Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #8
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, a master can always know the spiritual state of a seeker longing for liberation, but how can the seeker know whether the master has attained truth or not? And if the disciple ever feels he has lost the gamble in his choice, can he go to another master? Please clarify your view.
Osho, a master can always know the spiritual state of a seeker longing for liberation, but how can the seeker know whether the master has attained truth or not? And if the disciple ever feels he has lost the gamble in his choice, can he go to another master? Please clarify your view.
Shri Ram Sharma! A master is not chosen. And the one who chooses has already erred in the very act of choosing. You will choose the master—won’t you? You are wrong; your very choice will be wrong. From where will you bring eyes to truly see? What touchstone do you have? Whatever your mind can think or conceive will not be beyond you. It cannot be higher than you. Your hands are your own hands; whatever you grasp or choose will lie within the limits of your mind. And what remains within the limits of your mind can never take you beyond mind. In your choosing you have chosen only yourself again. The mistake doesn’t get discovered later—the mistake happens in the first step itself. A master is not chosen.
The “choice” of a master is not a choice at all; it is like love—it happens. And often it happens despite your mind. Your mind keeps saying, “No, no,” keeps denying, and your heart steps forward, takes a leap. The relationship to the master is of the heart, not of the head and thought. Not of logic, but of feeling. Your question is of thought.
You ask: “A master can always know the spiritual state of a seeker for liberation, but how can the seeker know whether the master has attained truth or not?”
There is no way to know—never was, never will be. How will the blind know whether the man standing before him has eyes or not? How will the sleeping know whether the one sitting beside him is awake or not? There is no way! And yet, sometimes, despite the mind, a wave of feeling is caught and it carries you away. The bond with a master is a kind of divine madness. Not of thought, not of accounting, not of arithmetic.
That is why those who cling to a master are always taken to be mad—indeed they are! It is just like love. You see a woman, or a man, and love happens. How would you know—what means does the intellect have—to decide that the one you have fallen in love with is the true vessel for your love? Will this woman you fell for prove the right wife? Will she be the right mother for your children? Will she be a proper homemaker, will she hold the home together? Will she stand by you in joy and sorrow? What way is there to know? But love refuses to know. Love says: Even if she doesn’t prove the perfect wife, fine; even if she isn’t the perfect mother, fine; even if she can’t manage the household, fine. Love is blind—from reason’s point of view. For the eyes of reason are not the eyes of the heart; the heart has its own eyes, its own ways. The heart does not proceed by syllogism—it leaps; it does not calculate. There is a felt sense, a sudden shimmering.
So it is with the master.
A seeker of liberation has a sudden shimmer, a heart is churned. A ray pierces somewhere deeper than the mind, a thrill of gooseflesh! You start, you don’t choose. When the master “is chosen,” you do not choose—you are startled: What is this happening? You find yourself helpless, powerless. You are drawn. Try to stop and you can’t. Try to go away and going away feels false. Some unknown force surrounds you from all sides.
If you would understand rightly: the disciple does not choose the master; the master chooses the disciple. The master chooses first; only then does the wave arise in your heart, the first glimmer happens. The master encircles you. He closes every door of escape. He breaks the bridges you crossed to get here. He kicks away the ladders by which you climbed. He shreds your net of arguments. He pours a wine into you; in the intoxication of that wine you drown.
No one ever chooses a master. No one ever has. Those who tried to choose missed from the outset. Choice is always laced with doubt. Choice is never total. You will think: this one or that one? You will compare: this seems right, or that? You will calculate: where is the greater profit, what the loss? How much will I have to stake here? Where can the job be done cheaper?
You have taken spirituality to be a marketplace! As one buys a commodity—what to buy, what to leave? He compares, considers, prices, tests sturdiness. Even for a two-rupee pot a man taps and tests—is it cracked? Is there a hole? And here you are to stake your life. So the mind will say: test and try thoroughly. But your tests will be your tests! How will they take you beyond you? How will they raise you above yourself? How will they free you from yourself? What is liberation after all? Do you know what “mumukshu” means? One who longs for liberation—for moksha—one who yearns for absolute freedom. But your mind itself is your prison. And you go to choose with this very mind? This very mind forged your prison, and with it you set out to open the vast sky of freedom—by means of these very bars, these very walls? These very walls have enclosed and bound you.
No—no way opens from within you. If the Way seizes you, then something can happen. Therefore the one longing for liberation can do only this much—be open, available, receptive. If something grabs you, some energy arrives, don’t slam your doors; that’s all. Nothing more lies in your hands. As you sit here near me—if there is “choosing,” I will choose; you cannot choose me. Shri Ram may think he will choose me—he is mistaken. If you choose, the error has already happened. Don’t think of later errors. The first mistake is already made. And I am saying, even if you choose the right master, still you are wrong to have chosen.
Take this well to heart: I am not saying that if you choose, you will choose a false master; by some fluke you might come to Kabir, Nanak, Buddha, or Mahavira, and you might “choose” the right master—but the rightness of the master still won’t help, because you are wrong. In choosing, the error is yours. Even if you take hold of Buddha’s feet, the feet you hold will not be Buddha’s—they will be only your mental image. You will have seen your own notion in Buddha. Some idea of yours will have been gratified. Some prejudice of yours will have found support. You had come thinking a Buddha should be like this—and Buddha, by coincidence, matched your notion, so you chose. In truth you did not choose him; you chose yourself. You picked your own shadow, because your expectation was fulfilled. Had the enlightened one differed even a little from your expectation and conception, you could not have chosen—not even a little difference! A slight deviation and your choosing would become impossible.
If you hold as a mark that a supremely wise one must be naked, and Buddha is not naked, you won’t be able to choose him. You will go away, saying, “He’s not yet complete, dispassion not yet perfect—cloth still clings; he is not like Mahavira.” If you go to Buddha with a Jain conception, there will be trouble.
If you go to Krishna with a Buddhist conception, there will be trouble. For seeing Krishna you will feel: it’s all passion upon passion—where is dispassion? Buddha said: “A monk should not even look at a woman; if forced to, he must not touch her; if forced to touch, he must remain fully alert, without slip.” One who holds that maxim—if he sees Krishna dancing the rasa with the gopis, hand in hand with Radha, he will feel pity for poor Krishna: “He himself is lost! How will he liberate anyone?” Compassion will well up: “If only I could advise him—Brother, wake up! Keep alert! What are you doing?”
In Jain scriptures Krishna is consigned to the seventh hell—for an eternity; only when this creation ends and the next begins will he be released! Understandable: if one wife leads to hell, where will sixteen thousand wives take you! And many of those weren’t even his wives—wives of others! Absolutely illegal! Illegitimate! And the number—sixteen thousand!
If you have formed a conception—and you all have conceptions—you go with your conception. Then when your idea finds a match, you think you have chosen. That is your delusion; your idea has been gratified. And if tomorrow your idea breaks, you will be shocked, you will repent, you will be sad: “I wasted my time—followed this man, lost so many days for nothing.”
Then even leaving will be difficult. So many days of attachment have formed. So many assurances given, so much force of “faith” invested; and now to leave—there will be regret: “What if leaving is the mistake?” Hence you ask: “And if a disciple ever feels he has lost the gamble in his choice, can he go to another master?” Then the fear arises: “Would that be treachery? Betrayal?”
Yesterday I saw a letter.
One of my sannyasins, a German, Vimalakirti, grandson of the German emperor—you would not recognize him as an emperor’s grandson; he scrubs pots in Vrindavan. A very simple-hearted man. His uncle wrote, sending a photograph of the German emperor. On the back: “Traitor! Born to a royal house and living like a beggar!” He sees treachery: a prince turned monk! Conceptions.
If you have tied yourself to one master, then when a mistake becomes visible, it doesn’t mean that now you have rightly seen the master is wrong. The day you thought he was right, he matched your idea; the day you judge him wrong, he no longer matches your idea. That’s all. How will you ever know right or wrong in a master? You won’t.
So I say: rather than discovering the second mistake, catch the first. Don’t choose. Yes—if a master chooses you, let yourself be chosen. If the master’s energy seizes you, begins to dance around you, enters your heart, and you are flooded with bliss—not because some notion is vindicated or some expectation fulfilled—your heart itself, against all your conceptions, bears witness: “Now, enough—let everything be dropped, let the entire net of mind go; this is worth the stake!”—then understand, the master has entered your life. After such an advent there is no going back. It is impossible. A bond of the heart alone ferries you across.
But Shri Ram, you want to think it through—you are a Brahmin man—doing arithmetic, weighing, consulting scriptures in your mind: the master should be like this, like that; such and such marks must be there, then choose.
Just see the ego in this! You will choose? Who are you? If you have enough understanding to recognize the marks of a master, you yourself are already a master—what remains? If you have such awareness that you can recognize one who is aware, why go anywhere? Just deepen that very awareness. If you know who is awakened, then you are awakened. If you can recognize someone has eyes, then you yourself have the evidence of eyesight—what more do you need? Why follow anyone? You yourself have eyes—no more master is needed.
I am telling you: if you have so much discrimination that you can decide who is true and who is false, you need no master. If you need a master, it means there is no way through your intellect. Put your intellect aside. Sit in the company of masters—relaxed, open, with all doors and windows unlatched, so that if the sun wishes it may enter, the morning breeze may pass through, the rain’s fine drops may reach you, the koel’s song may enter you—just sit open. And wherever you are caught—where it becomes difficult to escape, where you are drawn like iron to a magnet—then what will you do? There is no question of choosing then. The master has chosen. Blessed are those who let themselves be chosen, and do not choose themselves.
Two kinds of people come to me. One kind chooses. With them my relationship never quite forms. They are too clever; their cleverness is the barrier. The other kind lets me choose. With them a relationship forms that cannot break—there is no possibility of its breaking.
When hearts join, they do not break. The head’s bonds are hollow—outward, brittle; they can snap any time. Today I say something that matches your scripture; tomorrow I will say something that does not—I will be a problem then.
When I used to speak on the Sikhs’ Japji, many Sikhs came to listen. But they were not coming to listen to me. What had they to do with me? They came because I spoke on Japji. When that series ended, they disappeared. What relationship could form with such people?
When I speak on Kabir, Kabirpanthis turn up. Just now a friend said, “In your voice I hear the resonance of Saint Taran Taran; it delights me.” He is a follower of Taran Taran, so he hears Taran Taran. Many of you have never even heard that name—how will you hear his resonance? The Christian feels I’m speaking the Bible, the Muslim hears the Quran, the Sikh hears the Guru Granth.
But notice: if you are delighted because you hear Taran Taran in me, then you have not heard me at all. Your delight is your mind’s delight; it has nothing to do with me. The day I say something that does not match your Taran Taran, friendship ends! Cut off! The friendship was false, in name only; not with me, but with Taran Taran. Because you heard your saint’s voice in my words, you walked along—but you never joined me.
When will you hear me? When will you listen directly—setting aside your notions?
