Bhakti Sutra #10

The more you receive, the more it will seem you are missing. The greater the satisfaction, the greater the longing for an even vaster fulfillment.
When the thirsty one swallows the first sip of water, for the first time he realizes the full measure of his thirst. To know thirst, even a little water is needed.
And the search for the divine is such that it begins, but it never concludes. If it were completed, God would become limited, no longer infinite. If it were completed, God too would have an end, a circumference, a boundary.
That is why the divine is formless; you will not be able to exhaust him. You can be exhausted, the divine cannot. You will certainly enter the ocean, but the farther shore will never appear. There is no other shore. This is the meaning of the vast: if you could touch the opposite bank and take the measure, how would the vast remain vast! Whatever fits into your fist becomes smaller than you. Whatever becomes the fullness of your throat has only the capacity of your throat.
So both happenings come together. Satisfaction will be known, deep satisfaction will be known, and yet non-satisfaction will not disappear. This is the restlessness of the seeker: he stands on the lake’s edge, he dips, the waters rain down; the thirst seems both to quench and not to quench; the thirst is both assuaged and increased. Such a paradox happens simultaneously.
I understand your difficulty. If only thirst remained and you received nothing from me, even logic would agree: the matter is clear, finished. This temple is not for you; you must seek elsewhere. This door is not for you; seek elsewhere. This lake does not suit your throat; seek elsewhere. Then the matter would be simple.
Or if satisfaction were total and thirst vanished completely, even then it would be “resolved”—but such a resolution would be misfortune, not good fortune. For if your thirst were utterly gone, your life’s meaning would be lost. What, then, would be the essence of life? How would the seeds of song sprout? How would you dance?
Remember, the unsatisfied cannot dance—there is no reason to dance. The unsatisfied can weep, complain; how will he dance? Nor can the fully satisfied dance, for then there is no reason left to dance. Between dissatisfaction and satisfaction there is a waystation; there is dance; there joy manifests.
And as you understand, slowly, you will thank the divine not only for the water, but also for the thirst. Then your prayer will be: keep pouring the water, and keep increasing the thirst.
Life lies between the two. Between them is life’s balance, its heights and depths.
If there were no paradox in life, life would be dead—either on this shore or that. The current of life flows in the middle—neither this bank nor that. From this bank I will certainly release your boat; therefore a touch of fulfillment will be felt. The shore of dissatisfaction will recede, and the shore of satisfaction will not draw near. You will come into midstream. And whoever learns to live midstream, he alone learns the art of living in God.
Attachment to the shore is born of fear. The desire for total satisfaction is also a part of dead-heartedness; it is not for the spirited. The spirited long for fire, and they also long for rain—such rain that any fire be quenched; and such fire that no rain can extinguish it. He who learns to live between these two, he alone knows life.
You ask rightly: sometimes it will feel as if you have gained much, and sometimes as if everything is slipping through your fingers. Do not see opposition between the two. I am doing both together. Both should happen together.
I understand your difficulty too, because you want a settlement—this shore or that. Either let it be proven that fulfillment never happens, that dissatisfaction is fate, is destiny—then fine, we will make peace with it, console ourselves, sit at home, no more journeying, become inert. Or let it be certain that fulfillment can be total—then either settle on dissatisfaction or settle on satisfaction.
Your mind wants to settle. But the divine wants you to keep moving, keep moving, because movement is life.
When will you see the beauty of movement—the beauty of going on?
Let new adventures arise each day!
Let new peaks be beheld each day!
Yes, let strength keep growing in your feet!
Let the journey bring no weariness!
Let strength grow in your feet and new summits keep appearing!
Those who have known the divine have not become dead. For the first time, the true energy of life has arisen in them.
But you will not understand it, for your arithmetic deals with petty things. Your arithmetic itself is too small. You keep accounts of cowries while diamonds are raining here. You count cowries, and then when you cannot even see cowries, you are in great trouble.
What has the divine to do with cowries?
Do not ask for coins—of satisfaction or dissatisfaction!
Ask for life’s revolution!
Ask for life’s challenge!
Ask for life’s adventure!
Yes, give me strength and give me new peaks!
Give strength to my feet, and may there never come a moment when there is nowhere left to go!
Keep touching new planes of consciousness!
Go on, only onward!
You will say, we thought we would arrive quickly at a halt, somewhere we could stop. Why such a yearning to stop?
Hidden in your desire to stop is opposition to God!
God has not stopped yet; you want to stop!
God still breaks out of the seed as a sprout, adorns the trees with flowers.
He is still creating new stars!
He is still sending springs flowing!
Clouds still form and pour!
God is not tired; he goes on!
