Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #8

The poet is a seed; in the dark womb of the earth he feels his way, groping, stumbling, falling and getting up again. Whether he will arrive or not is still uncertain. Will he rise beyond the darkness and meet the sun? For now it is all a dream. He may reach; there is a deep longing, an intense thirst. He may also miss—because not every seed becomes a tree. And those seeds that do become trees do not all come to flower and fruit. Who knows how many difficulties must be crossed before a seed becomes a flower, before a possibility becomes real.

The poet thirsts for light. And perhaps, on some plane of dreams, a faint shadow of light falls too. But there is no direct experience of light yet. The eyes have not yet opened. He is half-awake. As at dawn—birds have begun to sing, the sun has risen—and you pull the blanket over yourself and take another turn in sleep; on the edge of your hearing there is a hint of morning, footsteps in the lane, the milkman knocks at the door, children are getting ready for school, your wife has begun to make tea, the fragrance has already reached your nostrils—yet you have not woken. You are not asleep either; you are in-between. That middle state is the poet’s state; that is why the poet so often becomes a bridge between the sleeping and the awakened.

The poet lives upon the earth; the rishi flies in the sky. Yes, sometimes the poet too lifts his eyes toward the heavens, and it is also true that sometimes the rishi lowers his eyes and looks toward the earth. But their perspectives differ, their angles of vision differ. The poet is a son of the soil, a figure of clay. When he lifts his eyes to the star-filled sky, for a moment he forgets his mortality, the body, death. The rishi is a son of the deathless; he has known life as eternal. And even when he looks at the earth, for a single moment he does not forget that. Seeing people wandering on the earth, searching for the path, great compassion arises in his heart; he wants to pour himself down like rain, to become lamps along their way, torches in their hands.

The poet sings, the rishi sings too. But between song and song there is a great difference. The poet’s song is no more than a consolation—sweet, melodious, tasteful—helpful for a moment in freeing you from life’s anxieties, intoxicating, soothing. But the rishi’s song is something else: he awakens, he shakes you awake. The rishi’s utterance is a declaration of revolution. It is fiery, piercing like an arrow. In the rishi’s words there is no consolation; there is the fire of truth. The poet’s words can aid a swoon; the rishi’s words lead toward awakening, toward meditation, toward that supreme realization where one meets the divine face-to-face. The rishi is a seer; the poet only a dream-enjoyer.

Yet sometimes, in the poet’s dreams, a shadow of the rishi’s vision falls. And sometimes, knowingly or unknowingly, the poet manages to bind a drop of the rishi’s nectar into his words.

For the poet a window opens sometimes; for the rishi that is his very state. The poet is ever in conflict, a struggle. He is fighting with himself—split within, something outside, something else within. It can happen that, reading and hearing and humming a poet’s beautiful garlands of songs, you are filled with a longing to see the poet. But do not, even by mistake, make that mistake—because you will find the poet utterly ordinary. Those extraordinary statements of his, that grandeur you felt in them, will fade when you see the poet. You will find him ordinary—just like you, perhaps more ordinary than you. For sometimes he makes a leap; in some unknown, unplanned moment he sees faraway vistas—but they are lost. He even binds them into words, but they are lost.

Someone asked Coleridge, “I read one of your poems; I like it, but I cannot grasp its meaning. I asked great scholars who teach your poetry, and even they could not make the meaning clear. So I have come to ask you.” Coleridge said, “You are a little late. When I wrote it, two people knew the meaning; now only one knows.” The man said, “Then surely the one is you! Please explain it to me.” Coleridge replied, “You are mistaken. When I wrote that poem, both I and God knew its meaning. Now only God knows. I have no idea of the meaning.” For a moment a window had opened, a gust of wind had come, the dust had been blown away, the eyes had been made fresh, something had been seen; and then I fell back into my own darkness, began again to slide through the same dark rooms; the sky was gone, the stars of the sky were gone—then where is the meaning?

Do not ask a poet the meaning of his poem. Yes, he sometimes knows it—at the very moment the poem is born, in that instant of birth—and then he misses it.

The poet is a duality. That is why, in the world, most poets seem deranged; many go mad; many commit suicide; many drown themselves in wine and other intoxicants. The lives of most poets are not auspicious. Why? Their songs are so lovely; their songs have great wings—if you ride them, they can take you on a far journey—yet why can the poet himself not ride those wings? There is a conflict within him: ninety-nine percent earth, one percent a ray of heaven. That one percent light cannot carry the ninety-nine percent earth into the sky. He is in constant struggle. He lives two lives.

One is the life of his songs—there he seems almost like a rishi. The other is his ordinary life—there he seems worse than an ordinary man. The poet is a dilemma, a duality, a division, fragmented. The rishi is whole, without inner conflict, non-dual. What he speaks, he lives; what he lives, he speaks. Between his speaking and his living there is a harmony, a rhythm. Within him there are not two notes; within him a single-stringed lute is sounding. It can be that a poet sings songs of love and has never known love. This happens often.

Often, those who sing of love are precisely those who have been deprived of love. They are persuading their own minds. Their songs of love are devices to fill the lack of love in their experience. Not that they have known; by singing they forget themselves.

When a rishi sings of love, it is a river flowing from his soul. It is his lived experience. Poets too speak of God, but their God is like the way your tongue keeps going to the place where a tooth once was. While the tooth was there, the tongue never went there. Now the tooth is gone, there is an empty space; the emptiness annoys, and the tongue goes there again and again. Such is the poet’s God—a broken tooth, an empty place to which the tongue keeps returning. There is a vacant spot demanding to be filled, a hollow that wants to be full—but the poet has no way to fill it. Yes, he can write songs to God, very lovely songs—but they will be lovely only in words; they will have no meaning, no soul. The body will be there, a beautiful body, decked in precious ornaments; but the moment you lift the veil you will find nothing within.

Often, poems have no soul within. They are like the scarecrow you stand in the field to frighten birds and animals. A pot placed on a stick looks like a head; put a Gandhi cap on it so that even in the dark it scares; dress it in tight pajamas and an achkan so it seems like a leader—but it is only good enough to scare birds.

