Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #4

Krishnatirth! This is the very meaning of satsang. Whatever becomes a pretext for the remembrance of the Divine—that is satsang. If, on seeing a storm rise in the ocean, God comes to mind, satsang has happened right there. If, on seeing the moon climb the sky, remembrance arises, that too is satsang. Wherever the remembrance of truth wells up, there is our company with Truth.

And the Divine pervades all. Remembrance can arise from anywhere—from any direction. And the Divine seeks you from all directions, searches for you. If anywhere a little crevice opens, a little joint gives way, his gust enters you. Seeing the green of trees, the rising sun, hearing the birds’ songs, the cuckoo calling its “pi kahaan”… If you listen closely, in every voice there is only his voice. If in my voice you heard his voice, the reason is not that only my voice is his—it is merely that you listened closely to my voice. All voices are his. Wherever you sit quietly, silently, with an open heart, willing to listen—there remembrance of him will begin.

You will have to be a believer in God, for God is present on every side. The wonder is how some people still escape becoming convinced of God! A marvel—that in an existence brimming with the Divine some remain atheists? Their blindness must be without end! They must be deaf. Perhaps there is no heartbeat in their chest, their hearts must be made of stone. It is impossible! If anyone opens the eyes even a little, on all sides only he is present, it is his image. This is why we feel the need to go to temples and mosques—because we are blind. Otherwise, wherever you are is a temple—only open eyes are needed. Wherever you sit a little awake, you will find his rain there. He is raining incessantly. His shower is unbroken.

You say:
“We were never convinced about God;
but on seeing you, God came to mind.”

This has nothing to do with me. In the way you saw me, begin to see others likewise, and you will find God everywhere, and you will be convinced and more convinced as you go. And one day that incomparable miracle will happen too: standing before a mirror, you will look at your own reflection—and God will be revealed. When that too happens, know that the journey is complete: the day when in your own being his remembrance arises.

That is the hardest. For people have always been taught self-denigration. Your minds are filled with self-condemnation—I am nothing, unworthy, sinful! You see only your mistakes because your mistakes have been pointed out to you again and again. From childhood till now, through centuries upon centuries, you have been taught only that you are worth two pennies. You have no value. I want to remind you: you are invaluable! The Divine resides within you. Your small mistakes and suchlike do not affect the Divine within you in the least. Your purity is as it is. As clouds gather and depart in the sky and the sky’s virginity is not even slightly broken—so is your virginity.

If, sitting by me, the remembrance of the Divine has begun to arise, do not fall into the mistake now of thinking that the Divine is outside; otherwise you will miss again! You missed before, thinking there is no God—one miss. Then a second miss: that God is outside, in someone else. The atheist misses by assuming there is no God; the theist also misses by assuming that he is in “Rama,” in “Krishna,” in “Buddha.”

Who is religious?
Religious is the one to whom it becomes visible: “In me.” And if he is in me, then he must be in all—for if he can be present even in me, a nothing, then no place is empty of him.

You say, Krishnatirth:
“I do not know the etiquette of prostration; please keep the honor of my prostrations—
this head, before your threshold, has never bowed before anyone.”

Where is the head anyway? Bow it, and you discover it isn’t there. Do not bow, and it seems to be there. Ego does not have to be dropped—if it were, you would drop it. When the eyes open, you discover it never existed. At night you dream you are an emperor—great empire, palaces of gold, queens like apsaras, sons as beautiful as gods. Then morning comes—do you have to “leave” the dream? You laugh. That you could be deceived like that—you cannot believe it! What is there to leave? The head exists only so long as it has not bowed. As long as you have not awakened, it is a dream—and the dream is very real until you wake. Wake—and where is the dream? Bow—and where is the head?

Therefore, after bowing, there is no art of prostration to be learned! After bowing you realize prostration was always going on; we got entangled needlessly in the dream of a head. There never was a head. Only by bowing do you find the head is not. If even once you bow, you will never again find your head. Bow—and ego is gone.

Ego is the name of that sleep which we call stiffness. If you can bow, even once, a glimpse will be given. Let a glimpse of surrender be there, and bliss will shower. Who would then cling to that hell whose name was ego!

No, there is no “art” of prostration. It cannot be learned. Yes—sometimes, spontaneously, in someone’s presence it happens. Someone’s mere presence becomes the occasion. Sometimes it happens even with no person there.

One morning, alone on some forest path—the fresh sun rising, the earth releasing its sweet scent, trees a bright green, dew-pearls still on the grass, birds singing—doesn’t the heart feel like bowing, dropping to the knees, laying the head upon the ground? There are no feet before you, no deity—but still a unique urge to bow arises. And if you bow—before whom did you bow? No one was there. But the question “before whom” is irrelevant; the secret is in the bowing itself. Bow, and sajda happens. When you rise, you will rise another person. You will be without a head. This is the meaning of sannyas: to those who are still asleep your head appears; it appears in their dream. But in your awakening, the head is gone.

“I do not know the etiquette of prostration…”
Who does? There is no technique. And if someone bows by a learned technique, the bow becomes false—remember that too! How many go to temples and mosques and bend their heads, but what bows? The condition is the reverse. The one who goes to temple or mosque often returns with his head stiffer. He comes out more rigid: “I am religious! See, I go daily to the temple—and you are sinners!”

One day Mohammed took a young man to the mosque. First time the youth went with him. When they were returning from prayer—it was summer, and some people were still asleep on their cots along the streets—the youth said to Mohammed: “Hazrat! What will happen to these sinners? They will fall into hell, won’t they? This is the hour of prayer, and they are still in bed. What will be the fate of these sluggards, these lazy ones—tell me something.” Mohammed stopped short. Tears began to fall from his eyes. He folded his hands, bowed down right there, and began to ask God for forgiveness. The youth was alarmed: “What is it? For what are you asking forgiveness?” He said, “I am asking forgiveness for taking you to the mosque. You would have been better off not going. At least you did not have the notion that you were virtuous and others sinners. Another mistake I made: you used to sleep every day; never had the ego arisen in you that you are righteous and others sinful. Today, because you went to the mosque once, you have become righteous! You have begun inquiring into which hell others will fall! I must go back to the mosque. I must offer my namaz anew. Brother, you go home and sleep. My prayer has been spoiled. I thought that with my company your prayer would spread its wings; you have even clipped the wings of my prayer. I have committed a great error.” Mohammed went again and prayed afresh.

