Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #32

Religion means the effulgence of your intrinsic nature. That which is hidden becomes manifest. The song lying in your heart can be sung. Your destiny can be fulfilled.
And everyone’s destiny is a little different. That’s why any conduct imposed from the outside never becomes religion. The foundation of religion is this: it must arise from within. This is where we have erred—and this is the error I want to correct.

Many times the religious flame has been lit, and many times the lamp has been lost. It was lit in Buddha and then went out; in Mahavira it flared and went out; in Krishna and Christ, in Zarathustra and Mohammed—it flared and went out. Again and again the lamp has been kindled. Existence has not been defeated by man; man has stumbled, but existence has not lost hope. The divine has tried again and again to reach man, to find him. However deep the darkness, its ray keeps arriving, its hint keeps coming. Its prophets have come; its message has come. But somewhere a fundamental mistake kept occurring. If you understand that mistake, what I want to do will become clear. My whole work is to correct that mistake.

The mistake happened—and naturally so; it was bound to happen; it could not be avoided. So I am not blaming those through whom it happened. It was inevitable. Mahavira attained meditation. Naturally, meditation transforms a person’s conduct—inevitably. If meditation does not transform conduct, what will? Everything changes. With meditation, your very sitting and rising, sleeping and waking—everything is transformed. But meditation is not visible; it happens in the innermost depths. We do not have the eyes to see it, nor the subtle insight to perceive it. What we can see is conduct. Conduct is outside, the outer limb of meditation. With meditation, conduct is transformed, and what we see is that behavior changing. Naturally, in the language of our ego—where we sit as doers—the echo arises: “Let me adopt that same conduct. Let me become like Mahavira.” And there the mistake occurs.

Mahavira’s nonviolence is spontaneous; your nonviolence is superimposed from above. The difference between them is as vast as earth and sky. Mahavira’s nonviolence is born of the love that has arisen within. Your nonviolence is born of fear of hell and greed for heaven. In Mahavira there is no fear of hell, no greed for heaven. What fear of hell could he have? What attraction could heaven hold? Fear of hell and greed for heaven—this is precisely the state of the worldly mind, its desire: “Let there be no pain, only pleasure.” To escape suffering and attain pleasure; to have a happiness that comes and never departs—this is the ambition of the worldly mind. Call it craving, thirst, desire—whatever name you give.

In Mahavira there is neither fear of hell nor any longing for heaven. The mind has become quiet, silent; no waves arise now. Samadhi has happened; only witnessing remains, only the seer abides. In that seer there is no ripple—no thought, no feeling, no desire, no thirst. Nowhere to go, nothing to become. No future, no past. Everything has come to rest. The world has stilled.

Krishna called this stillness sthitaprajna—whose wisdom is steady. Sthira dhi—whose understanding is unmoving. Like a lamp burning in a place where no wind enters, a lamp in a vacuum—no tremor rises, no flicker, the flame is steady.

The result of this unwavering flame is nonviolence in Mahavira’s life. It is the fruit of love. The inner realization that has occurred—the direct experience of life—has consecrated all life. “This is my very life; there is no division anywhere.” When you hurt another, you hurt yourself; when you cause sorrow to anyone, you cause sorrow to yourself. This is what Mahavira saw. Because only the One is. In stone and mountain, moon and stars, there is the expansion of the One. Nonviolence is the outcome of such a realization.

But those who looked from the outside did not see this realization—did not see that love had dawned, that oneness had been experienced, that God had been realized, that samadhi had borne fruit. None of this was visible. What they saw was that Mahavira placed his feet with great care lest even an ant be crushed; that he filtered his water; that he did not eat unripe fruit; only fruit that had fallen by itself from the tree. To pluck an unripe fruit is to cause pain; it is still attached; the moment of its separation has not come. So Mahavira ate only ripened fruit.

All this is the outer expression of Mahavira’s inner state. We, looking from the outside, see a man placing his feet gingerly, not turning over at night lest some insect be crushed; not walking on wet ground because of the tiny organisms there; filtering water; not eating at night—we see these things. And on this we erected the entire religion—and religion became false. Mahavira’s religion was born of samadhi, of meditation; ours was born out of observing Mahavira from the outside. We thought: “Do not step on an ant; drink filtered water; do not eat at night; do not commit violence; do not eat meat—and we too will attain the state Mahavira attained.”

You will not attain it that way.

Remember this sutra: the outer must follow the inner; the inner never follows the outer. Within sits the master; the outer is only his shadow.

Understand it like this: wherever I go, my shadow follows me. But the reverse is impossible—that wherever my shadow goes, I follow it. Where will the shadow go on its own? A shadow is a shadow. You may take my shadow somewhere; you cannot thereby take me along. But if you take me, the shadow must come. Mahavira attained samadhi within; in his conduct the shadow appeared. We caught hold of the shadow—and religion became false.

And then, you are not Mahavira. No one is Mahavira. So the conduct imposed on you became a violence to your being. It did not harmonize within. Because it was forced, you became sad and depressed. Because of that sadness, the festivity of religion withered. Religion became the affair of the sick at heart; people who take pleasure in tormenting themselves—or those who torment themselves in order to earn your respect.

Those who sit in your temples, churches, mosques, and gurdwaras—those you have come to honor—be aware: many have arranged all this merely to be honored, nothing more. You want to honor the man who fasts—because you believe that whoever fasts will become like Mahavira. Certainly, Mahavira fasted. But to say he “did” fasts is not right; in his case, fasts happened. To a monk they are doing; there lies the difference. The difference between happening and doing is vast as earth and sky. Such absorption would seize him within that sometimes fasting happened. He would simply forget. This has happened to me too; that is why I tell you. I have never done a fast, but fasts have happened. Sometimes an inner flame became so steady that the thought of eating simply did not arise. The mind was so enchanted within that all the outer doors closed by themselves. A fast happened. I did not even know when it happened. Only when it broke did I know. When awareness returned outward, I realized two days had passed without food.

Then there are people who fast as a practice. They impose fasts upon themselves. They torture the body. And since there is no inner joy, only one joy remains in their torment: to receive honor for their ego from the outside. Someone will call them ascetic; someone will proclaim them saint.

