Bhakti Sutra #14

First thing: No one has ever met the Divine through strength. Strength is arrogance. Strength itself is the obstacle. Strength means ego. Strength means making a claim. Has anyone ever attained by claiming? Has a claimant ever found love? The claimant is defeated; he misses the goal at the very first step.

If you know you have no strength, then union is certain. Union happens in helplessness—where it seems nothing you do will work; where your defeat is total; where you wonder, “How can anything happen by my doing?”; where your ego has crumbled to dust in every way; where you no longer even have the strength to breathe on your own—let alone to travel; where you cannot even rise; where, even if you wish to lift your foot, it will not lift. When such helplessness surrounds you, prayer is born.

Prayer is the sigh of a helpless heart.

Only in utter powerlessness is there the power to find the Lord. Let the feeling of helplessness deepen.

No one wins God by conquering—one wins by losing. There, defeat is victory. Whoever goes in with swagger cuts his own throat with his own hands. Whoever goes with his head cut off arrives.

This feeling is auspicious.
For the arising of a thirst for the Infinite, you do not need the power to attain the Infinite. Whatever can be grasped by your power cannot be Infinite. What fits within the limits of your capacity is finite, not infinite; it has boundaries; it is not boundless.
The thirst is greater than you. So great that you cannot contain it within yourself—you are contained in it. Only then is it truly a thirst for the Infinite. The thirst for the Infinite is itself infinite. And to realize the Divine, thirst is enough. Nothing more is needed. This is the very essence of devotion.
Yoga says: thirst is needed + something more. Devotion says: thirst alone is enough. Just thirst—so much thirst that you are lost in it; you become the thirst; nothing remains within you except the thirst; a sobbing, crying thirst remains; a thirst rising and striking the void remains; you no longer even know that you are. And that very thirst becomes the Divine.
Infinite thirst is a part of the Infinite. And whoever has found infinite thirst is not far—he has already arrived.
Naturally, the mind is afraid: my capacity is so small, almost nothing; and I have desired to attain that which is so vast, to attain the Divine! Only the egoist sees no mistake in this.
Both kinds of people come to me. The egoist says, “What should I do so that I may attain God?” His emphasis is on doing. As if God were to be the result of his action! As if even God could be trapped in his arrangement! “I must cast a net so the fish is caught—how should I cast my net?” Surely the one who throws the net is greater than the fish. Surely the net is greater than the fish. The fish is helpless; it will be caught.
If you go toward God like a fisherman, you have already gone astray—you have not gone toward God at all; God has not called you; His thirst has not arisen in you.
There is another kind of seeker—the true seeker! He says, “Nothing happens by my doing! I am defeated! Will He still come to me?” His legs tremble. Far from casting a net, he has not the slightest trust in his ego that anything will happen through him.
The moment trust in the ego is lost, the death of the ego begins.
You have too much trust in yourself—that is your offense. That is the sin. The moment your trust in yourself drops and you see: “What will come of my doing! My limits are so small; what are my nets? Whom am I trying to snare in them? The Vast! The Infinite!”—the day you throw away your nets and fall helpless upon the earth, eyes filled with tears—the goal is fulfilled! This goal is not one you reach by walking; it is such that the moment you fall, it comes near!
“I have no capacity at all, and yet a thirst for the Infinite has arisen!
I have set out, staggering—will the union not be?”
A devotee is always trembling. Not because he doubts whether God is—no, there is no such doubt—but because he doubts whether he has any worthiness.
Understand this distinction.
The egoist walks on; if God is not caught in his net, he thinks, “He must not exist.” The egoist travels, arranges, plans; if God does not seem to come near, he thinks, “He is not; where would He come from!” For the egoless one, when God does not seem to be coming, the question that arises is not whether God exists—the question that arises is: “I am very small, I am not a worthy vessel; I am too limited; I have asked for too much; I have heeded a call to which I cannot rise.”
But this is exactly where understanding lies.
In your falling is His descent. In your disappearing is His being. God is already attained—only fall! The goal is not far. There is no distance between you and God. If there is any distance, it is the distance of your vanity and your ego.
There are some lines of Bachchan… very lovely:
You were always standing there in waiting,
and I alone did not see.
A fragrant breath came from somewhere—
from the dust, from wildflowers, from the sky-stars,
from the moon and sun, from the vastness—inner vastness,
or was it from my very veins, my arteries?
Opening a few vials of perfume,
and closing them—thus my life passed by.
You were always standing there in waiting,
and I alone did not see!
A shimmering flame came from somewhere—
from lakes, from rivers and cascades, from seas,
from clouds, from the anklets of lightning,
or was it from the orbit of my own eyes?
Lighting a few earthen lamps,
and snuffing them out—thus my life passed by.
A diamond was set within my heart,
and I alone did not see!
You were always standing there in waiting,
and I alone did not see.
A muffled resonance came from somewhere—
from honeybees, from the wings of forest birds,
from thunder-winds, in the gentle drizzling rain,
or was it from droplets of my own tears?
Linking many chains of meter,
and breaking them—thus my life passed by;
yet in two and a half syllables the liberating, beloved
mantra—you were softly humming,
and I alone did not see!
You were always standing there in waiting,
and I alone did not see!
In two and a half syllables—just the two and a half of “love”—the entire scripture of devotion is contained!
Drop your worry about God! Whether He comes or not, leave the responsibility to Him! Beyond thirst, what capacity do we have? Beyond calling, what can we do? Whether He listens or not is His responsibility. You just call with your whole heart! Do not be miserly with your tears! Do not hold back your sobbing! The moment your prayer is complete, you will suddenly find: God was not far; He was hidden within you. Tears have cleared the eyes—now it is seen. Prayer has shaken the heart, blown away the dust—now it is experienced.
Your being is a part of God’s being; that is why there is thirst. How could there be thirst for the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unknowable? If He had never touched your throat, how would the longing arise? For one whom we have never, ever known—awake or asleep, knowingly or unknowingly—how could a call arise? How would you set out to seek a diamond whose very glint had never already enchanted you?
The Sufis of Egypt say: you set out to seek only when He has first set out to seek you. You call Him only when He has already called you; otherwise, how would you call?
Their statement is exactly right. They say: when God chooses you, only then do you choose Him; before that, you cannot choose.
So I will say to Sita: keep going—staggering is fine! In fact, there is no other way to go; one can only go staggering. The road is vast! The sky is immense, and our wings are very small. But even with two little wings, the sky can be crossed. The sky does not require sky-sized wings; if the wings were that big, flying would be impossible. The sky may be vast; our wings may be small—what harm is there!
Lao Tzu has said: “With single steps, a journey of thousands of miles is crossed.” The steps are very small. If a mathematician sits down to calculate—the road is thousands of miles long, one step moves only a short way—he will panic, his chest will sink, his courage will collapse! But we know: step by step, a journey of thousands of miles is completed; and drop by drop, an ocean is filled. So why worry!
The devotee does not worry. This is the miracle of devotion. The knower worries. The yogi worries. For they must arrange; the burden is theirs. The devotee is carefree. The devotee says, “I have called—now You listen! If You do not listen, You know best!” In the end the devotee says, “If I do not find You, that too is up to You; the responsibility is Yours. If You grant Yourself, it is Your grace; if You do not, the fault is Yours. What else could I have done? I called!”
A small child lies in his cradle, crying, wailing for his mother! What else can he do? If she comes, it is the mother’s compassion; if she does not, it is her hardness. But the whole responsibility is the mother’s. If she comes, it is her prasad—her grace; if she does not come, it is her hardness. What claim has that little crying child?
Such is the glory of devotion: everything is left to God. The devotee lives quietly, as He keeps him alive. And the devotee, staggering and staggering, arrives; while the knower plants his feet very firmly and reaches nowhere. This path is not for planting your feet firmly. Here, the waverers arrive.