Look at the stiffness of the person you call religious! Someone wears a sacred thread, someone applies a tilak—look at his rigidity! He rings the temple bell—why is that bell hung there, do you know? He is sending word to God: “Listen, I have arrived.” He rings it loudly—lest God be napping, or asleep: “Wake up! See who has come!” And then he moves about the world with a holy ego. And where has ego ever been holy!

No, there is no technique of prostration. There is no technique of prayer. Prayer is simplicity.

So, Krishnatirth, if you have bowed, right there is prayer. Do not ask: how to bow? how to remain bowed?—do not ask at all! The one who has made you bow will keep you bowed. Do not take this work into your own hands. Do not make prayer your personal doing. He has made you bow—he will keep you bowed. Do not turn it into a formal rule.

Among man’s greatest mistakes is that he turns life’s supreme things into formal rules. The moment they become formal, their excellence is lost, life is lost—dead, inert things remain in hand.

You have said: “What else can I say—just do something so that this half-embedded arrow lodged in the heart may pass clear through my chest.”

It will happen neither by my device nor yours. Just as this arrow struck your heart unbidden and is half through, so, unbidden, it will go all the way. The law of cause and effect does not operate here.

And do not be in haste. Suffer a little! This half-embedded arrow in the heart—taste even this pain with joy. Its pain is sweet, honeyed. Do not hurry; do not be impatient that it pass through quickly. This is what I call theism, what I call trust—being delighted with what is happening. And however long the waiting must be, being ready to wait. Even if it take lifetimes, still ready. The moment you think “let it be soon, let it be complete,” right then what was happening will stop. You have come in; you have come between. Let God do—this is the essence of life and living. This is the meaning of devotion: let him do. If the arrow is half-embedded, then for now only the half is needed. For now it is necessary that you writhe. For from writhing comes refinement. Pain is necessary now, for pain polishes. Pain gives maturity. This fire is not your enemy. Passing through this fire you will become pure gold, kundan.

I know your difficulty too. We are all in haste. And it is because of our haste that delay keeps occurring. You know it well; in your day-to-day life it happens daily—when you rush, you are delayed. You must catch a train, the time has come, the taxi driver keeps honking, and in your flurry you are somehow packing your things. The key is in your hand and you are searching for the key. The glasses are perched on your nose and you are asking where your glasses are! The more the hurry, the more the delay. Otherwise such mistakes wouldn’t happen. In hurry the mind becomes overheated. The more the haste, the more anxious the mind; the more anxious, the more blind.

The search for the Divine is infinite waiting. Infinite waiting is prayer.

No, do not hurry. And I understand your trouble. Those who have tasted nothing have no haste; there is no reason for it—they have no taste. Those who have tasted—you are blessed; you have tasted! The arrow has touched your heart, the wound stings—now you want that what has begun should complete. But if you are too hasty, too eager, too anxious, the arrow half-embedded may fall out. No—wait. Give thanks for what has happened! Embrace this pain with a cry of “ah, how wonderful!” And this pain is a unique pain—the pain of love! Why hurry? Let the night of longing be long. It is the night of separation, and it will pass in his remembrance. And the waiting for him is scarcely less joyful than his meeting.

You say rightly: “The rains have come; when will the Bridegroom arrive?”
He will arrive too. If the monsoon has set in, the Bridegroom will surely come.

How bewitching this season of rain!
Like the mood of a carefree, beautiful maiden.
The wind comes swaying as though a reveler from the tavern.
Birds are nowhere seen in the sky—
as when the heart surrenders, reasons disappear.
Rays hide, peeping from the veil of clouds—
ah, the suggestiveness of a coy beloved!
Are these heavy clouds hurrying past,
or the fleeting moments at dawn after the night of union?
The drip-drip never ceases—
as though the rain’s waterskin were singing its melodies.
“Who is it?” calls the cuckoo; “pi,” answers the papiha—
ah, this traffic of questions and replies!
Branches as brides, wearing the jewelry of blossoms—
God! the mood of a first meeting.

The drops have begun to fall. The very first drops of the first rain have come. The drip-drip doesn’t stop. Floods will come too. Torrential downpours will be. The monsoon has arrived. Buried seeds—buried for lifetimes—will sprout, shoot; they will fruit and flower. Trust! Trust infinitely!

And I know that when the arrow strikes and half-strikes—always at first it is half; this is the very process of life-transformation—then one cannot even speak what is happening; the tongue falters.

Can the tale of beauty be confined to words?
Only eyes can tell what the eyes have seen.

Words cannot say it. What happens within—only one who has experienced can understand. So do not speak of this teer-e-neemkash to those who have neither seen arrows nor suffered them. Those never wounded by love—do not discuss it with them. Otherwise they will laugh and think you mad. And if bowing has happened, the real thing has happened—the temple doors have opened.

Till the brow of supplication had not bowed at someone’s door,
a constant smart remained in my forehead.

Until the head bows, a sting persists. The joy of bowing is incomparable.

The joy of bowing is the joy of dissolving.
The joy of bowing is the joy of becoming weightless.
The joy of bowing is the joy of freedom from ego.

As a bird slips out of its cage and the whole sky becomes its own. Ego is a very small cage. Those who cannot bow are unfortunate. You are fortunate! And when you bowed, the arrow struck too.

Now wait. The waiting will be tearful. But let your tears be tears of joy—of your ah-ness, your gratitude. Hold this pain to your heart.

Where is the leisure to tease the sky?
We are wrapped in the sweetness of a hidden pain.

Taste the sweetness of this inner ache.

We are wrapped in the sweetness of a hidden pain.

This is treasure; press it to your heart.

Where is the leisure to tease the sky?
We are wrapped in the sweetness of a hidden pain.
So restless were we from this hidden ache,
we went a little way beyond the flowing stream of life.
O healer of hearts, ask not the state of this secret pain—
it is a secret we cannot tell with the tongue.
Sitting and sitting—who knows what thought came—
for hours we clung and wept with our frail heart.

Thoughts will come—flying from the distant sky—of the Infinite, the Unknown—and many tears will flow. Do not be stingy. Krishnatirth, do not be miserly! Besides tears we have no other libation to offer at the feet of the Divine. Besides tears, what else do we have to present? So do not hold back. One who can weep with an open heart—he has arrived. There is no delay in his arriving.

