Es Dhammo Sanantano #120

There is no reason for love. And the love for which a reason can be given is not love. Love has nothing to do with “why.” Love is not a business. In love there is no motive at all. Love is a causeless state of feeling—no conditions, no boundaries.
If the why is found, the very mystery of love is finished. A scripture of love can never be made—this is precisely why. There can be songs of love; but no scripture, no doctrine.

Love is not of the mind. Had it belonged to the mind, the why would have been answered. Love belongs to the heart; there the “why” never even enters.
“Why” is the mind’s question; love is the heart’s flowering. These two never meet. So when love happens, it simply happens—without reason, mysterious. Not just unknown—unknowable. Not that someday you will know it.

That is why Jesus said, “God is love.” On this earth, love is the one experience that gives a few indications about God. God is like this—causeless, without motive. God is like this—mysterious. Of such a nature that we shall never grasp him through and through. Love is the first glimpse of him.

Do not ask “why” at all. Though I know why it arises. The arising of “why” is natural. Man wants to find the cause of everything. From this very urge, science was born. Because man wants to ask, “Why does this happen?” When a cause is found, science takes shape; and where causes are not found, from there religion takes birth. This is the distinction between science and religion: find the cause—science will be constructed.

A science of love will never be constructed. And God will never be caught in a scientific laboratory. Whatever is ultimate in life—beauty, truth, love—lies beyond the reach of science. They are outside science’s domain. Whatever is truly important and majestic in life rises from some unknown realm. It arises from within you, but so deeply from your innermost center that your periphery cannot grasp it. Your capacity to think is on the periphery; your capacity to love is at your center.

The center can understand the periphery; the periphery cannot understand the center. The small cannot understand the vast; the vast can understand the small. A little child cannot understand the old; an old person can understand the child.

Love is something immense—far greater than the mind. Not only greater than the mind—greater than you. That is why you become helpless. When a gust of love comes, where do you remain? When the season of love arrives, where do you remain? When a ray of love descends, you disappear. It is greater even than you. Then how will you understand it? You are not even there when love descends. When love comes dancing within you, where are you? The “I” becomes no-I. The self becomes no-self. Only a void remains. In that very void the ray dances—of love, of prayer, of the divine.

No; you will not be able to understand it. When you return, love has already gone. The one who could understand arrives, and that which was to be understood has departed. And when that which is to be understood is present within you, the one who wants to understand is not there.

Kabir has said: “Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir was lost.” I went in search, says Kabir; I went to seek the divine. Searching and searching, Kabir himself was lost. And the moment Kabir was lost, in that very moment union with the divine happened.

This union is profoundly paradoxical. The seeker had to go—only then was the search fulfilled; fulfilled upon the seeker’s disappearance. So where is the meeting? First there was Kabir; now there is God. Where is the union? Kabir is no more. So long as Kabir was, God was not. Now God is, and Kabir is not. Such is the state of love.

Kabir has said: “The lane of love is extremely narrow; two cannot pass through.” You have always taken one meaning—that lover and beloved cannot both fit; they must become one. There is a deeper meaning: in love, the mind and the heart also cannot both fit. Only one can.

“Why” arises from the mind. It is the mind’s itch; it has no value. Its arising is natural. But slowly, slowly, rise above even nature—so that the supreme nature is found.

“You I ask—why do I love you?”
No, this cannot have an answer. Why are trees green? Why is there light in the moon and stars? Why do clouds wander in the sky? Why does the sun rise in the morning? Why do birds sing at dawn?

Ask a scientist—he will find some answer. But even that answer resolves nothing. Ask why trees are green: he will say, because there is chlorophyll in them. But nothing is solved. That is not an answer; only a postponement of the question. Then the question will arise: why is there chlorophyll in trees? Again you are stuck.

D. H. Lawrence gave the right answer. Walking in a garden with a small child—as children ask—the child asked, “Why are the trees green?” And D. H. Lawrence said, “They are green because they are green.” And the child was satisfied, and laughed, and the answer fitted the child.

Become as simple as a child, and you will understand what I am saying. Love simply is. As trees are green—without cause.

There is no cause in this cosmos. The search for causes is very petty. There is no cause at all. That is why this world has been called lila—play. It is a play; not a business.

You build a house—that has a cause: you will live in it. A small child builds a house of cards—what cause is there? You go to the market—there is a cause: to go to the shop, to do business, to earn money, to secure bread and shelter. And a child runs around the room—what cause is there?

A man goes out for a morning walk—he is going nowhere. There is no cause. He may turn back from anywhere. He may sit somewhere. If he does not go, nothing is lost.

This world is causeless. So much is happening here, but behind this happening there is no motive, no business. One who knows this becomes free. One who recognizes this—his fetters fall away. For then what bondage remains? What is there to worry about? Worry exists only so long as we are bent upon doing something. If this world is happening by itself, where is the worry?

Worry can catch you if you think: blood is flowing within my body—what if at night, while I sleep, it stops flowing? What will I do then? The heart is beating—and if I fall asleep, and it does not beat—what will I do? The breath is going on; what if it stops—what will I do? Then you will be in trouble; then anxiety will arise.

So long as breath is going on, it is going on. When it is not, it is not. There is no cause in its going; no cause in its not going. It is lila. It is play.

See life in this way, and you begin to move beyond anxieties. And the one who goes beyond anxiety—that one enters the temple.

“You will never be separate—why do I have this trust?”
This trust too is an intimate part of love. As fragrance is in the flower, trust is in love. In love, the lamp of reverence burns. In love there is a certain reliance. That reliance too has no cause. But in love it is found, just as fragrance is found in flowers; as water flows downward and fire is hot. The intrinsic quality of love is trust. It is its soul. In the lamp of love, the light of trust goes on shining.

