Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #7

The true monk lives in the world, yet his remembrance is fastened to the Divine. A small thing. The saints speak in small, straight, clear, simple words. You’ve seen a cow going to the forest; have you seen how, again and again, she turns to look toward home? Even while grazing in the jungle she sometimes lowes. The memory of home takes hold of her. You, meanwhile, have wandered so far into the world you no longer remember home at all. You keep grazing on grass and weeds—and truly, in the world there is nothing of greater worth than this grass and weeds—but you have lost yourself in it, lost yourself in trash and rubble. The memory of home is gone. If that memory returns, the thread of revolution will be tied in your life.

Jagjivan says: Grasp the knack; the sage lives in the world. This is the device. This is the way of the sage’s life, his very style. Like the cow that grazes in the jungle: only the body is in the wild—her life-breath remains tied to home. Her heart is settled at home; she has left her heart there. So it is with a sage: he gets up and sits down in the marketplace, he works and moves in the world, yet moment to moment, day and night, waking and sleeping, his breath’s thread remains knotted to home. The remembrance of the Beloved abides. The memory of the Lover burns within like a steady flame. This is the knack; this is yoga. It is only this. Do this much and all is done; nothing else remains.

There’s no need to run away to the forest. For if the Divine doesn’t arise in your remembrance here, how will it arise there? Where would you go that is not the forest? You’ll go to the cremation ground? That won’t make practice happen. The marketplace itself is a cremation ground—open your eyes a little! Everyone there is ready to die. And what is a cremation ground? The place where all die—that’s all it means. Here too everyone sits in rows, waiting for their turn. Whose carriage will arrive when? Whose call will come when? He will go. Every day you bid people farewell. And where would you go? What will happen by going to the cremation ground? If you cannot see the cremation ground in the bazaar, you will set up a bazaar even in the cremation ground.

Where is the marketplace? Where is the world?

There’s no need to abandon the small; wake up to the vast. This is the device. This is the foundation of true practice. Don’t bother about throwing away the futile—remember the meaningful. Who has ever been able to discard darkness? You have to light a lamp, and darkness slips away on its own. Yet some hug darkness to their chests. And to such chests nothing can stick, because darkness has no existence. Some sit with fists clenched around darkness. Their fists are empty. If darkness were something, a fist could close around it! Some have filled their safes with darkness, deposited darkness in banks. They delude themselves. Darkness is not. Darkness is absence. You cannot accumulate a wealth of absence.

Then, when a man grows weary of clenching his fists around darkness and failing again and again, one day he tries to run away from darkness. But where will you run? If your eyes are blind, wherever you go there will be darkness. Darkness resides in your blindness. Even if a Buddha sits at your side, he abides in the light, but you remain in darkness. It is not a question of place, it is a question of your state. You keep changing places. You say: the market is too entangling, family life too troublesome—I will go to an ashram and sit there. The complications are within you. The seed-thread of trouble is within you.

I’ve heard of a man who was very hot-tempered. But he believed his wife provoked him to anger; customers provoked him; his children, his neighbors provoked him. He gave up the world—which is the usual monk’s way, not the true sage’s—he renounced and went to the forest. He sat beneath a tree thinking, now no trouble will arise. A crow came and dropped its droppings on him! He snatched up a stone and ran after the crow shouting, Who do you think you are? Hurling abuses, his face flushed red with rage. Then it struck him: what am I doing?

The source of anger is within. Anything can become the occasion. Any pretext will do.

People even get angry at lifeless things. You’ve seen it: the fountain pen stops writing—bang! you slam it down. Is there any sense in that? The pen wasn’t plotting to torture you. It’s your own pen! But the angry man will rage at anything. He bangs the door as if life dwelt in it! He flings the shoe as though it had feelings. People get angry at things. Not only little children—old men too. A small child bumps into the table and gets furious, punches the table. You laugh at the child, but are you grown? Have you really matured? What will running away do? Wake up! Learn the knack! Here is the device—

The cow goes out to the forest; her calf remains at home.
She grazes on grass, but her mind stays with her child.
Grasp the knack—the sage lives in the world.

Those who understand from such a small incident remain in this very world. For the forest too is within the world. The Himalaya is within the world. Wherever you are, it is the world. But there is a way to live here such that only the body is here, and the life-breath is in the Divine. When the life-breath abides in the Divine, that is called prayer.

The body belongs to the world and will remain in the world. If you die in the bazaar, the body will fall to dust and return to dust; if you die on the Himalaya, it will fall to dust and return to dust. The body is earth; wherever it falls, it falls into earth and dissolves. The question is to recognize within yourself that which is not earth, and to link it to That which is immortal. Within you is a drop of nectar; the Divine is the ocean of nectar. Let this drop be filled with the memory of the ocean—then revolution happens! Then there is no sorrow in your life. No anguish, no anxiety—because you are no longer separate.

Sorrow, anxiety, anguish are byproducts of separateness. You have assumed yourself to be separate from the Divine; hence anxiety, hence trouble, hence entanglement. The moment you know, I am connected to That, all worry vanishes. What worry remains? If you are linked to the Divine, the Divine is taking care—why should you worry? Like a small child who places his hand in his father’s hand. Then the child has no worry. They may both be wandering in a forest; a lion may roar—yet the child is not at all anxious. His hand is in his father’s hand! The father may be worried, distressed—what to do now, our lives are in danger! But the child is carefree, chasing butterflies, plucking flowers by the path, gathering colored stones—he has no worry. Yes—let the father’s hand slip, let him be lost; the child looks around and does not find the father—no sorrow has yet befallen him, but the very not-finding seizes him with terrible anxiety and fear. Such is your condition.

You have let go of that Hand; when your hand is in that Hand, there is no worry—one lives weightless. That weightlessness is called sainthood. Grasp the knack—the sage lives in the world!

None is greater than the sage.

