Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #12

The good has nothing to do with moral codes. Codes are many; the good is one. A Hindu’s code is one thing, a Muslim’s another, a Jain’s a third. So moral codes are merely beliefs; they keep changing. They have no eternal value. What was immoral yesterday may be moral today; what is moral today will become immoral tomorrow.

For example, the Mahabharata calls Yudhishthira Dharmaraj (king of dharma), and this Dharmaraj feels not the slightest hesitation about gambling. Gambling was not immoral then; in those days it was considered moral. His being Dharmaraj is not hindered by his gambling. And it wasn’t some small-time gambling either—he staked everything! Not only everything; he even staked his wife! A wife is not property. A wife has as much soul as a husband. No one has the right to put a wife or a husband up as a stake. To stake someone means you have the right to sell them. In this country people even say “stri-sampatti”—woman as property. Today that is profoundly immoral. Today it would be very difficult to call Dharmaraj a Dharmaraj. If Dharmaraj is Dharmaraj, then who is Adharmaraj? The very idea is absurd, uncivilized. But in those days it was accepted; there was no obstacle.

What is moral today will be immoral tomorrow. Morality changes. Therefore, do not take the good to be identical with morality. The good is eternal. It is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Christian. The good is the name of being related to the divine. It is not a worldly notion, nor a social one. The good is the recognition of the inner rhythm. Ask Shandilya, or Ashtavakra, or me—the answer will be the same: whatever supports the rhythm within you is good; whatever obstructs the rhythm within you is inauspicious. Whatever increases your inner music is good; whatever rends and fragments your inner music is inauspicious. Whatever brings you closer to samadhi is good; whatever takes you farther from samadhi is inauspicious. The touchstone is within; it is not outside.

The touchstone is within. If meat-eating deepens your meditation, then it is auspicious. If meat-eating hinders your meditation, then it is inauspicious.

Don’t worry about Christ and Muhammad; nor about Mahavira and Buddha. They are outside; look to your own rhythm. Who knows whether Mahavira reached or not? And who knows whether Muhammad reached or not? That is a matter of acceptance—there is no proof for it. It is a matter of belief. One thing alone can be certain: whatever helps you to reach is auspicious. Test within. Are your tendencies the same while eating meat as they are when eating vegetarian food? Look at that. Test right there. Don’t look for excuses outside.

This is an excuse. You want to eat meat and you search for a pretext: “If Muhammad reached, why can’t I?” Don’t persuade yourself like this. Examine, experiment. I favor experiment, not belief. Your own life will be the determinant. If you find that after eating meat your mind becomes calm, agitation lessens, anger diminishes, violence decreases, jealousy lessens, ego softens—then forget about Mahaviras and Buddhas and eat meat. And if you find that eating meat increases hatred, disgust, enmity; that wrong things arise in life; that relationships become poisoned—then forget Christ and Muhammad—let them be, and take care of yourself.

You will find that eating meat brings hindrances. I am not saying a meat-eater cannot be meditative; he can. But there are unnecessary obstacles. Understand it this way: someone is climbing a mountain with a stone tied around his neck. He can climb—nothing absolutely prevents it; it’s not impossible. Even with a stone tied, someone can climb. But is that an argument for you to tie on a stone? Your own load is enough; why add a stone? Perhaps someone climbed—someone with a chest like a Ramamurti, who could even break stones on his chest. But do you have such a chest? The stones may not break—your chest will.

And people differ. In one person a certain element creates joy; in another it creates gloom. The criterion must be taken from within. Apart from yourself there is no touchstone.

You ask: “What is auspicious?”

Auspicious is that which enhances your inner rhythm. Eat that, drink that, sit, speak, walk in ways that increase your inner rhythm—so the inner veena sounds rightly, a joy and a lightness arise, wings grow and you can fly.

Ashtavakra’s body was crooked in eight places—hence his name. You don’t ask whether you should also twist your body at eight points because Ashtavakra reached. He must have looked like a camel—but you won’t twist yourself in eight places for that reason! And I am not saying Ashtavakra did not reach—certainly he did. But why take on such useless hassles? If you can reach whole and well, why make the body crooked in eight places? Where one can reach smoothly, why erect needless obstacles?

Drinkers also reach—don’t start drinking for that. A drunkard reaches not because of alcohol, but in spite of it. A non-vegetarian also reaches—not because of meat, but despite it. Ashtavakra reaches not because of eight crooks in the body, but despite them. Because of those eight twists, a thousand kinds of obstacles arise. You are fortunate if you can be spared those obstacles.

And let me repeat: I am not saying that whoever ate meat did not reach. Otherwise even Ram would not reach—he was born in a warrior house. And Ramakrishna would not reach, because in a Bengali home fish is allowed! Is there any Bengali meal without fish? Then very few would reach—the whole earth is full of non-vegetarians. But you are fortunate if you have the convenience of being vegetarian. Vegetarian food will keep your body pure, your mind fresh and clean. It will keep you light—you won’t become heavy.

You have seen: herbivorous animals eat all day long; the carnivorous lion eats once in twenty-four hours. Why? Meat is so heavy it takes twenty-four hours to digest. The monkey sits in the tree—he’s vegetarian—and keeps nibbling whatever he finds. Why? Vegetarian food is light; it doesn’t land like a stone. And whenever the body is heavy, it is difficult to fly into the sky. Whenever the body is heavy, touching the heights of meditation is difficult—not impossible, but difficult.

Haven’t you noticed? When you eat a lot, sleep comes. Understand a little from that. Why sleep after heavy food? Because staying awake becomes difficult. The body is so heavy it wants to sleep. After a heavy meal you won’t be able to sit for meditation; if you try, you’ll doze, sleep will come. That is why people discovered fasting. Meditation on a light or empty stomach can settle in a way it cannot on a full one. You’ve seen this—you just haven’t reflected on it. The day you go to bed without food, you’ll find sleep does not come; sleep becomes difficult. Food is necessary for sleep. Meditation is the opposite of sleep; meditation is a state of wakefulness.

