Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #31

Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.
Today the southern breeze has come
and suddenly rattled my door,
a stir has arisen in those clouds
that had long covered the sky,
she who, having heard a hundred of my questions, stood silent—
today, again and again, bending low,
every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.

Sunbeams, most intense, slip
between layers of thick cloud, crossing over,
spreading light upon the dark,
as if kissing the earth;
O silver bird, piercing the night
that blocks your road,
your wings no longer pause—now you are returning to your nest.

Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.
O silver bird, piercing the night
that blocks your road,
your wings no longer pause—now you are returning to your nest.
Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.

Today waves come bearing diamonds, laying out
emerald shores somewhere,
today with bright pearls some lotus-hand
is adorning itself somewhere;
but to tempt and lure your heart—
that is impossible today; let the path
be strewn with a thousand luxuries, now you are returning to your nest.
Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.

I call to you, and you come—from far horizons, from far-off cities, from distant lands. A love draws you here. And I have nothing to give you except emptiness. I will take from you, I will erase you; because only in your erasing does the possibility of God’s being arise. If you become empty, the Whole can descend within you. If you become emptiness, you become a temple. Then the Whole comes of its own accord. What is needed is space—space in your heart.

I take from you. I take you away from yourself. And still you come. Your love must be deep. You are daring. To go to scholars and priests is one thing; to come to me is quite another. You are being audacious. You have come to play with fire. If you show the courage to burn, you will blossom as a flower. If you dare to disappear, for the first time you will be. Some love draws you here—love of life upon life. It cannot be of today. What is merely of today never goes so deep. The love for which we are ready to die is ancient, of many births.

Only when something becomes more valuable than life itself have you found a master. Only when you are willing to lose your life for someone have you found the master. A master is rare because to be a disciple is supremely difficult. To be a disciple requires a gambler’s heart.

You are all gamblers. Elsewhere you go where you receive something, where arguments are understandable. Here you come where everything is taken away, where things become illogical. But love has always been beyond logic.

If you have come, then leave with emptiness. If you have come, go away hollow. A master can only create space within you; the rest is done by the Divine. A master can prepare the soil; then the rest happens by itself. One does not have to go searching for God. Any god you must go out to seek would be a false god. The god for whom you must take even a single step cannot be true.

What power does a human being have to seek God? He can weep, he can fall, he can sob—how will he seek? We can search only for that which we already recognize in some way. What kind of search is possible for the unfamiliar, the unknown, the unknowable? One whom you have never seen, never touched, never embraced, whose presence you have never felt—where will you search for him? What address? What dwelling? Where will you go? In which direction? In which land?

No, no one can go seeking God. Then what is to be done?

The devotee effaces himself, and God comes seeking him. If you find it hard to dissolve yourself, then a master is needed. Because you cannot erase yourself by your own hand, a master is needed. In the love of the master, you gather the courage to disappear. Seeing the master, trust arises in you that to vanish is not to be annihilated. Seeing the master, faith wells up that only by vanishing does being happen. As if a seed, seeing a great tree, is filled with trust: let me die, no worry—let me crack open in the soil, let me scatter; seeds become trees when they break. But if the seed is alone, with no acquaintance with any tree, upon what trust will it break? With what hope will it dissolve? It will clutch and save itself.

The master removes your securities, he takes away your defenses, he snatches from you all the arrangements you have made for reservation. The master leaves you helpless—unsupported, midstream. This shore is gone, that shore is gone. No shore is anywhere visible. Storms on every side, the boat begins to sink, the oar slips from your hand. The master takes everything away.

But those who agree to drown in this midstream find the shore. The shore is not opposite the midstream—it is hidden within the midstream. He who becomes utterly helpless receives the support of the Divine. Before that, support does not come.

So let me take your oar; let me sink your boat. Let me take away your scriptures, your doctrines, your sects. Let me snatch from you your Hinduism, your Islam, your Jainism. Let me free you from words, from theories, from your props. Then, in that very helplessness, two tears will fall from your eyes, and prayer will be fulfilled.

Slowly, the seeds that were sown have begun to sprout. Slowly, what began like a trickle from Gangotri—the ochre Ganga—is swelling, becoming the Ganges. In far countries, the saffron sannyasin is being seen. Something is about to happen. Perhaps you don’t even know that you are participants in a vast, great undertaking. Perhaps you don’t clearly know your good fortune—no one ever does. Those who walked with Buddha didn’t know what part of history they were becoming. Those who sat with Mahavira had no inkling that human consciousness would be stirred for centuries. Those dozen disciples who stood with Jesus—what could they have known? And then their Messiah, their master, was crucified. They must have felt: it’s all over—what remains now? They had no idea that never before on earth had there been such a great movement. Jesus’ crucifixion is an unprecedented event in the history of this earth. That day time split into two: Before Christ and After Christ. In the current of time, the cross of Jesus stood upright. From that day man became different. From that day man learned something new. New dimensions of consciousness opened, new doors opened.

Perhaps you do not know exactly. I know that you are, unknowingly, becoming partners in an immense event. The small brick you lay in this temple will become part of a vast temple. Without your brick, the temple could not have risen. However small your brick, it is indispensable. You are blessed!

Whoever can come closest to me and be erased will be the most blessed, because that much his brick will serve this rising temple.

The brick of ego cannot be used. The brick of ego must be discarded. This temple will be built from bricks free of ego. And the need for such a temple has become urgent. The earth is restless. Human consciousness is in a great crisis—perhaps greater than ever before.

