Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #26

If even the fragrance remains, you will remain. Save even that much and you end up saving everything. The “I” simply does not want to vanish; it keeps finding new ways to survive.

“May the color of that flower fade so that only the fragrance remains…”
But why the fragrance? That too will be yours—indeed, a stink. If you are going to dissolve, anything less than total will not do.

“Let the head go if it must, but let honor remain…”
Honor! And what is the head if not this? For the head to go does not mean the lump on your shoulders gets chopped off. Honor is the head—your prestige, your pride, that sense of “I”: my status, my respect! You are saving the real and throwing away the fake? No—you’re saving the essence of the ego. You keep the fragrance and drop the flower. Yet the flower had value only because of the fragrance. And honor is exactly your head. If the head is to be saved, let it be—but honor must go. Let the flower remain if it wants to, but the fragrance must go. You are keen to preserve the very sap of ego.

“May the color of that flower fade so only the fragrance remains…”
Why? Until you become utterly empty, the divine cannot arrive.

“Let the head go if it must, but let honor remain…”
“Let Your glory be proven by my negation…”
Whatever you try to prove, you will end up proving only yourself—nothing else. All your claims and evidences only validate your ego. God will not be proven by you. When you disappear, God is already self-evident. Step aside; make space. God need not be brought, proven, established, or found; God is. Only your ego has become a veil—not over God, but over your eyes. Let that veil fall!

But you keep protecting the veil and say:
“Let Your glory be proven by my negation…”
Even God’s majesty you want certified by you! His proclamation must come through you! You will prove God.

Inevitably, the prover becomes greater than what is proven. If God cannot be established without you, He is dependent on you. You become His argument, His witness. Without you, God is worth two pennies. You give Him value—and thereby, through the back door, you give yourself value. Ego’s habits are so subtle they never quite leave. Close one door, it opens another. Drive it from the gross, it slips into the subtle. Push it out of the conscious, it seizes the unconscious. Banish it by day, it returns at night in dreams. Ego’s pathways are exquisitely fine. You must understand it wholly, or else your struggle will be futile. Ego knows only one language: self-preservation. You must uproot it from the very root.

I have heard: A journalist, seeing a beggar buy a lottery ticket, asked curiously, Baba, if you win the first prize, what will you do with the money?
The beggar said, Son, I’ll buy a car. My legs break walking around begging.
But he will still beg. Begging is his habit now, his nature. He will beg from the car—but he will beg.

Recognize the language of the ego rightly; don’t be hasty to annihilate it. It is not as easy as you think. It is arduous, very delicate, very subtle. Only with extreme alertness does one go within and someday become free of ego. You need abundant inner light through meditation and deep humility through prayer—a sense of helplessness. And don’t grab at something too quickly; otherwise one disease leaves and another is caught, but the grasping continues.

I’ve heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a chemist and said, Remember, yesterday I bought an ink-stain remover here?
The shopkeeper said, Yes, Mulla, very well; do you need another bottle?
Mulla said, No—give me something to remove the stain left by that remover.
The ink stain went, now the medicine’s stain remains! Where will this end? How will it end?

No need to rush. Don’t even start trying to erase the “I.” The “I” is such a clever craftsman that if you set out to erase it, it will hide behind the eraser. One day the ego will rise and proclaim, Look, I have destroyed my ego! Now I am egoless! Who is as humble as I? Such a declaration is the ego’s own.

Awaken within. Watch and recognize the routes of ego. There is no need to fight. Fight only if you wish to lose—if you want to be defeated.

Then how does ego go?
Ego dissolves through awareness alone—just as darkness disappears when a light is lit. You don’t have to shove darkness out! You don’t have to slash it with a sword! You don’t wrestle with darkness. If someone starts wrestling with darkness, thumping his chest, do you think he will ever win? He will die fighting, and darkness will not be even scratched. And naturally, losing again and again, he will conclude, I am weak; darkness is all-powerful.

But the truth is different. Darkness does not exist as a thing—that is why you can’t defeat it. If darkness were something, you could cut it, push it out. Darkness is merely the absence of light. Light a small lamp, a candle—and darkness is gone. Your effort should be in lighting the lamp, not in fighting the dark.

This is the fundamental difference between the atheist and the theist.
The atheist begins to fight, to negate—eliminate this, drop that; renounce this, abandon that. This is my definition of the atheist. Your definition says: whoever doesn’t believe in God is an atheist. That is not true. Mahavira did not accept a God, yet he was supremely theistic. Buddha did not accept a God, but where will you find a greater theist than Buddha? And millions believe in God—look into their lives: where is the theism? So your notion that one who does not believe in God is an atheist—and one who does is a theist—has become false. A new definition is needed.

Here is my definition: Whoever lives by negation, by “no,” is an atheist. Whoever lives by yes, by trust, by reverence, by acceptance, is a theist. Then believing in God becomes secondary. One who has learned to say yes to existence will come to know God, whether he names it or not. One who has learned the language of no will die, writhe, be miserable, and never experience. In negation, the ego survives.

Psychologists say the day a child begins to say no to his parents—the ego is born. Around three or four, the child first starts refusing. Until then, he accepted what mother said—silently, trustingly. That trust goes; the fight begins. Mother says, Sit here. He says, I won’t sit here. Do this. He says, I won’t. In fact, whatever you ask him to do, he will do everything but that. Now the ego is gathering force; the wave is rising. The child is saying, I am someone too. I am, and I won’t give up my ground so easily, I won’t bow so easily. Whenever you say no—to anything—ego is strengthened.

So let me shock you: those who have run away in the name of sannyas—abandoning family, wife, children, parents—are atheists. They have refused. They did not accept what existence, what the divine, had given. The true theist is one who accepts everything—pleasure and pain, success and failure. There are thorns here and there are flowers too. He accepts both—night and day, life and death—embraces all and says: In what God has given, there must be some mystery. Who am I to refuse? Whose yes is total. In that yes the lamp begins to burn. In that yes inner light is born. In that theism the inner temple arises, and the deity appears. And then you find, in that light the ego cannot be found anywhere. It is like lighting a lamp and entering your room, then looking for darkness and not finding it—and returning to say: there is no darkness. So it will be with ego. The day you go within, awake and aware, you will not find the ego. Otherwise, the same old trouble continues.

