Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #6

Effort is the shadow of man’s ego. Grace is the fragrance that arises in a state of egolessness.

By effort you get the small. Man’s fist is very small. You can hold pebbles in your fist; try to hold the Himalayas and you’ll be in trouble. By effort you get the petty—because man’s power is limited. By grace you receive the vast. Effort is a clenched fist; grace is an open hand. “I will get it”—the untruth is already there in this. Because the “I” itself is the untruth. The day you know “I am not,” that day it is found. In truth it was always found—only the stiffness of “I” did not let it be seen.

What comes by grace is not that it comes today—it is already here, always here. But you are intoxicated with your stiffness; even if you look, how will you look? The sun has risen, yet in your stiff pride you stand with eyes closed. Worse, with eyes closed you are searching for the sun.

Open your eyes! And remember, search as you may, if the eyes remain closed you will not find light. And light is everywhere, showering from all sides; you are standing bathed in it—open your eyes and it is found.

Ego is the closed eye; egolessness is the open eye. The rain is already falling—but the ego is an upturned pitcher; egolessness an upright one. The rain falls on both: the egoist and the egoless. There is no difference on God’s side; it rains on sinner and saint alike. There can be no discrimination on his side—it rains on the mountains and in the ravines. But the ravines fill, the mountains remain empty—because the mountains are already full, the ravines are empty; there is space in them.

If you are full of ego you will miss. And all efforts are churnings of the ego. “I will do and show”—be it for wealth, for position, or for liberation—“but I will do and show. I will hoist my flag. I will beat the drum and show the world that I am something. I am no ordinary man; I am a great soul, a saint, liberated.” These proclamations of “I” are precisely what bind you; these are the chains at your feet, the noose around your neck.

And what you claim you are going to get—you miss because of the claim itself. Whoever tells you, “I searched and I found,” know that he has not yet found. Whoever tells you, “I did not search—and I found,” understand that he has found. It does not come by searching; in searching it is lost. In searching itself it is lost. He who does not search—that is the state of meditation, or the state of love—he who does not search, sits quietly, waits, does not search. In searching you move; in waiting, God moves. In waiting you have sent the invitation—like a helpless small child you are crying—the mother will come. In searching you set out.

The moment you set out, the miss has happened. Once you start moving, you will never arrive. The farther you go, the farther away you will be. Travel takes you away from truth, not nearer. There is no journey to truth. Stop, be still; as you are, where you are—surrender there. Drop this feeling: “I will do and show.” Where are you to begin with? First find out whether this “I” even exists. Probe a little within, loosen your knots and feel—do I even exist? Where am I? What is this “I” other than a bare word! No one has ever found it to date. Not a single person in the entire history of humankind has been able to find it. Without exception, whoever went within found there is no “I”—there is a silence, a peace. No one ever came face to face with an “I.” The deeper one went, the more the “I” melted. And the day one reached the very center of one’s life-energy, there was no “I” at all. In that state of no-I, what happens is called grace.

Grace means: not because of you—but because of the Lord. It is a gift; it comes from his side. It is his present for you.

You ask: “God-realization through grace—how does it happen?”

Prakaranat cha.
Look into the instances. Whenever it has happened, it has happened thus. Have you ever seen a bird fly into your room? The door through which it came is open—that’s why it could come in; had it been shut, it could not have entered. And then the bird keeps hitting the closed window, pecking and fluttering against the glass. The more it flutters and panics, the more restless it becomes. The window is closed—and it keeps striking. It may even get bloodied, may break its wings. Have you ever sat and thought, “What a foolish bird! It just came through the door, which is open—it can go out the same way—yet it keeps hitting the closed window!”

Prakaranat cha.
There, searching is the context. That is where you should remember Shandilya’s sutra. Man is exactly like this.

You have come into this world; you did not bring yourself here, you have come—that is where the sutra of grace is. You did not make yourself. This life is not your authorship, not your doing; it is a gift, it is God’s grace. That door is open—from where you came. But now you are banging your head against the closed window of effort, breaking your wings. Look for the key where you came from, and as you came.

And it is not that grace came only when you were born—grace comes every day. This breath comes and goes within you, yet you say, “I am breathing.” Even egotism has its limits! Don’t say deranged things. What do you mean, you breathe? If breathing were in your hands, you would never die—you would go on breathing forever. Death would stand at your door, Yama’s messengers would wait, and you would keep on breathing.

Breath is not in your hands. You have never taken even a single breath. Breath is taking you. Do you take the breath? Is it your act? Then stop it for half an hour—because what is your act can also be stopped. Don’t breathe for half an hour—let’s see! Not even a moment will pass before you find a terrible restlessness arising. Breath wants to come in; it’s knocking at the door; and even if you try to forbid it, it will come in. And one day you may want to bring it in—and if it is not to come, it will not come.

You can neither stop breath nor take it. Breath is moving—by itself. That is why it moves even in sleep; otherwise, in sleep you would have to keep remembering, keep opening your eyes to check, “Am I breathing or not? Lest I forget to breathe in sleep, otherwise I am finished.” Then no one could sleep at ease. If the husband slept, the wife would stay awake to watch; if the wife slept, the husband would stay awake to make sure she didn’t forget to breathe. Even then, daily lapses would happen, daily accidents: “So-and-so died last night—he forgot to breathe.” Who could remember in deep sleep?

