Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #25

Devotion is a leap. Therefore the separation between means and end is only an intellectual distinction. Thought requires it. In experience there is no such line—means on one side, end on the other—no. When does a seed become a tree—who can draw that line? When does ordinary devotion become supreme devotion—how will you decide? There is no measure. Ordinary devotion is the very beginning of supreme devotion. And supreme devotion is the very culmination of ordinary devotion. When does a child become young? When does youth turn old? There are no lines in life. All lines are imagined. Life is indivisible, line-less, boundless. Devotion is a leap.

And yet, the division does have utility. It has no existential reality, but it has usefulness. For understanding, it helps. One has to begin with ordinary devotion. One must begin by groping in the dark. One day, groping and groping, union happens. The beginning is in separation; but separation is not apart from union. In existential experience, separation is the very beginning of union. They are neither opposites nor different. Separation is the beginning of union, and union is the end of separation. They are joined—like the two wings of a bird, like your two legs, joined and working together. But the masters, to think in straight lines, made divisions. With division, the trouble begins. The moment you divide, the question arises—what is primary? What is not?

Ordinary devotion means: singing hymns, kirtan, repeating the Name, praising the glory of the Lord, listening, satsang. Some masters say: this is primary. And there is force in their argument. For without these, without these seeds, the tree will never be. Without these seeds, flowers will never bloom on the tree. So the foundation is primary.

Then today’s aphorism concerns the other masters.

“nāmnaḥ iti Jaiminiḥ sambhavāt.”
“Acharya Jaimini does not call the ordinary (secondary) devotion primary; elsewhere too it is only mentioned by name.”

Jaimini does not call ordinary devotion primary. There is truth in that too. For what intrinsic value does the seed have in itself? Its only value is that someday flowers may bloom. Value belongs to the flower. Even when we preserve the seed, it is for the fruit—not for the seed itself. We preserve this life as well for the search of the Divine within. In itself it has no ultimate value. In this world, the value finally belongs to that for which we safeguard the means.

Jaimini is also right in saying the summit is valuable, not the base. The base exists for the summit. No one lays a foundation just for the foundation. We lay the cornerstone, but the aim is that a temple will rise, spires will ascend, golden finials will glitter in the sun. The beginning is for that summit. So Jaimini is right too. And yet a great controversy arose between the two. The scriptures split. Where words entered, dispute entered. And where division entered, duality entered.

If you can see the indivisible, don’t fall into division. Shandilya’s vision of life is deeply integrative. Shandilya’s own aphorism is that both are necessary, both indispensable, because in truth they are not two. Before you enter Shandilya’s sutra, keep a few things in mind.

When you set out on a journey, the very first step doesn’t bring the destination—true. But Lao Tzu’s famous saying is: a journey of a thousand miles is taken step by step. So when you took the first step, you did not arrive, but can you assert with certainty that you did not move toward arrival? By one step the destination has come one step closer. One step closer is something of arrival. Then the second step, still closer. And only one step can be taken at a time. Step by step, one completes a journey of a thousand miles.

So one who looks closely will say: with the first step, the destination both has not come and has come. To cling to either half is to fall into error. If someone says, “With the first step I have arrived,” why would he take a second step? He’ll sit down right there—“done!” Many have sat down in temples and mosques like that. They keep singing kirtan—nothing beyond that. Just listening! Just satsang! Centuries pass, lives pass, and it’s only name-repetition, counting beads, chanting mantras, puja, prayer, fire rituals—that’s all! Keep such people in mind—those who sat at the first step.

Therefore it is not right to say, “The destination is found in the first step.” But it is also not right to say, “Nothing of the destination is found in the first step.” For if the first step yields nothing, why would one take it at all? Drop the first step then. And if you drop the first, how will you take the second? The second comes after the first. Thus some have not even taken the first step. They say, “What will stepping do? No destination is found anyway. What good are hymns and kirtan? Is God found by hymns?” They haven’t even sung. Others have made hymns and kirtan everything and camped right there. Two kinds of errors.

Shandilya is saying: fall into neither error. Try to understand both truths. They are two faces of the same coin. The first step is a portion of the destination. The second step adds another portion, the third yet another; one day the steps are completed, and the destination is continuously found. But our notions about life are always like this. From the very day you are born, you have also begun to die—but this does not occur to you. The day a child becomes one day old, one day is less from his life. The child takes his first breath—one breath less remains; he has begun to slip toward death. So the knower will say: in birth, death has also happened—the event has begun. The first breath is also the last breath. Though we know the first is the first—how can it be the last?

As you recognize life, this paradox meets you everywhere. The first is the last; the means carries the end within it. And yet the first is not the last; the means is a means, not the end. One who holds both together begins to glimpse devotion as a leap.

Aldous Huxley, the great Western thinker, wrote a book—Ends and Means. He wrestled deeply with the question: which has greater value—the means or the end?

They are conjoined, not separate. Therefore their values cannot be judged apart. What is more valuable in your body—your legs or your hands? Eyes or ears? Left eye or right eye? Brain or heart? Which? You are a unity, a wholeness. All are essential parts of that wholeness. None is less, none is more. In their togetherness, you are. If there are no eyes, the legs cannot do the eyes’ work. And if there are no legs, the eyes cannot do the legs’ work.

This very confusion has overtaken the life of this country. We called the Brahmins the head; we called the Shudras the feet. The feet became secondary; the head became valuable. But cut the head off and keep it aside—what value remains? Cut off the Brahmin, he’s dead; cut off the Shudra, he’s dead. This view is wrong. Feet and head are both limbs of one integrated person; both indispensable. No less, no more.

Shandilya says: “atra aṅgaprayogāṇāṁ yathākāla-sambhavaḥ gṛhādivat.”
“In this context one should understand the use of the parts at the appropriate time, as in the various parts of a house.”

All are limbs. What we call means are limbs, and what we call the end is also a limb. The real lies beyond both—or, the real subsumes both. The real is made from the union of both. What are you? Your hands, your feet, your eyes, your ears, your sense of taste—you are the sum of all these—and a little more than the sum.