So I am not telling you to stay hungry—because many days of hunger become harmful. Nor am I telling you to eat very heavy food. I’m saying: right diet. Just enough that the body moves in delight, moves dancing—neither too much nor too little.

And remember, whatever you do has consequences. A person is eating by having an animal killed. This food has become very costly. To have an animal killed, he must harden himself. Even if someone else does it for him, he knows it is being done for him. A life is being destroyed; a body is being torn apart. You can accept that—merely for food—and when food could be had otherwise; the killing was not unavoidable; it could have been avoided—you are becoming hard. How will compassion arise in such a hardened heart? It is as if a rock has been placed in the path of a spring. Yes, sometimes a spring breaks the rock and flows—that must have happened in Muhammad: the spring broke the rock and flowed. But it will not always be so. Muhammad’s spring must have been large; it did not care about a small rock. But who knows how large your spring is? It may be a small stream; the rock may stop it forever. The spring may remain closed, not flow, not reach the ocean; your life may be wasted.

Always examine and test within. What is auspicious? That by which your life-rhythm is tuned, by which music rises from your life-veena; the more your breathing is filled with music, the more auspicious it is. Do not weigh by scriptures—test by your inner music. And once you get hold of this touchstone, soon you will begin to experience the revolution beginning in life. For who knowingly chops his own foot with an axe? No one knowingly does. If harm happens unknowingly, that is another matter.

You asked: “And what is inauspicious?”

Inauspicious is whatever is the opposite of the auspicious—whatever breaks your rhythm, rends your inner rasa, snaps the strings of your inner veena—that is inauspicious.

See: tell a lie, and the moment you lie the inner strings do not make music. Lie, and you’ll see—you shrink at once; you become fearful: “What if I’m caught?” If not today, then tomorrow—won’t the lie fall into someone’s hands? Then when you tell one lie, to protect it you have to tell a thousand lies. The likelihood of being caught also increases. The more that likelihood increases, the more fear grows. The more fear grows, the more lies multiply. The more lies multiply, the more the likelihood of being caught grows. You are caught in a net. You wove the net with your own hand; the spider is trapped in its own web. Then you see no way out. Because you have told so many lies that now if you tell the truth your whole life will be upheaved. “One more won’t hurt; one more.” Tell one lie—and lies have a large progeny; lies do not believe in family planning.

Truth has no progeny; truth is celibate. Speak one truth—it is complete in itself; it needs no other support. And having spoken truth you can sleep unburdened—worry does not catch you. You do not have to protect truth. You do not have to arrange for its defense. Truth is its own proof. With truth the heart is unburdened; with truth the mind is in play; with truth there is fearlessness. And where there is fearlessness, where the mind is free, there is music, there is rhythm. In that rhythm is the auspicious. Inauspicious means: do not do anything that makes you shrink. Do not do anything you have to hide. Do not do anything because of which you cannot be naked. Do not do anything that forces you to build defenses. Just keep this much in mind.

I am giving you the master key, not the details. I am not listing that these things are auspicious and these are inauspicious. A list cannot be made—life is vast, immense. The Jews have ten commandments; but situations arise where an eleventh is needed. Then what will you do? In the end you will decide yourself! Does the world end within ten commandments? Here, every moment a new commandment is needed. So instead of giving you a catalog—this is auspicious, this is auspicious, and this is not—I am giving you only a light. Guard this lamp. Whatever path this lamp reveals to you is auspicious; and where you see a wall, don’t go there—why would you go? You will break your head.

True masters have not given doctrines; they have given vision. Doctrines can serve only a short way. Imagine a blind man asks you, “I must go to the station—how shall I go?” You explain: take the left road for a mile, then turn right, then go a mile, then turn left—you explain it all. Still, it isn’t certain he will reach—after all, he is blind. How will he know when a mile is complete? He may turn at half a mile, or go a mile and a half. A master does not give a blind man directions; he says, “Take this collyrium, apply it to your eyes—then you will see.” Then you will know for yourself: there are milestones along the way indicating the distance to the station—you will reach on your own. Vision is needed!

I am speaking to you of vision. Enter the examination of your life like this: whatever you do, do it with only this much reflection—will my music deepen through this? That’s all. If the music deepens, forget the world’s scriptures and doctrines; they have no value. They were not made for you. Those for whom they were made are no longer here.

Now someone goes to the Vedas to seek a doctrine. The Vedas were written five thousand years ago—and if we believe Lokmanya Tilak, ninety-five thousand years ago. If Tilak is right, the Vedas have become even more useless—because the person to whom they were addressed no longer exists. Even five thousand years is a long time—life has greatly changed. Life has taken new forms, new turns—turns the writers of the Vedas could not possibly have known. On these new turns, new events have happened.

For example, a Jain monk does not ride in a vehicle. This made sense in Mahavira’s time, because a vehicle meant horses or oxen would be yoked—a bullock cart or a horse carriage; there was no other vehicle. Whips would fall on the oxen. Mahavira said: this is violence. Walk on your own feet as much as possible. This is an excess: to ride an ox or a horse is injustice toward these helpless animals.

That made sense. It would break the inner rhythm. Whenever you enslave anyone—animal, bird, or human—you weave your own net of slavery. When you dig a pit for someone else, a pit is dug for you. After all, the ox has life, soul, feeling too! You sit in comfort while the ox hauls you—as if the ox were born only to carry you! If there were a world of oxen, you would be hauling oxen—you would be yoked. That made sense.

