Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #36

I have never said the divine is hidden in the world. The world is the divine!
If it were hidden, it would mean it is something other than the world, separate from it, lurking behind it. There is no screen at all. The world itself is the divine. Only your eyes are blind. The divine is not hidden; the divine is manifest. It is you who keep your eyes shut. Even if the sun has risen, stand there with closed eyes—will you say the sun is hidden? Only your eyes are hidden; the divine is not. The veil is on your eyes, not on the divine. Lift your eyes. These eyes of yours can see only the small. There is another eye within you that can behold the vast. These eyes touch only the surface. There is another eye within you that can enter the depths. “The divine” is the name of that depth. Open the eye of love. Immerse yourself in song. Dance. Drown in bliss. There is no need to go in search of the divine; the divine will come in search of you. Call! Pray!

You ask: “What is the proof?”
What is there that is not proof? Everything is its proof. This birdsong, this hush of the trees, the sun’s dancing rays, this greenery, these people, you—everything is proof. Life is so mysterious, and you ask: Where is the divine? What is the proof? Such an endless festival is on, and you ask: What is the proof?

This luscious dawn, this rain-drenched air,
this haze, these intoxicated vistas;
the sinking moon, rolling in wine,
the velvet stars steeped in nectar;
this unceremonious mood of the forest—
a houri, seeing it, would barter paradise;
these dense palms, these tender shoots
in which the dew has stitched bright stars;
ah, these scarlet dhak blossoms,
coolly blazing embers;
the child of the East has smiled,
and plains and deserts all are glittering;
the stalwarts have stretched their limbs,
and streams of light creep and flow;
rays arch and sway, color rains down,
scarlet and saffron fountains burst;
the breasts of flowers begin to throb,
and the glad-throated gardens sing—
and you ask: What is the proof?

Where is proof not found? Upon every event, upon every thing, are its signatures. You must learn to read. The Gita lies open before you, the song is sounding, but you do not know how to read, you do not understand the music. Yet to admit you don’t understand goes against your ego. You assume, “I do understand; I have eyes.” Then: Where is the divine?

I want to remind you—the divine is; understanding is not. So don’t seek the divine; seek understanding. Refine yourself. Let two wings sprout within you—love and meditation—then there is nothing but the sky of the divine. Learn to fly; the sky has always been there. Something has to be done within you; nothing is to be done outside.

Someone asked Ramakrishna, “What is the proof of the divine?” Ramakrishna said, “I am.”
I say to you as well: I am the proof. And I also say to you: you are the proof. It is proof upon proof. In every particle, proof; in every moment, proof.

But do you know the art of understanding proof? We understand only to the extent of our capacity to understand. A small child—place before him the most precious book of erotics and he will find no flavor in it. Put Vatsyayana’s Kama Sutra there; he will push it aside. He delights in fairy tales for now, in stories of ghosts. Give him the Koh-i-Noor diamond and he will set it aside, and with a two-paise toy, a little rattle, he will begin to play. Is the Koh-i-Noor not the Koh-i-Noor? But a child’s understanding is the understanding of toys. Place before him a hundred-rupee note and a bright copper coin—the child will choose the shiny coin. The note is just paper to him, of no value; the glittering coin seduces him.

We see in accordance with our understanding.
If the divine does not appear to you, one thing is certain: within you the capacity, the receptivity to see the divine is not yet awake. Awaken that receptivity.

But people do the opposite. They demand proof of the divine! They ask, “Where is the divine? Show us!” People come to me and say, “Show us the divine and we will believe.” They have already assumed that they do have eyes; only let the divine be present and they will see.

The divine is ever-present. That which can be absent is not the divine. Presence is its very nature. The whole of existence is its. Existence and the divine are not two.

So let me remind you again: I have never said the divine is hidden in the world. I am saying the world is the divine. It is hidden only to you because your eye is hidden, veiled.

If you want to undergo it, you will have to undergo it. If you do not want to, it can be cut. It all depends on you. If you keep accounts, you will have to settle them. You keep accounts, existence keeps accounts. Burn your ledgers, and existence burns its ledgers too. Existence is a mirror; it simply reflects what you are. If a monkey looks into the mirror, don’t think a god’s image will appear. A monkey will see a monkey.

Certainly what you have heard is what people have long said—the bookkeepers, those who walk the straight line of arithmetic. In accounting terms it makes sense: you did bad, so you must do good to erase the bad; only then will justice be done, only then will the books balance. Hence they feel that if for births and births they did wrong, now for births and births they must do good, and someday the account will be settled. This is the world of calculation.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s grandfather was dying. Advising his grandson he said, “Nasruddin, my boy, work; idling around isn’t good. When I was your age I took a job for six rupees a month, and five years later I became the owner of as big a firm.” Nasruddin flapped his hands and said, “Grandpa, those days are gone. Such fiddle-faddle doesn’t work now. Everywhere proper accounts are kept.”

The calculating mind thinks one way. The lover thinks another. These ways are different.

