Bin Ghan Parat Phuhar #2

This question is a bit complex. It will be understood only if you truly wish to understand. The meaning of total acceptance is: even rejection is accepted. “All” includes even rejection. Family is included—and so is sannyas. House and home are included—and so is solitary seclusion.

Do not take total acceptance to mean that only the worldly is accepted and the renunciate is not. It is God’s play—who knows in what form He will manifest? He may make one a householder, another a brahmachari. If brahmacharya is rejected, how is that acceptance? Then it is not total acceptance; it becomes a strategy, a trick of the mind.

Sahjo was a sannyasini, a brahmacharini. She did not know household life; the world did not appeal to her. She surrendered everything at the feet of the Master. Those very feet were her home; those very feet were her family. In God’s supreme acceptance, this too is included.

And when I say to you, there is no need to run away from the world—do not take it to mean that I am saying you must cling to the world. There is no need to flee, if while living in the world you can find God. If, living in the world, you see no possibility of the Divine, then the question is of attaining God, not of holding onto the world: drop it. Seek where your inner strings find resonance, where music arises in your voice.

Seat a sannyasi at a shop counter—he will be miserable. Seat a shopkeeper in a temple—he will open a shop there, or be restless.

Therefore Krishna says to Arjuna in the Gita: Do not run away. That is not your way, not your nature, not your swadharma. Fighting is hidden in your every pore; every drop of your blood is kshatriya. You will not become a sannyasi even if you flee to the forest. Without your bow, without your Gandiva, your very soul will be lost; your personality is formed by it. Your way of being is on the edge of your sword; the moment that sword slips from your hand, rust will eat into you. You will not only lose the sword—you will lose yourself; the uniqueness of your person will be destroyed.

Do not flee from your swadharma.

First recognize your swadharma rightly; then, through that recognition, allow the Divine to do whatever He wishes to do through your swadharma. Become an instrument. Had Krishna seen even the slightest possibility of sannyas in Arjuna, he would have said: Go; war is not for you. Krishna could not have stopped him, nor would there have been a reason to stop. And had Krishna tried, if there were truly a possibility of sannyas in Arjuna, Arjuna would not have stayed. He would have listened, given thanks, said, You have taken such trouble for me; still, I recognize that my swadharma is taking me there. I am obeying you—swadharme nidhanam shreyah. But my swadharma takes me to the forest, so I go.

Do not try to fit yourself into any mold, otherwise you will be uneasy. Wherever your natural flow moves, make that the direction of your life. There are many who, sitting in the marketplace, will not find God; it does not suit their nature.

In my family I have an elder uncle—he has no bent for shopkeeping. He is a poet by birth. When he returned from the university, poetry did not earn money, nor fill the belly, and the whole family was immersed in business, so they tried to drown him in business too. He had no taste for a job either; there was no other way, so they seated him at the shop. Since I was small I have watched him: if no one from home was present and a customer arrived at the shop, he would quietly gesture with his hand—“go on, ahead.”

Now with such a person the shop cannot run—the customer is no beggar. To signal the customer onward! And silently, lest anyone hear—for if someone heard the family would be angry: “Did we seat you at the shop to run it, or to ruin it?” And the customer thus dismissed would never return: “Why go to a shop where one is treated like a beggar!” And he would look at the customer with such sorrow, such annoyance—this way a shop cannot run.

If no customer came, he was delighted. If the day passed empty, there was no end to his joy. Then he could add two lines to a poem, or compose a song. He even wrote poems in the ledgers. It did not fit his nature to be forced to be a shopkeeper; his life-breath would be stifled. Likewise, if you force a shopkeeper to sit and write poetry, there will be trouble. He will put his shop into the poem; in his poetic dreams the shop will expand.

Neither the shop is bad nor good; neither poetry bad nor good. Nothing is good or bad. That which harmonizes with you, which aligns with your swadharma—that is it. For that, even if everything must be left, leave it—but do not leave your swadharma.

Even if the whole world could be gained by abandoning swadharma, do not take it; in the end you will find it was not attainment but deception.

Ultimately only swadharma remains in your hand; all else is lost. We come into this world with swadharma and we depart with swadharma; the rest is the in-between story—made, unmade, scattered.

So when I say total acceptance, do not think I mean that the sannyasi who renounces life and sits in Himalayan caves is disapproved. No—he too is accepted.

If only in the Himalayas your song bursts forth, and there your life begins to dance, then who am I—or who is anyone—to stop you in the marketplace? You should be there.

But do not think the Himalayas produce the song; otherwise a shopkeeper, by mistake, will land there thinking songs are born in the Himalayas, dances happen there—so I too will leave and go. He will only be miserable, sad, tormented there.

Neither is the song in the Himalayas, nor in the bazaar. The song is within you—in your nature. When your being and your own existence come into accord, the song is born.

The song is not outside you.

So create a harmony between your nature and your circumstances: think in such a way, shape your conduct in such a way that there is no opposition between your life and your inner current; let there be consonance, alignment, rhythm. Let your inner life and outer life walk in step. If within you go west and outside you go east, there will be tension, trouble, anxiety, affliction; and ultimately nothing will come into your hand except melancholy. You will not be able to be in samadhi.

Samadhi is the name of that state when such a harmony is established between your outside and inside—such harmony that the outside no longer seems outside, the inside no longer seems inside; the outside becomes inside, the inside becomes outside. Such harmony that drawing a boundary line becomes difficult—where is my inside, where is my outside. In that very moment, in that meeting, communion, music, the Divine descends into you. The greater the tension, the more impossible the descent of the Divine; the deeper the inner state of dialogue, the wider the door opens.

So I would not tell Sahjobai to set up house, to become a wife, a mother; I would not. Had she come to ask me, I would have said: do what feels right to you. Do not force anything upon yourself; let your celibacy not be imposed. It was not imposed. For no one ever saw Sahjo unhappy. She was always radiant, always blossoming like a flower. No one found any reason to think that a stream other than the one she chose could have suited her. That was her stream.

So who is the final judge?

