Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #24

Prayer is not an act, not a doing. The very sense of being a doer is the obstacle in prayer. Prayer is non-doing. It is not done; it is allowed to happen. Prayer is like sleep. Try to bring it, and it becomes difficult. Forget about sleep; just lie down in bed—sleep will come by itself. Prayer comes; it cannot be brought.
Keep this fundamental point well in mind.

A devotee cannot do anything; doing is not in his power. If doing were in your power, there would be no need for devotion. Devotion is a helpless state—bereft of props. When one finds that nothing of one’s doing will work anymore, that all doing has fallen and failed, that the doer in you has withered and disappeared—then, in that emptiness where nothing is left to do, the eyes fill with tears on their own. That is prayer. Those tears are the true flowers fit to be offered.

A sob will arise, and a song will arise too. But you are not to drag them out; you are to let them arise. Prayer will well up from within you as leaves sprout and flowers bloom on trees. In your life-breath the leaves will unfold, the flowers will open; you will turn green with sap. A song will be born, a single note will resound—this is the mantra. What another gives you is not a mantra. What you find, what comes to you—what comes from the Divine—that is the mantra.

You ask, “What should I do?”
Abandon doing. You have wandered enough in doing and because of doing—now awaken. Understand that nothing will happen through your doing. Breath moves on its own—you do not move it. Blood flows on its own—you do not make it flow. The heart beats on its own—you do not make it beat. Everything is happening by itself. Do not bring yourself in between. Step aside; give way. Let yourself fall, let yourself dissolve. Forget the very idea of doing. And then one day, suddenly, you will find: being has been born.

What prayer will be like then is hard to say. For each it will be different. What fragrance will arise within you, how your leaves will unfold, how your flowers—each plant is different. On some, roses will bloom; on some, champa; on some, jasmine. But one thing will be common—there will be blossoming. That blossoming is what we call prayer.

You ask, “What should I do? How should I do it?”
Prayer has no method. Has love ever had a method? Where method enters, artificiality enters. You don’t learn to love by practice. Practised love will be acting, not real. Nor is practice needed for love; you are born with the capacity to love. You carry that note in your very life-breath—it is already there; it only needs an occasion. And what is the occasion? Only this: that the outer noise quiets a little.

So in the name of doing, there is only a negative doing. As I remind you again: a man wants to sleep—what should he do? Is there some exercise for sleep? Some calisthenics? Some posture? Whatever he does will obstruct sleep. Yet something can still be done—but it is not doing. He can switch off the light; that will help. He can close the doors and windows, draw the curtains; that will help. Darkness is helpful for relaxation. Doors shut, darkness around, the outer noise not entering—this is supportive. But sleep still happens by itself.

So too with prayer. Give yourself a little respite from the outer noise. In your twenty-four hours, find one hour. Close the doors, sit down, forget the world, and wait for the Unknown. Be patient; if nothing happens today, no worry. Today you didn’t dig the whole well—only went a little way, removed some soil and stones—yet the work has begun, the well has begun to be dug. Tomorrow it will go deeper, the day after deeper still, and one day you will find—the spring has burst forth. Do not be in a hurry.

I understand your ache.
Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?
What tale of yours has risen
upon my tongue and voice?
What ancient pain of yours has awakened
in my tones?
Why this tremor upon my limbs?
Why are the corners of my eyes wet?
Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?
One day these eyes will be wet,
the corners brimming;
the stream of feeling will flow. Yet do not call that stream a method, for in each it will be different. The taste of everyone’s tears is different. Everyone’s way of smiling is different. Everyone’s style of loving is different. This is the dignity of personhood. Therefore everyone’s prayer too will be different.

Prayer has died in the world because it has been taught. Hindus have learned one kind of prayer and go on repeating it. Muslims have learned another kind and go on repeating it. Persons have been wiped away; methods have been handed over. Methods become false. And whenever you repeat a prayer learned from outside, the prayer within you remains unborn.

Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?
What tale of yours has risen
upon my tongue and voice?
What ancient pain of yours has awakened
in my tones?
Why this tremor upon my limbs?
Why are the corners of my eyes wet?
Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?

I wasted half my life
singing my own songs;
words and verses
earned me much applause,
but garlands of pearls
only you have cast upon them;
today the beggar’s pouch
has been filled to the brim.
Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?

Yet even then you will not be able to say what has happened. You will not be able to tell another what has happened. If you try to explain, you will become entangled.

Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?

The songs you sang—that was mere trash; the song the Divine sings through you—that alone is meaningful.

I wasted half my life
singing my own songs;
words and verses
earned me much applause,
but garlands of pearls
only you have cast upon them.
When his touch comes,
then alone your clay turns to gold.
Garlands of pearls
only you have cast upon them;
today the beggar’s pouch
has been filled to the brim.
Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?

In this world
the bond of melodies is fleeting;
happy is the one who keeps
forgetting what is past,
and unhappy is he who seeks to complete
the designs of his desire—
those that remain
unfinished in the heart.
Who can speak of the helplessness
of a heart overbrimming with feeling?

In the name of prayer, do not ask for anything. Do not aspire to fulfill some incomplete desire. Those who do so are not praying; their beggary is appearing in the name of prayer: let this happen, let that be given. If you ask for anything, you defile and pollute prayer. By adding desire to prayer you cut its wings and tie a stone around its neck. That bird will not fly; it will struggle here, fall here, die here.

Only remember this much: let there be no asking in prayer. Ask for nothing—not even for God—because an ask is just an ask; once you ask, you miss.

Sadly, the very word “prayer” has come to mean asking. The one who asks we call a “supplicant.” For centuries, in the name of prayer, people have begged. Hence the word “prayer” itself has become distorted to mean asking. And therefore prayer never blossoms.

Let yourself be stirred by an upsurge, sway in an uncaused exuberance—ask for nothing. Without asking, it is given; with asking, it is missed. If you do not ask, everything is given. If you ask, nothing is given. And when nothing is given, gloom descends; when the unasked-for descends as grace, delight is born.

“What should I do? How should I pray? How should I worship?”
Bid farewell to the word “how.” Move into inactivity. Sit for an hour—do not think what to do—just sit for an hour. If birds are singing, listen. If sunrays are dancing upon you, feel them. If a breeze comes and rustles your clothes, makes them quiver, feel it. Just sit. You will be amazed to discover that if you can sit for an hour without any occupation, one day prayer will be born within you—like a wonder.

