Bhakti Sutra #16

The Purana is not history. The Purana is a great epic. What the Purana says “happened” is not that it happened once; rather, it is that which is happening always. So the Purana does not record events; it points toward truths. The Purana is eternal.

It is not that once an atheist father had a theist son—no. Faith is always born out of disbelief, always. And there is no other way. No one is born a believer; everyone is born a nonbeliever. And then, in that very nonbelief, the flower of trust blossoms. Atheism is the mother and father of faith. From the womb of disbelief, trust appears.

Whether or not there ever was a Hiranyakashipu does not concern me. I have no interest in idle curiosities. Whether there was a Prahlad or not—let Prahlad know. What I do know is that what the Purana is pointing to happens every day, every moment; it has happened within you and is happening within you. Wherever and whenever there are human beings, the truth of the Purana will be repeated. The Purana is the distilled essence—not events, not history, but the inner truth of human life.

Understand. First thing:
Ordinarily you think the atheist is the opponent of the theist. That is wrong. Poor atheism—how can it be an opponent? Atheism knows nothing of faith; there has been no meeting. How can atheism be against theism, when theism arises from within atheism itself? Atheism is the seed; theism is its sprouting. The seed has not yet met the sprout. How can it? How could the seed meet the sprout? When the sprout is, the seed is no more. As long as the seed is, the sprout is not; the sprout is only when the seed breaks, dissolves, disappears into the earth. Then the sprout is. As long as the seed remains, the sprout cannot be. Understand this seeming paradox.

The sprout is born of the seed—but through the seed’s dissolution, through its disappearance. How can the seed be the sprout’s enemy? The seed is the sprout’s protection; the husk of the seed shelters the sprout within—waiting for the right time, the right season, the right opportunity. But the seed knows nothing of the sprout. It cannot. In this very ignorance, the seed may even struggle to save itself—afraid it might break, be lost, be destroyed. It is frightened. It does not know that from its very death the thread of a greater life will arise; it does not know that from its ashes flowers are to bloom. It does not know. Therefore the seed deserves forgiveness; do not be angry with it. It deserves compassion. It tries to save itself. In ignorance, that is natural.

Hiranyakashipu is the father. From the father the son comes. The son is hidden in the father. The father is the seed; the son is its sprout. Hiranyakashipu could not know that a devotee would be born in his house. In my house—a devotee! He could not even imagine it. That faith would be born of his very life—unthinkable! Yet Prahlad was born of Hiranyakashipu. Then Hiranyakashipu began trying to save himself. He must have panicked, been afraid. What fear could there be in a tiny sprout like Prahlad? And he was his own child—what threat could he be? But a lifetime of beliefs and assumptions must have been at stake.

Every father fights with his son. Every son rebels against the father. And it is not just father and son—every today is a rebellion against yesterday, against the past. The present is an effort to be free from the past. The past is the father; the present is the son. Your today is born of your yesterday. The past is gone, yet its grip remains; it has bid farewell, yet its noose still hangs upon your neck. You want to be free—let the past be forgotten, erased. But the past devours you, holds you.

The present is a revolt against the past. The present arises from the past, but unless it becomes free of the past, it will be crushed, it will die. Every son is an effort to go beyond the father. At every moment you are fighting your past—this is the struggle with the father.

Understand it this way—
A sect is the past; religion is the present. Therefore, whenever a truly religious person is born, conflict with the sect is certain. It will be so. The sect is Hiranyakashipu; religion is Prahlad. Of course Hiranyakashipu is powerful, established, prestige is in his hands. All the power is his. What power does Prahlad have? He is a newly sprouted shoot, tender. All the force is with the past; the present has just arrived, fresh. What strength does the present have? Yet the wonder is that the present will win and the past will lose—because the present is life, and the past is death.

Hiranyakashipu had everything—armies, mountains. He did as he wished. He tried everything he could, yet he went on losing. Power does not win; life wins. Prestige does not win; truth wins. Sects are old.

Jesus was born. The Jewish sect was very old. They crucified Jesus. But even by killing him, did they kill him? Hence the Purana tells the story: they threw Prahlad from a mountain, they drowned him in a river—he did not drown, he did not die. They burned him in fire—he did not burn. Do not take this to mean that if you throw someone into fire he will not burn. No. It is a great symbol. They killed Jesus—he died. But even by killing him, did they kill him?

That is why I say, the Purana is not fact; it is truth. If you set out to prove that fire could not burn Prahlad, you will go astray; your vision will be distorted. If you think he was thrown from a mountain and suffered no injury, you will be mistaken. The point is far deeper. This is not about outer wounds. We know Jesus was crucified; he died. Socrates was given hemlock; he died. Mansoor was cut down; he died. But did they truly die—or only seemed to? Jesus is alive even now—the killers are dead. Socrates is alive even now—those who poisoned him are nowhere to be found.

Socrates told those who served him the poison, “Beware: even after killing me you will not be able to kill me. If your names are remembered at all it will only be alongside mine—that you gave me poison; if you live at all, it will be with my name.” Certainly, if the names of Socrates’ killers are remembered anywhere, it is only as those who killed Socrates.

Think a little! Would Hiranyakashipu’s name even be known without Prahlad? Only because of Prahlad. Otherwise, how many Hiranyakashipus there have been and will be! Today we know by whose order Jesus was crucified; we remember the name of that governor. Thousands of governors have come and gone; all their names are lost. But Pilate’s name is remembered—only as the one who ordered Jesus’ crucifixion; with Jesus he became immortal.