Thus religion, which is intrinsic nature, gradually assumes the form of conduct. It becomes morality. Morality is the fall of religion. Morality is not religion. Remember, a religious person is moral, but a moral person is not necessarily religious. The outer follows the inner; the inner never follows the outer.

So, religion means your intrinsic nature. And everyone is a little different. Therefore everyone’s journey in religion will be somewhat different. The person must be remembered. But once rules of conduct are made from the outside, then no one is remembered. Such rules are the same for all. They are not tailored to the individual, not made with the person in mind; they are universal. All universal rules are harmful.

Therefore here I give no rules—only awareness. I give you eyes, not behavior. I give hints, pointers—not dead conclusions or declarations. I give insight, not orders. I give you the capacity to understand—then live in your own way. The champa will blossom in the way of the champa, the lotus in the way of the lotus. The lotus will bloom in water; if you try to make the champa bloom in water—you will kill it, rot it. And if you try to bloom the lotus where the champa belongs—how will it bloom?

Differences among individuals are of just this kind. All must blossom. The meaning of blossoming is one. In the supreme state, the blossoming is one—but the journeys to it differ greatly.

And the flowers will have different colors, different forms, different fragrances—yet the flowering is one. That flowering is what I call God. But all else will differ.

Those who make rules and conduct from the outside forget this. Then rules of conduct become so important that everyone must fit them.

Imagine a tailor making the clothes first. He calculates the average height in Poona, measures everyone, adds up the heights and weights, and derives an average. In this average lies great deceit: there are small children and old men, tall men and short, stout and thin—every kind. He totals them all, finds the average, and makes clothes for the “average man.”

But the average man exists only in mathematics, never in life. Now the average height is four feet six inches. He has the clothes ready. You arrive—you are not the average man. You are six feet tall. He says, “You are wrong. You deviate from the average! You violate the rule! Come, let me trim you.”

Or you might be only four feet—very short. He says, “Come, let me stretch you a bit to fit.” The clothes have become important; the person is forgotten.

For me, the person is of value. My heart is filled with supreme respect for the individual. I do not stitch clothes for you. I give you unstitched cloth. Stitch your own. That unstitched cloth is understanding. With understanding, make your own clothes. You must sew them yourself. Clothes made on the basis of another will never fit you—either loose or tight, too long or too short. Something will always be amiss; you will always feel ill-at-ease.

That is why your so-called religious people appear restless. They are wearing Mahavira’s garments without Mahavira’s being. They sit with eyes closed, but the eyes will not close. They stand naked, yet feel embarrassed, a deep shame within, a great anxiety: “What am I doing? Let no one see! What will people say? They will think I’m mad!” Or you are worshipping in a temple, praying—and your heart is not in the prayer. But you continue because it has always been done in your family. You are merely observing a formality. Religion becomes false in formalism.

Religion must be born from your innermost being. Find your own religion. Neither Hinduism nor Christianity is your religion. Christianity is clothing stitched on the pattern of Jesus. Hinduism is stitched on the pattern of Krishna or Rama. Jainism is stitched on the pattern of Mahavira. That is why you all look so ill-fitted and awkward. That is why the earth has become religionless. Everyone is wearing clothes—but the wrong ones.

Sew your own clothes! I give you understanding, vision, meditation, devotion, love—then craft your conduct yourself. Then a bubbling joy will arise within. Otherwise tiny things will torment you.

A gentleman came to me. He said, “What will become of me? I am a great sinner, a criminal!”
I said, “What is your crime? Your sin? You look like a good man. Your eyes do not seem those of a sinner. I see no sign of sin on your face.”
He said, “No, sir, you don’t know. I get up at eight in the morning.”

This person had read books that say one must rise in brahma-muhurta—before dawn—that it is meritorious. Since he rises at eight, he is full of guilt. But there is no inherent religiosity in getting up at five. All times are equal. His situation is that he cannot fall asleep before two at night. If a man can’t sleep till two and sleeps until eight—what’s so surprising? The gurus he went to must have told him, “Sleep by nine.” He says, “I tried. I lie down, but sleep comes when it comes.” And it comes at two. Lying in bed from nine to two is even more painful. He tosses and turns, gets distressed—and guilt piles up: “Who is as sinful as me! I can’t even sleep on time! In the morning I rise at eight or nine—then my mind is light. If I get up earlier, I feel gloomy and tense all day, with a weight on my head.”

Yet he is declared a sinner. He was a disciple of Sivananda. He went to Sivananda. Sivananda said, “This won’t do. One must rise in brahma-muhurta.”

Some people cannot sleep after three in the morning. Those who can’t sleep before two you label sinners; those who can’t sleep after three you call virtuous! There are people who feel tormented after three, eager to get up; they need only an excuse. Their sleep is finished.

In my view there are no sinners and no saints on such grounds. What is this? If you rise at eight, you rise at eight. What feels natural to the body, what suits your nature—that is religion. This is what I want to say regarding everything. Do not needlessly clutch concepts of sin and so on around anything in life. Do not get entangled in trifles. You are here for something vast. Do not get lost in small matters.

All the world’s religions got entangled in small details. The elaboration became so vast that the essence was lost. Jain monks told me they have no time to meditate. Because in following all the rules, where is time left?

This is the limit! One becomes a monk in order to meditate. Muni means one who has gone to learn silence, to be silent—another name for meditator. But they went to be meditators and got trapped in other things. Went to sing Rama’s name, ended up carding cotton! And they say, “We don’t get time.” This is what shopkeepers say: “No time.” If a monk says he has no time to meditate—because there are rules to follow, and those rules themselves create tangles, swallow all the time—then the little left must be used for giving discourses.

You have found nothing—what are you preaching? To whom? You are lost yourself and will mislead others. That is a definite sin—the greatest: to preach without knowing. What greater sin could there be? If one night you drink water, I don’t think it is such a sin; if one night you feel hungry and eat a fruit, is that such a sin? But without knowing, without experience, you instruct hundreds, give them paths you have never walked—what could be a greater sin?