Poets’ poems are often scarecrows—manlike, but within them there is no soul, no heart beating, no breath moving. The rishi is soul-full. His words may not be very polished; they may not be bound in the strict rules of language, grammar, meter and measure; but there is life in them—and that alone is the real meter. In his words there is the imprint of his own experience; that is what gives meaning; that is the soul. No matter how beautiful the words—no matter how you adorn a corpse, adorning it with jewels and diamonds, powdering and painting the face—a corpse is a corpse; and however richly laden with jewels it may be, in front of a living man—even if he wears rags—it is worth two pennies.

In no language of the world has such a distinction been made between rishi and poet. Only we have two words. And there are reasons that we have them: we have known the heights of the rishi. The composers of the Upanishads cannot be called poets. Kalidasa is a poet, Bhavabhuti is a poet, Shakespeare is a poet, Milton is a poet—but the composers of the Upanishads should not be called poets; it would not be right. They are seers, rishis. They have seen; they have lived; they have known—not merely sung. Song is secondary; knowing is primary. Song and meter came as the shadow of knowing.

Those dreams which my eyes had carved
in the light-bestowing mists of imaginings—
like smoldering, trembling, silent tears
they gleam upon the lashes of my life.
Giving even these tears a polish and a sheen,
I light them in the arch of your soul.
I am wounds upon wounds, no doubt—but for you
I bring the songs of swaying, blazing flowers.
Into the glassy goblets of your parched gazes
I squeeze the colors of the rainbow;
by pouring the blood of my own radiant flames,
I burnish your lovely ecstasies.
In the soft waves of the melodies of my instrument
I drown the desolation on your face;
but upon the longings of my own youth,
after you go, I weep alone in secret.
This art of mine that is kohl for your hearts
is the funeral bier of the passions of my youth.

The poet laughs on the surface and weeps within.

Those dreams which my eyes had carved
in the light-bestowing mists of imaginings—

His dreams are born in darkness; he carves them in the dark. He has no light of his own.

Those dreams which my eyes had carved
in the light-bestowing mists of imaginings—
like smoldering, trembling, silent tears
they gleam upon the lashes of my life.

If you look closely into a poet’s eyes, you will see less song and more tears. Less joy, more sorrow. No contentment at all—torment surging like waves of the sea.

Like smoldering, trembling, silent tears
they gleam upon the lashes of my life.
Giving even these tears a polish and a sheen—

The poet gives even tears a sheen, a sparkle; he presents tears as pearls.

Giving even these tears a polish and a sheen,
I light them in the arch of your soul—

And in the niches of your souls, in your dark alcoves, these dreams carved in darkness, these false sparkles pressed into tears, he lights like little lamps.

Giving even these tears a polish and a sheen,
I light them in the arch of your soul.
I am wounds upon wounds, no doubt—but for you
I bring the songs of swaying, blazing flowers.

The poet is full of wounds. But he brings songs for you. He sells songs. He is a song-seller; selling songs is his trade. Who will take tears? People already have plenty of tears. Who would want wounds? Everyone already has more than enough. So he makes his wounds into flowers and sells them—sells garlands made of them.

I am wounds upon wounds, no doubt—but for you
I bring the songs of swaying, blazing flowers.

Do not be deceived by the poets’ songs; song is their business. A rishi’s song is not a business; it is his overflowing. Meera danced—not as a performer, but out of sheer overflow. She danced for no one; she could not help but dance—so she danced. The poet sings for someone. The rishi sings—if someone hears, fine; if no one hears, fine. A rishi’s songs are like the birds’ calls at dawn: they are not addressed to anyone. The sun has risen, morning has come, a rapture has filled the breath—and it flows by itself. A rishi’s songs are like flowers upon trees. If someone plucks them, fine; if they become garlands, fine; if someone passes by, fine; if someone savors the fragrance, fine; if no one comes, fine. The fragrance will go on being squandered; it will keep dissolving into empty sky; riding on the wings of the wind it will travel far. Whether some nostrils ever recognize it or not is beside the point. If they do, fine; if not, fine.

A rishi sings svantah sukhaya—for his own joy. The other is irrelevant. Whether the other is there or not is secondary. The rishi sings in his own ecstasy. But the poet is a song-seller, like a gardener who sells flowers.

Into the glassy goblets of your parched gazes—

Your eyes are dry, desert-like; you too long for a little moisture, for a little tenderness to glisten in your eyes.

Into the glassy goblets of your parched gazes
I squeeze the colors of the rainbow—

The poet says, “I squeeze the colors of the rainbow into your dry eyes—so that you too may become acquainted with rainbows; so that a few rainbows may sprout within you; so that I may bring the colors of butterflies—because you are drab; that I may bring a little news of spring—because your life is a chain of autumns.”

Into the glassy goblets of your parched gazes
I squeeze the colors of the rainbow;
by pouring the blood of my own radiant flames,
I burnish your lovely ecstasies—

And I smile, that echoes of a smile may arise within you.

In the soft waves of the melodies of my instrument
I drown the desolation on your face—

I dip your withered face into my songs, my melodies, so that a little gentleness may come to your life too; so that you may taste a little rasa.

In the soft waves of the melodies of my instrument
I drown the desolation on your face;
but upon the longings of my own youth,
after you go, I weep alone in secret—

But do not take my words at face value. They are a show. In solitude, in privacy, I weep just as you weep. My eyes too are filled not with pearls but with tears. Darkness is in my life too, not lamps. I too have no real acquaintance with rainbows. I too have not truly seen the colors of butterflies. My heart too has not yet connected with the sky. I drag myself along where you drag yourselves.

Just as, in a dark lane at night, you begin to sing loudly; hearing the sound of your own song, courage arises—‘I am not alone’—fear and loneliness fade; so are the poets’ songs—they fill the emptiness of your aloneness.

But upon the longings of my own youth,
after you go, I weep alone in secret.
This art of mine that is kohl for your hearts
is the funeral bier of the passions of my youth—

This being of mine, this art of mine, which is a cosmetic for your hearts—coloring them, beautifying them, making them lovely—

This art of mine that is kohl for your hearts
is the funeral bier of the passions of my youth—

But if you ask me, it is the bier of my youth, the bier of my very life-breath.