Followers of Taran Taran keep writing: “When will you speak on Saint Taran Taran? When you do, we want to come.” Nothing to do with me—when I speak on their saint, they will come.
The ego seeks validation—this is all it is. You want to hear from me that what you already believe is right. Then you are pleased with me: “Yes, this man is right!” because your ego has been fed, your creed affirmed, your scripture supported. If I utter even one word about your scripture that offends or shatters your mind, you become my enemy—instantly.
With your notions you will never form a relationship with a true master. No true master is a copy of any other. Understand this well: though truth is one, its expressions are many. Though truth is one, when it descends it expresses uniquely each time.
One person saw the morning sun—beauty spreading in the east, birds singing, trees awakening, the world ready for worship. One wrote a song, one painted a picture, one plucked a vina. All three express the same dawn, but their expressions differ. The vina’s strain also welcomes the sun; it carries a little of dawn’s redness—but sound has color of its own, caught by the ear, not the eye. The painter’s brush and the musician’s notes—what outer connection have they? Another wrote a poem, another tied bells to his ankles and danced. The sun was one; the inner adoration one; the prayer one; the feeling of worship one—but the expressions became different.
So is the difference between Kabir and Nanak and Jagjivan; between Buddha, Mahavira, and Krishna; between Mohammed, Lao Tzu, and Zarathustra. But when you cling to one conception and go searching with it, you get into trouble. If you hold the notion “The master must be like Kabir,” you will never find a master—Kabir does not come twice. And if you do find someone exactly like Kabir, know he is an imitator. The original never repeats; only counterfeits can.
If a master perfectly matches your notions, be certain he is a pretender. You may be shocked—but if he fully fits your conceptions, he is accommodating your conceptions. Therefore the Jain monk will fit the Jain conception; the Buddhist monk will fit the Buddhist conception; the Hindu sannyasin will fit the Hindu conception. It’s all staging to match your beliefs—nothing to do with truth. The sun has risen; they don’t know. They have picked up neither the vina nor the brush nor the dancing bells, nor do they have a song in their throat; they only know the scripture’s definition of a guru and arrange their behavior accordingly.
The scripture says: eat once a day—so they eat once. Two garments—so two garments. Don’t travel after sunset—so they don’t. Don’t drink water at night—so they refrain. Rise before dawn—so they rise. They rehearse what the scripture prescribes; through this, they match your idea and seem suitable. If your conception springs from the same scripture, the match is exact.
Hence the odd spectacle: the guru of one sect does not seem like a guru at all to another sect. But to his sect he appears the supreme guru. Their conceptions match.
Understand the trick.
You study the same shastra… Consider an actress who came to see me: “What do you say about the Bhrigu Samhita?” I asked why. She said, “In Delhi they read my Bhrigu. I noted what they said of my past lives, and future too. Some things about this life were true. Others aren’t yet, but the reader said they will be—this life isn’t over. Then I had it read in Madras—exactly the same! Then in Kashi—exactly the same! If it were a fraud, it would differ. When three places match—and none know each other—it must be true.”
She has no idea that these “Bhrigu Samhitas” are copies of each other—no real difference. The reader hardly matters. The method of opening the page is the same. Your name, address, age, calculation—same calculation—and then the thirty-first page is opened for your horoscope. Whatever is written there is read out. Whether in Delhi, Madras, or Kashi. When three readers repeat the same, your confidence grows: three can’t be wrong!
You read the shastra, and the person aspiring to be a guru reads the same shastra. You, wanting to be a disciple, study “How to recognize a guru.” The one wanting to be a guru studies “How to be recognized by disciples.” Then both align—and both are deceived.
There is no shastric mark by which to recognize a true master. The one whose marks were written down—he has already happened and does not happen again. Every true master is peerless, unique. Krishna will not come again. Buddha will not come again. Existence does not repeat; it is not a broken gramophone record endlessly repeating.
God is ever-new creativity, the Creator—each day a new song, a new note, a new meter. What once happened, happened; it is not repeated. God descends in new forms. Then you are in difficulty. Your conception is of the old, and you try to match the new master to the old conception—it won’t match. The one who matches is a pretender. The true one won’t match. These are the seeker’s hurdles; I want to make them clear.
Understand this from me: you cannot choose. You will choose on the basis of old conceptions. No scripture has yet been written to recognize the new master—it gets written after he is gone. People recognize later. But recognition then is meaningless. When Mahavira is alive, you judge by the standards of Rama—and it goes wrong, for Mahavira is not Rama. You look: where is the bow? There is no bow. Not even a loincloth sometimes. You ask, “Where is the bow, sir? Where is Sita?” There is neither Sita nor bow. You’re carrying the old: “I will bow only when you lift the bow!” Then you will never bow—Mahavira will not lift a bow. It wouldn’t suit him—naked, brandishing a bow? It wouldn’t do; it wouldn’t be beautiful!
When Mahavira is gone, then scripture is compiled. Scripture can only be compiled afterward, once Mahavira has gripped many hearts. And note, he grips only those free of conceptions. Those who came with fixed notions could not relate to him. A few guileless, virgin hearts were caught—those brave enough to set the mind aside. Tomorrow, these very brave ones will compose marks based on Mahavira: “A master should be like this.” And trouble begins again.
Mahavira kept twelve years of silence before enlightenment; he was a great ascetic. Buddha practiced in the forest for six years and attained. Now the bookkeeper says Buddha is unfinished—twelve and six—still raw! A well-known Jain thinker wrote a book on Mahavira and Buddha. He told me beforehand: “I’m a harmonizer—Gandhian, raised in his ashram—so I’m writing a syncretic work.” I saw the title and was shocked: “Bhagavan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.” I asked: “Either call both Bhagavan or both Mahatma—why this slight difference? What is the difference?” He said, “A slight one! Mahavira is fully perfect; Buddha is a little behind.” This is “synthesis”! A shopkeeper’s arithmetic—twelve years versus six—Buddha is still Mahatma, not Bhagavan; perhaps one more life.
And he thinks himself generous and broad-minded! Not generosity—this is miserliness. He cannot call Buddha “Bhagavan.” How could he? He has made marks, and the accounting follows them. And such a man does not reappear. Two thousand five hundred years since Mahavira and no second Mahavira—though many have imitated: many went naked, many ate and fasted like Mahavira—but the same fragrance did not appear, the lotus did not bloom. How could it? Those twenty-five centuries of nakedness were mere practice and arrangement—not an inner flowering.
When a true master appears, your ideas won’t match him. Therefore only the brave—who can set aside their notions and, when the master casts his net, not run away, but consent to be caught—will be taken. You do not choose; the master casts a net like a fisherman.
Jesus once approached a fisherman drawing up his morning catch. Jesus placed a hand on his shoulder; the man turned. In the fresh morning sun, Jesus’ aura, eyes deeper than the lake—he was entranced. “Who are you? From where? How did you arrive so suddenly?” Jesus said, “You will understand gradually who I am. I’ve come to say one thing: How long will you catch fish? Come, I will teach you to catch men.” The fisherman did not hesitate—he threw his net back into the lake and followed. Jesus asked, “You trust my word already?” He said, “I do—because I myself am caught! Surely you can teach this art: I’ve been caught.”
When the master casts his net, don’t run—if you can do just this much, you are a seeker. Let yourself be chosen; then bow down, surrender.
And let me tell you the last thing. Don’t worry about who is the right master, who is false. Whoever stirs your heart is right for you. One master may be right for one, wrong for another—remember this. Not all medicines suit everyone; what cures one can poison another. So the one in whose presence your heart is churned awake, with whom your heart dances—that one is right for you. Then don’t bother what others say. Go.
And one more thing: allow even this possibility—that sometimes you may be affected by someone who is not yet fully realized. Charisma can happen—an appealing personality, a poetic voice, a forceful presence, a glow in the eyes. Adolf Hitler’s eyes too had a certain power—millions don’t get bewitched for nothing. He wasn’t a true master. Yet hearts can be seized.
So it can happen that you fall in with someone not yet arrived. I want to tell you: if your surrender is total, you will still attain liberation even with such a one. Liberation comes through the totality of surrender—not through the object of surrender. I repeat: liberation comes through the totality of surrender. It does not depend on to whom you surrender. That is why, even before a stone idol, if surrender is absolute, liberation can happen.
You know the story of Ekalavya. Before a stone idol his surrender was complete. No master there—no true master—only a statue he himself had fashioned; yet his surrender was so total, greater even than Arjuna’s toward Dronacharya. Therefore Arjuna fell behind Ekalavya. Drona became anxious, afraid; he too was drawn to Ekalavya. Seeing his art, he must have been stunned.
Drona is no true master—an ordinary royal servant, less than ordinary. Not even deserving the word “guru”—for a guru has something Drona lacked; otherwise he would not have demanded Ekalavya’s thumb. He asked for Ekalavya’s thumb because he saw his students eclipsed: neither Arjuna, nor Karna, nor Duryodhana matched this height. He feared for his princes, with whom his ego and prestige were tied: “If Arjuna falls behind, what of me?” He had rejected Ekalavya as a Shudra—are these the ways of a guru? One who rejects another as Shudra is Shudra himself, not Brahmin. A Brahmin is one who sees Brahman in all.
I say Ekalavya is the Brahmin. Drona denied, insulted, drove him away—yet Ekalavya’s devotion remained bowed at Drona’s feet. Brahmin indeed. And his surrender so total that, standing before a stone idol, with tears and flowers and prayer, he learned archery—became the most perfect archer.
Drona’s difficulty grew: the one I dismissed as Shudra has surpassed my students; what a judge am I! The stone I threw away has become a deity in the temple. So he said, “Give me my teacher’s fee.” See—are these the signs of a guru? He had given no initiation, yet he asked for a fee—dishonesty beyond limit.
And what fee did he ask of that innocent one? Ekalavya said, “I am poor; whatever I have I will give—even my life.” Drona demanded the thumb of his right hand—knowing without it his art is finished. And that unique man cut it off without a moment’s hesitation. Such surrender! In that very moment samadhi must have flowered. Liberation must have descended. Such trust! He did not doubt even this deceiver who had once rejected him and now shamelessly asks a fee; he cut off his thumb and offered it. Not a flicker of doubt. This is devotion. This is surrender. Archery may have gone, but self-knowledge would have arrived.
Scriptures don’t say so, but I would add it: archery ended with the thumb; self-knowledge dawned. Ekalavya became truly Brahmin, attained the great knowing. If such surrender does not bring enlightenment, what will?
So, finally, Shri Ram Sharma: even if surrender happens toward one who is not true, don’t worry—surrender must be total. But the ego is cunning; it asks: “If a disciple feels he has lost the gamble in his choice, can he go to another master?”
Think a little.