On the path of love, the steps are climbed by tears; each tear becomes a rung. Weep—weep in bliss. Embrace this pain. And be ready for infinite waiting.

A last word. One who is ready for infinite waiting—his happening may occur now, here. And one who wants it to happen now, here—he may have to wait forever, and it may never happen. Such is the paradoxical law of the spiritual. Here the runners miss; the sitters arrive.

Sumati Saraswati! You are truly fortunate; your wife is more intelligent than you.
Sumati Saraswati has asked at least two dozen questions today. And perhaps Sumati thinks that asking so many questions is a sign of intelligence. Asking so many questions is only a sign of derangement, not of intelligence. And when I saw your questions, I felt great compassion for your wife. Who knows what karmas have borne fruit that the poor woman ended up with you! One more astonishing than the next. For example—
‘When will I be free from meditation?’
Meditation has not happened yet, you don’t know the first thing about it yet, and already you are arranging an escape from it. What does meditation mean? It means being free of the mind. Then how can there be freedom from meditation? Meditation itself is the ultimate freedom. Your question is like a prisoner in jail asking, “All right, I will be freed from prison, but then when will I be freed from freedom?” Freed from freedom! Then you have not understood at all. Far from meditation, you don’t even know the meaning of the word yet. But yes, questions keep arising—relevant or irrelevant. For a sample—

I don’t see any fault in the wife. The “credit” will surely be all yours! After looking at your two dozen questions, it became clear who must be stirring up the trouble. And look at this one too: what business is it of yours that questions don’t arise in your wife’s mind? That’s her question! Let her ask it. I suspect you nag her, “Ask! Why don’t you ask questions? Are you dumb? A fool? Why don’t you ask?” As if asking questions were itself some great wisdom.

Questions arise out of our restlessness and confusion. And the answers I give you are not because your questions are profound; I answer so that slowly, slowly you begin to see that all questions are futile. The auspicious moment will be the day no question arises in your mind. The day the mind becomes questionless, the inner answer reveals itself.

The answer is within you. But you are entangled in questions, so you miss it. You make so much noise with your questions that even if the answer is there inside, it cannot be heard. Its soft, subtle tone gets lost in your clamor. Let all your questions fall silent, and you will be amazed—every answer to life lies hidden in your own consciousness. As long as you keep asking, you will keep missing. The day you do not ask, that very day the Veda of the Vedas is born within you. The whole secret lies seed-like in your awareness. But you wander outside. To ask a question means: someone else will give the answer. And from your questions I feel you probably even tell your wife, “Ask! If you won’t ask someone else, at least ask me!”

Remember one thing: in this world, a wife may come to see God in everyone else, but she sees Him in her husband last—if ever. Though husbands have tried since ages to convince women that the husband is God. The very insistence gives you away—you are suspicious yourself. You have been imposing on women: “Regard your husband as God.” And wives only smile: “You—and God?!” They might believe this about someone else’s husband, but not their own—they know him too well. Your wife knows you better than you know yourself. She knows every vein of yours. She knows just where to press your nerve, when, and how. She can make you wag your tail in a moment. She knows all about your learnedness and its worth. Your knowledge carries no value before her. And you expect she should come to you to ask!

There is a well-educated woman who comes here. She has to come secretly, because her husband says, “There’s no need to go anywhere. Since I am your husband, what need is there to go out? Whatever you want to ask—ask me!” He throws away my books; then out of fear he picks them up and touches them to his head—worried something bad might happen! His wife told me: “In front of me he throws them, and then I secretly saw him bow his head to them and ask forgiveness, ‘Please pardon me!’” Will a wife fear such a husband? And then he sits there puffed up before her: “Ask! What do you want to know? What kind of knowledge do you need? In my presence you needn’t go anywhere.” The wife says, “I don’t feel like asking him anything. What would I ask him? In small matters he gets angry, in small matters anxious, in small matters he becomes like a child—I even have to play his mother. What am I to ask him?” But the swagger—man’s ego, man’s vanity.

I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “I never hear of quarrels between you and your wife?” He said, “There’s no reason to quarrel. The very day we were married we decided: I will settle the big, big questions of life, and she will settle the small ones. Since then, the agreement holds and no fuss arises.” I said, “Still, I want to ask—what do you mean by big questions and what by small?” He said, “Better not ask!” I said, “I won’t tell anyone.” He said, “Big questions are like: Is there a God or not? How many heavens are there? How many hells? Should there be war in Vietnam or not? How should Israel and Egypt make peace? The big questions—of religion, politics, spirituality, philosophy—I decide. The small questions—like which school to enroll the boy in, which movie to see, what car to buy—those small ones my wife decides.”

Now you understand: “big” here means useless—things that have nothing to do with you. Decide all you want whether God exists—who is asking you? Who is seeking your advice on how Egypt and Israel should settle their dispute? Whether there should be war in Vietnam—who wants your opinion? Women are skillful, practical. Women are close to the earth—hence they are called prithvi (earth). Utterly practical. Your kind of useless questions your wife will not ask. For example, it would never occur to her to ask, “How do I get rid of meditation?” That is sheer foolishness. Such a question will not arise for her.

Why worry about this? It is good—auspicious—that questions don’t arise in your wife’s mind. They arise in yours—ask why so many arise in me? Because it would be good if your questions fall away. It would be good if they depart. Let there come a moment when no question remains within you—that very moment will be the moment of meditation.

Buddha used to tell his disciples: as long as questions arise within you, do not ask. Dive into meditation for a year or two. Then, when no questions arise, ask. This is quite a joke—“When there are no questions, then ask!” But when questions are gone, who can ask? After a year or two of meditation Buddha would ask his disciple, “Now, anything to ask?” The disciple would laugh: “No, nothing to ask.” Buddha would say, “See—when you used to ask, had I answered, it would have been meaningless turmoil. Nothing would have been grasped, nothing digested. My answers would only have given rise to ten new questions, and nothing else.”

This does not mean Buddha never answered. He did answer those whom he had to coax and persuade toward meditation. But whenever he saw someone with the capacity for meditation—already close to the shore, just a little push and the flame would catch—he did not answer them.

I too answer you only to coax you—to get you somehow to step into meditation. Once you enter meditation, all questions will drop, all hunger for answers will end. With a quiet, assured mind you will know—what is. Only that state of ultimate experience satisfies; no secondhand answer can.

