Bin Ghan Parat Phuhar #6

Buddha has known the Divine through emptiness. As he has known, so he can make others know. He can lead you only along the path he himself has walked. To take you by a path he has not trodden would be dangerous; guidance there would be impossible.

It is not that Buddha does not know that one can also arrive by the other path. But even to say that one can arrive by another path would uproot your single-pointed trust in one way. Out of compassion for you he refutes the other way, because you are already so entangled. Your entanglement is precisely this: you cannot come to a conclusion. Not concluding is your disease.

If Buddha were to say, one reaches through emptiness and also through fullness; from the East as well as the West; then in your state of indecision you would become even more undecided. Therefore Buddha presses: only through emptiness does one arrive. And when he says, “not through fullness,” all he means is: only through emptiness. He is not saying anything about fullness itself. He is only saying this much: you, who are listening, I would not like to increase your indecision. You have already wandered enough. He says with insistence: this alone is the path; the other path is wrong. Until it becomes clear to you that the other is wrong, you will not place your foot on this path at all.

That is why the wise have, many times, had to refute things they did not wish to refute—out of compassion for the ignorant!

But the ignorant is ignorant. Have compassion on him and still he will misunderstand. Buddha said that you can arrive through emptiness. To seat this firmly in your heart he said, you will not arrive through fullness; what you heard was: one cannot arrive through fullness, therefore going by fullness is futile. As for emptiness—when one cannot arrive through fullness, how could one arrive through emptiness! And these Buddhas seem ignorant because they argue, refute, give reasons. These Buddhas seem wrong—calling themselves right, calling the others wrong. This is what the ignorant heard. What was born of Buddha’s compassion, the ignorant heard through their stupidity.

There is an ancient story.

Jesus is running through a field. Seeing him run, the owner calls to him: “Where are you running? And in such a way—as if a lion were on your heels! There’s no one here; I see no one behind you!” But he is in such haste he cannot even stop to answer.

So the man follows along with him. After a furlong he catches up and says, “Listen—where are you running? Who is after you? Why are you so frightened? And I know you: you are the fragrance of the earth. Who could harm you? You gave eyes to the blind, ears to the deaf; I have heard you made birds out of clay and breathed life into them, and they flew into the sky; and you called the dead from their graves and they rose alive. What have you to fear? From whom are you running? Is what I have heard wrong?”

Jesus said, “No, what you have heard is right. I am the one at whose gesture eyes opened; at whose breath ears began to hear; who called even to life from mud and birds flew in the sky. I am the one at whose mantra the dead awoke—were resurrected. But do not stop me! Let me go.” Then he asked, “If you are that one, where are you running, from whom?”

Jesus said, “A fool is after me. I am running from him.”

The farmer laughed. He said, “You could give sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, life to the clay, you could resurrect the dead—does your power not work on a fool?”

Jesus said, “Never. I have tried all means on a fool. Nothing happens. I do one thing, another occurs. I intend one thing, other results come.”

The farmer asked, “Tell me just this much, then I’ll let you go: you succeeded with the blind, even with the dead—you mean a fool is in a worse condition than the dead? Before him your power did not work?”

Jesus said, “There is a reason. The blind wants his eyes opened; therefore my mantra works. The deaf wants his ears made whole; the dead too wants to be alive; even the mud longs—asks for life; so in what I do, they are with me. The fool, however, believes he is wise. Therefore there is no eagerness in him to eradicate his foolishness.”

Not only Jesus is running from fools; Buddha runs, Shankara runs as well.

Buddha, out of great compassion, said that only through emptiness will you arrive. But you, out of your egos, must have heard that this Buddha is also egoistic—he calls only his path right and the others wrong.

Buddha is not calling the other path wrong at all. He is only saying this much—which those who understand will understand—that I went by this path, through this I arrived; you too will arrive. And your mind is in such a dilemma that if I say, “You can arrive by both paths,” you will not move at all—you will remain seated at the crossroads. You will say, “First let the decision be made as to which path will take me there; only then is it right to walk—otherwise I might go wrong and wander far!”

Buddha explained; you did not hear. A thousand years, fifteen hundred years passed after Buddha; then Shankara appeared. Buddha had said, “You will arrive through emptiness.” Shankara saw: a very few of those who heard actually arrived; many others heard but did not understand and did not arrive; on the contrary, they got entangled in empty talk about emptiness, built a doctrine around shunya. They did not create a life of emptiness—as Sahajo says: sleeping in the void! They did not fashion such a life that they sleep in emptiness, rise in emptiness, walk in emptiness; they did not make a life of shunya, they made a scripture of shunya. They became shunyavadins. They were ever ready to refute anyone. No revolution happened in their own lives, yet in breaking others’ ideas they became very proficient.

So the current had to be changed.

Shankara said, “Only through fullness does one arrive. In emptiness, one goes astray.” And Shankara said it with the same force with which Buddha had spoken. And Shankara opposed emptiness just as strongly as Buddha had opposed fullness. And Shankara said, “Only the Full Brahman is the way.” But those who know say: Shankara is but Buddha in disguise. Those who know say: Shankara is saying exactly what Buddha said—only the word has been changed. If you look at Shankara’s definition of fullness, you will be amazed—it is the same as Buddha’s definition of emptiness.

What is emptiness? Formless, attributeless, beginningless–endless—this is Buddha’s definition of shunya. What is Brahman? Formless, attributeless, beginningless–endless—this is Shankara’s definition of the Full. Only the word changed. And the word changed because there was too much disturbance around “emptiness”; the word had become dirty. When Buddha used it, it was fresh like the dew of morning. When Buddha used shunya, it was the first time it had been used. Before that, “fullness” had been used too much; it had gone stale. So many had discoursed on it that there was no essence left in it; no life, no call; it no longer evoked an invitation—the word had become scholastic. Whenever a word becomes scholastic it becomes a stone on the path of sadhana, no longer a step. Then pundits begin to speculate on it and the wise leave it aside.

So Buddha abandoned the Upanishads’ “fullness.” Those who know say: there has been no greater rishi of the Upanishads than Buddha; the whole essence of the Upanishads is in Buddha. But he left the word “fullness,” left the word “Brahman,” and took hold of “emptiness.” He dropped affirmative expression and took up the negative. He denied the positive and accepted negation. God had been expounded too much as day; Buddha expounded him as night. God had been expounded too much as light; Buddha expounded him as darkness. He had been expounded too much as life; Buddha expounded him as death, as nirvana.

