Es Dhammo Sanantano #34

In a town of madmen, a sensible person has arrived! Questions raised out of cleverness have no value. Below it is signed, “a seeker of truth.” There is neither curiosity nor search here; the mind must be stuffed with beliefs.

A true seeker does not even know that God is. A seeker does not even know that dharma is. A seeker does not even know that there is a master. A seeker does not so much ask questions; a seeker declares his thirst.

Questions arise in two ways: one as thirst—then their quality is different. And the other out of information, from an intellect filled with junk; from that, questions arise.

The first question: “Have you completely attained dharma?”
Do you even know what dharma is? Do you know what “completely” means? In the realm of dharma, does anyone who “attains” remain?

Each word needs to be understood, because it may be that, lurking in some corner within you, the same kind of notions, the same kind of beliefs are piled up. First: no one attains dharma; one is lost in dharma. Dharma is not a possession you can hold in your fist. Dharma is death—into which you dissolve. When you are not, dharma is. As long as you are, dharma is not.

Therefore, whoever claims to have attained dharma has certainly not attained it. Claiming has nothing to do with dharma. The very idea is petty. Whatever you can possess, that very “dharma” has become small. Whatever can fit into your fist is no longer the vast. Whatever your intellect can grasp is no longer worth grasping. Whatever can find a place in the rows of your logic, whatever can fit into the pigeonholes of your mind, that is no longer the sky of dharma.

Buddha has said: when you vanish so totally that not even the soul remains—become no-self, anatta, become emptiness—only then that which appears is dharma—Es dhammo sanantano.

With the scholar, dharma is in his fist. With the wise, they are in the fist of dharma. The scholar “knows” dharma; the sage is known by dharma. Whoever has known has known only this: where does the knower remain? Whoever has known has known this: it was because of “me” that it could not be known; I was the obstacle. When I disappeared, when I was no more, then the descent happened.

It is not that there are some obstacles within you because of which you cannot know dharma—you are the obstacle. Because of you, you cannot know dharma. You have been told you cannot know because of ignorance; that is wrong. You have been told you cannot know because of sin; that is wrong.

I tell you, it is because of you that you cannot know. If you remain, even with virtue you will not know. If you remain, even if ignorance is replaced by knowledge, you will not know. Sin will prevent, yes—but virtue also prevents. Ignorance prevents—but knowledge also prevents.

And often it has happened that ignorance does not block as badly as knowledge blocks. Ignorance is helpless; knowledge is puffed up with ego. Sometimes sin is not as heavy a chain as virtue becomes. In the pride of virtue, diamonds and jewels get studded in the chain. The sinner at least repents; the virtuous only becomes more and more stiff with pride.

It is not indulgence that has led you astray; therefore I say to you, yoga will not be able to take you there either. When you yourself are not—neither an indulger nor a yogi—when no one remains inside, when you become empty in every way, then what is known is dharma.

Dharma means: intrinsic nature. Ego obstructs that nature.

So first understand this: those who have known dharma are no more. The Upanishads say: whoever says “I have known”—know well he has not known. Socrates said: when I knew, I knew only this—that we know nothing.

What does “completely” mean? If Dharma could be attained completely, it would become limited. Only that which has a boundary can be attained in full. Dharma has no boundary. Therefore you will drown in Dharma. Dharma will attain you completely, but you can never attain it completely.

When a drop falls into the ocean, the ocean attains the drop completely. But to say the drop has attained the ocean completely—what does that mean? The drop is no more; in attaining, it is lost; in fulfilling the condition of attainment, it disappears.

This language of “the whole” is also the language of greed. Little-more, full-less; measures—half a quarter, a quarter, half a seer, a whole seer—these are mathematical measures. Can Truth be fragmented so you get half? Can Truth be broken into pieces so you take a little now and a little tomorrow?

Truth is indivisible; there can be no fragments. And Truth is infinite; therefore you can never attain it “in full.”

It may sound like a contradiction, a paradox: I am saying Truth is indivisible—it cannot be in pieces; and Truth is infinite—so you cannot have it whole. Then it seems impossible: if it has no pieces, we cannot take it bit by bit; and if it is infinite, we cannot have it entire. What to do?

One dissolves into Truth, is lost in it. As the Ganges, entering the ocean, disappears, so man, entering the Divine, disappears.