None is greater than the true sage. Why? Because he is joined to the Great. No one is greater than the true sage, because the true sage has erased himself. Through him the Divine peeks out. No person remains—through him the Whole speaks and moves. No drop remains—the ocean is there. In this world, the greatest are those who have dissolved. The smallest are those who are densely condensed as a me.

Ego is the smallest thing in this world. Egolessness is the greatest. But you will not become egoless by your own effort. There is no way to will yourself into egolessness. Try to be egoless on your own and the ego of egolessness will arrive. You may hold your character tightly; take vows and fasts; not lie, not sin, not steal, not cheat, not drink, not eat meat—you may manage yourself on every side, build your character—but within that character ego will grow strong: I have done it! My character! My luminous character! My humility! See my propriety, my virtue! The I will continue to strengthen. You will not get out of this I.

Only one comes out of this I: the one who lays himself at the feet of the Divine. Who says, What can I do? Whatever I do goes wrong. Whatever I do undoes itself. The very doing of mine is the error.

Note the difference.

You have always been told—this is moral education: Be good! Abandon evil! Adopt virtuous conduct! The teaching isn’t bad; it sounds right: do not steal, do not cheat, do not lie, do not harm! But this is not religion, this is not dharma. It is morality. It will make a respectable person—but not a saint.

The respectable man is the opposite of the scoundrel. The scoundrel is dangerous, a nuisance to society. The respectable man is convenient for society. Society wants everyone to be respectable so that work and business run smoothly.

But sainthood is something else. Sainthood does not mean respectability. To be respectable, there is no need to believe in God. Atheists can be respectable. Often they are more respectable than believers. After all, in Russia and China there are millions of atheists. They are upright. Not believing in God does not automatically make one disreputable. Often it happens that belief in God gives one the convenience of being disreputable: he thinks, we’ll go and bathe in the Ganga once and all sins will be washed. Do it now—while the river flows, wash your hands in the running Ganga, then we’ll see. Later we’ll have the fire sacrifices performed. At death we’ll chant Rama’s name. And He is compassionate! The great Compassionate One—He has ferried the unfit across, made the lame climb mountains, made the deaf hear, the blind see—so in the end we’ll grab His support, call His name!

The theist has a convenience: commit sin and also have a way out of sin. The atheist has no such convenience. He knows: what I’ve done, I’ve done. If it is good, it’s me; if it is bad, it’s me. But understand this: the atheist can be free of vice, but he cannot be free of ego. Freedom from ego is possible only in supreme theism. The false believer too is not free of ego. At most he becomes a man of character. But his character is all on the surface; within, the ego burns, blazing. Hence those who frequent temples often appear more egotistical. One who has fasted once or twice thinks, those who haven’t fasted are all bound for hell. One who chants a mantra a few times a day thinks, my heaven is assured! He feels pity for others: poor, miserable souls—they will wander and burn in hells!

Your parrot-like mantra recitation only feeds your ego; nothing else is happening. True theism is something else. Its basic rule is: nothing can happen by my doing. Even when I attempt the good, it turns bad. Even my virtue becomes vice. The error is in my hand. The error is in my being. My being separate from You is the source of all my errors. So long as I remain separate, even if I go on pilgrimages, perform meritorious deeds, protect my character—nothing will be protected. In the end, only my ego will become strong—and ego is what drowns, ego is hell.

Then what shall I do? You do! I step aside. I will not come between You and me. I surrender everything to You. I will keep Your remembrance. I will remember You wholly; not for a single instant will I forget. Not only waking—sleeping too, day and night—Your remembrance will resound in my heart. The rest, You do! And the rest happens by itself. For the moment ego dissolves, the foundation of sin collapses. And the moment ego dissolves, the very sense of being virtuous dissolves too. In that state of supreme emptiness, the Full descends. Then the person is merely a hollow reed. Whatever song the Divine plays, is played.

None is greater than the sage! Which is to say: no one is greater than the true sage because the sage has vanished. Mind this condition: saying no one is greater than the sage does not mean the sage is great. It means the sage is not. So who could be greater than him!

Jesus said: Blessed are the last, for they shall be first in my Father’s kingdom. Who are the last? Those who are empty. Those who have no claim. No proclamation of I.

None is greater than the sage—because there is no sage; only the Divine speaks within him.

When Krishna says to Arjuna: Surrender unto Me alone—do you think Krishna is asking Arjuna to surrender to Krishna as a person? You will go wrong. That is exactly how Krishna-devotees have understood it: Krishna is saying, Surrender to me. The confusion is due to language. It is a compulsion. Krishna too has to use the word I. Without it, our language does not stand. Our language rests upon the I; it is the extension of ego. If one must speak in our language, it must be spoken as we speak. To explain to Arjuna, Krishna must use Arjuna’s language. In that language, I–Thou is unavoidable. So Krishna says: Surrender unto Me alone.

But what is the real meaning? There is no Krishna there—there the Divine sits in His fullness. Krishna is gone. Only by being gone has Godhood appeared. Darkness has vanished. Arjuna cannot yet see the light; his eyes are shut. But the light stands before him. To Arjuna it appears dark. From the light comes the call: Surrender unto Me alone. The light calls, Surrender to me. Arjuna will think the dark is calling, Surrender to me—because his eyes are closed; he does not see the light, he hears a voice from darkness. Arjuna hesitates, worries, feels shocked: Krishna is my friend, my childhood companion, my charioteer in battle—and he is telling me to surrender to him?

So he says, First show me your cosmic form. What are you saying? What are these words? First show me the Cosmic. He cannot see it. Krishna is already in the Cosmic, but Arjuna has no eyes to see. So the story is beautiful: Krishna gives him divine sight. He gives him a new eye. A new way of seeing. A new arrangement of seeing. This is discipleship: a new eye to see, a new arrangement, a new way; a new process of thought, a new chain of reasoning.