But when you ask “how,” you don’t realize what you’re asking. You are saying, “All right, I will sit for prayer—just give me some occupation. Should I turn a rosary? Chant a mantra? Arrange a puja tray? Perform aarti?” You want some device to keep busy. You cannot remain without doing. Doing is your disease, your madness. In the shop you will do, in the newspaper you will do, always this and that. Even in prayer you want something to do.

People come to me and say, “Give us some support, some prop.”
Why do you need a prop? For what? The mind survives by props; all props protect the mind. Props are to be removed, not given. Take all props away. Put away the rosaries! Put away the puja trays! Forget the idols! Just sit—give no prop. The mind will whirl like a madman; it will cry and scream that it needs some work.

You’ve heard the children’s tale: a man, by much effort, spells and sorcery, awakened a ghost. The ghost said, “I am always at your service, but remember one condition—I need work, twenty-four hours a day. If I have even a moment without work, I will wring your neck. I cannot remain without work; a single idle moment is unbearable—I’ll wreak havoc.”

The man was delighted. He said, “That’s why I awakened you! I have thousands of tasks I cannot manage—exactly what I wanted you for. Don’t worry; I’ll keep you busy. You are the servant I needed.”

But soon trouble began. He would give the ghost a task—and the ghost would finish it in a moment. “Build a palace!”—done, standing there in a flash. Quickly his tasks were exhausted. How many tasks can there be? Palaces were built, forts erected, heaps of gold coins piled up, beautiful women arrived, banquets laid—and before an hour had passed, everything done. The man panicked. He couldn’t think what to give the ghost next. If he didn’t, the ghost would strangle him. Desperate, he went to a fakir. The fakir handed him a small ladder and said, “Plant this in your courtyard and tell the ghost: first climb up, then come down; then up again, then down again. When you have some special work, give it; otherwise, set him to the ladder.”

The ladder was planted; the ghost got work—he was pleased: up, down, up, down—endless. When the man needed something done, he had it done; otherwise, the ladder kept the ghost occupied.

This is the story of the mind. The mind needs work. The rosary you turn is that ladder. Bead after bead—up and down. One hundred and eight—then again, and again. Someone chants a mantra—“I must chant ten million times.” Someone sits writing “Ram, Ram.” It is the ladder: keep climbing and descending. Work is found—but has anyone ever found Rama through work? Rama is found in the desireless state, when the mind has no occupation. Prayer is the name of unoccupiedness. That is the meaning of meditation; that is the meaning of prayer.

Forget “how.” For twenty-three hours climb and descend the ladder—then for one hour forget the ladder. Sit down empty; do nothing.

My eyes offer libations
at your lotus feet,
and again and again they fill to the brim.
When were you pleased, when displeased—
who has ever known it?
Your countenance has never
chosen to reveal that secret.
I know only this: even now
my worship has not been complete;
my eyes offer libations
at your lotus feet,
and again and again they fill to the brim.

This is not my misfortune
that streams of tears flow;
let me now clasp them to my breath
and make of them a music,
and sing it to those
whom sorrow has befriended—
how could efforts like these of mine
ever reach you?
My eyes offer libations
at your lotus feet,
and again and again they fill to the brim.

The meaning of this garland
of water-drops reaches only so far:
it seems as if from some far place
a burden has been brought upon the heart;
by offering you a spontaneous,
unknowing, purposeless surrender,
some labor of the inner being is eased,
and the eyes grow a little lighter.
My eyes offer libations
at your lotus feet,
and again and again they fill to the brim.

Sit—and you will find: tears gathering, eyes brimming, the heart dancing, gooseflesh upon the skin; a music from afar will be heard, a fragrance of the Unknown will enter your nostrils. This happens. It is happening here to many. There is no reason it should not happen to you. You have simply never sat unoccupied. You have never given yourself the chance to be empty. You have never become vacant—and that is why you remain empty of fulfillment.

Prayer means: become empty. And you will be filled with the Divine. The Divine is eager every moment to find a way into you. You do not give the way. You keep climbing and descending the ladder. You keep creating some commotion or other—and you give such beautiful names to that commotion: “support,” “prop.” Prayer is a prop-less state. Prayer is a groundless state. Prayer is a formless state. It happens; it cannot be made to happen.

Shocking you is my business. My longing is that your sleep be broken not only at night, but in the day as well. Let the sleep break! You have slept enough—slept for centuries! That’s why, by as many means as possible, I give you shocks. If you understand, with the help of those very shocks you will attain awakening. If you don’t understand, you will fall into needless trouble. What I am giving is medicine—understood, it is medicine; not understood, it turns into disease.

I said: I am neither perfect nor a saint. I said it because as long as there is an idea of the perfect, there can be no freedom from the imperfect. It’s the game of duality—perfect–imperfect, saint–non-saint, virtuous–unvirtuous, sin–virtue, good–bad—this is all the play of opposites. One who has arrived is neither perfect nor imperfect; neither saint nor non-saint; neither auspicious nor inauspicious. The one who has arrived, who has known, who has awakened, suddenly finds all dualities dissolved. Where can duality be then?

I call this non-dual state godliness. Godliness is one of those few words that has no opposite. The saint is in godliness, the non-saint is in godliness too. But the non-saint has identified with non-sainthood, and the saint has identified with sainthood. Both have created their illusions.

Understand it this way: in truth you are naked; nakedness is your nature. Then someone has put on a certain kind of clothing—beautiful, precious, studded with diamonds and jewels—and he has identified with those clothes and thinks, “This is what I am—these beautiful, precious garments!” And another has put on poor, ragged clothes—of a beggar—and has identified with them: “I am these clothes; I am this poverty, misery, destitution.” Both have forgotten their supreme purity, their original nakedness.

It is the same with the virtuous and the unvirtuous. The virtuous man thinks, “I am the good deeds I have done.” The unvirtuous thinks, “I am the bad deeds I have done.” But both are binding themselves to actions. And you are not the action; you are not the doer. You are only the witness. Before the witness, good action and bad action both appear; he is beyond both. Therefore the witness is neither perfect nor imperfect; neither auspicious nor inauspicious. When I said I am not perfect, I was only saying that I am just a witness. The witness does not identify with any experience. If he does, he becomes the doer—then the fall has happened. The witness can neither say “I am unhappy” nor “I am happy.” Happiness and unhappiness are both experiences. Nor can the witness say “I am ignorant” or “I am knowledgeable.” Both are experiences. Witnessing means: the grip of experience is gone; all experiences stand at a distance; all the bonds of experience have broken.

Then what will you call the witness? Perfect? Saint? Non-saint?

You must have become restless, because you have no taste of witnessing. People interpret from their own experience. It is natural.