The one who goes on forever—always, eternally—that is what we call God. The one who tires, is spent, who comes to a limit—that is the mind; the mind wants to sit down soon; it says, Enough, that’s plenty!
Break this boundary!
To walk with the divine is an endless journey. The day you understand this, you will find: there is no destination; the journey itself is the destination; every step is the goal. Then you will dance in joy, sing songs of wonder; yet you will not become a dead rock sitting—you will keep moving.
More and more new flowers have yet to blossom in you!
You have no inkling of your own possibilities. You have no idea of your own being—how much you can be!
If one wave stirs, it can become a storm—
Even a small ripple, if it stirs...
If one wave stirs, it can become a storm—
because the ocean is also hidden in the small ripple.
If a single flower wishes, it can become a garden.
A tiny flower could fill the whole earth with flowers. A single seed can make the whole earth green if it keeps spreading... In one seed are millions of seeds; in those millions, yet millions more! If the earth were given just one seed, the whole earth could turn green.
If one wave stirs, it can become a storm.
If a single flower wishes, it can become a garden.
In a single drop of blood there is so much potency
it can become the headline of a people’s history.
In a tiny drop of blood so much is hidden that it can become the title of an entire race’s life, the heading of history.
You do not know your own being—who you are! Where you have found yourself is merely the steps to your house; you have not yet even entered your house. Where you have stopped, there is not even a door; there are only steps—you have not entered the house.
You are sitting on this shore, which you call the world. And if ever someone awakens you from this shore—for on your own you do not awaken easily; you create obstacles, you try every effort, every device to prevent your sleep from breaking—the one who breaks your sleep appears like an enemy.
But if people like Buddha, Christ, and Krishna keep after you, then you open your eyes. And immediately you ask how far is the other shore, so that you can go and sleep there. If you are pushed from here, you want quickly to turn the other shore into this one. Your habit of inertia is very deep.
Attachment to inertness is the search for a destination.
Consciousness is a flow, a journey. Consciousness has no destination.
A stone stays put.
How can a flower stay!
A flower has to go on, and become!
A flower has to become millions of flowers, billions of flowers!
A single flower must spread across the whole world!
How can a flower stop!
A flower is a journey, not a destination.
The stone lies there.
Flowers blossom, wither; they come, they go;
they pause a moment beside the stone, then set out again on the journey!
The stone lies where it is!
This inertness is the worldly mind.
It is not a question of prying you loose from this particular shore; it is a question of freeing you from shores altogether.
Let me repeat it.
It is not a question of freeing you from this shore. I do not want to take a shop from you, otherwise you will grab a temple. You will drop the ledger and clutch the Vedas, the Koran, the Gita. I do not want to take this from you, for then you will seize that. I want to loosen your grip. I want to free you not from the shore, but from your clinging, from this habit of sitting down—
so that you learn to be a flow!
so that you become dynamic!
so that your destination is in the very flowing!
so that you forget how to stop!
so that you keep moving!
Slowly, if you learn the art of moving rightly, you will disappear; only movement will remain. You exist as an ego only because you stop.
Have you ever noticed? When you run with speed, you vanish, and only running remains.
Have you ever danced totally? If you dance in your totality, you disappear; the dance remains.
Whenever you become kinetic, dynamic, your ego dissolves.
The moment you sit, ego arrives.
The moment you halt, ego arrives.
The moment you grasp a shore, ego arrives.
The moment you say, “We have arrived,” ego arrives.
If your life becomes wholly dynamic and you drop the habit of sitting... Even if you sit, let it be only to prepare for movement.
Sometimes the seed also rests, waiting for the spring; it lies for months. When the seed rests, it is hard to tell the difference between a pebble and a seed—but there is a difference.
The pebble only rests; it goes nowhere. The seed is preparing to go somewhere; gathering provisions; waiting for the right moment and season; watching for the right time and favorable conditions; ready to go.
As in a race, you may have seen runners standing on the line—but they are not merely standing, they are standing-running. The bell will ring, the whistle will blow, and they will burst forth. They are absolutely alert! If you see them, you cannot say they are standing. You will say, Now they go, now they go! They are in waiting, every hair alert, for even a moment’s lapse is dangerous.
When a seed and a pebble are placed side by side, the seed stands like that runner, or like swimmers poised to dive; only the auspicious moment is awaited, and it will surge forth. The pebble will lie there; the seed will set out on the journey.
If you ever pause, let it be only to remove fatigue. Let no halt become your destination! Rest for the night, and at dawn move on. This living current is the experience of the divine.