If you walk the path of knowledge, then what you have heard is indeed what you will hear: call it sins of past births or prarabdha—you will have to undergo it. Not only undergo it; you will have to perform equivalent good deeds to counter it. And that is an endless process. How will you ever get out of it? For as many births as you have sinned, that many births will be spent in undergoing them. And in the meantime you won’t just sit idle. You will do something, and whatever you do, sin keeps happening.

Don’t think sin happens only by committing sin. Mere living accrues sin. Even breathing accrues sin. Don’t you see Terapanthi Jain monks wear a mouth-cover over the nose? Why? Because the warm breath kills tiny airborne organisms. Even in breathing there is sin. In a single breath about a hundred thousand organisms are killed. Now what will you do? At the very least you will breathe! Even if you lie on your cot, you will still breathe. You will eat, drink water. If you live at all, you will do something—walk, move—and in moving about, sin occurs. To live is to have something or other happen somewhere.

So many births will be spent cutting old sins, and meanwhile you won’t be sitting like a lump, like a blockhead; you will be doing something, and from doing, new sin will be accruing. Where will this chain end? This arithmetic is very long. Within this long arithmetic there is no way out. But those who do not want to get out find great support in this arithmetic. They say, What can we do? Prarabdha must be undergone. This talk of undergoing prarabdha is their ploy; they don’t want to come out.

People come to me and say, We want to take sannyas, but for now, prarabdha! As if they know what their prarabdha is. As if they know prarabdha is stopping them. They say, Right now our prarabdha is such that we must remain in the world.

If you want to remain in the world, why not say it plainly? Why hide behind prarabdha? Why this trickery? Why this dishonesty? Why this cleverness? Just say straight: I want to remain in the world for now. I want to do business now, to steal, to cheat. Prarabdha! You used a lofty word and hid behind it. It gave you shelter. Now you don’t even have to admit, “I am holding myself back.” You say, “Prarabdha is stopping me!” What you want to do, you do. What you don’t want to do, you don’t do. But by the pretext of prarabdha you save face. You are postponing life. You say, First we will enjoy everything, then somewhere liberation will happen. In truth you do not want liberation.

The scripture of devotion trusts the leap. It says: leave it to the Divine this very moment—and you are free.

Understand the alchemy of devotion. The devotional scripture says it is an illusion that you have ever done anything. The very doctrine of karma—that you did—is fallacious. What the Divine made happen, happened. The day you accept this totally—and it is very difficult, because then there is no room left for ego. When all is being done by “That,” there is no place for ego. Sin is His, virtue is His; the good is His, the bad is His. If He gives life, He; if He takes it, He. Then where can your ego stand? The ego protests: How can that be? I am the doer! The ego is willing even to carry the load of bad deeds; it insists there must be deeds. The ego is ready to say, I am a thief—anything—but it does not want a saintliness in which it does not remain at all. Without “I,” saintliness does not blossom. The very meaning of saintliness is that “I” has ended.

A bhakta is one who has left everything to the Divine: What You made happen, happened; what You are making happen, will happen; what You will make happen ahead, will keep happening. I bid myself farewell. I bow out. The devotee says goodbye to his ego. That is surrender. In that surrender the revolution happens. Then who is the doer? When the doer is gone, how can there be karma? What prarabdha?

So you ask whether prarabdha must be undergone. If you want to undergo it, you will. If you want to undergo, then believe in the doctrine of karma. If you do not want to undergo, descend into the energy of devotion.

The doctrine of karma rests on resolve; the revolution of devotion rests on surrender. In the doctrine of karma, ego is at the center. In devotion, there is no ego. One Divine is running everything. We are puppets in His hands. What He made happen, happened. Then there is no sting, no guilt, no crime.

Just contemplate this extraordinary inner state in which no guilt remains in the mind, no remorse remains, no wailing remains—Why did I do this? Why didn’t I do that? If only this had happened, that would have been better. Let me do this ahead; let me not repeat that mistake; let this be set right, let that be set right. All worry is gone. The devotee bundles up all worry into one bundle and lays it at the feet of the Divine: Here, You take it. Now whatever You want to have me do, do it. If You want to make me a thief, I will be a thief—and I will not take the crime upon myself. And if You want to make me a saint, I will be a saint—and I will not take the pride of virtue upon myself. Whatever Your play, play it through me. This is the unique revolution of devotion—evolution.

So I certainly said it to you, because I am explaining Shandilya. He is the supreme teacher of devotion. As Patanjali is of yoga, so Shandilya is of bhakti. As Mahavira is of karma, so Shandilya is of bhakti. Those who have the courage—and great courage is needed; relinquishing the “I” is the greatest courage. Even the bad is adopted by the “I” for support; it says, No problem—let anxiety remain, restlessness remain, but let me remain! Now this untroubled sky becomes available to you.

You did not create yourself. Or did you? You did not make yourself. Or did you? You are not your own creator. You are a wave of His whim. He wished, and you were. The day He wishes otherwise, you will no longer be. Then whatever He made you do, He made you do.