They say: the fruit is the proof of the tree. So the attainment of life is the proof of life. If Sahjo found supreme bliss in her life, then the way she lived was exactly the way worth living for her. If she could be joyous, could blossom, her lotus could bloom—that is the evidence that the life she lived was right; otherwise the flower would not have bloomed.

The end is the statement on your whole life.

If by the moment of death you have attained samadhi—if before dying you have attained the ultimate resolution—then I will not tell you to change anything in life. The life you lived bears the stamp that it was right. Had there been even a slight error, you would not have attained this meditative state. If you have reached the goal, then the path was right. What other proof is there for the rightness of the path? No path is right in itself; it is right because it reaches the goal. Could you say, “I am on a perfectly right path—though the goal never arrives”? I would tell you: even if you must walk on what is called the wrong path—if the goal is attained, that path is no longer wrong, it has become right. The path by which the goal is reached—that is the path. The end is the statement, the end is the conclusion; and you need not wait until the end, because at every moment a statement is being given; every moment you know.

If there is harmony between your outside and inside, then at every moment—as if temple bells were ringing—something keeps resonating within you. As when you reach the riverbank the breezes become cool, so as soon as there is alignment between your outside and inside, coolness begins to descend within. As near a garden the fragrance of flowers surrounds you, so when there is inner alignment an indescribable fragrance begins to arise within you. There is no need to go ask anyone. The touchstone is within you as to whether your life is going rightly or not. And how could anyone else decide? They cannot.

Consider: Krishna lived one kind of life; Mahavira’s life is entirely different. Buddha’s life is different still. Where will you connect Muhammad and Mahavira? Christ and Krishna are far apart. Yet all attained. Their paths differ, but one thing is certain: on the path each walked, there was accord with his swadharma. That much is common. Mahavira on his path accords with his swadharma; Christ on his path accords with his swadharma; Muhammad on his path accords with his swadharma. That one point is common to all.

Paths differ, personalities differ, styles differ. Where Krishna is playing the flute! You cannot even imagine a flute on Mahavira’s lips—it simply would not fit. Even if a flute were found near Mahavira, you would think someone left it there by mistake; it could not be his. What has a flute to do with Mahavira? And if you were to find Krishna standing naked beneath a tree with eyes closed, you would not accept that it is Krishna—without a peacock-feather crown; you would not recognize him. You would recognize him only if you found him dancing. Krishna’s dance has some accord with his within. Mahavira’s empty silence has some accord with his within. Because of that accord both are enlightened.

It is not a matter of the style of life; styles are infinite, because souls are infinite. Each soul has its own nature, its own individuality, its own uniqueness. Do not erase that uniqueness; give it precisely the right environment.

Sahjo is right—she was not drawn to it. But I am not telling you that whether it appeals to you or not, you follow someone. For Janaka, the happening happened in household life, on the throne, as an emperor.

There is a very ancient story in the Upanishads—the story of the merchant Tuladhar.

An ascetic had been practicing austerities for years. Jajali was his name. He practiced such intense penance that he dried his body like a dead stump. He would not move. He stood so unmoving that, it is said, birds made nests in his matted hair—laid eggs. The eggs grew, hatched—chicks were born; when the birds flew away, only then did Jajali move. Thinking the eggs might fall, he stood still; he did not move, did not even go begging; he stayed hungry for months; and when the chicks flew into the sky, then he moved. But that day a great pride arose in him: who is an ascetic like me? Who is as nonviolent as me? An arrogance was born.

As this feeling of ego was rising in him, he heard a voice laughing in the lonely forest—an invisible voice: Jajali, do not fill yourself with ego. If you wish to seek a knower, first go sit at the feet of the merchant Tuladhar. He could not make sense of it—Tuladhar? And a merchant! And an ascetic like Jajali should sit at his feet! The one in whose hair the birds made nests and who did not move—such ahimsa, such compassion! But he had to go and see who this Tuladhar was.

So he went searching.

In Kashi there was Tuladhar, a merchant. He went to him. He could not believe it—an ordinary shopkeeper, who held a balance all day; thus his name Tuladhar—he kept weighing goods. He was weighing; customers crowded the shop. Jajali arrived; Tuladhar didn’t even look up. He only said, Jajali, sit. Do not be too perturbed that birds kept nests in your matted hair! Do not be too stiff that you did not move—birds grew up, flew—then you moved! Sit quietly; first let me finish with my customers! When Tuladhar spoke thus, Jajali was astonished. He thought: this is trouble—this man knows something; he is certainly ahead of me. He has spoiled the whole story. And nothing about him shows any art or sadhana.

He sat down. But the ego collapsed. He watched from his seat: good people came, bad people came; some spoke kindly to Tuladhar, some insulted him—business is business, accounts are accounts. But Tuladhar remained the same, equanimous. No anger, no attachment; no taking sides, no opposition. Jajali watched: there was not the slightest variation in his scale—his own came, strangers came; his weighing remained the same.

When evening came and the shop began to close, Jajali asked, What instruction do you have for me? Tuladhar said, I am an ordinary shopkeeper; I am no scholar. I only know this: just as, when the two pans of a balance are equal, a certain equilibrium is achieved, so when the two sides of the mind—anger and non-anger; love and hate; attachment and aversion—become equal and the inner balance is steadied, in that very moment—in that very moment—samadhi happens.

By steadying the balance, I myself became steady; I did not do much more. No birds made nests, I did no penance. I am an ordinary shopkeeper, Jajali, not an ascetic. But my secret is only this: by steadying the scale I learned the art of steadying myself; and I grasped one thing: when there is complete balance within, the ego becomes zero.

Balance is emptiness. And into that emptiness the whole descends.

But these are the words of a shopkeeper; you are a great pundit, a knower, an ascetic—you may or may not benefit from this. All I know, I will say this much: live in the forest and if ego catches hold of you, you have been thrown into the world. Live in the world and if the balance becomes equal, the Himalaya has been attained—in the marketplace. The question is not where you go or what you do; the question is what you are.

So when I say that on the path to the Divine everything is accepted—household, family—then remember: the Himalayas, solitude, seclusion, sannyas—those too are accepted; nothing is rejected.

