Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #21

Athato bhakti jijñāsā!
Now, therefore, the inquiry into devotion.

Why devotion? Why not God?

Ordinarily people set out to search for God. And precisely because they set out to search for God, they never find him. The search for God is like a blind man setting out to find light. The blind man should seek eyes, not light. He should seek a cure for the eyes, not light. Light is; it needs no seeking. What is missing is the eye. That is why the one who went after God got lost. The one who goes after devotion arrives.

Devotion is the eye. Devotion means something within you must be transformed. Devotion means passing through a revolution.

Athato bhakti jijñāsā!

At first glance one might think the sutra should begin, “Now, therefore, the inquiry into God.” But this sutra is supremely precious: it doesn’t even raise the subject of God. How will you relate to God? The heart that can relate to God is not yet born in you; that inner wave that could connect you has not yet risen. Your eyes are blind; your ears are deaf. Therefore forget God. Do not burden yourself with that anxiety. Awaken devotion! The moment devotion awakens, God is found. The moment the eyes open, the sun is seen. The moment the deafness of the ears is healed, there is only soundless sound, only Om vibrating everywhere. The whole universe is the expression of the unstruck. The instant waves arise in the heart, the invisible becomes visible.

There is the intellect, which thinks; and there is the heart, which experiences. The knot of our experiencing has remained tied. It has not opened; it has stayed a lump. Our capacity to experience has not blossomed. Hence the question arises: Is there a God or not? But if the question is even slightly wrong, the answer will never be right. Inquire into devotion!

People come to me and ask, “Where is God?”

I ask them, “Where is devotion? Devotion must come first.”

Yet their question deserves consideration. They say, “Until we know there is a God, how can devotion arise? Whom should we devote ourselves to? How? Where should we go? At whose feet should we bow? Trust in God must be there first; only then can we bow.”

Because they have raised the wrong inquiry—seeking God—many wrong solutions will keep arising. Devotion does not require God at all. Does curing the eyes require the sun? Devotion needs only the growth of your love, your feeling; it does not require God. Expand love until the ego is drowned in it, dissolved in it. Wherever love becomes egoless, it becomes devotion.

Devotion has nothing to do with God. Devotion is the upward flight of love. Free love from the trivial. Make love large. Turn the drop of love into the ocean. Whomever you love, love deeply. Wherever love is, pour yourself out there completely. Do not be stingy. If love is miserly, it becomes lust; if love is lavish, it becomes devotion. If love asks, it becomes desire; if love only knows how to give, it becomes devotion.

Lavish love. In that very spending, you will become a devotee. And the very moment you become a devotee, there is the vision of God.

You have been told again and again, “Trust in God so that devotion can arise.” I tell you, “Awaken devotion so that trust in God can arise.” And Shandilya’s sutras stand with me.

Shandilya says: Athato bhakti jijñāsā! Now, therefore, inquire into devotion.

And whoever has not inquired into devotion—he came into the world yet never really arrived; he lived yet never truly lived; he happened yet never came to be. His tale is a tale of bad days and mishaps. He had opportunities, but none bore fruit. Whoever lived without devotion, whoever lived without knowing God—what kind of life shall we call that life?

Sri Aurobindo has said: When I awoke, only then did I know what life is. Before that, what I had known was only death, which I had mistakenly taken for life. When my eyes opened, only then did I recognize what light is. Before that, what I took for light turned out to be darkness. When my heart opened, I recognized the nectar; before that I had taken death itself to be nectar.

Is it any wonder if a blind man mistakes a pebble for a diamond? How would the blind distinguish stone from gem? For the blind, both are stones. The eye makes the difference. The jeweler is hidden in the eye.

So keep this in mind: if the inquiry into devotion has not arisen in you, know that you are not yet born. You still lie in the womb. You are only a seed. Germination has not happened. The supreme treasure of life has not even brushed your ears.

Dil mein soj-e-gham ki ik duniya liye jaata hoon main
Aah, tere maikade se be-piye jaata hoon main

Whoever goes without devotion came to this tavern and left without drinking.

Aah, tere maikade se be-piye jaata hoon main

The art of drinking this world is devotion. And when you drink the world, the taste that rises in your throat—that is what we call God. The art of digesting this world is devotion. And when the world is digested within you and from that digested world a savor appears—rasa vai sah, “He is verily the essence”—devotion is the alchemy that awakens that essence.

Shandilya did well not to begin with the inquiry into God. Philosophers make the inquiry into God. Philosophers never reach God; they only think about God. As if a blind man were to think about light. Their thoughts are like that—imaginings of the blind, conjectures. From conjectures no conclusion ever comes. Conclusion comes only from experience.

Shandilya’s sutras are not a philosophy; they are a science of love. And so in his very first aphorism Shandilya has already indicated his whole journey—where he is headed.

Before death knocks at your door—and death will knock—make the inquiry into devotion. Arrange your life so that before death comes, devotion has come. This is what I call sannyas: a way of living such that before death, devotion arrives. Then you lived skillfully, you were alert, there was intelligence within you.

Waqt ki sai-e-musal-sal kargar hoti gayi
Zindagi lahja-ba-lahja mukhtasar hoti gayi
Saans ke pardon mein bajta hi raha saaz-e-hayat
Maut ke qadmon ki aahat tez-tar hoti gayi

Do you hear? This veena of the breath will keep playing, and death is drawing near.

Saans ke pardon mein bajta hi raha saaz-e-hayat

This song of life will keep playing on the instrument of breath. Do not get lost in it.

Saans ke pardon mein bajta hi raha saaz-e-hayat
Maut ke qadmon ki aahat tez-tar hoti gayi

Listen carefully: death’s footsteps are coming closer day by day. Since the day you were born, death has been narrowing the distance; you are dying daily. Do not wander too much in your breaths. They cannot be trusted. A breath is coming now; if the next does not arrive, you can do nothing. You will lie helpless. Then you will repent greatly.

