Bhakti Sutra #1

Life is energy—a sea of energy. On the shore of time, tireless, endless waves of energy keep crashing; there is no beginning, no end; only the middle, the in-between. Man too is a little wave in it; a small seed—of infinite possibilities.

It is natural for the wave to long to become the ocean. And it is natural for the seed to long to become a tree. Until the seed blossoms into flowers, fulfillment is not possible.

Man is a longing to become the Divine. Before that, there are many halts, but not the destination. You may rest for the night. You will find many spots along the way, but do not build a house anywhere. Home can only be the Divine.

The Divine means: the full flowering of what you can be.

The Divine is not a person; not some form sitting somewhere in the sky; not a name. The Divine is your ultimate possibility—the final possibility beyond which there is no further becoming; beyond which there is nowhere left to go; where, upon arriving, there is contentment, a profound satisfaction.

Every human being will remain afflicted until then. You may accumulate as much wealth, as much splendor as you like, yet some worm of pain will keep biting inside; some restlessness will gnaw; some thorn will keep pricking. Try a thousand ways to forget—there are many kinds of intoxicants for oblivion—but you will not be able to forget. And it is good that you cannot forget; because if, alas, you did succeed in forgetting, then the seed would remain a seed and never become a flower—and until the flower blooms and its fragrance meets the free sky, how can there be fulfillment? Until you touch your supreme peak and melt, until you explode into the Infinite, until your Ganges returns to the very ocean from which it arose, if in the meantime you forget, that is self-destruction; if you manage to forget yourself, there can be no greater failure.

Unfortunate are those who conclude that they have succeeded. Blessed are those who know that whatever they do, only failure comes to hand. For these are the very people who, one day or another, will reach the Divine.

Where success is found, a house is built. Where failure is found, the feet are ready to move on.

Without reaching the Divine, no contentment is possible.

I said, life is energy.

Energy has three forms. One is seed-form: nothing has manifested. Then tree-form: everything has manifested, but life itself is still unmanifest. Then flower-form: even life has blossomed; that unique, unprecedented fragrance has arrived, the petals have opened, and union with the open sky has occurred, oneness with the Infinite!

Ordinarily, the seed means: desire. The tree means: love. The flower means: devotion. So long as you are a seed, you remain in lust. When you become a tree, love descends into your life. And when you become a flower—devotion.

Devotion is the supreme peak. It is the last word.

Let us understand this a little; only then can we enter these rare sutras.

You are the body; you are also the mind; and you are something beyond both, of which you are unaware.

The body is very gross. You can detect it easily. No special intelligence is needed. The body has weight. Its presence is plain. No meditation is required to sense it.

You also get a slight glimpse of mind, for the mind stands between the gross and the subtle—linked to the body and to the soul. From the body’s side you get some news of the mind, because one thread is tied to the shore of the body. But you get no news of the soul. Soul seems a mere word. Hearing the word “soul” no bells ring within you. The very word makes you uneasy. You know its dictionary meaning; the meaning in the lexicon of life is unknown.

With the body is joined lust. Lust is gross. The body seeks the body: that is lust’s meaning. The body seeks the opposite body; because one shore is incomplete, the desire for the other shore arises. Man seeks woman, woman seeks man, so that the river of life may flow between, the two banks meet. Man is alone. Woman is alone.

On the plane of the body there is the demand for the body, the longing for bodily union. For a moment that union does occur. For a moment body sinks into body and is lost—but only for a moment! The pain does not end; it deepens. After that union, a great melancholy rains down, because after union comes a deeper separation. Nothing is truly received; in fact it feels as if more has been lost.

Bodily union can only be momentary. The gross cannot dissolve into the gross. The gross has limits. The gross cannot leave its boundaries; otherwise it will cease to be gross.

Try to fuse two blocks of ice; it is difficult. But if they melt into water, they merge completely. No obstacle remains. The boundary is gone, and union becomes easy.

The body is like ice—congealed, solid. It is the same energy; if it melts, mind forms. Mind is like water. It has boundaries, but they are fluid, not solid. You can mold mind into any shape; it takes the shape. Try to mold the body—no. But mind—yes.

A child is born in a Hindu home; raise him in a Muslim household, and he becomes a Muslim. Not the body—only the mind. The body will still carry the father’s features, the mother’s features. The body’s news remains tied to the source from which it came; but the mind becomes Muslim. The child will not even remember that once he was Hindu. Even before the mind set, before it took shape, it turned Muslim. Later he may become Hindu again if he wishes, or Christian; theist or atheist, atheist or theist—mind offers no real resistance.

Mind is fluid. It changes every moment. Its fluidity is unique.

Lust is of the body and like the body.

Love is of the mind and like the mind.

The demand of love is higher than the demand of the body. Love says: let two minds meet! One in love will not go to a prostitute’s door. The very idea will seem absurd, impossible. But one full of lust will go to a prostitute; it is only the body he demands.

The body can be bought; the mind cannot be bought.

The body is inert. The mind is somewhat conscious; thus it cannot stoop so low as to be bought and sold.

The mind asks for love: someone ready to give their all, without condition. The mind wants to give itself to someone, to lavish itself unconditionally. The mind’s demand is for love.

