Bhakti Sutra #15

Devotion is one.

Buddha has said: just as the ocean tastes salty wherever you taste it, so is truth—one flavor, one savor. And yet Narada speaks of three divisions of devotion. Those divisions are not of para-bhakti, the supreme devotion; they are of auxiliary, secondary devotion.

The first division, then: para-bhakti, the primary devotion—its form is one. Then there is gauṇī-bhakti: second-rate, lower, in accord with human types. Since human beings are of three kinds, naturally their devotion also appears in three kinds.

Light is one, but when it passes through a shard of glass it becomes seven-colored—the glass splits it into seven hues. That is how a rainbow forms. During the rains, tiny droplets hang in the air; the sun’s rays passing through them fracture into seven parts. Let there be a rainy day and the sun appear—at once a rainbow arcs across the sky. The ray itself is single-hued, yet it becomes seven-hued.

Devotion is single-hued, but humans are of three types; therefore in a derivative sense devotion becomes threefold. Understand these too, because something precious lies concealed within them.

Sattva, rajas, tamas—these are the threefold divisions of man. Naturally, whatever one does is colored by one’s nature. Perform sattvic devotion and its signature will be sattva. Perform rajasic devotion and the rajasic quality will infiltrate it. Perform tamasic devotion and you won’t be able to save your devotion from tamas.

Sattvic devotion means: a person practices devotion for the remission of sins, to be free from darkness, to cross beyond death. There is desire even in the sattvic, hence it is not para-bhakti. In para-bhakti there is no desire at all—not even of sattva. In para-bhakti there is not even the desire to attain the Divine. For wherever there is desire, the human has entered. Your desire is yours. Whatever passes through your desire takes on its shape. Your desire distorts it, will not let it remain pure. Its virginity is lost.

Desire corrupts. Even the desire for sattva—though a lofty desire—is still desire. However high Mount Everest rises, it remains a piece of earth. However high it reaches into the sky, it does not become the sky. Sattvic devotion rises very high—it becomes Everest—but it remains tethered to earth. The connection with the web of desire continues. Still the mind entertains the idea of getting something—be it God, be it liberation; still, the idea of getting persists. And as long as the idea of getting persists, so long the world persists.

If you desire liberation, your liberation is only the extension of your world. What image of liberation will you form? Passing through the prism of your desire, even liberation will cease to be liberation. If you carry your asking into liberation too, you will end up asking for the world again and again—slightly improved, a new coat of paint perhaps, but still bound to you. That is why your “liberation” shows up as heaven, not moksha.

Filtered through human desire, moksha falls—becomes heaven. Heaven is the fall of liberation. Heaven means: what you wanted here and could not get, you now want in the hereafter. You longed for beautiful women but did not find them; or if you found them, they did not prove beautiful. Those who did not find them died yearning; those who did found them suffered even more. You longed for handsome men, and did not find them; or if you found one, you discovered him to be ugly; you found him consumed by petty drives. Desire remained; it did not fill. The mind burned; thirst did not quench. You drank from many ghats, yet no water pleased the mind; none tasted right. Many ghats you found; none where a home could be made.

So in your heaven apsaras arise—celestial nymphs. They are the expansion of your own lust. In heaven you will fashion the women you could not have here. Since all depictions of heaven have been painted by men, there are apsaras. If women had painted them, naturally there would be handsome men. Apsaras whose age freezes at sixteen and never advances. Urvashi is still sixteen—she was sixteen centuries ago, and will be sixteen centuries hence! Man’s desire was that woman should remain sixteen. No woman remains there, though they try. After sixteen, they age with great reluctance, inching forward, two, three, four years just to gain one. Yet aging proceeds. Time forgives no one. There is no way to push death back. There is no arrangement to clutch youth forever. Here everything slips through one’s fingers.

Then heaven must be! There our dreams are fulfilled. There time poses no obstacle. There no knock sounds at the door of death. There old age does not come to stand before you. In heaven there is no stench of sweat from women’s bodies—there is fragrance. We desired it here and failed. We splashed on perfumes, searched out scents, yet the musk of sweat would not be hidden; it would assert itself. The body’s smell—hide it as you will—does not forget to be itself.

In heaven, first of all, no sweat arises. Cool breezes blow! Morning remains; there is no noon. And the body exudes fragrance. In heaven, bodies are of gold. And there is scent in gold.

In the Muslim heaven there are fountains of wine. What a marvel! Here the preachers urge you to leave wine—there they promise rivers of it. Watch the mind of man! Even when he leaves, he leaves only in order to get. Is that any leaving? He hasn’t let go with one hand before grabbing with the other. Here you give up the cup; here wine comes in cups, no streams flow—there you set rivers running. Here you must descend wine into yourself; there you will descend into wine, take dips, swim!

Omar Khayyam said, O preachers, if it is true there is wine in heaven, let us practice a little here. You’ll be in trouble there; you know neither how to drink nor how to serve. What will you do then? Your training is the opposite.

Omar Khayyam’s jest is apt. He was a Sufi saint, not a drunkard. For him wine is a symbol of the Divine. He is saying that if the Beloved is met in that realm, we must savor Him here and now. Without practice here, even arriving there you will not taste, will not partake. Drop worrying about there! Steep yourself in His flavor here. Then when those springs begin to flow, you will be able to dive. If here you feared wine, your hands and feet shook, you cried “forbid, forbid,” then when you see those rivers flowing there, your very life will dry up. You won’t find a place to hide.

Having renounced wine here so half-heartedly, you have made arrangements for it in heaven.

Hindus created the wish-fulfilling tree in heaven. Whatever you could not get here, all will be found under that Kalpavriksha. The very meaning of the wish-fulfilling tree is that sitting beneath it, desire is instantly fulfilled. No action is required to fulfill desire. Here in the world you run and run, and still you do not arrive—this is everyone’s experience. No matter how much labor, what fruit lands in your hands? Only ash remains! Even Alexanders die empty-handed. Dust fills the mouth. The grave keeps watch. However you run, strive as you might, finally you fall into the grave. Small fall there, great fall there; beggars and emperors fall there; poor and rich fall there; the wise and the fools fall there—all fall into death, all are dusted with dust. How much labor—and what is gained?