“May the color of that flower fade so only the fragrance remains…
Let the head go, but let honor remain…
Let Your glory be proven by my negation…
May I efface myself so completely that only You remain.”
This talk of effacing is only talk. Because where the “I” has vanished, the “Thou” will not remain either. Without “I,” what meaning has “Thou”? “I” and “Thou” are not two different words; they are two faces of the same coin. Where there is I, there is Thou; where there is Thou, there is I. If the I truly goes, the Thou goes too. How will you then say Thou? Who will say it? To whom? How? The moment the I falls, the Thou collapses. When the devotee disappears, God also takes leave. What remains is godliness. As long as there is devotee and God, know that true godliness has not yet happened. As long as it seems “I am” and “Thou art”—or even if it seems “I am not, Thou art”—but who is saying “I am not”? That is the same foolishness as this:

Mulla Nasruddin was chatting in a café, praising himself, saying, No one in this town is more generous than I am.
His friends said, That’s rich! We’ve never seen any sign of generosity. You never even invited us home for a meal.
Mulla said, Come now! Come right now!
Thirty-five people, the whole café, went along. As they neared his home, he got nervous—as every husband does. At the door he said, You wait here. You know, I am a family man; my wife is at home. I’ll first persuade her. Imagine: I’ve brought thirty-five people at midnight for dinner. You can understand my fix. She’ll pounce on me. Let me pacify her; you wait a bit.
Mulla went in—and half an hour passed. Then an hour. It got very late. His friends said, This is too much—he’s gone in and won’t come out. They knocked. Mulla had pleaded with his wife: I made a mistake bringing them; now you go tell them Mulla isn’t at home.
The wife came out and said, Why are you standing here? Nasruddin isn’t at home.
They said, This is outrageous! He came with us; we saw him go in.
The wife hesitated—what to say now? Mulla was listening at the window, ear pressed, to hear the argument. As they insisted, he opened the window and said, Listen, aren’t you ashamed to argue with a woman at midnight? It’s possible Nasruddin came with you, but he might have slipped out the back door.
And this is Nasruddin himself speaking!

You cannot sit in your own house and say, I am not at home. If you say it, it only means you are at home.

“May I efface myself so completely that only You remain…”
You cannot say, I have dissolved. Because who will say, I have dissolved? If you say, I have so dissolved, it only means a remnant still remains—“so much” is still there.

When one disappears absolutely, no one is left to say anything. And where the I is not, how can Thou remain? They are two sides of a single coin—“I” and “Thou.” Both drop. What remains—call it samadhi, nirvana, moksha. There, neither devotee nor God remains. Shandilya called it parabhakti, supreme devotion.

Take note of you! I am the one who keeps pursuing you. When will you wake up? When will you see that because of “I,” the Divine cannot enter within? You want even God to take note of you. You would like to appoint Him to your service. You say, “I am Your servant at Your feet,” and so on and so forth—but inside, the longing is that He should come and serve at your feet; that He should attend to you.

No one can take note of you so long as you are there. The day you vanish, from that day your “note” will be taken. As long as you are, there is no need for anyone to take note of you—you are taking care of yourself. You are not giving God any chance.

I have heard: Krishna was seated in Vaikuntha taking his meal. In the middle of the meal he suddenly stood up, dropped the morsel in his hand, and ran to the door. Rukmini said, “Where are you going?” He did not answer—he was in such a hurry, as if the house were on fire. At the door he halted, paused for a moment, then returned and sat down to eat again. Rukmini said, “You’ve only confused me more. You rushed as though the house were ablaze. I even asked where you were going, and you gave no answer. And then you went nowhere—just stopped at the door and came back.”

Krishna said, “This is what happened: one of my devotees was passing through a village on the earth. People were throwing stones at him; blood was running from his head. But he, intoxicated, was playing his one-stringed lute and singing my name. He had no idea what was happening. People were pelting him with stones, abusing him, insulting him—and he knew nothing of it, he remained absorbed in his ecstasy. His ektara kept sounding. His song did not break. His link did not snap. His feeling flowed toward me day and night. So I ran—he needed me. One who is so utterly helpless makes me run! That is why I could not answer your question—forgive me.”

Rukmini asked, “Then why did you come back?”

Krishna said, “I had to return because by the time I reached the door, he had flung his lute aside and picked up stones himself. Now he was answering back on his own. I was no longer needed!”

As long as you keep taking care of yourself, there is no need for God to take care of you. When you come to a state of total helplessness, when you can say, “Now I am powerless,” when there remains not even a trace of self-reliance in you; when you cry like a little child who has lost his mother and nothing occurs to you except weeping, nothing except calling out—then, in that very instant, you are taken care of.

God is alongside you, but your path is dark. You are the cause of the darkness. The sun has risen and you stand with eyes closed. Yet you say, “Why has the sun not risen for me?” The sun rises for all. But if someone stands with eyes shut, what can the sun do? Your complaint seems justified.

Jab ki tum khud ho humsafar mere
Kyun andhera hai rahguzaron par

When You yourself are my fellow traveler,
Why is there darkness upon the pathways?

When You are walking with me, when You are my companion, when You throb within my heart, why then is there darkness on the road? God pervades everywhere. Why then is your life dark? You have kept your eyes closed. What can the sunrise alone do? The eyes must open too. Your heart must open as well. This “I” lies upon your heart like a rock and does not allow the springs of feeling to flow. Cry a little. Do not complain—become helpless. Break a little more, fall a little more, lose a little more. The moment you become utterly dispossessed, in that very moment revolution happens.

Dard-e-furqat ki had nahin ab to
Chain dil ko nahin kisi karvat

Now there is no limit to the pain of separation;
The heart finds no ease on any side.

When it is so—when you flounder like a fish thrown onto the bank; when thirst reaches its fullness and only flames remain in life; when no support appears, no protection appears—when suffering reaches its perfection, then it breaks. And then there is not even a moment’s separation. Open your eyes and God is seen; close your eyes and God is seen. Once He is seen even once, then with eyes closed He is still seen.

Hamein kyon judai ka gham ho, tujhe hum
Tasavvur mein shamo-sahar dekhte hain

Why should we grieve over separation, when we
See You in imagination, evening and morning?

Then whether you close your eyes or open them, His presence remains. He pervades your inner vision. He enters your body and life. But there must be a first glimpse.

So for now, drop complaint—pray.

This alone is my longing: may I become a song, Beloved, and be offered to You.
All the gifts of the inert world are but gifts; without the stream of tears there is no speech.
Words cannot tell You the secret story of my heart.
I carry only the heart’s fire as a melody in my throat—
This alone is my longing: may I become a song, Beloved, and be offered to You.

Once I was proud I would grasp and know You;
Now experience tells me how naive I was.
One day my note will be yoga itself, and You, compelled, will echo it—
Enough if my song become familiar to Your lips.
This alone is my longing: may I become a song, Beloved, and be offered to You.

So many dreams, so many hopes, so many plans and attractions—
Over all of them life lies shattered into pieces.
A long journey stands before me; all my baggage is scattered.
If only I could find the string of inner resonance, I might be gathered into one place.
This alone is my longing: may I become a song, Beloved, and be offered to You.

Pray. Call out. Drop the language of knowing and getting. Even in knowing there is ego; in attaining there is arrogance. You should say: How can I ever attain You? How can I ever know You? If You make me know, then I shall know. If You come to me, then I shall have You. By my doing, nothing will happen. Only by Your doing can anything happen. If from within, with such totality, a single tone of prayer arises, it is certainly fulfilled.