Aah, tere maikade se be-piye jaata hoon main

You will weep then, but it will be too late. They say: if one lost in the morning returns by evening, he is not called lost. But he must return by evening! If death arrives, even evening has come and gone. There will be no way to return, no time left.

What does death mean? Only this: the time allotted to you is spent. Death means the opportunity given you has been squandered. Death means: there is no more time. Now there is no possibility of doing anything. You won’t be able to heave a sigh. You won’t be able to say a prayer. You won’t even be able to take the name of Ram. If breath itself does not return, how will you take his name? Not even the convenience of one name remains. And death is coming closer daily, while you remain entangled in the breaths of life.

Athato bhakti jijñāsā! Now, inquire into devotion.

Before we enter today’s sutras, it is necessary to taste a little of the previous ones.

Earlier sutras:

There are two ways to see the sun. One is to look at it directly; the other is to look at it in a mirror. But what is seen in the mirror is only a reflection, not the real sun. A reflection is only a reflection; how can it be the real? It is a deception of the real, a shadow of it. So to say there are two ways to see the sun is not quite correct; there is really only one—see it directly. The other way is for the weak, for the timid.

Those who seek truth in scriptures are cowards. They are trying to see the sun in a mirror. Even if the sun appears in the mirror, it is of no use. It is only a shadow. You will never be able to grasp the sun in a mirror. The glimmer of truth felt in the scriptures is only a glimmer. Yet people have enthroned the scriptures. Someone carries the Gita on his head, someone the Quran, someone the Bible. People are busy worshiping scriptures. This is the worship of mirrors; the sun has been forgotten. And so many flowers have been piled on these mirrors in worship that they no longer reflect anything. So much dust of commentaries and webs of doctrines have settled upon them that no news of truth comes through.

If truth is to be seen, it can be seen only directly. Therefore Shandilya says: Let us inquire into devotion. Before Shandilya there were many devotees, many knowers, many scriptures composed. Shandilya did not say, “Come, let us go into the scriptures and find truth, let us go into the scriptures and search for the image of God.” No, Shandilya said, “Let us cleanse our hearts. If God is found, he will be found there. Not in words, not in the words of others—he will be found in our own experience.”

Grasp this insistence on experience exactly.

A glimpse of the Divine is present everywhere. And if you cannot see his glimmer among trees, you will never see it in scriptures. For scriptures are dead words. They neither grow nor wither; no new leaves sprout on them, no fresh branches burst forth, no birds make their nests. Scriptures are hollow words. Where do flowers bloom there? Where does fragrance arise there? Scriptures are lines drawn on paper. And yet man has been deceived thoroughly. He keeps worshiping those lines. Either this is a delusion, or it is a trick—to avoid God. “See,” he says, “I worship your scriptures.”

Sometimes he tries to catch God in other glimmers too. In olden days, kings and emperors were taken as God. Rank was mistaken for the supreme rank. People worshiped kings, revered positions. Even now it has not ended. Kings are nearly gone. They say that in the end only five kings will remain in the world—one the King of England, and four in the deck of cards; the rest will be gone. The King of England too is only a card, that’s why he’ll remain. No one else will. But politics still holds sway. The power of rank remains. Kings may have gone, but politicians are there. You worship them. Have you seen how people wag their tails around politicians? How they garland them? How they shower flowers?

You worship wealth. Wherever wealth is, there you bow. Some keep worshiping dead words in scriptures; some worship stone idols in temples; some worship the pundits and priests who themselves have had no glimpse of the Divine, who are your hired hands, whom you have appointed, who earn their livelihood in the name of worship. Or people see God in position and worship position, or in money.

But all these are dead games. If you wish to see the Divine, see directly. The Divine is directly available—in the songs of birds, in the greenness of trees, in the moon and stars of the sky, in the eyes of human beings. Wherever you dig with the spade of love, you will find the spring of the Divine beginning to flow. Do not wander among glimmers.

So the earlier sutras said: do not be entangled in vibhutis—accomplishments, talents. These are only glints of genius. Someone is a great mathematician—that is talent. Someone is a great musician—that is talent. Someone is clever and has amassed wealth; someone is cunning and has attained high office—these are all talents. They have no spiritual value. Their existence has nothing to do with religion. Therefore the earlier sutras said, do not get entangled in talent, in vibhuti.

They do create an impression. Someone speaks well—do not be entangled by that, because speaking well has nothing to do with truth. He may speak beautifully, yet speak lies. He may speak so beautifully that lies appear like truth. Or someone may sing such beautiful songs—so beautiful they seem to take wing into the sky, so beautiful you feel he has descended from the realm of truth. Do not be entangled. It may only be the art of song, the skill of rhythm; the man may be a poet.

There are many kinds of vibhutis. Vibhuti is earned by effort—whether in this life or a previous one. Vibhuti is born of labor.

Someone asked Mozart, the great Western composer. He possessed astounding genius. It is said he showed such skill in music at seven that great masters were defeated by that little boy. His fame stretched across the world. Someone asked him, “What is the secret of your genius?” He said, “Labor.” The questioner had asked, “What is the inspiration of your genius?” Mozart laughed and said, “Inspiration is little; perspiration is much. Sweat is much; labor is much. Genius? Inspiration?”

The questioner was startled. “I don’t understand.”

Mozart said, “If I skip practice for one day, I know the difference. If I skip two days, my critics know the difference. If I skip three days, everyone knows. I work eight to ten hours; that is the fruit.”

Whether that fruit is of this birth, or the past, or many births—genius is the fruit of your endeavor.

So in the earlier sutras Shandilya said: Do not mistake vibhuti for the Divine.

