Birhani Mandir Diyana Baar #8

Anand Satyarthi! If someone attains knowledge, why does it arouse opposition in people’s minds? Think about this. Whether Chaitanya Bharati has become enlightened or not—let Chaitanya Bharati see that. Why are you concerned? Why is it an obstacle for you? Reflect on that.

Chaitanya Bharati’s knowledge or ignorance is not the problem of your life. Do not make others’ problems your own. You have enough of your own; if even those are resolved, thank the divine. But the moment someone says he has attained knowledge—whether it is true or false is not the point—people immediately become resistant; they feel hurt; their egos are wounded: “What! Chaitanya Bharati has become enlightened? How can that be!”

You have enacted an even greater event: you have attained ignorance! That is the bigger feat. Because knowledge is natural; ignorance is superimposed. Knowledge is innate; ignorance is artificial. You were born a knower; ignorance is your acquisition. If someone says, “I have attained ignorance,” that is the miracle. If someone attains knowledge, there is nothing miraculous in it—everyone should. Even to say “I have attained knowledge” is not quite right, because we attain only what we are not. Knowledge is our natural state; awareness is our very soul. We bring it with us. It has always been our condition.

The wonder is: how did light get lost in darkness? The wonder is: whose nature is to be awake—how did he fall asleep? Whenever someone tells you, Anand Satyarthi, “I am ignorant,” then bow to the miracle. If someone says he is a knower, what obstacle is there?

But people do feel obstructed. Because whenever someone says, “I am enlightened,” it hurts you, it wounds your ego: “While I am here, and you have become enlightened! Even I have not, and you have! This cannot be tolerated.”

If you are intelligent you will say, “Ah, if even Chaitanya Bharati has attained enlightenment, then now I too shall! What obstacle remains? If Chaitanya Bharati can, why not Anand Satyarthi?” Rejoice. If someone attains, rejoice. Celebrate that one more person has awakened; the path has become easier for you. The line of the ignorant has become a little shorter; the queue has moved a bit forward—you too have moved ahead a little.

No—but the opposite happens. The moment someone says, “I have attained,” you feel hurt; you become restless!

And I am not saying that Chaitanya Bharati has become enlightened. That is Chaitanya Bharati’s concern, not yours. On such futile concerns people have wasted centuries, lost lifetimes. They are still thinking—still pondering whether Buddha really attained, whether Mahavira was truly a Tirthankara, whether Jesus was in truth the son of God. Still thinking! In this much time you yourself could have become a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Mohammed. In this much time your own Quran could have been born! And what will come of it? Even if it is decided that Mohammed was not a prophet, what benefit is that to you? And even if it is decided that he was, what benefit is that to you? Millions believe Mohammed was a prophet—what gain is there? Just as many believe he was not—what gain is there?

Where the other stands will bring you no benefit. Do not bring such vain questions here at all. Take care of yourself. Enough time has already been wasted—do not waste more. Raise questions related to your own life, so that I can cut them at the root and make you questionless.

Even if this question is to be raised, it should be raised by Chaitanya Bharati: “Have I attained or not?” But Chaitanya Bharati, out of fear, does not raise it. Perhaps he says it outside, not here. He should say it to me.

Do not worry about Chaitanya Bharati. And when someone becomes enlightened, I myself will announce it—why do you worry? If Chaitanya Bharati becomes enlightened, he will not need to say it—I will say it. I will be the witness. If you hurry, you will become a self-advertiser and get entangled in useless concerns and pointless problems.

And yet I tell you: becoming enlightened is not a big event; it is a very small, simple event! So simple—that this is why it seems difficult. It is so simple, so easy—that is the difficulty!

Ego delights in difficult things, because in challenges there is a thrill. The ego wants to climb Gaurishankar—Mount Everest. The ego wants to go to the moon and stars. It is the ego that has made enlightenment into something immense. Made it so huge that there is the fun of climbing, and on reaching the peak one can plant a flag and shout, “I have attained enlightenment!” This will still be the proclamation of “I.” And the “I” cannot live without proclamations. The fun is less in enlightenment; the fun is more in announcing, “I have attained.” And all these are paths of ignorance.

I am telling you: enlightenment is your nature; it is not to be attained. Drop the language of attainment altogether. It is not something to be acquired sometime in the future, to be had by effort and striving. It is not a destination to be reached by walking. It is a destination such that, if you sit down, it is there. Sit, and you find it had always been there; you missed it only because you were running.

Chaitanya Bharati can become enlightened this very moment, and Anand Satyarthi can become enlightened this very moment—because enlightenment is your nature. There is only a thin veil; whenever you wish, lift the curtain. But these proclamations only thicken the curtain; they make the veil denser.

So I am not saying that Chaitanya Bharati has become enlightened. I am saying this: drop the language of attainment and then Chaitanya Bharati is already enlightened. Leave off the declaration. Do not be concerned with it at all. And you too, Anand Satyarthi, are this very moment where you need to be. We are already in the divine.

But we have turned everything into ambition—even God, even enlightenment, even truth. This is the mind’s game: it turns everything into ambition. Because once it becomes ambition, the future is born. And once the future is born, the journey begins: now enlightenment is to be attained, truth is to be attained, liberation is to be attained. This race to attain is the mind. And where the mind is, how can there be liberation? How can there be enlightenment?

The day enlightenment happens, you will be astonished and amazed: how strange—that I was ignorant! This cannot be. Ignorance cannot be, and yet I went on believing it, believing it. My belief kept it going, kept it alive—with tremendous effort.

And the greatest effort to preserve ignorance is the idea that enlightenment is to be attained. This is its master disguise. “Enlightenment has to be attained” means: not today, tomorrow. And tomorrow never comes. To say “enlightenment is to be attained” means: make a plan for the future. For now, remain as you are—ignorant; tomorrow you will become enlightened.

But remember, if you remain ignorant today, the layer of ignorance will grow twenty-four hours thicker today. If it could not break today, how will it break tomorrow? Tomorrow it will be even more difficult. If it is to be broken, break it now, this very moment. Do not postpone! If you postpone, you have postponed it forever. Now—or never!

You are all enlightened—that is my proclamation. You are enlightened right now, whether you know it or not. The whole existence is full of knowing, because the divine dwells in all. Drop this language of attainment.

Your mind was hurt because Chaitanya Bharati says, “I have attained enlightenment.” You did not trust it. Why? Why did you not trust? What stood in your way? Only this: such a difficult task, and Chaitanya Bharati has done it! Such a supremely difficult task—once in a while some Buddha, some Mahavira manages it—and Chaitanya Bharati has done it!

You have erected a needless Gaurishankar. Enlightenment is no Gaurishankar; it is walking on level ground. Even “walking” is not right—it is sitting on the plain ground. Enlightenment is rest; it is repose.

But we waste time in pointless questions and problems.

If Chaitanya Bharati says it, then clap heartily and welcome him, garland him with flowers. What’s the harm? Say: “Good—one more person has become enlightened!” Strike up the band, play the shehnai. Be exuberant. What is wrong in it? No catastrophe has occurred.

But I want to say to my sannyasins: I will make your announcement. Do not be in haste. Haste is the hallmark of the ignorant. If I can speak for you, you remain silent. By speaking you will raise unnecessary obstacles for yourself. And the fear is that in your speaking there may be the very juice of ego—the greater likelihood is exactly that. Your enlightenment, your samadhi, may become a new ornament for your ego. Then enlightenment will go even farther away; samadhi will recede. Instead of waking, you will sink into an even deeper sleep.