But now a Jain monk cannot sit even in a car, because there is a prohibition against vehicles. Mahavira had no notion of the car—that a time would come when neither horse nor ox would be yoked; the horse would go and horsepower would come. Now this Jain monk still walks on foot. This has become a bit foolish. Traveling by car now involves no obstacle, no violence. But he feels uneasy; it is written in his scripture. How can he go against scripture?

Scriptures always become shackles on the feet. As time passes they become shackles. And if you look into them you will become entangled. Then only two ways remain. One: follow them and remain foolish. Two: outwardly honor them while inwardly not believing—then you become a hypocrite. In both cases there is harm.

Now airplanes fly in the sky. Even the violence of walking on foot does not occur. Walking, your foot falls on the ground; insects and tiny creatures are crushed. Mahavira considered that too: walk on dry ground, not on wet; do not travel in the rains—so a Jain monk does not travel in the rainy season. But fly by airplane—you have no connection with the ground. Go by helicopter—your foot will not fall on the earth, no insect will die. Then whether it is rain or summer, it makes no difference. But the Jain monk is stuck on the word “vehicle”: this too is a vehicle, and vehicles are forbidden! I’ve told you this only as an example.

Scriptures always become causes of obstruction; and for the unintelligent, very great causes. They become a noose around the neck; living becomes impossible.

Mahavira said: do not eat at night. He said it rightly; he knew nothing of electricity. Even today go into the villages of this country—the remote places without electricity, where kerosene is hard to get, where people cannot afford kerosene—people eat in the dark. When Mahavira said it, people must have been eating in darkness. Eating in the dark is certainly dangerous—both for oneself and for insects, moths, mosquitoes—and violence will occur. Violence will occur, and the food may become contaminated.

But today the light of day is available at night. If you want more light than day, that too is available. Now this rule has become pointless. But there is a prohibition against eating at night, so night-meals cannot be taken.

Test by your rhythm. Open your eyes and keep examining your life. Wherever you feel, “This connects with my bliss, and my bliss will grow from this,” that is auspicious. And that by which your bliss is broken—that is inauspicious.

When the rhythm holds, it is auspicious; when the rhythm breaks, it is inauspicious. And when the rhythm becomes such that there is no possibility of its breaking—when you yourself become the rhythm, when the rhythm becomes your destiny, your very nature—then you are beyond good and bad. Then there is no need to worry, “What should I do, what should I not do?” Whatever happens from that rhythm is right.

This is the distinction in the definitions of asadhu, sadhu, and sant. The asadhu is one who does the inauspicious. The sadhu is one who does the auspicious. The sant is one through whom the auspicious happens and the inauspicious does not—one who has gone beyond doing. In doing, one has to think—“Shall I do this or not?” One has to decide; there is choice. In choice there can be mistakes, there can be misses. After all, one is acting through thought, and thought has its illusions.

The state of the sant means: now there is no concern for the auspicious nor for the inauspicious. The rhythm is so set that it cannot break. Throw a saint into hell and he will still be in heaven; the rhythm is so firm that even hell cannot break it. Seat a saint in the marketplace and his meditation remains unbroken; the rhythm is that steady. Now there is no need to sit only in a Himalayan cave. There is no fear anymore. There is no separation from the rhythm—no sense of “I am separate and the rhythm is separate; I must hold on.” Now the musician is not apart; the musician has become his music.

That is the final state. That is what is called the Paramhansa. Shandilya has called it bhakti—the supreme devotion—where the devotee and God become one: para-bhakti. Where devotee and God have become one, what concern remains—“Should I do this or that?” The doer is no more; now God acts. You have dissolved. Now error is impossible, because the fundamental error has vanished—the very error of “I am.” From that “I” all other errors arose. Now there is no need for anxiety; you can live utterly carefree.

Therefore, in that supreme state the saint becomes childlike—like a small child: nothing is auspicious, nothing is inauspicious. He does not even know what is auspicious and what is inauspicious.

Of course the question arises. There is so much suffering! The awakened ones cry out, they even climb onto rooftops to shout, “There is suffering—life is suffering—wake up!” People listen to the buddhas, even place a couple of flowers at their feet and say, “Master, you must be right. But just now I am in a hurry—I have to get to the shop; I’m in a hurry—I have an election to contest; I’m in a hurry—I have to get married. Let me deal with all this and some day, free of worries, I will surely come and sit at your feet and listen. Since you say so, it must be true.”

But your eyes say the buddhas are not right. Your very life-breath says the buddhas are not right. You still have hope in life. You think: Yes, granted that I have suffered so far—but why necessarily tomorrow too? Things can change tomorrow. I have lost so far—tomorrow I can win. I have not received yet—tomorrow I may. If I didn’t get it, surely it was because I didn’t try properly; because I didn’t stake my whole life; because others were more cunning and grabbed it, while I, being simple, was left standing. Tomorrow I will scheme, I will strive, I will stake everything. This hope of tomorrow keeps one going. And tomorrow never comes. Yet hope does not die. Suffering is there—everyone has tasted it—but hope triumphs over experience. Experience belongs to the past; hope belongs to the future—that is its cunning. Experience is past—done, over; why accept that our future will be a repetition of our past? The mind refuses to believe that the future will merely echo the past. And we hear stories—and we tell such stories to our children.

Mahmud of Ghazni came to India. He was defeated seventeen times. After his seventeenth defeat he fled and hid in a cave. He saw a spider weaving a web. He sat watching—he had nothing else to do. By coincidence the thread snapped seventeen times and the spider fell. On the eighteenth climb the thread held and the web was completed. Sitting there, Ghazni felt, “I too have lost seventeen times—who knows, perhaps the eighteenth time I will win? The spider did not give up—why should I?” He got up, came out, and plunged back into the struggle.