We could not kill Jesus even by killing him—this is the meaning. You cannot annihilate life even by annihilating it. You cannot hide truth even by hiding it, even by suppressing it. It will surface—again and again, in a thousand forms; it will rise a thousandfold stronger. Yet it always seems that the “power” is in certain hands. Power belongs to the past—to society, sect, state. When a religious person is born, he is like a tender shoot; it seems a slight push will wipe him out. But in the end, he is the one who wins. By the touch of that soft, tender sprout, mighty empires fall.

What strength has the powerless? The strength of the powerless is the Divine. There is a strength that is not of the person but of the Supreme. That is what bhakta means. A devotee means one who says, “I am not; You are. If there is burning, it is You who burns; if there is death, it is You who dies; if there is defeat, it is Your defeat; if there is victory, it is Your victory. I step aside.”

A devotee is like a hollow bamboo reed. He says to God, “If You wish to sing, sing; if You do not, do not—the song is Yours. I am only a hollow bamboo. If You play, I will seem a flute; if You do not, I remain a bamboo reed. The song is Yours; nothing is mine. Yes, if somewhere the note is disturbed, the melody breaks, then blame me—the bamboo is crooked here or there; what was given to me I could not bring out perfectly, could not express. If there is any fault, let it be mine. But whatever else is, all is Yours.”

This is all a devotee means.

Out of atheism alone faith is born. You are all atheists. Hiranyakashipu is not outside, nor is Prahlad outside. They are not two persons; they are two happenings within each person. As long as there is doubt in your mind—there is Hiranyakashipu—then the tender shoots of trust that arise within you, you will throw them from mountains, crush them with stones, drown them in water, burn them in fire—but you will not be able to burn them. In trying to burn them, you will only burn your own hands.

How many times does the feeling of trust arise in your heart, and doubt pounces and seizes it? How many times do you come to the very edge, ready to leap—and doubt becomes a chain on your feet: “What are you doing? Think of your home, your family, your wealth, your status, your position, the world. What are you doing?” Your feet stop. You think, “Tomorrow—what’s the hurry?”

How often the storm of revolution rises within you, and again and again you take the hand of doubt and stop! Search this within yourself. Do not look for this tale in a Purana; look for it in your life-breath. This Purana is written in your very life.

People come to me and say, “The feeling has arisen, but there are great doubts too.” I tell them, “Feeling is there; doubt is there. Now which will you go with? You must decide. Do you think you will move on the day when there is no doubt at all? Then you will never move. Doubt is within you; feeling is within you; both doors are open. Doubt is within you; trust is within you; both call you—whom will you listen to? Why is it that you keep listening to doubt? Because doubt seems powerful. The entire society seems to be on its side. Trust seems to make you weak—you will have to go alone.”

Doubt has highways; there the crowd is with you. Trust has footpaths; there you become utterly alone. That very aloneness is sannyas. Only the courage to be alone can take you into trust.

Hiranyakashipu is powerful—that proved his weakness. Prahlad is utterly powerless—that proved his strength. Yet he went on. His song did not stop; his prayer did not stop. Even against his father, he went on!

Doubt is the father of trust, not its enemy. From doubt, trust is born. And doubt will make every effort that trust not be born—for if trust is born, doubt will have to be lost, to be erased. So doubt will fight to its last breath. In that very fight it becomes destructive.

Understand this too: doubt’s capacity is only to destroy, not to create. Doubt can erase; it cannot build. Doubt has no creative energy. It can say “no,” but “yes” does not arise from its being. And without Yes, nothing is created in this world. All creation is through Yes; all destruction through No. No is violent; Yes is nonviolent. Doubt goes on saying No, and suggests ways to erase: “This little child of trust—throw him from the mountain! End this nuisance in between! Drown him in water! Burn him in fire!”

But remember: whenever there is a struggle between creation and destruction, destruction will lose, creation will win—because creation is the energy of the Divine. Whenever Yes and No fight, Yes will win, No will lose. What strength does No truly have? However powerful it appears, its power is impotence; it is not real power, only a false claim.

Have you noticed? Whenever you say No, you feel a great sense of power—No seems to carry power. And when you say Yes, it feels as if you were compelled to say it. A small child asks his mother, “May I go play outside?”—“No!” He only wanted to play outside; there was no real reason to say No. The husband says, “It’s a holiday; may I go to the river to fish?”—“No.” What obstacle was there? He will swat flies at home anyway—let him at least sit by the river for a while. But No comes instantly. With No there is a sense of power.

You stand at the station window for a ticket. The ticket clerk, even with no work, starts flipping through the register. He is saying, “Stand there!” Some great sir... He’s saying No. He has gotten the chance to say No. He will flip here and there. You too have done this many times—remember.

When you get the chance to say No, you don’t let it pass, because by saying No you feel, “See—I held him up! He depends on me. If I give the ticket, fine; if I don’t, fine.”

With No there is the sensation of a powerless power which is false; it is not real strength. Consider this: if you truly have strength, would you gather your power by saying No?

If a wife’s love truly has power over her husband, will she test it by saying No? There will be no need. Where there is real strength, even a Yes reveals power. But your trouble is that you lack real strength; only by saying No do you create a little fuss and feel powerful. You say Yes as a compulsion. You do not savor saying Yes. You do not know the art of saying Yes. You do not have strength.