When I answer, the intelligent use the answers to remove their questions. The unintelligent manufacture ten more questions out of each answer.

There is no reason to ask two dozen questions! Ask one or two that truly have value in your life. Be mindful about asking, the way you are at the post office when sending a telegram: you weigh every word, because each word costs money. If ten words go for one rupee, you keep cutting—if there are twelve, you cut two more. You send only what fits the rupee. And have you noticed a marvel? Your ten-page letter has less impact than a ten-word telegram. Why? Because all the superfluous is cut and only the essential remains. Only the absolutely necessary, the indispensable, is left.

That’s how you should ask questions.

Ask only what feels utterly meaningful for your life—without asking which you cannot be at peace. Ask only that much, only that. Then perhaps your journey toward questionless meditation will begin. But you go on asking anything at all. Whatever pops into your head, you write and ask. Now is this even a question—“No questions arise in my wife’s mind; why is that?”

Your wife is intelligent. Or perhaps, because of you, no questions arise—she fears that if she asks, you will answer! Better not to have questions.

Once it happened: a Sindhi friend of mine—a terrible chatterbox—came with me on a tour of Punjab. His wife had never traveled with me; this time she did. I was amazed—the contrast between them! The husband such a talker he could never be quiet, always going on and on; and the wife so silent you’d think she didn’t know how to speak. When the husband went to bathe, I asked the wife, “This is strange—your husband is such a chatterbox, why are you so quiet?” She said, “He does all the talking for both of us. When we first married I used to speak a little too, but he never gave me a chance.”

With such a talkative husband, what is one to do but be silent? Speaking becomes dangerous. If you utter a word, he will prattle for hours. Even without your speaking, he keeps prattling. If you sit quietly, he asks, “Why are you quiet?” If you speak, it’s a problem; if you don’t, it’s a problem.

She told me—they lived in Bombay—“When I hear his voice—our flat is on the third floor—when I hear him on the first floor, I start cooking. By the time he reaches home, the food is ready. Because from the peon to the liftman to anyone he meets—he goes on and on! When I hear his voice, I begin cooking: ‘Husband dear has arrived!’ At least it takes him an hour, an hour and a half to cross those three floors. By the time the bell rings, dinner is ready.”

She said, “I’ve gained one benefit with him: without going to any master, silence has come to me. And there is great peace. I just listen—there’s no other way. Slowly, even listening has become with witness-consciousness: ‘He is bound to blabber; let him. What he says or doesn’t say, I no longer keep account.’”

Perhaps that is exactly your wife’s state, Sumati. Silence has come. Let her remain silent. You take care of yourself. So many of your questions can only be useless. Meaningful questions are few. In fact, if rightly understood, there is only one meaningful question: “Who am I?” No other question is meaningful. Ask that—make this one question your meditation: “Who am I?” Rising, sitting, sleeping—let this one question echo within: Who am I? And don’t rush to answer. I’m wary of you—you have plenty of ready-made answers. You will ask once “Who am I?” and quickly reply, “Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman!” The Upanishads and the Vedas will all rush in. That answer is not yours. Reject it. Say, “This answer is not mine.” Wait for the answer that wells up within you freshly bathed, new, alive.

Until that answer comes, keep rejecting the rest—they are all junk. No matter who said it, however great the knower—if it is not yours, it is not true for you. Borrowed means untrue. Buddha may have said it, Mahavira may have said it, Krishna or Christ may have said it—if it is not yours, it is of no use. You cannot see with Buddha’s eyes, nor speak with Krishna’s tongue, nor walk with Mahavira’s feet, nor live with Krishna’s heartbeat. Only your own knowing will illumine your life.

Go on asking this one question: “Who am I?” Answers will arise—parroted, memorized, secondhand—from what you have read, heard, asked others. Let them be denied. Say, “No.” Neti-neti—“Not this, not this.” A day comes when only the question remains and no answer—“Who am I?”—and silence. “Who am I?”—and silence. “Who am I?”—and the silence deepens, no answer comes. This is the supreme moment. For that silence itself is the answer. That emptiness that follows in the wake of “Who am I?”—as calm follows a storm—out of the gale of “Who am I?” the stillness, the peace, the silence, the void that arrives—by tasting that emptiness you receive the answer. In that emptiness you find the Whole enthroned. That is meditation, that is samadhi.

Form is a construct of the mind. Name and form are organs of the mind. Therefore that the Divine is cannot be experienced in name and form. Whoever tries to experience God in name and form has already taken a wrong step. He will get caught in the web of imagination. And Meera, because you have begun to understand that these shapes are only the mind’s web of imagination, the obstruction is not very great.

That the Divine is can be experienced in two ways:
1) As form—as the other. Krishna standing there, Rama standing there, or Buddha, or Mahavira. Other than you. You are the seer, and the God you are seeing is the seen—the object, the form. This is one way of remembering God. It is the wrong way. Beware of it.
2) As the seer, not as the seen. As the witness, not as an object. This very consciousness within me, this very “I am”—this. Then imagination has no foothold.

Krishna is appearing—but to whom is he appearing? There is someone who is seeing. Meera, who is the witness within you who is seeing Krishna? Do not put the emphasis on Krishna; put the emphasis on the one who sees. Center all your attention on the seer. Catch hold of that witness. Krishna will come and go; the witness is ever-present. To seek to experience God in that witnessing is the right seeking. God is of the nature of witness, of consciousness.

Because the sense of the witness blossomed in Krishna, we called Krishna “Bhagwan”—God. Krishna knew, “I am the witness”; therefore we called Krishna God. Buddha realized the seer, became free of the seen, turned from the outer back to the inner—so we called him God. The sole reason we call Buddha, Krishna, Rama, Mahavira “God” is that they recognized the consciousness within, became one with it, took the plunge into consciousness—nothing more than this. Let that be your doing too.

If you worship Rama, nothing will happen. If you worship Krishna, nothing will happen. Did Krishna worship anyone—have you ever asked? Krishna worshiped no one. Krishna awoke; he was filled with awareness. So too fill yourself with awareness. If you love Krishna, take only this essence: do what he did. That is true following; otherwise it is blind imitation.

