Bhakti Sutra #19

A pilgrimage comes to completion today.

Devotion is not a scripture—it is a journey. Devotion is not a doctrine—it is the sap of life. No one has ever understood devotion by understanding it; only by drowning in it does one come to know its secret.

Dance is far closer than thought. Song is far closer than verse. The heart is closer than the head.

All these days we have moved in the waves of devotion; I have made you weep much too, for devotion stands very near to tears. And the one who cannot weep cannot become a devotee. Only the one who, like a small child, can cry helplessly, can pass along the path of devotion.

Devotion is very easy—but only for those whose eyes still have tears! Devotion is very difficult if the eyes have dried up. And there are many unfortunate ones in the world whose eyes have grown dry; who still have eyes, but no water in them; who can look, but cannot see deeply—because tears see deeper than eyes. And when tears no longer remain, the possibility of the eyes becoming clear is lost. Tears bathe the eyes; again and again they make them fresh; they do not allow dust to settle; they do not allow thought to stick; they wash away rubbish. The eyes become clear again, like a crystal gem, like those of a small child; then the world becomes green and fresh and utterly new. From that freshness alone news of the Divine arrives.

Devotee means: one who knows how to weep. Devotee means: one who knows how to be helpless. Devotee means: one who experiences his own nothingness.

Devotion is the very opposite of ego. Thus those who are on the hunt for ego will never attain to devotion. If you would find God, you will have to lose yourself.

This has been a journey of losing. The road has been honey-sweet, flowers abound! For on the path of devotion there is no desert. Put down your foot, and the first step becomes the last. Extend your foot just a little, and beauty begins to unveil its infinite forms.

To seek God is not the point; to open yourself is—so that God may find you. Do not live under the illusion that you can discover God. The root of devotion is precisely this: God is searching for you. Why are you hiding? Why do you keep dodging yourself? You will not find Him, for you do not know His address, His whereabouts. And how small our hands are, and how vast the sky! Will you bind the sky in your fists?

What is human power?

The day one truly feels one’s powerlessness, the devotee says: “What should I even say to You? Where shall I look for You?”

What else could I have written—what right had I?
I only sent this much: “I am parched for You.”

A devotee can weep, can yearn. Even complaint has no avenue, for complaint too is the shadow of power.

These days have been full of wonder and ah!—so-be-it.

If these sutras leave even a whisper in your heart and your song breaks forth… You have come carrying the veena, but you are caught in a thousand fears, and won’t let God touch your strings.

A little courage is needed. A little mad courage is needed. This is the work of the crazed. Those who found God were mad. And if you do not have the capacity to be mad, it is better to leave God aside. This is not the work of the prudent, the reasonable, the shopkeepers—it is for the drunkards. And I am glad that the drunkards are slowly coming to me, the intoxicated are slowly getting the news.

It is natural—when one digs a well, first pebbles and stones come out; then trash and rubble; then layers of soil; and then the water-vein begins to flow. Now the water-vein has come! Now I must speak only to the possessed—for only they can take it in.

These are Narad’s final sutras.

“A devotee should not engage in argument.”

This is how they have translated it in Hindi. The original Sanskrit means simply: “For the devotee—no argument.” That is more apt. The phrase “should not” is itself improper in the realm of devotion, because “should” brings in the doer, the discipline. If you do something, you will not be able to disappear. If you enact anything, you will act against yourself. The urge to argue was rising, and you made a rule: I should not argue. Will the argument vanish? No—it will hide. Don’t bring it out, and it stays within—and it is better it comes out than fester within. Keeping it inside is like hiding a disease—sores will form; like keeping pus inside.

So I would not translate it as “a devotee should not argue.” The very language of “should” is unknown to the devotee. Duty is not his tongue—love is.

“For the devotee—no argument.” Why not? Because how can one who knows argue? Argument is groping—someone gropes in the dark. If there is light, who gropes? A blind man gropes even in the light; if there are eyes, who gropes? One who knows, who has had a taste, into whose life even a single ray of truth has descended, who has danced with that ray, played with it—will he argue? He has nothing to prove, and no desire to disprove anyone else. He himself is the proof.

“For the devotee—no argument”—meaning: the devotee is his own evidence. Let those argue who have no proof within. Argument means we have no experience. Fight with a devotee, quarrel—he will say: Look into my eyes; taste my tears; dance with me; I have tied bells to my ankles—tie yours; I have arranged the incense and the lamp—come, worship. As it happened to me, so it will happen to you; for if such an unworthy one as I could be blessed, how much more easily you, who are so worthy?

The devotee says: It happened to me, a sinner like me; will it not happen to a virtuous one like you? I knew nothing, and God came to my door—only by my call He came. You know so much—will He not come to your call?

“For the devotee—no argument.”

Argument means there is no evidence in your life, so you seek substitutes elsewhere. What you do not have, you try to establish by words. The fragrance that is not in your life, you try to persuade others you possess by debate.

“For the devotee—no argument.” Not because it is a rule, but because it becomes impossible. What debate will a lover engage in? Ask Majnun about Laila—he will not argue; he will not try to prove Laila’s beauty. He will say: Borrow Majnun’s eyes. See as I have seen.

“Majnun” is a way of seeing. “Devotee” is a way of seeing.