Hiranyakashipu must have begun to feel weak before Prahlad. Before bliss, sorrow always becomes weak—inevitably, for sorrow is a negation. Bliss is the emergence of a creative energy. Have flowers ever bloomed out of sorrow? Only thorns. In front of Prahlad’s flower, Hiranyakashipu’s thorn must have become embarrassed, filled with shame, burned with jealousy. That freshness, that virginity, that fragrance, that music—the songs Prahlad sang in the name of God—must have made him very restless. He began to panic. His breath began to choke. And instantly he saw what negation, what the atheist, what the weak always sees: “Erase it. Destroy it.”

There are two kinds of power in the world. Either you create something and you feel powerful. You write a song—ask poets how, when their song is complete, they rise to the peak of the Himalayas within, how waves of bliss surge. Ask a sculptor, when his statue is complete, how he becomes a creator. Ask a mother, when her womb grows and the child within matures, about her thrill, her joy.

A woman, until she becomes a mother, is ordinary; there is no aura, no dignity. She has not yet given birth—what glory can there be? Until there is fruit on the tree, what majesty? Barren emptiness surrounds. Then a child is born; a new presence arises in the woman—she is no longer just a woman; she is a mother. Becoming a mother, she becomes companion to God. She has created! Given birth to life!

Psychologists say man’s mind is always jealous of woman, because he cannot give birth. He lacks the capacity to carry a child. Hence man gives birth to a thousand other things as a substitute: he writes poetry, sculpts, paints, builds palaces, raises Taj Mahals. But build as many Taj Mahals as you like, they cannot compare to a small child. However beautiful, however artful your statues, however melodious your songs, they cannot match the rhythm in a child’s eyes. Granted marble is beautiful—but what is it beside the beauty of a living child? An ordinary woman defeats your Shah Jahans. Build your Taj Mahal...!

Psychologists say man continually strives to make something, so that he too can feel, “I am a creator.” Yet the satisfaction is never like a woman’s. That is why women do not make such things—no Taj Mahal, no Ajanta, no Ellora; no Kalidasa-like poetry, no Picasso-like paintings. Women do not do any of that. You may be surprised. Even cookbooks are written by men. Innovations in cuisine—men do those; women do not bother. The finest chefs in the world are men, not women. Chefs too! Incredible! If you want interior decoration, furniture arrangement, again men are the experts...!

A woman does not make—she feels no need to. In being a mother she is so fulfilled—she is complete, fruitful.

Remember: there are two ways to feel power—either through creation, or through destruction. If you cannot experience power through creation, you will seek it through destruction. Hitler, Mussolini, Napoleon, Alexander experience power through destruction; Buddha, Socrates, Jesus through creation.

Perhaps you don’t know: Hitler originally wanted to be a painter. He even applied to an art academy, but was not accepted. That wound proved heavy. He wanted to create—paintings, sculptures. The wound proved heavy; all his life-energy got entangled in destruction. Perhaps you don’t know: even after the killing of millions, when he had free time at night, he painted. He was wavering. Hitler wrote that one also experiences one’s power by killing, by annihilating.

The greater the destruction you can bring about, the more powerful you feel. “No matter—I cannot build, but I can destroy. I can do something!” If you cannot create, then at least you can destroy! Not the height of creation, but the height of annihilation!

Atheism is destructive; faith is creative. And whenever there is a conflict between the believer and the nonbeliever, the defeat of the atheist is certain—provided the believer is authentic. If ever you see the atheist winning, it only means the believer is fake. In the face of false faith, even genuine atheism will win—at least it is genuine. Truth wins.

So if you find atheism winning, it means atheism must be authentic there. If faith is losing, it means the faith is false—imposed, hollow, painted from the outside, not arising from the depths of life; in conduct perhaps, but not in the core; a surface polish without the heart’s joining; no roots in your being. You have brought paper or plastic flowers from the market and hung them on trees—maybe the whole world is deceived, but can the tree be deceived? A real flower is joined—one with the sap of the tree; bound in the same song, the same meter; connected down to the deep roots in the earth; connected to the distant sky, the moon and stars, the sun. A plastic flower is connected to nothing; it is cut off—from the roots, from the earth, from the sky, from the moon and stars, from the sun—from everything.

If your faith is false, it will lose to atheism, and you will fear the atheist. If your faith is true, let the atheist destroy—destroy and he will break himself; destroy and he will be defeated.

Prahlad kept singing his song; he continued his humming; he did not allow a break in his prayer. He was thrown from a mountain, drowned in water, burned in fire—yet his faith did not even singe. In his faithful heart no ill-will arose toward his father. That would be the death of the believer. The moment ill-will arises in you, the believer dies.

Jesus was crucified. In his final moment he said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. They are ignorant. Let it not be that You punish them. They deserve compassion, not punishment.”

The body died; killing Jesus is difficult. How will you kill this faith? On what cross will you hang it, in what fire will you burn it?

No—Prahlad went on singing his song.

Atheism is destructive. That is the meaning in saying Holika is Hiranyakashipu’s sister. Holika—fire—is his sister, that is, destruction is the sibling of atheism; they are born together, as if from the same womb; a brother-sister relation. Wherever there is atheism, there Holika will be present. She is the sister; she clings like a shadow.
And don’t be astonished! You ask; the true wonder is that he comes through everywhere and keeps singing the Lord’s glory. Do not be surprised. One who has learned to praise the Lord, who has once tasted that flavor—no fire can make him suffer. One who has once known that Great Life—no death can kill him. One who has once taken His refuge—no one can make him helpless.
Don’t be surprised. Wonder arises; it is natural. But don’t be surprised.