What is the crisis?

The crisis is this: the old languages of religion have become so old they no longer serve man. Their ways of saying and showing have become so decrepit that there’s no attunement left, no dialogue. Man has matured, and religion still speaks the language of childhood. Those religions were crafted for children; thus God was father—or mother. Now man needs neither father nor mother. Now a new form of the Divine, a deeper form, must be revealed. Not that the old form was wrong—no form is wrong—but as human consciousness transforms, new forms are needed. Today it is difficult to raise your hands to the sky and believe in some God, some Supreme Father seated there; something obstructs. Your consciousness does not bear witness. Even if you perform the gestures by force of habit, you cannot be a believer.

In this century atheism seems logical, and theism seems contrary to reason.

This is not right. The day theism begins to feel anti-rational, it will be lost. Theism is indeed trans-rational, but it need not be irrational. Theism is a greater logic than atheism. Though theism does not end at logic—it goes beyond. Its journey is vast; it climbs the steps of reason and then transcends them—but it is not against reason. Whenever atheism seems to sit well with logic, it only means that the language of religion has become old. The language needs new refinement, new polish, new luster. The language needs a new mode, a new style. The language needs new life.

Religion must be renewed day by day—it must walk alongside human consciousness.

When you were a child, the clothes you wore were perfectly fine. But now you have grown. If you keep wearing those same clothes, you will feel bound; they’ll constrict you, they’ll become a prison. Now you need other clothes.

There are religions all over the earth, but none is the religion of this century. They are all old. Those who developed them, and those for whom they were developed—both are gone. Those religions should also go. No religion can remain here as eternal. Remember, the depth of ultimate religion is eternal, but no form of religion can be eternal. The soul is eternal, the body is not. The eternal form of religion is unknown; the moment a so-called eternal form becomes known, it becomes bound in language. And once bound in language, it is no longer eternal, it becomes temporal. Religions belong to their times.

And the coming revolution will be unique in this sense too. New religions have arisen before. There was Hinduism; then came Buddhism—a new religion. There was Judaism; then came Christianity—a new religion. Now another leap is about to happen: in the future, religion will not be religion-with-adjectives. Not Hindu and Muslim and Christian: religiosity itself. And religiosity without adjectives—that is my effort. This dyeing you in the ochre robe, this spreading of the ochre fire—behind this flame there is but one aim: that in this fire all adjectives be burned—of Hindu, of Muslim, of Christian. In this fire, the adjectives of Brahmin, Shudra, Kshatriya be burned. In this fire, the adjectives of woman and man be burned. Let this fire color everyone in one hue. Let it make the earth one. For the first time let there be religion free of adjectives—a pure name: religiosity.

Understand this well: if religion becomes free of adjectives, then even the atheist can be religious. The truth is, all atheists became atheists in their search to be truly religious. Religion could not satisfy them. Perhaps their thirst is deeper than that of the so-called believers. What satisfies the believer does not satisfy the atheist. The atheist wants experience. He demands: I will not believe until I know. He seeks the touchstone of truth, the proof. Your proofs have become small, paltry, outdated. They satisfied the old atheists perhaps, but the new atheist is born with new arguments. Where are the answers to these new thoughts? Answers are needed. This ochre fire will answer the new mind.

With me, even the atheist is welcome. Just the other day someone said, “I am an atheist—can I also become a sannyasin?” I said, “This sannyas is for the atheist.” I am in search of atheists. He said, “I do not believe in God.” I said, “In this sannyas there is no condition to believe in God. If you believed, you would be wrong. Whoever believes without knowing is dishonest. And you call him a theist? Sannyas is the process of knowing. So how can believing in God be a condition for taking sannyas? Sannyas is the process of knowing God. Sannyas is the longing, the aspiration to know God. To demand belief before the longing to know would be dishonesty.”

A man says, “I do not know light.” And we tell him, “First believe.”

Believe first? How will he believe? If he does, it will be only on the surface. Inside, his inner being will keep saying, “I have no idea what light is; what am I doing?”

Have you noticed? You bow in the temple, but only outwardly; inside you know nothing. Inside, sometimes intelligence stirs and you wonder, “What am I doing? Do I know that God is? Before whom am I bowing?”

No, there is no condition of believing in sannyas. Sannyas is the aspiration to know, not the mood of belief. Believe after knowing. If you believe after knowing, there will be integrity. That will be supreme theism. I call an atheist one who is seeking God; I call a theist one whose seeking has ripened.

So the so-called believers are, to me, false theists. In truth they are atheists, draped outwardly in the shawl of Ram’s name. In their very life-breaths there is deep atheism. Without experience, acceptance is impossible. Until there is a face-to-face meeting with the Divine, until the nectar of life is tasted, do not believe. Every person should be an atheist—so that every person may become a theist. In my sannyas, the atheist is welcome.

And if you impose any particular conception of God—believe in Krishna, believe in Christ, in Ram, in Buddha, in Mahavira—then the trouble begins. There is narrowness in that conception. I tell you: when the Divine appears, he will not appear before you—he will appear within your innermost. Not as the seen, but as the seer. You will not find him standing outside; you will find him standing within. You will find him as your very nature. Aham Brahmasmi! You will find: I am the Divine. Consciousness is Divine. Tat tvam asi—Shvetaketu—That thou art. Then no dispute remains. Then the Divine is not Muslim, not Hindu, not Christian. He has no image, no temple. Consciousness! Has consciousness ever been Hindu or Muslim? Has the witness ever been Jain or Buddhist? The witness is just the witness—a mirror reflecting. Only from the experience of that mirror will a religion without adjectives be born in your life for the first time.

