Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #16

The difference is merely superficial. It is only on the surface; within there is no difference. Inside means oneness; outside means division. The closer you move toward the center, the more distances dissolve. At the center all distances disappear.

At the outset of the journey, the differences are great. The devotee goes one way, the knower another. In the beginning they may even appear opposite—not just different but antagonistic—walking with their backs to each other, denying one another. But as they come closer to truth—as the devotee is absorbed in devotion and the sage is absorbed in knowledge—as absorption deepens, it becomes visible that though our directions were different and our paths passed through different places, the peak we are approaching is one. Upon reaching the summit, all directions become one and all dimensions merge.

So as Shandilya goes deeper, devotion will seem to become knowledge. It must be so; that is the very sign of depth. And when you can no longer make a distinction, when there remains no difference between the language of the devotee and the language of the knower, when both point to the same one—when love and knowledge point the same way—then know you have come home, that you have reached the goal. As long as even the slightest difference remains, as long as there is the least reserve in the mind, a twoness, understand the destination has not yet been reached; you still have to go on, to journey further—do not stop. So long as even an inch of difference remains among knowledge, devotion, and action, do not stop. This is the touchstone: reach the summit.

And what will be the sign of the summit? How will you know you have arrived? You have never been there before; when you reach it, it will be for the first time—what will be the recognition? The sign will be that there all the scriptures seem to embrace. The sign will be that there no difference at all remains between Mahavira and Meera. The sign will be that there knowledge, devotion, and action are three faces of one truth—the Trimurti is seen there; yet behind the three is one life-breath, one realization.