When two minds meet, the nectar that arises is called love. When two bodies meet, the juice that arises is called lust.

Then beyond the mind is your very being—the soul. The soul is like water turned to steam, rising into the sky. It is still water, but even the fluid boundary is gone. No boundary remains; it spreads into the sky! Steam becomes invisible; for a short distance you see it, then it vanishes!

The soul is invisible—like steam!

What does the soul seek?

The body seeks the body. The mind seeks the mind. The soul seeks the soul.

From the union of body and body comes a nectar—momentary—called lust. From the union of mind and mind comes a nectar—more lasting—it can last a lifetime. The mind aspires that it will last beyond life as well. Lovers say, “Death will not break our love.” If they have known love, they say, nothing will separate us. Even when the body perishes, our love will not be destroyed.

It is still a desire, but the mind is more far-reaching. Its limit is broader than that of the body.

Then there is the soul; it demands the eternal. It is not satisfied with less. Why crave the momentary? In a dark night a lightning flashes for a moment, and the darkness grows even deeper. Sorrow itself is better. In a world of sorrow, if a flower of momentary pleasure blooms, sorrow becomes even more unbearable; it becomes harder to endure.

The soul does not ask for the mind’s love, because the mind is fluid: today it loves one, tomorrow it may fall for another. The mind is not trustworthy. While it loves, it says, “Now, other than you, I can never love anyone. Now, for me, there is no one but you.” But these are the mind’s words. What is the mind’s reliability? It says today; it changes tomorrow! It says now; it changes even now!

The mind is liquid like water.

The soul asks for the eternal, the timeless, the deathless. The soul seeks soul. From the union of soul and soul, the nectar that arises is called devotion.

The body’s boundary is solid. The mind’s boundary is fluid. The soul has no boundary.

Lust is momentary. Love goes a little farther; it can be somewhat lasting. Devotion is eternal.

In lust, the body meets body—the gross meets the gross; in love—the subtle meets the subtle; in the soul—the formless meets the formless. Devotion is the science of the formless meeting the formless.

Consider this: you sit in your house with doors and windows shut; no sunlight enters, no breeze, no fragrance of flowers, no song of birds—you sit closed within yourself. Such is the body: all doors shut.

Then you open the doors and windows, fresh gusts of air enter, the sun’s rays come in, birdsong resounds, you glimpse the sky: this is the mind! It opens a little. But you still sit inside the house.

Then devotion is that you step outside the house and stand under the open sky: now the sun does not merely come, it pours down; now the breeze does not come from somewhere, it dances all around you; now you have become one with the birds’ choir!

These bhakti-sutras are an entire scripture of devotion. Try to understand each sutra with utmost attentiveness—and with utmost love too, because this is the scripture of love. You will not understand it through logic. Only taste will make it known.

“Now, therefore, a commentary on devotion.”

Why “Now”—“athato”...?

Much has been said about lust. Much has been discussed about love. Athato bhaktim... now let us speak of devotion. We have lived enough. We have seen the body’s games. We have seen the mind’s snares. We have passed those halting places. Now let us speak a little of devotion.

“Now!” The scripture begins abruptly!

Only in India are there scriptures that begin with “athato”; in no language elsewhere is this so. It seems incomplete.

What scripture begins with “Now”! It sounds as though something was already being discussed; as if a previous tale has been dropped; as if this is a middle chapter, not the beginning.

When Western commentators first encountered the Brahma Sutras—which also begin thus: “Athato brahma-jijnasa—now, therefore, the inquiry into Brahman”—they said there must have been a prior book that is lost. Certainly, because this begins in the middle.

No, no book is lost; this itself is the beginning. It is the last chapter of the book of life. The scripture begins, but it is the final chapter of life’s book. It is not for those still entangled in bodily lust. They will not understand. It is not time yet. The fruit must ripen. It is not for those still sunk in the poetry of love and who take it as the ultimate. These two are set aside by “athato.”

So, at the very start the scripture declares who is qualified. “Athato” is the definition of the qualified. It says: if you are done with lust, if the mind is satiated—then. Otherwise, wander a little longer, because without wandering there is no experience. If love still has savor for you, forgive us; you cannot enter this temple yet. You are a worshiper of some other idol; the thirst for the Divine has not awakened. You are either a seed or a tree; it is not yet time to be a flower. And until the time comes, nothing happens; do not labor in vain.

This is for those whose final chapter in the school of life is near. That does not mean it is for the old. Just as Westerners misunderstood—thinking this is half a book and half lost—so the East also misunderstood, thinking this is for the aged.

No, it is for the mature, not the aged. One can be mature at any time. A small child can be mature. Deep intelligence is needed! And otherwise, even the old remain childish. One does not ripen by growing old. White hair in the sun does not make a man wise. In the old man’s mind the same cravings, the same desires keep circling. So these scriptures are not for him either.

Sometimes a young person awakens in the full bloom of youth, awakens while it was still the time for sleep. Sometimes a small child suddenly leaps from seed to flower. Some Shankara in a very young age... Age is not the point; awareness is.

“Athato... Now we shall expound devotion.” We expound, we interpret, we do not define. Some things can be described, explained, but not defined. Suppose you have tasted something and you try to explain it to someone who has not yet tasted it, but a curiosity has arisen, a relish, a yearning—what will you do? You will describe. You will describe the taste you found, how it tasted. You will choose some symbols, some hints in the listener’s language, connect your experience to theirs.