The question is sweet; but do not seek an answer. Let the answer go; live love. And this trust that has arisen, this reverence that has awakened—surrender to it. Pour everything into it. Dive into it. Dissolve in it. Lose yourself in it. And you will gain all.

Losing is the secret of gaining. One who hoards misses. The miser remains poor. The one who spends, attains. The one who drowns, arrives. If you have the courage to drown in midstream, then the midstream itself becomes the shore. And only when the midstream becomes the shore is there any joy.

To know even this, you had to go to Buddha, didn’t you?—“Be a light unto yourself.” That much is the need for a master. The master is not going to become your crutch. Whoever becomes your crutch is your enemy, not your guru. Because if he becomes your crutch, he will cripple you forever. And if you begin to depend on the crutch, when will you discover your own legs? When will you discover your own gait? Your own energy?

The one who starts leading you by the hand will keep you blind. One who says, “My lamp is lit; why do you need to light yours? Just see by my light. Come along with me”—do not trust him. Because sooner or later the ways will part. No one knows when the roads will separate, when death will come and raise a wall between. Then you will be left in pitch darkness. Do not mistake the guru’s light for your own.

Such a mistake happens often.
There is a Sufi story: Two men were walking on the same path. One had a lantern in his hand; the other had none. For some hours they walked together. It was past midnight. The one without the lantern never even thought that his own hand was empty—why bother? The other has a lantern, the light is falling. As much light as falls for the one who holds the lantern, that much falls also for the one who does not. They go along chatting pleasantly. Then they come to a place where the one with the lantern says, “From here our paths part. Farewell.” Suddenly, dense darkness.

Today or tomorrow you will have to take leave of the guru—or the guru will take leave of you. The true master is the one who, before departing, makes you alert to light your own lamp. That is why Buddha said: Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. He said it his whole life, but people did not listen. Those who did listen lit their own lamps. Others remained tipsy with the thought: what is there to do—Buddha is here.

He said this to Ananda. Ananda too was among those simple ones who walked in Buddha’s light for forty years. Naturally, if light is available for forty years, people forget that they themselves have no light; that they are blind. If you live with someone awake for forty years, the forgetfulness is natural. People will start believing, “We too have arrived.” The light is ever-present; no mistakes happen; no wandering; no falling into pits.

And Ananda was the closest of all to Buddha—forty years like a shadow. Morning and evening, day and night. In those forty years he never left Buddha even for a single day. If Buddha went for alms, Ananda went with him. If Buddha slept, Ananda slept by him. If Buddha rose, Ananda rose. He was a complete shadow. He must have forgotten—one can forgive him. For forty years, only light, light—rising and sitting, waking and sleeping, light. He must have forgotten.

Then came the final day. The paths parted. Buddha said, “My last hour has come. Now I will depart. Bhikkhus! If anyone has anything to ask, ask now. Today I will draw my last breath.”

Those who had lit their own lamps sat quietly, their lamps burning, filled with supreme gratitude—that if the company of Buddha had not been given, perhaps it would never have occurred to them that within them a lamp can be lit. Even if they had read in the scriptures that there is such a possibility, they would not have lit it. Or even knowing it could be lit, they would not have known the method.

After all, if you have to make a lamp, there must be a method! You must know how to make the wick, how to fill the oil. The lamp must be such that the oil does not spill. Then the lamp must be tended, otherwise the wick can fall into the oil and the flame will go out. The whole care and craft must be known. Then you must find flint, and know the art of making fire.

So they were filled with grace. Those who had attained sat silent, deep in joy, deep in gratitude.

Ananda began to weep loudly. He said, “What are you saying! Don’t say it. What will happen to me?”

The moment of parting had come. That day he realized: for forty years I have remained blind. This light was borrowed; it belonged to someone else. And now the hour of farewell has come. Sooner or later it had to come.

Then Buddha said, “Ananda! How many times have I told you, appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. You do not listen. Now understand. For forty years I said it continuously; you did not listen, and that is why you have to weep. Look at those who listened: they have become lamps and sit quietly.”

Buddha’s going brings a certain poignancy: the privilege of having lived near such an unprecedented being—now the moment of separation. There is a certain sadness, but they are not wailing; because there is no fear that darkness will descend. They have lit their own lamps.

You ask: “Buddha has said, ‘Be a light unto yourself’; then in the search for truth is there no need for any support at all?”

This is a delicate question. Delicate, because in one sense support is needed and in another sense it is not. In this sense it is needed: by yourself you may never awaken; your sleep is very deep—someone must shake you.

But in this sense it is not needed: no one can awaken you unless you yourself want to awaken. And if you want to awaken, you can do so even without anyone shaking you—that possibility exists.

People have arrived without a guru. But do not make a dead dogma of it: that because someone reached without a guru, you too will reach without one.

People come to me and say, “We want some advice. If we don’t take a guru, can we still arrive?” I say, “You cannot even think through so small a matter on your own; for that too you have come to me! You have already made me your guru!”

What does “guru” mean? You went to ask somebody else—you could not find even this by yourself!

People ask me, “Who was your guru? We have heard you had none. If you attained without a guru, why can’t we?” I tell them, “I never went to anyone to ask even this—whether it can happen without a guru!”

When you cannot decide such a tiny thing for yourself, how will you succeed in deciding about the vast truth?

So in one sense a guru is needed; and in another, he is not. If your longing is intense, then no need. But why make a problem of need or no-need? Take as much as you can from anyone. Only remember: what is taken from another will carry you only for a while. Ultimately you must discover your own wealth. You may ride on someone’s shoulders for a short distance, but in the end you must build the strength of your own legs.

The path is straight and clear. If your thirst is strong, you will reach alone. The path is so direct that no one’s company is necessary. But if you do not find the courage to go alone, keep company for a while. Only, do not let companionship become a bondage. Do not say, “Without company I will not go.” Otherwise you will never arrive—because to truth you must ultimately go alone. The happening is in aloneness. In that aloneness even your guru will not be present with you.