What moved at the feet of Mahavira is religion; what sits as a load on the heads of the Jains is a sect. What Buddha said is religion; what the Buddhists are carrying is a sect. What Krishna sang is religion; what the Hindus are arguing about is a sect.
Hindus, Jains, Buddhists, Christians, Muslims, Jews—these are the corpses of religion. They have nothing to do with religion, just as a corpse has nothing to do with the living person. How much you loved your wife, your son! You were ready to give up everything. And today the son’s breath has flown—the bird has flown; you take him to the cremation ground to burn him. If a thorn stuck in his foot you could not sleep all night; if he felt a little pain you would stake everything. Today you carry him to the cremation ground—either to bury him in the earth or to lay him on the fire. Think a little—what has happened?
What was alive was something else. Now only clay remains. That which made the clay conscious, the consciousness within the clay—has gone. The one you loved is no longer there.
Sometimes it even happens—often it happens—that a she-monkey’s baby dies, yet she keeps it clutched to her breast, hoping breath might return. Such is the condition of sects.
It is true that when an awakened one realizes the divine, the Ultimate descends. In his shadow there is God’s radiance; in his words there is the music of the void; in his eyes the waves of his heart; in his touch, that which cannot be seen or touched becomes visible and tangible. You become bliss-intoxicated. You are ready to go with him into any rebellion, onto any path of revolution. You would prefer to live in hell with him rather than live alone in heaven. In his influence, in his aura, you stake everything; you become a gambler; you do not keep accounts. His touch shakes off all the dust from your mirror. And in your mirror that-which-is begins to be seen. Then you break conditioning, you break society, culture, civilization.
Think a little: those who stood naked with Mahavira—what did they not stake? What did they save? They staked family, they staked civilization and culture—everything. Those who agreed to go with Buddha staked the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita—everything. When the one who spoke the Gita himself is present, who cares for the Gita? When the lips from which the Vedas were born are alive, speaking to you—what will you do but set the Veda aside?
But after Buddha has gone—after that bird has flown—only the wealth of words is left in your hands. Then you search for the Veda in those words, the Upanishads in those words; then new Vedas are manufactured, new Upanishads are made. The rebellion is finished. Now you stake nothing; now you only worship. Now religion becomes a formality. Now you go to the temple and bow your head before a stone idol. You do not bow—only the head bows—hollow, empty; your heart does not bow; only a formal respect... An echo reverberates from the past. Because of that echo you still pay respect, but you are not present in it. Today you stake nothing. On the contrary, now you stand with Buddha or Mahavira or Krishna or Christ thinking to earn something—prestige, respect.
The temple-goer gets prestige and respect; people think he is religious. And whoever people consider religious can practice dishonesty more skillfully—his religiosity hides his dishonesty. Hence all the dishonest are engaged in proving themselves religious. They will arrange rituals, fire-sacrifices, recitations, the telling of Satyanarayan’s story. These are advertisements. These are notices, so people will know: I am religious; you have nothing to fear from me. And if I put my hand into your pocket, it is for your own good; if I cut your throat; if I exploit you, don’t object—I am a religious man. People build temples and rest-houses. This is publicity. It is part of the art of advertising. Once people accept that you are religious, your capacity to exploit becomes a thousand times greater. Now it is no longer rebellion; on the contrary, the very opposite of rebellion has happened—it has become a business.
But in its original tone, religion is rebellious. And understand also the difference between rebellion and revolution. Religion is not revolution; it is rebellion. Rebellion is higher and deeper than revolution. Revolution is collective; rebellion is individual. And whenever you make revolution in a group, you will have to compromise with that group. The rebellion will be reduced that much; the fire will die down; that much ash will settle.
Understand. A communist is a revolutionary. But even a communist revolutionary must create a communist party for revolution. Those who join that party must naturally lose their personal reflection; they must lose their individuality—otherwise how will a party be formed? By losing individuality a party is formed. Then whatever the party says, they must say. They cannot move even an inch here or there. This is not much of a rebellion. From the very start the life of rebellion is put at risk.
The rebel is individual. Mahavira did not set up a party; he rebelled—his very privacy was his rebellion. Those who walked behind him did not set up a party either. Keep this in mind. Many went with him, but whoever went, went by rebelling personally. Each disciple’s relationship with Mahavira is private—each disciple’s private.
The same I say to you: my relationship with each sannyasin is private. Private in the sense that you have taken sannyas from me, you have been initiated by me, you have held my hand; between you and me there is no one else. Someone else has also held my hand. Naturally, between two people who have held my hand there will be some harmonies, a shared note. But there is no attempt that a single note must be there. Since both have related to me, some things will match between them—but there is no insistence that they must match. If such insistence arises, rebellion has begun to die. The privacy of every sannyasin must be protected. At no price should he let the inner flame of rebellion be diminished.
Revolution is collective; rebellion is individual. Revolution is future-oriented; rebellion is in the present. Revolution says: tomorrow, when we are organized and when we change society, then the golden age will come, then we will create a new world. Revolution looks toward tomorrow. Remember, society looks toward yesterday; the revolutionary looks toward the coming tomorrow. The rebel lives in today—he has no anxiety about the yesterday that has passed, nor any concern about the tomorrow to come. Tomorrow will come of itself. Let me live today—and let my rebellion be intense, without compromise; let me not sell myself at any price; let me live today as I am, as I want. From my today, tomorrow will also arise by itself; there is no need to worry about it. Not to construct today on the basis of tomorrow, but to let tomorrow emerge from today—this is rebellion. To construct today on the basis of tomorrow—this is revolution.
Then, when you construct today based on tomorrow, naturally a net begins to spread over you. You spread it yourself; you put chains on; your freedom is compromised; your freedom is no longer complete.
To live precisely in the present is religion. And religion is the greatest revolution. For what are the basic sutras of religion? Wake up. This is a world of sleepers. The sleeping have made rules so that their sleep runs in order. Whoever wakes will anger the sleeping. They will crucify him—because the awakened one begins to disturb their sleep.
Haven’t you seen: if you sleep every day till eight in the morning, and someone in your home gets up at three, his very presence causes disturbance. If he prays, worships, exercises, practices yoga—his presence, his waking—if he lights a lamp, bathes—then the sleep of the others is disturbed, difficulties arise for them. That is in the small world of daily life.
In the vast, when someone awakens, his presence sends disturbance far and wide. Who knows how many people’s sleep begins to break, how many people’s dreams begin to tremble. Otherwise, why would you crucify Jesus? Why would you give Socrates poison? You had to. You had to protect your sleep. These people began to shout so loudly, to make such a racket, to shake you, to pull you out of your sleep; they shouted that what you are seeing is a dream—wake up! Open your eyes! And you were seeing sweet dreams, building golden palaces, wrapped in great desires, moving in very sweet dreams—and someone came and shouted, and someone came and tried to wake you. That was not the moment you could listen. You were angry; you took revenge.
First thing: religion says—wake up. Awakening is the fundamental formula of religion. Between the crowd of sleepers and the awakened one, all coordination breaks. The sleeping person thinks in one way—his values are different, his logic different, his chain of thought different, his goals different, his whole life-structure different, his style different. And this awakened one brings news of another world altogether. In that world money has no value. In the sleeper’s world only money has value. The awakened one brings news of a place where sex has no value. In the sleeper’s world there is nothing but sex-drive. The awakened one brings news of a place where ego does not exist at all. And in the sleeper’s world ego is the very center on which his wheel turns. There is a clash between the two.
Religion is revolt. Religion is the greatest revolt. It is a total revolt.
I am not a country that you will burn me down
Not a wall that you will bring me down
Not even a border that you will erase me
This old map of the world
that you have spread on the table—
in it there is nothing but crooked lines
Where in it do you search for me?
I am a longing of the crazed lovers
a tough-souled dream of the crushed human beings
When plunder goes beyond all limits
when tyranny crosses all bounds
I suddenly appear in some corner
I rise from some heart
You have seen me before today as well—
sometimes in the East, sometimes in the West
sometimes in the cities, sometimes in the villages
sometimes in the settlements, sometimes in the forests
My story is only history; I have no geography
And such a history as cannot be taught—
people study it in hiding
that sometimes I prevailed, sometimes I was overcome
sometimes I hoisted the killers on the gallows
and sometimes I myself was crucified
The only difference is this: my killers die
I do not die, nor can I die
Religion is such an eternal rebellion: it does not die, nor can it be killed. It returns again and again. You so quickly—no sooner has a Buddha departed than you begin to lose yourselves in sleep again. You hasten to pull your blanket over, adjust your pillows, and start dreaming again. But from some corner rebellion rises again. From some corner the Divine calls again. God does not lose to you. Nor does God tire of you. Nor does God grow indifferent toward you. However much you go astray, each wandering is a challenge to him. He returns again.
Krishna said in the Gita: I will come again and again—sambhavami yuge-yuge. Whenever there is darkness, whenever people’s minds fill with disgust toward dharma, whenever the inauspicious is enthroned over the auspicious, whenever the good are oppressed by the wicked—I will come.
This is not Krishna’s word alone; Krishna speaks on behalf of religion. It is not that some Krishna will personally arrive. But from some corner religion will surge, rebellion will rise; someone among the sleepers will awaken; from somewhere a ray will break through.
Religion does not die; it cannot be killed.
But those who wish to attain religion should remember this: whenever religion comes, it comes as rebellion. It comes only in the form of rebellion. That is its very body. And if you cannot recognize rebellion, you will keep missing religion. You will bang your head on Gitas and worship Qurans and fix your eyes on Bibles until you go blind—religion will not be found. When religion comes, it comes as revolt. The Gita, the Quran and the Bible were once revolts—but that time has passed. Now you carry the corpse. Now you must again search for someone who is awake. You must again hold the hand of some Christ.
And the difficulty is exactly this: the Bible feels sweet, and Christ seems very troublesome. The Bible feels sweet because the Bible cannot change you. You make a pillow out of the Bible and sleep comfortably. If it is cold you make a blanket out of the Bible and pull it over yourself and sleep soundly. Christ—you will make neither pillow nor blanket out of him. If sleep does not come, you make pills out of the Bible—tranquilizers—and swallow them, and sink into deeper sleep. You will not be able to make Jesus into a tranquilizer. From Jesus you will not find any device for sleep.
Therefore people run away from a living master. And when the master dies, then they worship him. Strange custom! Strange way of yours! When Christ is present you crucify him; and when he dies, the whole world becomes Christian. When Mohammed is present, you do not let him sit in peace in even a single village. Mohammed spent his life fleeing from one village to another. And when Mohammed dies, you build hundreds of thousands of mosques. Hundreds of millions bow their heads at Mohammed’s feet. For hundreds of millions, Mohammed becomes the deepest rhythm of the heart. But this is a great fun. See this—recognize it. And do not think someone else has done this—you have done it. You are still doing it. And so long as you continue, you will remain unacquainted with religion. What you take to be religion is not religion; it is the ash that has settled over religion. The ember has long been smothered. Ash is convenient—it does not burn you; touch it and no blisters rise. Somehow you have begun to take ash as sacred ash—vibhuti. Ash has become your glory; you mark your forehead with ash; ash has settled even on your soul. Save yourself from ash—seek the ember. If there is any grace anywhere, it will be in the ember. What will there be in ash?
It cannot be accidental that the so-called religious person calls ash “vibhuti.” It is highly symbolic. He is saying: I can clench ash in my fist, lock it in my amulet; the ash is mine—I can treat it however I like.
With a live ember you will not be able to do as you like. To take the ember within is an effort to kindle a flame in your life. Religion is for those who want to burn, who want to be effaced. Religion is a great rebellion. And there are great hardships.
In this world no happiness is obtained without paying a price. And you want to attain God without paying a price. You want to have it just like that—by formalities: that sometimes you will go to a temple, sometimes turn a rosary, sometimes read the Gita; that amidst the tasks of life you will find a little time to chant the Name; and if there is no chance to chant, you will wear a shawl printed with God’s name; and if it is not convenient for you, you will hire a servant. That is the one you call the priest. You will tell him: pray in our name. We have no time—so you choose a middleman. He will perform your fire-sacrifices, your oblations; he will come daily to ring the bell at the temple. You do not have time even to go to the shrine in your own home. But you think you are managing both worlds. You say: we have kept a servant—he manages; he performs the worship, he does the prayers.
If you want to be religious so cheaply, you will not manage it. Put something at stake. And what is the biggest thing to stake? The ego has to be staked. All the rest only adorns your ego.
But when you go to a living master, your ego will stop getting its decorations. People will call you mad. People will call you crazy. They have always done so. Those who worship ash—when you carry a live ember—what else will they call you? They will say: be sensible! Many have been burned by this before—now you do not be burned. Learn from us. We too are religious, but we go to the temple and maintain the status of a dead idol; we perform worship.
It is audacity to want to be truly religious. And when you truly want to be religious, obstacles will begin—because your coordination with others will begin to break. The distance between you and the sleepers will grow. They will say something; you will see something else. Then you will begin to live from within. And whenever you live from within, you will find that no one is pleased with you. Because here everyone wants you to live according to them. No one here is eager to grant you freedom—not your father, not your mother, not your teacher, not your priest, not your sons, not your daughters, not your wife, not your husband—no one is willing to give you freedom. Everyone wants you to follow them. If you follow them, all is fine; if you do not, you are wrong. And the day you begin to hear the inner voice, that day you will no longer be able to follow anyone else; that day you will have to follow God. Hence they say: do not get into meditation, do not get entangled in devotion—because those who got entangled before, like Meera, look what happened? She lost all regard for public opinion. In the same way you too will lose the world’s regard.