Interpretation means: trying to link your experience with those who have none yet; those ready to enter the temple but not yet through the gate, giving them a hint of the temple; bringing them a little taste of what happens inside.

What will you do? Define it? No—interpret it. A definition is possible only among those who both know. A definition is concise—one or two sentences suffice. Interpretation is a little longer. And from interpretation we only evoke scenes, glimpses. It is never exactly accurate, because it cannot be; it is partly right, partly off. For when the knower speaks to the unknowing, he must use the language of the unknowing. A definition can be exact; an interpretation cannot be.

When a Buddha speaks to those who have not known Buddhahood, if he uses his own language, it will be a definition; if he uses their language, it will be an interpretation. Hence the sutra says at the outset, “Now we interpret devotion.”

“It is supreme love toward God.”

The first sutra of the interpretation of devotion: “It is supreme love toward God.”

I told you, energy has one form: lust; a second form: love; a third form: devotion. Between devotion and lust stands love. One hand of love is joined to lust; the other to devotion. If we must interpret lust, we must do it through love. If we must interpret devotion, again only through love. For love is the bridge between the two. Love is the midpoint of both. Love is their balance.

Those who have known devotion spoke to those who had not—and in what language could they speak? None other than the language of love. You cannot speak in the language of lust, because lust is one pole, devotion the other. Devotion is almost the opposite of lust. If we speak from lust’s side, we can only say that devotion is that which is not lust. But that will not help, it will only negate.

We ask, “What is devotion?” If speaking from lust, we can only tell what it is not. But the questioner says, “We do not ask what devotion is not. Not stone, not tree, not bird—granted; what is devotion? Where to begin?”

“...It is of the nature of supreme love.”

We must begin with love. But we add a condition to love: supreme love! Supreme love means: love, free of lust. If we only said “love,” there would be no difference left between devotion and love; love itself would be devotion. Then there would be no need for a third; lust and love would suffice.

No—there is still a trace of lust in love. In devotion even that trace is gone. Understand it so: in lust there is a little love. That is why man remains entangled in lust. Perhaps one percent is love; ninety-nine percent is only lust, only craving; but that one percent gives even lust a certain beauty; it lends it an expression not its own—borrowed; it veils lust’s ugliness, gilds it; it drapes lust’s futility with a hint of meaning.

In lust there is a tiny fraction of love. And in love there is a small fraction of lust. They are connected. Therefore love is not yet pure love; something alien is still in it. Even love carries a little lust.

Think of it this way: the lustful man falls into lust; because of lust, a little love appears. The lover dives into love; because of love, lust enters. The difference is great, but there is overlap too. The lustful man loves because of his lust. The lover descends into sex because of his love. The difference is fundamental. For the lover’s sex will be tender and sweet. The lustful man’s love will be soiled; it will stink. But the two are intermingled.

Devotion is of the nature of supreme love. Supreme love means: the pure gold remains; not fourteen carats, not eighteen, but pure! Not a single carat of lust left. Pure love becomes devotion!

Because you perhaps know a little of love, devotion is being explained on the basis of love. You know a bit of the language of love, though not fully; somewhere in a dream a glimpse came; somewhere, groping, your hand touched it; some small recognition arrived, incidental perhaps, but you have a little taste.

As if you have seen brass, which is yellow, and you have not seen gold; we explain gold through brass. “It is yellow, like this, but more pure, luminous, shining like a ray of the sun!” We search for symbols. Symbol-search is description, interpretation.

“Devotion is supreme love toward God.”

All the Hindi translations render it so: “Devotion is supreme love toward God.” But the Sanskrit says something else:

Sa tvasmin paramapremarupa.

It does not use the word “God.” It says “toward That.” Tvasmin—“toward That.” The difference is great. Those who translated into Hindi narrowed the point.

“Toward That”—no name can be given, it is only an indication. It is far beyond. Call it “God,” and the matter is spoiled. With “God” we define.

“Ishvara” means “the Lord,” the one of all lordship, all majesty. This is our definition, for we are habituated to think in the language of power and wealth. For us, God is like an emperor; the whole universe is his, but he remains an emperor. We think in the language of wealth and sovereignty, so we say Ishvara.

But what has wealth to do with the Divine? What has majesty to do with That? It is not right to imagine it from kings. The Sanskrit is precise: tvasmin—“toward That.” Do not give it a name. Whatever name you give will be yours; your mind will intrude. Only say: “toward That.” Point. Indicate with a finger. Do not name.

It is the Nameless; do not drag it into names.

It is the Formless; do not insist on a form.

It is without shape; do not give it a shape.

Say “God,” and a shape arises. The very word raises forms in your mind.

Consider: “toward That”—does any form arise? Toward That! You will ask, “Toward whom? Who is this That? Whom are you speaking of?”

Say “God,” and you feel relieved: “Understood.” But the moment you say “understood,” there is misunderstanding. It is a grace not to understand too quickly. You understand too fast—that is the mistake.

The Divine is not so easy as to fit into understanding. In fact, to understand That, all understanding must be put aside. Only those who abandon the insistence to understand, understand.