But even in sleep the breath moves. When you are plunged in profound sleep, when you don’t even know whether you are or are not, when even dreams do not stir on the mind—everything lost—where is ego in deep sleep? That is why Patanjali says sushupti (deep sleep) and samadhi are alike—in this sense: both are without ego. Where are you in deep sleep? All boundaries have dissolved; you are like a void. Yet breath goes on. All work goes on—digestion in the belly, the flow of blood, the building of bone, flesh, marrow—everything is going on. A tiny insect begins to climb on your foot; the foot will shake it off—and you are not there! In the morning you won’t even be able to report that a bug climbed your foot and you shook it off—you won’t remember. A mosquito buzzes, your hand drives it away. All this is happening, and “you” are not. Karma goes on and the doer is not—here is the sutra of grace—it is in the breath, it is in deep sleep.

If you examine and recognize your life a little, you will find the instances everywhere. All is happening. Where life is happening, where love is happening, where breath is flowing—there God can also happen. Not by me; nothing at all is happening by me.

This does not mean I am saying that nothing petty happens by your doing. The vast does not happen by your doing—the petty does. If you toil for wealth, you will get it. If you strive relentlessly for position, you will get there—perhaps, perhaps not. Compete, descend into the throat-choking competition, climb upon others’ corpses—then perhaps you may reach some post, some chair. This will be by your doing.

God does not give the petty as gift. God’s gift cannot be petty. When you get wealth, it is by your effort. When you get position, it is by your effort. The petty is effort; the vast is grace. If you remain absorbed only in effort, you will die having collected the small. It may be your empire is great, your rule over the earth—but all will still be petty. You will die poor. Without the vast, no one is rich.

And who receives the vast? The one who sees the truth: “What can happen by my doing? Where am I? I am not.” Where this recognition becomes dense, there grace showers.

How does it happen?
Even I do not know.

It happens in the absence of striving.
It happens in some unmindful mood,
in some deep delight.
Yes,
it happens also in a wound—
provided it is not only your own,
not a mere dream!

Grace is something inexpressible. In this world it is a ray of the unknown. In a human life, it is that door through which we came—and through which we may go out again. And that door is always open. But we are banging our heads on closed windows. You feel pity for the bird—you think, “Fool, oh fool, why don’t you fly out through the door?” When will you feel pity for yourself? For man is just as foolish.

How does it happen?
Even I do not know.

Because if you come to know how it happens, then you will succeed in doing it. If you discover the “how” of grace, you will start arranging things—“this is how it happens.” That is exactly what people are doing—arrangement. Someone sits before an idol arranging the plate, lights the lamp, burns incense, prays; he thinks grace will happen like this. But this too is a doing; grace will not happen in it. You may bang your head forever, offer flowers, light rows of lamps, perform countless aratis—it will not happen, because you are present there as the doer. Still you think: “Perhaps it happens like this.”

It may be that for someone it happened that way. If it happened to someone like that, it means the fact was incidental—the person was removing the plate with his hand and in that moment it happened—egolessness happened. But the occurrence of egolessness has no cause-and-effect relation with waving an arati. For someone else it happened while cutting wood in a forest. For a third, sitting beneath a tree. For a fourth, while dancing. For a fifth, while plucking the strings of a veena—and it happened. But none of these has any causal connection. They are incidental; by chance. From any one of them do not conclude, “If I do this, it will happen.”

Understand: it happened to Meera while dancing. It did not happen because of dance; it happened while dancing. If it came from dance, then the formula would be in our hands; then we too would dance and it would happen. Many are dancing; there are so many dancers—better than Meera in skill—yet it does not happen to them. If it came from dance, the one who danced best would get it first. It happened to Meera—there was not even much “dance” in her dance—ungainly—and yet it happened. Dance was not the cause. Dancing, she got lost; the ego fell away—the dance remained, the dancer departed—and where the “I” was not, there it happened.

It happened to Buddha without any dance. And in the two and a half millennia since Buddha, how many have sat under trees with closed eyes—and it does not happen. Sitting with closed eyes beneath a tree does not make it happen. That was a coincidence. It can happen anywhere. It happened to Tuladhar, the merchant, as he sat at his shop—while weighing on the balance it happened. It happened to Janaka as he sat upon his throne. It happened to Krishna in the very midst of the world. It happened to Mahavira after he withdrew from the world, standing naked in mountain caves. But none of these is a cause. It is not like heating water to a hundred degrees and water turns to steam—there is no such mechanism. Otherwise everyone would have to stand naked in caves for it to happen.

Spirituality is not a science. Spirituality is not bound within such petty limits as science. Yes, keep one formula in mind: whenever you are not, then it happens. Therefore it does not happen because of you. Not by you. Not by your effort. It happens in your absence. And how will you say that it happened?

How does it happen?
Even I do not know.