This question arises for everyone—what will people say? It arose for Meera, and it arises for you. Meera listened only to what happened within; she dropped concern for social respectability. Now it depends on you. If you heed what people will say and live according to them, you will remain sectarian—a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian—but you will never be truly religious. And you will be deprived of what Meera came to know. And that alone is worth knowing; that alone is worth attaining.

If you follow the blind, you will remain blind. If you must follow, follow someone with eyes. And don’t look for the one with eyes in a book—for how can a book have eyes? Seek the one who sees. And it is never the case that there are no seers in this world. God never leaves this world empty; in some corner or other he stands. Those who seek, find. But only those can find who have the capacity to rebel.

Sannyas is only a beginning. Not of bhakti, not of jnana, not of karma. Sannyas is only a beginning. Then three paths open. Someone will go by knowledge, someone by devotion, someone by action. Sannyas is only the preparation to go. Sannyas is the declaration that I am ready to go. After that, the paths will diverge.

Here with me there are sannyasins—thousands of sannyasins. Among them too there are three kinds of people. Some can only go through action, they are action-oriented. I set them to work. For them I say: action is prayer, action is worship; I tell them, drown in the act. Take this act as God’s act and sink into it. Then even a small act becomes worship. For example, I told someone: do the cleaning in the ashram. Now you will be surprised that for someone, cleaning becomes meditation.