Make life fluid. And in the direction in which your life-stream flows—where, in flowing, you find joy and rasa—flow that way. Rasa is the criterion.

The Ganga flows east; the Narmada flows west. If the two were to meet midway, there would be great uneasiness. For the Ganga would say, “I am going to the ocean,” and the Narmada would say, “I am also going to the ocean.” One of them must be wrong! Both may be wrong, but both cannot be right! A great dispute would arise. And how to resolve a dispute at the crossroads? You would have to go and see. And if you go and see, the Ganga that goes east also reaches the ocean; the Narmada that goes west also reaches the ocean—and the ocean is one. Is there an eastern or a western ocean? You may give it names: call it the Arabian Sea, call it the Bay of Bengal—what difference does it make? The ocean is one; all rivers reach the ocean.

Wherever you find the slope, wherever rasa arises, wherever poetry seems to be born in your life, where you can hum as you go, where you can walk dancing—that is your path. Then listen to no one. If someone’s Ganga goes east, bless them: go. But my Narmada is going west, and I am delighted. I have found my slope, I have found my path. And when I am joyous at every step, it can be assumed that at the end there will be supreme joy.

There is a touchstone at every inch. Where there is restlessness, tension, sorrow, pain—be alert. The music of life is breaking! Your feet must be falling somewhere wrong; you must be going contrary to your swadharma.

Swadharme nidhanam shreyah; paradharmo bhayavahah. Somewhere you have become entangled in another’s dharma. Another’s dharma has attracted you, created greed. Seeing the Ganga going east, a desire arose in Narmada’s heart also to go east. If Narmada goes east, she will find troubles and pain—and will not reach the ocean.

Each person has his own slope. Always keep an eye on your inner compass. Your compass always tells you rightly. When you start looking too much at another’s compass, you fall into confusion. When you begin to imitate another, you deviate—you become self-betrayed. As long as you keep your gaze on your inner compass, ask your conscience, listen to your inner voice—you will never go astray. Then you will also know that what is my path is not necessarily another’s path. Then you will drop the very worry of deciding the path. Then you will only see this: if the Ganga too is going dancing, she must be going toward the ocean—her ocean will be in the east; my ocean is in the west. I too am dancing along; the Ganga too is dancing along; then both must be going toward the ocean. Because until a river goes toward the ocean, she cannot dance. It is the nearness of the ocean that becomes the dance in the feet; the nearness of the Divine that becomes the joy within.

Joy is the criterion.

If attachment (raga) enters love, love turns into hell. If possessiveness enters love, love becomes a prison. When love is free of raga, it becomes heaven. When it is free of possessiveness, love itself is the Divine.

Both possibilities exist in love. You can yoke attachment and possessiveness to it—then it is as if you have tied a stone to a bird’s throat; it cannot fly. Or you have locked the bird of love in a golden cage. However precious the cage, studded with jewels, it is still a cage—it will destroy the wings.

When you cut attachment and possessiveness away from love—when love is pure, innocent, formless; when in love you only give and do not demand; when love is a giving—when love is an emperor, not a beggar—when you rejoice simply because someone has accepted your love; when you do not bargain and ask nothing in return; then you release the bird of love into the sky, you give strength to its wings, and it can set out on the journey into the infinite.

Love has degraded, and love has uplifted—it depends how you have treated love. That is why “love” is a very ambiguous word. It is a gate—on this side is sorrow, on that side bliss; on this side hell, on that side heaven; on this side the world, on that side liberation—love is the gate.

If you have known love full of attachment and possessiveness, then when Jesus says to you, “God is love,” you will not understand. When Sahajo begins to sing songs of love, you will feel restless, “This doesn’t ring true. I too have loved—yet we reaped only sorrow; in the name of love we gathered a harvest of thorns—no flowers ever bloomed.” That love will seem imaginary. This love that becomes devotion, prayer, liberation will look like a web of words.

Yes, you too have known “love,” but whenever you knew it, it was love saturated with attachment and possessiveness. Your love was not truly love. Your “love” was a veil thrown over passion and clinging. Inside there was something else; only outwardly you called it love. When you fell “in love” with a woman or a man, what did you really want? The want was sexual desire; “love” was only the decoration on top.

If you search deeply within, you will see for yourself: the talk is of love, but within are the flames of lust. To present those flames directly would be crude; a little diplomacy is required. The woman whose body you want to enjoy, you tell her, “I love your soul.” You do not even know your own soul—how will you know hers?

Yet the body-obsessed talk of the soul. From the urge to enjoy the body, they spin false talk of inner beauty. Then if you hear Sahajo, Daya, Rabi‘a say that they found God through love, how will you believe it? You have found only bondage through “love.” But the fault is not love’s— it is yours. A skillful physician can make medicine even from poison; one who knows nothing of medicine can turn nectar into poison.

Neither poison is inherently poison, nor nectar inherently nectar—it depends on how it is used.
Sometimes poison saves; sometimes nectar kills. The word “love” by itself means very little. Love can be nectar; love can be poison—it depends on you. Love turns to poison if there is possessiveness in it. If you use love as a vehicle for your lust, if through love you seek only the lowest gratifications of the body, you will find quarrel, sorrow, pain, bondage through love. Many dreams will come—none will be fulfilled. Many mirages will appear, great rainbows will form, but whenever you approach, everything turns to trash. The rainbows collapse into dust, the dreams prove futile. That golden palace which from a distance shone in the sun has always turned into a prison up close. None of this is love’s fault. In the name of love you were passing some other coin entirely—counterfeit currency.

Therefore love must be freed from possessiveness. Do not let love become a bondage; love should become liberation. Whomever you love, set them free. If you free the one you love, you yourself cannot be bound—and no one will be able to bind you. But you try to bind the one you love: you want to build a wall around them, to put chains on their hands. And the hands you put chains on will also put chains on you.

Life gives you exactly what you give to life—never forget this truth. This is the whole sum of the law of karma: what you give is what you receive. If you got bondage from love, it proves that through love you must have tried to give bondage. If through love you set the other free—if you give love and forget it; give love and ask for nothing in return; give love with no conditions, no bargain; give love and offer thanks that someone accepted your love—acceptance was not assured, rejection was possible—then you will slowly find that love rises higher while lust is left below. Then the bird of love breaks the shell of lust and flies away. And your movement takes on a new dimension. Your consciousness enters a new realm.