So I can only tell you this: the Divine has attained me completely—completely! He has not left me even a speck outside Himself. And you will be a bit more puzzled, because I also want to tell you that He has already attained you completely as well; you just don’t remember. How could you be without Him? He is the one who breathes in you; therefore breath goes on. He is the one who throbs in you; therefore the heart beats. He is the one who is awake in you; therefore there is awareness. He is your birth, your very life. He has already attained you completely.

Just turn back a little and look! Recognize yourself! In self-recognition, you will discover identity with Him has happened. Seeking oneself, one finds Him. Therefore those who go straight out searching for God go astray; those who go in search of themselves go aright.

Whenever someone comes to me saying, “I want to attain God,” I understand a wrong person has come. This very talk is greedy; it is foolish; it is ego’s talk. This man’s mind belongs to the marketplace.

When someone comes and says, “I want a bit of recognition of myself,” that is right. One who does not know himself—how will he know God? And one who knows himself—what need remains to know God? Whoever has recognized himself has caught hold of His thread. He is present within you.

It has never happened that He was absent; that is why we call Him eternal. There is no place where He is not; that is why we call Him omnipresent. You cannot be so special that He is everywhere except with you. Do not consider yourself the exception.

I have heard a story. Someone told Sheikh Chilli, “Your wife has become a widow.” In the crowded marketplace he began to beat his chest and weep. A crowd gathered, people laughed. Someone asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “My wife has become a widow.” They said, “Fool! You are sitting here alive—how can your wife be a widow?” He said, “What difference does my being alive make? While I was sitting alive, my mother became a widow. While I was sitting alive, my aunt became a widow. While I was sitting alive, my maternal aunt became a widow. So many women in the neighborhood became widows, in the whole village so many became widows—what difference does it make?” And he began to beat his chest again.

Your search for God is like that—as if a man believes his wife has become a widow while he himself is sitting alive. When has God been lost? If you are, God is. His being is contained in your being. While you are, your wife cannot be a widow. While you are, it is impossible that God is not. You are sufficient proof. You are His presence. You are His signature.

But the real question is to know yourself. The real question is not to know God. The moment you begin God-talk, you get entangled in word-nets and scripture-nets. If you go to know yourself, sadhana is born. If you go to know God, it is futile head-scratching. I have no interest in it.

Drop God. Your proving will not prove Him; your disproving will not disprove Him. He is. Whether you know or not—no difference. His hand has already reached within you. Probe there; there you will catch His hand.

And whoever cannot catch Him within the nearest self will not catch Him anywhere. Then every place becomes far. If His voice is not heard in the heartbeat of your heart, you will not hear it anywhere.

“Have you attained Dharma completely?”
No one has ever lost it. That which can be lost—would that be Dharma? Dharma means that which cannot be lost; your eternal nature; what you are; your pure being. No one has ever lost it. Even if you try, you cannot lose it. At most you can fall into forgetfulness. And even that takes great effort, great struggle. A thousand devices, methods, arrangements must be made; then somehow you manage to forget. A thousand kinds of intoxicants must be drunk to forget.

So first keep this in mind: Dharma is that which is. The very name of is-ness is Dharma. The nature of existence is Dharma.

When I speak of Dharma I am not talking about Hinduism, Islam, Christianity—these illnesses from which man has to become healthy. I am speaking of that Dharma which Mahavira named: vatthu sahavo dhammo—the nature of the thing is Dharma.

Fire burns—this is the dharma of fire.
Water flows downward—this is the dharma of water.
Air is invisible—this is the dharma of air.
You are conscious—this is your dharma.

Hold your own dharma rightly; from there the door to the Vast opens.

And remember, whatever you come to know, by that Dharma will not be exhausted. Whatever you know, take it as if someone has peeped at the sky through a window. The window-frame is not the nature of the sky. The window’s shape has nothing to do with the sky. Whether your window is round or square, of any form or color, small or big, barred or open—it makes no difference. The sky has no relation with the window. But whoever looks from behind the window will feel as if the window’s shape is the sky’s shape.

What you know has no relation to that ultimate Truth. What you know is your mind’s window, your frame. Truth is forever unknowable; unknowability is its nature. However much you know, you will not exhaust it. All “knowings,” all concepts are your windows.

One calls it God—that is his window. One calls it moksha—that is his window. One calls it nirvana—that is his window. One says nothing, falls silent—that is his window.