And when Arjuna’s eye opens a little, he is terrified—fear grips him. The Vast appears! The Infinite appears! In boundaries, one feels safe. The boundless? It is as if one begins to fall into the bottomless. He panics, his hairs stand on end; he cries, Enough, enough—return! Return to your gentle form! My friend, return to your familiar form! Come back within your limits. Appear to me as I have always seen you: that gentle form—of a friend, bound in a body—bounded.

When the disciple opens his eye, he always sees the boundless in the Master—and he is always afraid. What transpired between Arjuna and Krishna happens again and again between every Master and every disciple. And whenever the Vast appears, the disciple is frightened. He pleads: return to your gentle form—that was endearing.

Krishna says: Surrender unto Me alone. What an announcement of courage! Having abandoned all dharmas, come take refuge in the One. What doctrines and scriptures are you tangled in? I stand before you! The Teacher stands before you, and you are tangled in scriptures! The very Living Dharma is present, and you are entangled in dead dharmas! Abandon all dharmas—come into my refuge! But understand: when Krishna says, come into my refuge, he is not saying, come into Krishna’s refuge. There is no Krishna. Krishna has gone. He is now a hollow reed. You will only see the reed; you cannot see the lips upon which that reed rests. Those lips belong to the Vast—they will be seen only when you too become a hollow reed. Not before. Until you vanish, you cannot see the Master’s emptiness.

None is greater than the sage! No one is greater than the sage because the sage is not. This is his greatness, his vastness, his immensity. Because he has become zero. Zero is the greatest number. Zero is the first and the last. All numbers are in between. There is nothing smaller than zero, nothing greater than zero. Zero is great precisely because it is the smallest.

Understand this mathematics well; the one who misses this will not grasp spirituality.

Hence Jesus says, The last are the first. Zero is last, zero is first. Disappear so that you can be. Lose yourself so that you are found. When the drop merges into the ocean, it becomes the ocean. When the seed dies in the earth, it becomes the tree. Learn the art of dying. Religion is the art of dying. Through the art of dying, nectar is found.

None is greater than the sage. He repeats what Rama says.

What Rama says, the sage conveys. The sage does not speak from himself; there remains no speaker within him. He says only what Rama whispers in his ear. Whatever the Divine wants to speak, He speaks through him. The sage has nothing left to say on his own. The sage is silent. Hence another name for sage is muni—one who is silent. The sage does not speak now. When the Divine speaks, words pour forth; when He does not, the sage remains in silence.

No one is greater than the sage. His words are nectar—because they do not arise from him. That is why we have said the Vedas are apauruṣeya—not composed by man. Don’t misunderstand it to mean that some God filled a Parker pen with ink and wrote the Vedas. It means the seers had disappeared as persons. They no longer had an independent existence. They opened the door. If the Divine flowed, they allowed the flow; if not, they were content. There was no insistence left in them. In such a state of non-insistence, the Divine flows. His stream slowly begins to run. The words that arise then do not belong to those through whom they arose. Hence we say, apauruṣeya—as though the Divine Himself wrote, as though He Himself spoke.

That is why the Quran is called ilham—Revelation, Proclamation. Muhammad is only the excuse, the messenger. This is what prophet means: messenger, bearer of the letter. The letter belongs to the Divine; He Himself writes it, addressing His beloveds; and He sends it through the hand of one who has become as a blank page. For only on a blank page can something be written. As long as your mind bears its own scribblings, the Divine will write nothing; you are already full—how can anything more be written? When you write a letter, you choose clean, pure, blank paper. Where hearts have become blank—where all the scribbles and crooks of ego are erased, where the very alphabet of ego is forgotten—through those the Divine manifests. Sometimes as the Gita, sometimes as the Quran—He appears in many ways.

Then why is there a difference between Gita and Quran? People ask: if the Divine spoke through both, why this difference?

The difference is not because of the Divine. The difference arises because of those to whom He spoke. The physician writes prescriptions by seeing the patient. With the same hand he writes one thing for a TB patient, another for a cancer patient, yet another for a cold. If there are a thousand patients, he writes a thousand prescriptions. The Quran is a prescription, the Gita is a prescription. The physician is one, the author is one—but the patients are many. The difference does not arise because the Speaker changes. Do not think one God speaks through Krishna and a different God through Muhammad. God is one, the Speaker is one—but the patients’ diseases differ.

Arjuna’s malady is different. He is aristocratic, cultured, refined—of the highest character and culture of his time. To speak to him requires one manner. Those whom Muhammad addressed were unlettered, nomadic—ignorant of culture, living by killing and being killed, thieving and looting. If you speak to them in the language of the Gita, only your stupidity will be proved. One must speak in their language, according to their need.

The Divine always takes form according to your need. He becomes the medicine you require. He is infinite—He can take all forms. Times change, forms change. Today the Divine cannot speak as He did through Muhammad. The world is very different. If He spoke today in that way, who would listen? It would seem out of date, like reading a thousand-year-old newspaper—no resonance with today. Daily the Divine must take new expression, send new messages—for the erring and the lost.

But the Divine has always called—and His call comes only through those who have become blank.

None is greater than the sage. He repeats what Rama says.

What is the sage’s greatest virtue? That he says only what Rama says. He doesn’t tamper. He doesn’t alter even by a measure. He does not change a grain. No edits, no revisions. Whatever wishes to manifest, he lets it appear exactly as it is.

For this very reason, the one who brings the Divine’s voice into the world always lands in trouble. He does not play political games—he does not smooth this, change that, add a few words here, subtract a few there—to avoid hassle.

Jesus could have avoided trouble—he could have avoided the cross. Only a few small changes would have sufficed. Not big changes—just a little. But the Divine spoke through Jesus as He wished; Jesus spoke exactly that. Not an iota of difference. Friends advised him too: tweak just a few things; don’t say these two or three lines; there will be no obstacle. But Jesus did not. He could not be clever; the ego that plays clever had gone. He accepted the cross; he did not accept edits.

