Bhakti Sutra #18

First thing: to be alone is the nature of the human being. To be alone is man’s destiny. And until you accept your aloneness, restlessness will persist. Try a thousand ways to get rid of loneliness—it will not go, it will not go. Because aloneness is your inner state; it is your very nature. If it were something on the surface, we could strip it off and throw it away.

Aloneness is not accidental; it cannot be separated from you. If your aloneness could be taken away, that very day your soul would be lost. The very mode of the soul’s being is aloneness. And as long as you try to erase aloneness, only defeat and frustration will come to your hands. For nature means that which cannot be erased. There is no way. Make friends, build a family, have children, husband or wife, a society—at best they may give you a brief illusion that you are not alone, but aloneness does not end. Whenever you turn your eyes inward even a little, you will find: Ah! the family is far off; friends and loved ones—what a great distance there is! Close your eyes and you find you are alone. Keep your eyes open and you can keep forgetting yourself in delusions, drown yourself in a thousand occupations, wrap yourself in busyness—but again and again, for a moment, for an hour, you will rest. For a moment you will come home, enter within—and the same taste returns, the same solitude!

A householder means: one who is engaged in trying to erase his inner aloneness by making relationships. That is the definition of a householder. And the definition of a sannyasin is: one who has realized “This is my nature; let me not waste time trying to erase it,” and who has begun to relish his solitude—savoring it; who does not look at aloneness as an enemy, but has made aloneness his very refuge; to escape the scorching sun of the world and its restlessness, he moves into his aloneness; whenever tired outside, he dives within; whenever entangled outside, when there is turmoil, he dives within; when he finds life outside has become soiled, he bathes within his aloneness and becomes fresh again!

Meditation is the art of delighting in aloneness.

Aloneness is supremely beautiful. You have been nursing fears unnecessarily. There is no real cause for these fears—only circumstantial causes.

A child is born helpless. The human child is the most helpless on earth. Animals’ young are born, they get up and start walking—the journey of life begins. Wild animals’ young do not grow up in families; from birth, parents are free and they too are free. For a human being to become that free takes at least twenty-five years. The child is born helpless. If the human child is left alone, if there is no support, no family, no one to love and care, the child will die; he cannot survive. If there were no family for human beings, humanity would disappear from the earth. Birds would remain, animals would remain—only man would be gone.

The human child is deeply helpless. He needs mother and father—for years! Even at eight or ten he cannot be independent. He must be taught, must study, must be educated—he will still depend on his parents. So it takes about twenty-five years for the human child to come to the place where animals’ young are from the very beginning.

Because of this helplessness the family was born. That is why animals didn’t make families; only man did. For twenty-five years the child remains dependent—on mother, father, siblings, family—and this habit of dependence forms. A small child is very frightened; if the mother is going out of the house, he is terrified. His fear is natural. Who will care for him? If hunger comes, who will give milk? If thirst comes, who will give water? If he wets his clothes, who will change them? If it gets cold, who will cover him with a blanket? If the mother goes out for even an hour, the child feels something like death: “Now I am dead!” If in anger the mother says, “I will die if you don’t be quiet, if you don’t stop this mischief,” she doesn’t know what a jolt she has given—because the mother’s death means his death. How will he survive!

Because of living dependent on others for twenty-five years, forever living with somebody else, the capacity to be alone is lost. Later you even become capable of being alone, but old habits haunt you; they follow like a shadow. You become seventy and still cannot be free enough to be alone. Even to the last breath the eyes keep searching for others.

Look at an old man dying: he keeps searching—“Where is my son? He still hasn’t come!” Many times it happens that the son is in a distant village, and it takes time to come, so the father stays alive until the son arrives; as soon as he comes, the convenience to end appears; he had been stuck, holding on to life, struggling. From birth to death… At birth one can understand, but after that it’s just habit.

Meditation means: to go beyond these imprints that have been laid down since childhood—the wrong habit of seeking another’s support; meditation means to rise above this habit and inaugurate a new beginning: “I can be alone! And I am alone!”

The more you try, “Let me not be left alone,” the more you will experience loneliness. The day you consent, accept that this is your nature—“What a fool I am, trying to fight nature! Who has ever won fighting nature? One only loses!”—the day you accept it and say, “This is my destiny, so let me at least become acquainted with it! Who is this within me that is solitary? Let me go deeper into it, dive in, search to the bottom! Who is this within that is alone?” And as soon as you set out on the inner journey, you will find, “How mad I was! What I was seeking in the crowd was in my own heart; what I sought in company, in togetherness, was in nonrelatedness; what I begged with outstretched bowl before others was a treasure hidden within me!”

Aloneness is supremely beautiful. That is why the Jains named liberation: Kaivalya. They chose a very lovely word. Kaivalya means: simply alone; only aloneness remains—pure aloneness remains; such aloneness remains that not only are others not there, even you are not there. Others have gone—and taken you along with them. Because what you take yourself to be is a donation from others; it is not you. Someone said, “You are very beautiful,” and you carefully kept that inside—became beautiful! Someone said, “You are very intelligent,” and you tied up a bundle within: “I am intelligent!” All of it is given by others.

Just think for a moment: if you drop all that others have given you, your image will fall apart. There are gifts from friends and from enemies; from your own people and from strangers. You have been tying up bundles upon bundles. That is why your self-image is so tangled, contradictory; there is no harmony in it, no music, no rhythm—because you have collected from so many.

It is as if a car were to be built and you collected each part from here and there—one from Ford, one from Fiat, one from Rolls-Royce—picking up parts from junkyards, you put them all together and made a car. It may look as if it is assembled, but it will not run. And don’t, by mistake, sit in it!

