Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #5

My feet are frozen at the same bend,
I stand, gathering my gaze back.
This frenzy forces me to look over my shoulder,
The self says, take the turn and move on;
But love insists, turn back.
And yet a feeling keeps saying:
Behind the open lattice, two eyes are peering;
She too is awake, waiting for me now.
Surely there is some pain in a corner of her heart,
A throbbing too.
She is adamant that I should call out;
I insist that she be the one to call me back.
My feet are fixed at the same bend,
I stand, drawing my sight within.

Whether it is affection, or love, or reverence, or devotion—any form of fondness, any wave of love—the obstruction is one: the ego. From the tiniest love to the vastest, the obstacles are not different. There is only one obstacle, always—the sense of “I.” If the I is very strong, love will not ripen.

“I” means: standing with your back turned to the Divine; standing with your back turned to the beloved. “I” means stiffness.

The Divine is not far from you; only you stand with your back turned. The Divine is not far from you. Stretch out your hand and you will touch. Hum a little and your voice will reach. Just turn and look, and you will see. But the ego says: do not turn back. The ego says: do not call out. The ego obstructs. And the mesh of ego is very subtle. Between man and the Divine there is no other barrier than this.

That is why Shandilya has said again and again that the knower does not arrive. Why not? Because knowledge strengthens the ego even more—“I know.” Knowing itself is nothing; the I becomes very strong. And the stronger the I grows, the slimmer the possibility of true knowing becomes. What kind of knowing can there be with the I? The I is blindness. What kind of eyes can there be with the I? The I is a boulder on the heart. The heart will not bloom, will not become a lotus. The seed will not sprout, the tree will not grow.

Millions die pressed under this same rock. The moment this rock is removed, revolution happens. And the irony is, this rock never gives you anything at all. There is nothing more futile in the world. It promises much but nothing lands in your hands. So many assurances—the ego gives so many assurances, shows so many mirage-gardens, but they are all dreams. It makes you run much, never lets you arrive. Yet it is very skilled at cajoling, very skilled at winning you over. Of course it is—otherwise after being deceived again and again, why would you still go on trusting?

People come to me and say, we are not devotional. Our minds are riddled with doubt; great suspicions, great questions arise.

I say to them: great questions arise, great doubts—but have you questioned the ego? Have you doubted the ego? You may have doubted God. What business have you with God? One you do not know—what doubt can you meaningfully harbor about him? One with whom you have not met—what questions can you raise about him? The door that has never opened for you—what curiosity can you have about what lies behind it? First open the door.

The true skeptic is the one who doubts the ego. And the one who doubts the ego will come upon faith. For faith, you do not have to practice faith; you only have to doubt the ego. And you are full of doubt anyway. Both things are present—doubt and ego. If you link doubt with the ego, a revolution of faith will happen within you. Turn doubt upon the ego; let the arrow of doubt pierce the ego. Ask: this ego with which I have traveled so long, with which I am still traveling, with which I intend to travel further—has it ever given me anything? Is it hollow? Are its assurances false?

I have heard: a man prayed to God very fervently. God was pleased and presented him with a conch-shell, saying, whatever you ask of this, you will receive; whatever you ask, you will receive. In a moment the man became rich. He asked and it began to come. He said “a hundred thousand rupees,” and instantly the roof “opened” and it rained down.

Seeing this sudden turn in his fortune, news spread far and wide that some miracle was happening. He neither left the house, nor labored, nor ran a business, and his vaults had opened.

A monk came as his guest. In the morning the monk was at worship. The householder watched. The monk had a large conch. And the monk said to the conch: I need two hundred thousand rupees. The householder was listening behind him. He thought, Ah! he has a conch like mine—and larger! The conch said, Why only two hundred thousand? Take four hundred thousand. Greed surged in the householder’s mind—this is how a conch should be! Mine gives only what I ask. As much as I ask, it gives. What sort of thing is that! This is a conch! You say one lakh, it says take two. The suppliant says—one lakh; the conch says—take two. He fell at the monk’s feet: You are a monk; what need have you of such a conch? I am a householder. I have a conch too—take that; it gives only what you ask. You have no use for it anyway.

The monk agreed; they exchanged conches. The monk departed that very morning.

In the evening, after worship, the householder said to the conch: a hundred thousand. The conch said: What will a hundred thousand do? Take two hundred thousand. The householder was delighted: Thank you, then two hundred it is. The conch said: What will two do? Take four. And so it went: ask four, it said take eight; ask eight, it said take sixteen. In a little while, the householder’s chest trembled. There was no question of giving or taking; only the number kept doubling.

The ego is a great conch. You ask, it is ready to grant many times more—but it never gives. Nothing ever comes into your hand. There is no falsehood bigger than the ego in this world. It is the source of all delusions. From it arises all maya. From it arises the whole world. Do not try to run away from the world. Where will you run? The ego will go with you. Wherever the ego is, there the world is. If you must drop something, drop the ego. And the marvel is, you do not actually have to drop anything—the ego is nothing, only a notion. Only a knot in the mind. Threads got tangled and a knot formed. Untangle the threads and the knot will vanish. It is not that when the threads are untangled the knot will remain as a thing in your hand. There is no such thing as the knot.

That is why Mahavira called the ego a granthi—a knot. And the one who goes beyond the knot he called nirgrantha—knotless. The knot is gone. The threads merely have to be untangled. It is the threads of your thinking that have become tangled. The more tangled they are, the bigger the knot. You keep tangling further; no way to untangle appears. This knot is the obstacle. If the threads of mind are untangled, you will see you never lost the Divine.

