Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #30

Religion is the science of going beyond man. Religion is the art of transcendence. Without religion, man will remain merely man. And man’s remaining man is itself the sorrow, the pain, the anguish. Because man is incomplete; in incompleteness there is pain. No one can be fulfilled merely by being human. In being human itself, non-fulfillment is hidden.

Man is like a bud. As long as the bud has not become a flower, it will be restless. Only when the bud becomes a flower will it open and bloom. Only when it becomes a flower will it attain joy. The bud is only on the way—on the way to becoming a flower. The bud is not the end, not the destination. Such is man.

This is both man’s misery and man’s dignity. The misery is that man is not complete. Animals and birds are complete. By complete I mean: they are not on a journey. As they are, where they are, there they will end. A dog will remain a dog and die a dog. In the dog there is no progress. You cannot say to a dog, “You are a little less of a dog.” All dogs are equally dog. But to a human being you can say, “You are a little less of a man.” Why can you say so? Because one person is a little less man and another a little more man. Someone becomes so totally human—some Buddha, some Mahavira—that we have to call him a god. In truth only this has happened: Buddha’s flower has bloomed; nothing else. Our bud is closed; Buddha’s flower has opened.

From where we are, as we are, we must go beyond. The art of going beyond is called religion.

So religion and humanity are not one and the same. If by “man” we mean the ordinary human being, then religion is the science of going beyond man. If we take Buddha and Mahavira as “man,” and consider the ordinary person as not yet man, then religion is the science of becoming man.

Marx’s dictum is fundamentally wrong. But Marx and the communists have held the notion that there is nothing beyond man; man is the end. This is a very dangerous delusion. If it is accepted that there is nothing beyond man, then everything ends with bread and butter. Then livelihood becomes life. Then every morning you get up, go to the office, earn, eat, drink, beget children and die—and beyond this nothing remains. Then no depth can arise in life. Life will remain shallow and superficial.

Religion is the device for creating depth within man—the inward plunge. And there are depths upon depths. Touch one depth and a deeper depth begins to reveal itself. Open one door and a new door appears ahead. Door upon door. This mystery is infinite. Without religion, man will be a man only in name. Neither will the flower bloom, nor will there be fragrance.

But Marx knew nothing of religion. He could not have—he never meditated. Marx’s statement about religion is like a deaf man’s statement about music, or a blind man’s statement about light.

Yes, Marx had read the Bible and Christian books. They have nothing to do with religion. There is no religion in books. If the religion of the books is taken to be religion, then Marx is right that religion is an illusory sun; it is good to be free of it. If religion is understood to be what is in churches, temples, and mosques, then Marx is right: it is good to be free of them. If religion is taken to be priests and pundits, then Marx is right: better to be outside their net. But religion is not there. What Marx takes to be religion is not religion. Religion is in the Buddhas. It is not in the mosque, nor in the temple. Religion is in the meditator; wherever samadhi blossoms, there is religion.

Marx never had the company of anyone established in samadhi. Whatever notions he had about religion were bookish. He had read about music in books, and heard about light from others; he had no personal experience. Lacking direct experience, if a blind man says, “All this talk of the sun is nonsense; I don’t see it!” and “This music is all false; I have never heard it. How can what I cannot hear exist?”—Marx’s statements are of that order. They have no value.

Regarding religion, value belongs to the statements of one who has known meditation, who has touched its depths, who has drunk its nectar. Value belongs to those who have gone within, who have dived inside, who have tasted the inner elixir, who have seen the inner light, who have flown in the inner sky. All of them have said that without religion man is not truly man. Man will remain a bud. And however beautiful a bud may be, something is missing. The bud has not yet become a flower. And until it becomes a flower, how will it dance? Until it becomes a flower, how will it pour out fragrance? Until it becomes a flower, where is fulfillment? Where is bliss?

Religion is the ladder for going beyond man. Say it this way—or say that it is the art of becoming the real man. Both mean the same. If you are the real man, then religion is the art of going beyond man. You have to go beyond. You must rise above what you are. You are living on the circumference; there is no center in your life. And if we take Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ, as the definition of man, then religion will mean: the art of becoming a complete man. It depends on the definition of man.

But don’t go asking Marx. Marx knows nothing. Sitting in the British Museum library, whatever he came to know—that is not religion. To know religion one has to descend into prayer. That work is for the courageous. One has to go mad. One has to drown in ecstasy. It is not a bookish work, not of words; one has to enter the experience of the void. And whoever goes into that experience will find: without religion, fragrance never enters human life.

Then that religion does not mean Christianity, Hinduism, Islam. That religion means: the expression of the nature hidden within you; the manifestation of the song lying within you.

Samadhi! Satsang and meditation are interdependent. When meditation grows, the savor of satsang grows. When the relish for satsang grows, the depth of meditation grows. They are like two wings. If even one wing is cut, there will be harm. With one wing you cannot fly in the sky. You will go down into meditation, and then when you listen to me, when you sit by me, a new depth will come. Meditation has made the path. Meditation has done the cleaning—removed the stones from the way, removed the obstacles. Then, sitting by me, the spring will flow. As the spring flows, new pathways will be cut. As new pathways are cut, new stones will be discovered. Then you will go into meditation—the joy of removing those stones! The two are interdependent.

This often happens. Some people think, “If simply sitting here with you brings such bliss, then why meditate?” Their bliss will stop. It will have no momentum. New steps will not be taken day after day. Things will stop where they are—and not only stop; after a few days you will find even that much has begun to recede.

There are also people who think the opposite: “Meditation is so delightful, what is the point of satsang? What is there to hear now? I have begun to descend within on my own. Why sit at the Master’s feet?” Their meditation too will soon wobble, and even if it doesn’t wobble it will become blocked.

Remember: use as many experiments as possible—strike from as many directions as you can. Pray, worship, meditate, love, satsang, bhajan-kirtan—attack from all sides. This enemy must be erased. This darkness must be broken. If you attack from only one side, victory may not be possible. The enemy may hide at another door, sit in another corner. Darkness may hollow out a cave for itself elsewhere. Bring light from every side. Open all doors and windows. Do not be miserly in this. Why let light come from only one door? Let it enter from all doors. Meditate and also be in satsang. Dance as well, sing as well. Sit in silence too. Let this stream of nectar flow in as many forms as possible. You will find the combined process has a profound result.

It is good that in satsang a voidness comes over you. I can see samadhi ripening. Some fruit is coming close to being ripe. This is also where danger lies. When fruit is about to ripen, the mind says, “Now everything has happened, what is left to do?” Often people return when they have come right to the temple door. Where the destination is near completion, there they stop. They think, “I have arrived!”

Life is vast. Life is bigger than your ambitions. And life holds treasures of which you have not even dreamt. So never fall into the delusion that you have arrived. However much is attained, let the journey continue—because there is more to receive, yet more to receive.

Your ambitions are poor and paltry. You think, “The mind has become a little quiet—that’s enough.” There is so much yet to happen! And there is never a time when nothing remains to happen. That is why it is said that the mystery of the Divine is infinite. Know, and know more, and still the Unknown remains. Recognize, and recognize more—and still recognition does not consummate. It is oceanic in vastness. Seeking and seeking, the seeker gets lost—wholly dissolved.