If the string of inner resonance be found, I may be gathered into one place.

If your entire life-energy unites in this one prayer, becomes a single note, then there will be no need for complaint. God is pouring down, day and night. When He comes, He does not come as a drop—He comes as a flood. You will not be able to contain it. You will not be able to manage it.

“But we have not received even a drop—how can we trust the flood?” In complaint there is always the tone that some injustice is being done from His side. This is what I want to press upon you: there is no injustice from His side. Therefore complaint is wrong. If there is any mistake, it is on our side. We have not yet truly called.

Sit once more with eyes closed and consider: have you truly called God? Even when you have called, have all the strings of your inner resonance called? Have you called as one? When you have prayed, did the prayer pervade your whole body and life, or were a thousand other businesses running inside? Your schemes, your mind, your thoughts—all running—and among them one prayer too? When you have gone to the temple, has the world been forgotten? Or did you reach the temple carrying the whole world within? When you bowed in the mosque, did you truly bow, or did you only put the body through an exercise?

Look closely and you will find the hollowness of your prayer—not any injustice on His part. You will find the futility of your worship—not His unfairness. Have you memorized prayers like parrots, and do you keep repeating them? You have not even discovered your own prayer. Even in prayer you are repeating borrowed words. The day this borrowing stops—and do not worry that if you compose your own prayer, if your prayer is born from you, it might not be beautiful—do not worry. God does not keep account of a prayer’s beauty or its words. Only the feeling of prayer is counted. Neither words are counted, nor grammar, nor language. God listens only to feeling. Even the silent feeling reaches Him. And however loudly you may shout, raise a great clamor—if your heart is not in it, God will remain as if deaf. Your sounds have not reached, and will not reach.

Drop the mood of complaint! Complaint is an obstacle. If God does not come, know only this: somewhere a mistake remains in me; I am not yet ready. Work upon yourself. Refine yourself further. Cleanse yourself further. This much is certain—this is the very foundation of all the scriptures of devotion: the day your prayer becomes complete in the true sense, in that very instant God descends. Remove the veil from your eyes; the light has always been present.

If devotees did not weep, what else would they do? Why do little children cry when they are hungry? Why does the baby in the cradle cry when thirst arises? That is why devotees cry. Devotees are calling out to Existence itself. And before this vastness the devotee is as helpless as an infant—perhaps even more helpless. Do you see this immensity? What is our strength before it? Do you see this infinity? Where are we before it? Who are we? What are we? We are not even a speck. What standing does a speck have? If this speck does not weep, what else can it do? In helplessness, in darkness, wandering for lifetimes, what else can the devotee do?

Had they not been threaded on the bond of sorrow,
the pieces of the heart would have lain scattered.
It is this cry, these tears, that bind them together—
had they not been strung on the thread of grief…

A dispassion toward the world begins to arise, and alongside it a longing toward the Divine begins to rise. Both happen together. The world starts to appear futile, and the search begins for what is meaningful. The futile is visible, and the meaningful does not appear; the futile slips from the hand, and there is no news of the meaningful; a gap opens—and in that gap the devotee weeps. What was taken as life until yesterday proves not to be life. We ran after wealth and found only shards. We ran after position and gained nothing but troubles. What we took to be riches turned out to be misfortune. The day this is seen, the visible world becomes futile—and what would be meaningful is not visible. If the devotee does not weep then, what else? In that interval, what other remedy is there but tears? Only tears can join that gap and become the bridge.

He who rose from your gathering rose in such a way—
tears in someone’s eyes, tears soaking someone’s robe.
Tears and only tears—eyes wet, hems drenched. When you see the truth of this world, what else will you do? You will feel great amazement, great perplexity. What can be had is worthless, and what is not worthless has no address—where is it, is it at all? A vacancy appears. In that emptiness, tears are born.

When I come to, I feel this:
you have just risen and left my desolate embrace.

So the devotee weeps for two reasons. First, when the world becomes futile and the Divine is not yet visible. Until now one lived sustained by desires—they are uprooted. The hopes that sustained life till now become hollow. The hands are suddenly full of ash. So he weeps. Then there is another state: when the devotee begins to receive glimpses of the Divine—glimpses that come and go, come and go. A flash of lightning—and gone. Then he weeps even more—he weeps his heart out. Now the taste of truth has touched the tongue, but the hunger is not fed.

Thus, in the first stage the devotee weeps: the world is futile, and there is no news of the meaningful. In the second stage he weeps: there is news of the meaningful, but when will union be? As long as there was no news, even the weeping lacked force, because a doubt remained within: who knows whether that for which I weep even is? Now it is visible that what I weep for is. And still my hands miss. I go on reaching, reaching, and do not arrive. Lightning flashes and is gone; a glimpse appears and disappears. Now the taste has come, a drop has descended into the throat; now the devotee weeps more, and his weeping grows deep.

When I come to, I feel this:
you have just risen and left my desolate embrace.
Just now you rose from my lap. Just now you were in my heart, and just now you went away. Just now you were near, and now again you are far—again an infinite distance! Again you are missing! Again I do not know where your home is, where to seek you! I do not even know how it happened that for a moment you were here! You came without giving any clue, and you left without giving any clue. This is the second depth.

Then there is a third and final depth to the devotee’s tears: when God is found—wholly, wholly found—and does not leave. Then the devotee weeps in grace, in ecstasy. Then the ecstasy is so overwhelming words feel cheap—only tears can speak. But these tears have different qualities. First he weeps in helplessness. Then he weeps when the taste has come, when rays of experience begin to descend. Then he weeps when the experience is complete—what else can he do but weep in gratitude?

So you will find the devotee weeping in the beginning, and weeping in the end as well. That is why the question is meaningful: why do devotees weep, and what is the relationship between weeping and meditation?

There is no relationship between weeping and meditation, but there is certainly a relationship between weeping and prayer. These are two different paths. The meditator does not weep. There is no mention anywhere of Mahavira weeping, nor of Buddha weeping. The knower does not weep; the meditator does not weep—because the whole process of the meditator is the refinement of intelligence. That is why we called Gautama Siddhartha “Buddha”—the Awakened, the fully ripened intelligence. That process is different. Meditation is a process of freedom from thought; devotion is a process of awakening feeling. Tears do not come from the brain; they come from the heart—their source is the heart. Therefore the meditator does not weep; his whole work is in the head, and from there there is no reason for tears. The meditator’s eyes become altogether empty of tears. But the devotee weeps—Meera weeps, Chaitanya weeps, Sahajo weeps. And there are these three levels of weeping.