A guru can help you become free of the world; but he cannot help you meet the Divine. He can help you drop the world. Once the world drops, then in utter solitude you will meet the Divine. That meeting does not happen in a crowd.

How straight, simple, and clear this path is—look!
Neither the shade of any branch, nor the support of any wall,
No hint of any eyes, no clamor of any face,
No spot where someone might sit and rest.
Far and wide there is none, none, no one—
Here and there you may find a few footprints,
They walk with you only a few steps,
And then they break off and fall, saying,
“Carry your loneliness yourself; walk, alone, solitary.
Whoever came along till here—there is no one, no one.”
How straight, simple, and clear this path is—look!

Walk a little while with someone’s steps so that you learn how to walk. It won’t bring the goal; it only brings the art of walking. Walk for a while in another’s footprints so your feet learn the practice of moving. That in itself does not bring the destination; the destination will come through your walking, not another’s.

How will you see through my eyes? Yes, for a little while you can look into my eyes. How will you experience through my heart? Yes, for a little while, in a moment of deep feeling, your heart can beat in rhythm with mine. In a happening of love, for a moment our hearts can be tuned as one. In that moment, for an instant, you will see light; for an instant the sky will open, all clouds will disperse. But it is only for a little while. Ultimately you must find the scale of your own heart’s music.

How straight, simple, and clear this path is—look!
Neither the shade of any branch, nor the support of any wall,
No hint of any eyes, no clamor of any face,
No spot where someone might sit and rest.
Far and wide there is none, none, no one—
Here and there you may find a few footprints,
They walk with you only a few steps,
And then they break off and fall, saying,
“Carry your loneliness yourself; walk, alone, solitary.
Whoever came along till here—there is no one, no one.”
How straight, simple, and clear this path is—look!

It is good that you can reach the Divine alone—otherwise you would have had to depend on someone. And from dependence, no freedom ever comes. Dependence is only a polite word for slavery. It is bondage—told in new style, with new words and colors, but the story is the same.

Therefore no true guru makes you a slave. And if someone makes you a slave, run from there; do not stay even for a moment—it is dangerous. Whoever says, “Without me nothing can happen for you; without me you can never reach; walk only behind me, otherwise you will miss”—avoid such a one. He himself has not attained. If he had, one thing would be clear to him: when the Divine happens, it happens in utter aloneness; no one is there—no other.

He has not met the Divine; he has invented a new way to exploit people, a new net to catch others by the neck. Such a person is not religious but political. He is not a guru, he is a leader. He wants to stand before a crowd and drink the juice of ego. Beware of him. Stay far away. Do not go near.

Whoever tells you, “Without me you will not find God,” is speaking a great untruth. Because the Divine is as much yours as his. Yes, it may be that you still stagger, while he staggers less—or his staggering is over—and he can show you the way of walking, the style. It may be that he knows how to swim and by watching him you can learn to swim. But do not take his shoulders as your support, otherwise the other shore will never come. Do not become dependent on his shoulders—otherwise that will be your ruin.

It is in this way that this country was ruined. False gurus made people slaves. The nation learned the habit of dependence. The thousand years of political slavery that came here—behind it there is no other reason. Neither Muslims, nor Mughals, nor Turks, nor Huns, nor the British are the true cause. Behind it is the net of your false gurus.

For centuries the false gurus taught you dependence. They taught it so deeply that when someone mounted your chest politically, you depended on him as well. You began to say “Yes, sir” to him. You bowed your head before him. You never tasted the flavor of freedom.

If someone asks me, I will say: behind your story of slavery stands the hand of your gurus. They did not teach you liberation, they did not teach freedom.

If only you had listened to gurus like Buddha, there would have been no reason for slavery in this land. If only you had learned individuality, privacy of being; if only you had learned: I have to be myself; I am not a copy of anyone; and I have to be my own lamp—then you would have stood firm in the outer world as well. This disgrace would not have happened—that a nation of forty crores becomes the slave of a handful! Anyone comes and the country becomes enslaved!

Surely a deep imprint of slavery was stamped on the soul of this land. Who stamped it? Who poured this poison into your blood? Who made your soul toxic? Who taught you methods for remaining in darkness? Your so‑called gurus. They were not gurus.

Gurus are people like Buddha, who say: Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself.

Only in aloneness will the final music resound. Only in aloneness will samadhi descend. Only in aloneness will the meeting happen.

There is a promise of a poem to me; it will meet me
When, in sinking pulses, pain begins to fall asleep,
With a sallow face the moon reaches the horizon,
Day still in the water, night near to the shore,
Neither darkness nor light, neither this night nor day—
When the body is finished and the soul begins to breathe,
There is a promise of a poem to me; it will meet me.

A song is about to happen within you. There is a promise of a song: “I will come; I will shower upon you.” But when? When all is finished.

There is a promise of a poem to me; it will meet me
When, in sinking pulses, pain begins to fall asleep…

When all the pains of your life fall away; when the habits of pain dissolve.

With a sallow face the moon reaches the horizon,
Day still in the water, night near to the shore,
Neither darkness nor light…

Where dualities disappear.

Neither darkness nor light, neither this night nor day—
That is why we use the word sandhya—twilight—for prayer. Why twilight? Because:

Neither darkness nor light, neither this night nor day—
In the middle—when all dualities drop, all extremes drop. Neither this side nor that. No leaning, no choosing, no alternatives. Neither life nor death. Neither spring nor fall. Neither pleasure nor pain. Let twilight happen.

Day still in the water, night near to the shore,
Neither darkness nor light, neither this night nor day—
When the body is finished…

And that which you have taken yourself to be—what you have believed as “I”—when that begins to dissolve…

When the body is finished and the soul begins to breathe—
These breaths you have thought of as life are not your real breath. With these breaths only the body goes on. There is another breath. When your link with this breath loosens, another breath is born.