You know it is dangerous if someone dispenses medicines without a doctor’s certificate. But his medicines can at most harm the body. Those who have not known meditation are guiding others; their prescriptions can mislead you for lifetimes—and they are. They feel no shame, no sense of crime, because they are merely following rules. A monk is told he must give so many sermons, follow so many rules, rise at such an hour, evacuate at such an hour, study so much, recite so much scripture. They are entangled in all this.

I do not want to give you conduct. I do not want to give you discipline. I want to give you freedom. I want to free you from all systems. I want to make you responsible. Understand me.

Freedom does not mean I want to make you licentious. I want to make you responsible. I want to tell you your life is valuable. Do not squander it by obeying every voice. Do not waste it wearing everyone’s clothes. Your life is precious. God will ask you, “What did you do with life?” You will have to answer—not your monks, not your sadhus, not your saints. No one will answer for you. You must answer. You live for yourself, you will die for yourself, and you are responsible for yourself. So live in such a way that you can answer.

And who will decide how you live? When you rise, what you eat, what you drink—who will decide? No one has that right. This slavery must end.

For me, religion is your intrinsic nature and its supreme freedom. Compose your own rhythm. Liberation must begin with the very first step. This is the first step. And this freedom, growing and maturing, becomes moksha.

Until now, what has been grasped in the name of religion became, inevitably, life-denying. Mahavira was not life-denying; nor was Buddha. No awakened one can be against life, because it is through this very life that the ultimate life is attained. This life is the door to the beyond. It is from this world that we move toward truth. Even the thorns of this world are your friends; if they did not prick, you would never move toward truth. The sufferings of the world are such that, when you awaken to them, you will be grateful—for through them you reach God; through them you come to samadhi.

Think a little. If there were no suffering, no pain, no difficulty—would you even think of samadhi? Who would remind you? These thorns that prick from all sides keep you alert; they lead you toward samadhi. The thorns have a purpose. The sorrows of the world are not merely sorrows; great hints are hidden within them. They are there to remind you. They are not a curse, but a blessing.

So I want to see a religion on earth that is not against life. Because in this very realm the other world is hidden. In these trees and plants, stones and mountains, God is hidden. In the people sitting next to you lies the abode of the divine. God is hidden in your neighbor. God is hidden within you—within your wife, your husband, your son, your father. You look only on the surface and so you miss. But even if you miss by looking on the surface, do not throw away the fruit—because within the fruit the juice is hidden that could have satisfied you.

The difficulty arose because Mahavira attained samadhi, Buddha attained samadhi—but people grasped their conduct and followed that. They knew nothing of the within, became hollow, entangled in external rituals—busy with effort but ignorant of devotion. They drowned in rituals. The ego grew subtler and bigger. And because of that ego, nothing could be seen—blindness spread; darkness deepened.

In my view, worldly people are not as blind as your so-called renunciates. Nor are the worldly as arrogant as your so-called great men. Life is a rare opportunity. Use it—as a challenge. Do not run from it. Stand in this fire. This fire will refine you. In this very fire, you will become pure gold. Only your dross will burn—nothing else. So do not flee; if you do, the dross will remain.

You ask: “What kind of religion do you want to bring to the earth?”
A religion of life-acceptance. Of total acceptance. Because life-denying ideas have been so prevalent, people have naturally become antagonistic to the body. They began to torture their bodies. And this body is the temple of God. I want to restore the dignity of the body. Because people have become opposed to the world and the body, they have become opposed to all the body’s relationships. A mistake happened.

There are bodily relationships from which one must be free—and there are bodily relationships into which one must go deeper. Love is such a relationship. Love should deepen. Hatred should become shallow. If you can be free of hate, it is a blessing—but if you become free of love, it is a misfortune.

And the irony is: if you want to be free of hate, the easiest way is to be free of love as well. Your monks have chosen the easy way. “No bamboo, no flute!” But bamboo and flute are very different. The flute must sing. The flute is made from bamboo, but the flute is a great transformation; it is not merely bamboo. A revolution has happened in the flute. You are still like bamboo; you can become a flute.

People became frightened of hatred, frightened of anger, and ran off to the forests. If no one is around, neither hatred nor anger will arise. True—but what of love? That too will not be. Hence your so-called saints became love-empty. The stream of their love dried up. They became like deserts. There they missed. They did not find God, and they lost the world. Truth was not found; they escaped the very challenge through which truth could be found. They attained a kind of peace—but it was dead, like that of a graveyard. There is another peace—festive, alive, like a garden. I want to bring a religion of that peace.

Embrace life; honor the body. Accept everything that God has given. If he has given it, some secret is hidden in it. Do not throw away this veena; music is hidden in it. Do not think of it as mere bamboo; it has the capacity to become a flute. Do not quickly abandon and flee. Seek. The search is hard, as it must be—because a price has to be paid. Whoever seeks will find. The search has to be in this very life.

Do not think that God created the world once upon a time. God is creating the world every day, every moment. Not that he made it once and was done! Then how are new leaves appearing? How are new flowers blooming? How do the sun and moon move? How are new children born? Every day the new is being born.

So your notion that God created the world is wrong. God is creating. And if you want to grasp me even better, I will say: God is the very process of creation. He is not a separate person sitting somewhere making things. Not a potter making pots, but a dancer—dancing. His dance is his very being. In these flowers and leaves, in oceans and lakes, is his dance. In you, in me, in Buddha and Mahavira—his dance. His gestures, his many mudras. Recognize him in these.

I want to free you from escapist religion. Let the body be accepted—let it be a temple. Let love be accepted—let it become worship. Let the world be honored—because the creator is hidden in it. Even now his hands are at work. If you enter the world a little deeper, you will feel the touch of his hand; his hand will be in yours. Have you ever dived deep into a flower? You will catch his hand. Have you plunged deep into someone’s eyes? You will glimpse him. Have you gone deep into a heart? You will find his home—where he is hidden.

A reevaluation of values is needed—a total reevaluation. And today the earth is ready for such an event. Five thousand years of repressive, escapist religions have made man sufficiently alert. Man is ready for a new manifestation. People are waiting, longing, that a new descent of the divine should happen, that religion should find a new language. And because such a language is not arriving, such a descent is not happening, and people do not see how to be religious, false religions are arising. They too are born of the longing.