Keep this distinction in mind. This is the very difference between the conscious and the unconscious.

The conscious is never merely the sum of its parts; it is a little more than their sum. The unconscious is merely the sum; nothing more than that.

Consider a car. Dismantle all its parts and no “soul of the car” remains behind. Reassemble the parts and the car stands again. Separate the parts and the car falls apart. The car is only the sum of its parts; there is no soul within it—it is a machine.

Here lies the difference between life and parts. Dismember a human—hands, feet, head—and no matter how you reassemble, the person does not return. The car returns; why not the human? If a human were merely a machine, he should return. This is proof that man is not a machine; he is soul. Something is lost—something that was beyond the parts, more than the parts; something that stayed here because of the parts. You took the parts apart, and that “something” flew away. The parts are a cage; the bird flew. The bird is invisible. You dismantled the cage; the bird became free, flew away. Reattach the bars and the cage returns—but now there is no breath, no heartbeat, no seeing eyes, no hearing ears. The soul is gone.

Consciousness means precisely this—more than the sum. Whatever exceeds the sum of the parts—that is consciousness. That’s why man does not fit into mathematics. Two plus two equals four is only the sum; nothing more. Life does not fit into mathematics. Life falls outside mathematics.

What is left out? Wholeness, the soul. Within the individual we call it the soul; in the totality of existence, experienced, we call it the Divine.

Shandilya says: all are merely limbs. Shandilya’s vision is inclusive. He isn’t merely a pundit; he is an experiencer. He isn’t just a philosopher; if he were, he too would be stuck in the debate of what is primary and what secondary.

There is another delight to notice. If ordinary devotion were truly only a means, then once the devotee arrives, it should end. But it does not end. Meera kept singing even after attaining! She kept humming, kept dancing! If it were merely an instrument, it should cease upon arrival. If it were only a road to the destination, then once at the destination, the road is over—why keep walking the road? But look closely at the lives of devotees. They sang before and they sing after—though the song has changed. The meaning within the song has changed, the gesture of feeling within the song has changed—yet the singing continues. Earlier Meera sang in separation, she pined. Now, after union, she sings in joy. But the song continues—kirtan continues, bhajan continues, satsang continues.

At first the devotee goes to the Master in search of truth; later he goes in gratitude—but the going continues. If the Master were merely a means, then upon attaining, “Pranam and goodbye!” Why go again? But the devotee still goes. The meaning of going has changed. Earlier he bowed to perhaps receive; now he bows because he has received. How can he not bow? He bows in gratitude, in grace. To an outside observer it will not be obvious, because bowing looks the same—whether you bow to ask or to thank; from outside, the gesture is identical.

Let me remind you: this is the very difference between the inert and the conscious. With the inert, the outside and inside are the same. Consciousness cannot be understood from the outside alone. Outwardly the same event may occur, and inwardly everything is different. Two devotees are bowing to their God; two devotees singing in a temple—the same song, the same statue, even the same swaying of bodies—and yet a difference. Outside not a hair’s breadth of difference, and yet there is. One is still seeking; one has found. One is still groping; one is fulfilled. One is empty and so he weeps—tears flow. The other is overflowing and so he weeps—how else to offer thanks but through tears? One’s tears are tears of sorrow; the other’s are tears of joy. But tears are tears. If you collect both and take them to a chemist, they will test the same—both salty, the same chemical substances.

Where the outward remains the same but the inward differs—that is the mark of consciousness. Therefore the act itself has little value; the one standing behind the act has value. What you do matters less; what you are matters more.

Shandilya is right: they are like limbs. Neither the spire has greater worth nor the foundation; both together build the temple. The value belongs to the temple. A temple can be neither without a spire nor without a base. The value belongs to that wholeness. So don’t get trapped in the dispute. Keep the temple’s wholeness in view.

Then the scholars have asked: there are many means—among them which is primary? Suppose we set aside the means-versus-end dispute and say both are equally valuable—still, among the many means, which is prime? There is bhajan, kirtan, repetition of Name, listening, reflection, meditation, satsang, service, worship, offerings, fire rituals—so many means. The intellect always raises questions and gets entangled in them. Which is primary? What should we practice? If all must be practiced, we’ll be in trouble. Among the many, which should we choose? This question seems meaningful to a seeker.

But this too goes wrong. It is like asking: to reach a certain village you can go by bullock cart, on an elephant, on a horse, on foot, by train, by airplane. Which is primary?

All of them can take you there. Then it’s a matter of your own taste! Someone delights in horseback—even if the plane is faster, riding has its joy. Another enjoys walking—there’s a unique joy to walking. The plane will deliver you, but it cannot rival walking! Those mountains that buses didn’t reach until a few years ago—reaching them then had a different joy, because walking itself was a sadhana. Pilgrims to Kailash or Badrinath–Kedarnath made walking a sadhana. Life was at stake. In olden days, pilgrimage meant: who knows if he will return? The family would give a final farewell—perhaps he will not come back. People would weep. Pilgrimage was almost a great departure. Forests, mountains, wild beasts, bandits, murderers—who knows where one might fall and be lost; whether news would ever reach home—uncertain. A final goodbye. Returning was nearly impossible. If someone did return, it was by sheer grace. If not, it was accepted. But the joy then was different. Amidst dangers and challenges, walking had another flavor. The arrival too tasted different.

Now you get into a plane or a helicopter and are dropped at Badrinath–Kedarnath. You paid no price. You arrived, but without paying the price. If in Badrinath you do not feel the peace that pilgrims felt over thousands of years, don’t be surprised—you paid nothing for that peace. You got it for free. You found it lying on the way. Your Badrinath will not be much different from Bombay or Calcutta. Everything depends on how much you pay.

There are many means. None is inferior, none superior. Shandilya’s sutra is precise. He says:

“Īśvara tuṣṭeḥ ekaḥ api balī.”
“For pleasing the Divine, even a single means is strong.”

