Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #2

Manjula! The capacity of human beings is boundless. Man is the whole ocean in a single drop. He has the capacity to digest the whole of the Divine. And anything less will not bring fulfillment. Those who stop before that are uncomprehending. It is God that has to be drunk; it is God that has to be digested—and totally. As long as even a single fragment of your heart remains untouched by the Divine, restlessness will continue. If even a single grain of you remains separate from God, anguish will remain; the rain of contentment will not fall. The rain of contentment happens only when one digests the Divine as a whole and lets oneself be immersed in God.

Sannyas is the beginning, Manjula, not the end. It is the first step of the journey. But we are unaware of our capacity. And we are not allowed to become aware of it. For centuries you have been told—you are a sinner. For centuries you have been condemned. If your so-called sadhus and saints have done one thing consistently, it is to denounce you. And you kept listening to that denouncement. Layer upon layer of condemnation has settled within you. You have lost trust in yourself. And one who loses trust in oneself has lost the soul. When self-condemnation enters the heart, the bridge to God breaks—because it is with this very soul that we go to the door of the Divine. This is our offering. This is our worship, our prayer. If these flowers are not flowers, with what face will you go to God’s door? And the sadhus and saints have condemned man so much! They have called him a worm of hell. How will worms of hell reach God? And they have condemned with such craft, with such calculation, that you do not even notice it. And the condemnation is so ancient it almost appears like eternal religion. You have listened to such nonsense for so long that it has become your conditioning.

Why? What is the secret behind it?
Behind it lies politics. The politics is this: if man is condemned, he can be exploited easily. A condemned man becomes frightened. And one who is afraid becomes a coward. And in the coward, rebellion dies. Frighten man, and he will agree to wear chains. Terrify him, and he will be ready to place his head at anyone’s feet. Make him tremble, snatch away his self-respect, destroy his dignity, and he will be eager to bow before anyone. He will even search for people before whom he can bend. You have broken his spine. Now he cannot stand straight. Now he will be obedient—obedient, not self-governed. Now there will be no consciousness within him, only a hollow character. Now the sun of religion will not rise within him. The hypocrisy of morality—this will be his life. One thing inside, another outside. He will live wearing masks. And this is what the politicians want, this is what the priests and pundits want, this is what the so-called religious leaders want. A great arrangement is afoot to make man a slave—a great conspiracy. In it, the religious gurus and the politicians have always been partners. Both have held man by the neck.

I want to give you back your self-dignity. I want to remind you that you can digest even God—such is your capacity. It is not less than this. The whole sky can fit within you—such is your vastness. The sky is smaller than you. The inner sky is infinitely greater than the outer sky—infinitely upon infinitely. Sannyas is the proclamation that you have dropped the feeling of being a sinner, that you have freed yourself from the priests’ and pundits’ nonsense, that you have shaken off that rubbish from your head and become clean. Sannyas is the declaration: now I am not obedient; I am self-governed.

Being self-governed does not mean one will necessarily break orders. It simply means: if an order is intelligent, he will accept it; if unintelligent, he will reject it. It means nothing can be imposed upon him. He will be willing to be annihilated rather than agree to have anything forced upon him. He will perish, but he will not be sold. You cannot sell him in the marketplace. You cannot make him a slave. Offer him a thousand temptations and a thousand fears, still you cannot imprison him. You cannot lock him behind bars. Rebellion will be the sheen of his being—the truly religious man is a rebel. The truly religious man rejoices in the recognition of this majesty: I am not petty—Aham Brahmasmi, I am Brahman. Ana’l-Haqq: I am Haqq, I am the Truth. And remember, there is no ego in this proclamation. As long as there is ego, such a proclamation cannot even happen.

Why is there no ego in this proclamation—it may seem so! When someone says, “Aham Brahmasmi,” it appears like great ego. No. Because when someone says, “Aham Brahmasmi,” he has also said, “You too are Brahman.” If someone says, “I am Brahman and you are not,” that is ego. But if someone says, “I am Brahman, you too are Brahman; every stone is a hidden form of Brahman; throughout this whole universe Brahman is concealed”—that is why we call it Brahmand, the egg of Brahman from which Brahman is to be born, or is being born—this whole existence is Brahman-filled. One whose proclamation is such—that one is the sannyasin.

Manjula, do not even think for a moment whether you will be able to digest the prasad of sannyas. This is nothing yet. It is just the beginning. Now very great strides are yet to be taken! Now oceans are yet to be drunk! Now Brahman is yet to be digested. And the more trust you have in yourself, the more the doors of possibility go on opening.

There is only one way to be lost—let the I-sense fall. Let the ego fall. Let the sense of Brahman grow. In aham brahmasmi—“I am Brahman”—the essence of all spirituality is contained. Let the I diminish, let Brahman increase. The day such a moment arrives that there is no trace of “I,” and only Brahman knows Brahman, know that the destination has come. For now, it is such that nothing of Brahman is known; only talk of Brahman goes on! Nothing of Brahman is known. The word alone is bare, hollow. As yet there is no meaning in this word. Meaning has to be poured into it through the dissolution of ego. Now keep the dissolution of ego in awareness. Do nothing that nourishes, strengthens, or empowers the ego. Do everything that makes the ego fall, break, bid farewell. This alone is your discipline; this is the mandate of sannyas. Keep only this much examining: whatever I do, am I doing it to fill the ego? Remember this, because alms given to fatten the ego turn into sin. Merit done to fill the ego becomes sin. And whatever happens out of egolessness—that alone is virtue. Getting up and sitting down is virtue. Breathing is virtue.

This lamp, solitary, full of affection,
is swollen with pride and intoxicated, yet
give this too to the row.
This people: the songs they sing—who else will sing them again?
The diver: who else will bring up these true pearls?
This sacrificial kindling: who else will set such a stubborn fire alight?
This unique, this mine, this I myself—immersed and offered.
This lamp, solitary, full of affection,
is swollen with pride and intoxicated, yet
give this too to the row.
This is honey: the age-accumulation of Time’s bee,
this is milk: the nectar-pure draught of life’s wish-fulfilling cow,
this sprout: splitting the earth, gazing at the sun, fearless,
this natural, self-born, Brahman, boundless—
give this too to the row.
This lamp, solitary, full of affection,
is swollen with pride and intoxicated, yet
give this too to the row.
This is not that faith which trembled even in its smallness,
that pain whose depth only it itself has measured;
in the smoky, bitter darkness of malice, insult, and disdain,
these ever-melting, ever-alert, love-drenched eyes,
these hanging arms, this eternally unbroken belonging.
Inquisitive, awakened, ever full of reverence—
give this to the row:
This lamp, solitary, full of affection,
is swollen with pride and intoxicated, yet
give this too to the row.

Like one releases a lamp into the current of the river, in the same way, give this lamp of ego too to the row. Release this also into the river’s current. Let it flow away; don’t save it, don’t guard it.
This lamp, solitary, full of affection,
is swollen with pride and intoxicated, yet
give this too to the row.