There is no accidental relationship between man and religion, as Marx and the communists think. The relationship is intrinsic, inevitable. Man cannot be without religion. It is impossible for man not to be religious. Then only one question remains: will you be religious rightly, or wrongly? You will be surprised to know that in Russia—where the communist revolution happened, and temples, mosques, and churches were almost abolished—people did not become free of religion. The longing is so strong that if the real is not available, people will use the false. They began laying flowers on Lenin’s tomb. Lenin began to look like an avatar. The Kremlin became a temple. Marx’s Das Kapital became their Koran, their Bible. A new trinity arose—Marx, Engels, Lenin. Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh went—but these new ones took their place.
In Germany, Hitler became for many a figure of worship.

People want a place to worship. If you snatch away all places, they will create their own—anything at hand. They will worship whatever they find. Worship, prayer, love are inherent necessities within man.

I receive letters. Just yesterday a letter came from a woman in Russia. She wants to come, but the government does not permit it. She wrote that if I could arrange an invitation from here, if someone could guarantee her stay for three months, perhaps permission would be granted. But her letter is so full of love that Laxmi became afraid! If someone sponsors her and she does not return—what then? From the letter it seems that once she came outside Russia, she would not go back. Whoever sponsors her would be in trouble!

There is an inborn thirst in man. The thirst has become deeper because the old religions have faded; the new so-called communist and fascist “religions” are false and hollow; they do not satisfy the soul. So man waits with great longing for a new ray.

That is why I say: if this ochre fire spreads across the world, a new ray can descend. Only such sannyas can now be the sannyas of the future—not escapist, but life-affirming sannyas.

And I see no reason to run anywhere. Wherever you are, if you call from the heart, the divine comes. The essential thing is the heart’s call. The essential thing is not purity, not austerity, not yoga, not renunciation. The essential thing is only this: become utterly helpless, egoless, and fall at his feet. If even a little of you remains, there will be an obstruction. If you are totally gone, in that very instant the obstruction breaks.

No, Chetana—your eyes are opening; they are not being deceived. For the first time, eyes are becoming available. Slowly, these eyes will deepen; their mist will clear. Then even the picture will not be needed. Then in the tree and in the stone—everywhere—the same will begin to appear. This is the beginning.

What is seen in the Master is one day to be spread over the whole world. The Master is only a door. That is why Nanak so rightly named the temple “Gurudwara”—the Guru’s door. I like that. The guru is the doorway. From there the journey toward the vast sky begins.

Something auspicious is happening. These are the eyes that are needed. Such eyes have darshan; such eyes attain vision.

I have heard a Zen story:
A monk said, “I am told that all Buddhas and all the Buddha-dharmas issue from one sutra. What could this sutra be?”
The Master replied, “Ever revolving; you cannot check it. No arguing, no talking can catch it.”
“How then shall I receive and hold it?”
The Master laughed and said, “If you wish to receive and hold it, you must hear it with your eyes.”

A monk asked his Master: “I have heard that all Buddhas and all the teachings of the Buddhas arise from one concise sutra. What is that sutra?”
The true Master said: “Always revolving, forever in flow! It cannot be grasped. It never halts. It is ever moving. It cannot be stopped. And no logic can capture it. No words are capable of revealing it.”
Naturally the monk asked: “Then how shall I receive it? How shall I assimilate it? How shall I invite it to dwell within my very soul?”
The Master laughed and said: “If you wish to accept it, to receive it and lodge it within, you must learn one art. You know how to hear with the ears; now you must learn to hear with the eyes.”

Hearing with the eyes! Chetana, that is what is happening to you.

When a vision—a new vision—is born, there is also restlessness, even uneasiness. Because all the old becomes disordered; there remains no adjustment with the past. The advent of a new vision creates a kind of chaos. With the new vision begins a new life—a new soul.

Something auspicious is happening. Do not be afraid. And do not even think, “Am I being deceived?”

My being with you and your being with me is precisely so that I do not let you be deceived. Many times it will seem that when you are deceived, it feels like truth—because for lifetimes your eyes have been accustomed to deception. They have known only deception. Therefore the false will feel true. And often the reverse will happen: when truth begins to happen, your mind will say, “Perhaps I am being deceived.” Hence the need of the true Master—someone to tell you, “This is deception, and this is not.”

Keep one thing in mind: whatever finds adjustment with your old past—there deception may be. That with which your mind can easily agree—there is deception. That which your mind cannot agree with, that makes you restless, that your mind cannot assimilate, and with which the mind starts thinking, “What is happening? Am I going mad? Am I falling into illusion?”—then understand, there is a great possibility that truth is coming near. The mind is so soaked in the untrue that when truth approaches, it appears like deception.

You asked: “At your hint I poured out my whole love.”
This is true. I am seeing Chetana. In just a few days her plant has become very green. In every way she has begun to pour herself out. She is not miserly. She has no desire to hold herself back.

There are people here who want to receive everything, but do not want to lose anything. There are also people who cheat me even in very small matters. They come here and put on the ochre robe; they come here and weep, with tears falling from their eyes. And all those tears are useless, because once home they drop the ochre robe as well. Those tears are all show. They think these tears will deceive me!

It will not do. You will not be able to deceive me—neither with your tears, nor with your dancing and singing, nor with your hymns and chanting. If you are with me, then you must endure the discomfort that comes from being with me. You must also bear the obstacles that arise from being with me. If people in your village laugh at you, you must accept that too. If people think you are mad, that price must be paid. If you are not ready to be mad with me, this vision will never be available to you. If you stay with me with your cleverness, you will lose—you will miss the opportunity.

Drop your cleverness. That is the very meaning of sannyas: you declare that you have dropped your cleverness. But you are very cunning. You invent such tricks that perhaps even you do not notice them. It is not only that you deceive me; your cunning is such that you deceive yourself.