Let this fire spread; let it burn all your traditions; let it break all your rigidities; let it free you from words and conditionings; let it polish your witnessing. For this I call you again and again, by many devices. And you come. Your coming bears witness that the strings of your heart’s veena have begun to vibrate with me. Let this music be fulfilled. When this music is complete, a fresh interpretation of religion will be born. I do not want to make this interpretation in words alone. I want it to blossom and bear fruit in your lives. Become its symbols.

What interpretation is in my heart that I want to spread? And now the time has come to tell you. Because now you are growing, you are spreading. Soon there will be no one on this earth unfamiliar with sannyas. What is the interpretation I want to offer religion?

The religions of the past were life-denying. Their language was hostile to life. I want to give you a religion of life-affirmation. The religions of the past were anti-body. I want to give you a religion that honors the body. The religions of the past were against home and household, against family and love. I want to give you a religion so vast that all can be contained within it. The past religions were small. The wife could not fit in them, the husband could not fit in them. They were narrow. Your son could not fit, your daughter could not fit. Therefore only those who were hard, severe, could be interested in them. If you understand me rightly, it means that those religions attracted people who, in truth, were not religious at all—hard, cruel, violent.

A man who leaves his wife weeping and runs away—you have called him religious, a sannyasin. One day he had decorated a palanquin, with bands playing, and brought her home with trust. He broke his promise. He broke his commitment. He did not honor his bond of love. He brought her home carefully once. Children were born—and now he has run away! In the past, how many made living women into widows and fled. Is there any account of those widows’ tears? Did those widows’ tears not obstruct these men’s liberation, tell me? Their children must have suffered, slept hungry, begged for food! The husband became a sannyasin, perhaps the wife had to become a prostitute! What kind of sannyas is this? There is some basic disease here, some delusion.

Sannyas must be large—vast—able to contain all. Sannyas must be of the heart, full of love. If in sannyas any step is taken that goes against love, it is not sannyas. This is the touchstone I want to give you. When you flow toward love, know all is well; when you begin to go contrary to love, know that some mistake has occurred, some delusion has set in. Correct yourself, take care, return. Life must be honored. It is the gift of the Divine. His present. You ran away from it! You despised it!

And the irony is that these same religious ones have kept saying—God made the creation, he is the creator. And you run away from his creation? Will insulting a poet’s poem be your honor to the poet? Will denying the musician’s music be your respect for the musician? You run away from creation—and this is your surrender to the Creator?

If you want to honor the painter, honor his painting. If you want to honor the sculptor, honor his sculpture. If any respect for the Creator has arisen in you, then honor this vast creation—these flowers, these birds, these leaves, these people, these stones—everything bears his signature.

I want to give a religion that is life-positive. A religion not narrow but vast as the sky, in which all is included. A religion with no repression, but with celebration; not gloom, but dance, song, singing. A religion where people are creative. Not one where they go sit in caves like corpses. You can do that in the grave—what’s the hurry now?

A disciple once asked Confucius, “How can I become peaceful? I want to become utterly peaceful.” Confucius said, “What’s the hurry? When you sleep in the grave, sleep peacefully. For now, live. For now, dance. For now, celebrate with life.”

More valuable even than peace is joy. And surely, behind joy a kind of peace comes, like a shadow. But it is not the peace of the dead, not the peace of the cremation ground. It is the peace that comes after listening to music; the peace that comes after dance. A sense of bliss carries peace along with it. But it arrives riding the wave of life.

The religions of the past were anti-individual. They did not give individuals freedom; they did not give them individuality. They tried to make people into sheep. I want to give you freedom. I want to give you your uniqueness. You are unrepeatable. No one here is like anyone else. You need not be an imitation of another. Be as you are—and you must become only yourself. Only thus will you delight the Divine. If you are a rose, blossom like a rose; if you are jasmine, bloom like jasmine—you need not be a lotus. If you are a lotus, bloom as a lotus; the lotus need not become a rose. Accept yourself, embrace yourself. You do not have to become a Buddha, or a Mahavira, or a Rajneesh. You have to become you. And the day you become you, joy will dawn in your life.

Let the new religion be free of adjectives. Let it be free of repression. Free of dogma. A religion of privacy, of supreme respect for the individual. And let it be a religion of creativity. The Divine is creator. Create something—make something—and you will be in tune with him. Only as a creator will your melody harmonize with the Creator’s.

And to be a creator it is not necessary that you be a Picasso, or Van Gogh, or Kalidasa, or Bhavabhuti—write some great epic, compose some grand music. The issue is not big or small. In his court there is no accounting of big and small. If you offer even your little flower there, the respect is the same. There is no rule that you must offer a golden flower. There, gold and clay make no difference. What is needed is creativity. And creativity can become part of life. Cook food—but let there be creativity in it. Sweep the house, but let there be creativity, let there be prayer in it. You are sweeping the earth of the Divine. Then the difference will appear. Your son comes to eat—your son too is the Divine. Your husband comes to eat—your husband too is the Divine. You are preparing something for your wife—within your wife the Divine is hidden. Live in such a way that from every side your reverence for the Divine is expressed. Whether you go to temples and mosques or not, it does not matter. Temples are walking all around here. In every eye, the Divine is hidden. Peek a little; and live such that your whole life becomes service to the Divine. This I call creativity. Do something—with feeling, with totality. And every totality will begin to bring you closer to God.