A poet’s life is conflict-ridden: one thing outside, another within. If you dig into his smiles you will find tears. If you go a little deep into his songs, descend a few steps, you will find great darkness. A rishi’s life is one continuous rhythm. The deeper you go, the more it is the same, and yet more. A rishi’s life is attuned within and without; his taste is one, from wherever you taste it. In each of his words the message is one, the call one, the invitation one.

There is a great difference between poet and rishi. Yet remember: sometimes poets bring glimpses of the rishis; sometimes, to a blind man in the dark, faraway things are sensed. But the rishi lives in the realm of eternal light.

Consider three things. One is science, confined to matter. Another is religion, which is beyond matter, seeking the divine. And in between is art, poetry. One foot of art stands on earth, the other in the divine. Hence the artist is greatly torn. The scientist is not so torn—there is no need; he has assumed there is no God. There is no ‘other,’ only matter. Therefore you will find in the scientist a kind of consistency, a logic. And in the saint too, a consistency, a logic—because only God is, and nothing else.

The scientist says: God is false, the world true—jagat satya, brahma mithya. And the saint says: brahma satya, jagat mithya. Each has married himself to the one. Between them, like Trishanku suspended in midair, is the artist: painter, sculptor, musician, poet. They are all forms of poetry. One creates poetry out of sound—we call him a musician. One creates poetry out of gestures—we call him a dancer. One creates poetry out of colors—we call him a painter. One carves poetry into stone—we call him a sculptor. They are all forms of kavi. The media differ. The poet stands between the two. He says: the world is true, and the divine is true. Therefore he lives in great tension—now here, now there; sometimes descending to the lowest, sometimes soaring to the highest.

If you have a leaning toward poetry, be alert: you must purify that leaning. Climb step by step, rung by rung. The poet must be brought to the rishi. And when the poet within you reaches the rishi, the supreme wealth of life becomes available. Then from within you the Quran rises, the Upanishads are born, the Gita takes birth. These are not poems; they are the utterances of seers. That is their glory. However much one may sing, the beauty of the Quran does not come; however one may array beautiful words, the height of the Upanishadic utterances does not come; compose as many songs as you like—you cannot reach even the feet of the Bhagavadgita. Within everyone the three possibilities are present, because you are a sum of three. Your body is made of earth, of matter. If you remain stuck at the body, you will wander in science. Your mind stands between the two. If you remain entangled in mind, you will remain a poet—torn, conflicted, split, riding two boats. Within you also dwells the soul. If only you take a dip in the soul, the rishi will be born within you. Do not be content with anything less than the rishi. It is everyone’s inherent right that a Bhagavadgita should arise from within him.

Thakur Rana! In this world, thirst can arise, it cannot be quenched. In this world there are no springs that extinguish thirst. The very purpose of the world is to give birth to thirst, not to quench it. Thirst is quenched only when you drink the Divine. The function of the world is to awaken the thirst so deeply, so insistently, that you have to seek the Divine—that you become compelled to search, that you drop everything and set out in search of God.

The world is a burning desert. In this desert, the arising of thirst is absolutely necessary, natural, inevitable. The real surprise is when in this world we see people who have no thirst, to whom the thirst for God has never even occurred. They are the marvels. They are in the desert, the scorching fire is raining down, and yet somehow—who knows how?—they sit there hiding their thirst. Their condition is like this—I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin went on the pilgrimage to Mecca and lost his way in the desert. Exhausted, two or three days later, when he returned to a village, people said, “You’ve come back alive—thank God! How did you pass those days? Such terrible heat was blazing, and there was not a patch of shade anywhere in the desert. Didn’t you get roasted?” Nasruddin said, “Do you take me for such a fool? I would sit in my own shadow.”

In one’s own shadow! Can anyone sit in his own shadow? Yet this tale of Nasruddin is full of meaning. All the people who appear satisfied to you in this world are sitting in their own shadow. They are thoroughly deceived. The wealth here is not real wealth, the position here is not real position, the fame here is not real fame—you are just sitting in your own shadow.

Good, Thakur Rana, that you say: What is this thirst? Even after being fulfilled from all sides it still feels that something is missing. Blessed are you! You should feel this lack. Those who don’t are unfortunate. It is as if God has turned His back on them, as if blossoms were never destined to bloom for them, as if, by fate, they are deprived of the springs. When there is thirst, then the search for the lake begins. Where there is thirst, there is prayer. Where there is prayer, there is God. Thirst is a great fortune—though the first time it strikes, it feels like pain. But great blessings are hidden within pains. And not all that seems a curse is a curse—if you search, you will find benedictions concealed in them. Even among thorns flowers are hidden. And this is that kind of thirst. Such thirst arises only when you already have everything of the world.

So you are right to say: There is nothing in the world I have not gained—yet why this thirst? Precisely then this thirst arises. Those who have not yet obtained worldly things still think that if they do, the thirst will be satisfied: a slightly better house, some more money in the bank, winning the next election—something or other. So their thirst is still groping in the world.

And that too is natural. One who has not yet known anything of the world—how will his thirst turn toward touching the Divine? For now it feels as if a little money, status, prestige—and everything will be fine. When all these are attained, then the illusion breaks. Then it is seen: there is money, there is position, there is prestige—and yet the thirst remains exactly where it was; not only where it was—it has deepened, become more intense. When piles of wealth are stacked all around, then within, poverty is discovered with great poignancy. To see poverty, heaps of wealth are necessary. A poor man cannot truly know poverty—how would he? We always come to know through the opposite. That’s why we write with white chalk on a blackboard. Why not on a white board? You could write on a white board, but it would not be visible. The board must be black, and then you can write with white chalk. And if the board is white, then you must write with black chalk, with coal—the opposite alone is seen.

A poor man does not come to know he is poor. Only the rich come to know. A healthy person does not come to know he is healthy; illness is needed to know. When the opposite happens, awareness dawns.

Thakur Rana, you say: “There is nothing in the world that I have not attained—then why this thirst?”
Precisely for that reason this thirst is here. Now the Divine must be attained. Now the world holds no more meaning for you. What was to be known has been known, what was to be seen has been seen. Now the hour has come to close the eyes and look within. Now the moment has come to lift your head from the earth and turn it toward the sky. You have gathered enough pebbles and stones—now fill your bag with diamonds and jewels.