You did not come, so I myself came to your door,
Leaving the forest’s green splendor, the river’s jeweled bank,
The blue, enchanting, intoxicating slopes of rock,
The lake, the stream, the well’s spreading dense shade,
Leaving the sky’s vast mirror of radiance,
Leaving the countless paths brimming with affection up to the brim,
Leaving the autumn breeze’s magic of light,
Leaving the singing cataracts and their sloshing, dream-filled spray,
Leaving the lines of water-birds brushing the clouds,
Beauty laid like a harvest across the horizons—
I came, forsaking every call of kinship,
For the ecstasy of your love was greater than them all.
Leaving hearth and home, I had to come here.
You won the game; I came, defeated.
You did not come; I came to your door.

Today, Victorious One! My face resounds with tremors of feeling.
Your “yours-ness” is greater than my ego.
The drunkenness of your taste still envelops me;
My breath could not bear the distance from the dialogue of breath.
The ocean was full—surging in the memory of you.
I have come, ringing, into you with this very triumphal shout.
I am the enchanted note in the fierce chain of your refrain.
Do not let me sink into the torpor of satisfaction;
Do not let me be consumed in the intoxication of completion.
Let me become the meaning of you, not a thing of the past.
Let me keep waking to you, even in every sleep—like dawn.
You did not come; I came to your door.
You did not come; I came to your door.
You won the game; I came, defeated.

One day—whether worldly love or otherworldly—one day you must drop your I and seek the beloved. One day you must accept that your beloved’s being is greater than your ego. The learned will not manage it; the wealthy will not; the prestigious will not; the famous will not. Hence Jesus said—Blessed are the poor. Poor in all these senses. Poor in spirit—those who have neither knowledge, nor position, nor prestige, nor name, nor fame. Those who have nothing to stuff their egos with. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

And if you really look, you will see you are poor. Only if you don’t look can you believe you are rich. Let piles of money be yours—but where are you rich? Let your name be known by many—but you do not yet know your own name. Let fame come from others—but you have not yet found that moment where you can respect yourself. Inside, you lie condemned. You are humiliated in your own eyes. You know this well. You may have deceived others—but how will you deceive yourself? In this world deceiving oneself is impossible. You know your ugliness well—you suppress it, you hide it, yet it keeps rising up.

One who looks rightly will find—what do I know? What knowledge is mine? Yes, the throat has memorized the Upanishads, and memory carries the Koran and the Bible—but what is my knowing? Krishna may have known—let Krishna’s knowing be Krishna’s; how can it be mine? If Krishna ate food, his flesh and blood were formed; his eating does not fill my belly. If Krishna’s food does not fill your stomach, how will Krishna’s experience fill your soul? If Christ breathed, life-energy flowed in him. Christ’s breath does not infuse your prana; how will Christ’s God-experience resuscitate your soul?

No, Christ said: Each person must carry his own cross upon his own shoulders; no borrowing will do. And all knowledge is borrowed. That is why knowledge becomes hollow; it takes you nowhere.

Before entering today’s sutras, let us cast a glance back. Recall the sutras Shandilya has given so far.

Om—now, therefore, the inquiry into devotion!

With the welcome of sound, with the honor of music, with the proclamation of celebration, we set out on the inquiry into devotion. Within the sounding of the world, within the resonance rising between this world and the beyond, we set out to seek God. This journey is carpeted with music. It is not dry and rough. Here streams of song flow, for it is the journey of the heart. The mind is a dry, barren desert; the heart is a green garden. Here are the humming of birds, the murmur of waterfalls. So we begin with Om. And on Om the journey must finish. Because where we have come from, there we must arrive. Our source is our final destination as well. The seed’s journey back to the seed. The tree will be, fruits will come, then seeds will form. The source returns in the end. Until the source returns, there is wandering. Whether you say we seek the ultimate goal, or you say we seek the primal source, it is the same thing. The one who has found the root, has also found the ultimate.

From sound the journey begins. Have you seen? When a child is born, the journey begins with sound. With the child’s birth the doctor, the nurses, the family await a sound—let the child make a noise! Cry, wail, scream—give proof of life! If it takes a little while and no sound comes from the child’s throat, despair spreads. Without sound, life has not begun. Even if it’s a cry, it will do—because we can’t yet hope for a song; only crying is likely. The song is not yet learned, life’s experiences have not yet been traversed, the instrument is not yet tuned. As if a craftsman has just made a veena and you place your hands on it—expecting perfectly harmonious music at once is not possible, nor expected—but at least a sound should arise! Discord will do; music is hidden in discord. If discord has been born, music can settle. Then the strings will need tuning, arranging, tightening and loosening, some hammering and pounding—but at least a sound should emerge.

If three minutes pass and no sound arises in the child, it is dead. Within three minutes sound must begin. If for three minutes it has not breathed, it will never breathe.

The beginning is with sobbing. And those who arrive rightly—the end will be with laughter. That too is sound. Now the veena is tuned, the instrument has settled.

“Total love for God is called bhakti—devotion.”

Total! A little will not do. Misers will not do. Parsimony will not work. To give a little and stash away—will not do. Friendship with the Divine belongs only to those who can give unconditionally. Who say—here it is, whole and entire. Not those who say, I will give in bits, in installments. Because through installments it is clear there is no trust. You think—give a little and see; if benefit comes, we’ll give some more; if benefit comes, we’ll give some more. Bhakti is the work of gamblers, not businessmen.