Tears belong to prayer. And remember, very few have found the Divine through meditation; more have found the Divine through feeling. To find the Divine through meditation is like reaching around the back of your head to grab your ear—or your nose. A long journey. Devotion is easy; it is a straight journey. If you want to hold your nose, hold it directly—will you really take your hand around the whole head and then catch it? The meditator gets involved in a great undertaking. The devotee simply weeps—and attains. The devotee simply calls—and attains.

If devotion is possible for you, do not get entangled in the useless hassle of becoming a meditator. Only if you feel that feeling never rises in you, that sensitivity never stirs, that nothing touches your heart—only then go towards meditation. For those whose hearts have become deserts, meditation is the path. For those whose hearts still hold some possibility—streams flowing, greenness present, flowers ready to bloom—there is no need to go to meditation. Let them drown in devotion.

If today, somewhere, you strike up Malhar,
my eyes begin to brim.
When you sighed, I felt
gusts of storm surround me;
when you smiled, in the moonlight
my mind was drowned;
when you fell silent, I beheld
the very heart of emptiness.
If today, somewhere, you strike up Malhar,
my eyes begin to brim.

When I laugh, their cupped hands
do not remain empty of buds;
wherever their path resounds,
it will be fragrant with petals.
Eyelids, do not dry out—see that
their melody does not cease;
which desert they intend to turn into garden,
who knows for what they sing today?
If today, somewhere, you strike up Malhar,
my eyes begin to brim.

Listen closely—listen in stillness. Malhar is already playing.
If today, somewhere, you strike up Malhar,
my eyes begin to brim.

The devotee becomes so tender, so delicate, so feminine, that a bird sings and his eyes fill; a rose opens on the bush and his eyes fill; the cuckoo calls “koo-hoo” and the devotee begins to weep; the papiha calls for its Beloved and the devotee sways; the wind rustles through the trees and the devotee starts to weep; whether he looks at the moon or the sun—wherever he lifts his eyes, the Malhar of the Beloved is heard.
If today, somewhere, you strike up Malhar,
my eyes begin to brim.
Eyelids, do not dry out—see that
their melody does not cease.
This is the relationship between devotee and God: from God’s side, the raga has been struck; from the devotee’s side, the eyes are brimming with tears. That is the bridge: melody from that side, tear-filled eyes from this.

Cry. Do not be stingy with tears. What does it cost you to weep?

But people’s eyes have dried up. People have become deserts of argument. A person who weeps looks wrong to them—crazy, unintelligent. This very notion has deprived people of the Divine in this world, because ninety-nine percent of people can go to the Divine only through the heart. And the heart is not accepted. The heart is not acknowledged. No one is ready to honor the language of the heart.

Even when you begin to weep, you think, “Let no one see.” You quickly wipe your eyes; you swallow back your tears, lest anyone see—“What will people say?” First you were taught: if you are a man, do not cry—crying is for women. We tell small boys, “Why are you crying—are you a girl?”

You will be surprised to know what psychologists say about this. Their findings? If men could relearn to cry—yes, learn it again—a great deal of madness in the world would lessen. Do you know that men go insane twice as often as women? And men commit suicide twice as often as women? Psychologists ask: what could be the reason for such a difference? The reason is simply this: women have not yet forgotten how to cry. They shed a few tears. They cry and become lighter. There is no great spirituality in their weeping—they cry over trifles—yet still they become lighter. If only their tears found the right direction, they would not just become light—they would grow wings.

Men must learn to weep. You have been wrongly taught, “Don’t cry—you are a man.” Nature has made no such distinction. The tear glands in a man’s eyes are exactly as many as in a woman’s. Nature has made no difference. Your eyes are as much made for weeping as a woman’s eyes. In this there is no distinction. A woman cries and the burden lifts.

But to use so majestic a phenomenon—tears—merely to unload burdens is not to take full advantage. Tears can become pointers toward the Divine. Do not weep for the trivial—weep for the Vast. Do not be stingy. Do not hide your tears. You have a heart—there is no shame in that; there is honor.

Bear one thing in mind: today or tomorrow, the brain will belong to machines as well—it already does; computers have been made that work more accurately than human intellect. One thing is certain—no machine will ever have a heart. We will never make a machine that can feel. We have made machines that can compute—do addition and subtraction better than you; their memory is better than yours; the biggest mathematical problem a mathematician might solve in hours, a machine solves in an instant. So thought—machines can manage. But feeling—machines never will.

The glory of the human being is in feeling. It is by feeling alone that one is human. The more feeling, the more human you are. And when feeling alone flows through your life, prayer is born.

And then, if you will not weep before God, where else will you weep? If even at that door you cannot cry, then where? Not weeping means stiffness—“I should cry?” Will you carry that stiffness even before God? There, become a small child.

My heart’s ancient ache—
if you do not remove it, who will?
Whose weight is this my heavy heart bears?
In this world it remains unknown.
Which lack has emptied this heart?
It is the silent story of the world—
yet that by which I am made vocal,
song by song, letter by letter…
My heart’s ancient ache—
if you do not remove it, who will?

Rivers and streams and waterfalls of earth
came to test my thirst;
seeing me thirsty still,
they were bewildered, they were ashamed.
Clouds surrounded the sky from end to end—
O mad monsoonal thunderheads,
my inner ocean—
if you do not fill it, who will?
My heart’s ancient ache—
if you do not remove it, who will?

Weep there! Call there! And remember, today perhaps you will call out in pain; tomorrow your pain will be transformed, and tears of bliss will begin to be born within you. There will be tears from both sides: first because you are empty, then because you are full. Flow in tears. Your tears will carry away your impurities; they will wipe off your dust.

Ask a scientist the use of tears: he will say tears keep dust from settling on the eyes. A tiny speck gets into the eye and instantly tears come—water flows to wash the grit out. Each moment your eyelids blink—do you know what blinking does? The eyelids are moist, and with their moisture they wipe your eye, like cleaning with a damp cloth. Thus the eye remains fresh, clean; dust does not settle.

That is what science says about the outside. Ask a devotee about the inside: he will say the inner eye is also washed by tears. The outer eye is washed—and the inner eye, the third eye, the eye of Shiva, is washed too. You have also experienced this: if you have wept wholeheartedly, stones slide off your head. Something grows lighter. You become weightless.

Revive this art. It has been made you forget. In the name of culture, in the name of civilization, stiffness has been taught to you. If only you can weep, you will begin to melt. And in melting is prayer.

Love is not merely a metaphor for devotion; love is the very energy of devotion. I am not saying it as a figure of speech just to help you understand—love is devotion. The same energy of love within you—if not today, then tomorrow—will transform into devotion. Love is the seed; devotion is its sprouting—the seed has broken open. Whenever you have loved someone, you have had at least a brief glimpse of prayer. That is why lovers are often thought mad: when you fall in love, you begin to see in the other something no one else sees. A man falls in love with a woman, and suddenly she appears a goddess to him—though no one else sees it. And to the woman, the man seems a god—though even you yourself can’t see it!