Not merely a relationship—love and death are two sides of the same coin, two names for the same happening; two ways of seeing the same thing, two perspectives. It will be very hard for you to understand this, because you have usually believed the opposite. You have sought refuge in love in order to escape death. You have asked for love’s protection to save you from death—and love itself is a form of death. You have demanded much love, and yet you are afraid to rest in the lap of death. But death is the very lap of love. That is why, though there is so much demand for love in your life, the rain of love never falls. You cry, you shout, you call, you seek—but somewhere within there is such a contradiction that you talk about love yet do not allow it to happen.

Look closely at your own love and you will understand me: you ask for love and you are also afraid of love. Have you peered deep? There is a profound fear of love! You are frightened of love. On the surface you ask for it; inside you are afraid, running away. Outwardly you move toward love; inwardly you take steps in the opposite direction. You raise one step toward love and instantly raise a second step against it.

Love seems dangerous. It is dangerous. I do not say it is not. It is the greatest danger. There is no danger greater than love. Because love means: you will have to dissolve. Love means: you will no longer remain as you were before loving; that sense of separateness, that stiffness, that ego will sink, melt, burn, become ash. Only when you have become ash does the flower of love bloom. Hence the fear.

We talk about love, we even sing songs of love. We read love stories and tell them—these are all strategies to avoid love.