It is no accident that among India’s business communities no sutras of bhakti arose. Not accidental—there is arithmetic behind it. The businessman cannot be a bhakta. The Jains are there; they cannot be bhaktas. Their path is the path of knowledge; the path of austerity; that is understandable, it has its arithmetic. Bhakti is absolutely the work of a gambler, not a trader. You have to stake everything; there is risk. Who knows whether anything will be received or not. It is a wager; nothing can be guaranteed. You cannot be safe placing a wager; who knows what will happen?

The businessman moves by account. Hence it is no accident that within the Jain order no sentiment of bhakti could blossom. Pure arithmetic: give this much, get this much. Leave this much bad karma, gain this much profit. Do this much good, earn this much liberation. As much as you do, that much you will get. Reason, consistency.

Bhakti is not reason, not arithmetic. For bhakti you need the heart of a gambler, who stakes everything—this shore or the other.

Hence Shandilya says: “Total love for God is called bhakti—devotion.”

Remember the word total.

“To have the mind be wholly absorbed in That is the attainment of nectar—immortality.”

Nothing else needs to be done—only that the mind be wholly absorbed. And the mind will not be absorbed so long as you hold anything back. Then the mind will remain suspicious. It will keep thinking, weighing, testing, keeping accounts out of the corner of its eye, calculating credits and debits. Place the totality on the line. And what is the reason for miserliness? What is there to keep? Only the empty ego. The empty pot of ego that was never filled, cannot be filled, for it has no bottom; you pour and it keeps falling. Emptiness remains empty. Emptiness is its nature. This empty pitcher is what must be set at the feet of the Divine—and even in this you become miserly! Even here you say—bit by bit!

Shandilya says: “To have the mind be wholly, entirely absorbed in That—this alone is the attainment of nectar.”

Why?

Nectar is not something separate. The day you know that “I am not,” you have become immortal. Immortal means: now you will never die. The I dies—the I is already dead; you are eternal. Because of your alliance with the I, you have tied yourself to the perishable. As if a man had assumed, “I am my clothes.” Now he does not take them off, fearing that if the clothes are removed, trouble will begin.

I’ve heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a fair. A huge crowd. All hotels were full, all inns full. With great pleading he found space in a caravanserai. The manager said: I can give you space but not a private room. There is someone already sleeping there; you go quietly and sleep.

Mulla went. He saw the man asleep and was seized by a strange worry. A philosophical mind—he sat on the cot wondering what to do. Finally he decided: best to sleep as I am. So he lay down wearing turban, shoes, coat.

The other man kept opening his eyes to watch what this gentleman was doing. When he saw that the fellow was attempting to sleep wearing shoes and turban, he startled: is he mad? To spend the night with such a man—who knows what he will do? Mulla too could not sleep; who can sleep wearing shoes, turban, coat? He turned and tossed; so did the other man.

At last the man said: Brother, neither you nor I will be able to sleep. Though you wear the turban and shoes, I too cannot sleep. Take them off.

Mulla said, there is a difficulty. At home I do take them off. But in my room I am alone, so I know I am Mulla Nasruddin. Here there are two men; if I take off my turban, shoes, coat and sleep naked, in the morning there will be a problem—who is Nasruddin? There are two men here. For these are my marks of identity—this turban, these shoes, this coat—seeing them in the mirror I know I am I. Because of this danger I am not removing them.

The man laughed at this madness and said, don’t worry, we can find a way. See in the corner, people must have stayed here before; their child left a blown-up toy balloon—tie it to your leg. Then you’ll be sure you are Nasruddin. Mulla said, that makes sense. He tied the balloon to his leg, took off his clothes, slept.

In the night the other man had a prank in mind. He untied the balloon and tied it to his own leg. In the morning when Nasruddin awoke, he beat his chest: Did I not say so! Now it is certain you are Nasruddin—but who am I?

What is your identity? You laugh at him, but your own identity is just as fragile. Suppose you slept and a plastic surgeon changed your face. In the morning you stand before the mirror—you would be in the same fix as Nasruddin. You had an identity—nose, features, certain look; it was your identity. Someone worked a magic—changed your face—now you stand before the mirror and fall into difficulty: one thing is sure, this is not me. Then who am I?

What is your own identity? Whether in clothes or in the body—it is the same, for the body is a garment. Go a little within and your identity is of the mind: I am Hindu, I am Muslim, I am Christian, I am this, I am that—this too is a mental identity, also a garment.

In the Second World War, a man fell wounded in battle. A terrible injury; he was unconscious for three days. When he came to, his memory was wiped clean. Memory is like clothing; it can be stripped away. The man became naked of memory. After three days when he opened his eyes and they asked, your name, address, number? Even his tag had been lost. They were waiting—when he came to, they would ask. He had forgotten all. His memory had been erased. He was stunned. He remembered nothing. A great difficulty—who is this man? In the military men are known by numbers—his number was unknown. And he could not remember his name either, otherwise the files could be searched.

A friend of mine, a doctor—we grew up together—was traveling in a crowded train, standing at the door; his hand slipped, he fell, was badly injured. I went to see him; he did not recognize me. To recognize me was far off, he did not recognize even his mother-father. For seven years he had to learn A B C all over again. Even language was forgotten.

Do you know who you are? Don’t laugh at Nasruddin; it is the same. Clothes, body, mind—these are our identities. But all this can be taken away.