When Buddha was dying he said to his disciples: “Atmadeepo bhava—Be a light unto yourself!” The disciples began to weep… They were parting from Buddha; now he would dissolve forever; this wave, this lovely, wondrous wave would never appear again—it would be lost in the ocean! Their weeping was natural. Some monks had lived with him for forty years. With him life had come and gone, youth and old age had passed, countless experiences had happened. To bid farewell to such a beloved one—how could that be easy? Their chests must have been breaking. But Buddha opened his eyes and said: Do not weep. Do not cling to me. If you cling to me, you will miss. The very essence of my teaching is that It is not outside; It is inside. It is present within you. It is you.

Meera, whether it is Krishna or Vishnu or any other form—Hindu, Muslim, Christian—it makes no difference. Keep one thing in mind: whenever we experience anything, the experience splits into two: the seen and the seer. If you grasp the seen, you miss. If you drown in the seer, you arrive.

“I had thought the ruins of love were all in vain;
They turned out to be towns I had taken for desolations.”

And you have never truly looked within—you think, “What could be there? What’s inside?” In solitude you feel a void. Left alone, the mind won’t settle. You say, “Someone is needed, someone else—a friend.” Alone, you at once grow bored—why? You feel empty, hollow, as if something is missing. You do not know yourself. You do not know that the treasure of treasures lies within you. The whole Divine is present within you.

“I had thought the ruins of love were all in vain;
They turned out to be towns I had taken for desolations.
I had taken every glance as too heavy for a tender nature;
It was right before my eyes—yet how could I understand?
Little did I know He himself would emerge as an equal partner;
I had taken every heartbeat to be my own tale.
Life turned out to be exam upon exam unending;
I had thought life to be nothing but stories.
The chronicle of my own being stood before me,
Which till today I had taken for the tales of others.”

What you have taken as “the other” is not other. But since you do not yet know yourself, the other appears as other. When you come to know yourself, the other is no longer other.

“The chronicle of my own being stood before me,
Which till today I had taken for the tales of others.”

When you see Vishnu, see Krishna, see Rama, it is because you do not yet know yourself, and so they appear as the beyond. When self-recognition happens, you will be astonished: they are your own waves! Then there is no difference. Then there is only One. Then there is no distinction between “I” and “Thou.” But first the “I” must be recognized; you must go deep into this “I.” Without knowing the depth of this “I,” no one has ever become acquainted with God, nor can anyone.

And “the other” seems easier. You loved a friend, you loved a wife, a husband, a son—these were all love of the other. Then, with the same arithmetic of “other,” you loved God. So, just as the friend, husband, wife were “other,” you made God the “other” too—Vishnu, Krishna, Rama. But it is the same story; there has been no transformation. You put Rama in the wife’s place, Krishna in the husband’s place—where is the difference? None at all. The real revolution happens when “the other” is replaced by “the self.” Then transformation. Then the eyes turn. Then you return toward home. Then the gaze that moved outward turns inward. The inner journey begins.

“We have no need of Khizr, nor any guide;
We walk keeping far from every footprint.”

We have no relation with any path-leader, with any prophet.

“We have no need of Khizr, nor any guide;
We walk keeping far from every footprint.”

And many footprints have been stamped on the current of time—so many Buddhas have walked! Do not get entangled in worshiping their footprints.

“We are becoming intimate with the call of the heart;
Perhaps we may be quickened by the sound of Your steps.”

Become familiar with the inner voice.

“We are becoming intimate with the call of the heart—
And then perhaps you will even recognize the sound of the Divine’s footfall,
For the voice within you is the sound of His steps.”

“O intoxicated pride of beauty, have you any idea
In how many ways we lay ourselves at your feet!
Who is this that has spread over heart and eyes today
So that in our own gaze we seem strangers to ourselves?”

And a miracle happens. When you become acquainted with yourself, you will be amazed that what you had till now taken as “I” is not you. The name you had taken for “I,” the form you had taken for “I,” the body you had taken for “I,” the mind you had taken for “I”—none of that is you. That was your personality, the outer shell, the clothing, the garments. Within all that, hidden, you are a ray of light. The name of that luminous ray is God.

He is within everyone. But the very first recognition must be of the one within, because there you are nearest to the temple. There is nowhere to go. Do not stretch out a begging bowl. You are an emperor; do not become a beggar! Neither before Krishna nor before Rama. For Rama and Krishna are present within you. This will sound very paradoxical, but I want to tell you—remember it well: if you clutch at Rama and Krishna, you will never find Rama and Krishna. Drop Rama and Krishna; grasp yourself. And in that very grasping, Rama will be found, Krishna will be found.

There is only one anguish: that a human being cannot become what he was born to be. There is only one anguish: that the seed remains a seed and does not bloom like a flower; that it cannot scatter its fragrance to the infinite winds; cannot converse with the moon and stars; cannot offer its colors to the sky; cannot be expressed. If the poem within the poet cannot be revealed—anguish. If the painter cannot paint—anguish. If the dancer cannot dance—if chains lie on his feet—anguish. Anguish means only this: that what we are meant to be—our innate nature and destiny—does not come to fruition, and we are forced to be something else. Then anguish is born. Then melancholy gathers over life.

And all those countless people you see burdened with sorrow, living in a kind of hell—the reason is only this: each has come carrying the seed of becoming the Divine, and ends up as some little, trifling thing. Someone becomes a doctor, someone an engineer, someone a shopkeeper. One who has come to become the Divine—if he becomes a shopkeeper, how can there be fulfillment? The pain will remain. Just think: one who came to be an emperor, if he wanders the roads begging—imagine his suffering! Each person is on a journey whose end is to become divine. Nothing less satisfies. Nothing less fulfills. Nothing less will even let you stop—you will have to come again and again, birth after birth, until you experience your own divinity.

And in returning again and again, there is anguish.

Like a student who fails repeatedly and is sent back to the same school again and again—feel his pain. Each time a new year begins—and the same school again! So too, each time a new life begins: the same lessons, the same wanderings, the same web of anxieties, the same business, the same ocean of becoming.

These days of spring did not suit us even now—
the buds did open, but opening, could not smile.

Man is that moth of the lamp of wisdom—
who lives in the light yet cannot attain the light.

Who knows, alas, what befell those tears—
that came from the heart to the eye, yet could not reach the lashes.

What gain is there, dying, of everlasting life—
for those who, living, could not reach the station of life?