Mulla Nasruddin’s sons had made just such a car, and they said, “Papa! Now we’re going for a drive—come along too.” Seeing the paint and polish, he also sat in. But a car doesn’t run on paint and polish! It runs on what is hidden under the bonnet; that cannot be seen. When has a car ever run on paint! He sat in. The car went two, four, ten steps and every bone rattled. It veered off the road into a field, parts scattered everywhere. Mulla sat holding his head. His son said, “Father! Are you hurt, in pain? Shall I take you to a doctor?” He said, “What will happen by taking me to a doctor! Take me to a veterinary! If I had any brains, would I have sat in your car? Admit me to the animal hospital. My treatment will only be there.”

This is your image. A bit from here, a bit from there—you have collected it. And that is why there is no inner dialogue, no harmony, in your life. What friends said is lying within; what enemies said is lying within. Someone said, “You are very handsome”; someone said, “I’ve never seen anyone as ugly as you.” Someone said, “You are very generous, a great giver”; someone said, “A miser, a last-degree skinflint!” All this lies within. Now even you don’t understand who you are. You have no clear, straightforward recognition of yourself—everything is borrowed.

In the moment of utter solitude, there are no others; and the notions others gave you about yourself are not there either. Only then does your nature reveal itself.

In solitude is the temple. In solitude—utter solitude—is self-realization.

So the first thing, keep this in mind...

It feels perfectly right, auspicious, true. But chances are your efforts are running in the opposite direction: you’re trying somehow to get rid of this aloneness; in fact, you want someone to truly be yours. Many will even reassure you, “We are yours,” but that’s only reassurance, consolation; you’re being lulled. Those who are not yours—how could they ever be? And how can anyone truly belong to anyone? However much a son tells his mother, “I am yours,” tomorrow the mother will die—the son won’t go with her. However much a husband says, “I am yours forever,” when the wife dies, the husband will not die with her. Who goes with whom? These are just words—necessary perhaps, because man is very restless. He needs the liquor of consolation; he needs an opium so he can sleep, so he can keep the notion that all are his. “What a full, brimming household,” people say. Yet all those full houses lie abandoned when the hour of departure arrives.

No one is yours—this is such a great truth, don’t fight it. This is the common man’s misfortune: he strives to do what cannot be done, and does not strive for what can be done by a simple decision.

How many times have you not felt utterly alone? Yet again and again you tried to forget it. Why are you so afraid of yourself? Whatever you are within, you will have to know it—pleasant or painful, you will have to be introduced to your own nature, because on that very knowing the flowers of your life will bloom.

Look: whoever’s life has blossomed went, in one way or another, in search of solitude. When the flowers bloomed, they returned to the marketplace. But before the flowering—whether Mahavira, Buddha, Mohammed, or Christ—they all went away into aloneness. Outer solitude is only a support for the discovery of inner solitude; it merely provides the convenience to create inner aloneness. The real solitude is within. If outer solitude is there too, it makes immersion into the inner aloneness easier. It isn’t necessary to run away; one can be alone even in the marketplace.

In fact, you feel alone again and again, but you don’t seize that insight. It doesn’t become your living truth; instead you deny it. You say, “Who says I am alone? I have a wife, children, a house—the place is full!” Look within—the vessel lies empty. These are deceptions. Wake from them!

So I’m not telling you... I’m not giving you some technique to remove your loneliness—I’m telling you how to turn aloneness into a celebration, how to make it your life’s wealth, how to turn it into the doorway to self-realization.

Stop trying to escape! You’ve run your whole life—where did you reach? Now be what seems to be happening of itself. Consent to it. And not reluctantly, not from tiredness; not consent out of gloom and defeat—consent by understanding the truth. What will you gain by trying to pass through a wall? Your head keeps hitting it. You’ve tried often enough; your head is bleeding. Now go by the door! You wouldn’t say that one who leaves by the door is weak or cowardly—“We will go through the wall; we are no cowards!”—no, you call the one who goes by the door wise. And the one who keeps ramming the wall—there’s no need to call him brave; he’s foolish. Has anyone ever got through a wall? To get out, there is a door.

No one ever wins by fighting aloneness. Those who win ride upon it; they make aloneness their horse, their chariot, and mount it. Then aloneness carries you to kaivalya—to that ultimate state you may call God, Paramatma, moksha, nirvana. Aloneness carries you there. You will reach there alone.

So when I say, “Accept aloneness,” remember, acceptance is bliss only if you welcome it. If you accept half-heartedly—“All right, since nothing else works, I’ll settle for this”—nothing will happen. Your old longing is still active behind that reluctant acceptance; you’ll find some way again to stuff your aloneness.

“Householder” means: one engaged in trying to fill his aloneness. “Renunciate” (sannyasin) means: one who has embraced the truth that aloneness is—and cannot be filled—so I will live it, savor it. If it is within, there must be a reason: the stairway of aloneness is leaning against the Divine; step by step, climbing it, you will reach the Supreme.

As long as you flee your aloneness, you will descend deeper into the world and move away from God. For the more you hook onto others, the more you become distant from yourself. And that linking is not real; it’s only the illusion of linking.

A woman came to see me, tormented by her husband. Of old beliefs, she couldn’t consider divorce. The husband was vicious, even beat her. She showed me her hands and back—bruised all over. “Why don’t you separate?” I asked. She said, “How can I? There is a bond!...” A bond! “Yes,” she said, “seven rounds around the fire!” I said, “Is that such a big thing? Bring your husband; we’ll have you take seven rounds in reverse. That’s all! Wasn’t it just seven rounds? Take them backward—the matter ends! Where is this knot tied? In the end of the sari? We’ll untie it! If someone tied it, we can untie it—bring him!” How big a matter is this?

But false bonds begin to feel utterly real. “Seven rounds—now what can we do!” You got caught in the rounds. Take them in reverse!