I want to give you a religion that is a tavern—a house of wine. Of rasa. Raso vai sah: the Divine is pure essence, pure delight. Immerse yourself in the juice.

Listen to these words:
It is time to laugh; it is time to make others laugh—
that is, time to make the garden bloom.
Spring has come again in the style of the beloved,
it is time to bow the head before the Friend.
Granted, reason is the candle of life’s path, but
O unaware one! This is the time to come to your senses.
Don’t ask how long the eyes have been waiting—
it is time to build the house of life.
Now this very earth is becoming the sky,
it is time to raise suns and moons.
Moonlight scatters again in the garden of spring,
it is time to erase the darkness of life.
Look, the wine-bearers have entered the gathering—
at every step the cup is spilling.
How long will Eid remain Muharram?
Come, it is time to celebrate the festival of longing.
Along with your eyes, lay your heart as a carpet on the path:
Rakhshan! It is time for them to enter the assembly.

Every moment is the time for God to come.
Rakhshan! It is time for them to enter the assembly.
It is time to laugh; it is time to make others laugh.
Let this whole life be a life of laughing and making others laugh. Raso vai sah. He is of the nature of essence. Become essence yourselves. Don’t sit gloomy.

How long will Eid remain Muharram?
Come, it is time to celebrate the festival of longing.

Religions have become Muharram—full of mourning. Gloom has settled there. People sit like corpses. They have died before their time. Bring dance back into the temples. Bring song back into the temples. Let the veena sound again. Let feet throb again. Do you not see that all around the Divine is always in festival? In sadness you fall out of this great celebration.

Look—the wine-bearers have entered the gathering:
the Divine always comes carrying the jars of honey.

Look—the wine-bearers have entered the gathering—
at every step, the cup is spilling.

Open your eyes just a little and you will see his honey in the flowers. You will see it in the sun, in the moon and stars. Everywhere. But dust has gathered on your eyes. Lessons of sadness have been taught to your eyes. Those lessons have distorted your life. You have been taught so much about thorns that your eyes no longer see the flowers. This earth is to be made sky. This is my message today.

Now this very earth is becoming the sky;
it is time to raise suns and moons.

Now the time has come to raise moons and stars. We have long searched for heaven in the sky; now heaven must be brought here.

And the Divine is ready at every moment. Give him a little chance. Turn the veena of your heart toward him, call out. And suddenly you will find: one day unknown fingers have come and begun to weave their dance upon your strings. Someone has come, unknown, silently—who knows from which alley, which door—and your veena has begun to sing! But call.

This is the essence of Shandilya’s sutras. The scripture of devotion can be distilled into this: the veena is mine, lying ready; I call—O player, come and play it!

Strike my tuned, honey-filled lute.
Bolt by bolt the townspeople
have closed their shutters,
this is the hour of your coming,
my lover of ragas.
Even your faint footfall
has kept echoing here:
strike my tuned, honey-filled lute.

Shall I tell you its merits and flaws?
What is unknown to you?
Because of it I have received
taunts in every alley,
but bad or good—whatever it is—
it is your gift alone;
this one treasure of yours I have preserved.
Strike my tuned, honey-filled lute.

Even if your feet push it aside,
it would be blessed, offered;
how could it hear the heartbeat of your chest?
And the fingers that are spent
from pouring honey have kissed it;
is it any wonder that today it is so madly intoxicated?
Strike my tuned, honey-filled lute.

On the veena of my heart, whatever
raga you desire, pour it out;
of its moods and variations,
whichever you wish, express them;
open the string you wish to open,
mute the one you wish to mute;
today it is not shy before the world.
Strike my tuned, honey-filled lute.

Every person is a veena—tuned, ready for lifetimes, filled with rasa. But you have not called the player; you have not invoked him. And when the player does not come, life remains a torment.

I tell you to call the player. This alone is the essence of devotion. The day you can say with single-heartedness—strike my tuned, honey-filled lute—on that very instant the revolution begins.

Today’s sutra—

Even a little devotion annihilates great sin.

A rare sutra.

“Even a little devotion arising destroys great sin.”

A little! To dispel darkness, a sun is not required—a candle, a small earthen lamp is enough. Shandilya says: do not worry that vast arrangements are needed before your sins will be cut, before your darkness will vanish.

Shandilya says, “Even a little devotion arising destroys great sin.”

Devotion is atomic power. In a tiny atom is hidden a vast energy. There is no power greater than love in this world. By love the earth turns; by love the moon and stars move. Existence is bound by threads of love. You are here because of an endless current of love. Your children will be here because of an endless current of love. Life flows forever; love supports it—there is no other support. Devotion is the harnessing of that extraordinary energy of love. The greatest power you have is love. To turn your love toward God—that is devotion.

Shandilya says, “Even a little devotion arising destroys great sin.”

How does this happen? Because you have, birth after birth, committed who knows how many sins, how many actions—all that burden. Accountants, bookkeepers, say: how can this be? How can mere devotion do it? There is such a web of unwholesome actions; it must be torn.

But you have heard the saying: a hundred blows of the goldsmith, one of the blacksmith. The goldsmith cannot understand how one strike can do anything. He goes on tap-tap-tapping. He doesn’t know the essence of devotion. One blow is enough!

