Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #28

When the futility of life as it is becomes clear, the search for life as it ought to be begins. So long as you take the futile to be meaningful, you will be deprived of what is truly meaningful. The day the futile is seen as futile, half the journey is done. Seeing the futile as futile is the first step toward seeing the meaningful as meaningful. Do not be sad.

Sadness does arise; it is natural. We have been living in a certain way. In that way we have spent our life so far—invested our time and our energy. Life is precious; we staked it on a throw of the dice. If suddenly today it is discovered that the stake was wasted, that there was no possibility there but losing, that we were deceived, then sadness is natural. But the sooner that sadness comes, the better. He who lost his way in the morning, if he returns home by evening, is not called lost. Even a moment before death, if it becomes clear that the life we have lived was futile, then in that remaining single moment the divine can be attained. To attain the divine it is not time that is needed; what is needed is a change of vision. Let the eyes that were looking outward begin to look within—that is all.

Only when the outer is seen as futile will you look within. As long as the outside appears meaningful to you, why would you go within? If you take pebbles and stones to be diamonds, you will go on gathering pebbles. If everything outside is just pebbles and stones, then what will you do? You will have to go within! And people go only when they must. Only when they are defeated from all sides do they go. The defeat must be total. The sadness must be complete. Out of this very sadness, bliss is born.

Here, everything becomes futile. The wealth you earned—one day it too will be worthless. The sooner it is understood, the better. The love you made here—it too will be uprooted, it too will break. Those you loved are mortal. You too are mortal. Relationships here are like the chance meeting of river and boat—momentary. They last a little while; they are bubbles on water. A bubble of water! How long will it last? While it lasts it may shine in the sunlight, there may be a rainbow in that bubble of water—but how long? It is bound to burst. Its very being carries its breaking within it. You have seen great dreams here—of love, position, prestige—they will all be uprooted.

If, hearing my words, sadness arises, it is an auspicious sign. After this, a second happening will also occur—if you allow the first to happen, the second will come: the emergence of bliss.

I hid the heart’s wounds and tried that too,
I turned my eyes away from sorrow and tried that too.
O delight of pain, I am devoted to you—
I tried keeping my hem safe from you and tried that too.
Every wound of the heart broke into a smile,
I tried singing the songs of pleasure and tried that too.
We lost life’s peace,
We squandered the treasure of grief and tried that too.
Hundreds of lightnings flashed,
We built the nest again and tried that too.
What love, what vows of fidelity?
We tried making everyone our own and tried that too.
Who is a fellow-voice? What fellow-breath?
I told my lament of grief to all and tried that too.
Life is a mirage, O Zeba—
Go and look at the flower’s smile and see.

Go close to a flower. Go and look at the smiling flower in the morning, from up close—and you will understand that life is a mirage.

If you keep looking at smiling flowers from far away, you will keep being deceived. See them from near. That is why I do not tell you to run away from life. For if you run, how will you awaken? If you sit in the caves of the Himalayas, how will you awaken? This life is so full of suffering, so futile, so unsubstantial that if you remain in its midst, then today or tomorrow you will awaken. How will you sleep in the middle of the marketplace? Sleep will break by itself. Yes, in a Himalayan cave perhaps sleep will continue.

Therefore I say: do not leave. Nanak did not say “leave.” Mohammed did not say “leave.” They said: remain. Stay where you are. Be as you are—in the shop, in the market, in the family. Because this very noise all around will wake you. Its futility will wake you. If you move away from it, the thorn of its futility will not prick you. Then you can lose yourself in dreams. Those who sit in the caves of the Himalayas often fall into delusions—lost in the mind’s imaginations. With the mind’s imaginings you can do whatever you like: if you want to see Krishna playing the flute, you will see Krishna playing the flute. If you want to see Rama with bow and arrow, you will see Rama with bow and arrow. Then you are free—your fantasy is free. Eat as many imaginary sweets as you wish.

But the real truth happens here, it happens in the world. The blow is here, the futility is here—so the meaningful too will be hidden here, found here, and must be sought here.

And one day or another you are bound to be sad. Who is one’s own here?

Who is a fellow-voice?
Who here understands another’s language?

Who is a fellow-voice? What fellow-breath?
Who is anyone’s companion here? Who is anyone’s mate? The mind’s consolations say: there is a husband, there is a wife, there is a friend, there is a son, a father, a mother. Who is anyone’s companion here? Who is anyone’s mate? Who here understands your language? Whose language do you understand? You understand something else entirely.

A friend has sent a question:
Why are you an enemy of Punjabis?
I—an enemy of Punjabis! I am Punjabi. Do you see any lack of Punjabi-ness in me? It’s only a question of tying a turban. Gurudayal is sitting here; ask him—once he brought a turban, had it tied on me, and took a picture. He made me completely Punjabi.
I, an enemy of Punjabis! You simply do not understand. Here no one understands anyone’s language.
That gentleman has written: We Punjabis are not going to fall for your racket.
One thing is said; another is understood. You cannot even understand a joke! You have become worse than Punjabis! At least understand a joke. You cannot even understand my love. It is out of love that I strike. You wince at the blow. I strike to wake you. Instead of waking up, you get angry; you start abusing.

Who is a fellow-voice? What fellow-breath?
I told my lament of grief to all and tried that too—
No one understands, no one is a companion, no one is a mate. In this life you have tried everything. What remains? There is not much to do, really. A few things, and people just keep repeating them: again and again the same anger, the same love, the same hatred. Life moves like an ox tied to a mill. You have tried it all—and many times. What hope are you sitting on now? What future are you waiting for? Break all hopes—be hopeless. Drop the entire future—be sad. From that very sadness will blossom the flower that is eternal.

Soon this atmosphere will smile, soon light will appear.
This darkness of the night of despair will also bring the tidings of dawn.

Do not be frightened by this sadness. Do not get busy trying to erase it. This sadness is a temple. Upon it the divine will be superimposed. This sadness is the very thread of renunciation. From this will awaken the raga for the divine. Let your attachment to the world fall; then attachment to the divine will arise.

So long as there is attachment to the world, there is dispassion toward God. So long as there is taste for the world, you will be tasteless toward God. So long as the eyes are fixed upon the world, you are turned toward the world—you will be turned away from God. The moment you turn from the world, nothing else remains; there are only two—one is outer and one inner; one is consciousness and one matter; one is futile and one essential. Turn from the futile and you are joined to the essential. Turn away from the world and you are turned toward the divine.

Soon this atmosphere will smile…
Wait a little. Do not be frightened by sadness. Do not suppress it. Do not plaster it over. Do not quickly blow breath again into your dead hopes. Do not water hopes that have died.