I have heard of a woman—she was a very famous singer—who would sing late into the night on her birthday. Once, on her birthday, she was singing at night and her song went on very long. She was lost in ecstasy and kept on singing, kept on singing. At last, as she was ending the song, her final words were: “Who has come? Who has come?” It was four in the morning. A voice came from outside: “The milkman has come, madam!” The milkman took it in his own way—“Who has come? Who has come?”—and gave his own answer.

I was a guest in a house. I became friends with a small child there. I asked him, “Do you know why your sister-in-law keeps calling you ‘Lala, Lala’? Why does she call you Lala?”
He said, “What’s difficult in that? It’s very simple: I keep bringing things to her—‘la, la’ means ‘bring, bring’—so she says to me, ‘la, la!’”
He had his own meaning. Every person has his own level from which he interprets. While listening to me you will have to be very alert. I am telling you something that is not yet in your experience. Therefore you can run into great difficulties.

My brother! You’ve come to the wrong place. You’ll needlessly bring disrepute upon Punjabis. As it is, there’s already plenty of bad name. Such is the level of your understanding!
Guru Tegh Bahadur and Guru Gobind Singh did not do anything to defend “Hinduism”—not at all. If they did anything, it was for dharma; it has nothing to do with Hinduism. For those who have known, the distinctions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian—disappear. If even for those who have known these adjectives still have value, then they have not known. These labels are outer shells; within them the real secret—dharma—is one. The Divine is one. Nanak said: Ek Onkar, Satnam.

But there are many languages, many paths by which people approach the Divine, many rites and methods, many temperaments and styles. Because of that, a thousand analyses and a thousand adjectives have arisen. Yet one who knows dedicates himself to dharma, not to “Hindu.” “Hindu” is a political designation—just as “Muslim” is a political designation, just as “Sikh” is a political designation. Religion is altogether another matter. These are garments of religions. Someone has built a gurdwara—that’s one way; someone a temple; someone a mosque. But what is worshiped inside temple, mosque, and gurdwara is one. What is read in the Guru Granth and what is read in the Vedas, the Gita, and the Quran—yes, the words differ, certainly differ, but that toward which the words point is one. The one to whom that One becomes visible—I say, he is not mad. The one who sees many is mad.

In “Hindu-dharma” there are two words—Hindu and dharma. If you are heavily fixated on “Hindu,” you are mad. If you emphasize dharma, you are wise. And as your emphasis on dharma grows, your emphasis on “Hindu” will diminish. One day you will find: “Hindu” has departed; dharma remains. If you stress “Hindu” too much, you will find that dharma slowly departs—“Hindu” remains, “Hindu” remains. One day you will find: dharma has ended; only “Hindu” is left. “Hindu-dharma” opens two directions: one toward dharma, one toward “Hindu.” If you take the path of “Hindu,” you will fall into politics. Wherever you end up, it will be politics. If you take the path of dharma, you will descend into spirituality; one day you will reach a place where there is no Hindu, no Muslim, no Christian.

So you don’t understand what I say; you take it to mean something else. Certainly Tegh Bahadur and Gobind Singh gave their lives. But those sacrifices were not in the refuge of “Hindu.” Those sacrifices were for the Divine.

Those faithful to love stake their lives;
Love is no casual pastime.

Don’t get stuck in words—Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Sikh. Otherwise your state becomes like forgetting the medicine and clutching the bottle. Then keep the bottle pressed to your chest—nothing will be solved. The medicine is other than the bottle. Drink the medicine; throw away the bottle. That is why I say “Hindu religion,” “Muslim religion”—all madness. Because you are clutching the bottle. This does not mean the medicine inside the bottle is madness. I am making every effort that the medicine appear to you as distinct from the bottle. You have forgotten the medicine; you have wandered into the bottle.

Whatever stops you on the way is no less than a highwayman—
Whether a flower or a briny wasteland—keep going!

Bottles have stopped you, adjectives have stopped you, words have stopped you.

Whatever stops you on the way is no less than a highwayman—
And whatever halts your growth, your unfolding, whatever blocks you from reaching the ocean—know it as an enemy. If the temple is stopping you, if the mosque is stopping you; if the pandit is stopping you, if the maulvi is stopping you—whoever stops you, break free. You have to seek the ocean.

You see—you often go to Kashi. Does the Ganga stop at Kashi? That for which you go to Kashi does not stop at Kashi. It keeps running—it has to reach the ocean. It passes through Kashi; it does not stop there, otherwise it would become a filthy stagnant puddle. You too must pass through Kashi—and through Kaaba, and through Kailash. You have to reach the ocean! You have to attain the Divine! Yes, sometimes, in a certain state of ignorance, it is fine to make use of a temple, a mosque, a gurdwara. But do not get stuck there. Keep at least this much remembrance: these are means, not the end. Whoever takes the means to be the end—I call him mad.

But it is natural that my language and yours differ. So you will run into difficulty. You feel your gurus are being insulted. And what I am saying is exactly what your gurus said. If they were gurus, then I am saying what they said. If they had known, then I am speaking from knowing. The words will be different, the style different.

And keep in mind: this is not a primary school; this is a university. Don’t talk of ka, kha, ga here. Then you should search somewhere else. There are little primary schools where they begin with ka-kha-ga, where they teach “ga for gadha (donkey), ga for Ganeshji.” You go there. Here we are moving beyond all donkeys and all Ganeshjis. Here there is space for those who are ready to leave Kashi and go all the way to the ocean. Those who say, “How can we leave Kashi? Kashi is holy land!”—they will become stagnant puddles.

You run into obstacles often—I know. Let me tell you a few stories—since Nihalchand is from Punjab, perhaps he will understand stories.

One man, after great effort, bought ten tins of ghee on the black market and took his servant aside, saying, “Not a whisper to anyone—go dig a pit in the garden and hide this ghee.” A little later the servant returned and said, “Sahib, I did as you told me—dug the pit and hid the ghee. Now what should I do with these empty tins?”

Second story—
An inspector went to examine a school. In one class the students were making a great din. The inspector called the teacher over and said, “What’s the matter, Masterji? It seems these children are not afraid of you.” “Well I’m not afraid of them either!” the teacher shot back.

Third story—
A senior district officer came to the club in the evening. Sitting among his fellow officers, he took his photograph out of his pocket and asked, “Have a look, friend—my wife says I look like a fool in this photo.” An officer took the photo, examined it carefully, and said, “No, sir—in the photo you don’t look like a fool at all.”

There are levels to our understanding.