When the body is finished and the soul begins to breathe,
There is a promise of a poem to me; it will meet me.

There the music descends—call it samadhi, truth, beauty, the auspicious, liberation, moksha, nirvana. But in that supreme aloneness—where everything is gone: the world gone, friends gone, enemies gone; the body gone, the breath gone; day and night gone; all dualities gone—where only sheer silence remains—there the soul breathes. There, for the first time, your spiritual life begins. There you are reborn.

In that moment is the meeting with the Divine. It is a moment of such aloneness that not even one remains there. Two have already dissolved; ultimately the one also disappears. Only the vast void remains. Everything is absent. Into that empty, hollow space the Divine enters.

Therefore Buddha says rightly: be a light unto yourself. It does not mean there is no need of a guru. It also does not mean that without a guru no one can arrive.

That is why I call it a delicate question—because a guru is needed, and also not needed. Only so much is needed: that you understand the indication and set out.

There is no need to walk forever behind the guru. Once the indication is understood, the journey is inward; then you follow no one.

Do not cling to the pointing fingers. Look to the moon toward which the fingers point—and move.

Both statements were given at different moments and to different kinds of people. There is not the slightest contradiction.

Understand. Jesus said: Ask—and it shall be given to you. Knock—and the doors shall be opened. Seek—and you shall find. Absolutely right. If one never seeks, how will one find? If one never asks, how will one receive? And if one won’t knock at the door, how will it open? Simple and straightforward. This is a statement on one plane.

It was necessary for the people Jesus was addressing. Remember the people he spoke to—these are the people who crucified him. They had no inner state that could be called spiritual—otherwise they would not have crucified Jesus!

Lao Tzu’s saying will seem exactly the opposite to you; that is also my saying. Lao Tzu says: Ask—and you will miss. Seek—and you will go astray. Do not seek—and you will find. This is a statement on a different plane, spoken to a different kind of people.

No one even threw a stone at Lao Tzu—crucifixion is another matter. The people among whom Lao Tzu lived must have been remarkable.

These things were said in different “classes.” In the first grade, you have to tell a child, “G is for Ganesh.” If, in the final class at the university, you still say, “G is for Ganesh,” it becomes foolishness. And both are necessary.

Those to whom Jesus was speaking were like primary-school students. Those to whom Lao Tzu was speaking were of the ultimate, the very peak.

Even so, the statements look contradictory. You will be surprised: even if you accept that in the first grade we say, “G is for Ganesh,” in the last class we don’t say, “G is not for Ganesh!” G remains G-for-Ganesh—you just don’t have to be told; the student already knows.

Yet the statements still sound opposed. Because the distance between the first grade and the university is not a distance of opposition; it is one and the same continuum. But the distance between the worldly person and the spiritual person is a distance of reversal; it is not one and the same continuum.

There comes a point where all the truths of this world turn upside down. Try to understand and it will become clear.

First: one who has never sought, how will he ever find? And Lao Tzu says: one who goes on seeking, how will he ever find? There must come a point where even seeking is dropped. Otherwise the anxiety to seek, the frenzy of seeking, the running around in the name of seeking will keep gripping the mind.

A man is running and says, “I must reach the goal. If I don’t run, how will I reach?” But if he keeps running even after reaching the goal, how will he arrive? We will have to speak to this man in seemingly opposite ways. We must say: when you are far from the goal, run toward it. When you come close, reduce your speed. And when the goal is right here—stop. If you keep running even at the goal, you will miss.

One day you must run, and one day you must stop. One day you must walk, and one day you must be still. There is no contradiction in this.

One day labor, strive, practice yoga. And then one day throw all practices into the river and sit empty. Only then will you arrive. Otherwise it often happens that in the race to attain the divine your mind creates a new world. Then a thousand kinds of thoughts and waves arise inside.

There are waves of the marketplace and there are waves of the temple. There are waves of the world and then waves of nirvana! But you will attain nirvana only when you are free of waves. Nirvana means: becoming waveless. Nirvana means: even the idea of attaining nirvana disappears.

This is perfectly clear in Buddha’s life. He did severe austerities for six years. Then one day, after those six years, he dropped austerity—just as one day he had dropped the palace—he dropped the austerities too. That very night Buddhahood flowered.

For centuries people have asked: How did Buddha become enlightened? Was it because of the six years of austerity—or because he renounced austerity? Those who ask like this have framed the question wrongly from the start. Any answer they get will be wrong. Ask a wrong question, and you will get a wrong answer. The question must be right.

When you ask, “Did Buddha attain because of the six years of austerity?”—for attainment came one night after those six years; or “He abandoned austerity that very evening, and the event happened that night!” There are six years of austerity, and that same night, the dropping of austerity. Why did it happen? How did it happen? What is the cause—the austerity, or the dropping of it?

I tell you, both are causes. If there had been no austerity, what would there be to drop? Before you can renounce, you must have. If a poor man says, “I have renounced everything,” what meaning does that renunciation have? We will ask, “What did you have?” He says, “I had nothing—but I renounced it all.” Such renunciation has no value. When a king renounces, it has value. First there must be something—then you can renounce.

Buddha dropped austerity because he had done it. You can’t just recline in your easy chair and say, “Well then, today I am dropping austerity—let enlightenment happen! Let tonight be the night.” In a little while you will get bored: “Nothing is happening!” You will open your eyes to check: “Enlightenment hasn’t come yet!” You’ll turn over, then think, “Ah, this is all nonsense. Nothing is going to happen this way. I knew it already—but I tried an experiment.”

Then you will switch on the radio or TV, or pick up the newspaper—or head to the club: “Let’s play a few hands,” or pour a drink.