Your house is dark—ancient darkness. Do you think when you light a lamp the darkness will say, “I am very old; I cannot go so quickly. You, lighting a tiny earthen lamp—what do you think of yourself? Bring the sun! And bring it for lifetimes, then I will leave.” No, darkness goes. Darkness doesn’t even have time to say it does not want to go. Here the lamp is lit, there the darkness is gone.

Exactly so is the devotee’s event. Here the lamp of love is lit—there all sins fall away.

What is the essence of all sin?

The essence of all sin is ego. There is no other sin. The rest are shadows of ego. “I am”—this is the root of sin.

Those who keep accounts of actions go on cutting leaves. With scissors they keep cutting leaves and trimming branches. The result of their cutting is only that the tree grows denser. You cut one leaf, three sprout. After all, the tree knows how to answer! That’s why to thicken a tree we prune it; pruning makes it bushier. But if you cut the root, the matter is finished. The root is hidden; the leaves are visible. That is why people quickly get interested in cutting leaves. The devotee cuts the root. The devotee says, I have made mistakes; I have committed many sins. But what is the root cause of all these sins? What is the root? Circling all sins, searching, you will find “I” sitting there. Anger—born from “I.” The more ego, the more anger. Greed—born from ego. The more ego, the more greed. Attachment—born from ego. The more ego, the more attachment.

Take an account of your life’s sins. You will suddenly find one thing hidden inside them all. The forms are many, the styles differ, but the core-thread is one. On the circumference big things appear—anger, greed, delusion, illusion, envy—but deep inside only one thing appears at the center: ego. That root is hidden.

Devotion means simply this: I am no more; O Divine, only thou art. The moment ego is cut, the whole tree dries up; all karmic imprints dissolve.

Therefore, because of its single-pointedness, even a small devotee destroys great sin—like herbs crushed in a mortar.

“Even the devotion of low-born persons destroys great sin because of its single-pointedness, like substances ground in a mortar.”

Have you seen a physician? He pounds his medicine in a mortar. Whatever is put in it is ground to powder—small herb or big, all is crushed. Shandilya says: just so is devotion—a mortar in which all sins are ground, crumbled, dissolved to dust.

Devotion may look small; it is not small.

The Second World War ended on Hiroshima. The atom bomb exploded. The atom is the smallest of the small. Science did not know before that the vast could hide in the small. The atom is invisible to the eye. If we placed a hundred thousand atoms one upon another, we would get the thickness of a hair. That small an atom—and in a moment a hundred thousand people in Hiroshima were ash.

Those who have sought the Divine have long known this secret. As in matter the atom harbors vast power, so in consciousness love harbors vast power. Love is the atom of consciousness. As matter is made of electricity, consciousness is made of love. If we can find that atom, immense power comes into our hands. Therefore Krishna says in the Gita to Arjuna: Sarva-dharmān parityajya mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja. Abandon all—your religions and duties, rituals and sacrifices, all. Take refuge in me alone. Mām ekaṁ—me alone.

Who is this “one”? On whose behalf is Krishna speaking? It is the voice of that Supreme One speaking through him. Krishna is not speaking for himself. He is not saying, “Take refuge in me, Krishna.” No true master says, “Take refuge in me.” And when a master does say so, it means he himself is no more; now the Divine is speaking from within—mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja. Krishna has become a flute; the note now is the Divine’s. Krishna has become pure, silent, empty. Now that supreme voice is heard within him. When Krishna said to Arjuna, Sarva-dharmān parityajya mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja, it was not about Krishna the person—it was about that supreme state that has become dense within Krishna.

Will all be done by taking refuge in that One? Then there is no need for religion, yoga, etc.? No need. Because by surrendering to that One, the root is cut. Surrendering to that One means you have wiped away your ego.

And Krishna also said: Ahaṁ tvā sarva-pāpebhyo mokṣayiṣyāmi mā śucaḥ.
O Arjuna, abandon all acts, right and wrong, and take refuge in me; I will free you from all sins. I will give you liberation.

Will Krishna give liberation? The meaning is simply: if you drop everything and fall into the One, liberation happens. No one gives it. There is no giving and taking here. Anything that can be given can be taken back; such a liberation would be cheap. Today, in a mood, Krishna gives, tomorrow he changes his mind and takes it back. Since what is given can be reclaimed.

No—liberation is neither given nor taken. Then what does Krishna mean?

Krishna is saying only this: if you drop the “I,” liberation is. And once you understand that with the dropping of “I,” liberation happens—who would be mad enough to return to the prison of “I”? Who would go back into that dark cell?

A devotee is asked only this much, nothing more: drop the sense of “I.”

I may be self-deceived, yet my heart still hopes;
Whether there is fidelity or not, at least I trust the promise.
Even if we never reach the goal, is it not enough
that in wandering for it this heart finds some rest?

A little devotion. The devotee says, even if the sun is not gained—one ray is enough. Even if the destination is not reached, to be on the path is relief too.

If you gain wealth—what is the point? But one who seeks meditation—even if he does not gain it yet—if he is on the journey, it is enough. Let me say it again: on the path of meditation, even if you lose, you win; on the path of wealth, even if you win—what have you won? On the path of wealth, winning is losing. On the path of meditation, losing is winning.

I may be self-deceived, yet my heart still hopes—
this longing—is that not enough? This hope—

…my heart still hopes.

The sprouting of longing for the Divine is itself much. Even that much longing is transformative.