There is a deep, deep fear of love. Ask psychologists: they will tell you there is a profound fear of love. We keep our distance from the beloved; we maintain a gap. We do not come so close that the boundaries meet and disappear. To come that near brings a great fear that we might not be able to return. That is why we have devised many arrangements contrary to love. Marriage too is an arrangement contrary to love, so that one need not love. So one brings home a wife, or marries a man. Marriage is an institution. Parents make the arrangement. Those whose marriage is happening need not even be asked. We consult the astrologer, who has nothing to do with love. We arrange all sorts of things that have no relation to love: that it is a respectable family, that it is well-to-do, cultured people—what caste, religion, lineage—all this is investigated. None of this has anything to do with love. Love knows neither caste nor lineage, nor gentility nor wealth. What has love to do with money? Nor does it know color. What relation does love have with bone, flesh, and marrow? Whether you are Hindu or Muslim or Jain or Christian—what has love to do with it?

Yet we have organized marriage—throughout the world. This arrangement was great cleverness. It shows that there is a great fear of love. That is why we instituted child marriages—because before love can raise its head, it is necessary to get them married. If love once raises its head, marriage will become difficult. And once the melody of love is caught, once the divine madness arrives, marriage will seem very dry and dull. Marriage makes sense if it arises out of love; we inverted it: get married first—and then love!

But love has one rule: if it happens, it happens; if it does not, it cannot be done. Yes, you can fake it. You can put on a show. You can persuade yourself and persuade the other that it is there, that all is well. But love—if it is, it is; if it is not, it is not.

Love is an event that comes from the side of the Divine; it is not in your hands.

Three events are in God’s hands: birth, love, and death. And the rest of the events that are in your hands have no real value. What kind of shop you run, what office you sit in, which political party you belong to—such things have no value. All that in between is just filler. Everything important in life is in God’s hands. “God” means the Whole. Not in the individual’s hands, but in the hands of the totality. If it happens, it happens.

Love, therefore I say, belongs with birth and death. Love is a death and also a birth—the old dies, the new manifests; the ego melts, the soul appears. So we have made arrangements and created deceptions around love. That is why so many people seem to be in love, but where is the fragrance of love? Life stinks with hatred, war and bloodshed, quarrel and enmity. Hostility seems to be the foundation of life. You live to fight; you live while fighting. You sing songs of love—perhaps those songs are illusions. Perhaps, not having found love in life, you console yourself by singing songs; you put your faith in songs.

A unique event could have happened in every person’s life, but it does not happen. Yet it is not only society’s fault—the individual is afraid; that is why he has handed the strings into society’s hands. The fear is inside. Therefore whenever I speak of love, I also speak of death; and whenever I speak of death, I speak of love. For me the two are modes of the same energy.

Try to understand.

In love your being drowns, just as in death. In fact, it drowns a little more than in death, not less. For in death the body is destroyed, but the mind is not destroyed, the ego is not destroyed; then there is a new birth—of the ego. A new journey begins. In death only the clothes are changed.

Love is a greater death than death—the great death. The body remains the same, the mind changes, the ego falls. You disappear, and something new is born—something unfamiliar to you, which you had never known before. Someone else enters you. In a single instant, before and after are as far apart as earth and sky. In your eyes moves the wave of a wholly different energy. In your feet is the rhythm of a different dance. In your heart hums a different song. A moment before there was a desert; a moment later, infinite lotuses bloom. It happens in a moment. It is revolution. Such a great revolution that you are alarmed. Such a great transformation that you are afraid. You too would want it—if it happened in small doses, step by step, little by little, in homeopathic measure. If it happened gradually, you would think, all right. But it is sudden. It is revolution. It has no gradual accounting; it does not descend in steps—it is an explosion: here the old is gone, here the new appears. And the two meet nowhere.

One who is ready for love is ready for God.

Devotion is founded on love. The message of devotion is simply this: if love happens in your life; if you allow love to happen and do not obstruct it; if you do not close your doors out of fear; if you allow love in and welcome it—then it will not be long; right behind love you will hear the footfall of the Divine, you will find him approaching. You have to worship God, you have to look for temples and mosques, because you have missed love. Hence you build fake temples, fake mosques; otherwise love is the real temple, the real mosque. Love itself is the gurudwara. All the rest are devices. Having missed the real, you construct the false; you placate the mind, soothe it, console it.

Love will efface you. Love will refine you. Love will burn you like fire. Love brings great pain—and great bliss. Love is just like death—but not only like death; it is like life too: on one end death happens, on the other end life happens; here the old dies, there the new is born; here the night passes, morning comes; here the stars set, there the sun rises; one door closes, another opens.

So do not keep on merely thinking about love—open your doors! What are you afraid of? This body will go. Even if you preserve it, it will go. This ego will turn to dust. This skull will fall into the earth. It is going to become a cremation ground anyway. What are you saving it for? For whom are you hoarding? What miserliness is this? Before everything is snatched away, give it away! Then no one will be able to snatch it from you. Before you are erased, dissolve! Then no one will be able to erase you. Before death knocks at your door, accept love’s invitation! Then there will be no death for you.