So if you are to understand me rightly, you will understand me only in the restraint, the union, the music of satisfaction and dissatisfaction together. I will give you satisfaction too; your old sorrows will be taken away; and I will give you new sorrows. Your entire old pain will fall; I will give you new aches so that, in resolving them, you take new steps.
God-realization is not only attainment; it is also pain. The one who knows this finds that every step is the destination.
And if you look closely, you will find the divine dynamic everywhere. But you have erected false gods: stone idols in temples, standing fixed in one place. By comparison, you are a little more divine—you at least move, get up and walk; there is some motion in your life: morning somewhere, evening somewhere. Your temple-god lies there unmoving.
It would be better if you worshipped flowers! But you do the opposite. You pluck living flowers and place them at the feet of dead gods. Better would it be to lift your dead god and place him at the feet of flowers.
Worship movement, not immobility!
Immobility is inertness.
Worship the flow, not stones!
But the stone suits you, for you are inert. You have not made stone-gods without reason; they indicate your inertness, they are the proof. You have cast your idols in your own image—more dead than you.
Recognize a little! Wake up a little!
Worship the dynamic!
Look—the moon moves, the sun moves, the stars move. Nothing is fixed!
If you look closely at this life, you will find nothing at rest here. Everything is moving.
Why are you in such a hurry to stop?
This longing to stop is suicidal. You want to die.
Live! Have the courage to live! And the more courage you have to live, the larger a life will be available to you—which means a greater challenge will come; greater pain will descend; the opportunity to climb higher mountains.
And this opportunity never ends. If it ended, that would be misfortune. For if a moment came when you attained that other shore, then what would you do?
Bertrand Russell has said in jest that he is afraid of the Hindu moksha: “Everything attained!” Then? What will you do then?
Russell was a dynamic person; it is natural he feared a dead god, a dead liberation.
But liberation is not dead. Those who have made liberation dead must themselves be dead; they have projected their own image.
The waves of the ocean keep striking—since beginningless time, to endless time. So too does the ocean of consciousness surge.
Buddha said the word “is” is false. You say, “The river is.” Buddha says, “The river is happening, flowing; it is not.” The word “is” is false. You say, “The tree is.” In the very moment you say, “The tree is,” new shoots have emerged; old leaves have fallen. While you were speaking, your statement became untrue; the tree leaped a little higher; new roots sprouted.
In the state of “is-ness,” nothing exists; nothing is still.
You will listen to me for a few moments, and in those moments you will have grown older. You will not go back as you came. Even if you do not understand, much Ganges has flowed by! Everything has changed! Not only you, the whole world is changing.
Motion is life. And the divine, being the great life, is the great motion.
So I will give you satisfaction, but only so that I can also give you greater dissatisfaction. I will take from you the petty satisfaction and give you the vast dissatisfaction. I will take from you the meaningless satisfaction and the meaningless dissatisfaction, and I will give you a meaningful satisfaction and a meaningful dissatisfaction. The sorrows of the world will be taken from you; I will give you the pain of the divine.
Pain, too, is true and false.
One man weeps because he has lost a rupee—this is petty pain. Even if it happens, it is not right. If his rupee is found, what satisfaction will that bring? Petty pain will bring petty satisfaction. He is unfortunate. A rupee is lost, so he weeps. Then someone understands: I myself am lost; I cannot find myself—where am I? He begins to seek himself. A great pain will arise. The rupee’s pain was not great; anyone could have solved it—any passerby could give a rupee in compassion. Now a pain has arisen that no one else can resolve. A pain has arisen that you yourself must resolve. No coin of the world can resolve it. Then, one day, glimpses begin to appear—Who am I? And with that, yet another new pain arises: What is this vastness! To know oneself—what of that? What is this great ocean! What use knowing the drop! Even before the drop is known, the ocean knocks at the door: do not sit down.
And I tell you: there are greater oceans still. When one is exhausted, another door opens. No sooner is one door concluded than new doors open.
Therefore only those can walk with me who are ready to take both satisfaction and dissatisfaction together, who are ready to live midstream. This I call godly life. I call such a bearer a sannyasin. You will find him satisfied—and dissatisfied. As far as the futile world is concerned, you will find him greatly satisfied: everything is attained. And as far as the call of the Ultimate, the Final, is concerned, you will find him greatly dissatisfied: nothing is attained. You will find in him a divine discontent burning. From the world’s side you will find great satisfaction—everything received. From the side of the divine you will find great dissatisfaction—nothing received.
Therefore you will feel both. Sometimes it will feel that you have received very, very much; and sometimes that you have missed very, very much. Both are true. And if you can be at ease with both together, only then will you be able to walk with me, hand in hand.

