Es Dhammo Sanantano #18

When there is no vision, things look opposite. When there is vision, not even a trace of opposition remains. What Buddha calls awareness, the Sufis have called “unconsciousness”—a drunken swoon. What Buddha calls apramāda—heedfulness—devotees have called “wine.” There is not an inch of distance between Buddha’s sayings and Omar Khayyam. What Buddha called a temple, Omar Khayyam called a tavern. Buddha has not been understood, nor has Omar Khayyam. People thought Omar Khayyam was praising wine.

Kuch apni karāmat dikha, ai Saki,
Jo khol de āṅkh, vo pila, ai Saki.
Hoshiyār ko dīwānā banāyā bhī to kyā?
Dīwāne ko hoshiyār banā, ai Saki.

You are already unconscious. You have already drunk the wine of the world. Someone has drunk the wine of wealth and is unconscious in wealth. Someone has drunk the wine of position and is unconscious in status. Someone has drunk the wine of fame. Those who couldn’t get the wine of position, fame, or wealth are drinking cheap wine in taverns. They are defeated drunkards.

And the great joke is that the big drunkards are against the small drunkards. Those seated in high office in Delhi won’t allow people to drink in little taverns. They too have drunk—but their wine is subtle. Their intoxication isn’t found bottled. Their stupor is fine, refined. You need a very deep eye to see their intoxication. It is not gross.

On the road you have seen the drunkard staggering; have you not seen the politician stagger? You have seen the drunkard fall in the street; have you not seen the rich man’s steps reel? You have heard the drunkard babble nonsense; have you not heard officeholders babble nonsense? If not, you have seen nothing. You live in the world with your eyes closed.

There are many kinds of wines. The world is intoxication. The wine Omar Khayyam, the Sufis, and the devotees speak of is that wine which breaks the stupor of the world, the wine that wakes you up.

The hallmark of God’s wine is awakening. Therefore there is no difference between what Buddha says and what Omar Khayyam says. I speak of these revelers along with Buddha knowingly, because if you keep seeing a difference between them, you will understand neither Buddha nor these mad lovers. Only when you see no difference between the two will you understand.

There is also a divine intoxication. But it is such that it shatters all other intoxications. Such that it breaks your sleep. Such that a day-and-night stream of awareness starts flowing. Still you will ask, why call it intoxication at all? If awareness comes, why call it wine? It is called wine because awareness arises and the ecstasy does not disappear—ecstasy increases. And what kind of awareness would it be that snatches away ecstasy too? Then awareness would become a desert—dry and barren. There would be no greenery, no flowers blooming, no birds singing, no streams flowing, and no beauty in the stars of the sky.

Either you think Omar Khayyam is praising ordinary wine, or you think Buddha is against ecstasy. Both are misunderstandings. Buddha is not against ecstasy. Where will you find anyone more ecstatic than Buddha? You will say, there’s a snag: no one ever saw Buddha dance. Meera dances, Chaitanya dances. When did anyone see Buddha dance? But I tell you: there are dances that are not visible. And I tell you too: there is a final state of dance where everything becomes utterly still. There is a dance in which there is no tremor.

Let me explain with something that may be easier to grasp, otherwise this will become a riddle. When a loved one dies, you have seen people weep. But have you witnessed that hour of grief when even tears do not flow? There are such sorrows. There is a depth of sorrow so absolute that tears do not come, no sigh escapes the lips. The grief is so profound that even shedding tears seems an insult to it. So deep that crying feels pointless.

Those still cry whose sorrow still has a little comfort left in it—whose grief is not total. Those cry whom grief has not yet touched to the very last core of the heart. Those shout whose grief is gross. You must have seen an hour when grief grew so vast that you could not manage yourself, the eyes could not manage, the tears could not manage—everything fell silent. The shock was so deep that not even a tremor arose.

Psychologists say that if such an hour comes, one must somehow try to get the person to weep, otherwise he might even die. Shake him somehow, make him cry, bring tears to his eyes by some means—so that the shock lightens, so that the blow flows out, so that the grief is released through tears and relief arises within.

Do you cry because of sorrow, or to get free of sorrow? Do you cry because of pain, or to find relief from pain? When sorrow is dense, even a voice does not rise. When the heart truly breaks, even a sound does not arise.

Now, by the exact opposite, you will understand. Meera dances—she can still dance, that’s why. The dance has not yet gone totally deep. The state of absorption and samadhi has not yet reached that depth where even dance dissolves. There are dances in which even dance disappears. There are griefs in which there are no tears.

Buddha too is dancing, but his dance is very subtle—so subtle that gross eyes cannot catch it. Only those will see it who have lived and known such a dance.

I tell you, Buddha is dancing—otherwise it cannot be. I tell you, Buddha has drunk that wine I am speaking of. Bliss has become so dense that he is speechless, stunned! Meera could still dance—she must have found a little relief. When bliss becomes too dense, to do something gives a little release. Buddha drank it—he drank bliss whole. If someone asks me, I would say Buddha’s intoxication is even greater than Meera’s. At least Meera knew she was dancing; Buddha did not even have that much news.