The day you feel the gamble is lost, the first question should be: Have I fulfilled the disciple’s essential quality? That never arises. Instead: if there is no attainment, the master must be wrong. It never occurs to you to ask: If there is no attainment, have I done wholeheartedly what the master said? Can I say I surrendered totally, trusted totally? Can I say I labored and practiced fully? Did I follow one hundred percent what was asked? If you can say, “Yes, I followed one hundred percent and yet I have lost,” then certainly change masters. But the one who follows one hundred percent never needs to change—because one hundred percent surrender is liberation.
Understand me well.
“Master” versus “not-master” is not the big issue. The master is only a device through which your surrender becomes total. Don’t give the device too much value. The master cannot give you truth; if he could, one master would have filled the world with truth by now. Truth cannot be given or taken. The master is a luminous device in whose presence it becomes easy for you to surrender—that’s all; a pretext.
So it can happen even before a stone statue. Buddha left twenty-five centuries ago, but if you wholly surrender before his image, the same revolution will happen as happened before the living Buddha. Don’t think Buddha will come and “do” something. No master does anything. In the master’s presence it becomes easy for you to drown in love and surrender. When surrender happens, the great revolution happens.
But your question… People always think the mistake, if any, will be the other’s; that is the ego’s arithmetic. “If I haven’t attained, the master must be false.” The reverse—that if I have not attained, I must be at fault—does not arise in your question. This is not just your slip; it is everyone’s. Man wants to shift responsibility.
What have you done? If nothing happens, the master is responsible—then he is false. If you go to another in this way, you will make him false too; and the third as well. Life after life you have been doing exactly this. You think you haven’t chosen a master yet? In countless births you have chosen countless masters; each time you failed, that’s why you’re back. Otherwise you would be free by now. One who has awakened does not return. Life after life you made the same basic mistake—like everyone.
No one wants to take blame. Those who shift blame are never free from it—because how can one be free of a fault one refuses to own? Some say it is fate; some say past karma; some say God did not write it in my destiny.
Even the irreligious speak similarly. Communists say man is unhappy because society is wrong. Man is not wrong; the system is wrong! As if economics fell from the sky. Who makes it? But men are pleased to accept “I am not wrong.” You always try to lay the fault elsewhere—this is how the fault is protected.
When you sit with a true master, remember: if nothing is happening, shoot the arrow back toward yourself. Ask: Am I doing what I was told? As it was asked? Are the conditions being fulfilled? Am I practicing—or just playing at lukewarm efforts?
People come to me saying, “I have surrendered; now you take care.” What have they surrendered? If tested, it becomes clear—nothing. They have learned a word. If I were to say, “Go, jump from the roof,” they would not jump. Before reaching the roof they would think, “This man is crazy! What kind of talk is this? We are surrendering and he tells us to jump! There will be no knowledge here. What could we learn by jumping?” They say, “We have surrendered; now you take care”—meaning, “If nothing happens, it’s on you.”
They come after four or six months: “Six months since sannyas—surrendered—and yet no enlightenment, no meditation, no inner light.” As if it were my responsibility. Already doubt grows: “Right master or wrong? In whose trap have we fallen? Six months and no enlightenment!” Some keep accounts of six days. They attend a three-day camp—some breathing, a little dance, some catharsis—and on the third day: “Three days over, only seven left—and still no samadhi. Thoughts keep coming.” Childish! Age grows, childishness remains.
Lukewarm effort brings nothing. Even living with the Buddhas, people have missed. Ananda stayed with Buddha forty years—day and night, in the same room, in service. But his attitude was: “By his grace it will happen.” Buddha kept saying, “Truth does not happen by anyone’s grace. Do something, Ananda—become alert.” He said, “You are here, what need have I to do? If you are here, all is.” If that too were total, even that could work; but it was merely formal—a polite mask to avoid working: “You are here; in your presence it will happen.” Not doing, but avoiding.
When Buddha was dying, Ananda wept. Natural—forty years together, and yet utterly ignorant, in night’s darkness, no full moon. Buddha said, “Why do you weep, Ananda?” “You are going—what will happen now?” Buddha said, “In forty years with me nothing happened—so you lose nothing. No one can harm you now. Perhaps it will help that I go. Perhaps you were using me as an excuse; when I am gone, responsibility cannot be shifted—you must take it. Perhaps, who knows, it is necessary that I leave for your sake.”
And so it was. Within twenty-four hours Ananda awakened. The shock of Buddha’s death was great. He must have reflected: “Forty years wasted. He kept calling and I kept postponing—saying ‘You are here; all will happen,’ and I did nothing.” After Buddha, many younger disciples awakened; Ananda was among the eldest—older than Buddha, his cousin, well-educated—yet kept missing. After Buddha’s passing he sat down, closed his eyes, and did not open them: “I will not open my eyes until the inner eye opens.” In twenty-four hours it happened—what forty years had not. For forty years he had simmered lukewarm; water becomes steam only at one hundred degrees.
For twenty-four hours he neither ate, nor drank, nor slept. It was no time to waste. Buddha had gone, and he had never truly listened; even at death Buddha said, “Ananda, appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Now be your own lamp. I go. The lamp by which you hoped to see is extinguished. Know this: others’ lamps do not light your way.” The first time he saw the vast darkness of his own lamp-less state. In Buddha’s shadow, peace and a certain flow streaming—but it was Buddha’s, not his own. For the first time he understood: “I am empty, futile, just straw; the birth of my soul has not happened.” A shock struck the Kshatriya—he sat, saying, “I will not rise—either I awaken or I die.” He staked all—that is surrender.
Then it happened without a master—Buddha had gone. I am telling you: it did not happen with Buddha alive; it happened when Buddha was gone. The revolution has to happen in you. If it has not happened in one master’s presence, do not rush to change masters; first ask whether you have done what was asked.
Yes—if you truly feel you have done all you can, and nothing more remains that you can do, then change masters. The master is not the goal; truth is the goal. But whoever you are with, give him a full chance—so that it never remains that you did not do.
Such things happened with Buddha. In his search, he went to many teachers. He stayed years with Alar Kalama. He did whatever was asked—things no one else would agree to. Alar said: “Reduce food daily; one grain a day; then two, then three—one grain more each day.” He did it. For years he starved. He grew so weak that in the shallow Niranjana river—no great river—he was swept by a small current; he had to clutch a root to keep from being carried away. Skin and bones. Whatever Alar said, he did.
One day Alar Kalama said, “Enough—you must go elsewhere. I have given you all I can. Beyond this I have nothing. My knowing ends here. Go, search further—find another teacher. And if someday you find truth, remember me—come and tell me. I do not yet know; I too am searching.”
When the disciple is that total, even a false teacher will be shaken. His totality will awaken the teacher too. Totality has its own light. Buddha’s surrender shook Alar—compassion must have arisen for this innocent suffering man. With others there was always a convenience—they did not do, so the question never arose. But this one did. A thorn began pricking Alar: “What am I doing? I don’t know; I have learned from books and passed on from books.” He apologized.
If the disciple is complete, even if the master is wrong, perhaps he will ask forgiveness; perhaps he will awaken.
So awaken. Make your utmost effort to awaken. Yes—if you feel that with all you can do nothing has happened, then change the master. The master is not the aim. The aim is God. If the master is a doorway, good; if he becomes a wall, there is no need to stay.
And do not think you have betrayed. The feeling of betrayal arises only if you have not done what was asked and still you leave. If you have done it all and still depart, the feeling of betrayal does not arise. What to do? Perhaps our tuning didn’t fit. Do not think “the master is wrong.” Just know: our tuning did not match; his method did not work for me. Think no more than this. Who knows if he is right or wrong? Let him know; what have you to do? Otherwise the ego begins to judge—and you are to be free of ego. Surrender means freedom from ego.
Where the heart begins to sway against the mind, let it sway.
That which your eyes first awakened in me
even now remains—a song without instrument or sound—remembered.
And what the heart is touched by once is never forgotten—if you allow the heart to be touched.
That which your first glance once awakened
still remains—a wordless, instrumentless song—remembered.
Without strings or voice, music arises within—a note reaches the heart without words. It is never forgotten; it becomes a milestone.
Who can tell what has befallen the mad lovers?
They remember the grace of dying, not the art of living.
If by sitting near someone it happens that neither living nor dying remains in your awareness, then hesitate no more; do no arithmetic. Slip silently into that net—for that very net will lead you to freedom.
Who is there that reached the journey’s very end?
Only a few faint footprints appeared and faded.
Be ready to be erased. As you approach, you will disappear.
Only a few dim traces are seen—and fade.
As you walk you become less. Arrival means the moment you are utterly gone. The smoke of ego disperses—and there the flameless light burns.
I had some hope from the scars of my heart in love,
but slowly, slowly even they became a lamp of dawn—and went out.
Slowly even the heart’s wounds, the heart’s pain, go out—like a lamp that fades as dawn arrives.
Slowly, slowly even that became the lamp of dawn.
One day even the heart goes out; all goes out. When all of “you” goes out, God descends. It begins with the extinguishing of the intellect and ends with the extinguishing of the heart. Therefore no one can take a picture of That. Even the one who arrives cannot capture it in a picture.
Where is the vastness of the hereafter—and where this ruined heart?
It too is but a small fragment of this desolation.
No picture of That can be drawn.
The relation a moth has to the flame is like this.
If the flame calls the moth—if the flame becomes visible—the moth flies. Such is the happening between master and disciple. The master is the flame; the disciple becomes the moth—drawn. But remember: the moth’s approach to the flame is an approach to its own death. The moth will burn in the flame, become ash. Only as ash will it become flame. Therefore if someone asks the moth to paint the flame, he cannot—he knows the flame only when he is gone. While he remains, he has neither seen nor known the flame. Seeing it brings madness.
Thus no one can capture the inner portrait of a true master. Only outer marks get written; the inner cannot be sketched. Nor can anyone paint God. Those who know are at a loss: what to say, how to say? Jagjivan keeps saying: it cannot be said, it cannot be told. I have known, but I cannot make it known.
Scriptures offer outer marks. If you go by marks, you will remain bound within the intellect—and the intellect is bondage, a chain. Break this chain. Let the heart dance and sing—freely. Surely, the true master will be found. True masters are always present. If there is thirst, the lake is always there.
But the lake does not come to the thirsty. The flame does not go to the moth; the moth must come to the flame—though when it comes, it comes only because the flame has drawn it.
The “choice” of a master is not a choice at all; it is like love—it happens. And often it happens despite your mind. Your mind keeps saying, “No, no,” keeps denying, and your heart steps forward, takes a leap. The relationship to the master is of the heart, not of the head and thought. Not of logic, but of feeling. Your question is of thought.
You ask: “A master can always know the spiritual state of a seeker for liberation, but how can the seeker know whether the master has attained truth or not?”
There is no way to know—never was, never will be. How will the blind know whether the man standing before him has eyes or not? How will the sleeping know whether the one sitting beside him is awake or not? There is no way! And yet, sometimes, despite the mind, a wave of feeling is caught and it carries you away. The bond with a master is a kind of divine madness. Not of thought, not of accounting, not of arithmetic.
