Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #2

All names are untrue. The Divine is nameless. So whatever names have been given, or will be given, are all imagined. They certainly have a use, but none has any ultimate authenticity. Just as other names are imagined, so are the names of God.

A child is born nameless. We give him a name. Without a name, living would be difficult—how would anyone call him, how would a letter be addressed? Life would be encumbered. An artificial name becomes a helpful device in life; it has utility.

We call one tree a pipal, another neem, another mango; in truth none of them has any name. The mango itself wouldn’t even know that its name is mango. Yet the name is useful; it gives us ease in distinguishing. Wherever distinctions are needed, names are useful. But the Divine is a symbol of the whole of being, a symbol of the undivided, of the One. Where there are many, names are of use. Where there is no multiplicity, even utility loses its place.

Still, to give the news of him, for those who have met him and known him and wish to awaken others, there is a little utility—call him Ram, call him Omkar, call him Allah. But remember, he has no name. He cannot have a name. Do not forget the Nameless. Let the remembrance stay that behind the name the Nameless is hidden; then there is no danger in the name. But if the delusion arises that the name itself is the truth and the Nameless is forgotten, then a great mistake has happened. Then you will keep muttering Ram-Ram, keep saying Allah-Allah. Did not a lover say: the tongue grew tired from shouting and nothing was found, nothing came into hand. How could anything come to hand? Saying “water, water” does not quench thirst until you taste water. Be concerned with tasting; drop the concern with the name. Care about the flavor. And if the flavor is found, all is found.

In one sense he has no name at all. In another sense, the winds passing through the trees proclaim his name; the surging waves of the ocean chant his name; the streams descending from the mountains hum only him. Your heartbeat, the sound of your breath—whom do they remember? Even if you do not know it, the remembrance of him is going on. In countless forms he is being remembered. Someone remembers him as joy, someone as love, someone as beauty. Someone has heard a hint of him in music, in the strings of the veena.

Sitting here by me, you are listening to songs of his remembrance! The search is for him! To search for him is to search for yourself—your own nature.

…This is what the trees are singing,
this trembles in the quiver of the river’s wave,
this is the smile on the cataract’s falling drops.

…From this
the creepers will softly murmur,
unseen, the buds will shiver and fall;
clouds will mass,
cranes will take wing,
in the bushes birds will chirrup,
raise their plumage,
and suddenly scatter into flight;
dew will glitter with the joy of scattered color
in the first ray!

…In the spread of mist the whole creation
is bound by Shiva’s law—
this is the Name…
this is the Name—
which, when eager lips try to utter it,
they falter.

…Come close:
in the resonance of two awakened minds
that Name becomes music and finds voice.
Where are your two hands?
Cup them and give them to me:
the sheath of the red lotus
will begin to hum
with the Name—
with that Name…

Where there is love, there is prayer. And where there is prayer, there is God. Look into anyone’s eyes with love, and his name will rise up. Take someone’s hand in love, and his name will surface. In that way he has no name at all—and in that way all names are his. Because he alone is; only he is; there is none besides him. We are all his waves, the leaves and flowers of his tree! We are all his limbs! Neither are we without him, nor is he without us. We cannot be without him; the limb cannot be without the Whole. And remember this too—do not forget it: without the limb, the Whole cannot be either. Without the devotee there is no God, and without God there is no devotee. What happens between the devotee and God—that is his Name.

What happens? Hard to say. It has never been said; it can never be said. It happens quietly, in the silence of stillness, in an unprecedented emptiness. And when it happens, spring arrives in life! All the flowers bloom that had not bloomed for lifetimes. Songs begin to shower from life that you had never even imagined, that you could not have dreamed! Every pore of you fills with a certain joy, a certain celebration—an unfamiliar, unknown festival. Yet this was what you were seeking, this was the quest; this is what you were groping for—in the dark, through long dark nights, through births upon births, on who knows what planets and satellites, in countless ways! That which you had not seen—it was the longing to see it that kept you wandering. That which you had not heard—your very life was aching for its sweet sound to fill your ears. That which you had not tasted—carrying its thirst you went on.

The day a bridge of emptiness forms between the devotee and God, that day the meeting happens. Only then will you know what his name is—or that he is Nameless.

A breeze from Malaya called out;
with a playful touch
it made every pore of the body tremble—
Awake, awake,
awake, friend—spring has come! Awake!

The pipal’s dry bark is growing sleek,
the siris has tied her braid with silk,
seeing sweetness even in the neem’s blossoms,
the kachnar bud has laughed,
adorning herself with the arati of tesu flowers,
the forest has become a bride!
The sky is overcast
with clouds full of affection—
Awake, awake,
awake, friend—spring has come! Awake!

In this slack body the current of blood has stirred,
a far call has pierced the mind,
the quarters resound,
recognizing again and again this impetuous note:
Listen, friend! Listen, beloved!
In love is youth, in youth is love!
Today the envoy of sweetness
has sung his song—
Awake, awake,
awake, friend—spring has come! Awake!

Only in the honey-month will you recognize his real name. Because his name is not what we usually mean by “name.” Taste is his name. Experience is his name. The innermost felt sense of your very life-breath is his name.

So if I tell you “Ram is his name,” it would be untrue. If I say “Allah is his name,” it would be untrue. In that sense, all these names too are his. Not only Allah and Ram, not only Krishna and Rahim— even the names you have given your children and your neighbors, these too are his. All good and bad names are his, all small and great names are his, all famous and obscure names are his. Do not see any contradiction in this. The one who has no name can have all names. And the one who has all names—how can he have any single name? You will not be able to bind him into one. And why this haste to bind?

What do you want? What is your curiosity in the question? That one name should fall into your grasp so you can sit and repeat it, or count it on a rosary, make it a mantra! But that will only tire the tongue; what is repeated on the tongue remains on the tongue; it will not reach the life-breath.

Take this to heart: what is on the periphery stays on the periphery; it does not reach the center—though what is at the center also reaches the periphery. What is within, in the life of life, will flow and envelop the circumference; but what is on the circumference cannot enter into life. What is inner becomes conduct; but what is only conduct does not become inner. The journey is from within to without; there is no journey from without to within.

You want to know the name; I want to give you the Nameless.
You want to be satisfied with a name; I want to give you taste.
Do not ask the name, do not ask the address. He has surrounded you. He is all around you. Drink—drink deeply, drink to your heart’s content!

