Bhakti Sutra #6

The experience is such that, try to hide it and it will not hide; it will manifest. As far as the experiencer is concerned, it will certainly be expressed. But as far as you are concerned, it depends on you: it may be revealed, or it may remain unrevealed.

Buddha has said what he came to know—whether you heard it or not… On Buddha’s side, it has been expressed; on your side, it may or may not be revealed.

The rain falls: lakes, ponds, pits and hollows fill; the mountains stay empty.

If your pitcher is kept upside down, no matter how much the clouds thunder and pour, you will remain empty; for you, the rain will not have happened. Not that there was no rain—there was; only, not for you. And until it is for you, what difference does it make whether it happened or not?

Even if the enlightened ones remain silent, that same truth is revealed through their silence.

Speaking is not necessary; speaking is a compulsion. They speak out of compassion—because you would not understand silence. If words slip through your grasp, how will silence be caught? Even with much saying, your grip does not hold; how will you catch the unsaid?

Speaking is not necessary; it is a necessity imposed by the situation. If the Buddhas had their way, they would remain silent. But seeing you—seeing your faltering steps, watching you groping in the dark—they shout; as loudly as they can, they speak—and still, whether their voice reaches through your deafness is doubtful.

Millions listen, but perhaps one truly hears. All of you “hear,” because you are not physically deaf; your ears function—yet you still miss. For listening is one thing, and truly hearing is quite another. Words strike the ears and generate vibrations, but the heart remains untouched. The mind has two ears—sound goes in one and out the other. The heart has only one ear; once the sound enters, it cannot leave—it becomes a seed, it becomes gestation within the heart. Until the spoken word becomes a womb within you—like a pearl forming in an oyster—until the heard word begins to ripen into a pearl within you, you have heard and yet not heard; you have seen and yet not seen.

Jesus keeps saying to his disciples: “If you have eyes, then see! If you have ears, then hear! If you have a heart, then understand.”

It is not that Jesus was speaking to the deaf and blind; they had eyes and ears just like you. And yet Jesus repeated himself again and again. The reason is clear.

When truth comes into someone’s experience, it is of such a nature that it cannot be concealed—even apart from telling it. Even ordinary love does not stay hidden. Let ordinary love touch someone’s life: his gait changes; a dance slips into his step; the fragrance of his being changes; a thousand lotuses bloom; when he speaks, a sweetness arises; honey begins to drip into ordinary speech!

Look into the lover’s eyes—
without drinking wine he has become intoxicated!
A bliss surrounds him!
As when spring descends upon nature,
so when love descends into someone’s life,
the heart fills with spring!
Flowers bloom everywhere!
Birdsong begins everywhere!
Inner blocked springs break free!
Wings appear—wings to fly in the infinite sky!

If this happens in ordinary love, then when the love of the Divine showers upon someone—when that extraordinary event occurs; when the ocean descends into a drop; when the sky arrives in the courtyard; as Kabir has said, when in darkness the light of thousands upon thousands of suns appears—so bright that even thousands of suns are put to shame—such a rain of light; when the bliss of nectar showers upon the mortal—how could it possibly be hidden?

If a corpse comes alive, can that be hidden? If immortality descends into the mortal, can that be concealed? There is no way to hide it. It does not hide even if you try; and yet the irony, the misfortune, is this: even if you try to tell it, it does not become revealed. It does not hide when hidden; and told, it still does not manifest. Because there are two sides. Spring has arrived—that alone is not enough; there must be some spring within you as well, some understanding to recognize it.

There was a great painter, Turner. An exhibition of his paintings was on. Great commotion— the whole city had gathered to see the paintings. Turner stood by the door, listening to people’s reactions.

One lady said, “What a fuss! I don’t see anything in these. There seems no substance in these paintings. They look as if children had filled them with colors. I see no great skill here. Why all this noise?”

Her companion recognized Turner. She whispered, “Hush! Turner is standing right there.” The other woman then said to Turner, “Your painting of sunrise—I like it very much; but I have never seen such a sunrise.” Meaning: such a sunrise does not occur; it’s only imagination.

Turner said, “Granted; but would you not like my eyes to be available to you, so that such a sunrise could be seen?” With great gentleness he delivered a deep stroke: “Would you not want eyes like mine, so that such a sunrise could be visible to you?”

If you want to see the sunrise, you need eyes that can see the sunrise.

They say that if poets had not sung songs of love, people would never have come to know of love. This, I can understand.

Think a little: if you had never heard a song of love, never heard a story of love, would your life by itself have revealed love to you? You would have known marriage, ceremony, children being born; but love…?

To recognize love, you need the eye of the connoisseur.

Only with great difficulty is someone born in the garden who has eyes—one truly visioned, a seer!

But even after hearing poems, songs and stories of love, you remember only the word “love”; you start repeating it; you use it at all times, fit and unfit. But can you get the experience of love merely by hearing the word? Is this an experience that can be borrowed?

No, it cannot be borrowed.

So until there is some thread of experience in your own life, the Buddha may be standing before you and you will not see him. You will see only what you are able to see. Mira may be dancing; you will see only what you can see. It is your eyes that will report to you; your ears that will interpret; your understanding that will define.