So it is better we too say, “toward That!” The moment we say “That,” a vast doorway opens. Then animals, birds, trees, the sky, all are included. Say “God,” and something is spoiled; a split arises—Creator and creation. Then you start slandering creation and worshiping the Creator. But there is no separation anywhere between Creator and creation.

“Creator” is not the right word; it is a creative energy. That energy is both creation and creator.

“To That” is perfectly right.

Sa tvasmin paramapremarupa.

To That it is of the nature of supreme love. No name, no dwelling known. What does this mean? It means that love cannot be without name and address; but devotion can. Love needs an address.

If you say you have fallen in love and someone asks, “With whom?” and you say, “No idea,” then you are mad.

Love is toward the manifest, hence it has a name. Love has an address; you can write letters. The Divine has no address; you cannot write letters. For the Divine, a great madness is needed: love toward the formless! Which means the object is gone—the subject alone remains.

Those who have known love toward the Divine have, in truth, known only this: there is no “other” there at all. There is only love. Strictly speaking, to say “love toward the Divine” is not right, because there is no “toward.” There is only a pouring of love; no one to receive; only a rising, an upsurge of pure loving energy; no object. But we must speak in your language.

Thus the sutra says: “It is supreme love toward That.”

Love is supreme only when even the lover is no longer needed. So long as the lover is needed, your love is not supreme; it is dependent. And what depends cannot be pure. Whomever you love will cover your love, color it, give it a shape—then it cannot be supreme.

Think of it this way: whenever you craft jewelry from gold, it cannot remain pure; you must mix something. Pure gold is too delicate; jewelry cannot be made of it. You must alloy it with something foreign—some copper, some other metal. Then it is eighteen carat, twenty carat, twenty-two carat; but never pure, never twenty-four.

When you make ornaments of devotion, it becomes love; when you melt love’s ornaments and refine them, devotion happens. But when you melt love’s ornaments, the lover melts too. The beloved you loved does not remain. You also do not remain; only love remains. Both vanish. Duality disappears. When only love remains, love is pure. Neither I nor you—both are gone!

There is a famous poem of Jalaluddin Rumi that I cherish. A lover knocks at his beloved’s door. From within comes the voice, “Who is there?” The lover says, “It is I, your lover. Do you not recognize me? Have you forgotten my footsteps? Has my voice slipped from your memory?” But from within comes the reply, “Not yet. You are not qualified for the door to open. You are not ready.”

The lover was astonished. The lover always believes he is worthy. Everyone is born with this error—that they are already qualified for love. Thus no one learns love; they begin without learning. Then there are so many mistakes in love, so much turmoil, and whole lives are wasted.

Love is a possibility, not a fact. Love must be brought forth; it is not yet revealed. Love is not a gift already in hand; it must be sought, created.

The lover turned back; wandered for years; searched for love; tried to understand its meaning; meditated, prayed—slowly love arose. He returned and knocked again. From within came the voice, “Who?” Rumi says the lover now replied, “You.” And the door opened.

If I ever meet Jalaluddin—some day I might; what has been still is somewhere; that which is does not perish—I would say to him, “Complete the poem; it is unfinished. Even now the door should not open. Where ‘You’ remains, the ‘I’ cannot be entirely gone.”

The lover first said, “I!” Now he has changed sides; but turning the pillow does not change the bed. Now he says, “You!” But what is the meaning of “You,” if “I” is truly gone? To whom will you say “You”? In what context?

All the meaning of “You” is hidden in “I.” Only while “I” exists does “You” have meaning. When “I” is not, who is “You”?

I would say to Jalaluddin, “Take it a little further; send this lover back once more. Do not be in a hurry to end the poem; add a few more lines. Let the beloved say, ‘You are partly ready, but not complete. Something of worthiness has come, but it is only the beginning. Wander a little more. Search a little more. Having come this far, you will reach further; the path is right, the destination has not yet come. Half the journey is done—‘I’ is gone; half remains—‘You’ must go too!’ Then bring him again after some years. In truth, then there is no need to bring him; the beloved will herself go where the lover is.”

Supreme love is when neither lover nor beloved remain, when duality is gone.

“...It is supreme love toward That...”

And then—

Even now the tavern of vision opens in every particle
if a human being becomes a stranger to himself.

Then, in each speck the door to his winehouse opens! In every particle!

Even now the tavern of vision opens in every speck—
his nectar spills through every grain and the door to his winehouse opens—if a person becomes a stranger to himself! If a man forgets himself, what obstacle remains to finding the Divine! Become a stranger to yourself! Forget “me,” let go of “me,” do not cling to “me,” and his winehouse spills over every particle! Then everywhere there is only his ecstasy.

No “you,” no “he”; only ecstasy—this is the nature of supreme love!

“And it is of the nature of immortality.”

These are wondrous sutras—short, seed-like.

“Devotion is of the nature of supreme love and of immortality.” For one who has known supreme love—he has no more death. Why? Because he has already died—how can he die again? Death remains only while you have not died. Death frightens only while you are. One who has lost himself—what death can he have? He has conquered death! He has attained the immortal!