In China, when prisoners fall into the hands of the communists, they wipe out their memory. In Russia too. Now in Russia, an opponent is not sentenced to hanging. That is outdated. And there is even some honor in a death sentence. It was good in a way; at least one died with prestige. Now even that is not possible—even dying with honor is not possible. First they wipe the memory. Once memory is erased, neither rebellion remains nor ideas—everything ends. Then methods have been found to recast the mind. Like erasing writing on paper and writing anew. The entire man is changed.

This is your identity: saying I am Hindu, Indian; Muslim, Pakistani, Chinese, Tibetan; that I follow this sect, that scripture—the Bible, the Koran, the Gita is my book; this is my master; this idol is the object of my reverence; this my temple, this my mosque. But all this can be snatched. Who are you? Your house, family, education, certificates—paper. Who are you? What is this consciousness on which all these things hang? This body hangs, this mind hangs, these thoughts hang, these certificates hang, this prestige, name and fame hang—what is that peg of consciousness within you? To know that peg is to know oneself.

Knowing that, the attainment of nectar happens. For that is immortal. “Attainment happens” is not quite right. You have allied yourself with the mortal; when that friendship breaks, that aggregate of relationship is called ego. To have the mind absorbed “in That” means the mind lifts off from oneself, lets go of the I, and is absorbed in the Divine—that is the attainment of nectar.

“Knowledge is not devotion.”

Experience—self-experience—is devotion.

“When devotion dawns, knowledge is destroyed.”

It is no longer needed. Why is knowledge destroyed when devotion dawns? Because knowledge was borrowed. Someone told you how sunrise is and you kept those memories stored, because your eyes were blind and you had not seen sunrise. Then your eye found a physician, you found the right medicine, the disease was cut, the veil on the eye lifted. One day you opened your eyes and saw the morning sun rising. What will you do now with all those things others had told you? They have no value now. The sunrise itself stands in front of you—this fierce ball of fire lifting, these colors on the clouds, the freshness of life spreading through the world, the songs of birds, the winds, Om resonating everywhere—why remember those stale words others told you about sunrise?

The day one attains devotion, one is released from knowledge. Knowledge is no longer required. One’s own treasure has been found, one’s own conviction has arisen, one’s own encounter has happened. Devotion means flavor, rhythm, melody, color, celebration; devotion means the enjoyment of the Divine. Devotion is supreme yoga and supreme enjoyment too.

“Unlike knowledge, devotion is not subject to the doer’s control.”

Shandilya says devotion is not in your hands. It is because of you that the obstacle exists. You go, and devotion comes. As you move out, devotion moves in. If you remain, devotion will never arrive. Therefore, in your absence is God’s presence.

You ask: Where is God?

Because of your presence he cannot be seen. Learn to be absent; learn to dissolve. Let the mind be wholly absorbed in That. Instantly you will find—everywhere, only That is; nothing else exists.

“Therefore the fruit of bhakti is beyond time. It is infinite.”

Because it does not arise from your hand, it cannot be taken away. Whatever you construct through ego will be momentary. You are momentary. Whatever ego builds is a line drawn on water—it will hardly be drawn before it is erased. Only what comes from the Divine is eternal. You too are eternal, because you come from the Divine. Whatever comes from the Divine is eternal. It has no end.

“The learned and the ignorant both can attain it.”

Hence knowledge is no condition. The learned can attain too—if he puts knowledge aside.

“Bhakti is primary, indispensable, because in all other paths, in the end, one must take shelter in it.”

There is no path where one need not take refuge in devotion. Look: Buddha said there is no God, no soul. Yet the element of devotion came—through the back door: Buddham sharanam gachchhami! Sangham sharanam gachchhami! Dhammam sharanam gachchhami! The talk of taking refuge has come. Krishna said: Abandon all dharmas and come to me alone for refuge. Buddha said there is no God, no soul. Yet without refuge, Buddha’s religion could not stand. Without surrender, no religion stands.

Jainism is pure yoga, pure austerity—but surrender does arrive. Mahavira spoke of “asharana”—without shelter. Mahavira said: Only by becoming shelterless—dropping all shelters—will you arrive. Yet by the back door, it arrives: Arihantam sharanam pavvajjami—“I go to the refuge of the Enlightened.” I go to the refuge of those who have awakened. It does not matter to whose refuge you go; what matters is that you take refuge. Whether you go to Mahavira’s refuge or Buddha’s or Krishna’s—no difference. Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira are just occasions. It is the mood-state of refuge itself that is bhakti.

Therefore Shandilya speaks something extraordinary. He says: In all paths, bhakti is indispensable. Some measure of devotion is needed or no religion can be formed.

Muslims removed images and installed the stone of the Kaaba. What is the difference between the stone of Kaaba and an idol? Stone is stone. Images were removed from the mosque—but the feeling of refuge cannot be removed. The Muslim bows in a way even a Hindu does not—again and again in namaz. That bowing is devotion. Bowing the head, bowing the ego—that is devotion.

Now today’s sutras will be intelligible.

Prakaranac ca.
“And from experience, so it is.”

Therefore I repeated the earlier sutras, because today’s are connected. Shandilya says: What I have said so far—you will find proofs of it everywhere in life.

“From experience, so it is.”

Open your eyes and begin to search. On Mahavira’s path there is no God, yet the feeling of refuge came. On Buddha’s path even God is not, soul is not, yet the feeling of refuge came. Islam removed idols, and still the sense of refuge remains. There is no religion in the world without the sense of refuge. One has to go into refuge.