This is our experience of the world, so we erected wish-fulfilling trees in heaven. There no labor is needed. The moment you think, it is done. Between desire and its fulfillment there is not even a moment’s gap. The instant a feeling stirs within, the fruit appears without. Life’s experience is that you feel for a lifetime, run, labor, devise means, arrange—and all in vain! All in vain! In reaction we populated heaven with wish-trees. Do nothing at all—only let a dream arise, a stroke of feeling, and before you even know, before you even awaken to the arising of the feeling, the fruit will be present outside. This is the worldly mind’s desire.

Hence the heavens of the world differ, because each land’s joys and sorrows are different.

Tibet’s heaven blazes with sunlight, brightness everywhere, warm, because Tibet suffers the pangs of snow. The Hindu’s heaven is cool spring, morning’s chill breeze, air-conditioned. Hindus are harassed by the sun. Fire and such arrangements are reserved in hell—for others. Naturally, what pains us here we consign to hell; and what we wanted, the happiness we longed for, we put in heaven....

Heaven is your desire, the poetry of your longing, your romance. Hell: the total accumulation of your pain. You have divided them. All pain you placed in hell and all pleasure in heaven—without realizing that pleasure and pain go together; they are never separate. Where there is pleasure there is pain. Where there is pain there is pleasure. They are two sides of one coin: inseparable.

Within a beautiful woman, an ugly one is hidden. Within a handsome man, the ugly is hidden. In life itself, death stands. In youth, old age peers. Look carefully and you will see old age peering from within full youth. Look carefully, and in the most beautiful body you will glimpse the skeleton. Look carefully, and where you behold the splendor of youth, you will also see the flames of the pyre. Only a deeper eye is needed. A little depth of seeing, that’s all.

Pleasure and pain cannot be separated. In the world they are interwoven. Human logic has separated pleasure and made it heaven; separated pain and made it hell. Naturally, hell is for those you do not like, for your enemies, the outsiders—and heaven for yourself, for your own, for those you wanted to make happy but could not.

That is why whoever dies becomes “heavenly.” Have you noticed? The moment one dies, he becomes “the heavenly so-and-so.” Because it is the loved ones who speak of the death and bear its grief; what have others to do with it! Who cares to call him “hellish,” that he has gone to hell! Who has anything at stake! And then, about the dead, no one speaks ill. Even if an enemy dies, now it is unseemly to speak ill of the dead. He has gone to heaven, become heavenly! No one even raises a doubt that he has become heavenly, that he was worthy of heaven! But the loved ones wish him heaven.

Devotion—para-bhakti—asks for nothing—not even for God—and finds God. The way to find God is this: don’t ask. Pearls are given unasked! The moment you ask, you mold God into the shape of your desire.

Think for a moment, what kind of God would you want? Reflect at leisure. You will find only the reflection of your longings. What sort of God would you ask for? You’ll see yourself coloring God with your own hues. The ray fractures, becomes seven-colored. His nature is lost. Truth is no longer truth. Only when you look having dropped all desire, all longing, does That-which-is reveal itself.

Even the desire for God is an obstacle on the path to God. Therefore the supreme devotee only devotes, asks for nothing. The supreme devotee only prays but does not become a petitioner—take note of this. The supreme devotee only prays, he does not become a beggar. His prayer asks for nothing. His prayer is a mood of amazement and gratitude; he gives thanks. He says: even like this you have given so much—I had no worthiness, no qualification. You too are something! You keep pouring gifts! You gave to me who had no eligibility! Had you not given, what complaint could I have made, and to whom! Had you not given, with what face could I complain! There would have been no cause. You gave so much! Shores without end, vastness! You gave life, existence. You gave a beating heart, breath soaked in love! You gave the very possibility of prayer! You gave the possibility of the Divine! You gave the door to liberation! You gave everything!

So the supreme devotee prays in thanksgiving. His prayer is amazement. His prayer is the upsurge of gratitude! He goes to the temple to say thank you: your grace is great, your compassion immense! Never saw a giver as lavish as you!

But this is para-bhakti. And such a devotee attains the Divine. Let me repeat: the one who does not ask, receives. The one who asks is kept apart by his very asking. Why? Understand the science of asking.

When you ask for something, the asker’s mind stays fixed on the ask. When you ask for something, even from God, you declare that what you ask is greater than God. If you go to the temple and say, “Grant me heaven, O Lord! I have suffered much; now give me no more sorrow. Give me the shade of happiness!” you are saying: if I were given a choice between attaining you and attaining heaven, I would choose heaven. You are saying: we will use you as a means, a device; for without you we will not get it. We tried with our own efforts and achieved nothing—now we take your refuge. We will flatter you, praise you!

It is a kind of bribe. A sort of coaxing: let us placate you, after all it is in your hand. But inside there is restlessness. What you ask proclaims who you are.

I have heard: an emperor was returning from war. He had a thousand queens. He sent word: “What shall I bring you?” One said, “Bring a diamond necklace.” Another said, “Bring the musk that comes from that land.” Another said, “No silk compares with theirs, bring a sari of that silk.” Many asked for many things. Only one wife said, “Just come home—you are enough.” Until that day he had paid her no attention. Among a thousand, she was merely a number, not a person. But upon returning home he made her the queen of queens. The others protested: “What happened? Why?” He said: “Only she said, ‘Just come home.’ Nothing else. If you come, all has come. She recognized my worth. The rest of you asked for diamonds, silk, perfumes—used me. Fine, I have brought what you asked. She asked for nothing. For her, I have come.”

God knocks at the door of the one who asks for nothing; the one who says, “You have given so much as it is; just accept my thanks.”

So para-bhakti is thanksgiving. Let us leave that now. It is ultimate. But among humans there is the sattvic person. He says: let there be freedom from the world, let sin fall away, let me be freed from darkness, O Lord! From darkness lead me to light; from death lead me to immortality; from the unreal lead me to the real! A most sattvic cry. It is the last height of what man can imagine. Beyond it the wings of imagination are cut. Beyond it is the vast sky of emptiness. Beyond it is only the Divine. This is the aspiration of the virtuous—this Narada called sattvic devotion. But remember, he called it a secondary devotion; not the chief, not supreme, not the final word.

