Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #6

Devdas! There is a great difference between one kind of contentment and another. One is the contentment of a dead man, a defeated man, a man who has lost. It looks like contentment, but it is not. Inside, the flames of discontent are raging, but outwardly he has put on a show, reasoned himself into it; he could not win, and even bearing defeat seems hard, so he whitewashes his defeat to look like contentment.

There is Aesop’s old story: a fox keeps leaping—leaping many times—to reach bunches of grapes; but she cannot reach, her reach falls short. Tired, beaten, with a sorrowful heart, she turns back. At least there is the reassurance that no one has seen her defeat. But just then a rabbit, hidden in a nearby thicket, comes out and says: Auntie, what happened? Couldn’t you reach the grapes? The fox says, Not reach them? What is beyond my reach? I could pluck the moon and stars! But the grapes were sour; they were not worth reaching.

This is one kind of contentment—declaring sour the grapes you cannot reach. Call them sour and the ego gets a little protection. If they were not worth reaching, then what would have been the point of reaching them anyway?

I do not call this contentment. And your so‑called religious teachers have called just this “contentment.” This is the fraud of contentment, a false self‑deception—beware of it!

Because whoever gets surrounded by this kind of contentment will never know the ultimate taste of contentment. He who settles for fake flowers will never see real flowers bloom in his garden. Then no matter how hard you try to explain yourself! You can display great skill in explaining, great logic, great cleverness.

Don’t ask me now for tales of my love;
let me say that I never loved her at all.
And those intoxicating eyes that forgot me—
let me say I never admired them.
Let me say that even today I can live;
love may have failed, but life has not.
The wish to make her mine, the longing to attain her—
the passion may be futile, but sorrow’s striving has no end.
The same tresses, the same glances, the same cheeks, the same body—
if I wish, I can have others just like them.
Those lotuses that were once meant to bloom for her
can bloom far from her gaze as well.

Explain it away, give yourself consolation—
those lotuses that were once meant to bloom for her
can bloom far from her gaze as well.
Then why don’t they bloom? Why are you weeping? Why keep looking back? Why this repentance?

The same tresses, the same glances, the same cheeks, the same body—
if I wish, I can have others just like them.
Who is stopping you from desiring? Desire, and get! But no—these are all ways of consoling the mind.

I am opposed to this contentment.

Yes, there is certainly another contentment. Not the contentment of defeated desires, but the contentment of understood desires. When you understand a desire thoroughly, when you look into its depth and see that even in its fulfillment nothing is fulfilled—that even if this treasure is gained your misfortune will not diminish, even if this beloved is found the hunger of your love will not be sated—when your vision has that clarity, when your inner knowing is that sharp, when things reflect in the mirror of your awareness exactly as they are, then another contentment is born. That contentment is not consolation; it is the realization of truth. As if seeing: I was trying to squeeze oil out of sand.

One kind of contentment says: The oil didn’t come, so I tell myself I didn’t need oil—that’s why I gave up the effort. The other kind says: I looked carefully, recognized, tested, witnessed—and found that sand does not contain oil; try whatever you may, oil will never be pressed from sand. In such a recognition, such a realization, there is a rain of contentment.

In the first contentment there is suppression of longing; in the second there is the dissolution of longing. The second does not come by practice; it comes by understanding. The first comes by practice. The first turns a man into a “holy” man; the second turns him into an awakened one. Avoid becoming a pious ascetic; don’t stop short of being a buddha—that is your ultimate potential.

Contentment should come like the shadow of truth. Be wary of patching yourself up, dusting off your clothes after a beating, and somehow persuading yourself—such impotent, flabby contentment! It is this limp contentment that has poisoned the life‑breath of this country. It is this limp contentment that has bound the so‑called religious of the whole world in a hollow religion. There is no juice in their eyes, no song in their breath, no dance in their feet—what kind of contentment is this? This contentment does not sing, it does not dance; no flowers fall from it—what kind of contentment! Spring has come and not a single flower blooms—what kind of spring! When spring comes there must be signs, there must be proofs. Yes—let some veena sound, some ankle‑bells dance; let some Meera lift her ektara and be lost—then that is contentment. I am a partisan of dancing contentment. People who sit like corpses, like cow‑dung Ganeshas—I do not call them contented. They are only the defeated and the frightened. And they do not have even this much courage, this much strength, to say: I lost; I could not reach. Instead they explain: Who ever wanted to reach? Me, lose! I can never lose. Victory was certain, but I turned back halfway; I decided the goal was not worth going to.

When it becomes clear in your life that here every desire, every lust, every ambition is bound to be defeated—because every desire longs for the impossible—then the scale, the melody of that awareness will begin to sound within you—that is contentment. When you see that no matter how much wealth you gather, nothing is truly gained… even Alexander departs empty‑handed. Empty‑handed we come, empty‑handed we go. Then this filling of the hand for a short while in the middle, and getting duped by the hand’s fullness—these are senseless, meaningless.