The one who wants to be God will not be able to be. And the one who wants to remain a devotee will become God. The question of superior or inferior does not arise, because only one of the two will happen. The one who does not want to be will be. The one who wants to be will be deprived. That very wanting is of the ego.

But the matter is a little delicate.
Sometimes humility too belongs to the ego. Beware that your humility may not be of the ego. Perhaps you are saying, “No, I don’t want to be,” because you know that those who refuse are the ones who attain. Then you are clever. Then your humility is adulterous. Your humility is not pure, not sacred, not virginal—it is like a prostitute.

The one who wants to be God, whose ego says, “I must become God,” will not attain. And the one who becomes humble because he thinks this is the trick to become God—he too will not attain.

And then there is another snare, which should also be understood. Just as humility can be hidden ego, so within the egoist there can be hidden humility. Someone might very simply say, “I want to be God,” and there may be no sense of “I” in it at all. This is a little hard to grasp. There may be no “I” in it; it may be a pure call of existence; a straightforward utterance; nowhere any question of “I”; it may be simply: I want God to be in me. Only this much: I cannot settle for less. I am ready to drown everything, to lose everything, but until God alone resides in my heart, until He alone fills me, there will be no rest. This can be a very deep thirst; it may not be ego at all...

I am telling you: only when there is no ego does the devotee become God. It is not a question of what is explicit or implicit—what matters is real humility.

Sometimes, on the surface, the words seem egoistic, yet inside there is great humility. And sometimes, on the surface, the words are very humble, yet inside there is great ego.

You can search this out well within yourself. The other is of no use here. Within yourself you can know whether your humility is merely an ornament of the ego, or whether your ego is only a matter of statements!

Krishna said to Arjuna: “Mamekam sharanam vraja—come, take refuge in Me alone.” In that moment, in Krishna there was nothing like an “I”—there was no “I” at all. It was only a matter of expression, of language. From within Krishna, the Divine spoke; there was no “I” there.

Sometimes you say, “I am nothing, only the dust of your feet.” But watch closely. If the one you say it to agrees, “Absolutely right—I already knew you are nothing, the dust of my feet,” there will be a jolt in your chest—ah! It will hurt. The ego will be wounded, it will hiss. You will never be able to forgive that person. Because what you were saying was not your real intent. You were actually saying it so that he would reply, “Oh, you, and dust of the feet! You are the crown upon the head!” You were angling for that. You are cunning. You are clever. You know the arithmetic.

So know within yourself. There is no need of the other. You cannot rightly understand the other anyway, because you only hear his words. What is happening within him—how will you know? But within yourself you can examine.

If your humility is authentic, then even a proclamation of “I” will not be able to erase it. And if your ego is deep, then statements like “I am the dust of your feet” will not be able to destroy it.

But only those become God who become “no”—who become nobody.

And do not even ask who among the two is superior. For the two never reach at all. Only one arrives—the one whose humility is authentic. And authentic humility has nothing to do with language. Authentic humility belongs to the heart, to your inner experience.