When the truth is experienced, it certainly manifests; but you do not understand.

There are famous lines:
“O Lord, they have not understood, nor will they understand my words;
Grant them another heart—if you will not grant me another tongue.”

All Buddhas must have felt like this in their hearts: “O God…

‘O Lord, they have not understood, nor will they understand my words;
Grant them another heart—if you will not grant me another tongue.’”

Either change my tongue so I can make them understand, or give them more heart so they can understand.

In a thousand ways the Buddhas have tried to explain, but you need a parallel experience. If not of the sun, then at least of a ray; if not of the sun, then at least of a small earthen lamp—some parallel experience is needed.

If you have seen even a lamp, you can infer the sun. If you have not even seen a lamp, then the word “sun” remains an empty word—like a fired cartridge, hollow. You can memorize it, use it at all times; but it will have no roots within you—an uprooted plant, a dried plant; you can arrange it in a bouquet, but it will never flower. You may remain in an illusion, but because of that illusion there will only be hindrance in your life; no revolution will occur.

Many enlightened ones have remained silent, yet their silence spoke volumes. That quietness itself was singing. Those who had even a little understanding discovered those who had chosen silence and walked in their footprints.

Someone danced. Someone spoke through a flute. Someone spoke in words. Someone used the language of logic. Jesuses and Buddhas told little parables. Each expressed whatever they could, in whatever way they could.

Before attaining truth, whatever preparation one had—when truth descended, that very preparation became the instrument of expression, used in every possible way. But it is not necessary that you recognized them.

When Buddha passed through villages there were thousands, hundreds of thousands who did not recognize him; Buddha passed by and many did not even go for a glimpse, did not go to listen; some who did listen returned empty-handed, thinking, “All talk, wind.” There is truth in their saying too.

Whatever does not fall within your grasp seems like hot air, a bubble on water!
Truth becomes truth for you only when it finds a foundation within you.

Yet the enlightened speak, out of compassion they devise a thousand devices. There is no relish in speaking for them; the only relish is that you may understand. That is the difference.

A philosopher also speaks, but he enjoys the speaking; whether you understand or not is not the point. He delights in hearing his own voice; by speaking he inflates his ego. A thinker writes and talks, but his purpose is not you—his purpose is the ornamentation of his ego.

A poet sings, but often the enjoyment is in hearing his own voice. That is the difference between a poet and a seer. A seer sings so that you can hear. A seer sings so that waves may rise in your heart, so that your sleeping life-force may awaken. The poet sings so that your applause may add new decorations to his ego—a new adornment. He sings to hear your clapping.

Saints also speak—but not to hear your applause. Your praise serves no purpose. In fact, whenever you praise them and clap, they startle a little, because the words were not spoken to elicit clapping or praise—they were spoken so that you might change, so that the formula for revolution might ignite in your life.

“I have no desire for praise, nor any care for reward;
If there is no meaning in my verses—so be it.”

No prize is needed, no praise is needed.

“I have no desire for praise, nor any care for reward;
If there is no meaning in my verses—so be it.”

Even this does not worry the saints—that what they say should be meaningful—for to make it meaningful it must be brought down to your level. And the more truth is brought down to your level, the more it dies; when it exactly reaches your level, it becomes futile.

Therefore, if someone has the desire to speak only “meaningful” words, truth cannot be spoken. Truth is paradoxical. There is only one way to speak it: do not worry about being meaningful.

Truth is beyond logic; how will it be “meaningful”?
Truth is paradoxical; how will it be “meaningful”?
And whatever can be meaningful for you becomes utterly worthless. Only that which fits completely within your current understanding can seem meaningful to you—and that which fits so completely will not be able to lift you higher.

So what is the effort of the enlightened?
“Let something be understood, and let something remain beyond understanding.”
What comes within understanding becomes a support for trust, so that toward what is beyond understanding you may step; let a little be dimly understood, and much remain beyond—let that little, hazy understanding become a path for you, so that with its support you are eager to travel further.

Saints do reveal themselves—from their side. From your side they remain unrevealed—so unrevealed that history makes no mention of them.

There is no mention of Jesus anywhere except in the Bible. The Bible is written by his own disciples; therefore it is not “reliable,” people say. Thousands doubt whether Jesus ever existed at all! Whether Krishna ever was—people doubt it.

Such vast beings—and history leaves no imprint of them? Because you write history; when no imprint is made upon you, how will any imprint appear on what you write! Your writing carries the imprints of Genghis Khan, of Tamerlane, of politicians, agitators, killers, bandits. No one doubts whether Genghis Khan or Tamerlane existed—there are millions of proofs.

Krishna? Christ? There seem to be no proofs; believe if you will, if you won’t, no one can compel you.

What could be the reason? How does history remain so untouched?
Because you write history. Your heart itself remains untouched. When no mark is left upon you, how will any mark be left upon what you write? The trivial does leave a mark, because the trivial seems meaningful to you. The truly meaningful leaves no mark, because the truly meaningful seems utterly useless to you.