Here, what the true gurus said is being praised. And you think it is being maligned. Don’t come here with your kirpans, etc., imagining that true gurus are being insulted! Have a little patience! And don’t go shouting, “Wah Guruji ka Khalsa! Wah Guruji ki Fateh!”

While listening to me you need great patience and sympathy. Otherwise there will be misunderstanding. You will not be benefited; you will be harmed. You came to take something, and you will leave empty-handed—empty-handed. And you yourself will be responsible. I am ready to fill your begging bowl completely. But at the very least you must keep a little patience with me. You must come to understand my ways and manners. You must become a little familiar with my language.

A literary doctor said to his patient, “Did the goddess of sleep visit you at night?”
The illiterate patient replied, “How would I know, sahib? I don’t even know her. And besides, I was asleep.”

Take the shocks! Wake up! I strike you—but don’t take that strike to mean I am striking at the true gurus of the past. I am striking you, because I want to awaken you. To strike you awake I sometimes have to use harsh words—words I myself would prefer not to use. But I see no other way. Until I speak against your scriptures, you do not awaken. It pains me too, because what I am saying is the scripture. But until I speak against the scripture, you go on clutching your scripture to your chest. Out of respect for scripture I also speak against scripture—so that once the scripture drops from your grasp, what is hidden in it may be revealed. Sometimes I speak against temple and mosque—because I want this earth to become a temple, to become a mosque. Sometimes I say to you: drop all this Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Jain, Buddhist nonsense! You are entangled in the trivial; the essential has been forgotten. If the nonsense drops, the essential will come into view.

That essential is what Nanak said, what Kabir said, what Buddha said, what Mahavira said. It cannot be anything other. Try as I might, I cannot tell you anything that the knowers before have not said. Everything has been said. But in your hands there is no ember now—only ash. And I also know that ash is born of ember—once there must have been a live coal.

When Nanak spoke his truth, it was a live coal. Those who endured it were extraordinary people. You are not they—those who today call themselves Sikhs cannot endure Nanak. Those who endured it were extraordinary. People like you were against Nanak—that’s the amusing thing. The sort who today call themselves Sikhs—such people were against Nanak then. Because such people were tied to the Gita, tied to the Quran. When Nanak first spoke, naturally he loosened you from the Gita and from the Quran. Those infatuated with the Gita or with the Quran would have felt hurt—just as you feel hurt here. They must have fumed, been angry. They must have asked: “So are our Ramchandra wrong? Is Krishnachandra wrong? Is the Quran wrong?”

But Nanak was saying exactly what is said in the Quran and in the Gita—only he was giving a new language. The old language had become distorted. It stayed too long in your hands; it couldn’t change you—you changed it. It became ash. Now one needs freedom from that ash—again, a live coal!

A live coal is borne only by one who has courage—the courage to burn, to be annihilated. Those who bore it were the first Sikhs. You know the word “Sikh” comes from “shishya”—disciple. They bowed; they accepted. Later those who became Sikhs are merely Sikhs by birth. Now it is compulsion. I know many such Sikhs who want to be free of the hair and the beard—but what to do now? Born in Sikh households, they have to drag along with tradition. But discipleship itself is nowhere—only ash remains. If Nanak were to come again today, you would not be able to agree with him. And what I am telling you is exactly what Nanak would tell you if he came again. This time, if Nanak came, he would have to free you from the Guru Granth Sahib—and you would be obstructed again. It has always been so.

The Jews killed Jesus, because what Jesus said was exactly what Moses had said. Jesus had an incomparable love for Moses. You will be surprised to know that Jesus was saved from the cross. How he was saved is a long story, but it is certain he survived. Where did he go after the cross? He came toward India—to Kashmir. Why Kashmir? Only because the body of Moses lies buried in Kashmir. Moses’ body is in Kashmir. Jesus came seeking him—longing to sleep somewhere near his tomb. Such was his love for Moses.

But what he did all his life was such that those who believed in Moses nailed him to the cross. Certain arrangements around the crucifixion allowed Jesus to escape. The man who sentenced him—the governor—did not want to crucify him. Pontius Pilate was impressed by Jesus. He was a Roman, not a Jew; he had no enmity with Jesus. Rome ruled Israel; he was Rome’s governor; he wanted to save Jesus. He tried hard. His letter has been found in which he greatly praises Jesus. But the Jews pressed hard. They said, “If you don’t crucify Jesus, we will pray to the emperor to have the governor replaced.” He didn’t want to get into that mess either—he didn’t want to lose his post. And the Jews unanimously wanted Jesus crucified. So Pontius Pilate arranged it in such a way that Jesus would survive.

In those days, with the method of crucifixion, a man took at least three to seven days to die. It was extremely painful. Nails were driven into the hands and feet, and the man was hung on a plank. One does not die immediately—not so quickly. Hands and feet do not cause immediate death. Blood flows, then clots, the flow stops; the man hangs there. It took three to seven days to die. Pontius Pilate devised a trick. He crucified Jesus on Friday evening, as the afternoon was waning. The Jewish rule is that no one may hang on the cross on a Saturday—their holy day. This was Pilate’s cleverness; he wanted to save Jesus. He timed the crucifixion so that before sunset Jesus would have to be taken down. In an unconscious state he was taken down. He had not died. Then he was placed in a cave, and the cave was entrusted to a very important disciple. Ointments and bandages were applied, treatment was given, and before dawn Jesus left that place.

But he had only one hope in his heart—to go and rest near Moses’ tomb.

Earlier Moses too came to Kashmir and died there. Kashmir is a place fit to die in—heaven on earth. Jesus came in search of him by the same route. Kashmiris are originally Jewish; their origin is Judaic. Jesus lived many years in Kashmir. His tomb is there too.

Jesus said what Moses said, yet the Jews crucified him. If Jesus were to return, this time the Christians would crucify him.

Truth is always on the cross; falsehood always on the throne. Because falsehood caters to you—says what pleases you, what you like; it does not wound you. It flatters you, applies balms, consoles you. Falsehood is devoted to serving you. Since falsehood serves you, you are very pleased with it. Truth is not devoted to serving you—truth serves truth. Hence it wounds you.

The mirror tells you to your face what is bad and what is good;
The fact is, what is clear, speaks clearly.

Whether it be Nanak or Kabir—they are mirrors. If you look into my mirror, do it thoughtfully, understandingly. Don’t get angry at the mirror, because it will only show you your face. If a monkey looks into the mirror, only a monkey can appear there—no deity can appear—keep that in mind. And when a monkey sees a monkey in the mirror, it is natural he gets angry; natural he is ready to smash the mirror.