The day you see that however great the wealth outside, the inner poverty remains untouched; not a single drop reaches the inner thirst—outside an ocean waves, and inside a thirst waves; outside, an ocean of water; inside, an ocean of thirst; and the two never meet. Climb to however high a post, ascend however lofty the stairs, you remain just as you are. No flower blooms anywhere, no lamp is lit, no mine of jewels is found. The day the whole experience of your life speaks one thing to you—that here there is nothing to be had, though there is much to run after; nothing to gain, and by all this running life becomes empty and nothing is found—the day, in this understanding, you halt. From this very seeing, from this dense realization, your feet stop—not that you stop them, not that you brace yourself, not that you swear, “Now I will not desire wealth,” or “I renounce wealth”—these are the acts of fools. Whoever says, “Now I will not desire wealth,” is plainly saying he still relishes wealth. Whoever says, “I renounce the world,” is saying there was something in the world which I am renouncing. Understanding has not yet happened. To the one in whom understanding happens—what to drop, what to grasp? As it is, where it is, is right. There is nothing here to grasp, nothing to drop. Then the shower of peace that descends within you—that is called contentment.

In life I asked only for you—
and even that, a longing that could not be fulfilled.
The world asked for the riches of the world,
and I asked for a few grains of love.
Truth weighed me, called me base or pure;
I went on mending broken dreams.
In life I begged only from you—
and even that, a longing that could not be fulfilled.

Bodies were given in such number they could not be borne,
yet even by asking I did not obtain your heart.
Unasked, the whole garden laughed for me,
but the blossom I yearned for did not bloom.
To win you I donned many forms, became this and that—
and even that, a longing that could not be fulfilled.

I was not much of a believer,
yet in search of you I went to the temple;
perhaps it might point me to some clue,
so I fell even at the feet of hell.
Thus, to hear your word, what all I listened to—
and even that, a longing that could not be fulfilled.

Here, no longing is ever fulfilled. It has not happened, and it will not—such is the nature of longing. For the one who understands this nature—that if you beg, you will remain beggars; if you seek, you will never find; if you run, defeat is certain—when these realizations become dense, he becomes still, he stops; the running falls away; the net of craving and desire slips from his hands by itself. And in that stilled moment, in that instant of rest, that which was never thought, never asked, never even dreamt of—descends. The divine descends. Liberation descends. Contentment is the shadow of liberation.

Silvano! A very significant event is taking place in human life: all the revolutions attempted so far have failed. Revolution as such has failed. And there remains no possibility that revolution can succeed. Every method has been tried, but there is some mistake in the basic process of revolution.

A revolution happened in Russia, and for a moment it seemed that the sun had risen and darkness would never return to the world of man. But it was only a momentary impression. It was a false dawn; it did not work. Very soon, there was a deep darkness—deeper than before the revolution. Russia fell into an even greater slavery. Those from whom power was snatched were not so dangerous; those into whose hands power came proved even more dangerous. No Russian czar, not even Ivan the Terrible, amounted to anything before Stalin. How many people Stalin killed… hundreds of thousands—innocent, unarmed, helpless, weak, poor and destitute—the very people for whom the revolution had been made were butchered by the revolution itself. And a feudalism arose in Russia more dangerous than the czarist regime—because against the czar a revolution was possible; against this new feudalism, even revolution is not possible. Today countries like Russia are vast prisons, nothing else.

Revolutions have failed again and again. What was the reason? There is one: you become like those you fight. This is the fundamental basis of the failure of revolution. To fight, you have to learn all the techniques, the framework, from the very one you oppose. You can befriend anyone—there is not so much danger in that; choose enmity carefully! Because the enemy will change you; you will become like him. If the enemy is dishonest, you too will have to be dishonest to win. If the enemy is a killer, you will have to become a killer—only then can you win. Otherwise there is no way to defeat the enemy. Thus enemies become alike. By fighting the czars, the revolution of Lenin and Stalin ceased to be a revolution; it became a part of the czars’ own feudalism.

And I have said this only as an example; the same has happened in all revolutions.

Just now in this country the so-called hollow revolution of Jayaprakash Narayan took place. He calls it the Second Revolution. But what is its result? Power went into the hands of the same kind of people—in fact, into even worse hands. At least before the revolution, power was in the hands of the young; after the revolution, power went into the hands of the dead. Jayaprakash certainly made a great revolution—he dug up those long buried in their graves, dressed them in sherwanis and achkans, set Gandhi caps on their heads, and handed power to them.

Revolutions keep losing. Why? Revolution is bound to lose. Therefore the word “revolution” has no appeal for me. I give you a new word: rebellion. Not revolution, rebellion.

What is the difference?

A revolution is collective. And whenever you make a collective revolution, you have to accept the group’s beliefs, assumptions, superstitions. Rebellion is individual, personal. You do not fight with anyone; you only change yourself. Thus the enemy cannot cast you into his mold.

My sannyas is rebellion, not revolution. My sannyasin is a declaration that society is wrong; I will not be wrong. I will live in my own way; I will live out of my own joy. I will live from my own taste, my own understanding—whatever the consequence. If life remains, fine; if life goes, fine—but no one will be able to make me bow. This is a personal rebellion. And all those in the world who have any understanding will feel attracted to this individual rebellion.

Therefore, Silvano, many young people of Italy’s New Left have taken sannyas. The very father of the Left’s revolution in Italy has also become a sannyasin. The air in Italy is very heated—because no one can quite believe what is happening! Those from whom bombs were expected are meditating! Those from whom killings were expected are singing songs of love! Those expected to become guerrillas have put on saffron robes! They are dancing, humming songs; they are losing themselves in the mystery of the starry sky!

Therefore there is anger toward me as well. Their comrades simply cannot believe what has happened! But this fire will spread, because behind this fire there are historical grounds. All revolutions so far have failed; now only one hope remains: perhaps rebellion may succeed. Let each person make a revolution within his own life. Let each person begin to live in his own way; let each person burn to ashes within himself all the seeds of hatred, anger, enmity, jealousy, envy—and this is exactly what happens in the fire of meditation!