What argument will you offer a blind man to establish that light exists? Whatever you say about light will be misunderstood. How will you explain to one who has no eyes? The blind man will say: I can hear—play your light so I can hear its tune. He will say: I can taste—place some of your light on my tongue so I can taste it. He will say: I can touch—bring it here. Where is your light? You say you are surrounded by light on all sides; I spread my hands—nowhere do I feel it.

What will you do? You will tire and despair. To argue with the blind about light is meaningless. If anything can be done, arrange for the blind man’s eyes to be healed. As you have healed your own, lead him by the same path.

A scholastic disputant once came to Chaitanya. In his youth, Chaitanya was himself a great logician, a great pundit. His fame had spread through Bengal; pundits trembled before him. But one day he saw the hollowness of all that scholarship. He had defeated many, but victory did not come nearer to his own heart. He had felled countless opponents, but in his own life no trumpet of triumph sounded. He had spread wide his net of arguments, but nothing of substance came into his hands. He pricked others like thorns, but his own life did not blossom. One day, this became clear to him.

Understand: only supremely intelligent persons can see the futility of logic. To see the vanity of argument is the mark of a deeply earnest, gifted being.

He dropped the whole net of logic. No one knew; a pundit set out to debate him and arrived. Chaitanya said: You are a little late. The joy of defeating you is gone now, for I have won. What would I gain now by defeating you? I have won without defeating you! I stand victorious. You are late. I no longer grope in the dark—I have found the light; I have caught the song—I dance! Here, take this tambura; dance!

The pundit said: Am I a madman?

Chaitanya replied: I used to invite people to argument—they agreed. That is only a dance of words, mere bubbles of air. Now I invite you to a real dance—accept it! For by such dancing I found His face. When I disappear in the dance, He appears. As long as I am, the door is closed. The moment I am not, doors swing open.

“For the devotee—no argument.” Because the devotee has tasted; why waste time in argument?

Why wander lost, seeking to split hairs
in this perishing world?
Light the lamp within and see—
Man himself is the proof of God.

A precious aphorism of the Brahma Sutras, aligned with Narad’s sutra, says: “Tarka-pratishthanat”—argument has no foundation. Though in daily life argument seems to be honored; the greater the debater, the more he is taken to be wise. But the supremely wise have said, argument has no standing.

Understand the groundlessness of argument. It proves nothing—only seems to. For whatever argument proves can be disproved by another argument. That is why logicians have argued for centuries, spreading their nets wider and wider—yet no conclusion has ever been caught. The five thousand years of philosophy’s history amount to this: zero returned with zero. What monsters of dialectic we had! How they split hairs! Yet no argument has ever been given whose opposite could not be found; and no argument exists that does not, in time, cut itself down.

We argue every day. Have you noticed? Stand against your own argument and you will at once find equally strong arguments on the other side.

“Tarka-pratishthanat.”

I was sitting with Mulla Nasruddin. His son—eighteen or nineteen—came and said, “Papa!” Seeing me there, he found courage. “Now that I am headed to college, you must buy a car.” The father said, “A car! Your college is three houses away. And why did God give you two legs?”

The boy said, “One for the accelerator, one for the brake.”

Argument has no standing. What will you do with it?

Mulla thought he had given a great argument: Why did God give two legs!

We always find arguments in service of our desires. What you want to believe, you end up believing. You will claim you believe because reason compels you—but look within, analyze yourself: do you first believe, and then find reasons? Indeed, reasons are only decorations you put on afterward. That is why argument has no foundation.

The thief believes he has good reason to steal. The dishonest man believes dishonesty is necessary: In this crooked world, an honest man cannot survive. The thief believes everyone steals. The violent man believes: how will you live by nonviolence?

You accept what you want to accept first; you gather arguments later. Watch carefully and you will see whether belief arises first or reasons do. Reason is only a way to persuade yourself that you are thoughtful. Desire looks unintelligent; reason gives desire the glow of intelligence. The one who wants to believe in God will find arguments for God; the one who wants to deny God will find arguments against God. Both will go on arguing, and there will be no end—there cannot be, for deep down there is no real argument: the conclusion came first.

Reason is only surface ornament. Change it, and nothing changes. Hence no matter how much someone argues, nothing is proved. He may silence you for a while if his arguments are stronger; but you will meet a stronger logician and be silenced in turn.

That Brahma Sutra is the distilled wisdom of millennia: “Tarka-pratishthanat”—argument has no foundation.

The Katha Upanishad also says: “Nesha tarkena matirapaneya”—That cannot be attained by logic or intellect. The intellect can only reach what is already known. It cannot discover the new. The mind only chews the cud like a buffalo: first it gathers grass, then sits and rechews. The intellect collects from here and there, then repeats, refines, polishes, organizes—but it never knows the original. Through intellect the Unknown is never found—and God is supremely Unknown, the ultimate Mystery. Because of your intellect you never reach Him.

“For the devotee—no argument.”

“Because argument gives endless room to proliferation, and it is indeterminate.”

“Endless room…”

Keep spreading it and it keeps spreading. There is no boundary where you can say: argument is complete. No point at which all questions drop and a final answer is in your hand. You only keep pushing questions back. Someone asks: Who created the world? You say: God. He asks: Who created God? Now what? You will say: A great God created God. He will ask: And who created that one?

“Endless room…”

A man is miserable, dishonest, troubled—you say, he is suffering the fruits of past lives. Why did he act thus in past lives? You say, he was suffering the fruits of earlier lives. But what does this solve? Where will you stop? Somewhere there must have been a beginning. How did that begin? Why such endless elaboration? The question remains where it was—no answer has been obtained.