You are hurt by me—you should be hurt. But the hurt is so that you may wake up. The wound is not to insult you; the wound is your honor. So I say again: try to understand me with great patience and calm—don’t rush to conclusions.

A friend said first: “I consider you perfect and a saint. But you said you are neither perfect nor a saint. It shocked me greatly. I could not sleep the whole night.”

When I said I am neither perfect nor a saint, you should have reflected again—you should have set your assumptions aside. But your assumptions were hurt. If you believe I am a saint, and I say I am not a saint, your belief is wounded, your ego is wounded. You became my disciple because you believed I was a saint—and now I myself say I am not a saint: now you are in trouble. What a tangle you are caught in! Your ego was getting great satisfaction that you had become the disciple of a saint—and now how will that satisfaction be attained?

Understand a little. When I said I am not a saint, surely I said something that goes beyond sainthood. I said something that goes beyond perfection. I am taking you on an upward journey. The more you begin to understand, the higher I will speak. Therefore you will find contradictions in my words—because I am engaged in trying to move you forward. Each step you climb—once you have climbed it—I deny that step, so that you move to the next. Every step is to be taken away from you, so that you go on advancing. And one day you enter the infinite where there are no steps at all—where there is only a leap.

It will not go by trying to remove it. Who will remove it? The one who removes—that very one is the ego. And if somehow you do remove it, the ego of humility will arise, and nothing will have changed. A new stiffness will come: “No one is as humble as I am. See how simple I am! How bowed I am! How surrendered!” That will be a new ego. Whatever you do will only increase ego. By your doing, ego cannot diminish. Ego can take new shapes, new forms, new costumes, but it will not be erased.

Then what is to be done?
Understand the ego; don’t be in a hurry to get rid of it. What is the hurry? Understand what ego is. The person who tries to eliminate it is avoiding the effort to understand it. And without understanding, ego does not go. Ego is not eliminated; when the lamp of understanding is lit, ego is simply not found. As the lamp is lit, darkness vanishes. Ego is darkness.

You ask: “Ego is the greatest obstacle to taking sannyas. So how can it be removed?”
To speak of removing it means you believe ego is something. Ego is nothing; it is a misunderstanding. How can a misunderstanding be removed? Suppose you see a rope lying on the path and, in the dark, it appears to you to be a snake. Someone tells you, “You are running away for nothing—there is no snake. I know well; I saw it in daylight—it’s a rope. In fact, I threw it there. Trust me—there is no snake.” You say, “All right, I accept there is no snake—but now how do we remove the snake? I’m going to get a gun, or take up a sword.” Then you have not understood. To ask “How to remove the ego?” means you think it is a real substance.

Ego is not a real substance; it is a delusion. You have not looked at yourself rightly; therefore the way you take yourself is mistaken. When you look rightly, you will suddenly find—there is no ego, there is the Self; there is no ego, there is the Divine. Try to understand this life attentively. Examine what supports the ego has taken.

“I asked, ‘What is life?’
The cup slipped from my hand and shattered.”

You have taken life as the support for ego—but what is this life? Lines drawn on sand. Castles built on sand. A paper boat. Are you preening over such a life? Here now—and gone now! Are you erecting the ego upon this life?

“I asked, ‘What is life?’
The cup slipped from my hand and shattered.”

This is something that is bound to break. Recognize life rightly: it is momentary, a bubble of water. Then where is the stiffness? Pride lasts only so long as you think life is something lasting.

“Those very four straws were tidings of a cage
Which we kept taking to be a nest.”

Four straws!

“Those very four straws were tidings of a cage
Which we kept taking to be a nest.”

What you take to be a house will become a grave. Those same four straws you took for a dwelling will become your shroud. Look closely at life. Here, everything is dying. Everything is burning away. Everything is moving into the mouth of death. We are all sliding into death’s mouth. There is a line; people are sinking into death, taking their leave. What is there in this life on whose support you accumulate identity and say, “I am”?

“Thus we console our ailing heart,
As someone props up a collapsing wall.”

This wall is falling of its own accord. You ask: how to bring it down? The wall is already falling—just don’t prop it up; stand a little aside and watch.

Ego has no reality. Then how to define it? Understand ego in this way: when you look outward, there is ego; when you look inward, ego departs. Enter meditation; drop the very worry of fighting with ego. Fighting the ego is like someone fighting darkness—pushing at it, trying to throw it out. No, I say, light a lamp. Enter meditation, enter prayer; light the lamp—turn within. Close your eyes and begin to look inside—what is there? You will discover one thing: you will never find the ego. And where there is no ego, there is the Divine. The Divine is your true nature; ego is your delusion. As someone sees a rope and takes it for a snake—or sees a snake in a rope—so is ego: a mis-seeing. To see what is, as it is—that is God-experience.

And certainly, ego is the greatest obstacle to taking sannyas. But sannyas is the greatest aid to becoming free of ego. Keep both facts in mind. Choose between the two. Both possibilities are open. If you lean toward sannyas, you will begin to be free of ego. If you lean toward ego, taking sannyas will become more and more difficult. That is why I say, ego is an obstacle. It does not mean that only after your ego is gone will you be able to take sannyas. It is a choice. You stand at a crossroads: one road goes toward ego, one toward sannyas. You can walk only one. So I say, ego is an obstacle. If you choose ego and walk its road, you will not be able to be a sannyasin. If you walk the road of sannyas, you will not be able to be an egoist.

But your mind is very clever. You will be afraid to take sannyas, you will want to avoid taking sannyas. You have found a prop in my words. You heard, “Ah, ego is the obstacle—then we have the key. How can we take sannyas? Until the ego is gone, how can we take sannyas? The ego must go first; then we’ll think about sannyas.” The ego will not go, and you will not take sannyas. Trouble solved. No bamboo, no flute.

Do not extract your own meaning from my words. When I said ego is an obstacle, I meant only this: if you choose ego, you will not be able to choose sannyas. If you choose sannyas, then you will not be able to choose ego. They are opposites. You can manage only one; you cannot carry both together. Now it is in your hands—what do you choose? Both roads are open. If you truly want to be free of ego, choose sannyas. And yes, ego is there—that too is true. But the moment you choose sannyas, the process of transformation begins. You are ill, granted—but if you do not take the medicine, how will the illness go?

Also remember: illness obstructs the medicine’s work. That is why it takes time. A sip or two does not cure the disease; you take medicine for months and slowly the illness goes. There will be a struggle between medicine and disease. But if you say, “As long as I am ill, how can I take medicine? Illness hinders the medicine’s work. I’ll take the medicine after the illness is gone,” then why will you take the medicine at all? Have you gone mad? Do you want to be even more ill?