When the nest of sighs,
of night,
turns into a bridal bed,
and the lovely, torn festoons
of pearl garlands lie plundered,
then the dumb eyes of the fading stars
burst into this wail:
written and rewritten in tears—
how unstable is this world.

When morning smiles,
vermillion scattered
in its golden veil,
when innocent rays quiver
on the slippery waves,
then buds, quietly lifting
the tender veil of leaves,
with brimming lids whisper:
how intoxicating is this world.

Having gifted fragrance to the breeze,
when the withered flowers say,
“We, who lay down on his path—
why does he fill our eyes with dust?
What essence remains in us now?”
While the bees sing their sweet hum,
the sobbing of the marble murmurs:
how merciless is this world!

In shades of gold the day inscribes
the defeat of its own life;
in the courtyard of the dusk-lit sky
countless lamps make their offerings;
and laughing, the darkness beyond
says, “Onward, beyond, ever beyond”;
ages have passed—yet even now
the world stays intoxicated.

Building life
with flowers from dreamland,
when my mad heart believes,
“Our kingdom is immortal,”
then from some unknown realm
a soft, delicate chime arrives
and sings in plaintive notes:
how crazy is this world!

Open your eyes a little. What you were seeking cannot be found here. That which will satisfy you, that which will end your hunger and your thirst, that which will stop this ceaseless inner cry, that which will still these inner tears, that which will fill the emptiness of the soul so you overflow—it is simply not here. It is not that it is nowhere; it must be sought in another dimension.

There is a race outward—there you will get everything, except contentment. There is a race inward—there you will get nothing else, but you will get contentment. There is a journey toward the other—there you will find relationships: kin and clan, husband and wife, sons and daughters—everything—but you will not find yourself. There is a journey toward the Self—there is no father, no mother, no brother, no sister, no wife, no husband—there, you are. And one who has known oneself alone is fulfilled. For one who has found himself has found all. Within you is infinite wealth—and you go on begging outside!

When the nest of sighs,
of night,
turns into a bridal bed,
and the lovely, torn festoons
of pearl garlands lie plundered,
then the dumb eyes of the fading stars
burst into this wail:
written and rewritten in tears—
how unstable is this world!

The hour has come, Thakur Rana! Hear the echo rising from all sides:

Then the dumb eyes of the fading stars
burst into this wail:
written and rewritten in tears—
how unstable is this world!

Here everything is momentary. Soap bubbles on water. Do not build houses on sand. Do not float paper boats.

Building life
with flowers from dreamland,
when my mad heart believes,
“Our kingdom is immortal,”
then from some unknown realm
a soft, delicate chime arrives
and sings in plaintive notes:
how crazy is this world!

Now look—look all around—there is a crowd of madmen. Whoever seeks anything other than himself is mad. Whoever keeps running outward and does not go within is mad; he is living in mirages, in delusions; he is deranged; he will fall, he will break, he will repent deeply. And when time has passed, repentance is of no use. “What’s the point of regret when the birds have eaten the field?” Most often, awareness comes only when death knocks at the door—“We missed! The opportunity was given but we could not use it!” Blessed is he who awakens before that.

Thakur Rana, that hour has arrived! Take this thirst as a blessing! Take it as God’s gift, as prasad!

What is this thirst? This thirst is the beginning of prayer. This thirst is the first blow of prayer. By making this thirst more intense, prayer will be born. Refine this thirst, sharpen it—prayer will be born. What is this thirst? If you turn it into prayer, the Divine is not far. Between thirst and God let the bridge of prayer be built—then there is no distance at all.

You ask: “What should I do with this thirst of the mind?”
Fan it! Enlarge it! Awaken it! Inflame it! I am not here to quench your thirst—I am here to set it on fire. I will add more fuel to it—that is what I do every day, morning and evening: add fuel to your thirst. Lest it be extinguished. There are many arrangements in the world to douse your thirst—people everywhere are sitting to quench it. And you too are eager that someone should quench it—because thirst hurts; it troubles, brings restlessness. You too want someone to utter a few consoling words, to put balm and bandage on the wound, to heal it. No—if you want something like that, you have come to the wrong man. I will open your wound more, probe it deeper. I will make your pain more intense. I will turn your thirst into a blazing flame—such a flame that you are reduced to ashes in it. When your thirst becomes the lamp and you the moth, prayer is fulfilled—and in that very moment, that unparalleled moment, there is union with the Divine.

Do not ask me to kindly clarify this state. It is not to be clarified. In the desire to clarify, in analysis, in the attempt to understand, our deep intention is only this: somehow, if it can be understood, the trouble will end. We want to understand only those things from which we want to be rid. Understanding is a strategy to get rid of the bother. This thirst is inexplicable, inexpressible. It is not to be understood, but to be dived into. It is a mystery. Do not turn this thirst into a question—take it as a mystery. Lift its veils, enter its unknown realm; burn, yearn, call out, weep—let this thirst become tears, not an answer, not a question, not an explanation, not a discourse. I cannot make you understand thirst.

Is thirst something to be understood? If a man is thirsty, what will you explain? At most you can say: Brother, thirst is thirst. If anything is to be done about it—here is the stream; bend down, cup your hands, drink. But if the man says, “Explain thirst! Then explain water—what is water?” What can you explain? Will it help to say H2O? That water is made of hydrogen and oxygen—two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen make water? Or will you tell him to take a notebook and keep writing H2O, H2O, H2O—as some people write “Ram, Ram, Ram”—you too keep writing H2O, H2O; take a rosary in your hand and with each bead say H2O. Will your thirst be quenched that way? Will thirst be understood that way?

Neither does chanting “Ram, Ram” quench thirst, nor will chanting H2O. Neither by writing “Ram, Ram” in a notebook will you reach anywhere, nor by writing H2O. You will only spoil the notebook. You will have to drink—you will have to drink God. By drinking, you will know. These are matters of taste, of experience.