We tell children, “Ghazni won the eighteenth time—so don’t panic, don’t lose heart; keep fighting.” But we never ask: Even when Ghazni won—what did he win? Did the condition of his being change? Did he become happy? Did he know bliss? Did he recognize the soul? Did he taste samadhi? What did he gain? In defeat he died and fell in the dust; in victory too he died and fell in the dust. So where is victory in victory?

We hand out examples because we want to keep everyone running on ambition. In school the teacher exhorts: “Don’t lose! You lost today—you will win tomorrow!” But no one asks: Those who win—what in them actually wins? What is the difference between defeats and victories? Both are alike—dull, empty, hollow. In both the inner veena is broken. In both the inner being is desolate. In both there is muck within. And often it happens that the defeat of the victor is greater than that of the defeated. Understand this a little. The defeated still feels, “Perhaps I will win.” The victor knows for certain that even after victory there is no victory. That is why Buddha and Mahavira, princes, left palaces and empires. They saw that in palaces there is no palace; in wealth there is no wealth; in fame nothing is gained—only empty chatter, mere rumor.

How many people know you—what of it? Ten know you, ten thousand know you, a million, a hundred million—so what? What transformation will happen in your life because many people know you? What does fame do? Inside, man remains a beggar. With money—still a beggar; with fame—still a beggar; with position—still a beggar. Look into the eyes of those in power! Probe the soul of the rich! Look at the defeat of those you call victors—see how utterly they have lost! But hope remains.

Not one or two, but twenty-six lamps—
I lit them one by one.
One lamp called Freedom:
With burning lips it said,
“Beg wheat from whatever land you like—
You have the freedom to hold out your hand.”
One lamp called Prosperity:
As soon as it was lit, it became clear
How great the distress is—
My belly is empty, my pocket is empty.
One lamp called Unity:
Wherever its light reached
I saw the nation brawling and fighting.
As many patches as there were on Mother’s veil,
I saw them all rip open at once.
From afar my wife scolded,
“Oil is costly, and scarce besides—
Why have you kept so many lamps burning?
In our house there’s neither lattice nor terrace,
Yet you’ve arranged shelves of dreams.”
Then came such a gust of anger
That all the lamps went out—
Yes, but there is one lamp named Hope:
It keeps on flickering and flickering!

Hope, expectation, imagination—the belief that tomorrow will be different from yesterday; that what has not happened so far will happen tomorrow—man keeps going, cradling such hope. Therefore there is suffering, and yet he does not awaken. One lamp named hope. The sooner that lamp goes out, the better. The sooner you go beyond hope, the better.

People ask me for the definition of sannyas. I tell them: the one who has gone beyond hope.

You may be startled—Ashtavakra gives the same definition. He says: The knower is the one who is filled with nirasha—“dis-hope.” Nirasha! We are frightened even of the word. It scares us—despair!

This word is precious. Nir-asha: one who has no hope. One who has seen through everything, recognized everything—whose lamp of hope has gone out. Whose eyes have opened and who has seen that here there is only sand, sand; oil cannot be pressed from sand. Here is only desert; there is no oasis. And those oases that appeared—those too were my imaginings. One who has gone beyond hope in this way.

What you call despair is not my despair, nor Ashtavakra’s. Understand the difference. Your lexicon and Ashtavakra’s are bound to be different. When do you say “despair”? When one of your particular hopes breaks. Ashtavakra says: when there is freedom from all hopes—that is despair. One hope breaks, you make another. You didn’t find joy with this woman, you immediately begin seeking another. No profit in this trade—you search for another. No happiness in this village—you head for the next. One lamp of hope goes out, you instantly light another—one lamp named hope! Ashtavakra calls that state despair when you have seen that hope as such is futile—hope as hope. Not this hope or that hope—hope itself is a bad bargain, impossible to fulfill. It never happens; it only deludes.

In that moment a revolution happens. In that moment a new ray descends into your life. That is sannyas. From beyond the world something arrives. The world means the spread of hope. Sannyas means: into the world’s spread of hope something has descended from beyond—you begin to see things as they are.

And don’t imagine that the “despair” Ashtavakra speaks of makes one sit sulking. If hope is gone, how can despair remain? He is free of both. He does not become sad—there is no reason left for sadness. Here nothing ripens or flowers—why be sad? Expectation itself is futile—so the reason for disappointment is finished too. Such a person is neither unhappy nor happy. He becomes quiet. The flavor of peace flows in his life. That flavor of peace is what is called bliss. You often mistake bliss for happiness—that is your error. You project happiness onto bliss—that too is your hope. One lamp named hope. Bliss means peace—supreme peace. Neither sorrow remains nor happiness; all the waves of pleasure and pain subside; consciousness becomes waveless.

You asked, “Life is suffering...”
You have not yet seen this for yourself. You have heard the buddhas say that life is suffering. It is not your own realization, not your own seeing. That won’t do. Borrowed words will prick your chest like thorns; they will not turn into flowers. Borrowed words become thorns—pricking, wounding—but from them the rain of joy does not fall. Have you known that life is suffering? Or have you merely heard the buddhas? Or have you agreed that since the buddhas say so, it must be true? Why would they be wrong? If they knew, they must be right. That is like someone believing that fire burns because others say so.

Can you see the difference between others saying “fire burns” and your own knowing that fire burns? One’s own knowing creates a revolution. Then, as they say, once burned by milk, you blow even on buttermilk while drinking. You yourself must be burned. Have you known that life is suffering? Is this your recognition? Your re-cognition? Your treasure of experience? If you have known, hope is gone. Then you will not ask why man keeps on going.

And why ask about “man” anyway—who is “man”? Ask about yourself. Whom are you asking about—others? Drop this illusion too. Do not ask questions for others. Others will look after themselves. Your concern is more than enough to resolve your own questions, your own problems. How will you sit to solve others’ problems! You stop; let “man” go on.