Those six years of austerity are an indispensable part. Without them it does not happen. And let me remind you: had Buddha kept on with austerities for sixty years, it still would not have happened.

There comes an extreme limit to doing; when doing reaches its peak, then doing itself must be dropped. First bring karma to the boiling point; when action boils at a hundred degrees, then bid farewell to the sense of the doer. Both truths are true.

A Sufi mystic, Hasan, was staying at Rabiya’s house. Every morning he prayed. He must have heard Jesus’ words: “Ask, and it shall be given to you. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door shall be opened unto you.” Those words appealed to him deeply; he had made them his prayer. Every morning, facing the Kaaba, hands folded, he would say: “O Lord, I have been knocking so long—open the door. I have knocked and knocked—when will it open? Remember Your word: ‘Knock, and the door shall be opened.’ And I go on knocking and knocking—and the door does not open.”

Rabiya heard this one day, and the next, and the third day...

Rabiya was a wondrous woman. Very few women of her stature have appeared in the world—Meera, Sahajo, Daya, Lalla—just a few, countable on the fingers. Rabiya is of the same stature as Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ.

One morning again Hasan was doing the same—hands outstretched, tears flowing, “Now open, Lord! I have been knocking for so long.”

Rabiya came from behind, shook his head and said, “Stop this nonsense! The doors are open—why are you knocking? The doors were never closed, you simpleton. How could His doors ever be shut? What foolishness have you fastened upon! You will keep babbling this all your life—while the door is open. What is God to do? Even He must be nonplussed: ‘What now?’ The door is open—what more to open? And this gentleman keeps saying, ‘Open the door. I am knocking. Open the door.’”

Rabiya spoke the second truth. She is saying: You have knocked enough. Now stop knocking—and open your eyes. You are entangled in the knocking, and the door is open! Now open your eyes—be free of the entanglement of effort. Drop striving, and see what is. What is—is liberating.

Therefore, one day you must labor—and one day you must drop labor.

Consider this. I have heard a story. Some people boarded the train at Amritsar, going to Haridwar on pilgrimage. One man in the group was a great philosopher, very logical. There was a huge crowd—it must have been fair time. The train was packed; people everywhere—clinging on top, hanging at the doors, trying to squeeze in through the windows. His companions were pulling the philosopher in. He kept saying, “Listen to me! Won’t we have to get down again? If we have to climb up with such effort only to get down, what’s the point?”

His friends said, “Philosophy later—the whistle is blowing.” They yanked him in.

He kept asking, “I want to ask one thing. Don’t pull me. We won’t have to get down, will we? If we have to get down, why go through all this trouble? We’re already standing on the platform!”

But they didn’t listen—he would waste time in babble. They pulled him in; his shirt tore, the skin on his hand got scraped.

You know Punjabis—when they pull, they really pull. This wasn’t Gujarat—this was Amritsar! They must have tugged him in properly. He yelled, they didn’t care. Punjabis worrying about metaphysics? Hardly. If he talked too much, they probably gave him a couple of whacks: “Sit quiet!”

Then Haridwar arrived. Now the philosopher wouldn’t get down. After all, he too was Punjabi! He said, “Once I got in, I got in. Why get down now? I told you at the start—not to make me get in if you were going to make me get down.”

They were pulling him: “This is too much—Haridwar is here!”

What he means is: If you have to get down, why get in? And if you’ve gotten in, why get down? He is speaking the language of pure logic.

When you ask me about contradiction between Jesus’ statements and mine, you are doing the same logical thing.

One day you have to board the train; another day you have to get down. There is no contradiction. You climb a ladder to the roof; then you must step off the ladder. I tell you: climb the steps. You ask: “By climbing the steps will we reach the terrace?” I say, “Certainly.” Then you stand on the top rung and say, “We still aren’t on the terrace.” It is true: just as the terrace is not on the first rung, it is not on the last rung either. You must leave the last rung—then you enter the terrace. But you say, “Then why make me climb at all? I climbed a hundred steps, panting, and now you say, ‘Leave the ladder!’ How contradictory!”

On the first step I said, “Climb.” Jesus was speaking at the first step. Because Jesus came to this land and carried a message back. For thirty years of his life he searched for truth. Egypt, India, Tibet—he traveled through these lands. At that time Buddhism was at its zenith. Nalanda was a living university. It is very likely Jesus came to Nalanda. He recognized, understood, learned the supreme truths here.

And that created the difficulty. He began to say things that did not fit the Jewish scriptures at all. He brought a few things that were foreign to the Jewish stream of thought. The Jews could not digest it. If Jesus had spoken in their way, in their sequence, they would have accepted him as a prophet. They had to crucify him because he brought messages unfamiliar to Jewish ears.

The core message Jesus carried was Buddha’s message of meditation: “Awake!” That is why he repeats again and again in the Bible: Awake, be aware, wake up; arise; be watchful; be mindful.

These things could be understood in this country because, even before Buddha, a long tradition of Buddhas exists here. Buddha is not something utterly new; he is part of a very long stream, a link in a chain. Before him many Buddhas were here. This language was familiar here.

But among the Jews that language became utterly unfamiliar.

You will be surprised to know that John the Baptist—the one who initiated Jesus, Jesus’ own master—was in prison. When Jesus’ teaching began and news reached John in jail, even he became doubtful: What is this man saying? What kind of things are these? He sent a letter to Jesus: “I want to ask again—are you the one for whom we Jews have been waiting for centuries? Or are you someone else? Must we still wait for the Messiah?”

Why did John write this letter? Because even he could not understand what Jesus was saying—where he got these riddles.

Jesus carried the message from this land. Naturally, among a new people who had never heard it, he had to begin with the ABC—“G is for Ganesh.” He had to start at the first step. When Lao Tzu or Buddha speak—or when I speak to you—I can speak of the last step, because here there is a background. Jesus did not have that background—he was compelled.

