Diya Tale Andhera #6

The ego is life’s fundamental problem, and love is the fundamental solution. This parable contains both: the human problem and the resolution for the human being.

First, understand the ego. When a child is born, there is no ego. There is no sense of “I”; there is the sense of being, of “am-ness.” Not “I am,” only “am.” No one is born carrying an “I.” Yet the “I” is a necessity of life—without it the child cannot grow.

It is a necessity the way a seed needs a hard shell around it. The shell is not the seed; the seed is hidden within. But a shell is needed to protect it; otherwise, before it finds the right soil, the seed will be destroyed. A tough coat protects it. The protector can become the devourer too; what protects can someday turn into a barrier. When we sow the seed, if the shell refuses to break—“I have protected you so long, now you abandon me?”—then the very shell that saved life becomes the murderer of life. The sprout will not be born; it can be born only when the shell breaks.

So understand this paradox well. The shell protects; the shell can kill. The shell protects until the sprout finds the right soil. The moment the soil is found, the shell must crack—its work is complete.

Ego is indispensable for a human being. If a child has no sense that “I am,” how will he stay away from fire? When it rains outside, how will he come in? He won’t even know he is getting wet. “Am-ness” cannot distinguish between rain and oneself. “Am-ness” cannot distinguish between fire and oneself. “Am-ness” has no boundary; it is Brahman-nature—formless and boundless. The shell creates boundaries. The child needs to know, “I am getting wet; I should run, hide inside.” He needs to know, “My hand is getting burned; I should pull it back or I’ll die.”

Society gives every child an ego. We teach, “You are. You are separate.” We teach, “Stand on your own feet.” We teach, “Don’t depend.” The day a child stands on his own feet he becomes young, mature—in other words, the day he forges his ego through education, conditioning, competition in examinations, winning, success. We fill his ego so that it may protect him—until the day he finds the soil of the divine, love happens, the shell breaks, and the child becomes one with the vast once again.

The danger begins when this shell becomes so strong—and we mistake the shell for our very soul. We take the armor to be our life-breath; then we won’t let it break. We start protecting that which once protected us—that is where the error begins. As long as the ego protects you, fine. The moment you begin protecting the ego, you have erred. Now the ego is the valuable thing and you have become the shell. The essential has become secondary, and the secondary has become essential. That is where the mistake begins, and then life starts having accidents.

Because if the “I,” the ego, becomes so strong that you cannot drop it, you won’t succeed in love. Leave aside divine love for the moment—you won’t succeed even in ordinary human love. Because there too, even if for a moment, you have to let go of the “I.” You won’t be able to love a woman, or a man, or even a friend. Love opens its door only where your “I” is absent. The moment you say “I am,” the door of love closes. Love means you are ready to meet the other, to melt into the other, to invite the other to dissolve into you. One must remove the boundary, while the “I” creates boundaries.

This is why very few people on Earth succeed in love. They keep saying it though! The husband tells the wife, “I love you”; the wife tells the husband—and they repeat it thousands of times. But that repetition itself is proof that love is not there; otherwise why repeat? We repeat only those things of which we are unsure. And we try to prove only those things which, deep down, we know are not true.

So the husband brings jewelry, diamonds, gifts—but all that is rubbish. Because the real diamond he cannot offer—the real diamond is love. In place of that real diamond, however many diamonds and Koh-i-Noors he brings, it won’t fulfill. The wife may press feet, cook deliciously, serve in many ways—but if the heart is not given, if she is not surrendered, if she does not disappear like a drop into the ocean—until the husband becomes divine for her and she dissolves into him—until then, nothing will work. Until then both will feel empty. And remember: empty vessels make much noise; gather empty vessels together and there is great clamor; a full vessel is silent. The empty vessel resounds. The half-full makes the greatest fuss.

The quarrel in your life—the constant quarrel—and nowhere is there more quarrel than between lovers. That quarrel is the news that the vessels are empty. You have tried a thousand devices, all in vain—because there is one thing you are afraid of: lest you lose the “I”! That is why people have closed the doors of love; people marry, they do not love.

Even marriage is a substitute—a compensatory device. They match horoscopes, not hearts. Parents decide, not you; family, society, wealth, prestige are all counted, but whether love will sprout, there is no accounting for that. We keep love out of sight, because it is dangerous. Who knows whether love can happen! It doesn’t in ninety-nine out of a hundred lives, so marriage is “proper.”

Marriage is insipid compared to love. It has fewer dangers, for it is fake. With the fake, risk is small; the real asks you to stake your life. If you cannot stake, the real will break; the fake will go on. The clever and cunning of the world discovered marriage. Marriage is a device that you need not lose your ego; it is an institution.

Love? Love is an event. Marriage is arranged by society; love is arranged by the divine. Love is not in your hands. You cannot plan love; if it happens it happens, if it doesn’t it doesn’t. At most you can do one thing: do not obstruct. Love is like the sun at your door. You can’t do anything to bring the sun inside; you can only keep the door open, and the sun will enter. But you cannot drag it in, push it, tie it in a bundle and bring it in. If the door is open, the breeze will flow in, but you cannot shove it into the house.