Until you are totally effaced, until not a single note of “I” remains anywhere within, let satsang continue, let meditation continue, let prayer continue. Until parabhakti, the supreme devotion, is born, let gauni-bhakti, the secondary devotion, continue. There is no need to be stingy in this.

Sometimes you assume that everything is done—and this happens most often when everything is about to be done. When the goal starts to appear before you, one sits down. You have seen this? You travel—a long mountain trek. You keep walking, even when tired; now the temple appears ahead and you sit down. You say, “Now let me rest a bit; the temple is right there!” People rest when they reach the destination; when it is far, they keep walking.

Something is about to happen in samadhi; that is why this question has arisen. The question is important and useful to others as well, because within many, much is nearing fruition. The crop that has been sown—its harvest time will surely come near. The seeds that have been sown have sprouted; they will bear fruit. Remember, you have no idea how much fruit will come—endless fruit. Do not be content with one or two fruits. The truth is, the closer the seeker comes to attainment, the more the discipline must deepen.

It is auspicious that in satsang the emptiness flowers, the mind falls silent. But in satsang you are linked with me. In satsang you are flying on my wings. In satsang your eyes are seeing through my eyes. In satsang my heart is beating with your heart. In meditation, just so much must happen. Otherwise, if I am gone tomorrow, what will you do? If I am not there one day, what then? And a day will come when I will not be. The one who has depended only on satsang will be in difficulty. The one who has taken the benefit of satsang and simultaneously deepened meditation—only that one will not weep when I am gone; they will be filled with grace.

With me a music comes into tune. How much of it is yours and how much mine is hard to say. When the music is tuned in meditation, it is yours—and surely yours! And what is yours is what you must ultimately rely upon.

It happens: go to the Himalayas, sit quietly, and a great peace is felt—but much of that peace belongs to the Himalayas, not to you. When the same can happen sitting in the middle of the marketplace, then it is yours. When you descend from the Himalayas—step by step as you come down, the crowds thicken—the peace dissipates. People go to the mountains every day, experience peace, then return—and again the same restlessness! So the peace you feel sitting in the Himalayas is ninety-nine percent Himalayan; perhaps one percent is yours.

One percent will certainly be yours—because there are people who sit in the Himalayas and do not feel peace even there. Their marketplace continues. Their crowd stands around them. The Himalayas are visible, but they keep seeing the ones they left behind; they keep thinking of them. People take newspapers to the Himalayas, radios too, to hear Delhi’s news while sitting there. Then why did you go? People take friends along and continue the same chatter there as here—the same crowd, the same babble!

So there are those who do not experience peace even in the Himalayas. And here too there are people who will sit in satsang and not experience peace.

When you sink into peace with me, sitting near me, when now and then your heart and mine beat as one, when you begin to breathe with me, when all your resistance toward me breaks, when you stop defending yourself, when you go along with me—unconditionally, without concern for consequences—when you dare, when you are courageous, when you place your stake on the gaming board—sometimes such moments arrive—then you will be filled with an incomparable peace, an incomparable bliss.

But remember, much of that is mine. As soon as you return home, it will be lost. Do not depend on it. Take its benefit. Let it give you a glimpse of what can happen within you. Then use that benefit in meditation. Dig in meditation—pick up your own spade and dig in solitude. And until the same bliss that came in satsang begins to arise in aloneness, at home, far from me—do not stop. Keep digging, keep digging. When that very bliss begins to happen in solitude, then understand that now the time for satsang has come again—now let us glimpse the next vista, so that the journey can proceed further.

If you use satsang and meditation in this way, arrival is certain. But the mind interferes. The mind says, “If bliss comes in satsang, then let me do only satsang.” Or it says, “If bliss comes in meditation, why do satsang?”

There are two kinds of people. Those of a feminine disposition—simple, receptive, able to accept—satsang appeals to them more than meditation. It is no accident that more women are seen in satsang. They are simple. Their heart can easily beat with another’s. They have a natural art of falling in love. And without falling in love, satsang does not happen. The moment you fall in love, the waves become one. The disciple’s wave becomes one with the Master’s wave. The strings of both are tuned together. Moments come when there is no two—disciple and Master. Sometimes both simply become one. In that very instant, an incomparable emptiness arrives. An incomparable fullness arrives. An incomparable bliss showers. Clouds gather. Malhar begins to play. Veena strings resound. A dance begins within. For women this will happen more easily.

It must be happening for Samadhi—easily. A woman knows the art of yielding; that is the sign of being feminine. She knows surrender.

It is not necessary that all women have it—many women are not truly feminine; they are like men. Nor is it necessary that men do not have it—many men possess a heart as tender as women’s. So do not understand “man and woman” as merely bodily male and female; I speak of an inner distinction.

But the one who is parush—harsh, stony, proud, unwilling to bend—that is what is called purush, “man.” He says, “I may break, but I will not bend.” Even if he comes to satsang he arrives with his sheathed sword. Even if he comes he hides behind his shield. He says, “Somehow avoid bowing.” He is afraid to bend. Meditation will appeal to him more, because in meditation he is alone; there is no one before whom to bow.

So men often tilt more toward meditation and will think, “What is the need of satsang now? I have heard the Master enough; now in my solitude let meditation be maintained.” Women will often feel, “Listen more, listen more—what need is there of meditation?” But both are mistaken. Both are needed. Two wings are needed for that journey. And when a person becomes balanced, he is fifty percent woman and fifty percent man. That is why we created the image of Ardhanarishwar—the icon of balance. Have you seen it? Half Shiva-Parvati, half male. One breast is there, half the face is female; the other half is male. It is an incomparable image. No other culture has crafted such an image—because no other culture has discovered within the human being such a synthesis. Half man, half woman—both wings complete: surrender and meditation. Ardhanarishwar means surrender and meditation together—woman and man side by side. Bow down so that surrender happens; and rely on yourself so that meditation happens. Do not choose between the two; unite them. What is happening is auspicious—but do not abandon meditation because of it. What is happening is surrender.

Shab-e-gham—on the night of sorrow—their call has begun to be heard
My night has begun to hum again
The flowers have started stealing his smile
The morning breeze has begun to bring her message
Behold the supposed feebleness of my sigh—
it has started to go beyond the stars
What was drowned in the darkness of grief—
that rainbow has begun to smile
A new resonance has risen from the instrument of the heart
Hope has begun to sing like a song
Ecstasy has upturned the chessboard of love
Reason has begun to suffer defeat upon defeat

In such a state is Samadhi. In such a state many of my sannyasins here are. A distant sound has begun to come close. Some song is breaking forth within. Some melody is awakening. Some fragrance is appearing.

Ecstasy has upturned the chessboard of love
Intoxication, sweetness, a holy madness is appearing. Blessed are those in whose life the Divine madness arrives. With the coming of that madness the whole game changes.

Ecstasy has upturned the chessboard of love
Reason begins to lose, the heart begins to win. Feeling begins to triumph, thought begins to be defeated.