Death is just as divine. Night is as much God as day is.

One aspect had been missed; there had been too much talk—only talk remained; the air was smoky with words; a web of words had been woven. A fresh expression was needed; the Divine was in search of a new word with which to knock again on the hearts still untouched by the stupidity of scholarship; to call again to those who are innocent, guileless, simple. Buddha caught hold of “emptiness.” It was a significant word.

Consider: Buddha and Mahavira were born in the same era. Yet Buddha’s impact was unprecedented; Mahavira’s was not. Buddha’s thought spread across the world; its waves went to far horizons. Mahavira’s remained limited, reaching only a few. Both are equally wise. Both have the same experience. Both are mighty. One is not superior to the other, neither is behind. Then why did Mahavira’s thought not travel far? The reason was this: Mahavira used worn-out words. He invoked the Divine with old and stale words—“soul.” Buddha said, “no-soul.” The blow landed! Mahavira said, “the soul itself is knowledge.” Buddha said, “Soul? Soul is ignorance. No-soul—non-being, dissolution—is knowledge.”

They were contemporaries, but Buddha gave the Divine a new exposition, new meanings, novelty. The result of that novelty happened: he touched the untouched hearts.

Mahavira’s thought fell into the circle of pundits and was broken. People said, “All right—he is saying what has always been said.” But about Buddha one had to think.

But in fifteen hundred years, such a web of scriptures arose behind Buddha that all the Upanishads and Vedas paled. Behind Buddha alone there arose more philosophical controversies than behind any person in human history. So many scriptures were composed. They say: if you put together the scriptures of all religions and those of the Buddhists, the Buddhists’ are more. So much speculation went on; in fifteen hundred years a tempest arose. Often it happens: when Truth finds a fresh expression, great storms rise behind it: in favor, in opposition—there were friends, there were enemies; there were those whose houses had fallen, there were those building new houses. The old words were killed, new words were born. There was great turmoil. For fifteen hundred years, up to Shankara’s time, Buddha overshadowed all. But then the same happened to Buddha’s scriptures that Buddha had found in the condition of the Upanishads and Vedas: they died, were beaten down, became punditry—fit for university debate; there was no life left in them; they were no longer of use to the seeker, and the realized had no use for them.

Then intellect-centered analysis became important. Shankara turned the storm again. Shankara said: “Brahman is not emptiness; it is fullness.”

After an interval of fifteen hundred years, the word “fullness” came again new. The Upanishads received new life. The Vedas awoke again. Shankara re-established all that Buddha had broken.

And you will be astonished: both are engaged in the same work.

Neither is Buddha breaking the Upanishads, nor is Shankara preserving them. It is the very life of the Upanishads, the life of life, that Buddha is preserving and Shankara as well. What they are breaking is the outer shell. That always becomes dirty. Like when you dress a child today—he refuses to take off the old clothes. He says, “I am attached to them; this shirt is very dear to me; I don’t want to wear another.” But you know it is dirty, years old, full of holes—take it off.

The child thinks perhaps you are eager to make him naked—will he roam naked in sun, heat, cold? Why are you after his clothes? He loves them; he clings. But you change them. Change them once, and he becomes delighted: new clothes! His gait changes; he walks with joy. But after a year the same condition returns. This garment too becomes old; the moment of changing comes again.

The awakened are not opposed to anyone—they cannot be. For having awakened, they have found the One.

So neither is Shankara opposed to Buddha, nor Buddha to Shankara. They both are saying the same thing; only their mode of saying it differs.

And then you ask me that I support both.

This is right. Worth asking. Utterly essential.

Now even the dispute between them has become futile. Twenty-five hundred years have passed since Buddha, a thousand since Shankara; the dispute between them too has grown stale. Now the dialogue between them should receive a new momentum. Now someone is needed to say: this dispute is no dispute at all; both are saying the same thing. Therefore I support emptiness and I support fullness. This is a third gesture now. The matter is the same. I am saying what Buddha said; I am saying what Shankara said. But with this difference: I am twenty-five hundred years later.

Now Truth will take on a new meaning, a new expression. The same song must be sung in a new key, but the key must be new. The same melody must be played on a new instrument, but the instrument must be new. Shankara’s instrument has grown old, Buddha’s instrument has grown old. If you speak of emptiness now, it is old; if you speak of fullness now, it is old. The Divine is ever-new, because the Divine is eternal. That which is forever is forever new. So a new tone now... I say: Shankara’s emptiness, or Buddha’s fullness; or Buddha’s emptiness, or Shankara’s fullness—it is the tale of the One.

That is why Sahajo appeals to me.

One who “sleeps in the void and wakes in the Name.” Night is his, day is his. He sleeps in That and he wakes in That. The darkness of night is That, and the light of day is That. Both are glorious. It is your fear, your prejudice, that says, “God is like light,” because you are afraid of the dark. Darkness is That too. And when you are at peace you will find that darkness has its own dignity. Darkness has its own beauty—no light can compete with it. Darkness has its own peace. Light has its own delight. There is no question of comparison. Drink the light, and drink the dark. All the ghats are his. Do not see the Ganges bound by ghats. See the Ganges flowing free of ghats.

So I say: Shankara’s ghat is his, Buddha’s ghat is his. If you launch your boat from Buddha’s ghat, you will reach the far shore; and if you launch from Shankara’s, you will reach the far shore. But I say to you: wake up a little! The whole Ganges is his. Mohammed’s ghat is his; Jesus’ ghat is his; Zarathustra’s ghat is his. How many ghats will you build? The Ganges is vast. The paved ghats are few; the unpaved are his as well. Sahajo Bai, Kabir, Dadu—these are unpaved ghats, poor ghats. There is no marble on them, no precious stone. These are not the ghats of Kashi; they are rough, in the jungle. But if you launch from these too, you will cross.

From where ghats are built you will cross to the same far shore; from where they are not, you will cross to the same far shore. If you seek very cultivated ghats, there is Buddha’s, there is Shankara’s—refined, cultured, beautiful. There the fear of slipping is less—the stones are paved. There is also Sahajo Bai’s ghat, but there the stones are not paved; you may slip. You will also find mud.

But to launch from an unpaved ghat has its own joy.