At most you can do this for love: do not let the ego stand in the way. Then a gust will come and carry you away. But we are afraid of that. Because we do not have the courage to drop the ego even for a moment—we cling to it so hard we have forgotten there is any separateness from it—and we even feed the ego with things in which we have no hand at all.

Have you ever “done” love? Love happens; it is not done. Have you ever “done” anger? Anger happens; it is not done. What truly important thing in life have you ever done?

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin had fallen on very hard times. He couldn’t find a job and had wandered office to office. One day a telegram came from his village: his wife had given birth to six children at once. Anyone else would have beat his chest and cried—already in trouble, and six more! But Nasruddin twirled his moustache, took the telegram straight to the placement office. He used to be timid, but that day he ignored the guard, walked in and said to the officer, “I need a big-salary job.” The officer looked at his state—tattered clothes—maybe he’s lost his mind; hardship does that. He asked, “What can you do? Can you drive a car?” Nasruddin said, “No.” “Can you do watchman’s duty?” “No.” “Can you sell things, be a salesman?” “No.” Exasperated, the officer asked, “Then what can you do?” Nasruddin pulled the telegram from his pocket and said, “Read it! I can produce six children at once.”

Is it in your hands to produce six at once? Is that your doing? But even for what is not your doing, ego becomes the doer. You even say, “I breathe”—what bigger falsehood?

A man turned a hundred. Reporters came and asked, “Any message for those who wish to live long?” The man said, “Just keep breathing.”

Is breathing in your control? When it leaves, how will you take it? Breath went out and did not return—what will you do? Breath is happening; you are not taking it. At most you can be a witness to it.

Whoever inquires rightly into life finds there is no doer anywhere—only witnessing. The doer fills the ego; witnessing melts it. But you do not witness—you keep your eyes shut, playing the doer. You think you are running everything. Without you the world will stop—just as with you the world seems to be stopped! You are like that lizard on the ceiling that refused to move. A friend said, “Come out! The sky is beautiful.” She said, “Impossible! If I move, the roof will fall. I alone am holding it up.”

The ego is blind in one respect—and that blindness is its life: your life is a spontaneous happening; it is not doership. What have you done? What did you do to be born? What are you doing to keep alive? To keep breath moving? Everything is happening. And whatever you have “done” is utterly useless; whatever is meaningful is happening on its own. Do you digest your food? Do you make blood? You sleep, and digestion goes on and blood is made. You can be unconscious, and the body’s inner functions continue. You don’t even know of them. And yet you become the doer of everything. At the primary stage this is necessary—that we tell the child, “You are the doer.”

Half of life must be spent building the ego, and the other half dissolving it—only then is a whole person born. Whoever stops after building the ego lives only half; his life sees only the new moon—dark fortnight—no full moon ever rises. Half dark—the life lived with ego; half bright—the life after ego is dropped.

Because of ego, one fears love, fears friendship; wherever surrender is required, fear arises. That is why you cannot reach a true master. Because that too is an event of love—you must drop ego there too, you must bow, get down from your throne, take off the crowns you wear. There you will enter poor, a nobody.

No, you won’t reach a true master; you don’t even reach temple, mosque, or gurdwara. You certainly go and bow, but your bowing is mere acting. One who bows even once is filled forever. You have bowed so many times and returned with nothing—you return as empty as before; you do not bow. You feel as if you bow—only the body bends. Look closely: the ego stands erect, perhaps even more erect. The “religious” man becomes even more egoistic—with a new stiffness: I go to the temple; I practice religion.

Muhammad once took a relative’s boy to the mosque. It was hot, people slept late, many slept in the streets. After they returned from morning prayer, the boy—who was going for the first time—said, “Hazrat, what will happen to these sinners? Those still asleep, who didn’t offer morning prayer?” Muhammad stopped. He said nothing to the boy, lifted his face to the sky and said, “O God! I will have to offer my prayer again. In his company my prayer has been spoiled.” He told the boy, “You go home. I must return to the mosque. And please, from tomorrow do not come with me. Until yesterday you too used to sleep—that was good; at least you did not think you were virtuous and others sinners. Now a new ego has arisen in you, and I have been the cause; I must go ask forgiveness from God for bringing you along.”

The one you call religious becomes even more stiff with pride.

In a church, a famous preacher stood to speak on truth. Before starting he said—the church was packed—“Before I begin, tell me: those among you who have read the thirty-sixth chapter of Matthew, please raise your hands.” All raised their hands except one man. The preacher slapped his forehead and said, “Good! Now I can begin. You are exactly the people who need to hear something about truth.”

There is no such thing as the thirty-sixth chapter of Matthew. Like asking, “Have you read the twentieth chapter of the Gita?” and everyone raises hands, while the Gita has only eighteen chapters. Why did they raise hands? The religious ego—how can it be that I haven’t read it? And when others raise hands, am I to be left behind?

The preacher came down and said, “I am astonished by one man who did not raise his hand.” He went to him: “Thank you! At least one man here did not lie.” The man said, “Forgive me, I’m a bit hard of hearing. What did you ask? The thirty-sixth chapter? I read it every day—only I didn’t hear clearly.”