We set up the whole institution so the bonds feel real. That’s why marriage has such commotion—band, horse, groom, flowers, garlands, guests, festivities, mantras, worship, fire-sacrifice—these are all devices so that the man and woman feel this event is so huge it cannot be undone. Some grand event is happening! It’s psychology. If marriage were done simply, it wouldn’t last long.

I have heard: a young man and woman in America ran into a church. “Hurry!” they said to the priest. “These two men standing here can be the witnesses. Here is your fee—marry us.” The priest said, “Haven’t you heard—haste is the devil’s work?” They said, “Maybe—but we have no time. Hurry!” The priest rushed through it. As they were leaving he got curious: “What’s the urgency?” They said, “We parked our car in a no-parking zone outside!” Will such a marriage last? Being done in such haste, the sense of bond doesn’t deepen. That’s why divorce keeps rising in the West—the full psychology of marriage has collapsed, the arrangements around it uprooted. So the truth has become visible: “We felt like being together, so we were; felt like separating, so we did—where’s the bond?”

Remember: the bonds you have taken as bonds are all matters of belief. I’m not saying, “Break every bond and run away.” Where would you go? But do keep knowing that bonds are play. Be a husband, be a wife; stay where you find yourself—but let one thing be clear within: all bonds are games of busyness. We stuff ourselves with them and forget ourselves. But being alone is our nature. Togetherness is a coincidence; aloneness is nature. The world is a coincidence; kaivalya is nature.

“Even while living in family I feel no one is mine; I am utterly alone.” Use this auspicious hour. Alone—embrace it to your heart with joy. All restlessness will dissolve. Who is one’s own! Expectation will fall away. No one is anyone’s—and yet, whatever people do for you will be grace.

Have you noticed: toward those you expect from, gratitude never arises. You’re walking down the road, your handkerchief falls; a passerby picks it up for you—you feel grateful: “Thank you! Much obliged! How kind of you!” But if the same handkerchief is picked up by your wife, or your husband, will you be grateful? Will you say thank you? You feel there is no reason—“She is mine; he is mine; this is what they should do. What’s the big deal?”

The one you call “mine,” you begin to expect from. Because of that you suffer; you never become happy. Wherever expectation breaks, there is sorrow. But where expectation is fulfilled, there is no joy—you say, “It’s my own—what’s so great about picking up a kerchief?”

One who starts living alone slowly experiences gratitude toward the whole world. “No one here is mine—and yet people are so tender; they give me their hand and say, ‘Come, we are with you in the dark.’ No one is mine—and still they console me, give me courage: ‘Don’t be afraid, we are here.’”

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife died; he beat his chest and wept loudly. Neighbors came, “Don’t cry!” But he wouldn’t stop. They said, “What’s the matter? We never knew you loved this woman so much, the way you’re crying!” He said, “I’m not crying for that... Since you ask, I’ll tell you. When my mother died, many women came and said, ‘We are your mother, don’t worry!’ When my father died, many elderly men came and said, ‘Don’t worry, we are your father!’ Now no one will come.” That’s why he cried.

If your expectation drops, you’ll see: whatever little anyone does—had they not done even that, what would you have done? There was no compulsion; no claim can be made; no court case could be filed.

“I am utterly alone”—let this feeling deepen. Let it be your mantra. Repeat it—overwhelmed—“I am alone.” Slowly its juice will come, its taste will settle. A great illumination will arise. Those from whom you used to feel hurt—you’ll stop feeling hurt. And joy will come even from where there was never any hope of joy. It’s a matter of vision. People all around will start to seem deeply loving once your expectation falls. When it settles deep within that aloneness is your nature, the door opens: you fall into rest; the fight is over. You begin to flow in the current of the river—stop swimming now! And you’ll find how sweet the current is; it carries you on its shoulders to the seas.

This wave of aloneness carries you to God, to the infinite ocean. But people are unfortunate! The very gate by which light enters life—that gate they keep closed! They cry and wail for false toys.

“At the same time I find old age arriving, and I am empty—dry; not a single drop of love in me.”

We have been seeing love in a wrong way. Love is not something like water stored in a bucket—if it’s there, drink; if not, what can you drink? Love is not a thing like money locked in a safe—open it and it’s in your hands. No—love is not a thing; love is a feeling, a process. It doesn’t sit there filled up: “If I feel like, I’ll give; if I don’t, I won’t; if it isn’t there, how can I give?” No—love comes by loving.

You are sitting now, not walking. If I ask, “What happened to your capacity to walk?” you will say, “It’s a possibility, not a stored power. If I get up and walk, walking happens.” If you keep sitting, there’s no reason for walking to arise. You don’t say while sitting, “How can I get up? I don’t have walking-power; let me be sure I have it first.” Walking is a process. You walk—and in the very walking it is born.

So is love: love—and it is born. There is no one without the possibility of love. But you don’t love: we demand love, we don’t give it. We feel empty inside, so we want to fill our pot by taking from others. But others are in the same condition; they too want to fill their pot from you. How will this happen? Pots will bang together—clatter and commotion, which is what blares in every household. People say, “Put many utensils together and there will be noise.”

Love is a giving. Love is not a beggary to snatch from someone. Nor is it a command you can hand to someone: “Do love!” Nor is it a thing you’ll find inside, brimful, if you peek within. Give—and in that very giving it awakens; in that very doing it arises.

If I tell you, “Come, learn to swim in the river,” you say, “But I don’t have any swimming.” I will say, “Don’t worry! Who has ‘swimming’? Ask the greatest swimmer to take out his ‘swimming’ and show it—he too will say, ‘Let’s go to the river; it can only be shown by swimming.’ It’s not kept in a box.”