In Mahavira the Divine wished to remain naked, so Mahavira remained naked. People must have tried to persuade him. He was chased from village to village. What harm in wearing a cloth? No sin in it. He wouldn’t go to hell for a loincloth. But the Divine wished to be naked, to give that message. In that moment, that was the pure note to be sounded. So Mahavira did not tamper.

The politician speaks after calculations. He speaks what will please the listener. Whether it is true or false, that is not his concern. His only concern is: what pleases the audience? If a lie pleases, he will lie. Hence he assures you of things. You wonder why he doesn’t fulfill his assurances. That question never arose for him—even when he promised. He promised because promises please you. He was patting your back. He needs your support. He does not care that you receive truth; he cares for your support. If you are pleased by lies, he is pleased with lies.

So the politician goes to temple and mosque; to the tombs of saints and seers; attends Ganesh festivals; if Jains invite him he lectures there; if Hindus invite him he praises the Gita; whatever you say—your wish! He only cares that you remain pleased with him. He doesn’t want to displease you. His life depends on you; if you are displeased, he is finished.

Saints get into trouble because they say what the Divine wills.

Understand the difference.

Your will has no place. Whether you listen or not; whether you agree or get angry; whether you throw stones or nail him to a cross—it’s all fine; but his will is the Divine’s will. The Divine speaks what He wants to speak—and it often goes against your past. Against the style of life and thinking you have built. For the Divine speaks for your growth.

Growth means the old step must be left and a new step taken. It means old coverings must be shed, old buildings pulled down so new temples may be built. Growth means welcoming the new. The Divine is ever fresh, ever new. You are fettered by the old—so bound that all your vested interests are tied to it. And the Divine keeps bringing new news—new mornings, new buds opening, new suns rising. You are so immersed in the old you say, No, no—the old was fine; we had, with great difficulty, become content with it!

But the Divine is not with the old for even a moment. Understand this well. He is with the new. He is not with the dry leaf—else it would not fall. The leaf has dried and dropped because the Divine has withdrawn from it. He is with the new sprout, just breaking forth—tender, delicate, new. You hoard the old leaves; there is no life in them. You worship graves. The Divine is life. You worship the dead. The Divine is nectar. You are devotees of death.

Do you know what psychologists say about why people worship the dead? And have you noticed—when someone dies, even the worst person—we stop speaking ill. We say, Brother has died; now praise him. We eulogize even the worst. People say a few good words.

I have heard: a man died; the whole village abused him his whole life; the whole village was troubled by him. Yet the entire village went to the cremation ground; garlands were offered. His soul hovered above and followed his bier, astonished: he had never imagined the villagers would weep like this and shower flowers. He said to himself, If I had known, I would have died earlier. If this was to happen!

In America there was a unique man—the only man in history who read the news of his own death. Before dying, he called his secretary and said, Send out the news that I have died. The secretary said, Are you in your senses?...The doctors have said you will not live more than twenty-four hours; these are your final moments... He replied, Don’t worry, I’m perfectly sane. I want to read what people say about me after I die. In life, no one ever said anything good about me; my heart is heavy—I want to see what they say after my death.

So the news went out; papers printed obituaries—he was a multi-millionaire; that’s why people had abused him, they had been against him. Now there were songs of praise: great giver, generous—this and that. Before, they had said: thief, exploiter, dishonest, hypocrite.

He read the editorials and saw his photographs; he himself could not believe it—are they speaking of me? Though they had abused him and he hadn’t liked it, he knew they were right. Now this was outright falsehood. Still, he said, it feels good—tickles me—and I can die content.

He then told his secretary, Call the photographers and take my picture reading my own obituary. Then when I die, print another story: that I am the first and last man in human history who read the news of his own death.

Why do we praise the dead? Psychologists say: out of fear. Humanity has always been afraid of the dead—of ghosts and spirits. A leader dies—he harassed us all his life. Now we fear: now we’re really in trouble; he is free of the body, he could pass through walls, come sit on our chest at night—so we say, Sir, please don’t do that!

We praise the dead out of fear. There is an ancient fear: who knows what the dead might do now? A husband tormented his wife all his life; now he dies—she beats her chest and cries; inside, she is also glad: good riddance; she had prayed all along that Rama take him away—now Rama has taken him, and she weeps; but she is afraid too, trembling: he was wicked alive, and now dead—he will be invisible; he might barge in at night and...

Mulla Nasruddin said to his wife, I have a great desire to know if people persist after death or not. Whichever of us dies first must promise, despite all obstacles, to try to make contact on the third day—come to the door and knock, and at least say, Yes, it’s me—so I can be assured. They agreed: whoever dies first will knock on the third day and say, I am alive; a person does not cease by dying.

Then Mulla thought a bit and added, One thing: if you die first, come only in the daytime, not at night. As it is, I don’t stay home at night; only because of you do I come home at night. Otherwise I wouldn’t be there—be sure of that! And if I am somehow home, don’t you come at night. I’m scared in the dark. You knocking in the dark—I’d be finished. Come in broad daylight—ideally, come to my office; then I’ll have proof, and everyone else will too.

The one you embraced alive—if he, dead, suddenly takes your hand, your life will fly from your body.

Psychologists say we praise and worship the dead out of fear of death. The living are not honored; life is not honored; fear of death is honored.

You can seek the Divine in two ways. One way is through fear of death; if you set out seeking the Divine this way, your search is wrong from the first step. The other way is through love of life; seek the Divine through that, and your feet begin to fall on the right path.

I want to teach you love of life. I want you to relate to flowers, to the beauty of this world; let love well up in your life. And the most lovable place in this world is to find a saint who has vanished, and to surrender there.

None is greater than the sage. He repeats what Rama says.

Rama spoke; we practiced it...

Jagjivan says: Rama spoke and we practiced. We did exactly what he said. We made no alterations.