On paved ghats there is the staleness of the oft-trodden; there are priests and pundits; there are guides; there is their noise and commotion. On unpaved ghats there is no one. You are alone. You must step into the boat relying on your own hands. There is no guide, no pathfinder, no one to give you a map. There is also the possibility of wandering. But then the thrill of arriving is greater.

I say, the whole Ganges is his. This will be a new note. And know this: I am saying what Buddha says; I am saying what Shankara says. Not a hair’s breadth of difference. Yet differences will appear in language, because people’s tastes change, people’s ways of understanding change, the folk-mind changes—because of this.

Nor does Shankara refute Buddha—what would Shankara or Buddha refute? The whole being of Shankara is an homage to Buddhahood. How would Buddha refute Shankara? How would Buddha refute the Upanishads and the Vedas? Although pundits say he is anti-Veda. The pundit is blind. Not even blind—stupid. For even a blind man’s eyes can be opened; no medicine works on the stupid. The stupid is one who imagines he knows and does not know, and is unwilling to remove his stupidity. In the world there is only one disease—stupidity—for its patient is unwilling to cure it; he protects it. Therefore all diseases go, stupidity does not. Jesus said it rightly: “I am running from a fool—do not stop me—he is after me.” There, all miracles are defeated.

Her emphasis is absolutely right. The difficulty is yours. Because you think about all these things; you don’t know them. Because of thinking, you always begin to see contradictions. In thought, opposition appears; in no-thought, non-opposition is revealed.

If I say to you there is a path of love and a path of meditation, you immediately see a conflict. If someone speaks of meditation, you say it is the opposite of love. If someone speaks of love, you say it is the opposite of meditation. How many times must it be said to you that love is the very name of the experience whose name is meditation! There isn’t an atom’s worth of difference between love and meditation. If there is any difference, it is not between love and meditation themselves, but merely in the small arrangements for reaching them.

Some of you have come here on foot, some by bicycle, some by car; some ran, some ambled; some came alone, some with someone. But what does any of that matter now that you are here, beside me? The moment you arrive, whether you came by cycle or on foot, alone or with company, becomes irrelevant. You’re not going to say, “I can’t sit next to this person; he came by bicycle, while I came on foot.” On the road there may have been a few annoyances—perhaps a twinge of envy seeing the cyclist as you walked; perhaps some anger, a touch of hostility, when the car sped past, splashing mud.

I have heard: a car driver stopped and asked a farmer by the road, “Where does this road go?” The farmer said, “Ask someone else.” The driver protested, “Brother, why can’t you tell me?” The farmer replied, “We are pedestrians. Ask someone with a car. Why should we tell you? We’re walkers—ours is a different sect. We go on foot; you go by car. What have we to do with each other? Ask someone else.”

Perhaps there were hurdles on the road, but once you arrive at the destination, the car man is no longer in his car, the cyclist no longer on his cycle, the walker no longer on his feet—everyone has alighted from their vehicle; all vehicles are left behind.

Meditation is a vehicle—and meditation is the destination too. Love is a vehicle—and love is the destination too. As vehicles, love and meditation appear different; as destination, they are not different. They are both the means and the end. Through them you arrive, and upon them you arrive.

So remember, constantly: whenever I discuss love and meditation, I speak in two ways. When I speak as to means, I say they are different; when I speak as to the end, I say they are one.

“Sahjobai’s path is love, devotion, surrender, guru-worship. Then why does she begin to emphasize inwardness, the inner journey, and dispassion?”

Because there is no opposition. If love is perfected, dispassion (vitaraga) will inevitably flower. If dispassion is perfected, from it an unbroken stream of love will begin to flow.

What does vitaraga mean? It means one who has risen above attachment and passion (raga). And what is the essential meaning of love? One who has risen above lust (kama).

When will you learn to look through words? Why do words so easily snag your eyes?

Love means freedom from attachment; vitaraga means the same. “Vitaraga” is the meditators’ word; “bhakti,” devotion, is the lovers’ word. That’s the only complication—there is no other. If you ask Mahavira, he will say “vitaraga.” If you ask Meera, Sahjo, Daya, Chaitanya, they will say “love, devotion.” And you get stuck.

Surrender? What difference is there between inwardness and surrender? When you surrender yourself, to whom do you surrender? Do you know? When you surrender yourself, it is your outwardness that you surrender—what else have you to give? You lay your ego at the feet. What then remains within is inwardness itself. The extrovert self drops; you renounce it. What remains is inwardness—your pure being.

You ask: “Guru-worship and the inner journey…?”

The guru is outside. But the outer guru is merely a ladder leading to the inner guru. When you lay yourself completely at the feet of the outer guru, open your eyes and you will find that the outer guru has bid you farewell. It was your outward mode of seeing that made the guru appear outside. Suddenly you find this music is resounding within. This is no one outside—someone within is speaking.

I have heard: a fakir came to a mosque. Perhaps he was a little late; people were already dispersing. He said, “Brothers, the congregation is breaking up so quickly. Why such haste? Pray more slowly, more gently.” One man said, “You don’t blame yourself for coming late, and you blame the congregation. The Prophet has completed the prayer.” This is a story from Muhammad’s time. “The Prophet has completed the prayer. Now what is there to do, sitting in the mosque?”

Hearing that the prayer was over, they say tears flowed from the fakir’s eyes, and a deep sigh escaped his lips. Those nearby felt that his sigh was extraordinary—it touched them. It seemed deeper than prayer. Not only did a sigh come, but people felt they caught the scent of his burning heart in it. A smoke rose, as if a flame had leapt out. One man fell at his feet and said, “Brother, don’t grieve so much. If you will give me your sigh, I will give you all my prayers. Don’t be so sorrowful.”

A bargain was struck. The fakir gave his sigh; the man gave his prayers. That night, the man who had taken the sigh and given his prayers suddenly heard in his sleep: “Blessed are you! You took the sigh—there is no prayer greater than a sigh. You took the flame—ultimately, only the flame brings fulfillment. You took his longing, the pain of his very life-breath; today the kingdom of heaven is yours. And God is so delighted that, seeing people still ready to give away their prayers to obtain a sigh, in that joy all the prayers offered on earth today have been granted.”

When a profound thirst for the divine arises within you, you will not find God outside—you will find him hidden in that very thirst. Thirst itself becomes prayer. When a deep sigh wells up within you, in that very sigh you will find the distilled essence of existence.