And this lamp is dear too; through centuries upon centuries, endless ages, it has been with you, and it has given a little light as well. It is not that it gave no light. In the dark it gave you support like a blind man’s staff—but still, a blind man’s staff is not an eye. And when the eye is being given, the staff must be dropped. When walking is learned, supports have to be left. Give thanks to this ego: “You accompanied me a long way, friend, but now farewell, adieu!”
This lamp, solitary, full of affection,
is swollen with pride and intoxicated, yet
give this too to the row.

Let it go; let it be carried away. Let you remain, not the ego. Let existence remain, not I-ness. Then the skies upon skies will also merge into you; you are that vast, that immense!

It cannot happen through your doing. Because whatever you do, Manjula, the feeling “I have done it” will only become more solid. Do anything at all! Even try some method to drop the ego, and inside a denser ego will arise: “Aha! Look, I am dropping the ego, I am throwing the ego away!” A new ego will stand up. And this ego will be subtler than before—and more deadly. The subtler something is, the more potent and powerful it becomes. Because the subtler it is, the more invisible it is. And an invisible enemy is very dangerous. If he is visible, you can manage somehow—you can raise your shield when he swings his sword. But if he is not visible, how will you raise the shield? The invisible ego becomes dangerous. The ego of ordinary people is a visible ego. And those whom you call renunciates, ascetics—their ego is an invisible ego.

How did they acquire that ego? In trying to leave the ego, they acquired a new ego, worse than the first. Don’t try to drop it. Then how will the ego go? Try to awaken. Become conscious. Don’t drop the ego—look to see where it is. And you will be startled, amazed, wonderstruck—because the moment you go looking, you won’t find the ego at all. Then there comes an experience that astonishes and leaves you speechless: the ego was never there; it was only my belief. Hence it could neither be grasped nor dropped. I looked with awareness—and it was gone.

And if you simply cannot manage without doing something—because through lifetimes we have formed the habit of doing; we cannot remain even for a moment without doing. I tell someone to sit silently for an hour each day, and he asks, “But what should I do? Give me some mantra—let me chant, turn a rosary; give me some mantra—Ram, Om, Allah—let me repeat something, I need some support.” By “support” he is saying: we cannot sit even for an hour without doing; only if we do something can we sit. Then give them any nonsense and it will do. It need not be the Namokar mantra or the Gayatri—anything; even gibberish will do, just keep repeating it and there will be a “task.” Keep saying “Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola,” that too will do—there is no special issue about saying “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram”! But there must be something to do. Hand them a rosary and they will keep turning it—but there must be an activity.

If the difficulty is that awakening won’t happen without doing—then the highest is: be silent; each day for an hour look within. Whenever you find time, close your eyes and look in: what is this ego? Where is it? Search! Roam through your inner courtyard, corner to corner, and you will not find it anywhere; and in not finding it lies freedom. But if this cannot be, then one step lower is prayer. Then speak to the Divine! If you do it, you will make a mess of it. So pray to the Divine!

If you have given bondage, then give release as well.
Having bound me in hundreds of fetters,
Having given sorrow in honey-sweet moments,
Grant me such strength
That I may endure the pain.
If you have given bondage, then give release as well!

Weary of this entire world,
My feet wavering on the path,
Today, in the work of the world,
Grant this heart loving devotion as well!
If you have given bondage, then give release as well!

With the simplest trust,
Bearing an offering of tears,
Asking a boon:
Grant me the everlasting strength to abide at your feet!
If you have given bondage, then give release as well!

Doing nothing is best. If not-doing is impossible, then the second thing—pray. What is closest to actlessness is prayer. And don’t make prayer into words; let it be only feeling. Just bow down in feeling. Not some set, formal prayer repeated—like “Jai Jagdish Hare”—nothing will come of that. Wordless, full of feeling, lie at the feet of the Unknown and say just once: “If you have given bondage, now you give freedom! You must have given this ego—now you take it back!” “Tvadīyaṁ vastu Govinda, tubhyam eva samarpayet”—this belongs to you; you take care of it.

But this is number two, remember. If possible, number one! For the truly intelligent, number one. If there is no talent at all, if there is no understanding, if the edge of understanding is completely absent—if it is blunt—then number two.

You dreamed your whole life and never raised this question. Such is the wonder of the human mind. When there is sorrow, we accept it as real. When there is darkness, we have faith that it is. But let a ray of light appear, and doubt arises: “Isn’t it a dream, an illusion?”

When seekers enter meditation and, for the first time, a wave of bliss touches them—this happens every day—they come and say to me, “We can’t believe it. Is this a delusion?” I ask them, “You suffered all your life; did you ever ask if that was a delusion? Today a little tremor of joy comes, a tiny flower blooms—and you lose your trust!”

Why are we so devout toward sorrow? Why do we so readily believe in suffering and not in bliss? Perhaps because for centuries sorrow has been familiar and bliss unfamiliar. We have adopted sorrow as inevitable and forgotten the taste of joy. One who has lived only on poison—if a drop of nectar suddenly touches his tongue—how can he trust it? The mind’s logic is understandable.

But remember: whatever you trust, you empower. Whatever you revere, you pour your energy into. What you have faith in will grow; where you are faithless, you close the door. You open the door only for the guest you expect; you keep watch only for the one you believe will arrive.

We await sorrow; our doors are open for it, festooned with garlands, “Welcome” written out—for sorrow. And if happiness knocks, we panic and slam the door. We can’t believe, “Bliss—at my door? Impossible. It must be a mistake; a guest bound for another house has come here. Or perhaps I merely daydreamed—an open-eyed dream. Bliss—and me!”

You say, “I have grown old.”
No—you have never grown old, nor can you ever. What grows old is not you. The body is sometimes a child, sometimes young, sometimes old. You were never a child, never young, never old. You were the witness of childhood, the witness of youth, and you are the witness of old age. You were the witness of life, and you will be the witness of death. You are the witness. What aging? What birth? What death?

But we never learned how to live—because our witness has not awakened. We have been pushed and shoved, and we called that life. Childhood pushed you into youth, youth pushed you into old age, life pushed you into the grave. The grave will push you into another womb. We’ve just been jostled about. That is not life.

In this world, even those who are, are as if they are not.
Even when awake, as if asleep.
Laughter—let that be, it’s too much to ask;
Even our weeping is like not-weeping at all.

Nothing here is truly healthy. Forget laughter—even our crying is as if we do not cry. Nothing about us is authentic. We are lukewarm. There is no urgency in our living. We have never lived a single moment in its totality. Hence the miss. For the one who lives even a single moment totally, the experience of the witness begins. Totality and witnessing are two sides of the same coin.

Live any moment totally and you will be astonished—the witness within awakens. Dance totally—so that only the dance remains—so that you pour your entire energy, your whole strength into it, leaving nothing held back, no miserliness. Then you will be amazed: the body is dancing, and you are watching in full awareness. When the body is in complete dance, then the witness in you becomes alert. The periphery whirls with all its speed, and the center, fully awake, observes the turning rim.