Good. Take the benefit of satsang, but do not drop meditation. You are able to receive this fruit of satsang—this samadhi—because you have meditated. And after every satsang the depth of meditation will keep increasing. Each supports the other. By supporting each other they rise higher and higher. With the help of both, one day the summit of Gaurishankar manifests within you. Let the two meet. The meeting of these two is called yoga. Let your meditation and your love meet. Let your masculine and your feminine meet. Become Ardhanarishwar.

Light the lamp of union in the mind, learn the wisdom of union
Snuffing out your own lamps, do not darken your home
Burning your own garden, do not warm your hands at it
Plotting crooked moves yourself, do not suffer defeat at your own hands
Breaking your own oars day and night amid the storm
Do not sink your own boat by becoming yourself the storm
Light the lamp of union in the mind, learn the wisdom of union

These are oars. You have seen—you need two oars. A boat will not move with one. Have you ever tried to row with a single oar? It will start circling. There will be no journey; you will become like the bullock of the oil-mill. Go try it—row with one oar on a river; the boat will only go round and round in its place. To cross to the other shore, you need two oars. Do not choose between satsang and meditation; make wings of both, and fly with both.

Dissolve! By whatever pretext you dissolve, it doesn’t matter—just dissolve! In prayer, in worship, in bhajan, in kirtan, in meditation, in satsang—dissolve. The methods are different.

Someone drinks poison and kills himself. Someone shoots himself. Someone hangs himself with a rope. Someone jumps into a river. Someone lies down on the railway tracks. The methods are different, but suicide is one.

In the same way, all these methods are different, but at the root there is self-annihilation. Dissolve! Let the ego come to an end. This is the real “suicide” I am teaching you. By destroying the body, nothing much is destroyed; you will come back again—and into the same kind of body, because your consciousness has not changed. It was due to a particular configuration of consciousness that you took this body. If the pattern of consciousness hasn’t changed, you will return to the same sort of body, choose the same kind of womb.

Killing the body is not the real suicide; the real suicide is sannyas, in which your very consciousness loses its personality, loses its ego. Then there is no returning. What has dissolved is gone. Whoever tried to save himself has lost. Therefore the essence of my teaching is—dissolve! Then, whichever method appeals to you. There is no need for all the methods. One method can be enough—if done rightly. I speak on so many methods here because people are different; different methods will appeal. Whichever one suits someone, let him die that way; let him efface himself in that way. Don’t worry about it, because dissolving is dissolving—it is the same. Whether one dies by poison or by a bullet, dying is the same. And don’t try to arrange everything, because sometimes, in trying to arrange everything, a mistake happens.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went off to die. A clever man! He thought he should make every arrangement. So he chose a perfectly high hill. Below it he chose a river—he would jump; if the jump killed him, fine; if not, he would drown and die. On top of that hill there was a tree; he tied a rope to one of its branches, that if even that failed, he would put the noose around his neck and die hanging. But suppose even that failed—people of mathematics do all the calculations—he also brought a can of kerosene to pour over himself and set himself on fire. But who knows—if even that failed, he also brought a pistol. And then, it was in this that the slip happened. He hung on the rope, poured the kerosene, swung, fired the shot. The bullet hit the rope, so the rope snapped. He fell into the river, so the fire went out. When he was walking back, dejected, I asked, “Well, Mulla, what happened?” He said, “What to do? If I hadn’t known how to swim today, I’d have been dead.”

There is no need to make all the arrangements. One arrangement, done in totality, is enough.

A wise one has turned up! Here there is a throng of the ignorant. Such lofty, knowing questions shouldn’t be asked here.

First thing: in this world no wrong act has ever happened, nor will it ever happen. It cannot happen. Impossible. Because the divine is all-pervading.
What you call wrong is your notion. What you call right is your notion. Because of your notions, right and wrong appear. Drop the notions—then what is right and what is wrong? To the meditator nothing appears right and nothing appears wrong, because the meditator’s conditioning has fallen away. What appears right to you appears wrong to another.
Consider: you say, “Stealing is a sin.”
Lao Tzu once became the prime minister of his country. A man was caught stealing. He sentenced both the thief and the moneylender to six months each. The moneylender shouted, “Are you in your senses or drunk? What is this? A sentence for the moneylender! Ever heard of such a thing?”
But Lao Tzu said, “If you had not hoarded so much wealth, there would be no theft. You have gathered the village’s wealth—if not theft, then what else will happen? The truth is, I myself have often thought: this man is only the number two culprit; the number one culprit is you. Had you not amassed so much, there would have been no theft.”
The matter reached the emperor. He too was astonished—such a sentence! But there was weight in Lao Tzu’s words.
Is theft right or wrong? Theft is wrong—if you assume that amassing people’s wealth is perfectly right. Then it is wrong. But if hoarding people’s wealth itself is wrong, how can theft be wrong? Theft is a kind of communism. A man is spreading communism individually—distributing people’s property. Wherever it has piled up excessively, he provides relief.
The great Western thinker Proudhon wrote: all property is theft. Property as such is theft. How does it accumulate with you? Someone’s pocket must be emptied for it to accumulate. So what is the difference between a moneylender and a thief, according to Proudhon? The thief is a small-time thief; the moneylender is a big thief—that’s the only difference. What is right? What is wrong?
In India there are the Terapanthi Jains. They say that if a man is lying by the roadside dying of thirst, do not even give him water. Why? You will say this is utterly topsy-turvy. Giving water to the thirsty is merit, a good deed, isn’t it? No one would call that a bad act. Ask the Terapanthis. They say: if you give him water and he was on the verge of death, and because of that water he survives, and tomorrow he murders someone, you too will be responsible. Had you not given him water, he would not have lived, and the murder would not have happened. Your hand is in it; you cannot escape. Therefore, don’t get entangled—go your way, pass silently by.
It is a matter to ponder. You gave a man some money because he was hungry, and he went and drank alcohol. Had you not given the money, he would not have drunk. He came back drunk and beat his wife to death. Your compassion did great harm. What is right? What is wrong?
And one more thing worth considering: can what you call right survive without the wrong? Just think! Remove Ravana from the Ramayana—he is the wrong one—and keep Rama. Will Rama remain? The moment you remove Ravana, Rama’s very life is gone. Nothing will be left—only husk. It then seems the grain was Ravana. There will be no abduction of Sita, no Rama–Ravana war—the story won’t move forward at all. To move the story forward, Ravana is absolutely necessary. Remove Judas and the story of Jesus becomes pointless, because it is because of Judas that Jesus is crucified. Only then does the story have flavor.
Just take the bad out of life, remove the unrighteous—and where will your saints remain? The moment you remove the bad, how much saintliness will be left in your “mahatmas”? For what reason would it remain? They are conjoined, as day and night are linked. Rama and Ravana are two sides of the same coin. Neither can Ravana be without Rama, nor Rama without Ravana.
Maharshi Ramana gave the right answer. A German thinker once asked him—exactly what you have asked—why is there so much sin in the world? Why so much evil?
Do you know what Ramana said? He gave a wonderfully astonishing answer—rarely has anyone said it! Only a knower could. Ramana said: “To thicken the plot.” To make the story a little more flavorful. To give it density. To bring some fun into the tale.