“Isn’t attachment and possessiveness inherent in love?”
They may be; and they may not be.
Generally, they are—ninety-nine times out of a hundred. But that makes no difference. If even once they are not, that one instance is enough proof that, if you choose, they need not be there the other hundred times. If one seed can crack open and become a tree, all seeds can become trees. If they don’t, that’s another matter—the soil may not be right.

Jesus said: A sower scattered a handful of seeds. Some fell on the path where people walked—the passing feet would not let them take root. Some fell by the roadside; there they sprouted, but animals grazed them or children plucked them. Some fell on rock—on a bare crag—they never sprouted. Some fell into fertile soil; they sprouted, grew into trees, flowered, and bore fruit.

At times a Buddha, a Farid, a Sahajo—their seed blossoms, reaches the flower. If yours has not, then look carefully: you must have fallen in the wrong place. Either on rock; or where there is no rock but too much traffic; or where there is no traffic but no fence, no protection. You need the right soil; then what arose in Buddha, in Krishna, will arise in you as well. Our possibility is the same—everyone’s is the same; God gives no one less. It is God who fashions you—He cannot make anything other than Himself. God’s hands have shaped you; God is hidden within you as your very breath, as your potential.

Love can become liberation—that is the possibility of every love, the possibility of every heart. But one must be alert; attachment must be cut. You, however, keep enlarging the net of attachment. You have even forgotten the very word “love.” You have begun calling attachment by the name of love.

I have heard an old Sufi tale. At the foot of some mountains there was a village. Around it there was nothing but forest. So the people of that village had developed a single art: they cut wood, made wooden statues, household goods—the whole village had become carpenters, because wood was the only available medium. Their sole trade was to sell these wooden wares to travelers passing through the mountain valley. One day a caravan told them, “There is also a village on the mountain’s summit above you. Have you ever gone there to sell? Those people are very wealthy; your goods will sell well.” It had never occurred to them. Valley-dwellers do not think of the peaks. They were content in their valley; poverty was familiar; and climbing is hard! By mistake a mountaineer may descend into the valley, but a valley-dweller does not accidentally arrive at the peak. Descent is easy; ascent is difficult.

After many such reports, the village chose some young men to carry their wares up. The ascent was hard—harder still because they had never climbed. Accustomed to the easy life of the valley, they struggled. And they were not even sure the news was true. “Who knows—it may be a rumor. Does anyone live up there? And if climbing is so difficult, how can people live so high?” Somehow, exhausted, after several days they reached the summit.

The travelers had spoken truly. The town was marvelous. Its temples were adorned with golden spires. In the sunshine they shone in a way these youths had never even imagined in dreams. They set up their stalls in the market, called people over, displayed their goods—but the people laughed. No one would buy. Finally the youths asked, “What’s the matter?” The townspeople said, “What will we do with wooden goods? We have mines of gold and silver here, you fools! We make our statues of gold. What will we do with wooden idols?” The youths could not believe there could be anything more valuable than wood, or statues more precious than theirs. They were offended. Hurt and angry at the townspeople’s behavior, they refused invitations to visit the temples to see the statues. They packed up and returned to the valley. When the villagers asked, “What happened?” they said, “People do live up there, but they are wicked. And beware of one thing—avoid a thing called gold—that seems to be our greatest enemy—gold. We did not see what it is, because they treated us badly, and not a single statue sold.” Since then the valley folk no longer go toward the mountain, and in the valley it is now said that our enemies live on the heights, not our friends; and we must always beware of a thing called gold, because it threatens to destroy our culture.

Such is the condition of those who have lived in the valley of love and never known its peak. In the valley of love there are wooden wares—the entire spread of lust. On the summit of love there is gold. But one who lives in lust is frightened even by talk of gold; he says, “That is the talk of our enemies. We are content in our lust. Do not speak these lofty things to us; do not disturb our sleep; do not spoil our dreams.”

But I say to you: you are living as if a palace has been gifted to you and you spend your life in the porch—never entering within—thinking the porch is everything. The porch is only an entry. The deeper you go, the more inner you enter, the more the summits of bliss—the gold—become available.

Sex is only the porch of love. You must pass through it; do not stop there. There is no harm in passing through the porch—note, I am not condemning the porch. If you are to enter the palace, you must pass through it. But pass through—do not settle there, do not make it your home, do not lay your bed there—do not mistake it for life itself.

Pass through sex—pass you must; it is an inevitable part of life. But pass in order to cross over—like crossing steps, like crossing a bridge—to reach the other shore.

Within, wondrous possibilities are hidden. One who has known love as lust, as attachment and possessiveness, will know only the hell of life. And reflect a little: if even in hell you get a little pleasure, what then of heaven! Even in lust a slight fragrance of bliss arrives; even in the porch a hint of the palace comes. If incense is burning inside, some scent wafts to the porch; if peace reigns within, a little coolness reaches the porch; if music plays inside, a few stray notes arrive. So even in lust, there is a faint whisper of liberation. Even in lust, a slight reflection of the Divine descends. It is like the moon in the sky reflected in a lake. It is a reflection—let the lake ripple and it is gone; there is nothing substantial. Yet it is the reflection of the real. If in the lake the reflection is so beautiful, lift your eyes a little and look at the moon itself of which it is a reflection.

Rabi‘a, a woman mystic, was sitting in her house. A fakir named Hasan was her guest. Morning came; the sun rose. Hasan went outside and called loudly, “Rabi‘a, what are you doing inside? Come out and see how beautiful the sun is—behold God’s creation!” Rabi‘a said, “Hasan! Better you come inside—for you are seeing God’s creation outside; within I am seeing the One Himself.”

Creation is beautiful. But will you compare it with the Creator? A song is beautiful; it carries a slight hint of the singer’s soul. These carvings all around are beautiful, but they are a tiny work of the artist. The artist is not exhausted in the paintings, nor is the Creator finished in the creation. From that Creator infinite creations can arise, and still He remains as He is—unchanged.