What will you do with a Buddha? He is of no use in war. You cannot make a sword out of him.
What will you do with Buddha’s discoveries? No atom bomb can be made from them. They are of no use to you—airy talk.

Such a one is a dreamer, you say. You excuse him—that’s generous enough. You go your way. If you get leisure, you may listen to a word or two; but you do not prepare to change yourself because of his words. You listen out of formality, courtesy; but nowhere does any imprint form upon you. If it does form upon someone, you call him mad. If it does form upon someone, you say he is finished, one more person spoiled.

Whatever is truly important in life does not appear meaningful to you at all. However high you fly in the sky, your gaze, like an eagle’s, remains fixed on the dead mice lying on the garbage heaps. Even when you sit next to Buddhas, your gaze is not on the Buddhas.

A gentleman came to me. He met me and left. A month later he came again, very happy. He said, “Your great grace! A miracle happened. A lawsuit entangled for many years—after having your darshan, I won.”

What has your lawsuit to do with my darshan? But when he came the first time, he must have come for that very reason: to win the case.

Even when you go to enlightened ones, your eyes are fixed on dead mice. Had he lost the case, he would never have come back: “This man is of no use—on the contrary, a nuisance.”

So I said to him, “You are mistaken. Do not take coincidence for a miracle. And if you want to win another lawsuit, don’t come here.”

What relation could a lawsuit have with me? Your entire life is wasted; you could lose all your lawsuits and it would make no difference. Your life itself—as you live it—is the loss. What you call your life is what is futile.

The “meaningful” is measured by your scale of understanding.

Remember—
“I have no desire for praise, nor any care for reward;
If there is no meaning in my verses—so be it.”

Were the enlightened to worry about being meaningful, they could not speak at all—for then they would have to talk about dead mice. They care for truth, not for “meaningfulness.” And truth will appear meaningless to you—that is certain.

Great courage is needed for the search for truth, because it is an effort to go beyond meaning. In all the things you find useful—wealth, position, prestige—truth will give you neither position nor prestige nor wealth; it will never become a throne—at most it may become a cross. Wealth it will not bring, position it will not bring; the opposite may well happen. So how can truth appear meaningful to you?

Truth is like flowers on trees, like the songs of birds, the murmur of streams—no “meaning” in them.

A great Western poet, e. e. cummings, was asked, “What is the meaning of your poems? What is their sense?” He said, “There is no meaning. Ask flowers—what is their meaning? Ask birds—what is the meaning of their song? Ask the sky—what is its meaning? And if the sky stands in glory without meaning, if flowers bloom proudly without meaning, without shame, without hiding—why must my poems have a meaning?”

The nearer any statement comes to truth, the more it moves outside your circle of meaningfulness. There is a meaning, but to know that meaning your very soul has to be transformed; your definition of meaning has to change.

The enlightened appear—but they cannot appear for you.

Do not worry whether they appear or not—worry about whether they can appear for you or not!

Open your heart!
Break the closed doors!
Do not be afraid—come into the open!
Do not hide in darkness!
Drop the habit of the dark!
Come into a little light!
Even if your eyes smart at first, do not be frightened. You have grown accustomed to the old darkness; it is natural that there will be a little smarting, a few obstacles, some difficulty, a little austerity. But this is the austerity worth undertaking, because what you will receive is infinite, what you will receive is vast. And until that is received, your life is a blank zero, an emptiness, a void.

Now the head refuses to rise to go back.
If you have given the pain, then you alone give the remedy—
let it not become a tale for the world to tell.
All right. There is nothing to be alarmed about.
Pain itself becomes the medicine!
In pain’s incompleteness there is suffering; in its completeness, there is the cure.
Understand this a little. It will be hard to grasp, because none of our logical categories will be of use.
But among the precious truths of the inner life there is this: if your question becomes total, the answer arises from within the question itself.
And if your thirst becomes whole, springs burst forth within the thirst itself and fulfillment comes. If pain becomes complete—so complete that you no longer remain separate as the knower of it, no separation remains, only pain remains and you do not—then it turns into medicine. This is what is called tapascharya.
Tapascharya does not mean standing in the sun, nor merely fasting.
It means to experience the pain of life’s emptiness in its totality; to experience life’s meaninglessness with its full intensity. This bustle we now take to be useful—if it turns out to be nothing more than a dream—then suddenly we find our hands empty. Panic grips us. Every hair trembles. It feels as though all that we have lived till now was lived in vain; the time that has passed was wasted. Pain arises—deep pain. To endure this pain is what is called tapascharya.
And do not ask for a remedy too soon, because remedies given too soon will be sedatives; they will put your pain to sleep, and you will return to the world just as you were.
Do not ask for medicine at all. Be ready to live through the pain. If you can show total readiness to undergo it, the medicine is hidden within the pain.

Through love the heart tasted the savor of life—
found the cure for pain, and found a pain without cure.

Through love, through devotion—
…the heart tasted the savor of life.
For the first time the bliss of life begins to flow. But this bliss is not mere bliss; within it is a very deep pain. If you sought only pleasure in love, you will be deprived of love, because love also has sorrow.
On the rosebush there are not only flowers but thorns. If you want only flowers, then go to the florist and buy them—do not bother planting the bush. There you will get flowers without thorns, but they are dead flowers. If you want living flowers, there will be thorns too.
And the rose gives its true splendor only among thorns.
When the lamp of consciousness is lit in the dense darkness of night, it is in that very contrast that its presence is felt most intensely.