Lower still is rajasic devotion. You ask—for a great kingdom, for honor, respect; to become president or prime minister. You visit the temple when you contest elections! All the politicians of Delhi have gurus. The moment they win, they forget—that’s another matter; but if they lose, they rush to the guru.

“Let me have fame, glory, wealth, position”—this is the mark of the rajasic mind. Satisfy the ego, inflate identity: let me become somebody! In any form, you ask. If you go to the temple and ask for fame, wealth, renown; “Let my name spread, let my family, my lineage be remembered forever”—your devotion has sunk lower: it has become rajasic.

Lower still is tamasic devotion. The tamasic person does not even ask for power or fame; he says, “Let that man die; let a mountain of sorrow fall on him; even if I must perish to destroy him, I will.” His mind is agitated by anger, tamas; by violence, envy—by destruction!

These are the three secondary devotions. Of the three, each earlier is more salutary than the later. Rajasic is better than tamasic. Sattvic better than rajasic. And beyond all three, para-bhakti is the most beneficial.

But there is a remarkable point to understand: the seed of devotion is present in all three. For there are tamasic types who will stab a man outright, who will not go to the temple to ask whether there is permission to destroy someone, who will simply destroy—who do not bring God in even for this bad deed, leave alone a good one. The tamasic person we are speaking of at least goes to the temple; granted the reason is wrong, but he goes to the right place. Wrong desire, but he goes to the right One. That much, at least, is right. His eyes are clouded; there is a veil of anger. No matter. If he keeps praying, keeps weeping in prayer, perhaps the haze will lift.

The one who goes to ask for wealth and status—how long will he keep asking? One day he will awaken: what is it I am asking! Asking, praying, consciousness gathers too. At least he will find himself in the temple—then perhaps he comes to. Wrong reason or not, the place is right—one day a glimpse may happen, and he may turn sattvic. One day he will see: I asked for wealth—and got it; what a mistake! I could have asked for something far greater. I asked for wealth and what did I gain! Even receiving it, I gained nothing. And now, whom can I blame—I asked for it myself. He may gain office, and discover that apart from tug-of-war there is nothing there.

No one sits at ease on the chair! Someone pulls your leg, someone your arm; someone crouches beneath the chair; someone tries to overturn it. Look at those on chairs! More than two or three days outside the capital and anxiety sets in—someone may overturn the chair there! Prime ministers and presidents fear foreign trips; by the time they return, they may have nowhere to return to! Many a time it happens: a president goes abroad and cannot return, because the chair is toppled and someone else sits on it. He cannot sleep peacefully. A politician who sleeps soundly is no politician. He tosses and turns, sets up moves, plays chess through the night. A great game, full of restlessness. Even if you get the post you find you got nothing; you could have asked for something else; the chance came and look what you asked for. The giver stood before you, and you asked for trash! Perhaps one day a sattvic energy arises and the feeling comes in your heart: Asato ma sadgamaya—from the unreal lead me to the real, O Lord.

If the sattvic prayer continues, persists, one day you will see: I am asking the Divine for truth—why not ask for the Divine Himself! When the Master Himself is available, what else to ask for! What light am I asking for? When the giver Himself is willing to dwell in my heart, let me ask for the Master Himself. Then all else comes with Him. Truth comes, light comes, immortality comes—those are attendant shadows. Am I asking for the shadows?

Thus, asking upon asking, asking refines, matures. Even if prayer begins wrongly—let it begin!

Allah, Allah—such breadth in your labyrinth of renunciation and indulgence,
Little by little the full beauty appeared before me.
At first, at every step there were a thousand destinations;
At last I arrived at a station that is stationless.

These vast tangles of your renunciation and indulgence, O Beloved! Yet as I kept walking, little by little the total beauty emerged!

So many forms of beauty besieged me—woman’s beauty, flowers’ beauty, wealth’s beauty, position’s beauty—but little by little, searching and groping, the beauty of the All arose before me.

Allah, Allah—such breadth in your labyrinth of renunciation and indulgence,
Yet little by little the beauty of the All appeared.
At first, at every step there were a thousand destinations;
At last, I arrived at a station beyond all stations.

At first, at every step troubles stood in the way, a thousand paths opened, choosing was hard. Choose—and you later regret that you left nine hundred ninety-nine; who knows what lay there!

And in life you must choose something. Choose wealth—position slips. Choose position—wealth must be sacrificed. Choose a woman—position slips. Choose position—and you must take on celibacy. Something or other keeps tangling you. Choose one, and the other is left; choose the other, and the first is left. The regret remains in the mind that perhaps the other option would have been more beautiful. That is why I do not find a man who is happy, because everyone has left nine hundred ninety-nine options. If you choose one, you must leave nine hundred ninety-nine.

A politician comes and says, “What a tangle I got into! I could have made some money instead!” For a politician must always massage the feet of those who have money; it pains him.

A rich man comes and says, “With so much effort I made money—I could have become president or prime minister with the same effort. I must go and flatter these ruffians. Licenses, this and that...!”

Whomsoever you see, he is unhappy. Whatever you obtain comes at some price, and you must pay that price. Nothing is free here. Choose one, and you pay the price of nine hundred ninety-nine. In the crossroads, a thousand paths open, and you can walk only one. How will you forget that on those nine hundred ninety-nine other paths, perhaps one led to the goal? And when you arrive nowhere, surely you will regret that you chose the wrong path. And whether the others were right or not, one thing will be certain—that this one was wrong.

The others are regretting just the same.

At first, at every step there were a thousand destinations;
At last, I arrived at a station beyond all stations.

But gradually, if one keeps probing, that destination arrives which is the final one, stationless; the station beyond which there is no other; the last; from which no path opens; where one arrives and is arrived; where one sinks and is lost—like a river lost in the sea.

At last, I arrived at a station beyond all stations.

Today’s first aphorism:

“Compared to all else, devotion is easy.”

Compared to all else! There is yoga, tantra, knowledge, austerity, renunciation—compared to all of them, devotion is easy. Why? What is the ease of devotion? Simply this: all the others have to be done by the human being—devotion happens. Simply this: in all the rest you must carry the load on your own head—devotion is surrender; the burden is given to God.