Have you noticed, can you create a story in which there is no evil at all? The truth is, it’s said that in a good man’s life there is no story. A good man is like a flat, blank sheet of paper. There’s nothing to it but goodness. He just sits at home singing hymns—where is the story in that? Have you ever read a good man’s story? Even if you do, you’ll have to bring in a bad man to give the story life, breath. Otherwise, Lord Ram would have gone on wandering forever, taking Sita and Lakshman along. They would still be wandering! Thank goodness for Ravan… Otherwise he’d just keep roaming with Sita—where would he stop? How could he stop?

In this world, evil and good are not opposites, they are complements. Without night there is no day; without day, no night. Without woman there is no man; without man, no woman. Without cold, no heat; without heat, no cold. All the dualities you see here only look opposed on the surface; within, they are joined. If this remembrance dawns in you, you will understand that a very sweet story is unfolding. Then you won’t even be angry with the bad; you’ll know it too is essential. It is thanks to Ravan’s “grace” that Ram emerged so radiant.

On a blackboard you have to write with white chalk, don’t you! If there’s no blackboard, you can’t write with white chalk. Ravan is the blackboard; Ram stands out like white chalk upon him. That is why Ravan has been painted black. The blacker you paint Ravan, the whiter Ram appears. This is life’s necessity. It’s a play. Here nothing is truly bad, nothing truly good.

You ask, “If God is omnipresent…”
He certainly is.

“…is in everyone, then no act should be wrong.”
It hasn’t been, I tell you, not to this day. What is happening here is a play. What wrong and what right? It’s a drama. You’ve gotten a bit too entangled in the drama.

A great Bengali scholar, Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, once went to see a play. In it there was a man of vile character—corrupt, a rapist. And there was a woman utterly pure—pure like a prayer, maidenly like flowers. He catches her in a forest and tries to rape her. A hush falls over the audience. Suddenly, to everyone’s shock, Vidyasagar leaps onto the stage, pulls off his shoe, and starts thrashing the villain! No one could make sense of what was happening. The actor snatched the shoe from his hand and touched it to his head in reverence. Only then did Vidyasagar come to his senses—he realized it was a play.

Ah, the habit of judging good and bad! A righteous man! He simply couldn’t bear it. The actor said, “I won’t return the shoe. This is my award. If a man like you could be deceived, what greater certificate could there be for my play?” He did not return the shoe. That shoe is still preserved in Calcutta. His family keeps it carefully in a box—a proof that Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar was taken in. Surely the actor must have been masterful, extraordinary! He created such a situation it felt absolutely real. So real that rescue seemed necessary.

For those who know, this earth is a great stage. Nothing bad has ever happened here, nor does it. Good and bad alike are parts of the drama. To thicken the plot. To make the story a little more flavorful. If Ram comes alone, he may not even be noticed—you have to bring in Ravan. And if Ravan comes alone, his life too will have no savor without Ram. One who sees this way becomes free—of both auspicious and inauspicious. To be free of auspicious and inauspicious is saintliness. To be free of the “holy” and “unholy” alike is saintliness.

So be careful: do not mistake “saint” for “pious man.” The pious man is not a saint. How can he be, while he is still fighting the impious? A saint is one who has seen that the pious and impious are two faces of the same coin. He is no longer pious, no longer impious—he stands beyond both, as a witness, a seer.

It is exactly this witnessing I am teaching you here. That is why many feel obstructed. They come here expecting—ah!—that people will be sitting beneath trees, beads in hand, chanting Ram-Ram. Here a thousand things are going on. Here Lord Ram is leading Sita along. Here Lord Ravan is trailing behind, plotting to abduct Sita! The whole Ramleela is happening! You come and become very restless. You had thought Ram would be sitting, Sita beside him—Sita spinning cotton, weaving khadi; Ram shooing flies. What else would they do, just sitting there?

In my vision, life as it is, is to be accepted. Life is lovely; it must embrace both good and bad. It needs the sour along with the sweet. Otherwise, with only one flavor, life’s dimensions are lost. Life should be multidimensional. Yes, within all this, witnessing must awaken. Everything will continue just as it is; witnessing must awaken.

And surely Ravan’s witnessing must have awakened—just as much as Ram’s. That is why Lakshman was sent to learn from the dying Ravan—“Go, learn something from Ravan as he dies!” It is said he was supremely wise. What could the secret be? He must have been a witness. He did abduct Sita, but he did her no harm. He kept her safe. It was a play; he was completing it. A play in which he was performing his part—yet standing a little apart, watching it all. He was happy to die at Ram’s hand, delighted. They say he was liberated by dying at Ram’s hand. To die at Ram’s hand is to die at the Guru’s hand. The self-slaying I was just teaching you—Ravan provoked Ram to slay him. What could be more auspicious?

Look at the story afresh, see it with my eyes! Then you will find: there is nothing bad here, nothing good. Here thorns guard the flowers; they are not their enemies. Here flowers and thorns are companions, friends; there is no enmity between them. It is the human intellect that decides—this is good, this is bad. Once you decide, then that is what you begin to see. And once you see that way, the question arises—why does God allow the bad and the good a chance? There should be only good.

God does not run according to your intellect. Your intellect is very small. What do you know of bad, what do you know of good?

Now you are upset that a lion came and seized a man and ate him—so this is very bad. Why is it bad? Should the lion be starved? Think of the lion too! He is only having his breakfast.

But man is very clever. When he kills the lion, he calls it hunting, a sport. And when the lion kills him, he doesn’t call it a hunt; he doesn’t accept it as sport. What dishonesty! When you kill the lion, you went to play a game—“the sport of the hunt”! You have invented such names. But when the lion hunts, he’s a man-eater. Why, sir? Will you let him play a little too, or not?

Everything is happening in play. Yours is in play, and his too. The day you see with witnessing… do not look as a man, for that is partiality. When you look as a man, you are partial; then you do not look as the lion. Drop partiality and look as a witness, and you will see—what difference does it make whether you ate the lion or the lion ate you? Ram is eating Ram! Ram is digesting Ram! All is going perfectly well. There is no hitch.

If a supreme knower is eaten by a lion, he will only know this: “All right—God has assimilated me—through the lion; he came in the form of a lion and took me.”

In the revolt of 1857, such a thing happened. A monk had been silent for thirty years, and he was naked as well. It was a moonlit night; he was roaming in his own ecstasy. By mistake he wandered into a British camp. They thought he was a spy. They caught him. When he would not speak, they became certain—a spy indeed—and naked—this enraged them. Someone drew a bayonet and thrust it into his chest. As he was stabbed, he uttered a final word—the great Upanishadic mahavakya: “Tat tvam asi!” That thou art!

What is this monk saying? “I recognize you, come in any form. Today you have come as a killer; you will not deceive me—Tat tvam asi!”

The monk had taken a vow to speak only upon meeting God. He had not spoken for thirty years; today he spoke. God chose a fine way to appear!

For the witness, nothing is bad, nothing good. They are all waves. And all are waves of the One.