Those to whom it has happened do not know either. Ask them and they will say: “It’s difficult—don’t ask. We can say only this: it did not happen by our doing.” They can offer a negative definition. “We did not achieve it. We were exhausted, defeated, collapsed. We were in dejection: all is futile, nothing can be attained—we ran, we writhed, we practiced, tried all means—and in one moment we fell down with weariness; just then we found—it happened.” It is ineffable.

It happens in the absence of striving.
But some things can be said—negatively.

It happens in the absence of striving.
When you are striving, you are full of anxiety. Striving means worry. Will it happen or not? Should I do it like this or like that? Is the path I’m on right or not? There are so many paths; a thousand alternatives arise in the mind—whom should I follow? Which scripture should I accept? Which temple should I worship? Is this temple right or wrong? There is no way, no touchstone. Is this scripture true or false? There are people who call it true, and people who call the same scripture false—whom do I follow, whom do I listen to, whom do I understand?

Striving brings anxiety. And in striving the delusion remains intact: “I am trying; if not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the day after—I will get it.”

It happens in the absence of striving.
In some unmindful mood it happens—
when there is no mind. When there is no wave of thought; no imagination, no desire, no memory shakes the mind—the mind is still, like a motionless lake.

In some unmindful mood it happens—
we can say only this much: where the mind is not, it happens; where the “I” is not, it happens.

In some deep delight it happens—
in a deep love, a deep trust, a deep devotion. But remember, devotion means the devotee is gone. Devotee and devotion do not coexist. As long as the devotee is, where is devotion? The devotee remains the hindrance. When the devotee departs—devotion.

In some deep delight it happens—
but these are only hints.

Yes, it happens also in a wound—
provided it is not only your own,
not a mere dream!
It can happen in the experience of another’s pain. It can happen in feeling another’s suffering. Why? Because to feel the other’s pain deeply, you must dissolve. In fact, to truly experience the other’s suffering you have to vanish. That too is the dropping of ego. As long as you are, you cannot feel the other’s pain. You vanish—and the other’s pain is experienced.

Jesus is right when he says it happens through service. Service means: the realization of another’s pain—as if it were your own. Such resonant empathy.

Yes, it happens also in a wound—
provided it is not only your own—
for if it is only your own wound, it remains stuck in ego. Your wound is your wound. The craving of “I” is the craving of “I.”

Not only your own—
not a mere dream!
Let it be true, real; let the empathy not be false, not empty talk, not superficial; let it be heartfelt, existential—then sometimes it happens there too. It happens in deep delight; it happens in a deep wound; it happens in an unmindful mood; it happens in the absence of striving.

You ask: “How, through grace, does God-realization happen?”
Only this much can be said: “Understand the futility of effort. Understand the hollowness of striving.”

Shandilya says: Drishtatvach cha.
So it is seen—this is how it appears. What is seen? Sometimes you see a man on the road; you recognize the face; the name sits on the tip of your tongue—you say it is on the tongue—and still it does not come. The face is remembered, and the name too is remembered; you say, “it’s on the tongue”—and still it does not come. A peculiar thing you’re saying! If it’s on the tongue, why don’t you speak it? And yet I grant you are right—it is indeed “on the tongue”—that too is an experience; and it won’t come—that comes with it; the man is certainly familiar—that’s definite. You begin a big churning; you bang your head; you try to solve the riddle—from here, from there; you peer into memory, turn over the layers, dig a pit in memory: “May I find a clue, some handle.” And the more you look for the handle, the more difficult it becomes. It becomes clear: “I know it, I know it—it’s on the tongue, absolutely—any moment it will slip out”—and still you can’t catch it.

Then you get tired. Then you think, “Forget it! To hell with it! What’s the point?” You turn your face and start for home. And suddenly—when you are making no effort; you had dropped the matter, forgotten it—reading a film poster along the way—suddenly the name comes back. What happened? When you tried, you became very anxious. When you strained to remember, your consciousness became narrow, contracted, tense; anxiety gripped you; you were not free. The name was lying inside, it wanted to rise—but you had become so contracted, so full of tension, there was no space for it to surface. Then you dropped the effort; you relaxed; the tension loosened; the narrowness dissolved; and the name floated up easily to the surface. You experience this daily—it did not happen by effort; it happened without effort.

God is not to be attained—God is already present within. Only his remembrance is lost; it is remembrance that must be brought back. Buddha called it sammasati—right remembrance. Nanak and Kabir call it surati—remembrance. There has been forgetfulness; we have forgotten. Recognition was there—the name was on the tongue—but we forgot; hazy curtains came in between, a smoke—centuries have passed since the meeting. You do know God—because you came from him. The bird that came from the open sky through the open door knows the open sky. Because it knows the open sky, it is trying to escape; it keeps striking the closed window to get out. You too have been banging on closed doors for ages. And one door is always open. That one door is the door of non-effort; all other doors are effort. That one door is of rest; all other doors are of labor. That one door is of surrender; all other doors are of resolve.

Rest a little; don’t bang your head on the window. If this bird would sit quietly for a while, reconsider once: “What happened? From where did I come? From which direction? How did I come? Why not go back the same way?” God is not a goal to be reached in the future; he is the source lost in the past. God is not ahead; he is behind. He stands within you. You are running in all four directions. The more you run, the more you miss.

