roses—but do not say juhi is not a flower, do not say jasmine lacks fragrance, do not say bela is false. Why say so? What need? Your neighbor is fond of bela—he has planted bela. And sometimes it is beautiful to stroll in his bela garden too. Your relish for roses will not diminish; it will grow. Sometimes befriend jasmine and juhi as well. Your love for the rose will not lessen; the monotony that was creeping in will fade. Again and again, afresh, the rose will delight you, and again and again you will return to it.

So practice one, but accept all.

This is a new sutra I give you. Such a sutra has not been given on the earth before. Formerly people said: accept only what you practice—reject the rest. They were afraid of the rest—fearful, anxious. That fear made man small, narrow; made one a Hindu, another a Muslim, another a Christian—humanity was lost. We became fragments. What is needed is an integral human being. The earth should be undivided. Let all separations fall away; let the reign of non-division prevail. Only then will the song of God arise upon the earth. Otherwise Hindus and Muslims fight and slaughter each other; Jains and Buddhists wrangle and spin webs of argument—and all is entangled. Religion had set out to untie knots; instead it tied them tighter. It can be untied—if you will untie it. The knot must be loosened in the heart—heart to heart.

Therefore when someone asks my sannyasin, “What is your religion?” say: “All religions are mine. Religion-as-such is mine. I welcome all into my heart. All music is my music. I deny none—for by denying, I only become small, I only become weak.”

Khwaab bhi sabke alag, khwaab ki tabeer alag
Pyar ki baat alag, ishq ki tafseer alag
Zakhm-e-daaman bhi alag, naakhun-e-tadbeer alag
Dil alag, dil ki taraf aate hue teer alag

Dreams are different for each, and their interpretations different.
The talk of love is different, the commentary on passion different.
The tears in the hem are different, and the scheming nails different.
Hearts are different—and the arrows aimed at them are different.

People differ. People differ, and it is beautiful—very beautiful. Widen your friendship! If you have no Muslim friend, you are deprived of something—who will sing you the Quran? If you have no Christian friend, who will acquaint you with that wondrous Jesus? If you have no Buddhist friend, who will bring you news of the cadences of the Dhammapada? Spread friendship! Sometimes go to a temple, sometimes to a mosque, sometimes to a gurdwara—they are all yours. Let my sannyasin take possession of all temples—go to the mosque, to the gurdwara, to the church. People will be startled: “How can you go to so many places? Choose one!” For in the old days the notion was: choose one place only. But the whole existence is ours—why only one? Whichever is near, whenever available. Otherwise, because of these ideas, such smallness has arisen.

I heard of a Catholic who came to a village where there was no Catholic church. It was Sunday; he had the old habit of going to church. If he didn’t go, he felt restless. He searched the village—no Catholic church, no Catholics. So he thought, “Better to go to a Protestant church than to go nowhere. It is the same Jesus, after all. The Bible will be read; hymns sung in his praise. Granted it’s not ‘ours,’ but better than not going; better than sitting in a hotel.” He went and sat in the back.

The Protestant pastor was preaching—fiery, like he was raining fire. This is what people have been doing: frightening people. He described hell so hideously that anyone’s hair would stand on end. Little children began to cry, two or three women fainted, old men trembled—such was his depiction of hell! At the end he said, “Hear me: everyone present here will rot in hell if you do not awaken right now. There is still time. Let each participant in this service become alert, or else you will fall into hell.” Tears were flowing, a woman lay unconscious, children shrieked, old men shook—because his description was so severe.

He said: “You will be thrown into fire; you will burn and you will not die.” They don’t grant even the relief of death. “You will keep burning—for eternity—and not die. Water will be right before you, but you will not be able to drink, for your lips will be stitched shut. Thirst will parch you eternally, water will be tinkling nearby, but you will not drink—your lips will be sewn. Worms will bore through your body, tunneling every which way—you will do nothing—and for eternity. And such cold will strike that your teeth will chatter—forever.”