There is not the slightest contradiction. On the same ladder on which Jesus is making you climb, I am telling you the second truth as well: climb, but remember you will have to step off too—don’t forget it.

So I say to you: ask—how else will you receive? And I also say to you: drop asking—has anyone ever received by asking? I say: knock, and the door will open. And I also say: enough knocking—stop knocking now. See—the doors are already open.

Hardly anyone is really afraid of death. How can you fear that with which you have no acquaintance? How can you be afraid of something you have never met? People fear suffering. And even when they fear death, it is because they don’t know into what sufferings death may lead them. They don’t fear death directly; they fear that they don’t know what pains it might bring.

The sufferings here are known and familiar. Death may be the beginning of a new series of unknown sorrows—hence the fear. Otherwise, there is no reason to fear death. People fear what they recognize. Why fear the strange and unfamiliar? Who knows—perhaps death may take you into bliss, into heaven. If you are very thoughtful, like Socrates, you will not be afraid.

Socrates was dying. His disciples asked him, “Are you not afraid? Death is approaching. The poison is being prepared. You will be given the hemlock soon. Aren’t you afraid of death?”

Socrates said, “Look; I think there are only two possibilities. Either I will die and nothing will remain—then what is there to fear? The one who would be afraid will not remain; who then is there to be afraid? I know nothing of before my birth. It gives me no trouble to think I was not there before I was born. If I was not, what is there to grieve? If after death I shall not be, what is there to grieve?

“Or the other possibility: something will remain. If I remain, then why fear? I will see. I struggled here; I will struggle there. Whatever comes, I will meet it. So I am not troubled. I am thinking: let me die and see what the truth actually is.”

A very reflective person will not fear even death; no reason remains to be afraid.

But man fears suffering. You are familiar with suffering. You know suffering well; in fact, your acquaintance is mainly with suffering. Happiness has only been a hope, a dream. You have met sorrow. So naturally you fear it.

Everyone fears suffering. And as long as you fear suffering, you will remain miserable. Because what you fear, you will not be able to understand. And suffering dissolves through understanding. Suffering dissolves through awakening. Suffering dissolves when it is recognized.

That is why the world is miserable: people fear suffering and turn their backs, so no diagnosis happens. They don’t put a finger on it and ask where it is, what it is, why it is. They don’t go down into it to see how it is produced, by what cause it arises. Out of fear they keep running from their own suffering.

Wherever you run, how will you run away from suffering? Suffering is in your style of living. Wherever you go, it will arrive there.

I have heard: a man was afraid of his own shadow. And he was terribly afraid of his own footprints. So he began to run. He wanted to get far away from the shadow, far away from his footprints—far away from himself. But how will you get away from yourself? The more he ran, the more his shadow ran after him. And the more he ran, the more footprints were made.

Chuang Tzu has written this story of the madman. And this madman is what is found on the earth; crowds of him.

Chuang Tzu said: “Unfortunate fellow, if you had not run, and had sat down in the shade of a tree, your shadow would have disappeared. If you had not run, your footprints would have stopped being made. But you kept running; you kept dragging your shadow behind; and you kept making more footprints.”

If you run from what you fear, this is what will happen. Fear suffering—and you will remain miserable. Fear suffering—and you will arrive in hell; you will create hell. There is no need to fear suffering. If suffering is there, then know it, awaken to it, recognize it.

Those who made friends with suffering, who looked at it fully in the eye, who had a direct encounter with it, became owners of an incomparable treasure. Many things became clear to them.

One thing they understood: suffering does not come from outside. I create it. And if I create it, then it is in my own hands. If you don’t want to create it, don’t. If you do, then do it skillfully; as much as you choose. But then there is no question of crying and repenting.

Those who looked closely at suffering understood: it is the result of my wrong way of living. It is the fruit of my own karma. Like a man trying to pass through a wall, hitting his head, getting bloodied, and saying, “This wall is giving me pain.”

Little children often do this. But in this world all are little children. Rarely does anyone become truly grown. Where does maturity come from? Little children often do this: they are passing by; they bump into the table; their hand gets scratched; they get angry and pick up a stick and beat the table.

That is exactly what you are doing. To pacify a child, the mother also comes and hits the table: “The table is wicked; it hurt my son.” Then the child is delighted to see the table beaten—“Good! Justice was done.”

But the table had no fault. And don’t think only children do this; you do it too. In anger you fling the door open as if the door were at fault. In anger you throw your shoe as if the shoe were to blame.

There was a Zen master, Nan-in. A man came to see him. He was very angry—perhaps had quarreled with his wife. He arrived in a rage, flung the door open so hard it banged against the wall, and in anger kicked off his shoes and put them down.

He went inside and bowed to Nan-in. Nan-in said, “I do not accept your bow. First go and ask forgiveness from the door. And place your head on your shoes and ask forgiveness.”

The man said, “What are you saying! Is there life in the door that I should ask forgiveness? Is there life in the shoes that I should ask forgiveness?”

Nan-in said, “If you are so wise, why did you express anger on the shoes? Is there life in the shoes that you should vent anger on them? Why did you shove the door so hard? Is the door your wife? Go. If to be angry you assumed life in the door and the shoes, then why be stingy in asking forgiveness now?”

The man saw the point. He went, asked forgiveness of the door, placed his head on his shoes. And he said, “I have never known such peace. When I put my head on my shoes, a vision dawned: the whole matter is mine.”

People are utterly immature—childlike.

You do not look for the causes of suffering. The causes of suffering are always within you. Suffering does not come from outside. And hell is not in some netherworld; hell is your own unconscious mind. That is the underworld. And heaven is not somewhere in the sky; cleanse your unconscious of rubbish and heaven is created there. Heaven and hell are states of your feeling. You are the creator. You are the master.