Rama spoke, we practiced. We worshiped the single taste of oneness.

And thus we became of one taste; worship ripened, prayer matured.

We worshiped the single taste of oneness.

Slowly, slowly we became one. Whatever Rama said, that we did. Whatever he made us do, we did. Whatever he made us speak, we spoke. However he made us dance, we danced. Slowly, slowly we became one—for what difference remained? When we became like a puppet in Rama’s hand—if he makes us dance, we dance; if he makes us still, we are still. When one becomes one like this, the rasa is perfected; attunement aligns; your vina begins to play in harmony with His vina. To have your vina resound with His is bliss.

Separateness is sorrow; togetherness is joy. Separate from Him, there is hell; joined to Him, there is heaven. The one who becomes one-taste with Him is in heaven. The one who stands far, inventing his own cleverness, trying to have his own way—and notice—even when you pray, you are trying to have your own way. You go to the temple and say to the Divine: my wife is ill, make her well! What are you saying? You are saying, Do you have any sense? You made my wife ill—and my wife! If you must make someone ill, there are so many wives in the world. Make her well! Let my will be done! If the essence of your prayer is distilled—and I’ve heard thousands of prayers—the gist is: let my will be fulfilled. You fulfill it. Such a prayer is the desire that my will be done! This is eagerness to take service from the Divine, not to be in service to the Divine. This is trying to bend Him to your feet—not bending at His feet.

Then what is prayer?

Prayer means: Your will be done. These were Jesus’s last words on earth. Hanging on the cross, his final utterance was: Thy will be done. That is prayer. Even nailed to the cross, he said, Thy will be done. If You give the cross, then this is the throne. If You give thorns, they are flowers. If poison is given by Your hand, it is nectar. Thy will be done. And when the moment comes that there is no difference between Your will and the Divine’s will—His will is your will—such singleness, then Jagjivan’s words are sweet: We worshiped the single taste of oneness. Worship of singleness happened. That is the form of prayer—single-heartedness. I am not other than You. I am Your ray—you are the sun. I am Your drop—you are the ocean. I am only a tiny glimmer of You—you are the Master. Whoever can say with his whole being: O Master! Thy will be done!—then no asking remains in prayer, only gratitude remains. And when only gratitude remains, prayer has a different flavor, a different color, a different beauty, a celebration. Then life moves in a new dimension; it flies higher and higher, crossing all limits. But leave everything to the Divine.

Jagjivan says it rightly: Rama spoke, we practiced. How straight, clear, small the words—yet they put the Upanishads to shame. The Vedas blush. The Quran seems pale. Rama spoke, we practiced. How could it be said any simpler? It cannot be made simpler. One-taste—we worshiped the single taste.

Many lightning bolts have fallen without striking;
these eyes have learned to smile now.

Even lightning may fall—it no longer matters. The eyes have learned to smile.

Many lightning bolts have fallen without striking;
these eyes have learned to smile now.

No worry remains.

A nightingale still lost in melody till now,
in its breast, waves of song still now.

A single glimpse is enough, and the song keeps echoing. If even a drop of His nectar descends into you, you are no longer who you were. The world will think you are the same, for the world sees only from the outside. Your features will be the same, your gait the same—but within, everything has changed. A new melody has come into your breast. A new cadence, a new style of song. The unstruck sound begins to resound within you.

We are in the Goal, and the Goal is in us.
No one else knows this.

Jagjivan says: Now we have realized—not an atom of difference remains between Him and us. We are in Him, He is in us. No second is known. No other is seen.

This can be said in two ways. One way: Only You are; I am not. This is the devotee’s way—the Sufi way. Another way: Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman. This is the way of the knower. But both mean the same: now there are not two. Call the state I, as Krishna says, Surrender unto Me; or call it Thou, as Muhammad says, You alone; as Jalaluddin Rumi says, You alone.

Rumi sings—
A lover knocks at his beloved’s door. A voice from within asks, Who is it? The lover says, Don’t you recognize me? I am your lover. Silence within. He knocks again and again, and the voice says, Don’t bother breaking the door; there is no room here for two. This house is small. As Kabir put it: The lane of love is very narrow—two cannot pass. The voice says, This house is too small—two cannot fit. Go away for now—you are not ready yet. Ripen more. The lover goes away.

Years pass. He disciplines himself, melts himself. After years, he knocks again. The same question: Who is it? He answers, You alone. Rumi says, the door opened.

These are the two methods. The way of knowledge says, I alone—nothing else. The danger is that ego may arise. Without knowing, someone may declare, Aham Brahmasmi, Ana’l-Haq—I am That. It can happen; it has happened. In this land many egotists have arisen, with scriptural proof: Aham Brahmasmi. To guard against this danger, Islam tried hard that it not arise; hence Mansoor was hanged—he said, Ana’l-Haq, I am Truth, I am God. They crucified him so that this danger not breed ego.

But the other way has danger too. When you say, Only You, I am not, attachment may arise, servility may arise, inferiority may arise. That too happens. Both have advantages and dangers. The one who is ready to risk will risk either way; the one who seeks convenience will find convenience in either. That’s why I say, both are fine. Everything depends on you. If you truly long to be transformed, there is no danger—nothing is dangerous. If you don’t truly long to change, then everything is dangerous. Even nectar will become poison in your hands; your way of drinking is wrong.

We are in the Goal, and the Goal is in us.

The Divine—the supreme Goal—we are in That, That is in us.

No one else knows it.

No other is seen—that is one meaning. Another meaning: this event is happening within us; no one else knows it. This secret opens within; the veils rise within; the veil is lifted; the image reveals itself; the nectar flows—but the world remains unaware. Even one sitting nearby doesn’t know. If it happens to the husband, the wife may not know; if it happens to the wife, the husband may not know. Even the closest friend may remain unaware. It is so utterly inner. No other can reach there. That is another meaning.

No one else knows it.