Who is this “man”? Neither name nor address nor whereabouts—only a word, “man.” Have you ever met “man”? No, you have never met “man.” You meet men; you never meet “man.” You meet Rams, Krishnas, Buddhas—men of a thousand kinds—but never “man.” “Man” is only a label, a mere noun. This “man” you speak of will go on. Those who awaken will quietly step away from this futile madness. Those who awaken will step to the side, take the footpaths, and reach the Divine. Those who sleep will keep marching like sheep with the crowd along this dark highway. Do not worry about them. Even if you wish, you cannot wrench them from their road. Nor do you have the right. If they have decided that this is their life, they are entitled to take it as such and proceed accordingly.

You step away. Perhaps seeing you step aside, some sleeper’s sleep will break. Perhaps, seeing you step aside, seeing flowers bloom in your life, some fragrance will enter someone’s nostrils and he will be drawn—then that is another matter. But do not try to drag another away. Often such well-meaning efforts have had dire results. You drag people toward religion; they run toward the world; you pull toward religion. This does not create dispassion toward the world—only irritation toward your religion. A father drags his son to the temple. The son has not even reached the marketplace yet, has not tasted its pain—and you drag him to the temple! He isn’t sick yet and you take him to the doctor! Will the medicine suit him? Taste good to him? You began treatment already!

Religion is treatment. When the world appears futile, religion appears meaningful. But a small child is born at home and you run to temple, mosque, church—to get him baptized, to put the sacred thread on him, to do this or that, to whisper God’s name in his ear, to pierce his ear—a thousand stupidities. You are only cutting this child off from religion for life.

Countless people have come to me and said—Christians have told me—“The church filled our minds with hatred toward Jesus.” Why? Because from childhood it was forced upon them, imposed insistently.

Mulla Nasruddin said to his son, “Go, take this earthen pot and bring water from the well. And before you go, come here.” When the boy came near, he slapped him hard. A guest sitting there could not make head or tail of it. He said, “This is too much! The boy hasn’t even done anything wrong. I’ve been sitting here for an hour—what was that slap for?” Mulla said, “That slap is so he won’t break the pot.” The guest said, “But he hasn’t broken it yet!” Mulla said, “If he breaks it, then what’s the use?”

But if the boy has even a little life in him, he will certainly come back with the pot broken. He will have to break it. If he is utterly spineless, that is different. Otherwise he will definitely go and break it at the well. This is too much—he hasn’t broken the pot and he has already been punished! There was no illness yet and the medicine has been given.

Your temples and mosques do not create reverence for religion; they create disrespect. One must go to the temple seeking—out of deep longing, deep yearning. The temple and mosque must be felt out, step by careful step. Only one who has endured life’s many thorns and pains sees the temple’s flower. Otherwise he does not. Only the one who has fully undergone the darkness of life, the seasoned sufferer, sees the temple’s lamp burning. One who has not known darkness—if you drag him to the temple’s lamp, how will he experience light?

So I say to you: if suffering has become visible to you in life, forget about others. You step in. Take the plunge. Break the net of hope. Wake up. There is only one lamp you must extinguish. Extinguish that one lamp named hope, and the sun will rise. One lamp named hope—extinguish it, and suddenly you will find it is morning. Here, the lamp of hope goes out; there, the sun of the soul rises.

Because every person has the right to self-protection. Your wanting arises, and the other runs: “Watch out, friend—this fellow has arrived!” Wherever people have seen “wanting,” they have found bondage; and whenever they fell into someone’s so-called love, the noose tightened.

What is your love? It’s like a fisherman putting dough on a hook to catch a fish. The fish gets caught because of the dough. The fisherman’s purpose is not to feed the fish dough; his purpose is that while eating the dough the hook should lodge in her mouth. The dough is just a trick.

You ask: “Why does the one I desire reject me?” There is a hook in your desiring. You think it’s all dough, only dough. But look closely: did you not make miserable the life of the one you desired? And didn’t the one who desired you make your life miserable? In the name of love, flowers bloom only rarely; what grows are thorns. Perhaps once in a hundred times you had a glimpse of a flower; on the other ninety-nine occasions the thorn pricked, pricked badly, became an ulcer, left a wound. Your desire is not pure—so people want to be safe from it.

Don’t think people are at fault. The questioner’s wish is to believe that people are wrong—that “I come carrying a decorated platter of love and they flee, they even call the police, and I had brought only love! I was going to worship you, perform your aarti—why did you go?” There is poison in your platter of love. There is poison in every lust. Turn your lust into prayer; then no one will run. People will seek you; they will sit near you and find peace; they will rest in your shade; your glance will fall upon them and they will feel blessed. Turn your lust into prayer. What do I mean by that? In lust, let the following go: jealousy, hatred, the urge to exploit the other, the tendency to become the other’s owner. Then your lust, purified, will become prayer. Then you will give and ask for nothing in return. Then you will give love and demand nothing. Then in your love there will be only dough, no hook.

Understand a few small incidents.

Mulla Nasruddin’s friend Chandulal asked him, “Mulla, if you really want to get married, why don’t you marry the girl you walk with by the sea every evening?”
Mulla said, “If I marry her, then how will my evenings pass?”

With the one you marry, trouble begins; the thread of love breaks. It’s a strange thing. Marriage is supposed to be a bond of love—yet with the one you marry, love’s thread snaps. This world is full of such paradox. The moment the bond of love is tied, love breaks. Because in the name of love all the snakes and scorpions that were hidden in the basket start crawling out. The wedding flute plays here, and out there come the snakes and scorpions. All those who were hiding had been saying, “Wait, wait—let the right moment come; once the alliance is sealed and escape becomes difficult, then the truth will appear.” Your diseases come out; and the diseases of the one you loved also come out. Gradually, between husband and wife, nothing remains except an exchange of illnesses.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “What is your experience of love?”
Mulla said, “Disappointment twice: the first time because one woman said no, and the second time because another woman said yes.”