Why is there so much violence in this world? Because the lives of most people are filled with violence. Why so much enmity, so many wars? Because each person is eager to fight, to kill and be killed. For centuries we have not been taught to live; we have been taught to die. People say: die for the country; die for the flag; die for the race; die for the religion; die for the church, the mosque, the temple. But no one says to you: live! For pieces of cloth that become flags—die! Life, which is God’s gift—squander it upon rags made by man! For national borders drawn by deranged politicians—die! And upon this indivisible earth, made by God without boundaries—do not live. Die for temples and mosques, which are human inventions. And God has made this vast temple—in which the lamps of the sky are burning, in which there is the moon and the sun, in which there is the blossoming of endless flowers—yet in this, do not live!

My message is: drop the language of dying; the language of dying is sick. Learn the language of living. Live—live to the full! Live in totality! Live wholly! The more deeply you live, the nearer you come to God. God is another name for life. Let your life be a flame, as if someone had lit a torch from both ends at once. Even if you live for a moment, let there be such intensity that that one moment becomes equal to eternity.

You have been taught the language of dying. Politics teaches only the language of dying. It says: die and kill. Revolution speaks the same language: die and kill. I am teaching rebellion. I say: neither die nor kill—live and let live. Live yourself, and create the arrangements for others to live as well. These few days, these four days, are a great gift of God—do not waste them like this!

And if this earth begins to sing the songs of living, if this earth begins to play the flute of life, then there will be a revolution such as has not yet happened. And no one will be able to distort this revolution, because we are not doing it in reaction to anyone. We are not fighting with anyone. We are only cutting through the darkness within; we are only removing the stones within, so that the spring of our inner life can flow. And if the spring begins to flow, the ocean is not far. If the spring does not flow, even on the shore of the ocean there will remain only a puddle; and if the spring flows, even from the distant Himalayas it reaches the ocean.

It is the evolution of the Left, not a distortion of my understanding. This is precisely my understanding. This is the very awareness I want to provoke. I want to light lamps of this awareness all over the earth. It is not a distortion. They have understood me exactly. They have grasped the essence of what I say. They have turned their eyes in the right direction. Their feet have set out on the right journey. The destination is not far. They have begun to sing the song of love and to give birth to the music of meditation. If you have these two wings—love and meditation—there is no impossibility in the world that cannot be fulfilled. Even the most “impossible,” the divine, becomes available.

No—remember this—it is not a distortion of my understanding. They have not misunderstood me. They have understood me rightly. Certainly to their comrades this will seem very puzzling. Their comrades have even begun to oppose it. Letters have started arriving to me saying that I am spoiling their friends; those who were the vanguard of revolution, on whom they relied to change Italy’s social order—I am teaching all of them escapism. Those of whom they had great expectations, who would carry their flags into struggle, who would break the citadels of reaction—what have I done to them? I have hypnotized them so that now they no longer talk of revolution. Now they talk of songs. Now they are composing poetry. Now they are painting pictures, carving sculptures.

I can understand their friends’ difficulty. But their friends do not know. This is the real revolution. When someone composes a song, revolution happens. For songs have a sharper edge than swords. Swords kill; songs bring to life. Swords are destructive; songs are creative.

These new friends who have left the hollow revolution and engaged in the real revolution will indeed be difficult for Italy’s youth to understand. That is quite natural. For now they do not speak of Das Kapital, nor of Marx, nor Engels, nor Lenin, nor Mao Tse-tung, nor Sartre. They are speaking about a strange man whose very name many in Italy may not yet have heard. And they are talking of things that seem very bewildering, which have never been part of the West’s idea of revolution. They do not know that there is a revolution that happens by dancing, and a revolution that happens by sculpting. In the East we are familiar with such revolutions—the revolution Meera made, the revolution Chaitanya made, the revolution Buddha made, the one Krishna made by playing his flute—compared to which no revolution has ever happened in the West. In that sense the West is incomplete. The West simply does not know.

The West’s condition is so pitiable that even a man like Jesus had to take a whip in hand for the sake of revolution. Krishna took up a flute; Jesus had to take up a whip. Jesus too would have preferred to take up a flute, but who would have understood the flute! It is a compulsion; it is tragic.

But young people are coming to me from all over the world, and this fire will spread, and these sparks will fly far and wide. So something astonishing is happening. Reactionaries oppose me… that Morarji Desai should be against me is understandable—hidebound, archaic, whom I do not even count among the living—if they oppose me, fine; but now even the Communist Party proposes that I should not be allowed to live in India. That is a bit startling! So at least in one matter the Communist Party and Morarji Desai agree—about me: that I should not be allowed to remain in India. On what basis could this agreement be? The people of the RSS propose that I should not be allowed to stay, and the Communist Party also proposes that I should not be allowed to stay. Then surely there can be at least one link between the Communist Party and the RSS—in their opposition to me. But it is surprising that those who agree on nothing agree in my case. Why?

There is a reason for their agreement.