The “religious” man does worship, fasting, prayer—and even that fills the ego; the stiffness grows deeper. He sees the whole world as sinners. Look at the eyes of a temple-goer—they send you to hell. If he has fasted for a day, the rest of the world is sinful. If he reads the Gita every morning, or counts Rama’s name on beads, or writes “Rama-Rama” on paper, he thinks heaven is assured. What about the poor others?

Where ego is strengthened, there is no touch of religion. Religion begins where the “I” dissolves. If your fasting dissolves you, it is meaningful; if it inflates you, it is not only meaningless but dangerous. If going to the temple brings humility, if you realize, “I am such a sinner,” it is meaningful; if you think, “The whole world is sinful,” it is not only useless, but harmful.

As you come closer to religion, your ego melts and thins—like a slab of ice nearing the sun. If, instead, it becomes denser, harder, more rocklike, know that you are going somewhere else, not toward the divine. When the morning sun rises, ice begins to melt; with the sunrise of the divine in your life, ego begins to melt. If this is not happening, understand you are on the wrong journey. You may be going on pilgrimage, but the journey is to hell.

Pilgrimage has nothing to do with outside places; it is the name of inner humility. Because of ego, you cannot love, cannot surrender, cannot pray, cannot worship—and there is no other way to approach the divine.

The so-called religious man thinks he doesn’t love because he keeps away from attachment. But love is not attachment. Attachment is the shadow of ego; love is the dissolution of ego. Moh (attachment) and love are opposites. Attachment you can have with ego; love you cannot. But the so-called religious man equates attachment with love; then it’s convenient—he avoids love declaring he is avoiding attachment. He is only avoiding the path to the divine; his ego will grow stronger, his stiffness increase.

Have you seen the stiffness of so-called saints? Even the ordinary worldly man is not so stiff. And their stiffness is more pitiable—because the rope is already burnt, and still the twists remain. In those whose rope isn’t burnt yet, stiffness is understandable; but those who say, “We have renounced the world,” and the stiffness remains—this is beyond comprehension.

But keep one thing in mind: the ego is necessary in the first stage of life. To protect yourself in the world you need armor; all around is struggle, life is in danger every moment, and without the sense of “I,” without the sense that “I am separate,” how will you protect yourself? This sense is essential.

Yet a moment comes when getting free of this sense becomes just as essential—and there lies life’s greatest knot. Like a man climbing a ladder: only then can he reach above. But if he clings to the ladder, he won’t reach above; he will remain on it. You must climb the ladder and also leave it—only then do you reach the top. You must hold and let go—only then is ascent possible. You grasp the ladder of ego and don’t let go.

You are travelers who, once boarded the train, never get off. From this station you must board; at some station you must alight. There are two kinds of people in the world. One says, “If I have to get off the ladder, why climb at all?” There is logic in it—madmen too have good logic. The other says, “Now that I’ve climbed, why get off? Otherwise why climb?” The logic is the same—two sides of one coin. One says, “We won’t climb, because we’ll have to descend.” The other says, “Now that we climbed, we won’t descend.”

Both will be deprived. The skillful one knows how to climb and how to descend. One must enter the world, and then also come out; entangle, and also disentangle. Go into darkness so that experience of darkness ripens your eyes; then come to light.

Life grows through experiencing opposites; life is a dialectics. This word is precious. Dialectics means: through duality, through tension of opposites. Your left foot moves forward, the right stands. Then the left stands and the right moves. One pauses, one advances. Through this tension you travel. There is birth and there is death; between these two poles your life develops. There is darkness and there is light; worldliness and liberation.

Between these two banks flows the river of your life. No river can flow with one bank. Life cannot flow with one bank; it needs two. But you insist on flowing with one bank. If you flow with one bank, you become a stagnant pool; a pool has only one bank. But a pool only rots. There is no motion, no journey, no longing for the ocean. It goes nowhere, it stands in place and stinks.

Life’s growth is dynamic, dialectical. You must learn the ego, and then forget it. Ego is necessary to enter the world; forgetting it is necessary to rise above the world. And the world is important—otherwise why would the divine send you here? You would even advise God: why send us if we must return? The saints think themselves wiser than the divine—“Don’t send at all if you have to take back.” But we send our children to school, and one day they return. The foolish child would be the one who gets stuck in school and never returns—who says, “I won’t leave, why did you send me? The school is so important, I’ll make it my home.”

The world is a school. Without experience, no learning happens. By wandering astray, one matures. Even by doing wrong, one learns the art of the right. By trial and error, the goal comes near. Wander and wander, and the path is found.

And however much you wander—only keep one thing in mind: live that wandering with awareness, with understanding; squeeze it, extract its essence.

There was a Sufi mystic, Junayd. One night he lost his way in a village; inns were closed. In the dark he met a man. “I am a fakir,” he said. “I don’t know where to stay; the place I had in mind I cannot find—some confusion. Will you give me shelter?” The man said, “Look, I am a thief, and I am on my way to work. Because you are a fakir, I should speak plainly. You can stay at my house, but it is the house of a thief.”