That is why those who cling to a master are always taken to be mad—indeed they are! It is just like love. You see a woman, or a man, and love happens. How would you know—what means does the intellect have—to decide that the one you have fallen in love with is the true vessel for your love? Will this woman you fell for prove the right wife? Will she be the right mother for your children? Will she be a proper homemaker, will she hold the home together? Will she stand by you in joy and sorrow? What way is there to know? But love refuses to know. Love says: Even if she doesn’t prove the perfect wife, fine; even if she isn’t the perfect mother, fine; even if she can’t manage the household, fine. Love is blind—from reason’s point of view. For the eyes of reason are not the eyes of the heart; the heart has its own eyes, its own ways. The heart does not proceed by syllogism—it leaps; it does not calculate. There is a felt sense, a sudden shimmering.
So it is with the master.
A seeker of liberation has a sudden shimmer, a heart is churned. A ray pierces somewhere deeper than the mind, a thrill of gooseflesh! You start, you don’t choose. When the master “is chosen,” you do not choose—you are startled: What is this happening? You find yourself helpless, powerless. You are drawn. Try to stop and you can’t. Try to go away and going away feels false. Some unknown force surrounds you from all sides.
If you would understand rightly: the disciple does not choose the master; the master chooses the disciple. The master chooses first; only then does the wave arise in your heart, the first glimmer happens. The master encircles you. He closes every door of escape. He breaks the bridges you crossed to get here. He kicks away the ladders by which you climbed. He shreds your net of arguments. He pours a wine into you; in the intoxication of that wine you drown.
No one ever chooses a master. No one ever has. Those who tried to choose missed from the outset. Choice is always laced with doubt. Choice is never total. You will think: this one or that one? You will compare: this seems right, or that? You will calculate: where is the greater profit, what the loss? How much will I have to stake here? Where can the job be done cheaper?
You have taken spirituality to be a marketplace! As one buys a commodity—what to buy, what to leave? He compares, considers, prices, tests sturdiness. Even for a two-rupee pot a man taps and tests—is it cracked? Is there a hole? And here you are to stake your life. So the mind will say: test and try thoroughly. But your tests will be your tests! How will they take you beyond you? How will they raise you above yourself? How will they free you from yourself? What is liberation after all? Do you know what “mumukshu” means? One who longs for liberation—for moksha—one who yearns for absolute freedom. But your mind itself is your prison. And you go to choose with this very mind? This very mind forged your prison, and with it you set out to open the vast sky of freedom—by means of these very bars, these very walls? These very walls have enclosed and bound you.
No—no way opens from within you. If the Way seizes you, then something can happen. Therefore the one longing for liberation can do only this much—be open, available, receptive. If something grabs you, some energy arrives, don’t slam your doors; that’s all. Nothing more lies in your hands. As you sit here near me—if there is “choosing,” I will choose; you cannot choose me. Shri Ram may think he will choose me—he is mistaken. If you choose, the error has already happened. Don’t think of later errors. The first mistake is already made. And I am saying, even if you choose the right master, still you are wrong to have chosen.
Take this well to heart: I am not saying that if you choose, you will choose a false master; by some fluke you might come to Kabir, Nanak, Buddha, or Mahavira, and you might “choose” the right master—but the rightness of the master still won’t help, because you are wrong. In choosing, the error is yours. Even if you take hold of Buddha’s feet, the feet you hold will not be Buddha’s—they will be only your mental image. You will have seen your own notion in Buddha. Some idea of yours will have been gratified. Some prejudice of yours will have found support. You had come thinking a Buddha should be like this—and Buddha, by coincidence, matched your notion, so you chose. In truth you did not choose him; you chose yourself. You picked your own shadow, because your expectation was fulfilled. Had the enlightened one differed even a little from your expectation and conception, you could not have chosen—not even a little difference! A slight deviation and your choosing would become impossible.
If you hold as a mark that a supremely wise one must be naked, and Buddha is not naked, you won’t be able to choose him. You will go away, saying, “He’s not yet complete, dispassion not yet perfect—cloth still clings; he is not like Mahavira.” If you go to Buddha with a Jain conception, there will be trouble.
If you go to Krishna with a Buddhist conception, there will be trouble. For seeing Krishna you will feel: it’s all passion upon passion—where is dispassion? Buddha said: “A monk should not even look at a woman; if forced to, he must not touch her; if forced to touch, he must remain fully alert, without slip.” One who holds that maxim—if he sees Krishna dancing the rasa with the gopis, hand in hand with Radha, he will feel pity for poor Krishna: “He himself is lost! How will he liberate anyone?” Compassion will well up: “If only I could advise him—Brother, wake up! Keep alert! What are you doing?”
In Jain scriptures Krishna is consigned to the seventh hell—for an eternity; only when this creation ends and the next begins will he be released! Understandable: if one wife leads to hell, where will sixteen thousand wives take you! And many of those weren’t even his wives—wives of others! Absolutely illegal! Illegitimate! And the number—sixteen thousand!
If you have formed a conception—and you all have conceptions—you go with your conception. Then when your idea finds a match, you think you have chosen. That is your delusion; your idea has been gratified. And if tomorrow your idea breaks, you will be shocked, you will repent, you will be sad: “I wasted my time—followed this man, lost so many days for nothing.”
Then even leaving will be difficult. So many days of attachment have formed. So many assurances given, so much force of “faith” invested; and now to leave—there will be regret: “What if leaving is the mistake?” Hence you ask: “And if a disciple ever feels he has lost the gamble in his choice, can he go to another master?” Then the fear arises: “Would that be treachery? Betrayal?”
Yesterday I saw a letter.
One of my sannyasins, a German, Vimalakirti, grandson of the German emperor—you would not recognize him as an emperor’s grandson; he scrubs pots in Vrindavan. A very simple-hearted man. His uncle wrote, sending a photograph of the German emperor. On the back: “Traitor! Born to a royal house and living like a beggar!” He sees treachery: a prince turned monk! Conceptions.
If you have tied yourself to one master, then when a mistake becomes visible, it doesn’t mean that now you have rightly seen the master is wrong. The day you thought he was right, he matched your idea; the day you judge him wrong, he no longer matches your idea. That’s all. How will you ever know right or wrong in a master? You won’t.
So I say: rather than discovering the second mistake, catch the first. Don’t choose. Yes—if a master chooses you, let yourself be chosen. If the master’s energy seizes you, begins to dance around you, enters your heart, and you are flooded with bliss—not because some notion is vindicated or some expectation fulfilled—your heart itself, against all your conceptions, bears witness: “Now, enough—let everything be dropped, let the entire net of mind go; this is worth the stake!”—then understand, the master has entered your life. After such an advent there is no going back. It is impossible. A bond of the heart alone ferries you across.
But Shri Ram, you want to think it through—you are a Brahmin man—doing arithmetic, weighing, consulting scriptures in your mind: the master should be like this, like that; such and such marks must be there, then choose.
Just see the ego in this! You will choose? Who are you? If you have enough understanding to recognize the marks of a master, you yourself are already a master—what remains? If you have such awareness that you can recognize one who is aware, why go anywhere? Just deepen that very awareness. If you know who is awakened, then you are awakened. If you can recognize someone has eyes, then you yourself have the evidence of eyesight—what more do you need? Why follow anyone? You yourself have eyes—no more master is needed.
I am telling you: if you have so much discrimination that you can decide who is true and who is false, you need no master. If you need a master, it means there is no way through your intellect. Put your intellect aside. Sit in the company of masters—relaxed, open, with all doors and windows unlatched, so that if the sun wishes it may enter, the morning breeze may pass through, the rain’s fine drops may reach you, the koel’s song may enter you—just sit open. And wherever you are caught—where it becomes difficult to escape, where you are drawn like iron to a magnet—then what will you do? There is no question of choosing then. The master has chosen. Blessed are those who let themselves be chosen, and do not choose themselves.
Two kinds of people come to me. One kind chooses. With them my relationship never quite forms. They are too clever; their cleverness is the barrier. The other kind lets me choose. With them a relationship forms that cannot break—there is no possibility of its breaking.
When hearts join, they do not break. The head’s bonds are hollow—outward, brittle; they can snap any time. Today I say something that matches your scripture; tomorrow I will say something that does not—I will be a problem then.
When I used to speak on the Sikhs’ Japji, many Sikhs came to listen. But they were not coming to listen to me. What had they to do with me? They came because I spoke on Japji. When that series ended, they disappeared. What relationship could form with such people?
When I speak on Kabir, Kabirpanthis turn up. Just now a friend said, “In your voice I hear the resonance of Saint Taran Taran; it delights me.” He is a follower of Taran Taran, so he hears Taran Taran. Many of you have never even heard that name—how will you hear his resonance? The Christian feels I’m speaking the Bible, the Muslim hears the Quran, the Sikh hears the Guru Granth.
But notice: if you are delighted because you hear Taran Taran in me, then you have not heard me at all. Your delight is your mind’s delight; it has nothing to do with me. The day I say something that does not match your Taran Taran, friendship ends! Cut off! The friendship was false, in name only; not with me, but with Taran Taran. Because you heard your saint’s voice in my words, you walked along—but you never joined me.
When will you hear me? When will you listen directly—setting aside your notions?
Followers of Taran Taran keep writing: “When will you speak on Saint Taran Taran? When you do, we want to come.” Nothing to do with me—when I speak on their saint, they will come.
The ego seeks validation—this is all it is. You want to hear from me that what you already believe is right. Then you are pleased with me: “Yes, this man is right!” because your ego has been fed, your creed affirmed, your scripture supported. If I utter even one word about your scripture that offends or shatters your mind, you become my enemy—instantly.
With your notions you will never form a relationship with a true master. No true master is a copy of any other. Understand this well: though truth is one, its expressions are many. Though truth is one, when it descends it expresses uniquely each time.
One person saw the morning sun—beauty spreading in the east, birds singing, trees awakening, the world ready for worship. One wrote a song, one painted a picture, one plucked a vina. All three express the same dawn, but their expressions differ. The vina’s strain also welcomes the sun; it carries a little of dawn’s redness—but sound has color of its own, caught by the ear, not the eye. The painter’s brush and the musician’s notes—what outer connection have they? Another wrote a poem, another tied bells to his ankles and danced. The sun was one; the inner adoration one; the prayer one; the feeling of worship one—but the expressions became different.
So is the difference between Kabir and Nanak and Jagjivan; between Buddha, Mahavira, and Krishna; between Mohammed, Lao Tzu, and Zarathustra. But when you cling to one conception and go searching with it, you get into trouble. If you hold the notion “The master must be like Kabir,” you will never find a master—Kabir does not come twice. And if you do find someone exactly like Kabir, know he is an imitator. The original never repeats; only counterfeits can.