Love is like swimming. Enter the river! And it’s never too late. Until the last moment, as long as the last breath is coming, love can arise. Even if hands and feet are paralyzed, you’re confined to bed, the last breath is arriving—you can open your eyes and look at someone with love; love will be born in that very looking.

Learn the art of love! It isn’t a possession; it’s an art. Look at a tree—with love. How green it is! How the flowers have bloomed! Go closer, touch the tree, and you’ll find someone sleeping within has begun to awaken. Look at the moon and stars, stones and mountains, lakes and seas—but with love! Let love become your style.

There was a great poet, Milton. In someone’s reminiscences it is written that even when he touched objects, he touched them as if they had a personality; when he took off his shoes he did it full of love, he even thanked his shoes. He should—how many thorns have they saved him from! The shoe has a great favor upon you. You come and fling your shoes as if a nuisance is over. The error is in your vision, in your way of being. Now you’ll say, “We don’t have love—how can we take off our shoes lovingly?” I say: take them off lovingly, and you will find love. You say, “If love comes, we will love.” I say, “If you love, love will come.” Begin! Take anyone’s hand in your hand for a moment.

An air hostess once told me: an old lady boarded a plane for the first time; the hostess saw she was very nervous, trembling. First experience—and old. The hostess went to her seat, sat beside her, and pressed the old woman’s head to her heart. By then the plane had taken off, everything settled; the bumps stopped, the engines began to hum musically, all was still. The hostess got up to go, and the old woman said, “Daughter! When you get scared again, come to me!”

When you give someone love, love begins to flow back from the other side. Light the spark anywhere; the flame spreads to others. Have you seen a house on fire? One house catches fire, the whole neighborhood gets restless—what guarantee with flames! Riding the wind, the flame leaps and catches the next house. Love is also a fire. Just ignite it a little! Lift a spark! And all around, things begin to conspire to increase your flame. The world becomes your companion in what you do. But if you sit weary, “How will I walk? How will I love? I don’t have it!” Who brought a safe of love at birth? We come with the possibility. The possibility is everyone’s—until the last breath.

I heard: a man was passing on the road; a beggar stretched out his hand—old, blind, frail. The man quickly put a hand in his pocket, but he had forgotten his wallet at home. He felt awkward; he sat down, took the old man’s hand in his own, and said, “Baba! There’s nothing in my pocket—I forgot my wallet at home.” The old man said, “Let it be! What of wallets and pockets? You have given me more by putting your hand in mine than anyone ever gave me. Whenever you pass here, give me your hand for a moment—that is enough!” Who holds a beggar’s hand? It’s not a matter of coins; it’s a matter of feeling.

Wherever an opportunity arises to love, don’t miss it; otherwise missing becomes a strong habit. If you keep missing, missing becomes your way; then the path of love becomes impossible. Make every moment a moment of love! Will God descend from the sky for you to love? On that day you’ll find you don’t know how. Practice it! If you meet someone for a few moments on the road, then your paths will part—if you have a song, hum it and let them hear! If nothing else, at least you have eyes—look at them with eyes moist with love! You will become part of their dreams; they will remember you again and again; and whenever they remember you, in your own life unknown strings will vibrate—because we are all connected, not separate.

Spread love!

You are very stingy about love. People think this stinginess is a valuable thing.

I heard: a very wealthy lady arrived at a hotel with five or seven cars piled with luggage. Servants unloaded everything. But in one car sat her son, about thirteen or fourteen. She called more porters: “Unload my son.” A porter asked, “Is the boy crippled? He looks healthy. Can’t he walk?” The lady said, “He can walk, but he doesn’t need to; we have every convenience. We are not poor.” Two porters carried the healthy boy on their shoulders. Walking is for the poor? Do the rich ever walk?

Such are our delusions. Love—we think we’ll do it someday! But until you love, what will you do? You’ll do something else, and that doing will become deeply ingrained. If the habit of not-being-in-love becomes strong, you’re in trouble. Love is never dry; only the wrong habits are.

Even now it’s not too late.

“I find old age is coming and I am empty.” Even now it’s not too late. Moisten your eyes. Let the song rise. There is always a way to love. So many are hungry and thirsty for love... Give. Whenever there’s an opportunity, keep one thing in mind: how can we turn this into an opportunity to give love?

Old age comes; it comes to everyone. Don’t be afraid of it! Make old age a time of understanding. Children are innocent, yes, but they have no experience; they are simple-hearted yet empty of insight. Their innocence will end, be spoiled—they will rise and go into life, and life is wayward; they will be spoiled. That spoiling is a necessary lesson.

Then there are the young. Youth is full of excitations; their heads are aflame with doing a thousand things. Youth is a fever, a frenzy, a madness—flying in the sky, feet not touching the ground. Their feet will touch down soon enough, because it will quickly be known: youth was a fever, it came and went; an excitation, a heat—we were unnecessarily elated; we mistook ourselves for something else.

I have heard: a fox went out early morning; in the rising sun her shadow grew long. She looked at it and said, “Today, for breakfast I’ll need at least a camel—I am so big!” She searched all day—by noon found nothing. The sun was overhead; she looked again—her shadow had shrunk very small. She said, “Now even an ant will do!”

Youth is a drunkenness; the shadow looks very long. Every young man dreams of being an Alexander.

Old age is very precious: not unexperienced like children; not the madness of youth. Things become steadier, vision settles, understanding deepens. Use it. Old age is beautiful—more so than youth. Only then does God give it after youth; it is a higher step. Prepare for it; use it.

What creates trouble is this: you grow old, but in your skull youthful dreams still float. Then there is a clash. If an old person craves the kind of love a youth gets, he will suffer. The old must find gentler paths of love—not excitations—but vatsalya (tender affection). His love will be compassionate, cool; not noisy, but quiet—love like compassion.

Don’t fear old age. It is life’s last step—after which the supreme moment of death arrives.