I may be self-deceived, yet my heart still hopes;
Whether there is fidelity or not, at least I trust the promise.
Even if we never reach the goal—is it not enough
that in wandering for it this heart finds some rest?

O moralist, do not lecture me to sever my ties—
if not in their assembly,
at least I dwell upon their pathway.

If we do not reach their gathering—no worry—yet we are on their path, the road they walk. Even that much devotion is enough. Even that much is revolutionary.

If not in their assembly,
at least I dwell upon their pathway.

I have no complaint now about life’s joylessness—
at least there is a thorn pricking in my chest.

Now there is no worry, no complaint. A thorn has lodged—the thorn of longing for the Divine, the thorn of separation. That too is enough. His remembrance makes me ache—that too is enough.

Do not grieve, O nightingale, the end of the flower-season—
there is a new sign, the blush of spring.

Gleaming, a ray of faith says to the dark:
Even if dawn has not come, at least its waiting is here.

Night’s darkness—yet one little ray of trust, of faith, says:

Gleaming, a ray of faith says to the dark:
Even if dawn has not come, at least its waiting is here.

Even if morning has not come, it is fine; the waiting for morning is morning too. A little devotion, a small faith, a tiny seed—and vast fruit comes.

Tears flowed—I had no power over them—
but I had the power to try to hide them from you.

A man can set out on the journey to the Divine in two ways. One, with stiffness: “I will attain!”—with resolve. That is the journey of ego, its subtle form. The other way: “I will dissolve myself on your path; I will become dust on your road.” That is the way of surrender. And those who are ready to surrender, into their hands comes that vast energy hidden in love.

The universe of this heart is with your glance;
the bud’s life is with the breeze of dawn.
The desired destination will fall into our hands by itself—
just walk a few steps with the guide.

Just walk even four steps.

The universe of this heart is with your glance—
for the devotee, his whole world is in a single glance of the Beloved. Let him have that look—everything is done. He does not ask for more. His demand is very small. Small, thus fulfilled quickly. He asks only this: once, just once, look at me—even from afar, even for a moment—just once, remember that I am here. I call to you and I am dying for your love.

The universe of this heart is with your glance;
the bud’s life is with the breeze of dawn—
as the flower’s life is with the morning breeze, so the devotee’s life is with one glance of the Divine.

The desired destination will fall into our hands by itself—
the devotee says, I do not worry about the final goal. I have no concern for the ultimate aim. I have no anxiety about liberation.

The desired destination will fall into our hands by itself—
that final destination will come on its own. My concern is only for your glance. Look at me once!

Just walk a few steps with the guide.
Walk a little with a guide—keep a little company with a master—and the seed of devotion will also be sown in you. And this little seed holds the vast within itself—as the whole ocean is hidden in a tiny drop. So in the small seed of devotion the whole God is concealed.

Even the outcaste is entitled—by tradition, all are equal.

“Even the Chandalas, etc., have the right to devotion, because by the dignity of devotion all are equal.”

In those old days when Shandilya wrote these extraordinary sutras, there was great stupidity. It has not ended even now. Shudras had no right to enter temples. The Chandalas were worse than Shudras. You have heard of four varnas: Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, Shudra. There is a fifth, uncounted among varnas, called Chandala—so outside he is not even counted. Not worthy of counting. But see Shandilya’s courage! Thousands of years ago the courage to say: on the path of devotion we make no distinction—who is Brahmin, who is Shudra. On the path of devotion all humans are equal. On the path of devotion the Chandala is as entitled as anyone.

The compassion of God is boundless. If there is more for Brahmin, less for Shudra, none for Chandala—then compassion has limits. Compassion means: the more the need, the more the availability. If the Brahmin does not get it, fine; the Chandala must. If the virtuous do not get it, fine; but the sinner must. The virtuous have virtue to rely on; for the sinner there is only the Divine.

Often it has happened that sinners have reached and the virtuous have gone astray. The virtuous carry pride—my doing, my practice—and try to live on that. The sinner says: whatever I do is wrong. I myself am wrong—how can my doing be right? I am darkness—your ray will descend—by grace it can descend, not by my worthiness.

“Even the Chandala has the right to devotion, because by devotion’s dignity all are equal.”

The dignity of devotion does not recognize dignity—everyone is equal. It acknowledges no limits.

Therefore I tell you: the paths of knowledge and of action are narrow; the path of devotion is vast. On the paths of knowledge and action there is heavy bookkeeping. Who is qualified, who is not? On the path of devotion there is no accounting of rights and non-rights. Whoever weeps, whoever calls, whoever bows—that one is qualified. Before bowing, there is no right. No one asks whether you are entitled to bow; “bowing like that!” First do virtue, then bow! First fast and vow, then bow! The truth is, those fasts and vows become like iron lodged in the chest; they won’t let you bend. The spine becomes rigid; it does not bow.

To bow, one needs the sense of helplessness. Who feels it more than the sinner? You do not reach the Divine by your accomplishments, you reach by the cry of your helplessness. Your sigh carries you—not your ego.

Therefore, even if supreme devotion has not ripened, the seeker dwells in God’s realm.

“Because of this, even when supreme devotion has not borne fruit, the seeker dwells in the realm of the Lord.”

Rare sutras. Keep them carefully in the heart.

Shandilya is saying: the fruits of supreme devotion will come when they come—the final goal when it arrives it arrives, when the Divine descends fully it descends. But from the day the devotee’s tears begin to fall, from that day he dwells in the realm of God.