Remember, when I speak of Meera or Buddha or anyone else, these are not comparative statements. I am not calling anyone higher or lower. I am only taking examples to help you understand. If you understand Buddha, you will also understand Omar Khayyam.

FitzGerald, who translated Omar Khayyam into English, ruined him. Because the whole world came to know Omar Khayyam through FitzGerald, by his route, by his instrumentality—and the whole world thought this is a discourse on wine, a discourse on the tavern. It is not about taverns or wine; it is about the temple.

Kuch apni karāmat dikha, ai Saki,
Jo khol de āṅkh, vo pila, ai Saki.
Hoshiyār ko dīwānā banāyā bhī to kyā?
Dīwāne ko hoshiyār banā, ai Saki.

Buddha poured just such a wine in which madmen become wise. That is his yoga of heedfulness, his art of awakening. But I keep calling it wine again and again, because I don’t want you to forget that this is not a dry, withered state of life—it is lush and green. Not a desert, but an oasis. Here flowers bloom, birds chirp. Here the moon and stars wheel. Here songs are born. Here, in every hair and every particle, the echo of the unknown is heard. Here is the peal of temple bells and the fragrance of incense burning in the shrine. Buddha is not sitting insipidly—he is sitting guarding a diamond.

Kabir has said: “I have found the diamond and tied it in the knot of my garment.”
Don’t look only at the outside—you see only the knot. Inside, he sits with the diamond tied. He does not even move—such a great diamond! He does not tremble—such a great jewel! The wealth is so vast that even giving thanks would be petty—too small. How to express the feeling of “Ah!”? The one who would express even that awe has disappeared. Who is there to thank, to speak of grace, to celebrate?

I am telling you: there are such celebrations where even celebration falls short. Therefore I speak knowingly. Whenever I speak to you of Omar Khayyam, I will speak of Buddha too. Because neither can Omar Khayyam be understood without Buddha, nor Buddha without Omar Khayyam.

My entire effort is this: that those whom you have taken as opposites, you look at them so attentively that their opposition dissolves. And in different colors and forms you glimpse the same beauty. If in Meera’s dance you can find Buddha sitting, and in the meditative statue of Buddha you can find Meera’s dance, then you have the key in your hands. You too will be able to open the door of the temple. Those who have seen otherwise have not seen. Do not get entangled in the talk of the blind.

First, in the human intellect there is a web of thoughts. There everything is neat and orderly. There things are divided into categories, because there the kingdom of logic prevails. And then there are the waves that rise in the heart. There nothing is neat and orderly. There logic has no sovereignty. There love expands. There each wave is linked with every other wave. Nothing is isolated; all is joined. There even emptiness speaks, and speaking is like silence. There dance makes no sound, and there silence dances.

As many categories as logic has, they start breaking apart the nearer you come to the heart. As many calculations as reason has, they begin to turn useless as you move toward the heart. All the concepts of thought are meaningful only so long as you live in the head—as long as your skull is your home. The moment you go a little deeper, take a small dip, become a little absorbed in yourself, begin to slide toward the heart, everything turns mysterious. What you thought you knew, you discover was never really known. What you thought could never be known, you begin to feel you are knowing. The known drops away; there is movement into the unknown. The boat is freed from the shore and enters that ocean that has no other shore. From this shore the boat is released, toward that side where there is no second shore; the ocean of the heart is shoreless—there everything becomes a great riddle.

“Did the heart say anything? Nothing at all.
Did the heart hear anything? Nothing at all.
Do conversations happen like this? This is exactly how they happen!”

You will have to learn the art of listening to the heart. If you listen with old habits—the way you listened to the mind, to the intellect—if you listen in the same way, you will not understand the language of the heart. That language is of feeling. In that language there are no words, there are vibrations, impulses. No dictionary can help you in that language. Only the lexicon of life itself can help.

And this is why people often become afraid of approaching the heart. Near the heart it seems as if you are going mad. All neatness dissolves. Think of life as a vast forest, and you have cleared a little courtyard—cut away the brush, built walls. In your courtyard you feel secure. Step outside the courtyard and the immensity of the forest unnerves you. There is the fear of getting lost. There are no highways there—not even footpaths; highways are a far cry.

In that vast, wild forest—the forest of life—the path is made by walking. By walking, the path appears. There is no path prepared for walking. Nothing there is ready-made. So one gets frightened and returns to one’s little courtyard. That is the obstacle. The intellect is your courtyard, where everything is neat and tidy, where mathematics fits nicely.

Plato had written above the gate of his Academy: Let none who does not know mathematics enter within. Plato is saying: whoever has not learned the language of the intellect should not come in here.

Something is written at my gate as well. Plato could write, because the intellect has words; I cannot write. But at my gate it is also written: let none who does not understand the language of the heart enter within. Because here we are speaking only of that realm about which nothing can truly be said. Here we are engaged in the endeavor to go toward that dimension where going is like erasing yourself. Only those reach there who are ready to lose themselves. So fear will arise.

That is why people have become frightened of love. They talk of love; they do not love. Talking can be done from the skull. But to do—to love—you have to enter life’s trackless forest. There are dangers upon dangers. People hear about love, they understand, they sing songs, they read stories—but they do not love. Because to love means to efface yourself. Only when the ego is lost does the sprouting of love happen. And one who has not known love—the unfortunate one who has not known love—how will he know prayer? Prayer is the culmination of love. It is love’s final distillation, its ultimate essence.