Now let me tell you a paradox. I say, love is death; and I also want to tell you that only in love is the nectar known. Only in love do you discover that within you there is something that has no death. Only by dying is the nectar known. The rubbish burns away; the gold remains. What could die, dies. What cannot die—the indestructible—reveals itself.

Man has chosen his symbols on the basis of fear. Therefore, generally, you will not see people linking love with death. For you are afraid of death, and you think you desire love. I tell you: one who desires love also desires death. For one who has known or even desired love has tasted the joy of death, the juice of death. Because in death alone the nectar appears.

You are afraid of death; therefore you are afraid of love as well. Your whole pattern of thinking reflects your fear. The scriptures say, “God is light,” because man is afraid of darkness. God is both; otherwise how would darkness be? But all the scriptures—Quran, Upanishads, Vedas—say God is light. Then whose is darkness, whose is night? Who then is the king of the night? Then you have to invent the devil—because the night too must have a king. You have to posit a lord of darkness, because even darkness must be organized. Whose empire is darkness? It is God’s. Out of fear you create this disturbance.

Your fear has divided even God into two. Fear does not only divide you; it divides your God as well. You say, day is his. And the night? You are afraid of the night! Darkness unnerves you. Because of this fright you will miss many secrets of life, for many secrets are hidden in the dark. You will not be able to be peaceful, because the nature of peace is like darkness, not like light.

Now you will find it difficult.

Peace is like darkness, because peace is cessation, rest. Samadhi, as Patanjali has said, is like sleep. So peace will surely be like darkness, like night. There is excitation in light—you have experienced this. That is why if you are sleeping and powerful bulbs are turned on, you cannot sleep; light will keep your eyes stimulated, taut, unwilling to relax. That is why it is hard to sleep in the day. That is why all of nature sleeps at night.

For rest, darkness is necessary. In light there is a tension. If you live only in light, you will go mad quickly. Just imagine: if you could not sleep for a month—too long; even three days without sleep and the condition of derangement begins. If for three days no sleep at all is possible, illness begins. Darkness is needed daily. Darkness is food.

It is amusing that you can sleep for three days and no special harm will come; but if you stay awake for three days, harm will come.

I went to see a woman. She had been unconscious for nine months—sleeping. She had not gone mad. The doctors said she might wake, or might not. She might wake, because I had heard of an incident in America: a woman slept for twelve years and then awoke. Absolutely fine, fresh! As fresh as when she had gone to sleep! In fact, in those twelve years her companions had grown old; she had not, for she remained fresh. As if those twelve years had not passed for her. As if the clock’s hands had not moved; everything stood still. She remained in deep sleep, in rest. No wrinkles came to her face. But you cannot stay awake for twelve years. You yourself would go mad, and who knows how many others you would drive mad—whoever you bit would go mad.

We have called God only light, not darkness! Man fashions his words out of fear. You are afraid of the dark, so you feel: God—darkness? No! Light!

Have you ever noticed: light separates, makes things distinct. See, morning has come, and every tree stands apart; when night falls, all becomes one. Differences vanish. Which is mango, which is neem—no difference. Neem and mango become one. All becomes equal.

Darkness unites; light divides. Light raises distinctions; darkness is non-division.

The sun’s rising is certain
In a single direction;
But for darkness
All ten directions are open.

The sun is limited—if it rises, it rises from the east. From where does darkness arise—have you ever thought? It comes from everywhere, from all ten directions. Consider this: light appears for a while and then is lost; darkness is eternal, forever. You light a lamp; the light flickers; darkness does not vanish. The lamp goes out, and darkness returns to its place. What lamp has ever eradicated darkness! How many times the sun has risen and set—has any line ever been drawn upon the night? Has darkness suffered the least disturbance?

Light is an event; darkness is eternity. Do something and there will be light. Fuel is needed. You have seen: when the oil is spent, the lamp is extinguished. The sun’s lamp will also be extinguished—they say its fuel is being used up! Four thousand more years it will take. Long, yes, but in the infinitude of time what are four thousand years? It will be extinguished. Fuel is needed.

The lamp dies when the oil is spent. Darkness is without fuel; therefore it cannot be extinguished. Never will it be extinguished. However many suns come and go, however many lamps are lit and go out—darkness will remain, will remain!

Death is greater than life, as darkness is greater than light. Life is just a little bustle—like a wave rising in the ocean, dancing, singing, swelling—and gone! Such is life.

A wave rises—dances, leaps, makes a great clamor: I am! You are! Endless discussions, debates, conflicts, wars—and the wave is gone!