Only one condition: it must be done in love. Done in love, any means is strong enough. Name-repetition done with love—enough. But you may have repeated the Name; perhaps you did not do it with love. That is why it did not work. People repeat the Name out of fear. What is done from fear will be lost. People remember God when they are dying—the tongue falters, breath is failing, then they mutter. They are doing it out of fear of death, not the joy of life. People remember when they are defeated; when they are winning, they forget. Who remembers God in pleasure? In pain people remember. And so the remembrance does not reach God. Your remembrance itself is false. One who remembers in joy—his remembrance reaches.

The sutra is: “For the love of the Divine.”

In the love of the Lord. Shandilya’s vision is clear. It is not argumentative, not the thinker’s, not the intellectual’s—it is the experiencer’s. From experience he knows that whatever means you take up with love, that alone will take you. Love carries you; the means is merely a support. And whatever love joins becomes immensely powerful.

Understand this: you are sitting here listening to me. This could be mere hearing, or it could be śravaṇa. Hearing means only this: you have ears that work, and the sounds I am making reach you. Śravaṇa is a much bigger thing. Śravaṇa means the words are heard not only by the ears, but by the heart. Ears grow in the heart. You become all ears. Your every hair is listening. Every cell is vibrating. You are not just listening, you are drinking. You are not just listening, you are living it. Each word becomes nourishment within, descends as grace. You are not only hearing words, you are drinking my presence too. That will be śravaṇa. If there is love for me, this becomes possible.

You see many foreign sannyasins here who do not understand a single word of my language. Don’t think they are not engaged in śravaṇa. Śravaṇa has nothing to do with language. It could be that you, who understand my language, are not in śravaṇa; and another who doesn’t understand a word is in śravaṇa.

Śravaṇa is a deeper thing. If there is love toward me—if your eyes, filled with love, rest upon me—then the event is happening. Your heart swings in my hands; your breath slowly falls into rhythm with mine. Little by little you forget that you are separate. If the speaker is here and the listener there—hearing is happening. Where the speaker and listener become one, where they are in attunement, where their feeling-states become one—that moment śravaṇa begins. When someone listens in love, śravaṇa begins. If there is śravaṇa, brimming with love—that is sufficient. If there is bhajan, brimming with love—sufficient.

I went to sleep with your remembrance; I woke with your remembrance.
It’s true, the day’s many-colored world
led me astray;
true, I burned myself
upon every bud and blossom,
yet when darkness fell,
wrapping body and soul in my shawl,
I went to sleep with your remembrance; I woke with your remembrance.

On truth and fantasy, the earth
has long argued through the ages,
but from your nectar-lips
my dampened lashes have been touched;
when you embraced my neck,
songs surged from my throat—
if I call all this a dream, then who is more wretched than I?
I went to sleep with your remembrance; I woke with your remembrance.

Satsang means: one remembrance begins to pursue you. To find a Master means: the Master’s fragrance surrounds you, surrounds you—when you wake, when you sleep. Though you are tangled in a thousand worldly tasks, you know a remembrance abides within your heart. When there is such remembrance, when the heart is filled with love, any means becomes powerful. Means are not powerful or powerless. Infuse any means with love and life enters; where love is absent, life is absent.

Often it happens: someone tells you, “Worship Krishna; look how ecstatic I am worshipping Krishna!” You feel tempted—“Perhaps something happens through Krishna-worship.”

Remember, Krishna has done nothing here. Everything is hidden within the worshipper’s love. He has poured his love upon a statue, and it has become alive. He has poured so much love that the stone is no longer stone—life has entered. He has placed his heartbeat into the statue. This is called bhāva-pratiṣṭhā—consecration by feeling. Now, the statue breathes for him. It is not a statue for him, though it is for you. For him, it is more alive than he himself is. He has offered himself utterly.

Then, an unparalleled form of the statue manifests before him. The idol becomes living. He speaks to Krishna, converses, questions and receives answers. Note: all is happening within him. The question is his; the answer is his. Yet a revolution occurs. The question is from his mind; the answer arises from his soul—and that soul is Krishna. But he has given his soul a support in Krishna; by means of Krishna, his soul can speak. He has given Krishna as a base. His center is speaking through his circumference. The circumference questions; the center answers. Now the answers become catchable because Krishna is present; reflected in Krishna’s mirror, the answer returns to him, so he is not afraid, “Perhaps it’s my own mind.” The answer is his, but he lacks the confidence to find it himself. He needs a pretext, a channel.

One who can descend directly within will also receive answers; but he may always be in doubt—“Is this mine? How true? Perhaps my mind tricked me; perhaps I fabricated what I wanted; perhaps my desire is hidden within.” All these doubts arise. You will be surprised: a true Master tells you only that which, had you searched deeply, you would have found within yourself. The Master is a mirror. He reflects your inner depth. But when you see it there, you gain trust. You can walk with confidence, feeling a strong hand holds you—you are not alone. That assurance gives speed to the journey, breath to the journey.

Wherever you pour love, revolution happens. Love is revolution. Love transforms stone. Where love is not, even a living person becomes stone. You’ve seen it: someone you don’t love—whether he exists or not makes no difference to you. A neighbor dies; you hear it—you say, “How unfortunate”—all formalities. No line is drawn within. But love a stone statue, and if it breaks, you weep. Your heart shatters. Life exists where your love exists. Life appears where you look with eyes of love. Otherwise, life appears nowhere.

Shandilya says: “Wherever you pour love into a means...”

He made a great shift—he did not prolong the dispute over which means is correct. Someone will say, “Kirtan is right, one reaches through kirtan.” Another will say, “What will kirtan do? It is your own voice—you will keep humming yourself. What will dancing do? Your own legs—you will keep dancing. If the ignorant dances, how will he become wise by dancing? A song born of ignorance—how will it remove ignorance? What is born of ignorance cannot remove ignorance. So nothing happens through kirtan. Sit in satsang. Sit with a true Master. Satsang is primary.”

But you can sit with a Master and still remain far. Seeing the Master is not easy. Even face to face, you can miss. Buddha looks into your eyes and you still miss. You cannot trust. Your life is filled with doubts and suspicions. Thousands of assumptions stand in the way. Buddha passes by and you remain the same—nothing stirs, no thrill, no news within. Buddha remains invisible. For you, he cannot become visible. What will satsang do? Sit and listen? Listening again and again, you slowly forget how to listen. Hearing the same thing again and again, you think—what is the point?