In every case there is disappointment. If the woman is found—disappointment; if not found—disappointment. If the man is found—disappointment; if not—disappointment.

Nasruddin’s wife said to him, “I’m fed up with our new neighbors—they’re always fighting.” Mulla said, “There was a time when the two loved each other madly.” The wife asked, “Then what happened?” Mulla said, “Then they got married.”

And someone asked Mulla, “How did you decide to marry that woman? Beautiful she may be, but you know, Nasruddin, her previous five husbands are in the madhouse!”
Mulla said, “Stop trying to frighten me. Perhaps you don’t know—this fellow has already returned from the madhouse. Now no one can send me there again.”

Now you ask: “Why does the one you desire reject you?” He doesn’t want to go to the madhouse. Life’s experience makes a person cautious. The one who rejects you may be intelligent. Examine your love afresh. Something wrong is hidden in it. In the garments of your love there are chains. There is a cover of love, but inside there is something else. Do you want to be someone’s owner? Do you want to possess someone? Do you want to use someone as an object? No one wants to be used—because whenever someone is used, they are insulted. No one wants to have an owner—because whenever someone becomes your owner, you have to lose your soul. No one wants to be dependent. People do want love, but they do not want bondage. And hidden in your love is bondage. It’s an implicit condition. Such conditions make people afraid—fearful, nervous.

Purify your love. Make it prayer. Give—and do not desire to ask. And when you give, do not possess. And when you give, do not even expect a thank you. Even that expectation is a bargain. Give, because you have. And I tell you: if you give, a thousandfold will come back to you—but do not ask. It doesn’t come to beggars; it comes to emperors. It does not come to those who demand. Don’t demand at all. Try this once: love and give—but do not ask. Do good and throw it into the well. Do not look back; do not wait for gratitude. And you will find how many people come close to you, how many are eager for your love, how many want to sit near you, how many feel blessed by your presence.

But right now your very presence is full of poison. Right now, whenever you extend your hand, others begin to fear—because in your hand they see a noose.

The question is important. First, bhakti is the gesture of the feminine heart. Even a man, when he becomes a devotee, acquires a feminine sweetness. In Chaitanya you will see the same sweetness that you see in Meera—the same feminine tenderness, the same delicacy, the same beauty.

In man there is a certain roughness, a certain hardness, a little stone. There is a touch of aggressiveness, a little ego. Man is outgoing. Woman is receptive—because woman means womb—she is not aggressive. She stands at the door open to welcome the guest.

The devotee is like that: he stands with the door open for the Divine. He becomes a womb for God. The devotee calls to God; he does not search. The knower, the meditator, the yogi searches for the Divine—that search is a masculine tendency. He goes to the hills, to the mountains; he undertakes great journeys; he sets out to find God. The devotee sits quietly, sways in bliss, and says: “When it is your will, when you find me worthy, come—my doors are open. Where am I to look for you? Even if I want to search, how am I to search? Where is your house? What is your address? What is your name? I have no acquaintance with you; we have never met. Even if you were to meet me, I would not recognize that it is you. You come. I am powerless, I am helpless—I can weep.” The devotee weeps; the knower searches. The devotee is overwhelmed; the knower devises methods.

The knower believes: through my doing something will happen. That is the masculine belief. The devotee says: What can happen through my doing? It is through my doing that everything has been undone. I myself am the obstacle. So the devotee drops his “I,” surrenders, and waits. Bhakti means waiting. Bhakti means prayer—just waiting and prayer. The devotee has no other device but tears. He weeps, lays bare his heart, calls—filled with a deep thirst—and waits.

God comes to the devotee; he has to come. When the call is complete and the thirst becomes deep, he has to come. Existence is not indifferent to you. You are born of this existence; it is your mother. And when the child cries, the mother will come—provided the call is true, not false; there is no deception in it; it is not for some petty thing. Do not call for trivialities, because your trivialities spoil your call.

Now you are sitting and you want to smoke a cigarette—don’t call God for that: “Just come, that packet is lying there, pick it up for me!” But almost all your prayers are just like this: “My wife is ill—make her well. I can’t get a job—give me a job. My business doesn’t run—make it run.” This is the same as the cigarette box lying there and you saying, “But I am a devotee; how can I get up? You come and hand it to me. And if you don’t come, remember, I’ll never pray again. Then my trust will be broken, my faith shattered. I’m giving you one chance—prove yourself!”

This is not devotion. Devotion asks for nothing. Devotion says: Your presence, a single ray of your grace, is enough; it will satisfy me for eternity upon eternity. Let a single window of yours open, let a single breeze of yours pass by, let a single drop of you fall into my throat, and I shall be fulfilled forever. I want nothing else.

So first understand: bhakti is the feminine mood. That is why it appears traditional and conservative—because women are very simple, natural. Hence the scriptures have called woman prakriti, nature, in contrast to man. Do you see how traditional nature is? Have you ever seen anything changing in nature? It is all the same; it remains the same. The wheel of nature revolves with a certain rhythm: the rains come, then winter, then summer, then the rains again—a cycle. Thus it has always been, thus it will always be. Spring comes and flowers blossom; in fall the leaves drop—thus it has always been, thus it is, thus it will be. This is what Lao Tzu called Tao, what the Vedas called rita, what Buddha called dhamma.