Prakaranac ca.

From experience—from the varied experiences of the world—this alone is proven: bhakti is indispensable. There is no escape from it. Without the element of devotion, no religion is formed. Think of it like this: many sweets are made, but sweetness is indispensable. Forms of sweets are many—rasgulla and sandesh and khirmohan, thousands—but sweetness, the sweetness, is essential.

Bhakti is sweetness. Bhakti is sugar. Without it, no sweet can be made. What form of sweet you make—that is up to you.

The world’s religions are different sweets; bhakti is the hidden sweetness in them all. One element is common: sweetness. You cannot make a sweet by adding salt. Other things are secondary; sweetness must be essential. Whether the sweet is made in China or India or Russia—wherever—a sweet must have sweetness.

Shandilya says, we are talking about the essential. Surface forms, outer ways are secondary. Love is the life-breath. Bodies differ, but the pranic element is one. One is beautiful, one ugly; one short, one tall; one fair, one dark; one blind, one seeing; one lame, one crippled, one deaf, one healthy; one thin, one fat—the forms differ; but the life-breath is one.

Shandilya says: “Bhakti is the life-breath of all religions.”

And as without breath the body is a corpse, so without devotion a religion is dead. The measure in which devotion is lost, in that measure the religion dies. The measure in which devotion is in flood, in that measure the religion is alive. The more dancing devotion there is, the more alive the religion. The more the exuberance of devotion, the more the religion lives.

As the soul is one in all, so the life in all religious methods is love, devotion. Wherever love is, life is. Wherever devotion is, God is. People think from the wrong end. People say, where is God?

It is like a youth comes and asks—where is my beloved? What will you say to him? “Where is my love?” Someone goes to the police station asking, where is my beloved? They will say—who is she, so we can trace her. He says—I don’t know yet; I am out searching—where is my beloved? You will say—first love, then the beloved comes. You have not loved and you are out to find the beloved!

People have not done devotion and ask—where is God? It sounds rational when someone asks where is God? If he is, I will believe; if he is, I will worship; if he is, I am ready to bow. But where is he?

You are asking the same foolish thing: let me find the beloved, then I will lay everything at her feet, lose everything; clasp her feet forever, make her my necklace—or become the necklace for her neck. But first let it be certain.

How will the beloved be? The beloved is not a person per se. The person upon whom your love is projected becomes your beloved. The person or power upon whom your devotion is projected becomes God. So the one who is God for one will not be God for another. Your beloved is not mine. You cannot say, why don’t you accept my beloved as yours? In truth, if someone did, you would create a quarrel—she is my beloved; how can you claim her? But if someone said, if she is yours she must be ours too!

I have heard: In a village a man’s father died. He wept bitterly. Neighbors gathered. The elders said, don’t cry—your father is gone; no matter—we are here; we are your fathers. He calmed.

Then his mother died after some days. The village women said, do not worry; we are here; why cry? We are your mothers.

Then his wife died. He sat and waited for someone to come. No one came. He made a great commotion, climbed the roof: Why don’t you come now? Why is no one saying it now? Earlier the whole village came, saying “we are your father,” “we are your mother.” Now no one comes! No one says “we are your wife”—why do you cry?

Your beloved is yours. Yet on this arise quarrels—absurd quarrels. Hindus say Krishna is God. Jains object. Their objection is reasonable: this man caused the Mahabharata war! Arjuna wished to be a monk, a good man. He would have become a Jain muni had he his way. Krishna entangled him! He kept trying to flee—that is why the Gita was born; again and again he tried to flee and Krishna kept luring him back. Finally he was trapped; he was made to fight. So much harm to life, so many died, so much violence—who is responsible? And Hindus say Krishna is God! In Jain puranas he is placed in the seventh hell, not to be released in this cycle of the universe—only when dissolution comes.

For the Hindu, Krishna is God. None greater. Called a complete avatara. Rama is incomplete, Buddha incomplete; Krishna is whole. There is sense in this too. Buddha does seem one-sided—he fled, renouncing the world. No balance in life. Krishna’s life is beautifully balanced. He is in the marketplace and yet not of it—this is balance. He stands in war and within is vast peace—this is balance. No escapism. Not this choosing, that rejecting—rather total acceptance of life. Because of this acceptance he is the complete avatara. Good and bad, all accepted. None inside who says no; no ego to select, hence choiceless. Let what happens, happen. This is the ultimate state of the theist—that whatever the Lord is having happen, that is what will happen.

So Hindus elevate Krishna. It is a matter of one’s love; there is no room for quarrel.

The Christian says, what kind of God is Krishna? Playing a flute and dancing while there is so much suffering! And this is God? There are diseases—go to a hospital, open one, serve the sick. There are floods, storms—what are you doing playing a flute? Is this becoming? The Christian feels this is unbecoming, absurd—that where there is so much suffering, someone is intent on playing a flute; playing himself and making women dance. He is crazy himself and making others crazy. Christ appears right—hanging on the cross, sad. All people are on crosses; Jesus should hang on one for their sake. Therefore Jesus is God.

But ask a Hindu—God, and sad? Sadness belongs to the ignorant. Christians say—Jesus never laughed! This is a state of deep tamas. Sadness belongs to the ignorant. And only sinners go to the gallows. He must have done sins in past lives—now he suffers. And what will your hanging do to reduce anyone else’s cross? It is like someone gets a thorn in his foot and you, in sympathy, pierce your own foot and sit crying. What sense does that make? Remove the thorn—remove his. By piercing your foot, his thorn won’t come out. Sorrow in the world has doubled; you added your thorn.