Then he made a most precious distinction—if you grasp it, today’s sutras will become clear. He said: Krishna is not only talented; Rama is not only talented. Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Christ, Mahavira, Zoroaster—these are not merely talents; they are avatars. What is the difference between avatar and talent?

Talent is attained through effort, through labor; it must be acquired. Avatarhood descends as grace, not through your effort. When you disappear, the Divine descends. Talent is the search of the ego. Avatarhood flowers in the state of egolessness. When you become simple emptiness, the Divine enters you.

That is why you will often find talented people quite egoistic. Painters, sculptors, musicians, poets, artists—they are egoistic, highly so. Quarreling goes on among them. You will not find harmony there. They are out to throttle one another. Generally, the talented person is egoistic—grossly or subtly. All his game of talent is the game of I-ness. He strives to prove, “I am significant. No one is more important than me.” “I am special”—this is his race, his goal.

Avatar means: one who has let go of ego. One who has said, “I am not; Thou art.” One who has become a hollow bamboo. One who has given God the whole space, emptied himself. One who can host the Divine so totally that he wipes himself away, dissolves, occupies not even a little space—becomes a reed—and calls for the Divine’s song and waits. When the Divine’s music descends—now note the subtle difference between this man and the talented one—if you get the chance to be near an avatar, you are not seeing the Divine in a mirror; you are seeing the Divine itself—through a window.

Understand the difference. The avatar is a window. Through it you see the Divine, only you see through the window. Perhaps you do not yet have the capacity to see the Divine directly; perhaps such a vast truth you could not bear, could not endure; perhaps you could not pass through such fire. It is difficult to look straight at the sun. A little screen makes it easier. A thin veil helps. A dark glass on the eyes gives some protection. The eye is delicate. The avatar is a window into the Divine—opening on the infinite sky, yet a small window.

The pundit, the scholar, the learned—they are not windows; they are mirrors. And it may be that the mirror is not reflecting the sun at all, but only the reflections of other mirrors—mirror reflecting mirror reflecting mirror. The scholar becomes the shadow of other scholars. He was the shadow of some other pundit, and so on for centuries—shadow breeding shadow. Gradually truth is lost; only the shadow remains.

I have heard: A friend came to Mulla Nasruddin’s house bringing a duck he had brought from the village. Mulla was delighted. He gifted the duck to Mulla. Duck soup was made. Mulla entertained him well.

Some days later, another man came from the village. “Who are you?” Mulla asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you.”

“I am a friend of the man who brought the duck,” he said. He too was welcomed.

One day a third fellow came: “I am a friend of that friend.” Such people kept coming. It became hard to keep account. Mulla got exhausted entertaining. That duck proved expensive. One day a man arrived. Mulla asked, “Who are you?” He said, “You won’t recognize me. I am the friend of the one who came before me.” The line had grown too long. Mulla gave him only hot water to drink. He drank it and said, “What sort of soup is this? I came hearing about the soup.” Mulla said, “This is the soup of the soup of the soup of the duck. Now only lukewarm water remains.”

So it has happened. In the Vedas, one man had known and spoke. Then came commentaries upon the Vedas; commentaries upon commentaries; commentaries upon commentaries—the soup of the soup of the soup. Five or ten thousand years later some pundit sits with that hot water, searching for the duck. The duck is not to be found. But there must be a duck, because the ancient wise said so. So he imagines it—there must be, otherwise the whole tradition is wrong. And so many cannot be wrong! How could so many be wrong? A line of venerables stands behind, renowned figures stretching back thousands of years—then it cannot be wrong. So perhaps the fault is mine; hence he conjectures, believes, imagines. What he does not find, he manufactures—and repeats it. This is not even a mirror.

However important talent may be, since it is stuffed with ego, it cannot mirror the Divine.

Shandilya says: Do not look for God in vibhutis, else you will be entangled. Either see the Divine directly; or if you don’t have the eyes to see, if your eyes are weak, or fear arises—which is quite natural—then look through someone who has seen. Not one who says, “Because the Vedas say, therefore God is,” but one who says, “Because I say, therefore God is”—one who has seen, recognized, experienced. Draw close, sit near him, keep his company, look into his eyes, bathe in his waves. For many who claim may also be false. How will you recognize one who says, “I have known, I have seen”?

Recognition is this: If, sitting near him, your mind begins to be transformed, know that he has known. If, sitting near him, your mind grows still—without your doing anything; just by sitting—some melody starts within you, new doors open, a new music is felt, new strings begin to vibrate, new colors scatter inside—if his presence begins to transform you, then know.

Connect with an avatar. And do not think that avatars ended with Krishna, Buddha, Rama. Whenever someone stands before the Divine in a state of emptiness, the Divine descends. And yet in each person the descent happens differently—inevitably. If it descends into Krishna, it will descend one way; if into Buddha, another.

Understand the word avatar. Avatar means descent; something comes from above. You empty the space; a light descends; a flood comes that carries away all trash. What remains afterward is the taste of godliness.

So what will inquiry into devotion mean right now? The Divine is not yet known, so devotion cannot yet be love of God.

Shandilya speaks of four steps of love. First is affection—toward those younger than you: your son, daughter, student, disciple. Second is love—toward equals: friends, wife, husband. Third is reverence—toward those superior: father, mother, guru. Fourth is devotion—toward the Supreme.

So rise! From affection into love, from love into reverence. Reaching reverence is easy; most people get stuck at love, and reverence never enters their lives. Without reverence, devotion cannot be born. It is a sequential process. After reverence comes devotion. Hence the scriptures extol the guru so much. Guru means: one in whose presence reverence is born. Guru means: with whom bowing becomes spontaneous. If you have to bow by compulsion, the matter is wrong. If you have to bow for the sake of tradition, it is futile. If you bow formally, it is futile. If you bow because others are bowing, it is useless. When the inclination to bow arises naturally within you—when, in the presence of a person, a spontaneous leaning occurs and you cannot help yourself and you bow, and then afterward you realize, “Ah! I have bowed”—know that the guru is found.