That’s why you find people sleeping in temples and religious assemblies. They already know—“the same Ram-katha!” They know what comes next. Nothing changes. Think a little: if you had to watch the same film again and again, how long would you stay awake? Once, twice, thrice—then you know what comes next. A novel you’ve read once—how many times can you reread? People keep reading the Ram-katha. What are they reading? They’re not reading anymore; they’re just repeating blindly, deafly. No meaning is born within. No wave arises. A dead state. Scriptures get memorized. Likewise, sitting with a Master, his words may get memorized. Then you keep hearing without listening and keep sleeping. What will satsang do?

So, on the other side, some say satsang is useless—do worship, wave the lamp, arrange plates of offerings; do something. What will listening do? Thus the debate goes on.

Shandilya did the right thing—he broke the debate in a single stroke. This is the art of the wise. He shattered the frame and gave a new meaning:

“Īśvara tuṣṭeḥ ekaḥ api balī.”
“For pleasing the Divine, even one single means is strong.”

The essence is his love.

“You cannot escape the prison of my love,
your image dwells in my heart, your thought dwells in my heart.
Where will you go, snatching your hem from me?
I can arise as remembrance within you, I can dwell within your heart.”

And remember: as much as you let the Divine dwell in your heart, by the same proportion you dwell in the Divine’s heart. There is a ratio that never deviates. As much as you remember him, from the other side remembrance begins as well. The Divine reflects back precisely what you do. If you hurl abuse, abuse falls back on you. If you spread love, love showers upon you.

Mark this well: whatever you receive—if you inquire—you will find it is exactly what you gave forth to the world. Call it, in doctrinal language, the law of karma.

It is not that some God sits up there keeping ledgers of your thefts, black marketeering, bribes, and frauds. Who would keep such accounts? There is no need. Whatever you do, existence inevitably returns to you. Your action becomes your future. One who remembers the Divine with a heart full of joy—upon him, from all sides, the Divine begins to shower.

“Quench my thirst, or let your remembrance set it aflame again.
In cups of gold and silver
sparkling water was poured;
parched, I bent to drink
but turned suddenly grave—
there is a difference between water and water,
there is a difference between thirst and thirst—
either quench my thirst, or let your remembrance set it aflame again.

On a petal, upon two
drops of dew—who dives and drowns?
Awaiting that very moment
I sometimes sing, sometimes fall silent,
when the ocean of nectar will listen,
beat his head into foam made form,
and the sea will hold a love-dialogue
between wine and poison.
Quench my thirst, or let your remembrance set it aflame again.”

The devotee says there are only two ways now—

“Quench my thirst, or let your remembrance set it aflame again.”

Either quench it, or inflame it so utterly that I am burnt to ash in it. But these two are not two. When you stoke your thirst so completely that you burn to ash in it—only then thirst is quenched. The completion of thirst is its quenching. The completion of pain is its remedy. So long as thirst is partial, wandering persists. Let love for God be such that you are ready to vanish—then, in that very instant, union can happen. The price must be paid.

People want it cheap. They ask: “Where is God? We want to see God.” I ask them, “What are you ready to pay to attain God?” When someone comes and says, “Show me God!” I say, “God will be seen—that’s not the big thing; that’s simple. The real question is—what are you ready to pay?”

They say, “Pay? Pay what? It’s only a matter of seeing God.”

Not an ounce of readiness to pay. If you ask them to hum a song daily for an hour in remembrance, they say, “That won’t be possible—where is the time?” Ask them to dance sometimes—“People will laugh. We have wife and children—what of our respectability?” Ask them, “Do nothing—just sit for an hour with eyes closed, forget the outside for a little while.” They say, “How can that be? Can thoughts be stopped? Thoughts cannot stop!” They are convinced beforehand.

They are not even ready to drop the garbage of thoughts—thoughts that will cost them nothing to drop, thoughts that never gave them anything. They have time for cinema, for sitting in cafés, for playing cards, for idle chatter, for reading newspapers; but if you speak of meditation, instantly they reply—“Where is the time? Should we earn our bread or meditate?” They do not ask this while going to the movies. You see the queues outside the cinemas—the very same people who say they have no time to meditate.

Mark it: we are not ready to pay anything to attain God. Not even willing to sit quietly for an hour. We want it for free. Hence, in this century, God has been lost. God is as much as ever—but those ready to pay are lost; there are no buyers. People want it free—God should come to their door, massage their feet, and say, “Please look at me.” And they might still say, “No time. Come later! Many errands to run.”

In my view only those see God who have the courage to pay.

“abandhaḥ arpaṇasya mukham.”
“Offering is the doorway to freedom from bondage.”

These are precious sutras. Shandilya says that if you offer yourself in love, all the bonds of action dissolve. Offer yourself wholly once—say, “I am yours; whatever you have me do, I will do; what you don’t have me do, I won’t; good is yours, bad is yours; virtue yours, vice yours; I am yours; I drop the ‘I will’; I will only say ‘yes’; you give the command and I will say ‘yes’; if you take me east, east; if west, west; wherever you take me, I will go; if you send me to hell, I will go—no complaint. I surrender myself into your hands.” One who says this and does this within—his life is transformed.

What transforms? The doer-ego dissolves. You are no longer the doer; the Divine is the doer. What are you now? A puppet. The whole essence of devotion is in the dance of the puppet.

Have you seen a puppet show? The puppeteer is hidden. The strings are in his hands. The puppets weep, sing, dance, quarrel, love—everything happens. But the puppet has nothing of its own. It dances on another’s cue.

The essence of devotion is: become a puppet. Drop the claim “I will do,” or that anything can be done by “me.” Where the “I” goes, the doer-ego goes—action as bondage goes too. Then the Divine takes charge. From that moment, grace begins to shower. Life goes on as before—you continue to do what you did—and yet everything changes. You are no longer the doer. If success comes, you do not say “I succeeded; see—I’m special.” If failure comes, you don’t weep; you don’t say “I failed; I’ll kill myself.” The distinction between pleasure and pain disappears.