I am opposed to both the past and the future. Because I see that those who have invested their dreams in the past think our golden age has already happened—Ram Rajya… Morarji Desai believes Ram Rajya has already been. Flames were leaping in Aligarh, Hindus and Muslims were hacking at each other—and what was Morarji-bhai Desai doing? What was the prime minister of this country doing? He was sitting in Ahmedabad reciting the Ramayana. Are prime ministers elected for this? You have heard the story of Nero, that when Rome was burning he played the flute—what difference is there between that and Morarji-bhai’s conduct? Rome is burning; Morarji-bhai is reading out the Ramayana! The same old, worn-out tale, in which nothing remains to be said! For ten days Aligarh sizzled in flames, and Morarji Desai was not even in Delhi! Who has time to stay in Delhi! Everyone is always away. It is amazing how any work gets done in Delhi! In fact it does not: files just pile up, because all the leaders are on tour. Everyone is worried about the next election. Morarji Desai is narrating the story of Ram; he thinks the golden age occurred in the time of Ram.

What sort of golden age was this that happened in Ram’s time? A Shudra named Shambuka, because he had tried to study or even to listen to the Vedas, had molten lead poured into his ears by Ram’s own order. What kind of Ram Rajya was that? And if that was Ram Rajya, then what is happening in Bihar—the looting and burning of Shudras, the rape of their women, the murder of their children, roasting them in the fire—is all this Ram Rajya too? It stands with Ram as its warrant. What kind of Ram Rajya was that!

But one kind is the traditionalist, who sees Ram Rajya as something that has already happened; they want Ram Rajya to return. And the other is the futurist—the communist—who says the utopia lies in the future, Ram Rajya is yet to come. Some day it will come—a classless society! A society free of exploitation!

I am opposed to both. Ram Rajya neither came in the past, nor will it arrive in the future. Those who know the art of living live with Ram here and now. And when I use the word “Ram” I do not mean the Ram who had molten lead poured into Shambuka’s ears; when I use the word Ram I do not mean Dasharath’s son. When I say “Ram” I mean Allah, God. One who knows how to live now is in Ram now, in Allah now. One who lives in this very moment, I call a sannyasin.

Therefore both sides will be against me—the traditionalist and the futurist—because I stand for the present. I say that except for the present, all time is false. The past has gone, the future has not yet come. What is, is this moment! This moment in which you are listening to me, I am speaking to you—this chirping of birds, these rays of the sun passing through the green trees to reach you, this silence, this sky, this rhythm of my heart and yours becoming one—this moment here and now is Ram Rajya. This is what Jesus spoke of; what he called the kingdom of God.

Nothing has existence except the present.

Revolutions are carried out as rebellions against the past, on behalf of the future. Rebellion is to drop both past and future and to live in the present.

When, enraptured, someone sings a song, plays the algoza, when fingers set a melody upon the flute, when the strings of a veena are made to sing, when one breaks into a dance, or sits silently beneath a tree, looks at the stars in the sky, at the sun rising in the morning, at the sun setting in the evening, at the line of birds in flight—just in that moment there is rebellion! And the aura of bliss in that moment, the intimation of bliss, that glimpse, that realization—that is the experience of the divine. That is what begins to deepen day by day; a well starts being dug within you, and if not today then tomorrow the life-giving source of nectar within your life becomes available.

Morality is a hollow religion, and religion is true morality. Morality is negative; religion is creative. Morality says: don’t do this, don’t do that. Religion says: do this, do this, do this. Morality grabs the frightened; religion becomes available to the fearless. Morality is an arrangement for security; religion is an exploration into insecurity. Morality says: put up a fence so no animal grazes down your rosebeds. Morality goes on putting up fences—and becomes so absorbed in fencing that it forgets to ask where the rose seeds were ever sown. Religion sows roses. Religion cultivates roses.

With morality, religion is not necessary; but with religion, morality inevitably follows—because whoever has roses will put up a fence. Whoever is growing roses will protect them. But the one who is busy only erecting fences—how will he even remember roses? He has no relationship with roses at all.

Morality is an outer imposition; religion is an inner awakening. Morality is like the stick in a blind man’s hand—feeling out the way by groping. Religion is this: a man with open eyes, a lamp in his hand. He need not grope, need not ask; he sees the path.

Morality comes from society; religion comes from God. Morality is social instruction. Hence there are as many moralities as there are societies. What is moral for you may be immoral for your neighbor. What is moral for a Hindu may be immoral for a Muslim; for a Christian, immoral for a Jew. But religion is one; moralities are many—because societies are many. The human conscience is one. Religion is one; it cannot be different. There is no way for religion to be different. The taste of religion is one. Buddha said: just as the ocean, tasted anywhere, has one taste—salty—so religion, approached from any ghat, has one taste.

But confusion often happens between morality and religion. So your question is meaningful. Because morality looks like religion. Paper flowers also look like roses. From a distance, you can be deceived. And if they have sprayed those paper flowers with rose perfume, you may be deceived even up close. It is even possible that paper flowers are crafted so skillfully that real roses no longer look real in their presence. Sometimes the fake can look more real than the real—it depends on the skill of imitation.

The real trusts its own reality; it does not arrange and contrive. The fake does not trust, so it arranges everything, lest there be any slip. It irons out every possible flaw. The real may falter; the fake does not—because the fake rehearses, prepares. Do you think when Rama’s Sita was abducted he first rehearsed—“O Sita, where are you?”—asked the trees, “O trees, where has my Sita gone?” Do you suppose he rubbed chili into his eyes to shed tears, roamed around weeping, asking stones and mountains, “My Sita, my Sita!” Do you think he acted it out? No—poor Rama had no such chance. Sita was taken; the blow fell all at once. Without preparation he must have begun to ask.