Grace means: I will no longer run; I will no longer search; I will no longer rely on myself.

Tell me to rise, and I will rise;
tell me to walk, and I will walk.
If you tell me to sing,
that is easy for me:
from dusk till dawn,
from earth to the sky’s edge,
I will sing, I will rise, I will walk,
I will turn—as you turn the earth—
at your signal.

I remove myself from the middle. Tell me, “Rise,” and I will rise; tell me, “Walk,” and I will walk. I take myself out of the way. From now on, your will will be my life. From now on, neither am I, nor do I have any will of my own.

In such a mood, an unmindful mood; in such a delight, a deep delight; in the absence of striving; in such a wound—grace happens.

Make a little empty space; step a little aside; there is no obstacle other than you. And your entanglement keeps increasing—because you keep making the obstacle into the means. He who takes the disease to be the medicine—his irony is terrible. You take it as medicine knowingly—and you drink the disease; the disease grows. Apart from you, you have no other enemy. Yet you think, “I am my friend, and the whole world is my enemy.” Between you and God there is no other wall than you. You imagine a thousand other walls—but you do not see this one wall: apart from you there is no wall. You fetch explanations from far and wide: “Because of deeds in past births; I must have committed many sins; therefore God does not appear.” But one thing you do not drop—that it is still “my doing.” “I sinned; therefore he doesn’t appear. I will do virtue; then he will appear.” You do not drop the “I.”

Your “saint,” too, does not drop the “I”; your “sinner,” too, does not drop the “I.” That is why I say: there is not much difference between your saints and sinners. The difference is only this much: one man stands on his feet; beside him, the same kind of man stands on his head. That’s all. Between your sinner and your virtuous man there is no difference. The sinner thinks, “I am doing sin”; the virtuous thinks, “I am doing virtue”—but the sense of doership remains in both. And what blocks the way is the sense of doership.

My mind
is a forest at this moment
through which
the fragrant gust of your
breeze
is passing—
making it tremble
and filling it with
coral-hued
meters,
flute-strung
notes!

Think of yourself as a grove of bamboo. A gust of wind passes—shaking the whole grove, awakening new notes. From each leaf the music pours; there is sound, there is Om arising. Think of yourself like that— a bamboo grove through which God’s energy flows, his current—he speaks, he moves, he rises. Take yourself out of the way. The moment you remove yourself, you will find—you have become the flute; his song begins to rain through you—you have become the flute. The art of becoming a flute is the art of receiving grace. Empty within, hollow. In a flute there is nothing inside—a hollow reed is the flute. Emptiness is its secret. Because it is hollow, it brings the song.

The day you become like a hollow reed, that very day God’s song will begin to shower through you. The song even now is eager to flow—but you are full. And what are you full of? You are full of yourself. Other than the “I,” there is no fullness in you. When the “I” goes, you become empty. In that great emptiness, grace rains. In that great void your hands will spread, and the whole universe will pour upon you.

Everything can be had—lose only yourself. Pay just this price. The whole essence of devotion is in this small thing—if the devotee dissolves, God is.

Why do we have such a longing for sameness? Why can we not tolerate difference? Why do we want to paint the whole world in one color? And if all flowers were of one color, would this world be so beautiful? If all singers hummed the same song, would it not create boredom? If from all veenas the same note arose—one note, the same note resounding again and again—would you not start thinking of suicide?

Why such a craving for non-difference? Why are we so frightened of difference? So many trees! This kind, that kind. Some small, some large. On some come little white flowers, on some colorful ones—blue, yellow, red—how many flowers! How many shades of green! How many birds! How many of their songs! Existence is diversity. In diversity there is beauty. In diversity there is richness. Just imagine—trees all alike, people all alike, birds all alike—life would become very impoverished.

Shandilya is Shandilya. Narada is Narada. Narada has spoken in his own way. What is known is one, but when Narada speaks he will speak in Narada’s way. When Shandilya speaks, he will speak in Shandilya’s way. And if Shandilya had no way of his own to say it, why should he speak at all? Narada has said it—the matter would be finished.

The Divine is never exhausted. Innumerable people have spoken, and yet it remains unsaid. Innumerable will speak in the future, and still it will remain unsaid. It cannot be exhausted. We make a picture; before the picture is complete we find that God has changed His face, that the Divine has become new. So paint again, compose sutras again, sing songs again. The Divine is a continuous flow. The Divine is not like a closed pond; it is the flowing current of the Ganges. Each day a new surge, each day a new joy. One wave rose as Narada, another as Shandilya. How many waves are there in the ocean! Are any two waves the same? Though they belong to the same ocean, no two waves are alike—and it is good that they are not.