You see, the air has surrounded you from all sides; it is not seen! But if you drink it you live. Bring a corpse here—the corpse is also surrounded by air; but because it is not drinking the air, it is dead.

The difference between a devotee and an ordinary person is the same as between the living and the dead. The ordinary person is surrounded by God just as much as the devotee. But the devotee is drinking—drinking to the brim—breath by breath he is drinking him in; he is letting every pore be soaked in him. And the non-devotee is also surrounded—just as much as the devotee; but he does not take him in with his breath.

When a devotee breathes, not only air enters; he enters too. When a devotee eats, not only food enters—annam brahma—along with food, Brahman enters. When the devotee looks at a flower, he doesn’t see only the flower; he sees the Divine blossoming in that flower. When he sees the sun rise, he bows, for where you see only the sun, he sees in that sunlight his light. The devotee bows even before a tree; for where you see only a tree, he sees the green current of life coursing within it, the life-breath that stirs the tree, that greens its leaves, that has filled its fruits with juice—rasa vai sah, he is the supreme sap. The devotee sees that supreme nectar too.

You are surrounded by God, and so is the devotee; there is not the slightest difference. From God’s side there is not the slightest injustice. But you are closed off like a corpse, not breathing. And then you ask: what is his name?

We ask the name of that which is other than us, that which is far, whose address we need to find. What is the use of asking the name of the one who is closer to you than your own breath? You are not even so near to yourself as he is to you. What name is there to ask? Standing in a lake, asking the name of the lake, and writhing with thirst! Why don’t you drink?

Kishordas! Religion has nothing whatsoever to do with conflict. Wherever conflict becomes important, religion dissolves; politics takes over and sets up camp. Behind all quarrels there is politics. On the surface, the names of the quarrels may be anything—whether it is a Hindu–Muslim quarrel, a Sikh–Nirankari quarrel, or a Christian–Jewish quarrel—these are sweet, pretty wrappings given to the quarrels! As if someone has sheathed a dangerous sword in velvet—a velvet scabbard. Often the scabbards of swords are of velvet; you can even inlay gold and silver, diamonds and jewels. Swords hide like that—though only from the blind, not from those who have eyes.

Under the name of religion, politics has flourished, still flourishes, and looking at man it seems it will continue to flourish. And when politics runs under the banner of religion it becomes very convenient for politics; because murderers can put on beautiful masks. The worse the work to be done, the more beautiful the slogan needed, the higher and more colorful the flag required—after all, you have to hide behind something!

Man is still wild; he has not yet become truly human. So any excuse will do—his savagery finds a way out. These are all excuses. Remove one excuse, he will pick another, but the fight will continue; because man cannot yet live without fighting. He has not yet come to the place where he can find joy in peace. As of now, enmity, hatred, jealousy, violence—only in these does he feel a little thrill, a little upsurge of life, a little “fun.”

Don’t you see? You left home to fetch medicine for your wife, and on the way two people are fighting—you stop and stand there; you forget the wife, you forget the medicine! Two people were fighting—what need was there for you to stop and watch? It is unbecoming. It is not a sign of cultured sensibility. To fight and to enjoy watching a fight spring from the same tendency; you are getting some relish out of it. And if two people are fighting and a crowd is watching and suddenly the fighters agree, “All right, brother, let’s not fight,” the whole crowd becomes disappointed: “We stood here so long for nothing; nothing happened!” And yet the crowd was saying, “Don’t fight, why fight? What is there in fighting?” Some even stepped in to separate them. All that was on the surface; underneath was the craving: “Let it happen; let’s see!”

Even today, when you see blood flowing, some hidden animal in your unconscious is gratified. Then what does it matter under which pretext blood flows—blood must flow! In three thousand years of history man has fought five thousand wars. It seems as if man was born on this earth to fight wars. And wars have been fought under such noble names—“Islam is in danger,” “Christianity is in danger,” “the Motherland is in danger,” “Communism is in danger,” “Democracy is in danger!” Everywhere, danger! Wars have been fought for peace—what a joke! We say, “We will wage war so that there will be peace.” This is like giving poison to someone to give him life! Or cutting a person’s throat to save him! Yet this arithmetic has continued.

Nor is it that once one issue is resolved, war ends. One issue is settled, we immediately create another. When India and Pakistan were partitioned, it was thought: “Now Hindu–Muslim riots will cease.” Muslims have their own country, India is separate. Hindu–Muslim riots did diminish a little, but new riots began. India has so many languages—riots started in the name of language; so many states—riots began in the name of states. Gujaratis and Marathis fight over who owns Bombay! Both are Hindus; there should have been no quarrel. They revere the same Rama, the same Krishna. But Gujaratis and Marathis quarrel—who does Bombay belong to? Who cares for Rama and Krishna—who owns Bombay? Over petty boundaries—how much Narmada water goes to which state—there are riots. Both worship the Narmada, both consider her sacred; but when division comes, fights arise. Whether one tehsil should remain in this state or that, whether one district should remain here or there—knives come out! Whether Hindi should be the national language or some other language—the knives flash! You see—no sooner is one excuse gone than another is found.

Then look at what happened in Pakistan. Bengalis and Punjabi Muslims fought—who had never fought before. Earlier, the inner bestiality found an outlet fighting Hindus. Now there were no Hindus left; they had been wiped out in Pakistan. The day Hindus disappeared, they took a risk—because the urge to cut remained, but the old excuse disappeared. So Pakistan fought within itself. The Punjabi Muslim massacred the Bengali Muslim in a way neither Hindus had ever killed Muslims nor Muslims had ever killed Hindus.

And don’t think even that this solves anything. Pakistan split, became two parts. First India split into two countries, then Pakistan split into two countries. And then what happened to the man who freed Bengal from Pakistan’s hold, Mujibur Rahman? What treatment did Bengalis give him? They gunned him down! The entire family—from infants at the breast to Mujibur Rahman—were butchered together! One would not have expected such a thing from the Bengali babus. But they did it! If Punjabis had done a little excess, one could understand; Punjabis are somewhat like that. But the Bengali babu! Loose dhoti so that he cannot even run—if he runs he will trip over his own dhoti! What happened to them?

Whether Bengali or Punjabi, the inner animal is the same. Excuses change; man does not.

Kishordas! If man changes, the situation will change. Let us give up the project of changing excuses. In five thousand years excuses have changed many times, yet the matter remains where it was. Let us change man! And what is the biggest difficulty in changing man? Why is he so full of animality, violence, and hatred?