Adopt the humility of footprints upon the path, if you seek a station upon the heights of the sky.
But be careful—not for this very reason become humble like footprints, or you will miss. Let there be no talk at all of seeking a station in the sky. Become like footprints on the earth; the place in the sky happens on its own.

Those who efface themselves, they become. Those who let go of themselves, they are saved. Here, death is the key to life, and dissolving oneself is the art of attainment.

Who said God is not with form?
All forms are his. God has no form of his own. You are looking for God’s own form; that is why the question arises as to why God is not with form.
In the tree, God is a tree; in the bird, a bird; in the waterfall, a waterfall; in a man, a man; in a stone, a stone; in a flower, a flower. If you look for God’s particular form, you will go on missing.
The one to whom all forms belong cannot have a form of his own. Now this is quite a curious thing. It means: the one of whom all forms are, he himself can only be formless. It sounds a bit upside down: the one who has all forms is formless!
How could the one of whom all names are, have a name of his own? The one who has a single name cannot have all names. The one who gleams through all forms cannot have a form of his own. If he is everywhere and you try to find him in one particular place, you will miss. There is only one way of being everywhere: that he is nowhere in particular. If he is somewhere, he cannot be everywhere. To be somewhere means: there will be a boundary. To be everywhere means: no boundary.
So the divine is not a person. The divine is the current of life flowing within all. In the tree that green current is life! The tree is reaching up toward the sky—that upsurge is God. The tree is manifesting out of the hidden seed—that manifestation is God.
God is the name of existence.
God is not like a stone. God is not like you. God is not like the moon and stars. God is like nothing, because then there would be a limit.
If God were like you, like a man, then who would be in woman? If he were like a woman, then man would be deprived. If he were like a human being, then who would be in animals? And if he were like animals, then who would be in plants?
Try to understand this.
God is the vast ocean of life. We are all its forms, its waves. We have a thousand modes. In our thousands of modes he is present. And remember, he does not end with our modes; he can take on yet more modes. He will never be exhausted by modes. His possibility is infinite. You cannot imagine a state where God has been fully revealed. However much he goes on manifesting, infinitely more remains to be manifested.
That is why the Upanishads say: from that Whole, even if we take away the whole, what remains is the Whole. However much we go on taking, nothing is diminished by our taking. By our taking, it does not become smaller—the Whole of the Whole remains.

Devotion will be with form; God is formless. You may find it a little difficult to understand, because a mind bound by the scriptures has its obstacles. Devotion is with form; but God is not with form. Because devotion pertains to the devotee, not to God. The devotee is with form, so devotion is with form. But the final outcome of devotion is God. The journey begins with the devotee; the ultimate attainment happens by God. The devotee makes the effort; God bestows the grace.

You are the one who begins; you are not the one who completes—completion is by the divine.

So, devotion has two meanings: when the devotee starts, it is with form; and as God begins to descend into the devotee, it becomes formless. When the devotee is utterly effaced, devotion becomes a void—formless. Then you will no longer see the devotee sitting and ringing a bell in the temple; the day-and-night throb of his very life becomes his bell. You will no longer see him shouting “Ram, Ram,” because now whatever arises in him is “Ram, Ram.” You will no longer see him applying a tilak-mark; he himself has become the tilak. Nothing of his own is left. You will no longer see him going to the temple—if you have eyes, you will see the temple coming to him. You will no longer see him calling to God—if you have ears to hear, you will see God calling to the devotee.

The devotee began the journey; God completed it. You extend one hand, and the other hand comes from the other side. The hand on this side is with form; the hand on that side is formless. Therefore, do not insist that the hand on that side also be with form; otherwise a false hand will fall into your hand—then both hands will be yours, this side and that side.

The hand that comes from that side is formless, without attributes (nirguna). “Without attributes” does not mean the divine has no qualities; it means all qualities are his—therefore no particular quality can be his. “Formless” does not mean he has no form; all forms that ever were, that are, and that will be, are his. Fluid! He pours into every form, finds no obstruction in any form.