The fakir was a bit afraid. That is the misfortune of life: the thieves are bold and the saints timid. The thief was not afraid to invite the fakir; the fakir was afraid to go to the thief’s house. But then a thought came—Junayd was very intelligent: I am afraid, he is not. He is not worried that I might make him a saint; then why am I worried that he will make me a thief? Surely a thief is hiding somewhere within me—that is the cause of fear. He said, “I will come. What difference does it make? All houses are alike, and you have invited me with love.” He stayed at the thief’s house—for a month.

Later Junayd used to say: that thief proved to be my greatest guru. Every night he went out and returned toward dawn. I would open the door and ask, “Any success?” He would say, “Not tonight—but tomorrow for sure.” I never saw him despairing; he was always full of hope. I never found him tired. Each night he would set out with the same joy, and return empty-handed in the morning. I would ask, he would say, “Don’t worry—tomorrow!”

Junayd said: when I began searching for the divine, my state became like that thief’s. I searched nightly and returned with empty hands—awake through the night, praying, remembering the name—no taste, no experience. Many times I thought, “Enough—this is nonsense, this God and this search; go back to the world.” Then I would remember the thief, see him at the door, full of hope, saying, “If not today—tomorrow.” On the strength of the thief’s voice, “Not today—tomorrow,” I kept trying. And the day I found the divine, my first gratitude was for that thief—he was my guru.

If you know how to learn, you will learn even from a thief. If you do not know how to learn, you will return empty-handed even from God. It depends on your art of learning. Without entering the opposite, no one learns. This world is a school. Everything wrong seems to be happening—don’t be frightened; understand the wrong. As wrong becomes clear to you, the inner needle returns to its place. As the false is seen clearly, you become steady in the true. The day you recognize the ego completely, suddenly you will find an inner lamp has been lit—that is dialectics.

By recognizing darkness, light dawns; by knowing the false as false, the experience of truth begins. One who has seen the night fully—the morning has come near. One who has fully experienced the world, tasted it to the full—the gates of liberation open for him. Without the world’s experience, the doors of liberation will not open. And if you enter prematurely, you will return to the world—for you will find there is nothing there for you. If your desires for the world are not exhausted, not fulfilled, if you have not lived them out rightly, you will go astray again.

Wandering has its use; you must pass through it. If the goal is given free, you will lose it again—the price must be paid. Ego is the price; necessary for the world, and then, for the divine, it becomes a barrier.

Know this as a sutra: whatever supports you in the world, that very thing becomes a hindrance in the divine. Whatever is useful here becomes a barrier there. Because the direction reverses. If here you travel east in the world, there you must travel west. If here you go downward, there you must go upward. If here you move toward others, there you must return to yourself. If here thought supports you, there thoughtlessness will support you. Here the more restless you are, the more you may succeed—until you get an ulcer and a heart attack, you won’t be called successful here; here restlessness is the price of success. There, until you become utterly quiet—so quiet that even your being is not felt—you will not be admitted. What is a path here is a diversion there; the ladder here is the obstacle there.

The world and the divine are opposite dimensions. If you understand this rightly, the journey becomes very simple. Ego is very necessary here; here the humble will lose. Jesus said, “The meek shall be the masters in my Father’s kingdom.” Here the meek man will remain at the back of the queue; all will push him aside; he will never reach first. Here the struggle is fierce, competition intense; here one needs the aggressive.

Here the scripture is by Machiavelli, not Mahavira, not Buddha, not Jesus. Here you must learn the art of Chanakya. Machiavelli and Chanakya say: before anyone attacks you, attack him—that is the way of self-defense. Don’t give the other a chance to strike; if he strikes first, you are half-defeated. Pounce before anyone pounces on you—that is the road to victory. And Machiavelli says: don’t trust even your friend, let alone your enemy. Don’t consider anyone a friend; show everyone friendliness, but consider none your friend.

George Bernard Shaw had a new play opening. On the inaugural night he wrote to Winston Churchill—Shaw was master of wit: “An invitation for you—please come. And if you have any friend, bring him too…!” If you have any friend! Because a politician like Churchill could have no real friend. For a politician there are two types of people: declared enemies and undeclared enemies—potential enemies and enemies. Friends do not exist. Churchill was worried, couldn’t sleep—what to reply? He replied brilliantly: “I cannot come tonight; I shall come tomorrow night, if there is a second performance.” Just as Shaw had written, “If you have any friend…!”

Machiavelli says there are no friends; don’t say to a friend what you wouldn’t say to an enemy—because the friend can become an enemy tomorrow. And don’t say about an enemy what may trap you tomorrow—because he can become a friend.

In this constant conflict, everything keeps changing—who is yours, who is not, is hard to decide. Only you are yours; nothing else is certain. Feed your ego as much as possible and make it as aggressive and violent as you can—that’s how success is achieved here. Those you see successful here are egoistic people. The humble cannot succeed here; if you find a humble person successful, it is a miracle—nearly impossible. How can the humble succeed here? But in the divine the humble succeed; there is no place for the egoist. Jesus said, “Those who are first here shall be last there.”

Jesus loved a small story. He said: A man named Lazarus died—a poor beggar. On the same day the richest man of the town also died. The rich man’s house often held banquets; even emperors came. Lazarus sat outside begging, eating scraps thrown out. The rich man was astonished to find himself in hell while Lazarus went to heaven. He lifted his eyes and saw Lazarus sitting beside God; he himself was in hell, fires all around, parched with thirst—no water; lips burning, chest bursting, throat aflame. He said to God, “Send that Lazarus to bring me a little water. And what is that beggar doing there? I know him well.”