We don’t let children remain children; we set them to practicing old age. A child jumps and we say, “Sit down. Sit quietly. Don’t you have any sense?” It is we who lack sense. A child cannot sit like an old man—this we do not understand. The child dances, leaps, climbs trees, and we say, “Do you have any intelligence? Sit quietly, read your book, do your homework. What will climbing a tree do? If you fall, you’ll break your leg.” We’re telling children: being a child is not quite acceptable; become old already. Be cautious now—then when will he ever be carefree? The experience will be missed. And the child who begins to live lukewarm will have a lukewarm youth—and so on, because everything is connected.

Nor do we let the young be young. We cut and prune their lives, teach them repression, put obstacles in their way so that they can never be fully young. And then old age, when it comes, is not beautiful either—because it is not total. Only what is total is beautiful; and behind totality, the witness awakens.

You say, “I have grown old.”
No—no one has ever truly grown old. How will you? You cannot be the exception. Aging is a dream—born of your identification with the body. Yesterday the body was sick and you said, “I am sick.” Today the body is healthy and you say, “I am well.” As the body changes color, you change with it. But you are not the body. If you remember this, you will be surprised: the body is ill, and you are well. The body is old, and not a speck of its shadow touches you. Perhaps hearing me, this is what has stirred your memory, this is the ray that has appeared in your life, this is the hope and the zest that have arisen.

You say, “I thought there was no remedy left for me.” That is never the case. Even the one lost at dawn may return home by dusk. Awakening can happen even in the last moment—while dying. Because awakening takes no time. It happens in the gap between two moments. And that space between two moments cannot be measured—it is so small; that is why it is “between” moments. And remember, there must be a little space between every two moments—otherwise one moment would pile upon another like a train wreck. Then you couldn’t separate one from the next. A second passes and another arrives; there must be a tiny pause in between.

Look at these two fingers: they are two because there is empty space between them. If that space were not there, the fingers would merge into one. However close I bring them, some space remains—less perhaps, but there. Without space, two becomes one.

Between every two words there is empty space. Between every two instants there is empty space. The event of awakening happens in that emptiness. Hence the sages say: if you want to read the scriptures, do not read in the words; read in the empty spaces between the words. Do not read in the lines; read in the space between the lines. These are pointers. Not in the words, but between words; not in the moments, but between moments. Therefore, even while dying, one can awaken. It is never too late. It never can be. Do not fear.

You say, “I thought there was no remedy left.”
No—the way is always available. This is the great assurance. And death is always just as near.

Yesterday a young woman came. Her little child—one and a half years old—fell into a fountain, drowned, and died. She asked me, “Why did this happen?” I said, “Do not get entangled in futile questions. And I will not offer you consolation—like, ‘God takes to himself those he loves the most.’ This is nonsense. These are bandages. A child has died—what can one say? People have found stock answers: ‘The ones dear to God are taken early.’ Then those whom God does not love are the ones left here? Buddha lived eighty-two years—so he was not dear to God? Krishna lived eighty, Mahavira eighty—so they were not God’s beloved? No—these are consolations. I understand people’s helplessness—when such a calamity happens, what can we do?”

She asked, “Why did this happen?” I said, “Death can happen to anyone at any moment. Death looks neither at the young nor the old. Death is coming to all—sooner or later; what difference does it make? Death is always in the next moment; it can happen—to a child, to an old person.”

The house will become a grave, and the palace has already arrived at its gate.
Be alert—the message of death has come.

The courier, carrying the letter of passion, set out long ago;
If he has not reached today, he will arrive tomorrow.

The time has come when the house turns into a grave. In truth, it is already so. The message of death arrived the day you were born; from that very day death set out toward you. We should not call it a birthday, because the journey toward death begins that very day. The moment you are born, you begin to die. One day lived means one day less to live. If you must celebrate, celebrate a “death-day”—death is that much closer.

The courier of death set out the day you were born. If he did not arrive today—perhaps he rested on the way, dozed off in a wayside inn—he will arrive tomorrow. Death is going to happen.

It is astonishing: in life everything else is uncertain; only death is certain. What a life—where only death is guaranteed! The sole certainty is death. Of only one thing can a guarantee be given: you will die. All else may be or may not be. So whether death comes in seven days or seventy years—what difference does it make? The wise knows, moment to moment, that death is approaching.

You say, “I thought there was no remedy left, but your words have revived enthusiasm.”
My words did not create that enthusiasm; it is already within you. You had forgotten. I gave you nothing—no one can give you anything. What is within you can only be reminded.

Do not bind it to me. Otherwise you will go away and think, “The one who awakened it is not here; my enthusiasm will fade.” It is yours—your gift to yourself. At most, I was a device, a medium. Do not mistake the medium for the cause. Otherwise, away from me, you will again lose heart. My words did not give birth to your enthusiasm; they only reminded you of your capacity. You had treasure in your pocket, and you had forgotten; I merely reminded you. Now keep the remembrance alive.

You say, “Eyes losing their light have been stirred by a ray of some unknown radiance.”
That ray has always been there. You simply weren’t looking. You stood with your back to the sun. Hearing me, you turned a little and looked back—that’s all. The sun is yours; turning is your capacity; the eyes are yours; you can live in light, but you had decided to live in darkness. That was your decision.

Do not complain that the Beloved’s radiance is hidden—the whole world is awash with it.
If we must weep, let it be over our own short-sightedness.

Of the Divine there can be no complaint—his splendor, his light, his celebration spread in all directions. No direction is left empty. He rains everywhere. We cannot blame him; if we must weep, let it be only for our poor seeing. You have eyes, and yet you keep them closed. I do not give you light; I only call, “Open your eyes.” If you listen and open them, the light is yours, the eyes are yours.

Now you ask, “What is happening? Am I dreaming?”
We simply cannot trust that the auspicious can be. We have faith in the inauspicious. We respect thorns; if flowers bloom, we think—this must be a dream. Change this vision, this philosophy. Because of this wrong vision the truth seems veiled. The veil is not on truth; it is on your eyes.

Our own misunderstanding is the veil before the Beloved’s face;
Otherwise, the Beloved wears no veil at all.

The Beloved wears no veil, no curtain. But you have bound a bandage over your eyes. You are like a bullock at the oil press. And those who bound it used a clever device: had there been no blindfold, you would have rebelled long ago. You would never have fallen for the hollow politicians and the two-bit priests. You would have broken the chains.

Look at the horse harnessed to a cart—blinders are put on his eyes. Otherwise he would bolt. If he could see clearly, he would run off. With blinders, only four steps ahead are visible. Seeing only four steps, he loses the very sense that there is anywhere to run to. Slowly he believes—“This is all there is; this is life.”