You ask, “And if He is doing everything, why does He not also suffer the fruits?”
What do you think—are you the one who suffers? He is the one who suffers. He also does; he also enjoys. He is the doer; he is the enjoyer. Your delusion is that you act; your delusion is that you enjoy. Where are you? Your very “you” is a delusion, a mirage, maya. You are a wave of the One. Whatever is happening, is happening in Him. When such attention opens in you, when your seeing becomes clear, it will be visible.

But by raising questions of this kind you will not get anywhere. These questions have no intellectual answer. Only experience can answer. Become a little more of a witness. Go a little into meditation. You will begin to see what I am saying. Merely believing me will not help, because your experience will remain the opposite. A scorpion will come and sting you and you will forget it all. You will say, “Ah, this scorpion! How to see God in this? And why has God put poison in it?” To thicken the plot. Otherwise what fun would there be? If the sting didn’t smart, where would the flavor be? What would you have him put there—coffee or tea? Everything would be washed out; the fun of the play would be gone. In its sting he has placed poison—to give you a jolt of zest! But it is still Him. He is the poison; he is the nectar.

Let a tiny thorn prick you and you begin to raise great philosophical questions—“Why did the thorn prick me? If God is omnipresent, why did the thorn prick?”

In the thorn, too, it is He who pricks—but we are fixed in our distinctions. Our idea of God is such that whatever we want must happen; then there is God. So Christians want all Hindus to vanish, only Christians should remain—and then they will accept there is God. And Hindus want all Christians to vanish—then there is God. The one who goes to the mosque thinks, “All should go to the mosque—then there is God. Why are there temples? There should be no temples.” And the temple-goer thinks, “Let all the mosques fall.”

If you think in this way, you will find there is no such thing that everyone will agree is right, nor will everyone agree is wrong. Whom should God listen to?

I have heard that once he lived right here on earth. In the middle of the marketplace. But people troubled him too much. From morning till evening they stood in line before him. At night they woke him again and again—“At this time do this, at that time do that. Today send rain!” And at the same time another would come and say, “Today don’t send rain; I have made clay pots—let them dry!” And one would say, “Today I’ve sown seeds—send rain.” And someone else, “Bring out the sun—I have clothes to dry.” He must have panicked, gone mad! He ran away. Since then he hasn’t looked back. And wherever man reaches, from there he runs. From here he went to the Himalayas. Then men reached the Himalayas; he left them. Then he took up residence on the moon. Man reached the moon; he left that too. Don’t think he did not live on the moon—he did; but because you arrived, he fled. Wherever you go, from there he will flee. He is afraid of you. You ask such questions!

These questions have no intellectual solution. Become a witness. In your witnessing, all these questions will fall away. And the day you see the One in both Ram and Ravan, know that something has happened. As long as Ravan appears an enemy to you and Ram appears dear, know that nothing has happened yet. The day flower and thorn become one, the day pleasure and pain become one—know that something has happened. On that very day all questions end.

Samadhi! I feel compassion for that sannyasin! His consciousness had come close to something happening, and he missed. He is worthy of compassion.

I am answering this because it will be useful to others too. Often it happens that when even a slight glimpse of meditation comes, the ego takes possession of it. This has happened before; now it has happened to this sannyasin. It has happened to others as well. A few who went West have also fallen into it.

Now there are fifty thousand sannyasins of mine; it is absolutely natural that two, four, five will get into this tangle. When the first glimpse of meditation comes, it feels, “It has happened. What more is there to do? Now is the time to be worshipped; the time to worship is over. Announce that I have arrived, I am accomplished, I have attained godliness.”

The ego is sitting behind. Whatever you gain, the ego will try to use it to prove itself.

And I feel compassion because he is a simple person—neither dishonest nor a cheat. But he has gotten caught in the snare of the ego. And when the ego works from behind the scenes, it will make you do everything. It will say, “Drop the mala!” because the ego cannot tolerate your wearing someone else’s mala. “Drop the ochre robe! Now you are supremely free.”

I have never told him to drop the mala. Nor have I ever said, “Abandon the ochre robe.” Nor have I told him, “You have arrived.”

Wait for me a little. Many of you will also face such delusions; then wait a bit. I am here! When I see that you have gone beyond the boundary of the ego and there is no danger, I will tell you that you have arrived. Why are you in such a hurry? Why this impatience? I want all of you to attain godliness—let not even one be left behind. But if you get hasty, you will miss. And the one who, through me and walking with me, attains godliness—even if I tell him, “Now drop the mala,” he will not be able to drop it. Even if I say, “Now leave these ochre clothes,” he won’t listen to me. He will say, “I came by this support; gratitude and grace toward it.”

Buddha’s disciples—Sariputta, Moggallana, Mahakasyapa—attained enlightenment; then Buddha told them, “Go and carry the news to the people.” They did not abandon their yellow robes. When Sariputta was sent, he went weeping. His companions asked, “Why are you crying?” He said, “Because Buddha has said that I too have become a Buddha.” They said, “That is fine, you have become a Buddha—then why weep?” He replied, “That is true, but I have to go away from the one through whom it happened. It would have been better not to become a Buddha yet!”

Sariputta’s words are most precious: “It would have been better not to become a Buddha yet. Had I known that on becoming a Buddha I would have to leave Buddha, I would have postponed it. Sitting at his feet was such a joy, such bliss. Buddhahood could have waited; it could still happen later. But Buddha’s company, his satsang!”

He went—Buddha had commanded, so he went. But wherever he was, morning and evening, he would bow in full prostration in the direction where Buddha was. His disciples would ask, “Now you yourself are a Buddha; to whom are you bowing? We see no one there.” He would say, “My master will be in that direction—there, the feeling of grace.” He would weep; the moment Buddha’s name came to his lips, tears would stream from his eyes.

So the one to whom it truly happens—I will tell him. Do not be in a hurry.

Now that sannyasin has gotten into needless trouble, into turmoil. Remind him to drop this delusion. Nothing has happened yet. Something was close to happening—and this commotion has blocked the happening.

You ask: “One of your sannyasins is misleading other sannyasins and people.”
They can mislead. Others should be alert. Such incidents will happen often. They are perfectly natural; they have always happened. Buddha’s cousin, Devadatta, made a proclamation. When he saw that people like Sariputta, Moggallana, and Mahakasyapa had attained enlightenment, Devadatta could not bear it—he was a cousin, grew up with Buddha, in the same royal palace, of the same royal lineage, a brother; others were being declared enlightened, and Buddha made no declaration about him! How could Buddha have declared it? The time for declaration had not yet come. So he declared it himself. He took five hundred of Buddha’s monks with him and split off. Five hundred went with him. People can be misled. And he declared, “I am myself a Buddha. There is no need to go to Buddha now.”

Not only that—he even tried to have Buddha killed. Because as long as Buddha was present, no matter how much he claimed, even if he gathered ten, fifty, a hundred, two hundred, five hundred people around him, thousands were still going to Buddha. That pained him. He let a mad elephant loose on Buddha.

A very sweet incident occurred: when the mad elephant came before Buddha, it stopped short, stood still, and bent down. It placed its head at Buddha’s feet. Even mad elephants have that much understanding—that is the only point of the story. But the ego is madder than mad elephants.