I can only say this: I don’t think you yet have that much love. You surely do abuse me, but you are mistaken about the love—you are deceiving yourself in the name of love. You are persuading yourself that you give them out of love. Look more closely; the real reasons are different. The basic reason will be that you have had to bow before me, and you are taking revenge for that. This is your way of getting even. If you are giving out of love, very good. But in your love do you have only insults to give—nothing else? Then if you truly give out of love, and all you have are insults, I accept them. But in love, abuse does not survive. Within abuse there is, somewhere, opposition. You want to plaster over that opposition. But the abuse is there in you somewhere; that is why it comes.

A fakir went to a village. The villagers were very opposed to him, so they made a garland of shoes and put it around his neck. The fakir began to laugh heartily. The villagers were astonished. They asked, What is the matter? Why are you laughing? He said, I’m laughing because today I realized that until now I had only been visiting villages of florists; for the first time I have come to a village of cobblers. I used to wonder: what is this? Wherever I go, people offer flower garlands. Are there only florists everywhere? It’s good I came here today—my shoes are worn out too. So, are you all cobblers? The fakir said, otherwise how would you even think of making a garland of shoes? How would such an idea occur to you?

Now you may say, We offered the garland of shoes out of great love. Garlands are indeed offered in love—that is true. But a garland of shoes! Then somewhere your cobbler-hood is showing.

In love, what you found to give were insults? Then somewhere there is opposition—and that too is natural. Before whom one has to bow, within there arises a resistance, a desire to take revenge.

It is not accidental that Judas—the chief among the disciples—betrayed Jesus and had him crucified. It was revenge. He had had to bow before this man; he could never forgive that. He was an educated man—the most educated among Jesus’ disciples. He could not tolerate it. He was more educated than Jesus, more aristocratic, more cultured. He did bow—at some moment he must have bowed; there are magnetic moments—under some influence, some aura of Jesus, some expression on his face, some call in Jesus’ eyes, he must have bowed. But later he must have repented: I—bowed before a man who is only a carpenter’s son! The fire kept smoldering within. He kept finding faults with many of Jesus’ actions.

And if you think about those “faults,” you too will agree with Judas. For example, a woman came and poured a very precious perfume on Jesus’ feet. It was so valuable that its price was in the thousands, even in those days! Jesus sat quietly. The woman washed his feet with the perfume and wiped them with her hair; tears were falling from her eyes. And Judas said, This is wasteful extravagance. Why didn’t you stop her? With that much money, who knows how many poor could have been fed.

Now whom will you agree with—Jesus or Judas? Your intellect will say Judas is right; it is logical. But what did Jesus say? Jesus said: Even after I am gone, the poor will remain; you can serve them later. Right now the bridegroom is in the house—let there be celebration.

This speaks from another plane: the bridegroom is in the house—let there be festivity. The poor have always been and will always be; you can serve them later, after me—I will not be here long.

And Jesus did not remain long. Within three months of saying this he was crucified. Jesus said: I will not remain here for many days; soon my moment of departure will come. Perhaps that woman could already see that moment of farewell. For when Jesus was taken down from the cross, this very woman was present; all the other disciples had fled. Judas sold Jesus for thirty pieces of silver, and the rest fled in fear that they too would be arrested. The woman who did not run away, who was present when Jesus was taken down, was the same woman. She was a prostitute—Mary Magdalene—who had poured that costly perfume worth thousands on Jesus’ feet.

And Jesus said: Do you see her love, or do you see only the perfume? To stop her would be to break her heart.

Judas kept finding faults. Now and then he must have spoken against Jesus too; for no one suddenly, one day, goes and has his own master crucified. Suddenly? No. It must have been ripening within. The fuel must have been gathering inside.

There may also be insults within you. And by many devices you find ways to let them out. Then, to save your own face, you think you are doing it out of love. If only you had love! The insults would have vanished, melted away. In a loving heart, how could there remain any way to hurl abuse? You deceive me, and you deceive yourself. Your deception is deep.

But about Chetana this can be said: neither is she deceiving herself, nor is she deceiving me. She has poured herself out.

That is exactly what is to be seen. As long as you keep seeing me as me, you have not seen me. The day you begin to see Him in me, that very day you have seen me.

Keep this paradox in mind. So long as I appear to you merely as myself, you have not seen me. Until you see That in me, you have not seen me. Let me become a doorway, and through me may that vast, infinite sky be revealed to you. And slowly, slowly, forget me and be absorbed in that vast sky—only then have you truly come to me!

To come to me means: pass through me. To come to me means: use my steps. This door is open. If you look through this door, you will behold the Divine.

It is going well, Chetana! This is not a deception. But when such a great event begins to happen, doubts arise: What is happening? Is it imagination? Is it a mirage? Is it a dream?

No—the eyes are not being deceived; the eyes are being born; for the first time, eyes are being born. Vision is being born.

Their remembrance, their longing, their sorrow—
life is passing by in ease.

As the disciple draws near the master, there is pain of separation and there is the joy of union. Laughter comes, tears fall. Life takes on a new hue, new wings. Now even sadness has a glow. Now even in separation there is the aura of meeting.

I have schooled the heart in patience, and yet
my wits still fly with the sound of that Voice.

That Voice will begin to be heard. Mind you: that Voice is heard with the eye!

Why did the Zen mystic say, “When you hear with the eye, then you will hear”? It sounds absurd. One hears with the ear, not the eye.

Someone once asked another mystic, Baba Farid, “What is the distance between truth and falsehood?” He said, “Four inches.” The questioner asked, “Only four inches?” Farid replied, “As much as the distance between the ear and the eye—just that much.”

Through the ear you always hear another’s words; it is always borrowed. Do not trust what is heard with the ear. Because of it people have become entangled in scriptures, ensnared in words—that is what the ear hears. Trust the eye. Trust what you have seen. Do not trust what you have merely heard. There is no certainty whether the heard is right or not. Heard is just heard.

Therefore the Zen mystic spoke truly: When you begin to see with the eye, then… then you will perceive that primal sutra from which all Buddhas arise and all the religions of Buddhas are born!

Only this longing remains: after annihilation, my bier
may leave my house and halt in your lane.

Only this is the devotee’s longing—

Only this longing remains: after annihilation, my bier
may leave my house and halt in your lane.