If the ego has already gone, what will you do with sannyas? Sannyas is the medicine; ego is the disease. And ego will create hindrances in the process of sannyas. But if you take the medicine and keep taking it, then if not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the day after—disease will lose, and you will be healthy. Take heart! Ego is not obstructing as much as you imagine. For those who have taken sannyas, the same question stood before them. The same question stands before you. Set the ego aside and take the leap.

Even more than ego, fear is the great obstacle. You are afraid—what will people say? People will laugh. They will say, “Have you gone mad? Hypnotized? You were fine—what happened? You went to satsang, and this is what happened?” You are afraid of people. Sit quietly and imagine: you have taken sannyas. Wearing ochre robes, mala around your neck, “mad,” you reach your village—just imagine—at the station you get down; the station master asks, “Hey, what happened?” The porter laughs: “What clothes are these? These are porter’s clothes—we wear them. What happened to you?” The tonga driver will look you up and down, “Is it really you? You were fine ten days ago—what happened?” And the mind will say, “What to do—shall I go back to the station and change clothes?” Because the town hasn’t even begun yet! The whole village will be startled! As soon as you reach the market, a crowd will gather! People will give a thousand kinds of advice. Advice is free. Those who have no taste for anything like sannyas, no experience of it, they too will say, “What have you done?” Those to whom you gave advice will come to advise you. Today sit and fully imagine it for a couple of hours.

Then you reach home and meet your wife; she will begin to beat her chest and weep, because her old notion of sannyas is: if the husband becomes a sannyasin, the wife is a widow. She will beat her chest, break her bangles, and say, “It’s all over!” You may explain a thousand times, “This is a different kind of sannyas.” She will say, “Are there different kinds of sannyas?” If, to reassure her, you take her hand in your hand, she will snap, “What are you doing? A sannyasin touching a woman! Now you must stay outside the house. What’s done is done—go now. You have no home anymore.”

Sit today and imagine the whole thing. From that you will see what the real obstacle is. Even that imagining will give you the key. It is only fear! Do not hide behind the cover of “ego” and so on—only fear. All that is needed is a single courage: the courage to be mad; then you can be a sannyasin. It is a kind of divine craziness. It is the work of the masts, the intoxicated ones. It is not the work of the calculating, the crafty.

Though this uproar will not last long. Two or four days there will be talk, the news will spread, people will think, discuss, ask—and then everything goes back on track. The world starts running as it always did. This is not a question that will remain for a lifetime. A week at most! Because other events also happen in a village. Something else happens and people get entangled in that—someone’s wife runs away; there’s a robbery at someone’s house; someone loses an election. They won’t sit with your matter forever! After a few days no one will bother about you: “All right—the matter is finished.” You will be accepted.

Keep in mind: even if you die, how many days will people talk about you? Even if you die, what work will be held up for long? People weep and wail and finish with it, and then everything begins again. People have to live after all. You have died—your release is done—but they have to live. The shop will open again—closed for a few days, then open, someone else will run it. Your wife will smile again. How many days can she weep? She has to live. How many days can one live just by crying? The children will dance again, play again, frolic again. The world goes on. Even if you die, it goes on.

Nothing will be held up by sannyas. But in your life a revolution will arrive. Sannyas means: to die before you die. And to begin living in the world as if you are not. There is incomparable joy in that moment when you live in the world as if you are not. You are in the world, and the world is not in you.

Because scriptural knowledge is not knowing—hence. Knowing has to be attained by oneself; it cannot be borrowed—hence. Do not get entangled in others’ words—hence.

Understand: even my words are no more than scripture for you; I am against them too. It is not that I am only against Krishna’s words or Kabir’s words. I am against my own words as well. Do not cling to my words. If you cling to words, you will go astray. Where can words take you?

Words won’t fill an empty stomach; water made of words won’t quench your thirst; from a word-fire you cannot take warmth. Words are just words—pointers, symbols. Reality is not in them. Take their hint and set out in search of the real. One day, when you know the truth, there will be knowing. Knowing happens between you and truth, not between you and scripture. What happens between you and scripture is memory, not knowledge.

See the difference clearly: memory is not knowledge. Memorize scripture and you become a parrot. Even if you repeat the Gita exactly, you do not become Krishna by repeating the Gita. You may say, “Now I am saying exactly what Krishna said. What difference remains? Not even a shade—exactly the same words, precisely as he said them.” But does that make you Krishna? Those words came from within Krishna; they are not arising from within you. They have no roots in your heart.

Yesterday I was reading a humorous poem—

Without wings, hovering—
Lord, what a strange dovecote!
He who reads is a pundit; he who writes is refuted;
the printing press sits decked and honored.
Blank paper, written and written, flows away;
the learned tote Vedas and Puranas—
seekers, cross the ocean of becoming!
Books piled upon books,
and books have no resting place.
Readers read yet do not find;
the world, dumbstruck, goes mad—
O Lord, how to persuade the foolish mind?
Ganapati wobbles without a trunk,
dim-dim the clever beat their drums.
A bundle of knowledge without knots or cords,
sold off by our very own hands—
seekers, this world is a stranger.
Brokers and middlemen, masters of the trade,
skip and strut in pride.
Shimmering robes, a tottering sail—
how will we ever reach the far shore?
This world dissolves into the sea...
Without wings, hovering—
Lord, what a strange dovecote!

The attempt is on to hover without wings.
…what a strange dovecote.
Wings must grow within you. How will you fly on someone else’s wings? How will you see with someone else’s eyes? My eye is available to you, but even then you cannot see through my eye. You will see only through your own eyes. At most you can trust my vision—but trust is not knowing. You can believe—but belief is not experience. How will recognition dawn? How will realization be? How will self-experience arise? And self-experience is freedom. That is why I am against scriptural knowledge.

But I know there are many in the world who are not against scriptural knowledge. Pundits, priests—how could they be against it? They themselves are “scripture.” Knowledge is not there either. They too have read, and they explain it to you. They have not known. They are as blind as you are. The blind leading the blind—both fall into the well. Walk a little carefully. Those blind ones have only one aim: how to sell you their book.

I have heard: In Delhi a man was knocked down by a bus. People gathered around him. When he came to, he asked, “Brother, where am I?” Immediately someone in the crowd thrust a book at him and said, “Here—Delhi Guide. Price only one rupee.”

They are book-sellers. Their only eagerness is that you accept their book, stand behind it, trust their words.