When you bow your head at a guru’s feet, what is it that bows? It is your outward way of seeing that bows—your externality, your ego. And when you rise after bowing—if the bowing has been real—you will find the guru has departed from the outside; now he is within you. You will begin to hear his voice within you day and night; he becomes your inner veena. The outer guru is only an instrument to awaken the inner guru. If you surrender, the outer guru becomes one with the inner guru.

Whom do you call “guru”?

We call that one a guru in whom you have glimpsed your own ultimate form—what you long to be, what your innermost wants you to be; in whom you have seen such a glimpse. In whose voice you have heard your own inward note; what you wanted to say but could not, and in another’s speech you heard that very tone. As you would have your touch be, and in another’s hand you felt that same magic. As you would have your eyes be, and looking into another’s eyes you found those very eyes. In whom you have found yourself, found your destiny—that one is the guru.

So remember: your guru need not be everyone’s guru. The guru is a personal experience. What resonates with you need not resonate with all. Some will be attuned to Buddha, to the talk of emptiness; some to fullness, to Shankara. But one thing is certain: whenever a guru truly fits you, at that very moment you disappear. Guru and disciple cannot remain together. As long as there are two, the guru has not yet been found. When suddenly the guru is found, the disciple is lost. And then within yourself you find…

If you have seen your guru in me, you will soon begin to find that I am speaking within you. Even if I am speaking from outside, you will find that I am writing what in you lies unwritten, reading what in you lies unread. Suddenly you will find: you could have discovered this within yourself, but you lacked the arrangement to search. I have only shown you what, had you the eyes, you would have seen within. I am not teaching you anything new. I am only awakening what you had forgotten.

So that is all the meaning of “guru.”

Do not ask: Sahjobai speaks of guru-worship, then why does she begin talking of the inner journey! If the guru has been worshiped, the inner journey has begun—because the guru is within. That is why Hindus have sung: “Guru is Brahma, Guru is Vishnu, Guru is Mahesh.” He is the ultimate, the final, the divine.

That is why Sahjo says: “Hari ko taj darun pai guru na bisarun!” For Hari—the divine—was like a closed book; the guru opened it. Hari was hidden within, but who would awaken you, who would alert you? The guru awakened and alerted you. The guru is giving you back to yourself. Therefore he is the inner journey.

Do not get too entangled in the words “devotion” and “meditation.” Do not get entangled in words at all. Words are to awaken you. You are to walk toward the wordless. Use words well, but do not make them chains. And always remember: in the realm of religion, words that appear opposite are, in truth, not opposed; they are complementary.

If love moves rightly, if devotion flowers, meditation will be attained. If meditation moves rightly, if samadhi happens, devotion will be attained.

They are two sides of the same coin.

You have to understand.

Certainly I said that if you keep feeling you are content, then know that somewhere within some trace of discontent still remains. Some line of discontent is there. Otherwise, how will you weigh contentment, how will you recognize it? For weighing, the opposite is needed. If a scale has only one pan, how will you weigh? The other pan must also hold a weight.

So when it seems to you, “I am content,” somewhere inside discontent is still present. In comparison with that, it seems, “I am content.” When supreme contentment arrives, then you neither come to know that you are discontent nor that you are content. Yes, if someone asks, that is another matter. It doesn’t occur to you on its own. If someone asks, “Are you content?” you will say—certainly! If no one asks, no news arises within that “I am content.” There is no longer any cause or purpose for such news to arise.

Then the question comes: Sahajobai herself being a saint, says: “Saadh sukhi, Sahajo kahai”—“Sahajo says, the saint is happy!” Does that mean the saint has not yet been fulfilled?

There is a difference in Sahajo’s statement. Sahajo is not saying, “I am happy, says Sahajo.” If she were saying that, then sorrow would still be there. She is not saying—“I am happy, says Sahajo”—she is not saying this at all. She is simply giving a definition; she is not saying anything about herself. She is saying it the way one would say, “Look, the sun has risen, morning has come,” or “Look, the birds are singing.” She is not speaking about herself at all. She is making a statement relating to a fact. “Saadh sukhi, Sahajo kahai!” She is saying that a saint is happy. And the definition of happiness is the very one I have given: even happiness does not know itself as happiness. The saint is happy—this much Sahajo is saying. It is simply a definition of saintliness. There is no personal statement in it about herself or about anyone else. It is an indication regarding a principle: the saint is happy, the un-saintly are unhappy. If you find someone unhappy, understand he is un-saintly. If you find someone happy, understand he is a saint. And I tell you, happy is only the one to whom it does not even occur whether he is unhappy or happy. The one to whom happiness and unhappiness do not occur—that one is happy. And that one is a saint.

Just four days ago a woman came. She told me she was very unhappy because of her husband. He is immoral, of bad character.

I said to her: If he is immoral, let him be unhappy. His immorality will make him unhappy—why are you unhappy? I have never heard that one person commits immorality and someone else becomes unhappy. If you are unhappy, the cause must be within you. His immorality cannot be the cause of your unhappiness. His immorality will be the cause of his unhappiness. But I know your husband; he is not unhappy. He may be immoral, but he is not unhappy.

And I said: If someone can be immoral and still be happy, then he is more of a saint than you—you are virtuous and yet not happy. You are performing a miracle! Your husband is performing a miracle too! He may be immoral, yet he is happy. You may be virtuous, yet you are unhappy. In your virtue there is some hidden immorality, and in your husband’s immorality there is some kind of order. Otherwise what is happening could not happen.

So I said to her: Take this as your touchstone—whenever you are unhappy, understand that something un-saintly is within you, because unhappiness is linked to un-saintliness. You are not unhappy because of your husband’s immorality. You are unhappy because of your expectation that your husband should be virtuous. You think you are so virtuous, enduring so much hardship in restraint and righteous conduct, and your husband is enjoying. You too want to enjoy. Inside you want the same as your husband, but you do not have the courage.

You are becoming unhappy because of yourself. If you want to be immoral, then be immoral—but at least don’t be unhappy. If you want to be happy, then be happy—but don’t carry the burden of being virtuous.

And my understanding is that if a person truly seeks happiness in life, virtue happens of its own accord, because happiness does not bear fruit so long as there is immorality. I do not tell you to be virtuous; I tell you to be happy. For centuries you have been told to be virtuous; you have only become unhappy—nothing else has happened.