The devotee is natural. As morning comes, the sun rises, light spreads, the stars vanish; evening comes, the sun sets, light fades, the stars appear—so it has always been. Such is devotion—eternal, sanatan. If there is any eternal religion in the world, it is devotion. It has nothing to do with the Hindus’ “Sanatan Dharma.” The only sanatan dharma is bhakti. Meditation is rebellious; devotion is eternal. Meditation continually discovers new methods, because meditation has methods; where there are methods, new ones can be invented. Devotion has no method—devotion is methodless. Where there is no method, from where will you bring a new one? Devotion is a feeling, not a technique.

Have you ever thought how traditional love is? Knowledge is not traditional; knowledge grows, expands. There were many things Buddha did not know that Einstein knows. Many things Mahavira did not know that Eddington knows. In knowledge man adds new quantities every day. But do you think there were aspects of love Meera did not know that Einstein knows? Wrong. With regard to love, what the first lover knew is exactly what the last lover will know; there will be no difference. Love is eternal. Knowledge changes. Therefore knowledge is time-bound. What is knowledge today will be ignorance tomorrow. Knowledge has no reliability; it is a line drawn on water. Love is a line engraved on stone; it does not fade. Love alone is the line that is eternal. You can see how quickly knowledge changes! Today it changes so fast that by the time it reaches a university textbook it has already become outdated—out of date.

You will be surprised to know that in the West large books on science are no longer written—they cannot be written. Because by the time you write a large book—writing a large book takes time—what you are writing will already be outdated. Science is written in short papers; there are periodicals of science, because science itself is periodical. It has journals—print quickly! The scientist reads papers, not books—just a few pages. Because before it becomes old, say it. Even as you say it, it can become old.

Knowledge changes daily; therefore do not place your trust in knowledge. What is correct now will not remain so tomorrow. A new medicine arrives, and the doctor gives it to you with such confidence: “This will work!” Six months later you go to him and he prescribes another medicine. Ask him, “What happened to the one six months ago—the one that worked so well?” He says, “It has become obsolete; now it doesn’t work.”

If it doesn’t work now, how did it work six months ago? And the one that works now—what will its story be six months hence? Knowledge is unreliable; it is a bubble formed on water—formed every day, gone every day. Love is eternal.

Therefore it is natural that bhakti appears traditional. Even if Meera speaks, what else can she say? She will say what lovers have always said. Yes, the knower can invent; the knower can devise new things—but inventions are man’s; they will be outmoded. Love is of God. However old it may be, it never becomes old.

Understand it this way: knowledge becomes old very quickly precisely because it is new. Devotion never becomes old; it remains forever fresh because “new” and “old” have no connection with devotion.

Some things are the very bases of life; you cannot change those foundations every day—life would collapse. Devotion is such a foundation.

Hence you may get the impression that there is orthodoxy in devotion. It is not orthodoxy; “orthodoxy” is a word of the intellectuals. It is eternity, the eternal. If you stand opposed to it, you will call it orthodoxy; if you understand it and enter its meaning, you will call it the eternal.

Understand the meaning of sanatan: that which was never new and will never be old, that which simply is. What is new will become old; what is old was once new. The new keeps becoming old; the old keeps becoming new. You see this happening daily. Something remains in fashion for a while, then it goes out of fashion, disappears, and after ten or twenty years it returns. What else will you do? It becomes new again for a while, then old again.

Look carefully: what happens in fashion? A certain style of clothing is in fashion today; tomorrow it is out. Don’t throw it away—keep it carefully. Ten years later you’ll find it back in fashion. A hundred years later there will be a vintage-clothing competition at some Oberoi; take your coat and show up: “This is a hundred years old!” Don’t you see someone standing proudly with his Ford Model T from 1924—vintage car! Now it is very valuable, a very old car! It now appears very new, because you don’t see 1924 cars anywhere; they have all vanished. Someone has one left; another found one in a junkyard and somehow hammered it back into shape; it looks very new! People go to see it.

In the West the price of old cars keeps rising—the older the car, the more money it fetches. What is a man to do? With idle time on his hands, what is he to do? He changes fashion, changes clothes, changes styles of houses; then things change and come back to the same. The new keeps becoming old, the old keeps becoming new—these are waves rising on water.

Devotion is the water, not the wave. Knowledge is the wave. Waves keep rising in the ocean; the ocean remains the same.

You have not loved; you must have done something else and called it love. You have not known love. The label may have been “love,” but inside it was something else. For when love happens, the Divine becomes visible in the one you love—it must; that is the very proof of love. In the one you love, a glimpse of the Divine has to appear. If it does not, then it is lust, it is desire; it is not love. Love is the doorway through which the Divine shimmers. If love happens even for a stone, the stone becomes an icon. If love happens for a person, the Divine begins to glimmer in that person. If love happens for your child, you will see little Krishna dancing in your own house. With anklets on his feet you will see him playing and frolicking. The same play that Yashoda saw in Krishna—any mother can see, if there is love for the child.

And this is exactly the experience of lovers. That is why lovers seem mad—because no one else sees what the lover sees. A man falls in love with a woman and people think he is crazy, for he speaks of her in such ways that others turn aside and laugh. They say, “His mind has gone. An ordinary woman, and he’s raving like this—he’s not in his senses.”

Majnu was crazed for Laila. The king of his town summoned him, because his condition kept worsening. The whole town talked of him—some called him mad, some a man possessed, some pitied him. At last the king called him and said, “You are obsessed with this Laila! I know your Laila. Truly, seeing your attachment I too became curious to see who this Laila is. But I found she’s a very ordinary woman; you are tormenting yourself for nothing. I pity you. You pass weeping before my palace; your tears fall whenever you are seen. You have filled every lane with your cry—‘Laila! Laila!’ I pity you so much that you may choose any woman from my palace.”