Drop this worry that all the wise should say the same thing. It is often the ignorant who speak the same thing. For example, would you find any difference between what one ignorant Hindu says and another ignorant Hindu says? Between one ignorant Muslim and another ignorant Muslim? The ignorant repeat one another—how can there be a difference? The ignorant are parrots, borrowed—how can there be difference? But between one wise Hindu and another wise Hindu, a difference appears. Because both bring it from the original source; they do not repeat anyone, they are not reproducing someone else. No wise one is anyone’s carbon copy; he is original, he is authentic. He comes knowing from the original source. And when he sings, his song is such as no one has ever sung before—that is why it is worth singing. Otherwise why should Shandilya trouble himself? Narada has said it; Shandilya could have said, ‘Fine, that is enough.’

Have you heard the story of the lawyer? He was a clever fellow. A guest came to his house, a friend. That night they both slept in the same room. The friend was quite surprised: the lawyer sat up. The friend asked, 'What are you doing?' The lawyer said, 'Prayer.' He lifted his hands toward the sky, switched off the light and said, 'Ditto!' and quickly went to sleep. The friend asked, 'What kind of prayer is this? I’ve heard many prayers, but “ditto”?' The lawyer said, 'Why repeat the same thing day after day? I did it yesterday, and the day before as well. Having done it once, now each day I just say “ditto”—they must understand. God must have that much sense! Why repeat the same thing?'

If Shandilya had only to say what Narada said, he could have said, 'Ditto!'—and the matter would be over. He could even have put his signature under Narada’s sutras!

But Shandilya had to sing his own song. This world is immensely creative. And until Shandilya sings his own song, there will be no rest; until Narada sings his song, there will be no rest.

I have seen a ray
that is the sun itself
I have heard a laughter
that is poetry
I have seen a flower
that is truly a lotus
I have seen a color
that is pure white
in which all colors are contained
distinct from burnished gold
beyond every kind of being
this ray, this laughter
this flower, this color
and yet there is no bliss in my life
because I have only
kept on seeing it
I have not yet been able to make it into verse!

Merely seeing does not do—until you can make it into verse, until you can bind it into expression. Merely hearing the song of the Divine does not do; until the song flows through you and reaches people, it remains incomplete. The matter is not finished until then. Until you say what you have heard, even you do not trust that you have heard; there is no clear confirmation of whether you heard or not. When the knower speaks, only then does it become clear to himself what he has seen. For what he saw was vast, chaotic, an infinite nebula—what was seen was so immense; when he begins to weave the seen into the thread of essence, then it becomes clear even to him.

There is a very famous Egyptian proverb: the best way in the world to learn something is to teach it to others.

There is some essence in this saying. The essence is that when you sit down to teach someone else, things start becoming clear to you as well. You must have noticed it. Prakaranat cha. At times you too must have experienced that while you were explaining something to someone, the matter became clear to you for the first time. It was in your experience, yet it was hazy, unmanifest, not sharp; while explaining it to someone, suddenly it became clear. In explaining it to another, you too understood.

That is why there is such joy in dialogue. That is why satsang has such significance. That is why the wise have said: when two devotees meet, praise the Lord together, extol the Lord to one another. Why? Because in that very situation it will become clear to them too, and a surge will arise within the other as well. Say what you have known. In the very saying you will find that you have known more. In saying it you will find: the matter was hazy till now; today it became manifest, clear, delineated.

And there is one inevitability in the experience of truth: it will have to be spoken. What has been known must be shared. Otherwise flowers would keep their fragrance within themselves. Otherwise a lamp would lock its light inside itself. Otherwise clouds would set a guard over their waters. But clouds will rain—they must rain. Do not think that only the earth longs for the clouds when she is thirsty; the clouds, too, long for the thirsty earth. The yearning is on both sides, the fire on both sides. Here the earth longs to receive water; there the cloud longs to find someone thirsty. The cloud too becomes heavy.

So when Buddha wandered from village to village for fifty years, it was the search for the thirsty earth. When Mahavira preached continuously for forty years, it was the fragrance of the flower seeking nostrils. When Narada and Shandilya uttered these sutras, they were the rays of a lamp seeking eyes. Let some eye be found—then there is recognition. You have often seen only one side—you have seen that the disciple searches; you have not seen that the master also searches. The disciple searches because he has not found. The master searches because he has found. Both are seeking. And when the two meet there is incomparable joy. The disciple rejoices that what he lacked has been shown, what he did not have has been received; and the master rejoices that what he had he could share. He becomes free of indebtedness. God had given it to him; he has given it to someone. What has been received as prasad—when you distribute it as prasad, only then will you be free of debt; otherwise, the debt will remain and you will be indebted. God has given so much—what will you do with it now? Give it to someone.

This is the way to return it to God—because the other is also God. When a master gives something to his disciple, he is returning it to God—under the pretext of the disciple, through the disciple as a pretext. Tvadiyam vastu Govinda tubhyam eva samarpayet. He is saying: 'All right—now, Govinda, you have come as a disciple; here, take it, hold it. We return your own thing to you.'