Don’t panic, “Old age has come—now what?” Because the law of life is something like this—

Do not make your breath impatient—another support will come. Do not cry, gentle breeze—another door will open. Offer your hands in worship—this body as a lamp; that image is enough. Let your tears be called Ganges-water—such is their honor. Sing the song of dawn—fearfully or timidly—the darkness will melt.

Do not make your breath impatient—another support will come. Do not cry, gentle breeze—another door will open.

One door does not close without another opening! Childhood goes, youth comes; youth goes, old age comes. One door closes, another opens. This life goes, another life arrives. There is no end—the journey is infinite. Don’t be afraid. Even death does not close doors; it opens new ones. And if you become content with old age, you will become content with death too. You resist old age only because it’s the footfall of death. Old age says death is approaching! Old age says, “Be alert— the grave draws near!” Old age says, “Now nothing remains but death—death, death.”

But death is a door: on this side life closes; on the other, it opens. Don’t be afraid. Life’s journey is endless. In this endless journey you have been a child many times, a youth many times, old many times, died many times—and you never really die! Life keeps surviving. It crosses a thousand deaths and goes on surviving. Life is eternal, immortal.

Remember: you are not old, not young, not a child. Within you is something timeless, beyond time. Within you is something bodiless. Childhood, youth, old age—these are signs of the body; they belong to the web of mind and flesh. You are hidden within—stainless, formless, boundless, without attributes.

Cultivate aloneness—so that you begin to know who you are: the immortal. And don’t be afraid. You have left many houses before.

One more house has been left behind; one more illusion which, while it lasted, was sweet— has broken. No one is “mine”, yet all are mine; there are intervals between, with fine meshes— some that bring us close, some that show distance. But in truth, all are dreams.

One more house has been left behind; one more illusion which, while it lasted, was sweet— has broken. But do not be afraid! Do not cry, gentle breeze—another door will open.

“Another door will open!”

“I am a little handicapped in my legs, and it is hard to dance in the camp.”

Dance is not a matter of the body at all—it is an inner event. The soul is never crippled. Have you ever seen a crippled soul? If the body cannot dance, forget the worry—close your eyes and you dance! How can the body obstruct your being? How can it obstruct your celebration?

Dance is a posture of feeling—of joy, of festivity. When a devotee walks, there is dance in his very walking. A non-devotee may caper and hop, but that isn’t dance; it’s mere jumping about.

Suppose the body is aged and cannot dance—let it be! Who can stop you within?

Albert Camus wrote: “You can put me in prison, you can put chains on my hands—but you will not be able to imprison me. The chains will be on the hands, not on me.”

Who can put chains on you? This strong identification with the body creates such obstacles. You think, “How will I dance—my body is handicapped!”

One of my sannyasins is in a London hospital—a terrible car accident: some thirty-five fractures in the whole body. Doctors think even if she recovers she won’t be normal again. Everything is shattered inside—only the head is intact; the rest of the body is in pieces, all in casts. She wrote to me: “What should I do?” She loved the Nataraj meditation. When she was here she danced with her heart flung open. I wrote back: “What difference does it make? This is an even more favorable opportunity. You’re in bed twenty-four hours. Close your eyes—and dance! Take the posture of dance. Dream the dance.”

Not only she, even the doctors were surprised. From the day she began the inner dance, her external complaints have been forgotten. She has become the most serene patient in that hospital. And news has come that her body is healing faster.

That inner dance of imagination becomes an ally. What happens at the center sends waves to the periphery. What happens at the periphery doesn’t necessarily reach the center. You can dance outwardly with nothing happening within. But if the dance happens within, effects appear outside—because what happens at the center spreads to the circumference. The center is the source.

Dance! No bodily limitation can block it. Sing! Even a mute can sing—others may not hear, but how does that obstruct singing? Dance— even the lame can dance. Others may not see it, but you will. And that is the essential thing.

Let your outlook toward life become festive. Don’t carry it like a burden. Don’t walk in life as if someone has forced stones upon your head. That is all “dance” means.

“The family doesn’t particularly like you.”

How could they? For this bond is such that it wipes out other bonds. So families won’t like any master. A competitor has arrived—and one against whom they have no power. If you fall in love with me, your whole family will feel uneasy—“This person is out of our hands, no longer ours.” The more my music sounds in your heart, the more they will feel the distance widening. They will create obstacles, disturbances. They will say a thousand things, argue; I will begin to look like an enemy to them. But this is natural. Don’t be anxious about it.

Understand: lust has an economics—it says lovers don’t want the number of beloveds to grow, because if love is divided, the shares shrink. If there is only one son, the mother is entirely his; if there are ten, the mother is divided into ten parts. One son is the sole owner; ten sons, the love is cut up. But this is not love; I call it sex-mind’s economics. The more claimants, the more the capital must be divided. One father with ten or fifteen sons—when he dies, the property is cut into pieces; the field split into fifteen plots. If there were just one son, he’d be master of all.

This is lust’s economics: by dividing, things lessen. Hence all relations based in lust are constantly afraid new relations might form. The wife keeps watching lest the husband cultivate friendship with some woman; she peeks from the corners: did he smile at someone on the road?

Mulla Nasruddin was walking in the bazaar with his wife. A very pretty young woman waved and said, “Hello!” Mulla panicked; he wasn’t even looking that way! When a husband walks with his wife he doesn’t look here and there. He walks as Buddha told his monks: “Keep your eyes four steps ahead on the path—beyond that lies danger!” The wife stopped dead. “What’s this? Who is that woman? What relationship?” Mulla said, “No relationship—just professional.” The wife said, “Whose profession—yours or hers?”