And I want you to awaken. When you awaken, I will tell the world—do not worry. I want hundreds of thousands to awaken. This happening should become so simple that whoever learns to sit silently even for a moment awakens. I am engaged in making it that simple. That is why the sadhus and sannyasis are annoyed with me, because their arduous disciplines, the great austerities they have praised for centuries—which, they say, take lifetimes to attain… They had made sannyas harsh and difficult, almost impossible. They had set such conditions that no one could fulfill them. I have removed all the conditions from sannyas.

Do you understand what that means? To remove all conditions from sannyas means I have removed all conditions from nirvana. I have said: as you are, you are enough. Not even a bit needs to be added, not even a bit subtracted. As you are, you are beloved of the divine. Therefore the saints are angry. The old-style swamis are very angry, upset. Their upset is natural. For they fasted so much, did such penances, left home and hearth—then they became sannyasins. You neither left home nor hearth, neither fasted nor took vows—and I gave you sannyas! Understand the gesture. It means I am telling you that sannyas is not something to be attained; it is just a small ray of understanding. It is not effort; it is simply awareness.

But when this understanding dawns on you, you will be amazed to find that even the urge to say “it has happened” does not arise. What is there to say? Those who can understand will understand. Yes, your life, your very sitting and standing will become full of grace. There will be sweetness in each of your words; there will be music. Those who come near you will begin to feel an unparalleled coolness. Around you a fine drizzle will begin. People will get the news—news from within.

And it would have been far more joyous if Anand Satyarthi had come to know that Chaitanya Bharati has become enlightened—if Anand Satyarthi had brought the news: “It seems to me that Chaitanya Bharati has become enlightened.” That would have been a delight. But by announcing it, Chaitanya Bharati has only made Anand Satyarthi more of an opponent. Now even if someday Chaitanya Bharati does become enlightened, Anand Satyarthi will not be able to see it, because he will say, “He has been making this same old proclamation all along.” Even if today Chaitanya Bharati becomes enlightened, Anand Satyarthi will not be able to trust it.

What is there to say? If you find a diamond and tie it in your knot, why keep opening the knot again and again! If you have found the diamond, keep it quietly secured in your knot.

Besides, I am here. A master takes many of the disciple’s burdens onto himself—his sins and his merits as well; his ignorance and his knowledge. Once you have boarded my boat, then whatever happens, let me say it. If you speak in this way you will create unnecessary obstacles. No one will benefit; harm will be done.

I have taken this question for this very reason: many others have also written letters to me—“Chaitanya Bharati says this; Chaitanya Bharati says that.” So many complaints about Chaitanya Bharati have reached me that there is no end to it! And the whole reason for those complaints is simply this: let it be expressed through your life. Do not say it. In your silence let this feel arise of itself in the hearts of others; let this music be heard by them. That is enough. What is the point of saying it? Do you think that by your saying it anyone will accept that you have become enlightened? Even those who might have accepted will not, because you have wounded their ego. Their ego has been hurt; they will take revenge. Do you think that by saying you have attained enlightenment, the weight of your words will increase? Words have weight, or they do not—but your proclamations do not add any weight to them.

A sannyasin should be very alert about what he says and what he does not say. He should speak each word with full awareness.

And I am sending Chaitanya Bharati out; that is his sadhana. I send him to conduct camps; that is the discipline given to him. If he slips even a little in it, he will fall. It is a difficult discipline; one must walk with care. Because the greatest difficulty in the world is the crowd. Let people worship me, let people accept me, let them honor me, let their eyes be on me—this is the subtlest juice of the ego.

So when I send Chaitanya Bharati, he should understand that this is precisely his inner disease, which I am trying to break. I do not send anyone anywhere just like that. Here, whomever I give whatever work to, there is a purpose. The day the purpose is fulfilled, that day the work will be changed. I am sending Chaitanya Bharati for just this reason: this is his one illness; the day it breaks, that day enlightenment is already there—it had always been there. It is only this one illness. To break this illness, I am sending him out, sending him into the crowd. If he is seated here in the ashram, the challenge to break the illness will not arise. Only through challenge do illnesses break.

So when I send someone somewhere, he should understand there must be some purpose, some meaning. I could have sent someone else. But out of thousands of sannyasins I have chosen Chaitanya Bharati to go, and Mridula to go. They should understand that somewhere there is a taste, a juice; to cut its last root I am sending you. Do not water that root—cut it. The day it is cut…

And it can be cut today, right now! Because its root is in your believing. Where belief drops, there ignorance goes. You are the one maintaining ignorance. The proclamation of knowledge can become the last device by which ignorance saves itself.

Pradeep Chaitanya! This is not a “state,” it is good fortune. Don’t try to understand it; live it. Usually we want to understand things that are problems. By understanding problems, we hope to solve them.

This is not a problem. It is the first footfall of samadhi. The first wave of samadhi drawing near. The first fragrance filling your nostrils. Don’t turn it into a problem. Don’t attempt to understand it. The moment you try, the happening will be obstructed; the flow will stop. Whenever we sit to understand, the intellect steps in. The happening is in the heart; the understanding will be in the intellect. And the moment the intellect intrudes, the heart contracts.

The heart is very sensitive. Thought, intellect, logic, analysis, explanation—these it cannot bear; it closes. Love arises in your life, and someone asks you, “What is love? First explain.” If you start explaining, know this for sure: the small sprout of love that had just emerged will die. And if you begin to understand what love is, the glimpse of love that had come will be lost. Some things are not to be understood, but to be lived.

You say: “While listening to you, many times I begin to weep, and I don’t even notice when my tears have dried and I have begun to soar, ecstatically.”

Pradeep Chaitanya, something auspicious is happening—good fortune! Don’t try to understand it. Drop understanding; take a plunge into it. From that very plunge, understanding will arise. Bring in understanding and the plunge will cease. Dive in. Be overwhelmed.

But the mind knows the art of putting a question mark after everything—after everything! Even upon those things on which no question mark can be placed, it places one. And once the mind has inserted a question mark, the journey changes course, takes a turn; you step onto the wrong path.

Morning comes, the sun rises, birds sing, and I say to you, “How beautiful the morning is!” And you ask, “What is beauty?” Now see—instantly your consciousness will neither look at the sun nor listen to the birds’ songs, nor watch the white clouds drifting in the sky. The freshness and intoxication of the morning—you put all that aside by planting a question mark. Your eyes are filled with your question mark: “What is beauty?”

And who has ever been able to define beauty? Who has ever managed to make it understood? I won’t be able to either. Whenever such things are explained, one thing is said and something else is understood. These are not matters to be explained. Even if I explain, you will listen, and instantly your own meanings will arise within you.

Mulla Nasruddin was telling a friend… He was very pleased with himself, chest puffed out. The friend asked, “You look so happy, chest swollen—what’s the matter?” Nasruddin said, “Today I gave my wife such a dressing-down! Understand—flattened her in all four quarters with a single scolding!” The friend said, “Hard to believe, because we know your wife—and we know you. We even remember the day your wife chased you and you panicked and hid under the bed. Your wife is hefty and strong, so she couldn’t come under the bed. Meanwhile some guests knocked at the door. Your wife folded her hands and pleaded, ‘Come out. If the guests see this, what will they say?’ We remember you said, ‘I won’t come! Today let the world find out who is the master of this house! I’ll sit wherever I want! Let it be decided right before the guests, so the world knows who the master is!’”