But the man who plays Rama in the Ramlila comes well-practiced; every word is measured. He has asked the trees not once but a thousand times. He has tried it this way and that way; he has prepared himself in every way.

If the real Rama had to compete with the Ramlila Ramas, he would certainly lose. The real Rama would not win. And if Sita were to end up with some fake Rama, do not be surprised—because the fake might look even more real than the real. Practice has its power!

Morality is practice; religion is spontaneity. Morality is born of social conditioning. Society teaches, “Do this, do that; this is right.” Tiny children are taught, “This is right.” They have no understanding, nor any reason to understand. They learn what parents teach—and then go on repeating it all their lives. They become gramophone records. Their condition is like the dog sitting before the horn on the “His Master’s Voice” label. They simply repeat the master’s voice. Whatever was taught is repeated. They lack the capacity to reconsider, and the courage. They are afraid that if they question, the foundation will shift; the house of life, somehow built, may collapse. They do not ask troublesome questions; they push them aside.

Religion is not conditioning; it is meditation. Religion has to be dug out within yourself. Think of morality as a water tank—a cement cistern into which water is poured from outside. Water isn’t native to it; it is borrowed, stale. A well also contains water, but not stale or borrowed water; it has its own sources. From above, a tank and a well can look alike; but in their very souls they are different. If you keep drawing water from a tank, it will soon be empty. So beware of the moralist! His morality is not very deep. Don’t draw too much—or he will fall out of morality altogether.

A Christian ascetic was slapped by someone; he offered his left cheek, because that is what Jesus said: if someone strikes you on one cheek, offer the other also. This was moral instruction. The ascetic followed Jesus. He was slapped on the right cheek and he offered the left as well. The striker too was an adept, not some backward simpleton. He thought, why miss this chance? He delivered an even stinging slap on the left. And then he was startled: as soon as the second slap landed, the ascetic leapt, grabbed his neck, and climbed onto his chest. The man protested, “Brother, what are you doing—being an ascetic?” He replied, “What else should I do? There is no third cheek. My master said: after one slap, offer the other. There is no mention of a third in the book. Now I am my own master—and I will teach you a lesson. Now you suffer!”

Beware of the moralist. His morality is very shallow—thinner than skin. Scratch a little and the real man will surface. Better not scratch him; keep your distance.

A religious person is filled, to the innermost core, with one and the same essence. No act or behavior of yours can change him. Even at the moment of death on the cross, Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

That spring cannot exist in a tank; it can only be in a well. A well’s waters are connected to the ocean. Likewise, one who lives in religion, who dives in meditation, has a life linked to the ocean of the divine. You cannot exhaust him. The more you dig, the deeper he becomes.

Then, morality’s function is only negative—do not do wrong.
If you cannot sow flowers, at least do not sow thorns—that is morality’s entire treasure.
If you cannot sow flowers, at least do not sow thorns!

There is an unfathomable valley of consciousness; the human mind is very weak;
In the cool shade of tenderness, bitterness subsides on its own.
When the flames dissolve, closed eyes open wide,
Made pure, the agitated wind of life-breath flows at peace.
If in crisis you cannot smile, at least do not weep out of fear!
If you cannot sow flowers, then at least do not sow thorns!

Trust every dream; anoint yourself with the sandalwood of moonlight.
Do not remember, do not brood—on how life burned away in the blaze.
Such is the world’s way—the body bears, the mind flows on;
He who can stay awake in the proud wine of pleasure, he is conscious!
If you cannot stay awake in it, then at least do not make up your bed and sleep!
If you cannot sow flowers, then at least do not sow thorns!

By raising a clamor at every step, resolve does not set in the mind;
By ignoring—unheard, unknown—the rush of crisis does not lessen;
In the fine mists of doubt, trust does not abide even for a moment;
Even ringed by clouds, the wind’s victory-shout does not stop.
If you cannot advance on faith, at least do not carry the corpses of your breaths;
If you cannot sow flowers, then at least do not sow thorns!

Morality says: at least don’t sow thorns; if you can’t sow flowers, that will do—at least don’t sow thorns. But I want to tell you: whoever does not sow flowers will be compelled to sow thorns. I will repeat it, because it is very fundamental—whoever does not sow flowers will have to sow thorns. Why? Because the energy that could become a flower, if it does not become a flower, will become a thorn. Energy is not destroyed. Either you create, or the same energy becomes destructive. Either make a song; if it does not become a song, it will become an insult. But where will the energy go? If it pours forth as song, fine; otherwise it will rain down as abuse. If it blossoms as flowers, fine; otherwise it will sprout as thorns. If your energy cannot become a shower of love, you will hurl the embers of hatred. You will have to. This is a psychological truth. And now even physics agrees: energy is never destroyed; it only transforms. Something it will do. If you do not laugh, you will cry. If you do not sink into meditation, you will run after money. If you do not love, you will hate. If you do not make friends, you will make enemies. But the energy will do something.

It is said of Adolf Hitler—worth pondering—that he wanted to be a painter. Essentially, a painter. But the university refused him admission to the art class. Who knows—had Adolf Hitler become a painter, perhaps the world would not have seen the Second World War! Then his energy would have spread into colors, made rainbows, roses, beautiful faces. But that same energy, which wanted to be a painter, a creator, was blocked, poisoned, filled with hate. The same energy became destruction. The hands that might have painted beautiful faces burned beautiful faces. The one who might have given life a touch of beauty tried to snatch all beauty from life. This is rage; this is revenge.