“Did the heart say anything? Nothing at all.
Did the heart hear anything? Nothing at all.
Do conversations happen like this? This is exactly how they happen!”

Within, such waves keep arising. There the distance between yes and no is not. There yes is sometimes no, and no is sometimes yes. There all opposites dissolve into one. In reply I would say to you—

The ear is that ear which has heard Your voice;
the eye is that eye which has beheld Your radiance.

So long as the ears only hear people’s talk—so long as they hear what comes from outside, the struck sound that hits the ear and makes the eardrums ring—until then the ears are not truly ears. And so long as the eyes have seen only what comes from outside and forms a reflection, that seeing is borrowed. No experience of truth has happened—only a dream has been seen. When the ears hear that which surges from within, rises from within, fills from within—only then are they ears. And when the eyes see that which the eyes cannot see—when they see that which appears when the eyes are closed; when the eyes turn back upon themselves and behold themselves—only then are they truly eyes.

The ear is that ear which has heard Your voice;
the eye is that eye which has beheld Your radiance.

Shift. Move inward. Get a little acquainted with yourself. You have gotten well acquainted with the world. You have made many acquaintances—they do not serve you. You have kept much company; your loneliness does not go. You stand in a crowd—absolutely alone. There are people who live their whole lives in crowds and remain alone. And there are those who remained alone and not for a single moment were they lonely. Those who have heard the inner voice—their loneliness has ended. They have attained solitude. Those who have had the inner vision—their dreams have all fallen away. There is no need for dreams. Having seen Truth, there remains nothing else to see.

Rabia was sitting in her house. A fakir named Hasan was her guest. The morning sun rose; Hasan went outside. It was a very beautiful morning. Colored clouds were floating across the sky and the sun had spread a web of rays everywhere. Hasan cried out, “Rabia! What are you doing sitting inside? Come out—such a beautiful morning! God has created such a beautiful morning. Colored clouds float in the sky; birds are singing; there is a net of beams everywhere. Everything is wondrous. Come out and see the Creator’s play!”

Rabia burst into laughter and said, “Hasan! You come inside. For we are looking at the One who made the morning, who gave birth to the sun—He whose web of rays has delighted you. Come in; we are looking at Him.”

The ear is that ear which has heard Your voice;
the eye is that eye which has beheld Your radiance.

Let me read the question again, because the answer is hidden in the question itself.
‘In your discourses each day you create such immediacy that every hair stands on end and a flood seems to rise in the heart.’
Not a flood rises—only seems like a flood!
‘And a state like a peak experience is created.’
Not a peak—only like a peak. There lies the answer. There the preparation is being missed.

The intellect is very skillful at minting counterfeit coins. It creates a flood-like state. The coming of a real flood is something else. If a flood truly came, the happening would be done! But from a flood-like state, it will not happen. It is as if you sit on the bank; the river does not flood—you just think, you dream, you fantasize that a flood-like situation has come. Then you open your eyes and see the village is where it was—neither the village drowned nor anything was carried away—the river is where it was. A flood-like state came and went. The rubbish and debris lie where they were; nothing was washed away. Nothing fresh happened, nothing new happened.

When I am speaking, two possibilities arise. If you listen with the intellect, at most a flood-like state will be created. The intellect is very skillful. And the intellect begins to dream whatever you want.

Do not listen with the intellect. Please, set the intellect a little aside. Let it be a straight, direct matter of the heart with the heart. When you listen with the intellect, then waves arise in the intellect. But the waves of the intellect are like lines drawn on water—they barely form and they are erased. Can one rely on the intellect? Thoughts don’t stay even for a moment; they are gone. Before they arrive, they have departed. The intellect is a travelers’ lodge. Has anyone ever built a home there? It is the waiting room of a railway station. Travelers come and go. There, no sound of the eternal will ever resound in your life. Esa dhammo sanantano.

That eternal has nothing to do with the intellect. The intellect is momentary—soap bubbles on water: formed and burst. Don’t build your house in them. Sometimes even in water-bubbles the sun’s rays give such colors that rainbows spread. You hear me. The intellect hears, becomes wavelike; a flood-like state is created. You see a dream. Then you get up and go—the flood is gone. You remain where you were. Not even the rubbish was washed away, let alone you being swept away entirely! Perhaps you even became more firmly set, because it seemed a flood came and went and couldn’t harm you at all. If you go on dreaming floods every day like this, nothing will happen.

Put the intellect aside. When you listen, just listen; don’t think. Listening is enough; thinking is an obstacle. I am not telling you to believe what I say. Because believing is also of the intellect. Believing is of the intellect; not-believing is of the intellect. Acceptance is of the intellect; rejection is of the intellect. I don’t tell you to believe what I say. Nor do I say don’t believe; nor do I say believe. I only say: just listen. Don’t think. Tell the intellect, “You—be quiet!”