A philosopher once went to a grocer to buy oil. Behind the grocer, the oil press was turning, the oil being pressed. A bullock was circling, pulling the press. The philosopher was surprised—his habit was to question everything. He said, “May I ask a question? Will you satisfy my curiosity?” The grocer laughed, “Your curiosity—and I will satisfy it? We hear it is you philosophers who satisfy curiosities!” The philosopher said, “But this is not about philosophy; it concerns your oil press. I want to know: there’s no driver, and yet the bullock walks on his own? He pulls, bears the load, presses the oil—so obedient, so religious, so faithful! Where did you find such a bullock in this age?” The grocer smiled, “Look carefully—his eyes are blindfolded. He cannot look back to see whether anyone is there or not. He remains under the illusion that someone is behind. Now and then I shout from where I sit—he assumes I’m there.”

But a philosopher is not satisfied so easily. He asked, “I understand about the blindfold. But couldn’t the bullock stop and check—pause and see if anyone is behind?” The grocer said, “Do you take me for a fool? I’ve tied a bell around his neck. As long as he walks, the bell rings. The moment he stops, the bell falls silent—and I leap up and crack the whip. I never let his illusion fade that I’m behind.” The philosopher persisted, “One more question: couldn’t the bullock stand still and simply shake his neck to ring the bell?” The grocer hushed him, “Speak softly, lest the bullock hear! And please buy your oil elsewhere—don’t spoil my bullock with such ideas!”

Priests and pundits have bound blindfolds on your eyes and tied bells at your throat. You trudge on—pressing oil for someone else—becoming the bullock at the oil press. So when, for the first time, a little ray of light touches you, you cannot trust it. But I say to you:

Do not waste your life clinging to dry branches in autumn.
Spring will come—do not fear, O gardeners of ruined groves!

You do not trust spring; you have known only the fall. I tell you, spring comes—it is! If there is autumn in you, it is due to some mistake of yours. Spring is the very nature of the Divine. Flowers will bloom—many!

Spring has already arrived—just open your eyes, slide the blindfold aside, cut through the web of words, lift your head above doctrines. All existence is dancing in spring—except you. Rays are showering everywhere; the Divine’s dance and flute are everywhere. The Divine looks neither at child, nor youth, nor old age; his great festival invites all. The day you show a readiness to be blissful, that very moment the supreme good fortune ripens—for which you have waited through lifetimes.

Now that this small ray has descended, do not doubt it, do not call it a dream. The truth is the reverse—what you have known till now was the dream; now, for the first time, a ray of truth has arrived. Keep company with this ray. Hold it—do not let it go. For by this slender thread of light you will reach the great sun of the Beloved. This fine filament is connected to him.

I understand your obstacle, your pain.

A very sad evening of autumn!
Birds hurry home,
filling the sky with their calls.
On the silent lake lies the shadow
of what anxious heart?
A very sad evening of autumn!

Dust lies hoof-deep upon the road,
whose remembrance has awoken in the mind?
The very life trembles, restless,
a traveler longing for home.
A very sad evening of autumn!

Dry leaves fall and fall,
welcoming the new spring;
and within my heart I find
only the deathless emptiness of the sky.
A very sad evening of autumn!

I accept—you have grown old; it is evening now, a sad evening; leaves are falling.

Dust lies hoof-deep upon the road—
whose remembrance has awoken in the mind?

But your old age, this autumn, this evening—these are secondary. What matters is:

Whose remembrance has awoken in the mind?
Dust lies hoof-deep upon the road—
whose remembrance has awoken?
The very life trembles, restless,
a traveler longing for home.
A very sad evening of autumn!

Yes, it is evening, perhaps sad. But if the memory of home arises, sadness dissolves—evening can turn to morning, autumn to spring. Do not miss this gentle knock upon your door. Do not lose this soft inner voice again in the crowd and clamor. Life may have gone as it has—let it be. If you catch hold of this ray, nothing is lost; losing everything, you will gain all. A new beginning has happened.

Whose coming do my eyes await again today?
Thirst keeps growing,
enchanted by the mirage’s charm.
Will I ever reach my goal—
free, at last?
My heart, distracted, plays
now with laughter, now with tears.

On a bed of thorns
it has had to sleep—
when did it ever fight
for any rightful claim?
And yet how did it receive
a ray of hope?
Two drops of water came—
why is there no contentment?
The longing of life unfulfilled
refuses to sleep in peace.
Who is it that says to me,
“Come quickly—take refuge in me”?

Whose coming do my eyes await again today?

You have been called by the Divine:

Who is it that says to me,
“Come quickly—take refuge in me”?

The moment has come: Buddham sharanam gachchhami. Sangham sharanam gachchhami. Dhammam sharanam gachchhami.

Who is it that says to me,
“Come quickly—take refuge in me”?
Whose coming do my eyes await again today?

This ray that has come is the ray of mumuksha—the longing for liberation—and it has come at the right time, before death. Offer thanks to the Divine for this ray. Feel blessed by it. Do not call it a dream—if you call it a dream, it will become a dream and slip from your hand. What we call a dream, we let go; what we call truth, we hold fast. And often it happens: if you hold a dream, it becomes true; and if you let go of truth, it becomes a dream.

Urmila! I am only an instrument. These hands of mine are doing the work of His hands. This veil of love I have placed on your shoulders—He has put it there; thank Him. Don’t bring me in between. Don’t get stuck with me. Take me as a messenger—like the postman who comes and delivers a letter. You reply to the one who wrote the letter, not to the postman. I have only handed you His veil; remember Him, thank Him, sing His song. Much more is yet to happen. This veil has been placed—some connection has been made. There is still so much to receive, so much to rain upon you.

The birds say: dawn has come!
Buds, smiling a little, have become flowers,
Bees, enraptured, are sipping nectar,
Night has washed the Beloved’s feet with her tears—
The birds say: dawn has come!
When Dawn lifted her veil,
The steps by the well rang with lively chatter,
The row of stars—who knows where it vanished?
The birds say: dawn has come!
The night wept, scattering dew,
The moon hid, smiling for a moment,
A shiver filled the life-breath, and sorrow ebbed away—
The birds say: dawn has come!

Urmila, morning is breaking! The birds’ song does not create the morning; because morning happens, the birds sing. I am calling you—not that God exists because I call; because of God, I call. Understand me as the birds singing at dawn. The dawn-birds’ song is only the news that day has arrived. And the songs the enlightened ones have sung are just the songs of dawn’s birds. Blessed are those who hear! Many are unfortunate: they turn over, pull the blanket tighter over the head, and fall into deeper sleep. Perhaps they even get angry: why are these birds making such a racket? They won’t even let us sleep! Most people get annoyed if you try to wake them.