If a master perfectly matches your notions, be certain he is a pretender. You may be shocked—but if he fully fits your conceptions, he is accommodating your conceptions. Therefore the Jain monk will fit the Jain conception; the Buddhist monk will fit the Buddhist conception; the Hindu sannyasin will fit the Hindu conception. It’s all staging to match your beliefs—nothing to do with truth. The sun has risen; they don’t know. They have picked up neither the vina nor the brush nor the dancing bells, nor do they have a song in their throat; they only know the scripture’s definition of a guru and arrange their behavior accordingly.
The scripture says: eat once a day—so they eat once. Two garments—so two garments. Don’t travel after sunset—so they don’t. Don’t drink water at night—so they refrain. Rise before dawn—so they rise. They rehearse what the scripture prescribes; through this, they match your idea and seem suitable. If your conception springs from the same scripture, the match is exact.
Hence the odd spectacle: the guru of one sect does not seem like a guru at all to another sect. But to his sect he appears the supreme guru. Their conceptions match.
Understand the trick.
You study the same shastra… Consider an actress who came to see me: “What do you say about the Bhrigu Samhita?” I asked why. She said, “In Delhi they read my Bhrigu. I noted what they said of my past lives, and future too. Some things about this life were true. Others aren’t yet, but the reader said they will be—this life isn’t over. Then I had it read in Madras—exactly the same! Then in Kashi—exactly the same! If it were a fraud, it would differ. When three places match—and none know each other—it must be true.”
She has no idea that these “Bhrigu Samhitas” are copies of each other—no real difference. The reader hardly matters. The method of opening the page is the same. Your name, address, age, calculation—same calculation—and then the thirty-first page is opened for your horoscope. Whatever is written there is read out. Whether in Delhi, Madras, or Kashi. When three readers repeat the same, your confidence grows: three can’t be wrong!
You read the shastra, and the person aspiring to be a guru reads the same shastra. You, wanting to be a disciple, study “How to recognize a guru.” The one wanting to be a guru studies “How to be recognized by disciples.” Then both align—and both are deceived.
There is no shastric mark by which to recognize a true master. The one whose marks were written down—he has already happened and does not happen again. Every true master is peerless, unique. Krishna will not come again. Buddha will not come again. Existence does not repeat; it is not a broken gramophone record endlessly repeating.
God is ever-new creativity, the Creator—each day a new song, a new note, a new meter. What once happened, happened; it is not repeated. God descends in new forms. Then you are in difficulty. Your conception is of the old, and you try to match the new master to the old conception—it won’t match. The one who matches is a pretender. The true one won’t match. These are the seeker’s hurdles; I want to make them clear.
Understand this from me: you cannot choose. You will choose on the basis of old conceptions. No scripture has yet been written to recognize the new master—it gets written after he is gone. People recognize later. But recognition then is meaningless. When Mahavira is alive, you judge by the standards of Rama—and it goes wrong, for Mahavira is not Rama. You look: where is the bow? There is no bow. Not even a loincloth sometimes. You ask, “Where is the bow, sir? Where is Sita?” There is neither Sita nor bow. You’re carrying the old: “I will bow only when you lift the bow!” Then you will never bow—Mahavira will not lift a bow. It wouldn’t suit him—naked, brandishing a bow? It wouldn’t do; it wouldn’t be beautiful!
When Mahavira is gone, then scripture is compiled. Scripture can only be compiled afterward, once Mahavira has gripped many hearts. And note, he grips only those free of conceptions. Those who came with fixed notions could not relate to him. A few guileless, virgin hearts were caught—those brave enough to set the mind aside. Tomorrow, these very brave ones will compose marks based on Mahavira: “A master should be like this.” And trouble begins again.
Mahavira kept twelve years of silence before enlightenment; he was a great ascetic. Buddha practiced in the forest for six years and attained. Now the bookkeeper says Buddha is unfinished—twelve and six—still raw! A well-known Jain thinker wrote a book on Mahavira and Buddha. He told me beforehand: “I’m a harmonizer—Gandhian, raised in his ashram—so I’m writing a syncretic work.” I saw the title and was shocked: “Bhagavan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.” I asked: “Either call both Bhagavan or both Mahatma—why this slight difference? What is the difference?” He said, “A slight one! Mahavira is fully perfect; Buddha is a little behind.” This is “synthesis”! A shopkeeper’s arithmetic—twelve years versus six—Buddha is still Mahatma, not Bhagavan; perhaps one more life.
And he thinks himself generous and broad-minded! Not generosity—this is miserliness. He cannot call Buddha “Bhagavan.” How could he? He has made marks, and the accounting follows them. And such a man does not reappear. Two thousand five hundred years since Mahavira and no second Mahavira—though many have imitated: many went naked, many ate and fasted like Mahavira—but the same fragrance did not appear, the lotus did not bloom. How could it? Those twenty-five centuries of nakedness were mere practice and arrangement—not an inner flowering.
When a true master appears, your ideas won’t match him. Therefore only the brave—who can set aside their notions and, when the master casts his net, not run away, but consent to be caught—will be taken. You do not choose; the master casts a net like a fisherman.
Jesus once approached a fisherman drawing up his morning catch. Jesus placed a hand on his shoulder; the man turned. In the fresh morning sun, Jesus’ aura, eyes deeper than the lake—he was entranced. “Who are you? From where? How did you arrive so suddenly?” Jesus said, “You will understand gradually who I am. I’ve come to say one thing: How long will you catch fish? Come, I will teach you to catch men.” The fisherman did not hesitate—he threw his net back into the lake and followed. Jesus asked, “You trust my word already?” He said, “I do—because I myself am caught! Surely you can teach this art: I’ve been caught.”
When the master casts his net, don’t run—if you can do just this much, you are a seeker. Let yourself be chosen; then bow down, surrender.
And let me tell you the last thing. Don’t worry about who is the right master, who is false. Whoever stirs your heart is right for you. One master may be right for one, wrong for another—remember this. Not all medicines suit everyone; what cures one can poison another. So the one in whose presence your heart is churned awake, with whom your heart dances—that one is right for you. Then don’t bother what others say. Go.
And one more thing: allow even this possibility—that sometimes you may be affected by someone who is not yet fully realized. Charisma can happen—an appealing personality, a poetic voice, a forceful presence, a glow in the eyes. Adolf Hitler’s eyes too had a certain power—millions don’t get bewitched for nothing. He wasn’t a true master. Yet hearts can be seized.
So it can happen that you fall in with someone not yet arrived. I want to tell you: if your surrender is total, you will still attain liberation even with such a one. Liberation comes through the totality of surrender—not through the object of surrender. I repeat: liberation comes through the totality of surrender. It does not depend on to whom you surrender. That is why, even before a stone idol, if surrender is absolute, liberation can happen.
You know the story of Ekalavya. Before a stone idol his surrender was complete. No master there—no true master—only a statue he himself had fashioned; yet his surrender was so total, greater even than Arjuna’s toward Dronacharya. Therefore Arjuna fell behind Ekalavya. Drona became anxious, afraid; he too was drawn to Ekalavya. Seeing his art, he must have been stunned.
Drona is no true master—an ordinary royal servant, less than ordinary. Not even deserving the word “guru”—for a guru has something Drona lacked; otherwise he would not have demanded Ekalavya’s thumb. He asked for Ekalavya’s thumb because he saw his students eclipsed: neither Arjuna, nor Karna, nor Duryodhana matched this height. He feared for his princes, with whom his ego and prestige were tied: “If Arjuna falls behind, what of me?” He had rejected Ekalavya as a Shudra—are these the ways of a guru? One who rejects another as Shudra is Shudra himself, not Brahmin. A Brahmin is one who sees Brahman in all.
I say Ekalavya is the Brahmin. Drona denied, insulted, drove him away—yet Ekalavya’s devotion remained bowed at Drona’s feet. Brahmin indeed. And his surrender so total that, standing before a stone idol, with tears and flowers and prayer, he learned archery—became the most perfect archer.
Drona’s difficulty grew: the one I dismissed as Shudra has surpassed my students; what a judge am I! The stone I threw away has become a deity in the temple. So he said, “Give me my teacher’s fee.” See—are these the signs of a guru? He had given no initiation, yet he asked for a fee—dishonesty beyond limit.
And what fee did he ask of that innocent one? Ekalavya said, “I am poor; whatever I have I will give—even my life.” Drona demanded the thumb of his right hand—knowing without it his art is finished. And that unique man cut it off without a moment’s hesitation. Such surrender! In that very moment samadhi must have flowered. Liberation must have descended. Such trust! He did not doubt even this deceiver who had once rejected him and now shamelessly asks a fee; he cut off his thumb and offered it. Not a flicker of doubt. This is devotion. This is surrender. Archery may have gone, but self-knowledge would have arrived.
Scriptures don’t say so, but I would add it: archery ended with the thumb; self-knowledge dawned. Ekalavya became truly Brahmin, attained the great knowing. If such surrender does not bring enlightenment, what will?
So, finally, Shri Ram Sharma: even if surrender happens toward one who is not true, don’t worry—surrender must be total. But the ego is cunning; it asks: “If a disciple feels he has lost the gamble in his choice, can he go to another master?”
Think a little.
The day you feel the gamble is lost, the first question should be: Have I fulfilled the disciple’s essential quality? That never arises. Instead: if there is no attainment, the master must be wrong. It never occurs to you to ask: If there is no attainment, have I done wholeheartedly what the master said? Can I say I surrendered totally, trusted totally? Can I say I labored and practiced fully? Did I follow one hundred percent what was asked? If you can say, “Yes, I followed one hundred percent and yet I have lost,” then certainly change masters. But the one who follows one hundred percent never needs to change—because one hundred percent surrender is liberation.
Understand me well.
“Master” versus “not-master” is not the big issue. The master is only a device through which your surrender becomes total. Don’t give the device too much value. The master cannot give you truth; if he could, one master would have filled the world with truth by now. Truth cannot be given or taken. The master is a luminous device in whose presence it becomes easy for you to surrender—that’s all; a pretext.
So it can happen even before a stone statue. Buddha left twenty-five centuries ago, but if you wholly surrender before his image, the same revolution will happen as happened before the living Buddha. Don’t think Buddha will come and “do” something. No master does anything. In the master’s presence it becomes easy for you to drown in love and surrender. When surrender happens, the great revolution happens.
But your question… People always think the mistake, if any, will be the other’s; that is the ego’s arithmetic. “If I haven’t attained, the master must be false.” The reverse—that if I have not attained, I must be at fault—does not arise in your question. This is not just your slip; it is everyone’s. Man wants to shift responsibility.
What have you done? If nothing happens, the master is responsible—then he is false. If you go to another in this way, you will make him false too; and the third as well. Life after life you have been doing exactly this. You think you haven’t chosen a master yet? In countless births you have chosen countless masters; each time you failed, that’s why you’re back. Otherwise you would be free by now. One who has awakened does not return. Life after life you made the same basic mistake—like everyone.
No one wants to take blame. Those who shift blame are never free from it—because how can one be free of a fault one refuses to own? Some say it is fate; some say past karma; some say God did not write it in my destiny.