The Ishavasya says: “From the Full, the Full is taken, yet the Full remains.”
From that God, infinite creations may arise, yet He remains as He is; His infinity is untouched, He is never exhausted. And if the creation is so beautiful, think a little! If outside the palace there is so much joy, how much more must there be within! If even in love filled with attachment and possessiveness you hear a few stray notes of music, then when love is utterly pure, when the impurity of raga and possessiveness has fallen away, when the gold is refined, when dust and dross are burned in the fire—then imagine! Even that imagination will fill you with thrill, with a new invitation; a new longing will arise. The name of that longing is religion.

The search to know love in its utter purity is what we call religion.
And the purity of love—this we have called God.

The question is a little difficult.
Words cannot be sufficient proof, because words can be borrowed. What is said can be a repetition of what someone else said. Therefore words cannot be sufficient proof; at most they can be insufficient proof.
Understand this a little rightly.
Insufficient proof means that from words one can get a hint. But it will only be a hint. Whether it is certainly right is hard to say. From words we do get an indication.
When you repeat someone else’s words, some mistake is bound to happen. It is not very difficult to recognize a pundit’s words. A pundit’s words are caught at once, because he repeats; he himself knows nothing. However much he tries to repeat exactly, still some mistake is certain, because inside him there is nothing but confusion, and on top of that he is trying to repeat. The one who is repeating is full of error. So some errors getting mixed in are inevitable. Think of it like this: your hands are full of soot, and you are engaged in cleaning a white mansion—you are black, full of soot and kohl, and you are cleaning a white mansion—your handprints will inevitably be left in many places—it is unavoidable. Perhaps the ignorant may not recognize them, but those who have known will certainly recognize them.
So, from words an insufficient proof can be had, a hint that perhaps this one has known. And when a person speaks out of knowing, there is a force in their saying that cannot be present in the speech of one who speaks without knowing—cannot be, it is impossible. Because force comes from experience.
I was reading the life of a Christian saint. He wrote that I was passing through a village, and exactly the event occurred that had occurred in the life of Jesus. One night Jesus was passing through a village; a young man caught hold of his garment. That young man’s name was Nicodemus. And Nicodemus said, What should I do so that the kingdom of God you speak of might be mine also? So Jesus said: Leave everything and come—follow me.
This Christian fakir has written: One night such an event happened to me as well. I was passing through a village; a young man caught hold of me. He said, I too want to attain that of which you speak; tell me what I should do. The Christian fakir writes: I remembered that Jesus had said, Leave everything and come, follow me. But I could not muster the courage to say, Leave everything and come after me. At the most, I could only say: Leave everything and go after Jesus.
There will at least be that much difference.
Krishna could say to Arjuna: Drop all dharmas and take refuge in me alone. A pundit will not be able to say that. The pundit will say—Drop all dharmas and take refuge in Krishna. To say “take refuge in me” will make him afraid. First he will fear that people will think, This is a very egotistical statement. Only when ego is there does the idea of ego arise. Not a trace of it arose in Krishna. Krishna did not even think that for centuries this book would remain, that people would have the evidence in their hands, that people would say Krishna must have been very egotistical—he says to Arjuna, Drop everything and take refuge in me. Who speaks like that! This seems a very egotistical thing.
When Buddha became enlightened, Buddha said, I have attained that which in millions only one ever attains. An event not easily available has happened. I have attained perfect buddhahood.
To the reader it will seem a very egotistical proclamation. Do the enlightened speak like this? The enlightened say—We are humble, the dust of your feet. But remember, those from whom such words arise have no idea of it. The ego is no longer there, so who is there to worry?
There is a difference between the words of a pundit and of a knower. In the pundit’s words there will be borrowedness—there will be no courage, no daring, no force—and there will be the odor of scripture. In the knower’s words there will be spontaneous effulgence—coming right now from the source, fresh and new. They are being minted now; they are not coins already circulated in the market. They are brand-new notes—just out of the mint, not yet touched by any hands. You do recognize a note fresh from the mint and a note that has been in circulation in the market, don’t you! What difficulty is there in recognizing it? Because you are familiar with notes. When you awaken, you will recognize words as well.
These words of Sahjobai have come straight from the mint; they are absolutely direct. Sahjobai is certainly not a pundit, nor a poet. The words are straightforward; there is no great pretension. The thing has been said clearly, in two-edged fashion—nothing is hidden. And it is said in a manner in which no one had said it before. Therefore there is no possibility of borrowing.
Whenever the divine descends into someone, each time it descends in a new way; repetition is not to God’s liking.
Every single verse of Sahjobai is utterly unique. Never before, never again. Therefore I say: insufficient proof. It does not make anything conclusive; it only indicates a possibility, gives a hint.
Then how do I say that Sahjobai was self-realized?
One has to read the empty space between the words, the blank between the lines. From the lines you will get insufficient proof; in that empty space you will get sufficient proof. But you will read the empty space in Sahjobai’s words only when you read the empty space within yourself. That is why I said, the question is a bit difficult. My answering it will not resolve it; when the answer arises in your own life, then it will be resolved.
There are many kinds of questions. One, which is resolved if I answer. Another, which is resolved only when you grow and develop. As when a small child asks, What is sexuality? He can ask. He can read a book in which “sexuality” is written; he can look in a dictionary where “sexuality” is written; and he asks, What is sexuality? How will you explain it to him? What will you say? In his life no event of sexuality has yet happened, no smoke of sexuality has yet spread over his consciousness; he does not yet know what sexuality is. Whatever you say now will go over his head. Yes, when age comes in his life and sexuality arises, then if you say something, somewhere it will strike, somewhere a tuning will happen—there will be a dialogue between his understanding and your statement.
That Sahjobai is self-realized—you will understand that only when you are self-realized. Anyone who is self-realized immediately recognizes whether another is or is not. There is not the slightest difficulty in it. Nothing needs to be done for this. This recognition does not happen through any effort. It is its spontaneous proof; it just happens. Imagine you are sent to a foreign land where no one understands your language, where everyone speaks different tongues. You are alone; you speak your language but no one understands, no one listens. And suddenly you find a person who understands your language. How long would it take the two of you to recognize each other? Even without speaking a word, recognition will happen that he is one who speaks your own tongue.
When two self-realized beings meet, even with gaps of thousands of years, they speak one language. Sahjobai and Jesus, Buddha and Mahavira, Zarathustra and Lao Tzu—the thing you call “language” they speak differently—Lao Tzu speaks Chinese, Jesus speaks Hebrew, Krishna speaks Sanskrit, Mahavira speaks Prakrit, Buddha speaks Pali, Sahjo speaks Hindi—each speaks a different language as you call language. But there is also a language of the self-realized, which all speak the same, without the slightest difference. They will recognize at once: each other’s gesture, their eyes, the way they rise and sit, their being, the fragrance of their life, the light around them—they will recognize it all, because they themselves know the same.
Even across gaps of thousands of years they are recognized; it makes no difference. But, that is why I said it is difficult—my answer will not resolve it. The day you awaken, that very day you will find that you have recognized all the awakened ones. One who is asleep cannot recognize who is awake.
Here we are so many people sitting; suppose we all fall asleep and one person remains awake. The one awake recognizes the sleepers as asleep and knows himself to be awake. The sleepers neither know themselves to be asleep, nor do they know that someone is awake. Then suppose another among so many wakes up. The two who are awake will immediately recognize in each other that they are awake; and both will also know that all the rest are asleep. Will there be any difficulty in this? Just so is awakening out of the sleep of life: two awakened ones always recognize each other.
I do not even mention the name of any person who is not awake. If I have shown readiness to speak on Sahjo’s words, there is no other reason. There is nothing much in Sahjo’s poetry; if it were merely poetry, there are great poets. Nor has Sahjo established any great philosophy. If it were a matter of speaking on philosophers, there are great Platos. Sahjo is an ordinary uneducated woman; neither poet nor pundit; very simple, of guileless heart. But she is awakened. Only her awakening is precious; all the rest is worth two pennies.
You may be however great a pundit—if you remain asleep—you are of no use. You may know nothing at all—if you simply awaken—everything is known.
So I recognize that Sahjobai is self-realized; otherwise I would not even have brought up her name. What is the point of talking about those who are asleep! And what is the point of talking of the sleeping before the sleeping! You already know the sleepers very well. One must speak of the few who are awake so that perhaps you, too, may catch the flavor, the longing to awaken may arise, perhaps some call will arise within you, you may turn a little on your side.