A Hindu cannot see God in Jesus. And let me tell you, keep this in mind: God is a relation of your devotion. Some see him in Mahavira, some in Buddha, some in Krishna, some in Christ. Wherever you project your devotion, there God appears. God is hidden everywhere. Thus for some he appears in a peepal tree, for some in the river’s current, for some in a rough stone.

I told you yesterday: when milestones were first put up painted red, villagers began to worship them, took them for Hanuman. They were happy the government is good—so many Hanumans! They smeared vermilion, offered flowers, began worship. The English were vexed—what madness is this! But understand them. The man who smeared vermilion and began to worship—if his devotion is there, then there is God. Where devotion is, God is. If in a stone, then God descends into the stone. And if God stands before you and your devotion does not alight there, he is a stone. It is all about your devotion. Your devotion brings God’s manifestation. Your devotion pulls aside the veil.

So the primary element is not God; the primary element is devotion.

Shandilya says: “Prakaranac ca.”

Thus far the experiences of devotees everywhere prove: God is secondary, devotion primary. God is not found first; the emergence of devotion is first. In that emergence, the meeting with God happens. You need the eyes of devotion to see God. You need the eye of love to find the beloved.

Darshana-phalam iti cen—tena vyavadhanat.
“If you say the fruit is to see him—that cannot be, because distance remains in seeing.”

This sutra is unique. Shandilya says: The devotee does not aim merely at God’s vision; for in vision, distance remains. You stand here, God stands there, and you see! There is a gap, an obstruction, a distance. In vision there is distance. What then does the devotee want? He wants to become one with God; not vision, but oneness. The devotee is not content until the devotee becomes the Divine—until he is absorbed.

The knower is content cheaply. He says, I have seen—enough. I have seen, known, recognized—satisfied. This is like seeing sweets and going away pleased. You have not tasted; sweetness has not flowed in your blood, been assimilated into flesh and bone. What will you do with the sight of sweets?

Shandilya is right: the devotee is not content with that. He says: What sort of thing is that! It will only increase restlessness. Not to have known was better; at least then there was no restlessness. Knowing begins the trouble. Now there is no way but to become one; only then is there fulfillment. Otherwise the fire of unfulfillment will burn and scorch.

“The fruit is not vision, for in it distance remains.”

The devotee longs for the absolute, the ultimate, where no distance remains. All lovers want this. And that is why there is so much failure in love. Understand.

You loved a woman, a man. Why so much melancholy in love? The lover becomes melancholic very soon. Why? You should be happy—your beloved has come. The knowing ones say: Majnun is blessed that he did not get Laila. Had he gotten her, melancholy would have set in. Ask those who have gotten. After getting, melancholy comes. The woman you desired—you got her. Now what? Now you sit as husband and wife. Now you look at each other—and fret over each other—and get bored—what to do?

This melancholy arises because there is no way to become one with this woman or this man. However close you come, a distance remains. In that distance is melancholy. Majnun had at least the reassurance that Laila will be found someday. He does not know that union never happens. He will know only when Laila is obtained and union does not occur. Holding your beloved’s hand is not union—your hand is separate, hers separate. Very little distance—but little is enough. Put neck to neck, heart to heart—and there is distance. Even in the moment of intercourse there is a fleeting illusion that distance has vanished, yet it remains.

In this world, love’s melancholy is that love longs to become one with the beloved—and cannot. This event can happen only in devotion. Because in devotion it is not two bodies that meet, but two souls. Souls can merge into one another.

Imagine you light two lamps in a room. The two lamps will be separate, but their light will merge. The lamps cannot merge—however you bang them together, they remain distinct. But their light will merge. In a room light two, or fifty—no obstruction arises. The room will not shout that too much light is here, it won’t fit. Bring as much light as you like; it will be contained. Nor will one lamp say, do not bring others; they will interfere with our light, encroach upon it, shrink our field. It may happen that a time comes when more lamps cannot be placed, but a time when more light cannot be placed will never come. Luminous elements merge. Your soul is light, your body is the lamp.

Love means you are trying to join two lamps, two bodies. Melancholy is assured. Devotion means the illusion has been dropped that lamps are to be joined—light is to join light. When light joins light there is no vision, no encounter, no knowledge—the devotee becomes God. The proclamation rises: Aham Brahmasmi. The cry rises: Anal haq. “I” and “Thou” do not remain two. Truly, even to say the devotee remains or God remains is not accurate. I would suggest one word—only “godliness” remains. Here the devotee disappears; there God disappears. For God’s being also requires the devotee’s being; without the devotee, God cannot be; without God, the devotee cannot be. Two sides of one coin. If one goes, the other goes. What remains is godliness—divinity, the infinite radiance.

The path of devotion is the path of light. Aloka-pantha—the path of illumination.

“The fruit is not vision, for in it distance remains.”

Drishtatvac ca.
“And so too is it seen.”

Shandilya says: Ask those who went! They all say—so it is seen—that as the devotee nears God, the taste for vision falls away. The relish is in union, not in seeing. Let union be so complete that no line divides. Let God beat in my heart, and I beat in God’s heart. Let neither I remain nor Thou.

Jalaluddin Rumi has a famous poem: The lover knocked at the beloved’s door. From within came the question—Who is there? Who? The lover said, It is I, your lover; did you not recognize my footsteps? Inside there was silence. He knocked again: Did you not recognize me, my voice? The beloved said: This house is small—this is love’s house. Two will not fit.