But this much I will tell you: it is going well! You are reaching the gates of the temple! Do not quickly pacify and placate the thirst and run away. It is precisely such a thirsty one who enters the inexpressible realm of sannyas.

Ageh! Who has ever known religion? Who has ever understood meditation? These are unsayable things, unfathomable things. They are experienced, not understood. Understanding belongs to small things; understanding is marketplace stuff. The deeper the essence, the farther it is from understanding. Understanding happens in the skull. Love-prayer, meditation-religion, all happen in the heart. The head is incapable of understanding the heart. Hence the head takes the heart to be mad—considers the lover mad, the devotee mad. The talk of the heart does not make sense to the mind. Their mathematics are different. In the world of the heart some other mathematics applies—a great mathematics. In the mind one and one make two; in the heart one and one make only one. There the whole affair is utterly different! In the mind’s world, in the mind’s economics, if you save, things are saved; if you give away, they are lost. In the heart’s economics, if you hoard, they die; if you pour out, they are preserved. The mind is a miser, stingy. The heart lavishes: “Pour out with both hands—that is the saints’ way.” And the irony is that, even hoarding, the mind cannot save anything—only trash remains in its hands. And the heart, even after giving and giving, saves everything. The two worlds are different; their dimensions are different.

You ask: “We know nothing of religion and meditation.”
Who knows? Do you think religion is written in the scriptures? If religion could be written, the matter would be very easy. Then, just as we teach mathematics in school, and geography, and history, we would teach religion too. But religion cannot be taught. It cannot be handed down as instruction. And because we set up false arrangements to teach it, we turn people into false religious ones—some Hindu, some Christian, some Muslim, some Jain, some Buddhist. How can a truly religious person be a Hindu, be a Christian, be a Muslim? If there is one God, there is one prayer. And if there is one Truth, how can there be many sects? Even the truths of ordinary life are not different. Heat water in India: at a hundred degrees it becomes steam. Heat it in Tibet: at a hundred degrees it becomes steam. Tibet’s water cannot say, “This is a Buddhist land; the things of a Hindu country will not be allowed here.” Wherever you heat water, at a hundred degrees it becomes steam. If the laws of nature are eternal, will the laws of God not be eternal? They too are eternal. But religion is imposed upon people. In the name of religion we impose doctrines—and people spend their whole lives carrying those imposed doctrines. They will never have any relationship with God; it cannot happen. First all that instruction has to be dropped; the heart has to be emptied, made clean and bare; only then does anyone come to know. You say: we know nothing of religion and meditation. Good! If you did, you could not have come to me. If you did, you would have become pundits. If you did, you would be repeating like parrots. You could not have come to me. Those who “know” do not come here.

Yesterday a book fell into my hands, printed in Delhi by some Arya Samaji. Only an Arya Samaji could print such foolishness. In that book it is written that listening to my talks is a great sin, reading my books is a great sin, coming into my presence is a great sin. Then I wondered a little: this man must himself have read my books. How much great sin the poor fellow has committed! He will land in the grandest hell! I felt great compassion for him—sin upon sin he has piled up. In the name of religion, people have not given you awareness, nor courage. They have given you weakness and impotence.

Now these are the words of impotence—that listening to my words is a great sin. This is panic. It is fear that, if my words are heard, how long will you be able to deny the Truth? If you hear, then—if not today, then tomorrow—even if the mind denies, the heart will accept. Then what will happen? So do not listen at all. Tie bells to your ears and keep ringing them so that no sound reaches you. That is why your so-called religious people have bells tied to their ears—all are bell-eared! They keep ringing loudly so that no name may be heard, no word may reach them. They have all closed their eyes. They have become oxen at the oil-press: if they open their eyes, they might see the Truth somewhere. Are these the signs of being religious? A religious person will have open eyes, will be without bias, will not decide in advance with any prejudice, will not be dogmatic, will be willing to pass through every experience, to experiment. One who moves with conclusions already in hand is not religious. And you all move with conclusions—that is the obstacle. Someone is already a Hindu—he has decided in advance that “this alone must be so.” You have not given Truth any opportunity to reveal itself.

It is good, Ageh, that you say: “We know nothing of religion and meditation.”
This very good fortune has brought you to me. Had you “known,” you could not have come—coming here would have been a great sin. You have been able to come with an open heart, in freedom—eager to listen, eager to understand, eager to experience—only because you know nothing of religion and meditation. Those who “know” come with expectations. If something happens even slightly different from their expectations, immediately they say it is wrong—as if they already know what is right. In fact, they know nothing. Because here, in each person’s life, the experience of religion happens in a unique, unrepeatable way. No prior notions are of any use regarding it.

Understand: someone who has seen Mahavira meditating—naked, standing under a tree like a stone statue—and who has formed the idea that this is meditation; and then he sees Meera dancing, with an ektara in hand, bells tied to her feet, streams of tears of joy in her eyes, intoxicated, forgetting the world’s opinion, dancing—who knows when the end of her sari slipped down—who has any awareness for such small things in such ecstasy? If this man, who has fixed his belief that Mahavira’s meditation is meditation, were to see Meera, he would say: “What kind of meditation is this? It is indecorous. This is not meditation.” But Mahavira happened as Mahavira; Meera happened as Meera. Meera’s is meditation; Mahavira’s too is meditation. Meditation is like water: whatever vessel you pour it into, it takes the form of that vessel. Pour it into a flask, it takes the flask’s form. Pour it into a plate, it takes the plate’s form. Meditation is a state of fluid consciousness. And since individuals are different, the expressions of meditation are different. One who has seen Meera and decided that this alone is meditation, if he were then to see Buddha sitting under a tree, eyes closed, like a stone statue, he would say: “Sir, what are you doing? Is this any meditation? Where is the ektara? Tie bells to your feet, call to Krishna—‘With anklets on her feet Meera danced!’ What are you doing sitting here? Why are you wasting time?” That too would be wrong. Whenever we form an idea, we go wrong, because an idea depends on a person, and God never makes two people alike. God makes each person unique, unrepeatable. From this arise great obstacles.