Soon this atmosphere will smile…
These eyes that have become sad—they will smile. Just wait.

…soon light will appear.
Now everything has gone dark; do not be afraid. It is from just such darkness that one reaches the light.

When false lamps go out, there is darkness. But if you sit in that darkness, and remain seated, then true lamps will be lit. Certainly they are lit. True lamps are already burning, but your eyes have grown accustomed to recognizing false lamps; that is why it takes a little time. Have you not seen? When you come home returning from the bright outside, the house seems dark. Sit a little, and it no longer seems dark. Your eyes had grown used to the outside light; returning home, they need a new adjustment. The eyes must change; it takes a little time. Sit. Rest a little. Then the house too begins to appear full of light.

In the same way, for lifetimes you have been outside—outside your own home. Your eyes have become fully conditioned and familiar with the outer. For lifetimes you have not gone within; for lifetimes you have not returned home. When you return for the first time, everything will go dark. Do not be frightened. In this darkness the help of a master is needed—to hold you steady. Your mind will say: Go out—there was light at least. There was some hope, some future, some taste—some excuse and means to live. Here there is not even an excuse to live, nor any means. What is there to do here? Get up—go out. The mind will say: Run again—awaken your old dreams again, spread the canopy of dreams once more.

Soon this atmosphere will smile, soon light will appear.
This darkness of the night of despair will also bring the tidings of dawn.
Do not be afraid—dawn comes only after this night.

If it quivers it is lightning, if it stirs it is a wave—
It is the play of your own gaze; it will make some fresh flower bloom.

This sadness is the preparation to make fresh flowers bloom.

This wind of despair is justified, but keep your gaze on the warmth of hope;
If it snuffs out one lamp, it will light a hundred.

Do not be afraid. If the false lamps have gone out—good.

If it snuffs out one lamp, it will light a hundred.

If the bitterness of life’s sorrows has overshadowed your heart and mind,
Your remembrance—Your remembrance—will not leave the heart.

Become disenchanted with the world—but do not stop there; that is only half the story. Upon its heels the second half rises: hope for the divine awakens; the world’s hope falls, the divine hope awakens.

Your remembrance—Your remembrance—will not leave the heart.
And once the world’s remembrance has left the heart, then there is no way to forget the divine. How will you forget? Then nothing else remains—wake, and you awaken in Him; sleep, and you sleep in Him; rise, and you rise in Him; sit, and you sit in Him; live, and you live in Him; die, and you die in Him—then from every side, only He is. Once our bond of remembrance with the world is broken…

This soft breeze has only just begun to blow; do not complain already.
If it spreads as spring, it will make every bud smile.

A little waiting. A little patience.

You must be new; listening to me, you have become sad. Do you also see others here who, on listening to me, are rejoicing? When they came the first time, they too became sad. When they first came, they too were angry. When they first came, they too were wounded. Now those very wounds have become flowers. Now those very blows have become awakening. Now there is no sadness; now their consciousness is absorbed in great bliss.

This will become clear from the second question—

People are right. You have gone mad. Love is madness. But for the one who has known love, only love remains true sanity. For those who have not known love, love is madness. They have never tasted it. For them, wealth is not madness, status is not madness; love is madness. For the one who has tasted love, wealth is madness, status is madness—everything is madness, only love is the one intelligence.

And still, people are right—from their side. They will speak according to their own measure, not yours. They feel you have wobbled a bit, because the way they walk, you no longer walk. You have stepped out of their way. You are tasting joy. You are becoming intoxicated. But to them it looks as if you are going out of line.

The crowd always wants you to remain aligned with the crowd. The crowd does not want to grant you freedom. The crowd cannot tolerate the person. The crowd murders the person; it wants to erase the person completely. The crowd wants slaves. Whether those slaves are Hindus or Muslims or Sikhs or Christians or Jains—what difference does it make? The crowd has one art: to wipe you out, to rub you away. Not to let you remain yourself, but to let the crowd enter you. Speak the crowd’s language, accept the crowd’s doctrines, repeat the crowd’s scripture, do as the crowd says, walk as the crowd drives you. If the crowd goes to a temple, you go to a temple; if the crowd goes to a mosque, you go to a mosque. If the crowd sets a mosque on fire, you set it on fire; if the crowd breaks temple idols, you break them. Do whatever the crowd does.

People are eager to merge into the crowd for many reasons. One is: the more you become part of the crowd, the less your anxiety. Your sense of responsibility, your burden of accountability, lessens.

Psychologists say the sins committed by a mob can never be committed by an individual. And even if a mob has sinned—say a mob smashed a temple, set a gurdwara ablaze, burned a mosque—if you asked each person in that mob separately, he would say, “How did I do it? I can’t say. It just happened.” If you ask, “Could you have done it alone?” he will hesitate. Alone he could not. Alone, a person retains a small sense of responsibility. In the crowd, all responsibility is lost. The intoxication of the crowd takes hold. “So many are doing it—then it must be right. And if so many are doing it, then I have no responsibility. If the temple burns, I will not be solely to blame. I did not burn it—I was only in the crowd. The burners were others.” And each in the crowd is thinking exactly what you are: “It is the crowd that burns, I am merely in it.”

The greatest crimes have been committed by crowds, never by persons. Individuals’ crimes are petty; the real crimes belong to the crowd.

So it is easy to join the crowd. Even your criminal tendencies find convenience there, because with the crowd’s support, sin appears like virtue. Alone, if you do it, the mind will prick you; the conscience will be hurt; a thorn will stick. With the crowd, there is no concern for conscience—you can set it aside. The animality hidden within you finds an easy chance to surface.

In the crowd you move away from God and closer to the animal. Alone, as much as you are a person, just that much you are near to God—because exactly that much conscience, that much consideration, that much awareness awakens. You measure each step: “I am responsible. Shall I burn this temple? Shall I kill this child at the breast? What has it done? It knows nothing—not even whether it is Hindu or Muslim. Shall I kill it?” Alone, even the greatest sinner thinks. But with the crowd, sin turns into virtue; you can perform it with pleasure and sleep peacefully at night. In the crowd you are freed from responsibility.

The man who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima and turned a hundred thousand people to ash in five minutes went home and slept soundly. Think a little—after killing a hundred thousand, could you sleep peacefully? How did he sleep? Don’t think he was some great monster. He was a man like you—ordinary. He had a wife, a child, parents; no one had ever taken him to be a mass murderer. But when journalists asked in the morning, “How did you feel after so many deaths?” he said, “It’s not even a question. I followed orders. The order came from above. I came home and slept at ease. The order was fulfilled; my job was done; I slept peacefully.”