What is the distinction between pleasure and pain? As long as you are the doer, there is a distinction. Between success and failure? As long as you are doing, there is. When you are not the doer—success is his, failure is his. Whether the puppet is made to win or to lose—what does it matter to the puppet? Whether it is dropped or lifted, placed on a throne or hung on a cross—what is that to the puppet?

“abandhaḥ arpaṇasya mukham.”
“By offering, bondage is undone.”

“To you I offer my hope, my despair, my thirst.
The day wings sprouted on me,
it was you who stroked my shoulders.
Every path I roamed,
you were the one who showed it.
For wandering, a hundred places;
for resting, only your embracing arms—
To you I offer my hope, my despair, my thirst.

If I take your name, the roll
of my dreams is fulfilled.
That with which you are not connected
is an unfinished work, an incomplete word.
The life that moves is the life in which you move,
the voice that speaks is the voice in which you speak—
If not dead and dumb, then all my longings, all my desires—
are offered to you, my hope, my despair, my thirst.

What I have yearned to gain from you,
how can I tell?
What I have been eager to give you,
how can I show?
When does this leather tongue ever
catch my feelings?
In these songs—crippled language
that longs to dance in heaven—
To you I offer my hope, my despair, my thirst.”

Offer everything—hope, despair, thirst. Offer everything—darkness and light, pleasure and pain, aspirations and melancholy. Offer all.

To you I offer my hope, my despair, my thirst.

Don’t hold anything back. Don’t think, “I will offer only the good.” That too is ego. “I will offer my saintliness.” That too is ego. Don’t take only flowers to the Lord’s feet—otherwise you will miss. What about your thorns? People offer only flowers.

I lived long in a village. I had planted a large garden. An elderly gentleman would come every morning—“I need some flowers, I’m going to the temple.” I watched him plucking flowers many times. One day I said, “Sometimes take thorns too.”

He said, “What are you saying—thorns? Which scripture says to offer thorns?”

I said, “There is no scripture that does not say it. There are hints everywhere; perhaps not bluntly—but I am telling you: take thorns too. For you will offer flowers—what will become of your thorns? You will offer your heaven—what of your hell? You will offer your god—what of your demon? That demon will remain with you. You will be trapped in that. Offer everything! Why make distinctions when you are offering? All is his anyway—whether you offer or not. But if you offer, your life will be transformed. Tvadīyaṁ vastu tubhyameva samarpaye—what is yours, I offer back to you. It was never mine.”

You have nothing to give. You belong to him—what can you possibly have to give?

But you have put on airs. What is not yours, you have claimed as yours. You have drawn lines on the earth: my land, my nation, my house; my wife, my son—these are lines you have drawn, all illegal. For all belongs to him. You own nothing here. The whole world is only “mine” and “thine.”

To you I offer my hope, my despair, my thirst.

The day wings sprouted on me,
you stroked my shoulders.

Only when he strokes your shoulders do wings sprout. When he breathes, you breathe. When he beats, your heart beats. He is your life—the life of your life.

Every path I roamed,
you were the one who showed it.

Whether you know it or not, it is he who is pulling your strings. Wherever you have roamed, on whichever paths you have walked—you walked by his showing. But you can put on your pride.

I have heard: there was a heap of stones near a palace. A child playing nearby picked up a stone and flung it toward a palace window. The child threw—but stones have egos too. As the stone rose above the heap, it said to the stones below, “Friends, I am setting out on a journey.”

The stones below, burning with envy, writhed but could not move. They thought, “This is a special stone—incarnate, extraordinary. We cannot fly.”

Who does not yearn to fly? Stones also want to soar in the sky—to talk to the moon and stars, to travel to the sun. Who does not long for wings? You too grow wings in dreams and fly. Stones also dream. The joy of flying is such! The freedom is such! The open sky! To fly is to be free—no bonds, the whole sky yours. They squirmed, suffered, burned with jealousy, and lay there.

The stone flew, struck the palace window, the glass shattered. When stone hits glass, glass shatters. The stone does nothing; nothing needs to be done—it is in the nature of both that when stone strikes, glass breaks. There is no deed of the stone here. But the stone laughed and said, “I have said a thousand times—let no one come in my way. Whoever does will be shattered.”

This is what you have done. Reflect—this is what you have said. This is how you have lived. It’s coincidence; there is no glory in it for the stone. Stone is stone, glass is glass—so it is. The glass is delicate; the stone is hard—so it is. Neither is the stone doing anything nor the glass; all is by nature.

The glass shattered, the stone fell onto the palace carpet—an expensive Persian carpet! Do you know what the stone said? “Traveler of a long journey, I’m tired—let me rest a bit.” It had fallen, but said, “Let me rest!”

When you are fired from your job, you say, “I resigned.” You lose an election and say, “I renounced politics; I have taken sannyas.”

The doorman heard the sound of glass breaking and the thud of the stone, ran in, picked up the stone to throw it out. The stone said, “Such kind people—spread carpets for my welcome and posted servants too.”

The servant hurled it out the window. Do you know what the stone said, falling? “It’s been long since I left home. I miss my friends—let me go back.”

And as it fell back onto its heap it said, “Friends, I missed you so much. I lived in palaces, in kings’ hands, met emperors—but still, one’s home, one’s people, one’s land—motherland—how I missed it! I have returned. I left all that behind.”

Such is your life. You don’t know what hand throws you into life. You don’t know why you were born. Who birthed you—you don’t know. Why? You know nothing. Yet you say—my life, my birth! As if you had a hand in it, as if you decided, as if it was done after consulting you, as if you knew.

Then, who stirs desires in you, who kindles passions—you know nothing. Yet you say—“I will do this. I will be a musician, I’ll show the world.” Who raised the desire in you to be a musician? Did you? It is beyond your control. It arose; you found it arising. You thought, “I will earn great wealth, I want a beautiful wife, a handsome man,” but all these desires arose within you. You did not raise them; you are not their owner. From what depth they arise—you know nothing. Which hand is pulling the strings—you know nothing. Who hurls you into life’s struggle? Who fills you with ambition? You know nothing. This play you are playing is not your script. The part you are acting is not yours. What you are becoming isn’t simply your doing—there is a great secret hidden behind, completely unknown, in darkness.