A Christian missionary came and said to me, “You speak so much of Buddha and Mahavira, but what did they do for mankind? Jesus had himself nailed to the cross! He gave his very life! He is the savior of man! What did Mahavira do? What did Krishna do? What did Buddha do? Where is the sacrifice?” He had made an idea that unless someone is crucified, he has not attained to enlightenment—how could he be a Buddha? He must be crucified.
I said to him, “Do you know what the Jains say? Jains come to me and tell me not to take Jesus’ name alongside Mahavira.” The missionary was a little startled. He asked, “Why?” I said, “They say every act has its chain of causation: even a thorn does not prick without reason. If a thorn pricks the foot, it means that in a past life some sin was committed. Jesus was nailed to a cross—not a thorn, a cross—surely he must have committed some great sin! The law of karma is clear: a very great sin must have been done, therefore Jesus was crucified. Mahavira’s foot, they say, was not pierced even by a thorn. The Jaina story says that when Mahavira walked along the path—he wore no shoes—and yet never once in life was he pricked by a thorn—the story says a thorn could not possibly pierce him, because in his past lives he had committed no sinful acts. He had come perfectly pure from his previous births. So, if ever a thorn happened to lie on the path as he came walking, it would quickly turn itself upside down—the thorn—saying, ‘Mahavira is coming; I might prick him!’”
Now, those whose notion is that, on seeing Mahavira, even thorns hurry to flip themselves over so they may not prick him—can they possibly value Jesus’ cross? Impossible! Utterly impossible.

A person obsessed with notions is not religious. A person free of notions is religious. A person without doctrines is religious. One who enters with a conclusionless mind and experiments—that alone is religious.

Ageh! It is good that you know nothing of religion and meditation. That is why it has been easy to experiment with me. Only those can be joined with me who have the courage to break and throw away all prejudices.

And then you say, “We have fallen in love with you!” That very love is meditation. That very love will be refined, and keep being refined. From this very love, slowly, slowly, the flame of that light will be born within you. What is there greater than love as meditation? What prayer is greater than love?

What had to be, is happening.

If only you would come once!
How much compassion, how many messages
would be strewn like pollen upon the path,
the strings of the life-breath would sing,
a rapture-mad melody of love,
tears would bathe those feet!
If only you would come once!

In a moment moist eyes would laugh,
sorrow would be washed from the lips,
spring would descend upon life,
age-old renunciation would be spent like coins;
the eyes would offer up everything!
If only you would come once!

Love is a call to God. That you are in love with me is just the beginning—the first step. This love will deepen, deepen, deepen. I will disappear; I will pass out of your sight, and as this love deepens it will become love for God. That is the meaning of the true Master: one who awakens love, becomes the occasion for love to awaken—and when love has arisen, quietly steps aside, without even letting you know, and does not remain standing between you and your God. The false guru is the one who becomes a wall between you and your God. The true Master is the one who serves as the pretext for love to awaken, but the moment love arises, quietly withdraws—does not even let you notice when he withdrew, when he placed your hand into God’s hand.

And God is not far away. It is only a matter of placing your hand in his hand—a matter of learning just a little the art of holding the Invisible.

When, from the lotus-leaf of pain,
the rays wipe the stains with tears,
startled, touched by the wind’s breath,
the stars, amazed and unknowing rise—
then the one who calls me across,
like music from afar—who is he?

When, like a mountain of sorrow,
clouds mass upon the void night-sky,
and even the rows of fireflies scatter
like garlands of golden tears,
then the one whose flash closes my eyes,
in the smile of lightning—who is he?

In the silver shell of earth and sky,
when the ocean trembles like a liquid pearl,
from the floating, soft heaps of dark cloud
upon the argent ocean of moonlight;
as fragrance, the one who pats me to sleep,
like the sigh of slumber—who is he?

When on the rose of a baby’s morning-cheeks
the drops of star-dew are drying,
bathed in the golden stream of rays,
buds laugh, offering pearls in worship;
in the school of dreams, the one who drops the curtain
and then opens my eyes—who is he?

From every side he has surrounded you.

Then the one who calls me across,
like music from afar—who is he?
Then the one whose flash closes my eyes,
in the smile of lightning—who is he?
As fragrance, the one who pats me to sleep,
like the sigh of slumber—who is he?
In the school of dreams, the one who drops the curtain
and then opens my eyes—who is he?

God is not far; only you lack recognition, remembrance. The diamond lies before you and you are looking elsewhere. The Master’s sole function is to show you the diamond and then quietly step aside—so quietly that even the sound of his footsteps is not heard as he withdraws—lest you become attached to him. Love is fine; infatuation is not. Love is fine; attachment is not.

Ageh, love me, but do not be infatuated. Let love be kindled, but set it upon the path of prayer; do not let it become attachment.

You say: “Therefore we have become sannyasins, and now, sitting at your feet, listening to you, we are delighted, we feel blessed.”
The very aim of sannyas is that you become delighted, feel blessed. God has given so much—and will you not even give thanks? God has given immeasurably—and will you not even shed two tears of joy? He has given everything—more than you could ever have thought, more than you could ever have dreamed—and will you not even bow your head at his feet?

The meaning of sannyas is only this: to bow down, to surrender.

Satya Virendra! All questions are futile. Questioning as such is futile—because a question arises out of doubt. It springs from inner skepticism. Questions are the mind’s knots, its tangles, its strategies for keeping you wandering. You say rightly: I don’t know what to ask. Good! That you don’t know what to ask is the first ray of understanding.

When asking drops, understanding is not far. It is only because of asking that understanding doesn’t open. You go on getting entangled in the very act of asking. And every answer that is given will give birth to ten new questions. As long as the mind that raises questions remains within, no answer can truly be an answer. Whatever is said will be questioned; one answer will create ten more questions. Someone asks: Who created the world? Parrot-like pundits fill this land and the whole world; they will promptly declare: God did. Then the question arises: Why did God create it? What has been solved? We are exactly where we began. Now propose some reason for why God created. Those who offer reasons don’t understand. They say: So that man may be liberated. Then the question arises: when man did not even exist, what wisdom is it to first create him, then bind him, and then liberate him?