Remember: it is the ego that dies; you never die; never have, never can. You are eternal, timeless; forever you were, forever you will be. There is no other way. Even if you wish to annihilate yourself, you cannot. Death does not happen. But you have imagined a shape, a form for yourself. That imagination dies. You have fashioned a statue of ego apart from the Divine. It is that I-sense which dies. Because you are clinging to it, you feel, “I died!” If the I-sense drops... “It is of the nature of immortality”... then what is found knows no death.

“Attaining that devotion, a man becomes accomplished, immortal, and fulfilled.”

“...becomes accomplished.”

What does accomplished mean?

It means: he has become what he was meant to be. That which he carried like a seed has blossomed into a flower.

It means: nothing remains to be practiced; no goal remains; you have gone beyond all means.

It means: you have found your own nature, your own form; you have reached the supreme temple you sought, for which you wandered through births upon births.

The moment one loses oneself, one becomes accomplished. Which means: all wandering belongs to the ego. You do not wander because someone else misleads you; you wander because you are. So long as you are, you will wander. The moment you disappear, you arrive. In disappearing is arrival. In being is wandering.

“He becomes immortal, he becomes fulfilled.”

“Upon attaining that devotion, a person desires nothing, feels no hatred, has no attachment, and has no enthusiasm for sense pleasures.”

At first I burned to live—even to die for life;
at last I found even the desire to die had vanished.

There were days when I was so desperate to live I would have died for it. And the final moment—“at last”—the moment of arrival is this: “even the desire to die is gone.” Let alone living, not even the desire to die arises.

Have you ever noticed, the desire to die arises only when the desire to live remains unfulfilled. Wherever life’s desire is thwarted, you say it is better to die. You do not want death; you want life on your own terms. When those terms are not met, you prepare to die.

There is a Russian story: A woodcutter returns with a bundle on his head. His whole life he has carried wood; he is exhausted. All get tired, and all are carrying wood. Cut from the forest, sell in the market; next day, cut again, sell again! He is worn. His bones are old and frail. That day he is particularly miserable: What is the use? This I have done, this I will keep doing, and one day I will die and fall into dust.

He says, “O Death, you come to all; you keep leaving only me. Why do you not come? Take me away!” Death usually does not come so quickly. But the tale says Death heard. Death arrived. The woodcutter had thrown down his bundle and sat despondent. Death said, “I have come. What do you want?”

Seeing Death, his limbs shook, life quivered, breath stalled. He said, “No, nothing. I did not see anyone else around; please just lift my bundle and place it on my head.”

Whenever you talk of dying, look closely: there is a deep desire to live. So do not be surprised when people commit suicide. Do not think, “How did they die? People want to live; how did they die?” They wanted to live very badly, intensely. Their conditions were too many; life could not fulfill them. They became angry with life. They could not destroy life; in attempting to destroy life, they destroyed themselves. Yet in suicide there is the hunger to live.

When you drop the hunger to live, you will be surprised that, along with it, the desire for death melts away. One who is free of the thirst for life—who is ready if death arrives—who does not even say, “Tomorrow I must live”—you will never find him committing suicide; though you may think he should. If a man says there is no question of living, you may think he should end himself. But suicide is committed only when there is a deep craving for life. Why would he kill himself now? Not even the desire to die remains.

“...he does not desire anything.”

For one who has known devotion, objects become useless.

Even when you know love, objects lose their grip.

Have you noticed? Lovers start giving gifts to each other! That is a sign of love. Why? Because the fascination with objects weakens. Objects become worthy of giving, not of clinging.

One to whom you are devoted, you want to give everything. Hence misers cannot love. No love can arise in a miser’s life. Miserliness and love cannot coexist; they cannot dwell in the same house.

Mark this: a miser cannot be a lover; how could he be a devotee? Yet often you find misers talking of devotion. That devotion is false. The Nizam of Hyderabad was a “devout” man. But I have heard he was the richest man in the world. No one had such wealth. Yet you would not find a greater miser. The cap he wore at his coronation—he wore it for forty years. It stank. It was filthy. He would not have it washed, lest it be damaged. He wore it until he died. If guests left half-smoked cigarettes, he would collect them from the ashtray—for himself! You may not believe it. And this man was a devotee! He prayed five times a day. Impossible. Absolutely impossible.

Whom was he deceiving? Even love has not entered this man’s life! Collecting stubbed cigarettes! As soon as guests left, the first thing he did was quickly gather the cigarette butts to smoke later!

Wherever you find a miser, know that if he speaks of God, love, devotion, these are tricks to cover some deep wound. A miser can never be a devotee. He cannot even be a lover. He cannot climb the first step; how will he reach the second?

When you love, your grip on objects loosens at once; you can gift, you can give! And by giving you feel joyous, not sad. And whoever accepts from you, you feel grateful to them for lightening you. You do not think they should be grateful to you; for if even that remains, it is a transaction, you are a miser.

In India there is a custom: when a brahmin visits, first offer him a gift, then also give dakshina. Dakshina means gratitude that he accepted your gift! Dakshina is a wonderful word! First give the gift; since the brahmin accepted—he could have refused—then give dakshina: blessed that you accepted! Had you refused, my love would have returned unfulfilled. You gave me a door!

Thus the lover feels obliged by giving. The devotee, having given all, feels obliged.