What is “yours” in your actions? You were walking down the road and fell in love with a woman. Love happened; you did not do it. From childhood a passion to dive into music was upon you. Even before awareness, music had seized you. They say Mozart, at three years old, astonished great musicians. A three-year-old child! He could not have produced that passion himself; it must have come. Try to recognize your life rightly. What you think you have done has happened. The illusion is of doing. The day it is seen that all is happening, you are unburdened; rest arrives. I call that supreme rest devotion. In such a moment, all sins are cut in a single instant.

In fact, to say “in a single instant all sins are cut” is not quite accurate, because in that instant it is known: I have never done anything—neither sin nor virtue; nothing is mine. I am not the doer. The doer is cut. The sense of doership falls. With the fall of doership, all concepts linked to the doer depart.

It’s your choice. If you want to go slowly, never arrive, and keep on walking—fine, keep cutting sins, undergo prarabdha. But don’t dump the responsibility on prarabdha. The responsibility is yours. Prarabdha is a device, an excuse. If you want to be free, the gates of liberation are open this very moment. They are never closed—never in any age, not even in Kaliyuga; never in any time, not even in the fifth era; never in any place—not in hell, not on earth, nowhere. The gates of liberation are always open. Whoever has the courage, step in. Only one condition is to be fulfilled: courage. Bhakti does not say “leave action”; bhakti says “leave the doer.” With one stroke the root is cut. If the doer is cut, actions are cut.

Actions are like leaves; the doer is like the root. You keep cutting leaves, and new leaves will keep sprouting. You are watering the root, feeding the root; the root is sunk in the soil, drinking sap, and you are cutting leaves. Go on cutting leaves for births upon births; new leaves will keep coming and you will keep cutting. Just cut the root. The path of knowledge cuts leaves; the bhakta cuts the root. Karma are leaves; the doer is the root. The moment the root is cut, all dissolves.

Naturally, one who has been cutting leaves cannot understand. He says, I have been cutting for so long! I cut, and new ones sprout. This isn’t so easy. The one who knows how to cut the root says, It happens in a single moment, with a single ax-blow, and the story is over. The knower laughs, saying, What do you take yourself to be? Here I sit with scissors, cutting, cutting, and new leaves keep appearing. The net of prarabdha is long indeed. Has it ever been cut in one stroke? But he sits with scissors; he knows nothing of an ax. He does not even know the root. The root is hidden; the leaves are apparent. The world sees your actions; no one sees the doer. Only if you search deeply within, dig, will the doer be caught. That is the root, hidden within, drinking sap. From there sprout the shoots, the leaves, the branches, the flowers—life keeps unfolding.

Life spreads from the sense of doership. The coming and going can cease this very moment, if you cut the root.

In the unfathomable ocean
sinking ships
or
in a handful of water
offered in worship,
think!

In the unfathomable ocean
sinking ships
or
in a handful of water
offered in worship,
that handful of worship’s water—within it great ships drown. In it everything drowns, the whole world drowns.

In the unfathomable ocean
sinking ships
or
in a handful of water
offered in worship,
long ages
of unbelief
or
in one moment
of complete surrender,
nowhere
or
in both,
O Ram! are You,
or only I?

In the vast illusion
of endless sky
or
in the bewitching truth
held in my arms,
the meaningless heights
of small pleasures
or
the depths
of meaningful sorrow,
nowhere
or in both,
O Ram! are You,
or only I?

In old age’s
cold discretion
or
youth’s unbridled,
blazing fire,
a body defeated
each time by death
or
pollen ripening
into flowers,
nowhere
or
in both,
O Ram! are You,
or only I?

An unbridled
cruel and lustful mind
or
a weak, failing
quest for liberation,
on the earth
Master!
or shall I search in the sky?
Nowhere
or
in both,
O Ram! are You,
or only I?

This much alone is to be understood: If only Ram is, and you are gone, then in a handful of worship’s water even great ships drown. If you are, and Ram is not, then strive for infinite births, build a boat, and it will never be built. You will never cross. You will never take the plunge. You will keep pacing the shore and keep pacing it. A handful of worship’s water is enough. A single feeling of surrender is enough. A thousand means—vows, fasts, renunciations, austerities—do not work. One means—bowing down, placing your head at His feet—is enough.

Planning to kill a fourth woman? Wake up now! Existence has given you a signal three times over; because of you, three women have departed—and you still lust! Your eye is already on a fourth!

There is a time when everything is beautiful. Now you’re fifty-five! Are you going to do something else, or keep spinning these domestic entanglements? And you are fortunate! You took on the hassle three times, and God freed you from it three times. You are a natural renunciate—why get into a new tangle? Haven’t you heard the saying, “When God gives, he tears the roof open and pours it down”? He’s been tearing the roof for you. What more do you want?

And was the experience of three women not enough? What did you gain—did you find happiness? No one ever finds happiness from another. A husband doesn’t get it from his wife, nor a wife from her husband. Have you ever received happiness from the other? Happiness is an inner state; it wells up from within. The one who finds it within also finds it with a wife, with a son, with a father, with a mother—and even if no one is there, he finds it in solitude, because it is surging inside. And the one who cannot find it within cannot find it with anyone. What is not in you cannot be obtained from anyone.