Either meaning: there is no second there—call it I or Thou, it makes no difference. Or: this event of one-taste—the merging of God and soul—happens so inwardly that no one else comes to know. The curtains lift inside; the meeting happens inside; outside there is not even a whisper.

Thus it may happen that you pass by a man of wisdom by sheer accident and go on—without knowing. Be very alert, move with care; be full of feeling, keep your heart open—only then perhaps a little sense will dawn. Even then it will be only a glimpse, from far away. Those stuffed with intellect will not know at all. They never meet the true Master. But those filled with feeling and love begin to sense something—near a true Master their skin prickles; their eyes moisten; their heartbeats quicken; currents rise within. As when one plays a vina and another vina lying in the room, untouched, begins to vibrate in sympathy.

Have you watched? Try it. Close the doors and windows; place one vina in the corner; sit a little way off and pluck another vina. As soon as the resonance fills the room, you will find the untouched vina’s strings begin to quiver. So too the strings of feeling quiver. If my vina is playing and you are willing to leave your heart near my playing vina—even for an instant—set your intellect aside—even for an instant—some strings will vibrate. From their vibration alone, the signal comes. Faith is born.

Those who have taken God as other—hell awaits them.
They will be the very source of hell.

Do you see this definition of hell? Lovely! Hell is not because of sin—not because you did bad deeds; nor is heaven because of good deeds. Heaven and hell are different here.

Those who have taken God as other.

This alone is sin—the great sin: to know yourself as other than the Divine. To say, I am separate. I will not bow—I will fight; I am separate; I will win; I am on a conquest. Whoever holds such a notion—who struggles against the Divine—he lives in hell and will remain in hell.

Those who have taken God as other—hell awaits them.
They will be the very source of hell.

Fix your heart at the feet, says Jagjivan;
so, says Rama, He explains.

From Rama’s side only one message comes: Fix your consciousness at the feet! Bow into the feet. Dissolve into the feet. Surrender. Only this has come from that side—so says Rama: Melt, so I may be fully revealed within you. Step aside, give way, open the door, so I may be enthroned in your heart. You are sitting inside so stiff—you won’t budge! You’re a rock inside—you won’t melt. Melt, liquefy. And employ whatever helps you melt.

Satsang is the most important—where melting happens. Seeing others melt, the longing to melt awakes in you as well. Seeing others dissolve, you begin to dissolve. Satsang is like sunrise—the snow begins to melt. In satsang a sun has risen—your ego’s ice can melt. If you stay in darkness, it remains frozen. Sometimes meet suns. Stand before the light. Don’t keep dodging it. People keep dodging; people fear satsang; they are very afraid. Their fear has a reason: going to satsang means who knows whether you’ll be able to return. Who knows—your mind may be left there, your heart may be left there. And if you go to satsang, this is bound to happen. The fear is justified.

The cow goes into the forest; her calf remains at home.
She grazes on grass, but her mind stays with her child.
Grasp the knack—the sage lives in the world.

Whoever has tasted satsang may live anywhere in the world, but his consciousness remains fixed there; his mind keeps running there. His heart remains at the Master’s feet.

Remember, the word guru means one who is no longer there—within whose being only the Divine is. That is why in this land we called the guru Bhagwan—God. We gave godhood to the guru. Even to such gurus who did not believe in God. Mahavira too we called God. This land has a large heart—at least it did, even if no longer.

Now it has shriveled. But we could call Mahavira God—the one who said there is no God. We called Buddha God—the one who said there is no God and no inner soul; all is emptiness. Even this advocate of emptiness we called God. Because we know—if emptiness is complete, the Full arrives; He need not be brought. Through Buddha’s emptiness, the Full descended into many lives. Buddha emphasized dissolving, negation; he did not speak of the positive—because the positive happens anyway. When sickness goes, health comes by itself. What is there to say about health? Even if you speak, what will you say? The talk always revolves around sickness. Health has no content to discuss. If someone asks, How are you? and you are well, you say, Fine. What more is there? But if you have had an appendix operation, tonsils removed, kidney trouble—there are a thousand things to talk about!

A woman once went to a doctor and said, Please operate on me. The doctor asked, For what and why? She said, Anything at all. Other women have so much to talk about—I have nothing. One says, I have a six-inch scar, had my appendix out. Remove anything—otherwise I sit mute; I have nothing for conversation.

When you are ill, there is much to discuss. What is there to say about health? Even illnesses have names; health has none. Health has no adjectives. If someone asks, Are you healthy? and you say yes, he asks, What kind of health?—what will you answer? But diseases are of kinds and shapes. There are many diseases; health is one.

So too there are many irreligions; Religion is one. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—these are not names of religion. Religion is one—health. The irreligions are many.

There are three hundred religions on earth—and many more have been and gone; many more will come and go. But does Religion come and go? Religion is health. Hindu, Jain, Buddhist—these are medicines. They are measures to remove illnesses. They have value as medicine. Do not call them religion. Like Ayurvedic, Allopathic, Homeopathic medicines—what suits whom; what digests; what helps; what one has faith in.

If someone has faith in homeopathy, it will benefit him. Another says, What can sugar pills do? Scientists have run experiments and were amazed: if there is faith, even a sugar pill heals; if there is no faith, you may give the strongest drug and it has no effect.

Often, the higher the doctor’s fee, the quicker you get well. High fees inspire faith—so many people pay so much, there must be something to it. If a doctor treats for free, the treatment doesn’t work; people say, What can happen there? He treats free, and yet there is no crowd in his clinic! But see where the fee is fifty rupees—there is a queue; you’ll get an appointment after four or five days.

The greater the fee, the quicker the cure. Then, the more trust in the medicine...