See it: clouds rise in the sky, they rain upon the Himalayas, the Ganges fills with nothing but water and then the Ganges sets off to pour herself into the ocean. And then from the ocean clouds will rise again, and again they will fill the Ganges, and again the Ganges will pour herself out—such is the circle. Life is a circle. What has been received will have to be given. Suppose the Ganges were to say, 'Why should I give? It is obtained with such difficulty; I wait for months, then somehow the rain clouds gather, the month of Ashadh comes. I will not give; I will hold it back.' If the Ganges were to hold it back, the circle would break. Then the clouds would not come; even in Ashadh the clouds would not come. The clouds come in Ashadh because the Ganges goes and merges into the Bay of Bengal; then again clouds rise from the ocean.

God gave to Narada; Narada then poured it into the Ganges. Then some Narada will rise again, and God will rain again into Narada. Understand this circular process of life. But there will be the distinctiveness of each. The Ganges has her own gait, her own accent; the Sindhu (Indus) has its own gait, its own swell, its own style. Each has its own manner. The Ganges flows in her way; the Brahmaputra flows in its way. All go toward the ocean and all receive from the ocean—but this diversity is beautiful. Otherwise life would become very boring.

The difference is in expression, not in experience. What is known is one. Therefore the scriptures say: the knowers have known the One, but they have said it in many ways. The variety is in the saying.

There is no confusion in darshan; in shastra there will be confusion. Shastra itself means confusion. Shastra means: doctrines, arguments, words. Darshan is simple and direct. Darshan means vision—the capacity to see—the eye. When the eye is empty, void of ego, free of thought, when the mind does not interfere, what happens then is darshan. To see what is, just as it is—that is darshan. Remember the difference between darshan and darshan-shastra. Darshan-shastra is not darshan; darshan-shastra is speculation, intellectual tussle. Darshan is vision, experience. In philosophy there will be entanglement. In philosophy a single question will carry a thousand questions, and from each answer a thousand more will arise. And in philosophy no question ever gets resolved. In five thousand years of history, philosophers have not solved a single question. For five thousand years they have asked many questions, but not given a single answer. They cannot.

A philosopher is almost like the five blind men who went to see an elephant. Lacking eyes, they groped. One felt the elephant’s leg and said, “It is like a pillar.” Another felt the ear and said, “It is like a winnowing basket.” Each touched something different. A great dispute broke out among the five. Each tried to prove that the part he had groped was the whole elephant. No one saw the whole, because to see the whole you need eyes. The quarrel became loud. Those blind men are still arguing. Those very five wrote all the philosophies. The people we call philosophers are none other than those blind men—and their dispute will never end.

When I enrolled in the university, I was a student of philosophy. My elderly professor gave his first lecture on the first day; it was very sweet. He was a Vedantin and held that the world is maya, illusion. But he got into trouble with me. He had taken a very good example, a very scientific one, to prove the world is maya. He said: consider the Niagara Falls. For thousands of years it was falling, but there was silence, no sound. We listeners were startled—no sound? Near Niagara there is a tremendous roar. It falls from such a height! Such a vast body of water! It crashes on rocks—it has split mountains; there is no greater waterfall. No sound? But soon it became clear what he meant; he was invoking science. He then said: for thousands upon thousands of years there was no sound—only silence. Then a wild man came near Niagara. As soon as he came close, the whole world was filled with Niagara’s roar. Meaning: until there is an ear, there cannot be sound.

He was right—how could there be sound? Let Niagara keep falling, but until an ear comes near… If you think a little, you’ll understand: how can there be sound? For sound, the ear is essential, indispensable. We students were impressed—the point seemed right.

Then he said: and until then there was no color in Niagara either. There cannot be color without the eye. Don’t say these trees are green; when you go away, they are no longer green. When you go—the eye goes—how can they remain green? Green is a relationship between the tree and your eye. One who suffers from jaundice sees them yellow—that is another kind of eye; it creates a different relation. When there is no eye, the tree drops its color, because for whom would there be color? Color is a relation of the eye.

We all knew he was a Vedantin, wanting to prove this world as maya. So he said: do you see—there is neither color in Niagara nor sound. Sound and color are both in man’s head. That man who came—both events happened in his head.

I am used to getting into tangles; I stood up. I asked him: you say sound is not outside? He said, “Correct.” Color is not outside? “Correct.” He was very pleased—he had found a disciple. I asked: all inside the head? He said, “Absolutely right.” Then I asked: the head—does the head lie outside the head, or inside the head? He became a little uneasy. Now the tangle! If he says the head is outside the head, he must accept an outside. If he says the head is inside the head, trouble again—inside of what, and who is inside whom? To be inside, something must be outside. He thought for a moment and then said, “The head too is inside the head.” I said, then we have two heads: one head in which the other head is inside, and one head which contains it. One head is outside. The head that is outside—is it outside? The head that is inside—is it inside?

He grew uneasy; he began to sweat. He said, “You go outside!” I said, where is outside? In your head or in mine? Where shall I go? He became so angry—forgot all Vedanta and such! He shouted, “Get out!” I said, you keep shouting, but where shall I go out to? Your voice is inside my head; the outside is also inside my head; you are inside my head; I am inside your head—it’s very tangled, very confusing!

I told him, it’s like a mouse that enters its hole, and once inside, it pulls the hole in after itself. Now I ask: is the hole inside the mouse, or the mouse inside the hole? First the mouse entered the hole—that much is fine. Then it pulled the hole inside itself. Now, the hole it pulled inside—of which it was inside—where is the mouse now?