“...he does not desire anything, nor does he hate.”

Because when desire is gone, what hatred can remain! Hatred is the shadow of desire. So long as you desire, you will hate. For the very thing you want—if it is in someone else’s possession—what will you do? You will hate. You will envy. You will burn.

“...nor is he attached.”

Because when desire is gone...

Understand this well.

If there is desire for objects in your life, it means you have not known love—first fact. You missed. Objects remain behind; love goes with you. A little goes with you if it is love; devotion goes in its entirety. What is pure gold goes with you; what is alien remains behind.

If you have not reached love, it simply means that what you accumulate, death will snatch away. Hence the miser fears death. He never lives and he fears death. He prepares for living, but never lives. For living requires expenditure. You must bring love. Persons enter, the world of objects ends. No—he only prepares to live: builds a house in which he will someday live; hoards wealth he will someday enjoy; marries a wife with whom someday he will love when free; has children whom someday, when convenient, he will bless. But that day never comes; he only prepares. One day death takes him. All that he gathered lies behind. This frightens him.

Thus the miser is afraid and, out of fear, becomes more miserly; he makes arrangements against death.

There is only one arrangement against death—love. There is no other security, no other defense. No insurance company can insure against death. Only love...

Because in moments of love you rise above objects and persons come into view; the world of objects ends. Then objects become means; you use them for love, but they cannot use you. When you desire objects, you cling to what you have—lest someone seize it! And what you do not have but others do, you resent, for they have it and you do not. Desire thus has two sides: clutch what you have; snatch what others have. Life becomes a scramble, a tug-of-war, a round-and-round; nothing is gained. At death your hands are empty.

“...nor is he attached; nor does he have zeal for sense pleasures.”

This must be understood. You have zeal for sense pleasures only so long as you have not tasted the supreme delight. One who feeds on crumbs does so because he knows nothing of diamonds. One who gathers trash does so because he does not recognize real treasure.

This is a sign of the devotee: he has no enthusiasm for sense pleasures. The lustful has enthusiasm only for sense pleasure, nothing else. The lover has no zeal for sense pleasures; he is enthused by other things; if through them sex happens too, fine.

Consider: if you are in love, you will wish to sit together under a quiet sky and watch the stars. The lustful will not. He will say, “Why waste time? What is in the stars? See once, you’ve seen forever.” The lustful has taste for the body, not for stars, not for the moon, not for birdsong. Two lovers can sit and listen to a sitar or sing. Or two lovers can sit in silent meditation, in prayer. If through that prayer sex also enters their life, they do not object. But they began with prayer. Gazing at the moon, they may come close and take each other’s hand—no problem; yet they began by looking at the moon.

Lovers’ eyes are not on each other; they are together on something beyond both. The lustful have eyes only for each other, nothing beyond. Lovers look toward something third, beyond themselves. Love has a destination; lust has none. Lust ends in itself. Love goes beyond itself. That which takes you beyond, lets you overstep yourself—that is love.

So lovers will sit and listen to a sitar, or sing, or dance, or lie under the open sky, or walk by the sea and listen to its roar. But lovers, not the lustful!

Love has a goal beyond the two. But again and again they return from that goal to each other. The devotee never returns—gone is gone! When he heads toward the moon, he goes, goes, goes—he does not return. The devotee does not know how to return. The lustful goes nowhere; the lover goes and returns; the devotee—gone is gone.

Lust is like a bird locked in a cage; it goes nowhere, it only hops inside the cage, moving here and there within its limits.

Love is like pigeons who fly into the sky and then return to their home. They are not caged. If they do not return, no one can fetch them; they come of themselves. A loft is built above the home; they fly far, make long journeys, grow tired, and return. Lovers are like such birds; not caged; they go far beyond themselves and return. The devotee is such a bird who, once gone, is gone; he has no home to return to. His home is always ahead—farther and farther! Until he reaches the Divine, his journey does not stop.

“Upon attaining devotion, a man neither desires nor hates, nor is he attached, nor is he enthusiastic about sense pleasures.”

“Knowing that devotion, one becomes intoxicated, becomes still, and delights in the Self.”

...becomes intoxicated! Becomes mad!

Devotion is an unprecedented intoxication. The eyes are forever soaked in wine. The mind is always steeped in a unique swoon. Life is no longer prose, it becomes poetry; no longer a mere march, it becomes dance. One enters another dimension.

What kind of prostration is one where the thought of raising the head remains?
Prayer done with watchfulness insults prayer.

When a devotee’s head bows, it does not rise again. To ordinary people he will seem mad. Ordinary people never truly bow; they only act. They only show the bow! The ego still stands erect, only the body performs the drill.

What kind of prostration is one where the thought of lifting the head remains?
And prayer done with careful awareness—why go to pray at all? Better run your shop; that is your aptitude. If you have gone to pray, what “carefulness,” what “accounts”?

Prayer done with watchfulness is an insult to prayer.

I have heard: a fakir went mad. Family did not understand. Friends could not recognize. It was no illness. It was that he was cured of the common disease of people. But we take the common disease as health. They called a physician. He checked the pulse. The fakir said:

Healer! The realm of the intoxicated is apart from the world.
Come to your senses: where we are, there is no “sense.”