Jesus has a famous saying: To those who have, more will be given; and from those who have not, even what they have will be taken away.

If within you there is happiness, peace, and joy, then it keeps growing—under all circumstances. Whether you live together or alone, in the market or the crowd, at home or away from it, in a temple or anywhere—if happiness is growing within, it goes on growing. That is where it must be sought. As long as you seek happiness in the other, you are in delusion. The other is searching in you; you are searching in the other—both are beggars. He has nothing either; if he had, would he come searching in you? Those three women came seeking something in you and perished; if happiness were with them, would they have come seeking you? And you—what were you seeking? The one who came begging from you, in him you were seeking? Before a beggar holding out his bowl, you too are holding out your bowl. Beggars standing face to face! Then if life yields no happiness, what is there to be surprised about?

Happiness doesn’t come by asking; it comes by awakening. Happiness has to be created. Happiness is the music of your life-breath. As when someone plucks a string on a veena, so when you pluck the strings of your inner veena—when you learn that art—its names are prayer, meditation, hymn, devotion; these are all names for the same thing. The veena you have received with birth, but the art has to be learned. You must learn it at the feet of a true master—someone who has played his own veena. For an outer instrument too, you sit with a maestro to learn. The inner veena is God’s gift; that veena’s name is life itself. But how to play it—you do not know. And until that veena plays, there is no fulfillment. You feel unfulfilled, you writhe and rush outside—maybe from this you’ll get it, maybe from that. You run your entire life. Yet the veena lies within you, the music was to be born there—and had it arisen there, all satisfaction would have come. But you do not go there. You are even afraid to turn your gaze there, because that naked veena unsettles you. You cannot make sense of those strings. And if ever you pluck them, only discord is born—because you do not know the art.

What is religion, if not the art of playing the inner veena!

You tried three times and you were defeated; now the age has also advanced. Up to forty-two, a man’s attraction to woman and a woman’s attraction to man is natural; there is no sin in it. Just as at fourteen desire awakens. Life’s changes happen in cycles of seven years. The first change occurs when the child moves from seven to eight: the ego is born. He tries to get free of his parents. That is why seven-year-old children start saying “no” to everything—“I won’t do it, I won’t go.” Tell them anything and they’ll refuse; and forbid them—“Don’t smoke, don’t go to the cinema”—they’ll go and smoke too. Refusal becomes the method for the birth of ego. At seven the ego is born; the child separates himself from mother and father. At seven he begins to be born out of the parental womb; by fourteen the effort is complete.

Hence fourteen-year-olds make parents uneasy, and parents make them uneasy too. The father is a bit troubled standing before a fourteen-year-old, and the child himself feels perpetually troubled. Sexual desire now begins to awaken. The second seven is complete. Without ego, sex cannot awaken. First the “I” must arise; only then can the search for “you” begin. Otherwise, how would the search for a “you” happen? At fourteen, desire awakens.

At twenty-eight it reaches its peak. It awakens at fourteen, matures at twenty-one, and peaks at twenty-eight. At thirty-five the decline begins. At thirty-five half of life’s arc is reached; you have climbed as far as there was to climb, and after thirty-five the descent starts. At forty-two it slackens markedly. At forty-nine it should be finished.

Up to forty-two, attraction between man and woman is natural. After forty-two, slackening sets in. By forty-nine it should end—if life runs utterly naturally. After forty-nine a new phase of existence opens. As from one to seven you nursed the ego, so from forty-nine to fifty-six its dissolution begins. These are the moments when a person engages in becoming religious. From fifty-six to sixty-three the ego should become zero. From sixty-three to seventy there should be egoless living.

If we divide life into seventy years, then just as from birth to seven there was egolessness, so from sixty-three to seventy there should again be egoless life—a life settled in samadhi, a preparation for death, a way to meet the Divine.

And you say you are fifty-five! There is no time left to waste. You have already wasted plenty. Three times, by chance, the women were magnanimous—they left you and went. Whether a fourth will be so magnanimous cannot be said. Opportunities are given only up to a point. Don’t rely so much on luck that you expect it to keep returning again and again.

And remember: a wise person learns even from another’s experience; a foolish one does not learn even from his own. What have you gained? Examine it once. Life is full only of expectations; there are no experiences fulfilled. You keep the hope that it will happen—but it never does. A wise man understands by observing others’ lives too. The time has come to exercise a little wisdom.

I have heard: There was a case in court. Mulla Nasruddin was present as a witness. The magistrate asked, “Nasruddin, when this woman quarreled with her husband, were you present?” Mulla said, “Yes, sir.” The judge asked, “What do you want to say as a witness? Speak!” Mulla said, “Only this, Your Honor: I will never get married.”

A man learns from others’ experiences too. You yourself have gone through it three times; when will you free yourself from the other? Enough delay already. Evening is approaching. At fifty-five, dusk is coming—now prepare for the night. Prepare for the next journey; there are more halts ahead. Beyond this body there are further destinations—more examinations lie ahead! Don’t keep getting entangled here. This mind that still runs towards women will go on running—unless you harness it to meditation. It needs a camp, a resting place. If you do not anchor it in God, it will keep running toward women. Now make the Divine your beloved. Seek only that Dear One. Let your love and your rasa be with That. Take your wedding rounds with That. The rounds taken with That never end. Let your union be with That. Now marry That One.