So whoever looks at suffering gains the key to unlock it. And the delightful thing is: whoever looks at it and faces it becomes grateful to suffering. Because every suffering is also a challenge. Every suffering is a device to refine you. Every suffering is like fire, and you are like gold passing through it. Only by passing through fire does gold become pure.

I walked only in the shade, protecting my body,
so I might give my soul a beautiful body:
no crease, no stain,
neither sun-scorched nor bruised,
no wound touching, no pain reaching—
just robe my soul in the body of a virgin morning.

But when the noon of pains blazed,
when I passed through the sunlight of suffering,
my soul found the shade.
Strange is the shared kinship of pain and solace:
shade is found only somewhere in the sun.

Suffering refines. Suffering cleanses. Suffering scours and burnishes.

Strange is the shared kinship of pain and solace:
shade is found only somewhere in the sun.

Do not run away from sufferings. Live them. Pass through them consciously. And you will find: each suffering has made you stronger. Each suffering has deepened your roots. Each suffering has given you new breath. Each suffering has turned you into steel.

Suffering has a cause; it is not futile. It has meaning. Its meaning is this: without suffering, no one becomes a man of soul. He remains flimsy, pulpy.

That is why those who have had only comfort and convenience—you will find a certain flabbiness in them, a kind of shallowness. In the so-called happy person there is no depth. There is no soul within.

So you often find dullards born in wealthy houses. The rich man’s child remains a fool. Everything is provided—what is there to do? Everything is already given—what is there to earn?

Without struggle there is no resolve. And without resolve, where is the soul? Without resolve, how will surrender happen? When you earn resolve—when your “I” becomes intense—then one day the joy of bowing it arises. Otherwise, what joy would there be?

He who has no ego cannot be egoless. Understand this well. Only one with a deep ego can become egoless. Egolessness occurs after the final extremity of ego.

You say: “I am not so afraid of death. But I am very afraid of sufferings.”

Death is far; suffering is here. Perhaps that is why you do not fear death: it will come when it will come. You can go show your palm to a palmist or get your horoscope read by an astrologer. He will say, “Not yet. No worry. You will live to seventy. You will live to a hundred. You will outlive everyone. Relax. Death is far.”

And man’s vision is very narrow. If something is ten years away, you don’t even see it. Only what is very near is seen. Think: if someone tells you, “Tomorrow you will die,” perhaps there will be a jolt. “A week from now,” not as much. “A year from now,” you say, “We’ll see.” “Ten years from now,” you say, “Oh, stop this nonsense!” “Seventy years from now,” it feels as if you’ve almost attained immortality. What is there to do then! Do seventy years ever end? Such a long distance! Then you don’t see it at all.

Suffering is now; death is far. Perhaps that is why you are not afraid. Because one who fears suffering cannot truly become fearless toward death. It is only because death is distant that you feel no hindrance. You say, “When it happens, we’ll see.” Right now this headache is eating me. Right now this worry is gripping the mind. Right now I’ve staked everything in this business—what if I lose it all? Right now there’s a loss at the shop. Right now the wife has left!

Right now these small things are pricking like thorns. And when such small thorns prick—when the sword of death falls and severs your head—do you think you will be able to die blissfully? Impossible. When thorns hurt so much, what of the sword, which cuts completely? Thorns are small; the sword tears you asunder.

No—you do not know death. You have not yet even known suffering; how then will you know death!

Encounter suffering. Begin to look at it. Let familiarity with it grow; let strength arise within through this very suffering. Then one day a moment will come when death too arrives, and you will stand unshaken. Death will surround you, and within you no storm will arise. Death will come, and you will remain untouched. That supreme moment...

And death is certain. In this body you can dwell only a little while; and there is not much here worth dwelling in.

Ah, how the whole body rattles—
as if slats have been lashed together,
as if hollow bamboos were tied at the joints.
Let a rope loosen somewhere,
let some joint’s bond give way,
and the skeleton of the body will scatter.

Into this body this poor soul came,
taking it for a flute,
thinking it would find melody here.
But where is melody found here?

Into this body this poor soul came,
taking it for a flute,
thinking it would find melody here—
but where is melody found? Who has found it here? Here, all tunes are false. Here, all tunes are momentary. Here, tunes arise now and in a moment break. Every tune becomes insipid. Even the sweet soon turns bitter. And even the nectar here does not remain nectar for long; on the surface it is nectar—inside, it is poison.

Today or tomorrow this body will have to be left. You must seek elsewhere. But if you have not sought rightly in this body, there is great danger that you will again take some other body to be a flute and enter it—just as you have done many times.

If you do not understand this body rightly, do not recognize its sufferings rightly, do not know its futility, do not imprint its insubstantiality deeply in your consciousness, do not recognize its transience, do not see its hell—then hope will hang on. You will think: not in this body; this flute was not right. No matter. There are other flutes. Let us take another body; let us enter another womb.

If, at the time of death, even a little hope remains alive, there will be rebirth. If, at the time of death, you die seeing and knowing that life is futile—and this futility stands before you with such completeness that not a trace of hope arises, not even the slightest urge to be born again and try life again—then you will be liberated. Then you have lived life and you have lived death. Then you have obtained what life had to give: the understanding that life is futile. And death can take nothing from you—if you yourself have known that life is futile. Because death takes only life. If you have already known life to be futile, you will even thank death.

And the person who dies thanking death—that person is liberated. He goes beyond the round of birth and death.

Either it is my fault, or you do not yet have the capacity to understand. What I am saying is straightforward and clear; there’s not the slightest tangle in it. But I can understand that you may see tangles—because the way you look, the way you think, perhaps it doesn’t fit. In fact, it cannot fit as you are.

If you want to understand me, you will have to change your way of thinking. You will have to learn a new style of thought. You will have to come beyond the limits of logic. You will have to rise a little above the net of words and the rote repetitions of the scriptures. You will have to become a person—and get a little free of being a parrot.