Come to your senses—where we are, there is no sense!

He said, “Physician, the world of the intoxicated is a different world. What are you doing? Come to your senses! What pulse are you grasping?”

The intoxicated live in another world. The mad live on another dimension. Let us understand that dimension.

Where do you live? In a place of calculations, accounts, crisp lines. You live like a trimmed garden, neat and tidy. A devotee lives as if in a forest: nothing manicured; no trace of man’s hand, only the signature of the Divine. He lives by no rule. For one who has attained love, rules no longer apply; they are no longer needed.

Someone asked Saint Augustine, “Give me only one rule. Do not speak of many; I am simple. Do not give me many commandments; I will forget. Give me the essence. I do not know the scriptures.”

A rare man—there is nothing greater than to admit one’s ignorance. “I am ignorant,” he said; “give me a simple formula, something I can keep, something I will not forget.”

Augustine, a fluent speaker, fell silent before him. He pondered long. He said, “Then do just one thing: love. Remember only this; all else will follow of itself.”

Love—and all commandments are fulfilled. Fulfill all commandments and drop love, and you are only self-deceived. Without love, no rule is ever fulfilled. Without love, all morality is immorality and all conduct only a device to hide misconduct.

Apart from love there is no conduct. And one who has attained love needs no rule, no discipline; he has attained the supreme discipline.

“Knowing that devotion, a man becomes intoxicated.”

This is description, interpretation, not definition. We are giving some news of devotion.

“...becomes intoxicated.”

You have seen madmen. They drop rules, abandon social shame, family honor. We expect nothing of madmen. Between a madman and a devotee there is a slight resemblance—slight! The difference is great, but the resemblance is there. The madman falls below ordinary life; the devotee rises above it. Both go beyond the ordinary—one by falling, the other by rising. The going-beyond is the commonality.

So the sutra says: beware, the sign of devotion is intoxication. We have seen Chaitanya dance. His family was troubled: he has gone mad! We have seen Meera dancing in the streets. Her family, her loved ones—and Meera was of a royal house—were distraught. They even tried to kill her, because she was a scandal. A woman of the royal clan, and in Rajasthan, where even lifting the veil was impossible—she began dancing in the streets, losing all sense of propriety! All honor forgotten! Meera has gone mad...!

They say Meera went to a temple where women were forbidden entry. Many such temples were closed to women—built by the fearful, the cowardly, the lustful.

The priest was a celibate. His fame spread far: he did not even see women; he never left the temple. Meera arrived and danced at the door. She sought to enter. She was stopped. The priest, flustered, came. He said, “Listen, women may not enter here.”

Meera looked at him keenly and said, “I thought there was only one man. Are there two? Are you also a man? I have known only Krishna as the one man; all else is nature. Only one is male; all others are gopis. And living in Krishna’s temple all this time, what have you done? Are you still a man? You can see my ‘woman,’ but I do not see your ‘man.’ Step aside!”

As if someone woke him from sleep! He stepped aside. Tears filled his eyes with repentance. All this time wasted! Whom was he stopping?

Meera has no social shame; she sees no “men.” So the veil has slipped; there is no accounting for clothes; she dances in the streets!

A devotee becomes intoxicated—and will.

Think of a tiny cup into which the ocean is poured—if the cup does not go mad, then what? If the ocean descends into a drop, how will the drop retain its order, how will the rules of the drop-world survive? There will be an oceanic frenzy. The drop will scream, “I had rules, an order—it is all breaking!” It will break.

When the Divine descends into a devotee’s life—when the devotee gives space, opens the door, steps out of the way and lets the Divine enter—then a storm comes, a tempest rises that never subsides. The devotee then lives in another world. He no longer lives for himself; the Divine lives in him.

Do not fear robbers on the path of love;
those who are plundered here are truly fortunate.

Do not fear the bandits of this path—robbers are helpers.

We saw him while we were still in blessed forgetfulness;
a veil fell on our eyes the moment we came to our senses.

We saw him while we were still drunk and unmindful;
as soon as sense returned, a veil fell over our eyes.

Intoxication is the first sign.

“The devotee becomes still.”

Speechless! He freezes! All movement ceases. All he knew becomes worthless. All that was life turns suddenly into something like death. All that was, collapses and scatters, as if you had built a house of cards; or hoped to cross the ocean in a paper boat! Everything stops, everything falls! Breath itself seems to halt. Silence descends. Speech is lost. The tongue is stilled. It takes time to return to the world of words. It takes time to gather the capacity to speak again.

When Buddha awakened, he sat silent for seven days—speechless! Everything stilled. The gods grew anxious. They feared that the Buddha might remain silent forever. Whenever someone attains Buddhahood, there is always this possibility—that he may never speak; the event is too vast. Speech may be lost forever; silence may become his way. They say Brahma and the gods came to the Buddha’s feet and begged him to speak. Anything—just speak. To remain silent is dangerous.

We wait for centuries for someone to attain and bring news of that realm. Not only humans—gods yearn too.

O God! O God! A lightning of beauty—
the eyes see, the lips remain silent.

The eyes see; the lips fall quiet. The eyes recognize; the lips cannot speak.

The matter is such that I am silent—
not that I do not know how to speak.

“Stillness...!”