Haven’t you ever been startled when a woman says, “You are my deity,” and falls at your feet? Doesn’t a thought arise, “Me— a deity? Even I don’t know that!” Whenever you have bowed before a woman with the prayer of your love, whenever you have looked upon someone with eyes brimful of love, you have seen in them something supernal. You have had a glimmer of the divine.

That glimpse vanishes quickly; it does not last long because it is only a glimpse. You have not earned it; it is natural, not spiritual, so it cannot endure. Thus all lovers eventually feel they have been deceived. For a few days, the one you loved looked divine; soon the human appears—how long can the divine be seen? Now and then you meet a woman—fine. But when you live with her twenty‑four hours a day, reality returns to earth. She will sometimes be angry, shout and scream, throw things at you; you too will be ready to hit back; there will be rage, quarrels. Then you begin to doubt: “What’s happening? I had seen a goddess—this is turning out to be a ‘great goddess’ of another sort!” The woman too wonders: “I had seen a god, and he is proving a very ordinary man.” “We were cheated,” you conclude.

No—no one deceived anyone; no one was dishonest. In love you caught a glimpse of devotion and you took the other to be divine. Love opens a window—a natural window—but it cannot stay open long.

Think of it this way: lightning flashes in the sky—you cannot read a book by that flash! The same electricity is in your house giving you light; then you can read or do whatever you wish. Both are electricity, but lightning in the sky is a natural event; the electricity that runs your fan and lamps has been harnessed—you have brought it under your command. To do that required great discipline and science.

Love is a natural flash of lightning. When, through steady, continuous practice, someone brings that flash under command, devotion is born. Then a lamp is lit within; its light abides. Then it is not that you see God only in one woman or one man. When that inner lamp burns, wherever you look you see God. Love is the occasional glimpse of God in one person; devotion is the vision of God everywhere, always, in all.

So it is not merely a metaphor.

And even if you insist it is only a metaphor, there could be no better one. There is nothing in this world more suitable than love by which we can help you understand devotion. There is no other event in your experience by which we can point toward devotion. Suppose you live in a country where the lotus does not grow—only marigolds exist there. Someone comes from abroad and tries to describe the lotus to you. What can he say? The marigold and the lotus are very different. Yet he has only one way: “It is somewhat like the marigold—it is much larger, very fragrant, very delicate; it floats on water, and floats in such a way that though on the water, the water does not wet it.”

But will that analogy satisfy one who knows both—love and devotion, marigold and lotus? No. Still, for those who know only marigolds, what other way is there to convey it?

You have known a little love—toward mother, father, son, wife, brother, friend—you have had small glimpses of love. The highest event in your life has been love. From the standpoint of devotion, love is the lowest rung; yet in your life, love is the highest event. So only through your highest can devotion be explained to you. Any other way would create confusion. If you listen to the words of lovers, you will understand.

Who is it from that distant valley that has called to me,
And lit a fire of love within my heart?
The spring of flowers and the youth of stars—
I squandered everything upon your rapturous smile.
Who is this who swayed in the depths of my soul,
Who rebuilt this desolate settlement of mine?
What the heart had hidden with such difficulty,
My intoxicated eyes told the world.
Again, colorful sparks began to rise from the soul;
Again the rain‑bird sang the tale of separation.
Again, bringing me back to my senses, made me drunk;
Again, those ecstatic eyes poured wine into eyes.

This is sung in love—a love song. Yet does it not give you a little taste of devotion?

Again, bringing me back to my senses, made me drunk;
Again, those ecstatic eyes poured wine into eyes.

Granted, one has to go much higher yet. This is the highest hilltop on which you can presently stand, but if you stand here, you will see the far sky.

When with that ecstatic glance I enter the gathering,
I spread over the world of hue and light in rapture.
I wish to keep my hem withdrawn from the waves,
Yet I am a boat of sorrow; in the whirlpool I still arrive.
Till morning the caravan of the sky seems to stand still,
When in your reverie I lose myself through the night.
The goblet slips, O cupbearer—my hands begin to tremble;
At the sight of your eyes I fall into intoxication.

It is a song of love, but does it not bring some news to you?

The goblet slips, O cupbearer—my hands begin to tremble;
At the sight of your eyes I fall into intoxication.

Exactly this happens between disciple and master—that we call trust.

The goblet slips, O cupbearer—my hands begin to tremble;
At the sight of your eyes I fall into intoxication.

And one day the same happens between devotee and the Divine—that we call devotion. Day by day the sky grows vaster. Love is like the small courtyard of your house. How can the courtyard be compared to the sky? Yet you will concede one thing: what descends into your little courtyard is also the sky! Your small courtyard is not the sky; the sky is immeasurable, and the difference between courtyard and sky is not only of magnitude but of quality. Still, what has descended into your courtyard is also sky. A tiny drop of the ocean—yes, it is not the ocean; you cannot sail great ships upon it, you cannot even bathe in it—yet you cannot deny it is an ocean‑drop, and within this small drop the whole secret of the sea is hidden. Scientists say: if we could fully understand a single drop, we would have understood the entire ocean. Understand the drop completely, and the ocean will be understood—surely so; the formula is there, concise.

The whole secret is hidden in love. So when I compare devotion to love, yes, it is a comparison, a metaphor—but it is not only a metaphor. Something of devotion descends into love, and something of love always remains in devotion. The two are joined. Love is like being tethered to the earth; devotion is like flying in the sky. Love is like a bird shut in a cage; devotion is the same bird freed, possessing the open sky.

I know why this question has arisen in you. For centuries your so‑called religious people have condemned love—called it base, impure, a sin. Hence you feel, “Wouldn’t some other analogy be better?” Somewhere within you there is condemnation of love—rejection, fear. I understand you—and I understand your so‑called saints as well. But the one who fears love has not understood love; the fear has arisen out of ignorance. The one who is afraid of the courtyard has not understood it. The courtyard had walls—and it had the sky; he focused on the walls and forgot the sky.

I want you to focus on the sky and forget the walls. The walls are there and will remain. Man is encased in the wall of body; as long as you have a body, there will be walls. How will they disappear? You cannot get rid of even your own wall—how will you erase other walls? You may run to the Himalayas, but how will you flee the body? Better to give the walls little importance—neglect them. Let the courtyard have walls—no problem. But the courtyard opens to the sky, and the sky opens to the courtyard—remember that. Through that doorway you will be liberated.

I have great reverence for love. I call unfortunate the one who has not known love. One who has not known love will not know the Divine—try a million methods, it won’t happen.