Now who gave the order? Who was responsible? Truman was America’s president when the bomb was dropped. When asked, Truman said, “What could I do? My generals advised it.” Truman too slept well—no burden on him. And when the generals were asked, they said, “What could we do? It was the president’s order!”

When things happen in a crowd, no one is responsible. Each shifts responsibility to another. No one is willing to say, “I am responsible.” Those who made the bomb felt no responsibility either. “We were only doing scientific research. We didn’t make it so you could kill people. We made a great discovery.” They too didn’t feel accountable.

Then who was responsible? That a hundred thousand died is certain. That a bomb was dropped is certain. That the bomb was made is certain. That it was dropped on someone’s order is certain. But so many are collectively involved that everyone can pass the buck. No one seems responsible.

People want to merge into the crowd because it is the simplest way to lose the soul. And the crowd wants you in it because its strength lies in numbers. When you begin to walk alone, when you become a person—and that is the meaning of sannyas: that now you will live by your inner conscience; now you will do what you feel is right, not what the crowd declares right; now you will decide for yourself; you will be responsible for your virtue and your sin; you will not shift it onto anyone—then naturally people will say you are going mad.

Often a vast distance will open between you and the crowd. The crowd will perform rituals; you will sing devotion. A great difference. The crowd will say, “Come, the reading of Satyanarayan’s story is on.” You will say, “What is there in this story? The one who narrates it knows nothing. And in this story there’s no talk of the true Lord at all. It’s a diverting tale with nothing to do with truth.” You may stop going to temples because you will see a professional priest performing worship. How can a professional worship? You may not go to the mosque either. You will say, “There is no one in the mosque—no image, no support—wherever I bow my head, that place becomes a mosque. Why go to a mosque?”

A Sufi fakir went to the mosque all his life, five times a day, so regularly that people could not even imagine a day when he would not be there. Only when he was very ill and could not rise did he ever miss. He never left the village lest he go to a place without a mosque. But one morning people found he hadn’t come. He had been there the previous evening, in perfect health—so he couldn’t be ill. Only one suspicion arose: an old man—perhaps he had died. After the prayer people went straight to his hut and found him sitting under a tree, tapping a small drum and singing. They said, “In old age you’ve turned atheist? In old age you’ve taken to disbelief? You infidel! Why didn’t you come to the mosque?”

The fakir laughed and said, “As long as I was ignorant, I came. As long as I didn’t know God is everywhere, I came. Now I know—He is here, He is there; where to come and where to go? Now wherever I am, I will sing. Now every song is prayer.”

But the crowd was not pleased. “In old age he has lost his wits,” they said.

So the crowd will tell you that you have gone mad. Your colors and ways won’t make sense to them. The crowd is right—in its way. But this madness is the greatest intelligence in this world. The crowd called Buddha mad; the crowd called Kabir mad; the crowd called Christ mad. The crowd has always said the same. You are fortunate that the crowd calls you mad too. Do not take this madness as a misfortune; take it as the crowd’s way of honoring your personhood.

You ask: “In finding you I feel I have found everything. Yet people say I have gone mad.”

You are right—and so are they. Each according to his vision, his way of seeing. How would they know you have found something? They have no way to enter your inner sanctum. How can they peep within? There you are alone. There either you can see, or I can see. You are right: wealth has begun to come to you. You are on the path of treasure. The inner kingdom is gradually becoming available. The first steps have been taken; the seeds sown; the harvest will come in its time. You are traveling in the right direction. But you are moving away from the crowd. The crowd will call you mad. Do not worry about it; otherwise worry will hinder your inner journey. Do not take it as condemnation. Let the crowd talk. Do not even enter into answering it. Laugh. If the crowd already considers you mad, what is there to worry about now? Whatever the crowd says, laugh and give thanks. Now that you are mad, be thoroughly mad. Do not try to prove your sanity. The crowd won’t be pleased, and your inner journey will be obstructed. Drop worldly cleverness. You have found a wisdom greater than cleverness. You have found the path of love.

Again, someone has stolen the gaze
The heart’s emotion cries your name
As spring comes into a garden
So has your remembrance blossomed in my heart
When the hunter’s delight is woven in
That captivity is no captivity, but release
Until love becomes propitious
To whom has life ever tasted sweet?
No image, no thought remains—
Only your rhythm has filled my heart
O breeze, carry news to the prisoners:
Again, spring has come into the garden
The nightingales are hushed, the roses mute—
A sadness had spread across the garden
When gaze met your gaze
It was as if life itself smiled
Seeing the brimming cup, O Ishrat,
Those intoxicated eyes came to mind

Into your life has come the first glint of God’s wine. People have begun to say you are staggering. They say your old ways are gone. They say you’ve gone mad.

Again, someone has stolen the gaze
Your eyes are going elsewhere. Where the world fixes its look, you no longer look; that is why they say you are mad.

Again, someone has stolen the gaze
God has begun to steal your heart.

Do you know, this country has a name for God that no other language has—Hari. Hari means: the one who steals, who takes away. God is the greatest thief.

Now don’t be offended that I’ve called God a thief! Don’t start thinking, “Don’t be taken in by this man’s talk! This is too much—God and a thief!”

But God is a thief—what can I do? One must speak the truth as it is. Whether you are taken in or not, the truth must be said. He steals in a way no one else can. There isn’t even the sound of footsteps, and you don’t know when the heart has been taken. On which dark night He broke open your doors and entered—who can say? You keep sleeping and the theft is done.

Again, someone has stolen the gaze
The heart’s emotion cries your name
Let go of worrying what people say. Give thanks to your own heart, your own feeling.

The heart’s emotion cries your name
O feeling of the heart, my salutations to you! God has deemed you worthy to steal your gaze, to steal your heart.

As spring comes into a garden
So has your remembrance blossomed in my heart
In a desert, where all around is wasteland, there are small oases. The vast desert must think the oasis mad—because the crowd belongs to the desert; the expanse is desert. Somewhere a small spring is flowing, a few trees have grown, a bit of green grass has appeared—the desert will say, “This place has gone mad.” Naturally the desert must say so; otherwise it would be overcome with self-reproach. If it admitted that this is the right way to be—green, blooming, dancing, intoxicated, drowned in the Beloved—then what is it doing? Its way of being would be wrong.

If you enter a world of the blind, do not announce your eyes; they will pluck them out. The blind cannot tolerate that you can see—your eyes remind them of their blindness.

That is why Jesus had to be crucified, Mansoor slain, Socrates given hemlock. That is why nails were hammered into Mahavira’s ears, stones hurled at Buddha. Because through them we are reminded that we have missed. Seeing their kingdom, we remember we remain beggars. And we are many; the majority. It becomes intolerable. We want to remove the one because of whom we suffer, the one who makes us aware of our wretchedness. You do not tolerate the person who makes you feel you have become futile. If only this person were not, your futility would not be exposed.