I tell you to be happy. For me, happiness is the measure.

You have always been told: if you do merit, happiness will come. I tell you: if you are happy, you are meritorious. You have been told: if you sin, you will suffer. I tell you: if you are suffering, you are a sinner.

Unhappiness is sin; happiness is merit.

And when a person begins to see rightly, Sahajo’s definition becomes clear. She is not saying anything about herself. Had she spoken about herself, I would not even have spoken on Sahajo; the matter would have been useless. If she had said, “I, Sahajo, am happy,” it would have been obvious that this woman is still unhappy, covering it up, imagining happiness and persuading herself. She would be speaking of happiness, and on her face you would find sorrow. But Sahajo does not speak of herself.

Properly understood, a happy person does not talk about himself. Only unhappy people talk about themselves. You know this too. Meet an unhappy person—he goes on talking, goes on lamenting his sorrow. Have you ever found someone proclaiming his happiness with laughter?

The unhappy are found weeping; happiness you do not find being proclaimed with laughter.

Whom to tell happiness to? People guard happiness. Kabir has said: “Found a diamond, tied the knot.” Having found the diamond, a man ties it into his garment and disappears. He does not wander in the crowd saying, “I found a diamond.” One who finds happiness ties it in his knot and quietly disappears. The unhappy shout, “I am very unhappy.” The unhappy shout because they think perhaps by saying it the sorrow will lessen. The happy guard it, because by guarding it happiness grows.

Happiness is a seed. Hide it deep, in your innermost—it will sprout, grow, bring great fruit and great flowers.

Had Sahajo said, “I, Sahajo, am happy,” I would not have spoken on her. No—she has not spoken of herself at all. She is stating a pure, scientific definition: “Saadh sukhi, Sahajo kahai!” A saint is happy—this is what Sahajo says.

If you grasp its deepest meaning, it is simply this: if you are happy, you are a saint. And what is the definition of happiness? I tell you: where you do not come to know it at all—because what is known is of unhappiness. Does happiness ever get known?

When the head aches, you become aware of the head. When there is no ache, do you come to know the head? If the head is absolutely healthy, you do not even know where it is. Only when there is some weight, heaviness, pain, some trouble, some worry inside, some obstruction, then the head is noticed. Head means headache. Apart from headache, where is the head? One whose headache is utterly absent is headless—he has no head. When the body is noticed, the body is sick. Breath is noticed when there is some trouble in breathing. If there is a cold, you notice the breath; otherwise, the breath goes on—who notices? The healthier you are, the less the body is noticed.

And the same is the inner formula I give you. If it is very noticeable to you that “I am,” then understand that your soul is ill. The feeling of “I” is the illness of the soul. When you are—without any feeling of “I”—then the soul is healthy; then you have come home.

Therefore Buddha also rightly said that there is no soul. That is the definition of a healthy soul—anatta—no-self. In saying “self” the disease has already entered. They say “I”—the meaning of self is “I”—so if the “I” is felt, some disturbance is still there. When it is not felt at all, only open sky remains—emptiness.

Saadh sukhi, Sahajo kahai.

Practice devotion without desire! Nishkama bhakti—desireless devotion. So devotion can be of two kinds: one with desire, one without desire. With desire means: some demand. Without desire means: no demand. Without desire means: the joy is in devotion itself. You dance and sing; dance, kirtan, bhajan are themselves the goal. You sing because singing is bliss. You dance because dancing is bliss. There is no reward beyond the dance. After dancing we will not wait before God saying, “We danced so long; now give us a prize, now let us go home.”

A devotee’s dance is not the dance of a courtesan, who dances while waiting for a payoff. A devotee’s dance is the dance of existence—there is nothing further to ask for. The dance is the final moment of joy, ahobhava—a sense of wonder.

So desireless devotion means: devotion itself is bliss. Devotion with desire means: devotion is a means to obtain something else; if that comes, then joy will come. “There is no son—let a son be born; let us win the court case; there is no money—let money come; let me get a position, win the election—something or other.” At election time all the politicians go searching for true masters, for someone’s blessing. They show up in temples, start mantras and tantras, begin visiting astrologers. In Delhi there isn’t a single politician without his own astrologer, whom he keeps asking, “Will I win or not—which mantra should I employ, which amulet should I wear, from where should I bring sacred ash, at which Sai Baba’s feet should I fall?” Somehow to find a trick from somewhere. But will you call this devotion? This is devotion in name only. This maligns devotion—hardly even the name remains.

Sahajo says: Practice devotion without desire! “Whatever is spoken is the tale of Hari; practice devotion without desire!” Speaking itself is God’s story. No difference remains. Whatever is spoken is Hari-katha! Every word is his remembrance. Even in silence it is remembrance—speaking or not speaking. And now devotion is a way of life; it is life’s joy.

Now understand your question.
The question arises: “How can the devotee and God remain separate?”
When devotion becomes desireless and Sahajo has attained nonduality, attained the One, then “whose devotion?”
In desireless devotion, the asking itself has gone, and even to ask “for whom” is wrong. In desireless devotion there is no God either—devotion itself is God. Desireless devotion does not mean that devotion is being done for God, or before God. In desireless devotion—when no desire remains in you—then who is the devotee and who is God; who is the receiver and who the giver? It was by virtue of your desire that you were a beggar and there was some God. When your desire is gone, then who is God and who is the devotee? The devotee disappears the very day desire disappears. God too disappears the very day desire disappears. Then both banks are lost; only the current in the middle remains. The name of that midstream current is devotion.
The lover is lost, the beloved is lost; love remains. The meditator is lost, the object of meditation is lost; meditation remains. When we say nonduality, do not think that the devotee remains or that God remains. They were both parts of duality—devotee and God. Neither the devotee remains nor God remains. Between the two a wholly new happening occurs—that is devotion.

Practice devotion without desire! Now Sahajo—if you ever find her dancing somewhere—if you meet her, don’t ask: “For which God are you dancing?” She will say, “The dancing is God.” Don’t ask, “Why are you dancing?” She will say, “I am not. Only the dance remains.”
In the dance, from that side God is lost; from this side the devotee is lost. Devotion has now become desireless. As long as I am, some desire will remain. Only when I disappear will desire disappear; and if desire disappears utterly, there is no way for me to remain.