An emperor was traveling in his chariot. He saw an old man hefting his bundle and felt pity. He stopped and said, “Come, sit—wherever you need to get off, I will drop you.” He climbed onto the chariot. Poor man—never sat in a chariot before—he sat stiff, cramped, afraid; he didn’t even put down the bundle, lest too much of a poor man’s weight fall on the chariot. The emperor said, “Put your bundle down—why carry it on your head now?”

He said, “No, lord—enough that you have allowed me to ride; how can I also put my bundle’s weight on your chariot? No, no, I cannot.”

What difference does it make—if you yourself are sitting, whether the bundle is on your head or at your feet?

The yogi’s bundle is on his head; the bhakta’s is in the chariot. The devotee says, “I have left everything to God—now You handle it!” The devotee takes a single step. The man of knowledge must take many—he is skillful, clever. The yogi must mount each rung. Devotion is a single leap. The devotee says, “This is beyond my understanding. If I go by my understanding, it is certain I will never arrive. I trust You.”

We say, “Love is blind,” but love has an eye that even the eyed do not possess. So too devotion is blind; but devotion has an eye that even the eyed do not have. The devotee says, “I hand it to You! You gave birth, You gave life—You steer! Take the helm! We sleep untroubled. You are driving anyway; we unnecessarily interfere!”

The yogi swims against the current. The devotee flows with the river. Hence the ease. The devotee says, “We will flow. If you wish to take us to the wrong place, take us—we are ready to go there.” This is the devotee’s courage. Devotion is great courage—audacity. Like a gambler, the devotee stakes everything, keeps nothing in reserve. He says, “Fine—if You want to take me to a wrong place, so be it. If you want to drown me, all right—drown me.”

Think a little. Taste this a little. Let it sink into the heart: “If You wish to drown me—so be it; drown me! Will I not find the shore in this very drowning? Will not the midstream become a shore? For how will you drown the one who has agreed to drown?”

Have you seen? A living man drowns in the river; a dead body floats. Surely the corpse knows some trick the living does not. The living man drowns; he tried to save himself, he fought the river, he shouted “help, help,” he did all he could—and drowned. What trick does the dead know? The moment a man dies, he rises—his body begins to float.

The devotee dies while living. He says, “We are not, only You are. If there is error, it will be Yours; how can we err! If there is drowning, it will be You drowning; how can we drown! If You enjoy drowning, who are we to interfere? Who are we! We are a mirage—You are the real!”

That is why devotion is easy.

“Stumbling, I fell at the cupbearer’s feet;
Even in my drunkenness, I kept this much awareness.”

Stumbling, the devotee falls. He is not among those who insist on standing upright. But even in his intoxication he holds this much awareness—that he falls at the feet of the Cupbearer, he falls at the feet of the Divine. Even in such unawareness he keeps this much awareness: if it is Your feet, what is falling and what is standing—both are the same. What is being erased and what is being—both the same! Night and day are one. Birth and death are one—at Your feet!

Devotion is easy. If even stumbling and falling is not possible—then what else will be possible? Think a little. Meditate a little. Devotion says: collapse. The yogi stands balanced, disciplines himself. Devotion is no discipline. We say “devotion-discipline”—our language is weak. Devotion is not a discipline. In earlier times the distinction was clear—devotion was upasana; the rest were disciplines. Practice yoga, practice meditation—these are disciplines. Devotion is worshipful nearness.

Upasana means: being near “That,” that’s all. Up-asan—sit near Him, fall at His feet. And “His” feet are everywhere. Therefore don’t ask, “Where should I fall?” This much awareness arises even in unawareness. If His feet were in some one place, in Kaaba or Kashi, what difference would it make if you fell with great awareness in Pune!

Kabir lived in Kashi all his life, but at the time of death he left it. People go to Kashi to die—Kashi for the final turn! The dying crowd there, preparing for death. Go to Kashi and you will find old men, widows, sitting on the ghats preparing, waiting for the turn; because they believe that dying in Kashi means dying at His feet; dying in Kashi ensures heaven.

Kabir moved away. His devotees said, “What are you doing? You lived in Kashi all your life and now you leave it to die?” Kabir said, “If by dying in Kashi one reaches His feet, then His feet are very limited indeed.” Near Kashi there is a small town, Maghar. Just as the proverb for Kashi is that one who dies there goes to heaven, so the proverb for Maghar is that one who dies there is reborn a donkey. Perhaps the people of Maghar spread this so no one would die there; everyone dash to Kashi. At the time of death Kabir reached Maghar. He said, “Only if by dying here one reaches His feet does it mean something.” He died in Maghar.

His feet are vast. They are everywhere. Once you understand that He alone is, then wherever you fall you have fallen at the Cupbearer’s feet. This is not so much a question of your awareness as of understanding that His feet are everywhere. He alone is. In every particle He is. In every moment He is. Other than Him, there is nothing.

Devotion is easy because it has no method, no ritual.

When Ramakrishna was appointed priest at the temple of Dakshineshwar, the trustees ran into trouble—nearly had to dismiss him. Because Ramakrishna was no priest like other priests—he was not a priest at all; he was a devotee. There is a vast difference between priest and devotee. The priest is in business.

Last night I was reading Gurdjieff. Among his astonishing sayings is one: if you want to get rid of religion, live among religious leaders; you will be cured—seeing all the shenanigans, webs, schemes. One thing is certain: priests have no trust in God—cannot have. With them you too will understand it’s all a net. They perform worship daily; nothing happens to the priest—he himself is not soaked; he performs the ritual and returns home; collects his salary—that’s that. He sells prayer. He sells worship.

Ramakrishna was not a priest; he was a devotee. That is where the difficulty began. Sometimes he would start worship at midnight; sometimes the whole day would pass without worship. The trustees said, “This will not do—what kind of worship is this? There must be order, method.” Ramakrishna said, “Then manage your own temple; this I cannot do. If it does not rise from the heart, how can I do it? By pretending I would only be deceiving God.”