I have seen this longing in the eyes of Chetana. I wish to see it in all of your eyes.

When His image descended into my eyes,
I found light in the darkened skies.

Let a single image descend into the eyes, and the darkest night turns radiant.

When His image descended into my eyes,
I found light in the darkened skies.
When Beauty inclined toward kindness and grace,
something more was fashioned in Love’s very soul.
Not yet granted to my sight till today—
people say spring has come to the garden.
Now I know neither news of the world nor of myself;
my wildness—who knows where it has brought me.
O mis-guessing gaze, may your life be long—
now life is a lover of griefs and pains.
Now do come, eraser of the sorrow of existence—
only Your remembrance remains, I am here, and it is the night of solitude.

This alone is the disciple’s cry; this alone is the devotee’s cry. There is no difference between devotee and disciple. One who is not a disciple is not a devotee. The lessons of devotion are learned at the feet of the master. The supreme fruit of devotion is God, but the lessons of devotion are learned with the master. The master is the school. Without graduating from that school, no one attains the Divine.

What is the disciple’s aspiration? What is the devotee’s aspiration? Only this: that this melancholy night now break. That morning come, that a ray dawn. This aspiration is there, this longing is there—but there is no impatience; there is waiting. Prayer is fulfilled on the very day that longing becomes complete and waiting becomes complete—when there is asking, and in a sense there is also no asking. On one side the devotee cries, “Come, I can bear no more,” and on the other side the devotee says, “Whenever you come, I am prepared to wait till then. Even if you come after eternity, I will keep waiting.” Then, in that very instant, the happening happens.

It is auspicious. For the first time the Eye has begun to open. Trust this Eye. Give this Eye your full strength. Pour your whole energy into this Eye. This very Eye is Vision.

A few things are worth understanding; they will help in other contexts as well.

First, note well that there is nothing here besides me—no separate “ashram” etc. If you fight, you will be fighting me. The ashram is just an excuse created by your own tendency to fight. There is no one here other than me. This ashram is my body. Whatever is happening here is at my direction. Good or bad—the responsibility is mine. What responsibility can sleeping people have? Those who are working in the ashram are asleep; they move only at my signal.

So keep this in mind: if you want to fight, fight by all means—but you will be fighting me. Do not deceive yourself that you are fighting the ashram. Do not separate me from the ashram. And if the ashram is not separate, how can it possess me? The ashram is my play!

As for bringing out a newspaper, understand clearly why it is being stopped. What I say must reach people authentically. When you lift snippets out of context and print them, their meaning changes; their purpose changes. The purpose becomes that of the person selecting the fragments, not mine.

Therefore I do not want any publication anywhere in the country that is not under my supervision; otherwise it will be wrong and harmful. Its consequences have been disastrous before and will be again. Earlier it could not be prevented; now it can, so it should be.

Why did so much confusion arise after Mahavira? Because two kinds of people had written scriptures. The moment Buddha died, thirty-six sects of Buddhists sprang up, because thirty-six kinds of scriptures were available. Buddha had said one thing, but the writers wrote from their own minds: someone omitted something, someone added something. Someone thought one point important and wrote it; another didn’t and left it out. Someone wrote only a portion that seemed important to him and left the rest.

After Buddha, thirty-six sects arose and kept fighting; in that conflict the very life of Buddhism ebbed away. The disappearance of Buddhists from India did not happen because of Hindus; it happened because of their own thirty-six internal disturbances.

I do not want any publication anywhere outside this ashram. Publication must happen here first. What I say should go exactly as I have said it, as much as I have said it, and in the context in which I have said it. That is why it is being stopped—there is no other reason.

And you say your friend publishes the paper because he loves me. If he loves me, he will listen to me. By naming a paper “Rajneesh-Prem,” one does not thereby love Rajneesh. If they wish to spread my vision and work, by all means do so. The ashram is publishing so much literature—carry that to people. There is no need for separate material. I have also seen their paper—it is utterly wrong and muddled. They print all sorts of things, assembling fragments from here and there.

Remember, whatever I say has a context, a setting. Outside that setting its meaning will become something else—will become a mis-meaning. Therefore such tendencies will not be allowed.

And keep this in mind for good: whatever is happening here, and whatever will happen, while I am, is all at my direction. Many times you feel, “Why would this be?” Many times you think, “Why would God do this?” If your feeling and my vision do not match, do not conclude that something wrong is happening.

For example, a friend wrote that he came with great hopes to sit at my feet and serve, and here he is not even allowed to meet me. “Have you been imprisoned?” Many friends feel this way. I am no one’s prisoner. Only you should not be able to press my feet too much—only this relief has been arranged for me. I have simply been freed from you. But you think I have been imprisoned. I had become quite harried by foot-pressers—who neither look at time nor convenience. After considerable experience this arrangement had to be made.

Those guards at the door are not posted to imprison me; when I want to go out no one stops me. They only do not let you barge in. And you should not be let in. When there is a real need, you will certainly have an opportunity—and you must learn to wait for that opportunity. Otherwise I get greatly troubled. This has been arranged so that I may work more.

Once I was on a train. At two in the night a man came in. I was asleep, returning from a camp in Udaipur. The train had left around midnight; I must have slept barely two hours when I felt someone pressing my feet and woke up. I asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “I am serving your feet.” But they are my feet—at least you should ask me whether I wish to have them massaged at this hour or not.

He said to me, “You sleep! Now no one can stop me. I went there too, to the Udaipur camp, but they didn’t let me in. Tonight it is just me and you!” That man kept me awake the whole night—till six in the morning he kept pressing my feet. I told him many times, “Brother, you must be tired.” He said, “Please be carefree. Tonight I will serve to my heart’s content.”

Now, you know I have fifty thousand sannyasins—if all become eager to “serve” me like this, it will be a great obstacle. And such obstacles have occurred many times.

In one city I was conducting a camp. I lay down in the afternoon, exhausted from the day, when I saw someone had lifted a roof tile and was peeking from above. I asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “Having darshan!” That was my “freedom”! Now I am a prisoner! Those gentlemen come here too and feel very put out. They say, “What is this?” And they are not uneducated rustics—they are a lawyer—insisting, “No, I am taking darshan.” I said, “You could have had darshan some other time.” He said, “I want darshan precisely when you are asleep—darshan in your sleep.”