Listen to me as you would listen to a bird singing. Then the intellect can do nothing—though even there it spreads its hands a little, makes a few grabs: “How beautiful! Yesterday I heard a similar song. Which bird is singing?” It makes a few moves, but not much—because you don’t understand the bird’s language.

I tell you, you only seem to understand my language; you don’t actually understand. Because what I am speaking is not what I am speaking. What you hear me say, I want to give you something more than that. Along with the words, I have tied much emptiness into the bundles of words. Along with the tones, I have sent a lot of silence following behind them. Not only what is said—what is unsaid comes hidden behind what is said.

If you listen only with the intellect, you will hear only what I have said; you will be deprived of the unsaid. What cannot be said—you will miss it. The flood comes from that. With the visible I have tied the invisible; alongside the symbols I have placed that for which there is no symbol; into the bundles of words I have held the void. If you listen with the intellect, the bundle will touch your hand, but what was inside it will be lost. The bundle was only for that content. The content will be lost. The subject-matter will be lost. The container—the empty can—will be in your hand. Then it will feel like a flood-like state.

Listen; don’t think. Listen; there is no need to believe or disbelieve. I tell you, liberation can happen through listening alone, if you don’t raise the net of believing and not-believing. Because the moment the question arises in your mind—“All right, this is worth believing,” or “No, this is not worth believing”—what are you doing when you say, “All right, it’s worth believing”? You are saying, “This matches my past. It agrees with my ideas. It is in accord with my past faith, beliefs, doctrines, scriptures.” Then where have you heard me? You have only had your past reaffirmed by me again and again. I am not here to prove your past right.

Then how will the flood come? That which was to be swept away, which the flood would have carried off, has become even stronger. Or you said, “No, it doesn’t click; it is not in accord with my scripture; it is contrary. It doesn’t fit with my doctrines.” Then you have already separated yourself. When you join, you do it through the intellect; when you break, you do it through the intellect. Something else is happening here altogether: neither the question of joining nor the question of breaking. If the intellect steps aside, who will join, who will break? Only one remains—who will be joined, who will be broken?

If the intellect moves aside, you will find that I am there within you, and you are here within me. Then I am not saying anything that is mine. Nothing is mine. Kabir has said, “Mera mujh mein kuchh nahin”—nothing of me is mine.

In what I am saying, there is nothing of mine. What I am saying is yours. But you have not listened to your own; I have listened to mine. When you recognize what I am saying, you will find it was your own voice. It was your own song that I hummed.

No scriptures or doctrines are being discussed here; these are only pretexts, pegs. Under the pretext of scriptures and doctrines, something else is going on. If you only hear the words and go on thinking about them—right or wrong? Should I accept or not accept? Does it fit me or not?—then you have missed me. And one who misses me, misses himself as well. You have missed your own self.

Now you ask… If you had looked carefully at your own question, you would have understood.
‘In your discourses each day you create such immediacy that every hair stands on end. And a flood seems to rise in the heart.’
Flood “seems”? Beware—beware of the “seems like a flood.” A flood is needed.
‘And a state like a peak experience is created.’
A peak-experience-like state? Beware—this is a counterfeit coin!

Understand one tendency of the mind: whatever you desire, the mind fashions its images. It says, “Here, take it—present.” You were hungry all day; at night you dream that you are eating delicious food. The mind says, “All day you were hungry—here, food is served.” But no matter how deliciously you eat in the dream, the stomach will not be filled—though the sleep will be protected. If you remained hungry, sleep would be difficult. The dream says, “Here is food; eat happily and go to sleep.” You eat in the dream and go to sleep.

Have you ever noticed? In sleep you feel thirsty; it’s a hot night, the body has perspired a lot; in sleep thirst arises. Now the danger is that if the thirst grows, sleep will break. So the mind says, “Get up.” You get up—in the dream. You go to the refrigerator—in the dream. You drink a Coca-Cola—in the dream. You return to your bed and go to sleep—at ease now. The mind has deceived you. The thirst remains where it was. Neither did you get up, nor did you go anywhere; just a dream, a flood-like Coca-Cola; sleep is safeguarded; you turn over and keep sleeping. In the morning you find out, “Ah, I lay thirsty the whole night!”

The function of dream is to protect sleep. Lest sleep be broken, the arrangement of dream exists. Dream is security; it does not let sleep break; it guards it in every way. And an illusion is created. At least in sleep it suffices; you will know in the morning. The day you awaken, you will think, “Flood-like? In what deception did I live? In what dream did I get lost?”

Do not rely on such things. From this one thing is clear: whatever I say, your intellect screens it and only then lets it enter within. Your intellect stands like a guard. What I say, the intellect first tests it and then allows it in. Even if it only tested—still it would be okay—but it also changes its color and form; it makes it conform to the past. Intellect means your past—the sum total of what you have known so far, experienced, read, heard. Then nothing new can be said to you. And I am stubbornly intent on saying only the new to you.

You can hear only what is old; I insist on telling you what is new. That which is ever fresh is the eternal. That which is new every moment is the eternal. That which can never grow old is the ancient. But your intellect sits there with all its dust piled up. Whatever comes, the intellect changes its color. Then you can hear, but that hearing becomes a deception. Then a flood-like state arises. There the preparation is missed.