Kabir says: “I am Ram’s bride.”

Now do something like that. In this world you tried three times to dance the rasa and could not; the wedding rounds were taken thrice and broke again; three times you sought a companion and thrice you lost one. Now seek the One who is never lost. What is found then, is truly found.

Give thanks to the three wives! Otherwise one would have been enough to drown you. You are fortunate—but don’t turn your good fortune into misfortune now.

And remember, I never tell anyone, out of season, to drop everything and run away. But to you I will say it. If someone else had asked me this… Just last night a young man asked—he must have been around twenty-eight—“A strong feeling for celibacy arises in me, and so does sexual desire. What should I do?” I told him without worry: “Go into sex now; leave celibacy for later.” But I cannot say that to you.

So understand: my statements will often be contradictory. Someday you may read in a book that I told someone, “Forget celibacy; go into sex now!” Do not take that as meant for you. Remember to whom it was said and in what context. If that young man runs away now—since he wants to—he will repent. And repentance later becomes a great difficulty. When it is time to enter a certain experience of life, it is appropriate to enter—otherwise later you may not be able to enter at all, and you will remain stuck without having known it.

I have heard: On a mountain peak lived a yogi—young, healthy, and handsome. But he had renounced care of the body, renounced the world, renounced comforts. Leaving wife and children, he had fled to the mountains. He sat all day absorbed in God’s flame, eyes unopen. Villagers at the mountain’s base brought him food; when no one was around, he would eat silently and return to his flame. One day a young woman climbed up to the peak. The yogi saw her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was young. He asked, “Tell me, what brings you?” She said, “I came to see the yogi. I heard that a great yogi lives here, a celibate.” She was not beautiful, but youth fermented in her body. Honey and wine were mixed in her voice. The yogi looked at her attentively; two tears dropped from his eyes, and he replied, “You are a little late. Earlier, a celibate yogi lived here—now he does not. You came, and the celibate yogi has departed!”

There is a right season. Don’t do anything out of season.

To you I will say: fifty-five is enough. Who knows how few days of life are left! Now devote them to song and remembrance.

It has been already four days, yours and mine,
love-swan, gold-swan—and even that, here, is not too little.
A dust-storm of a wind has risen,
and with it I too must fly away.
I know not—no one knows—
when I will be able to come to you again.
It is the very name “farewell” that feels bitter—
the heart starts sinking; but think:
it has been already four days, yours and mine,
love-swan, gold-swan—and even that, here, is not too little.

Whether the wings are silver or are gold,
one day, suddenly, they shed.
And everyone must one day face
a stark, terrifying truth of inert nature.
Let those weep for them who sat and merely stroked those wings;
but for those who, with springtime talk,
charmed them and shook them with seven whirlwinds,
life is not mourning.
It has been already four days, yours and mine,
love-swan, gold-swan—and even that, here, is not too little.

Four days of you-and-me are done; the revelries of four days are done; the dreams of four days—seen and finished. It was necessary to dream, to be able to awaken—having wandered enough, now seek the home.

It has been already four days, yours and mine,
love-swan, gold-swan—and even that, here, is not too little.

Fifty-five years is a long time. Most has gone by; a little remains. The elephant has already passed; perhaps only the tail is left. The tail too will pass—if the elephant has passed. The elephant passed in vain; at least give a little meaning to the tail. In the bustle of the world, in the race, in lust, in desire, in ambition—there is only losing, nothing to gain. And if there is anything to gain, it is only this: that someone awakens and sees that this whole arrangement is a dream, a maya, the momentum of my own desires. Now look at yourself; be free of the other. Turn inward now. Come home.

When peace comes, much of its color and manner resembles sadness. It has a certain kinship with it. So people looking from the outside will often think a quiet person has become sad. The old bursts of laughter won’t be there, the revelry won’t be there, there will be no zeal for gossip, no taste for backbiting, no eagerness to rush off to radio, television, or the movies. In a silent person all these things fall away. Such a stream of nectar begins to flow within that there is no longer any search for it outside.

Who needs entertainment? The one who is sad. Try to understand this truth.
The more unhappy a person is, the more entertainment he needs. That’s why in America the largest number of entertainment devices are invented—America is very sad. Everything is there, and yet nothing seems meaningful. So the search goes on—find new means, new thrills, new drugs, new women, new men. Just keep finding something or other to keep oneself entangled. Make bulls fight, make pigeons fight, make partridges fight—or make men fight. Find some method of stimulation. Even films must be made in ways that stimulate: knives flashing, guns firing, murders, suicides, espionage—somehow arousing a little craving in this man turning to stone. Let him straighten his back in the cinema seat and say, “Yes, something is happening! Life is happening!”