Sit by the guru and let reverence surge. In the density of that reverence, the first sprout of devotion emerges. That is why scriptures and knowers have called the guru a symbol of God—only in the sense that in his presence reverence arises, and the density of reverence becomes devotion.

To inquire into devotion means: seek the guru. You do not know God. You do not know the sun. Your eyes are blind. Therefore seek the physician—one who will treat you, who will scrape away the film upon your eyes, who will give the medicine.

Buddha called himself a physician. Nanak too called himself a physician. They were right—indeed, they are physicians. The guru heals; not instruction, but treatment. Even when he instructs, it is for the sake of cure. His interest is not in speaking, but in awakening. Not in talking, but in opening.

So keep this sutra in mind: talent is acquired; talent is the device of ego. Descent happens in the samadhi of egolessness; when the “I” dissolves, the Divine descends.

Today’s sutras—

Dyūtarāja-sevayoḥ pratiṣedhāt cha.
“Dharmashastras forbid gambling and serving the king.”

In the previous sutra Shandilya said: do not see God in the king; do not mistake rank for the supreme rank; do not mistake wealth for meditation. Now he explains. He says the dharmashastras forbid gambling and serving the king. If so, how can a king be God!

Those dharmashastras must have been heroic to bracket service to the king with gambling. Politics is gambling. It is a field for schemers, deceivers, hypocrites. Politics is the greatest gamble. If you want to see gamblers, go to Delhi! All kinds of madmen, gamblers, drunkards. Sometimes it happens that these drunkards oppose alcohol, champion prohibition. But the shastras say: the intoxication of office is the greatest and most deadly intoxication.

Now Morarji Desai says there should be prohibition. And will you find a man more drunk than Morarji Desai? Death is near; the last days are coming; but the race for intoxication goes on.

The shastras call the race for position mada—intoxication. Often it happens that one intoxicated by office no longer needs other intoxicants; he has found the costliest, oldest, most potent wine. He has no need of anything else; he can favor prohibition.

This crowd charging in the political race—these people need treatment; they suffer mental disorders. Truly, the man who sets out in search of office does so because of an inferiority complex. One who has no inferiority within will not seek office. The search for position is a way to hide one’s sense of inferiority. Having achieved office, he wants to prove to himself, “Who says I am a nobody? I have proved I am somebody.” Yet surely, somewhere inside he fears that if he lacks office and wealth, people will say, “You are a nobody,” and he too knows he is a nobody. He must cover it up, must show the world he is somebody.

But by convincing the world, you do not become anything. Even if the world is convinced, nothing is gained. Amass all the wealth you can, yet you remain poor within; for inner wealth is of another kind. Climb to the highest post, yet you remain without rank within; for inner rank is different. For it, no outward journey is needed. You need not go to capitals; you must find the inner capital. You need not conquer others; you must conquer yourself—self-victory is needed.

The shastras say: “Gambling and service to the king are forbidden.”

Do not even speak of becoming king. The shastras say even serving the king is forbidden. Avoid even his service. Because it is best to stay as far as possible from gamblers, madmen, drunkards. Avoid bad company; seek satsang—the company of the true. Serving the king will inevitably change you, degrade you. In serving the king you will become ever more adept in falsehood; your conscience will die.

There is a famous story. Chuang Tzu—the great Chinese sage, an avatar in Indian terms—was sitting on a riverbank, blissfully watching the waves. Morning sun had risen, flowers bloomed, birds were singing. Fish were leaping in the fresh light. Two ministers of the emperor arrived, searching for Chuang Tzu, and said the emperor had heard much of his excellence and wanted him to become prime minister. Chuang Tzu burst out laughing. The ministers were taken aback. “Why do you laugh? Say yes—this is a great fortune. People go crazy for this, labor a lifetime and still fail. We too have labored and not become prime minister; for you, fortune has come on its own—this is a boon. Your laughter makes us doubt.”

Chuang Tzu said, “Answer one thing. Do you see that turtle wagging its tail in the mud, enjoying itself? I have heard there is a turtle in the emperor’s palace.”

“Indeed,” they said, “most ancient—three thousand years old. It is kept in a golden chest inlaid with jewels. Once a year it is worshiped. A most sacred turtle, a treasure. It has been there since the first emperor took the throne.”

Chuang Tzu asked, “Tell me, if we were to ask this turtle—would it prefer to be shut in a jeweled golden chest and be worshiped once a year, or wag its tail in the mud?”

They said, “If you speak of a turtle, it would prefer wagging its tail in the mud. It would not want a golden chest or a golden palace.”

Chuang Tzu said, “Do you take me to be more foolish than a turtle? Get lost! And do not come again. I am blissful in my mud; I do not want a palace.”

It is said Chuang Tzu left the village, left the state, for the king kept pursuing him.

Politics is poisonous. Acton’s famous dictum: Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

You witness this miracle daily, yet you do not see. Whenever you choose, you choose the best man you can. But the moment he reaches office, he is no longer the same. As soon as he is seated, everything changes. The one you sent was very humble, bowing again and again—perhaps to get you to send him. Once in power, the veneer falls, power appears naked, all promises prove false. Yet you always hope, “If this one has deceived, tomorrow we’ll choose another; the day after, another.” For centuries you have chosen and made revolutions. You place great hope in each, and no revolution has ever fulfilled itself. None has fulfilled your hopes.

The one who goes to office does not go to fulfill your hope. He speaks of doing so, else you would not send him. Once seated, his single effort is to remain there. To step down has become costly now. Those who garlanded him will throw shoes.