Psychologists say there is not much difference between your politicians and your criminals. A politician is one who is more clever and, by cunning, does what criminals do. He is so smart he doesn’t get caught. And criminals do what politicians do, but they are not as smart. A bit naive, a bit simple—they are caught easily, so they become criminals. Those criminals who are caught—are in jails. Those who are not caught—are in presidential palaces; prime ministers, and who knows what else! But the energy of both is the same. Only the wrappings differ.

Let me remind you: my emphasis is not on morality. Because morality is only a wrapper. Wearing fine clothes won’t make you beautiful. Beauty must belong to the soul. Even behind a good character, here and there the filth of your inner being, the covered-up dirt, will keep surfacing.

A fakir went to see Socrates. He wore rags—was an ascetic. There were holes all over his garments. But he walked with great pride, for there was no ascetic like him in Greece. He said to Socrates, “You are still stuck in indulgence! Look at me—I have renounced all; I wear rags; this is renunciation! Will you only talk of truth, or will you ever live a life of renunciation?” Socrates said, “Forgive me, do not be hurt—but through the holes in your clothes, I see nothing but your ego peeping out.”

Look closely at your so-called renouncers. In their statues of renunciation you will see a great ego hidden. You will find them filled with a very subtle poison.

A river stays clean when it flows; when blocked, it turns poisonous. Let your energy flow. Let it be engaged in creation. That is why I say: dance, sing, create. Paint, sculpt, weave songs—do something—give life a touch of creativity. Religion has died in the world because, in its name, lazy and good-for-nothing people have sat in temples and mosques. Their entire trade is to sit there and accept your service.

For centuries your religious people have done nothing but breed impotence. Because of them the earth has become heavy. Yes, they do keep up morality. They rise at the brahma-muhurta—but is rising early in itself any virtue? All animals and birds rise early. It is no glory in itself. They take one meal a day. But many animals in the jungle eat only once. The lion eats once—but he gorges when he does. That is why your Hindu sannyasins—just look at their bellies! They eat once, but in such a way that it becomes a violation of nature. Eat four times if you like—no harm—but don’t violate the body.

Jain monks take very limited things. But I am astonished to see that even a Digambara Jain monk has a paunch. Why? Surely he is taking more than hunger needs. He has to. After all, he must get through twenty-four hours. The man who will not drink water at night will drink copiously at dusk. But this is a burden, unnatural, not in tune with nature—it is an abuse of the body. Those who fast—if they will fast tomorrow, today they stuff themselves. As long as there is time, they keep eating—because tomorrow is the fast. And when tomorrow’s fast somehow ends, they stuff themselves again. What they left out in the fast they make up before and after.

Whenever you try to force man into the unnatural, this hypocrisy is the result.

I am not a partisan of morality. I am not saying: become immoral. Morality has no ultimate value. It is like a traffic rule: keep to the left. There is no ultimate meaning in keeping left. In America they keep right! Whether you keep right or left, one thing is certain: where there is so much crowding on the roads, some rule has to be made, or it becomes difficult to move.

Mulla Nasruddin wanted to go to America. I heard suddenly that he had had an accident and was in the hospital, so I went to see him. I have seen many kinds of accidents, many people in hospitals, but Mulla was a sight! Bandages everywhere—who knows how many fractures. Even his face was bandaged; only two eyes peeped out; there was a bandage on his nose too—just bandages upon bandages. I asked, “Does it hurt?” He said, “It does—when I laugh.” “Then why laugh?” I asked. He said, “I laugh because I was preparing to go to America, and that’s how this accident happened.” I didn’t understand. “What has this accident to do with preparing to go to America?” He said, “I read in books that there you have to drive on the right, not on the left. So I thought I’d practice a bit on M.G. Road in Poona. When I’ll have to drive on the right, better to get some practice before going. So this is what happened! Lying here, sometimes I laugh at my own foolishness. And when I laugh—it hurts a lot; every limb aches!”

In America, since everyone drives on the right, there is no problem in driving on the right.

Neither keeping right nor keeping left has any supreme value. But where people live together, some rules are needed. Those rules are practical.

Do not take morality to have ultimate worth. Those rules are practical—so that people do not clash needlessly. But do not mistake morality for religion, or you will miss. Don’t think that because you always kept left, when you meet God you can stand with your chest out and say, “Look, I am a great soul—because I always kept left! Not once did the police catch me, not once was I fined. I always kept left. I deserve a prime place in heaven.” God too will laugh: “Keeping left was fine; it benefited you—your hands and feet did not break. Expect nothing more from it.”

Morality is social; religion is spiritual. Religion asks: how shall I be with God? Morality asks: how shall I be with people? With people, morality is convenient; it reduces needless hassles. But morality is not enough. If you cannot sow flowers, at least do not sow thorns—fine, as far as it goes. But if you can sow flowers, is not-not-sowing-thorns sufficient? Will your heart be filled with rejoicing because you did not sow thorns in life? Joy will arise when lotuses bloom in your lake, when flowers dance in your garden, when jasmine showers down. Then there will be rejoicing, a festival. If all you can say everywhere is, “Look at my garden—I have not sown a single thorn; there isn’t a trace of thorn; I keep the garden perfectly clean—no bamboo, no flute—I don’t let anything grow; who knows, a thorn might appear on some plant, and then trouble!”—but you won’t call that a garden. It is land—good land; you have picked out the stones and pebbles; there are no thorns; it is all neat and clean—but it is still land, not a garden. It is a desert. Make this desert an oasis.