Since then, it is natural that in this land we have celebrated that day of supreme victory as a festival. A festival like Holi you will not find anywhere on earth. Color and gulal. It is a festival of joy—of absorption, intoxication, abandon, dance—a great many-hued celebration. Fountains of laughter, exuberance—a grand carnival. Even Diwali seems subdued beside Holi. Holi is something else entirely. There is no dancing festival like it anywhere on earth.

And rightly so. Let a deep remembrance keep awakening within you: that the greatest victory in this world is the victory of theism over atheism; that again and again you remember—belief means bliss. Belief is not the name of gloom. If a believer appears sad, know that something has gone wrong; he is ill—no longer a believer. If a believer is not brimming with dance, know that he has strayed somewhere on the way. This is the criterion.

Religion is not melancholy—it is dance, it is celebration. And Holi is its symbol. On this day “Yes” triumphed over “No.” On this day creation won over destruction. On this day the present was victorious over the past. On this day the one who merely seemed powerful was defeated by the seemingly weak child. The victory of the new, the fresh, the alive—over the past, the stale, the borrowed. And the celebration is of color, of ecstasy, of songs.

Religion is celebration—not sadness. Remember this. And you must reach the door of the Divine dancing. Even if you weep, weep out of joy. Even if tears flow, let them flow in awe and gratitude. Let your weeping, too, be part of the celebration; let it not turn contrary. With tired, drooping, long faces—sad, like the dead—you will not find God, because that is not God’s way at all. Look closely: how much color he has poured out! If you become colorless you will turn ugly. Look closely: how much color in how many flowers! How widely his spread in the rainbows! How the greenery sings his song all around! In the mountains, in the stones, in the birds, on the earth, in the sky—on every side his great festival is on! If you look attentively you will find: becoming like that is the way to meet him.

Singing, one arrives; dancing, one arrives—this is the very essence of devotion.

“I tried friendship—yet the Friend is not found.
The unfaithful are found, but never the faithful.”

Then you have not really tried friendship. I too have tried—and He is found. Should I believe you, or my own eyes? Then somewhere there is a mistake in your friendship. You must have thought of friendship—you could not do it. Man easily convinces himself, “I am doing everything, yet nothing happens.”

What have you done? What friendship have you made? Did you weep? Cry out? Burn with longing? Did a storm rise in your chest? Did tempests come? Did you show readiness to stake yourself? Did you show the courage to lose yourself? What friendship have you made yet? Have you truly become a lover? People do a little—just a little—and even that little they do while hoping to get a lot.

You say: “The unfaithful are found, but never the faithful.”
Are you faithful? Have you kept faith to the full? For as I see it, you meet what you are. As you are, so you find. God is like a mirror—He only reflects your own face. If you are dishonest, a dishonest one will meet you. If you are a deceiver, a deceiver will meet you. If you were playing cunning games, you will not win; the other will out-cunning you.

Go simply. Go without asking for anything, because asking itself is the flaw; asking means you did not ask for the Friend, you asked for something else. But this is everyone’s habit. This is the way of the ego: the ego assumes, “I’ve done everything,” yet waits for a reply from the other side that never comes.

There is a song of Bachchan—listen carefully:

Do not be so intoxicated.
Drinking the wine of life from the tavern,
becoming drunk in body and mind,
I swayed and began to sing,
kissing the cup again and again.
Shaking its head, the world said,
“On this earth there has been too much of this already—
do not be so intoxicated!”

Many have drunk. With such borrowed liquor, such market-bought wine, many have imagined they are intoxicated! Ecstasy is not that cheap. The wine you need is harder to find—not of grapes, but of the soul.

Do not be so afflicted.
Upon the cremation ground of life,
burn a Holi of all your desires,
walk the road wailing,
fill your bag with the ash of the pyre.
Shaking its head, the world said,
“On this earth there has been too much of this already—
do not be so afflicted!”

These pretenses won’t do. The world has seen plenty. “Brothers” and their “friendship,” “drunkards” and their “intoxication”—all of it is on the surface. Will smearing ash outside reveal anything of the within? Will making a uproar outside cause a revolution inside?

And remember: whenever you feel you gained nothing, know that you had an expectation. Without expectation there is no despair. You must have asked for fidelity—and met unfaithfulness. Whenever you demand something, you receive its opposite. Don’t demand at all. “Unasked, pearls are given; asked, you don’t get even chaff.” The road to God is not beggarly; it is royal. Do not ask—and it is given. Ask—and you yourself raise the barrier. Your asking becomes the obstruction.

“You tried friendship and the Friend is not found.”
No—you have not truly tried. Those who have tried, always found. Ask Mansoor! Ask Buddha! Ask Narada! Ask Meera, Chaitanya! Ask Farid, Kabir, Nanak! There are millions of witnesses: those who became friends found the Friend. And God—unfaithful? Impossible. That is not His nature. The mistake must be yours. You are impatient, in a hurry. You have not called from your depths. You called from the surface, while doubt remained within.

I have heard: Vivekananda spoke in an American town and quoted the Bible: “If you say to a mountain with full faith, ‘Move!’—it moves.” An old woman was listening. She said, “I never knew that!” Behind her house stood a hill that blocked the breeze and in summer made the heat unbearable. “This is simple,” she thought and ran home. She opened the window, thought, “Let me take one last look—then it will be gone.” She looked, closed the window, sat down and said, “O God! Filled with faith, I say: remove this mountain—remove it completely.” Then, generous soul that she was, she even gave God two or three minutes. She opened the window—the mountain was still there. And she said, “There now, I knew already that mountains don’t move like that!”