He had twelve maidens stand before him—the most beautiful women of the realm. He said to Majnu, “Choose.” Majnu went to them, refused each one, and in the end said, “But among them there is no Laila.” The king laughed: “You are mad—truly mad! People say rightly. Laila is nothing compared to these. I have seen your Laila. I am more experienced; I have known many beautiful women. You are just a young boy—you know nothing yet!” Majnu said, “You say so—perhaps you are right. But to see Laila, Majnu’s eyes are needed; without them no one can see Laila. You looked with your eyes. Look with mine, then Laila will appear.”

Hence the lover seems mad, because others do not see, while the lover sees what-not. Have you read the poems of lovers? Listen to a couple of songs. One—

Friend, how could I have saved my hem?
Don’t ask me of the majesty of that radiant presence,
Don’t ask how she came and stood before me,
Don’t ask of her beauty and her grace,
Don’t ask of that veiled, languid stretch—
How could the heart not be scattered at her feet?
Friend, how could I have saved my hem?

That smile, that melody, that youth—
Those glances, those graces, that shy veil;
A rose sways upon her cheeks,
Wine pours from her eyes—
Having drunk, how could I not lose myself?
Friend, how could I have saved my hem?

When laughter comes to her lips,
Moonlight spreads in the air;
She is a moving bud of jasmine,
She is a flute that smiles and laughs—
How could I not sing the songs of love?
Friend, how could I have saved my hem?

I sought a throne and crown for her beauty,
Her grace demanded tribute;
Sohni’s pride, Radha’s temper—
She wished to reign over my heart;
How could I possibly avert my eyes?
Friend, how could I have saved my hem?

Laughing, I had to take the arrow to my heart,
I had to bow my head before her,
Helplessly I had to lose my senses,
I had to burn the granary of restraint—
And had I not burned, how would I have quenched?
Friend, how could I have saved my hem?

Where love is, the extraordinary appears. The ordinary dissolves there; everything becomes uncommon. Ordinary eyes become like lotus petals. In an ordinary body a radiance begins to dwell. Love gives you a new eye. Because of that eye, depth arrives. And in depth, the Divine hidden in everyone becomes visible. In the one you love, the Divine begins to appear to you. The lover is not mad; the lover has a new kind of eye that can see into the depths.

A devotee is such a lover—one who has fallen in love not with one, but with all; in love with the Whole. Therefore in trees also he sees the same, in stones he sees the same, in people he sees the same—nothing but That is seen. That within, that without.

No, you must not have loved at all. You did something else and mistook it for love. You must have adorned your ego, not lost it. If you adorn the ego with love, you will miss; if in love you lose the ego, the first glimpse of meditation will come to you. It all depends on you. You do not know that love means to lose oneself. And where the “I” is lost, there prayer begins.

Listen to this second song—

Let me write you again on the brow of the earth,
Let me shape you again on the cheeks of the sky.
So many days have I spent refining your image;
So many flowers of earth have fallen, so many blue stars of the heavens.
Night and day the footpaths of light are forgotten,
The river has forgotten, its banks fettered by beauty.
Let me once more give your arms to the waves,
Let me once more give your shade to the lotus-groves.
Time is shallow, so petty—like a tide of intoxication;
My dream is profound, like the essence of awakening.
In free, ever-unbound vastness, be the grandeur of my sunrise;
Amid these thorns of hatred, be the divinity of compassion.
Let me honor you with all the bonds of my passion,
Give you the unwavering love of total surrender.
Let me inscribe the pure white season in you,
Stitch the very hem of beauty into you.
Let me bind you with my voice and with my breath,
With the sun of form, splendor, and grace.
Let me write you again on the brow of the earth,
Let me shape you again on the cheeks of the sky.

When you fall in love with someone, from there you get the first inkling of existence’s mystery; from there you get the first news that life is not just on the surface; it does not end where it appears to end. There are deeper and deeper layers to life. Life is not finished with the visible—there is the invisible. The lover begins to catch the whisper of the void. The warmth of the other’s heart begins to be felt. Two lovers are not the meeting of two bodies. Where only bodies meet, there is only sex, not love. Where two minds meet, love begins. And where two souls merge, love is fulfilled—there is devotion.

You ask: “You said—see only the Divine even in your lover, your beloved.”
If you cannot see in the lover and the beloved, then where will you see? Then the world is empty. Search there—there is the temple; bow your head upon those very steps. Dive into love; from there the verses of the Koran will rise and the tones of the Veda. There Meera will awaken. There Shandilya’s sutras will be true.

You say: “I too have loved, but to see the Divine in my beloved seems impossible.”
Then where will it be possible? How will it be possible? Then for you nothing remains but to be an atheist. He who is defeated in love is an atheist. He who is vanquished in love—he is the atheist. When even in love nothing was found, naturally you will say there is nothing. Love is the highest flight. If at such a height no glimpse came, then where will it?

“In relationships based on the body, where is the Divine?”
The Divine dwells in the body; otherwise the body would not be. Otherwise, what is the difference between a corpse and a living person? This is the difference: in one, the Divine still walks, speaks, rises, thinks; in the other, the Divine has departed. In one, the house is empty; in the other, the house is filled with the Owner. One lamp is lit—there is light; one lamp is extinguished. As lamps, the two are alike; in terms of light, they differ. In every living being there is life. Life means the Divine. Life means flame. Wherever a tree is alive, there is the Divine. Wherever there is movement, there is the Divine.

You say: “In bodily relations where is the Divine?”
It is the Divine’s relation. It is the smallest, the first step of that great journey—but it is the first step of the very same journey. Even if it is the first rung, it is still a rung. Do not stop there, but do not condemn it either. Step upon it, and pass beyond.

“In relations of lust where is the Divine?”
Lust is muddy—true; but lotuses grow from mud. And from lust, the flowers of prayer bloom.

Enough for today.