Through love the heart tasted the savor of life—
found the cure for pain,…

The many pains of life—there are a thousand pains—these very pains brought you to me. If you walk the path of devotion and love, the cure for pain will be found; the remedies for all these pains will be found. These pains will vanish. “Found the cure for pain”—and then a new pain begins—“found a pain without cure.” Now a pain begins for which there is no remedy.
All these other pains have remedies. If there is worry, it dissolves through meditation. If there is tension, it disappears through meditation. Anger, greed, attachment—all these pains have remedies. Only the pain for the Divine has no remedy. So I will take away all your pains and give you one pain for which there is no cure. It is a costly bargain—an expensive wager. A gambler is needed; shopkeepers cannot do this work. They will say, “What is this? You took away the small pains and gave this great pain! The small pains that had remedies you took away, and gave a pain that has no remedy!”
But do not be afraid!

Through love the heart tasted the savor of life—
found the cure for pain, and found a pain without cure.

The ecstasy of the drop is to vanish in the ocean.
The glory, the majesty of the drop is to lose itself, to dissolve in the sea.

The ecstasy of the drop is to vanish in the ocean—
when pain passes beyond its limit, it becomes the medicine.

This pain-without-remedy—if it goes beyond its limit (and going beyond means you are dissolved in it; you yourself are the limit, you are the boundary; let no one remain inside to whom the pain is happening—only pain remains)—when pain crosses the limit, it becomes the medicine.
The Divine pain is such that it has no treatment; the treatment is hidden within the pain itself. Because the Divine is the final pain—beyond it no treatment is possible. It is both the pain and the remedy; both the disease and the medicine—because beyond it, nothing remains.
So do not panic!
What is needed is readiness for pain.
When you set out to ask for the bliss of the Divine, it is a bargain: the more readiness you show to endure pain, the more the bliss of the Divine becomes available.
Your readiness to bear your pain is your examination, your touchstone, and your preparation as well.
Pain refines. Pain purifies.
Pain is like placing gold in fire: whatever is worthless will burn away; the gold will remain pure. In pain only that burns which is worthless, which was meant to burn—the rubbish. Whatever gold is within you will remain.
It is like passing through fire.
Devotion is fire.
It is the inner fire.

It’s a fine, delicate question; it needs a little understanding.
Reflect a little: if even in devotion the ego survives, then in nonduality it certainly won’t be destroyed. If even tears cannot carry it away, on a dry path it will only stiffen and stand more rigidly. If tears cannot melt it, and it even feeds on tears, then where there are no tears at all there will be no means left to dissolve it.
Understand this.
Ego is opposed to tears. That is why we tell men, “Don’t cry. Why are you behaving like a woman?” We make men egoistic. Even when a small boy starts to cry, we say, “Quiet! Are you a boy or a girl?” It’s a man’s world; men have been in control, so they kept ego for themselves. To be a man has come to mean: “Don’t cry.” That is the stiffness. “Women cry. The weak cry. Do the strong ever cry?”
Ego has an antagonism to tears. If you saw Alexander weeping, you could no longer call him brave. If you saw Napoleon weep, you would exclaim, “Napoleon—and he’s crying?” It would seem the thing of cowards, of the weak, a sign of a feminine mind.
Ego is at odds with tears. So if even tears cannot dissolve ego, a path where tears have no place will not dissolve it at all; there the ego will only become more rigid.
Among devotees you will sometimes find humility; among Advaitins you will not find humility. It’s difficult—very difficult. You will find great stiffness. There are no tears.
Think a little: a green tree can bend; a dry tree cannot. Humility is the art of bending. If tears have kept a little greenness in you, you will be able to bow. If the tears have completely dried up and you have become a dry trunk, then bending is impossible. You may well break—but you will not bend.
It is the ego that declares: “We will break, but we will not bend; we will perish, but we will remain stiff.”
Advaita is a dry path—of logic, intellect, thought. If even on the path of feeling, love, and devotion you find that the ego is so skillful it appropriates everything to itself, then on the path of Advaita it will appropriate far more. For the first condition of bhakti is surrender. Bhakti attempts to annihilate the ego with the very first blow; Advaita strikes it down with the last blow. You can travel the entire path of Advaita with the ego in tow; only at the end does the ego fall. Bhakti, at the very first step, says: “Drop the ego; only then is there entry.”
There is a Vaishnava tale: A devotee came to Vrindavan—crying, singing, overwhelmed with tears—but he was stopped right at the temple. The guard at the door said, “Stop! You may enter alone. But this bundle you’ve brought—leave it outside.”
Startled, he looked all around; there was no bundle with him. He said, “What bundle? I have come empty-handed.”
The gatekeeper said, “Look within, not outside. The bundle is inside; the knot is inside. So long as you carry the notion ‘I am,’ there can be no entry into the temple of devotion. The first condition of bhakti is: Thou art; I am not. Bhakti begins with: Thou art, I am not. And it ends with: neither I am, nor Thou are.”
The deep inquiry of Advaita is: I am; Thou art not—and the final experience is: neither I nor Thou. Hence Advaita says: Aham Brahmasmi! Ana’l-Haqq! I am. I am Brahman. I am the Truth.
On the path of Advaita only those can succeed who are very alert toward the ego. For there, even tears will not be there to help—only awareness will accompany you. There, love will not bend you; you will bow only if you bow consciously.
So Advaita is a path to be walked with great understanding. Of a hundred who set out, scarcely one will arrive. On the path of bhakti even the simple can walk, because bhakti says: Just drop the bundle. There is no net of logic, no tangle of thought. Drown in love!
Even the ignorant can walk the path of devotion.