God said, “Here, those who were first there become last, and those who were last become first. Lazarus has begged enough; now his time has come. You enjoyed banquets enough; now your burning time has come. Everyone has his days and nights. Lazarus cannot come down there. He could have come to you once—you remember he lay hungry outside, and you never went to him. Remember that day.”

Jesus continually says, the rich will not enter there—easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter heaven. And here, the rich enter everywhere; wealth is the passport in the world. In the world, wealth; in the divine, poverty.

Two men graduated from a theological seminary together—both Catholics; both became priests. By chance, one was very egoistic—he became the head of a great church in New York; the other was very humble—no one considered him; he took a church in the poorest New York slum among the destitute. Years later they met. The rich parish priest had become wealthy; all comforts. The poor priest had become like the poor, more and more humble. The rich one said, “It pains me to see you. Seems your pay is not good, or too little. You still wear the same clothes from seminary days. So little pay you cannot even buy clothes?” The poor priest said, “You know, your work is very hard and mine is very easy: you save rich souls, I save the poor. My work is simple—because Jesus said, a camel may pass through a needle’s eye, but a rich man will not enter the kingdom of heaven. You are trying to get them in—you should be paid more! I help the poor enter—little needs to be done; I just point to the door and they go in. The salary fits the work.”

Whatever is valuable here is valueless there. Pay attention to what is valueless here, for that becomes valuable there. Ego is the royal road here; there it is the diversion, the new moon night.

Now, let us try to understand this story. Every word is precious.

Rumi says in a song…

Jalaluddin Rumi was a Sufi mystic—and very few in the world have been of his caliber. The dervish meditation we practice here was devised by Rumi some twelve hundred years ago. He was unique; he discovered many unique pathways to the divine, many unique methods. The dervish dance is his gift.

And through the dervish dance more people have entered the divine than through any other single method—because that dance has a special quality: when the body whirls and keeps whirling, a moment comes when the body becomes like a potter’s wheel. But no wheel can turn without a pin; a wheel always turns around a fixed axle. And here lies the dialectics: the wheel moves, the axle stands still. If both the wheel and axle are still, how will you tell which is the pin and which is the wheel? Both will look alike—how will you differentiate?

So Rumi devised a device: whirl the body like a wheel; whirl it so much that whatever belongs to the body begins to whirl. Then suddenly you become aware of that which, like the fixed pin, does not move—your soul. It never moves; it has no motion. It is eternally still—kutastha. But only when the body whirls will you know who inside you is always unmoving.

Thus the Sufi dervishes whirl for hours—six hours, whole nights. Whirling and whirling… suddenly there is the realization of that which does not whirl. And for that realization, the opposite must be known. Like drawing a white line on a blackboard—it stands out; draw it on a white wall, and it won’t be seen.

Your soul is not visible to you because the body too seems still, and the soul too is still—the two are mixed up. To separate them, Rumi found a great alchemy: give the body such motion that it becomes a wheel. In the presence of that opposite, the experience of your inner stillness arises; by contrast, you immediately see it. That is who you are—the one who never moves.

The world is a wheel, and the body is a part of it. Perhaps you have not noticed: everything in the world is turning—moon, sun, Earth, stars; scientists now say electrons and neutrons—all are spinning. Nothing in the world is still, only the divine is still. But how will you know the still? There is only one way: let the worldly part within you whirl, and the divine part within you—the fixed pin—will be revealed.

This is the song of Jalaluddin Rumi. He is not a poet; Rumi is a rishi. Understand the difference between a poet and a rishi.

The poet writes poetry; his insight is into beauty; his urge is to create a beautiful artifact. A rishi may write poems, paint, dance—but his insight is into truth, not beauty. He is not concerned with beauty; he is concerned with truth—what can be more beautiful than truth? If you see beauty without truth, it will be superficial; inside, all ugliness will be hidden.

A poet is beautiful in his poetry. If you go looking for him, you will find him as ordinary as others, perhaps worse. So do not make the mistake: if you like a poet’s poetry, do not go looking for the poet; you’ll find him in some hotel smoking, swearing—or, if modern, in a coffee house—but with nothing that connects to his poetry. You’ll wonder how this man wrote such beautiful verse. Beauty can be written by imagination.

Rumi is a rishi. Rishi means he said only what he saw; he stated truth as he found it. But he sang it; he did not just state it—he wove it into song. All the ancient scriptures are set to song; there is a reason. Truth has its own rhythm, its own music and dance; to express it, the Upanishads, the Gita, the Bible—are all rhythmic. Even if Buddha did not speak in verse, there is poetry in his words; they are not mere prose. If one listens in silence, the same rasa arises as from a song; his whole life is poetry. A poet is a poet only occasionally; a rishi is a poet twenty-four hours. In his rising, sitting, walking, speaking, silence—everything is poetry. Poetry means: having found truth, everything in his life became beautiful.