She knew already! If she knew already, then her prayer was only on the lips; inside, doubt remained.

In a village there was no rain. The priest gathered everyone to pray; rain would come. The whole village arrived. The priest walked out to the temple grounds—and beside him a little boy came along carrying a big umbrella. The priest scolded, “You rascal! Why are you bringing an umbrella?” The child said, “I thought that since we are going to pray, it will rain, and we’ll have trouble returning.” But only that small child had brought an umbrella. Not even the priest had. The crowd had gathered; no one brought an umbrella. Only that child was a fit vessel for prayer. Only he had come with trust: “If we are going to pray, rain will fall.” But the priest corrupted his faith: “Fool! Why carry an umbrella? It hasn’t rained for months, we’re dying of thirst, and you roam about with an umbrella!” He sowed doubt in the boy too. His prayer was spoiled. I feel it could have rained that day—on the strength of that one child’s prayer. But his prayer was spoiled.

No, you have not yet searched for the Friend. To seek the Beloved requires deep-hearted longing—and patience. Do not give three minutes, open the window, and peek.

Rest is death here for the zest of seeking;
this is not a thirst that is quenched.

Those who set out to seek Him are not out to slake a thirst. They say, “This is not a thirst that is quenched.” This is not a thirst that needs putting out; it is a beloved thirst. They say, “The more You make me remember, the longer You make me wait—the more Your grace! Not only is union with You sweet; Your waiting too!”

The devotee says, “Hide, as long as You wish! Good—then I will pray a little more. If You appear, what then? Hide a while. Let me wait a little longer.” Even the waiting is dear.

Rest is death here for the zest of seeking.
If you walk His path seeking peace, you are mistaken.

This is not a thirst that is quenched.
This thirst is to be intensified. Prayer pours clarified butter on thirst—as ghee poured on fire. The flame leaps up. A moment comes when you are nothing but thirst; within, there remains not even someone to say, “I am thirsty,” only the feeling, “I am thirst.” In that very moment the Friend appears. The truth is: the Friend is already found.

This will not be quenched by water;
it will not be pressed down by stone;
it will not be cowed by flames.
It is the lover-in-separation’s one-pointed longing—
the pied-cuckoo’s ceaseless refrain.

He makes a great play happen. He has me speak; he has you listen. But it is he who speaks through me, and it is he who hears through you. If you understand, a great stream of nectar will flow; because it is he who has spoken through me, and he who has come to listen through you. There is no one else. God plays hide-and-seek with himself. This is his leela, his way of being.

Have you ever played hide-and-seek with yourself? Ever played cards all alone? Sometimes when I traveled by train, solitary travelers in my compartment would ask, “Will you join me?” I would say, “I’m already absorbed in another game—please don’t disturb.” Then they would spread the cards and play alone, making moves from both sides.

God is making the moves from both sides. He is in Rama, and he is in Ravana. And if, after reading the Ramayana, you fail to see that he is in Ravana too, you have missed; you have not understood the Ramayana. If you see only that he is in Rama, you have gone astray. He is in Ravana as well.

Darkness is his, and light is his. He is the one who speaks in me; he is the one who listens in you. The one you seek is hidden within you. The seeker is he, and the sought is he. The day you know and awaken, that day you will laugh.

When the Zen mystic Bokuju attained enlightenment, people asked him, “What was the first thing you did after realizing the ultimate?” He said, “What else would one do? I asked for a cup of tea.” They said, “A cup of tea! Enlightenment—and a cup of tea!” He said, “What else to do? When the whole game became clear—that the seeker is the sought—what else was there? I thought, enough now, a very long search it’s been—let’s have a cup of tea.” And he laughed!

In Japan there was a fakir who went on laughing after his enlightenment. He wandered from village to village—his name was Hotei—and he would just laugh. People would take him to temples and say, “Please say something.” He would stand and laugh. “Say something,” they insisted. He would reply, “What more is there to say? Why make a fool of me! We see the play—and we laugh. The one who seeks is the one who is sought. Now to whom should I speak—and what?”

You ask: “What does God make happen between you and us, right now, right here?”
He makes a great play happen. The day you understand, a great current of sweetness will flow.

“What is the difference between you and us?”
From my side, none at all; from your side, a great deal. And my effort is that nothing should remain from your side, either. From my side you already are where I am; from your side you think you are not there. You think so—this is your dream, that you are not there. But you are there. You too are God. Divinity is your nature. Buddhahood is your destiny. You cannot run away from it; you cannot escape it. Just as a lotus is a lotus, a rose is a rose—so you are a buddha, destined for Buddhahood. Only you don’t have that remembrance—your head is crowded with a thousand other notions. Someone thinks, “I’m a shopkeeper”; someone thinks, “I’m a doctor”; someone thinks, “I’m an engineer”; someone thinks, “I’m a woman”; someone thinks, “I’m a man”; someone says, “I’m a Hindu”; someone says, “I’m a Muslim.” You are afflicted with countless maladies—except the one truth you do not see: who you are. You are God! Run your shop—while being God. Let the play continue; there is no need to stop it. Understand that it is a play. There is no need to renounce and run away, because the one who runs away is the one who has taken it not as play. The one who takes it seriously is the one who flees. That’s why I tell my sannyasins: don’t run anywhere! If you run, it is suspect; it means you have taken it too seriously. All right—there is a wife, there are children—God is in them too. If you begin to see him, you will hear him calling you from every side.