He left the class on the spot. He went and wrote his resignation. He said, “Either this student studies here, or I teach here. Both cannot happen together. He is a troublemaker.”

The principal called me. He asked, “What is the problem?” I said, it’s not a problem, it is philosophy. He created the tangle. I was absolutely silent. I was Niagara, sitting quiet. He spoke for an hour. When I explained the whole confusion to the principal, he said, “You’ll make my head spin. I understand why he has left. When you asked whether the mouse is in the hole or the hole is in the mouse—well, I’m no philosopher. And if you’ve made his head spin, you’ll make mine spin too. It’s better you leave this college.” I said, then where will I study philosophy?

Rumor spread through the whole town—where I was studying—the news went everywhere. For three days he didn’t come to the college; he dug in his heels. And his stubbornness was justified. I too know he did the right thing, because the matter could not have moved forward; I would have kept it stuck there. Either he had to accept that there is an outside—which he could not; he was a staunch follower of Berkeley and of Shankara, an idealist; he could not accept it. And until he accepted it, I could not let go.

The principal pleaded with me, “He is an old man. And I know it’s not your fault. He raised the issue—that’s also true. But we do not want to lose him; he is prestigious. You should enroll in another college.”

No other college was willing to give me a place. They said, “First give it in writing that you won’t raise questions.”

Philosophy is entanglement. You raise a question—the tangle begins. You answer—the tangle thickens. There is no end to it. But darshan is not an entanglement.

The flavor of religion is in darshan, not in philosophy. And the flavor of devotion goes deeper than darshan—not just in seeing, but in being. These are very different things. The only flavor of philosophy is: think, reflect, inquire, argue; problems and solutions. One reaches nowhere; the net just keeps expanding. The heap gets bigger. A person can go mad in it. So if philosophers go mad, it is no surprise. To be a philosopher you need a very profound intelligence; otherwise you will go mad.

Religion’s longing is in darshan—it wants to see, not to think, to see. The longing of devotion is deeper still—but even seeing, what then? What will come of seeing? Thinking is shallow compared to seeing; deeper than seeing is being. The devotee wants to become God; the devotee wants to experience godliness. Seeing—there too, the distance remains.

That is why Shandilya said: the devotee desires—not knowledge, not philosophy—but to become one in totality, the state of oneness.

Words in themselves have no meaning. You pour meaning into them—that is what they become. Words are artificial, makeshift. If words carried meaning on their own, you would understand Chinese the very first time you heard it. The words are audible, but the meaning doesn’t land. Meaning is infused by continual usage. You keep taking a word to mean the same thing again and again, you keep using it that way, and slowly that meaning condenses. But the word holds no fixed meaning. The same word can mean different things to different people—and to different traditions.

Take the word jijnasa, “inquiry.” A knower uses it in the sense of investigation—intellectual inquiry. A devotee also means investigation, but existential investigation. He doesn’t just want to know; he wants to be—the inquiry of being.

Words do not carry fixed meanings by themselves. Meaning is decided by usage. So you will find that a word means one thing in one tradition and something else in another. Take the word darshan (often translated as “philosophy”). In the Hindu tradition it means “vision,” while in the Jain tradition it means “faith.” Where the Jains speak of samyak darshan, the meaning is “right faith,” not “right vision.” They have their reason: they say, what is truly seen flowers as trust. It is no longer merely vision; it becomes faith. What is rightly seen becomes part of faith.

Socrates has said: Knowledge is revolution, knowledge is liberation, knowledge is power.
But Socrates’ meaning of “knowledge” is his own, very different from Shandilya’s. For Socrates, knowledge means: one who has truly awakened and seen, who has known, whose ignorance is finished, in whom the lamp of knowing has been lit. Then it is right to say: knowledge is power, knowledge is liberation, knowledge is revolution.

Shandilya, however, says: What will come of knowledge? By “knowledge” Shandilya means information. You may know a great deal about God—what will that do, until you know God? You may know everything about the sun—what will that do, if your eyes are blind, if they do not open?

Now there is a difference. When Socrates uses the word “knowledge,” he means what is seen when the eyes are open. When Shandilya uses the word “knowledge,” he means that even a blind man can know about light—that is “knowledge.” What the one with eyes knows is no longer knowledge, it is union—he has become one with it, absorbed into it.

Remember the distinctions of words.

You ask: “In the sutra ‘athato bhakti-jijnasa’ the use of the word jijnasa for bhakti feels a bit strange.”
That strangeness arises from your own habit. You will have to walk with Shandilya. You will have to catch the meaning of Shandilya’s words, keep sympathy with him. Do not impose your own meanings, or you will lose contact with Shandilya.

You say: “Because jijnasa has a certain intellectual smell.”
That intellectual smell is visible to you, not to Shandilya. Shandilya has nothing to do with intellect. His inquiry is wholly of the heart.