The man on the throne suffers that he cannot descend. He has tasted the intoxication of ego. If he steps down, all that ego is gone. People were bowing to the throne, but he thought they were bowing to him. Now he cannot come down; otherwise bows will cease. You have seen what happens to those who lose their positions: people begin to take revenge. “You made us bow; you took service, honor; now we’ll repay.” Those same people pelt stones, garland with shoes, show contempt. Yesterday’s sky-high figure is lost in the crowd.

The man who attains office wants to hold on. He then uses every device, all crookedness—to remain. Those around him must share in his crookedness; they must participate in his conspiracies.

The shastras say: “Gambling and service to the king are forbidden.”

Dyūtarāja-sevayoḥ pratiṣedhāt cha.

Therefore, how can the king be called God? If the king were God, the shastras would never say his service is bad. The shastras say: Serve the saint. Service means: find excuses to be near him. By the excuse of pressing his feet, be near. By the excuse of offering food, be near. Look for excuses. Because however long you can be near him, that much is your good fortune. The more his rays fall upon you, the greater the possibility your eyes will open; your heart will unfold.

Therefore the king is no refuge for supreme devotion.

Vāsudevaḥ api iti chet? Na, ākāra-mātratvāt.
“But what if you say, ‘Even Vāsudeva—Sri Krishna—should be regarded as vibhuti (mere eminence)?’ No—for he is human only in form.”

This sutra is priceless.

Vibhutis are full of ego—skilled, talented, clever, they know how to do things, but are brimming with ego. Krishna cannot be called a vibhuti. If scriptures have said so, they did so as a concession. Krishna is an avatar, not a vibhuti.

Shandilya says, “He is human only in form.”

What is the difference between you and Krishna? In form you are alike. You are made of the same bones, flesh, marrow as Krishna. The difference is only this: you are, and Krishna is not. Within your form there is ego; in Krishna there is only form, no ego. No one sits inside there. There is silence, emptiness. Because of that emptiness the Divine can descend—in that void alone can it descend. Krishna is like you in form, but if you leave the form and go a little inside, you find the formless. Wherever, within a form, the formless abides—there is the true master.

Do not wander in the scriptures; seek the true guru—wherever he is found. Then don’t bother whether he is Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist. Do not bother—these belong to the world of form. If by some good fortune you find someone in whom, looking past the form, you see the formless enthroned—if you gaze into his eyes and find no ego—do not leave his company. Stake everything. Give him a chance to let his emptiness become your emptiness. Emptiness is contagious.

Remember, as diseases are contagious, so is health. As sorrow is contagious, so is joy. Sit by a sad man and you will find you grow melancholy. Four sad people sit together; you arrived laughing, and soon you feel you too are drowned in their sorrow. There was a wave of sadness there; it set your strings to a sorrowful note. The air was sad; breathing it, you drank sorrow. And you must also have known this: you were sad, but sat among four laughing people, and you forgot where your grief went; you began to laugh with them. Later you remember, “I had gone there so sad—what happened to my sorrow?” You were caught in a new wave.

Each person radiates a wave. And we all know from experience: you go to some people and return feeling drained; go to others and return feeling they have given you life. Near some you feel like sitting longer and longer. Near others you feel, “When will this great man leave? How can I get free?” These are common experiences, but you have not pondered them. If you become a bit aware about them, finding a true guru will not be difficult. Near whom do you begin to forget both happiness and sorrow, and taste peace? Peace means: where neither happiness nor sorrow remains.

Mark this difference. Near some you grow depressed; near some you grow cheerful—both are worldly states. Who is the true guru? Near whom you forget sorrow as well as happiness—you forget yourself; then where is happiness, where sorrow? Near whom you hear the resonance of a supreme stillness, a hush descends; near whom you begin to become empty; near whom the formless begins to spread through your being.

People use the word peace, but do not know its meaning. They take peace to mean happiness. Peace does not mean happiness. Happiness is also an agitation, as sorrow is an agitation. Sorrow has its tension, happiness has its tension. One tension you like, so you call it happiness; one you dislike, so you call it sorrow. But both are tensions, both are states of a disturbed mind. Both exhaust.

Notice, happiness also tires you. A continuous carnival every day! If the lottery comes one day, fine; but if it came every day, you would be worn out. And sometimes sorrow does not break you as much as happiness does. Sometimes people die from happiness—they become so agitated by joy. Walking down the road you suddenly find a bag with a hundred thousand rupees—you were fine, no illness, and suddenly a heart attack; you fall down with the bag—such sudden happiness you cannot bear. It is said, even good news should be given slowly.

I have heard it happened: a man won a five-lakh lottery. He was not at home. His wife panicked. He had been buying lottery tickets for thirty years. He had practically forgotten a win was possible, yet kept buying each month out of habit. The wife got worried; five lakhs had never been in their house—even five hundred rarely. Five lakhs! “This will kill my husband,” she thought. She ran to a neighbor; a priest lived nearby. “Please help,” she said. “What can I do? We have won five lakhs; he’ll be home soon—this news will kill him!”

“Don’t worry,” said the priest, “I’ll come.”

He came and planned to deliver the news gradually. The husband returned. The priest said, “Listen, suppose you won one lakh in the lottery…” He thought: when he digests one lakh, returns to normal, I’ll say, “Not one—two lakhs.” But it went awry. The man said, “One lakh! Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” said the priest, “one lakh.”

“Then I’ll give fifty thousand to you,” said the man.

The priest died on the spot. He hadn’t imagined fifty thousand all at once—he had come to help!

Happiness has its excitement, just as sorrow has. And people do not understand peace. Peace means: where neither happiness nor sorrow exists.

I have heard: a husband set out on pilgrimage to the four holy places. As he left, he said to his wife, “I am going in search of peace.” The sharp-tongued wife beat her chest: “Stop! Which dead Peace are you going after now? Ten Peaces sit in your office, and one—me—sits at home!”