Even the irreligious speak similarly. Communists say man is unhappy because society is wrong. Man is not wrong; the system is wrong! As if economics fell from the sky. Who makes it? But men are pleased to accept “I am not wrong.” You always try to lay the fault elsewhere—this is how the fault is protected.
When you sit with a true master, remember: if nothing is happening, shoot the arrow back toward yourself. Ask: Am I doing what I was told? As it was asked? Are the conditions being fulfilled? Am I practicing—or just playing at lukewarm efforts?
People come to me saying, “I have surrendered; now you take care.” What have they surrendered? If tested, it becomes clear—nothing. They have learned a word. If I were to say, “Go, jump from the roof,” they would not jump. Before reaching the roof they would think, “This man is crazy! What kind of talk is this? We are surrendering and he tells us to jump! There will be no knowledge here. What could we learn by jumping?” They say, “We have surrendered; now you take care”—meaning, “If nothing happens, it’s on you.”
They come after four or six months: “Six months since sannyas—surrendered—and yet no enlightenment, no meditation, no inner light.” As if it were my responsibility. Already doubt grows: “Right master or wrong? In whose trap have we fallen? Six months and no enlightenment!” Some keep accounts of six days. They attend a three-day camp—some breathing, a little dance, some catharsis—and on the third day: “Three days over, only seven left—and still no samadhi. Thoughts keep coming.” Childish! Age grows, childishness remains.
Lukewarm effort brings nothing. Even living with the Buddhas, people have missed. Ananda stayed with Buddha forty years—day and night, in the same room, in service. But his attitude was: “By his grace it will happen.” Buddha kept saying, “Truth does not happen by anyone’s grace. Do something, Ananda—become alert.” He said, “You are here, what need have I to do? If you are here, all is.” If that too were total, even that could work; but it was merely formal—a polite mask to avoid working: “You are here; in your presence it will happen.” Not doing, but avoiding.
When Buddha was dying, Ananda wept. Natural—forty years together, and yet utterly ignorant, in night’s darkness, no full moon. Buddha said, “Why do you weep, Ananda?” “You are going—what will happen now?” Buddha said, “In forty years with me nothing happened—so you lose nothing. No one can harm you now. Perhaps it will help that I go. Perhaps you were using me as an excuse; when I am gone, responsibility cannot be shifted—you must take it. Perhaps, who knows, it is necessary that I leave for your sake.”
And so it was. Within twenty-four hours Ananda awakened. The shock of Buddha’s death was great. He must have reflected: “Forty years wasted. He kept calling and I kept postponing—saying ‘You are here; all will happen,’ and I did nothing.” After Buddha, many younger disciples awakened; Ananda was among the eldest—older than Buddha, his cousin, well-educated—yet kept missing. After Buddha’s passing he sat down, closed his eyes, and did not open them: “I will not open my eyes until the inner eye opens.” In twenty-four hours it happened—what forty years had not. For forty years he had simmered lukewarm; water becomes steam only at one hundred degrees.
For twenty-four hours he neither ate, nor drank, nor slept. It was no time to waste. Buddha had gone, and he had never truly listened; even at death Buddha said, “Ananda, appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Now be your own lamp. I go. The lamp by which you hoped to see is extinguished. Know this: others’ lamps do not light your way.” The first time he saw the vast darkness of his own lamp-less state. In Buddha’s shadow, peace and a certain flow streaming—but it was Buddha’s, not his own. For the first time he understood: “I am empty, futile, just straw; the birth of my soul has not happened.” A shock struck the Kshatriya—he sat, saying, “I will not rise—either I awaken or I die.” He staked all—that is surrender.
Then it happened without a master—Buddha had gone. I am telling you: it did not happen with Buddha alive; it happened when Buddha was gone. The revolution has to happen in you. If it has not happened in one master’s presence, do not rush to change masters; first ask whether you have done what was asked.
Yes—if you truly feel you have done all you can, and nothing more remains that you can do, then change masters. The master is not the goal; truth is the goal. But whoever you are with, give him a full chance—so that it never remains that you did not do.
Such things happened with Buddha. In his search, he went to many teachers. He stayed years with Alar Kalama. He did whatever was asked—things no one else would agree to. Alar said: “Reduce food daily; one grain a day; then two, then three—one grain more each day.” He did it. For years he starved. He grew so weak that in the shallow Niranjana river—no great river—he was swept by a small current; he had to clutch a root to keep from being carried away. Skin and bones. Whatever Alar said, he did.
One day Alar Kalama said, “Enough—you must go elsewhere. I have given you all I can. Beyond this I have nothing. My knowing ends here. Go, search further—find another teacher. And if someday you find truth, remember me—come and tell me. I do not yet know; I too am searching.”
When the disciple is that total, even a false teacher will be shaken. His totality will awaken the teacher too. Totality has its own light. Buddha’s surrender shook Alar—compassion must have arisen for this innocent suffering man. With others there was always a convenience—they did not do, so the question never arose. But this one did. A thorn began pricking Alar: “What am I doing? I don’t know; I have learned from books and passed on from books.” He apologized.
If the disciple is complete, even if the master is wrong, perhaps he will ask forgiveness; perhaps he will awaken.
So awaken. Make your utmost effort to awaken. Yes—if you feel that with all you can do nothing has happened, then change the master. The master is not the aim. The aim is God. If the master is a doorway, good; if he becomes a wall, there is no need to stay.
And do not think you have betrayed. The feeling of betrayal arises only if you have not done what was asked and still you leave. If you have done it all and still depart, the feeling of betrayal does not arise. What to do? Perhaps our tuning didn’t fit. Do not think “the master is wrong.” Just know: our tuning did not match; his method did not work for me. Think no more than this. Who knows if he is right or wrong? Let him know; what have you to do? Otherwise the ego begins to judge—and you are to be free of ego. Surrender means freedom from ego.
Where the heart begins to sway against the mind, let it sway.
That which your eyes first awakened in me
even now remains—a song without instrument or sound—remembered.
And what the heart is touched by once is never forgotten—if you allow the heart to be touched.
That which your first glance once awakened
still remains—a wordless, instrumentless song—remembered.
Without strings or voice, music arises within—a note reaches the heart without words. It is never forgotten; it becomes a milestone.
Who can tell what has befallen the mad lovers?
They remember the grace of dying, not the art of living.
If by sitting near someone it happens that neither living nor dying remains in your awareness, then hesitate no more; do no arithmetic. Slip silently into that net—for that very net will lead you to freedom.
Who is there that reached the journey’s very end?
Only a few faint footprints appeared and faded.
Be ready to be erased. As you approach, you will disappear.
Only a few dim traces are seen—and fade.
As you walk you become less. Arrival means the moment you are utterly gone. The smoke of ego disperses—and there the flameless light burns.
I had some hope from the scars of my heart in love,
but slowly, slowly even they became a lamp of dawn—and went out.
Slowly even the heart’s wounds, the heart’s pain, go out—like a lamp that fades as dawn arrives.
Slowly, slowly even that became the lamp of dawn.
One day even the heart goes out; all goes out. When all of “you” goes out, God descends. It begins with the extinguishing of the intellect and ends with the extinguishing of the heart. Therefore no one can take a picture of That. Even the one who arrives cannot capture it in a picture.
Where is the vastness of the hereafter—and where this ruined heart?
It too is but a small fragment of this desolation.
No picture of That can be drawn.
The relation a moth has to the flame is like this.
If the flame calls the moth—if the flame becomes visible—the moth flies. Such is the happening between master and disciple. The master is the flame; the disciple becomes the moth—drawn. But remember: the moth’s approach to the flame is an approach to its own death. The moth will burn in the flame, become ash. Only as ash will it become flame. Therefore if someone asks the moth to paint the flame, he cannot—he knows the flame only when he is gone. While he remains, he has neither seen nor known the flame. Seeing it brings madness.
Thus no one can capture the inner portrait of a true master. Only outer marks get written; the inner cannot be sketched. Nor can anyone paint God. Those who know are at a loss: what to say, how to say? Jagjivan keeps saying: it cannot be said, it cannot be told. I have known, but I cannot make it known.
Scriptures offer outer marks. If you go by marks, you will remain bound within the intellect—and the intellect is bondage, a chain. Break this chain. Let the heart dance and sing—freely. Surely, the true master will be found. True masters are always present. If there is thirst, the lake is always there.
But the lake does not come to the thirsty. The flame does not go to the moth; the moth must come to the flame—though when it comes, it comes only because the flame has drawn it.
Osho, I stand at your door, Bhagwan; Osho, fill my begging bowl.
Kusum! The bowl is full; it is not empty. Open your eyes and see! It is not to be filled—you have brought it already full. It has always been full. The treasure of all treasures is within you. The empire of empires is hidden in your heart. All that you need has already been given, already attained. Not even a speck needs to be added. Nothing to add, nothing to subtract—only to awaken. And the moment you awaken, revolution happens.
So, Kusum, do not ask me to fill your bowl! If someone could fill your bowl, then someone could empty it too. That would be a great trouble! I can only awaken you. And once awake, you will see that your bowl has always been full, never empty. For our connection with the divine never breaks—not even for a moment. We may forget Him; He has not forgotten us. We may turn our backs; He keeps His face turned toward us. We may become averse; He forever stands before us. Otherwise, how would we live? It is He who breathes into us. He is the one who draws the thread of the life-breath. He is the heartbeat in the heart. He is our very life. The divine is not other than our life; there is no other.
But to know this, to awaken to this, a certain process must be understood.
In the world, whatever is to be gained is gained by running. In the innermost, whatever is to be realized is realized by stopping. In the world, you attain by thinking; within, you realize by no-thought. Because within there is nothing to gain—it is already gained. Thoughts prevent you from knowing—lost in the noise of the crowd of thoughts. The instant you are without thought, you are startled to find: whom were we seeking, and why were we seeking? How we wandered here and there! And the one we were seeking is hiding in the seeker.
This path is alien!
Along with my wandering steps,
this crazy path
has walked with me in the dark!
Hungry were these feet,
thirsty were these feet,
who knows how far,
from where these feet have come.
And the feet did not stop,
and no village was found.
There were tears of the feet,
the earth’s hem,
the road’s affectionate lap—
what support there was.
From predawn darkness
to night’s deep darkness,
the feet stopped nowhere
and no village was found.
Along with the feet, only the road went astray!
The day’s earnings are delusion and fatigue!
This path is alien!
On whatever roads you are walking, all are alien, all lead away. Every search is taking you farther from yourself.
The feet stopped nowhere,
and no village was found.
Stop—and the village is found now, in this very moment! The village dwells within you. The Master sits within.
Do not ask from me. In the very asking the mistake happens. I cannot give you anything. But on awakening I have found there is nothing to get. This is the hint I give you: wake up, and have it.
Hungry were these feet,
thirsty were these feet,
who knows how far,
from where these feet have come.
And the feet did not stop,
and no village was found.