“And how could we deceive Him anyway! The world may be deceived that worship is happening; but He cannot be fooled! You will get me trapped—sent to hell. He will see that this man is cheating. I will not. Sometimes the feeling rises at two in the night. It is not in my hands. When it rises, it rises; when it does not, it does not.”

Sometimes worship would go on all day—without food or water; and sometimes days would pass, the temple lying empty, not even a lamp lit. Ramakrishna said, “When it is lit, it will burn with authenticity; when it is not, it is not. What can I do? His wish. If He wanted the lamp lit, He would stir the feeling. If everything was left to Him, why keep this account in my hands? When He needs the lamp, He will summon; when He needs the sound of bells, He will summon; when He wishes to hear song, He will say, ‘Ramakrishna, sing!’ I will sing, I will dance. If He is not present to hear, if He is resting perhaps, why should I disturb? Don’t trap me.”

Somehow it was smoothed over; the point seemed sound. Then more tangles came. It was noticed he first tasted the offerings himself—right there in the shrine—the plate meant for God. Then it had become “defiled”! Now it was too much. “What account is this?” the trustees asked. Ramakrishna said, “Account? I know—my mother always tasted the food before feeding me; if it didn’t please her, she wouldn’t give it to me. So I cannot offer without tasting. Defiled? It is He who tastes through me. But I cannot offer without tasting—who knows if it is fit to be offered! When something good is prepared, I offer; when it is not good, I do not offer. This is for God—we are not playing!”

He was a devotee, not a priest.

Devotion is easy—if the heart blossoms. Devotion is utterly simple—if you have a heart.

What is worship, what is ritual!
Tears surge unbidden to wash the dust of His feet!
My very hair stands on end as rice-grains of offering,
The sweet trembling of my ache—my only incense!
What is worship, what is ritual!

You don’t have to pour sacred Ganges water; your tears rise on their own.

What is worship, what is ritual!

So the devotee needs no method, no prescription. Hence it is easy.

The thorns became rice-grains, the dust became sandalwood;
My breath, like agar smoke, fragrant with awareness;
The flame of love became an unwavering aarti;
The water of my eyes—libation and ablution.
The thorns became rice-grains, the dust became sandalwood.

Love does this: offer the dust, it becomes sandalwood. Otherwise you can rub sandalwood all your life; people have been rubbing sandalwood since forever—and the sandal becomes dust. Offer dust and see. The matter is not what you offer, but who offers—what heart brings it!

If there is heart, devotion is easy. Without heart, devotion becomes the most arduous of all.

“Compared to all else, devotion is easy.”

When Narada spoke these words, perhaps there was no need to explain. Those people, that time was different. Heart was natural. Mind was far away. If they exerted themselves, they employed the mind; the spontaneous default was the heart.

Today it is reversed. Today everything seems simple except devotion. Today yoga practices do not seem difficult. That is why yoga spreads all over the world. Do postures, exercise, breathe in particular ways, stand on your head—it makes sense, the intellect can grasp it. It is physical, material. Even the scientist understands: if you breathe in a certain way, blood pressure lowers; if you breathe in a certain way, the brain fills with alpha waves, as in deep sleep—calm. These are physical phenomena; the intellect can measure them.

You cannot “catch” the devotee. Investigate Ramakrishna as much as you like—nothing will be found in your instruments. Yes, bring a yogi into a lab—much will be recorded, because the instruments are material. You can check the breath. You can check blood pressure. You can check electrical waves in the brain. And it can be demonstrated experimentally that a particular pranayama benefits body and mind. But how will you investigate the soul? How will you recognize the heart? No method has been found to measure a lover—how then measure devotion?

So when Narada wrote “Compared to all else, devotion is easy,” surely devotion was easy then. Devotion is still easy—but man has become complicated. People are knotted with thinking, trapped in their skulls; doors to the heart have closed. The heart is almost forgotten.

When I speak to you of the heart, at best you recall the lungs. Where there is thump-thump, where breath moves—that is the lungs, not the heart. The lungs can be replaced by plastic; can the heart be plastic? The lungs can be—and they may be better, since plastic does not decay readily and can be replaced easily. The day plastic lungs arrive, people will not die of cardiac arrest. We will replace the part; take it to the garage, fit a new one.

But the heart is elsewhere. It has no direct link with the lungs. Lungs and heart are close by, that is true. Where lungs are, behind them somewhere the heart is hidden. The lungs belong to the body; the heart belongs to the soul. This is where the great mistake happens. So when you are filled with love, your hand rests over your lungs—actually you want to place your hand on the heart, but the lungs are nearby. Therefore when you tell a scientist, “My heart is blossoming with God,” he will say, “Let me examine.” He will test the lungs—because only the lungs can be tested.

Yoga relates to the lungs; devotion relates to the heart. Knowledge relates to the skull, to the arrangement of thought; devotion relates to the arrangement of feeling. That is a different dimension altogether. When you leave thinking, when you surrender thought, when you place it at His feet—you have offered flowers enough; now offer your thoughts. If you must offer, offer your head; the rest is not worth offering. If your head is offered, you will begin to live from a new center—the heart. Then devotion is easy.

Let the heart be alive again, vibrant again; let waves rise again on the lake of the heart; let flowers and fruits come again on the tree of the heart—and devotion is very easy. Therefore the indispensable step of devotion is shraddha—trust.

Reason leads into thought; trust leads into feeling. If reason succeeds, it leads to ego; if it fails, to depression. If trust succeeds, it leads to egolessness; if it “fails,” to anguish. But trust does not know failure. If there is trust, it succeeds. Reason’s success is not assured; if it succeeds, it thickens ego; if it fails, it wounds ego. Trust, if present, succeeds; if not present, it “fails,” but not having trust is not a failure—it’s simply absence.

“...for devotion is self-evident proof; it needs no other proof.”

Reason collects proofs.

People come to me and ask, “What is the proof of God?” They set out to find God on their heads. They set out to find Him with logic. “What is the proof?” they say. “First prove that God is.” They do not know that there is no way to prove God. Because the very logic that would prove God is the obstacle to reaching Him. Mark this well. What you mistake for nectar is poison there. Even if someone proves God by logic, it is not God that is proven—logic is proven. Let me say it again: if someone proves God by logic, God is not proven—logic is. Then logic is placed above God, not below. And if something stands above God, where is God’s sovereignty! God is supreme.