This song of Rumi is among the most famous. In it he says:

At the beloved’s door someone knocked. A voice from within asked, “Who is there?”
The one at the door said, “It is I.”
The reply came, “This house cannot hold two—I and you.” And the closed door remained closed.
The lover then went into the forest. There he did tapas, fasted, prayed. After many moons he returned and knocked on the same door again.
Again the same question: “Who is outside?”
But this time the door opened, because the answer was different. He said, “It is you.”

Now understand every single word. All life, every person, is knocking at the door of love. Your deepest longing is to give love and to receive love. If you succeed, your life will be filled with grace; if you fail, your life will be nothing but melancholy—a desert. The whole search of life is to find and to share this love. That is why Jesus said, “I have only one definition of God—and that is love.” Whoever has known love has known God. You may knock at many doors, but in truth you are knocking at a single door, and that door is love. Where is that moment in which you can drown, dissolve, be lost, where nothing of you remains? That is the search for love—the search to disappear.

Because your very being is a burden; your mere being is a responsibility; and in your being there is tension, anxiety, anguish. Existentialist philosophers say that man’s being is anxiety, a constant worry. This anxiety disappears at certain moments, when you come close to love; then you become carefree.

The search is for love. You can call it the search for bliss as well, because bliss is the shadow of love. Whenever love happens in life, you become blissful. Even if love happens with a flower, bliss arises; if your love gets attached to money, bliss arises; even if it clings to trash, bliss arises. Some people collect postage stamps and feel blissful. Someone plants trees, gardens, and feels blissful—wherever love attaches itself!

But the things to which you attach your love are so small; they are quickly exhausted. You get bored. Until love is attached to the Vast, you will keep changing the object of your love, you will have to knock at ever-new doors. You want a love that never runs dry. A wife’s love runs out, a husband’s love runs out, a friend’s love runs out. Then one day you find yourself empty again, and the search for another love starts—only God’s love never runs out.

Everyone is knocking at love’s door. The one who knocks at a prostitute’s house is also knocking at the door of love; the one who knocks at a temple is also knocking at the door of love. You may have chosen the wrong door, but your longing is the same. It has to be so, because we are all born of the same source of life. We all have the same search.

A lover knocked at the beloved’s door. From within came the voice, “Who is it?”

And love always asks, “Who?” because love can be given only to the worthy, not the unworthy; to receive love, one must be qualified. This is something to be understood.

You want love, but you never make yourself worthy of love; hence your life ends up dry and loveless. You do want love, you want nectar to rain down, but your vessel is not capable of holding nectar. You want the Infinite, but there isn’t even space for the small in your heart. You call God, but you have not prepared the house. Your home is not ready even for an ordinary guest. If you have invited the Divine, then the house must be made ready for that Great Guest. Before wanting what you want, prepare yourself for it. Otherwise you will go on wanting and weeping, and life will pass by parched, with nothing in your hands.

This is very difficult, because everyone goes on assuming, “I am already worthy.” People come to me and say, “Meditation doesn’t happen.” What they are really saying is, “Give me some other technique; this one isn’t working.” No one has ever come to me saying, “This method isn’t working—might there be some lack in my receptivity?”

If a method doesn’t work, you conclude the method is wrong; you can never be wrong! So you are ready to change the method, ready to change the scripture, ready to change the religion, ready to change the master—but not ready to change yourself. You never ask, “If nothing works, could it be that I am wrong?” No—you never even ask.

People come to me; they have wandered to hundreds of masters. They say, “From this ashram to that ashram, from this guru to that guru—nothing is happening.” But they never ask the fundamental question: “If so many masters are defeated by me, don’t I have some hand in defeating them? If all the scriptures are vanquished by me, if all religions fold their hands and say, ‘No, we can do nothing,’ then perhaps my worthiness…?”

But we never ask that; this is life’s greatest mistake. You go on asking, but you do not make yourself worthy to receive. And without worthiness nothing will be given; it cannot be given. You are asking for the sun while sitting with your doors and windows shut; you want to see the light but you will not open your eyes; you want to seek God while standing with your back toward him. Your worthiness is the first thing.

That question from within—“Who is it?”—is a question of worthiness. Are you ready? Who has come to the door? Has the one who has come, come prepared? And the answer revealed he was not prepared.

The one outside the door said, “It is I.”

This “I” itself is the obstacle to love—the one and only disqualification—this stiffness. When you are so full of “I,” you will exploit the other, use the other as a means; you cannot love. Has the “I” ever known love? Has the ego ever loved? Ego can demolish; it has no capacity to create. Ego is destructive, not creative. That is why the great creative moments of life happen only when ego is absent.

Someone asked Rabindranath, “You wrote so many songs—six thousand—how did you manage?” Rabindranath said, “Don’t say I wrote them. As long as I am there, the song never descends. Sometimes, when I am lost, then the song descends.”

In Rabindranath’s home there was this arrangement: whenever he shut his door, no one would knock—sometimes two days, sometimes three, sometimes four he would not come out of the room—hungry, thirsty! Mahavira fasted for truth; Rabindranath’s fasts were even more unique. After two or four days he would emerge—blissful, overflowing! Because the birth of some poems was happening, and he forgot himself so totally—who would think of food?