So the friend said, “We can’t accept that your scolding…” But Mulla Nasruddin said, “Accept it. She was blathering nonsense, chewing my head off. I said, ‘Enough! Say one more word and I’ll crack your skull!’ And instantly she fell into line.” The friend asked, “Then what happened?” Nasruddin said, “What happened? She couldn’t utter a single word. She said, ‘Go away, go away!’—three words. With one scolding I brought her to her senses. Had she spoken one word, I’d have shown her! Out of fear she used three: ‘Go away, go away.’”

Who is going to supply the meaning? You will. Even if a connoisseur of beauty could pour his sense of beauty into you, the nectar would turn to poison upon falling into your vessel. Your vessel is so filled with filth! You have collected so much rubbish inside that even a ray of light, entering you, becomes defiled.

Therefore some things are not to be explained. First, because they cannot be caught in words. Second, because even if you explain them, the listener will impose his own meanings.

That is why Buddha remained silent regarding God. Regarding truth—silent. He did not speak. Thousands asked, in a thousand ways; he would not speak. Whenever Buddha came to a village, his disciples would announce in advance: Don’t ask the Master these eleven questions; don’t waste his time.

In those eleven, all the fundamental questions of philosophy are included. If you drop those eleven, nothing remains to ask—except the real problems of life; the useless debate does not remain. Then only your diseases remain, for which a remedy can be sought. Then the lofty metaphysical talk and the high flights do not remain. “What is beauty?” “What is truth?” “What is nirvana?” “What is God?” “If God created the world, why did he create it?” “Were we there before birth?” “Will we be there after death?” Buddha called all such questions avyakhyeya—unexplainable; do not ask for explanations of them.

And besides, what you are asking about is a happening within you. Why not taste it? Why not drink it? Sway in it more. Be more intoxicated. You can still go deeper into this plunge.

But the mind is afraid of drowning. The mind says, “First think it through.”

A sannyasin asked me yesterday: I want to come to you; I want you to place your hand on my head. But first I want to know—will your power suppress my power? Will I become your slave forever? Is there some hypnosis hidden in it?

A hand on the head… and how many question marks the mind has raised! How can such a person ever travel toward truth? So frightened! So timid! Such a scared person will not be able to take even a single step. How will he?

That friend wrote: first reassure me. I want to come. You place your hand on others’ heads; a great longing arises in me too. But first reassure me—there’s no risk, is there?

Now how can I reassure him? And even if I do, what will it solve? If I say, “Be completely assured,” the mind will raise another doubt: Should I trust this assurance or not? The mind that raised the first questions will not be satisfied so easily. It will say, “Who knows if this assurance is true or false? And even if there is no risk—how can I be absolutely certain? Who will guarantee it?”

No—I cannot tell you there is no risk. There is risk. The risk is certain. This is the path of dissolution—and what greater risk can there be? So I can give you only one assurance: the risk is definite. If you come to me, you will be effaced. If you create nearness with me, you cannot remain what you are. Otherwise what is the meaning of coming near? What is the purpose of proximity? What is the secret of satsang if not this—that the disciple comes nearer, nearer, nearer… and disappears; does not remain; does not survive!

So I can only assure you of this: I will not suppress you—I will absolutely annihilate you. If I suppress you, you will still remain. What is suppressed can surface again; it can return; it will struggle. I will not suppress; I will only erase. I am doing what is needed so that you do not remain. This is not hypnosis; it is straightforward death.

Hypnosis means the person still remains. And one who is in hypnosis can awaken out of it. No matter how deep the sleep, it can break. No matter how deep the hypnosis, a person can be startled out of it.

Even the greatest hypnotists accept that however deep the hypnotic state, if the person has the will to wake, he will wake instantly. If you try to make him do something against his own will, the hypnosis will break at once. Many experiments have been done. The person will do everything else.

A young man stayed with me for some years. He had a great urge to know what happens in hypnosis. So I taught him the whole science of hypnosis. He would go very deep. In that state, whatever you told him, he would do. Give him a pillow and say, “This is a beautiful woman,” and he would embrace it, dance, leap, kiss it, hug it, go mad. Tell him the wall is not a wall but a door, and he would try to go through it—even if his head broke.

He worked in an office. The salary was very low. An acquaintance of mine was ready to take him into his office at double the salary. But the young man had a habit: whatever he grasped, he feared letting go. He was afraid to leave his job. Double the salary, better facilities—but he feared leaving. So my friend said, “You hypnotize him and he tries to go even through walls; why don’t you simply tell him under hypnosis to quit his job!”

I said, “That’s simple.” I hypnotized him. He did everything we asked. There was no cow, but I said, “Milk the cow,” and he sat and began milking—milking a cow that wasn’t there! Whatever I said, he obeyed. You would be amazed—the depth was considerable. Put a pebble on his hand and tell him it is a live coal, and he would scream and throw the pebble away. Not only that—a blister would appear on his hand. His hypnosis went that deep. But when I told him, “Quit your job,” he opened his eyes, sat up, and said, “I will not!” (I was utterly surprised!) “I will not! Just don’t ask me this one thing.”

A common pebble, a cold pebble, could raise a blister on his hand! It wasn’t only that his mind was deceived; his body too was deceived. A blister appearing on the body is no small matter; his trust went very deep. But the moment I mentioned the job, he immediately sat up. He wouldn’t even remain lying down; he didn’t lie there quietly—he simply sat up and opened his eyes. He said, “Just don’t ask me that. I will not leave my job!”

Hypnotists say that however deep hypnosis may be, nothing can be made to happen against your own will. What you do in hypnosis is also in tune with your own volition; it is not against it. That too is your choice.

I am not hypnotizing you. Sannyas is not hypnosis. Sannyas is self-immersion. I am erasing you. I have to make you zero, not hypnotized. No one should remain inside you. Your very head has to be cut off. And the day no one remains within you—when there is utter silence—then, in that very silence, you will recognize your nature! In that very silence, when you are no more, you will find out who you are!

Remember this paradox well, for there is no declaration closer to truth: When you disappear, you will find who you are. When you are not, then for the first time you will be.

There is risk. And the risk is great. Come near me only after thinking.

Pradeep Chaitanya, you ask what is happening to you.
I will not explain; I will not analyze. But what is happening is extraordinary. You are blessed! I give you my blessing—not an analysis, not an explanation. Go deeper into it. Take the risk.

It is the intoxicating monsoon night!
Hiding and peeking through dusky thrills, a joyous breeze is flowing,
Drinking honey again and again, the forest creepers are drunk, their bodies slack—
It is the intoxicating monsoon night!
A lovely mass of fragrance-laden clouds, from every direction a shower of gold has surged,
The very pores of the world are restless, every limb bathed and stricken with the nectar of love—
It is the intoxicating monsoon night!
In every vein what unknown wine of thirst is brimming and overflowing?
With what new wave does the breast ache, making fierce, heated assaults?
It is the intoxicating monsoon night!
In this inspired, playful rhythm of love, when the purified body sways and jingles,
I would clasp the beloved in fair arms and bathe with kisses as with wine—
It is the intoxicating monsoon night!

Monsoon is arriving in your life. The first news of it has come. Those tears are not tears; they are pearls that fall from your eyes. Pearls—because they do not fall by your doing. Pearls—because they are not the result of your effort. Because they are not false, they are pearls. They are true.