Morality is only cleansing. Religion is the step beyond cleansing. Sow flowers. You are here to sow flowers. Your destiny is to blossom. In human life, the most important flower opens. That is why we have called that flower the sahasrar—the thousand-petaled lotus. When your consciousness touches its highest peak, a lotus blooms within you that is eternal—once it flowers, it never withers. And the fragrance of that lotus is what we call God.

Nothing can ever be said about the ultimate state. And about the devotee’s ultimate state, even less can be said.
For the very meaning of “ultimate state” is: that which has gone beyond words. And the devotee’s ultimate state—the ultimate flowering of feeling—has gone very far, far beyond words. The earth of language is left far behind. In his supreme state the devotee dissolves; only God remains. So some devotees have said: “I am not; You are.” And some have said: “I alone am; You are not.” Both statements can be made. They mean the same thing. Only the One remains; call it the devotee or call it God—as you please. Aham Brahmasmi: I alone remain, I am the Brahman; or, only Brahman remains—where am I now? In that supreme state everything becomes a vast emptiness.

Yet your question is pleasing. Your longing is sweet. Let us make a small effort, raise a few fingers toward the distant moon.

Have you understood the devotion of love, O naive preacher?
Wherever I placed my forehead, a thousand Kaabas arose.

O clever ones, what have you understood of love-intoxication? O pundits, what have you taken the state of ecstasy to be? Wherever I bowed my head, that place became the Kaaba.
Have you understood the devotion of love, O naive preacher?
For in the devotee’s supreme state, wherever he bows, the footprints of the Divine appear. Touch even the devotee’s shadow and a taste of God comes to you. Sit with the devotee and it is as if you sit with God.

What is the pain of separation, what the delight of union?
A vision higher than both has come to me.

It is hard to say what has come. When the lover reaches the supreme state, union’s joy and separation’s sorrow lose all meaning. In separation there had been great suffering. But now, in the presence of what has arrived, even the memory of that fades. The thorns of separation now feel like flowers. And there had been great joy in glimpses of union—before the supreme state, sometimes a door or window opened; a wave came, a ray came; God touched, bathed one in light—there was great joy. But now even that joy is as nothing before this supreme state.

What is the pain of separation, what the delight of union?
My gaze has been lifted beyond all that.

Now the eye You have given me is higher than all those things—without shore, without end, without beginning.
It is the eye where lover and Beloved become one.

Now neither this “me” remains, nor this universe remains.
I have blended the song of love with Your instrument.

Now neither I am, nor any creation appears. No ego, no “I-ness”; no world presenting itself—only You, You. I have merged the melody of my love into Your instrument. Now Your veena plays and I am its music—or my music is there and Your veena is sounding. I am a flute in Your hands; You sing through me. Where am I? I am but a hollow reed.

I am the very fallen imprint, the sketch of annihilation.
I have no concern with the road, nor with the guide.

I have no worry about the path—arrival has happened—nor about guides. I have nowhere to go now, nothing to become.

I am the very fallen imprint, the sketch of annihilation.

I am erased—like a footprint on sand wiped out by a gust of wind. Do not even ask about me; even my trace is gone.

I have no concern with the road, nor with the guide.

The prankish color of my passion fills this mirror.
Do I look at myself—or at the Beloved’s image?

I am in a sweet quandary: standing before the mirror I cannot tell whether I am seeing myself or Your face.

The prankish color of my passion fills this mirror.
Do I look at myself—or at the Beloved’s image?

That is why the devotee sometimes declares: Anal Haq—“I am the Truth.” Do not take offense. Understand the devotee. This is not said out of ego; it is the proclamation of utter egolessness: Anal Haq. Poor Mansoor was not understood, and they crucified him in vain. Those to whom we should have given thrones, we nailed to crosses; and those who should have been on crosses, sit on thrones.

In the tumult of longing, what shall I say and what not?
I myself no longer know my own claim.

And you ask me to speak of that supreme state! It is very difficult.

In the tumult of longing, what shall I say and what not?
I myself no longer know my own claim.

I do not even know that I am; I do not know that my being has any meaning; I do not know whether I ever was—or only dreamed. Like a footprint on sand I have been effaced. Yet in this effacement lies the great glory. In becoming empty, the Whole descends.

Is there a world or not, a body or a soul—who knows?
He looks at me, and I look at Him.

Now neither life nor world remains. He gazes at me; I gaze at Him. There is nothing left to say. Eyes look into eyes. A silence reigns—an incomparable silence—yet a silence in which the unstruck sound resounds.

It is a state of self-forgetfulness; I am absorbed in prostration.
Now I care neither for the head nor the threshold.

A state of no-self... I savor the bliss of not-being. If there is anything to savor, it is the bliss of not-being. Those who are, suffer; to be is to suffer. Not to be is synonymous with bliss—sat-chit-ananda.

It is a state of self-forgetfulness; I am absorbed in prostration.
I am inward-turned, bowed, surrendered, empty.
Now I care neither for the head nor the threshold.

I know nothing of my head, nor of Your doorway. Where shall I worship? Where shall I offer prayer? Where read the namaz? Who will read it? For whom?

Now my glance goes nowhere, and nothing is within my glance.
I stand absorbed where Beauty unveils Her splendor.

Now the eye travels nowhere, and nothing remains in the eye—bare eyes, empty eyes, a voided gaze. The voided eye is samadhi.

I stand absorbed where Beauty unveils Her splendor.
I am engrossed, dissolved; Your radiance pours, Your festival unfolds.