Blessed the purity of love, that the happenings of the world
could not erase—even my footprints, let alone you.

How can the joy of arrival be the lot of those
whose feet cannot even stagger on the path of seeking?

If he shrinks, man is but a handful of dust;
if he expands, the vastness of the two worlds cannot contain him.

If a human being remains as he is—just a handful of dust. If he can expand, then even this whole sky will feel small. That is the pain. You were born to be the sky, and you have remained little courtyards—crooked, cramped, narrow. You were given wings to befriend the moon and stars, and you lie imprisoned in jails. And the irony—the great satire, the paradox—is that in most prisons the keys to the locks are in someone else’s hands; but the prison you are in—you are the prison, you are the lock, you are the one who locks it, and you are the key. There is no one there except you; the whole play is yours. The moment you want, you can walk out—no one is stopping you; there is no guard on watch. The drama you are putting on is a monologue.

Have you ever seen a “monologue”? One person does all the parts. Your drama is exactly like that—a monologue. One person does everything.

Some days ago, an artist came to me. He was skilled at monologue. He described a small scene: with his mouth he makes the sound of a horse-cart—clip-clop, clip-clop—the cart’s wheels, the horse’s hooves. He creates the whole scene alive: the crack of the whip, the horse’s neigh, the driver’s voice, the passenger’s voice—all done by him alone. When the passenger speaks, he speaks in one tone; when he speaks as the driver, another; when he shouts at passersby, one way; and when someone on the road protests, “Brother, will you kill me?”—another way. There is no one there—he is alone, doing everything.

When he showed me this, I asked, “Did you understand anything from it?” He said, “What?” I said, “This is your life; this is everyone’s life. Here you are the playwright, you are the characters, you are the audience, you are the director—everything is you.”

If he shrinks, man is but a handful of dust;
if he expands, the vastness of the two worlds cannot contain him.

Think a little: one who was born to be the sky—if he remains a small courtyard, if there is no anguish, what else would there be?

These days of spring did not suit us even now—
the buds did open, but opening, could not smile.

Life moves on again! Who knows how many times life has come and gone. How many springs came and went. This time, too, spring passed; again life begins to slip away. This is why children do not seem anguished. Children are full of hope; they think, “This time it will happen.” They are filled with grand imaginings, with great longings. As they grow up, life’s reality starts to show. By thirty or thirty-five it begins to dawn on one: this season too is gone; nothing could happen; missed again; the arrow has left the bow, it cannot be recalled; the target is nowhere in sight.

These days of spring did not suit us even now—
the buds did open, but opening, could not smile.

Then one must die without a smile. Only the awakened ones die smiling. Otherwise the bud opens, but if after opening it cannot smile—then what opening is that? What blossom is that? Only when laughter ripples across the sky is there true blossoming.

Man is that moth of the lamp of wisdom
who lives in the light, yet cannot attain the light.

Just think: man’s state is like that moth; the lamp isn’t far—he lives in the light, yet cannot reach the flame. The Divine is within arm’s reach, and we go on missing. Peace is our very nature, our birthright—and we go on missing. Music is strung across the harp of our heart, yet we do not pluck it. So near, and yet so far; so close, and yet such distance.

Man is that moth of the lamp of wisdom
who lives in the light, yet cannot attain the light.

Therefore there is anguish, therefore there is pain: everything feels so close that “now I’ll get it, now I’ll get it—got it, got it”—and still, we miss again and again. Some fundamental mistake keeps happening. What is within, we seek without; what has to be found, we look for where no one has ever found it, nor can. This is the anguish.

Who knows, alas, what befell those tears—
that came from the heart to the eye, yet could not reach the lashes.

Reflect a little on those tears:

Who knows, alas, what befell those tears—
that came from the heart to the eye, yet could not reach the lashes.

They somehow left the heart, even reached the eye—but could not reach the lids; they got stuck. Such is man’s condition. He is stuck at the very edge of the Divine. One step more—just one step—and the journey is complete. But that one step cannot be taken. One more leap, and the moth would meet the flame and become flame—but that one leap doesn’t happen. A thousand obstacles stand before us—desires, cravings, thoughts like a Himalaya in between. Then people begin to think, “Fine, if we didn’t find the Divine in life, we will find it after death.” Thus we console ourselves.

That is why your scriptures write: if not here, no matter—after death it will be found. At the moment of dying we’ll take God’s Name; we’ll sip Ganges water; we’ll turn on our side in Kashi; we’ll die listening to the Gita; we’ll donate alms as we die; we’ll make some last-minute arrangements. But do not remain in this delusion.

What gain is there, dying, of everlasting life—
for those who, living, could not reach the station of life?

If you could not find it while living, will you find it after death? And you fall into this madness! If you want to find, use life. If you want to find, dedicate your life. If you want to find, stake your life. It is not so cheap that you will get it by dying. We have invented such cheap tricks! “We’ll do a pilgrimage; we’ll perform the Haj.” What have Kashi and Prayag and the Haj to do with it? Those who live forever in Prayag—do you think they have attained the Divine? And you will go for two days during the Kumbh fair and attain it? And those who live right by the Kaaba—do you think they will all go to heaven? If they don’t—born there, die there—will you go to heaven by staying four days? Whom are you deceiving? In the name of religion man has deceived himself in so many ways.

It won’t do. These are clevernesses, crafty calculations. The Divine is found by those who dare to be intoxicated. This is not the talk of sober accountants; it belongs to the revelers.

How can the joy of arrival be the lot of those
whose feet cannot even stagger on the path of seeking?

Be a little intoxicated; sway a little; dance a little. Let ecstasy descend—that is the real essence. Sway in bliss. Give thanks for what has been given. And what has been given is ample—far beyond your capacity. Your cup is very small, and an ocean has poured upon you. Dance, hum—I want to give you a religion of celebration—then your anguish will vanish.

Those who do not understand life, who do not know death—
their living is merely living, their dying merely dying.

Be so intoxicated that you know neither life nor death. Be so intoxicated that life and death are the same. Be so intoxicated that when death comes, it finds you dancing. Be so intoxicated that even death cannot sadden you. Let your song go on sounding. If at the moment of death your song is still resounding, you have won. You have defeated death.

Those who do not understand life, who do not know death—
their living is merely living, their dying merely dying.

A thousand lives be sacrificed to the life of the river—
I cannot bear to die the death of the shore.