You are overcome, and then the eyes moisten. When the eyes fill with affection, with love, what else do the eyes have to give? Tears are a garland of reverence. Tears are a garland of song. Tears are an offering of lamps. Those tears are lamps lit in your eyes. And that is why soon—first you weep… “then I don’t even notice when the tears have dried and when I have begun to soar, ecstatically.”

Those tears open the way; they cleanse your eyes. And only when the eyes are clear can flights be taken. Those tears make you light; and when you become light, wings appear.

No—don’t ask, “Please explain this state.” I will not explain. Go deeper into this state and understanding will come. And that understanding will not be of the mind; it will be of the heart. It will be steeped in love. It will be understanding in the real sense. The wise have not called that understanding knowledge; they have called it wisdom—prajna. That is a different matter altogether.

There is the understanding of the intellect; that is conjecture. Philosophy is filled with such conjectures. And there is the understanding steeped in the heart’s love, a comprehension that wells up from love, bathed in love. That is another thing. That is the realm of religion. That is the understanding that will serve.

But that I cannot explain. Drink more! Be more intoxicated! This monsoon that is gathering around you, this new greenness in you, these flowers beginning to bloom, these swelling clouds—do not, even by mistake, turn them into intellectual ideas. Otherwise you will not even know when the monsoon that had come near has moved far away. If you sit down to think, “Why do tears come to the eyes?” the tears will dry up—because thinking is the opposite of tears. And if the tears dry up—because of thinking—then the flights will stop. And then the mind will ask, “What happened? Why have the flights stopped? Why do tears no longer come to the eyes?”

There is no other reason; you have simply become a little too clever. You have started to think. Now, before you tremble you first think, “Why tremble?” If even the snake were to think, “The flute is playing—so why am I swaying?” the swaying would stop—instantly. The very moment that thought arises, the swaying ceases.

Thought is the opposite of ecstasy. And thought always intrudes. When you come here the first time, there is no thought; you hear the flute and you begin to sway. Once the experience happens, the mind puts a question mark over it. With that question mark, the obstruction begins. The mind leads you astray, takes you onto another road—one that is not the path of the soul, not the path of the divine.

Drop the very questions. If, when you are with me, the tears lessen, embrace it with a sense of awe. If the body begins to sway, embrace it with a sense of awe. If it becomes still, embrace it in simple naturalness.

See the mind’s tricks! This is the beginning of meditation—and the mind will say, “You’re making a mistake in meditation; that’s why drowsiness is descending.” This is not drowsiness. For it the Yoga scriptures have a different word—yoga-nidra. It is not sleep. It is a state of rasa, of rapture—so saturated with sweetness that neither I am seen nor am I heard. You have not gone to sleep. You have become so inwardly merged with me, so one with me…!

To hear, distance is needed. To see, distance is needed. A little space is required to see. You can only see the other; you can only hear the other. How will you see yourself?

Such moments will come when you are so absorbed with me that neither words will be heard nor will I be seen. And these are precisely the moments when the wordless will be heard. And when my body is not seen, my true form will be seen.

That happening has two parts.

First, my words will cease to be heard; my body will cease to be seen. This is happening. Now, if you go on along this path without second-guessing—“Maybe I’m getting sleepy, maybe it’s a trance, maybe I’m making some mistake in meditation”—if you just keep going, keep going… soon, what I am not saying, what cannot be said, what cannot be bound in words—that will be heard by you. You will hear my emptiness!

Speech is struck sound, ahata nada. It is born from the collision of the lips, the striking of the instruments of the throat. Truth is unstruck sound, anahata nada. The Zen mystics say: the clap of one hand—such is truth. It is unstruck; not the collision of two things.

You pluck the strings of a veena and music arises. That music is born of duality. Your finger has struck the string. That music is a kind of conflict. Therefore it is music, but mixed with dissonance. There is another music that is unstruck. That is called anahata. That is called Omkar.

If my words stop being heard and I stop being seen, and your eyes are open and you are present here, and in that very instant something happens—the ears do not function; the eye is open and does not function; you are awake and yet it seems sleep has come—this is a very lovely happening! It is a sign that meditation is moving in the right direction. Soon the second event will take place—if you keep going with courage!

Courage will be needed, because the mind will surely raise questions: “Have you gone deaf? Have your eyes gone bad? Has your consciousness fallen into delusion? Are you going insane? You are listening and nothing is heard! You are looking and nothing is seen! Perhaps some disorder has occurred in the brain’s nerves? Are you doing some meditation that is weakening your brain or making you deranged?”

If these questions are not raised, and you say, “All right—madness then madness, sleep then sleep; whatever is happening is fine,” if you leave it all to me and move on, then the second event will soon be heard by you—the Omkar will be heard! The sound that is unstruck will be heard! The clap of one hand will be heard.

And only when that is heard have you heard me. And when the formless begins to be seen here by you, only then have you seen me. Only then have I been of use to you. Only then have I become your boat. Only then have you placed your hand in mine.

This is the intoxicating night of Saavan!
In dusky thrills, hiding and seeking, the breeze flows brimming with delight;
Sipping honey, the forest creepers are drunk, their tender bodies gone slack—
This is the intoxicating night of Saavan!
Dive in! Saavan is coming—dance! Put up the swings! Saavan is coming—swing!

Mukesh Bharti! To stake everything means: to step from the boundary of the known into the unknown. Naturally the mind is afraid. There is nothing unnatural in that. There is no fear in living with what is familiar and well known. Inside your own house you feel at home. We are skillful with the known. But when someone sets out on an unfamiliar track, enters the dark wilderness, one gets tired, courage falters, the feet hesitate. The mind says, What are you about to do? What if you get lost? What if you cannot return? In what desolation will you be left alone! Companions will drop away! Loved ones, friends, family...

The path of meditation is a path of solitude. There you will be utterly alone. Not that you must leave your wife outwardly, but inwardly you will be alone. You cannot take your wife with you into meditation. You cannot take your strongbox with you into meditation—and that is what you call your strength. Nor can you take your knowledge—and that is the pedestal of your ego; that is your throne.

Into meditation you can take nothing; you must go utterly naked. It is frightening! The mind says, Where are you going? Leaving the known for the unknown? As if someone launches his little boat upon an unknown ocean! The far shore is not even visible. There is no map in hand. The oars are small, the boat is small. The sea is in high waves. The mind says, Stay on this shore. Why take such risks? Don’t lose the bread in your hand for the promise of something you don’t know and cannot trust! What if you lose this shore and never reach the other! What if you drown midstream!

So, Mukesh, although I say to you that you have nothing to lose, and you too know it—what do you really have to lose?—still the mind says: True, there may not be much, but wherever I am is familiar terrain. This ground is known to me. I know its map. The roads are recognizable, the people familiar. At least there is ground under my feet. Even if there are a few thorns on this ground, a few sorrows, still I have always lived on it. I have even grown accustomed to its thorns.

Remember, if people are asked to choose between an old pain and a new one, they prefer the old pain—because at least it is old, they are used to it. The new one they are not used to. Who knows what it will be like! It might be worse than the old! People don’t let go even of their suffering.

And your sufferings are not pure suffering; mixed in them are hopes of pleasure. Your nights are not pure night; hidden in them are glimpses of morning. There is the hope, the dream of dawn. If there is night, surely morning must also come. On the far horizon it seems—now the destination is near, now the destination is near.

No, you have nothing to lose, because you came empty-handed and you will go empty-handed. Whatever you pile up between birth and death will all be left behind. All the pomp will be left piled up! What of it can ever be yours when you cannot close your fist upon it, cannot carry it with you, did not bring it with you, and it will remain here? What of it is yours? What is there to fear losing? There is nothing to lose.