Well asked. It will happen—naturally so. Don’t be frightened by it. Surrender even that exalted “ah!”-feeling at the feet of the Divine. Instantly say: “All right—entangled again; please take care of this too! What is this rapture of mine? It is your grace! Now don’t deceive me any further! Don’t make me play more games!”
The moment this ego forms—at the very instant you notice it—place it at the feet of the Divine. Soon you will find—if you keep doing this—that the very cause of ego’s arising has disappeared.
Ego is built only when it is hoarded. Moment by moment, keep offering it at the feet of the Divine. All other offerings—flowers—are useless; incense and lamps—useless; waving the aarti—vain. What is being formed, moment to moment, is the ego: offer that. That is the flower growing within you—offer that. Soon you will find it stops sprouting. Why? Because it depends on accumulation.

And tears are great allies. You will have to keep watchfulness. A little alertness is needed. Otherwise the ego is very subtle, very skillful, very cunning. You must be careful.
Care is necessary on every path; on the path of devotion it is the least necessary—but necessary it still is. On the path of nonduality it is needed far more. Even minimal caution can suffice on the path of devotion, but not absolutely none.

Don’t be afraid. What is happening is perfectly natural; it happens to everyone. At the beginning of the journey this obstacle comes to all.
The habit of the ego is to take support from whatever it can and fill itself. Earn wealth and it says, “Look how much wealth I have amassed!” Accumulate knowledge and it says, “See how much I have attained!” Practice renunciation and it says, “Behold how much I have renounced!” Meditate and it says, “See how deep my meditation is! No one is a meditator like me!” Shed tears and it counts how many you shed and how many others shed. “I am number one; the rest are number two!”
All that is needed is awareness of this trick of the ego—nothing more. Offer that too to the Divine.

The devotee has an advantage: there is God, so you can lay things at his feet. The nondualist doesn’t even have that convenience; he is utterly alone, with no companion. The devotee is not alone.
Therefore, if even on the path of devotion you face obstacles, don’t imagine the path of nonduality will be easier; it will be harder. Don’t fall into that mistake.

The ego has only one fear—and that fear is: “What if I die?” The ego will die. It is not an eternal truth; it is momentary. You will never die; your ego will die. The sooner you understand this, the better.

If life is mortal, then why fear death?
One thing is certain: death is sure, and life is today—tomorrow it may not be; it is like a wave of wind, it comes and goes, it is not everlasting.
If life is mortal, then why fear death?
Sooner or later, this whole tumult is bound to end.

Any day this event will happen. Death will be.
Sooner or later, this whole tumult is bound to end.

So accept what is bound to happen. Don’t fight—flow. Drop the struggle to be saved. Simply accept, “I am not.”
What death will do, the devotee does today. What death will force upon you, the devotee does willingly. He says, “What must be erased is erased—whether today or tomorrow, what difference does it make? I myself let it go.”

Accept your death, and you will attain the immortal. The moment you accept death, you will find someone hidden within you—deeper than you, higher than you, greater than you. As you vanish, the taste of that height and depth and vastness begins to be known.
You have been clinging to a straw. Because of relying on a straw you have become small. You have taken the wrong companion; you have identified with the wrong.

Accept death. In accepting death, the ego cannot remain. Once you truly see that death is certain—it will be, whether today or tomorrow or the day after; there is no way to avoid it; no one has ever escaped—where will you run? Running and running, all arrive at the same place: into the mouth of death. Embrace it. In that embrace the ego dies.

I had little awareness; otherwise, in the course of life,
with every breath, a revolution would have arisen within me.
I had little awareness, little sensitivity—no vigilance, no wakefulness.
…Otherwise, all through life,
with every breath,
a revolution would have arisen within me.

With every breath the possibility of revolution arrived—and I kept missing it. With every breath a revolution could have occurred; the ego could have been dropped, and an entry into the realm of the Divine could have opened—but awareness was scant.

Awaken this awareness a little. That uprising, that revolution, comes with your every breath too—and you keep missing it.
As long as you cling to the ego, you will go on missing. The day you let go of the ego, in that very instant the revolution happens. That is the revolution we seek. Without that revolution there will be no fulfillment. Without it you will go on trembling in fear, floundering in anxieties, living in dread.

As long as death is still to happen, how can one be carefree? If you accept it, then death has already happened—then there is no cause for worry.