Wife is frightened a co-wife might be born; husband is frightened the wife might pour her love elsewhere. Otherwise the stream would be cut and his share would be less. But this is lust’s economics—love’s is entirely different: the more you share, the more it grows; and the more it grows, the more those near you receive.

Understand a little. If a man loves only his wife and has no loving relationships with anyone else—not even friends—then how long will he sit with his wife? Twenty-four hours? He has to run a shop, do business. For his wife he must bring jewels and a big house. He can extract half an hour—twenty-three and a half hours he’ll be elsewhere. And in those twenty-three and a half hours, if he never looks with love at anyone—never holds a hand with love—then the habit of non-love will develop. In the half hour with his wife, he will be physically present, but he will not be there; he will have forgotten how to love. It’s like the wife saying, “Breathe only when you are with me; for twenty-three and a half hours don’t breathe—how dare you breathe without me!” Then when the husband comes home he won’t come—he’ll be carried on shoulders; the bier will be decorated! That is what is happening.

When you cannot love anyone, when love is not your natural state, then even with the wife there is no love—only pretension—and a vicious circle begins. The wife feels, “If there isn’t love for me, there must be love elsewhere.” She casts more nets, posts more police. She tries to bind you from all sides lest you give your love elsewhere. The more these sentries are posted, the more your breath is suffocated, and love begins to die.

Love’s economics is the opposite of lust’s: share, and it grows. The more you share, the more those around you receive.

When you come to me, what for you is a great happening is, in your family’s eyes, a calamity. Because this isn’t ordinary love; it’s such that your whole family will feel you slipping from their hands. They will do all they can to hinder it. That is natural—don’t worry.

Keep one thing in mind: from the day you fall in love with me, love your near ones even more. Don’t let there be any lack because of me, else their fear will come true. If my love increases your love, how long can they keep their fear alive? Sooner or later they’ll see: “She was a mother—she’s become even more loving. She was a wife—she’s become even dearer. She never cared so much before.” If your relationships grow more and more juicy, that will be the proof they were wrong and you were right. Don’t become someone who proves them right—so they can say later, “We told you so!”

I’m not here to break anyone from anyone. My whole teaching is love—connection. If you’re a husband, become an even more loving husband. Let your sannyas bring no deficiency to your being a husband. If you’re a wife, be even more devoted to your husband. Shower your affection in all directions. Grow a garden of love around your husband. Then you will bring him to me as well—because he will see a new economics, the economics of love, not of lust.

Lust is that petty thing which, when distributed, gets smaller and smaller. Love’s wealth is inexhaustible.

The Upanishads say: From the Full, even if the full is taken, the Full remains. This is the statement of love. Love never diminishes; shared and shared, it grows. Kabir said: “Pour with both hands.” Don’t be miserly.

“And when I hear you, tears flow.”

Good. Some people listen to me and thoughts arise—tears are a million times better than thoughts. It’s clear my words reached your heart—you listened to me. Don’t worry. Tears make us uneasy because we’ve been taught tears mean sorrow. If you see someone weeping, you think, “Poor thing, so sad! Why else would she cry?”

You don’t know tears come in bliss too. Tears are unrelated to sorrow or joy; they belong to any state of feeling that becomes so full you overflow and cannot contain it. When the cloud fills with water, it must rain. When the flower is full of fragrance, the fragrance spreads. When the lamp is lit, the light diffuses.

Remember: tears announce some overflowing within—sorrow or joy, it doesn’t matter. But since people only cry in sorrow—and we can’t even laugh in joy; we’ve forgotten the language of rejoicing—tears get a bad name.

If tears come listening to me—auspicious! God’s grace! Prasad! Don’t stop them; let them flow. In those tears much rubbish will be washed away. You’ll feel fresh afterward—like having bathed. Don’t be stingy with your eyes. Let tears flow. Let them be your intoxication, your wonder, your prayer. If one learns to weep rightly, nothing else is needed; for in weeping one learns to laugh.

“And nothing else occurs—what should I do?”

Weep! What greater prayer is there than tears? Weep wholeheartedly. Tears will polish you, sweep you; the futile will be thrown out, and what is essential will shine within like a crystal jewel.

Here we are ready to give you the whole sun—why talk of mere rays? Do you think I’m stingy?

Atheism is the precise preparation for theism. One who has not been an atheist has never been a theist. One who becomes a true atheist cannot remain without becoming a theist. Where atheism is complete, theism begins.

So, first: don’t think that earlier you were an atheist and now you are going in the opposite direction. No—your atheism itself has brought you to me. This is my experience after working with thousands of people: those who consider themselves theists are almost hollow people. And with them it is very difficult. Their growth is very hard, because they have assumed themselves to be what they are not; they are clinging to a lie. It is like a sick person believing, “I am healthy.” How will you treat him? He won’t even let you touch him. He won’t let you take his pulse. He will say, “I am not ill.” Only if the sick person recognizes, “I am sick,” can treatment begin.

There are millions who think they are theists, yet they have not even had a glimpse of theism. It is a borrowed theism—and religion is not borrowed. Religion is a cash phenomenon.

So when I find atheists coming to me, I am happy. They have already completed half the journey by themselves. Only a small push is needed, and they will go beyond.

The believer’s mistake is that he thinks himself a believer without having become one. And if the atheist has any possible mistake, it is only this: that he gets stuck in atheism and starts thinking, “I have known everything; now there is nothing more to know.”

So many people in ochre robes—surely a certain atmosphere is created. Their ecstasy, their dancing, the freshness that has entered their lives—all this begins to entice you, it attracts you. Then meditation, then listening to me—these are constant blows! So the mind says, “Isn’t it possible you’ve been hypnotized?”