Grasp this subtle distinction—fine and delicate.

When will the Lord’s realm come within the devotee? That will be in supreme devotion. But the devotee enters the Lord’s realm on the very first day. Two different things.

You sit here—two events can occur. I can enter you—that is one event. You can enter me—that is another. Your entering me happens the very instant you long for it. My entering you takes whatever time it takes. From the day you take the first step of your journey, you become part of the destination. The destination will be met later. It will come in its time. The devotee does not worry whether it comes today or tomorrow; he trusts it will come. But the day you took your first step toward God, you became God’s own. The Lord’s realm may someday come within you, but you have become part of the Lord’s realm. A devotee, from the first day, is absorbed in God.

The knower attains only at the end. Therefore knowers look sad—naturally. They are still walking, still walking; being jolted, harassed. Maybe at the end joy will be. The journey is long, utterly solitary; on the way no flowers bloom, no birds sing. When their worthiness is complete, then joy will come. But often it happens that by then the habit of sadness is so dense that even when joy comes the lips do not smile. They have forgotten the language of smiling. Meera dances from the first day; Mahavira dances on the last day. But by then he has forgotten how to dance. So the dance happens only within. No one sees it outside. It happens in consciousness; the body has become inert. The body has forgotten the language—it never danced.

Do you follow?

When the Divine descends, only that much will be expressed in you as you have practiced. One who practiced laughter along the whole path—when the Divine descends, perhaps he will burst into laughter. Bodhidharma was such. When the Divine descended, he laughed uproariously. He must have practiced laughter long—he kept laughing; he did not take life seriously. Life was a precious joke, a lovely joke. He kept laughing. So at the end when the Divine descended, he exploded in laughter.

Mahavira did not dance. His path is of knowledge, of purification of action, of self-cleansing. On the day the Divine descended, no ripple rose in hands and feet. It could not. Meera danced on the first day and danced to the last.

For the devotee, the path is the goal. From the very first step the destination begins. This is the marvel, the uniqueness of devotion.

“Because of this, even when supreme devotion has not borne fruit, the seeker dwells in the realm of the Lord.”

This sutra is unique. So again I say, keep it safe in your heart, and be joyful from the first day. The Divine is! The meeting will come when it comes; you have set out on his path—be absorbed! Be drunk!

Bearing the gifts of patience and restraint beyond measure,
today your remembrance came to instruct me.
The mad have reached the goal by themselves,
the clever got lost at reason’s crossroads.

The clever get lost at the crossroads of the mind; the mad reach.

The mad have reached the goal by themselves,
the clever got lost at reason’s crossroads.
You spoke the truth—no one recognized it;
I only thought to speak, and it turned into legend.
At those new springs, those new vistas,
what if only a drunkard—weeping are the taverns too.
Oh what misfortune, oh what calamity—
we ourselves were deceived, we set out to enlighten others.

Here there is nothing to understand and explain. Here there is much to dance and sing; nothing to analyze.

The mad have reached the goal by themselves,
the clever got lost at reason’s crossroads.

Do not walk as a clever one. Be crazy, be drunk, be blissfully mad. Walk as if you are intoxicated. On the path to the Divine, the first step must be that of a drinker—it should wobble as it rises. Sway as you walk. The Divine is—everywhere—and when our understanding is ready, we will understand. But we can dance even now. Even the ignorant can dance, can’t they? Dance does not require knowledge. Even the sinner can dance, can’t he? Dance does not require virtue. So dance. And one who, dancing, is lost in the dance—arrives.

Thus both gradual and sudden are reconciled.

“On this understanding, the sayings that teach gradual progress and those that teach one-leap attainment are harmonized.”

Shandilya says: in devotion both are fulfilled. In the world there have been two kinds of thought. Gradual—nirvana is attained slowly, step by step. And sudden—satori in a single leap. Shandilya says in devotion both meet, both reconciled; the opposition dissolves. In one way it is attained on the first step; in another, it is attained on the last. The devotee begins dancing on the first step; then there is only the series of dance; on the last step too he dances. If you meet Meera, you cannot discern when she was ignorant and when she became enlightened. That event is inner; only Meera knows. Outside, the dance goes on—same sweetness on day one and on the last day. The first step is also the last.

Inside, a great difference. On the first step Meera became part of the Lord’s realm; on the last step the Lord’s realm becomes part of Meera. That is all. The difference is subtle, inner. From outside it may not be grasped. There is no need either.

The scriptures say: “By practice through many births, one attains the supreme goal.”

Devotion turns that scripture upside down. Devotion says: what nonsense is this? Time has no relation to truth. It can happen on the first step; it can happen on the last. There is a slight difference, but it is internal. There is no way to weigh it from outside. And when exactly the balance tips, even inside it is hard to know. The dancer has no leisure to notice.

Therefore you know the dates when Mahavira attained nirvana. You even gather today on the date when I attained. Do you know any date when Meera attained? There is no date there. Even Meera does not know. When, in the midst of living, it happened silently inside—when the pendulum swung from world to truth—the dancer cannot know. The meditator can. He sits in meditation, watching alertly, examining each thing—nothing will escape him. He will know clearly: this night is gone, this dawn has come. But one who is dancing in ecstasy—he danced in the night, he’s dancing in the morning—how will he know when morning arrived? When the sun rose?

This is why there is no mention of when the devotees attained. The secret is this: on the first step they were like the last step; on the last step they were like the first. There is a deep continuity there.