If the ugly had their way, they would destroy beauty. If given the chance, the ugly would kill the beautiful—because it is on account of them that they are ugly, otherwise why? If all were ugly, what obstacle would there be? If liars had their way, they would not let truth live; they would hang it. They do hang it. For if truth were utterly erased, then falsehood would appear as truth.

Think of counterfeit coins in the market. If all genuine coins disappeared, the counterfeit would no longer be counterfeit. Only those coins remain—then what is false, what is true? The presence of the true coin is a torment to the false. And the crowd is false!

As spring comes into a garden
So has your remembrance blossomed in my heart
This spring of life, this springtime of God, does not arrive everywhere at once—into one heart it comes, while all around are hearts in autumn. One flower opens, and everywhere else there are thorns. Thorns become angry, take revenge, burn with jealousy.

People call you mad to protect themselves. Do not concern yourself with them. They are really saying only this: “We are not mad.” When they say, “You are mad,” they mean, “We are sane. So many cannot be mad.”

A man once went to George Bernard Shaw. Shaw had said something that stung him. He told Shaw, “What you say—you say alone. What I believe—the whole world believes. The world’s millions cannot be wrong.”

Do you know what Shaw said? He laughed: “A thing believed by so many cannot possibly be true. Truth is found only now and then. Its ray descends only sometimes. It is rare. Falsehood everyone can invent. You cannot invent truth. Truth comes when you are gone. Very few have that courage. The one who effaces himself—he attains truth.”

So a gulf will open between you and others. Do not be angry, do not worry. Do not go to answer them. Remain in your ecstasy. Do not waste time. No need to answer, no need to argue.

As spring comes into a garden
So has your remembrance blossomed in my heart
When the hunter’s delight is woven in
This is the Beloved’s joy mingled with your joy.

When the hunter’s delight is woven in
That captivity is not captivity, but release
What is happening in you is the first sky of liberation opening.

Until love becomes propitious
To whom has life ever tasted sweet?
Till then life is dry, a desert, until the spring of love bursts forth. Amid these dry people, when your tender shoots appear, when you turn green, understand their annoyance. That is why Kabir said: “If you find the diamond, knot it tight—why open it again and again?” Do not tell anyone; otherwise they will be angry at once. Tell no one that you have found.

The Sufis say: pray in the dark of night, when no one sees. Otherwise they will say you are mad. In the quiet of night, call the Beloved. Speak with Him silently. Drown silently. Let not a whisper reach anyone’s ear. People are mad. When your madness first begins to dissolve, they will not tolerate you. They have never tolerated anyone.

No imagery, no thought remains—
Only your rhythm has filled my heart
All fantasies drop, all dreams depart, all thoughts cease—only one melody goes on. That melody is called bhajan—devotion. All else is mere ritual, without value.

O breeze, carry news to the prisoners
Go, wind, and bring news to the captives!

Again, spring has come into the garden
That feeling is natural too: when you receive, the natural mind rises to share with those you love. But be very careful. Here, no one understands anyone else’s language.

No kindred voice, no companion breath—no comrade, no mate. Say it only to one who can understand; say only as much as they can. Do not pour out more than they can digest. If they can digest more, then say more—slowly. Slowly reveal your joy.

O breeze, carry news to the prisoners
Tell the captives, O wind!

Again, spring has come into the garden
The nightingales are hushed, the roses mute—
A sadness had spread across the garden
When gaze met your gaze
It was as if life itself smiled
Before this, everything was desolate.

The nightingales are hushed, the roses mute—
A sadness had spread across the garden
The cuckoo did not sing, the papihā did not call. There were no flowers; no butterflies; no fragrance, no coolness. All was sad, inert, dead. But now the tale has changed.

When gaze met your gaze
It was as if life itself smiled
Seeing the brimming cup, O Ishrat,
Those intoxicated eyes came to mind
Seeing this heart filled to the brim, this goblet brimming with bliss, those inebriated Eyes begin to be remembered. When the cup of love fills within you, in that very cup the eyes of God will first glimmer. This too will happen. You have become a little sad—don’t be afraid. Soon the moment will come when you too will ask, “What has happened to me? Have I gone mad? People say I have gone mad, though I feel I have gained everything.”

What happens in ordinary worldly love happens in this otherworldly love a million-fold—endlessly multiplied.

The season has come to sing upon the instrument of self-forgetfulness
It will come. What is needed is waiting—waiting and prayer.

The season has come to sing upon the instrument of self-forgetfulness
But remember, this instrument is of self-effacement. Only when you die as you will it sound. Only when you become empty will it sound. In your emptiness this music will arise.

The season has come to sing upon the instrument of self-forgetfulness
The season has come to drink and go blissfully astray
For now, you are sad—that is the first thing. The garden is desolate; the nightingales are silent. All is halted. A world you had built has collapsed. The boats you set afloat are of paper. I said so, and you saw it—you are blessed. The houses you built were not houses—only castles of cards. I said so, and you understood—you are blessed. You grasped my language. That is why you are sad. If you had not understood, you would be angry, not sad.

Understand the difference. Two kinds of people come to me: those who become sad, and those who become angry. Those who become angry miss; there is no reason for them to return. Not only will they not return, they will prevent others from coming. The one who becomes sad will come; he must. His sadness cannot be healed elsewhere. He has become my patient; his healing lies with me. He will seek a way to come closer. And then the second event certainly happens:

The season has come to sing upon the instrument of self-forgetfulness
The season has come to drink and go blissfully astray
Again, the message of the Beloved’s coming—the peace of evening
The season has come for buds to bloom upon the bridal bed
The Beloved is about to arrive. The message of the Beloved’s coming has come.

Again, the message of the Beloved’s coming—the peace of evening
And the waiting of dusk!

The season has come for buds to bloom upon the bridal bed
What happens in worldly love happens here endlessly multiplied. As in ordinary love people are thought mad, here they are thought mad beyond measure.

This longing, this ache, this slight twinge in every vein—
Such a rapture arrived, it felt like the season to die had come
Break, O friend, every rite and custom of both worlds—
The season has come to reel from stumble upon stumble
Now stagger! Now sway! Now drink! And only in self-forgetfulness can you drink. That is why I tell you: if you truly wish to be near me, to sit in satsang, wipe yourself clean first. Do not come here as a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Sikh, a Jain—otherwise, don’t come at all. There is no need. Your notions and your beliefs will deprive you. And let me remind you: I am saying exactly what Mahavira said, what Buddha said, what Nanak and Kabir said, what Muhammad said. The same. And they too told you: when you come, leave everything outside. Come empty. Come self-forgetting. Come a little egoless. Then the magic can happen.