Certainly. It has to be. Because questions arise from within you. Questions bring news of you. Your question is your question; you will give it its structure, its style.

Certainly women ask in one way and men in another. In my observation, first of all, women generally do not ask—that is their way. They ask with difficulty. They try more to understand, and less to ask. Men try more to ask, and less to understand. Since they ask more, the illusion arises that they must be understanding more. Since a woman asks less, the illusion arises that she must not be understanding—she doesn’t ask, does she? But the truth is exactly the opposite.

Men come to me carrying a whole net of big questions. Often a man comes and I ask him, “Is there something you want to ask?” He says, “So much to ask—where should I begin? There is so much that I don’t know how to ask, where to start.”

When I ask women, “Do you want to ask anything?” they say, “No. Nothing to ask. There is nothing to ask; we have just come to sit near you, to have your darshan.”

If a man does not ask, the reason is that there are so many questions that, because of their crowd, he cannot ask. A woman does not ask—not because there is a crowd, but because there is nothing to ask.

When men sit with me I can see the crowd of their intellect. Waves of big ideas are moving in their heads. If their head were opened a madhouse would jump out; the lunatics would run and scatter in all directions—as if ghosts and goblins had been let loose from a locked prison. Even when they listen, they listen from the head. If any connection forms with them, it forms from the head. Until their head is cut off, no connection of the heart is made.

When women come, there is not much buzzing in the head. In their heart there is a beat, a thrill—transported by feeling, heartful! They listen less; they drink more. Their eyes are more active; their thoughts are less active.

My experience has been that if a man falls in love with me, he says, “We love your ideas; therefore we have fallen in love with you.” If a woman falls in love with me, she says, “We have fallen in love with you; therefore your ideas also seem dear.”

This is the difference—a great difference.

Men say, “We like your ideas; therefore we have fallen in love with you.” Ideas are first; love is number two. Women say, “We have fallen in love with you; therefore your ideas also seem right.” Love is first; ideas are number two.

Their personalities are different, distinct. That is why women have not composed great scriptures, nor given birth to great philosophies. Men have created great scriptures, great sects, great systems of philosophy. Yet the perception is that women have lived more happily than men. Psychologists also accept this now.

Try to understand this.

In madhouses the number of men is greater, of women very small. In prisons too the number of men is far greater; women are almost negligible. Mental illnesses catch hold of men more easily than they do women. Men commit suicide far more than women—though women talk a lot about it—they don’t do it. Women often keep saying, “I will commit suicide.” Sometimes they even swallow a few pills, but just a few—and in the morning they are fine. They do not want to die. Even when they speak of dying, it is out of some deep longing for life—life is not as they wanted it. So they even get ready to die, but they do not want to die. Woman is deeply bound to life.

A man is ready to die over a small thing. And when a man does something, he does it with full success—then he dies. He doesn’t take half-measures; his arithmetic is complete, scientific; he makes all the arrangements for dying and then dies. If a woman talks of dying, don’t pay too much attention; nothing to worry about. If a man talks of dying, think a little. Often it so happens that a man will die without talking about dying. A woman will keep talking of dying—and go on living.

Women also have fewer physical illnesses than men, because if the mind is a little calm and healthy, the body too is healthy and calm. Women live longer than men—on average, five years more. If a man lives seventy years, women will live seventy-five. Therefore I say the arrangement of marriage should be changed. At present we say the boy should be three or four years older than the girl—this is exactly upside down. The girl should be older—four or five years older than the boy. Then both will die almost together; otherwise the earth is filled with widows. You will find fewer widowers. You will find more widows—sitting in temples here and there. The reason is that they live five to seven years longer. It would be appropriate if the girls were five to seven years older; then at the time of death, with a gap of a couple of months, both would depart. Life would be right.