You are suffering; someone consoles you: past sins. But why did you sin in the past? He will have no answer except that in the life before that you did something else. Keep pulling back; where will you reach? After countless lives, the question will still be the same.

Argument has no prestige. The answers given by mind are not answers, only the semblance of answers. They deceive you into thinking you have found something. And one who is deceived into thinking he has found the answer wastes his life, for the quest ceases. We need an answer which, when it arrives, resolves everything, unties every knot. Therefore, apart from God, there is no answer. And God’s answer is not of the intellect. In a profoundly silent state, where all ripples of mind are still, where the heart brims with love and overflows—there, not by reasoning but by feeling; not by thought but by prayer; not by calculation but by divine drunkenness… Those who drink in the tavern of the Beloved and begin to dance—only they…

But the difficulty is, the world will call you mad.

There is a very famous American poet, Allen Ginsberg. I was reading his biography. He was about twenty-eight. A feeling man, a poet—he lived more by heart and feeling than by intellect. One evening, the sun was setting, and he lay resting on his bed by the window. Lines of William Blake were repeating in his mind. Thinking and thinking them, he watched the sun go down. Dusk fell; the birds fell silent. Suddenly, something like a glimpse occurred; as if God touched him; as if a hand came in through the window. He felt a touch—he was startled—but the touch was so blissful he laid his fear aside and remained. Closing his eyes, the touch remained; opening them, it remained. It deepened to such a degree he felt he had experienced God. The event went so deep that he got up and wrote in his notebook: Now even if the whole world says there is no God, I will still say there is; I have known Him. I will never forget this hour. Even if my intellect insists, I swear I will never deny this experience. Perhaps my mind will again resurrect its old web of logic—therefore I swear in this moment that I have attained supreme theism: God is.

But as he wrote, doubt and logic began to stir. In fact, they must have already begun, else why swear? He foresaw the future doubt, and his heart trembled. The touch slipped away—but its shadow lingered. He went out. He felt: I must tell someone; perhaps someone will recognize something has happened. For he did not feel he was walking on earth—more like soaring along rainbows, along the path of the sky; gravity gone.

He rushed to his neighbors. Two girls were talking at their door. He said: Listen—God is! I have experienced Him. He stretched in a hand through my window and touched me. They quickly shut their door—who is this madman? They knew him as a poet, but today he’d really gone off. Frightened, they bolted the door. He knocked; they said through the window: Go away, or we’ll call the police. He said: The experience of God—and the police!

He phoned a friend who was a psychiatrist, thinking perhaps he would understand—he knows about the mind. “I have experienced God,” he said—already somewhat afraid after the girls’ reaction. The friend said: Come straight here—you need treatment.

Then doubt swelled further: perhaps I erred. He looked at his notebook—the event was still so near; only moments had passed; every pore of his skin still tingled—just as Narad says: “Gooseflesh arises in the devotee, the eyes moisten, tears begin to fall.” Everything was still wet, still fresh. It had just happened. Yet doubt seized him: Better if I go; who knows, some delusion; a projection of the mind; perhaps I have gone mad, or hypnotized myself; maybe repeating Blake’s poem brought this on!

He went to his friend. They gave him injections, laid him down. They kept him in a hospital for eight months—as a madman. This world treats those who taste God as insane. And even that is not the world’s fault. He got out after eight months only by giving assurances that what had happened was false. He has written: I still knew it was not entirely false; but to be labeled mad one’s whole life for God’s sake—what sense is there in that? When I had proved in every way that I had returned to normal reasoning and intellect—that I was well, no longer sick—they released me.

A great experience was missed. Had this man lived in India, he might have become a paramahansa. Even now his poems sometimes show a glimmer. But society has its boundaries of acceptance. If you move even an inch outside, obstacles arise.

Even if you have a glimpse, hide it; if a diamond falls into your hands, Kabir said, “Tie the knot”—fasten it tight. Do not tell anyone, or they will say, “The man has lost his mind!” Let no one hear a whisper of it. People are anti-heart. People are anti-prayer. You will be surprised: even those who pray are anti-prayer. They pray only within the limits of the intellect—they do rituals, go to temples, but never go beyond the bookkeeping world. Their temple lies within the boundaries of their shop. Their love is fenced by their logic. Their worship is formal. They go to the temple because one should. They worship because one should. Society approves such things—one gains respectability as religious. But society does not tolerate a truly religious man—it tolerates the formalist, the Hindu, the Muslim, the Jain; not the religious one.

These sutras are revolutionary. Only move in this direction if you have the courage; otherwise, forget it.

“In argument, there is endless proliferation; and it is indeterminate.”

Narad says: “What essence comes from futile expansion!” And argument leads nowhere, it has no destiny, no conclusion; it is a conclusionless absurdity. Keep doing it—one argument breeds another, the second a third; never does a moment arrive when there is a resolution. Where there is no resolution, do not waste your life—life seeks consummation. Life longs to fulfill a significant destiny. Life yearns to bloom.

If there is no raga in the heart,
how will the veena sing?
If the root is scentless,
how will the flower carry fragrance?

Care for the root, and the flower will carry fragrance. Awaken the raga in the heart, and the veena of life will ripple. Care for the root and the heart.