When I was a student at the university, I had a professor. I used to go for a walk every morning at four. All his life he had tried to get up at four and walk, but he never succeeded. He said to me, “You go every day; I’ve hoped all my life to rise at brahma-muhurt, but it never happens. I can’t get up before eight or nine. I’ve never tasted the beauty and freshness of morning. If you wake me, perhaps it will work.” I said, “I’ll wake you.” He said, “But a request: when you wake me I won’t agree easily. My father used to pull me up and still I couldn’t rise; in the morning I’m practically unconscious. If the alarm rings, I smash the clock. And I’m the one who sets it at night! I’ve broken several clocks—wretches that start ringing at dawn. Slowly the family gave up. I’ve told everyone to wake me, but whoever does ends up in a fight. So I’m warning you.” I said, “You leave that to me. You just take care of yourself.” He asked, “What do you mean?” I said, “When I take up a job, I really take it up. If I find you alive, I’ll wake you! If you die, that’s different.”

So I arrived with three or four people. I thought, who knows whether I can manage alone! We dragged him up, pulled him about, even gave him a few slaps. He was my professor—he got very angry, glared at me: “You, my student, are hitting me!” I said, “Right now there is no student and no professor. Right now there’s a waker and a sleeper. This talk won’t do. Today you’ll have darshan of the ambrosial dawn.” We hauled him up, poured a bucket of water over him—he hurled abuses; I had never heard him use such language. He shouted, “You rascals, this and that!” We said, “None of this matters—keep muttering.” We forced his clothes on him and took him out walking—four of us holding him. When the freshness of morning calmed him a little, when he saw the joy of the rising sun, he began apologizing: “Forgive me for the abuses.” We said, “It isn’t for you to ask forgiveness; we should ask forgiveness for troubling you so much—and even hitting you! As students, we shouldn’t have struck you. We ask pardon. But there was no other way.”

Whoever has tried to wake you—you were annoyed with them. Sleep feels so sweet, because in its shade your lovely dreams run on. What dreams you weave: I’ll do this, I’ll do that; I’ll become this, I’ll become that. Vast empires you erect, palaces of gold. And if someone comes and wakes you then, pursues you to wake up, and you try every trick and they still won’t leave you—people have been angry with the buddhas. Their anger is natural, and the buddhas have accepted it lovingly.

Dying, Jesus prayed to God: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. The one who was waking them, they were killing. The one who was breaking their dreams, they were hanging on the cross. Forgive them, for they are all poor sleepers. What should they save—their dreams or me? Only one can be saved. If I remain, I will go on disturbing their sleep. If I am gone, they can sleep in peace.

Urmila, my work is like that of the morning birds—I bring news of dawn. And dawn has always been. Morning birds are rare; that is the difficulty. So whoever hears is blessed! And you have heard, the message has reached your heart—that’s why you say you are filled with grace. Don’t just hold this grace inside; share it. For that is the only way grace reveals itself—what you have received, distribute it. Buddha told his disciples: when you have tasted, go and share. And do not go in pairs along the same road and direction. Seek different paths, different directions, so that the news of this nectar may reach as many as possible. And Jesus told his disciples: climb onto the rooftops and shout. For unless you cry out, people, sunk in such deep sleep, will not awaken. So whoever gets even a little taste here, a hint of dawn, a ray of the sun in hand—there is only one way to offer thanks: share it, lavish it.

Urmila, lavish it! Speak! Sing, hum! Let it shine through your very being!

Could I remain mute, beloved? I could not remain mute!
Silently burn, thirst-scorched, the restless desert-stones,
Silently the stars burn—silently the lamps melt away;
Ah, if only I too stayed mute—parched in the new-moon dark of longing,
This loquacious monsoon-sea of worship would not have burst from me.
And as for silence—life would have slipped by mute;
In what remnant of songs has such a plea ever been uttered?
Then perhaps, within the burning, there would be a hint of satiation—
Could I remain mute, O love-in-separation? I could not remain mute!

Life burns, lips burn; mute, motionless, I would sway,
Amid the splendors of pain, I would not open the inner core;
I would watch, day and night, the orchard perpetually aflame,
Watch youth burning, having stumbled on a lost dream;
Watch storms gather, yet choke within the heart,
Cries, stripped bare and fettered, pacing a shuttered house;
My thirst’s desolation—this sin would have been a boon,
Death could not imprison the cast-off garland-bond of birth;
But having found your love—how could I hide it?
The secret glow stored in the marrow—how long could I not sing it?
How could I forget—this is not of this life, it is an age-old thirst come near;
Fulfillment is not hollow when the doors of life and death stand empty.
Fulfillment—yes, eternal fulfillment! When, in the heat of imagination,
My breath burns, seared yet unwavering amid these lacks;
And the more it turns to ash, the more my longing is drenched—
Could I remain mute, beloved? I could not remain mute!

A feeling arises—as though, echoing, you pervade each instant;
The world-pervading note is of longing; only your fire shines bright.
Today you are a dream; and timeless truth is this my utterance—
Yet still a residue of yearning, as if the heart is never filled a moment.
Until your pervasion through life brings peace,
Know, O life, your flame and wick are yet incomplete.
What kind of fire is that from which streams and springs do not tremble?
Could I remain mute, beloved? I could not remain mute!

Then today I need the flowing flame of practice—
May your auspicious radiance be seen forever kindled;
When dusk’s curtains thicken with the setting sun’s dark-thirst,
Let the vessel of my ray-like form be freed, unbound;
And let me see, at the farthest rim, your row of restless lamps—
Let the ecstatic night sing out: I have attained your love;
My waves resound—this immersion, a unique joy;
Today, with eager arms, I adorn your path—
Could I remain mute, beloved? I could not remain mute!

If even a glimpse of the Beloved’s love is received, even if you wish to remain silent, you will not be able to. You will have to speak—knowing well that even by speaking it cannot be said. That song can never truly be sung, yet you will have to hum it. That dance can never truly be danced, yet you will have to tie the anklets. You will have to beat the drum, touch the strings of the veena. The Unexpressed cannot be expressed; and yet when the flood rises within, there is no way but to share.

Could I remain mute, beloved? I could not remain mute!
Even if you want to, you cannot remain quiet. Don’t even try! There is no need to keep quiet. The day a feeling arises in you—“I must give thanks”—know that the hour has come to share. What you have received, lavish it.

But having found your love—how could I hide it?
Could I remain mute, beloved? I could not remain mute!
And you know—
In what remnant of songs has such a plea ever been uttered?

What is to be said cannot be said; yet it must be said. For in your attempt to say it, many a thirst will flare up. In your unsuccessful effort to express it, the longing for that supreme flavor will awaken in many. You will touch many strings—whether or not you can sing the song, many hearts’ strings will vibrate. Spread the song of love, sing the song of the Divine—that alone is gratitude.

Urmila, you asked: “You have draped me in the veil of love.”
Now drape this veil of love over others too. And remember an eternal law: love is such a wealth that, when you share it, it grows; if you don’t, it diminishes. Ordinary economics does not apply to the wealth of love. The rule of ordinary economics is: if you share, it lessens; if you hoard, it grows. The inner economics says: share, and wealth increases; don’t share, and even what you have will be lost.