Inquiry can have three levels—intellectual, heartfelt, existential. Shandilya’s inquiry is of the heart. Bhakti begins in the heart and is fulfilled in being. The path of knowledge begins in the head, enters the heart, and arrives at being. The path of devotion sets the intellect aside from the outset; it begins in the heart and travels straight toward being. The path of meditation begins neither in head nor heart; it drops both and leaps straight into being. So when a meditator says “inquiry,” he means existential inquiry. When a lover says “inquiry,” he means the inquiry of the heart, of feeling. When a knower says “inquiry,” he means reflection, thinking, analysis.

A doctor’s practice was doing well. His place became too small, so he moved to a larger office on the second floor of the same building. But after moving upstairs his practice suddenly died. People stopped coming. Even his own patients began going elsewhere. He was puzzled. One day he met a patient on the road and asked, “What happened? Why did you stop coming? Others have stopped too.” The patient said, “It’s because of the sign on the stairs.” The doctor asked, “The sign on the stairs? What has that to do with anything?” The patient said, “It does. The sign says: ‘Way up.’ Now who wants to go up? That’s why we come to a doctor—to avoid going up! Word has spread in the town: Beware of that stairway to ‘up’!”

Who wants to go “up”!

In a religious gathering the preacher said, “Those who want to go to heaven, raise your hands.” Everyone raised a hand—except Mulla Nasruddin. The preacher, surprised, asked again: “Nasruddin, did you hear? Are you dozing? Do you want to go to heaven or not?” Nasruddin still sat still. Then the preacher asked a second question: “Those who want to go to hell, raise your hands.” No one raised a hand—not even Nasruddin. Finally the preacher asked, “Where on earth do you want to go?” Nasruddin said, “I want to go home. When I left the house my wife said: ‘Come straight home from the mosque—or I’ll break your legs.’ Let someone else go to heaven, someone else to hell—I’m going home. I don’t want my legs broken.”

Each has his own feeling, his own meanings for words.

Just two or three days ago I defined bhakti as madhurya—sweetness: bhakti is like the sweetness present in all sweets, like the sugar in them. The next day Kamal sent in a question: “In the old ashram dining hall they used to put sugar in the yogurt; why don’t they do that now?”
He must have remembered sugar as soon as he heard the word. Which sugar am I talking about, and which sugar are you remembering! Each with his own meaning.

A reporter arrived at a film set and saw a set of ruins: the actress was lying unconscious, chairs and tables were broken, the set walls shattered, and in the window frames stood a panting hero. The director was also out cold. Assistants, light-men—everyone stood shocked. Only the hero’s secretary stood calmly smoking. The reporter asked, “What happened? The set walls smashed, people in this state—how did this happen?” The secretary said, “The hero got a bit too involved in the fight scene.” “How did he get so involved?” “His payment installment hadn’t arrived.”

Everyone has their own words—and their own meanings.

There was an unmarried officer in the finance department who was in the habit of blocking every request for funds. On files from other departments he would write, “Kindly indicate how your work was done earlier,” and send them back. Meanwhile his marriage was fixed, and he sent invitations to all. The next day all the cards came back, each bearing the same note: “Kindly indicate how your work was done earlier.”

The meaning of words lies in their context. Outside the context there is no meaning. By jijnasa, Shandilya means—heartfelt inquiry.

They would not be friends, nor loved ones. Those who do not grant you the freedom to be yourself can be neither friends nor loved ones. The very meaning of friendship is that we care for the other so much that whatever they wish to become, we will give them freedom. And the meaning of a loved one is: whichever direction you wish to go, wherever your joy lies, our blessings will be with you—even if we do not agree in our opinions.
Love liberates. And that which does not liberate is not love.

I am not telling you to take sannyas. I would only say this—whatever your inner feeling is, move toward it with courage. If it is for sannyas, then toward sannyas; if it is for the world, then toward the world. Do not make another the decider. Do not place the decision in someone else’s hands. Otherwise you will destroy your life. Your life is yours; live it in your own way.

What I am,
I must remain that—
namely,
a tree of the forest,
the ridge between fields,
a wave of the river,
a distant song,
the past,
in the present,
present,
in the future.

What I am,
I must remain that—
blazing heat,
torrential rain,
biting cold,
the redness of blood,
the green of grass,
the yellow of the flower.

What I am,
I must remain that.
I must bear
my own being
exactly.
I must be tempered:
if I am iron,
then to become a plow.
If I am a seed,
then I must be buried
to become a flower.

What I am,
I must become that.
If I am a current,
an underground stream,
then I must be dug out
as a well,
and I should let my song
be spread by the very hands
that need it.
If I am the sky—
but for so long
I have not been doing this:
I am afraid
to be what I am!

There is only one failure in life—to be afraid of being what you are. And there is only one success—to become that which is your inner prompting. Become whatever you wish to become. Take on every hassle, pay every price—that is courage. If you remain timid, you will miss life. If you remain a coward, life’s treasure will never be yours. If you would be a victor, settle one thing: whatever the result, whether the whole world is with me or against me, I will walk my own path—even if my path leads to hell. I will listen to my heart.

And the person who, listening to himself, even goes to hell—he reaches heaven. And the one who, listening to others, even goes to heaven—he certainly lands in hell.

That’s all for today.