The season has come to sing upon the instrument of self-forgetfulness
The season has come to drink and go blissfully astray
Again, the message of the Beloved’s coming—the peace of evening
The season has come for buds to bloom upon the bridal bed
That second event is certain. It has happened to others; it will happen to you too.

Subhash has asked. This is for Subhash. And anyone for whom doing active meditation would mean inflicting pain on the body should not do it. Pain has nothing to do with God. A mood of joy is needed. By tormenting yourself you will not be joined to God; you will break apart.
But keep in mind: what is suffering for one may be delight for another. Running may pain you; for a runner it is joy. And one who knows the joy of running cannot even believe how running could be painful! In those moments of running, in the light of morning, on the seashore, he has known the most blissful moments of life. One who finds bliss in swimming will not be able to understand when you say swimming is suffering. People are different. If someone delights in rising at brahma-muhurta, certainly rise; but if for someone it is torment, then don’t get up at all. Test and recognize your own nature.

What do happiness and unhappiness mean? Only this: happiness means it suits your nature; unhappiness means it goes against your nature. How will that which is contrary to your nature join you to God? For God means your very nature.

So understand my point very carefully.

Within you is a tendency to hurt yourself, because for centuries you have been taught that to attain Him you must practice austerity. I am saying: to attain Him you must be drunk with joy. Your old notion is seated so deep that you may even hear me and still hardly understand. You have been told, “Give yourself pain.” Who has said this? Not the knowers. A knower could never say it. How could Mahavira say, “Give yourself pain”? For Mahavira says: one’s nature is religion. How could he say, “Inflict pain”? Then how did this whole story of mortification arise? Why does the Jain monk tell you to hurt yourself?

Understand the secret of how the story was born.

Mahavira became naked. For Mahavira, nakedness was bliss. In being free of clothes he felt free of all confines. The one who came after him saw that Mahavira became naked: “By becoming naked he attained knowledge. If I too become naked, I too will attain knowledge.” The arithmetic seems straightforward. He too got naked. But to become naked he had to do a lot of training. There was cold, there was sun; then there were people, public opinion; he trained himself in every way and somehow managed to stand naked. And when he stood naked, if it was not in tune with his nature, then of course there was suffering. So he concluded: without giving oneself pain, God cannot be found—this is the price to be paid. And if pain itself is the way to God, he invented newer and newer methods to torture himself—sleeping on grass, on reeds, not on a bed; standing in the blazing sun; when the sun burned fiercely he would sit tending a sacred fire; when snow fell and froze, he would go stand in water. He got the idea: one must give oneself pain.

Mahavira fasted for months. But there was no suffering in those fasts. You can see the proof even by looking at Mahavira’s images: there is no suffering in them, because his body looks very robust. If he fasted for months, then either the story of months-long fasting is false, and if the story is true then fasting must have completely suited Mahavira, must have perfectly agreed with his body. There are such people for whom fasting suits; for whom taking food into the body itself becomes burdensome; who find it easier to live on minimal food. It is a difference of nature.

You can see it all around here too. Some people eat very little and yet they are fine, vibrant! Others go on eating and still remain dry and dull—no current of life seems to flow, no energy seems to be there, no radiance appears—as if the food is not even being used. Some people live on very simple fare and even on that become lush and green.

That Mahavira fasted for months is true. But Mahavira’s fasting was not the fasting of your Jain monk. I am entirely on the side of Mahavira; I am not at all on the side of the Jain monk. The Jain monk is filled with a sickly mind. For Mahavira, fasting meant this: he was so delighted, so absorbed in meditation, that when, once in ten days or so, the memory of food arose, he would go to beg; when it did not arise, he remained immersed in his ecstasy, as if air itself were enough. And the ecstasy was such that only when the remembrance of food came did he bother. He was absorbed within. It was a state of joy, not of sorrow. The word upavasa itself means this: dwelling near, dwelling in one’s own nearness. To be near the Divine is called upavasa.

There is a difference between upavasa and anshan. Anshan—the hunger strike—is full of suffering; upavasa is full of joy. Anshan means: you are killing yourself by keeping yourself hungry. When a political leader goes on a “fast,” that is anshan. Don’t call it upavasa. He is killing himself with hunger. He is putting pressure—tormenting himself to put pressure on people: “Accept my demand or I will die.” He is issuing a threat of suicide, nothing else. In truth he should be prosecuted—he is threatening suicide. He is saying, “I will die; agree to what I say.” Whether I am right or wrong, he does not even give room for the matter to be discussed. He doesn’t allow thought a chance. It is just as if a man stood with a knife on his chest and said, “I will stab myself—agree to what I say.” There is no difference between the two. This is a violent tendency.

Therefore I do not call Mahatma Gandhi’s “fasts” upavasa; I call them anshan. There is a tendency to violence in them. And when I call Gandhi’s fasts anshan, you can understand that Morarji Desai’s “fasts” I cannot even call anshan; they are worse than that—nothing but pressure, coercion, a device to disturb the other. The other person begins to think, “After all, what is the issue! All right then, go take the vote; what else will you do! We’ll give you the votes—just break your fast. Here, drink this sweet lime juice! Don’t throw away your life! One doesn’t die for such a small matter!”

Mahavira did not do anshan. It was not a hunger strike. It was upavasa—an immensely gladdening word. He was absorbed within. So absorbed in meditation that the thought of eating did not even arise. Sometimes this also happens in your life, if you will notice. A beloved guest comes to your home—this often happens to women. I know it used to happen to Sohan. When I was a guest in her home, she would forget to eat. She would be so lost in joy—where is there any leisure then for food and such! She would not even feel hungry. Have you noticed? When the heart is full of love, hunger does not arise.

I was a guest in one house. The lady of the house said to me, “I have a question I have never been able to ask anyone. It’s a Jain family. I cannot ask our monks—they would be very angry; the matter is of that sort. I can ask you.” She even asked her husband’s pardon: “Forgive me. This question has troubled me all my life. I must ask it. Don’t take it amiss.” The husband said, “Why would I mind? Ask—what is the question?” She said, “When my mother-in-law died, no one in the house ate, and I felt very hungry. I had never felt so hungry. I cannot let go of that event—what happened to me? Everyone in the house was crying, and I was hungry! I was a new bride. And if it had stopped there, it would have been fine. That day no one cooked; there was no possibility of cooking. She died at dusk, so the time for the ‘anthau’ was past. Jains do take the evening meal, but once the sun sets, then food cannot be taken. So we were busy with death: at the door of death, to take her to the cremation ground—the matter ended. And I was so hungry! I became so desperate that at night I went secretly into the kitchen and ate. In my whole life I committed only this one theft—and even such a theft that I felt I was sinning! The whole house was grieving, and I was bothered about hunger! And then, in my own house, stealing, and at night I ate whatever I found. Only after I had eaten properly could I sleep. What happened to me?”