It so happened one day that Gurudayal Malik arrived at Rabindranath’s ashram. In the evening there would be a small sitting—Rabindranath and the ashramites gathered: some discussion, personal talk, friendly gossip. Rabindranath himself made the tea. It was the early Shantiniketan days. And he himself served tea to the few friends who were there. He prepared tea, served everyone.

Gurudayal writes: He lifted his own cup, and his eyes closed; the cup slipped from his hand. I was new; I didn’t know what to do! But the others quietly picked up their shoes in their hands and tiptoed out. I, too, followed them out. No one spoke. All left, but my mind wouldn’t go. What was happening? So I stood hidden behind a window and watched… It was as if Rabindranath had been transfigured. Tears streamed unceasingly from his eyes, his body began to tremble with some unknown vibration, every pore thrilled, and an aura came over his body, as if he had become a participant in some other realm. Then he began to hum, and a song began to be born.

The next day Gurudayal went and said, “Forgive me. I committed a theft: I stood there hidden. I should not have stood there, but I do not feel guilty; I witnessed something unique… You had utterly disappeared, and then the song descended.” Rabindranath said, “The song descends only then…”

Whatever is supreme in this world descends when you are not. And whatever is mean in this world comes from you. Ego demolishes; egolessness creates. Egolessness is a womb; in that womb truth, beauty, benediction—Satyam, Shivam, Sundaram—descend. In that egoless moment God descends.

So from within came the question, “Who is it?”

The one standing outside said, “It is I.”

The reply came, “This house cannot accommodate both me and you.”

It cannot hold two; there can be no duality here; the convenience of twoness does not exist here. The house is small; it is the house of love—only one can dwell here; two cannot be. This is the essence of Advaita. So long as you say “I,” union with God cannot happen.

Kabir has said that as long as I kept saying “I, I,” as long as I searched for him but was filled with myself, union did not happen. And when union happened, I was startled to see that Kabir had vanished—Kabir was no more. While Kabir was, there was no union; and when union happened and I looked back—where was Kabir?

“Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir himself got lost.”

Searching and searching, he himself was lost—then union happened. This is a wondrous event. As long as you are, union cannot happen. Man has never met God—and never will. Because when meeting happens, the “man” is already gone. You are the wall; only when you fall can union happen. You must dissolve for union to be. How will the drop meet the ocean? The moment it meets, it is no longer a drop.

That voice from within said: “This house cannot hold two.”

Another of Kabir’s sayings is significant. “Earlier I searched, and God was not found; now God has been found, and something wondrous is happening—‘Behind me the Lord follows, calling, Kabir! Kabir!’” And Kabir is no more—and yet behind, the Lord follows, calling “Kabir, Kabir!” Now what answer can I give? Earlier I shouted, “Lord!”—there was no reply. Now the Lord calls, “Kabir!”—but there is no one left to answer.

In that house, two cannot dwell; this house cannot hold both “I” and “Thou.” That is why in the house of worldly love, where “I” and “you” both live, there is nothing but quarrel; with God there can be no quarrel. But even in worldly love, wherever you keep “I” and “you” together in one house, there is nothing but conflict—lovers fighting like enemies.

Just now, in the West, a remarkable book has been written about the relationship of husband and wife. Its title is The Intimate Enemy. The wife—at most she is the nearest enemy; the husband too is the nearest enemy; the quarrel goes on.

If even from love arises conflict, then where will conflict end? With God such conflict cannot be—but you will carry this conflict even there if you carry your “I”; therefore those doors never open. The moment the “I” falls, those doors open—as if the “I” itself is what blocks that door, and when the “I” falls, the door swings open.

…And the closed door remained closed.

The lover then went to the forest. There he performed austerities, fasted, prayed; many moons came and went. Then he returned and knocked at those same doors again.

Again the question: “Who is outside?”

The lover returned after tapas—there is only one austerity: to erase oneself. There is no other tapas. Sleep on thorns—you will gain nothing; your “I” will stiffen more: “I sleep on thorns.” Stand in the sun on one leg—no difference; your “I” will fill more: “I stand on one leg.” Spend your whole life on your head—no difference; your “I” will grow prouder: “The whole world walks on its feet—only I stand on my head.” There is only one austerity—the austerity of dissolving the “I.” And if you do other austerities, leaving out this one, all of them will only inflate the “I.”

That man did great tapas. He must have effaced the “I.” The one use of going to the forest is that there you are alone. And where others are not present, it is easier to dissolve the “I.” Because it is due to the presence of others that the “I” is built up. The “I” is formed in society; therefore, moving away from society, it becomes easier to let it drop—purely a matter of convenience.

Thus all the awakened ones—Buddha, Mahavira, Jesus, Mohammed—moved away from society for some time. The sole meaning of that withdrawal is this: the “I” was formed in the midst of society; by going far from that society, half of the “I” falls away by itself. Without the presence of others, the “I” cannot be sustained; we all hold one another up. To maintain the “I,” the presence of “you” is needed.