There is a sannyasin in the ashram who does cleaning—he has a PhD, he was a university professor. Now he comes to me and says, “I have never known such joy. What have you done!” It is hard for anyone to believe—what has been done? Nothing has been done. He is sweeping the ashram, and a revolution has happened in his life. Can sweeping bring about a revolution? Then there are so many people in the world who sweep—would they all be enlightened? No. When you make an act your surrender, then the revolution happens—whatever the act, even if it is only sweeping.

There are people who will reach the divine through action. They have great energy. If you tell them, “Sit with eyes closed and meditate,” they will be in great trouble. Tell a small child, “Close your eyes and meditate!” Even if he sits with eyes closed, he will fidget, move, wave his hands and feet, turn this way and that, scratch here and scratch there, and in between open his eyes to look. When little children come to take sannyas from me, I tell them, “Close your eyes,” and they squeeze them shut so hard! The reason is that if they don’t squeeze, the eyes will open. They put all their strength into it, yet they still pop open. In between they take a quick look: is my photo being taken or not? How are people around me feeling? Is anyone laughing? A child has so much energy. The current has just begun to flow, everything is fresh and new, the Ganges has yet to flow far; he has come from the house of God with immense energy. You cannot make him sit with eyes closed like a Buddha.

Some people have more than ordinary energy; for them, action will become the path. The only difference will be that the act will no longer be theirs, it will be God’s—them as instruments. That is the difference between the sannyasin and the worldly person. Both will act—the sannyasin acts, the worldly person acts. The worldly person acts with the feeling, “I am the doer”; the sannyasin acts with the feeling, “God is the doer; I am only an instrument, a tool in his hands.” In that very mood of surrender, the revolution happens.

Then I will set some into devotion. For example, women, or many sensitive, feeling men, whose energy is gathered around the heart—whose heartbeat is centered in the heart. Their flow is neither in the strength of the body nor in the mind’s thoughts; their whole life is centered near feeling; love is their door. To them I will say: dance, sing the songs of the divine, praise, pray, rejoice. I will immerse them in music, put them into dance, lead them into the ways of prayer and worship.

Then there are those whose energy is collected in the mind. There are three places where energy collects—the body, the heart, and the mind. Body means action; heart means devotion; mind means knowledge. For those whose energy is gathered there, I will give some method of meditation; I will give them some method of contemplation, reflection, deep assimilation.

Sannyas is only a beginning—not of devotion—sannyas is the beginning of going toward God. You have resolved, “Now I will go, I will set out on the journey.” You have prepared your provisions, packed your bundle and bedding, and you are standing at the village gate. Sannyas is the great departure. Now three roads open. The day you decide to go on that journey, to seek the divine, three roads open. Then sannyasins will be divided into three parts. The three will meet again on the final day, but in the middle they will not meet anywhere. Their paths never cross in between.

The one who goes by devotion will not even know where the knower’s path is, or where the knower has disappeared. The one who goes by action will not understand the language of devotion. The one who goes by knowledge will also find action and devotion arduous, even impossible. Inside him will be the thought: these people have gone astray; I am arriving. Each of the three will know, “I am arriving; the other two have strayed,” because the other two are nowhere to be seen on his road. But at the final moment there is meeting again. Before the departure the three stand together in one place, and when the journey is complete, the three again reach a single peak.

Sannyas is only the pure beginning.

There is a lotus in that muck too. If you saw only the mud, you did not see the whole. You saw only a part. You could not make love a staircase; love became a stone on your path. You did not step up on that stone—otherwise you would have reached a greater height. The fault is not love’s; it is yours.

You say, “I have suffered a lot from love!”
Love has never made anyone suffer. Yes, many people appear to suffer “because of love,” but the cause is something else. Understand this.

Some people suffer in the name of love because they want a particular person to love them. But it is that person’s freedom to love you or not. It cannot be your demand. You spread your bedding at someone’s doorstep and declare, “I will fast unto death—love me! I am doing satyagraha. Otherwise I will die!”

It happened once in a village. A man staged such a satyagraha at the door of a beautiful young woman. Her father was thrown into a panic—who is not afraid of a satyagrahi? The man even had a few companions who went to the marketplace making a great hue and cry: “A satyagraha has begun!” The whole village grew curious, crowds gathered; people asked, “What is the matter?” The father became more and more anxious. By evening there was a great commotion in the village, and everyone took the satyagrahi’s side—after all, it was “Gandhian”! No one even bothered to ask, “What is this satyagraha for?”

When Morarji fasted, did anyone ask what for? He was a Gandhian! Someone fasting to gain power is one thing; but look at this poor fellow—he is fasting to gain love—what harm is there in that? Yet no one thought to ask whether the girl loved him or not. Otherwise it becomes coercion. All forms of satyagraha are a kind of force. Violence is hidden inside them; on the outside there is the pretense of nonviolence.

By dusk the father was desperate. Pressure mounted from the whole village—phone calls, letters, newspaper reports, posters proclaiming, “Great injustice is being done to the satyagrahi. He is on a fast unto death; he will die. When has anyone seen such madness for love? Even Majnu did not do this. And he is utterly nonviolent too—sits there quietly in khadi, says nothing, does nothing.” Someone whispered advice to the girl’s father: “If you want to deal with this, there is only one way—and it will deal with him.” “What way?” “I’ll fix it.” The father ran and brought an old, worn-out prostitute—so spent and sickly that the very sight of her would make one’s stomach turn, reeking with stench. He brought her there. The satyagrahi looked up: “Why have you come?” She said, “I love you. I too will stage a satyagraha right here until you marry me. I will die otherwise!” That did it. Within half an hour the young man gathered his bedding and fled. The satyagraha was over.