From the devotee’s side devotion will indeed be with form, but as the devotee draws closer to the divine it begins to become formless. And there comes a stage where all effort from the devotee’s side ends—because effort too is ego. If I say, “By doing something I will find God,” that implies his coming depends on my doing. That makes it a kind of earning—as if, having gathered the coins, I could buy him like any other thing in the marketplace—coins of merit perhaps, coins of devotion perhaps.

No, not so. Even if I complete everything, there is no necessity of his being. Even after all my doing, he will not be found so long as the “doer” in me remains.

So the devotee begins with doing—he does much, he weeps much, he dances much, he remembers much, he longs much. Then, slowly, it dawns on him: in my longing, my I-ness is hidden; in my call, my ego; in my bhajan, there is “me”; in my kirtan, my stamp—the sense of doership is present.

The day this is seen, that day the devotee is gone—like a mirror dropped and shattered into pieces. That day, the devotee is no more.

When the devotee is no more, who is there to do devotion? Who will go to the temple? Who will recite the mantras? Who will complete the rites? A deep silence envelops—and in that very silence the other hand descends.

Unless you dissolve, the divine does not come. Vacate the throne, and he descends. Only in your emptiness is the possibility of his advent.

Devotion is with form; God is formless. And what shall we say about the devotee? He takes himself to be with form—that is his illusion; the day he knows, he will find himself formless too. He takes himself to be a devotee—that too is his illusion; the day he knows, he will find himself to be God.

All forms are dreamlike. The formless is truth; form is the dream. But where we are standing is the world of forms. We are still within the dream. Even to awaken, we must travel a little within the dream.

Devotion must be with form—it simply is. There cannot be formless devotion, because in the formless what remains to be done, when the doer is no more!

Devotion will be with form, but God is formless. Therefore, one day devotion too must go. At the completion of devotion, devotion itself disappears. When prayer is fulfilled, prayer too goes. When meditation is complete, meditation becomes useless—it should. Whatever becomes complete becomes useless. So long as it is incomplete, it is fine—go to the temple, perform the worship. Do it, but remember: do not forget that this is only the beginning. It is the beginning of the school of life, not the end. It is the primer, the ABC.

Have you seen children’s books? To explain anything, you must make pictures, because a child understands pictures. Write “mango” small in the corner, make a big picture of a mango. Fill the page with the picture; write “mango” in the corner. First he will see the picture; then he will understand the word.

So it is with the devotee. God—the word “God” keep in the corner; make a big image, adorn it well. The devotee is still a child. What is in the empty corner that says “God,” he will not yet see.

Have you ever noticed? Have you gone to a temple? Where the idol is, there God appears to be; but did you see God in the empty space that surrounds the idol? He is there too—you did not see, because you need the idol. It is still childishness. You saw God in the temple; who is outside the temple? Who is touching the temple walls? Whose handbeats are on the walls in the sun’s rays? Who is moving in waves around the temple in the winds? As devotees climb the temple steps, who is climbing within them? There, you have not yet seen. The mind is still childlike. It still needs pictures, idols.

Begin with the form, but do not stop at the form. I am not saying, “Do not begin with the form”—otherwise the child would never learn language. It is the way of learning, absolutely necessary. The difficulty begins when you take the first lesson to be the last.

Learn—and be free!
Whatever you learn, be free of it.
Move on!
You have seen in the idol—now see in the formless!
You have heard in the word—now hear in the wordless!
You have recognized in the scriptures—now move into silence, into emptiness!

But do not hurry either. If it has not appeared to you in the temple, it cannot appear outside the temple. Do not hurry.

The human mind slips into extremes very easily.

So, in this land there have been great extremes. On one side are those who say the divine is formless. They will not tolerate any idol, will not tolerate any worship. When Muslims took that stance, they set about breaking idols.

Think a little: an idol is not worthy of worship, but it is worthy of being broken! In that much, the breaking itself becomes a sort of worship. If no idol is a representation of the divine, what is the point of breaking them? Why labor even to break?

Such is extremism: either they will worship, or they will break. Extremes have no understanding.

On one side are those who stubbornly insist that God is formless. They say it rightly—perfectly rightly. God is formless. But man is not yet in the place from where a relationship with the formless can be made. Man is not yet ready for the formless. It may be so for a Buddha—but is man a Buddha? It may be so for a Mahavira—but consider to whom you are speaking. Have compassion. You are speaking of totally healthy people to patients lying in a hospital! The Buddha has no need—but what of the one you are addressing? Attend to him; have a little compassion.