In my view, because we have not taught the art of loving to human beings. We have not given them the air of love. We have not given them the taste of love. Whoever once gets a taste of love—hatred melts from his life by itself. Because there is only one energy: it becomes either love or hatred. If it cannot become love, it becomes hatred. The same energy becomes creation or destruction; if it cannot create, it destroys.

So far, the human being we have produced on earth—we have not sown seeds of creativity in him. Therefore his tone is destruction. Then destruction appears in the name of nation, religion, caste, varna. The same energy, which if it blossomed would become song and dance, has turned poisonous and become the edge of a sword!

I am not here to teach a new religion. There are already too many on earth—three hundred religions! What will be gained by adding to this upheaval? I am not giving a new scripture. Scriptures are plenty—Vedas, the Quran, the Bibles, the Dhammapada, the Guru Granth—scriptures and more scriptures!

I am here to give a new science of transforming man. The foundational stone of that science is this: we must teach man to love himself. This has not yet been done. You have been told to love your country. You have been told to love your religion. You have been told that if needed you should die for your country, die for your religion. But no one has told you: love yourself so much that you are not ready to die either for country or for religion. Love yourself so deeply that no rabble-rouser, no madman can persuade you into any kind of suicide. Love yourself! You are God’s creation!

But you are so ready to die it defies accounting! Give you an excuse and you are ready to kill and be killed! The reason is clear: your life is meaningless. There is no significance in it. No current of rasa is flowing in your life that would make you hesitate. Life is so sad, so full of boredom, so heavy, that if you get a chance to kill and be killed you say, “At least there is escape. Let me renounce in this way; let me be a martyr!” At least there remains one hope in the heart: no one asked while alive—“each year there will be fairs at martyrs’ pyres!” Let me die and at least crowds will gather at my pyre.

I say to you: do not die for country, do not die for caste, do not die for religion. God did not create you in order that you die; otherwise why create you at all? God has created you…to live! To live for flowers, for the moon and stars, to live for yourself, to live for people. Life is the supreme value; it cannot be sacrificed for anything. Everything is to be sacrificed for life; life is not to be sacrificed for anything. This foundational stone in man must change.

People feel I am teaching selfishness. So be it; the word is not so bad—it is meaningful. Swarth means “for the self,” for the atman. The word is not bad; it is sweet. Yes, I teach self-love. Altruism has been preached enough; what came of it? The result was that you could not love yourself, and so you could not love the other either. The lamp of love must first be lit within you—only then can its light spread to others. But you have been taught: love your parents, love your wife, love your husband, love your children. No one has told you: love yourself. Rather, hate yourself. Condemn yourself: “I am a sinner. I am the dust of your feet! I am nothing!” Hate yourself, despise yourself—and love everyone else.

Think a little—what will be the result? Each person is despising himself and condemning himself. The whole world is filled with self-denigration. Where self-denigration is, the flowers of the soul do not bloom. Imagine if a rosebush were filled with self-denigration—what flowers would bloom? Flowers bloom in wonder and gratitude, not in self-denigration. Think: if the moon were filled with self-denigration—how would it shine? Radiance arises from self-dignity, from self-respect. But you have been taught: hate yourself. You are a sinner! Sins of many births trail behind you. And you have been frightened: do not love yourself; that is selfishness; and selfishness is the greatest sin.

I tell you: self-love is the very foundation of altruism. One who has respected and loved himself will not be able to insult anyone. Because one who has honored himself begins to see: the same life that is in me is in all; the same flame that burns in this lamp burns in all lamps. And one who has recognized his own dignity begins to experience the majesty of the whole existence.

I am not here to give a new religion; I am here to give a new style of living. I am laying the foundation of a new kind of human being. The old-style human has failed; a new kind of humanity is needed.

Therefore do not ask me, Kishordas, what my opinion is about the Sikh–Nirankari conflict. My opinion about all conflicts is the same: they arise from a wrong kind of man. The issue is not Sikh versus Nirankari, nor Hindu–Muslim, nor Christian–Jew, nor Jain–Buddhist. If you hold it only at this superficial level, you will grasp symptoms but miss the disease. Treating symptoms is not treating the disease. Man himself is wrong. Whether he is Sikh, Nirankari, Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist—it makes no difference—man is wrong! We must arrange for a new man. His fundamental mistake is this: there is no sense of self-dignity. He has no experience of who is hidden within.

I want to tell you: you are not sinners—you are divine! You are not a bit less than that. You are God’s unique creation. Remember my words—unique creation! One like you he has neither made before nor will ever make again. You are utterly alone; you are incomparable! You are not anyone’s carbon copy; you are original. God has written your song for the first and last time. And if you do not hum it, this secret song will remain unsung. Only you can hum it—no one else.

Honor yourself! Take pride in your inner glory! Give thanks for this unique gift of God that has been given to you! Dance! From this very dance, prayer is born. And from this deep self-experience, toward other human beings, animals, trees—wherever life is—these are all different modes and expressions of life—there you will begin to glimpse, slowly, the image of the divine, to experience his presence, to hear his footfalls.

My sannyasin is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain, nor Sikh nor Nirankari. My sannyasin is a new kind of human being, immersed in his own love, moving in the direction of loving himself. At first he may look selfish, because your old interpretation is deeply entrenched. But if this sannyasin, this color, can spread on the earth, you will find that from this very self-love will bloom such flowers of altruism as you could not even have imagined! Because you have always thought self-love and altruism to be opposites; they are not. Only on the roots of self-love do the flowers of altruism grow. They complement each other.

For centuries we have been teaching man that this life is wrong—that you received life as punishment for your sins.

Think a little: if life is punishment for sins, then it is worth two pennies! What value does it have? Worthless to take, worthless to give!

I say to you: life is not the punishment for your sins; it is the reward for your virtues. Then the whole vision changes. You were not born because you did bad deeds; you must have done something beautiful. And God has sent you again so that you may do more beautiful, ever more beautiful! Rabindranath’s final prayer at the time of his death is dear to me. He prayed: “O Lord, if I have done anything in life that pleased you, then send me again and again into life.”

But your so‑called sadhus and sannyasins pray only one thing: “O Lord, how can we be freed from the cycle of birth and death?” And when the prayer for freedom from birth returns is going on, how will you feel gratitude toward life, how will you feel awe and thankfulness for life? Life is a prison—in your language. Best to escape as soon as possible! In a prison no one grows flowers; no one decorates it; no one plays the veena. In prison people only wait: how soon can we get out, by any means?