Try this a little. This is a matter of doing, not just thinking. Only by doing will you taste it.

If they were not futile, heaven would already have descended on earth. If they were not futile—so much worship, so much prayer, so many temples, so many churches, so many mosques—if all that were true, if those prayers were real, arising from the heart, the earth would have become heaven. But the earth is hell. Certainly, somewhere there is a miss.

Either God is not, hence the prayers are going in vain; or God is, but the prayers are not happening rightly, and the connection with the divine is not being made. There are only two options. Choose whichever you like.

One option is that God is not; then pray as much as you want—what is going to happen? There is no one there to listen; the sky is empty and bare. Shout, scream—you’re just being crazy. The time is being wasted; you could have put it to some use.

Or else, God is, but the one who prays is not really praying; he is cheating.

I accept the second option. In my seeing, God is; prayer is not—hence the connection has broken, the bridge has fallen.

Some people have even begun to do prayer by proxy.

The priest does it. Hindus have devised that trick. They themselves don’t go. The poor may still go, but those with some convenience hire a priest. There is a salaried priest in the temple; he performs the worship. This is prayer by proxy.

What a fine fraud! Whom are you deceiving? That priest has nothing to do with prayer. He gets a hundred rupees a month—he is concerned with his salary. He “prays” because he must collect those hundred rupees. It’s a business. If he finds someone to pay him a hundred and fifty, he could even pray against this very God—no obstacle at all.

Mulla Nasruddin was a servant, a cook, in an emperor’s house. He had made okra. The emperor praised it highly. Nasruddin said, “Master, okra is the emperor. Just as you are the emperor, the sovereign of sovereigns, so okra is the emperor among vegetables.”

Next day he made okra again. Third day again. On the fourth day the emperor threw his plate. He said, “You fool, okra every day!” Nasruddin said, “Master! It is poison! Even donkeys wouldn’t eat it if you fed it to them.”

The emperor said, “Nasruddin, four days ago you said it was the emperor among vegetables. And now it’s poison!”

He replied, “Master! We are your servants, not the okra’s. We speak by looking at you. Whatever you say, we say. We are your servants; we’ve nothing to do with the okra.”

So you can make that priest do whatever you like. He is your servant; he has nothing to do with God.

Man plays great tricks.

Tibetan lamas have made a contraption—a prayer wheel. On its spokes mantras are written. They sit and spin it by hand. Like a spinning wheel: you give it a turn, it makes fifty or a hundred rounds and stops. They think they have earned the benefit of that many mantras, as if they had recited them that many times.

A lama once came to see me. I said, “You are absolutely mad! Put a plug on it and connect it to electricity. It will keep turning; you sleep, sit—do whatever you want. Why even the hassle of turning it by hand now and then? Do your other work; then turn it again. And if the point is to deceive, then because you installed the plug, the benefit should accrue to you—just as it supposedly does by spinning it. Whoever plugs it in will get the merit.”

Whom are we deceiving?

People are praying, but do their prayers have any relationship to God?

Someone is asking for a son; someone is asking for wealth; someone for victory in a court case.

You have gone to take God’s service, not to serve God. You want to make even God your servant—let him win your lawsuit, produce you a child, arrange your boy’s marriage. But you have not gone to thank God that what he has given is immeasurable. You have gone to ask.

Where there is asking, there is no prayer.

Take this as the touchstone: whenever you ask, prayer becomes false. Because when you ask for wealth, wealth becomes greater than God—you even want to use God to obtain it.

Vivekananda’s father died. He was a royal-hearted man. He died leaving a large debt. There was nothing in the house; he left not even food to eat. So Ramakrishna said to Vivekananda, “Don’t worry. Why don’t you ask the Mother? Go into the temple and tell her—she will fulfill it all!”

He sat at the door and sent Vivekananda in. After an hour Vivekananda returned, tears flowing from his eyes, filled with awe. Ramakrishna asked, “Did you ask?” Vivekananda said, “Ah! I completely forgot.”

Next day he sent him again. Same thing. Third day again. Vivekananda said, “This I cannot do. I go, and when I stand before the image, there remains no question of my joys and sorrows. I myself am no more—then where is the question of joy or sorrow? The stomach may be hungry, but my link with the body breaks. And before that Majesty, what small, petty things am I to speak of? Life is but four days; we will pass it hungry too. Is this something to complain to God about? Please, Paramhansa Dev, do not send me again. Forgive me, I will not go.”

Ramakrishna laughed. He said, “It was your test. I was seeing whether you ask or not. Had you asked, you would have become useless for me. Because where there is asking, prayer cannot be. You did not ask—again and again I sent you and you returned ‘defeated’—this tells me that within you the sky of prayer will open; within you the seed of prayer will break and a tree of prayer will grow; under your shade thousands will sit.”

People are asking—in temples, mosques, gurdwaras, Shiva shrines—prayer is not happening.

It is precisely the wrong kind of person who goes to temples and mosques. One who truly wants to pray can do it anywhere. One who has learned the way, the grace of prayer, will pray wherever he is.

This entire world is his—it is his temple, his mosque.

In every rock is his doorway!
And in every tree is his message!

Where else is there to go?