“To attain love-devotion, one should contemplate the scriptures of devotion, and also engage in those actions which increase devotion.”

Scriptures of devotion cannot be studied in the usual way.

We have three words: chintan, manan, nididhyasan. Chintan is thinking. Manan is contemplative absorption. Nididhyasan is samadhi. If thinking moves in the right way, it culminates in manan; but if it goes like an ox circling a mill, it never arrives. He whose thinking gets entangled in logic never reaches manan. But the one who is so thoughtful he recognizes the futility of reasoning—his thinking-energies begin to turn into manan.

Manan is not thinking—it is feeling. You are looking at a flower. If you are thinking: Is it a rose or a jasmine or a champa? Is it red, yellow, white? Is it fragrant or not? Indigenous or foreign? If you go on like this, you are thinking about the rose—comparing it with roses of the past—more beautiful or less? That is chintan. But if you only look—entranced, not thinking; making no comparisons with past or future; doing no analysis, explanation, or naming—you simply look; you drink with your eyes; you allow the rose to enter your heart; you enter the rose; something of exchange begins between you and the flower; the rose pours its beauty, its fragrance into you, and takes your life-touch into itself; you both begin to vibrate on the same wavelength—this is manan. No thought rising, no analysis—pure savoring!

No layer of thought in between. You are utterly open. You have flung wide all the windows of the heart. Your whole being begins to thrill. Gooseflesh arises. Through the rose you start to feel the hand of the Divine extended. The rose touches your heart; its tickle enters you. For a moment you cannot say who is the rose and who is you; the boundaries of both fall upon one another; you become one—this is manan.

Narad says: “Contemplate (manan) the scriptures of devotion”—not chintan. If you think, it proliferates into argument—but manan…

Listen to the words of the bhaktas; do not think them—savor them. When a devotee utters the Name, do not think: Is this the right Name? One says “Allah,” one says “Ram,” one says “Krishna”—do not get hung up on the sound. When someone says “Allah,” look into his eyes: is there a glimmer? When someone says “Allah,” feel the rising waves in him. When someone says “Ram,” again look—then you will find it makes no difference whether one says Ram, Allah, Rahim, Rahman. The devotee’s thrill is one; gooseflesh arises…

That is why I keep saying: “Come, let us remember the Beloved.” A little remembrance of the Divine… But if you get stuck on the Name, you fall into thinking; manan does not happen. Remembrance is not thinking; it is a plunge. You drop in and are lost! Remembrance is drinking His wine.

Do not listen to devotees and analyze: What are they saying? If you do, you miss. When you hear the wise, analyze—there is only analysis there. But with devotees, look at their hearts, look at their joy. Never mind what they are saying—look straight at them.

Even what you see—do not believe all of it.
Heard words are only echoes riding the wind.

What you see is not entirely trustworthy either; much of it is your web of imagination. Then heard words—mere echoes. Do not bother with them. Only what comes in experience—only that.

Sit with devotees and sway with them. Sit with the mad and be co-mad, co-participants. With the intoxicated, become intoxicated. If devotees dance, dance; if they sing, sing. Erase the distance. Lay aside your thinking mind like a burden for a while. Become unburdened for a little while. Then you will know what the scripture of devotion is.

It is not written in books—it is written in the hearts of the devotees. The scripture of devotion is not words, not doctrine—it is a living truth. Wherever you find a devotee, read it there; there is no other way to read.

“Contemplate the scriptures of devotion, and engage in those deeds which increase devotion.” For truly, you become what you do. Understand this rightly.

People come and ask, “What will happen by dancing?” I say, “We will think about what happens later—first dance!” They say, “But first let it be certain what dancing will do.” I ask them: When you were born, before you took your first breath, did you ask—what will happen if I breathe, until it is certain? Before you drank your mother’s milk, did you ask—what will happen if I drink, until it is certain? Before you spoke, did you ask—what will happen if I speak? Before you walked, did you ask—what will happen if I walk? And when you fell in love, did you ask—what will happen if I love, until it is certain? All through life you did first and learned by doing. Why this injustice toward God—that you want to ask first?

Only by doing does one know. Without doing, who knows? Knowing is existential. If you weep, you will know what happens. Watching someone else weep will not tell you; tears flow from the eye—but how will you know what flowed in the heart? You will only see tears. No lab test can distinguish. Collect a devotee’s tears and a sorrowing man’s tears—no scientist can tell them apart: all salty, all alike. But the devotee weeps in ah! wonder. In his weeping there is bliss, not pain.

Someone’s beloved has died—he too weeps; his tears are poisoned by grief. But bliss and grief cannot be caught in the fluid; they are inner. Tears say nothing. Only when you weep in joy will you know. These experiences are personal. They cannot be understood by asking another.

Who has known love without loving?

“To attain love-devotion, one should contemplate the scripture of devotion and do deeds which increase devotion.”

Which deeds increase devotion? What is the action of a devotee?

It is a way of seeing life. Ordinarily, you see life with deep mistrust. The ordinary lens is full of doubt. Wherever doubt stands, whatever you do cannot be an act of devotion. A devotee’s act rises from trust. The very same deed can be done in two ways: out of doubt, or out of trust. Done with trust, it becomes a devotee’s deed. Done with doubt, it is ordinary.