A devotee sees this and understands. From this very understanding, offering is born. In this understanding, offering happens. He sees, “Where am I? Some unknown brought me; some unknown breathes; some unknown will take me away one day—as I came, so I will go. Some unknown is sending me on journeys. So long as he sends, I go; the day he stops, I stop. Neither the world is mine, nor renunciation is mine.”

People come to me and ask, “A longing for sannyas is arising—should I take it or not?”

I say, “Is it in your hands? If you are to decide, you have not understood sannyas. If you become the decider, sannyas is missed. Which unknown is raising this longing within you—now leave it in his hands. Let him take sannyas through you. He is the one who takes sannyas through you; he is the one who, through you, leaves sannyas and goes into the world. All his play, all his dualities, his entire lila.”

When this recognition dawns… and if this dawns in satsang, satsang is fulfilled. Sitting with someone, this sinks in—that you are not, the Divine is. Then even to say “I offer” becomes unnecessary. Who is there to offer? To whom? You become offering; you don’t have to do it. No announcement is needed: “From today I offer myself to God.” One day, through understanding, you find—it has happened! From today, you are not; only the Divine is.

If I take your name, the roll
of my dreams is fulfilled.
That with which you are not connected
is an unfinished work, an incomplete word.
The life that moves is the life in which you move,
the voice that speaks is the voice in which you speak—
If not dead and dumb, then all my longings, all my desires—
are offered to you, my hope, my despair, my thirst.

All is offered. All thorns and flowers, heaven and hell, darkness and light, good and bad, sin and virtue—everything is offered.

“abandhaḥ arpaṇasya mukham.”
And one who has thus offered is free. He is liberated while living.

Keep this sutra in mind. It is the essence. One sutra is enough. On the strength of this single sutra, your whole life can be made new; you can be reborn; you can become twice-born.

“What of mine is there that is not yours already?
In the flowers of my clasped hands
beloved—your garland.
From the lamp in my hands
your house takes light.
In your courtyard of aloes and incense,
my heart has burned.
What of mine is there that is not yours already?

Did I awake or did you
open your lotus-eyes?
Did my song break forth or did
your birds of feeling sing?
My fortune’s dawn
is your window of morning.
The arrows of the red ray are mine; your lovely daybreak—
What of mine is there that is not yours already?”

The moment you offer, you discover—what is yours is his. Then another revolution happens—what is his becomes yours. Give once—and receive. Spend once—and gain. Die—and you are.

“What of mine is there that is not yours already?”

One day you must experience this. Then the unparalleled event happens when you experience—

“What of yours is there that is not mine now?”

Offer your smallness into him—and his vastness becomes yours. You will not lose anything. It is a bargain. Only fools are afraid. Leave your tiny courtyard, and his sky becomes yours. Leave your little world, and his entire cosmos becomes yours. Leave nothing—and gain everything.

A man came to Ramakrishna and said, “Your renunciation is great.”

Ramakrishna said, “Hush! Do not repeat such nonsense. You are the renunciate; I am the enjoyer!”

A startling statement. The man was taken aback; even Ramakrishna’s disciples were surprised—what is he saying? Everyone knew the man was the richest man in town and the biggest miser—Ramakrishna calling him renunciate and himself the enjoyer! The man protested, “Are you joking? I, a renunciate? No, no, you are the renunciate—I am the enjoyer.”

Ramakrishna said, “I cannot agree. You have clung to the trivial and renounced the vast—so you are the renunciate. I have gained the vast and let go of the trivial—how am I a renunciate? If someone drops a penny and picks up the Kohinoor, will you call him a renunciate? If someone clings to a penny and drops the Kohinoor—he is the renunciate.”

Ramakrishna spoke rightly—pure truth. I say to you: yoga brings you to supreme enjoyment. As long as you are an enjoyer, you don’t even know enjoyment. The so-called enjoyer is not an enjoyer at all—he is a great renunciate. He clings to the petty and misses the vast. He clings to the limited and is deprived of the unlimited. He clings to the mortal while ambrosia rains down and he does not drink. He creeps down the dark alley of death while the sky of nectar is open and he does not spread his wings. I tell you: the yogi is the supreme enjoyer. What enjoyment can surpass the enjoyment of the Divine?

“What of mine is there that is not yours already?”

Say this. Live this.

“In the flowers of my clasped hands
beloved—your garland.”

The flowers in your hands—do not think them yours; think them his garland.

“From the lamp in my hands
your house takes light,”

Do not light your lamps for yourself; light his house. All is his. Your house is also his.

“In your courtyard of aloes and incense,
my heart has burned,”

Burn yourself like this—burn the heart; burning aloes and incense won’t do.

“In your courtyard of aloes and incense,
my heart has burned.
What of mine is there that is not yours already?”

Then everything changes form. A unique feeling arises within—“What of yours is there that is not mine now?” Lose the “I” and all becomes yours.

Jesus said: blessed are those who are ready to lose themselves, for only they will be saved. Unfortunate are those who try to save themselves. Whoever saved himself lost himself.

“Did I awake or did you
open your lotus-eyes?”

Ponder this, meditate on it!

“Did I awake or did you
open your lotus-eyes?
Did my song break forth or did
your birds of feeling sing?”

Who awakens within you? He awakens. All awakening is his; all consciousness is his. When you open your eyes in the morning, don’t think you opened your eyes—he opened his eyes within you. He breathed, he lived, he opened your eyes. In the night he closes his eyes to rest; in the morning, he opens his eyes and goes to work. The day you begin to understand yourself like this, that day you are offered.

“Did I awake or did you
open your lotus-eyes?
Did my song break forth or did
your birds of feeling sing?”

What will you sing? All songs are his. Where you enter, there is discord.

Someone said to Rabindranath Tagore: “You have sung such lovely songs.” Tagore said, “Those I sang are not the lovely ones. Wherever I entered, the meter broke. Where you find perfect meter, I am absent. All meter is his.”