So be alert, my sannyasins! There is no need to support such people. Help them to understand. Do not let them miss. Be compassionate toward them; do not be angry; do not become their enemy. Explain to them. Bring the erring ones back home. Do not oppose them—but do not cooperate with them either, because they themselves are in delusion and will drag you into delusion.

“They are misusing your name to establish their dominance.”
This will happen. Reports come that some sannyasins go in my name to collect money; some go and persuade people that I have declared them accomplished beings. Now that the number of sannyasins has grown—and it will keep growing; we have to ochre-color this whole earth—these difficulties will come. They are entirely natural. For these, you should have clear sutras before you about what to do. That is why Samadhi’s question is important.
He has asked: 'What should we do?'
First thing: do not get angry! Be compassionate. If any of your companions goes astray, take care to bring them back onto the path. Explain to them lovingly in private. Bring them to me.
That Brahma Vedant even avoids coming here. I sent word to him: come here, speak a little before me. But he is afraid even to meet my eyes. How would he come here? If he comes, what will he say? What answer will there be? The lies he is telling others, he will not be able to tell me. I have never told him to drop the mala, to drop the ochre robes. I have never said that you have arrived.
Explain this to him. And be careful that through him no other sannyasin is needlessly led astray. Stop hosting his camps and the like! Now my sannyasins think that I have said that Brahma Vedant has arrived; therefore, now host his camps, hold his satsang.
Brahma Vedant writes to people that Osho has given me the order to go out and preach.
I have given him no such order. Remember this: whenever anyone comes to you saying such things, unless he has a letter from the ashram, from me, do not listen. Do not give money, do not offer respect, do not organize any camps. A lot of trouble is being created. Every day people come here with news: “Such-and-such sannyasin took ten thousand rupees from us; he said he had come from the Foundation, from the ashram, that there was great need.”

Now it will be difficult to determine who will go where and ask whom for what.

People are simple, and they have love for me; they think, “There must be a need; if a sannyasin has been sent, then give—give the money; let him take it—never mind.”

I have not sent anyone to collect money. Do not worry about money. I have a certain friendship with money—it comes on its own. Don’t worry about it. I do not have to take from you. If anyone comes to take from you, there is no need to give. Nor have I authorized anyone. Yes, take care of those whom I send from the ashram. Mridula comes from the ashram; Chaitanya Bharati. Two people come on behalf of the ashram; no third person comes. And whenever anyone comes, ask for a letter from him, so that such mistakes can be prevented.

“They invite Shri Brahma Vedantji to your sannyas camps in other parts of the country. Along with him, Shri Anantji of Porbandar creates even worse havoc.”

It seems Anantji has become a disciple of Shri Morarji Desai.

“They sprinkle their urine over everyone.”

Anant has no capacity. Anant is a mere troublemaker. Brahma Vedant did have some capacity; he was coming close to meditation. Things had begun to take root, which he himself uprooted. They can take root again—nothing is lost. And Anant has a hand in spoiling it. Anant is a mischief-maker. Ganja, charas—these must be his scene. To prop that up he has used Brahma Vedant as a cover. Brahma Vedant is a straightforward man. Anant is a troublemaker; he will play many games and create many kinds of disturbances.

Do not support such things. Stop them completely. Cut them off at the root—from the very start. After I am gone, many such things will start running; then it will become very difficult. So it is better that while I am here you keep all these principles in mind. Do not let such things run in my presence, so that after me they cannot run either. And while I am present, you can ask me directly.

What madness is this? No one attains samadhi through any intoxicant. But for centuries this delusion has persisted in this country, because intoxicants have one property: they can create a false samadhi. So for those who want cheap promotion… what they will do—this has been done many times and keeps being done. This kind of fraud is very ancient. In the akharas of sadhus this practice has continued: they will mix bhang into the prasad. Devotees will take the prasad and consume bhang, and then when the singing begins the devotees will go into ecstasy. And the devotee does not even know he has taken bhang! He will think it is the ecstasy of meditation. He will think the master’s grace is descending. He will think he is receiving the benefit of satsang.

This has gone on forever. From soma to now, from the Vedas till today, sadhus have spread this mischief. It is a cheap affair. To take someone into meditation is a difficult process, but to give someone the illusion that they have reached meditation is very easy. In the West, even more sophisticated things than ganja and charas have appeared—LSD. Put a tiny dose of LSD in water and hundreds of people will be intoxicated.

Governments are considering that where people are unruly and rebellious, LSD could be put into the water sources. Then people will become very mellow; their mischief will vanish, their rebellion will be gone. Governments are considering that, if not today then tomorrow, when a child is born in a hospital, some element could be introduced so that there is never any rebellion within—he remains a yes-man forever.

All these intoxicants create servility. They do not refine your life-consciousness, nor do they lead you toward meditation. And such disturbances have kept occurring. Urine has been sprinkled; urine has been given as prasad. And the more foolish a thing is, the more it appeals to people. There is a peculiar attraction in stupidity.

Try to understand this. Your so-called paramahansas have consumed excreta and urine, have mixed them into prasad. These are signs of derangement. That is why I call Morarji Desai a fifty-percent paramahansa. These are signs of derangement—signs of sickness. This is not a healthy state of mind.

If any such act occurs anywhere, stop it immediately. Do not get involved in such acts. And those who engage in them run their arrangements with great cleverness. I have learned what they do there: whoever arrives, they say, “Come, Bhagwan!” and touch his feet.

Now when someone touches your feet—no one has ever touched your feet—and calls you “Bhagwan,” suddenly you yourself cannot quite believe it. And when someone is calling you Bhagwan and touching your feet, it becomes quite natural that you will not raise any objection to anything there. You will be fed, your hands and feet will be massaged, you will be served. And you become very pleased, very delighted—now whatever is going on, let it go on. Now you cannot oppose it. How will you oppose it? Those who have given you so much respect—won’t you return respect in turn?

These are all tricks. And these disturbances arise again and again. With every buddha such mischief appears. Nothing new. But vigilance is necessary.

There is no need to worry about misunderstandings; I myself create quite enough of those. Don’t worry about that. Don’t fret over misunderstandings. Be concerned that my sannyasins do not get led in a wrong direction. No worry about the public’s misunderstandings. Who cares what people say? But do take care that the sannyasins—who have slowly become eager for meditation—are not led onto false paths by anyone. Wherever such people are, get hold of them and bring them here. Tell them, first, come here. Try in every way to bring them back onto the path. And do not, knowingly or unknowingly, lend any support.

“Should we watch all this silently?”

No, there is no need to watch silently—not at all. This does not mean you pick up sticks and start thrashing in the name of Brahma, Vedanta, or the Infinite. That will not help. Do not watch silently. With great compassion, with great love—if a friend, a companion of yours is straying—bring them back. Something has to be done. And if the sannyasins remain alert, such disturbances will not be possible. They should not happen! Preventing them is absolutely essential.

The new always frightens. The unfamiliar intimidates. Yet only in the unfamiliar is growth. Only in the unknown is the journey. Each day you have to drop the old; each day you have to move into the new.