Each person has his own plane of understanding.

Peace means an unruffled state of mind—no excitation. All is quiet. Completely quiet. Neither this side nor that. Everything has stopped in the middle, all is balance. Balance is peace.

Near the one by whom you slowly begin to taste peace, know that the door has come where you are to bow. The shrine of reverence has come. From here the window of devotion will open.

“Do not suspect mere vibhuti in Vāsudeva, in Krishna.”

He is not merely accomplished. If you think so, you err. You will miss.

“He is human only in form, as you are.”

He who in form is as you and in soul as the Divine—that one is the true master. Krishna or Buddha, Zoroaster or Mohammed, Jesus or Mahavira—by form, they are as you. Whoever climbs the steps and goes deep in Mahavira’s well, or deep into Moses’ well, will suddenly find—the form is left behind; the formless opens. In the doorway there is form; step through the door and you find sky, the formless. The guru is a door. That is why Nanak rightly named the temple Gurudwara—the guru’s door. It is only a door. And Nanak laid great emphasis on the guru. So have all the knowers.

Pratyabhijñānāt cha.
“In this matter, recognition by direct experience is also available.”

Shandilya says: Do not accept this just because I say it. You can have your own recognition, your own experience—pratyabhijñā. You can enter this knowing for yourself. These sutras were not uttered by a mere thinker; they are words of experience, the essence of a lived realization.

Shandilya says: “Pratyabhijñānāt cha.”

And I tell you not only that it is so—I tell you that you too can have this experience. You too can find such a person who is not just a vibhuti but an avatar. One who has not made himself special through effort, ego, and striving, but who has erased himself—and become special. Who has wiped himself away and given God space.

Kufr kya, taslis kya, ilhad kya, Islam kya,
Tu ba-har surat kisi zanjeer mein jakda hua
Tod sakta ho to pehle tod de yeh qaid o band
Bediyon ke saaz par naghmāt-e-azadi na ga

What is unbelief, the Trinity, atheism, Islam—by any name you are chained. If you can, first break these fetters. Do not sing songs of freedom to the clink of your chains.

The greatest thing is to break your chains. But people cling to them. They take their chains for ornaments: “I am Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist”—these are chains. Until you find the true guru, you are only a prisoner—nothing else. Not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Buddhist—all this is talk. Only when the true guru is found do you become something. Then there is recognition.

Tod sakta ho to pehle tod de yeh qaid o band
Bediyon ke saaz par naghmāt-e-azadi na ga

But you beat your chains like drums and sing of freedom. Freedom does not bloom so. Liberation is not found so. Godliness is not attained so. You must stake something. And the irony is: besides chains, what do you even have to stake? Yet people will not even stake their chains. Marx’s famous line, in another context, says: “Workers of the world, unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains.” In a spiritual sense it becomes most valuable. I tell you: gather your energies, become one-pointed, self-centered in the highest sense, and once stake it all! What do you have to risk except your chains? And what you gain by risking the chains is freedom.

Recognition can happen. Direct knowing can happen. Eye can meet eye. You can stand face-to-face. Experience can be.

Shandilya says: “Do not believe me—recognize.”

Pratyabhijñānāt cha.

Such a one can always be found. This earth is never empty of avatars. Yet you don’t find an avatar—and there is a reason. You are seeking some old avatar who no longer is. Someone seeks Krishna—Krishna is no longer here. Someone seeks Christ—Christ is no longer here. And the jest is: when Christ was here, you were seeking someone else—Moses, who had already gone. When Buddha was here, you sought Rama—Rama had already gone. And when Rama was here, you cared nothing for him; you sought some more ancient figure—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—something else.

You always seek the past, therefore you miss. Otherwise, as the sun rises daily, so does the Divine descend daily. But you have fixed an expectation: unless he comes crowned with peacock feathers and with a flute like Krishna, you will not accept him. There is no need for the Divine to fulfill your expectations. Repetition does not occur in this world. Krishna comes only once, not twice. Though Krishna has said, “Whenever there is crisis, I will come.” But remember—not in Krishna’s form; that is where the misunderstanding arises. Otherwise, with crisis so abundant, Krishna should have come. What greater crisis do you need? What greater irreligion? What greater unbelief? Either Krishna gave a false promise and now does not come—forgot it—spoke like a politician, merely to placate; or something else is the case.

The truth is: the person who is born once is never born again in the same form. God fashions a new person each time. Newly, freshly. Needs change. The same old avatars will not do. He descends in new bodies, speaks in new words, for language changes, people change, customs change. If Krishna suddenly appeared on M.G. Road, the police would haul him away: “What are you doing here? Why the peacock crown? Some hippie!” And that flute? Those who worship Krishna would not recognize him; they too would say, “A trickster! Is this any way to stand on M.G. Road?” And if gopis were dancing nearby, all of you would be up in arms. In the story you read, it’s okay. If women were bathing and Krishna took their clothes and climbed a tree—how would you deal with him?

Circumstances change, contexts change, meanings change. There is no point in repeating the same stories. If Ramachandra came with bow and arrows, he would look like some tribal. Perhaps he is going to the Republic Day parade in Delhi to perform. You would not recognize him.

God descends in forms suited to the times you live in. Your obstacle is that you have little respect for yourself. If you find God in a form like yourself, you cannot accept him. “This person is just like us.” You carry deep self-contempt. You cannot see yourself as divine. Until you accept at least the possibility of the Divine within you, you will not recognize the avatar. Accept at least the possibility. Possibility opens the door of understanding.

Recognition can happen; direct knowing can happen. But seek nearby; seek here, now; seek in the present world. You will certainly find. The earth is never empty. In some vessel, somewhere, the nectar of God keeps filling—because someone somewhere is always becoming empty.