I tell you, the happening can happen this very moment, if you are ready. What does “ready” mean? Only this: that you are ready to lay your intellect aside. If you say, “All right—let the encounter happen directly, straight.”

Come into our heart; we will unite heart to heart—
there will be no intellect in between to set the stage, to introduce.
If there is no intellect to introduce us, then right now, this very instant, the happening can take place.

For religion there is no need to wait. It has nothing to do with tomorrow. It can happen today. Religion is always cash, never on credit. I give you no promise of tomorrow. It can happen now, this very moment. Those who promise you tomorrow are appealing to your intellect, inviting your intellect. I have sent no invitation to your intellect; I have called you. The day you come, putting the intellect aside, stepping it away, in that very instant union is possible.

You are addressed and you are near—
shall I look at you, or shall I talk to you?
You are sitting here; I am sitting here—
You are addressed and you are near—
shall I look at you, or shall I talk to you?

If you talk with me, you miss. If you look at me, you find. I am speaking here to you, and I am here too. Speaking is only a pretext. Speaking is only to call you. Speaking is only because you wouldn’t be able to sit empty with me for so long. Day after day you wouldn’t come just to sit empty. I cannot expect that much understanding from you. If I fall silent, you will slowly dwindle away. You will say, “If one has to sit there empty, we may as well sit at home.” You won’t even sit at home, because you will say, “What is the use of sitting empty? This much time could be converted into money. We could earn something, do something.”

I speak to keep you engaged—just as when a small child is making a fuss, you give him a toy. He plays with the toy and stays quiet for a while. I talk with you; words are toys. Play with them for a while. Perhaps while playing, the mind becomes absorbed; you linger here with me for a little while. Perhaps you raise your eyes and I become visible to you. That is the real issue; that is the real work. The real work will begin in the very moment you look at me.

You are addressed and you are near—
shall I look at you, or shall I talk to you?

How long will you go on talking to me? Now look. And there is no other meaning to preparation. Talking happens through the intellect; seeing happens through the heart. When you see, the heart comes behind the eyes. When you talk, the intellect comes behind the eyes. Intellect is your instrument for thinking; heart is your instrument for loving. Seeing is an event of love. And if it is not seen through love, what kind of seeing is that? Only when love pours through the eyes does seeing happen.

I am in front of you, and I am speaking to you. Now it is up to you—ask yourself:
You are addressed and you are near—
shall I look at you, or shall I talk to you?

Go on talking for births upon births—talk will go on generating more talk. I can go on talking; is there any obstacle to talking? Is anything easier than talk? But it was only a pretext. The pretext was that perhaps, in the midst of playing with toys, you might one day raise your eyes and look. Because the mind is entangled with the toys, let it stay entangled with the words; and in some moment a gap may open, a little space may appear, and you peek toward me. In that very moment the happening can happen. I am ready to give; the day you are ready to receive.

Don’t ask—walk. Asking, too, is the cleverness of the intellect. Even on the path of love the intellect asks, “Where are you taking me?” And the intellect cannot walk the path of love. If the intellect keeps asking, it won’t let you walk either. For once, have the courage to say, “Let’s go. We won’t ask.” That is the very sign of love.

If there is love for me, there is no need to ask—set out. Asking is a symptom of the absence of love. You want everything settled in advance—where are we going? Why are we going? What is the purpose? Is there any gain for me or not? Is the guide seeking his own gain? Is he deceiving me? Intellect is self-protection, and love is self-surrender. The two cannot go together.

This is love’s final examination—the last one: set out. And how long have you relied on the intellect? Where has it brought you? How long have you kept accounts with the intellect? Do you see a destination anywhere? Not even a glimpse. And still you go on trusting it?

A truly intelligent person sooner or later begins to doubt his own intellect. That is the pinnacle of intelligence—when doubt about one’s own intellect arises. It should arise. Only fools never doubt their own intellect. You’ve been walking with it for so long—where have you reached? And still you trust it.

The day this becomes clear to you, a new path opens in life—a new door. It was always close by, never far. How much distance is there between intellect and heart? It was near, it is near even now. But as long as you keep listening to the intellect and keep asking… Asking is an attempt to feel reassured. How can I reassure you? Whatever I say will be my saying; it will not become your experience. Until it becomes your own experience, how will trust arise in me?

So there are only two ways. Either keep going exactly as you’ve been going—perhaps after countless births you will tire, you will be bored, you will come to your senses; then you will take someone’s hand. That hand is available even now; it will always be available. That hand is God’s hand. God’s hand enters into many hands—sometimes into Buddha’s hand, sometimes into Mohammed’s. But something will happen only when your hand takes hold of it. And you will take hold only when you are ready to journey into the unknown.

Don’t ask, “Tell me, traveler, where are you taking me!”

For one thing, it is hard to tell, because in your language there is no word for that realm. And even if I tell you, how will you trust? Ask Buddha—he says nirvana. Ask Meera—she says Krishna, Vaikuntha. What comes of hearing words? Search all around Meera and you will find no address for Vaikuntha, because Vaikuntha is within Meera. Until the same happens within you—until you too take the plunge…

Don’t ask, “Tell me, traveler, where are you taking me—beyond the stars, what kind of realm is that?”