Thus both gradual and sudden are reconciled.

“On this understanding, the sayings that teach gradual progress and those that teach one-leap attainment are harmonized.”

Shandilya has done something wonderful. No one could reconcile these before!

In Zen there are two traditions—a great dispute. Those who say it is gradual insist it must be gradual: one step at a time. Those who say sudden insist it happens in a single leap. If step by step, then truth would be broken into parts—getting a little, then a little more. Truth cannot be fragmented; therefore steps are impossible. It happens at once. One is either ignorant or enlightened—no other states in between.

This dispute is insoluble. For those who say gradual, there is force to their argument: then why did you meditate twenty years? If sudden, why not leap on day one?

Zen tells stories: a seeker asked a master something; the master slapped him, and with that slap he attained. Such stories are popular in the West—they are in a hurry. “Wonderful—find a master to slap us once and we’re done.” But you don’t know the story is incomplete—before the slap those gentlemen had meditated twenty-six years. Don’t think they rolled out of bed, got slapped, and attained. They had been meditating twenty-six years. The slap was only the last straw. The climb had long been going on; the last straw made the camel kneel.

But the Zen stories current in the West are incomplete. Because who will agree to the whole story? The moment they hear “twenty-six years of meditation,” they say, “Forget it. One slap after twenty-six years? We were barely willing to suffer one slap to be done with it. But first meditate twenty-six years? No one is willing for that long.”

So those who say gradual—it seems they are right: what were you doing those twenty-six years?

But those who say sudden also have strength: for twenty-six years you meditated, but meditation didn’t happen. If it had, why more doing? It happened only when the slap fell. The load was put upon the camel, but it had not kneeled. Until it kneels it is standing, is it not? You can’t say it has “partly” knelt. Only when the last straw is placed does it kneel.

Both sides have force. Often life’s truths are paradoxical; when two parties grasp two ends of a paradox, disputes run for centuries.

But Shandilya has done something marvelous. He says: end this dispute. In the devotee’s life it does not arise. He has joined both in himself. His first step is also the last—and how can the last be the first? The devotee is paradoxical. He dances in ignorance; he dances in enlightenment. His dancing is one. He dances in darkness; he dances in light. On the dense new-moon night, he was dancing; and he danced the same on the full moon. His dance flows continuously like the Ganges. What does he care for new moon or full moon? Who is there to count? No ego sits at the back tallying. In the dance all is lost. When the dancer is lost in the dance, what new moon? New moon itself becomes full moon. What full moon? Where is the difference? All differences arise from ego. The root is cut.

How much beauty of vision in your madmen—
they have sewn flowers into the hem,
they have adorned their torn collars.
The pull of love dragged beauty itself here—
the candle itself had to burn among the moths.

The pull of love dragged beauty itself here—
the devotee does not go to search for the Divine.

The pull of love dragged beauty itself here—
his love calls him, draws him.

The pull of love dragged beauty itself here—
the candle itself had to burn among the moths.

The devotee does not go like a moth to search for the candle; the candle comes searching for the moth—this unique event occurs.

The candle itself had to burn among the moths.
What do we know of mosque or church?
We have spent our life in these taverns.

The devotee says: I lived in the tavern; I know nothing of temple or mosque.

What do we know of Kaaba or church?
We know nothing of distinctions. We do not understand. We are drunk, we are lost.

We have spent our life in these taverns.
The devotee drinks the wine of devotion.

We have seen the style of your intoxicating youth
in laughing flowers, in overflowing cups.
When a flower blooms, a thought arises:
this too is perhaps among the tears in your torn collar.
O “Tawba,” the ruined tresses of the failed heart—
there too must have been a gathering of madmen.
“Bilqis,” why would we need the courtesies?
We drink from broken cups.

The devotee cares little whether the cup is whole or broken. He cares to drink. He cares not for worthiness, nor for the vessel.

We drink from broken cups.
The devotee cares not for darkness—he dances. He cares only for one thing: as I am, where I am, so I offer myself to you, surrender myself.

If you can be a devotee, nothing else is needed. If you cannot, then in helplessness choose another path. If you can be a devotee, you are blessed! If I can make you devotees! And note: I was not a devotee—therefore, knowing all the troubles, I tell you. I know the desert, so I tell you. So I can say: if you can be saved from the desert, be saved. If you can arrive by the oasis of love, why go into the wasteland? I had no one to tell me; so I wandered. You need not. As you are, where you are—call. Now that you have come, come completely!

Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.
Make me your nest. Make me your dwelling.

Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.
Today the southern breeze has come
and suddenly rattled my door,
a stir has arisen in those clouds
that had long covered the sky,
she who, having heard a hundred of my questions, stood silent—
today, again and again, bending low,
every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.

Sunbeams, most intense, slip
between layers of thick cloud, crossing over,
spreading light upon the dark,
as if kissing the earth;
O silver bird, piercing the night
that blocks your road,
your wings no longer pause—now you are returning to your nest.

Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.
O silver bird, piercing the night
that blocks your road,
your wings no longer pause—now you are returning to your nest.
Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.

Today waves come bearing diamonds, laying out
emerald shores somewhere,
today with bright pearls some lotus-hand
is adorning itself somewhere;
but to tempt and lure your heart—
that is impossible today; let the path
be strewn with a thousand luxuries, now you are returning to your nest.
Every branch of the tree is saying: now you are returning to your nest.

That’s all for today.