You give two coins in alms—perhaps to get rid of a beggar. He is pestering you; give him something to be done with him. You gave two coins—waste! Had you given nothing, but held reverence for the man—at least seen the human being in him, if not God—the deed would have become devotional.

It is not what you do, but the quality you bring. Look at people—if your eye looks with trust, with love, with compassion—the deed becomes that of a devotee. Thus slowly, that eye is trained and will discover God. He is not hiding—your eye is not ready.

“While waiting for that time when happiness and sorrow, desire and profit—all are wholly renounced—do not waste even half a moment.”

“When happiness and sorrow, desire and gain, fall away completely…”

A devotee does not renounce by effort—it happens. For the devotee’s whole base is that God will do; what will my doing achieve? He prays. This is the difference between the seeker and the devotee. The seeker strives to abandon desire. But understand: the moment you strive to abandon desire, you create a new desire—the desire to be desireless. You are caught. When you insist on renouncing objects, you must cling to renunciation; and what needs to be dropped is clinging. Want to leave the world? You must imagine heaven—for without holding something you cannot let go.

The purist busies himself with houris, with Kauser and Tasneem;
But we call your glimpse itself our paradise.

The renunciate longs for heavenly nymphs, celestial pleasures, wish-fulfilling trees.

The purist worries about houris, Kauser and Tasneem;
But we call your darshan heaven itself.

The devotee says: If You appear—that is heaven. If my eyes become capable of seeing You—that is all. Having You, all is had.

The seeker strives; the devotee prays. The devotee says: Do something so that desire drops; for if I try, I only sow a new seed of desire. Do something so that the futile falls away; for I am such that I even turn the essential into the trivial. Whatever I touch turns to dust; but I have heard that whatever You touch turns to gold. So You must do it.

The secret of prayer is this: the devotee says, Nothing will come of my doing. For lifetimes I have been doing—everything ends up empty. In the end, I repeatedly do what I did not want to do. I try to stop anger toward others, and anger turns upon myself—but anger remains. I renounce lust, and the mind fills with lust—I do not get free.

A poet told me his reminiscence. He was traveling to Delhi for a national poetry conference. In his compartment, at Gwalior, a woman and her child boarded. He played with the child; evening fell, then night. The woman prepared to sleep but seemed frightened and hesitant. The poet asked: What is it? She said: Nothing. Where are you going? He said: To Delhi, for the national conference. She said: Then there is no worry. If you are a poet, there is no danger. She lay down and slept.

He told me he felt shocked that she said: “If you are a poet, then there is no danger.”

I said: You misunderstood her. Had you been a sadhu or mahatma, there might be danger. A poet is enjoying life; woman is not a thing to be shunned. And if one truly experiences woman, one is freed of her. If one truly experiences wealth, one’s grip on it loosens. The woman was intelligent. You did not understand—she said nothing against you, she said something against the ascetics.

What you repress becomes a wound within. You can discover it in yourself: whatever you repress becomes your shadow.

Carl Gustav Jung, the great Western psychologist, made an important discovery: the Shadow. He said: Every person has a shadow—not merely the shade cast by sunlight. The aspects of our personality we disown follow us like a shadow. Whatever we push down into the unconscious, into the basement—those become our shadows, forever following.

If you repress anger, anger stands behind you, waiting to erupt. If you repress sex, sex becomes your shadow. And whoever fragments himself like this will never know the Whole. To know the Whole, you must become whole. The shadow must be reabsorbed. What you have split off must be taken back. As long as you keep it separate, you will remain false. Every child must fragment at first—society forces it. But there is no necessity to remain fragmented; once understanding dawns, reintegration is needed.

A small child, with his parents’ expectations—the child does something; they want something else. He laughs out of place; they say: Be quiet—guests are here. The child learns to suppress himself. Not every thought can be spoken in every place—so he begins to divide himself. Some things are unacceptable; some are acceptable; sometimes we must laugh even if we don’t feel like it; sometimes we must not cry though tears arise; where anger arises we must hold a peaceful face. In this way the child is compelled to cut his own being into pieces—he becomes false, inauthentic.

What has been cut off is your reality; it must be reabsorbed. The seeker keeps cutting more and more; the devotee absorbs. The devotee says: What can I do? Here I stand—as I am, sinner, mixed good and bad—accept me! You made me thus—You must show the way. You caused me to fall; You must raise me up.

The devotee trusts that the One who gave life can surely lift the fallen; the One who breathed soul into bones, who enlivened clay—can He not accept me as I am? The clay is His; the desires are His; lust and anger are His too! Expecting that I can do something is impossible!

For the angry man will use anger to conquer anger. The violent will use violence to be free of violence—what else do they have?

If you try to lift yourself by your own shoelaces, how will you rise? You may hop a little. Those you call saints are hopping—again and again they fall back to the ground—by their own hands.

The devotee says: Only by Your hands can I rise.

Therefore: “While waiting for that time when happiness and sorrow, desire and gain—fall away completely—do not waste even half a moment.”

Let not half a moment pass without prayer. Life is short; there is much to do. And who knows if we will be here a moment hence? Let not even half a moment pass prayerless. Rise, sit, walk, do whatever—but let prayer ripple within you day and night.

Today, in the desert-mind of the sky,
a rainbow has arisen.
Without the self aware of itself,
the sap of life is never exhausted.
What you call residue
sleeps hidden in the innermost.
This, the reflected lovely shadow
of Cupid’s flowery battle.
At the junction of light and dark
name and form are born.
Only that “Only” can undo
bondage with ease.
Who ever coaxed a sprout
from roasted seed?
When has a mask of dispassion
ever hidden a frantic passion?