Do not die on the shores of life. Die in the storms. Accept life’s challenge. Life brings many challenges. Those who do not accept them become sad, defeated, impoverished. Accept the challenge: each one awakens what sleeps within you, each one brings out what is unmanifest.

A thousand lives be sacrificed to the life of the river—
pour them all out into the tempest.
I cannot bear to die the death of the shore.

Do not die on the shore. The shore is safe, granted; convenient, granted—but convenience and safety are the signs of a grave. Life is inherently unsafe. Therefore I do not tell my sannyasins to run away and hide in Himalayan caves. I do not tell my sannyasins to be escapees.

I cannot bear to die the death of the shore;
a thousand lives be sacrificed to the life of the river.

This world is storm-filled. If the Divine has given this world, there is a meaning: whoever accepts its challenge will awaken. Whoever accepts its challenge will become whole. Whoever accepts its challenge will become tempered steel. The soul will be born within him. Thus is the soul born. The world is the great experiment for birthing the soul.

A hint of the footfall—like that delicate, beloved tread—
God’s grace be upon you, O heart; be still a while.

And if you become accustomed to living amid storms, if you begin to take life and death as play, it will not be long—the sound of His steps will come near; you will begin to hear His approach.

There is one anguish: to die shrunken. And there is one joy—the great joy: to expand and keep expanding.

The word “Brahman” means expansion—what goes on expanding is Brahman. And one who knows the art of expanding is a brahmin. Your so-called brahmins are very contracted people; it is hard to find people more cramped than they. They live very carefully, cautiously, shrinking away—lest someone touch them, lest the shadow of an “untouchable” fall upon them. Is that any life? Expand, become vast.

So vast that all can be contained in you. That vastness is Brahman; the art of that vastness is religion.

There is one anguish: that the seed remains a seed. And there is samadhi: that the seed becomes a flower—that the golden lotus blooms within you. It can bloom. But it does not bloom in the lives of escapees. Life’s challenge is to be accepted with supreme joy. Live in life and do not get lost in it. Live in life and remain a witness. Let life remain nothing more than a play. Then death too is nothing more than a play.

The moment the eyes meet, dedicate the heart to surrender and consent—
bring the end to the very place where you made the beginning.

Where the beginning is, there is the end. Where we came from, there we must arrive. From this vastness we have come, into this vastness we must dissolve. These dreams in between are what have beguiled you.

Let my heart be offered to fidelity, my life be the oblation to ordeal—
in love it is necessary to annihilate whatever one is.

In love it is necessary to annihilate whatever one is. Whatever you have—whatever you are—good or bad, poor or rich—offer it to the Vast. Break down the courtyard walls. Spread out.

The garden is far, the nest in ruins, these broken wings—
what will become of me, even if the hunter sets me free?

But your condition is bad. Your condition is this: the garden is far… the home is wrecked… the wings are broken. And you have broken your own wings. Someone became a Hindu, someone a Muslim—wings broken. Someone a brahmin, someone a shudra—wings broken. You have bound yourself in countless limits. As many limits, so many shattered feathers.

The garden far, the nest in ruins, these broken wings—
what will become of me, even if the hunter sets me free?

Then fear arises: even if today the hunter frees me from this cage, what will become of me? How will I fly? The wings are broken! That is why people fear freedom. The word “freedom” unnerves. People speak of becoming free, of attaining liberation—but perhaps they do not know what they are saying. They speak of moksha, yet clutch their chains. If you want liberation, give some proof of it! If you want freedom, show some signs of letting go of chains! But you grip the chains so tightly and keep shouting that you want liberation. If you want to be free, enter the process gradually. Drop the chains of Hindu and Muslim and Christian. Drop the chains of brahmin and shudra and kshatriya and vaishya. Drop the chains of Indian and Pakistani. Drop the chains. Break the boundaries. The more boundless you can be, the better.

But how strange people are; how strange this world is! Just a few days ago a government order arrived at this ashram: this ashram cannot be considered a religious place. Why? The reason given: one can be considered “religious” only if one adheres to some sect. If you are Hindu—religious; Muslim—religious; Christian—religious. The government is not willing to recognize this ashram as a religious institution because here there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Parsis, Jews—what kind of religion is this?

Do you see the joke?

The government is ready to call narrow sectarianism “religion,” but not vastness. If the Hindu is religious, if the Muslim is religious, if the Christian is religious—then where all three come together, will there be triple religion or less? How would it be less? If God is in the mosque, in the temple, in the church, in the gurdwara—if we make a temple whose one door is a gurdwara, one door a mosque, one door a temple, one door a church—then God will not be there? That is your government’s logic! What kind of God would be there! And I tell you: God is precisely where all temples have merged; where all sects have dissolved and faded.

If this ashram cannot be considered religious, then what place will you call religious? And here no contrived program is being conducted to “unify” anyone—this union is happening naturally. We do not sit and chant, “Allah and Ishwar are one, may God grant good sense to all.” We do not indulge in such babble. Whoever comes here simply forgets distinctions; comes to understand that the truth is one. No one here is preaching, “Brother, you Hindu and you Muslim—become one.” Where “making one” is being talked about, two have already been accepted. We do not accept two at all. No one is concerned here with making anyone one. Whoever comes here, in this air soon realizes that considering oneself separate is the sign of foolishness, of ignorance. No one asks who is Hindu, who Muslim, who Christian. To the government, this place does not appear religious. Therefore the facilities they grant to religious places, they are not willing to grant to this ashram.

See the dishonesty!

And this from those who sit at Rajghat chanting “Allah-Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan!” On Gandhi’s death anniversary they sit at Rajghat spinning the wheel; the Quran is read there, the Vedas are read there, the Gita is recited—and this is their statement: this place is not religious. Such hypocrisy runs in this world. Such tricksters sit on high chairs whose whole work is deception. They invoke Gandhi’s name because it brings votes—otherwise they have no concern with Gandhi.