“Beyond the stars” means precisely this: beyond what is visible. The “stars” means the horizon of your sight—where your eyes can reach.

Beyond the stars there are yet more worlds.
And the trials of love are yet more.

What is the trial of love? Exactly this: that even where nothing is visible, you trust someone. Where nothing is visible, you have faith. Where nothing is visible, you still have the courage to walk.

What you call doubt—look closely—is it not merely cowardice? Is it not fear—fear of being robbed? How to make sure who is a thief and who is a guide?

But drop this worry first—what do you have left to be robbed of, anyway? You have already been looted. Where will you find a thief bigger than the world? The world has robbed you grain by grain, penny by penny. You are a cipher, a mere zero. Not even a single digit remains within. You have nothing, and still you are afraid you might be robbed!

This question—“Tell me, traveler, where are you taking me?”—arises from fear, from cowardice, from lack of courage. But if you are bored and tired of where you have been walking until now, what danger is there? Try a new path. The real issue is courage. People generally think the devout are timid and cowardly. I tell you, faith is the greatest audacity in this world.

It happened that a Tibetan seeker went to his master. The master had great fame, and this seeker was deeply trusting—ready always to accept whatever the master said. His reputation grew, and the other disciples felt hurt. One day, to get rid of him—they were sitting on a mountaintop—they said, “If you have complete faith in the master, jump.” He jumped. They were sure he would be finished. When they climbed down, they found him sitting in lotus posture. Such beauty, such fragrance was flowing from him as they had never seen around anyone. They were astonished. They thought, “Coincidence.”

Doubt, at most, can reach the word “coincidence”—that it was just a fluke that he was saved. No problem. A house caught fire; the disciples themselves said, “Go in, if you truly trust the master.” He went in. The house burned to ashes. When they went inside, expecting he too would have turned to ash, there he sat—untouched, lotus-like in fire. They had heard tales that such people exist—lotus-like in water: they are in water yet water does not touch them. But to see this today was astounding! He was in fire and fire did not touch him. If water doesn’t touch, one can still understand!

Now it became a little hard to call it coincidence. The master heard these reports. He too could not quite believe it, because he himself was not a man of such faith. He thought, “It must be coincidence. How could it happen in my name?” He himself did not feel sure that if he entered a burning house he would return alive, or that if he leapt from a cliff some unknown hands would hold him. So the master said, “We will see.”

One day they were passing by a riverbank. The master said, “You trust me so much that fire could not burn you, the cliff could not kill you; now walk across the river.” The disciple started walking. The river did not drown him; he walked upon the water as on land. The master thought, “Certainly, this is a miracle of my name.” His ego swelled—though in truth there was nothing there. He thought, “If someone could walk taking my name, I will certainly be able to.” He stepped onto the river and sank with the very first step. Somehow they dragged him out. He asked, “What is this? I myself drowned!” The disciple laughed and said, “I have faith in you—but you have none in yourself. Faith saves.”

Sometimes it happens that those in whom you have had faith had nothing in them—and still faith saved you. And sometimes it happens that those in whom you did not have faith had everything—and yet your lack of faith drowned you. People have doubted even in the presence of Buddhas and have drowned. And people have had faith even before pretenders and have arrived.

So I tell you, it is not the master who carries you across—faith carries you across. Therefore I say, faith itself is the master. Wherever the eye of your faith falls, there a master is born. God does not carry you—prayer carries you. Wherever heartfelt prayer happens, there God becomes present. Temples do not carry you—feeling carries you. Where there is feeling, there is a temple.

Don’t ask where I am taking you. If you have the courage to move, come along. If you don’t, don’t waste your time—run away. One should not stay near someone in whom one has no trust. Look elsewhere; perhaps trust will arise for someone else. For the real question is trust. In whom it arises is secondary. Who knows—if it arises for someone else, then your path will begin there. Go to the one before whom the question “Where are you taking me?” does not arise—be ready to set out. If he goes into darkness, then into darkness; and if into hell, then into hell. Where doubts and questions do not arise in your heart—this is the final destination, the last test.

Beyond the stars there are yet more worlds.
The trials of love are yet more.

And the last trial of love is just this: that love be so exclusive, faith so extraordinary, that faith itself becomes the boat, that love itself saves. It is not the path that carries you—faith carries you. The destination is not far at all. Whoever has loved has found it within.

What is the need? Why must you take a stand toward everyone? Choose your point of devotion, and forget the rest. You don’t have to keep faith with all the Buddhas. Keep it with one at least. If you try to hold it for all, you’ll get into a great tangle. It is hard enough with one—how will you manage with all? Make one temple into a true temple; don’t trouble yourself about all the mosques, all the gurdwaras, all the Shiv temples. For the one whose single temple becomes a real temple, one day it is suddenly found that in all the mosques, in all the gurdwaras, that very temple abides. If one is fulfilled, all is fulfilled.