But the male has his stiffness, his pride. He wants to keep a greater age even in marriage, so that he appears bigger. He wants to be bigger in everything—older too—although he never becomes big, however old he grows. Whenever he falls in love with a woman, he starts looking for the mother in that woman; he cannot become big. The smallest little girl is already big, because the first game even a small girl plays is the game of becoming a mother—nothing less will do. She dresses up little dolls, seats them, becomes a mother. The tiniest girl is a mother, and the oldest of old men is still a child—the male is a child.

But stiffness, ego! So he must be bigger in every matter. If a woman is taller, the bridegroom’s heart feels hurt; great restlessness is felt—man must be taller than woman. In everything he must be bigger. Somewhere an inferiority complex is at work in the male. And psychologists say that this inferiority complex is that the woman is capable of giving birth to life and the man is not; from this there is an inferiority complex.

A woman can bear a child, can give birth to life. The divine uses her directly; she is the immediate medium. Man seems incidental. Man can be dispensed with—an injection can do the man’s work. He is not so indispensable. But the mother cannot be dispensed with, because the mother will give birth from within—her blood, her bone, flesh, marrow will form the new birth—will set a new life in motion. Women seem greatly fulfilled, and when they become mothers, a great fulfillment surrounds them, because in a certain sense they have become an instrument of the divine.

Scientific thinkers say that man runs about so much only to compensate for this lack. Women do not paint, do not sculpt, do not write poetry, do not write stories, novels, plays, cinema, do not race to the moon, do not build airplanes—do nothing of this sort; because such a great act has been given to them by the divine that there is sufficient fulfillment in it, the urge to do is completed. But man makes a thousand things. He is saying: never mind—if we cannot give birth to a child, we will make statues, we will be creators, we will write poetry. But however beautiful a poem is, it cannot be greater than the poetry in a child’s eyes. And however the statue may be of marble, it cannot be the image of a living child. And whether you reach the moon or reach Mars, you will not reach motherhood.

So fulfillment comes into a man’s life only when he allows himself to be born from within—like a Buddha, a Krishna, a Mahavira. That is why we have called the wise “twice-born”; they have given birth to themselves, given themselves a second birth. One birth was that which came from the parents, and the other they gave themselves through their meditation, their samadhi—they were reborn. Only with a Buddha do you find someone who becomes as peaceful as a woman. Therefore in the genius of a Buddha a femininity appears; the same roundness comes into the life of a Buddha that is in the life of a woman. The same fulfillment, the same “ah!” feeling—a contentment.

Certainly the ways of women and men are different. And if we recognize these ways rightly, things become very simple, the journey becomes simple; needless wanderings and entanglements are avoided.

A woman, first, does not ask; and if ever she does ask, her questioning is always practical—not ultimate, not metaphysical.

There is one more question in this regard:

The curiosity to know and to ask belongs to man. The longing to be, to live, belongs to woman. Even with little children... you can see the difference. If girls are playing, their way is creative; they will make something. Boys’ way of play is destructive; they will break something. If you give a boy a toy car, he will soon break it open to see what’s inside. Curiosity—what’s within? If he gets hold of a watch, he will open it up. You say, “He spoiled everything,” but the poor fellow is simply being scientifically curious. He is looking to see how it works. An ant is walking—he will crush it with his thumb. He is not being violent; he has no purpose in violence yet, the ant has done him no harm; he is just seeing what is inside that makes it move.

Man’s curiosity is to know. He wants to know, to search everywhere, to lift the veils wherever they lie and see what the matter is. Woman does not have that kind of curiosity. Not to know, but to live. Her curiosity is very practical; she will ask only as much as is necessary for life.

Women don’t come to me asking whether God exists or not, whether there is heaven and hell, who created the universe. These are men’s questions. If a woman ever does ask something, she asks: there is discontent in the mind—how to find contentment; anger comes—how to be peaceful; life is being wasted like this—how to bring meaning to it; how to pray, how to worship? Her questions are practical. And I hold that, in the long run, being practical is more intelligent, more wise. What will you do by knowing who created the world, on what day and date, and why—what will you do with that knowledge?

Last night I was reading the life of a Jewish fakir. Whenever that fakir would speak, a man would again and again stand up and ask questions. The fakir got fed up, wearied by him. The man was obstinate, and asked such odd questions. One day the fakir said that God created the world. The man stood up. He said, “When did he create it, and why didn’t he create it before that?”

The question is perfectly valid.

Before the fakir could reply, the man said, “And if you don’t know why he didn’t create it before, then tell us what he has been doing after creating it.”

All the questions are pertinent. Because suppose, as the Christians say, that four thousand and four years ago he started on Monday, finished on Saturday, and rested on Sunday—then what was he doing before those four thousand and four years? Sitting idle? Didn’t he get tired, go mad? He must have been doing something. Even when a man sits idle he does something—reads a newspaper, turns on the radio. But those too were not there; then what was he doing?

Well, the man said, “You may not know that either, because it’s too old a matter. Then after that what is he doing? The world was made in six days, he rested on the seventh—then...?”

The fakir said, “Now he keeps accounts of people like you—who are asking good-for-nothing questions—and decides what punishments to give them.”

There are questions that are futile. However futile they are, men find them meaningful. And there are questions that are meaningful; they may look petty, small, but there is great glory within them. Because ultimately curiosity is not enough; what is needed is mumuksha—a burning longing to be free. By knowing, nothing will happen; by being, something will happen. Life has to be transformed, one has to become new, to be illumined, to light the lamp that has gone out. Therefore this kind of question is not very important. Only one question is important: how will the extinguished lamp within be lit, how will the closed eyes open, how will the deep sleep break—how will I become a light unto myself?

There is a difference between the questions of men and women. But I tell you, when a man truly sets about transforming his life, his questions also become practical like those of women.

And some women too, sometimes, get infected by the male disease and start asking men’s kind of questions.