Feel this: God is supreme. Therefore He cannot be proven by logic—otherwise logic would be higher than He. Once proven by logic, He becomes dependent on logic. And what can be proven by logic can be disproven by logic. Logic is a double-edged sword. And logic is like a courtesan: it can serve either side. Logic is a lawyer. It does not matter—go to a lawyer, he will stand for you; your opponent goes, he will stand for him. It’s a matter of fees.

On the road a boy was crying. Another stood fuming with anger. A third was eating ice cream. A passerby asked, “What’s the matter? Why is this boy crying?” The ice-cream-eater said, “That other boy snatched his ice cream—that’s why he is crying.” “But the other boy has no ice cream; he’s just fuming. You are eating it!” “I am this boy’s lawyer,” he said.

The lawyer cares for ice cream.

Logic is a lawyer. It has no fidelity. It can be for you or against you. Therefore the very arguments that have been offered for God have been used to argue against Him. Hence the tussle between theist and atheist never ends—nor will it ever. It keeps swinging: at times the atheist seems to win, at times the theist. But in truth neither wins—logic wins; the lawyer wins. The arguments offered for God are flipped to argue against Him—no difference at all.

Therefore he who builds faith upon logic builds his house upon sand; the sand will shift. If you are a theist because of logic, you are actually a concealed atheist; there is no theism in you.

Ask me for a definition of atheist: one whose faith is in logic. One whose faith is in faith—that one is a theist. The supreme theists have given no arguments; their statements are direct. The Upanishads say simply: God is. You ask why? They say: what is there to ask why—He is. If you want to know, know. If not, let it be. If you want to walk toward Him, walk; if you want to turn your back, turn. But His being does not depend on your thinking. Your thinking depends on His being.

Vivekananda went to many learned men. He was an atheist, a deep logician. He went to Ramakrishna too, intending to conduct the same disputation he had elsewhere. He entered difficulty there. He took a group of fifteen friends to watch; they thought there would be a great embarrassment for this poor Ramakrishna—the devotee appears poor to the logician, meager, as if he knows nothing; the logician recognizes the currency of logic and sees none with the devotee, so he seems poor. Vivekananda, in his old arrogance, asked, “Does God exist? Can you prove it?” Ramakrishna began to laugh. “To ask for proof is useless,” he said. “Do you want to know? To see? To meet? I can arrange it right now. Are you ready?”

They had not thought anyone would say such a thing. They had no reply ready. The logician rehearses everything. He has no spontaneous responses—only prepared ones. They had never imagined anyone would speak like this. They had gone to many pundits; they asked them to prove God and the pundits got busy with proofs. Then Vivekananda would seize their arguments and slice them. This man said, “Stop babbling—who has time to waste! Do you want to see? Say yes or no!”

The group grew a bit nervous—what kind of matter is this! We had not thought that God could be... And before Vivekananda could say anything, Ramakrishna placed his foot on Vivekananda’s chest. Is that a way! Is that the manner of a gentleman! This poor man had brought logic, asked for proof. What kind of behavior is this! Vivekananda fainted. When he awoke, the whole world had changed. He fled, panicked—what has happened! He could not understand. Something happened—everything turned inside out. This man dragged him to some unknown realm—beyond moon and stars! All boundaries were uprooted. Thoughts and so forth sounded far away; his own thoughts sounded far away. His connection to himself fell away. Disoriented. Uprooted. He ran. Ramakrishna said, “Where are you going? When you want to see again, come.”

The atheist went! Later Vivekananda wrote: I tried hard not to go to that man; I defended myself, but something began to pull. Some irresistible, unknown cord. However much I tried, sleeping and waking, that man filled my memory. That foot on the chest! The old died!

“Where did I get trapped,” thought Vivekananda. “I was fine. Everything worked. I had logic, intellect, erudition, pride, talent. People respected me. Had I not gone to Ramakrishna, India would have produced a great philosopher.” Hegel’s or Kant’s stature would have been matched. But Ramakrishna spoiled everything. He tried to save himself and could not. He went again and again. Each time the presence broke something. Each time the man carried him to another realm. His presence opened the door.

Theism is not a matter of argument.

“Because devotion is self-evident proof.”

Self-pramāṇatvāt—being self-proving.

It has no need of other proof.

God exists—your presence is required. Thoughts have nothing to do with it. He surrounds you on every side.

You were ignorant—you could not distinguish between clinging and renunciation.
The Formless had merged in the very form that stands in itself.
The feet whose effortless coming did not please you even for a moment—
In those very feet, flushed with dawn’s radiance, was one of my feet.

Consciousness remained an Ahalya, turned to stone—unawakened, unfortunate.
You deliberately made yourself deaf to the music of the Unstruck Sound.
The words whose humble petition seemed to you belonging to another—
Within those very words, brimmed with divine meaning, was one of my words.

What you have heard—there too God has spoken. What you have seen—there too God has been the seen. What you have touched—there too you have touched Him. For He is present everywhere, on every side. He alone is present. Other than Him nothing has any presence. Just descend from the fairyland of your thoughts! Lower the fever-heat of your thinking. Quiet your fever. In a little quiet, look! Trust, and look with feeling! He is! No proof is needed. He is self-evident. Self-proven.

“Devotion is peace itself, and bliss supreme.”

It needs no proof. Become quiet—proof arrives. Not in your thought or logical chain, but in your quiet, His proof appears.

“Devotion is peace itself and bliss supreme.”

The moment you are still, the supreme bliss descends. In that bliss the Divine is encountered. Hence we have taken bliss as His definition: sat-chit-ananda. We have not made any other definition. Sat—He is. Chit—He is consciousness. Ananda—He is joy.

What can you do so that He glimmers near you? What can you do that the veil lifts from your eyes?

Devotion is peace! Be still. Therefore all meditation, all prayer, all worship converge upon one thing: be still. You want to see Him? Be still. Don’t be agitated. The moment you settle, become quiet—He draws near. The moment you settle, become quiet—He is heard.