And beware of useless talk about this being the Kali Age. Do not fall into futility that in Kaliyuga where is God? That God existed in the Golden Age. Time makes no difference. For God, time is one—circular. Whoever becomes simple enters the Golden Age. The Golden Age and the Dark Age are not names of times, but of states of mind. Your neighbor may be living in the Golden Age while you live in the Dark. Satyuga means: reverent, engaged in the search for truth; one who trusts truth. All children are of the Golden Age, and all old people become of the Dark. But it is not necessary that all elders do so. One can remain of the Golden Age into old age—remain as innocent as a child. Do not give space to logic; do not give space to doubt. Trust trust itself. You too trust, but you trust in doubt. You have trust, but it is misplaced—on the negative. You trust thorns, not flowers. If flowers are lost to you, no wonder. If you find only thorns, no wonder—because that is where your trust is. Your trust becomes your life. Your trust becomes your destiny. Your trust is your fate. So trust thoughtfully. Trust the wrong, and you become wrong. Most people are trusting the wrong.

A man came to me and said, “I am an atheist. I believe in doubt. If you can provide some direct proof of God, I can trust.”

I asked him, “Can you provide proof that anyone has ever gained anything through doubt? If not, why do you trust doubt? Where did your trust in doubt come from? Have you gained anything from doubt?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Then what kind of trust is this? You demand proof for trusting reverence, but demand none for trusting doubt. This is great injustice. Such eagerness to trust the wrong, such opposition to trusting the right! Have you chosen to live wrongly? If so, none can change you.”

God is present—in countless colors and forms. He is present next door; only eyes to see are needed. And the eyes to see are born of reverence, of surrender—by melting a little ego.

Khirmān-e-dil jala raha hoon main
Naqsh-e-hasti mita raha hoon main
Tu na maghmum ho magar, ai dost!
Teri hi simt aa raha hoon main

I am burning the granary of the heart,
Erasing the tracings of existence.
Do not be saddened, my friend—
I am coming only toward you.

As you dissolve here, you draw near there—to that ultimate Friend. The more you dissolve, the nearer you come. The more you are, the farther he is. The distance between you and God depends on the density of your being. If someone says, “I do not see God,” it only means he has become so dense, like a rock. God is found in fluidity. Scatter, melt, vanish.

Pratyabhijñānāt cha.

Shandilya says: If you wish, recognition can happen. Such a person can be found who is human only in form, and within is formless, within is the Divine. This extraordinary event happens. That extraordinary event is called avatar.

Then why have some called Krishna a vibhuti?

Vṛṣṇiṣu śreṣṭhatvam etat.
“This was said to honor the Vṛṣṇi clan.”

It is a literary expression, not an existential one. Existentially, Krishna is the Divine. Consider his formlessness—and Krishna is the Divine. Consider only his form—and he is an extraordinary vibhuti. Those who saw his body, those who looked only outward and did not go within—still, they felt some beauty; they called him a vibhuti. Those who saw Buddha from outside, never became disciples—and remember, without discipleship there is no entry within; only the disciple enters the inner court—those who came, looked, and left also felt, “He is an extraordinary vibhuti.” That peace, that emptiness, that grace, those sweet words, his way of moving—all extraordinary. Those who stayed outside thought “vibhuti.” Those who peered within knew “God.”

Evam prasiddheṣu cha.
“And so it is with other renowned avatars.”

Shandilya says that this is not true only of Krishna. Of all those who have been recognized as avatars, it is so. Many avatars were not recognized. Those unrecognized were taken only as vibhutis. Those recognized—famous—into whose inner sanctum some entered—those saw both aspects.

The Jews crucified Jesus solely because he proclaimed avatarhood. Among Jews there was no such notion of avatar. A prophet could be, but not an avatar. Before Jesus there had been prophets. A prophet brings a message—yet is a man, not God. The astonishing notion of avatar arose in India. Because India has explored the inner the way no other land has. So among Jews there were prophets. But Jesus created great trouble. And that trouble came to him from India.

By now there is ample evidence that Jesus lived in India for eighteen years. The Bible mentions him up to twelve years of age, then again from thirty onward—eighteen years are missing. Not a word about those years—this very silence indicates Jesus was not among the Jews. There is much evidence now that he was in India. During those eighteen years he learned many things—one of them the notion of avatar. Not only the notion—he experienced it. He became an avatar. He erased himself. He saw the Divine descending within.

The crucifixion of Jesus by the Jews is proof that he said things utterly alien to Jewish tradition—so alien that the tradition would not receive them. Tradition said, “This is too much.” Priests and pundits said, “Impossible—that a person claim to be God!”

Here lies a strange reversal: Jesus’ claim that he is God arises because his ego is gone; but to others it appears the ultimate ego—to claim Godhood. It is not Jesus claiming; it is God claiming within Jesus. Jesus’ own song has fallen silent. He is now a flute; whichever song is played is God’s. But from outside it looks, “This man is greatly egoistic. What greater ego than to say, ‘I am God’?”

Had Jesus lived in India, we would not have crucified him. We have crucified no one. We know this truth; we have its recognition. We have acknowledged it in thousands of ways. We have seen it in Krishna, in Buddha, in Mahavira, in Parshva, in Nemi—among the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras; among the Hindus’ avatars—we have seen this event happen in countless ones. It is no anomaly, not new. We would have assimilated Jesus, accepted him—he would have been one of our avatars. Our chest is broad; we know how to accept. And we have recognition; we cannot deny it.

But the Jews could not bear it; Jesus was crucified. Mansur was executed; the Muslims could not bear it. For Islam is an offshoot of Judaism, as is Christianity. In Islam too there is the notion of prophet. They cannot call Mohammed an avatar. Mohammed is the messenger—carrier of tidings, a postman; no greater value. So when Mansur declared, “Anal Haqq! I am the Truth, the Divine!” the Muslims could not bear it. And Mansur was right. It is not that Mohammed did not have this experience—he did. But Mohammed never said it. He was more practical; Mansur was mad, impractical.