Then all his methods will be fundamentally wrong. Why wrong? Why will he resort to methods at all? Because they will be based on fear or greed. In this world only two forces truly work—love or fear. Greed is a limb of fear; giving is a limb of love. People are driven Godward either by fear or by love. The so‑called saints found it cheaper to frighten people—terrify them. Hell! There is no hell anywhere; and if there is, it is within you, not outside. It has no geography. Yet they said, “If you do not pray, you will rot in hell. If you don’t go to the temple, you will be thrown into hellfire, become worms of hell,” and they painted ghastly pictures. People were spooked. And when these stories were invented—five thousand years ago—people were innocent and would have been scared stiff.

Today’s person is not so simple; he says, “We’ll see when it happens. Why die in advance? Even if we die, we’ll see there—after all we’ll all be there; we’ll unionize the hell‑folk, go on strike, lay siege, overturn the regime there!” Today’s man is cunning.

But five thousand years ago people were simple, childlike. Tell a child a ghost‑story and he says, “Now I can’t sleep; I can’t go in the dark.” His mother may explain, “It was only a story,” but he cannot grasp it; he clings to her, “I’ll sleep next to you.” Small things frighten him. In those days people were natural and naïve. The crafty and the dishonest exploited them—this I call dishonesty. Through fear they went to the temples trembling, began to pray, worship, kneel. But behind it was fear.

Remember: where there is fear, love cannot be born. Fear and love are opposites. You may pray to God, but behind your prayer is only fear. The god you believe in is merely an extension of your fear—and if he is an extension of fear, you will never come into relationship with the Divine. Relationship arises only through love. You grew frightened of life’s miseries, troubles, anxieties, of death—you went and folded your hands. Your prayer is false; it is not prayer at all.

There is another prayer that arises from the joy of life—from gratitude for life’s peace and the many blossoming flowers. God has given you life; you go to say thank you—that is a different kind of prayer. And you go to pray because God will kill you tomorrow, because death is coming—that is yet another kind of prayer. These two are entirely different. The first prayer says, “You have given me life—I am blessed. You have showered me with such grace, such prasad; you made the moon and stars, you brought forth so many flowers, you filled the world with such greenery, you made such lovely people, you gave the gift of smiling, you created wondrous tears—for all this I have come to say thank you; not to complain.” That is a different prayer—that alone is prayer! You have gone to say, “I am obliged—my thanks, my thousand thanks, accept them! How can I ever repay you? I had no worthiness, and you gave me such an extraordinary, invaluable life—such compassion upon one so unworthy!”

Make this distinction clear. I teach only such religion as rises from thanksgiving.

There is another religion that stands only on fear: “Be afraid! Everything is wrong! This is sin, that is sin; do not do this, do not do that.” It narrows you so much and frightens you so deeply that you go to the temple trembling. There is no joy in your trembling—how could there be? How could there be gratitude? How will you love a god who brings death, disease, poverty, who creates hell? Deep down you will hate him. Say what you will—if given a chance you would wring such a god’s neck: why did he make hell? Why so much suffering? Why this web of lust? Why so many chains? You are not accepting such a god in joy.

Your so‑called gurus have exploited you—exploited your fear. In the name of fear, they brought hell; then they dangled greed: obey us and you will be rewarded with heaven. This is the usual technique to force people in a direction—punishment if you go astray, reward if you comply. It traps man between greed and fear.

I tell you: there is no hell and no heaven as places. Hell and heaven are states of consciousness. If you love, you are in heaven; if you hate, you are in hell. If you are compassionate, you are in heaven; if you are angry, you are in hell. What hell are you imagining where fire burns? Fire burns daily in anger. These are symbols. When you give something in love, as an offering, you enter heaven; cool breezes blow; a holy fragrance surrounds you. Give—and see. Torture someone—and hell! Save someone—and heaven!

Have you not known the joy of saving? Someone is drowning in a river; you save him, and a thrill fills you—your life has had meaning. Or you compose a song; just the thought that whoever hums it will be filled with happiness brings great joy within you. Creators are joyful: one paints, one sculpts, one composes music—what joy there is in striking a note! Someone will be delighted, someone will sway in ecstasy. You are sharing something.

Love is sharing; love is giving; love is a gift. And when you give without asking, without attaching any condition, then love slowly becomes prayer. The day you simply give—unconditionally—your love begins to take great heights. From this love, one day, the experience of the Divine begins.

I know the cause of your question: you are afraid. Your saints have taught you: avoid love; love is bondage; fall in love and you are trapped in the world. I tell you: whether love is bondage or liberation depends on you. In itself, love is neither bondage nor liberation. Think of love as a stone lying in the path. If you wish, you can stop because of it; if you wish, you can step upon it and climb—a staircase. Make of love a step and you will reach the Divine. Sit down before the stone and weep—“What to do? I am stuck”—and you will fall into hell.

Love is a challenge—a big stone. If you have understanding, you will climb. Understanding can be cultivated; religion is the method of creating understanding.

But false notions have been repeated for centuries; thus you have come to feel that love is worldly and devotion is otherworldly, spiritual. Therefore my words sometimes seem an obstacle.

I see no opposition between the world and the spiritual. There is a continuum—step by step. Spirituality is the farther flowering of this very world—the final peak. Do you see any contradiction between root and flower? Though the difference is obvious: if roots and the flower were placed before you, you would scarcely believe the flower could arise from those roots. The roots are ugly, buried in dirty soil—what has the flower to do with them? The flower is beautiful, otherworldly—as if from fairyland, hardly of this earth. And the roots—crooked, clumsy, filthy! The roots are at home in darkness; the flower converses with the sun. The roots creep downward toward the netherworld; the flower rises to the sky. Such difference! And yet, do you not see that without roots there can be no flower? And if there is no flower, what meaning have the roots? The flower is the fulfillment of the roots. The roots are burrowing only to bring forth the flower. For the sake of the flower they have become ugly, live in the dark. To draw sap, they must go into the earth. But they seek sap so that one day a flower may bloom. The day the flower blossoms is the good fortune of the roots; they are fulfilled. And the flower cannot be opposed to the roots; without the roots what existence has it? From the roots it draws its sap, its life—on them it depends.

I see spirituality and the world exactly so: like root and flower. The world is root; spirituality is flower. They seem very different, but inwardly they are connected. I call love the root and prayer the flower. I call lust the root and Rama—the Divine—the flower. In both, one and the same stream of sap is flowing; one single continuum, one thread. The one who sees that thread—I call him wise. The one who cannot see it begins to fight the roots, and in longing for the flower he cuts the roots; then the flower withers. That is why your so‑called escapist sannyasins do not find God. Cut the roots—where the flower?

My words seem an obstacle to you; you may not grasp them because the old sayings have been dinned into you so long that you have forgotten to ask whether they are true.

Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: keep repeating any lie—repeat and repeat—and it becomes truth. Just go on repeating; don’t worry whether anyone accepts it or not; one day it will become true—because people tend to believe whatever has been repeated long enough.