“A devotee should not worry about worldly censure or loss, for he has offered himself and all his worldly and Vedic actions to God.”

This is a revolutionary aphorism:

“Concern for worldly loss.”

What people think—good or bad; whether they consider you crazy or wise, call you mad—what people think, whether devotion makes you respectable or strips you of respect—this concern should not be the devotee’s. If the devotee cares for this, he will never become a devotee.

People do not always honor what is true; often they honor what is not, because people are false. They do not honor truth, they honor lies. Do not rely on people’s honor. Whether devotion gains you in the world or costs you—do not consider it, otherwise the step of devotion will not be taken. The devotee needs courage enough to accept even being called mad. To go mad for God is a far greater wisdom than the world’s cleverness. To go mad for God is more precious and worth choosing than worldly smartness. To remain “sensible” in the pursuit of wealth is no great sense. To be “intelligent” in the pursuit of position is no great intelligence—it is deception.

Building millions of limits, the world binds the heart;
To spread into vastness has become very difficult in this world.

The world erects a thousand boundaries, a thousand walls. The world is a great prison.

Building millions of limits, the world binds the heart;
To spread into vastness has become very difficult in this world.

He who would go beyond must disregard these limits and the net woven around them. Not that you deliberately break the world’s norms; not that you intentionally go against propriety—but if it happens that you must choose between propriety and the Divine, do not choose propriety. If while seeking God the world’s order also remains intact, good. If while seeking God the worldly arrangement remains, fortunate. Do not break intentionally.

Hence immediately Narada adds another aphorism:

“Until perfection in devotion is attained, one should not abandon worldly conduct; but by renouncing the fruits, one should use that conduct as a means to devotion.”

Slowly. The world need not be dropped now; there is no need. But one should drop the expectation of its fruits. Do not yet break propriety, but relinquish the honor that propriety brings. For worship received by living in prison—decline it, there is no need; drop the craving for that worship. Then you have knocked out the true foundation. The shell of propriety may remain. If, while seeking God, propriety too stands, very good. But remember—at any cost do not let go of the thread of God. Even if the whole world is lost, all codes break, every kind of worldly loss befalls you, and in the world’s eyes you are deemed deranged and mad—do not worry. For other than the Divine, everything else is madness.

The bell was rung in the Kaaba and the conch blown in the temple;
Everywhere Your lover has called out to You.

His lover seeks Him everywhere—in temple and mosque.

The bell was rung in the Kaaba and the conch blown in the shrine;
Everywhere Your lover has called Your name.

He calls everywhere, but He is neither in the temple nor in the mosque. When this is seen, the lover has no code of temple or mosque. Not that he breaks temples and mosques—there is no need. But he will not remain a Hindu or a Muslim. There is no need to proclaim, “I am neither Hindu nor Muslim.” He simply won’t be. Inside, no line will remain dividing Hindu and Muslim; that code is gone, that boundary gone. The devotee of God is simply a devotee of God—without any adjective.

I had no work with temples nor any business with mosques;
Lost in the Beloved’s remembrance, wherever I was, there I was.

Neither mosque nor temple. Absorbed in the Beloved’s thought—wherever I sat: in a temple, in a mosque; reading the Quran or the Bible. No need to break anything outwardly; but inside, be free. Inside, be purely human. Simply be religious. Let prayer be your quality.

“The stories of woman, wealth, the atheist, and the enemy are not to be listened to.”

This aphorism is often translated that way; I translate it differently.

Strī-dhana-nāstika-vairi-caritram na śravaṇīyam.

Its straightforward meaning is: the tales of women, wealth, atheists, and enemies are not worth hearing. There is a great difference between “not to be listened to” and “not worth listening to.” The former is a command: “don’t listen.” The latter is a statement of fact: “not worth listening to.” “Don’t listen”—it smells of fear; as if hearing about woman will shake the devotee; as if hearing of women his mind will descend from God to woman. Then that is not devotion—it is repression. As if hearing an atheist will shake his theism. What kind of theism is that? Throw away such impotent theism yourself. If listening to the atheist makes you tremble, know that the atheist is within and you have plastered a theism on top.

Will a theist fear to hear an atheist? It is the atheist who fears. Will a theist be frightened by talk of wealth? Then he has not tasted the Supreme Treasure.

If you truly know diamonds, will you be afraid of pebbles? Will you say, “A connoisseur of diamonds should not listen to talk of pebbles”? Let a true connoisseur be; chatter on about stones. You cannot lure him who recognizes diamonds. If his recognition is false—assumed—then pebbles may indeed lure him.

So I render Narada exactly: “na śravaṇīyam”—not worth listening to. I do not say, “should not be listened to.” You may think this is a tiny linguistic difference; it is not. It changes the very quality. One small word changes the whole fragrance. “Not worth listening to”—that is comprehensible. Useless. “Do not listen”—then it appears meaningful and fearsome; meaningful enough to outweigh even God. “Not worth listening to” declares it pointless—don’t waste time. The one who knows diamonds will not fritter time talking stones; that is certain. But if someone brings stones, he will not run, shut his eyes, start screaming, “Save me, I am ruined! He brought stones!” Such panic will not show. He will simply say, “Why did you bring stones here needlessly? I have recognized diamonds—take them elsewhere.”

If an atheist comes to a theist with his case, the theist will lovingly say, “This no longer touches me. That time has passed. You are a little late. Sit down, speak if you like; I will listen.” For in the atheist too, God speaks. What a play! He debates his own negation!

It happened: Keshab Chandra—a great logician of his time—came to see Ramakrishna. He came to debate, to argue; and Ramakrishna listened to his logic, and would, delighted, rise to embrace him. Keshab was startled—this man is mad! “Did you understand anything?” he asked. “I am refuting God—saying He is not.” Ramakrishna said, “I understand—that is why I embrace you. What glory! How beautifully He refutes Himself! Seeing you, my love for His miracles grows stronger. What fun! What play! What a trick for deceiving! But He cannot deceive me—I recognize Him. It is You I embrace, O Lord—so you may not deceive me; I know your game.”