Sometimes it happens—A physician told me—an elder doctor went to Bastar, among the tribes. They brought a tribal man from deep forest—he was dying of TB, last stage. The doctor had no medicines there—no supplies; not even paper and pen. He picked up a shard of pottery, wrote the name of a medicine on it with a white stone and handed the shard to him: Take this medicine morning and evening; come see me in three months. Three months later the man returned—completely healthy, robust. He said, I am perfectly fine; wonderful medicine! Give me more. The doctor said, I did not give you any medicine; I only wrote it. The man said, What do you mean? I kept grinding that shard and drinking it morning and evening. You say what? It was nectar—nectar! The doctor told me, I kept quiet—saying anything would spoil everything. I wrote the medicine on another shard and gave it to him: Take this six more months; no need to come again.

We called Buddha God—though he did not accept God. But those who understood his emptiness, who entered his emptiness, came to know God.

All religions are medicines. Don’t mistake them for Religion. Religion happens when, through these medicines, your illness ends and your nature awakens. Nature—svabhava—is Religion. Mahavira defined it: The nature of a thing is its dharma. Your nature is your dharma. Fire’s nature is to burn—its dharma. Water’s nature is to flow downward—its dharma. Your nature is to be Divine—this is your dharma.

Religion is one. Illnesses are many, medicines many—medical scriptures many.

Fix your heart at the feet, says Jagjivan;
so, says Rama, He explains.

What Rama has said—only this has come from that side: Rama is simply a name for the Voice from the other side. Do not take Rama to mean Dasharatha’s son. Rama is a name for that far-off call, the sound of the Infinite. Its single indication is: bow down, vanish, become zero!

Who can sing of the sage’s state?

And once you bow, you will know. Then you will know that the one who has become truly saintly—no one else can know his state until he too becomes like that.

Who can sing of the sage’s state?

No one can fully tell it, hum it, sing it. The one who knows cannot express it. And others who do not know—what can they say? Looking at a sage you won’t understand what sainthood is. From his outward behavior you may infer—but that inference is dangerous. Much harm has come from such inference. People see how a sage sits and rises, what he eats and drinks, what he wears—note it all and imitate. There the mistake begins. Your life will become hypocrisy.

A sage’s sitting or eating and drinking are not fundamental. Different sages live in different ways. Go to Buddha—you’ll find him clothed; go to Mahavira—you’ll find him naked. Go to Ramakrishna—he falls in blissful swoons; doctors say it is hysteria or epilepsy. No one ever saw Buddha fall or swoon. Go to Meera—she dances; go to Mahavira—you’ll find him utterly still—what dance? Everything is motionless like a stone image.

It’s no accident that Buddhists and Jains created the first stone images. Because in Mahavira and Buddha there was a marble-like stillness. Marble reflects that. They were stilled—water without ripple. Marble hints at that. So Jains and Buddhists made images first. Those who saw Mahavira standing utterly motionless remembered stone.

You can make Mahavira’s statue; how will you make Meera’s? She is a wave, dancing—now this, now that. To make Meera’s image you would need a fountain—not stone. You’d need that undulation. If you start dancing after seeing Meera, your dance will be false. In Meera the Divine has descended and is dancing—His will. Your dance is your will. There hypocrisy begins. In Mahavira the Divine descended—he dropped his clothes; the Divine wished to stand naked—so he stood naked. Divine’s will. Mahavira might have felt within, at least keep a loincloth—but the Divine willed nakedness, and naked he was. In Krishna the Divine willed peacock-plume and yellow silk, ornament and beauty—Krishna too may have felt, this doesn’t seem right—it looks like some dance-drama! But what to do? Divine’s will, whether it suits or not.

Krishna must have been as startled as Mahavira: What is this? Let’s at least keep a loincloth. Their eras were near: Krishna’s cousin Neminath is a Jain Tirthankara; he went naked. Krishna visited him—an elder brother. On one side Neminath naked; on the other Krishna with peacock-plume. As the Divine wills!

But if you impose behavior from the outside, that is your will—that is hypocrisy; there you come in. So do not imitate outward conduct—else you remain hollow.

Do satsang. Let the Master’s heart meet your heart; let it sway, dance, melt. Little by little, something will arise within you and reach your conduct. Only then something has happened. Otherwise all is hypocrisy, deception.

Who can sing of the sage’s state? The one who turns inward in meditation.

Who will understand the sage’s way? The one who goes within. Who turns inward in meditation, forgetting all outside and dwelling inside.

When you sit with the Master, forget everything on the outside—forget the whole world. Remain only inward! Become the heartbeat—no more than that. Merge into the beat. Just keep beating. No words, no voice, no thought, no world, no business—nothing. All gone, only the beating heart remains. From that beating meeting happens. The beating heart meets the Divine’s beating heart. For a moment a window opens—and a ray descends. The one who turns inward in meditation finds what is happening within the sage.

Cling to the feet...

Then he clings to the Master’s feet. Cling—that means not merely touching, not a ritual touch and gone—he wraps himself around them and remains.

Cling to the feet. No other found the way.

No one else finds the way; the one who clings to the feet gets a glimpse. Clinging there, one day he sees—the Master’s feet have dissolved, and the Divine’s feet are in his hands. The beginning is with the Master; the culmination is in the Divine.

Hold meditation within. Only a rare one recognizes.

Only the rare, the fortunate, recognize. And only he will recognize—who sinks his meditation within.

When you sit with me, do not think, do not analyze—meditate. Do not think and reason—throb. Let there be silence. Let the sound of your own breath be heard. Let all fall quiet. Let everything be still. As if the outer has vanished and only your being remains. From there, contact happens, dialogue happens.

There was a madhouse. Everyday the mad fought. Among madmen there can be disputes; dialogues never. Dialogue happens among the wise.

Here you sit in silence and stillness—that is dialogue. A madman may come even here and sit through a ceaseless inner argument: this is right, this is wrong; this aligns with my book, that goes against it; this I can never accept... He is caught in dispute.