So love can cause you pain if you try to force it on someone. But is that love? Did love cause the pain? It is the ego. It is violence that caused the pain. You have no right to thrust your “love” on anyone, nor to demand love by force. Where there is force, there cannot be love. Then you will suffer. Or suppose you got the person you desired; and then, after getting them, you imposed yourself on them, tried to turn them into your property. You stationed guards on all sides. You said, “Love only me, and no one else. Laugh with me, but not with anyone else.” You became frightened, watchful, constantly anxious, spying. If you saw your wife—or your husband—laughing with someone, a fire flared up inside you; that is what pained you. But the cause of that suffering is not love. The suffering lies in treating the other as property.

No one in this world belongs to anyone, nor has anyone been born to be anyone’s property; nor should anyone be. It is an insult. No one is anyone’s slave. Love is a flow between two free individuals. Whenever either becomes a slave—if one or both become slaves—the flow stops. And when the flow stops, great pain arises: thorns pierce, wounds appear in life. People suffer “from love,” not because of love, but because in love’s name something else is going on—ego. That is what it is.

You will be surprised to know: jealousy arises with persons—and it even arises in situations where there is no reason for jealousy at all. The husband comes home; the wife has waited all day. He sits down to read the newspaper. The wife may snatch it away, tear it up—one can even be jealous of a newspaper: “What is this paper that comes between you and me?”

It is no accident that many highly creative people remain unmarried. The simple reason is this: if you love music, then let that suffice; do not take on the love of a woman as well. Enter the love of a woman, and there will be conflict between woman and music. Socrates’ wife used to beat him. Once she poured a whole kettle of tea over his head; half his face was burnt and forever darkened. What was the obstacle? Only this: Socrates was absorbed in philosophy. His disciples came; he would become so engrossed in discussion that his wife felt pain—“He loves philosophy more than me.” Not even a person was the rival—philosophy was. This a woman cannot bear. And if your wife loves dance or music, you will feel you are being neglected.

Great painters, musicians, poets, philosophers have often been forced to remain unmarried. Marriage seemed too costly. When the renowned Danish thinker Søren Kierkegaard was asked why he remained unmarried, he said, “I did not want to be trapped between two wives.” “Two wives?” the questioner asked. “But you don’t have even one!” Kierkegaard said, “This thing called philosophy—this is what I am married to.”

Kierkegaard once did fall in love; it came right up to the verge of marriage, and then he withdrew. The closer he grew to the woman, the more she began to obstruct. Even before marriage, the hurdles had begun. Kierkegaard decided it was better to choose one of the two. Either I must become non-philosophical—which would be too costly, for philosophy is the life of my life; to abandon it would fill my being with dust, it would murder my search for the soul; the seed would die before sprouting; I would never become a tree, never reach the blossom.

Remember: you say, “I have suffered a lot from love!”
Search a little. Was it really love? No one ever suffers because of love. Something else must have been mixed in—love on the label, but inside: ego, jealousy, possessiveness, a sense of ownership. Then you will suffer. And because of that suffering you become afraid of love and begin to say, “Love is wrong.” Then you commit a second mistake. For love becomes affection, and affection becomes devotion; now you are deprived of both. You lose love, and you lose God as well.

I want to tell you—diagnose rightly, analyze rightly. Remove whatever other obstacles are on the path of love. Love is so precious that everything else can be sacrificed for it—ego, ownership, everything.

But people are strange. They talk of love, and when the moment for sacrifice comes, they sacrifice love. If asked to choose between ego and love, you choose ego, not love—and then you also blame love!

People come to me every day; some tiny issue arose between husband and wife and a quarrel erupted. So trivial that when they try to tell me, they feel embarrassed. The wife says, “You tell him.” The husband says, “No, you tell.” I ask, “What is it?” “It’s such a small matter that it is embarrassing to say it here before others.” When the matter is so small and it has come to the verge of divorce—what is going on? You never loved at all. Or if you did, you poisoned it—and now, over a trifle…

I have heard that in Hollywood a marriage took place. When the actress signed the register with her husband, the moment she signed she said to the registrar, “Cancel it. I don’t want this marriage.”

The registrar was startled; the would-be husband was more startled—he was already the husband; the stamp had been signed. The registrar said, “But there hasn’t even been any issue yet—no quarrel. Usually it begins after six months or a year; nothing has even arisen.”

The actress said, “The quarrel has begun. I signed with small letters, and he signed in big bold letters in front of me. The meaning is clear. I don’t want to get into this mess. He is already flaunting his swagger! I wrote small; he wrote large. There is nothing more to discuss.”

Such tiny things become obstacles on the path of love. Then you suffer. But do not load that suffering onto love’s shoulders. Love has never caused pain. Love has always given joy. Love has always given peace. Love is the only thing in this world in which there is a glimpse of the Divine. Love is the only energy here that is not man-made—uncontrived, natural. It lives in the life of your life; it is the food of your soul. As the body cannot live without food, so too the soul cannot live without love. That is why the search for love is so intense. And the one who finds love finds everything. Then there are further steps—love is the name of the first rung. All further rungs arise out of love.

I have told you: love has four forms—sneha: affection, toward one younger than you, toward a child; prem: love, toward an equal, a friend, husband or wife; shraddha: reverence, toward one greater than you, toward mother, father, teacher; and bhakti: devotion, toward God, toward the Whole.