I tell you: this world is not a prison. This world is the expression of the divine. It is not different from God, certainly not opposite to him. Is a painting ever opposite to the painter? Is music opposite to the musician? Is dance opposite to the dancer? And if you condemn the painting, do you think you are praising the painter? In condemning the painting you have condemned the painter. In praising the painting you have praised the painter.

Your so‑called scholars and priests have taught you to be anti-life, to deny life. They have filled your heart with the mood of “no,” with negation. And negation is death, not life. In negation you can rot; you cannot bloom. Negation is poison, not nectar.

I give you the affirmative of life. I teach acceptance of life. This life is God’s incomparable gift. Neither break it, nor destroy it, nor surrender it to any petty human ideology. Temples are man-made; let them burn if they must—human beings need not die. We can build temples again. Mosques are man-made. Books are man-made. Only man is not man-made. Therefore man cannot be sacrificed for anything. Man’s value is supreme. Nothing stands above man.

Chandidas has a famous saying: Sabar upar manush satya, tahar upar nahi—Above all is the truth of man; above that there is nothing.

Sabar upar manush satya! Proclaim that the highest truth is the truth of man! Climb onto the rooftops, proclaim it in every village, at every door, in every home: Sabar upar manush satya! There is no truth higher than the truth of man. Then something will change.

This babble about freedom from the cycle of birth, this talk of the world being sin and the fruit of sin, this attempt to poison people’s lives—these are the foundations of your illness. I do not speak of symptoms. Sikh and Nirankari, Hindu and Muslim, Jain and Buddhist—these are symptoms. They keep looking for pegs. I am talking about your coat that you hang upon the peg—not about the pegs. If you don’t find this peg, you’ll hang it on another. If there is no peg at all, people hang their coats on doors and windows. But as long as the coat is there, it will be hung somewhere. As long as man remains as he has been, these disturbances will continue. Man has to change.

Therefore I don’t concern myself with secondary symptoms. No true physician treats symptoms; quacks treat symptoms. Someone has a fever; the quack says, “His body is hot—put him in cold water, seat him under a fountain.” The body will be cooled—indeed, the patient will be cooled! Fever is a symptom; the disease is within. A tumultuous war is raging inside; there is friction! A civil war between the forces of health and illness is going on. Because of that internal war the body is heated. That inner war must be pacified. Calm it within; the fever will subside by itself. There is no need to cool the fever; the root of the fever must be cut. Don’t cut leaves and branches; nothing will come of it. Cut the root. I am at work cutting the root.

And, Kishordas, you are right to ask whether there is a danger that those who not only disagree with my vision or thought but are not ready to tolerate it, might create a similar situation with me.

There is such a danger. Not just a danger—almost a certainty; it is bound to be. It is bound to be because it has always been so.

People crucified Jesus. They cut Mansoor to pieces. They made Socrates drink poison. What was their crime? Only one: they were engaged in making man healthy. And man has become so encircled by his illnesses, and so identified with them—“this is what I am”—that when someone tries to take away his illness he becomes angry. You have begun to think your chains are your ornaments! And when someone strips you of your chains, you take him for a robber and seek revenge.

It is a misfortune. Had this misfortune not happened—had Jesus not been crucified, Socrates not been poisoned, Mansoor’s limbs not been cut—this world would have been different. There would be no Sikh–Nirankari fights, no Hindu–Muslim beheadings. Man would be different. This earth would have become heaven! But we have mistreated precisely those who could have turned this earth into heaven.

So there is nothing surprising if it happens. It may. But it will be one-sided. One-sided means: from our side there is no quarrel with anyone. If there is a clash, it will be one-sided. It already is one-sided.

Only yesterday I read in a magazine a suggestion to the government that I should be given the death penalty—nothing less. Because it is dangerous for a man like me to live. And give the death penalty so that no one ever again dares to have such courage.

I can understand where the difficulty lies. I am not angry about it; it only evokes compassion in me. It is natural. People have become accustomed to their illnesses. For centuries they have lived in them and identified with them. And I am striking at the very roots of their disease. Obstruction will come; difficulties will arise. But it will be one-sided.

We will go on singing our songs and dancing and humming. Let people do as they wish, as they feel right. From our side there is no conflict. From our side there is no retaliation. If this is what has to be, so be it. But one thing will remain like a line drawn on stone: that some people can die without fighting—dancing, singing! Our love for life is such that we will make even death a celebration! There will be no counter-blow. What is our response? Our response is precisely this: we will make death a festival! But we are not eager to fight with anyone. We want to cut the very root of fighting—how can we be eager to fight? That would be the same old story. We are not eager to annihilate anyone; yes, we are eager to annihilate disease.

And there is another strange thing, Kishordas. Sikhs have trouble with Nirankaris, Nirankaris with Sikhs; no one else in the country is bothered. Hindus have trouble with Muslims, Muslims with Hindus; no one else is bothered. My case is somewhat different. Hindus have trouble with me, Muslims have trouble with me, Christians have trouble with me, Jains have trouble with me—everyone has trouble with me; because I am not cutting leaves, I am cutting the root. If you cut one leaf, the other leaves will say, “Fine, let it be cut; what’s it to us?” Perhaps they will even be happy that the sap that leaf used to get will now come to them. The neighboring leaves might say, “We wanted this finished anyway.” But I am cutting the root. So all the leaves will be against me—and all the leaves will unite in their opposition.

Jews killed Jesus; Muslims killed Mansoor. If ever I am killed, it will be a new story, a new beginning. Those who kill me will be from all sides together! That too will be a kind of good fortune: if everyone is against you, surely you are speaking of the root—such a root that, if cut, all are affected!

I speak of a radical transformation. And I am not merely talking; I am engaged in creating that new human being. This is not some scriptural debate I am conducting. I have no interest in disputations. I am engaged in producing a new man. That alone will be the proof, the witness, whether what I say can be or not. Can a person be created who is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Indian, not Pakistani, not Japanese, not Chinese?

He can be! That is the experiment underway. My sannyasin is a citizen of the world. He has no other national identity. He has no church, no sect. He is free of all churches and sects. And my sannyasin does not consider life a punishment; he considers it grace. And my sannyasin does not seek freedom from the cycle of birth and death.

My sannyasin keeps no personal wish; he is content with however God keeps him—whatever his will!