Do not try to hide; otherwise a mask of detachment will form, while attachment stays within. Only He—only the Divine—can bring deliverance. From where life is born, from there too is liberation. From where desire springs, from there comes brahmacharya. This is the devotee’s trust: God will do; I can only pray.

And if your prayer is total, it is fulfilled. You have never truly called. You have never asked with a full heart. You have never surrendered yourself wholly into His hands. You have never said with your whole being: Come, transform me! I am willing to change, but I do not know how. I am willing to change, but transformation is beyond me. Come! Be the honored guest in my heart! Change me Yourself!

The path of devotion is easy—only the first step is hard. The mind clings to being the author of its own story. That is why the seeker’s ego never dies; it changes masks. Yesterday worldly, today renunciate. Yesterday a sensualist, today an ascetic—new masks. But the determination “I will do” never dies. The devotee says: The “I” is a false illusion. Where am I? Only You are. So You do.

“Ahimsa, truth, purity, compassion, and faith—these ethical virtues should be well observed.”

One word here is crucial: faith. Mahavira did not include it. Buddha did not. Patanjali also left it out. Ahimsa—everyone includes: do not cause pain to others. Truth: say nothing contrary to what is; do nothing contrary to what is. Shauch: purity—of body, of outer, of mind. Compassion: offer as much happiness to others as you can.

But faith! Narad calls it an ethic! Unusual. In my view, without faith the rest cannot be—neither nonviolence, nor truth, nor purity, nor compassion.

What is faith?

Faith means saying “yes” to God; saying: Yes, I consent. Not saying “no” to Him. Doing whatever He makes you do; not doing what He does not. Asking Him at every step. Placing your reins in His hands. The bit given to Him. Then if He throws you into pits, those pits are heaven. If He leads you into hell, hell too is blessed. Leaving everything in His hands—that is faith.

Faith does not mean merely: I believe that God exists. If a man did not tell you whether he believes or not, could you determine by his conduct whether he is theist or atheist? You could not. Atheists live the same lives; theists, the same. Only labels differ. Remove the labels and you cannot tell. You will find supremely beautiful personalities among theists and among atheists. You will find crude theists and crude atheists. You will find virtuous atheists and virtuous theists. These things decide nothing.

Faith means not swimming against the river—but flowing; not fighting the Divine, but placing your hand in His, saying: Wherever You lead, lead. I trust. I have faith.

Faith is a great revolution—the greatest leap. There is no greater transformation than saying: I am not separate from Existence; I am one. I have no destiny apart from it; I have no other destination; do with me what You will.

Try to be faithful for just twenty-four hours. Decide once that for twenty-four hours, whatever He makes happen, you will allow. Become weightless. In twenty-four hours you will taste another world; you will not be able to become what you were yesterday. Your anxieties, restlessness, agitations—“I must do”—these create them. You cannot, and so depression, grief, defeat. The moment you say, “Whatever You do, I have no choice now; accept me and move me; I will not even say You misled me, for if You mislead me, then thereby must be my path; I will not say nothing has happened yet, for if nothing has happened, perhaps this is the way by which it will happen”—then…

Devotee means unwavering trust. No moment, no event can shake it.

Faith is the supreme virtue. Atheism is the urge to say “no.” In all your minds “no” rises first. Saying “no” is always easy; it puffs the ego. Say “no,” and you feel you are somebody. Say “yes,” and you feel you have gone. In “yes” one is carried; in “no” one stiffens. The more “no’s” you pile around, the stronger the ego grows.

Faith is “yes”—a total “yes.”

“At all times, in all states, carefree, one should only sing the praise of God.”

The lamp in the gathering, the moon in the sky, flowers in the garden—
Where is the face of the Beloved not revealed?

Narad is not telling you to mutter Ram-Ram all day long. Many fools mutter thus; whether it benefits them is doubtful, but their minds certainly grow dull.

“At all times, in all states, carefree—let there be only the Divine’s praise.” This means: wherever you look, lift the veil and see only Him. Only thus can praise be unbroken—standing and sitting, waking and sleeping, eating and drinking. If you mechanically chant Ram-Ram, even then spaces will fall between two Rams. No matter how rapidly you rattle “Ram-Ram,” you cannot fill all time; gaps will remain. Even if you pile Ram upon Ram like a train-wreck of cars, still it will not be all-time and all-states. You will tire; and when you tire, you will do the opposite to relax.

Religion is an art without fatigue. If you get tired, you will need the opposite to rest: awake all day, you must sleep at night; muttering Ram-Ram, you tire and then entangle the mind in trivial matters.

There is only one way—

The lamp in the gathering, the moon in the sky, flowers in the garden—
Where is the face of the Beloved not revealed?

Wherever you look—flower or flame, moon, beasts and birds, humans, plants, stones—wherever your gaze falls, quickly lift the veil and see Him—and move on. Slowly your eyes will learn the art of lifting the veil; you won’t need to lift—it will happen; as soon as you look, you will see through. His image everywhere! You will see Him in others and in yourself. One day, standing before the mirror, you will see His image in your own reflection. Then it is continuous. It is no longer something you do.

Remember: what must be done cannot be continuous. Doing exhausts—you will ask for leave. But when it is no longer a doing—when it is happening by itself—then it is praise.