Understand this carefully.

The yogi practices silence; silence comes to the devotee. The yogi strives to be still; stillness rains upon the devotee. What the yogi attains by effort, the devotee receives as grace—by simply losing himself in love.

“Knowing that devotion, a man becomes intoxicated, becomes still—and becomes atmarama.”

“Atmarama” deserves understanding.

Now there is no gap between Rama and the Self, hence a new word: Atmarama. Now it is no longer accurate to say, “There is the soul,” nor is it accurate to say, “There is God.” There is something in which both are present, and not two—Atmarama.

I met him and dissolved into him;
and what lies beyond is a secret.

Beyond that, nothing can be said. After that, there is mystery.

This line will be remembered in both worlds:
I attained true life only after dying.

Both realms will remember this line.

I attained true life only after dying.

Those who have found life, found it by dying. Those who feared death kept missing. There are two kinds of death: one that comes of its own, and one that you accept, that you invite. Death has come by itself many times and you have died, only to be born again. The day you accept death by your own hand, willingly, that same day death becomes samadhi.

Jesus said, “He who seeks to save his life will lose it. Lose it—and that is the only way to save it.”

I attained true life only after dying.

The moment you are gone, the Divine is.

People come to me and ask, “How do we seek God?” I say: please do not seek—otherwise God will keep receding. Wherever you go, you will not find. Your very presence is the veil over your eyes. God is not hiding. Do not ask where to search for God. Ask this instead: “What is the veil over my eyes that I cannot see That which is?” You are hidden behind your own curtain, your own cover. God has not been lost. God cannot be lost.

In a small school a teacher asked, “Where are elephants found?” A little girl stood up and said, “First of all, elephants do not get lost. They are so big—how would you ‘find’ them?”

How can God be lost? That is all there is. There is nothing apart from That. Ask how you have lost it. Do not ask how God has been lost.

Feigning ignorance you ask for my address—
I dwell where you have not yet searched.

We do not search within. Because to search within, there is only one way: the ego must die, then you go within. The ego stands at the door and blocks the way. Melt the crust of ego, and you will enter. Let “I” drop, and you will know who you are.

I dwell where you have not yet searched.

As soon as you drop “I,” drop “You,” and the net of “I–You” dissolves—the nondual light appears, a radiance without division, where there is no boundary, no separation, where there is only the expansion of One.

We are waves of that ocean. Look a little within and the ocean is within us. In every wave the ocean resides. But the waves are full of ego. They cannot understand that by looking within they can find That from which they arise and into which they will disappear.

Devotion is the art of dying. Devotion is not the art of seeking God; it is the art of losing yourself. Let me repeat: devotion is not the art of seeking God; it is the art of losing yourself. Seeking keeps the seeker intact. The seeker remains. You must be lost. One who loses himself finds That. And then not only within, but everywhere—that alone is seen. In every leaf, his greenness. In every breeze, his freshness. Through the moon and stars, he gazes at you; and within you, he gazes at the moon and stars.

Once the veil lifts—

When morning breaks, on the sky
falls a spray of your rosy cheek.
When night descends, across the face of the world
streams the cascade of your dark tresses.

It is his hair that covers you in the deep of night. It is his color and form. His spring. His songs! His greenery! His birth and his death. You have stood in between for no reason.

Because you stand in the middle, the Divine is lost. And unless you know the Divine, you will remain deprived of your own height and depth.

The Divine is your ultimate height! The Divine is your ultimate depth! Until you know That, you will remain deprived of your own height and depth.

There is no one more impoverished than the man in whose life the sense of the Divine is lost; in whose life the aspiration toward That has withered. The man who is content just to be a man—none is poorer than he.

Nietzsche said: cursed will be the days when no arrow is drawn on the bow of man aimed toward the Divine.

But many are such whose bow never holds an arrow aimed at the Divine. Then they remain shallow. They remain superficial. They do not realize that the depth was right beneath their feet, always available—only to step down; and the height was always above their head, spread like the sky—only to lift the eyes.

Do not be content just being human. There is no greater misfortune.

He whose heart holds even a single thought of your beauty—
who knows the loftiness of that one thought?

He in whose heart there is even a small thought of your beauty—of the Divine’s infinite beauty...

He whose heart holds even a single thought of your beauty—
who can fathom the height of that one thought?

Who can know the depth and height of that one thought of the Divine?

The greatest affliction of this age is that the sense of his beauty is lost. We make a thousand efforts to prove that he is not. We do not realize that the more we prove he is not, the more we deprive ourselves of our own heights and depths.

To forget the Divine is to forget oneself. To forget the Divine is to lead oneself astray. Then direction is lost. Then you do not seem to arrive anywhere. You become like the oil-press bull, circling endlessly.

Open your eyes! Give your heart a chance to rise above itself a little. Turn lust into love. Let love become devotion.

Do not be satisfied before the Divine.

There will be pain. There will be separation. Many tears will fall along the way. But do not be afraid. For what is to be received has no price. Whatever you do, the day it arrives you will know that what you did was nothing.

On each of your tears, a thousand flowers will bloom. Each of your pains will become the doorway to a thousand temples. Do not be afraid. Wherever the devotees’ feet fall, there Kaaba arises.

Enough for today.