The lover turned back. Days came, nights came; suns rose, moons rose; years came and went; he practiced a tough austerity. Years later he returned, knocked; the same question—the same question always—Who? This time he said: I am not; it is You.

Rumi ends the poem here; I cannot. If I meet Rumi, I will say—unfinished, complete it. For the lover says: I am not; it is You. But so long as you know the “You,” the “I” will also be known. To say “I am not,” there must be an I who says it. Who is remembering that I am not? And who says “it is You”? Who is making this distinction of I and Thou?

Everything is still present. Only the stream that flowed above ground is now underground. The I has gone underground. And this is more dangerous. When the I was above, it was recognizable; the enemy was clear. Now it has gone subterranean, hidden itself. Now it says “I am not,” and saves itself.

If I extend the poem, I would send him back again. It may seem harsh to be hard on the lover, but what can I do? I would have the beloved say, nothing has changed yet. This house is small; two cannot fit. Prem gali ati saankari—love’s lane is very narrow—two do not fit.

The lover went back. Then it must have taken far longer—countless years, or say countless births. And one day the moment came when the lover truly dissolved. No I above, none within; neither in conscious nor subconscious; neither on the ground nor underground. Then I face a difficulty—how to bring him back to the beloved’s door? I cannot. I cannot even do that. Perhaps that is why Rumi finished his poem there. Otherwise poetry falls into trouble—where to complete it? A poem must begin somewhere and end somewhere; life neither begins nor ends anywhere. I know Rumi’s difficulty—why he ended it there. For when the lover is completely gone, he cannot return.

But what need is there for the lover to return? I would prefer that the beloved goes searching for him. For when the lover’s I is gone, the beloved has to set out. The day the person’s I dissolves, that day God sets out to find him. Do not go anywhere; only be not—and the Divine will come running.

And where will you go anyway? Where will you search? He may be sitting right in front of you on the road—you will not recognize him. You have never seen him; how will you recognize? The forms in which you think he should be—in those forms he never comes again. If you are a devotee of Krishna and you think he will come with a peacock plume and gather a crowd on M.G. Road playing a flute—the police will take him away before you arrive. “This man is disrupting traffic. And why this peacock plume? Are you sane or mad?” And if you meet someone with a peacock plume, you too would say, is there some Krishna-play about to happen? Or if Rama passed with bow and arrows you’d stop: Is a Ram-lila about to begin? What’s up?

You too will not trust. For truth never repeats itself. Krishna happened once; never again. Buddha once; never again. The Divine comes new every time—hence not recognized. We are attached to the old; the Divine comes new. The very meaning of God is: the ever-new. It may be this time he comes wearing trousers, no peacock plume. Seeing trousers you will say—finished!

I was a guest in a village. The college staged a play—“Modern Ram-lila.” A row erupted. The village pundits were angry. They did not grasp the playful satire. It was a lovely parody. They had invited me to inaugurate it. I did—and I landed in trouble. A case was filed; I had to go to court. A lovely satire. But the villagers did not like it because Rama smoked cigarettes. They said there would be violence—even murder—Rama and smoking! And Sita wore high heels!

I say to you: beware, it may be so. Times change; God is not old—forever new. But our eyes are old. We say—it should be like this. We have built a mold; and in that mold he will never again fit. God is not stale. Have you ever seen one morning exactly like another? One dusk exactly like another? When the sun sets, the colors that spread across the sky—have you ever seen those before? Will they ever repeat? Never. Nothing repeats. God’s creation is unprecedented. He does not repeat. His creative capacity is infinite—why repeat? One who can sing a new song daily—why sing the old? God does not make carbon copies. Only one original—the matter ends. There is no duplicator in his office.

But our grip is on the past. Even if you meet him, you will not recognize him.

What then is the way?

You dissolve. You become empty. God rushes from all sides and fills you. Have you seen water fill a pot? As you fill the pot, the empty space left around is instantly filled by water rushing in from all sides. Emptiness is not tolerated. If a vacuum appears in air, air rushes to fill it. Where emptiness appears, the energy to fill it arrives. Become a little empty and you will find yourself filled with the Full.

Shandilya says: “And thus is it seen.”

It has been seen like this. Those who know have known thus: the one who went to him—he disappeared; and God disappears with him. Godliness remains.

Ata eva tad-bhavād vallabhinām.
“Even without knowledge and science, the cowherd girls of Vraja attained liberation by the power of sheer love.”

Ata eva tad-bhavād vallabhinām.

There is only one way to find the Beloved—to be filled to the brim with his feeling.

Ata eva tad-bhavāt.

Let his feeling drown you. Let yourself be wholly absorbed in his mood. There is only one way to get the Beloved—not knowledge, not austerity—feeling.

Shandilya says: The gopis were neither learned nor ascetic; they practiced no yoga, undertook no arduous disciplines, went to no Himalayan caves, did not renounce the world. Simple women—but they were filled with bhava, feeling. They drowned in his feeling.

You have seen the picture: the gopis are dancing, Krishna is dancing, and with each gopi a Krishna dances—Krishna multiplied as many times as there are gopis. As many vacuums as there are in this world, that many manifestations of godliness happen. Mahavira is God—that does not reduce Buddha’s godhood.