I had long heard the sound of footsteps,
but never met you face-to-face.
In bewilderment the golden morning
turned to dusky evening.
The restlessness of each of my moments
bowed down of its own accord.
I had long heard the echo,
but not the source of the sound.
I had long heard the footfall,
but never met you face-to-face.

You too have heard the footfall; otherwise you would not have come here. You too have heard the echo; otherwise what would have brought you here? That very echo has brought you. But a direct meeting is not happening. I am standing facing him; you are standing with your back to him—this alone is the distance.

It is not a great distance. About-turn—that is the distance. In the military they manage it. Turn around!

“What is the difference between you and us?”
Turn around!

“And what is the connection?”
From my side, none; from your side, there is. You have come to get something. That very urge becomes the obstacle. You are searching for something. That very search becomes the obstacle. I am telling you: that which you are seeking is already found. It is because of the seeking that you are entangled.

Mulla Nasruddin was going through the market—mounted on his donkey—racing along. People called out, “Nasruddin! Where to?” He shouted back, “Don’t stop me now—I’m in a great hurry.” Two or three hours later he returned exhausted. People asked, “Where were you going in such a rush?” He said, “My donkey was lost.” They said, “You’re sitting on the donkey!” He said, “I realized that only after three hours. At first, in a panic, I leapt up on the donkey and set out to search for him. Fools, why didn’t you tell me?” They said, “We were shouting—and you kept saying you were in a hurry.”

I am shouting—but you say, “We’re in a great hurry.” You laugh at Nasruddin, but have you ever noticed: with your spectacles on your nose have you searched for your spectacles? Then you don’t even know how to wear them. With the pen tucked behind your ear have you searched for your pen? Then you don’t even know how to place it. If you watch your life, you will catch yourself doing it. Many times forgetfulness happens. You have your glasses on and, in haste, you search for them: “Where are my glasses?” Naturally, glasses are so close to the eyes they can’t be seen. God is even closer. “Closer” is not quite right—he is within the very eye; how then can he be seen?

This is your obstruction: you are searching for something. And when you start searching, someone or other will appear to tell you how to search. I want to tell you there is no need to search—just sit quietly; let the train be missed; let the driver keep honking; you sit quietly, close your eyes—you will suddenly find: he is present within; he was never lost. That which can be lost is not God.

People come to me and say, “We want to find God.” I say, “That’s a bothersome business. Where did you lose him?” They shake their heads: “Lost? Nowhere!” Then why search?

Nasruddin was searching for something on the road outside his house. A friend came by and asked, “What are you looking for at dusk?” He said, “My key has fallen.” The friend began to search too. After a while he asked, “Where exactly did it fall? The road is long, and night is coming on.” Nasruddin said, “Don’t ask that. It fell inside the house.” The friend said, “Fool! Then why search outside?” He replied, “Because there’s light here. Inside the house it’s dark. What on earth can be found in the dark?”

You are searching for God outside because it is dark within and full of light without. The eyes open outward; the hands reach outward—and you begin to grope. But what you grope for will not be found there, because he is hidden in your very groping—hidden within you.

So from my side there is no difference. From my side there is no “connection,” either. Difference and connection exist from your side. The day they drop from there as well, that day neither am I I, nor are you you—the union has happened!

In the eyes of the sky there is
neither sun nor star—
only dust-motes scattered
here and there;
for blind darkness those very motes
shine as intense radiance.
On the breast of the earth there is
neither stream nor shore.
In the eyes of the sky there is
neither sun nor star.
For the eternally unattached there is no
mine and yours;
one who is complete in himself—
how could any distinction please him?
It is the mind’s trick of the incomplete
that invents relationship.
For the paramahansa there is neither
sandalwood nor ember.
In the eyes of the sky there is
neither sun nor star.

For me there is no difference. For me there is no division. Then how can there be any “relationship”? Can there be a relationship with one’s own self? But for you there is relationship, because you have come to get something. Your search is the stumbling block. Don’t search! Drop all longing! Just sit near me. This is what in earlier days was called satsang. Satsang means: not even searching—just sitting close by; sitting with the one who has found, or who has known that it was never lost. Just sitting. No thought, no desire—and suddenly you are no longer “you.” A veil lifts. A curtain is drawn aside.

In that moment the guru and the disciple are no longer separate—neither does the guru remain a guru, nor the disciple a disciple. All distances dissolve. All boundaries between vanish. In that moment of union, the transmission of truth happens.

By listening to me you will not get truth; by drinking me, you will. Drinking is a greater thing. It can happen only when you sit utterly empty. Then you become a vacant void. In that vacant void, a rain can fall. If you are empty, you can be filled. If you are already full, filling you is difficult.

If even for a single moment worries are lost, desires dissolve, tensions vanish, then the key has come into your hands. There is nothing more left to want.

Whatever you did here, do it again and again. What did you do here? You listened to me silently. Your attention moved away from worries, desires, restlessness, entanglements—and turned toward me. Wherever attention goes, life becomes that. Then you returned home and again put your attention—your light—on picking at your worries, and the worries stood up again.

Wherever you place attention, your life flows in that direction. And whatever you attend to, you feed and strengthen. If you give attention to worries, worries will grow powerful. Attention is food. That is why we are all so hungry for attention. We all want people to pay attention to us. If no one pays attention to you, you feel as if you have died. You come home, your wife doesn’t even look up; she keeps scrubbing her pots while you pass by—feels as if you don’t exist. The children keep playing as you walk past—no one notices. You pass people on the street—no one greets you. In ten days you’ll start wondering, “What happened—am I dead? No one is paying attention!”