So first, devotion has two forms—devotion with desire, which it is not even right to call devotion; and then desireless devotion. Then even desireless devotion has two stages. One: when the devotee asks for nothing, asks only for God—but that too is asking. The devotee says, “I do not want wealth, nor position, nor prestige—only you.” This desire has become very pure, utterly pure—no impurity remains in it—but a desire is still a desire.

I have heard: An emperor went to war. When he began to return after conquering kingdoms, bringing boundless wealth, he sent a message home. He had a hundred wives; he sent word, “What shall I bring for you? Each of you declare your own wish.” One said, “Bring diamonds and jewels,” another asked for something else, another for something else. Different women had different tastes.
But one queen said, “Just come yourself. Nothing else is needed. Come home soon.”
Naturally he brought something for all the queens. But this queen became very dear to him. She asked for nothing. She asked only for him.
Her love is the purest of all—but still, she asked.

If even such a demand remains of God, even then the devotee will not dissolve. Between the two a very pure light will begin to burn; great purity will arise between devotee and God—but both will still remain. They will not yet have melted away completely.
But when the devotee does not even ask that—because the devotee knows: what is there to ask? God is already attained! Asking was the mistake; it was because we were asking that he did not seem attained—he is already attained. The day this ahobhava, this wonder-struck recognition, is born, that day there is neither any devotee nor any God. That day God dances in the devotee. That day, in the dance, both devotee and God merge.

“Whatever I utter is Hari’s tale—whatever I say is Hari’s tale.” Kabir has said: “Getting up and sitting down is circumambulation.” Now I do not go to a temple to circumambulate—rising and sitting is circumambulation.
Such is the ultimate state—beyond all states. Such a state—supreme bliss.

Sex-centered love is climbing down the ladder; the ladder is the same. Love-centered sex is climbing up the ladder; the ladder is the same. The difference is in direction.

When you love someone in order to fulfill desire, lust, then love is only a pretext, a lure; it isn’t real. The gaze is fixed on sex.

Ramakrishna has said: a kite flies in the sky, but its eyes are fixed on the refuse heap below; there lies a dead rat, and the gaze is fastened there. Seeing a kite flying high, don’t assume it is really lofty. However high it may fly, its eyes are set very low.

Sex-centered love is that kite flying in the sky. Its eyes are on the dead rat. It is merely preparing—waiting for a chance to swoop.

Ramakrishna said, one day I saw a kite fly off with a rat. Other kites attacked it. That kite tried every defense, but there was no escape—torn, battered. In panic and struggle the rat slipped from its beak. The moment the rat fell, the other kites left it alone and flew away. They were after the rat; they had nothing to do with the kite. Now the kite sat on a tree and rested.

Ramakrishna said: such is the state of the one who drops sex and sits in the restfulness of love. Then nothing pursues him—no rivalry remains, no struggle.

In sex there is competition. In love there is no competition. The moment you begin to rise in love, your gaze is no longer downward. The ladder is the same; placing your feet on the same rungs you move upward. And from the rung beside you someone else is moving downward. The rungs are the same. It can happen that you are both standing on the third rung. You stand on the same rung, yet your states are not the same: the other is going down, you are going up. No outward difference—but the gaze is different. And there is a great difference, because one is looking upward—his sex will become love, and from love compassion will be born. You have no inkling of compassion yet. Even your love is in name only; it is eager to become sex—that is the descent.

Sex can drown even love; love can redeem even sex.

So keep attentive that love is primary in your life. If sex enters at all, let it be a limb of love. If you have bodily relations with someone, let them be the shadow of your spiritual relatedness—no more than that.

If the inner, spiritual relationship is there, bodily relations become sacred—like a shadow. But if the bodily relationship is everything, and the soul-relationship is only the shadow of the bodily, then even that soul-relationship becomes false, soiled, impure.

Remember, direction is crucial. With the higher, even the lower acquires a certain nobility. With the lower, even the higher starts to sink. Keep this in mind: let the perimeter of your higher encompass your lower—do not let the perimeter of your lower swallow your higher. Let the circle of your higher be large, so that small things, if they come, come within it.

Have you ever noticed? A poor man, a beggar—give him a diamond ring. No one even looks at the ring. People assume it must be a piece of glass. Give a piece-of-glass ring to a rich man, an emperor, and thousands of eyes will fall upon it, thinking it must be the Kohinoor diamond. With the emperor, even a shard of glass becomes the Kohinoor; with a beggar, even the Kohinoor looks like a shard of glass.

So it is. With love, even sex becomes a Kohinoor; with sex, even love becomes a piece of glass.

Emphasis, weight, direction—attend to that. What you do is not important; what larger design what you do belongs to—that is important. The meaning of each of your acts is the outcome of the larger style of your life. What you do is not important; what you are is important.

There is an old Sufi tale.

An emperor was passing through a forest and lost his way. He was pleased to see a man sleeping under a tree—perhaps he could ask for the path. As he came near he saw the man’s mouth open—as some people sleep—and a snake was sliding into it. The emperor glimpsed only the tip of the tail. He lifted his whip and began to beat the man. Startled from sleep, the man couldn’t understand a thing. Hands folded, he cried, What are you doing? Why are you beating me? Whom have I harmed? O God! What wretch have I met! And this man is powerful, astride a great horse—there’s no way to fight him! The emperor forced him to eat whatever rotten fruit lay around. The man refused, and the emperor kept whipping him; he wept while he ate, the stench was nauseating. The emperor beat him so much and made him eat so many rotten fruits that he finally vomited and collapsed. When he vomited, the snake came out with the vomit.

Seeing the snake, he still didn’t understand what had happened. Then he fell at the emperor’s feet: Your great grace—you beat me, made me eat that filth, and made my body bleed. Blessed am I. God sent you at the right moment—otherwise I would have died. But tell me one thing. If you had told me a snake had gone into me, I wouldn’t have abused you and cursed you.

The emperor said: If I had told you, it would have been impossible to get the snake out. You would have died of panic. My beating you didn’t kill you. If I had told you a snake was inside you, I could never have made you eat the fruit—you would have fainted; the whole thing would have become impossible. So I had to restrain myself from telling you, and just beat you. Vomiting was the first need. Somehow the snake had to be thrown out.