And yet, you ask rightly, Mukesh: then why can I still not stake everything?

Because it is frightening to accept a challenge. To accept it needs courage—indomitable courage! And our poisons—the poisons of society—teach only cowardice. We make every child a coward. We fill every child with fears. All children are born fearless. Very soon we infect them with our fears. We pass on uncountable fears. No child fears the dark, but because we fear the dark, the child soon catches the fear. What does the child know of fearing darkness? In truth, the child has lived nine months in the mother’s womb in darkness. If anything, he might be afraid of light; why would he be afraid of darkness?

In the West, scientists exploring how to make birth more natural have discovered first of all that when the child is born there should be no harsh light in the room. The newborn’s eyes are struck by a terrible blow. Perhaps then the world would not have so many people needing glasses. It makes sense. A very prominent Western scientist is engaged in this research. His first finding: where children are born there should not be bright light. In most hospitals, where children are born, the lights are glaring. The child is coming out of darkness, out of nine months of deep darkness. The delicate fibers of the eye cannot withstand the assault of intense light. You injure the eyes from the very first moment.

No animal wears glasses. All animals’ eyes are fine. Only humans wear glasses. Certainly, somewhere there has been a fundamental mistake with the human eye. Somewhere the fibers have been singed, the nerves injured.

A child cannot naturally fear the dark. But we fear the dark; we hand our fear to the child. We say, Don’t go into the dark! We train the child to cling to light. If he goes into the dark we stop him. Children have no fear at all; even if a snake comes, a child may catch it and play. But we fill them with fear. Then forget snakes—children begin to fear earthworms. Our fear has caught them. What do children know of ghosts and spirits? We plant fear. Children don’t even know God; we plant fear. Fear of hell and lure of heaven, fear of ghosts and spirits, fear of darkness, fear of snakes and scorpions—fear of everything! We weave a ring of fear.

This is society’s fraud. There is deep politics in it. Make every person a coward and every person becomes a slave. Do not give anyone courage; if there is courage, take it away; so that everyone becomes exploitable. The child who fears the dark, fears God, fears ghosts, fears hell—he will fear anyone. Whoever looks powerful, he will fear. He will be frightened. He will be ready to bow anywhere. You have broken his back. In life he will make petty compromises. For two pennies he will sell his soul.

We want to make man into a marketable commodity, hence we weaken him. Even parents cannot tolerate a courageous child, a daring child, because he will trouble them. Parents find it convenient that the child be obedient. Only a timid child can be obedient; otherwise he will not agree to obey even a wrong order. And all of parents’ commands are not right. Parents themselves are not always right—how can all their orders be right? If they must make him obey even wrong orders, there is but one device: break his courage, frighten him, punish him.

How many punishments we inflict on small children—for nothing! But there is a secret behind them all: if the child is frightened, he becomes obedient. He obeys out of fear. That is not a sign of love. Teachers too find it convenient when children fear the cane. If they fear, they remain quiet; the teacher is at ease. Otherwise, they pester, ask awkward questions—questions that not only the teacher, but no teacher knows the answers to. And no teacher wants to admit, I do not have the answer... so, frighten them! Threaten them!

Your whole system of education is built on fear. Outwardly you may have made laws that children should not be beaten. Children are still beaten. Outwardly you may have put a ban on the cane. But what are your examinations? Very subtle mechanisms of fear. You have frightened children: if you don’t get first class, you will starve all your life! See how, as exams approach, children don’t sleep through the nights. They are cramming, like mad, things that will never be of any use after the exam. Ninety percent will be forgotten right after. And ninety-eight percent of what is taught in school will never be used in life. But out of fear they memorize, stuffing their heads. Somehow they must regurgitate it in the exam!

What are your exams? Mere vomiting rituals. First fill the skull, then vomit it out. And the more completely you can vomit on the paper, the more competent you seem. It is a test of memory, not of intelligence. And all of it stands on fear—lest you come third class, lest you fail; otherwise great disgrace! When a child comes home having failed, see how the parents look at him—as if he’s worth two pennies! Why didn’t you die when you were born! And if he comes first in first class and brings home a gold medal, the parents celebrate, give feasts. Their chests swell with pride. The child has gratified their ego, filled it to the brim.

Teachers frighten, parents frighten, neighbors frighten, priests frighten, politicians frighten. Everyone is in the business of frightening. After twenty or twenty-five years of this conditioning, accepting a challenge—anything new—becomes difficult.

Do you bow in temples out of love—or out of fear? Out of fear! Lest Lord Ganesha be offended. Otherwise, upon seeing Ganesha you might smile, not feel like bowing. Even little children are brought to me—especially Indian friends bring their children. They hold their necks and force the head down to touch my feet. What are you doing? Why are you killing this child? All his life he will keep bending out of fear. And there are two dangers. First, he will bend out of fear—that is a loss. His soul will be that of a slave. There will be a mental slavery. Second, if ever the occasion truly arises to bow, even then his bow will be formal. There will be no life in it, no soul. There will be no truth in that bow. He will be harmed both ways.

And truth is a challenge—the challenge of the unknown. It needs courage!

The wave calls to you!
No golden boat at hand,
no little leaf-boat at hand,
no ferry-maiden anywhere
seen upon the sea;
the boundless ocean stands before you—
but do not lose heart:
in your arms abides measureless strength,
votary of the infinite dream!
The wave calls to you!

No ray of light at hand,
nor the far-off footprint of death;
erase the boundaries of time,
close, as if, the eyes of time itself!
Impenetrable darkness stands before you—
but do not lose heart:
a thousand glittering drops
the ocean lifts in offering!
The wave calls to you!

Destruction-clouds are writhing,
the moments of ruin are not far,
the earth rocks in rapid motion,
the sky trembles, thundering;
a deluge of dissolution lies before you—
but do not lose heart:
invincible power is in your breath,
you, the creation of a great aeon!
The wave calls to you!

The sky has fallen wordless,
the wind has ceased to breathe,
the earth is dissolving away,
your feet can find no hold!
A perished world stands before you—
but do not lose heart:
with the dream of a new creation
the wave gazes at you!
The wave calls to you!

Mukesh, of course you are afraid—because fear has been taught to you.

Now that you have come to me, I teach you fearlessness. Take heart! Accept the challenge of the unknown! It is in seeking that far, invisible shore that your soul will be born. Only in that seeking will a center arise within you. You will not remain fragmentary; you will become whole.

The greater the challenge one accepts, the more integrated one becomes. Challenge is the process of becoming one. And the person who refuses challenge becomes flabby, fragmented. There is no sharpness in his life, no edge. His sword is blunt; at best it can chop vegetables. It is good only for greens.

So when I look at your monks and sadhus in temples and ashrams, the first thing I see is that their swords have no edge—they are blunt. There is no gleam of intelligence in their eyes, nor a flow of love in their presence. Out of fear they have become renunciates. They tremble, afraid lest they commit some sin! There is no joy in doing virtue; there is only fear of sinning.

Keep this distinction in mind! One person does virtue because he delights in it. Another does virtue because he is afraid of sin. These two people are fundamentally different. One lives in the sky—who delights in virtue, in joy. The other lives in hell—who fears sin. Though both may do virtuous acts, the value of their virtue is different. In one there will be a keen edge, radiance, dignity, grace, dance, song. The other’s virtue will be a burden; he drags it out of fear. One is a master, the other a slave.