If you look closely, God is more like darkness than like light. And love is more like death than like life. But we are afraid of death, so we say, love is life. We want to cling to life. We want to engulf life. We want to clasp life to our chest in every way. So we say, love is life. But this is not a realization of truth. Life is very small; death is vast, immense!

Free your eyes from your biases. See truths as they are. Again, tonight, sit in the dark and look; perhaps, due to fear, you have never seen the beauty of darkness. Darkness is velvety. Its touch is very tender. What tenderness of touch can light ever have! Light is scorching. Darkness is very cool.

Consider darkness again. Not consider—meditate. Tonight sit with open eyes in the dark and experience the dark a little. The taste of darkness will make the taste of death sweet to you.

If you can accept death and darkness with a sense of awe, you will understand the secret of love as well, for love, like darkness, is pleasing, cool.

But all our words are agitated by our fear. When we welcome someone, we say, “a warm welcome,” not a cool welcome. Warm welcome. Now if you give someone a cool welcome, the whole thing seems wrong. What is wrong with coolness? Then your real welcome will be only in hell—a warm welcome!

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was ill, and her physician said she must be sent to a warm place—she needs a warm climate. Mulla said, Fine—where shall we send her? To Africa? The physician said, No, even that heat will not suffice. So Mulla said, Then where shall we send her? Then it struck him at once. He said, I understand—but you will have to pull the trigger yourself; I cannot. Then only hell is the place—there the heat is boiling hot.

Your fear has entered your language; it has entered your way of thinking. It has captured your symbols.

Think again!

Fear of death—what are you afraid of? What do you have that you fear losing? What do you have? Sometimes think: what do I have that death will take away? You have nothing—only conceit. That alone will be taken; what else is there to take? And how hollow is that conceit—like a balloon of air! That is why if someone just prods it, it bursts; if a small thorn pricks it, life seems to go out of it. If someone merely laughs, you feel hurt, as if a wound has been struck.

What besides conceit do you have that death will snatch from you?

Love says: if that is so, if that is the fear, then conceit can be dropped only in love; the ego can be drowned only in love. Then there will be no fear of death. Then nothing will be left with you.

One who has known love has known death—and has also known that there is something beyond death! This ego alone does not let you know, does not let you awaken.

I spent the night watching the path—
I did not recognize the Beloved.
The darkness washed the sky’s road
With fragrant icy waters;
In the empty courtyard the lamps
Were lit, all a-twinkle—
Who came at dawn and put them out?
Unfamiliar, unknown.
I did not recognize the Beloved.

He is the same in life and in death, in the burning and the extinguishing, in light and in darkness!

Do not divide! Otherwise you will weep and say, “I did not recognize the Beloved.” The hands are his—the left and the right! The one who lifts you up is the one who calls you back. In the little interval between birth and death, in the small leisure between the rising and the falling of the wave—let that leisure be filled with love! Otherwise the opportunity is lost! Otherwise someday you will have to say with tear-filled eyes—

I spent the night watching the path—
I did not recognize the Beloved.
Unfamiliar, unknown.
Who came at dawn and put them out—
I did not recognize the Beloved.

He who lights the stars at night is the one who extinguishes them in the morning. The hands are only his. One who has seen this—in the auspicious and the inauspicious; in the beautiful and the unbeautiful; in truth and untruth; in the saint and the non-saint—one who has seen that the hands are his alone, only he has truly seen; only he has recognized the Beloved.

The intellect keeps getting subtler,
the soul keeps getting darker!

Just by listening and listening to me, it is not certain that understanding grows; cleverness grows, the idea of understanding grows, thinking gets sharper. The intellect keeps getting subtler. But beware: this intellect will become a costly bargain if you don’t also remember that the soul keeps getting darker, that inside the self is being lost in darkness, awareness fades, unconsciousness spreads.

Remember: certainly, understanding is enough -- but only if there is understanding! Then there is no need for meditation, because understanding is meditation. There is no greater meditation than that. But only if it is truly there. Each must examine within himself. It is not anyone else’s business, nor for anyone else to worry about. If someone’s understanding has awakened, the matter is finished. Why should anyone else fret over whether he meditates or not? It is his inner matter to see and know. If he feels understanding has awakened, the lamp is lit -- the matter is finished. Then there will be no sorrow in his life, no gloom. Then there will be no restlessness, no turbulence.

If restlessness is still there, if turmoil is still there, if stench still rises, if the flames of hell still seem to come near, whom are you deceiving? Then know that understanding is not there. Then do not try to avoid meditation. Because it is from the blow of meditation that understanding will be born. If it has already happened, then there is no need.

If you have passed through the goldsmith’s fire and the gold has been refined, then there is no more need; but if you have not, do not protect yourself by saying, “I have already gone through.” Otherwise only dross will remain in your hand. And dross does not stay put -- it grows. Everything grows. Whatever you protect will slowly grow; slowly it will cover the gold.