And if you try to keep faith in all, where do you have so much faith? If you distribute it, it will be reduced to pinches and crumbs. If you are to call on Allah, then call only Allah with your whole life-breath. Do not get into that sort of sloganeering—“Allah-Ishwar tere naam.” Then there will be power neither in your Ram nor in your Allah. That may be political talk; it has nothing to do with religion. Call only Allah with your total intensity, and one day you will recognize the Ram hidden in Allah. When Allah is called with total urgency and fervor, Ram is also found. When Ram is called with total urgency, Allah too is found. For these are all names of the same One. But don’t sit and string a rosary of all the names.

What need has a devotee, a lover of absorption and bhakti, for Buddha? Let Buddha be; let him mind his own work. The devotee should drown in absorption and devotion. Why do you want to raise such obstacles?

Remember, the goal is one; the paths are many. If you try to walk on all paths at once, you will go mad. You will walk only on one path, though all paths lead to the same destination. If you have to go to Bombay, you will choose one route. If you choose them all, you’ll walk two steps on this path, two on that, four on another—how will you ever arrive? You will arrive only by walking one path.

The bhakta’s world is different. The bhakta’s way of seeing is different. The bhakta’s modes and manners are different. The bhakta’s lifestyle is different. The seeker (sadhaka) works at awareness. Through awareness he attains ecstasy. The bhakta works at ecstasy. Through ecstasy he attains awareness.

Jabān-e-hosh se yeh kufr sarzad ho nahin sakta
Main kaise bin piye le loon Khuda ka naam, aye saqi

With a tongue of sobriety this “heresy” cannot be committed:
How could I take God’s name without drinking, O cupbearer?

The devotee’s world is altogether different. He says, “Even to take God’s name, we cannot do it without drinking. It is God’s name—how could it be taken in a common, sober way! We will take it in ecstasy. Take God’s name in cold awareness? It doesn’t fit. We will take it by drowning in it. We will take it by going mad with love.”

Jabān-e-hosh se yeh kufr sarzad ho nahin sakta

The bhakta says, “My tongue cannot commit that sin.”

Main kaise bin piye le loon Khuda ka naam, aye saqi

“I will take it only after drinking, only while dancing, drenched in ecstasy. To take God’s name soberly? Then it will get stuck on the mind. I will take it with staggering steps.”

Paav padain kit ke kiti—Sahajo has said.
Who can say where the feet will land? We will sway as we take it. To take God’s name with tight control? Then it is no longer God’s name. The devotee’s world is very different.

Gunah gin-gin ke main kyon apne dil ko chhota karoon
Suna hai tere karam ka koi hisab nahin

Why should I make my heart small by counting my sins?
I have heard there is no account of Your grace.

If the heart of the Divine is vast, if His compassion is boundless, why should we shrink our minds by counting our faults—this mistake, that mistake? That becomes a complaint against Him. The bhakta says: shall we keep accounts of our faults and sins?

Gunah gin-gin ke main kyon apne dil ko chhota karoon
Suna hai tere karam ka koi hisab nahin

If God’s compassion is measureless, why make our hearts small?

The bhakta does not worry about sin and merit. This does not mean he commits sins. The bhakta becomes so absorbed in the Divine that sins do not happen. One who has remembered God with such a heart—how will sins arise from him?

Understand it this way: the bhakta does not drop sin; he takes hold of God, and sins drop by themselves. The seeker drops sin, and through the dropping of sin he finds God. The seeker must strive, grain by grain. The seeker is effort and resolve. The bhakta is surrender.

The bhakta says, “Your compassion is so boundless—why should we be needlessly crushed, ‘this mistake happened, that mistake happened’? Will You really be concerned with such mistakes? Will You keep accounts of our faults? We are so small—we cannot even manage great faults!”

What great wrong have you done—just think. And if God keeps accounts, then He is no God—He is a shopkeeper. What are your faults anyway? What have you done? The bhakta says, “And even if it happened, You must have made it happen. It must have been Your will.”

The bhakta says, “What a joke! You made us as we are—now mistakes occur through us, and the punishment is ours—what a joke! You make, You make us do, and we get trapped!” The bhakta does not put himself in between. He says, “It is Your work; You know. You made me as You made me; whatever happened, happened through You. We are Yours—now You decide.” That is the bhakta’s way. The seeker says, “Mistakes have happened; each mistake must be cut out, corrected.”

So choose your path once. Then don’t keep asking, “I have chosen the path of devotion—now I also want to cultivate awareness.” Then it will go wrong. Or, “I have chosen devotion—now I must also do yoga postures.” Where does a dancer have the leisure to do postures? And what taste is there in postures once one has learned to dance? And is there any posture greater than dance? Yoga-asan means the posture where we become one with That. What posture is greater than dance? For dance is the great yoga. But that is the bhakta’s way.

If you have chosen the bhakta’s path, then forget… Forget Buddha—no obstacle will arise from forgetting him, and Buddha will not be offended. When you reach the goal, his blessing will come to you anyway: “You have arrived—even without me, you arrived.” But if you have chosen Buddha, then drop the talk of bhakti.

Beware that these may not be tricks of your mind: what you choose you don’t want to do, so you bring in the other in between, so that a hurdle appears, a dilemma is created. And when there is a dilemma, how to proceed?

If you have chosen Buddha, Buddha is enough. No one else is needed. Then forget Mira and Chaitanya. Don’t bring Krishna in between. Buddha is sufficient. This treatment is complete; there is no need to add anyone else.