Beware of the business of words. Words become a great obstacle in the search for truth. You should become a seeker—but you do not, because you settle down among words. You think that once you learn the word “love,” love has arrived; learn the word “prayer,” and prayer has arrived; repeat the word “God” like a parrot, and God is found. This makes it cheap—far too cheap. Life does not come into your hands so cheaply. For life, a price has to be paid.

The remedy is in the very pain. There is no remedy other than pain. That is why I have told you: in separation, union is hidden. In tears, a smile is hidden. If you can weep from the heart, union happens. You do not even allow the pain to arise—that is the trouble, that is the obstacle. You are in search of a remedy, while the remedy lies in the depths of pain. So I keep saying to you again and again—cry! Call out! Scream! Writhe! Writhe like a fish! As if someone had dragged a fish out of the ocean and flung it on the shore. You are just such a fish whose ocean is lost, and you lie in the world’s harsh sun and hot sand. Writhe! Do not look for a remedy. Call out! Leap and flounder! It is through that very leaping and floundering that the way opens to return to the ocean. The day the pain becomes so deep that only pain remains and the sufferer is no more, that very day it turns into the remedy. Pain, passing beyond its limit, becomes medicine.

The wine was in the grape—only a few drops of water;
the day it was drawn out, it became a sword.

Between man and man such a difference can arise. One is a common worldly person, and one is a devotee. The difference is like this—

The wine was in the grape—only a few drops of water.
As long as the wine remains in the grape, it is nothing—just a few drops of water.
The day it is drawn out, it becomes a sword.

As long as you are caught in small pains, you are only a few drops of water. You cry for money—is that any weeping! You squander something as precious as tears for something as worthless as wealth—is that any weeping! The wife has died, the husband has died, and you weep—is that any weeping! For what was bound to die has died; it was going to die anyway. Here all are of the nature of death. Weep for the immortal! By weeping for the mortal you only waste your time, you melt your eyes. The house collapsed and you weep? Here all houses are destined to fall. No house here is going to last. All houses will turn into ruins. For what things are you weeping? Where are you squandering something as invaluable as tears? With them, diamonds could be bought—you are scattering them among pebbles and stones.

The wine was in the grape—only a few drops of water;
the day it was drawn out, it became a sword.

The day your tears set out in search of the Divine, a sword will be born within you. You will acquire an edge. A brilliance will arise within. Do not suppress the pain. See, the very word “dava” suggests pressing down. Do not press down the pain; do not look for “dava.” Bring the pain up. Awaken the pain.

Then what is the hurry? When the fruit ripens, it falls. Why such impatience?

In attaining you, where is this feverish ecstasy?
Life is that which is spent in your quest.

In his prayer, in his search, in his waiting—
Life is that which is spent in your quest.

Do not be in such a hurry to attain. Attainment will happen. There is delight even in separation. This pain too is sweet. Taste the sweetness of this pain now. Once union happens, this sweetness of pain will not be possible again. Live this sweetness of pain. This pain will efface you. This pain will melt you. This pain will finish you. In that very finishing lies the remedy. In that very finishing lies the union.

But keep one thing in mind. There is no harm in being effaced—if you are effacing yourself for the Vast, it is good fortune. Do not efface yourself for the petty.

You were bound to be ruined anyway, Khumār—
be proud, proud that it was He who ruined you.

If you are ruined for God, what greater good fortune could there be?

Do not suppress this pain. My very work is to provoke your pain, to awaken it—to pluck at your heart, to set your tears in motion, to incite your thirst and make it fire. The day your pain reaches completeness, that very instant—there is not even a moment’s delay—the completion of separation is the beginning of union.

Therefore, no hurry. For now, say to the Divine—

If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more!
I have placed every string,
Beloved, in your hands;
Time will tell whether I
did wrong or did right.
My part is over now,
but yours begins from here—
If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more!

For now say—more pain is needed, not a remedy. Torment me more!
If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more!

Since when have I desired
the world’s shouts of victory?
I do not care a farthing
for the world’s laughter;
But every signal of yours
lifts me beyond death, beyond life—
beyond both. Do at least laugh
at my faults in such a way!
If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more!

Even you have accused that in my resonances there is no fire;
That which does not awaken the world upon touch
may be something—but it is not love.
You touched me, you plucked me,
and yet stayed far, far away;
You dwell in the midst of my heart—now dwell also in the midst of my notes!
If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more!

No haste, no impatience; for now ask for more pain, not a remedy. For now, spread your bowl wider for pain. For now, let pain fall; for now, let pain pour down as a cloud—so that a flood of pain may arise.
If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more!
For now, cry out: tighten my veena even more. For now, cry out: burn me more, scorch me. In this very scorching lies the remedy.

Want to form a Janata Party? What for should we gather?

“Lions do not move in herds; saints do not walk in crowds.”
Coming together is the habit of sheep. And surely the sheep must be wondering, “What’s the matter? We shuffle along, rubbing shoulders, all huddled together—why don’t lions have such unity, such togetherness?”

There is no need. People gather out of fear. Understand this: the more frightened a person is, the more he wants to be part of a crowd. In a crowd there seems to be safety. That’s why you are Hindus, Muslims, Christians. You are not Hindus for the sake of religion; you are Hindus because there is such a huge Hindu crowd—within it you feel safe. Two hundred million, four hundred million, six hundred million, eight hundred million—crowds by the hundreds of millions give you great reassurance. When eight hundred million sheep are moving and you are among them, you feel there is no danger. Where could the danger be, with so many companions? It is precisely these weak ones who give birth to politics in the world.

We need a world in which each person is an individual—where there are no parties, no religions, no organizations. The day the world becomes such will be a blessed day: a world in which each person is simply a person. Why be a Hindu? Why be a Muslim? Why be a Christian? Why become part of any herd? Be yourself.

You ask: “Forgive me; I want to ask something that has been on my mind for a long time. Why is it that all the great masters who are alive—including you—never come together?”

First, there is no purpose. If they gather, what will they do? Fight with someone? Is it that “there is strength in organization,” so if all come together they can battle someone?

And even if two saints did meet, what would they say to each other? What would they talk about? They would sit in silence.

It has happened on occasion. Farid and Kabir once met. It wouldn’t have happened if it had been left to Farid and Kabir; it happened because of the disciples. Farid was on a pilgrimage, and his route passed near Kabir’s ashram. Farid’s disciples said, “It would be most auspicious; we have to rest somewhere anyway—if we are to halt in the village ahead for the night, why not halt at Kabir’s ashram?” Kabir’s disciples got the news; they too became excited. They said to Kabir, “Farid is passing by—why don’t we invite him? If you both sit together, it will be our great good fortune! Some flowers will fall between you; we too will receive the fragrance.” Kabir said, “Fine.” And Farid also said, “Fine.”