Are you a Hindu? How did you know? You didn’t arrive at birth with a certificate. But from the moment you were born someone began repeating in your ears: “You are a Hindu.” You could not even walk by yourself, yet you were taken to the temple. “You are a Hindu, you are a Muslim, you are a Sikh, you are a Christian”—repeated, repeated, repeated—these notions sank into your very life‑breath. Before your intelligence awakened, they had already put down roots within you. Now you think, “I am a Hindu.” Now you think, “I am a Muslim.” Now you think, “I am Indian; I am Chinese; I am Japanese.”

There should be no countries at all. As long as there are countries, there is turmoil. Whether you defend or not, the turmoil continues. My vision does not fit your understanding. I am saying -- there should be no countries! The very existence of countries is wrong! Until now it has always been: defend, fight, pick up the sword -- for this side or that side. What is the solution? In three thousand years, man has fought five thousand wars. What is the result? What has fighting brought? If you pick up the sword, what do you get; if you do not pick up the sword, what do you get? Neither by taking up the sword has anything been gained, nor by not taking it up. Man remains as he was -- in suffering. A simple thing does not occur to you: abolish these borders! These borders are the mischief! There should be no countries. The entire earth is one.

Do you not see? It happens day in, day out. Before 1947, if trouble came to Lahore, we would all be eager, we would go to defend -- Lahore was our country. Now if bombs fall on Lahore we feel very pleased that good, that's how it should be! A fitting fruit! Now Lahore is no longer our country. Lahore is exactly where it always was. Only a line has been drawn in between. That line too is not drawn on the earth; it is drawn on the map. Man makes maps, draws lines, and fights and dies over those lines.

No, I will not pick up the sword. The sword has been picked up enough. My sword has been raised for something else, for something far more subtle; therefore the sword too is subtle. A physical sword is not in my hand. But a very subtle sword is certainly in my hand. Now I am not standing with a sword for or against any country. I am standing with a sword against the lines. The lines must be erased. There should be no line upon the earth. No country should be separate, no caste should be separate. This whole earth is ours; we belong to it. The day this becomes possible in the world, wars will cease. Otherwise, shout a hundred thousand times that there should be no war -- wars will go on. Say as much as you like that we want peace -- you will still prepare for war. Now this country is supposedly nonviolent. But what preparations are going on? Are nonviolent people being trained anywhere? The same armies are drilling, the same left-right is going on. The effort to make the atom bomb is going on. The praise of Gandhiji is also going on. The worship of Mahatma Gandhi is going on, and the plan to make the atom bomb is also going on. Wherever the atom bomb is being made, there too a picture of Mahatma Gandhi will be hanging. In his service, indeed, it is being made.

As long as there are lines, the difficulty will remain.

I have heard: when India and Pakistan were partitioned, the whole country was divided, and a lunatic asylum fell exactly on the border between the two countries. And no one was particularly eager to take the asylum -- neither the leaders here nor the leaders there. Where should it go -- who had anything to do with a madhouse? But still some decision had to be made: where should the line pass? The line went right through the middle of the madhouse. The officials said, where will this madhouse go? Then it was decided to ask the lunatics themselves where they wanted to go.

The lunatics were gathered. They were explained to at length: Where do you want to go? Speak clearly. Those madmen said, We want to stay right here. The officials beat their heads: Please understand. But they were Punjabis after all! They said, We will stay right here. Sat Sri Akal! We will stay right here. We do not want to go anywhere. And they too were right. Because they said -- why should we go? Why should we go to Pakistan? Why to Hindustan? We are enjoying ourselves here. Then the officials explained, No one will go anywhere, brothers; it is only a matter of drawing a line. You will stay right here. But would you like to be in Pakistan or in Hindustan? They said, this is the limit! We thought we were mad -- now you seem mad. If we are going to stay here, then what Pakistan, what Hindustan? If we are not going anywhere, why this nonsense about going?

They could not make the people of the madhouse understand. Then the only way was to divide the madhouse into two parts down the middle. So a wall was raised in between. Since then, half the madhouse went to Pakistan and half came to India. But even now, the madmen sometimes climb onto the middle wall and talk to each other and say, Brother, it is very strange: you are still there, we are still here, yet you became Pakistani and we became Hindustani! This is very... this problem does not get solved. Wherever you are, you are there; wherever we are, we are there; everything is just as it was -- but you are no longer ours, we are no longer yours. Only a wall has been raised in between.

The borders of countries should disappear from the earth. The boundaries of religions should disappear. The boundaries of castes should disappear. Boundaries should disappear. My sword too is raised. But it is a subtle sword. It is raised against boundaries. I am neither Indian nor Pakistani; neither Hindu nor Muslim; neither Jain nor Buddhist. And I want that in this world such people increase and increase -- people who do not consider themselves bound within any boundary. Such people I call sannyasins.

You know, these sannyasins do not belong to one country. Here there are sannyasins from almost the whole world. Which is their country? They have none. For the first time, citizens of the world are being born. They are not for or against any country.

But you fail to understand; your inertia has been carried over from the old days. Once someone took up the sword, so you think even now the sword will do the work. It did not work then, and it is not going to work now. Today the world has become very small, very close. Now brotherhood should spread. And I do not say “Hindu and Muslim are brothers,” because that nonsense is of no use either. I say: only when the Hindu is no longer a Hindu and the Muslim no longer a Muslim can they be brothers. “Hindu and Muslim are brothers,” while the Hindu remains a Hindu and the Muslim remains a Muslim—that does not work either. That is just staying where you are; then where is there to go?

You saw it, didn’t you? First it was “Hindi-Chini bhai-bhai”—Indians and Chinese are brothers. Then for eight or ten years the brotherhood was shut down; now it has started again. Just yesterday I saw in the newspaper: “Hindi-Chini bhai-bhai!” Again? Again you want to create trouble.

Brotherhood is possible only when you drop your Hindu-ness and I drop my Muslim-ness; then brothers are born. If I remain a Muslim and you remain a Hindu, how can we be brothers? In your proclamation of being a Hindu and in my proclamation of being a Muslim, brotherhood ends.

Here we are dreaming of a new world. This is just a seed. When it will become a tree is hard to say. But do not bring old ideas in here. I am not sitting here to prove some old point. My interest is in the future, not in the past. And if you cannot understand me, then try a little more to understand, and meditate, and pray. But do not bring me questions born of your lack of understanding. Do not waste time on them.

I didn’t say that. He must have heard it that way. I was saying something else altogether. I was asking: by gathering saints, is someone going to form a Janata Party? He heard something else. He heard that I was saying everyone in the Janata Party is a non-saint. What all you people manage to hear!