Exhausted, Keshab returned. His peace was gone, sleep lost. This man shook me. He did not refute me. He did not refuse to listen. He grew delighted instead. He said, “You are so intelligent that God must be! Otherwise whence such intelligence? The world cannot be mere stone, Keshab. In you consciousness is hidden. You say God is not—shall I believe you or shall I see and recognize you? Seeing you, I receive His news.”

No, the theist is not disturbed by woman, wealth, atheist, or enemy. Such things are trifles. But one thing is certain: they are not worth hearing. Na śravaṇīyam. It’s futile, insipid. If someone narrates, he will listen, but he is unafraid.

“Pride, hypocrisy and the like should be abandoned.”

A most unusual aphorism: “Having already offered all conduct to God, if lust, anger, pride and the like still arise, then dedicate them to Him as well.”

What will you do if they still arise? You have surrendered all, yet they do not leave—what then? What does the devotee do? He says, “You handle these too! You gave them—take them back.” This is the ease and supreme glory of devotion. Its magnificence is that it raises no inner conflict. It does not urge you to fight your ego. Lay it at His feet—it is His gift! “Tvadīyam vastu tubhyam eva samarpaye”—What is yours I return to you. Govinda gave—return it to Govinda. Ego was given by Him. Some play of His is in it. Return it. And if it still does not leave—what will you do? Accept: “As You wish! If You make anger arise, I will be angry. If You make me proud, I will be proud.”

But understand. If you have left it to Him, can you be angry? To be angry requires the stiffness of “I am.” Without that, how will anger flare? Only when the “I” is struck does anger rise. After surrender, how can ego survive? Surrender means: You manage. And if He says, “Fine—for a while you keep it,” then keep it!

It happened: Katherine Mansfield, the writer, came to Gurdjieff. She was chain-smoking—lighting one cigarette from another. Gurdjieff said, “Stop smoking. Arouse a little resolve.” A year passed—she didn’t smoke. She was delighted: astonishing! What could not be dropped, I have dropped! After a year she came to Gurdjieff: “A year—no smoking.” Gurdjieff looked at her and said, “Millions don’t smoke—what glory is that? Here—smoke.” He pulled out a cigarette: “Take it.” She hesitated. “What hesitation! Arouse a little resolve. Smoke! One day I said leave it—arouse resolve and leave.”

She understood. Before, the cigarette held her; now “not smoking” held her. Gurdjieff’s point is crucial. “Millions don’t smoke—what of that? Smoke! Is not smoking some virtue? Before you were bound to smoking; now you are bound to not smoking.”

If vegetarians came to Gurdjieff, he fed them meat; if meat-eaters came, he made them quit. If a drunkard came, he snatched away the bottle; if a teetotaler came, he made him drink—“Stop clutching this pride!”

That little hesitation in Katherine—Gurdjieff said, “That’s your fear.”

Understand it thus: you go to God, surrender ego, and God says, “Keep it a little longer.” What will you do? Obey Him or yourself? “No—I will leave it. I have surrendered!” In that “I” remains the ego. If you obey Him—“As You wish!”—and shoulder it home, in that very carrying, it drops. For what is left once you left it to Him, and He says keep it? Will you follow yourself or Him?

People come to me: “I leave everything to you. I will do whatever you say.” A young woman came: “I leave everything to you; I will do whatever you say.” I said, “Good.” She said, “But I will not go from here; I will stay in this ashram.” I said, “No—you must go.” She said, “I cannot go. Now I will do whatever you say. Tell me what to do.” I said, “Do you listen to me or to yourself?” She said, “Absolutely—I have left everything. I will stay here. I will do what you say.”

She repeated it, again and again—without seeing that I was saying “go.” If truly she had surrendered, she would have said, “Fine—if you say so, I go; if you call, I return.” Had she said that, I would have kept her that very moment. But she could not. Her “I surrender everything” was not surrender. By that trick she wanted to make me act according to her wish.

You go to offer to God, but offer in such a way that you let Him know: mind you, I have done you a favor—don’t forget! I have given everything—as though you were giving Him something that was not already His.

Understand Narada’s aphorism: “Having offered all conduct to God, if lust, anger, pride still arise, count them as offered to Him as well.”

The Divine is always with you. Once place yourself in His hands—total, entire, whole. Do not keep back even a grain. Do not even keep the insistence “I have surrendered all.” Do not keep even that “I.”

For days the window was shut; today
I have opened it at last.
Spring kept saying, “Don’t send the fragrance back each time!”
The Infinite kept worrying, “Do not make yourself limited.”
Till now the heart was numb; today
Heart-thought has spoken.

Bring life-air to your sick, fainting mind;
Let eyes gripped by darkness see the supreme light again.
In this battle-moment of life, once more
Narayan has spoken:
“Turn the hidden conflict itself into supreme joy;
Make the parted drop into the mighty ocean;
Become the beginning again yourself,”
—so spoke the Reciter of the End.

The Divine speaks from every side, gives signals and hints. Each moment He wants to lead you home. You do not listen. You keep saying your say. Leave everything to Him. Leave even the leaving to Him.

For days the window was shut; today
I have opened it at last.

Open the window! Let His winds come in!

Spring kept saying, “Do not send the fragrance back like this!”
Again and again you have sent it back—across countless lives, countless times.

Spring kept saying, “Do not send the fragrance back like this.”
The Infinite kept worrying, “Do not make yourself limited.”
Till now the head spoke and the heart slept.

Till now the heart was numb; today
Heart-thought has spoken.
Bring life-air to your sick, fainting mind;
Let eyes gripped by darkness see the supreme light again.
In this battle-moment of life, once more
Narayan has spoken.

Where there is life, there His resonance is. Every Kurukshetra is a Dharmakshetra.

In this battle-moment of life, once more
Narayan has spoken:
“Turn the hidden conflict into supreme joy.”
The very energy that makes you miserable becomes joy; the very stench-filled manure becomes the fragrance of flowers; the very muck becomes the lotus.

Turn the hidden conflict into supreme joy;
Make the parted drop the mighty ocean.

Drop the drop back into the sea. Nothing has really been parted. The moment it falls, the drop is the ocean again. Do not keep yourself far, separate.

Make the parted drop the mighty ocean;
Become the beginning again yourself—
So speaks the Reciter of the End.

Enough for today.