If there is no understanding, do not fall into the delusion that there is understanding.

What is the touchstone? What means do you have to test it? The means of testing are: bliss, peace, harmony, consonance, music, balance, rightness. Look within. If there is balance inside, nothing sways you, nothing drowns you; gusts of wind come and you remain unmoving -- the matter is finished. Then even if the whole world says, “Meditate, pray, worship,” why would you? If there is a headache, take medicine; if there is an illness, take medicine.

Meditation is medicine. There is no need to take it because someone says so, or because others are taking it. But this settlement each one must make within himself.

But often it happens that the one who meditates wants everyone else to meditate too. The one whose tail has been cut wants others’ tails cut as well. Naturally he cannot accept: “Our condition is such that we still have to meditate, but yours is such that you no longer need it? We’ll make you do it! Surely you are cheating. We haven’t arrived yet, and you have?” The mind does not want to accept this. So the one who meditates will try to make others do it. But that is a mean streak; there isn’t a trace of real graciousness in it.

This is not a question for a second person to ask at all. If someone says, “Awareness has awakened, so now meditation is no longer needed”—let it be; good fortune to him! Pray to God that yours too may awaken, that you too may no longer need it. It is for him alone to consider whether he is deceiving or not. And whom would he be deceiving, anyway? This is nobody else’s concern. But yes, there are people who deceive.

There is fear of meditation. It feels, “This madness—and I should do it? This dancing and jumping—I should do it?” Everyone thinks he has great prestige in the world, that a person as respectable as he is should not be seen dancing, singing, leaping—it does not befit him! And he does not even have the courage to say he is afraid, that he is scared. He is weak. He wants to do it, but cannot. He lacks the courage to be unveiled before so many people. He wears a lie as a crown. He lacks the courage to expose himself, to reveal the fact. By jumping and screaming like this, we would not like to disclose that there is also screaming within us. The whole world knows us as very calm. People consider us respectable. People cannot even imagine that such madness could be hiding inside us. We are afraid it may be exposed, we may be revealed, our nakedness may be discovered. Naked within the clothes, but covered by the clothes.

Fear, public opinion, prestige, the idols of ego—all these are obstacles. But to acknowledge them is not wrong; for the one who acknowledges them has already begun meditation. The one who says, “I am afraid; that is why I cannot do it”—in his life the dawn of understanding has already begun. He has at least seen one fact: that he is afraid. He has not put up a false pretense. He has given consent to truth. Authenticity has now begun in his life. He is not far; he will arrive soon—understanding will come, meditation will come. But the one who says, “I simply have no need”...!

People come to me and say: “When we see others meditating, it feels as if something is happening; but we cannot do it, we feel inhibited. Can we not do it in solitude?”

The very root is the urge to hide from others—that is exactly what has to be broken. You will not be able to do it even in solitude, because even there fear will lurk: “I am doing it—what if a neighbor hears? What if my wife walks in and says, What are you up to—being a husband and lord of the house! What are you doing—hoo-hoo-hoo! Are you in your right mind, or should I call a doctor?”

Even there the fear will be present: “What if the children come in—Father! The one who knows everything is now behaving so simple and innocent.”

There is fear. If you avoid it because of fear, at least admit that there is fear.

Some come and say, “Give us a quiet, calm meditation.” A quiet meditation will not be possible for you yet. Too much unrest is repressed inside; it has to be released. They say, “These don’t suit us.”
“Have you tried them?”
“No, we haven’t even tried.”
“Then how do you know they don’t suit you?”

Inside there is a forest fire, a volcano. You are afraid it will erupt, it will come out. Somehow you have held yourself together. Somehow you have built a reputation, carved a statue of yourself.

Jain monks come to me—some Terapanthi Jain sadhus came. They are respected monks; their names are known throughout the country. They said, “We do want to meditate, but no one should find out—our lay followers must not know!” I said to them, “You are afraid of the lay followers? It would make sense if the lay followers were afraid of you—but you are afraid of them?” They laughed and said, “What you say is true, but we depend on them. And in any case, they are not in favor of our coming to you. We have come secretly. A lay follower of yours brought us. We went to his house. No one knows we are here; we told people we were going elsewhere and slipped in. But we do want to meditate.”

I understand their predicament.

I told them, “It’s all right—come, meditate in a private room.” As they were leaving they said, “But please make sure no one takes a photograph.” I said, “That will happen—photographs will be taken. At least allow that much.” Their photos were taken. Later they came to see me and said, “Please don’t tell anyone!” I said, “Even if I tell, you won’t be able to stop it—there are photos.”

So much fear—in those we call monks and renunciates! Leave aside the householder.