Tired of one woman? Find another. For a little while there will be a thrill—another honeymoon, a few days of light, “Yes, something is happening! Life isn’t futile.” Tired of one business? Change it. Go gamble. Put money on the line; who knows whether you’ll win or lose? The mind steadies! For a moment everything is forgotten—life’s sadness, restlessness, boredom—forgotten. For a moment one is utterly fresh: who knows what is about to happen! People take risks—climb mountains, swim oceans—simply to get a brief break from the boredom piled all around.

It is the unhappy and the sad who seek entertainment. One who is not unhappy, not sad, does not seek it. This is a very contrary truth. Tell Buddha, “Come, let’s go see a play,” and he will say, “You go! I have seen all the plays.” Tell him, “A dancer has come, the whole village is going—come!” and Buddha will bless you, “Go, may your moments pass with joy. But within me a dance is happening before which no dance holds meaning now.” As the outer sadness falls away, the outer entertainments too lose all meaning. This must be what is happening to Shanta.

And remember, I have given her the name Shanta—for she has the capacity for peace. Peace is growing. But do not worry that others see it as sadness. Worry arises because we have always lived by others’ opinions. Mother says you look sad; father says you look sad; husband says you look sad; brother, sister, friends—all say you look sad. So many people can’t be wrong!

Remember, so many people cannot possibly be right. At most, truth belongs to the rare one or two. Here the crowd is on the side of the false. In matters of truth there is no democracy. No vote decides truth. Otherwise Buddha would have lost long ago, Christ would have lost, Krishna would have lost. In matters of truth, opinion has no meaning. The one who knows, knows; the one who does not, does not—no matter how large the crowd. Your mother does not know what peace is, nor your father, nor your brother, nor your sister. Yes, they know stimulation; they know entertainment. As your taste for stimulation wanes, they sit with playing cards and call, “Shanta, come play!” and you say, “I have no taste for cards.” You want to sit quietly in a corner and do zazen—eyes closed, savoring the inner nectar. They will say, “What has happened? Cards are on! Who sits with eyes closed at a time like this?” Four people play, twenty stand watching, and they get excited too. Four men stand behind each player. One person is actually betting, but the onlookers become shareholders in it, as if their stakes were down as well. They begin to advise and instruct.

A movie is on the television, and you are sitting with eyes closed. Naturally the household will think, “What has happened?” Because of the difference they will feel, “Shanta has become sad.” Do not worry about them. Their affection, attachment, love is there—but not understanding. And when there is no understanding, attachment becomes dangerous. They will try to pull you back; they will try in every way to bring you outside—out of goodwill. They wish only that your sadness should break. “What is this trouble that has come? This cheerful daughter used to laugh, dance, sing, loved her jewelry, stood hours before the mirror. Now she has put on ochre robes! Now she has no interest in clothes! She used to go to M.G. Road every evening. People may shop or not, yet still they go shopping—just looking at the saris displayed in the shops gives them such delight. Now she has taken one color of cloth—no scope left for changing!” The family will feel, “What has happened? You are still young; you should be thrilled by life. New saris are arriving in the market every day, new styles of dress.” “Something has gone wrong with the girl!” They will worry and they will try to pull you back. Be alert! Their attachment is dangerous.

And your own lifelong habits will also speak within you: “What has happened to you? Why have you become sad? Why no movies now? Why no plays?” So not only will people outside say this, your mind inside will also say, “Something has gone wrong,” because what is happening now is new, and the mind knows nothing of it.

Sannyas is a revolution—it is manobhanjan, not manoranjan.
Remember these two words. Manoranjan means: somehow pacify the mind with toys. When one kind of toy becomes stale, give another kind. Keep the mind entangled—that is entertainment. Manobhanjan means: see the truth and bid the mind farewell. Drop the mind altogether. In that no-mind state, samadhi blossoms. The first steps toward it have begun. This is peace. There is not the slightest need to worry.

I find life to be a shoreless, boundless sea;
Erased by His hands, I gain the life everlasting.

This is the path of dissolving. In the hands of the Divine the person is erased, and in being erased, attains immortality.

I find life to be a shoreless, boundless sea;
Erased by His hands, I gain the life everlasting.

Unbidden, the heart grew indifferent to religion and the world;
Now, in the ground of love, I seem to find the sky.

By itself there will come a kind of sadness toward this world. Why? Because all your love will begin to flow toward the sky. Your current of consciousness will turn upward to the vast.

Unbidden, the heart grew indifferent to religion and the world—
Unbidden, the heart became uninterested in this so‑called noisy, hectic world, this world of so‑called relationships, this web of dreams.

The word udasin (dispassionate) is very lovely. Udas (sad) is lovely too. Its meaning is not what the dictionaries say; its original meaning is wondrous. Udasin means: to be seated within—ud-asin. From asana comes “seat.” To sit within oneself. A unique meaning! From this comes udas. Udasin means: there is no longer juice in the outer; inner juice has begun; you have sat within; the seat is established there. To people outside it will seem, “Something has gone wrong.” Your mind too will keep feeling, “Something has gone wrong.” That is why a true Master is needed—to keep reminding you, “Nothing has gone wrong.” Otherwise the people outside will pull you back; your own mind will pull you back.