These are all modes of love, different expressions of love. It is the full dance of love—its many gestures. Purify love, and you will not get pain; you will attain supreme bliss. Do not tire so quickly, do not give up so soon, do not grow old so early. Do not despair so fast.

Here are a few lines of Kaifi Azmi.

Old age says—
These winds, these storms, these racing currents,
these flashing spectacles, these thunderous scenes,
a sky gone dark, a breathing sea,
no torch to walk with, no stars overhead—
Traveler, stand still now, smother your heart.

Youth says—
The shore belongs to the one,
the cliffs belong to the one,
who, caught in the turbulence, strikes out with both hands.
A sky gone dark, a breathing sea—
these waves will keep dashing their heads like this;
how long will you skulk along the shore?

The day you are defeated, you become old. The day you say, “The storm is too big—let me wait,” you stop forever. The storm is always there; storm is the very way the world is. The storm is samsara. If you say—

These winds, these storms, these racing currents,
these flashing spectacles, these thunderous scenes,
a sky gone dark,
a breathing sea,
no torch to walk with,
no stars overhead—
Traveler, stand still now, smother your heart—

then you will stand still forever. Because the storm goes on like this. It is eternal. Those stars will not rise by themselves. Stars are given to those who bring them out, who create them. And where will the torch come from? Those who kindle the lamp of their own heart—only their hands hold a torch. Where will light come from? Those who burn themselves—their path is illumined. There is no other way to light. Those who enflame their love—only their path becomes bright.

No torch to walk with,
no stars overhead—
Traveler, stand still now, smother your heart.

If you smother your heart and stand still now, you will stand still forever. Many have stopped like this—standing for centuries upon centuries, for who knows how many lives, never entering the storm. And the longer you stand, the older your fear grows; its roots spread deeper.

No—take it as a challenge. Love is a challenge. You will have to enter the struggle of love.

The shore belongs to the one,
the cliffs belong to the one,
who, caught in the turbulence, strikes out with both hands.

The one who accepts the challenge.
The one who enters the storm and strikes out with both hands—then the storm becomes an ally. The storm is not always an enemy. It is the enemy of those who stand on the shore. It is the friend and companion of those who swim into it—it lifts them up, carries them to the farther shore, becomes their boat.

The shore belongs to the one,
the cliffs belong to the one,
who, caught in the turbulence, strikes out with both hands.
A sky gone dark, a breathing sea—
these waves will keep dashing their heads like this;
how long will you skulk along the shore?

There are obstacles in love, difficulties in love. The flower of love blossoms among many thorns—that much I concede. But love itself is not a thorn. The bush of love has many thorns, but love is the flower of that bush. For fear that a thorn may prick your hand—and certainly it can—if you go to pluck the flower, your fingers may bleed. But that blood is a worthy wager. If a little blood is shed in the quest of a flower, nothing is lost. What else will you do with this blood? Today or tomorrow it will spill anyway; today or tomorrow all will turn to dust. Before the dust claims you, strike out in the storm. Before you are sealed in the grave, use life, youth, zest; spread your wings a little! Yes, there are thorns—that is precisely the joy of attaining the rose. If there were no thorns, there would be no meaning in attaining it. The shore is far and the storm is strong—that is the challenge.

And I call that person old who abandons life’s challenges. That one is young who accepts them all. The degree to which you accept challenge is the degree of your youth. Then a person can remain young up to his dying breath—and another can be old from the very start.

This country has grown terribly old. The very atmosphere is aged; the air is old. Children here are born old. From birth they are taught only what is wrong with life, what is bad, what is difficult. They are never given the chance to see life themselves, to test and experience. They get stuck on the shore, never becoming young.

I want you to enter the storm. Only if you swim through the storm will you reach the other shore. On this shore is the world; on that shore, God—and between the two rages the storm of love. But you must go on purifying love—day by day. Remove its impurities; strain out the mud; protect the lotus of love. One day, when love is perfectly pure, when it reaches its full radiance—that is devotion.

You are the sun—do not hide in the clouds.
You are the moon—do not stop shining.
You are mischief—do not compromise your playfulness.
You are lightning—do not stop flashing.
Love has not yet accepted defeat—
do not stop putting love to the test.

Love never loses. Until God is found, love cannot be defeated. Love is the seed of God.

Love has not yet accepted defeat—
do not stop putting love to the test.

You have accepted defeat—that is the defeat of your ego, not of love. Do not mistake it for love’s defeat. Love does not lose; it does not know how to lose. Love knows only victory—and it reaches completion on the day God is attained. Only then does love come to rest; before that it never rests.

But often we take the ego’s defeat to be love’s defeat. Your ego must have been hurt. You must have sought love in wrong directions. You must have tried to grasp love with the wrong hands. You must have tried to lock love in a cage. You must have mistreated love. That is why you failed to attain it.

Drop your mistreatment; accept your mistakes; recognize and see them. Then you will be astonished—love has not failed at all! In fact, your very question shows that love is still alive.

You say, “I have suffered a lot from love, and you say that the upward flowering of love is devotion. Master, I don’t want to fall into that muck again.”
It is your ego speaking, calling love “muck.” But the very fact that this question has arisen in you is proof that love still has life in it; the sprout is still there; love can again become a tree. Who told you love is muck? There is mud—and there is lotus. If you have known only the mud, you have not known the whole of love. That is why the lotus is called pankaja: born of the pank—mud. What a wondrous transformation! Here is muck—filthy sludge of a stagnant pond—and from it arises this pure lotus!