They stayed together for two days and did not speak a single word. Neither Kabir spoke, nor Farid. They looked at one another and sat in bliss. The disciples got very bored, because their excitement was that both would speak—there would be some refutation and counter-refutation, some discussion, something delightful; something would lead to something else, a little debate—who is the greater saint, who the lesser; who has arrived, who has not—let it be settled once and for all today! They waited in great eagerness. But how long can you sit like that? An hour, two hours, four hours—then boredom set in. They began to glance at each other: “What kind of spectacle is this? This is very unsettling.” After two days the parting came. Kabir walked with Farid to the edge of the village and embraced him—but talk there was not, not a word was spoken.

No sooner had they taken leave than both sets of disciples pounced on their masters. Farid’s disciples grabbed him: “This is too much! You instruct us every day—where did your voice vanish? You should have said something to Kabir!” Farid said, “The one who speaks is ignorant. If two mirrors are placed face to face, what image is there to be formed? If two zeros sit side by side, how can words be made? The one who speaks is ignorant,” said Farid. “What did you want—that I speak and make a fool of myself?”

Kabir’s disciples asked, “Why were you silent? Your speech has such power—give a little taste of it to Farid too! You shower it on us every day.” Kabir said, “Farid has already received it. What I shower on you, Farid has already received. Where I am, there is Farid. We both stand in the same place. Seeing each other, we were amazed. We are not two; we are one. So what is there to say? To whom to say it? If a man sits alone and talks, would you not call him mad? Someone sitting alone, talking to himself—raising the questions and giving the answers—that is what you call madness. So,” said Kabir, “did you want to make me mad? We were not two.”

Therefore there is no need for saints to meet. Saints are not separate that they should have to meet. A Janata Party is formed by non-saints, not by saints.

And each saint has his own unique aura, his own individuality, his own language, his own way. This diversity is beautiful. Just think: if in the world there had been only Krishna and no Buddha, the world would be very poor. Or if there had been only Buddha and no Mohammed, the world would be very poor. The spiritual wealth of the world is what it is precisely because there have been so many different people. Knowing the same truth, they have danced such different dances, sung such different songs. There is uniqueness in them. This uniqueness cannot be blended. If you try to blend it, the uniqueness of both will be spoiled. So there is no need to “unite.”

Three kinds of meetings are possible in this world. One is the meeting of two knowers, as with Kabir and Farid. This happens once in a while—and it has no particular “point.” Buddha and Mahavira stayed many times in the same village and did not meet. Once they even stayed in the same rest house and did not meet. Buddhists feel a little uneasy: why not? Jains feel a little uneasy: why not? The arrogant Jains think, “Buddha was ignorant; that is why Mahavira did not meet him.” The arrogant Buddhists think, “What is there to meet Mahavira for—he was ignorant; that is why Buddha did not meet him.” But Buddha spent his whole life meeting thousands of other kinds of ignorants—what was so special about Mahavira’s ignorance? And Mahavira too met plenty of ignorants—otherwise where would these Jains have come from? So why leave out only Buddha? That is talk born of ego. Others think there was such opposition, such enmity, that therefore they did not meet. That too is foolishness. There is difference, not opposition.

Keep this in mind: difference is not opposition. The champa blossoms in its own way and the jasmine in its own way—there is difference, not opposition. The difference is great indeed. Where the rose and where the marigold—there is much difference. But both are flowers. A flower means it has flowered—has opened. Both are dancing in the wind; both have conversed with the sun; both have scattered their color; both have poured out their fragrance. Whatever each had, it has poured out. Both stand empty-handed, having given it all. They stand in ecstasy, having sung their song—now there is supreme contentment.

In a flower you see a supreme contentment—that is why a flower seems so attractive. What is the attraction? Not color alone, for a plastic flower and a paper flower also have color—perhaps even better color. Not fragrance alone, for we can spray scent on a paper flower. Then what is it that attracts in a real flower? The flower is fulfilled. Next time you look at a flower, remember: the tree is rejoicing; the destination has arrived; the blossoming has happened; what was hidden has become manifest; the unmanifest has come forth; the soul has expressed itself; its song has been sung; now there is contentment—no more rushing, no scrambling. This is the secret in a flower. Then whether the flower is marigold or rose, jasmine or champa; whether a tiny grass flower or the great lotus—it makes no difference. There is much difference, but not a trace of opposition.

So those who think there was opposition between Mahavira and Buddha and therefore they did not meet are thinking wrongly. There cannot be opposition. But to the ignorant, difference often looks like opposition. Both are singing their own song; their styles are so different, their language so different, their way so different that naturally it seems there is some opposition. To say they did not meet because there was opposition would be to malign them both—and to prove both ignorant.
But then why didn’t they meet? Jains have asked me, Buddhists have asked me too: then why didn’t they meet?
My answer is something else. My answer is this: there simply weren’t two persons there to meet. With whom would they meet? Who would meet whom? There was only one. For a meeting, two are needed. There wasn’t even that much distance. That is why they did not meet. There is no other reason for not meeting. There was no need to meet either. Mahavira had attained—what was there to meet? Buddha had attained—what was there to meet?

Yet this madness goes on. It is the disciples who keep trying to bring them together—just curiosity, a itch to see what might happen! Nothing will happen. Two zeros will come close and become one zero. There won’t be the slightest sound, not even a rustle; there will be silence. When two men absorbed in samadhi come near, no event occurs. When two non-doers are together, no deed takes place.

So one kind of meeting is that of two enlightened ones—which is futile. A second kind is the meeting of two unenlightened ones—that too is futile; there is plenty of quarrelling in it, but no result. Two unenlightened people talk a lot, but they do not listen to each other. Two enlightened ones do not talk at all, yet they hear each other. The message is heard without speaking; it is understood without words. Two unenlightened ones babble a lot, but who is listening to whom? Each just blows his own horn. That is the second meeting. Both these meetings are useless: the meeting of two unenlightened ones is useless, and the meeting of two enlightened ones is useless.

Meaningful is the meeting of the unenlightened and the enlightened, because there something can happen. That is the third kind of meeting. Only these three kinds of meeting are possible. When the enlightened and the unenlightened meet, the event of disciple and master happens—then something does happen. From the enlightened one’s side a current flows, and if the unenlightened one is ready to receive and assimilate that current, transformation occurs.

That’s all for today.