Your so-called monks and renunciates are merely slaves. They fear sinning, fear rotting in hell! Their scriptures have frightened them. They have painted such ghoulish pictures of hell that anyone would be afraid. Those who drew them were not good people; they were wicked. They have made you slaves. They have frightened you thoroughly: You will be boiled in cauldrons. You will be thrown into flames. Worms will make thousands of holes in your body and crawl through them. You will not die, neither in the fire nor the cauldrons—only writhe! A terrible thirst will burn you; before you will lie a lake, but your lips will be sewn shut.

They thought it all out thoroughly! And you call them rishis and sages! They were the forefathers of Adolf Hitler, Stalin and Mao Tse-tung, not rishis. What these men conceived, Hitler, Stalin and Mao turned into practice. They staged such events on earth.

There is no hell anywhere—except in the trickery of tricksters, in schemes to enslave you. And there is no heaven anywhere either; because heaven too is an enticement, the other face of fear—greed. On this side fear, on that side greed.

In the circus you see even elephants made to dance. Do you imagine the elephant enjoys dancing—happily lifting his feet and prancing? It is a burden. Imagine his weight, his struggle lifting a leg! He was not made to dance. No one has seen elephants dancing in the wild. He is no peacock—he is an elephant. That is why it delights you to see him dance: Look, an elephant dancing! Sitting on a stool! Playing the pipe! And do you know how he is trained? The same heaven-hell!

Humanity has known only one method to make anyone do anything: scare him and tempt him. When the elephant dances he gets delicious food. The day he doesn’t dance, his food is stopped, the whip lashes him.

Now they have gone further—scientific. In the West, circuses are run scientifically. It takes much less time. They have platforms that deliver electric shocks to the elephant’s feet: he will lift his legs and “dance” automatically—what else can he do? If you shock him from below, the poor fellow must raise his feet. And this you call dancing!

Your rishis, your monks are performing just such dances. From below, hell is sending shocks—electric shocks! Anyone will dance; even an elephant can be made to dance! But this is not dance; it is the degradation of dance. And then there is the lure: if he dances well, he gets good food, good rest. Even a lion—so brave in the wild—can be made to perform tricks in the circus.

Every human is born a lion and ends up in a circus cage. One in a Hindu cage, one in a Muslim cage, one in a Christian cage—these are all separate circuses. One the “Great Bombay Circus,” another the “Great Raman Circus”—all circuses. You can make people do anything—torment them and tempt them. You were raised in the same way.

I am teaching you a new language—of fearlessness and non-greed. How ironic that the very scriptures that preach non-greed dangle the lure of heaven before you. You never notice the contradiction! On the one hand they say non-greed is a great vow, and in the same texts they promise that those who master non-greed will have fairies in heaven, apsaras. What fun! What arithmetic is this? Non-greed the great vow! He who drops greed is great. And what will be his reward? Beautiful women whose bodies are of gold! And no matter how much sun shines—though in heaven, note, there is no sun; heaven is air-conditioned. A gentle breeze always blows—the Malayan breeze never ceases. And even if there were sunshine, these golden beauties do not sweat, no unpleasant odor emanates. How could gold perspire? Have you ever seen sweat flowing from gold?

On one side non-greed, on the other the lure of heaven—both walk together. On one side you are told to be fearless, and on the other you are threatened with hell—Do this and you’ll rot like this! And for such petty things, how many terrors have been piled upon people!

Bertrand Russell wrote: If I were to confess all the sins I have committed in life, and also confess what I did not do but only thought of doing, even the strictest judge could give me four to eight years. And for these, religions condemn me to hell for births upon births... and the Christian hell is eternal, mind you. In Hinduism and the like, there is release from hell; once the sins are paid off, you are free—there is a limit. But the Christian hell is eternal.

Russell is right: however many sins one has committed, still there is a limit to sin. There should be a limit to punishment too. For limited sins, limitless punishment—what kind of justice is this? To rot in hell for eternity! In Hinduism, Jainism, heaven is limited. When your merit is exhausted, you are sent back; whatever you earned is spent. Heaven too is wealth: earn it, then go to the hills for a few days, have fun. Then your pocket is empty—come back, harness yourself again to life’s bullock cart, pull the load, earn again, then visit the hills again... Hindu heaven is a sort of holiday home. Earn a little, get a little vacation, go. But the Christian heaven is eternal, as their hell is eternal. And note the irony: Hindus, Jains, Buddhists believe in infinite births; one might then understand infinite sins. But Christians believe in only one life.

So Russell’s point is meaningful: in this one life, however many sins I have done—and even the ones I only thought of doing—at most I might get four to eight years from the harshest judge. For this I must roast in hell for eternity! And those who never drank tea, nor coffee, nor smoked, nor touched alcohol—just for this they will make merry in heaven forever! And what merriment will they have there? No coffee, no cigarettes, no alcohol—what merriment will you do? So, for the sake of merriment, all the arrangements have to be made there: whatever you renounced here is available there in abundance! In paradise, streams of wine flow. Here you must drink from clay cups; there streams are flowing—dive in! Drink to your fill! Here you leave women; there you will have apsaras, houris!

This has been humanity’s strange religious thinking. I give you a new language—no heaven, no hell.

But heaven and hell are beautiful words if used properly. Whenever you do anything by compulsion, that is hell; whenever you do anything falsely, that is hell. Hell is not a place; it is a psychology. The elephant who dances out of fear is in hell. The peacock who spreads his feathers and dances when the monsoon clouds gather, he is in heaven. When the dance is spontaneous, authentic, rising from your own depth—then heaven. When you dance out of fear and greed—then hell.

Life can be lived in two ways: a hellish way and a heavenly way. I am teaching you the heavenly way—how to live here and now in a heavenly manner. This earth is heaven for those who know the art of joy. This earth is liberation for those who know the art of freedom. And this earth is hell for those who are skillful at manufacturing hell.

Those who live on fear and greed turn life into hell. Those who live in non-greed and fearlessness turn life into heaven.

And accept challenges, because only challenges bring to a polish the talent hidden within you; they give you edge. Challenges unify you. They organize you inwardly. You become concentrated. And challenges awaken you—for one whose life has no challenge, he sleeps. He whose life has challenge—how can he sleep?

If your house is on fire, can you sleep? However tired you are—at the sight of fire, in a single instant the fatigue is gone, the sleep disappears.

Challenge breaks sleep. Challenge breaks the ordinary rules of life. The ordinary rules are transcended. Therefore I say to you—

The wave calls to you!
No golden boat at hand,
no little leaf-boat at hand,
no ferry-maiden anywhere
seen upon the sea;
the boundless ocean stands before you—
but do not lose heart:
in your arms abides measureless strength,
votary of the infinite dream!
The wave calls to you!

Impenetrable darkness stands before you—
but do not lose heart:
a thousand glittering drops
the ocean lifts in offering!
The wave calls to you!

I am calling you—set out on the journey into the unknown! You will have to stake everything. You will have to be brave. For courage will be your boat; fearlessness will be your oar.

But your fear too is natural. I do not condemn your fear. You have been taught to fear. What are you to do? Such is your conditioning. Yet I would say this much: whether you cling to this conditioning or drop it is in your hands. So do not dump the responsibility on society and sit back. Do not take my words to mean: What can I do? Society has taught me fear, so I will live in fear!