Or the question arises: if he is omniscient, all-knowing, all-powerful, what need is there to trouble man so much? As he said in the beginning, “Let there be light!” and there was light—why not simply say, “Let there be liberation!” and there is liberation? If light can happen, what obstacle is there to moksha happening? One starts to suspect that your God is taking some pleasure in tormenting people, savoring it a bit—like little children who tease ants, tear the wings off butterflies, or pull a dog’s tail.

A little boy was harassing a cat. His mother shouted, “Why are you pulling the cat’s tail?” The boy said, “I’m not pulling the tail—I’m only standing on it. The cat is pulling the tail! I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

But why is this God standing on people’s tails? You say man must be freed from desire—then why give desire in the first place? Who asked for it? You bestowed desire, and man must suffer sin? If anyone in the world is guilty, no one but God could be guilty. If anyone deserves hell, only God deserves hell. Instead of sending each person to hell for his desires, why not catch hold of the root? To have infected the minds of endless multitudes with craving—is that courtesy, is that civilization?

One question answered gives rise to a thousand more, and there is no end to it. Questions end in only one way: by seeing the futility of questions. The day the futility of all questions becomes visible, in that very instant a unique peace, an extraordinary silence descends.

Virendra, taste such a silence. You say: I don’t know what to ask. Good! Then ask nothing. What is there to ask? There is living to be lived. And the strange thing is: the one who asks does not receive the answer, while the one who drops all asking discovers that the answer has always been present within. It is not an answer to any particular question. Life itself is its own answer. Life is its own samadhi, its own solution.

You say: “And yet I still want to receive some answer!”

This is beautiful. That there is nothing to ask is beautiful; and that, even so, you want the answer—this is even more beautiful. Your journey has begun in the right direction. Let the questions go; the answer will come—it will come on its own; the answer is within you; you are the answer. Let the questions fall away and the answer will be revealed. Questions are like ash upon a live coal. When the ash is shaken off, the ember shows.

Answers do not come from outside. All questions come from outside. You don’t possess even a single question that is truly yours; you learned them. That is why when people of different religions come to me, they ask different questions. They cannot all ask the same questions, because the suppliers have been different. A Christian comes; he never asks about rebirth—never. He has never been taught that there is rebirth, so why would that question arise? A Muslim comes; he does not ask, “Who was I in my past life?”—there was no past life, so what is there to ask? The question hasn’t been taught, so it isn’t asked. But a Jain comes and asks: How can I attain jati-smarana, the recollection of past lives? You think it is his question? His pundits have taught him: you have wandered through countless births, through 8.4 million wombs. Just imagine, wandering through 8.4 million forms! What kinds of births—now a scorpion, now a snake, now a dog, now a cat, now a worm, now a fish—imagine all 8.4 million! Such a panic arises: My God, was I once a worm too? Couldn’t you think of anything else—also a scorpion, a snake! But what is heard from childhood becomes a question.

What you have heard is what you begin to ask. Your questions are all borrowed. All from outside. And the irony is that the answer does not come from outside! Questions come from outside, and any answers that also come from outside will become new questions—and nothing will happen. The answer is within you. You are the answer. Aham Brahmasmi—that is the answer. Ana’l-Haqq—that is the answer. You are the Divine—that is the answer. The answer lies in that experience. That is what you want to hear from me, but if I say it, it becomes something from outside.

Take my advice: don’t ask even me. Let the questions fall, and in the silence sit within and ask only this within: Who am I? Let only one answer come. Deepen this one inquiry, intensify this one aspiration: Who am I, who am I? And I am not saying to repeat it in words—there is no need to chant, “Who am I.” When you have a headache, do you go on saying, “Headache, headache, headache”? If you do, you will forget the headache itself. When there is a headache, there is no need to say it; you experience it—no words are required. In the same way with “Who am I?”—do not repeat it verbally. Let it be like a headache, a pain, a dense ache: Who am I?—not in words—let it pierce like an arrow: Who am I? And within you that spring will burst forth, and the answer will come. That alone is meaningful. Something is happening; a sense of direction is appearing; your steps are finding their ground.

Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?
Who breathed forgotten melodies into my ears?
Who set fire in my body,
and in my mind, like ashes,
who kindled a flame in my life,
rekindled the fire buried deep in oblivion?
Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?

In the courtyard of the sky there swelled
that intoxicated, thunderous, dense monsoon cloud!
Birds left their nests, mad with joy,
and raised a rapturous clamor!
The mind says: break all bonds,
leave the town in ecstasy,
tie your thread to the ecstasy beyond,
shatter all the old ways, renounce the rituals!
Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?

Let us pour out today, to the full, the love saved for so long!
Let the birds of longing sing forth the utterances of ages!
Deck a fair craft of the moon,
make oars of rays,
and, sailing the ocean of the sky,
let us seek a new world, abandoning this inert one!
Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?

On the curtain of the present let us trace the forgotten past!
Let the song of spent youth resound once more in the heart!
Let intoxication flood the eyes,
let the whole world change again,
let us forget worldliness,
let there be new fire, new youth, new pride, new love!
Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?

In this worn and battered body, a fleeting surge of youth’s memory—
who knows how it raises a tide of madness!
Flavor returns to the tasteless heart,
the cuckoo coos within the mind,
how today can this life be kept in check?
The body is slack, yet the inner fire will not be quenched!
Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?

For centuries upon centuries, through births upon births,
a long-sleeping longing is sprouting.

Flavor returns to the tasteless heart,
the cuckoo coos within the mind,
how today can this life be kept in check?
The body is slack, yet the inner fire will not be quenched!
Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?

A unique longing is being born. Virendra, welcome it. Hang festoons! Light garlands of lamps!

In the courtyard of the sky there swelled
that intoxicated, thunderous, dense monsoon cloud!
Birds left their nests, mad with joy,
and raised a rapturous clamor!
The mind says: break all bonds,
leave the town in ecstasy,
tie your thread to the ecstasy beyond,
shatter all the old ways, renounce the rituals!
Why have my long-slumbering dreams awakened today?

A carefree, intoxicated cloud has called you. A storm is near. A gale that will make you clean. A flood that will bathe you, wash you. Now don’t ask questions at all. Awaken within only the longing: Who am I? And the answer will come. And I will not give the answer; it will arise within you; it will be yours. And only when the answer is your own does it truly answer. Anyone can say it—if I say, “You are the soul,” what will happen? If I say, “You are the Divine,” what will happen? You will hear the words, the sound will enter one ear and leave the other—nowhere will it stick.