In the madhouse a debate broke out one day: who is the greatest madman here? Naturally, madmen are obsessed with who is greatest. It is to be the greatest that people become mad. What is madness in the world? Who is greater—you or I?

The debate grew loud; there were scuffles; things thrown; shoes flew; chairs smashed; pictures fell. Finally they decided: the greatest madman here must be the doctor. Why? some asked. They replied: See—he chooses to live among madmen. What greater madness! Look at this fool—he stays among madmen.

Dispute is derangement. And to the disputatious, the men of wisdom have always seemed mad: seemingly sane, yet living among madmen. The mad do not see their own madness; the one who is not mad appears the maddest. This is not the way of dialogue. Dialogue happens only when all disputes drop, all derangement of mind falls, and in silence someone listens. As you listen to music, listen to the Master. While listening to music you don’t think, Is this right or wrong? You simply listen—absorbed. We worshiped the single taste of oneness.

Hold meditation within. Only a rare one recognizes.

He lives in this world—but remains near the feet.

The one who is touched by satsang then lives in the world, but does not live far from the feet.

He lives in this world—but remains near the feet.

Near the feet—meaning the feet are enthroned in his heart. He remains wrapped to those feet.

The world says, he is among us...

The world thinks: this so-called sage—he lives among us like we do! The mad saw the doctor and pronounced him the greatest madman: if he weren’t mad, why would he stay with us? The sage who lives in the world will be told, He is just like us—what is there here?

People come to me and say, You give sannyas to people and then they sit in their shops and run business. They have wives and children and homes—what kind of sannyas is this? They are just like us.

Yes—like you on the outside. Because the lamp of revolution I want to light is not outside—it is inside. Hold meditation within.

Live in the world this way—in this manner, with this method—remain near the feet.

The world says, he is among us. He is not entangled with anyone.

Let the world speak; you live in the world and do not be entangled. Do not run away. No one is freed by fleeing. One is freed by not clinging.

For him, home and forest are the same.

For the true sage, home and jungle are alike.

For him, the home is as the garden—he is ever in nirvana.

He is constantly in the state of nirvana. Nirvana literally means the lamp’s extinction—diya ka nirvan: the lamp is out. Those whose ego-lamp has gone out abide in nirvana. Their flickering yellow egolight has been extinguished. Now only the Supreme Light is their light. They keep no separate lamp, keep no private will. Whether in home or forest, they are dissolved and empty.

As the lotus lives in water...

As the lotus dwells in the water...

...they live without hope.

...they remain untainted. They have no hope from the world—no desire to obtain from it. But since the Divine has sent them into the world, they must complete the role He has given. To abandon the role midway and flee is disobedience to the Divine. That is not right. Knowing it as a role, fulfill it fully.

As the turtle lives in water...

As the turtle goes into the water...

...its attention stays with its eggs on the bank.

...its remembrance remains with the eggs on the shore.

This world is an ocean. They remain apart by the knack.

So it is with this ocean of existence. Even if you are in it like the turtle, keep remembrance on the shore. They remain separate by the knack. This is the art: to be here and yet not be here. The runaway is not an artist. He is crude. Those who left home for the jungle enacted the smallest, poorest revolution; the soul will not change because of that. What will it do?

I’ve heard: a crow was flying east. A cuckoo asked, Uncle, where are you going? The crow said, I go to the East; people there are good and kind. I can’t stay in the West—no one here likes my sweet songs. The cuckoo replied, Uncle, what will going east do? Change your song a little! Sing differently. Otherwise, even in the East they won’t like it.

Going here or there will do nothing. Change. Wherever you are—change there. Whether home or forest, the Divine dwells everywhere. They remain apart by the knack. This is the real art: be in the marketplace as though in the forest. Be at home as though in an ashram. Be a householder, yet as one renounced. This is the art I want to give my sannyasins. I don’t want to give you a cheap religion. Religion is costly.

Company with roses is lovely enough, but
that life is real which passes among thorns.

It is fine to be near flowers, but true life is that which stays among thorns and lives as if among flowers.

That life is real which passes among thorns.

Thus Jagjivan settled in the world—and settled within.

Thus Jagjivan settled like this—in the world without and in stillness within...

Thus Jagjivan settled—so the sage became nirvan.

...and from there sainthood arose—nirvana blossomed; ego died and union with the Divine happened.

Thus Jagjivan settled.

Jagjivan says: I speak from experience; thus I settled—settle thus yourselves. Where are you running? Has anyone ever settled by running? One settles by settling. Settle where you are. Kindle the inner flame where you are. Turn inward where you are. Do satsang there. Hold the Master’s feet there. Fix your remembrance on the Divine there. And fulfill the role He has given you—fulfill it completely. This will be your prayer, your worship.

And one day you will be astonished: outside everything remains the same; within everything has changed. And when within everything changes, outside too everything changes by itself—because the seeing has changed. The way of looking is new. Then trees are not seen; only the Divine greening is seen. People are not seen; only the Divine walking in myriad forms. Moon and stars are not seen; only the Divine raining down in many lights and ways. Vision is creation. When vision changes, creation changes. This is the art. There is no art in escape. Settle where you are. Remain apart by the knack. Learn to be like the lotus in water—untouched.

People will not understand. Do not worry about them. People have never understood. Do not bother with their opinions. If they laugh, let them laugh; if they get angry, let them be angry; if they oppose, let them oppose. Do not let your friendship and compassion be disturbed. It is their compulsion—they do not understand. What they do not understand, they declare wrong. But do not let your inner rasa be disturbed by this. Do not get entangled. Remain unentangled. And soon you will find the incomparable event happens: we worshiped the single taste of oneness.

Let the world’s cruelties and our own fidelities be forgotten—
now I remember nothing but love.

Then nothing remains but His love. No I, no you.

The intoxication of your remembrance!
As if someone has drunk wine and arrived.

A unique ecstasy, an incomparable intoxication descends—unbroken, eternal.

Enough for today.