Hence such a craving for attention: whoever you meet should bow a little, ask, “How are you?”—and the heart blooms. The wife runs up, takes off your shoes, presses your feet—the heart blooms.

A man went to a psychologist and said, “I’m in great trouble. Five years ago when I married, when I came home my wife would run to me with my slippers, and my little dog would bark a welcome. Now it’s all reversed. The dog brings the slippers in his mouth, and my wife barks!” The psychologist said, “I fail to see the problem—you’re getting the same services as before!”

But it isn’t about services—it’s about attention. Even a small child lives on attention. Attention is energy. Psychologists now study this deeply: attention provides a profound energy. If the mother does not give attention to the child, he begins to shrivel. That’s why a motherless child—no matter how well you care for him—will still lack something, seem a little lost. Who will give him attention? A nurse gives milk on time, medicine on time, blankets, clean clothes—but not attention. Why would she? Her own child at home is waiting for her attention. So, arrange everything for the child, but if he does not receive the mother’s attention, that loving warmth, those loving eyes that say someone cares, someone longs for me, someone waits for me; that my smile blossoms flowers in someone’s life, my sadness makes someone sad; that my being also empowers another’s being—only then does the child begin to receive life-breath.

You’ve seen it: a small child falls and first looks around to see if the mother is nearby. If she is, he cries; if she isn’t, he doesn’t. It’s astonishing: the crying isn’t about the fall. If the mother is there, he won’t miss the chance to gain attention—he’ll wail and cry; the mother will notice. If she’s not there—what’s the use? Strangers will laugh. He quietly dusts himself off and walks away.

I was once a guest in a home with a small child. His mother had gone out. I was sitting there while he played. He fell. He looked around, saw me, thought, “A stranger…!” and stayed quiet. Half an hour later—I had forgotten he had fallen—when his mother returned, he suddenly began to cry. I asked, “What happened? You’re perfectly fine.” He said, “I fell half an hour ago.” “Then why didn’t you cry, you little fool?” He said, “What was the use?”

He remembered. Now there was no pain, but the mother would give attention, soothe, stroke—he didn’t want to miss the occasion.

Attention is food. Remember: whatever you give attention to, you give life to. So don’t give attention to the wrong things. Here, listening to me, the heart becomes light, joyful, a coolness descends—you gave your attention toward me. Then you go home and start digging at your wounds again, unwrapping your poultices and bandages, poking your fingers into your aches. What is the need?

Do this: while leaving here, keep the resolve not to touch those old wounds. The old habit will move your hand—bring it back! Then you’ll feel a difficulty: “If I don’t do that, what should I do?” There is so much around to give attention to.

There are the songs of birds. I cannot speak to you as sweetly as they do. What they are saying to you, I want to say but cannot. Sit quietly and pour all your attention into them. An even deeper satsang will happen. The winds shake the trees; the tune of the wind plays in the leaves—listen to it. The Divine manifests there in an even more unstained, natural way. Sit by a waterfall; listen to its murmur, its nada.

You’ll say, “Where to find waterfalls? Where to find birds and trees? We live in the marketplace.” No harm. You only need the art of listening. Then listen to the noise of the road—just listen to the noise. Don’t say it’s good or bad; simply listen. Cars race, buses pass, there is clamor, children shout, dogs bark, the bazaar hums—listen silently. One day you’ll be amazed: if you listen with attention, attention itself will settle there. And in that marketplace clamor a music will begin to be born. That hubbub too is His—as much His as the voices in birds’ throats. He does not speak only through the cuckoo; through crows as well. The marketplace too is His marketplace. The real point: don’t put attention on your wounds; put it anywhere else. Free attention from yourself, so that gradually you develop the capacity to drop the old habit of unearthing and uprooting worries. When that habit falls away, then I will tell you: now let go of the outer as well. Close your eyes; let attention settle nowhere. Just sit empty with eyes closed. From that emptiness the supreme music will be heard. That is the ultimate satsang. That is where I am taking you. The key has already come into your hands. Now use it a little. Evoke the remembrance of the Divine from every side. Drop yours; sing of His!

Those are the days, those the nights
that pass in Your remembrance.
Invoke His remembrance from all sides. I do not tell you to sit chanting “Ram, Ram.” Many are chanting—nothing comes of it. It only interferes with Ram’s sleep! Some even use microphones and loudspeakers to chant “Ram, Ram”—they won’t let Ram sleep at all. Nothing will come from that hullabaloo; there’s no essence in that noise. Nothing will happen through your babbling. It will happen through your silence.

And keep one last thing in mind: all satsang ultimately is to take you into your innermost being. All attention, in truth, is only a device. The destination is a state where even attention is no longer needed—only you are, and that is enough.

Nowhere did I behold that Splendor which I beheld in the mansion of the heart.
I knocked my head on many mosques, searched much through idol-temples.
Nowhere did I behold that Splendor which I beheld in the mansion of the heart.
I knocked my head on many mosques, searched much through idol-temples.

The last question:

First thing: if you want to remain only half-mad, the mala will do. But if you take my advice, there is a special joy in becoming utterly mad. Why such miserliness? And once you’ve set out to be mad—half? One foot out and one foot in will only put you in a dilemma. Riding two boats is dangerous. People say you’re half—become whole!