On the basis of this story the Sufis have a proverb—you may have heard the proverb even if not the story:
“A wise enemy is better than a foolish friend.”
A wise enemy is better than a foolish friend. This man was wise. It looked like enmity—he beat him till he bled—but he was wise; even his enmity bore fruit. A foolish friend, and the life would have been lost. The real issue isn’t friendship or enmity—the real issue is understanding.

I am telling you: within the great circle of understanding, even enmity becomes significant, precious, valuable.

If sex joins hands with love, sex also becomes a cause that can take you to Ram—to God. And if love gets tied to sex, then love—which always lifts you upward—also becomes a cause for descent. It is necessary to understand the alchemy and the arithmetic of life properly, because it is a delicate matter. Only if you understand it rightly will it bear fruit in your life. Always be mindful: whatever you are doing, how does it fit into a larger whole? The act itself is not the value; what significance does it have within the larger whole—where will it ultimately lead you, where will it take you, what will the final outcome be? Then, many times you may do acts others call wrong, but you know they are not wrong—because through them you are traveling toward the higher. Then even poison can be used like nectar. It doesn’t matter whether others call it right or wrong; within you there is a perspective, a vision. You know that what you are doing is linked to that vast sky—then there is no fear.

Do everything keeping God in view, for there is no larger unit than that. Paramatma—God—means our idea of the largest possible unit. Keep that in view. Even if you steal, do it keeping God in view—then even stealing will turn meritorious. And if you do virtuous deeds but keep the ego in view, then virtue will turn into sin. Do not bind yourself to the small, to the petty. The petty drowns; the vast saves.

That is why I keep insisting: even in lovemaking, keep samadhi in view. Naturally this has had frightening consequences. People failed to understand. They thought perhaps I was teaching people sex. It was from such people that Jesus was running.

I am only saying: tie your small to the vast. That great boat will ferry even your small across, and ultimately your small will be refined as well. And this should be the art of life—that even the small is refined and becomes sacred; that even the bad turns auspicious; that even sin is put to use so it need not be thrown away. It is said a true sculptor does not discard crooked stones; he knows how to use them too. It depends on the sculptor. And if you don’t know how to use what you have, how will you move ahead? You must begin walking from where you are.

Sex is your present condition; samadhi is the possibility.

Only from sex will you place step by step your feet toward samadhi—then you will arrive. If you decide there is no bridge between sex and samadhi, how will you reach? Surely there must be a bridge between ignorance and knowledge, between the small and the vast. Otherwise the small will remain small—how will it reach the vast? There must be a path between you and God. However far God may be, there must be a connection somehow—that is all I am saying. Without connection, the matter ends there. However far you are from God, in some way you must also be near—otherwise the wandering will never end. How will you return home? Even if a single thread remains connected, it is enough. That is all I am saying. There is a thread of samadhi connected even to sex. Don’t focus on sex; focus on the thread. That very thread will lift you. One day you will find sex has dissolved, samadhi has ripened.

Even in sex, search for love. Even in sex, keep your attention on love. Whatever you feed with attention wins. Attention is food; attention is energy. Even in the worst, try to see the auspicious; that very auspiciousness will help you transcend.

There is a great difference between sex-centered love and love-centered sex.

The words are the same in both. “Sex-centered love” also has three words: sex, centered, love. “Love-centered sex” also has the same three words: love, centered, sex. Yet how vast the difference! One builds the world; one creates liberation. The ladder is the same. Descend, and you get the world. Climb, and the Divine is attained.

There is no diversity in vision; the diversity is in expression. What has been seen is one. Yes, what has been said is many. “Ekam sat viprā bahudhā vadanti”—Truth is one; the wise speak of it in many ways. The knowers have seen that One; they have spoken of it in many ways because there are many ways to speak. There are not many ways to see, for as long as a way of seeing remains, it will not be seen.

Understand this.
As long as a viewpoint remains, there is no vision. As long as you carry a viewpoint, a way of seeing, a pair of spectacles, you will color it; you will not see what is, you will see what you could see, what you wanted to see. You will project yourself onto it.

The moment vision is free of viewpoint, vision happens.
When you have no “eye” left—meaning your eye has become pure. When you are no longer Hindu or Muslim; neither Jain nor Christian; neither Parsi nor Sikh. When you stand before the Divine utterly pure and empty and say: I have no standpoint. I am only a mirror. As you are, so reflect. I will add nothing, subtract nothing. I have nothing to add or subtract; now I am not. Now You are, and I am the mirror.

The day the viewpoint dissolves—the naya that Mahavira spoke of dissolves—on that day, in that state of pure naya, of pure seeing, vision becomes available. The vision is one. But when we go to speak of it, differences arise. Suppose someone has seen God, known Truth; the rain of bliss begins—showers without clouds—nectar starts to pour; now it has to be said. How to say it? What has happened is so vast, so immense, it won’t fit—this heart is too small. The ocean has leapt into the drop. It’s a great difficulty. Now it has to be expressed.

Meera will express it by dancing, because dancing is easy for Meera; it belongs to her very being. This happening of bliss has occurred—Meera won’t put it into words; she is not a mistress of words. It will radiate from every pore of her being. She will dance. “Tying bells to her feet, Meera danced!” With nothing else to do, she tied bells to her ankles and began to dance. There was no other way. That was natural for her; it was the samskara of her whole life. When bliss struck there, dance was born.

Buddha did not dance; it was not in his temperament. When that blow of bliss came, he fell silent; a vast stillness descended—he did not speak for seven days. It is said the gods prayed to him. Brahma himself came, fell at his feet, and said: Please speak. Such a one awakens only once in centuries. For those wandering in darkness, your speech will become a lamp. Your words can become the cause of their coming out. Do not remain silent.

But Buddha said: I have no desire to speak. I can speak of that bliss only by remaining silent. If I speak, I will spoil it. I will not be able to say it by saying it. And I am not confident that the listeners will understand. Had someone told me this before realization, I too would not have understood. It cannot be said at all; only silence can be kept. One who can understand will understand even in silence; and one who cannot, will not understand even if I speak.

Buddha insisted stubbornly on remaining silent. He was neither willing to dance nor to speak. The gods deliberated at length that somehow Buddha must be persuaded to speak. They returned with an argument to which Buddha had no reply, and he agreed. They said: You are absolutely right—of a hundred who hear, ninety-nine will not understand. But do you say that not even one in a hundred will understand?