The village can be found—now, this very moment, Kusum. The feet must stop. The feet of thought, the feet of desire—the feet must stop. All kinds of feet must stop. This is meditation: to sit quietly, in silence; to sit still, without thought; to sink within, to forget the outside. And some day, in some auspicious moment, the treasure opens. In some auspicious hour, the king of kings is found within! And then there are flowers upon flowers. Then life is fragrance upon fragrance.
The kadamba have bloomed;
on every twig, ball-like clusters of kadamba swing.
The kadamba have bloomed.
The monsoon has passed,
yet the treasury of clouds is not emptied.
Who knows since when it has been raining—
and you, with yearning eyes, in vain,
who knows since when you have been craving.
The heart says, touch the kadamba.
The kadamba have bloomed,
the kadamba swing.
Then there are only flowers. Then life is only perfume. Nowhere to go, nothing to attain. Just come to yourself. This truth is not seen with open eyes; it is seen with eyes closed. Withdraw like a turtle. Let all the senses loosen and fall inward. Close every door and window; forget the outside. Let neither past remain nor future—only this moment! And dive into this moment. And there is bottomless depth!
The kadamba have bloomed;
on every twig, ball-like clusters of kadamba swing.
The kadamba have bloomed.
The petals open. The moment you go within, they open!
In the rain, bare leaves are washed;
pale they were yesterday, today the leaves unfold.
In the magic of sunlight the leaves have bloomed;
in the intoxicating breeze the leaves sway;
cast in a magical mold the leaves,
the tender leaves forgot the scorching days.
In the rain, bare leaves are washed;
pale they were yesterday, today the leaves unfold.
It is only a matter of opening. Stop, and you open. Let the petals unfold. The golden lotus is within you. You are the golden lotus. Do not beg—awake!
So, Kusum, do not ask me to fill your bowl! If someone could fill your bowl, then someone could empty it too. That would be a great trouble! I can only awaken you. And once awake, you will see that your bowl has always been full, never empty. For our connection with the divine never breaks—not even for a moment. We may forget Him; He has not forgotten us. We may turn our backs; He keeps His face turned toward us. We may become averse; He forever stands before us. Otherwise, how would we live? It is He who breathes into us. He is the one who draws the thread of the life-breath. He is the heartbeat in the heart. He is our very life. The divine is not other than our life; there is no other.
But to know this, to awaken to this, a certain process must be understood.
In the world, whatever is to be gained is gained by running. In the innermost, whatever is to be realized is realized by stopping. In the world, you attain by thinking; within, you realize by no-thought. Because within there is nothing to gain—it is already gained. Thoughts prevent you from knowing—lost in the noise of the crowd of thoughts. The instant you are without thought, you are startled to find: whom were we seeking, and why were we seeking? How we wandered here and there! And the one we were seeking is hiding in the seeker.
This path is alien!
Along with my wandering steps,
this crazy path
has walked with me in the dark!
Hungry were these feet,
thirsty were these feet,
who knows how far,
from where these feet have come.
And the feet did not stop,
and no village was found.
There were tears of the feet,
the earth’s hem,
the road’s affectionate lap—
what support there was.
From predawn darkness
to night’s deep darkness,
the feet stopped nowhere
and no village was found.
Along with the feet, only the road went astray!
The day’s earnings are delusion and fatigue!
This path is alien!
On whatever roads you are walking, all are alien, all lead away. Every search is taking you farther from yourself.
The feet stopped nowhere,
and no village was found.
Stop—and the village is found now, in this very moment! The village dwells within you. The Master sits within.
Do not ask from me. In the very asking the mistake happens. I cannot give you anything. But on awakening I have found there is nothing to get. This is the hint I give you: wake up, and have it.
Hungry were these feet,
thirsty were these feet,
who knows how far,
from where these feet have come.
And the feet did not stop,
and no village was found.
The village can be found—now, this very moment, Kusum. The feet must stop. The feet of thought, the feet of desire—the feet must stop. All kinds of feet must stop. This is meditation: to sit quietly, in silence; to sit still, without thought; to sink within, to forget the outside. And some day, in some auspicious moment, the treasure opens. In some auspicious hour, the king of kings is found within! And then there are flowers upon flowers. Then life is fragrance upon fragrance.
The kadamba have bloomed;
on every twig, ball-like clusters of kadamba swing.
The kadamba have bloomed.
The monsoon has passed,
yet the treasury of clouds is not emptied.
Who knows since when it has been raining—
and you, with yearning eyes, in vain,
who knows since when you have been craving.
The heart says, touch the kadamba.
The kadamba have bloomed,
the kadamba swing.
Then there are only flowers. Then life is only perfume. Nowhere to go, nothing to attain. Just come to yourself. This truth is not seen with open eyes; it is seen with eyes closed. Withdraw like a turtle. Let all the senses loosen and fall inward. Close every door and window; forget the outside. Let neither past remain nor future—only this moment! And dive into this moment. And there is bottomless depth!
The kadamba have bloomed;
on every twig, ball-like clusters of kadamba swing.
The kadamba have bloomed.
The petals open. The moment you go within, they open!
In the rain, bare leaves are washed;
pale they were yesterday, today the leaves unfold.
In the magic of sunlight the leaves have bloomed;
in the intoxicating breeze the leaves sway;
cast in a magical mold the leaves,
the tender leaves forgot the scorching days.
In the rain, bare leaves are washed;
pale they were yesterday, today the leaves unfold.
It is only a matter of opening. Stop, and you open. Let the petals unfold. The golden lotus is within you. You are the golden lotus. Do not beg—awake!
Third question:
Osho, I have only heard Krishna’s name. I don’t even know Shiva. Yet in Kundalini meditation why did it feel as if Shiva’s dance was happening right here, and the sweet sound here was Krishna’s flute? How did such a sense arise without any recognition?
Osho, I have only heard Krishna’s name. I don’t even know Shiva. Yet in Kundalini meditation why did it feel as if Shiva’s dance was happening right here, and the sweet sound here was Krishna’s flute? How did such a sense arise without any recognition?
Pannalal Pandey! Every dance is Krishna’s dance. Every melody is Krishna’s melody. Krishna is a symbol; dance is the real thing. When dance begins to blossom within you, what you had heard about Krishna’s dance will suddenly become meaningful. Its meaning will enter your experience. When song begins to open within you, then suddenly—you have only heard about the call of Krishna’s flute—but when the call begins to open within you and a summons arises inside, the symbol you have heard will come to mind. Natural.
This won’t happen to a Christian. It won’t happen to a Jain either. Jains also practice kundalini. They won’t hear Krishna’s flute-call. They won’t see Shiva’s dance. That symbol isn’t within them. The dance will happen within them too, the tone will awaken within them too, but they don’t have the symbol that expresses that tone. You have heard it; you carry the symbol. So the symbol suddenly came alive. Don’t be startled by this. It has nothing to do with Krishna as such. In your mind, in your memory, there is a samskara. The experience occurred; the experience awakened the samskara.
But it is auspicious. All symbols are dear—yet only when their meaning bears fruit within you. Sit at home installing Krishna’s idol or hanging his picture—nothing will happen. When dance arises within you, then something has happened. Sit at home placing Mahavira’s image—nothing will happen. When everything within becomes still like Mahavira, without a ripple—then! Just as this happened to you, in Vipassana meditation a Jain might suddenly remember Mahavira; his image will arise. A Hindu does not have that symbol.
All religions have chosen their symbols.
And the atmosphere into which I am inviting you here is the atmosphere of all religions. This is not the temple of one sect. All the doors of this temple are open! From one side it is a mosque, from one side a temple, from one side a church, from one side a gurdwara, from one side a chaityalaya. Through all these doors, entry into the temple is possible. Here when someone becomes intoxicated in meditation, if he carries Krishna’s symbol, then for the first time the meaning of Krishna’s raas will dawn. If someone has loved Meera, then in dancing he will remember Meera; her bhajans will resound. If someone has loved Chaitanya, suddenly he will feel he has become chaitanya—conscious. If someone has loved Mahavira, is born in his tradition, and that beloved symbol is seated in his mind—when silence is steadied, when all becomes still—then he will feel, “Today I have known. I went so often to Jain temples, performed so many worships, offered so much rice, bowed so much—yet today darshan has happened. Today darshan has happened within!”
Here there are people of many religions. Perhaps nowhere else on the earth are people of all religions together! Here are Christians, Parsis, Jews, Muslims—people of all castes, people of all countries. They have brought all their symbols. This is a very rich place. All seven colors are here—this is the full rainbow. And I want you gradually to dissolve into all the symbols. Why remain only with Krishna’s symbol? Let Mahavira’s symbol be added, let Buddha’s symbol be added. Because in the different states of meditation all the symbols have their meanings. In meditation ecstasy arrives, the flute plays, silence descends, emptiness manifests. Meditation has great ascents and great stages. Different meanings open at different stages. Religions have each clutched one stage. I give you the whole journey. On this journey all stages come, all sacred fords appear. On this journey Kashi comes, and Kaba comes, and Kailash, and Girnar too, and Jerusalem. We have set out on a world-journey.
So don’t remain bound to your own symbols. Gradually open your mind; allow other symbols to come near. Learn and understand others’ symbols as well. The more symbols you know, the richer your language will be. It will be easier to communicate your feeling.
Good. For the first time the blow has landed!
In this very season
today the cuckoo has called
for the first time!
It’s been many days since the cottony tufts swelled,
many days since the palash flames burned,
many days since the flax blossomed,
many days since the bees grew drunk on fragrance;
a gust from the west
split the banana leaves,
and, merely turning once,
the sun began to spray
showers of acid;
the buds opened their mouths,
and watched the play of pitilessness;
silent, the hapless one,
the heart brimmed over—
she burst into a full-throated call!
In this very season,
today the cuckoo cooed
for the first time!
Good! Within you the cuckoo has spoken for the first time. You are blessed! Now keep listening. This is the beginning of the song, not the end. This is the first step; much is yet to happen. Don’t get stuck here. Just as Krishna came and Shiva came, let the Buddhas come too, and the Mahaviras; Christ, Lao Tzu, Zarathustra—let them all come. Let each fill your life-breath with his own color. Give everyone a chance. All are yours; you are everyone’s. And as these symbols are assimilated, your vision will change—and creation will change!
Moonlight sliding upon the peepal leaves;
on the wet bellies of the drains nearby
it gathers, dissolves, melts—moonlight;
in the backyard, on shards of bottle—
gleaming, glittering, rippling—moonlight;
far over there, on the turret, moonlight bouncing,
in the courtyard, falling upon the grass—
and now, how carefully, how gently, moonlight steadies itself—
look there in front—
moonlight sliding upon the peepal leaves.
Once the inner light begins to awaken, it will begin to slide everywhere—to the peepal leaves, to every leaf. The whole world fills with an incomparable beauty when music is born in your heart. Prayer begins to arise everywhere; a bhajan is born. Bhajan is not what you organize in a program; bhajan is that which, without any arrangement, suddenly seizes you, churns you like a tempest. As if a storm comes, a whirlwind comes and takes hold of you, and you fly—and it gives you wings!