An old woman stood up: “But I have no teeth.” The pastor said, “Sit down—teeth will be provided. Those without teeth will be given dentures, but the cold will be such that your teeth will have to chatter. Don’t worry! The arrangements are complete: if you have no teeth, they will be supplied.”

All were panicking—but that Catholic man sat smiling. The pastor saw and asked, “Brother, everyone trembles at the description of hell—why are you smiling?” He said, “We aren’t members of this church. Why should we fear? We belong to another church. We just wandered in.” Such is the fate of sectarian thinking.

Naturally: a Protestant church—and the hell being described is a Protestant hell. There are different hells and different heavens, as there are different doctrinal bases!

An Indian man died in Germany where he worked. As he approached death, he grew very anxious: no priest to give him Ganges water, no mantra whispered into his ear—he died afraid, sure of hell. On opening his eyes after death, he found himself at hell’s gate. He was taken inside. They asked, “Which hell would you prefer? The Hindu hell or the German hell? You lived in Germany but are Indian—so you may choose.” He asked, “What’s the difference?” They said, “None. The same torments in both.” He said, “Then why the distinction?” They replied, “Only this: in the German hell, things are done with German efficiency; in the Indian hell, in the Indian way. The man who should come to light the fires won’t come in the morning; he’ll wander in at noon—so you get a break. The worms are Indian too—still asleep! But the German hell—German efficiency, everything by schedule. So think it over.” He said, “Send me to the Indian hell. I don’t want the German one.”

I also tell you: if you must go to heaven, choose the German; if you must go to hell, choose the Indian.

The laws of life are not many—Life’s eternal law is one. Only its expressions differ. In different lives, because of different sensitivities, differences appear. Buddha speaks as Buddha; Krishna speaks as Krishna. The speech differs; what is said is one.

Taru! No one is dark. All are bright. No one is impure. All are pure. Impurity is a misunderstanding. It arose from identifying with the shadow. Because of the shadow we look soiled. Yes, our clothes have gotten dirty—true; dust and grime have settled on the body—true; and our mind is neither healthy nor beautiful. But within us, our real nature remains just as it is—virginal. Like a lotus, untouched.

I want to remind you only of that; everything else is secondary, in fact pointless.

Your priests and pundits keep you busy with other things—do this, do that; this is bad, that is auspicious. They keep discussing your actions, not your being. And because of their excessive focus on actions, people have fallen into deep self-condemnation. Their minds are filled with self-denigration. They are frightened! They feel, “We are drowning—there is no way to be saved.” And the priest exploits this. The more frightened you are, the easier it is to exploit you.

A frightened person agrees to do anything. Tell him, “Do the Satyanarayan katha,” and he will do it. Tell him, “Perform a yajna,” and he will. Tell him, “Pour ghee into this”—even if he sees that the ghee is being burned away, that people don’t have it to eat—still, a frightened person will agree to anything; you can make him do any foolishness.

In the name of yajnas, foolishness goes on. In the name of worship and ritual, foolishness goes on. A frightened person can be made to bow anywhere. But first he must be frightened; otherwise he won’t bow. Tell him, “This stone idol is God—bow,” and he bows at once. He’s afraid, he’s trembling, he just wants somehow to get above his fear. But the priest cannot allow you to rise above fear—because if you do, you step outside the priest’s circle.

The very business of the priest requires keeping you afraid. Hence he keeps saying, “Everyone says ‘soiled, soiled.’” He seizes on your little things: this is sin, this is bad. His entire accounting is to compile, in front of you, a long exaggerated list of your bad points—so you tremble.

My effort is entirely different. I want to free you from the priest. I want to free you from the pundit. I want to free you. So I remind you: your actions are all on the outside—good as well as bad, all external. They have no ultimate value. You are supremely pure. The Divine dwells within you. You are luminous. You cannot be soiled! There is simply no way for you to be soiled—if you could be, then there would be no way to be cleansed again. No soap could ever wash you if the soul itself became stained. And if the soul were stained, it would no longer be in anyone’s hands.

The soul does not get stained.