Unbidden, the heart grew indifferent to religion and the world;
Now, in the ground of love, I seem to find the sky.

At twilight my heart stays hushed in Your remembrance;
On moonlit nights I find the tears flowing.

And often tears will flow. Outsiders will think: tears—so sorrow. You must understand, tears have another quality as well. There are tears of bliss. Outwardly people know only tears of pain, but you will come to know, slowly, that in joy far more wondrous tears flow—great pearls of tears. In prayer too tears flow. In God’s remembrance too tears flow. In those tears there is not even a shadow of sorrow—there is only joy upon joy.

On moonlit nights I find the tears flowing;
At twilight my heart stays hushed in Your remembrance.

Hundreds of prostrations writhe in the brow of longing—
O Reality, where can I find the trace of Your footsteps?

Even now tears burst forth in someone’s remembrance,
When I find the plaintive nightingale chanting elegies.

O “Tasneem,” my heart grows afraid of this world;
Everything else I find to be mere surmise and doubt.

Little by little, outer things will become futile—mere illusion—with no meaning left in them; within, a new world will arise. The true form of existence will be revealed—God will be revealed.

Shanta, your eyes are beginning to open. But the old habit of the old eyes will say you are going blind—and people outside will also say, “What has happened to your eyes? They no longer look as they used to!” This is the birth of the new. Welcome it; honor it. Embrace the birth of the new. The Guest is arriving—be the host.

Asked by Swami Satya Bhakt of Sagar.
Satya Bhakt! In you I see stupidity growing day by day. All the questions you keep asking... I have not answered any of them so far. I have deliberately not answered—because your questions are coming only from your ego, not from inquiry. You have not even meditated yet, and you are preparing to give it up! You have not even begun to climb the steps. But the ego is very cunning. It says, What is there to do? Witnessing—fine! And in witnessing, after all, there is nothing to do. Your talk of the witness is just a pretext. Right now you cannot be a witness at all. For now you need the refinement that comes through meditation; only then will you be able to be a witness. You have not sown the seeds, and you have already started talking of harvesting.

When have you meditated? And whatever little you may have done before—a bit of hopping about—nothing came of it. It has only stiffened and inflated your ego. Now you have started imagining that you have become accomplished. And not only have you begun to think that, there at your center in Sagar you are also persuading others that they too have no need [to meditate]. If truly the sense of witnessing had arisen in you, you would be telling others, “Through meditation my witnessing has arisen—so you meditate.” And if witnessing had arisen in you, this very question could not arise. Because in the one in whom witnessing has arisen, all questions have ended. Of all the people here, you ask the most questions—although I do not answer them; this is the first time I am answering. Do not fall into your stupidity. For now, you must meditate! Do not declare yourself accomplished so soon. Witnessing will come. And witnessing is not opposed to meditation. Meditation is the process for witnessing. It is through the process of meditation that the final polish—the witness—is born. They are limbs of the same act.

But our minds are crafty. They say, If we can be accomplished without doing anything, that’s best. Then, since you do not look like a siddha to the people who come to your center, you start telling them that they too can be siddhas—without doing anything. You are causing harm! You are harming yourself and harming others. Give support to others to go into meditation. And you yourself, for now, descend into meditation. And when you are accomplished I will tell you that you are accomplished; you need not keep writing and sending it again and again.

In every question of yours this is what it amounts to: that I should make an announcement. Again and again you write to me, “Please say that I have become accomplished. Please inform others too that I have become accomplished.” I will myself give the news; you will not need to ask. And the one who has become accomplished—will he go looking for a certificate! You want me to say you are accomplished so that you can go and start proclaiming it, sit on people’s chests—lord it over them—and begin to harass them. Then you will harm yourself, and you will harm others as well.

For now, meditate. Sow the seeds now! Grow the crop now! The days of harvesting will surely come. And if, with utmost dedication and honesty, someone descends into meditation even for a single moment, then in that very moment that day arrives. But going on in such dishonesty—how will it come? You simply do not want to do.

Now take this a little to heart; it will be useful for others too. In the world there are lazy people, indolent, sluggish people who do not want to do anything. For them devotion becomes a big prop. They say, What is there to do? God is doing everything; therefore we need do nothing. In the world there are industrious people too—people deeply involved in action, egoistic people, aggressive people. For them the path of action becomes a prop. They say, We have to prove it by doing.

Only those will benefit from the path of devotion who will act and then come to know that nothing happens through our doing. But we still have to do—because for now we have nothing. When we do and do and are utterly spent, then the grace of the divine descends. When we have done totally, then his grace descends. They are using devotion rightly. But those who say, “What is there to do? It’s fine—we are already done,” for them devotion has become poison. On the path of action, the one who engages in action for the gratification of his ego is being harmed by the path of action; for him it has become poison. But the one who acts because, as of now, we know nothing of the divine—who he is, where he is—so for now we will undertake the discipline, follow the method, make our total effort, bring our total resolve; perhaps in the final phase of resolve, surrender will be born—surrender is born only at the last stage of resolve. In the complete fulfillment of action there is nonaction. And the final form of meditation is witnessing.