I told her, “There is not the slightest reason to worry. The truth is: in sorrow hunger arises; in joy hunger disappears. In sorrow the body is remembered; in joy the body is forgotten. It is such a simple formula. When you are happy you do not remember the body. Have you ever remembered your head when there is no headache? You remember the head only when there is a headache. You remember the stomach only when there is a stomachache. You remember the foot when a thorn pricks it. If the body as a whole is at ease, it is not remembered. The body is forgotten in happiness; in sorrow it is remembered.”

That woman fell at my feet. She said, “You have freed me. I was dying of guilt that I had committed some sin.”

I said, “Don’t worry. Ask your husband—let him say honestly.”

The husband said, “Now that you ask, and since the matter has come out, the truth is: I too felt hungry. Though I did not steal, my mother had died, so I tossed all night in hunger. But I had to bear it—my mother had died; what else could I do! But yes, I too was hungry.”

In sorrow the body will be remembered, hunger will be remembered; in joy the memory will vanish. Mahavira was in supreme joy, in the joy of meditation. The memory of food arose only once in a while. When the body truly needed it, only then did the remembrance arise. Then he would go into the village and beg for food.

The Jain monk is forcibly doing a hunger strike. He is forcibly doing anshan. This is self-torture.

What is the logic behind it? Only this much: meditation flowered for Mahavira, and along with meditation fasting flowered—fasting came like a shadow. It was not that meditation came because of fasting; note this well: because of meditation, fasting came. But when you look from the outside, there is no way to tell whether meditation has happened; first the fasting is visible—outer things are visible first. So your way of looking from the outside creates the obstacle. You see first that Mahavira is fasting. Then you think, “He has become so calm; then meditation must also have happened, samadhi must have come.” So, by fasting samadhi came—there the mistake was made. By samadhi fasting happens. Mahavira did not become naked and therefore attain samadhi; samadhi happened to Mahavira—and clothes dropped.

Nor is it so that samadhi will appear the same in everyone. Otherwise Krishna’s clothes would also have dropped, Buddha’s would have dropped, Rama’s would have dropped. Each person is unique. Whenever you imitate anyone, you will fall into suffering. Attend to yourself—attend to your own nature.

So to Subhash I say: don’t do active meditation. Subhash should meditate on Baba Malukdas:

The python does no service; the bird does no work.
Says the servant Maluk Das: the Giver of all is Ram.

Subhash is, in a way, a Maluk Das. Seek your own nature! Follow your own nature! Do not fall, even by mistake, into imitating anyone; otherwise you will suffer—and by suffering you will go far from God, not nearer. I am giving you the path of joy. I am telling you: the happier, the more peaceful, the more blissful you are, the more you will be filled with remembrance of the Lord. For only then will you have something with which to offer grace, something with which to pray. What is there now? If a little current of life begins to flow, then you can bow at God’s feet and say, “Thank you.” What is there now? From where would gratitude arise now? Now no cause for thankfulness appears—only complaint arises, not gratitude. And complaint gives birth to begging; gratitude gives birth to song.

This is the price: you will have to be happy. Now you will be very surprised. You will say, is that even a price? But I tell you: that is the difficult thing. To be miserable is utterly simple. The whole world is miserable. Does one need intelligence to be miserable? Even fools are miserable. Does one need skill to be miserable? Any arithmetic? Even the most uncouth person is miserable. To be happy requires qualities, skill, an art.

You will find my words very upside-down. That’s why I say: only if you understand will you be able to understand. Grant a little sympathy and perhaps it will make some sense. I tell you: pay the price by being happy. Pay it by dancing. Pay it by singing. Pay it in the flavor of bliss. But you think that if there is suffering, then a price has been paid. You are so shackled to suffering that you have taken suffering to be the currency. What do you take God to be? Some villain, some criminal, some pain-worshipper, a sadist? That if you are miserable he will be delighted: “Look, my son is on a hunger strike! Now come, come close! You have fasted enough; here, drink some sweet lime juice!” What have you understood God to be? Some Adolf Hitler—so that if you torture yourself he will be thrilled? That if you lie on a bed of thorns he will exclaim, “Ah! What austerity!”? God is not your enemy. He is your beloved, your lover. Do you think a mother is pleased when her little child stands in the scorching sun? Or that she is delighted when the child lies among thorns?

Make a bed of flowers. By making beds of thorns again and again you have only been foolish with yourself. Soak yourself in happiness. Let the melody of happiness be born. Play the veena of joy. Your ecstasy will take you to him. This is why your monks and renunciates are not seen dancing, not seen rejoicing. But the real sages were not like that. Have you seen Nanak? He always kept a disciple with him so that whenever the urge to sing arose, someone would be there to play the instruments. Have you seen Kabir? Songs of ecstasy! Have you seen Meera? That dance! These are saints. A saint is a happy person. Saintliness is the ultimate state of happiness. The miserable one is sick, deranged; he needs treatment.

I want the world to bid farewell to pain-worshipping religions, because such religions were invented by pain-worshippers. They have nothing to do with the founders of religion. They were born of your foolishness. You saw that Mahavira stood naked, so you too stand naked. You saw that Christ was crucified, so you too want to be crucified. You have turned life into a drama; the real has been lost; it has become acting. You have become fake, a carbon copy. And God does not like carbon copies at all. God wants you to appear in your original form. To reveal yourself in your original nature—that is to realize God. And what is it to realize God? Happiness means that which is in accord with your nature; misery means that which is against your nature. Pay the price with happiness.

“Yesterday you said that to attain God one must pay a price.”
Certainly, a price must be paid.
“And in the same breath you said that God cannot be attained by tormenting the body.”
Your mind must have raised the question that a price is paid through suffering!
The price is not paid through suffering—never has been. It will be paid through blessedness, through supreme joy.

I know their difficulty. Reading my books and the rest, they must have imagined they would find me sitting in some hut, lying on a bed of thorns, gloomy, hungry, and thirsty. Their minds would have become very calm if they had seen me like that. They would have felt great relief: yes, that is how a holy man should be.

You came here to see the miserable. But here the accounting is different; here the mathematics is different. I do not trust sorrow. I am a hedonist—more of a hedonist than Charvaka. Charvaka’s pleasure ends in this world; mine goes to the other world as well. In me, theism and atheism meet. Atheism speaks of pleasure only up to a point; I speak of joy to the very end. For me, the divine is the ultimate state of bliss. That is why the wise called him Sat-Chit-Ananda—ananda, the final state.