Those who have known the inner truth have called giving a religion. Giving does not mean tossing a few coins to someone—what sort of giving is that? You didn’t bring anything here; you snatched a few coins from someone and then gave them to someone else—what kind of gift is that? You will take nothing with you; what will anyway be left behind—if you give that too, what sort of giving is it? No, not that. “Dana,” gift, is a wondrous word. It means: whatever is within you, whatever you are—share that. Share yourself. And in that sharing, your soul will grow larger and vaster.

By sharing and sharing, the soul becomes the Divine.

Krishna Bharati! Even if there were other excuses, you still could not have lost the longing for Him. No excuse can ever become an excuse to lose the longing for Him. Because to gain anything without gaining Him is no gain at all. Without attaining the Divine, a man remains a beggar—no matter what else he attains, even if he builds vast empires.

Yajnavalkya, an ancient seer of India, was leaving his home for the forest. He had two wives. He possessed immense wealth. He said, “I am going now; I will divide this wealth equally between you two.” One wife was delighted—wife-like, perhaps she had married Yajnavalkya for that very wealth. “Good!” she thought. “This nuisance ends; the gentleman departs and leaves great riches. Now there will be comfort and pleasure.”

But the other wife said, “If you are leaving this wealth, one thing is certain: this wealth is not true wealth. Otherwise, why would you leave it? And that which you are discarding, why entangle me in it? Why give it to me? If you found it worth leaving, why pass this trash to me? Then tell me instead of the real treasure you are seeking as you depart. What shall I do with this wealth?”

Rightly spoken—simple and clear. If this wealth brought you nothing, what could it bring me?

But very few are so intelligent as to learn from another’s experience. Look into the eyes of the wealthy—you will find poverty there. Peer inside those perched on great positions—you will find deep inferiority there. Psychologists say only those afflicted with an inferiority complex become position-seeking, ambitious. Those tormented by inferiority enter politics. Talented people do not generally go into politics. If by chance a talented person appears there, that is an exception. Ordinarily, politics attracts the sick-minded—people saturated with inferiority. One who knows “I am nothing” wants to proclaim “I am something,” and sees only one means: to have power, position, authority. If power can be gained by serving, he will serve too—but the goal is power. Somehow to sit on the seat!

But just look into those who hold power: within them there is no rest, no joy, no love. It cannot be. If there were love, the struggle required to gain position would be impossible—so many necks must be cut; so many people must be made into steps; you must climb over their corpses. No one reaches Delhi just like that! One must leave a great cremation ground behind; only then does one arrive in Delhi. Who knows how many you must sadden, hurt, defeat to get there. If love were there, it would not be possible. And having reached that seat by hurting, afflicting, vanquishing so many, how can you be at ease? All those people will thirst for revenge. And even if you reach the seat—you are not the only aspirant; the whole human world is seat-obsessed, the whole earth is diseased with ambition; we have poured the poison of ambition into every child—so you are not alone trying to reach that same seat; everyone is surging toward it. There is pushing and shoving, blows and brawling. Where is peace? Where is rest?

However much you attain in this world, you attain nothing. But how few are as wise as Yajnavalkya’s wife, who said, “Since you received nothing from this, why give it to me? Show me the same path you seek.”

Look carefully around you. If there is even a little intelligence in you, you will understand one thing: there is nothing in the world worth attaining. And the moment of that understanding is called sannyas.

You say:
“Had there been other excuses for life,
we might even once have lost our longing for You.”

No, Krishna Bharati, no excuse can become an obstacle to attaining Him. All excuses, today or tomorrow, break down. They prove to be illusions—mirages. What is to be attained is only Him; the rest are mere excuses to forget. Yes, for a while you can stall, entangle, delude yourself; for a while—there are toys—play with them.

That is why toys have to be changed every day. Today’s toys go stale by tomorrow; then you must find fresh toys. Get entangled for a bit, then again seek newer toys. We go on changing toys in life—and then we die. But remember: however many toys you change, however many paths you switch, however many devices you devise to escape—you cannot escape from the remembrance of Him. Sooner or later it will surge up. Because He is our nature. He is our innermost being. If He is not found, we have lost ourselves.

To forget You I changed
so many different roads,
yet wherever I go
I find Your footprints imprinted.

I broke the flute
in which Your notes were sealed,
I scraped away every place
that bore Your signature.
To forget You I planted flowers,
watered creepers,
yet as they bloom they exhale
only Your body’s fragrance.

I opened every door
that I or You had closed,
I did, counting them,
all the deeds You deeply disliked.
To forget You I made ties
with palaces:
yet in their shady lanes
my feet still burn.

I gathered such a crowd
standing all around me—
and yet they all seem strangers,
only dreams.
To forget You, away from You
so far have I come;
yet here too, like You,
trees fan me with their leaves.

No, one cannot run away. There is no way to escape, because God is everywhere—wherever you go, you will find Him.

To forget You, away from You
so far have I come;
yet here too, like You,
trees fan me with their leaves.

Where will you go? His trees, His moon and stars, His sun, His birds, His mountains, His rivers and streams, His waterfalls, His oceans—where will you escape? How will you escape? And you too are That; in your breath He comes and goes; in your heart He is the beat.

To forget You I changed
so many different roads,
yet wherever I go
I find Your footprints imprinted.

Where will you go? How will you escape Him? His temple is spread infinitely. We are within His temple. Wherever you are, you stand upon holy ground. Wherever you are is a place of pilgrimage. Still, man tries everything.

I broke the flute
in which Your notes were sealed,
I scraped away every place
that bore Your signature.
To forget You I planted flowers,
watered creepers,
yet as they bloom they exhale
only Your body’s fragrance.

The rose carries His fragrance, and the lotus, and the jasmine, and the screwpine—His fragrance. The colors are His. Look at the rainbow—His seven hues. If some shepherd plays a reed, those are His notes. If a hand strikes the mridang drum, it is He who resounds, He who plays. No, there is no way to run. Wake up! Do not run. To try to escape is the world; to dive into Him is sannyas. And what will come of stretching your hand elsewhere? When the Master of masters is ready to give, why not spread your bowl before Him? You are begging from beggars who are themselves begging!

I have heard: two astrologers used to meet each morning on the road before going to the market. They would read each other’s palms—good business in a good style—to see how the day’s trade would go. If you are showing your hand to someone who is himself showing his hand to you, just think—he cannot even read his own hand!...

I was in Jaipur. Someone brought to me a renowned astrologer of Rajasthan. He said, “My fee is one thousand and one rupees.” I said, “I will give. First read my hand!” He looked, and, as astrologers do, spoke frivolities. When he finished, I said, “Fine—namaskar!” He said, “And the one thousand and one rupees!” I said, “You should have seen your own hand before leaving home. Today there are no ‘one thousand and one’ in your fate.” He said, “What are you saying? I told you beforehand—my fee is one thousand and one.” I said, “You may have said so, but it must also be in fate! Show me your hand.” I said, “There is no such amount in it today. What can I do? I am willing to give, but I cannot go against fate. At least look at your own palm before you leave home to know what kind of person you will meet! You couldn’t do even that, and you came to read my hand, yet you cannot read your own!”