But we are misers. We think it is troublesome. So the Christian says: only Christ is God, not Krishna. The Hindu says: Krishna is God, not Mahavira. The Jain says: Mahavira is God, not Buddha. Everyone fears that if there are too many Gods, their own God’s godhood will be diluted. The miser’s arithmetic: “If there are many, the godliness will be diluted, its measure diminished; drops will remain. If only our God were God, he would be an ocean. Now there are so many—mere brooks—where is the ocean!” Because of this fear, religions are tangled in the foolishness that only ours is true, all others false.

Have you seen Krishna dancing with all the gopis? It is a symbolic picture. It says: as many consciousnesses as there are, that many godlinesses can be. God is infinite, godliness can be infinite. You’ve heard the Upanishad: From the Full, even if the full is taken out, the Full still remains. Buddha’s being God does not lessen God; the next God does not receive a smaller share of godliness. God is as God is. The whole art is your becoming empty. Empty—and you are filled by the Full. As many emptinesses as there are will be filled by the Full. This whole world is soaked in God. There is no other space. Only God brims. Even when you do not know, God is within you—only you do not know. It is only that you need to see. No need for austerity or any jugglery.

Tad-bhavād vallabhinām.
If you want the Beloved—do just one thing: efface yourself, invite his feeling.

Bhaktyā jānātīti cen—na abhijñaptayā sāhāyyāt.
“If you say knowledge arises from devotion—no; rather, knowledge serves devotion as a helper.”

Some think—Shandilya raises the doubt—some say the true knowledge arises in the devotee. Shandilya says: the learned do not have devotion at all; if he is stuck in knowledge he is deprived of devotion. Yes, if the learned man is wise—and learned men are seldom wise—the swagger of knowing does not let them be pure and humble—if he is wise, which is rare among scholars, then he uses knowledge to reach devotion. He employs knowledge as a helper to become a devotee. He offers his knowledge in service of feeling. He sets his mind to serve the heart. He makes reason the servant of his faith. Then reason is of great use—as faith’s ally. Then knowledge becomes a staircase by which the devotee climbs to the temple.

Shandilya says: Whoever says that in the end the devotee attains knowledge is wrong, because in knowledge the division remains—the knower and the known; distance remains. As in vision, distance remains; so in knowledge, distance remains. The devotee becomes one—who is there to know, what is there to be known? Both have merged into one. There the beginning of life is—not of “knowing.” There is the birth of realization—not of knowledge.

And also this: knowledge cannot be said to be born at the end of devotion, because you used knowledge as a stair at the beginning. Even the most ignorant has some knowledge; otherwise he would already be wise. The ignorant too have some knowledge—that is what blocks them—not ignorance. Knowledge blocks both the ignorant and the learned. Blessed are those who make knowledge their stairs.

Bhaktyā jānātīti cen—na abhijñaptayā sāhāyyāt.
At the end of devotion there is no knowledge. At the very start, let knowledge be made into stairs, a helper. When you climb those steps to the temple, you will find God—not the steps. If in the temple you find steps, you have not arrived.

Knowledge can be a helper at best—not the ultimate goal. Knowledge can be a means, not the end. You want to know something because you want to reach something else. Knowledge is not an end in itself; it is an instrument. Devotion is the end.

Suppose you want to make money. Someone asks, money for what? You say, so I can live comfortably. Comfortable for what? You say, so I can love—my children, my wife… But if someone asks, why love? There you will halt; you cannot answer. And whoever answers does not know love. You will say: love for love’s sake.

Money for something, position for something, knowledge for something—but love? Love is the destination. Love is its own end. Devotion is the culmination of love. Therefore beyond devotion there is no other fruit—devotion is itself the fruit. Let everything else become manure. If you make manure—you are wise.

Meditate deeply on these extraordinary sutras. Soak in their flavor. Each one is so precious that even if you spend your whole life to pay its price, you cannot.

The devotee does not go to ask for anything. In devotion there is no mood of begging. Yet the devotee does spread his hands. He does not want to ask, he does not ask; but he spreads his hands, he bows. And it is not that he receives nothing—he receives more than anyone.

I did not
spread my hand
with the feeling
to ask;
I just
spread it—
and you,
who knows what you thought,
placed the whole universe
into my palm.
Now
where shall I roam,
fist clenched
around this!

Blessed is he who spreads his hand without asking! For where there is no asking, the whole universe is given; everything is given. Unasked, pearls are received; asked, not even flour. The beggar gets nothing. The beggar is told—move on. Emperors receive.

Jesus said famously: To those who have, more will be given; from those who have not, even what they have will be taken away.

Let love surge. If you have love, more will be given. Do not ask—no need to ask. Empires follow love by themselves. Everything comes in the wake of love.

Jesus said: Seek first the kingdom of God, and all else shall be added unto you. All! There is no need to seek anything separately.

In the wake of devotion comes grace.

Do not pray out of any desire, any motive, any cause. Otherwise you have already spoiled prayer. Pray for the sheer joy of prayer. Dance, sway, be intoxicated—for the joy itself.

Thousands come here, they meditate, dance, rejoice; and among them only those receive who dance without a cause. I see this happen every day.

Prakaranac ca.
Everywhere the evidences are spread. The ones who receive are those who do not ask, who have no mood of asking. Who say—let me be absorbed in the song, drown in the music—what more is needed! For a moment I danced—the whole existence is dancing, the moon and stars are dancing, we joined them—this Rasa-leela for a while we too partook—what more is needed! The one who says so—the whole universe comes into his hand.

It can come into your hand too—just spread it! But do not spread it to ask. Spread it for the joy of spreading.

Enough for today.