But ask this same mind: when it became atheist, when it became communist, did it ever warn you, “Perhaps you’re being hypnotized by the environment”? It said nothing then—because then it was in no danger. The mind can live comfortably in atheism. Atheism is good fertilizer for the mind, because it only has to say “no.” Saying “no” is very easy for the mind. In saying “yes,” difficulty arises. “No” means conflict; conflict strengthens the ego. “Yes” is surrender; saying “yes” makes the ego fall.

So now the mind will raise a thousand questions: “Isn’t this hypnosis?” The mind says, “Wait! Don’t be in a hurry!” But remember—if you don’t move quickly, the mind will never let you move. It will say, “Tomorrow.” And tomorrow never comes.

And then I ask you: after being an atheist for so long, can theism hypnotize you so quickly? Yes, a conventional theist who has never known atheism may be easily hypnotized. But an atheist… You’re fighting me with all your might—and still you keep losing ground. So the mind says, “Reverse the game. Stop playing altogether! Defeat seems certain!”

What does hypnosis mean? If you begin to imitate others just because they do something, that is hypnosis. There is no need to imitate. If your meditation gives you joy, if in listening to me some window of light opens, if sitting near me a ventilator opens in your heart and a fresh breeze comes in—then listen to your joy, not to the mind.

I say to you: in fact, better to be happy in hypnosis than miserable without it.

But this is not hypnosis; experience will tell you. Enter with awareness, with wakefulness. If your bliss goes on growing, if your life-experience becomes clearer, if the dim shadows begin to lift and light comes near—then listen to your experience. But give me a chance. If afterward you wish to go back, go back by all means—after the experience. I say it this way because no one ever goes back after the experience. All the talk happens on the steps before experience: maybe doubt, maybe hypnosis, maybe deception—who knows what it is! “These people are dancing—perhaps they’re all coached and rehearsed! Maybe they’re dancing just for you, now that you’re arriving—to ensnare you!”

No—they don’t even know you. They are dancing within themselves. You too, try dancing! Taste it!

I don’t say, “Believe in me.” No. I say, “Experiment with me—just experiment!” Hypothetically! There is no need yet to trust me. If your own experience brings trust, that’s different. When you have seen with your own eyes and felt within your own heart, only then will your mind drop this sense that emotion, argument, and opposition might just be hypnosis.

The mind wants to keep you miserable.

People come to me and say, “Great bliss is arising. I’ve come to ask one thing—is it real?” Bliss is arising in them, yet there is suspicion! The suspicion is that the mind cannot accept that you—and blissful! Impossible! Something must be wrong!

The mind cannot accept it, because your whole life-experience has been of suffering; suddenly you are receiving joy—a joy you never had. Perhaps someone has hypnotized you. Perhaps there is some trick, some conspiracy.

People are so afraid; and they have nothing in their hands except misery.

One of my sannyasins gave a big politician one of my books. He wouldn’t even take it in his hand. He said, “Wait—answer two or three questions first. I’ve heard this man is dangerous and hypnotizes people. Not only that—someone even told me not to read his books, because some people have gone mad while reading. In fact, I’ve heard there’s danger even in touching the book. I won’t take it; spare me! I have a family, children, a home—don’t entangle me in this!”

Your doubt always targets happiness, never suffering. When you have a headache, you don’t come and ask someone, “Listen, my head is aching—do you think it’s true or false?” You accept it completely. A headache you accept without question—because pain you have known. This joy is utterly unfamiliar. This fresh breeze is a total stranger.

I have heard: a king of Sweden used to sleep all day—often kings have done this. Nights went in song and dance, drinking and revelry; days in sleep. One night around five or six the revelry ended. Sleep didn’t come, so he stepped out into his garden. He was amazed. He asked his guard, “What sort of fragrance is this in the air?” The guard said, “Your Majesty, this isn’t a fragrance—it’s the fresh air of morning.” All his life he had never gone out; he knew only the smell of wine, only the closed world of the revel. The fresh air of dawn…!

The first time the experience happens, you will feel perplexed—naturally. But there is only one remedy: gather a little courage and experiment. You’ve tried being an atheist; now try being a theist. You’ve tried being a householder; now try being a renunciate. As a householder you found nothing; at least allow for the possibility that on another dimension the treasure lies. As an atheist you found nothing; isn’t that enough to try the experiment of theism as well? Experiment requires courage. And only through experiment will doubts fall away. I do not tell you to believe. I say, truth is so near—grope for it, touch it. Open your eyes: the sun has risen, the light is upon you.

Let a little air from the lane reach this brazier; until the coals catch, they will keep giving smoke.

Until then the doubt will continue. You will remain shrouded in smoke. Give the morning air a chance. Open windows and doors! Let the breeze in! Soon, when the embers blaze, the smoke will vanish.

Smoke is not born of fire; smoke is born of damp fuel. So until the fire takes fully and the wood is completely dry in that fire, smoke will keep arising. When the fire is full and the wood utterly dry, there is no smoke—only pure flame, pure as gold, smokeless.

As long as the wood of your mind is damp, not dry, the smoke of suspicion will keep rising. And there is no remedy other than experiment.

By listening to me alone you will reach nowhere. What I say feels lovely—but that alone will not do. What I say may give you pleasure—but take it only as a pointer, and move on. I am telling you of a place; until you reach there yourself, you may gather words, but you will not have the taste of truth.

If only I were certain, my companion, my friend— if only I were certain that the weariness of your heart, the sadness in your eyes, the burning in your chest, would be erased by my consolation, by my love— if only I were certain, my companion, my friend— then through day and night, from dusk to dawn, I would go on soothing you. I would sing you light, sweet songs— songs of waterfalls, of springtimes, of gardens. I would keep singing, singing for your sake, weaving songs, sitting by your side. But my song is no cure for your sorrow; a melody is not a surgeon—though it can be a companion and sharer of grief.