Kohl to the eyes, delight of the mind—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Reliever of the scorched earth’s pain—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Guardian of the seasons, best of seasons—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Bearer of seeds sprouting beyond measure—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Moist image of tenderness and affection—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Your blue visage spread across the worlds—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
When the rains come—salutations! When winter comes—salutations! When the sun rises—salutations! Then bowing becomes your very nature, because the Divine is present everywhere. Look here—Krishna is dancing. This peacock that has begun to dance—who else is it? Remember the peacock feathers tied to Krishna’s crown. The peacock danced here—Krishna danced! Look there—this peepal tree stands silently in stillness, not even a leaf moves—Buddha stands! As your eyes begin to open, this entire nature slowly begins to be transformed into the Divine. And wherever you place your foot, there is sacred ground. Wherever you set your gaze, there is the vision of God. Then the mind bows, then salutations, then greetings—moment to moment, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat—reverence! This state of feeling is what I call bhakti—devotion. Growing and growing, such a state one day becomes godliness.
Settle for nothing less. Carry devotion to godliness. Let the seed of bhakti blossom into the flower of godliness.
And you are capable. Everyone is capable. It is your rightful inheritance. If you miss, none but you is responsible. If you miss, it is your own mistake. If you attain, you have not attained anything special; what was natural to receive has been received.
To miss the Divine is a very special art; to attain the Divine is not such a special art. To attain the Divine is natural, because it is our nature. The miracle is that you keep missing the Divine! It is utterly unbelievable—how do you go on missing it? That which is filled everywhere, coming from all sides, surrounding you, surging outward and inward—how do you keep missing it? But it happens. A fish in the ocean does not know the ocean. So it is with us in God—and we do not know God.
In satsang, for the first time, drop by drop the taste will begin to fall upon you—a drizzle begins. Then the rains become a downpour. As you become ready, as your capacity to receive grows, that much more the Divine begins to flow into you. In accord with your vessel, the Divine is always willing to fill you.
This first coo has sounded; you had a slight glimpse of Krishna, a slight glimpse of Shiva—don’t stop here. Let it grow. Let it spread. One has to encircle the whole sky. All religions are yours. All Qurans, all Bibles, all Vedas are yours. And if you are willing, courageous, and broad of heart, then one day you will see the Veda awaken; one day you will see the Quran arise. If only the Veda awakens, a man remains poor—because something is in the Veda and some beauty is in the Quran. Blessed is the one in whom both awaken. And in whom the Dhammapada also rises and Mahavira’s voice also resounds—what can be said of him!
We must proclaim for humankind that the whole past of humanity, the entire history, is our inheritance. Do not be narrow—do not cling only to Krishna; otherwise you will know dance but be deprived of Mahavira’s peace. Do not cling only to Mahavira; otherwise you will know peace, but there will be no ankle-bells on your feet, no flute will play. All is beautiful! In one moment silence, in another a voiced song—all is beautiful. The hallmark of a religious person is the acceptance of the whole, the acceptance of all. A religious person is not sectarian—cannot be.
That is all for today.
This won’t happen to a Christian. It won’t happen to a Jain either. Jains also practice kundalini. They won’t hear Krishna’s flute-call. They won’t see Shiva’s dance. That symbol isn’t within them. The dance will happen within them too, the tone will awaken within them too, but they don’t have the symbol that expresses that tone. You have heard it; you carry the symbol. So the symbol suddenly came alive. Don’t be startled by this. It has nothing to do with Krishna as such. In your mind, in your memory, there is a samskara. The experience occurred; the experience awakened the samskara.
But it is auspicious. All symbols are dear—yet only when their meaning bears fruit within you. Sit at home installing Krishna’s idol or hanging his picture—nothing will happen. When dance arises within you, then something has happened. Sit at home placing Mahavira’s image—nothing will happen. When everything within becomes still like Mahavira, without a ripple—then! Just as this happened to you, in Vipassana meditation a Jain might suddenly remember Mahavira; his image will arise. A Hindu does not have that symbol.
All religions have chosen their symbols.
And the atmosphere into which I am inviting you here is the atmosphere of all religions. This is not the temple of one sect. All the doors of this temple are open! From one side it is a mosque, from one side a temple, from one side a church, from one side a gurdwara, from one side a chaityalaya. Through all these doors, entry into the temple is possible. Here when someone becomes intoxicated in meditation, if he carries Krishna’s symbol, then for the first time the meaning of Krishna’s raas will dawn. If someone has loved Meera, then in dancing he will remember Meera; her bhajans will resound. If someone has loved Chaitanya, suddenly he will feel he has become chaitanya—conscious. If someone has loved Mahavira, is born in his tradition, and that beloved symbol is seated in his mind—when silence is steadied, when all becomes still—then he will feel, “Today I have known. I went so often to Jain temples, performed so many worships, offered so much rice, bowed so much—yet today darshan has happened. Today darshan has happened within!”
Here there are people of many religions. Perhaps nowhere else on the earth are people of all religions together! Here are Christians, Parsis, Jews, Muslims—people of all castes, people of all countries. They have brought all their symbols. This is a very rich place. All seven colors are here—this is the full rainbow. And I want you gradually to dissolve into all the symbols. Why remain only with Krishna’s symbol? Let Mahavira’s symbol be added, let Buddha’s symbol be added. Because in the different states of meditation all the symbols have their meanings. In meditation ecstasy arrives, the flute plays, silence descends, emptiness manifests. Meditation has great ascents and great stages. Different meanings open at different stages. Religions have each clutched one stage. I give you the whole journey. On this journey all stages come, all sacred fords appear. On this journey Kashi comes, and Kaba comes, and Kailash, and Girnar too, and Jerusalem. We have set out on a world-journey.
So don’t remain bound to your own symbols. Gradually open your mind; allow other symbols to come near. Learn and understand others’ symbols as well. The more symbols you know, the richer your language will be. It will be easier to communicate your feeling.
Good. For the first time the blow has landed!
In this very season
today the cuckoo has called
for the first time!
It’s been many days since the cottony tufts swelled,
many days since the palash flames burned,
many days since the flax blossomed,
many days since the bees grew drunk on fragrance;
a gust from the west
split the banana leaves,
and, merely turning once,
the sun began to spray
showers of acid;
the buds opened their mouths,
and watched the play of pitilessness;
silent, the hapless one,
the heart brimmed over—
she burst into a full-throated call!
In this very season,
today the cuckoo cooed
for the first time!
Good! Within you the cuckoo has spoken for the first time. You are blessed! Now keep listening. This is the beginning of the song, not the end. This is the first step; much is yet to happen. Don’t get stuck here. Just as Krishna came and Shiva came, let the Buddhas come too, and the Mahaviras; Christ, Lao Tzu, Zarathustra—let them all come. Let each fill your life-breath with his own color. Give everyone a chance. All are yours; you are everyone’s. And as these symbols are assimilated, your vision will change—and creation will change!
Moonlight sliding upon the peepal leaves;
on the wet bellies of the drains nearby
it gathers, dissolves, melts—moonlight;
in the backyard, on shards of bottle—
gleaming, glittering, rippling—moonlight;
far over there, on the turret, moonlight bouncing,
in the courtyard, falling upon the grass—
and now, how carefully, how gently, moonlight steadies itself—
look there in front—
moonlight sliding upon the peepal leaves.
Once the inner light begins to awaken, it will begin to slide everywhere—to the peepal leaves, to every leaf. The whole world fills with an incomparable beauty when music is born in your heart. Prayer begins to arise everywhere; a bhajan is born. Bhajan is not what you organize in a program; bhajan is that which, without any arrangement, suddenly seizes you, churns you like a tempest. As if a storm comes, a whirlwind comes and takes hold of you, and you fly—and it gives you wings!
Kohl to the eyes, delight of the mind—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Reliever of the scorched earth’s pain—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Guardian of the seasons, best of seasons—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Bearer of seeds sprouting beyond measure—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Moist image of tenderness and affection—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
Your blue visage spread across the worlds—
O monsoon, salutations to you!
When the rains come—salutations! When winter comes—salutations! When the sun rises—salutations! Then bowing becomes your very nature, because the Divine is present everywhere. Look here—Krishna is dancing. This peacock that has begun to dance—who else is it? Remember the peacock feathers tied to Krishna’s crown. The peacock danced here—Krishna danced! Look there—this peepal tree stands silently in stillness, not even a leaf moves—Buddha stands! As your eyes begin to open, this entire nature slowly begins to be transformed into the Divine. And wherever you place your foot, there is sacred ground. Wherever you set your gaze, there is the vision of God. Then the mind bows, then salutations, then greetings—moment to moment, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat—reverence! This state of feeling is what I call bhakti—devotion. Growing and growing, such a state one day becomes godliness.
Settle for nothing less. Carry devotion to godliness. Let the seed of bhakti blossom into the flower of godliness.
And you are capable. Everyone is capable. It is your rightful inheritance. If you miss, none but you is responsible. If you miss, it is your own mistake. If you attain, you have not attained anything special; what was natural to receive has been received.
To miss the Divine is a very special art; to attain the Divine is not such a special art. To attain the Divine is natural, because it is our nature. The miracle is that you keep missing the Divine! It is utterly unbelievable—how do you go on missing it? That which is filled everywhere, coming from all sides, surrounding you, surging outward and inward—how do you keep missing it? But it happens. A fish in the ocean does not know the ocean. So it is with us in God—and we do not know God.
In satsang, for the first time, drop by drop the taste will begin to fall upon you—a drizzle begins. Then the rains become a downpour. As you become ready, as your capacity to receive grows, that much more the Divine begins to flow into you. In accord with your vessel, the Divine is always willing to fill you.
This first coo has sounded; you had a slight glimpse of Krishna, a slight glimpse of Shiva—don’t stop here. Let it grow. Let it spread. One has to encircle the whole sky. All religions are yours. All Qurans, all Bibles, all Vedas are yours. And if you are willing, courageous, and broad of heart, then one day you will see the Veda awaken; one day you will see the Quran arise. If only the Veda awakens, a man remains poor—because something is in the Veda and some beauty is in the Quran. Blessed is the one in whom both awaken. And in whom the Dhammapada also rises and Mahavira’s voice also resounds—what can be said of him!
We must proclaim for humankind that the whole past of humanity, the entire history, is our inheritance. Do not be narrow—do not cling only to Krishna; otherwise you will know dance but be deprived of Mahavira’s peace. Do not cling only to Mahavira; otherwise you will know peace, but there will be no ankle-bells on your feet, no flute will play. All is beautiful! In one moment silence, in another a voiced song—all is beautiful. The hallmark of a religious person is the acceptance of the whole, the acceptance of all. A religious person is not sectarian—cannot be.
That is all for today.