In the madness of love, what place has the world’s existence?
How will palanquin-watchers ever see Layla’s face?

There is nothing left worth seeing. What was to be seen has been seen. The eyes, which yearned and longed, are fulfilled.

Now I myself make no distinctions at all.
I am so effaced before the imprint of those Feet.

There is no discrimination left in me: what is sin, what is virtue—I cannot say. Darkness and light, life and death—all distinctions have fallen.

Now I myself make no distinctions at all.
I am so effaced before the imprint of those Feet.

You have erased me so completely that no distinctions remain—no sinner, no saint; no world, no liberation. You have wiped me clean. And blessed are those whom God erases so, for in this erasure they become one with the Divine.
As much as we are, so much distance there is. As much as we are not, so much nearness. When we are not at all, we are one.

The Rose has filled my gaze and has spread over all existence.
Whether I am in the garden or in the cage—I no longer know.

Now the eyes are filled with the Flower—indeed the eyes themselves have become flowers. The thousand-petaled lotus has bloomed.

The Rose has filled my gaze and has spread over all existence.
What has blossomed within has not remained within; spreading, it has become one with all that is.

The Rose has filled my gaze and has spread over all existence.
Whether I am in the garden or in the cage—I no longer know.

Whether spring arrives or autumn—it makes no difference. That Flower has bloomed which, once in bloom, never withers. Now it is forever spring.

What reflection is not in the mirror of wonder?
What is there in Your face that is not in mine?

See the devotee’s ecstasy! He says: Now I know—what is in You is in me. I sought You needlessly; I ran about in vain. Where did I not search? At what moonlit shores and starry edges did I not wander? Through uncounted births I called to You.

What reflection is not in the mirror of wonder?
What is there in Your face that is not in mine?

Today I know: You and I are not two—we are one. Perhaps it was because I searched that I kept losing You. You were hidden in the very seeker.

God knows where that mad one has gone, for years now.
Temples and mosques have been looking for him for years.

And you ask what the devotee’s supreme state is? It is very difficult!

God knows where that mad one has gone, for years now.

The one who reaches the ultimate—where is he? That madman, that intoxicated one—where? It is hard to trace him. He is missing.

God knows where that mad one has gone, for years now.
Temples and idol-houses search for him, year after year.

Temples, mosques, gurudwaras are busy searching—if only they might find that madman. But he is not found. Not that he is far. Not that he is hidden behind your eyes. But only the mad can see the mad; only drunkards recognize drunkards. The intoxicated befriend the intoxicated.

God knows where that mad one has gone, for years now.
Temples and idol-houses search for him, year after year.

You really want to know what the devotee’s supreme state is? Then become a devotee. It is not a state that can be said. It is not something that can be told. It is not a matter of writing; it is a matter of seeing—Kabir is right: “It is a seen thing.” See, and you will know. But the price is high, for only the one who dissolves can see. Die into it and you will see. And seeing, you will know. Scriptures—Vedas, Quran, Bible—can make you wealthy in words, but words have no value here.
The devotee’s supreme state is the state of experience.

I understand your difficulty. You have asked because some longing must be stirring. It is not a question of curiosity; it is a question of yearning, of mumuksha, a thirst for liberation. Seek. The devotee’s search moves along the path of tears. It does not go by argument, but by tears; not by intellect, but by the heart.

Bound in bonds am I,
begging new bonds each day;
defeated, I sit at the shore,
with a tired body-mind.

Who are You? Where are You?
For a moment, whose refuge shall I take?
To whom shall I tell my grief?

I sought the Truth,
cradling sweet dreams within my breath;
my fantasies fell away,
and sorrow became my lifelong friend.

I do not fear death,
but how shall I bear this unbearable pain?
To whom shall I tell my grief?

I could not tether the mind,
and I myself am bound in the world.
With a heart longing to renounce,
I melted into love.

Will You not deliver me?
How long shall I weep here?
To whom shall I tell my grief?

Weep. Fill yourself with sobbing. Let your body and breath be washed with tears.

Will You not deliver me?
How long shall I weep here?
To whom shall I tell my grief?

Do not tell it to anyone else. Call only to the One. Place your plea only before the One. And no plea is more beautiful than tears; none more precious. Melt and flow in tears—like a candle burning down, drop by drop its wax dripping like tears. A moment comes when the candle is all burnt away, a heap of tears remains, and the flame has flown into the Infinite. Such is the devotee’s state. Weep! Weep from the heart! As the heart flows in tears, glimpses of that state begin to come.

The road is long, the way unknown—perhaps you have never walked it…

Home is far and the path is strange;
my little story is so small,
strange even to myself—
when have I ever found
the depths of my own heart?

In vain these flowing tears,
in vain the songs of sorrow,
in vain in this world
to hanker after delights.

If only I can worship,
silence will become my practice,
and perhaps I shall find
new life in my breath.

Eyes, starved for a glimpse, today
rain moment by moment;
the heart burns like a lamp
yet cannot utter a sigh.

There is the rub. Asking will not do—let a sigh rise. Let such a sigh well up from within that every hair on your body trembles with it.

Eyes, starved for a glimpse, today
rain moment by moment;
the heart burns like a lamp
yet cannot utter a sigh.

If you can truly sigh, prayer is fulfilled. If you dissolve into that sigh, you too will taste that supreme experience. One ray descends—enough. Holding to that single ray, the journey to the suns supreme is made.

Enough for today.