So do not be in such a hurry. And do not, forgetting yourself, go on advising others! For now, you yourself have much to understand.

Asked by Ishwar Samarpan.
Understand.
In life there are always extremes, and between extremes a harmony is needed. You work all day; at night you rest and fall asleep. In fact, the deeper your labor by day, the deeper your sleep at night. This is quite illogical. Logic would say that if you practiced resting all day—rehearsed rest—then deep sleep should come at night. The one who has practiced resting all day, tossing and turning on the bed, making excuses for sleeping—logically, he should sleep deeply at night. After all, he practiced sleep; he should reap the fruit of practice. But the one who lay in bed all day will not be able to sleep at night. The need for sleep never arose.
Life moves through opposites. Work all day, and you will sleep at night. So if the rich begin to fall ill with insomnia, it is no surprise. The very cause of sleep is missing. You have seen it—on the streets of Bombay even laborers sleep, in the blazing afternoon! With Bombay’s din and traffic, one man lies under his handcart and is fast asleep, blissfully snoring! And right there, in a palace, in an air‑conditioned room, on beautiful beds, someone tosses all night long—sleep won’t come. The poor are never haunted by insomnia. The poor and insomnia do not go together. And if a rich man does not have insomnia, understand that something is still lacking in his riches. He is not yet truly rich—he still needs more bank balance. As long as he is still poor, he can sleep; otherwise, how could he?

Who works by day rests by night. There is a rhythm between labor and rest. Daylight, then night’s darkness—there is a rhythm between day and night. Life and death go together. One breath goes in, the next breath goes out. If you say, “I will keep the breath only inside,” you will be in trouble. If you say, “I will keep it only outside,” you will be in trouble.

So too there is a harmony between remembrance and forgetfulness. So too between meditation and love.

Meditation and love are two processes. In love there is remembrance of the other; in meditation there is remembrance of oneself. If you remember yourself twenty‑four hours a day, you will get tired. For a little while the remembrance of the other should also arise; in that span you get rest. Then self‑remembrance will return again.

That is why Brother Ishwar’s question is important. He says: While talking to someone, in someone’s presence, while eating, I keep forgetting meditation.

This is perfectly natural. One should forget. If in another’s presence you keep holding on to the remembrance of meditation, you will insult the other—because it will mean you are not paying attention to them. It is as if a person named Ram is standing before you and inside you go on chanting, “Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram!” The Ram standing before you is being insulted. You are running an inner program! You say, “I must remain aware! Let me keep watching! Let me stay awake!” You are entangled in your own task; this poor fellow stands there and sees you have nothing to do with him. This becomes an insult—an insult to this Ram standing before you.

When someone is present, forget yourself—dive into the other totally! This is the hour of love. Dip meditation into love. And when no one is there, when you sit alone, then raise love into meditation—take hold of meditation again. In solitude, meditation; in company, love. Keep moving between the two. The more you travel between them, and the more smoothly you can move, the greater will be your inner growth. They are like the pendulum of a clock—swinging left, right; left, right. Grab the pendulum in the middle and hold it tight—the clock stops! It will no longer run. It is by the pendulum’s going left and right that the clock runs. And the pendulum of life is always moving left‑right. Life runs by this.

On every plane, in every dimension—night and day, work and rest, the in‑breath and the out‑breath, meditation and love—between these two extremes there is a coordination. Music is born from the meeting of sound and silence.

So too the music of life is born from love and meditation. Hold both! When alone, be in meditation; when someone is present, be in love. In love, completely forget yourself. In meditation, completely forget the other. And this shifting should be so natural, so fluid, that there is not the slightest hitch in it. Let it happen with ease—like stepping out of the house and coming back in; like inhaling and exhaling.

I teach you the totality of both—meditation and love—together. The one who practices only meditation will have a certain lack in his personality. He will be dry. So if Jain monks seem dry to you, if Buddhist bhikkhus seem dry, there is no surprise. The cause of dryness is solitary meditation: they have chosen only one limb—one‑sided. And if Sufi fakirs and devotees seem full of rasa, of flavor, but not full of awareness, that is the other extreme. They chose love, but lost wakefulness. Love tends to bring a kind of intoxication; meditation tends to bring a kind of aridity. I want you to become a whole human being.

All the religions that have been on the earth so far have not emphasized the totality of the human being. They chose parts. Choosing a part is easy. Choose one thing and the matter is settled. Break one leg and keep just one—then walking stops. Cut one wing and keep just one—then flying stops. This earth can be greatly blessed if both wings are there. I call those two wings meditation and love.

Hold both! Create a proportion, a cadence between them. Let a rhythm arise between the two. And between the two you will find the third—that is the witness. The deeper you dive between them, the more simply and spontaneously you dissolve there, the sooner you will find: the third has arisen. The third can arise only when the full scale of the two is in tune.

The name of that third is the witness. That is the culmination. That is samadhi. That is the realization of the Absolute. That is Buddhahood. That is Jina‑hood.

Enough for today.