Coleridge, a great poet, died leaving thousands of poems unfinished in his house. His friends always knew he kept leaving poems incomplete. They asked him, “Why don’t you complete them?”

Coleridge said, “How can I complete them? Whatever descended, descended. Whatever he sang, he sang. I have tried to complete them sometimes—but I found that whatever I add spoils everything. One line may be missing, only one line needed to complete the poem. I tried to add that line in many ways, but my line remains separate. Those lines that descended have another fragrance—the fragrance of the other world. Whatever I add looks like a patch.”

It happened with Tagore too. He translated Gitanjali into English. He felt a bit unsure—English was not his mother tongue; perhaps the translation wasn’t right. He showed it to C. F. Andrews. Andrews said, “The translation is fine—only three-four places are a little off grammatically.” Andrews was a scholar; the words he suggested also pleased Tagore—“they are correct.” Tagore changed them.

Then in London, Tagore invited poets to listen to Gitanjali. A small gathering in W. B. Yeats’s house. Tagore read. People were moved. But Yeats stood up and said, “All is fine, but in three-four places there is a hitch.”

Tagore asked, “Which places?”

They were exactly the ones Andrews had suggested. Tagore could not believe it. “How did you recognize them?”

Yeats said, “The meter broke. A few things have come like stones.”

Tagore read his original words. Yeats said, “These are right—they may be grammatically wrong, but metrically they are right; let them be. They have flow; they didn’t come like stones. They have a wave-like coherence, a music, a harmony.”

“Did my song break forth or did
your birds of feeling sing?”

One who is offered slowly experiences—he speaks only when He speaks; I am a bamboo flute. Kabir said the same: I am a hollow reed. If you sing, there is song; if you fall silent, there is silence.

“Did my song break forth or did
your birds of feeling sing?
My fortune’s dawn
is your window of morning.
The arrows of the red ray are mine; your lovely daybreak—
What of mine is there that is not yours already?”

“abandhaḥ arpaṇasya mukham.”
“By offering, bondage is undone.”

Have you grasped the sutra? There is nothing to “offer.” All is already his. Even while you think “mine,” it is his. Your claim is false. Remove the false claim. That is all.

The moment that false claim drops, a new state dawns—an inner morning. The Divine lives through you. That is the state of liberation. You do not live—so how can there be bondage? Then, whatever He has you do, you do. Try this for a few days—“Whatever He has me do, that I do.” And it will not necessarily change what you do. You used to go to the shop; you will still go. God is not one to drag everyone into a Himalayan cave. How would his world run then? Nor is it that if you leave everything to God, he will separate you from your wife and children. It is “holy men” who have done the separating—not God. Beware of holy men. They have committed much violence. They have distorted the world of God. They have made wives widows while husbands still live, children orphans while fathers still live.

People ask me, “What kind of sannyas is yours—that a man stays in the house—with wife and children?”

A friend from Kalyan took sannyas. He worked in Bombay. He came to me one day with his wife and said, “Give her sannyas too.” I asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “When I go with her, people look suspiciously—what woman has this sannyasin run off with? Many ask, ‘Who is this lady?’ and in a tone as if I’m committing a crime. If I say ‘my wife,’ they look at me as if I’ve gone mad. ‘A sannyasin—with a wife?’ Please give her sannyas too.”

A week later he brought his little son—“Give him sannyas too.” I asked, “What’s this now?” He said, “Now when we go with him, people think we’ve abducted someone’s child! Rumors keep flying that sadhus kidnap children. Yesterday in a train a policeman came and said, ‘Get down, come to the station—whose child is this? Where are you taking him?’”

A notion has formed: a sannyasin is a deserter, an escapist—leave everything and run.

That is not the meaning of sannyas. Sannyas means: leave everything to Him. Not: leave everything and run! To leave and run is a new ego—“I left everything; I am a sannyasin.” That is a new bondage—a new chain. And the new chains are more dangerous than the old. The old ego was gross; the new ego is subtle—“I left everything! Kicked millions! Left wife and children, left the world—look what I have done!” You become even more of a claimant before God. Your claim hasn’t gone. If God meets you, you will lodge a thousand complaints—“I am being treated unjustly. I have left so much and still not attained liberation; still no sign of heaven; still no apsarās! Where are the apsarās? Where are the rivers of wine? Where is paradise? What more do you want—I have given up everything. Nothing is left.”

You gave up nothing. You left nothing.

To leave means: leave all to God. Then let Him make you live as He wills. If He says, “Stay in the home, with wife and children”—fine. That is the revolution in my eyes. Leave all to Him. If He makes you run the shop—fine.

Kabir attained wisdom, attained samadhi—but he kept weaving cloth. He was a weaver, and remained a weaver. Disciples pleaded: “It pains us—our Master weaving cloth all day. Leave it. We will feed you, arrange everything. We are always ready to serve—why don’t you leave?”

Kabir said, “When He makes me leave, I’ll leave! He is completely okay with my weaving. There is no hint from His side. He is very pleased with my cloth. When I take my cloth to the market, He happily buys it. Ram comes to buy—Kabir used to say. And if I don’t weave, who will make such beautiful cloth for Him? Jhīni jhīni bīnī re chadariyā—he weaves the subtle cloth and sings. He doesn’t just weave cloth—he weaves song into it. He weaves the nectar of Ram into the cloth. This cloth is different. Woven by an offered hand.” The work continued.

Gora the potter attained wisdom, yet remained a potter—kept making pots.

There is the tale of Tuladhar the merchant. He attained Brahman-knowledge, yet kept weighing—sat at the scales; his work continued.

One who has offered himself has no personal agenda. Now whatever the Divine has him do, he does. If He doesn’t, he doesn’t. On his own, he does nothing. Whatever comes from Him, let it happen; we remain his instruments.

The entire essence of Krishna’s Gita is contained in this sutra—abandhaḥ arpaṇasya mukham. This is all Krishna said in that long Gita, which Shandilya has said in one line. He explained to Arjuna: become offered, leave all to Him, become merely a channel. If He makes you fight, fight; whatever He makes you do—do. Don’t bring yourself in between. Do not be the decider. Your being the decider is your worldliness. Become non-deciding—merely a receiver of His messages—that is sannyas.