That is why you care so much about what others think of you—good or bad. Whether they think well of you or ill of you, you worry deeply. Because what others think is your entire support. If the whole world considers you good, you feel good; if people start considering you bad, even you begin to suspect, “I must be bad; otherwise why would they think so?” Someone praises you and you swell; someone criticizes you and you deflate. A passerby looks at you attentively and your ego stiffens; he looks with indifference and it shrivels. The other’s presence is a support for the ego. That is why no one wants to be alone; in aloneness there is fear—of dying, of disappearing. In aloneness it does not seem possible to remain; this house will collapse, because all supports are gone.

Solitude is useful for a seeker, cooperative; it makes things simple. No one is present—no one to call you good, no one to call you bad. Gradually, you will no longer need to remember “I am.” The “you” reminds you of the “I.” The other provokes you, awakens in you the sense that you are. With the other’s presence, your “I” becomes alert.

So the lover went to the forest—he withdrew from society. There he practiced austerity. There is only one austerity: to try to forget oneself. Sit beneath a tree and endeavor to feel: I am not—there is wind, there are trees, breath moves, existence is—but I am not.

And if you make even a little effort you will be astonished, because the “I” is a fiction. It takes great effort to build it; to let it go requires no effort. The “I” is only a thought; to drop a thought is not difficult—if you wish to drop it, it can fall in a moment.

The “I” is like riding a bicycle: you must keep pedaling; stop pedaling even a little, and it topples. So too the “I” must be pedaled twenty‑four hours a day. If you stop pedaling for a while and simply sit under a tree, you will find that in a short time the bicycle wobbles—the “I” falls.

That is why you keep asking for support day and night. The husband returns home; if the wife does not pay attention to him, he is offended. Why? What is the need? He hopes, after a day’s work, that the wife will give him some support—“You are the breadwinner; you are the master of the house; you keep everything going.” And the wife is so absorbed in work it’s as if he hasn’t come at all. He wants her to fetch him in, wash his feet, bring his shoes.

Mulla Nasruddin told me, “When I got married, my wife would run and bring my slippers, and the dog barked loudly for me. Now things have completely changed: my wife barks, and the dog brings my slippers.” I said, “Nasruddin, why be sad? The services are exactly the same; what difference does it make? The shoes still arrive, and the barking continues. Who does which task—what difference does that make?”

But it does make a difference; the ego is hurt. The wife, too, spends the day waiting. She wants her husband to bring flowers, to buy some jewelry, if nothing else at least an ice cream—to bring something home. Attention! Let her feel she, too, exists; let someone support her ego.

We all look toward one another like beggars: “Support my ego a little.” Someone merely says, “What lovely clothes—where did you buy them?” and it gives great support. Someone says, “You look so happy today,” and there is support. Someone says, “You are such a good person!”—empty words!—but how they fill you! And what they fill is also empty, so it has no real value. Hence it is like a bubble. A little puff and it becomes big; a little puff and it bursts.

In solitude there is only one thing worth doing: I am not; there is existence. There is no wound, no boil called “I” there—and as the “I” drops, many things become possible. Fasting becomes possible; fasting does not mean hunger strike. Upavasa means “to dwell near,” gradually to come close to oneself.

He performed austerities, fasted, prayed.

Prayer is possible only when your “I” melts a little. How will you pray? Filled with “I,” all your prayers are false, mere decoration. That, too, you do to show others. Go to a temple, and if someone is praying—if no one is around, he prays slowly, faintly; if a few people stand near, he prays loudly, so that the four can see that he is praying. Are you praying to God or displaying yourself to people? There is more relish in showing yourself to people; whether God hears or not—let the people hear, let them know I am religious.

No—when the “I” melts, there is tapas, there is upavasa.

He prayed a great deal. Then, after many moons…

Many nights came and went; full moons came and went—years passed. And until he had a firm certainty—“Now I am not”—he did not return.

Then he knocked at those same doors again. Again the question, “Who is outside?”

But this time the answer had changed.

This time he said, “It is you.” And this time the doors opened.

Because love’s doors open only when you go as emptiness. When you go to God with an empty vessel, the Ocean descends. If you go filled with yourself, there is no way to fill you more.

Rain falls on mountains, on lakes, on hollows. The mountains remain as empty as before—the rainwater runs off; the hollows fill up and become lakes. The mountains already stand—there is no end to their stiffness; the lakes are empty. God rains on all. If the mountain of your “I” is present, you will remain empty; if the lake of “no‑I” is deep, you will be filled. Those who are empty will be filled; those who are full will remain empty—this is worthiness.

The only worthiness is to be utterly empty. The day you are perfectly empty, the Guest will come. Truly, on that day you will not even need to go and knock at his door; he will come and knock at yours.

“Behind me the Lord follows, calling, ‘Kabir! Kabir!’”

He will come calling you, searching for you. With ego you search for him—you will never find him. The moment you become egoless, he starts searching for you. This search is not one‑sided. It is not only you who seek God—God, too, seeks you. You will not be the only one to be blissful on meeting him—he, too, will be supremely delighted. The whole existence will rejoice the day you return home.

But if you call while filled with “I,” your call will never reach; the house is not empty. How can he come, even if he would? The door is shut. Even if he wants to enter, how can he enter? You stand with your back toward him. How can he find you, even if he searches? You have raised barriers on all sides. And you keep on praying. The prayers have no value—disappear. Your disappearing is the only prayer.

That is all for today.