And my sannyasin does not despise any aspect of life. He accepts life in its totality and seeks to live that totality. He strives that no part within him be denied. Because whichever part we forbid, that part takes revenge. If you repress sexuality, sexuality will take revenge and fill your mind with sex. If you suppress anger, anger will pervade your every fiber. If you mortify the body, don’t imagine you will become spiritual; none will be more body-obsessed than you. If you deny the outer world and run to a Himalayan cave, even there you will be occupied with nothing but thoughts of the outer world.

I trust the whole man. The outer is ours and the inner is ours. The marketplace is ours and the temple is ours. Wealth is ours and meditation is ours. Dive into love and do not forget samadhi. Keep both wings together.

And whatever God has given in life—anger, greed, sex, ego—each can be transformed. When anger is transformed, compassion is born. When ego is transformed, a sense of selfhood (atma-bhava) arises. When sex is transformed, brahmacharya (celibacy in its true sense) is born. None of these energies is for denial; all are for purification. Not negation—but refinement!

So yes, Kishordas, your concern is valid. It can happen. But we are not concerned by it. If it doesn’t happen, consider that a miracle! If it doesn’t happen, we will be surprised. That it will happen is almost certain—sooner or later.

Yet we will leave behind the actuality of a new experiment for the human race. We will breathe life into an experiment. And if this experiment succeeds even in a few, the future history of man will be utterly different.

Until now religion has been partial, one-sided—introvert. Hence in those countries that tried to be religious, science did not arise. How can an introvert give birth to science? If you are poor, you are poor because of your religion. If this country is dying of hunger, thank your sadhus, saints, and mahatmas! By their grace! Because how could science arise? For science you have to be extrovert. Science means observing what is outside with deep inquiry, deep contemplation—observing matter. And your saints kept saying: matter is illusion. Who observes illusion? It does not exist. Brahman is real, the world is false. If the world does not exist, how can a science of it arise? And if it does not exist, why be curious?

The West said, “Brahman is false, the world is real.” So they created science, but lost meditation. Science flourished; wealth piled up; but inwardly man became utterly impoverished.

What do I say? I say: Brahman is true, the world is true. Both are true. They are two aspects of the one truth. Two sides of the same coin. Neither is false. I am not in agreement with Karl Marx, who says the world is true and Brahman is false; nor with Shankaracharya, who says Brahman is true and the world false. My proclamation is: both are true. The world is true and Brahman is true. The world is the body of Brahman; Brahman is the soul of the world. They are together. And because both are, life is supremely beautiful!

The man of the future will be both scientific and religious together—religious and scientific together. I am trying to create that harmony of religion and science. Hence another surprise: not only the religious will oppose me, the irreligious will also oppose me. Not only the spiritualists will oppose me, the materialists will also oppose me. Why? Because the materialist feels I am bringing God into the picture—who should not be brought; matter is enough. The spiritualist feels I am bringing matter into the picture—why bring matter? God is enough. And I say: do not decide what is enough; just observe. Both exist. Both are necessary. Both are indispensable limbs. And because both exist, there is variety, beauty, dignity, majesty in existence.

A few flowers have to be sown. While there is time, sow a few flowers. People rarely sow flowers. Those whom you call very good people at most manage not to sow thorns. Your saint merely does not sow thorns. My conception of a saint is of one who sows flowers. Not sowing thorns is negative; it is not enough. Don’t imagine that because you did not sow thorns, flowers will bloom. Certainly, thorns are not to be sown; but flowers must be sown.

I have no enmity with anyone. That is why I speak on the scriptures of all religions, so that whatever is beautiful in them, the new man can assimilate. Whatever is beautiful, whatever is noble—let it be breathed into the new man! My sannyasin is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian. Yet I speak on the Bible so that whatever is noble and beautiful in the Bible… And remember, not all of it is beautiful or noble. In the Vedas, whatever is beautiful and noble… and remember, not all of it is beautiful or noble. Because the Vedas are not written by one person, nor is the Bible the work of one person; who knows how many hands wrote them, how many touched them! They contain lines of those who attained supreme knowledge and lines of those who were mere scholars. So I am selecting. Whatever is beautiful—wherever it comes from, whether from Zarathustra or Lao Tzu, from China or Iran—wherever it comes from, the wealth of the whole human race is ours. Gather the flowers from it—and I am handing you a bouquet!

But people will be angered by this, because what I leave out, what I do not pick, that will be their obstacle. Some things I cannot select, because they do not arise from supreme knowing; or even if the enlightened said them, they were timely and their value has ended with time. They have no eternal value. So whatever is eternal, timeless—es dhammo sanantano—of all that I am offering you the essence, like a fragrance!

There will be much anger, much opposition. But we are not against anyone; we are not angry with anyone. We are not fighting against anyone. Yet this blow is at the root; therefore all the leaves will be angry.

Kishordas! Your concern is justified, but there is no way to avoid it. The world is as it is. And we have to work with it as it is.

There will be no compromise. The world has survived thus far by compromises. In my vision, there is no compromise. I will say only what is. I will say only what I see. Whatever the outcome, it is auspicious. For that outcome too, we must thank God.

Nipun Shastri! First, if the deep experiences of meditation happened before you had heard Krishnamurti or me, then what is the need to listen to either of us? What is the purpose? Deepen those experiences. Go further into that self-experience.

They must not have been very deep; some corner is still incomplete. Hence the search began. And now you understand this much: you are still here to listen to me, you are still asking! To ask is a sign of doubt. It seems you do not trust your own experiences. Somewhere deep down a doubt hides: who knows whether those were experiences of meditation or just the mind’s imaginations!

And what did you experience? Because, if you truly understand, there is no such thing as an experience of meditation. Meditation is what remains when all experiences end. There are no shallow or deep experiences “of” meditation. Meditation is not an experience at all. Wherever there is experience, there is no meditation; and where meditation begins, where is experience? Experience always stays outside. Experience means that in consciousness there is some object. Meditation means objectless consciousness. If it seems that you are experiencing great bliss, that means: there is consciousness and there is the experience of bliss. The experience of bliss stands in consciousness or surrounds it; consciousness itself is other than that. The consciousness to which bliss is happening is not bliss itself.

How then will there be an experience of meditation? There isn’t. A mirror—if a reflection forms on it, that is experience; when no reflection forms, when the mirror is formless, empty—that is meditation. There are experiences of knowing; there are no experiences of meditation. As long as there is experience, there is mind. Mind is the sum of experiences: experiences of pleasure, of pain, of depths, of heights—all experiences are within mind. Meditation is the state of no-mind, the unmani state—where the mind is no more, where all experiences have gone, where not a single word arises, where not even a shadow of an object falls. That innocent, pristine consciousness is called meditation.