And Gandhi himself never had any true purpose in “uniting” Hindu and Muslim—this too was political maneuvering. It did not work, because Jinnah was equally skillful and shrewd—a politician of the same order. A bullet struck Mahatma Gandhi—he had said all his life, “Allah and Ishwar are one”—but when the bullet struck, the name that arose was “Hey Ram!” “Allah” did not arise. Why? Why did “Ram” arise? Inside, the Hindu-feeling was seated. He called the Gita “mother,” but not the Quran “father.” Had he called the Quran “father,” the Hindus would have been angry: “This is too much—the Gita as mother and the Quran as father!” There would have been a fight. So Gandhi-ji calls the Gita mother, but not the Quran father; and in the Quran he praises only those verses that agree with the Gita, leaving aside those opposed. All politics.

Those who truly want to be religious must rise above these political stratagems. I want to tell you: religion is the art of expansion—such expansion that even the whole sky proves small; you gather all into yourself.

Your anguish is only this: you have become limited, narrow. Your joy will be only this: become vast. Break boundaries, break narrowness. Religion has no adjective—neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. Religion is that by which the whole cosmos is sustained. If religion is Hindu, who will sustain the Muslim? If religion is Christian, who will sustain the Hindu? And if religion belongs only to man, who will care for the trees? And if religion belongs only to trees, who will care for the animals? That primal basis by which all existence is sustained—that is religion. Here we are trying to live that primal basis. And the government says this place cannot be recognized as religious!

Bhagwandas! Meditation pours a wine into the heart. An auspicious sign has happened. You began to sway, you began to feel intoxicated. Embrace it. It seems there is still a little hesitation in your mind about accepting it. You are a bit timid, a little afraid. You are doubtful—did what happened happen rightly or not? Am I perhaps going mad?

When the first incident of meditation happens, it does feel as if one has gone mad.

Who knows what they kept thinking, endlessly, in their hearts,
their heads bowed a long while over my funeral bier.
Among them lay hidden someone’s secret of love—
whose tears, having risen to the eyelashes, had already dried.
The boundary of the Beloved’s lane begins exactly there
where your steps start to stagger.

The Beloved’s domain begins where the feet begin to wobble.

Your feet have wobbled. Good! With it, some restlessness will also come, because now you will not be able to live in the old, ordinary way. But this is only a transitional period. Don’t be afraid; dive into meditation! In the beginning the feet stagger; then slowly, slowly, slowly the feet again become steady. The primary stage of meditation is ecstasy; the final stage is supreme peace. If you keep moving ahead, this swaying will gradually dissolve on its own.

Think of it like this: give wine to someone new, and he sways, dances, jumps, falls in the street. These are not the signs of old drinkers. An old drinker—you wouldn’t even know he has drunk.

I knew a drunk. His wife said to me, “Please explain to my husband—he comes to you—tell him to stop drinking.” I said, “You’ve come so many times; you never told me this before.” She said, “I had no idea. We’ve been married two years. But one day he came home without drinking—then I found out! Until then I had thought that was simply his natural way. When he came home without drinking, I understood.”

Once someone is seasoned in drinking, the feet no longer stagger. It is the beginners who fall in the road—the new learners who have just acquired the taste.

Good, the beginning has happened! But keep two things in mind. One, don’t be afraid; otherwise you’ll stop and become nervous. And if you get frightened and stop, a precious opportunity will slip from your hands just as it was arriving. Second, remember: this is not the end of meditation—that you go on swaying all your life! Otherwise you’ll go astray. Then you must gather yourself.

Continue the meditation. Just as one day the swaying came, one day suddenly you will find a hush has descended, everything has steadied, everything has become balanced. And when meditation becomes balanced—when one has drunk and sits there, yet no one has the slightest inkling that this person has drunk—then know the right state has come. Meera’s dance is the beginning of meditation; Buddha sitting under the tree like a silent stone statue is the culmination. But keep going—the journey must continue.

All are auspicious signs. When the energy of meditation first takes hold, much of your power is absorbed into that energy. So the body begins to feel a little weak. As meditation settles, as its flame becomes unwavering, the body will become strong again—and stronger than before.

These are transitional phases. When someone starts new exercise, the body gets tired; you feel weary the whole day, because at first the exercise only takes energy—it doesn’t yet give. But if you continue, slowly it starts giving back. Meditation is exercise of the inner being. For now your energy is going into meditation—you sway, you dance; that expenditure leaves you with a shortfall. So you find a slight weakness in ordinary life. You can’t speak loudly. If some hard work is needed, you get tired. But these are initial symptoms. If you keep going, very soon you will find everything has settled again.

And then, what is the need to speak loudly anyway? Good. The more the useless things fall away, the better. You won’t be able to abuse. You won’t be able to be angry. Hatred and jealousy will feel tiring. That is good.

The first shock has come to you. And the first shock is like a bolt of lightning—everything looks scattered. I can understand your difficulty.

Be patient! Keep the meditation going; don’t stop. What has been stirred by meditation will be calmed by meditation alone.

And secondly, do one active meditation and one passive meditation. In the morning, an active meditation; in the evening, a passive meditation—Vipassana or Nadabrahma. And gradually, as the mind begins to quieten, reduce the active and increase the passive. Over a period of six to nine months, slowly drop the active and keep only the passive. All your energy will return! All your balance will come back! And with a new light, a new joy, a new intoxication.

Desires are arising in the mind now; they will continue to arise. They don’t go quickly—they are of many lifetimes. But if the ray of meditation has begun to shine, this darkness will not persist for long. These passions will also pass. Put your energy into meditation, and toward the passions keep only a neutral attitude. Don’t fight. Don’t quarrel. Don’t try to force them away. If you try to push them out, it will take very long. Ignore them. Just note: fine—lust has arisen, greed has arisen, jealousy has arisen. You have noticed it; that is enough. Neither enter into it nor fight with it. Neither follow it nor flee from it. Simply acknowledge: all right. That’s all. And stay engaged in your work of meditation.

Let the ordinary process of life continue. Do not stop it; otherwise there will be danger. If, thinking there is weakness now, you stop everything else and only meditate, you will become crippled. After eight or ten months it will be difficult to return to work. So keep working. Even if there is difficulty, keep going. Work must continue. There is no question of running away from the world. Many times the mind will want to escape, because escaping feels convenient—everything erased, all hassles dropped, all responsibility gone. I do not want to relieve you of responsibility. Keep all responsibility accepted, keep all your work going; one active meditation in the morning, one passive in the evening. Little by little drop the active, deepen the passive. Finally, after nine months, tell me when only the passive remains and all has become quiet.

Everything will certainly become quiet. This happens here to everyone. Nothing new.

Enough for today.