There are many levels of understanding. We understand only up to the level at which we are.

I have heard: A doctor, examining a small child, asked, “Son, do you have any complaint about your nose or ears?” Mucus was dripping from his nose. The cold was so strong that the child could hardly hear; his ears were blocked, his chest was rattling—and the doctor asks, “Son, any complaint about your nose or ears?” The child said, “Yes. They get in the way when I take off my shirt.”

Each according to his understanding. The child’s trouble is that whenever he takes off his shirt, his nose and ears get in the way. That’s one level.

It is possible that you don’t understand what I say.

A friend said to Mulla Nasruddin, “Mulla, I don’t want to marry because I am very afraid of women.” Nasruddin said, “If that’s the case, then marry at once. From my experience I can tell you, after marriage only one woman remains to be afraid of.”

Each his own experience; each his own understanding.

A father said to his son, “Times have progressed a lot. Find a suitable girl for yourself.” The son was delighted. He never touched his father’s feet—this day he did. And, obeying his father, the son began to stand regularly on the balcony to look at girls.

You can only understand what you can understand.

If you are not understanding me, there are two courses open: either I say things that fit your understanding, or you create an understanding that can receive what I am saying.

If I say only what you already understand, what is the point? You already understand that; then there is no reason to come to me.

So I will not say only what your present understanding can grasp. I will say what is true. If it doesn’t make sense to you, then refine your understanding. Put a little edge on it. Change it.

This is precisely the meaning of discipleship: if it doesn’t make sense, we change the understanding. There will be a little difficulty; some effort will be needed. And people don’t want to make any effort at all. Then you remain stuck—stuck in yourself.

Either I come to you or you come to me. It is better that you come to me; that will be your growth. If I come to you, there will be no growth for you; you will become even more fixed where you are.

So I have to speak in such a way that some things you can understand and some you cannot.

If I were to speak so that you understood nothing at all, your connection with me would break. I would be shouting from far away and you would be lost far away; the voice wouldn’t even reach you.

So I say some things that you can understand, so that the connection remains. But if I go on saying only what you understand, the bond may remain—what benefit will there be? What is the purpose of such a bond?

Therefore I also say some things you do not understand—so the bond remains, the bridge stays, something keeps making sense to you; and for what does not yet make sense, you keep stretching your hands upward to reach it. In that very stretching, one day you will touch the sky.

Life is certainly transformed. Only this much preparation is needed: that you can sit by me with an untroubled mind. If you can just sit close, if there is simply satsang, even then transformation happens.
If an unlit lamp comes near a lit lamp, at any moment the flame can leap from the lit lamp to the unlit one.
Transformation does not come by doing and doing; sometimes it happens without any doing at all. And the true artist is the one who brings about transformation without doing.

But to be close takes great courage. Even when you sit here, you keep a thousand kinds of walls. You keep your defenses. You take each step after thinking. If you take steps after thinking and thinking, you will miss—because such steps never go very far; they remain within the limits of your thinking.

Two kinds of people take sannyas with me.
One: those who take sannyas after thinking it over. Because of the thinking, their sannyas is half-dead already—like a half-dead child is born.
Second: those who take sannyas without thinking at all—who, simply falling in love with me, take sannyas; who take it like a madman; who say, “Now we will not think. Let there be at least one relationship in life that is without thinking.” In their sannyas there is a certain aliveness; a profundity; an energy.

Ranjana’s sannyas is like that—taken without thinking, without keeping accounts.
Women often can move without calculations. Man is very calculating. He weighs everything. He thinks through profit and loss. When he sees that profit is greater than loss, then he takes sannyas. But having thought of both loss and gain, one part of the mind says, “Don’t take it,” another part says, “Take it.” So even when he does take it, his taking is what I call parliamentary—like a decision taken in parliament when the majority tilts to one side.

But a decision taken by majority vote is not very reliable. Because people change parties—Aaya Ram, Gaya Ram—people switch parties! The factions of your mind also change. In the morning, seventy percent of the mind says, “Take sannyas.” By evening, sixty percent says, “Take it.” The next day, fifty percent says, “Take it,” fifty percent says, “Don’t.” After taking it, you discover seventy percent says, “We made a mistake taking it.”

The mind wavers from one thing to another; the nature of mind is to waver. The one who took it by thinking took it incompletely—it’s a parliamentary decision, not very trustworthy. The one who took it without thinking took it in wholeness. Within him there is no meaning to majority and minority; he has taken it by unanimous consent.

For the one who takes sannyas by unanimity within, transformation happens naturally.

It has happened so for Ranjana. It can happen for everyone. A little courage is needed, a little daring.

And once it happens, then wherever you are, it makes no difference. The song that was born continues. The dance that took birth has entered your feet; it has entered your very life-breath. Then near or far makes no difference.

Many are here, close, and yet far. And many are far and yet will be close. Near and far have no meaning. The real question is the nearness of soul to soul.

They have run off carrying the lamp’s light;
we have received, as was ours to receive, the penalties of trust.
These days even stones blossom with flowers here—
spring has arrived with a new potency.
Not a single face appears as the true face—
such a pall of dust has settled over the whole city.
If only we could find a mirror that is truly a mirror;
in the house of mirrors there are, indeed, mirrors beyond count.
These days birds fly off leaving their wings in the nest—
how excessively clever these birds have become.

Even the birds have become clever! They leave their wings in the nest lest they be lost on the way—then they fly. Such clever ones get themselves into trouble.

These days birds fly off leaving their wings in the nest—
how excessively clever these birds have become.

Cleverness, sometimes, is a very deep foolishness. And sometimes foolishness is a very deep cleverness.

In matters of the divine, those who are ready to become mad are the truly wise.

I have different ways of hurting different people, Maitreya-ji!
That's all for today.