You say, “If I speak for myself, the deep experiences of meditation happened before I had even heard Krishnamurti or you.”
Experiences may have happened, but don’t call them experiences of meditation. They were pleasing experiences, blissful, sweet—but don’t call them meditation. Meditation is never an experience. Meditation is freedom from experience. Meditation is beyond experience, beyond feeling; it is a transcendence.

Second point: “This self-experience happened without practicing any method. Therefore when Krishnamurti says, ‘Do not practice any method; it happens naturally,’ that feels natural to me.”
Now, understand: “Do not practice any method” is itself a method. It is a negative method. Methods are of two kinds—affirmative and negative. An affirmative method says: practice this technique, practice that technique. A negative method says: do not practice any technique. What does that mean? Practice non-method. If you grasp it exactly, it means: practice non-method. Avoid method. If a method comes, don’t catch it. Even if a method is found, don’t use it. But this is still a negative method. It is nothing new.

The Upanishads say: neti-neti—not this, not that. Keep dropping; do not practice any method.
Buddha emphasized negation greatly: no method!
Among Christian mystics there is a lineage—Meister Eckhart and the like—who say, via negativa: the path is through negation; the door is through no. This too is a method. It is a negative method.

I say to you: if you must take up a method, take an affirmative one, because it will be easy to drop an affirmative method; dropping a negative method is very difficult. First you will assume it is not a method at all—there lies the danger—so the question of dropping it never arises.

I have heard: a man’s face was swathed in bandages after a car accident; he was so disoriented that his eyes still reeled—he could not trust what had happened. He went to a dentist because his teeth had been badly damaged, his whole jaw was shaken, and the teeth were all loose. There was no way except to pull them out. The doctor examined him and then told his assistant, “I am in great difficulty.”
“What difficulty?” the assistant asked.
“The difficulty is, this man’s condition is very bad. He is almost unconscious. Pulling these teeth will cause terrible pain. We cannot proceed without administering chloroform.”
The assistant said, “I don’t see any obstacle—then administer chloroform.”
“That is the obstacle: after giving chloroform, how will we know, when will we know, that he has become unconscious? He is already nearly unconscious. So when should I stop giving chloroform—where do I stop—so that it is clear he is unconscious?”

The one who adopts a negative method begins by assuming it is not a method; that is the danger. Then the question of dropping it will never arise.

A Zen master’s disciple came to him. He had been laboring for twenty years. The master had given him a koan: “Attend to the sound of one hand clapping.” Now, the sound of one hand does not exist! Clapping needs two hands. Sound comes when two collide; sound means collision. How will one hand clap? The young man kept bringing many kinds of answers, but no answer can be correct. The master would not even listen; as soon as the disciple entered, he would say, “Wrong!” The disciple had not yet spoken. One day he asked, “You perplex me! I search for months, meditating, thinking this answer will be right; I can’t even get the words out and you—at the door—already say, ‘Wrong, this too is wrong!’”
The master said, “All answers are wrong. So what is the point of asking and listening? As long as you bring an answer, it will be wrong. The day you come empty, answerless, knowing there is no answer, having experienced the void—that day something will happen.”
After twenty long years of labor, the experience of emptiness happened. You can imagine his joy and exhilaration! Twenty years—a long discipline—half his life gone; and the event occurred tonight! It was midnight when it happened; he could not wait till morning. He must give the news to the master now. The master too had been waiting for twenty years. He ran and knocked at midnight. He fell at the master’s feet. The master looked at him once and said, “Go back outside—throw this away too!”
The youth said, “Throw what away? Now nothing is left. The experience of emptiness has happened.”
The master said, “Just go. Emptiness is never experienced! And that which becomes an experience is no longer emptiness. If emptiness can be experienced, it is no longer empty. Now you will have to drop even emptiness. Drop emptiness too—then you will truly be empty.”

This is the danger of the negative method: it is negation from the start. The youth began to beat his head and said, “This is very difficult! If there were something, dropping it would be easy—how do I drop emptiness? Emptiness is not a thing I can throw away!”
Who goes by the negative method will one day be stuck. The snag is: when the time comes to drop the negative method, what will you drop?

First, understand: the negative method is also a method. Krishnamurti says, “Do not practice any method.” That is a doctrine. That is a command. A discipline has been given: “Do not practice any method.” It is a method—practice non-method, or practice the non-practice of method—call it what you will.

Krishnamurti has been explaining just this for forty years. If there were truly no method, what would there be to explain for forty years? What would remain to teach? He could have sat in silence. You would ask and he would laugh. You would ask and he would remain silent—only silent. If there is no method, teaching is not possible. But non-method too is a method. In truth, teaching a method is quicker; teaching non-method is quite difficult, because explaining negation is hard for people. The affirmative can be grasped; negation slips through. Hence forty years of tireless labor—and how many have grasped the method of negation? People have kept on listening to Krishnamurti… yes, one thing has happened inside them: they have understood this much—that they should not do any method. But what this non-method is—they still have not understood. And there the miss happens.

And as Krishnamurti has grown older, he sees that a lifetime of effort has brought almost no result. So sometimes, while speaking, he becomes very agitated. It is natural: he has been explaining to these people for so long, and it seems no one understands.

It is hard to teach the negative method. But still, method is method.

You say, “Therefore when Krishnamurti says, ‘Do not practice any method; it happens naturally,’ that feels natural to me.”
Then let it happen. What will you gain by merely keeping the idea “natural”? Why not let it happen? What is the obstruction then? There is no method to do. And you say that without any method you already had deep experiences. Then what is stopping you now? If there were a method to practice, there could be an obstruction—that you would have to practice first, then the result would come. But here there is no method. Then why doesn’t it happen?

Do you think the whole world is practicing techniques of meditation and therefore they are obstructed? How many people are meditating? If this were natural, then it should happen to everyone except those who are meditating! On this vast earth there are four billion people—how many are meditating? Billions are not. If not meditating were enough and meditation happened by itself, then only the meditators would miss, and all non-meditators would attain. If it is natural, why doesn’t it happen?

Then whom is Krishnamurti explaining to? What is the purpose of explaining? That which is natural is natural—explaining it will make it unnatural. Explanation becomes an obstacle. Then a man is fine exactly as he is.