“When He is praised, He quickly manifests and grants experience to the devotee.”

This can be misunderstood. Many have. The straightforward meaning seems to be that God is pleased by flattery.

“When He is praised, He quickly appears and grants experience.”

As if He is fond of praise: you sing loudly and He is pleased—“Look, this devotee makes such a racket!” No—that is not the meaning.

When you praise, you open. He appears quickly not because He is moved by praise, but because praise opens your heart. He is ever-present. When you remember Him with total feeling, you stop being closed; you open—and in that openness, the vision happens.

God is that which always is; you stand turned away. When you praise, your face turns towards Him. Have you seen the sunflower? It keeps turning to the sun—hence the name. The devotee is like that. In praise, he keeps his face toward God. And if the sun is only in one direction, the Divine is in all directions. Once you grasp the key, wherever you look—see Him. That is praise.

Praise does not mean chanting: we are sinners and You are the Most Gracious. These words spoil it. Praise is not verbal—it is experiential. Let praise ring in your life. When you see a flower, let gratitude arise: Ah, Beloved! See the moon—Ah! Let ah! resound unbroken in your life. So much beauty all around—and you have not uttered ah! How veiled your eyes must be. The sun rises every day—yet you do not bow. The moon comes nightly—you do not truly look. The ocean surges, its roar ceaseless—and you do not let its roar enter your very breath. In a thousand forms, the Divine longs to touch you—the ripple of breeze, the shafts of the sun—and you sit like stone, paralyzed?

Devotion means only this: be a little more alert; break this stiffness; rise, dance! He dances—dance with Him! He sings—sing! When your song begins to mingle with His, when your dance begins to fall in step with His feet—that very instant you will find He is dancing within you.

Do not think that when you fill with ah!, He does not. You are His expansion, His hand. When your hand is healthy, the whole person rejoices.

Devotee and God are not two—two wings of one bird; two legs of one being.

Something of Your beauty is simple and innocent—
And something of my love is added to Your portrait, too.

God is the supremely Beloved, but the devotee too pours himself in. It is not a one-way affair. It is an exchange between lover and Beloved, between devotee and God. It is not only that you rejoice when God comes—God also rejoices. That is the meaning of “praised, He appears.” When He descends within, you dance. He too dances in supreme wonder: “Another has arrived! Another lost one has returned! Another wave, far gone, has come home!”

“This love-shaped devotion, though one, manifests as eleven kinds: attachment to the greatness of His qualities; attachment to His form; attachment to His worship; attachment to remembrance; attachment as servant; attachment as friend; attachment as beloved; attachment as mother; attachment as self-surrender; absorption in Him; and supreme longing in separation. In these ways it is of eleven types.”

Devotion is one; devotees are of eleven kinds. However you wish to adore God… The Sufis hold God as the Beloved, as woman. Right—for God is both: in woman and in man. Sufis called Him the Beloved in feminine form, and traveled that way.

In India, few have called Him Beloved as woman. Krishna-bhaktas hold Him as male—even to the extent that a sect in Bengal wears women’s clothes; at night they sleep holding Krishna’s image to their heart. He is the husband; the devotee is wife, sakhi, gopi. That too is right. Choose whichever way your heart moves.

God is all; but you are not yet vast enough to hold all forms at once. You must enter by one door. He has infinite doors; you cannot pass them all. Choose one—and you will reach the One.

Narad lists eleven doors—nearly all possibilities. Choose yours. However you savor Him, He consents. Call Him as Mother, as Kali—He will appear as Mother. It only means, the form you give Him is the form He flows into. All forms are His. To Ramakrishna He appeared as Kali—for he called only upon the Mother. The devotee provides the frame.

It is as if you build a window in your house and look at the sky from there. The sky has no frame; your window does. If your window is square, the sky appears square; if round, round—though the sky is neither. And when you truly see the sky, you become drunk and leap through the window—out into the open, where there is no form.

Saguna is the beginning; nirguna is the end. The formed is the door; the formless is arrival. However it happens—in any color—

If You are not the killer, let it be someone else—
Martyrdom in Your alley is blessed.

To die in Your lane is enough. If You do not slay me Yourself, no matter.

If You are not the killer, let it be someone else—
Martyrdom in Your alley is blessed.

One must simply be lost somewhere along His road. Who has reached “Him”? People get lost in the alleys. You will never reach as “you”; only by being lost will you arrive. Somewhere along the path you vanish.

No human has ever “met” God. As long as the human remains, there is no God; when the human dissolves—God.

Has any seed ever met its sprout? The seed dies—then the sprout. So when the human dies, the sprouting of the Divine begins. In your death is His arrival.

Martyrdom in Your alley is blessed.

“Sanatkumara, Vyasa, Shukadeva, Shandilya, Garga, Vishnu, Kaundinya, Shesh, Uddhava, Aruni, Bali, Hanuman, Vibhishana—these masters of the essence of devotion, fearing neither blame nor praise, all with one voice declare: Devotion is supreme.”

“Fearing neither censure nor applause…”

On the path of love there is the most censure and applause, for the world runs on arithmetic, on accounts. Society’s order is a chain of logic. Love breaks all boundaries and floods. Therefore society does not accept love—not even ordinary love between man and woman; how then the love between person and God? Love is lawless.