And if inside you feel good, why worry about anyone? The real issue is within. If inside you feel miserable and the whole world says, “How clever, how wise,” what’s the point of that? If you are tasting bliss within, forget the worry. It’s a world of four days; people will call you mad—what’s the harm? But I will tell you this: being half is not good. The fun is always in the whole. Half is like lukewarm water—neither proper water nor steam; like Trishanku, hanging in between. Neither of home nor of the ghat—you become the washerman’s donkey.

No, don’t do that. I won’t let you do that. I won’t go along with it. If you want to be totally mad, come.

In rule and in renunciation, in kingship and in bondage—nothing works without the drunkard’s audacity.
In rule and in renunciation, in kingship and in bondage—nothing works without the drunkard’s audacity.

Without a touch of madness, nothing really works anywhere.
In rule and in renunciation, in kingship and in bondage—nothing works without the drunkard’s audacity.

The zest, the intoxication, the full-throated surge of the reveler, the drunkard, the madman—that is needed; only then does anything come to fruition. Those who have arrived ran full-on; only then did they arrive. Half-and-half, hobbled and bound, you won’t get far from home. You’ll become a bullock at the oil-press—going round and round in the same circle.

First point:
When ruined, O Abad, then we found the way;
Becoming traceless, we found the sign to the Friend’s lane.
The address of the Supreme Friend is found only when all your own addresses are lost.

Second point: You say, “I was influenced by the Radhasoami satsang. There the condition was to give up wine and meat, so I didn’t take initiation.” Here there is no condition to give up; there is a condition to take on. You weren’t willing to renounce, you aren’t willing to receive—have you sworn an oath not to agree to anything? Do something!

In a previous Q&A, Narendra asked a question about his father. He had gone to see a Jain muni at Girnar—such a sweet man. When you go to a muni for darshan, for a pilgrimage, the muni said, “Now that you are here, renounce something, give something up.” He replied, “Maharaj! Since you say so, I’ll do something. But to give up—whether it sticks or not—later it can be a hassle. Better I take up something.” The muni said, “All right.” He had no idea what would be taken up. He said, “Till now I didn’t smoke; from now on I’ll smoke regularly.” Now he smokes—because he took a vow on pilgrimage, and that must be fulfilled. People think him mad, but he is a remarkable man!

What is there to drop? God is not found by dropping! Expand yourself, let yourself flower! There they said, “Give up wine and meat.” I don’t ask you to give up anything. I say, take the mala, take the ochre! I know that if you take the mala and the ochre, wine and meat will drop by themselves. I don’t talk of dropping them—that’s for the weak. Why talk of giving up! Take the diamond; the pebbles will fall away. And if you want to keep them, keep them—pebbles are pebbles; what harm if they remain? But it has never been seen that someone finds a diamond and the pebbles don’t fall from his hand.

If you have too strong a taste for talking, then babble—speak gibberish, utter nonsense—so much that even you don’t understand what you’re saying. Others will enjoy it, you will enjoy it. Just don’t talk sense. Sense is a disease. Come, try it—start right now. You’ll have fun, others will have fun. And slowly you will discover there is really nothing to say—what are you going on and on about? If there is something to say, say it; but what is there to say?

There is a Christian sect—valuable in its way. They call it “divine speech”—gibberish. In their church people gather, each person sits quietly, and then whatever nonsense arises within, they start to speak. But they don’t speak from their own side; they don’t manufacture anything. If something comes, they say it; if nothing comes, they remain silent. Gradually the whole church is speaking gibberish—random sounds, a hullabaloo: no language, no rhyme, no grammar, no speech anyone can understand—just anything. But after fifteen or twenty minutes of this, the mind attains a very deep peace, because the junk that accumulates in the head gets thrown out.

So I say to you: if talking itself gives you pleasure, it only means you keep collecting trash inside and then dump it on others. Naturally they get troubled by you; that’s why they call you mad. Don’t harass them. Sit alone and talk—what’s the harm? Trees, stones, rocks—sit anywhere; let two madmen meet, let the discourse happen. Talk to a rock—there’s no harm in it. And if you speak to a rock, whether you speak Hindi or English or Marathi or Punjabi, what difference does it make? Rocks understand all languages. Mix them all if you like. Talk to the bushes, speak to the river; the sky is wide open. And none of these will call you mad. They will all be pleased and bless you. Don’t torment people! People are already troubled. They keep listening only because they have to.

And you say now even your close friends are getting nervous! There is a limit. Close ones must listen, so they keep getting bored and keep listening. Don’t torture them—this is violence. If it feels good to you, go into solitude and speak gibberish. From that, meditation will become available. If for thirty or forty minutes you babble nonsense and shout with your heart wide open, you will become completely light—light as a flower. Then a capacity will arise in you not to talk uselessly with others; if something meaningful is there, fine. You will begin to see that others are blabbering like mad—there’s no need to, yet they go on. Then gently suggest to them the same path I’ve suggested to you: go alone into the woods and speak your heart out.

Don’t remain half-mad. You’ve spent enough time in halves; now become whole. And the day you become wholly mad, that day you will find—

When, out of self-forgetfulness, my eyes opened,
the goal was standing right before me.

When you become totally immersed in the madness, and then you come out of it and your eyes open—in peace, in silence, in emptiness—you will find the destination standing right in front of you. Every person is standing at the very door of the temple. There is nowhere else for you to stand. Everyone is on the steps of the temple.

Enough for today.