Just as every morning a new sun rises, every morning new flowers bloom, so in your life too there must be a fresh light each day, new flowers each day. Don’t sit clinging to dead flowers pressed in books. Your memories are dead flowers pressed in books. Do not get entangled with the past. It is comfortable. To live by the past needs no courage. For the weak, it is a great security. But if you only keep drowning in the past, how will you grow? How will you evolve?

The new calls you every day. God is ever new, ever fresh. Only the one who can step into the new can know the divine. Each day you must die to the old and be born to the new. And this stream of time that is passing by you will not return. Do not lose even a moment. Every moment wasted with the past, with the old, is a moment lost.

O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

Hurry! If your life cannot become a lamp, if the ember cannot leap and become a flame, very soon it will turn to ashes. Then one more opportunity is gone. You have lost so many like this. Don’t lose this one. Take full advantage of being with me.

O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

He who does not thrust his chest forward,
his back will drag him backward;
he who cannot rise upward
will have to go downward;
in this unstable world, standing still
nothing ever remains—
O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

Remember, nothing here is static. Either you go ahead or you fall behind. You will have to move. Scientists say: absolute rest is impossible; nothing is truly at rest. Either enter new life each day, or be buried day by day under the old death.

Drop fear! Be full of fear only toward fear itself, and be afraid of nothing else.

Burning belongs to those who, in the darkness,
to the anxious, suspicious, searching eyes
reaching out on uncertain hands,
offer assurance of hope
and speak the message of life—
if you will not become a ray of light, you will become a streak of dust and smoke.
O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

You have a heart—if you want,
you can house the whole world in it.
Whose heart you wish to delight, delight it;
with whom you wish to rejoice, rejoice.
You have a throat—whatever rises from within,
let it scatter outside.
You will become a burden on the mind if you will not become a spontaneous outpouring.
O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

Life keeps turning to ash; every moment, layer upon layer of ash settles. Let the ember blaze. Let the ember become a flame. Why be afraid of the new? The new is life. Why be afraid of the new? The new is the divine. But many find comfort in becoming ash. Many die before death. Many live as if already in a grave.

Open the doors and windows of the mind. The divine knocks every day. Listen to that knock. Only by going with the new will you grow. Only with the new will you be able to fly into the sky.

Mistakes will happen—and that is exactly why the fear is there. Since childhood everyone has been taught: “Don’t make mistakes.” That has planted fear—lest a mistake be made. In old, familiar work mistakes don’t happen, because you already know it. You keep doing the same, again and again—then, indeed, you won’t err. But then the greatest error has already happened: you have become dead; you are no longer alive. I tell you, don’t be afraid of mistakes. Only those who make mistakes learn something in life. Remember just one thing: don’t repeat the same mistake. Make a new mistake every day. Invent new mistakes. Err consciously, so that you learn something from the mistake and something comes of it. The mistake will fall behind, but the fragrance of what you learned will remain with you always. Man only learns by making mistakes.

The day before yesterday a German sannyasin asked me. There is a Christian story: a father had two sons—poles apart. The elder was traditional and rigid; the younger was rebellious, a rebel. They never got along. The elder walked only on the beaten track, never crossed the Lakshman-rekha; the younger would never stay within any Lakshman-rekha—he always ranged outside. At last the conflict grew so much the old father separated them and divided the property.

The younger took his share and went to the city. What will you do with property in a small village? No conveniences. He must have gone to the Bombay or Calcutta of those days. He squandered lavishly, gambled, drank, went to prostitutes; all kinds of sins, all kinds of mistakes. Soon he became a beggar. The elder stayed on the farm, tended the cows, managed the fields, increased the wealth. In ten years the elder made the property fivefold. The younger became a beggar and started begging.

One day, while begging door to door, he happened to stand before a doorway whose gate looked exactly like his father’s. Memory struck: “This is too much—I’m begging! There are hundreds of servants in my home. If I go back, my father can still forgive me; I trust his love. And I no longer ask to be accepted as a son—that right I have lost; I am no longer worthy. But he can accept me as a servant. Where there are hundreds of servants, I’ll be just one more—herding the cows, sowing the seed, reaping the harvest—whatever is needed. That would be better than begging. At least I’ll live at my father’s house.”

That very day he returned to his village. News of his return spread—news had been coming regularly; the father kept asking, “What now? How is he? How far has it gone bad or better?” Till now only sad tidings had come. That day the message arrived: “Your son is coming.” The father celebrated—a great festival. He invited the whole village to a feast, called bands, hung flowers, lit lamps—a row of lights! The costliest wines were brought up from the cellars, the most exquisite dishes prepared.

The elder son was working in the fields; he knew nothing. Coming back, exhausted by the sun, someone on the way told him, “This is outrageous! There should be a limit to injustice! Your father has done you great wrong. You stayed by him, served him, obeyed him. For you there was never any band, never a village feast, never the precious bottles opened. Today your younger brother—that paragon—returns, and all this is for him. And you didn’t know?”

Hearing this, the elder’s heart sank. He said, “This is injustice. Till today I never opposed my father in anything, but today I cannot tolerate this.” He came in great anger and said to his father, “What is going on? There was never a welcome for me!”

The father said, “You have always been with me. But the one who was lost is returning. You never made a mistake. But he, who made many, has awakened through them and is coming back. Therefore the welcome is necessary.”

That German sannyasin asked me—she was the wife of a Christian priest; both are my sannyasins—“I always have one question: what about the elder son? The younger’s welcome—fine; but what about the elder?”

I told her, the elder son is only there to complete the story. In truth, the elder son was never born. For one who has never erred has learned nothing. One who never went far can never come near. The elder is near, yet cannot arrive near—because he never went far.

This beautiful story of Jesus says: Make mistakes; don’t be afraid. Only through mistakes will you learn. Only when a mistake pricks like a thorn will you awaken. And each mistake will teach you something. Just don’t repeat the same mistake. What is the point in repetition? Don’t become a slave to the same groove even in error.

The person who makes fresh mistakes every day, courageously, and learns something from each—his treasure begins to grow. Such a person someday attains to wisdom. Clouds of intelligence gather in his life; showers of knowing fall in his life.

There is a kind of knowledge that comes from books—trash. And there is knowledge that comes from life—only that is precious.

Remember: one who has not recognized sin rightly will never recognize virtue; one who has not seen the world rightly will not reach God. This world is a mistake invented as a way to bring you to God. It is a divine device—a device to make you wander and forget. And erring and erring, when you remember; missing and missing, when you return, each time your maturity will deepen, each time your centering will strengthen, each time your consciousness will grow more luminous.

Remember—

O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

He who does not thrust his chest forward,
his back will drag him backward;
he who cannot rise upward
will have to go downward;
in this unstable world, standing still
nothing ever remains—
O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

If you will not become a ray of light, you will become a streak of dust and smoke.
You will become a burden on the mind if you will not become a spontaneous outpouring.
O ember of the mind, if you do not become a flame, you will become ash.