No, Krishnamurti is not explaining in vain. Man, as he is, will not come upon meditation. And those who are not meditating are proof that they have not attained meditation.

Then what is Krishnamurti’s purpose when he says, “Do not practice any method”? You will understand only if you understand me, because Krishnamurti’s standpoint is a bit one-sided, not total. I teach method and I teach non-method; my vision is all-encompassing. I say: first practice methods thoroughly—so thoroughly that you are exhausted by practicing, reach the ultimate point of practice. Practice as much as you possibly can. Reach the peak. Even then you will find: still meditation has not happened, still it has not happened. Run, run as much as you can—and you will find meditation receding like the horizon! You will feel, “Got it, got it, almost got it…” but it never lands in your hands. It seems so close that “If I run four steps more, I will get it.”

And I say: run even harder! Run even harder! One day, running and running, when your capacity to run breaks and is spent, when you fall by yourself—in that very falling the event happens.

You will not get meditation through method; but by using method, a day comes when you are so tired that nothing remains to be done. In that non-method, in that moment of effortless surrender, meditation showers.

Therefore those who are not meditating do not get meditation, and those who are meditating also do not get it. Meditation happens to those who meditate and, in meditating, reach the place where nothing remains to be done. Broken by the fatigue of doing, they fall—and meditation happens.

If you ask me to put my message briefly: practice method so that you can come to non-method. And the day you enter non-method, meditation showers on its own. Meditation is natural and spontaneous, but this spontaneous meditation does not come by merely “not doing.” By doing and doing, you arrive at a state of non-doing—then it comes.

Thus it happened to Buddha. Six years of relentless method—he staked everything, held nothing back. After six years of staking all, one evening he found: what have I gained? Nothing at all! He did everything that could be done; all that was humanly possible, he did. Nothing was gained! That night he was utterly tired. That night he dropped meditation too, he dropped method, he dropped yoga, he dropped austerities. He had five disciples. Seeing that he had dropped tapas, japa, dhyana, they left him. They said, “He is corrupted, this Gautam is corrupted!” Naturally, they had followed him because they were impressed by his austerity. Buddha had fasted for three months at a stretch. Among the five, none could fast for three months. One could do three weeks, another four; none could do three months—so they were impressed: “Here is the master!” He had dried the body out. They had seen many masters, but none like this—an ascetic! The story says his belly had stuck to his spine. He had dried the body so much that every rib in his chest could be counted. Skin and bone were joined, with no flesh or marrow left in between. That is why they were impressed!

In this world people get impressed in strange ways! People are so sick that they are impressed by the wrong things. Someone stands on his head and people are impressed. If it were God’s will that we stand on our heads, he would have made everyone stand on their heads—why the mistake of making you stand on your feet? This fool who stands on his head becomes a great yogi! If it were God’s will that the belly stick to the spine, he would have made it so from birth.

The day Buddha declared, “Enough! I have done all I could do, and I see this whole arrangement is futile, all of it is in vain! Today I renounce it all. The world I had left earlier; today I leave the practices too.” The day he declared this—having already left this world—“I am leaving practice as well; I am tired of this world, and now tired of that other world too. I leave the here, and I leave the hereafter”—that very day the five disciples conferred, “This Gautam is corrupted! What shall we do with him now?” They left.

And that very night Buddha attained samadhi—because that night there was no worry, no ambition to attain—neither in this world nor in the next. Even the desire to attain meditation and samadhi was gone.

Desire as such is the obstacle. Why do you use a method? Because there is desire—you want to attain meditation. Someone wants money; you want meditation. In wanting, there is no difference. Desire pulls both toward the future. Desire will not let you rest. Desire will drive you; it will not let you stop. Desire will keep the mind moving, agitated. As long as desire remains, the mind will remain in motion—the heat of motion will persist. Then whether it is money or meditation, it does not matter; if there is to be attainment, there is ambition. Where there is ambition, there is mind. Where there is mind, where is meditation!

That night all ambition dropped. That night there was no feeling, no thought, no future. He slept. He lay under a banyan; it was a full-moon night. In that moonlight, the emaciated body, utterly thin—he must have looked unearthly, like a ghost! A woman had vowed that on a full-moon night, if she became pregnant, she would offer sweet rice pudding to that banyan deity. She had become pregnant; the full moon had come; so Sujata came with a platter of kheer and sweets, delicious food, to offer to the banyan on the bank of the Niranjana. In the moonlight she saw—as if the banyan deity had himself appeared! She was overwhelmed, touched his feet, and said, “O deity of the banyan! I had never imagined you would appear! But I am blessed—accept my offering.”

On any other day Buddha would not have eaten at night—night eating was a sin. And from a stranger, an unknown woman named Sujata!

Understand: a woman named Sujata must surely have been of low caste; for if you name someone “well-born,” it’s because they are ill-born—otherwise who would take such a name! You see it: someone named Sundarbai—understand! Nayanasukh Das—understand! Until the eyes go bad, who is named “comfort of the eyes”? Sundarbai—meaning it is clear: what is not there is being imposed by the name.

Sujata! She must not have been high-born, not a Brahmin, not a Kshatriya. Because Brahmins don’t take such names—what is the point? She must have been low-born, a Shudra. He did not even ask her caste. On any other day he would have asked, “What is your caste?” On any other day, from such an unknown person, at midnight, he would not have accepted sweets and kheer. And sweets he had not tasted for years—not since he had left the palace. But now there was no obstruction. When there is nothing to attain, what is there to lose? He quietly accepted. For the first time in years he ate properly, and for the first time he slept properly—carefree. With no worry, there were no dreams that night; dreams are but the shadow of worries. The night passed in silence—profound silence.

Patanjali has said: there is no difference between samadhi and deep sleep, except that deep sleep is unconscious and samadhi is full of awareness. That night there were no dreams, so there was deep sleep. In the morning, when his eyes opened—the last star of dawn was setting. Seeing that last star disappearing, something within also disappeared—the last vestige of ego.

It is the ego that says, “Get wealth.” And it is the ego, Nipun Shastri, that says, “Get meditation.” Ego says: become an Alexander in the world; ego says: become a Mahavira, a Buddha, a Krishna in the other world. These are the ambitions of ego.