You have heard enough of such talk. Brahma-knowledge is hawked in every village. Every meeting-place proclaims it. Every living room resounds with it. You have heard this chatter long enough. It solves nothing. Now there is only one way: your door must open, a ray must break forth within, your sun must rise. Many suns have risen and set outside; what is needed now is for the sun to rise in your inner sky. It can happen.

You had the courage to take sannyas, the courage to sit with me, to link your being with mine—you have shown your readiness, you have held out your bowl. Do not be afraid—it will be filled with flowers! But just as you have dropped questions, now drop even the desire that I should give you an answer. Let both question and answer go. Become without-question and without-answer—that is samadhi.

Unbidden—who knows from what door,
by what means—
into the chamber of my house,
through a fortress of hard darkness, with hostile, rugged walls—
luminous, full of radiance,
all at once a tender ray entered.
The darkness split clean in two from the middle;
astonished, wonderstruck,
my mind
found infinite treasure.
That subtle-bodied beam,
amid heaps of kohl-like blackness,
went on burning, bright it remained;
on my lips the same smile laughed and played.
Yet like that smile,
like the sport of ripples,
like a flow of lightning—
just as she came, so she departed.
In a single instant,
into my desert-land
she came, poured a stream of nectar, gave me amrit to drink,
and then, even as I watched, she vanished away.
Some divine goddess, bearing a lamp of compassion, was passing by,
showering the road with golden rays.
From her one such ray had fallen here;
but how could she remain—
my house was empty,
a sample of the unfathomable forest.
Alas, with what face could I have stopped her here?
By what means could I have bound her to the sorrows of becoming?
She came—is that not enough?
That single instant is equal to a whole birth of mine;
upon the swing of my mind’s oscillations
she will rock for eternity;
like good fortune, she will never let me forget.
Unbidden—who knows from what door,
by what means—
into the chamber of my house,
through a fortress of hard darkness, with hostile, rugged walls—
luminous, full of radiance,
all at once a tender ray entered.

If you are silent, that ray—the tender ray—arrives. Silence means: neither question nor answer. Nothing to ask, nothing to know. Just sitting. Simply being. No ripple of thought, of reflection, of ideation. Waveless. Seedless. Thought-free. In that very moment—

all at once a tender ray entered.
The darkness split clean in two from the middle;
astonished, wonderstruck,
my mind
found infinite treasure.

In the beginning the ray will come and go. Naturally. But slowly, slowly, the ray will befriend you, purify you, make you a vessel; it will linger longer, and longer still. Gradually, you and the ray will no longer be two—you will become one. You and the light will no longer be two—you will become one. That oneness is the answer. In becoming one with light is the answer. In becoming one with the Divine is the answer.

Bhakti means only this much: that God is! Then what remains? No austerity remains, no ascetic exertion remains! God is! Only celebration remains—not fasting, celebration. Austerities are for one who is searching for God, who has no trust, in whom reverence has not yet sprouted. He takes vows, fasts, does japa and tapas, sacrifices and offerings, rites and rituals. A bhakt means one to whom the presence of the Divine is becoming evident. This natural trust itself is devotion. Then what is left for the devotee? What should the devotee do? Tend a sacred fire? What should the devotee do? Stand on his head? What should the devotee do? Lash the body? What should the devotee do? God is! The very moment this recognition descends, dance flowers of itself. The devotee does not have to force himself to dance. He finds himself dancing, singing, celebrating.

If spring arrives, what are the trees to do? If they do not turn green, what are they to do? If flowers do not bloom, what are they to do? If silver and gold do not shower upon the trees, what then? When spring comes, what will you do? The devotee is one for whom spring has come.

Bhakti is not a discipline. Bhakti is adoration. Bhakti is not an effort to attain; it is gratitude for the grace already received. Therefore I say to you: dance, sing, celebrate—the spring has come. Those whose spring has not come, to whom the sense of the Divine’s being has not arisen, let them do japa and tapas, vows and observances—whatever they need to do, let them do. But for those in whom this natural mood is dawning that the Divine is—and it ought to dawn! Do you not see the trees? The tree is green; each ray is fresh! Do you not see the beauty of the stars in the sky? This unbroken, day-and-night great festival of the Vast—does it not strike your eyes? This raas that has been staged—surely somewhere Krishna’s flute is playing! If this recognition begins in you, even faintly, a soft glimmer, the moment will come to tie ankle-bells to your feet. Spring has arrived!

Slowly, slowly descend from the horizon, O spring-night!
With star-braided, newly bound tresses,
with the moon as a fresh flower in your hair,
rings of rays, veiled in silver-cloud,
strew charming pearls with the glance of your eyes!
Come, tingling, O spring-night!

With the soft murmur of anklets,
the tiny chimes of bee-hummed lotuses,
fill each step with languid ripples,
let a stream of liquid silver flow, adorned with a gentle smile, O beloved!
Come, laughing, O spring-night!

With the gooseflesh of thrilled dreams,
a handful of memories in your palm,
the moving scarf of the Malaya breeze, O bee!
Encircle the world, dusky as gathering shadow—come as the Beloved’s tryst!
Come, shyly, O spring-night!

The river’s heart quivers and quivers,
flowers open wide, brimming with nectar,
moments surge, restless, again and again—
hearing the Beloved’s footfall, this earth is thrilled!
Come, shivering, O spring-night!

Narendra, when the footfalls of the Lord become audible to you, then what to do?

Hearing the Beloved’s footfall, this earth is thrilled!
This whole earth will start dancing. It is already dancing. Except for you, everything is dancing. Except for those who are crammed with mind, the whole of existence is dancing.

Hearing the Beloved’s footfall, this earth is thrilled!
Come, shivering, O spring-night!

Call to the spring, invoke the spring, recognize the spring! Bhakti is a festival of bliss. It is the ceremony of attainment. Bhakti is not a striving to acquire; it is an offering of songs of gratitude at the feet of the One who has been found!

Enough for today.