Here beggars are begging before beggars. You ask for love from one who is asking you for love. If he had love, why would he ask? And if you had love, why would you ask? Lovers do not ask for love—they give it. Those who have, give; those who do not, ask. And if you must ask, why ask from the small?

I will no longer spread my palm
before any tree.
You are sandalwood—if not from You,
how shall my fever be soothed?

If the Divine does not cool your fever—so be it, His wish! But why ask from anyone else?

I will no longer spread my palm
before any tree.
You are sandalwood—if not from You,
how shall my fever be soothed?

However much fragrance
You have given me,
I am more fragrant still.
The empty vessel You gave—
touched by You, I grow drunk.

I will not go to any healer
to tell my pain.
You are the balm—if not by You,
how shall my wound be healed?

My begging-bowl was tattered—
that was my deservingness.
But showing me a vessel of gold,
the hunter stole my musk.

Talent is the poor man’s daughter—
who will accept this accursed one?
You are the heart—if not by You,
how shall her love be chosen?

Whenever the mind tired of home,
the crossroads entertained me;
“the sun will be born again tomorrow,”
the cowherds gave me courage.
Now I will not seek support
from floating straws.
You are the boat—if not by You,
how shall I be ferried across?

Now I will not seek support
from floating straws.
What support from straws?
You are the boat—if not by You,
how shall I be ferried across?

If His boat cannot ferry you, who will? If His sandalwood cannot cool you, who will? No—stop asking at all other doors. Abandon them all. Pitch your camp only at His door. Do not move from there. Keep knocking at His door and do not stop.

Jesus has said: Knock, knock—and the doors will open; ask, keep asking—and it will be given; seek—and the answer will come. Search, keep searching—attainment is certain. Yes, there may be delay. But the delay is not on His side; it is in the half-heartedness of your asking. There is no urgency in your call, no totality. Your prayer is not with your whole life-breath—rather, “Let’s see, perhaps it happens; what’s the harm if it doesn’t?” That way it will not happen.

Vivekananda was speaking in America. One day he quoted the Bible: “Faith can move mountains.” An old woman instantly clapped—delighted. Behind her house stood a mountain; because of it she was greatly troubled. No sunlight, no breeze entered the house—the home lay in the mountain’s shadow. Old age made the cold even harder to bear. “If only the sun could enter!” She said, “Wonderful! I have read the Bible, but never paid attention to this. Very well—the Bible says faith can remove mountains. First thing I will do is this.”

She went home, opened the window, looked at the mountain—“Let me see it one last time.” She shut the window, sat down, and said, “Lord, with faith I say—remove this mountain; remove it completely!” She said it three, four times, sat with eyes closed a bit, then rose and opened the window. The mountain stood just where it was. She said, “I knew it! Mountains don’t move like that!”

If you already knew mountains cannot move, how could there be power in your word? If you knew they would not move, where is the faith? The scripture says: Faith can move mountains. Not “saying” moves them—faith moves them. Without faith, not even straw will move. And this is our trouble. We ask, we call, but there is no life in our call. There must be life in your call if it is to reach Him—there must be strength, energy. Our prayer is half-hearted, impotent; that is why it goes in vain.

Ask—ask with your whole heart, and you will receive. And when you ask, do not ask for trivial things. Trivial things can never be asked with the whole heart. The things themselves are small—how can the asking be total, how can it be vast? There is only one vast asking: ask for the Divine. Ask only for Him. And the one who has attained the Master has attained everything.

Ramavatar! Now cry your heart out! Now that unparalleled moment to weep has arrived! There is no prayer deeper than tears. No plea more intimate than tears. Tears alone join; tears alone build the bridge between you and the Divine. And tears, the tears of love, will cleanse and clarify your eyes. Tears will wash away the dust from your eyes, cut through the veil, cut the mesh. Vision will be available. Tears not only purify the eyes, they render the heart limpid and innocent.

You say: “I stayed among sadhus and saints and tears never came.”
Then it must not have been the company of saints at all. Those are congregations of the ego; where would tears be there? Tears belong to the egoless. That is why you see men cry less—man is more ego-ridden. If a man cries, people say: What a weakling! Why are you crying? Why behave like a woman? A man’s stiffness and pride won’t let him weep. And among men, those who become renouncers, their ego grows even denser. And those who set up their sacred fires, and gather a handful of foolish disciples—what to say of them! They become chock-full of monstrous ego. Where then are tears? There the heart dries up. There the streams of rasa run dry. There the stiffness of austerity arrives. There the vanity of fasts and vows grows. There the terrible pride of “I have renounced the world” becomes dominant. You stayed among such egoists; that’s why tears didn’t come. You never met devotees. You never met lovers.

And where will you find sadhus and saints—at Kumbh fairs? Kumbh is where circuses come—the Great Bombay Circus, the Great Raman Circus, the Great Russian Circus—all kinds. Look at the Naga “circus”! And the saintly “akhadas”—you sat with them; how could tears come there?

This is no Kumbh fair; this is a tavern. Not even a temple in the usual sense—here lovers gather. This is a band of the intoxicated. Here the heart is made to blossom, not the intellect crammed, but feeling made to flower. If tears didn’t come here, you’d be stone.

All our love and surrender went to waste,
All worship and offering went to waste;
They neither stirred nor smiled—we lost our hearts,
Our gods were made of stone.

On their faces a veil of fondness,
Over their bodies a shadow of inertia—
My briny springs could not soak their hem:
Our gods were made of stone.

Rows of glittering lamps,
Counting which we whittled nights away—
Better by far were the empty stars of the sky:
Our gods were made of stone.

And in the temples and pilgrim-places you frequented, you kept laying flowers on stones! If you sit before stone gods, how will tears come? Even if they come, they will dry. You too will turn stony. Choose your gods carefully! For to choose your god is to choose your own future. Do not worship stone, else you will turn to stone. Do not worship the dead, else you will become dead. Do not worship fugitives, else you will be a fugitive. You will worship only that which you wish to become.

Where you find a living deity, bow down. Wherever there is a living temple, its flavor is that of a tavern. There the inner wine is taken and given; there drinking and making others drink goes on; it is an assembly of revelers.

Ramavatar, by a happy mistake you came to the right place. Battered by many knocks, you have touched this shore. It is a surprising event! You say, despite disgust for my methodology, you came; surprising indeed! But if you understand the inner mathematics, not so surprising.

Two kinds of people come here—only two can come. And I want to divide the whole world into two kinds. I’m working precisely at that. Either love me or hate me. I dislike the in-between. I am at this work: either you will have to love me, or you will have to hate me. Neutrality cannot walk with me. Within ten or twenty years you will see: either someone hates me or someone loves me. The situation will split into two—it is already splitting, day by day.