“It is acceptable to me to live in your lane and die there,
but the dust of temples and mosques I can no longer sift.”

A devotee says: Why should I now go sifting the dust of temples and mosques? To remain in your street and die there—that is enough.

And all streets are his.

I am not saying, “Don’t go to temples,” because the temple is his too; if you go, there is no harm. But there is no special need to go. Because the place where you are sitting is also his. Nothing is empty of him.

Let this remembrance arise: the moment you close your eyes, the temple opens; the moment you fold your hands, the temple opens; wherever you bow your head, there his image is established.

The Zen mystic Ikkyu was staying in a temple. The night was very cold—bitterly cold. There were three wooden statues of Buddha. He picked one up and burned it. He was warming his hands at the fire when the temple priest awoke at the sound—the flames, the smoke… He came running. “What have you done?”

He saw the statue had been burned. He could not believe it. “A Buddhist monk! I let you stay here on that trust, and you turned out to be such an ignoramus, even an atheist!” He was furious. “You burned Buddha’s statue! God’s statue!”

Ikkyu was sitting there; by now the statue was ash. He picked up a stick and began to rake the ashes.

The priest asked, “What are you doing now?”

Ikkyu said, “I am looking for the bones of God.”

The priest laughed. “You are utterly mad—how can there be bones in a wooden statue!”

Ikkyu said, “Then do this—bring the other two statues. The night is long and very cold, and the God within is feeling very cold.”

The priest threw him out, lest he burn the others too. In the morning the priest saw Ikkyu sitting by the roadside, and on the milestone he had placed two flowers—and he was absorbed in morning prayer. The priest went over and said, “We have seen many madmen, but you are something else! Last night you burned God’s statue; now you are worshipping a milestone!”

Ikkyu said, “Wherever I bow my head, there a statue is installed.”

The divinity is not in the statue; it is in your bowing. And the day you truly learn the art of prayer, that day you will not go looking for temples and mosques—wherever you are will be temple and mosque; your temple, your mosque will move with you; it will become your aura.

Wherever a devotee places his feet, there another Kaaba is erected. Wherever a devotee sits, there a place of pilgrimage is born. It is not that God is found in the tirthas (pilgrimage places); rather, wherever someone has found God, wherever his feet have fallen, there tirthas have come to be. That is how the ancient tirthas were born.

The Kaaba is not significant because of itself; it is significant because of Muhammad’s prostration—otherwise it was stone. But someone learned to bow there; for that reason it is significant.

All places of pilgrimage are significant because once a devotee was there; someone dissolved there; someone lost his drop there and invited the ocean. They are remembrances. By going there nothing is going to happen to you—not that. But if something happens to you, then wherever you are will become a tirtha—that is certain.

As for us, in your gathering
we come thirsty, and thirsty we go!

Then that thirst is not really thirst. Right now it is only an idea, not actual. Otherwise, who is stopping you from drinking?
If you return thirsty from the very shore of the lake, then your thirst was not thirst.

When thirst truly seizes someone, he will drink even from a foul puddle. What is needed is thirst. And when there is no thirst, even if the pristine Lake Manasarovar is before you, what will you do?

Look for the thirst. Seek it. Otherwise the “thirst” will be false.
Many people feel a false thirst. By hearing talk about thirst, real thirst does not arise; instead a greed takes hold within—“one should have thirst.”

You have heard a lot about God, so it seems God should be attained. There is no thirst inside; greed has arisen.
Greed will not work. If you come out of greed, you will go back empty, because I am not here to fulfill anyone’s greed. Here, greed is to be dropped, erased, not gratified.

Your notion of God will be false and borrowed. It has not arisen from the ripeness of your own life. You are still unripe fruit.

Either come carrying thirst, or else do not come at all. Wait a little longer. Let it not happen that my words give you yet another new deception. There is already the deception of thirst; may the deception of fulfillment not be born as well. That is a great danger. One who is deluded about thirst will, sooner or later, also delude himself about fulfillment.

When you take false thirst to be real—what do I call false thirst?
Many people come to me—so many! Out of a hundred, ninety-nine are in false thirst.

Someone’s wife dies, and he sets out to seek God—as if the death of a wife had anything to do with the search for God! If he were seeking another wife, that would make sense. But conditioning, society! He won’t look for another wife. In truth he is seeking just another wife, but he is denying it. He cannot live without a search; a search is arising within. Sexual desire is intensifying, awakening—but conditioning, society, prestige, children, family, reputation...! He needs to seek a wife, yet he seeks God! Now he will never find God. The search has gone wrong at the very foundation.

Someone goes bankrupt and sets out to seek God! What has God to do with your bankruptcy? Are you taking God as consolation? If you are in sorrow and you take God to be a balm, you are going astray.

The search for God is genuine only when the experience of life itself tells you that life is futile. When the entirety of life seems futile, when all the meaningfulness of this life is shattered, you suddenly awaken as from a dream and see that all you have done till now was in vain; a fresh beginning is needed, a new birth—then thirst is born.
Such a person, whenever he comes, will leave fulfilled.