If, out of fear, you talk cleverness, you are deceiving yourself. And of course, if you want to talk cleverly you can do it very well. By listening to me, understanding may not arise—but cleverness certainly does. Cleverness is the counterfeit of understanding. Cleverness is a false coin.

In the company of drunkards the preacher could gain nothing—
but a slightly tipsy style of speech he did acquire.

He lived among drunkards, among the intoxicated, and gained nothing—for to gain ecstasy one must first lose something. It is a costly bargain. It is the work of the courageous; it is the business of gamblers, not shopkeepers.

In the company of drunkards the preacher could gain nothing—
but a slightly tipsy style of speech he did acquire.

Just by listening to the talk of drunkards, he at least picked up that tipsy way of speaking.

That is exactly what is happening to many. Here the talk of wine goes on, and there “a tipsy style of speech” comes to you—you start talking lofty talk. No one will be able to beat you in argument, that much is certain. But be alert: do not, in all this talk, lose yourself. Then it will become very costly.

Sannyas...!
Because what you cannot obtain in life, the chances are small that you will obtain it by dying. If you could not be with me in life and you expect me to be with you in death—you are hoping a little too much. Not that there is any obstacle from my side. I will try. But when you could not be with me in life, will you be able to take my support in death? When, while conscious, you could not take my company, then when you start sinking into unconsciousness will you be able to cooperate? It will be difficult from your side. From my side there is no hindrance. From my side there is an assurance. But even I will not be able to do much. I will shout and you will not hear. I will catch your hand and you will pull it away. I will push you and you will take me to be an enemy.
When in life you could not gather courage—when there was awareness, when there was a little understanding, when there was a little light—if you could not recognize me in the light, will you recognize me in the dark? It will become difficult.

Karenge mar ke baqa-e-davām, kya hāṣil,
Jo zinda rah ke maqām-e-hayāt pā na sake.
By dying, what gain of everlastingness
if, while alive, you could not attain the station of life!

Thinking that by dying you will attain life’s goal! The goal of life that you could not attain while living...!
No, don’t make such a mistake. There is still time. Late, but it is never too late. Now that you have come here, don’t return empty-handed.

Even after coming to the water-place, the pitcher
is returning empty!
She brought it on her head, the poor water-bearer,
to water the tulsi shrine
and the courtyard’s flower-bed—
but somewhere in this clay body
there is a hidden crack;
so even after reaching the well, the pitcher
is returning empty!
You are a seeker; now return only as a sannyasin!

What does sannyas mean? Only this much: that you have trust in me. What else does it mean? Only this: that you are ready to place your hand in my hand—without hesitation. Even if I make you do something mad, you will still trust that there will be some meaning to it.
Beyond trust, sannyas has no other meaning. In this very trust, the device for you to be lost begins.

People come to me. They say, “We are ready for sannyas, but there are two things we cannot do—we will not wear the mala and we will not wear the ochre.” Then I ask them: then what readiness remains? Will you make the mala and put it around my neck? What meaning will sannyas have then? Then I will have to go by your terms—let us make it clear what is to be done, otherwise later there will be trouble, we may have to go to court. What have you thought?
I also know what can clothes do, what can a mala do! I too know this. You will not reach heaven by wearing certain clothes and a mala. But the clothes and the mala are only a signal from your side that you are ready to go mad; that now you consent; that if I make you a madman, you are ready even for that.

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin was sitting at the door of his house. A car stopped. A man had lost his way and asked for the road to Bombay. Nasruddin gave him precise directions: first go left, then at the crossroads turn right, then... About two hours later the man came back again. Nasruddin was still sitting there. The man said: This is the limit! I followed every single instruction exactly, and I came right back here. Nasruddin said: Now I will give you the correct directions. That was only a test to see whether you even have the sense to follow instructions.
So this mala and ochre—you will go round and come back here. By these alone you are not going to reach God. But they were only to see whether you can follow, so that something further may be said. If even this cannot be managed, then playing the flute before a buffalo is not right.

The whole meaning of sannyas is only that you can say:
Yeh kaun chha gaya hai dilo-dīdah par ki aaj
apnī nazar meñ āp haiñ nā-āshnā se ham!
Who is this that has spread over the heart and the eyes today,
that in our own sight we have become strangers to ourselves!

You begin to feel, in your own eyes toward yourself, that you have become a stranger to yourself. You have to be taken away from yourself. All that my device means is to take you away from yourself. That you come to me is only a method so that you may become distant from yourself.
Yeh kaun chha gaya hai dilo-dīdah par ki aaj—who is this that has overcast the heart and the eyes; apnī nazar meñ āp haiñ nā-āshnā se ham—that in our own eyes we are becoming far from ourselves. That is all the meaning.