My emphasis is on the practical—ask that by which your life is transformed; only that curiosity is meaningful.

Worrying about the future is part of ignorance. Let tomorrow take care of what tomorrow will be. There is a story that Buddha worried about this, but how true that story is is hard to say.

I have also told you many times that Buddha said, “Now my religion will last only five hundred years; women have been admitted.” This can have only one meaning; it certainly cannot mean that Buddha was concerned about the future. Whether a religion lasts five hundred years, five thousand, or fifty thousand—what use is that to Buddha?

So the purpose must have been something else.

That purpose is simply this: the life-discipline of Buddha was fundamentally developed for men. Mahavira’s life-discipline too was fundamentally developed for men. Both paths are of resolve, not surrender; of austerity, not of the Lord’s grace. In both their paths there is no place for God; there is no device of prayer or worship. Both paths are of meditation. Any path of meditation does not suit the woman. For a woman, the path of prayer and love is apt.

So the path that Mahavira or Buddha developed is the path of meditation. Then, suddenly, women too became eager, and they said, “Initiate us as well.” Then a certain concern must have gripped Buddha. That concern was not in fact about how long the religion would last. Even if he said it, it was a factual statement, not Buddha’s worry. But before Buddha the question arose that the path is of meditation: if women are included in it, there are only two possibilities—either women will change the path into one of prayer, or the path of meditation will change women to become like men. The second is almost impossible; the first is the only likely one.

When women enter, they will turn even the path of meditation into a path of prayer; and since the path is not of prayer, distortion will set in. That is why Mahavira flatly said that liberation cannot be attained in the female embodiment. It means only this, because it cannot possibly mean that Mahavira says a woman cannot be liberated. That would be great foolishness, and from a man like Mahavira such foolishness is not conceivable. And Mahavira continually says—the soul is neither woman nor man. The state is of the body; what has liberation to do with the body? The male state will also be left lying here, and the female state will also be left lying here. It is like saying that in women’s clothing there can be no liberation; only if you wear men’s clothing will there be liberation.

Mahavira knows that the body is no more than clothing; then why did he say such a thing? There is a reason. Mahavira’s path is also the path of meditation. Mahavira is saying that the female embodiment will not be able to relate to my path. So if a woman is to be liberated through my very path, she will have to become a man—this is the meaning. Only if she becomes a man will she be able to be liberated.

Through the path of meditation a woman cannot be liberated; only through the path of love can she be liberated—meditation does not harmonize with her. When her heart fills with awe and gratitude, then she thrills and dances; then the state of samadhi descends within her. Dance and kirtan, and hymn, worship and adoration—through these her heart-lotus blossoms.

So Mahavira and Buddha are in essence saying this—when they say, “my religion,” they are saying: the path of meditation is such that a woman will not be able to be liberated through it, and woman is a great event; she will transform the path.

It happened so. Today if you go to the Jain temples, you will find the Jains doing prayer and worship of Mahavira. Mahavira has nothing to do with prayer and worship, and the Jain is engaged in prayer and worship. Women led it astray. Women began prayer and worship. They will love even Mahavira; and if they love, they will want to dance before Mahavira with the aarti lamp. Gradually they led the path astray; now there is great difficulty. If you dance in Krishna’s temple, that is fine—because dance is in tune with Krishna; that method is of dancing. But if you dance in Mahavira’s temple, then there is confusion. It is like going to Krishna’s temple and starting austerities; that is not the method there. It is like buying a Ford car and trying to fit Rolls-Royce parts into it.

The method of meditation is a completely different method; the method of love is completely different. These are the only two methods, the only two paths. What is right on the method of love will be a hindrance on the method of meditation. What is right on the method of meditation will become an obstacle on the path of love. The paths must remain pure.

And you ask me. I have no insistence on the method of meditation, nor any insistence on the method of love. I have no path. When you come to me, I look at you and tell you which is your path. I am not trying to make you walk on my path—that is not my effort. I look at you. Seeing you, I determine what your path will be. I have no attachment to any path—I am utterly non-insistent. Therefore if a woman comes, I set her toward love and prayer. Sometimes a man comes who is full of heart; I set him too on prayer. Sometimes a woman comes in whom the sprouting of love will not be possible; I set her on meditation.

Then prayer too has many forms. Islam has its own manner of prayer; Hindus have their own. And meditation too has infinite forms. The Jains’ is different, the Buddhists’ is different, Patanjali’s is different, Lao Tzu’s is different.

I look at you.
Understand this well.

There are two ways. One, that I have a path: then it doesn’t matter who you are; if you are to walk on my path, I will choose. I will take only those who can walk on my path, and not those who would distort my path. To them I will say, “This path is not for you—go find some other temple.”

In Buddha there is a chosen path of Buddha. In Mahavira there is a chosen path. I have no insistence on any path. I am not making you walk on my path. You can call this my path—that I want to set you on your own path. I look at you closely; you are more precious to me than any path. Each individual is valuable to me.

In the Talmud there is a saying of the Jews: “Even a single person is more valuable than the whole of creation.” I endorse that. Each person is so precious that if you put the whole creation on one pan of the scales and a single person on the other, the single person will prove the heavier. Such is the dignity of the person.

I look at you; I tell you what will be fitting for you. Therefore I accept everything. Go toward the Divine dancing—my blessings are with you. Go with eyes closed, absorbed in meditation—my blessings are with you. Go like a woman, go like a man—these are only styles of going; the arrival is at the same destination.

God is one; his names are many. Truth is one, but the roads to it are many. I accept all roads. And every road can be effective. It depends on whether the road harmonizes with you or not.

So my eye is on you. I do not worry about the medicine; I worry about the patient. I choose the medicine according to the patient. There are physicians who have fixed the medicine; they say, “Only those patients for whom it suits should come here; others will have no benefit.”

Mahavira has a sect; Buddha has a sect; I have no sect. I am sectless.

Mahavira has a particular ghat; he is a tirthankara. From that ghat he launches the boat.

I have no ghat. The boat is with me; from whichever ghat you want to embark, and at whichever ghat you want to land, that boat will serve there—the whole Ganges is mine.

That’s all for today.