In this land no flower is placed above the lotus. That is why Vishnu’s navel holds a lotus; that is why Buddha sits upon a lotus. The lotus lives in the very soul of this country. There is a certain magic in it that no other flower has. What is that magic? That the lotus rises from the most impure mud—and yet is so pure, so stainless. It is a marvel, a mystery. The lotus is a symbol of transformation—astonishing transformation. The entire chemistry has changed. Where there was mud, full of filth and stench—who could imagine that a lotus could be born there? One who does not know that the lotus is born in mud could never, on seeing the lotus, even imagine that it has any relation to mud. Not a speck of mud stains it. Its fragrance, its unique color, its blossoming—on this earth, what is more tender than the lotus?

You have seen only half of love. If one sees in love only lust, only sex—one has seen the mud. The one who sees in love samadhi has seen the lotus. The one who sees devotion in love has seen the lotus. Rise—make the journey from mud to lotus!

Scientists say every substance has three forms. Take water, for example. Ice is one form—frozen, firm, hard. Then water is the second form—flowing, in motion, liquid. Then vapor is the third form—invisible, rising upward. There is a great difference among the three.
Ice is hard; water is not hard at all. Ice is still, stuck in one place; there is no movement in ice. Water has movement, a current; water is a journey. Ice lies there like a stone. That’s why ice is called the stone of water. In it there is no journey, it goes nowhere, nothing happens in it—it is as it is; dead, inert. In water there is life. Movement is the basis of life.
And there are great differences between water and vapor too. Water always goes downward; vapor always goes upward. Water is visible; vapor cannot even be seen. A revolution has happened. Vapor has become one with the invisible.
In the same way, these three words are—bhakta (devotee), bhakti (devotion), and Bhagwan (God).
The bhakta is like ice. There is still a big ego, a sense of I-ness. Bhakti is liquidity, dance, motion, journey. The devotee has started moving; he is no longer lying there—he has stood up. He is no longer stuck—he has taken the first step. And the one who has taken the first step has completed half the journey. Because it is one step at a time that completes a thousand-mile journey. The first step is the difficult one; then everything becomes simple. For all steps are alike. If the first is taken, what difference is there in the second? The second is like the first, and the third is like the first. After that it is just the repetition of the same step. The step is one and the same; then it is only a matter of placing step upon step, climbing stair upon stair. And the one who has learned to take the first step has learned to take them all, because there is no difference between steps.
Bhakti is fluidity; the flow has begun, the journey has begun. And Bhagwan is the state of vapor—the state of becoming invisible. The bhakta is hard; in bhakti there is fluidity; when the bhakta reaches Bhagwan he becomes invisible. These are the three states of consciousness itself. One must begin as a bhakta and offer the completion at Bhagwan. Do not think that the bhakta one day meets God. The bhakta becomes God. Where is there any meeting? In meeting, twoness remains, duality remains, difference remains. The bhakta does not meet God; the bhakta becomes God—just as vapor becomes one with the sky.
These are the three states of godliness. The bhakta is the hard state—there is still the sense of “I.” In bhakti, the “I” breaks; fluidity comes—this is the middle state. And in Bhagwan there is an upward ascent: what was visible becomes invisible; what was gross becomes subtle; what was known becomes unknown.

This is a tavern. If you don’t become intoxicated here, you came in vain and left in vain. Only those who start to stagger truly arrive here. The very proof that you have been here is that, when you go back, there is a languor in your eyes, a quiet ecstasy in the heart, a sweet inebriation hovering over you; that you have heard a call from afar, that distant stars have invited you; that a deep longing has awakened; that a voice asleep within you has been struck for the first time; that a seed long buried has cracked and sprouted; that an unknown thirst has shivered inside you; that a misty song has begun to hum within. This is how it should be.

If, listening to me, no ecstasy arises in you, you have heard only my words—you have not heard me. If ecstasy does arise, if you sway as you leave, if a little self-forgetfulness comes and you go away absent to yourself—ecstasy means the ego has thinned a little; ecstasy means a softening, the ice has begun to melt, a flow has begun; ecstasy means you glimpse that life may hold meanings you have not yet sought, that there may be another way to live, that life does not end with shop and marketplace, that wealth and position are not the terminus of existence—that there are more skies to fly in, more destinations to reach. When such a tremor dances within you, you will know the intoxication. Auspicious things are happening. The arising of this very intoxication is what I take as the sign that a person is ripe for sannyas. Sannyas is for such tipplers—exactly for you. And here there is no other criterion. I do not tell you that first you must fast, practice austerities, chant. Nor do I say that to be a sannyasin you must conduct yourself in this or that way, have such-and-such a character. I do not get entangled in these petty matters at all. But one thing is needed: the intoxication to attain the divine. That cannot be dropped. Everything else will follow it. In one whose longing for the divine has awakened, the small things will fall away of themselves. For when someone goes to fetch diamonds, he does not clutch at stones; he lets them go. And when a great guest is about to arrive at one’s house, one prepares the house, cleans it, sanctifies it. All this is natural. I do not bother about it. I say: first invite the great Guest.

Others have kept telling you: purify the house. I say: first invite the Guest. Purifying the house is secondary. You will do it; I need not worry. As you see the divine drawing near, you will suddenly find a transformation beginning in your character. Many things you used to do till yesterday, you no longer do—and you have not even tried to stop them. Because now the Lord is coming close; you must become worthy, worthier each day; you must become His throne. Petty things can no longer be done. By this very understanding transformation happens. It requires no effort, no discipline, no force, no vows and rules taken in insistence.

Vows and rules are for one who has no inkling of the Master. For the one who has had news of the Master, to whom His vision has begun to appear, who hears His approaching footsteps—then you will rush, you will clean everything, you will throw the rubbish out, you will decorate, you will light incense and lamps, bring flowers, hang festoons. All this will happen of itself—let the Guest only come! You will become the host.