The soul’s becoming soiled is as impossible as the sky’s becoming soiled. Clouds come and go; the sky does not become dirty. Dust storms rise and pass; the sky is luminous again. The sky is never soiled. So is your inner sky. I am reminding you of that. And once you remember it, a revolution happens. The instant that remembrance arises, even your actions begin to shine. Because for one who has seen the inner luminosity, it becomes impossible for deeds to remain soiled. Once the inner brightness is seen, brightness begins to flow through one’s life and personality; its stream begins to move. Within you lies a veena; I am reminding you of that instrument.

In this dark and lonesome forest we kept wavering—and kept smiling;
Like a flame we kept staggering, yet kept moving our steps forward.
In a strange city with strange roads, they kept smiling at my solitude;
I kept walking thus for a long, long time—and you kept coming to mind.
Yesterday something happened—I was very tired, so even after hearing, I let it pass as unheard.
So many wandering caravans of memory kept knocking at the doors of my wounded heart;
Poison kept being offered—we kept drinking poison; we died daily, and daily we lived.
Life kept testing us, and we kept testing life.
In the fierce storm of harsh times, our passion for fidelity was besieged;
It kept trying to snuff out the lamp of longing—we kept lighting the lamp of longing.
Whenever some wound struck my heart, a little window opened toward life;
We too are like the strings of some instrument—taking blows, we kept humming.

No matter how many sins you have done, how far you have wandered, how many misfortunes and accidents have happened—whatever has happened…

Whenever some wound struck my heart, a little window opened toward life;
We too are like the strings of some instrument—taking blows, we kept humming.

…your humming has not been lost; your song has not been erased—it cannot be erased. Within you there is an eternal music. I am reminding you of that. As remembrance begins to dawn, your vision begins to change. When your vision changes, the world changes.

From You is the beginning, and one day You will be the end;
There will be the music of the instrument, and there will be no instrument without sound.

Everything becomes empty, listening to that note—because that music is the music of emptiness.

There will be the music of the instrument, and there will be no instrument without sound;
From You is the beginning, and one day You will be the end.

From that God is the beginning; in that God is the end. The whole middle is a dream—of pleasure and pain, of falling and rising, of sin and virtue—all dream. Can dreams ever soil anyone? Can dreams make anyone impure?

I am waking you up. Your so-called moral religious teachers are only busy trying to change your dreams. They say: dream good dreams; don’t dream bad ones. But a man who is unconscious—what can he choose, good or bad? He is not the master of dreams! It’s not in your hands to say, “Tonight I’ll sleep and dream good dreams.”

Often it happens that those who want good dreams end up having bad ones—because all day they were busy suppressing their evils. Then at night those suppressed evils appear as dreams. Often bad people dream good dreams—because they suppress their goodness. What is suppressed rises in dreams. You have no control over dreams.

Therefore I don’t say: change your dreams; I don’t say: change your conduct. I say: awaken the within! Wake up—changing dreams and behaviors won’t help.

Even a good dream is still a dream. If, in a dream, you become a saint—what is the gain? If, in a dream, you become a thief—what is the loss? No one becomes soiled or purified by dreams—dreams are dreams; they come and they go. This entire world is a dream.

Taru, this is all I am reminding you of—day after day, in many ways, with many hints: wake up! You are luminous. You are supremely pure. You yourself are the Divine. Search a little—the center is not far. The distance between head and heart—that is the distance between man and God. Not much—just a few inches.

Wander in the intellect, and it is the world. Enter the heart, enter feeling, and it is devotion. Enter devotion, and God is not far.

All have gone only up to the noise in front;
Who goes to anyone’s farthest shore?
When was the sun ever found in the midst of night?
One must seek it all the way to the dawn.

Only if you search until morning will you find the sun! The sun is; the morning is; but people are lost in the drowsiness of thoughts and the stupor of dreams, lost in sleep. Some are seeing bad dreams, some good. That is the only difference between your saint and sinner.

I want you to be neither saint nor sinner. I want the dawn of divinity within you.

So I keep reminding you: you are luminous, you are virginal. Nothing has ever truly been your fault, nor can it be—because you are not the doer; you are the witness.

Enough for today.