My song cannot heal your wounds; at best a little balm and bandage may happen. My song is not the medicine for your illness. Consolation may be found; truth will not be found through that. Do not fall asleep to my song. It is no lullaby. It is a call to awaken you, a summoning.

It is good that my words please you—but don’t take that as sufficient. Necessary; not sufficient. Go a little further. If my words have pleased you—then also try being like me! Then the real doors will open.

Life is an opportunity to know; do not be afraid. Footpaths lead through wild darks, but whoever arrives arrives by footpaths; there is no royal road. The royal road is where the crowd walks. What I am explaining is the path of walking alone. On it, slowly you will attain the ultimate solitude. There you will know what is true and what is false. So do not decide in haste. Do not decide while still sitting at the outer gate. My invitation is—come inside the palace!

Do not lose the chance to find yourself for nothing at all. Pluck the blossoms of melody, lest the music of time be smothered. Do not string, for the present, a garland of the past’s dry flowers. The lamp’s light is not for hunting darkness. Do not tread so slowly that the moment of union slips away. Be it full moon or new, night remains the mother of the sun. Touching thorn and flower alike, the sandal-breeze will blow. Do not cover your hearth, lest the heart’s fire go out. Do not lose the chance to find yourself for nothing at all. Pluck the blossoms of melody, lest the music of time be smothered.

I am here. While I am here, dive in! While I am here, a door is open. Take courage! Scriptures will always remain. What I say—you can read later as well. Do all the thinking afterward. But do not postpone now. Why so much fear? Why so much trembling? Have you no trust in yourself at all—that when the feeling of sannyas arises you aren’t even sure whether it is yours or just caused by seeing others? Do you not have even this much recognition of yourself?

Even when trust arises—you are still suspicious?

I do not say that doubt will vanish in a single instant. Nor do I say that faith will come only when doubt disappears. If I said that, it would be impossible. I say: doubt is there—granted. In spite of doubt, give the new sprout of trust a chance! Then weigh later. If you find that the atheist’s “no” was more liberating than the theist’s “yes,” go back. If irreverence seems better than reverence—go back! But experience both, so that you can compare, so that you can truly consider.

You have experienced one—doubt, atheism; now do not decide without experiencing the other.

Mulla Nasruddin became the village qazi. The first case came. He heard one party’s statement and said, “Right—absolutely right!” The court clerk stood up and whispered, “Sir! You’ve only heard one side. At least give the other side a chance. You are already giving your verdict that it’s absolutely right!” Nasruddin said, “But then I will get a bit confused. If I hear both, confusion will arise.” The clerk said, “But that’s the rule of the court.” “All right,” said Nasruddin. He heard the second side and said, “Right—absolutely right!” The clerk exclaimed, “What are you doing? You told the first he was right, and now the second is right too!” Nasruddin said, “You are absolutely right.”

Give it a chance! Then decide with a quiet, untroubled mind. It has never happened that someone who has experienced both atheism and theism has chosen atheism again. It has not happened—not even as an exception. It cannot happen. Once you have learned the assay of diamonds, who will go on hauling pebbles?

I fixed my meditation in the Beloved’s eyes, listen, sister-friend, my ears drank Brahman-bliss. Never did I take refuge with gurus, I climbed no temple steps, nor took up yoga— yet, O friend, the meaning of Yoga dawned when I knew delight in union with my dear Beloved!

Please tell me, is this also a path? This is exactly what we have been speaking of. This is the supreme path. This is the very essence of Narada’s Bhakti Sutras. Nothing else is needed—neither the Vedas nor the Qur’an, neither yoga nor austerity. Nothing is needed—neither temple nor mosque. What is needed is simply this: surrender to the Divine, a living bond with the Lover.

Yet, O friend, the meaning of Yoga dawned when I knew delight in union with my dear Beloved! Only then is yoga experienced—when union with the Supreme Beloved happens.

Everything is present within you; only a small spark is needed. Find a spark from somewhere, friends— in this heart the wick is already soaked in oil! All is prepared; let just a tiny spark of love fall!

Qur’an, Veda, Purana—so many read them; what has been gained? Look closely and you will see that scriptures by themselves do not do anything. If they did, the whole world would long ago have been transformed—so many scriptures!

How strange: they do not call the truth “truth,” though the Qur’an and the Upanishads lie open before them! Look closely: in the shadow of the Qur’an and the Upanishads, how much hypocrisy goes on; how much deception hides behind words!

The scripture of devotion is simply this: to fall in love with the Divine is everything. Whoever has known love has known all. And the one who busies himself knowing everything else neither knows that “everything,” nor does he come to know love.

The difficulty with love is that nothing can truly be said about it; hence no scripture of love can ever be made. Even Narada’s sutras stammer—how to utter it?

Like the heart of a ruin, like a wild flower, man’s pain may be mute—yet it sings! Understand only this: love is revealed in song, in dance. There is no other way to say it; therefore Narada declares: Devotees weep; their throats choke; tears stream from their eyes; they converse with one another—and because of them this earth has become as worship-worthy as heaven.

Keep the company of devotees. Seek out those who are dyed in “His” love, so that their love may touch you too, and you, too, may be dyed in it!

In truth, the return is to oneself. How large a circle you take before returning—that is your choice. To go by scriptures is a very long detour—while the Divine stood at your very door; you could have gone straight in.

Were we not ourselves the fruit of the search? Were we not ourselves the destination? There, upon arriving, the heart stood still— by the very path from which we first set out!

You are the destination; you are the path; you are the seeker; you are the seeking; you are the truth to be found!

Narada says: the one who rises beyond the triple division—knower, known, knowledge; servant, service, the served—who goes beyond the triad… Who rises beyond it? Whoever is drowned in love rises beyond it. Drown in love; be dissolved in love!

The scripture of love is the only scripture of religion. That is all for today.