Do not be afraid of mistakes. The fear is only this: “What if I make a mistake?”—so you hide inside the house; you sit like a timid dullard, lest a mistake be made.

I say to you: drop fear. Step out of the house! Let mistakes happen. Only remember: do not make the same mistake twice. Soon your mistakes will be exhausted. And soon you will find yourself fresh and new, as if just bathed. Then life takes on a new manifestation, a new color. Life takes on a new melody, a new song. Life becomes bliss.

That bliss of life is what is called the experience of God.

Mistake upon mistake upon mistake, thorn upon thorn upon thorn—and a man pierced from every side, having tried from every side and failed, the one who set out to prove his ego in every way and could not—only he becomes capable of surrender. Surrender is not for the weak. Surrender is not for the timid who sit at home. Surrender belongs to one who has known life—known it in every way—fought in every way, struggled in every way, wrestled and waged war in every way and failed; and one day, failing and failing, discovers that in trying to win there is defeat. “So now let me try defeat itself. Let me be defeated by myself.” Only then does victory happen.

On one side, the pride of self—yes, an expression;
on the other, the restraint of grief weighs
upon the delicacy of the heart;
those who know how, take delight in both—
life is a bouquet of flowers and the sting of thorns.

A flower and a thorn both—
life is a bouquet of flowers and the sting of thorns.
Those who know take delight in both,
taste the joy of both, the flavor of both.

On one side, the pride of self—yes, an expression;
on the other, the restraint of grief weighs
upon the delicacy of the heart;
those who know how, take delight in both—
life is a bouquet of flowers and the sting of thorns.

Steady-going depends on the courage of the heart;
when longing is great, the path is both easy and hard.
Only when I lost myself did I find your love—
in my life this is both my victory and my defeat.

This is life’s supreme paradox: the one who tries to win, loses. All ambitions are shaken. All hopes someday fall like ash. Then a new experiment arises in life—“Now let me try losing! Now let me choose defeat willingly!” That is surrender. And in that defeat is victory.

Like a swan pierced with arrows, I have fallen—I am now at your feet.

When I climbed to the land of clouds,
I knew I would have to return.
I knew it is impossible to build a nest
on the tendrils of lightning.
I wanted to tell the sky a little
of the earth’s longings—
like a swan pierced with arrows, I have fallen; I take refuge in you.

But to repent—
for that I was not ready.
Had the sky not pulled me,
I would have been a burden upon the earth.
By falling I proved
that I had risen to my utmost strength.
Today it is not weakness—my might is great at your feet—
like a swan pierced with arrows, I have fallen; I take refuge in you.

My desire was larger than I—
I wanted to know if I was larger than it.
Not the body of man, but the stature
of his heart’s courage I wanted to know.
With a line of blood I return,
drawn upon the girdle of the horizon.
My power tested in the sky—on earth I will test my devotion—
like a swan pierced with arrows, I have fallen; I take refuge in you.

Fly—as far as you can. Go—as far from God as you can. One day you will fall.

Like a swan pierced with arrows, I have fallen; I take refuge in you.

And then there is a different joy in falling. One who never went cannot fall with strength. One who never fought—his defeat has no life. One who sat near can never truly be near. To be near, going far is necessary.

Like a swan pierced with arrows, I have fallen; I take refuge in you.

When I climbed to the land of clouds,
I knew I would have to return.
I knew it is impossible to build a nest
on the tendrils of lightning.

It is clear: in this world no one can make a home. And it is clear: one who tries to build a nest upon lightning will be defeated.

When I climbed to the land of clouds,
I knew I would have to return.
I knew I would return—yet why return before I must, while further going is still possible? Returning is meaningful only when there is no way to go on. Only when the ego goes to its ultimate limit does it break, fall, and surrender.

Who does not know this? We are drawing lines on water, floating paper boats—but it is necessary to float them. Let those boats sink, so we experience. Let those lines vanish, so we know.

I wanted to tell the sky a little
of the earth’s longings—

The one flying far in the heavens wanted to convey to the sky the longings of the earth.

But to repent—
for that I was not ready.

Understand this: those who truly live and awaken and return do not repent. They do not tell God, “We repent; we made mistakes.” Repentance? Why? Because through those very mistakes we found the divine—what is there to repent? We went into darkness, we tasted it—out of that, the search for light arose—what is there to repent? We sinned—out of that very sin the journey toward virtue began—what is there to repent?

So I tell you: do not repent. There is no need. Repentance implies we did something we should not have done. There is no such thing as “what should not be done.” Everything must be lived; only by living comes awakening; and by awakening, liberation. The unwise repent; the wise live and know that life is given by the divine, with a design behind it. This is a school.

Had the sky not pulled me,
I would have been a burden upon the earth.
Being drawn by the sky gave me, for the first time, the capacity to come to earth; now I am no burden.

Had the sky not pulled me,
I would have been a burden upon the earth.
By falling I proved
that I had risen to my utmost strength.
Today it is not weakness—my might is great at your feet—

I have not fallen from weakness; by my strength I had risen to the sky. The strength was spent, the limit reached. Now that I have fallen, it is not from weakness but as the culmination of the flight of power. This state of surrender is the final outcome of ego.

This is the supreme paradox. One who understands it has nothing left to understand in life.

Like a swan pierced with arrows, I have fallen; I take refuge in you.

My desire was larger than I—
I wanted to know if I was larger than it.

This must be known.

When Andrew Carnegie, a great Western tycoon, died, a friend asked him, “What kept you so obsessed with earning? You amassed so much!” They say he was the richest man on earth; he left perhaps a billion dollars. “What kept you running? Twenty-four hours a day you were after wealth!”

And a limit comes beyond which money has no value—indeed, the more money you have, the less any additional amount is worth. The law of diminishing returns—psychologists accept this law of economics too. When you have one rupee, it is precious. With a thousand, one rupee matters less. With a million, almost nothing. With a billion, what is one rupee worth? It is the same rupee, but to the person who has only one, it is everything.

A point comes when money’s value is exhausted. That point had long passed, yet Andrew Carnegie went on earning. Asked what kept him running, he said, “I wanted to know whether my desire would be defeated or I would be defeated. So far my desire has not lost—and before it does, I will not accept defeat. Then I will return. Then I will earn again.”

My desire was larger than I—
I wanted to know if I was larger than it.
Not the body of man, but the stature
of his heart’s courage I wanted to know.
With a line of blood I return,
drawn upon the girdle of the horizon.
My power tested in the sky—
now on earth I will test devotion.

Only after the test of power comes the test of devotion. Only after the test of resolve comes the test of surrender.

My power tested in the sky—
now on earth I will test devotion.
Like a swan pierced by arrows, I have fallen; I take refuge in you.

Do not fear. Live life—this is the divine’s gift. Live each day! Live deeply! Live intensely! Do not be afraid at all. Live fearlessly! Make mistakes—and make many—just don’t repeat the same ones. Soon the moment will come when all mistakes are exhausted. Mistakes have a limit.

And the day all mistakes are done, that day you will return. That day the divine lights lamps for you, strings garlands for you. At the gate of the divine, your welcome awaits. But you must go far—only the one who has gone far can truly come near.

Enough for today.