But you must have come expecting to see some fakir fasting. And then you felt: here there is no fasting, no fakir; here people are joyous, intoxicated, in love with each other. You must have seen couples walking; men and women holding hands, dancing together. And you said: This is the limit—everything has been corrupted! Religion has been ruined. Where have we landed? Is this religion? This is worldliness.

My religion is not opposed to the world—although it goes beyond the world. My religion is like the lotus that grows out of the mud: it grows in the mud but rises beyond it. Religion will sprout only in the world. The temple has to be built here, on the earth; the divine has to be invoked in the body. And only when your body is at ease, in tune with its nature, can God come. A mind in sorrow cannot allow the divine to enter. Where is the space in a suffering mind? A happy mind has space; a happy mind is like the sky.

So I understand your discomfort. You come with fixed notions. And you have considerable “evidence” for your notions, because ninety-nine out of a hundred sadhus are pain-worshippers. They are not sadhus at all; they know nothing of saintliness. Once in a hundred, someone appears who is a lover of joy—but that is rare. And whenever that happens, you feel troubled. You felt troubled seeing Mahavira; you do not feel troubled seeing Jain monks. You felt troubled seeing Buddha; you do not feel troubled seeing Buddhist bhikshus. You felt troubled seeing Nanak; you do not feel troubled seeing the granthi maharaj. Why would they trouble you? They are just like you: as miserable as you are. Seeing Meera dance—do you remember how many were disturbed? How many suffered? Meera’s family was so distressed they sent her a cup of poison—only to save their prestige, not out of malice. Meera was anyway thought mad, and the family’s name was being dragged down with her. She was a woman of a royal house, and she began dancing in the streets! And in Rajasthan, where even lifting the veil was difficult! There she let go even of such concerns. Now in dancing, how can you keep worrying whether the pallav is in place? If you worry about the pallav the divine slips away; if you worry about the divine, the pallav falls. Meera thought: let the pallav go. She said, social shame be damned—and began to dance in the streets. The royal family was upset. They did not send poison from wickedness, but only to save their reputation. Meera was driven out from place to place.

They say there was a great convocation of pundits in Kashi. Kabir was also invited—after much debate: should we call this weaver or not? In the end they admitted there was something in what the weaver said, and invited him. But Kabir came and put forward a strange condition: Invite Meera too.

That was a bit too much. Kabir, at least, was a man. But Meera! See what Baba Tulsidas has said: “Shudra, peasant, drum, beast, and woman—all are fit to be beaten.” Meera is counted among the shudras. Kabir—granted, a weaver—but at least a man! Yet he set this condition: only if you invite Meera will I come; otherwise, I will not. Why did Kabir set such a condition? So that it would become clear to those foolish pundits that to realize the divine it is not necessary to be a man, nor is being a woman any obstacle. If there is any obstacle to God, it is only ego. If there is any hindrance, it is your knots of sorrow. Invite Meera—because where else will you find the divine dancing more than in her?

Meera came, so Kabir came. And when Meera came, what did she do? She danced. The pundits curled their noses. They said: What is this spectacle? Where the Vedas should be discussed, Meera is dancing! But dance is the Veda. Pundits are blind. They thought Meera would recite some memorized Sanskrit sutras. Meera showed the living Veda—she danced. But the pundits were very offended. The pallav must have slipped again! Is this any way to be? A woman should be hidden in the house; a woman should have modesty.

Joy has no prestige in our minds. That is why when you come here and find a different kind of world, you are disturbed. You become uneasy. You feel: what kind of religion is this?

Authentic religion has always been of this kind—but it appears only occasionally.

Once I am gone, a pain-worshipper will arrive. He will even make Subhash do active meditation. He will insist: Do it! If you don’t do active meditation, you will never find God. So, Subhash, as long as I am here, rest. Meditate restfully. Pay the price in joy. After I am gone, people will again exact the price in suffering—right here, in this very place. Because what happens then is that rigid rules remain in their hands: “This is how it used to be done, so this is how it must be done; it must not be otherwise.” Who will care whether it fits someone or not? And who will decide? Today I look at you; I speak according to what is right within you. That is why there is much contradiction in my words. I tell one person one thing, another person something else—because I have no fixed doctrine. You are important to me, not doctrine. I cut the doctrine to fit you; I do not cut you to fit the doctrine.

Usually what happens is that the pundits and priests of the so-called religions keep the garments of religion pre-stitched. If you are a little tall, they cut you down; if you are a little short, they pull and knead you longer. They don’t care whether the man will live or die—what will happen to him? The garment is precious. The doctrine is precious; you have no value.

To me, doctrines are worth two pennies. You are of supreme value. Every person is of supreme value. No doctrine is that valuable. Doctrines are there to serve you; the scriptures are your servants. Do only that which accords with your nature. If dance suits your nature, then dance. If the flute suits your nature, then play the flute. If yoga suits your nature, then do yoga. Whatever suits you! But the touchstone of what suits you is only one: that by which you feel joy.

Pay the price in joy. And remember, do not remain in the pain-worshipper’s illusion that because you have done a few fasts, tormented the body a little, given it some heat, sat naked for a while—you will arrive. It is not so cheap.

You ascetics, on the strength of four straws, make this claim—
Has God sold paradise into your hands?

You ascetics, on the strength of four straws, make this claim—
Has God sold paradise into your hands?

The divine comes to each in his own way. God respects you; he does not insult you. He comes in the very mood you are in. He comes in the manner that suits you. That is why I have started so many methods of meditation here—so that at least one may suit you. Just choose one.

But there are many kinds of pain-worshippers. A friend came a few days ago and said: Meditation has created a great problem. My sleep is gone, I can’t do my work, my wife is angry, the children are angry, the family has sent me to consult you—and I am going mad.

I said: From meditation, peace should have come.

He said: What peace! Nothing but unrest.

I was a little surprised. I asked: Which meditation do you do? What do you practice?

He said: Which one? From morning till night—only meditation upon meditation. I do all five meditations! I have no time for my job. When would I go to work? So my wife is eating my head, the children are in trouble—and I have to meditate.

Who told you to do five? If you do five meditations, your life will certainly be thrown into turmoil. We do these five here in camps so that by doing all five you can discover which one suits you. There are five types of people in the world. Just as there are five senses, likewise there are five kinds of people. With those five in view, five methods have been developed. If one of them fits you, that is enough. Let the other four go. If you keep doing nothing but meditation, unrest is bound to arise. And then, sitting at home, busy with meditation twenty-four hours a day—how long will your wife tolerate it? How long will the children tolerate it?

But such is the pain-addicted mind—it has even devised ways of torturing itself out of meditation itself—torturing itself and others too.