But that way is different, that world is different! There each mistake must be cut out. Awareness must be cultivated. Resolve must be intensified. You must refine and purify yourself. When you are refined and purified, then the Divine will descend into you.

The bhakta calls the Divine and says, “You come. What will be refined by me? What will be improved by me? You come—Your very presence will refine and improve.”

People have arrived by both ways. For me there is no preference. Both are perfectly right. Choose the path in tune with your nature. If you can surrender, choose bhakti. If you cannot surrender—if surrender gives you no taste, does not suit you—then yoga, austerity, meditation.

Meditation is for those who are afraid to drown in love. Prayer is for those who are ready to drown in love. In meditation you cut the thought. In love you offer the thought in surrender. In both cases thought goes. The meditator cuts it off; the lover lays it at the feet of the Divine, saying, “You take care.”

As life bows down little by little, as the ego melts bit by bit, even in the darkest night his lightning begins to flash. If you do not bend, his coming does not begin. You yourself are the obstacle. You yourself stand as the wall. Let yourself fall; his open sky has always been free.

The divine is not far; you stand rigid. Your stiffness is the distance. Your softening, your bowing—that itself becomes nearness. The Upanishads say: the divine is farther than the far and nearer than the near. Far, when you grow rigid. Far, when you turn your back. Far, when you stubbornly insist he is not. Far, when you say, “I am, you are not.” Near, when you say, “Only you are; I am not.” When you open your eyes. When you hold out your vessel—the vessel of your heart—before him, then you are filled with a thousand upon thousand treasures.

The Lord can come every day. He does come. Who else could come? Even when you do not recognize, it is he who comes. When you recognize—blessed fortune! Even when you do not recognize, none other has ever come, nor will come; it is he who comes. For all faces are his. All forms, his. All tones, his. Through all eyes, it is he who has peeped. So if even once there is the feeling that an advent has happened, deepen that feeling, cherish it; practice it, make it into awareness. And slowly, try to recognize him in whatever comes.

There is an old saying: “The guest is God.” It means we should keep trying to recognize the divine in whoever arrives. Even if the divine raises a thousand obstacles, do not be deceived. Even if he comes hurling abuses, still understand that it is he. Let him be seen in the friend—and in the enemy too. In your own—and in the stranger as well. Not only in the darkness of night, but in the brightness of day. Not only in sleep and dreams, but in wakefulness. For now you are a bud, and as many of his footfalls as you begin to hear, that many of your petals will begin to open.

I understand your pain. Sometimes a glimpse comes and is lost. Sometimes he seems to come near, and then the footsteps recede. It seems—found, found—and some thread slips from the hand.

In the garden, everyone has seen flowers bloom,
In the garden, everyone has seen flowers bloom,
But who knows the plight of the sobbing bud?

That weeping of the bud, that sobbing—

But that is the state of you all: the sobbing bud, the crying bud. And a bud can become a flower only when it begins to hear the footsteps of the Infinite. By yourself, you cannot become a flower. In the morning when the sun rises and its rays begin to dance near the bud, in intimacy—above the bud—when the soft, soft steps of the sun’s rays fall upon it, the bud blossoms into a flower. Until the footsteps of the divine begin to fall upon you, until his notes come and strike you, you will remain like a bud.

And the bud’s pain is precisely this—that it could not blossom. What could have been, did not happen. When destiny is not fulfilled, that is the anguish, that is the sorrow. Every person’s pain is this: that what he has come to become is not becoming. He tries a thousand ways—right, wrong; he runs about—but finds that time is passing, and what I came to be is not happening. And until you become exactly what you have come to be, contentment is impossible. Only by becoming oneself does fulfillment come.

So listen for the Lord’s footsteps wherever they are heard. And gradually they will be heard from all sides. The day every moment there is the sense that he is the one standing at the door, in that instant the flower suddenly opens. The fragrance you carry within expresses itself. That is grace, celebration, wonder.

In the garden, everyone has seen flowers bloom,
But who knows the plight of the sobbing bud?

I know it. I know the state of each of you. Because once it was my state too. I have passed through that pain: when you search on all sides and find no clue; grope on all sides and find no lamp; and life keeps passing moment by moment, the moments slip from the hands, the current of life goes on—here comes death, here comes death; life gone, gone—and nothing could happen; who knows what we had brought, we never understood; who knows why we came, why we were sent, there was no realization; the song remained unsung, the flower unblossomed.

Listen to his voice—and all voices are his; the art of listening is needed. Attune to him, for all forms are his; the art of attunement is needed. Waking and sleeping, rising and sitting, let one remembrance remain: that you are surrounded by the divine. In the beginning you will miss again and again, you will forget, oblivion will happen. But if you keep holding the thread, then, as Buddha says, you will not remain a heap of flowers. That thread of awareness will make a garland of your flowers.

And then I tell you—again and again—on the day your garland is ready, he himself bends down; he puts his neck into your garland. For our hands will never reach him—reach his head. Let our garland be ready; he himself reaches us.

Man never reaches God. Whenever man is ready, God comes to him.

Enough for today.