The last star setting…the ego sank completely. There was nothing to get, nowhere to go. As-it-is-ness arose—tathata. That is why one of Buddha’s names is Tathagata: one who is, as it is. Whatever is, as it is, is perfectly right. Yathabhutam—just as it is, exactly as it is, it is right. There is nothing to do. Otherwise nothing is to be, nothing to be done. Samadhi blossomed—the blue lotus of samadhi opened!

Here lies my difference with Krishnamurti: I both agree and disagree. I agree because he speaks half the truth; that half is true. I disagree because the other half is missing. He has the last steps of the ladder, but not the first. Without the first steps, you cannot reach the last. Though it is the last that matters, where are the first? A ladder is complete only when it touches both earth and sky. We stand on the earth; if the ladder does not touch the ground, how will we climb? If it does not touch the sky, what is the use—halfway we will hang like Trishanku.

On one side there are people like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi; they too have half a ladder—the first half: only method. On the other side there are people like Krishnamurti; they have the second half—no method, no effort, spontaneity. Both are incomplete. With Maharishi Mahesh Yogi you will get stuck in method—Buddha’s first six years! With Krishnamurti you will not be able to move at all; you will remain in the illusion that you are moving. All your movement will be intellectual, of thought, not alive. Because the first steps are missing, how will you reach the second half? You are on the ground, the ladder begins in the sky—between you and the ladder there is a gap; how will you cross it?

I speak of totality—of an infinity-dimensional totality. Totality in all directions! Practice method, and practice it totally; out of that the flower of non-method will bloom. And from non-method rises the fragrance of samadhi.

Opposition is certain. And you will endure it. You are soul-possessed. If you cannot endure opposition, it will be proof that you are a corpse, not alive. The soul within is capable of bearing all. And the soul needs some storms to make it intense, to make it one-pointed. For the polishing of the soul, some tempests are needed.

The flower bloomed among thorns; on the couch it withered.
It glittered like the dawn among the thorns, that blossom,
at its touch the fragrance-bearing breeze was set a-rippling,
in camphor-pale petals it cradled springtime’s fullest dream—
the flower bloomed among thorns; on the couch it withered.

The fierce sun’s heat, the storm’s unbearable gusts
could not stain that youthful, struggle-loving one,
but the day it was torn from the bush, it could not live—
the flower bloomed among thorns; on the couch it withered.

He who stands steadfast in storm and in rain—
that very star will fall on an autumn night;
free life advances only through clash and counterforce—
the flower bloomed among thorns; on the couch it withered.

Do not fear thorns. Do not run from gales. In storms the soul is born.

If you take sannyas, there will be obstacles; many obstacles, of every kind. I cannot assure you there will be none. I can only assure you that you are capable of enduring them all. Every living person is capable. And if you can endure, you will be refined! If you can endure, then no matter how many thorns there are, they will not be able to stop the flower from blooming.

But I also understand your anxiety; not only yours—everyone’s. Such is our mind. The mind is always in a dilemma. The mind is a dilemma: should I do it? Should I not? And it is not only with big questions; with the smallest ones—shall I go to this film or that one? Shall I wear this sari or that sari? Women open up their whole storeroom! And hours go by just deciding which sari to wear! The mind is a dilemma. People lock the door, and after ten steps they come back and rattle it—did I lock it or not? The clever ones do something even more amazing!

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife told him, “Keep an eye on the door.” She had gone to a wedding and would return late at night. Mulla watched for a while, but how long can you sit there staring at a door! He wanted to go to the tavern. So he pulled the door off, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and set out. On the way he met his wife. She asked, “Where are you going? And where are you taking this door?” He said, “You told me to keep an eye on the door. How long should I sit there? I’ll keep an eye on the door—wherever I sit, I’ll set it in front of me and keep watch.”

The very meaning of “mind” is that which is always divided, always in conflict—saying go left, saying go right; it never becomes one. And there is only one way to make it one: in life, take some decisions that change your whole style, that transform you from the roots. Take such decisions as will join together your broken fragments.

Shall I speak of the garden’s tender graces, or not?
Shall I mention the birds caught in snares, or not?
Shall I tell the tale of the enemies’ plots, or not?
Shall I complain of the coquettish beloved, or not?
Who knows what place fidelity has now, O heart—
shall I insist on the old vows, or not?
Who knows in what colors the lustful will interpret—
shall I praise tress, lip, and cheek, or not?
Such a spring has come this year that in the garden the breeze
asks, “Shall I pass by this time, or not?”
As if the rose, its heart brimming with blood, is thinking:
“Shall I crimson my hem and pockets, or not?”
Only the ghazal-singing bird has no worry:
“Shall I warm the temper of my speech, or not?”

Do you hear!
As if the rose, its heart brimming with blood, is thinking:
“Shall I crimson my hem and pockets, or not?”

As if the rose is ready—inside, brimming with redness—and is wondering, “Shall I bloom this time or not? Shall I let my fragrance fly or not?”

As if the rose, its heart brimming with blood, is thinking:
“Shall I crimson my hem and pockets, or not?”

The feeling for sannyas has arisen—so the saffron hue has filled your heart; that is why it has arisen.

As if the rose, its heart brimming with blood, is thinking:
“Shall I crimson my hem and pockets, or not?”

What do you hesitate for now? What hesitation now? If the saffron hue has spread within the heart, then let the rose bloom now; let it spread outward too. Obstacles will come. Obstacles are natural. And obstacles are good fortune. Because if no obstacles come, you will never develop; and if no storms come, the soul will never awaken.

Only the ghazal-singing bird has no worry—
only a singing bird has no concern; it just goes on singing. The rose is caught in thought—shall I bloom or not?
Only the ghazal-singing bird has no worry—
and there is a bird that simply goes on singing.
“Shall I warm the temper of my speech, or not?”
It doesn’t even care for heat or cold—it just goes on singing. Whether it is morning or evening, it keeps singing; whether it is noon or midnight, it keeps singing.

Listen to my song: I go on singing.

Only the ghazal-singing bird has no worry—
“Shall I warm the temper of my speech, or not?”
And here you are—within, the feeling for sannyas has arisen, and now you are thinking: Should I take sannyas or not?

If the feeling has not arisen, then never take it. If it has not arisen, the question does not arise. If it has not arisen, do not take it by mistake. Do not imitate anyone. Do not take it because someone else has taken it. That would be false, and it would have no meaning.

But if the feeling has arisen, then even if the whole world says so, do not stop. In fact, the more the world stops you, the less you should stop. Because this life is yours, and the decision to live it should be yours. In that resolve begins your sadhana.

Enough for today.