Keep this in mind: whatever I am telling you—use it neither to torture yourself nor to torture anyone else. And beware of those who have not known anything. There are many around here who write about meditation who know nothing of meditation.

I read a book written by a Jain sadhvi—on meditation, based on Acharya Hemchandra’s sutras. The book seemed fine to me. In places I felt: the sadhvi certainly knows the scriptures, certainly knows language, is skilled in writing—but she has not meditated. Because in some places, certain things creep in—and they will, inevitably. If one has not experienced love and writes a book on love, somewhere a mistake will show, something will appear that betrays that this cannot be the utterance of one who knows love.

By coincidence, five or seven years later I was in Beawar, Rajasthan, and that sadhvi came to meet me. I had forgotten both her name and her book. She asked me how to meditate. I explained meditation to her. Then she took out her book and said: I have also written a book on meditation; I have brought it as a gift for you. Then I remembered. So I asked her: Have you ever meditated?

She said: I never have.

Then why write a book?

She said: From the study of scriptures, reflection, and contemplation.

What has reflection and study to do with meditation? Meditation is an experience. She herself does not know; she has come to ask how to meditate—and she has written a book on meditation! And based on her book many people must be meditating! Such mischief is going on.

Take advice after some thought. Advisers abound—look for one and a thousand appear. Advisers are always ready. Even if you don’t look, they come to your house: Brother, do you need advice? People take such delight in advising—because in giving advice there is the pleasure of being the wise one, and the pleasure of proving the other ignorant. So no one misses the chance to advise. But take advice thoughtfully. Sit with someone in whose life meditation has some dignity, in whose life love has some fragrance—sit with, move with, understand, drink in a person; and when you feel, yes, something existential has happened there, only then receive—otherwise, beware.

Those revered guides point out to us the road,
On which we have never once seen them walk.

So, Subhash, choose according to your nature, what is agreeable to you. That is the price to be paid. I tell you: renounce sorrow—that is renunciation. I do not tell you to renounce happiness. I tell you: drop sorrow! Where do you have happiness that you could renounce it? Drop sorrow!

People cling to sorrow; they clutch it to their chests. They do not want to give up sorrow; sorrow is their property. You will be startled to know: it takes a very courageous person to be willing to drop sorrow. People are not willing to give up sorrow.

A few days ago a young man and woman came to me. Both are miserable. They have lived together for seven years. And in seven years they have known nothing but hell. I said: Why don’t you separate? They do not want to separate. I asked: Do you get any joy from being together? They said: There is no joy at all in being together; but there is love. Love for what? For the sorrow? For this hell? Neither the man has any juice nor the woman—yet they cannot leave each other. How can we split up! they said. We came to you so that you would explain and persuade us and make us all right.

How will explanations set you right? Living together for seven years you have only given each other pain. But it happens that one develops a craving even for pain. You come home and the wife does not jabber nonsense—or you come home and bring flowers from the market for your wife—then there is difficulty.

A psychologist gave a man this advice. The man said: Whenever I go home, my wife is all set, ready to start. I am afraid to go home from the office. People come to the office slowly; I go home very slowly. People watch the clock to leave early; I am afraid lest it strike five! Even when it does, I keep turning files; even if there is no work I sit—and only when the office is closing and the peon says, Sir, now go, do I go. Even then, if I meet someone on the way, I stop and chat; I am afraid that if I go home—my wife!

The psychologist said: Do this—show a little love to your wife. You have shown no love. He said: What should I do? Whatever you say I will do. He said: Do this today: take flowers for your wife. Take sweets. Give sweets, give flowers, embrace her straightaway. Don’t give her a chance to say or do anything—just embrace her at once.

He said: Since you say so, I will do it. Otherwise, who embraces his own wife? But if you say so, I will do that too. All right, I’ll take flowers as well. Who takes flowers for his wife? Sweets—fine, let’s try once. And what else?

And lend a hand to your wife. If she is washing dishes, you start washing too. Wipe the table clean. If the child’s nose is running, wipe it. Lend a hand.

He said: Fine, I’ll do that too—anything for a little peace.

He reached home, delighted that he had found a trick at last. Seeing the flowers, the wife could not believe it. And sweets; and when he embraced her—which wife could believe that her own husband would embrace her! She was alarmed. What has happened to him? But she could not say anything at once; she was stunned. Quickly the husband leapt and began to clean the table and wash the dishes. The wife flung her hair loose, beat her chest, and started shouting: I’m ruined! I’m ruined! The neighbors gathered. The husband said: What happened to you?

She said: Have you come home drunk or what? Are you in your senses? What are you doing? The maid hasn’t come since morning, the child’s tooth has broken, the girl hasn’t returned yet—and now you come home and you! Have you come drunk or what? Are you in your senses?

People start expecting sorrow. If the expected sorrow does not arrive, there is trouble. People hoard their sorrows; that is their property.

I tell you: drop sorrow. There is no need to stay with sorrow even for a moment—drop it. From anger you have suffered many times. And your so-called wise men have told you: do not be angry; it hurts the other. I tell you: do not be angry; it hurts you. To hell with the other—save yourself! If you are saved, the other will also be saved. The wise have said: do not be violent; it injures the other. I say: before it injures the other, the one who does violence injures himself. Do not do evil; the wise have said: you will incur sin and fall into hell in the next birth. I tell you: all that is nonsense. The moment you think of doing evil, hell is born; you suffer right then.

If you hold on to just one touchstone—that we will renounce whatever brings sorrow—you will suddenly find your energy slowly flowing toward joy.

Happiness does not come from great palaces. Happiness does not come from very delicious food. Happiness is an art of living. It can come with coarse fare; it can come in a hut. It can come even in poverty. And the proof is enough that the rich are not getting it—so the poor can get it too. If the rich are not getting it, then the question of happiness coming from wealth does not arise.

My single message is this: renounce sorrow, choose happiness. Pay at least this much price, and the divine, dancing, will start moving toward you. That moment will soon arrive.

To the instrument of ecstasy, the season of singing has arrived;
The season to drink and to reel has arrived.

Again there is the message of the Beloved’s coming, the peace of evening—
The season has come for the buds on the bed to blossom.

This yearning, this ache, this faint tingling in every vein—
Such youth has come, as if the season to die has arrived.

Break, my friend, every ritual and road of the two worlds—
Break all the customs and conventions of the world!
Break, my friend, every ritual and road of creation—
The season has come to stumble, slip upon slip.

To the instrument of ecstasy, the season of singing has arrived;
The season to drink and to reel has arrived.

Stagger! Drink! Let spring sprout within you! And you will find the divine coming closer day by day. Joy joins you to God; sorrow cuts you off.

Enough for today.