I am no prisoner. Who can imprison me? How can anyone? Even if someone were to lock me in a jail, even then I could not be a prisoner now—I have known that which can never be imprisoned. So do not get into the idea that someone is stopping me. It is you who are being stopped—true. Do not think I am being stopped. And even the fact that you are being stopped is at my direction.

There are so many people here—if all were given access whenever they felt like coming, then coming here would have no meaning for anyone. That was the situation earlier: a hundred, a hundred and fifty people would constantly surround me. No one could ask anything. One would start speaking; a second would start; a third would even answer! Someone would scold, “You keep quiet, you don’t know anything—first think what you are asking!” Or someone would reply, “Krishna has said this in the Gita.” I had no opportunity at all. This they called “satsang.”

I had to dismantle all that. Because of it I had to stop traveling too—there was no other way. Wherever I stayed, the hosts would harass me. After a whole day, I would come “home,” and then their wife wanted satsang, or their mother, or their father. The whole family would sit around me; they wouldn’t let me sleep. Or they had gathered the neighbors—a special program because “he is staying at our house; these are our relatives; you must meet them.” All this is a useless waste of time and energy.

Here everything is at my direction. If you wish to meet me and are made to wait three days, even that has a purpose. It has come to me through experience that if you are allowed to meet me whenever you want, you should precisely not be allowed then. For often your questions are so foolish they won’t last two or three days—they disappear on their own; they never needed an answer. After three days when you come to meet me and I ask, “Yes, what was it?” you say, “That matter is finished. It had no substance; now it feels pointless to ask.” If a question becomes pointless in three days, then three days earlier you would only have wasted my time; it was pointless even then. If it had been truly meaningful three days earlier, it would remain meaningful for three lifetimes—how could it become pointless in three days?

But anything and everything itches in your head and you rush off for satsang! I am not here to scratch your mental itching. A little patience; a little waiting.

Remember, whatever is happening here is at my direction. And if ever it seems to you that something is happening contrary to your intention, then think this instead: perhaps your intention is not right. You have come here to consent to my intention, not to make me consent to yours. You have come to walk with me and flow with me, not to make me walk with you. If I walk with you, you will get great flavor and enjoyment—but I will be of no use to you; I will not be able to pour even a ray of nirvana into your life. If you walk with me, perhaps it will not be so enjoyable; perhaps it will even feel obstructive—it will be an uphill path—but you will reach somewhere.

My concern is not to fulfill your petty desires; my concern is to fulfill your vast, ultimate longing. One has to choose between these two. Your petty desires are trivial—“Come to my house, accept a meal at our home.” These are frivolous desires. They only gratify your ego—“He came to eat at my house”—nothing more.

I had fallen into great difficulty: in the morning I had to drink tea at someone’s house; in the afternoon eat lunch at someone’s house; in the evening tea again elsewhere; at night dinner with someone else—and crowds everywhere. No one cared about the food; even drinking tea became difficult—I am drinking tea and you are doing satsang; there is a crowd gathered. I saw that you were thoroughly enjoying it, but there was no benefit—entertainment was happening, not the dismantling of the mind.

What have I to do with your entertainment? There are many ways for that. I want to unmake your mind: I want to give you such alchemy that your mind breaks and dissolves. To give that alchemy, this entire special arrangement has been made.

You did not make full use of Buddha and Mahavira. You could not—because you kept frittering away their time in these same trifles. If you wish, you can make full use of me. There is only one longing of yours I wish to fulfill—that you know the divine, that you become established in samadhi. Everything else is secondary—futile. The rest has no value. Your petty questions and such have no substance. They arise and pass—gusts of wind that come and go. Do not get so harried or anxious about them.

This ashram is my body; these are my hands. The people working here have no will of their own—that is precisely why they have been chosen. There are better people available than them, but they have their own will; therefore I cannot choose them.

Keep this in mind too. Those I have chosen for work are not necessarily the best available—there are better ones—but they all have one flaw: they have their own will. If I choose them, they will follow their own will more than mine. They are clever, skilled, knowledgeable.

Now you think: to seat Laxmi in the place where matters of money arise, where there are a thousand hassles with markets and the state—what would Laxmi know of all this? I have better people—adept in business, millionaires, who know every trick, clever and skilled, with a lifetime of experience. Laxmi is utterly inexperienced—yet I have seated her. There must be a reason. I have not seated the experienced. Every time I seated an experienced person, I found he ran things his own way. He is so experienced he tells me, “You don’t understand; this is how it is done. A bribe will have to be given; without a bribe this won’t happen. If no bribe is given, it will fall through.” And I know he is right—as far as worldly experience goes he is right. But he has no complete attunement with me. He cannot do this much: to listen to me and act. I say, “Fine, if it sinks, let it sink—do not give a bribe.” Then he will try to give a bribe in such a way that I do not find out. His intention may be good; he is not against me; he thinks he is acting in my favor. Yet somewhere his rhythm is not aligning with me; his surrender is not complete. His cleverness is such that it becomes an obstacle to surrender. Whatever I tell him, he will insert his cleverness into it.

Therefore I have many sannyasins who are more capable in worldly ways; but there is one snag with them—their experience itself becomes the obstacle. So I have had to choose people who have no experience—who have never done business or dealt with government offices; who have never done such things. There is a reason: for them there is no other understanding except me. I am their understanding. If I tell them to do what is wrong, they are ready to do it; if I tell them to do what is right, they are ready to do it. If I tell them to jump into a well, they are ready to jump—their readiness!

Many times it will seem to you that they are obstructing your life. Many times you will feel you could do their work better. But keep one thing in mind: they are like a hollow bamboo; they have let go. The music is mine; it will flow through them. So do not get angry with them; do not get into useless conflicts with them. Because by fighting them you will break from me—you will separate from me. And now the work is going to become big—vast. Soon thousands and hundreds of thousands will be coming. And I want the whole arrangement to be such that whatever happens, happens at my direction. Otherwise, as this organization grows and clever people occupy positions and start saying, “This should be done this way and that that way,” and I am reduced to a mere object of worship—then harm will be done. Your competence will destroy the whole opportunity.