Those who talk of the formless are without compassion. There is hardly any compassion in their hearts. Therefore their talk of the formless is hollow—mere erudition, scholarliness.

Then there are those who talk of the form; they have compassion for man, but not fidelity to truth. They are right in saying, “We have to lead this man along. His whole mind is filled with images; within him there are only forms. He cannot yet recognize the formless. We must relate through forms, and then slowly, slowly we shall wean him—step by step he will climb. He cannot make a leap; he will make a staircase-journey.” They are right in saying, “God is with form”—but then obstinacy arises: they assert that God’s being with form is the ultimate truth. And so people get bound to idols. Some become iconoclasts and waste their lives breaking idols; some become idol-worshipers and waste their lives decorating idols.

If you ask me, I will say: I see essence in both positions, and I see danger in both. There is essence in both, and danger in both. Choose the essence, and avoid the danger.

I have no religion, no sect. Therefore I have no impediment in looking for truth wherever it may be. I have no insistence, no measuring rod by which I weigh. I can look directly.

Those who speak of the form are right; they can accompany you up to half the journey—only up to half! After that, talk of the formless will become important for you. Then do not remain confined; do not be held captive. Do not say, “We have worshiped the form until now; we will not allow the formless to enter.” Do not close your eyes when the formless calls. Do not say, “This is not within our doctrine; our scripture does not say so; we are believers in the form!” Do not turn your back. For it is your very devotion to the form that has brought you there—take it as the success of your worship, that your prayer has been heard. Thus you will gain the benefit and avoid the danger.

Start from the form; arrive at the formless!
If such balance exists in your life, there is no danger.

On the other side are those who say, “Since ultimately it is formless, why not accept the formless from the very beginning?” They cannot even begin to walk. They are like lame people who refuse to take the support of crutches.

You have seen: if your leg is injured, the doctor says, “Take the support of crutches. For six months or a year walk with crutches; then, slowly, strength will return. Then slowly leave the crutches, and walk on your feet.”

You do not say to the doctor, “If in the end we have to walk on our feet, why should we walk with crutches now? We will not even touch crutches.” You say, “All right—we will use the crutches.”

All religions are for your use. Use them—and be a slave to none. Let no concept become so big that it covers the truth.

Good—auspicious! Take your attention more and more in that direction, so that this happening does not remain merely a memory, so that gradually it becomes the very style of your life!
Just as the attention paused between two words, in the same way, in every aspect of life wherever there is expression, place your attention between the two expressions.
Woman and man—these are expressions. If you remain only the man, you will remain in the world; if you remain only the woman, you will remain in the world. Somewhere between the two is liberation.
Night and day are expressions. If you are bound to the day you will be afraid of the night; if you are bound to the night you will be troubled by the day. Between night and day is the hour of twilight. That is why in this country we have chosen twilight as the time of prayer—between, right in the middle!
Do not be bound only to the shop, and do not get bound to the temple either. Somewhere between the temple and the shop is sannyas. Keep seeking the middle between every pair of expressions, oppositions, extremes; then the flower of balance will bloom in your life.
And let this not turn into a mere memory, because such events happen many times. We are so unfortunate that even when it happens, even when a glimpse is received, we do not deepen it. Even when the thread comes into our hands, it keeps coming and getting lost. More than once the hem of truth’s veil has been in your hand and slipped away; you start dozing again, the remembrance is forgotten again, awareness is lost again.
Good! Blessed! A moment of grace has been given! Deepen it. Seek it as much as you can, wherever you can, so that slowly it begins to appear to you everywhere. From that very emptiness and peace you will have the first vision of the Divine. From that very void the hand of the formless will reach you. The hand is ready to come! You just take a single step; God walks a thousand steps toward you.