“dhyāva niyamaḥ tu dṛṣṭa-saukaryāt.”
“Meditation is to contemplate in that very feeling whose sight brings contentment to the eyes.”

An important sutra—mark it.

Most people impose meditation, worship, prayer upon themselves by force. That is not right. Nothing forced will yield fruit. It should be a natural flow of your nature. The trouble is that with birth your religion has also been fed to you. With mother’s milk your religion was fed. Someone is born in a Jain home. Maybe a natural surge for devotion arises in him—but how will he dance before Mahavira? Mahavira stands naked—dance has no place there. How will he sing songs before Mahavira? Song looks out of place. Songs can be sung before Krishna; one can dance before Krishna. Think—if Meera were a devotee of Mahavira, how would she dance? Her legs would be cut!

Someone is born in a Krishna-following home. Perhaps he has no taste for dancing, songs, kirtan; he longs to sit quietly like Buddha, to stand still like Mahavira. But a hurdle has come. Your religion is not chosen by your nature. It is accidental. You were born in a certain house and a religion was thrust upon you.

One who truly seeks the Divine must first seek his own nature—which way does my natural, spontaneous stream of taste flow? One who understands his nature rightly will have no difficulty.

“Meditation is to contemplate in that feeling whose sight gratifies the eyes.”

Both kinds of eyes—outer and inner. Someone may be utterly absorbed in Krishna’s form. Another may find that form distressing—“What kind of God is this, with peacock feather and ornament? This is full of attachment. Where is detachment? These gopis dancing, these crowds of women, this rasa—what kind of God is this?” Hence Jains did not accept Krishna as God. How could they? In their view, detachment is godliness. And they are not wrong either. There is a kind of person for whom detachment alone is godliness. And there is a kind for whom the fulfillment of attachment into rasa is godliness. This garden holds many kinds of people. Many kinds of flowers bloom here. That is this garden’s glory. If only roses bloomed, people would have grown tired. Here champa, juhi, jasmine and a thousand others flower—new colors, new modes. Choose according to your natural taste.

Shandilya says: whatever gratifies your outer eyes—that will gratify your inner eyes too. Therefore, do not let other doctrines intrude. Whatever your heart falls in love with—let it. Move with it. Let the world say what it will. Don’t bother. The stream that gives you rasa—that will take you. If you merge into a stream of joy, you will reach the ocean of the Divine.

“Meditation is contemplation in that feeling whose sight gratifies the eyes.”

First outside, then inside. First, the outer eyes are pleased—and eyes here are merely a symbol, a pointer.

Here with me there are so many kinds of people. For some, vipassana fits—sitting silently. For some, vipassana feels like a prison. Some find joy in the Sufi dance—song and dance!

First inquire into your own state. You have to reach the Divine. Do not choose anything that you feel is forced upon you. Too often people choose such things. Because with force they feel, “Ah, I’m doing austerity.” You are doing foolishness, not austerity. Some stand on their heads only because it hurts; because the notion is fixed that through pain one gains God.

You are mad. No pain is needed to attain God. If you are in pain, the only reason is you are going against your nature. And to attain the Divine, you must move in accord with your nature. As you draw near to the Divine, pleasure increases, pain decreases; slowly a halo of peace descends, a state of bliss, a drunkenness.

But people have chosen painful things. One benefit comes—ego gratification. Someone fasts and the ego is pleased—“Look! You are greedy for food, dying for it; I have fasted for thirty days. Bow at my feet! Salute! Take out a procession—the monk has fasted thirty days!”

If fasting brings you joy, what need of a procession? If fasting brings you joy, what need for people to bow to your feet? People bow only when they feel, “Poor man, he has taken on great suffering; what austerity!”

In the search for God, austerity arises from your mistakes. If you suffer, it is because of your unawareness. On the path to the Divine there is joy upon joy. Ramakrishna is right: “I am an enjoyer.” I tell you too: I am an enjoyer—and I want to make you supreme enjoyers.

To torture yourself is a psychological disease. Ask psychologists. They have a name—masochism. There are people who take pleasure in hurting themselves, who enjoy making wounds in their own life, who enjoy harassing themselves.

There are two kinds of people in the world—those who enjoy harassing others and those who enjoy harassing themselves. Both are sick. There is no need to harass anyone else, nor yourself. Recognize your nature rightly and travel in the direction of the natural. You are bound to arrive. You have already arrived—only recognition of your nature is needed.

“dhyāva niyamaḥ tu dṛṣṭa-saukaryāt.”
Whatever pleases your eyes, whatever satisfies your life-breath—that is meditation. That is the path. Where joy increases day by day—day doubled, night quadrupled—that is meditation.

Do you grasp the revolution of this sutra?

It will free you from all the diseases of your life. If only Freud had read this sutra, he would not have written so much against religious people. For he only saw so-called religious ascetics torturing themselves. Some pluck out their eyes. Some cut off their genitals. Some tear their ears. Some dry up their bodies. Some stand in the sun. Some sleep on beds of thorns. These are methods to attain God! Someone pierces his mouth with a trident. Someone stands for years, never sitting. Someone never sleeps at night, only keeps vigil.

These are states of diseased minds. These are deranged people. They need psychiatric care. Don’t take out processions for them—admit them to hospitals. Give them electric shocks. Their minds are distorted. This is not austerity—they are merely enjoying causing themselves pain.

But others also enjoy it—because others too are pain-lovers. When others give themselves pain, you also enjoy it. You also go to watch. You feel pleasure. You don’t rejoice when you see a happy person; you feel a bit irritated. You rejoice seeing the unhappy—because then you learn, “At least I’m better off than this one.” A relief—“I’m better!” When you see a happy person, jealousy arises.

It is hard to rejoice with the happy; that is why happy people are not worshipped. The unhappy have been worshipped.

I am giving you a new vision of sannyas. Joy is not to be renounced. The very thread of joy will take you toward the Divine. Do whatever accords with your nature—because your nature is God.

Enough for today.