Therefore, do not bring your cleverness here. Those who wish to become my instruments must drop all their experience and skill. Even if it appears absolutely clear to them that “this is right, this must be done,” still, if I say, “Don’t,” they must not do it. Because I see something else that you do not. You have experience of the world; I have experience of the beyond. You know this world; I know that world. I have to lead you toward that world. Your experience will become an obstruction.

So if you wish to cooperate in the spreading of my vision, you will have to come into alignment with me. There is no way to do it against me.

Has anyone ever taken sannyas by thinking? How can thinkers take sannyas? Sannyas and thinking are opposed. Sannyas is not the outcome of thought; sannyas is the renunciation of thinking. That is the meaning of the word sannyas: samyak nyasa, a total laying down.

The old sannyas said: to leave the world is sannyas. I tell you: to leave thought is sannyas, because thought itself is the world. You will never manage it by thinking and thinking. This is the work of madmen. What place has thinking in this? If you go on thinking, you will keep coming and keep going back.

An age has passed, singing
on your temple’s threshold,
yet many inner strings
these words cannot set ringing.
One song ends,
another begins;
the melody ebbs again and again,
the vina stays merely strung.

The gifts of language cannot
voice my hope and despair.
Long I sat thinking,
silencing the mind, as if made mute,
yet my state was like that crazed cloud
which swells in the sky but neither rains nor releases—
the melody slips away again and again,
the vina stays merely strung.

I cannot keep silent,
nor can I sing.
I can no longer deceive myself
and be soothed.
When song resounds in the sky
it feels like a thorn drawn out in relief;
yet some barb remains stuck in the heart—
the melody sinks again and again,
the vina stays merely strung.

Your vina will remain merely strung; the raga will keep dropping away. Thought never raises the raga. From thinking, where is music? From thinking, where is the experience of truth?

And you ask, “I keep thinking I should take sannyas.” Now drop thinking. Take sannyas or don’t—but drop thinking. The moment thinking drops, sannyas happens. And then the glory of sannyas is immeasurable. If one day you manage to take it by thinking, it will be a two‑penny sannyas. What value can a thought-out sannyas have? It will not bring revolution. You will remain as you were. Then you will start thinking, “What was the point? I took sannyas and nothing happened.” Then you will be annoyed and say there is nothing of substance in sannyas, because “I took sannyas and nothing happened.”

The substance is not in sannyas; deeper than sannyas is the substance of dropping thought. The one who leaves thinking and takes sannyas, who takes it in love’s madness—then there is essence.

“I keep thinking I should take sannyas.”
Don’t think. I will give you sannyas. It will happen. But don’t think.

And as for your saying, “Explain it so that this time I cannot leave without taking sannyas”—I will not persuade you. I do not argue people into sannyas. I explain a thousand things, but not to make you take sannyas. Out of the very essence of all those things, the leap of sannyas should happen. I explain everything else and leave only sannyas unargued. Because if I begin to explain sannyas, I can advocate it—there is no difficulty in that. I know how to argue. In fact, my family always wanted to make me a lawyer, because I was argumentative from childhood. The whole village was troubled by me—because of argument. No meeting in the village could happen without my standing up and starting a debate. When some mahatma came to town, the organizers would warn my father—don’t let him out today, or there will be a commotion! They would even bribe me, give me sweets—“The mahatma is here today; don’t come there and don’t bring anyone.” Because I never went alone—I took five or ten along. If I was going to create a disturbance, start a debate, I needed five or ten to clap, didn’t I? And when five or ten clap, the others sitting there also start clapping, thinking, “Well, if so many are with him, there must be something to it.”

I know advocacy. I know logic. I was a teacher of logic. So there is no great difficulty. I could persuade you, even press a sannyas on you. But it would be worth two pennies. It would have no real value. This is a leap of love. It is an expression of divine madness.

You say, “Your attraction is strong and I keep being drawn here again and again.”
Then let that attraction grow stronger. You keep being drawn here; slowly you will come closer and closer. Sitting near me, this wine will begin to work its color. This is a tavern of nectar; so many drunkards are sitting here. How long will you keep leaving without drinking? So much is being poured here, spilling over! People are getting intoxicated all around! How long will you sit shrunken like that? One day or another you will take the cup in your hand. You will hesitate, you will think, you will ponder—but you will drink.

Sannyas is like wine. Once the habit takes hold, it takes hold. It is contagious. Sit among these ochre-robed ones, get up with them, keep coming and going. There is no hurry. Let it ripen.

This should happen as it happens in love. You see a woman—love at first sight, as they say—one look and it happens. You see a man and it happens. You don’t ask the name, the address, the village, the place—something just happens. Something like that has already happened between you and me—otherwise how would you keep being drawn here? But you seem a bit too clever. You come, hiding behind the shield of intellect. You sit far off, where I may not notice you. But I am seeing where you are sitting! You will not escape so easily. I won’t speak your name, otherwise these people will laugh a lot and catch you. Though, seeing where I’m looking, they will figure out who it is.

There was such an edge in you that the moment I gauged it,
I was ready to be a sacrifice.
My taste for playing with risk and danger was nothing new,
yet why was I drawn to you like iron to a magnet?
There was no time then to weigh or understand anything—
I see it now—
there was such an edge in you that the moment I sensed it,
I was ready to be a sacrifice.

That fire belongs to the one who takes it in his arms,
endures the burn, and sings;
that sharp edge to the one who quenches its thirst
with his own blood and still smiles.
Time does not come through talk; it puts everyone
to a hard test,
and for that I had always been ready in life.
There was such an edge in you that the moment I gauged it,
I was ready to be a sacrifice.

The edge is here. Like lightning I am flashing before you—how long will you avert your eyes? How long will you keep running? How long will you keep your eyes closed?

Keep coming, keep going! This event is going to happen. I give you this prediction. On my side, sannyas has already happened—that is why you come. I have already chosen you—that is why you come. The delay is on your side, not on mine.

Enough for today.