I have, knowingly, said nothing about Narada. I thought about it and left it. Because a devotee has no doership and no personality. A devotee is a silence, a voided offering!
A devotee does nothing, therefore there is no doership.
A devotee is a joy! A song! A dance! An ah!—a sense of wonder!
The devotee’s being is very subtle!
There is neither doership nor personality; for the devotee is a hollow bamboo flute—what personality! He is an emptiness that gives room to God, through which God begins to flow.
That is why I have said nothing about Narada. And that is why innumerable stories circulate about him. Narada’s “personality” could not be understood. There is no space to stand in in order to understand him, no basis from which to grasp him.
One tradition says he did not attain supreme liberation. Why? Because in Narada you do not see a personality like Buddha’s, nor like Mahavira’s. Narada does not seem as “sorted out” as Buddha appears. Narada seems very tangled. The stories go on saying that between earth and heaven he is not only entangled himself, he keeps entangling others too.
Narada’s personality is not clear-cut. Buddha is clearly on the other shore; he can be understood. Narada is neither on this shore nor on that—he sways somewhere in between.
How many stories there are! Narada is going to heaven, to Vaikuntha; from Vaikuntha he is coming to earth—between two realms! For me that much indicates: between two shores...!
The personality appears very tangled. On even one shore there is so much complication. One who lives between two worlds—one foot here, one in Vaikuntha—you can imagine his complexity. But for me that is the very form of supreme sannyas: one who can hold himself between two extremes.
To settle on one shore—is that resolution? Or to move to the other shore—is that resolution? One should become a bridge on which the two shores are joined.
Narada is a bridge. From this side he looks thoroughly worldly! And from that side you may not be able to see; from that side I am looking. From that side he is utterly dispassionate.
He has been seen only from this side. People standing on this bank see that the bridge is joined here; the other shore is not visible. So Narada appears connected with the world, worldly. The stories woven around him have been woven by people on this shore. I am speaking to you from the other shore: Narada is a bridge.
Narada is a very unique, mysterious being. His uniqueness, his singularity, is that he is not one-sided, not monolithic. A great synthesis is fulfilled in him.
And then all the tales say that he keeps weaving some web of entanglement. In the popular mind he appears somewhat like a gossip-monger. This too would not have arisen without cause; whenever something takes shape, there must be some reason behind it. For thousands of years, when millions of people keep crafting such stories, somewhere there will be an initiation-point, somewhere a basis. There is a basis.
When a devotee surrenders himself into the hands of the Divine, he does whatever That makes him do. He does not even say, “This doesn’t suit; this would not be right.” If That makes him enact inconsistencies, he enacts inconsistencies. To let go means to let go completely. He keeps no accounts. Even if That makes him speak an untruth, the devotee cannot say, “I will not speak.” For the devotee is not. He says: “Even your untruth is greater than my truth.”
Understand this a little.
My truth would be smaller than Your untruth! Your untruth would be greater than my truth! If You are making it happen, there must be some reason. You alone know—who will keep accounts!
So Narada’s personality has no neat consistency. Saying here what was said there—sometimes exaggerating, sometimes diminishing, sometimes adding, sometimes subtracting. Naturally the popular mind feels: “And this person—liberated?” A little hitch is felt.
We have certain fixed notions about the liberated; Narada breaks all notions, because he surrenders himself in every way. In this vast lila of the Divine, in this great play, this grand drama, he carries no personal identity; he does what That makes him do. That is the only indication. If That makes him speak a lie, he speaks a lie. But Narada has not lied; he has become a part of the Divine play!
It is natural that the popular mind may not understand this. But when such a great design, such a vast drama is afoot, a personality like Narada is also needed. He, too, completes a certain lack. Without Narada the stories would remain incomplete. Without Narada the drama would feel empty. Narada fulfills the function of an important thread.
As for Narada’s “personality,” it is only this: he has let go—whatever That makes happen!
In the popular imagination his form is this: ektara in hand, he keeps moving between this world and that. His instrument is with him. His music is with him. The musical state within him is with him.
Not much more can be said about him; and there is no need either. His ektara itself is his symbol. Within him a single note is resounding—the note of devotion; a single note is resounding—the note of surrender; a single note is resounding—the note of trust. Then whatever the Divine makes happen—His will!
Narada has no will of his own. Not even in shaping his own personality does he hold to any code of conduct. Mahavira has his will; he places each step after blowing off the dust—he has a conduct. Buddha has his will; a discipline. Narada does not even claim that much for himself.
Therefore, if you ask me, I say: this itself is supreme liberation.
That’s all for today.