No. Once you understand that society has taught you fear, your responsibility becomes deeper. Now you can drop the fear. Now it is your choice. Now you can, if you wish, hold on to this chain—or, if you wish, let it go. The chain is not holding you; you are holding the chain. The moment you release it, it falls. The chain has no interest in you.

A river was in flood. Mulla Nasruddin went with friends to watch. They saw a blanket floating by. He leapt in.

His friends shouted, Where are you going?

He said, That blanket!

When he grabbed it, he cried, Help! Free me from this blanket!

His friends said, You’ve gone mad, Nasruddin! If you want to leave the blanket, let it go. What is there to free?

He said, It’s not a blanket—it’s a wolf... I only saw the fur on top and thought it was a blanket... now the blanket won’t let me go.

But life is not like that. In life it is not as with Nasruddin, that the blanket has grabbed you. You are grabbing the blanket. The blanket has no interest in you. Let go now—this very instant it drops. And only if you let go will it drop. And move slowly if you must—one step at a time. Inch by inch—yet move. Place your foot a little beyond the known. And the joy of the unknown is such that once you have set your foot there, you will not look back toward the known. Once you have tasted the waves of the ocean, the life in the waves, you will not search for shore. You will want midstream itself to be your shore. You will want the ocean to drown you in itself. Where is there to go! You will drop this shore and the other too. The very longing for shores is the longing for security. Now you will live in insecurity.

And the one who lives in insecurity—that one is a sannyasin. Sannyas means the science of living in insecurity. Householder means living in security. Householder does not merely mean one who lives in a house—everyone lives in houses. An ashram is also a house. Some houses you call ashrams and think you’ve become a renunciate. Householder means: one who clings to the house. And sannyasin means: one who does not cling to the house, even while living in it; he is free of it; he can leave the moment he wishes.

A certain emperor in Japan became deeply impressed by a fakir. Each night the emperor would ride his horse around the village. He would see this fakir sitting under a tree—blissful! Sometimes the fakir played the flute. Sometimes he danced. Sometimes he hummed a song. Sometimes he sat silently gazing at the stars. The emperor would stop. Whenever he passed on horseback, he would halt. He could not help pausing for a moment to behold that presence. He would taste, for a moment, that ecstasy. Slowly he became so enamored that time would pass unnoticed as he stood quietly, witnessing the bliss. Such was the intoxication that he too would return home intoxicated. It became a daily rite.

One day he was so overwhelmed that he fell at the fakir’s feet and said, Master, I will not let you stay here now. The rains are near. This is only a tree—how will you live under it in the rains? Come to the palace. Bless me with the opportunity to serve.

The fakir stood up at once. He picked up his bag. He said, Let’s go.

The emperor was shocked. This world is strange. He had said, Come, but would have been pleased to hear the fakir say, What palace? What palace? I am blissful where I am! I don’t go to palaces. I have renounced palaces and such! That was the expectation within—then he would have held his feet even more tightly. But the fakir stood up at once. The emperor was a bit shaken: Have I blundered? Is this man playing a trick? Was squatting here playing the flute just a tactic to get into my palace? Was he casting a net? Was it bait to hook a fish? How easily I got hooked! Now I can’t even say anything. He didn’t give me a chance. He didn’t even say, No, no, I’m fine here. What are a few rains? He didn’t even say it once. What kind of fakir is this! His reverence vanished.

Our reverences are cheap; they vanish in a moment. The fakir was utterly at ease. The emperor said nothing more; the fakir mounted the horse. The emperor had to walk on foot while the fakir rode. The emperor’s heart was hurt: I acted too hastily. I made a mistake. But I cannot take back my word. I am a man of my word. So, fine, he’ll live in the palace; so many others do—he will too. But the honor in his mind was gone. Our honors stand on notions; they shatter at the slightest touch. They have little worth.

The fakir began living in the palace and the emperor’s distress grew by the day, because the fakir lived in such abandon! Under the tree his ecstasy evoked reverence—wonderful, what a renunciate! He played the flute there and played it here too, but now he sat on velvet cushions. Snakes writhed on the emperor’s chest: What sort of person have I brought home! What kind of fakir is this? He lived with more display than the emperor. The emperor had some worries—his kingdom, his palace, his wealth—plenty of cares. The fakir had none. He simply played the flute! Danced! Ate blissfully!

The emperor somehow tolerated six months, but the matter grew, and grew, and grew—beyond bearing. One day he said, Master, I have a question—what is now the difference between you and me?

The fakir said, You want to know the difference?

The emperor said, Yes, Master.

The fakir said, Why did you needlessly suffer for six months? You should have asked the day I mounted the horse—for I saw on your face the question arise that very moment. When I lifted my bag and agreed to come, I saw your face. The question was already there; you burned your chest for six months—you fool! You should have asked right then. I would have dropped my bag and sat down again under the tree. Why did you keep up this shame and hesitation? But I was waiting to see when you would ask. I will tell you the difference tomorrow morning. But outside the village.

The emperor rose early, eager to know what the fakir would say—because in his mind there was no difference. He eats what I eat—more than me. He demands—bring this, bring that. He lives in a room more splendid than mine. I make do with one or two servants; he keeps ten or twenty busy. There is no end to his needs; he keeps asking. He wears glorious clothes—if someone saw us, he would take me for a minister and him for the emperor. And blissful! And the whole day playing the flute—no worry, no care. Let’s see what difference he tells me!

In the morning the emperor set out with the fakir. The fakir wore the same garments he had worn under the tree; he had kept them in his bag. He said, Let’s go, Majesty. They passed the village and reached the river—the boundary of the village. The fakir said, Let us go farther, a little farther. It was noon. The emperor said, How long shall we keep walking? Say what you have to say!

The fakir said, We are going on; do you come or not?

The emperor said, How can I come? My palace, my wife, my children, my wealth...

The fakir said, That is the difference. We can go; you cannot. You are a householder. We are renunciates.

And for a moment the emperor saw—Oh, what have I done! It is true. What a marvelous man I have squandered! I did not even sit with him in satsang for six months. How could I? All along I was thinking: He is an ordinary man, a counterfeit; the gold is only gilt over clay. He fell at the fakir’s feet: No, Master, I will not let you go.

The fakir said, I have no difficulty going. But then the difficulty will be yours again. What difficulty is it to me to mount your horse right now? But no, I will not go now—because it will again be difficult for you, and still you will not understand.

And as soon as he said, I can go, the emperor’s face changed again. Again he thought—Oh...

The fakir did not stay. He said, No, now you must understand what the difference is. I have no difficulty. For he who has difficulty is no renunciate. What difficulty do I have? Whether under a tree or in a palace—no difference to me. My flute will play as it did.

A householder is not merely one who lives in a house; he is one who clings to the house. And a renunciate is not one who must leave the house; he is one who does not cling. If leaving is needed, he steps out that instant, without even looking back.

It is to this sannyas that I have invited you. You have accepted it, Mukesh! Now take the steps. Only becoming a renunciate outwardly will not do; now you must become a renunciate within as well.

Narendra! There are unspoken words—but how can they be spoken? They are unspoken; they will remain unspoken! Yes, they can be heard, but they cannot be said.

Remember, the unspoken need not remain unheard. The unspoken can also be heard. And that is the alchemy of discipleship: that you hear even what is not being said. What is being said, anyone can hear—that is the mark of a student. When you hear what is not being said, you become a disciple. And the day you begin to live it, that day you are a devotee.