Buddha said: The one who can understand by hearing me will, sooner or later, understand even without hearing me; and the one who cannot understand even after hearing me—no matter how much I batter my head—nothing will come of it.

The gods said: You are absolutely right. But between these two there may be one person who, if he does not hear, will wander very long, and if he does hear, will cross over. Speak for that one. Grant that he will be one in millions. But Buddhahood comes to one in millions—if even one receives it, that is much. Speak for that one.

So Buddha spoke.
Buddha’s speaking is exquisitely refined. He did not utter even a single thing that might become an obstacle. Therefore he did not speak of God. He is rigorously rational: to talk of God is not right; talking creates confusion. And those who have talked had to attach caveats—like Lao Tzu: “The truth that can be spoken is not the true”—and then he had to speak! So Buddha says: What cannot be spoken, do not speak at all; do not even say that it cannot be spoken, for that too is saying. Thus he spoke in a supremely refined way. The purest statements are Buddha’s. But only those can grasp them who are filled with equally pure intelligence.

Another may understand Meera; someone may be seized by dance from her dance. A third may find a third way.

When Nanak was enlightened, he took along his boyhood companion Mardana and set out singing. Someone would come and ask Nanak: Is there God? Nanak would say, Mardana, strike up. Mardana would pluck his instrument, and Nanak would sing. That was the answer. Someone would ask about God, karma, doctrine—this or that—whenever anyone asked anything, he would say, Mardana, strike up.

That was his answer; song was his answer. Because he would say: what it is, is so great, it cannot be said in prose; it cannot be explained by logic; it can only be sung. Perhaps a song will strike you somewhere.

Then innumerable forms manifest. Those are forms of expression, not of vision—remember this. The vision is of the One. But when people descend with the news of that supreme light, when they come to earth—to your markets, your temples and mosques—when they look at you—having seen God, and then looking at you—when they become the medium between the two, then the medium will differ, because every person has a unique capacity. Meera can dance; Nanak can sing; Buddha can speak; Shankara can reason. Shankara lifted the banner and traversed the land—he reasoned and reasoned. It is hard to find a greater logician than Shankara; he kept explaining the Divine by logic, refuting the arguments of the atheists. That was his capacity; he was a reasoning type.

In this way there have been thousands upon thousands. Their vision one; their expressions different. Do not pay too much attention to their expression. What is hidden within the expression—what Nanak is saying by singing, what Meera is saying by dancing, what Buddha is saying by speaking, what Shankara is arguing for—about That, no argument can be made; about That, no speech can explain; it cannot be sung into you; it cannot be shown by dance. It is unsayable—no statement can be made about it. But: looking toward the Divine, no statement is possible; looking toward you, statements seem necessary. Looking toward the Divine, one falls silent—there is nothing to say; looking toward you, it seems there is much to say—perhaps someone may hear. It is that “perhaps”—perhaps someone may hear. Still, that “perhaps” is worth attempting.

The ignorant lives in “if,” and the wise in “perhaps.”

Understand this. The ignorant keeps thinking: if this had happened, if that had happened—about the past: If I had done such a thing, such a result would have come. If I had taken that gamble, I would have gotten so much money; if I had bought that lottery ticket, today I would have had a hundred thousand rupees. “If.”

Mohammad used to say you can recognize how ignorant a person is by his “ifs.” He mentions a man who was looking for a house. He met a friend on the road and said: I need a house, help me. The friend said: Ah, there’s a house lying vacant for many days. We’ll get it right now. Come. The man was delighted—he was troubled, he couldn’t find a house. He thought: by good fortune I met this friend, and a house is vacant—where do houses ever come by? But when he reached the house and saw it, his heart sank. It was a ruin.

The friend began to say: Look, if there were a roof on it, you could live here comfortably. And if the walls were proper, with doors and windows, then there would be no fear of theft. And if there were one or two more rooms next to it—since we are old friends—I too would come and live with you here.

The man said: Brother, you are very kind. But it is very hard to live in “if.” How can one live in “if”? Living near friends is always delightful, and meeting you is great fortune—but living in “if” is very difficult.

The ignorant lives in “if,” and the wise in “perhaps.” And even that “perhaps” is not for themselves, it is for you. For themselves, they live in existence. But for you there is a “perhaps”: perhaps you will hear; perhaps in some moment your inner being will be jolted, startled; perhaps something will strike you; perhaps something will disturb your sleep and you will open your eyes; perhaps your dream will break.

So Buddha labors for forty years in that very “perhaps.” Meera dances; Nanak sings. If they look toward themselves, there is nothing left to do—the matter is finished. No “if” remains, no “perhaps” remains. But looking toward you, a great compassion is born. The very energy that is lust in you becomes compassion in the knower. He cannot hold it back; it starts to flow. And what is the difference? If no one awakens, nothing is lost; if someone awakens, it is a great event. If none awaken, nothing is lost.

Because of this “perhaps,” there are so many expressions. If that “perhaps” were not, you would find no expression from the knowers; you would find them all sitting silent. What they have known is one, but those to whom it is to be said are many. And the one through whom it is to be said has his limitations. Hence the difference—difference due to their own limits, difference due to your understanding. The one has to be explained to the many. The one is realized, but it must be told in many ways. And then there is the limit of the person. Understand it like this: when electricity runs through a fan, the fan turns; when it runs through a bulb, there is light; when it runs through a radio, there is sound. The electricity is one, but the medium through which it runs… When the electricity of the Divine ran through Meera—“tying bells to her feet, Meera danced”; when it ran through Shankara, a great storm of logic arose. Neither logic is adequate, nor dance is adequate, because the Divine is so vast it does not fit into anything.

But however small a finger may be, it can still point to the moon. Whether the finger is beautiful, with diamond-studded rings, or the poor man’s dark, rough finger—it can still point. In pointing to the moon, what difference does the style of the finger make? The difference arises only when you grasp the finger and forget the moon.

Do not grasp the finger. Always keep your attention on the moon; forget the finger. Forget what is said; remember what cannot be said. Forget what is written; read what cannot be written. About that which is beyond telling—still, the great compassionate ones have tried to tell—do not clutch at their gesture; forget the gesture. Lift your eyes to the sky; see the moon in the sky—then you will find the finger of Mohammad, of Mahavira, of Krishna, of Christ—the fingers differ, the moon in the sky is one.

The vision is one; expression is many.

Enough for today.