How can I say everyone in the Janata Party is a non-saint! Could Mahatma Morarji Desai be a non-saint? And Baba Charan Singh, a non-saint? That’s absolutely wrong—everyone there is a mahatma! Is there any deficiency in Mahatma Morarji Desai’s “mahatma-hood”? He is in the state of a paramhansa; he drinks his own urine. Only paramhansas drink their own urine. That is the ultimate height of knowledge.

I never said anyone was a non-saint. But you must have heard it that way. Now you’re not only Punjabi, you’re also in the Janata Party—what a tangle! A double whammy—bitter gourd with neem on top!

Sharpen your intelligence a little. While listening to me, don’t rush to conclusions, and don’t be in a hurry to raise questions either. Think, reflect. The whole effort here is to give birth to thinking within you. You don’t want to think at all. You are eager to believe. You don’t want to give your intelligence even a little labor. You are holding on to your preconceived notions and want to keep holding them. And I am not saying that if those notions give you joy you must drop them—my brother, then why have you come here? Enjoy your notions! If you are blissful in your beliefs, then I say: may God keep you happy.

Your coming here means you are not delighted by your beliefs. You are searching. Otherwise, what need was there to come? Your coming here means that what you have believed so far is not satisfying you. It is not satisfying, yet you don’t have the courage to drop it. You don’t have the courage to think either. Then what will happen?

If you are indeed fine as you are, I do not say you should change. Who am I to change you? You are the judge. If you feel, “I am perfectly fine,” the matter is finished—then don’t come to people like me. Those who want to change are the ones who should come here. If you are happy, we are happy in your happiness. Be merry in your merriment. Raise your sword and practice. Do whatever you wish. Why have you come here? Why take so much trouble? Don’t do me such a favor! If you have come here, it means your beliefs are not transforming your life. They are not shaping your life the way you want. Somewhere, something is missing in your life. If something is missing, then you can take my help.

Even then I do not say: accept what I say. I only say—think over it, reflect, meditate. If you think, reflect, meditate and still find that what I said was wrong, the job is done. The very thinking, reflection, meditation—that is the real work. The real issue is not that you accept my words; the real issue is that the current of your intelligence begins to flow again.

Keep this distinction in mind. What I tell you is merely a device so that the blocked flow of your thinking may be released. That’s why I sometimes strike you. The only reason for that strike is that perhaps in that very shock you may open your eyes, perhaps you may wake up a little. I do not strike because you are my enemy. I have no enemies. Nor do I strike because I am fighting someone’s doctrine. The fundamental reason for the strike is simply this: your stream of thought has become obstructed; you have stopped thinking. You have fallen into secondhand acceptance. If you accept my words also without thinking, then there was no benefit in coming to me—because that would mean you are again living on borrowed, on borrowed.

Three kinds of people come to me here:
1) Those who never let go of their beliefs. They go back as empty as they came.
2) Those who drop their beliefs in a moment and quickly grab my words—they too go back empty. Those who agree with me without any tussle go empty; and those who remain annoyed with me without thinking also go empty.
3) The third kind is the person who, coming to me, gets filled. He thinks and reflects on how far what I said may have significance. He re-examines his beliefs, opens his heart again, and searches—honestly. He shows no bias: not clinging to the old just because it is old, nor displaying impatience to accept the new just because it is new. He considers calmly and quietly. My work is complete with such a person. Whether you accept what I say or not is not the point. You thought, you reflected, you meditated; the blocked flow of thought within you was freed; your Ganges began to flow again toward the ocean. Whether you accept me or not—there’s nothing in that. I have no taste for persuading you. But that you awaken—that I do relish. Once awake, do whatever you feel is right.

You’ve lived asleep; now live awake. Walk awake. And I know that an awakened person cannot be a Hindu, cannot be a Muslim, cannot be an Indian, cannot be an American. An awakened person is simply a human being—pure consciousness. An awakened person sees the one Divine dwelling everywhere—he cannot be a Brahmin, he cannot be a Shudra. Gradually the awakened one experiences: it is the play of the One alone, the expansion of the One; and he dissolves into that expansion. He experiences the supreme bliss, the supreme nectar. I am opening the door for you. Peek into that door.

But your beliefs don’t let you peek. You say: How can I look? I am already fixed in what I believe.

If your believing lets the juice of life flow in you, that is perfectly fine. Then don’t listen to my words at all—they will only create interference. Don’t go to such people either.

But since you have come, it is proof that what you have believed has not quenched your hunger. What you are clinging to has not increased the wealth of your life. Therefore you are groping to find the real treasure. And I tell you: the real treasure can be found. But empty your hands. To receive the real treasure, drop the pebbles and stones in your hand. If you say, “These aren’t pebbles and stones, they are diamonds,” then I don’t even say drop them. Who am I? I don’t want to take control of you. Even the sannyasins who are mine are not under my control. To be my sannyasin means only this: they have begun to live their life on their own. I have given them no commandments—do this, don’t do that; get up like this, sit like that; eat this, don’t drink that; go here, don’t go there. I have told them nothing of the sort. I have given them no discipline. I have only given a direction for contemplation, a flavor of meditation. Then decide your life yourself.

And not everything is suitable for everyone. One person feels waking at three in the morning suits him—he remains fresher all day—then it is perfectly right for him. Another wakes at three and feels dull all day and keeps yawning—then it is absolutely wrong for him. So I give no universal rule. One kind of food is healthful for one person, another kind for someone else. How can I decide what you should eat? All I can say is: keep testing against your own well-being—does this food increase my peace, my joy, my health? Then it is right. Does getting up at such-and-such a time make my morning fresh and joyful, does remembrance of the Divine become easier? Then it is right. Otherwise, it creates obstacles.

If I declare that everyone must rise at three in the morning, at brahma-muhurta, many people will be in trouble. Some, whose eyes open at three, will be delighted. They will say, “See, we are the real sannyasins! You still sleep till seven? And what did the Master say?” They will brand the one who sleeps till seven as a sinner. The one who sleeps till seven will start feeling guilty and think, “I will have to go to hell.”

Ridiculous! Does anyone go to hell for sleeping till seven?

My sannyasins ask me: When should we get up? I say: whenever you get up, that is brahma-muhurta. If you get up at seven, that is your brahma-muhurta. If you get up at three, that is your brahma-muhurta. Brahma-muhurta is whenever you awaken. When the Brahman within whispers, “Wake,” then wake. As long as your Brahman says, “Lie down a little more, one more turn,” then listen to Brahman, not to me. I don’t want to interfere. I do not give you discipline; I give you freedom.

Therefore, listen to my words, understand them—there is no need to believe. And therefore, don’t be in a hurry to disbelieve either. With a witnessing attitude: if something useful comes your way, take it; if not, don’t take it. But don’t raise such futile questions. Don’t waste time. Because time—you can use it to ask meaningful questions, or you can waste it on pointless ones. When one person asks a pointless question, the time of so many people gets wasted. So have a little compassion for all; be mindful.

That’s all for today.