There are just these three steps—student, disciple, devotee. The student hears only what is spoken. The disciple hears what is not spoken. And the devotee lives it. For only by living will you understand. Even if you hear the unspoken—what will it do? You will not understand. When you live it, then you will understand. That is why I speak every day. Students will take something from the spoken. Disciples will take something from the unspoken. Devotees will live the unspoken.

What remains
to be said.
I have said—till now—
much,
again and again,
in many ways.
And you too have understood—
what,
who knows
in what manner?
I…
the moment-to-moment experience
I want
to say,
listen!
What remains,
what
is to be said—
that remainder will remain.

As Rabindranath lay dying, a friend said: “You are blessed! In this final hour of death, give thanks to God that you have sung six thousand songs. No man has ever sung so many. And each of your songs is such that it deserves to be bound in music—soaked in music!”

In the West, Shelley is considered a great poet—only two thousand songs. Rabindranath has six thousand. And not only more in number—greater in quality too.

So the friend spoke rightly; yet tears streamed from Rabindranath’s eyes. He said, “No, no, I cannot give thanks. I can only say to God that I have not yet sung what I was meant to sing! I had only tuned the instrument; the music had not yet been born! And how have you done this, Lord—that the moment of departure has come! I was sent to sing the Song, and I could not sing it. In the attempt to sing it, these six thousand songs were born; but what remained, remained. I could only set the strings…”

Have you watched classical musicians? They tune the instruments; sometimes it takes half an hour. Those who don’t know are puzzled: Why didn’t they tune at home? Now they are hammering and tapping here! The veena is being tightened. The tabla is being struck. Powder is being rubbed in. What are they doing? Why not finish this at home? But some things cannot be readymade; they must be woven moment to moment. The one tightening the veena strings could have done it at home—you will say. Of course he could. But then he would have to retighten. Because, without seeing the people present, the strings cannot be tuned. Without sensing this atmosphere, this air, the strings cannot be tuned. They will be tightened with you. He is not only tuning the veena; he is creating a balance between the veena and the listeners. The unknowing will not understand this. He is not merely tightening strings; he is bringing your heart into rhythm. The one tightening the tabla is not just tightening the tabla. With the little hammer he is not just tapping the drum; he is aligning the membranes of your ears with the tabla. He is making the tabla attuned to you. If the listeners change, the veena must be tuned again.

What I speak is according to your capacity. If there were only new people here today, I could not have said to you what I said. That is why I had to stop going village to village speaking to crowds. Because one realization kept returning: if I go on speaking in the marketplace, I will not be able to say what I have to say. To say it—let alone to say it—I won’t even be able to tune the instrument.

It happened once: Wajid Ali Shah, the Nawab of Lucknow, invited the Viceroy. A musical gathering was arranged. The English Viceroy had come to India for the first time. He knew nothing of classical music—not even of music as such. The assembly began. Lucknow’s lovers of music gathered. The greatest musicians were called. They began to tune—someone his veena, someone his sarangi, someone his tabla, someone his mridang—everyone began to set the instruments. And the Viceroy started nodding—thinking that the music had begun! Wajid Ali was astonished. Others were amazed: What is happening? And when the tuning was finished and the musicians were ready to give birth to music, he opened his eyes and said to Wajid Ali: “Why has the music stopped? Please continue. I liked it very much. Let this continue.”

So it went on like that the whole night! And since the Viceroy said so—he was the guest—through the entire night people kept tightening veenas and striking tablas. Wajid Ali kept knocking his own head. The rest of the listeners knocked theirs. And the Viceroy was delighted: What marvelous music!—according to the listener…

I had to stop my travels. Because such listeners could only take the drum being tapped and the veena being tuned to be the music. I have now sat in one place so that, gradually, there may be a synchrony between the listeners and me, a depth, a bond; that we be bound in one wave.

About a hundred and fifty years ago, a scientist first discovered something astonishing. Its importance is growing; new work has begun on it. He discovered—accidentally, as often happens with significant things. He was a guest in a house. On one wall there were two old clocks—large pendulum clocks—on the same wall. He was surprised to observe—being a scientist—how the two pendulums swung exactly together! In perfect rhythm. He held one pendulum—and broke the rhythm. Then he released it and set it going; the rhythm had been broken. But he was amazed that within half an hour the rhythm steadied again—both pendulums began to swing together: both to the left, both to the right. He repeated the experiment many times; he could not sleep all night. Many times he stopped one pendulum and set it in reverse, so that when the first went left, the other went right. But in a little while, slowly, slowly, they would again be bound in a single rhythm. He was puzzled: What is the matter? These clocks have no visible connection.

But there are connections that don’t appear. After years of inquiry he found that the swing of one pendulum creates subtle vibrations in the wall behind—so subtle that he could detect them only after years. And those vibrations reach the other pendulum—and the joy of swinging together!

Nature always works by expending the least energy—whichever way costs less. If they swing opposite, double the energy is spent; if they swing together, half the energy is spent.

When I was speaking to the public, to the crowd, an enormous energy was spent—and still it was difficult. Now I speak only to the thirsty. Now something can be said. I speak to those whose pendulums are resonating with mine, swaying with mine; whose heartstrings are tied to me.

That is why the event of sannyas became necessary. Ultimately, I want to speak only to sannyasins—whose strings are tuned exactly to mine. Yet even to you I say: what remains to be said will remain. Yes, we will go on attempting to say it. And we shall come very close to it—there will be flights almost to it. Day by day we shall come nearer, and yet something unsaid will remain unsaid.

Truth always remains unsaid. However close you come, it cannot be said. But as you draw close to it, a new art is learned—it can be heard.

Let me repeat. I speak every day. Not because by speaking I will someday be able to tell you the Truth. Then why do I keep speaking? Because as I draw nearer, you too will keep deepening in listening. And a moment will come—I will not be able to say it, but you will hear it. Your student will become a disciple. And once you hear it, you will have to live it—you will not be able to live against it. Your devotee will be born.

There is still something more that has not been said.

A ray arose, rushed out, measured the horizon,
A smile of joy, aching with a pang, trembled at the poor man’s eye-corners,
A child squealed with delight, and that spread through the mother’s every vein,
Incomplete, yet it was a natural feeling:
My modesty, becoming adornment, veiled me—
Then I, impatient as I am,
Could hold back no longer.
And yet something more remained
That was not said.

I have watered even the dispassionate desert—
So what? I have scooped water from rivers, streams, ponds, and wells—
So what? I have flown, I have run, I have swum, I have become adept,
And struck down by this very ego,
On the ocean’s shore, in the dark,
I faltered; I bowed:
In that vastness through me
It would not flow.
Therefore, what else remained
Was not said.

Words—true—are all in vain,
Precisely because there are meanings beyond words.
Perhaps only this much: the ache
Is immense; by me alone
It could not be borne.
Hence, that which still remained
Was not said.

These are the poet’s words. And the poet gets only glimpses. His ego does not go completely; it becomes thinned, but a gossamer veil remains. This is the difference between the poet and the seer. The poet gets glimpses; and yet even he glimpses that “There is still something more that has not been said.”

But the seer has the total experience of Truth—not a glimpse; he becomes truth-saturated. Aham Brahmasmi! He becomes Brahman-saturated. Ana’l-Haqq! “I am Truth”—such is his realization. The “I” dissolves; only Truth remains.

That cannot be said—but the seers have continued to attempt to say it. From that very effort, the art of listening is born in the listeners.

I will not be able to say it, but you will certainly be able to hear it. In that hope I keep speaking every day, knowing—there is still something more that has not been said!

That’s all for today.