I am not uneasy about the one who hates. Because the one who hates will love—if not today, tomorrow. Hate is only love inverted—love standing on its head, a headstand of love. Hate is not far from love. Hate is love in reverse. And whoever is doing a headstand can be set on his feet without much trouble. Ramavatar, that’s exactly what happened! You came standing on your head; we didn’t have to do much—only to whisper: why uselessly torture your head? Existence made you to stand on your feet! If you were meant to stand on your head, you’d have been created that way. Why are you doing headstands? You understood—it’s a simple, straight thing. And you quickly flipped and stood on your feet—that is sannyas. To turn the inverted upright—that is sannyas.

The one who loves will be transformed; the one who hates can be transformed too. But the neutral, the indifferent—who has neither hate nor love—no relationship can be forged with him; there is no emotional tie at all. With the one who hates, a bond of feeling already exists. Even the hater thinks of me day and night—he has to think! The lover may occasionally forget—there are a thousand other things—but the hater must keep thinking. He has to! And the hater, someday, will come here—he’ll think: I should at least go and see once; we are wasting our life hating this man—let’s go see what this is about. You had never come here, and yet were full of hatred? There are countless such people—full of hatred, never having come. They will have to come; their very hate will bring them. And once you come here—well, you know—mesmerism works here! People get hypnotized! They come quite sane and become thoroughly topsy-turvy! They lose all cleverness; they bring great intelligence and it vanishes without a trace. That is what happened to you. You had been with sadhus and satsangis, with renouncers and the indifferent—you must have brought a lot of rubbish! But rubbish is rubbish—let a spark fall and it becomes ash.

Such a spark fell into you from a small sentence—“Knowledge is not available from the outside.”

These are little things—I do not speak big things; I say straight, simple things—two and two make four. Anyone with even a little intelligence must accept them. Just hear, just understand! Yes, if you plug your ears, that is different; if you make yourself deaf, that is different; if you refuse to open your eyes, that is different. Otherwise they are simple truths: all names are God’s, and all names are false. On all things of nature are God’s signatures. Whose else would they be? All names are his—whose else? Because he is within all. And all names are false—makeshift—because no child brings a name with him, no certificate tucked under his arm stating his name and address. A child is born nameless.

Does the rose know its name is “rose”? If it knew, and one day you called it by another name, it would get angry: Stop this nonsense—this is my name, not that! But the rose doesn’t know “rose,” or “gulab,” or anything at all—there is no name. Names are given by us, imagined. Call the neem tree “neem,” or call it “mango”—it remains what it is. Give it any label; the neem doesn’t notice, it makes no difference. Do names make a difference? You can stick any label.

We need labels, otherwise how will the traffic of the world go on? For recognition we must assign names: this one is Ram, that one is Rahim. The stupidity comes when Ram begins to think that this is who I am—the identification with a label. You are neither Ram nor Rahim. No name is true; all are invented, artificial—useful, yes, but with no relation to reality. And yet I say all names are his. Neem is his name, mango is his name, rose is his name, Ram is his name, Rahim is his name—because he alone is, and nothing else. It’s straightforward arithmetic.

Hearing these simple truths, you say: far from tears merely flowing, I don’t even know how to stop them. Don’t stop them! You are fortunate that tears have begun to flow. For the first time you have come to satsang. For the first time you have touched a living pilgrimage. Wherever tears flow, that is a tirtha. Wherever the heart swells with thrill, with ecstasy, where inner humming begins, where your feet begin to twitch to dance—that is the temple. Now let these tears call to the Divine—these tears will become your call—do not stop them. You ask me: What should I do now? Now do nothing—let them flow; for God’s sake, do nothing! Don’t, out of old habit, hold yourself together: What am I doing? Don’t say within: Ramavatar, a man like you, a satsangi who has stayed with sadhus and mahatmas—crying like a child! You, a knower of Brahman, crying like a child! Don’t hold them back. Otherwise you will miss! Don’t let it happen that at the very doorway you slip! Sometimes the smallest mistake leads one astray.

A Buddhist story: A man gets lost in a great palace. It has a thousand doors, but nine hundred and ninety-nine are false—only painted on the wall. From a distance they look like doors; up close, only a wall. One door is real among the thousand. The lost man wanders, searching for the true door, and after hours and hours of roaming, exhausted, he comes to the thousandth door—the real one. But having seen nine hundred and ninety-nine false doors, he can’t muster trust for the real one. Those nine hundred and ninety-nine looked exactly like this—no difference at all—and they proved false. Now this thousandth! He approaches it the same way—sad, tired, dragging his feet. Just then a fly sits on his ear; in waving it away he walks past! He misses the thousandth door. He doesn’t even touch and test it. Don’t be angry with him. Having tested nine hundred and ninety-nine and found them false, what eagerness can he have left for the thousandth? A tiny excuse—a fly on the ear—and off he goes. Then the circuit of nine hundred and ninety-nine begins again.

The right door, too, can be missed at the very moment of finding.

Don’t stop the tears. Don’t suppress them. The sannyas I have given you, Ramavatar, is not the old, rotten kind. It is living. It is not the sannyas of escapists—it belongs to lovers of life. It is not anti-life; it honors life, reveres life. It sees the Divine hidden in the world; therefore it does not abandon the world—it looks closely, searches—here, somewhere, is God. This sannyas has the capacity and courage to live. Let your tears become prayer.

I have called to you!
Coming and going, dusk and dawn,
In the evening, on the sky’s hem
A star has flashed to life!
I have called to you!

Show a lamp in the dark,
Show me my path,
I am weak, O compassionate one!
Grant me support!
I have called to you!

Thorns on the path keep pricking me,
Flowers bend and smile upon the branch,
Seeking you in every particle—
Now my mind is spent!
I have called to you!

Singing, I forgot my sorrow,
Only in spring I found the fall.
My mad mind has gone astray—
Now let me find the shore!
I have called to you!

Let these tears become a call! Become prayer! Don’t stop them—let them flow streaming! Let them become a spring! Let them flow—they themselves will reach his feet, bathe his feet. These blossoms of your eyes are your offerings of worship! And through this very path that unique event will happen whose mere touch joins you to the nectar.

A fragrant bela will bloom:
Just touch the courtyard with your feet.
In every moment of sorrow present,
Tears are such a kinsman!

Songs can travel back and forth to you,
But on me there is this constraint too.
Blind fate will come upon its eyes:
Just touch the brow with your gaze.

Some ecstasy I inherited
From those orphaned lanes that raised me!
Empty pitchers lined up ahead
The day I stepped out from home.

See, these tears will turn to blossoms:
Just touch my eyes with your garment’s hem.
Into which I have beheld my own reflection:
Only with that mirror, touch me.

A fragrant bela will bloom:
Just touch the courtyard with your feet.

Just a little thrill, a slight touch of that Divine—and revolution happens! Iron turns to gold! Pebbles become diamonds!

See, these tears will turn to blossoms:
Just touch the eyes with the hem of your garment.
A fragrant bela will bloom:
Just touch the courtyard with your feet.

That is all for today.