But there is one condition I cannot drop: the condition of inebriation. Without it, the Guest will not come. Only if you write your letter mad with love will it reach Him. Only if your message carries your intoxication will it reach—otherwise not. Only when you call in ecstasy will your prayer reach Him. Prayers made in cleverness go to waste. Prayers made in calculation do not reach Him. They contain arithmetic, not love. In drunkenness—only then does prayer reach.

You ask: “Am I worthy of sannyas?”
Whoever this sweet intoxication is descending into—that one is worthy. Sannyas is for drunkards.

Once more a tipsy stagger has come to your town;
once more the mosques will become taverns in your town.
Today again the delicate windows of your house will shatter;
today again a madman has been seen in your town.
It is a crime in your lane to return with head bowed;
it is heresy, in your town, to fear the pelting of stones.
Epic chronicles are inscribed on every brick of the ruins;
everywhere a tale lies buried in your town.
Some handmaids who are admitted to the sanctuary of pride
demand, in your town, the offering of life and heart.

An offering less than life and heart will not do there. Only one who is intoxicated, only one who is mad, can offer life and heart.

Once more a tipsy stagger has come to your town—
a drunken wavering, a wine-sweet gait has brought you again to that city.
In His city, people arrive staggering. Those who walk balanced never reach there. The world is for the balanced. One must learn the art of staggering. Only staggering does one reach His temple.

Once more a tipsy stagger has come to your town;
once more the mosques will become taverns in your town.
And whenever even one such mad lover is born, mosques become taverns. And when mosques become taverns, then they are alive. Then there is rebellion, there is life; there the wine of God is poured, is drunk, is offered. And when mosques are not taverns, they are dead—there are graveyards there, memories of the past, old beautiful stories, ancient legends. But there is no Buddha there, no Mohammed, no Krishna, no Christ.

Once more the mosques will become taverns in your town;
today again the delicate windows of your house will shatter;
today again a madman has been seen in your town.
It is a crime in your lane to return with head bowed;
it is heresy, in your town, to fear the pelting of stones.
Epic chronicles are inscribed on every brick of the ruins;
everywhere a tale lies buried in your town.
Some handmaids who are admitted to the sanctuary of pride
demand, in your town, the offering of life and heart.

This is the meaning of sannyas: that you are ready to surrender yourself. Only a madman can surrender! The clever will think—will think a thousand times; he will calculate, weigh profit and loss. Sannyas is not for the clever; sannyas is for the intoxicated. It is for gamblers, not for shopkeepers. You are ready. You are worthy.

And you say that even meditation does not attract you.
It won’t—for you. Your way will be devotion. Meditation will not be your path. You should dance, sing, celebrate. You are blessed, because on your path there will be festival upon festival. On the meditator’s way there is silence; on the devotee’s way there is dance, song, singing. The meditator’s paths are like deserts—silence, deep silence. The devotee’s path passes through forests and groves, by waterfalls, where birds sing and swans spread their wings.

You are blessed! Don’t worry about meditation; care about love. Love is your path. You will have to make life a grand celebration.

We must celebrate the festival of love in a new way;
even if sorrow lives in some heart, we must erase that sorrow.
On trembling lips the goblet of fidelity—what can one say!
Where has this stumble of the feet brought you—what can one say!
In my house, the lamp of your face—what can one say!
Today I must light the lamp of every house.
The soul blushes, seeing smoke upon faces;
a shy smile comes to my lips.
The joy of meeting you turns into pain;
if we are to laugh, we must make others laugh.
In drowsy eyes, brimming cups;
in wandering gazes, a message of love;
on sweet lips, the reward for my thirst—
who knows whether it will be given, or must be stolen.
This garland of your sandalwood arms upon my neck;
just now there were tears in these eyes, now such intoxication!
Didn’t I say spring would come even to my house?
The only condition was that first You must come.

Spring comes only on the heels of the divine. Before that there is no spring. Before that, all is fall. Before that, where have you lived? Before that, where have you awakened? Before that, all is ash.

Didn’t I say spring would come even to my house?
The only condition was that first You must come.

The devotee’s path is to call the Beloved, to stake everything on one thing: if God is found, all is found; if not, nothing is found. Gather your scattered desires from every side, merge them all into the One. When many desires fuse into a single longing, it is called ardent yearning. The worldly person has many desires—wealth, position, prestige, love, respect; to manage this world and, if there is another world, to manage that too by a little charity—he has twenty-five cravings. In trying to hold all, he loses all. Holding to the One, everything is held; clutching at all, not even one remains.

The devotee has only one desire. He dissolves all desires into the One; he fixes all arrows on a single target; he gathers all rays together and stakes a single throw—then the fire flares up. Small streams may lose themselves in the desert; but when the small streams unite and become the Ganges, reaching the ocean is assured. A man divided among small desires gets lost, is fragmented. Bhakti means: all desires have flowed into One; to attain the divine alone is the goal.

This will be your way. Your ecstasy announces it. Your intoxication declares it. Devotion and hymn, song and singing, music and dance—this will be your path.

We must celebrate the festival of love in a new way;
even if sorrow lives in some heart, we must erase that sorrow.

You sing—and wherever someone cries, set them singing too. You laugh—and wherever someone weeps, make them laugh. Even if you cry, your tears should smile. Even if you weep, let there be song and prayer in your weeping. Dye your whole life in the color of celebration. Sannyas is already happening within you; only its outer declaration is needed. Gather the courage for that too.

Enough for today.