One who fears society’s blame or praise cannot become a devotee. But what will you do with applause and slander? In the moment of death, neither will help. Even here, they bring no fulfillment. However much they praise you, your belly will not be filled. However many hands clap, the flowers of your soul will not open. However many garlands around your neck, you remain inwardly poor.

So see whether you are selling your soul for society’s approval. Praise is expensive. The more you care for it, the smaller you become. The more afraid you are, the more they will frighten you. Slowly you become crippled. Slowly you lose the capacity to fly—lose even the dream of flying. Slowly you agree to sit at society’s garbage heap. Think on this.

What will you do if you gain all praise? What then? If no one blames you—what then? If no one criticizes and all applaud, will the meaning of life be revealed? Will the lotus of your soul open? You will find the opposite: the more praise comes, the more you see its futility. The more they honor you, the more imprisoned you feel; your limits narrow; thousands of eyes are upon you and you can no longer bloom.

Only one can become a devotee—one who has decided that before inner joy, nothing else is worth choosing. Inner joy first. Relationship with God first; all other relationships after. If through Him other ties form, the devotee consents. If because of Him other ties break, then those ties are worthless.

Jesus said: If you lose that One, you lose everything; and if losing all else you find that One, you gain all.

“Those who hold faith and trust in this auspicious instruction of Narad attain the Beloved—they attain the Beloved.”

These sutras culminate in trust and faith. Understand these two words. Trust means: doubts have not yet disappeared—but despite doubts, you trust. Doubts do not vanish in a flash. There is no magic, no mantra, that removes them. Doubts remain—but whether you choose them or not, that is in your hands.

People come and say: I want to take sannyas, but I also have doubts. I say: Both are in you. The urge for sannyas has arisen? “Yes.” Some trust comes, some doubt too. Now you must choose between the two. Choose doubt if you wish—then you torture the half of you that wants sannyas. Or choose sannyas—then you torture the thoughts that want to doubt. But choose. You have doubted long—what did you gain? Give trust a chance. Doubt has only tormented you. It brought no rains, no monsoon clouds—your earth remained parched. You have tried doubt long enough—now try trust. Give it a chance.

They say: But doubts have not ended.

I say: Even so, you must choose. And remember, even when you don’t choose, a choice is being made. You say: I will think; I won’t choose now. That means you have chosen for doubt. You cannot live even a moment without choosing. Not choosing is a choice.

So give the new a chance; the unknown, the unfamiliar. Give a chance to a path you have never walked. And the path you have worn smooth—never brought you anything…

One who has doubted all along—if he knows how to doubt rightly—now doubt should turn upon doubt itself. Doubt upon doubt—that is trust. Not yet faith—trust. Doubt turned upon doubt; done and done, nothing gained; habit old; you go on out of habit. But think! Use doubt: doubt the doubting—and trust arises.

Trust is not the opposite of doubt; it runs alongside it. Despite doubt, you walk the road of trust. Slowly, experience comes—blessed that I chose trust. With each step, new greenness, freshness, new rays descend. The doubts you left on the shore begin to flee, as darkness flees the light, as dew drops vanish in the sun. When all doubts have vanished, trust ends and faith is born.

Trust is like medicine. You are ill—trust is the remedy. When the illness is gone, you throw the bottle into the trash; no further need.

Health is faith. Faith is like health. In faith there is no doubt. In trust, doubt runs parallel. Therefore, until faith dawns, be very alert. When faith comes, then close your eyes, pull up the covers, and sleep. No question remains. The illness is gone. You are illumined.

“Those who place trust and faith in this auspicious instruction of Narad attain the Beloved—they attain the Beloved.”

The swiftly spinning wheel appears
to stand still to the eye;
In the stillness of action
lies the consummation of equanimity.
Death is not a discord,
it is life’s natural consonance;
When love’s nature is fulfilled,
it ripens into renunciation.
The doer becomes the deed—
when action becomes non-action.
Liberation is nothing else
but the steadiness of wisdom.

Wherever you see opposites, they are not opposite—one is hidden in the other.

Have you noticed? If a fan spins ever faster, a moment comes when it seems still. These walls appear still. Scientists say atoms whirl at enormous speed. So fast we cannot see it; all seems still.

When motion is total, it appears still. When desire is fulfilled utterly, freedom from desire dawns. When action is total, it becomes inaction.

Liberation is nothing else—but the steadiness of awareness.

Liberation is not somewhere in the sky, nor in a distant future. It is a way of being. When you flower into your fullness, when you rise above your darkness—you are God.

Thus the devotee’s ultimate experience is becoming God. All distance belongs to the days of seeking. As the quest nears its end, devotee and God become one.

Hear these sutras. Contemplate them. Slowly weave them into the fabric of your life. As much time as possible—remain in the remembrance of God. As much as possible—see God everywhere, lifting veils, even where it seems hardest, in stones and rocks—look closely, and you will see.

That is why we have made images of God in stone—because He is in stone too. There also it is a matter of discovering the form hidden within. No chisel is needed—your eyes can be the chisel. Look with care: where there appears no form, it manifests. Do not tire quickly; do not be impatient. Patience—and endless waiting.

Do not soften your song yet; the goal is still far.
Drinking the oil of melody,
the path’s heart turns tender.
In the fair of ragas, the sky’s
emptiness is lost.
Do not set down the plate of worship yet—
there is still much incense and camphor to burn.

Enough for today.