Mansur’s master, Junnaid, warned him, “Do not say this! I too know it; I too have recognition; I too know I am God. But do not speak it. As I am silent, you too keep silent. Look around—the crowd is ignorant. They will kill you.” Junnaid remained silent. Mansur could not, compelled by his ecstasy. When he came into his samadhi he proclaimed, “Anal Haqq! Aham Brahmasmi! I am God!” When he returned to ordinary mind he apologized to Junnaid: “Forgive me. I disobeyed. You are my guru. But what can I do? It speaks from within me. When it speaks, I cannot stop it.” Junnaid said, “If you do not stop, you are arranging your own gallows. This land will not accept you. They will not recognize you. They see only your form; they do not see the formless ripening within. I see it, but they will not. They will kill you.”

And so it happened. Mansur was killed. Hundreds of thousands gathered to watch. He was killed with great cruelty—even Jesus was not killed so cruelly. First his legs were cut off, then his arms, then his tongue—piece by piece while he was still alive. He laughed, remained joyful, continued proclaiming Anal Haqq. People threw stones. Junnaid too came in the crowd. When people hurled stones, Junnaid threw a rose.

A lovely incident. Mansur laughed as stones rained; his head bled; feet cut off, hands cut off—he laughed, receiving stones as if they were flowers. But when Junnaid threw a flower, he wept. A devotee nearby asked, “What is this? So many throw stones and you did not weep; Junnaid throws a flower and you weep!”

Mansur said, “Because these people do not know who I am; Junnaid knows. Even his flower feels like a stone. Junnaid recognizes—he has pratyabhijñā—that what I say is true. These ignorant ones are forgivable; their stones can be forgiven. But Junnaid’s flower hurts, because he knows.”

Junnaid was practical. So too was Mohammed, who concealed it. Jesus, like Mansur, was impractical. And I say to you: Moses also knew, and the prophets among the Jews knew. But they did not say it; they digested it, hid it. Kabir told his devotees: “When you find the diamond, tie it up quickly in your cloth and hide it—tell no one. For people are ignorant.”

But in this land we have a priceless heritage of millennia: we have seen the formless in form. And what has happened once can happen again and again. What happened in one can happen in all. What blossomed in one seed can blossom in all seeds. Only through this acceptance will the seed gain courage.

So I say to you: accept, recognize, search.

Evam prasiddheṣu cha.

Shandilya says: “And so with other renowned avatars.”

Who they may be, of whatever tradition. It is the intrinsic capacity of every human being to invite the formless into his form. You can become a host; you can call the Guest. Becoming such a host and inviting the Guest is called devotion. Athato bhakti jijñāsā.

Chahe pāhan ki ho, chahe panghat ki,
Asli pooja to vishwāsi man ki hai.

Whether before stone or at the village well,
The real worship is of the trusting heart.

Even if it be of stone—still.

Chahe pāhan ki ho, chahe panghat ki,
Asli pooja to vishwāsi man ki hai.

Often, beneath civilized wrappings,
Feeling is lost in the grooming of words.

Chahe madhuban mein ho, chahe maruthal mein,
Bhasha ur ko chhoo leti chitvan ki hai.

Whether in grove or desert,
The language that touches the heart is the glance.

An eye is needed—a green, living eye. The eye needs feeling, devotion.

Chahe madhuban mein ho, chahe maruthal mein,
Bhasha ur ko chhoo leti chitvan ki hai.

When a holy moment of love arrives in the world,
Like a sun-flower blooms amidst fog—

Chahe basti mein ho, chahe nirjan mein,
Us kshan ki aarti dhoop-chandan ki hai.

Whether in the town or the wilderness,
The worship then is incense and sandalwood.

Sukh ka nahin thaharata chanchal mausam hai,
Jeevan ki sargam mein keval sam kam hai.

The weather of joy does not stay—restless.
In life’s music, balance alone is rare.

Chahe ho nirdhan, chahe dhanvan koi,
Kabhi nahin ghatati jagir sapna ki hai.

Whether poor or rich,
One estate never shrinks—the estate of dreams.

Aayu bita dete kuchh yoon hi uljhan mein,
Bina chhidra ki vansi ke anvēshan mein.

Many spend their lives entangled thus,
Seeking a flute without holes.

Paap-punya kya, nirnay ka adhikar kiske,
Jab ki baat apne-apne darpan ki hai.

What is sin or virtue—who has the right to judge,
When it is a matter only of each one’s mirror?

Remember, God is present; the mirror is needed. Be blank like a mirror—let the glimmer form. Be still like a lake—let the moon reflect.

Paap-punya kya, nirnay ka adhikar kiske,
Jab ki baat apne-apne darpan ki hai.

Beeti baadh waqt ki—ret bachi keval,
Mit jaate maati mein kal ke Vindhyachal.

The flood of time has passed—only sand remains.
Even yesterday’s mountains dissolve into dust.

Kaahe ki khidki phir, kaise darwaze?
Sirf zarurat mukt khule aangan ki hai.

Why windows then, or doors?
What is needed is an open, unbounded courtyard.

Chahe pāhan ki ho, chahe panghat ki,
Asli pooja to vishwāsi man ki hai.

A heart full of reverence, brimming with feeling—and everything is complete. Do not seek God; seek devotion. Find devotion, and God finds you of his own accord. Whoever sets out to seek God without seeking devotion—seeks as much as he will—will never arrive, never attain. If there is love, the Beloved is found. If there is devotion, God is found. If there are eyes, the sun is ever present.

Athato bhakti jijñāsā!

Enough for today.