So that you keep remembering that you are not small; so that you keep remembering that, though you may have forgotten, your very nature is divine; so that you keep remembering that godliness is your treasure. Yes, if you inflate your ego, it will be a mistake. And if you awaken your godliness, it will be merit.

Sin and virtue depend on your vision. For me there is no way except to see God in you. Once That is seen within oneself, it begins to appear in everyone.

Every straight or slanted line,
your form emerges.
How many times I wished
to paint some other picture,
to free my mind
from the prison of your shape—
but in every mirror
your beloved reflection descends.

I do look at you, of course, but it is not you that appears there; I bow to that which appears. You too, slowly, with the help of my salutation, seek for That. Do not fall into the mistake that it is you I have saluted. Then the ego will grow; then the mistake will be made; then you will have turned even flowers into thorns.

I have saluted you—not you, but your nature; not your notion of who you are, but the truth of who, in fact, you are. You too remember That. When that remembrance begins to arise, my bow will give great momentum to your search.

Expectation will remain until you have experienced that there is nothing to be gotten from life. Life only gives assurances; it never fulfills them. Life is a deception. From afar the great oases appear; on coming near they prove to be desert. From a distance there seems to be great beauty. The drums heard from afar sound so sweet! On coming close, all becomes ugly.

The deeper your experience grows that all beauty belongs to distance, that the whole juice of life is in the future, never in the present—seems like “I’ve got it, got it, got it,” yet it is never gotten; you seem to be approaching but you never arrive—the more you see that this goal keeps receding. Like the horizon, where sky seems to touch earth—seems just a few miles away; you advance, it keeps advancing—the distance remains the same. The day it dawns on you from all directions that here everything is only invitation, only hope, nothing ever completes, that very day your expectation will drop. The moment expectation drops, the world vanishes—because the world is in expectation, in hope. And as soon as the world vanishes, you suddenly discover: you are surrounded by the Divine.

I am telling you—this will be hard to understand—I am telling you that the day you understand that the earth never touches the sky at the horizon, that very day you suddenly find: from within you the sky has touched the earth; it has touched here—there is nowhere left to go.

Ambrosia is mere imagination; the claim of poison is absolutely true.
Ambrosia is mere imagination; the claim of poison is absolutely true.
No one has ever tasted or seen nectar—
only the name has been handed down.
But poison is sold at the crossroads:
whoever eats it, dies.
Ambrosia is mere imagination; the claim of poison is absolutely true.

The day you see that in the world nectar is only imagination, immortality only talk, a dream; and poison is the truth—that very day your hands will stop. That very day you will refrain from drinking the poison. You won’t have to restrain yourself—it will simply stop. Has anyone ever knowingly drunk poison? Knowing it as poison, has anyone drunk it? You drink in the hope that it isn’t poison, that it is nectar. It may be poison, yet you believe it to be nectar—so you drink.

Everywhere you have sought happiness till now—did you find happiness there? When you do get something, it is sorrow that you get. But you are astonishing! Again and again you go on asking for happiness from the very same things. You never learn the lesson.

There is a story in the Mahabharata: the Pandavas were wandering in the forest during their period of incognito. Thirst seized them. One brother went to a lake. He had just bent down to draw water—crystal-clear lake, parched throat, his brothers dying of thirst—when suddenly a voice came. A Yaksha, a spirit of the lake, said: Stop! Until you answer my questions, if you touch the water you will die. Answer my questions, then you may take the water.
He asked: What are the questions? They were such that the brother could not answer; he tried to take water and fell dead. The first question was: What is the greatest wonder of human life? Four brothers came in this way and fell; then Yudhishthira arrived. The same question. The Yaksha said: These four lie dead. The same will be your fate. First answer my questions, because I am caught in a dilemma here.
My dilemma is that I have been cursed that until I bring back the answers to these five questions, I must remain bound in this spirit-form. I am exhausted from asking—centuries have passed, no one answers. The moment of my release keeps receding. If you answer, only then may you drink from this lake. This lake is my device. And around it, far and wide, I have spread drought, so that whoever comes, comes thirsty, in search of water to the lake, and falls into my net. Answer: What is the greatest wonder of human life?
Yudhishthira said: Man does not learn even from experience. And it is said the Yaksha was satisfied. That is the answer. The most senseless event in human life is this: every day you ask for happiness, every day you receive sorrow, yet you ask for the same happiness again. You think you are drinking nectar; the moment it reaches your throat it turns to poison. This happens day after day, and yet day after day you fill the same cup again, fill yourself with the same juice from which you got sorrow yesterday, the day before yesterday, in lives past as well. The moment this awareness dawns, in that very moment expectation falls. The cup slips from your hand. Sannyas is the name of this supreme wisdom.

That’s all for today.