If you do not bring thirst, how will you go away fulfilled? First fulfill the first condition of fulfillment. Declare your thirst completely; awaken your thirst completely—then I will do the second part. In fact it does not even have to be done; that is why I can so easily take the responsibility. You complete the first, the second completes itself; nothing needs to be done to it. In your very thirst the ocean of your fulfillment is hidden. Therefore I say with certainty that I will do the second. I give you this guarantee, because in it there is nothing to be done. Whether I am here or not, it makes no difference; whenever you are truly thirsty, fulfillment will happen.

"—which, if you try to kindle it, will not be kindled, and if you try to extinguish it, will not be extinguished!"
Then why did the divine sage Narad write this scripture on love?

Certainly, love is such a fire that you can neither ignite nor extinguish. If it does not arise, there is no way to make it arise; if it has arisen, there is no way to put it out.

A natural question arises: If love is such a fire—an event that happens by itself, beyond your doing—then what is the point of a scripture? Still, there is a point.

Think of it like this: you sit in a dark house with all windows and doors shut. The sun stands at the threshold; its rays are knocking. But if your doors are closed, the sun cannot enter. Open them and the sun comes in by itself; you don’t have to bring it in. You won’t bundle the sun up and carry it inside, nor can you drive it in with a shout. You don’t even need to invite it. The moment you open the door, the sun comes in. And if there is no sun outside, then merely opening the doors will not bring it in; only if the sun is there will it enter. One thing is certain: if the sun is present, it will come in; if it is not, opening doors changes nothing. But if the sun is there and you don’t open the doors, it still cannot enter.

That is the sole use of scripture: to teach you to open the doors and windows.

Love happens when it happens; it will not happen because you make it happen. And if, by your doing, something “happens,” that love will be cheap—lower than you, smaller than you. No act can be greater than its doer. Such “love” has no value; at most it is a performance. Love happens by itself. It is a happening. But if you sit with your doors and windows shut, it will remain standing at the threshold; its rays cannot enter within.

The use of scripture is only this: to tell you not to obstruct. Obstacles can be removed—nothing more. Love is already present.

Devotion stands encircling you on all sides. The spring is eager to flow; a rock lies like a boulder, blocking it. Lifting the rock does not create the spring—if the spring is there, removing the rock allows it to flow. But even if there is a spring, if a rock lies upon it, the stream will not be available.

The function of scripture is negative. All scriptures are negative. They only tell you how to arrange things so that no obstruction remains. What is to happen, happens by itself.

That is why devotees say: when the Divine is found, it is received as grace, not by our doing; but when the Divine is not found, it is because of something we have done that prevents it.

Understand this.
It is you who lose the Divine; when the Divine is found, it is by the Divine. Sin is yours; virtue is his. The mistake is yours; the correction is his. You go wrong, and when you begin to go right, then it is he who moves—no longer “you.”

This is the meaning:
“Love cannot be compelled; it is that fire, Ghalib,
which, if you try to kindle it, will not be kindled, and if you try to extinguish it, will not be extinguished!”
There is no compulsion in love—but piling up rocks is very easy. You can raise such barriers around yourself that love cannot enter at all.

That is exactly what you have done. You have sealed every pore against the Divine, lest even a single ray enter within. You are Divine-proof from all sides!

The purpose of scripture goes only this far: remove your walls and doors.

The Divine is your birthright, intrinsic to your very nature. You have squandered it through your cleverness. You will regain it by dropping this cleverness.

Therefore the whole formula is negative.

Ask a physician, what is medical science? He will say: the treatment of disease. Ask him and he will describe a thousand illnesses, but if you ask him to define health, he will not be able to.

Health has no definition. When health is, it is—indefinable.
So what does the physician do? He only removes the disease.

If you catch tuberculosis, the physician does not bring health—health is not hidden in any pill. He only removes the TB. Once TB is gone, health happens by itself.

Health is your nature. That is why we call it “swasthya”—it belongs to the “swa,” the self. It is your own being.
To be established in the “self” is the definition of health.

Disease pulls you away from yourself. The physician merely frees you from disease. No physician can give you health—health you brought with you.

Exactly so is the use of scripture: it frees you from disease.

Love happens of itself.
Devotion comes of itself.
The Divine descends of itself.
Only let no obstruction remain…

You plant a seed in the garden. Plant the seed and put a stone upon it; the possibility was in the seed—you cannot supply that possibility. The seed sprouts by itself. You can water it, you can be a support; you can remove the stone, take away the obstacle. Then the seed becomes a tree, flowers come, fruits appear, shade spreads, beauty is born—all that happens by itself.

You cannot pull a tree out of a seed. You cannot force flowers to bloom. You cannot extract fruits by force. But you can, if you wish, stop it all.

This is the extent of human power: he can prevent what could be; he cannot produce what should be.

A human being can go astray—that is within his power. He can fall ill—that is within his power. He can remain in darkness—that is within his power. The power to go wrong is in man. Simply drop this power to be wrong, and rightness happens by itself.

Being right is nature-given, spontaneous; being wrong is by effort.
By effort we commit sin; what is effortless is virtue.
By effort we build the world; what comes without effort, as grace, that is the Divine.

That is all for today.