Whatever we can say about It is not about It; it is about us. All that has ever been said “about” It is about the sayers—their windows, assumptions, mental constructs.

Truth is forever unfamiliar—and therein lies its beauty. That which has become familiar is already dead. What you have known has come to its limit. What you have recognized—its mystery has ended. Once you think you know, where is the wonder? It will not leave you speechless. You will no longer stand before it and dance, filled with awe.

Therefore, whosoever falls into the illusion of knowing—wonder departs from his life. And wonder is the bridge to God. The more humanity has become possessed by the conceit that “we know”—science has told a few things, scriptures have told a few things, we have memorized them—the more dust has gathered over us, and the possibility of childlike wonder has waned.

Have you watched a small child? Pebbles by the roadside, glittering in sunlight, become Kohinoors; he picks them up. You say, “Drop it, throw it away—why are you collecting trash!” You do not understand. In the sunlight that colored stone looks so majestic to the child.

It is not about the stone; the child’s eyes of wonder have not yet closed. His doors of amazement are still open. His mind is not yet burdened by knowledge. He is still innocent. He can still see with empty eyes, and then everything becomes beautiful. He runs after butterflies and heaven’s ecstasy arrives. He gathers flowers as if liberation has happened.

Jesus said: Those who are like little children—only they shall enter the kingdom of my Father.

I tell you the same: do not become “knowers.” Do not lose the capacity for wonder; that is the greatest treasure. Do not sit like a pundit who says, “I know.” Dust settles on the scholar’s mind; nothing astonishes him then. He seems to know everything.

Set aside your knowing a little. Shake off this dust of thoughts. Then look with some wonder: in every leaf is His greenness; in every bird’s song are His notes.

But your knowing, your knowledge, is sucking the life out of you. The cuckoo sings, you say, “A cuckoo is singing.” I say: listen again; through the cuckoo He Himself has sung. A flower blossoms, you say, “A flower is blooming.” I say: look again; under the pretext of the flower, He has blossomed. These are all His pretexts. If you understand the flower is blooming—you miss. If you think the cuckoo sings—you miss.

Empty your eyes a little; step outside your windows; set aside being Hindu or Muslim; put Gita and Quran aside; look with open eyes—as though a small child were seeing for the very first time. See this world again as if for the first time—you will find Him, peeking from everywhere.

The circumference is the flaw of vision;
The ego’s sight is blunted.
Familiarity is the body of delusion;
Unfamiliarity is the simple eternal.
Familiarity is the body of delusion.

Wherever you think “I know, I’m familiar”—there delusion rises.

Consider a few events of life. You married a woman thirty years ago. You took seven rounds, the band played, you came home on a horse; since then, have you looked at this woman again, closely? You assumed “she is my wife”—the matter was finished. No need to look freshly. You took seven rounds, the band played—you established a familiarity. The priest chanted mantras. An unfamiliar woman stood there; you too were unfamiliar; and this ritual established a bond of familiarity. But have you truly become familiar with your wife?

A child is born at home; you give him a name, call a pundit to cast a horoscope. Do you really know your child—who he is? Who has descended? Who has come again? Who has taken on this body? Who peeps through these innocent eyes? Who looked at you? You say, “Our son.”

Familiarity is the body of delusion;
Unfamiliarity is the simple eternal.

Those who know, know that familiarity is all deception. Who knows whom? Those you call “your own”—do you really know them? Leave them aside! Do you even know yourself?

Familiarity is the body of delusion;
Unfamiliarity is the simple eternal.

If you truly wish to seek Truth, break the boundaries of familiarity; look again and again. Do not let familiarity become dense; do not let it take root. Do not let the dust of familiarity settle. Bathe again and again; become unfamiliar again and again—so that life remains fresh, new like the morning; clean like the morning dew. Then you will find Him peeking from everywhere—through your wife too, through your son too. Someday, standing before the mirror, you will suddenly discover the image in the mirror is not yours—His is appearing; through you too—it is He.

“Have you attained Dharma completely?”
Now you find the answer yourself.

“Are you a true Master?”
You don’t even have the awareness of what you are asking! Ask only this: are you a true disciple? If you are, my answer will no longer be needed.

It is like a blind man asking, “Has the sun risen?” Even if the sun says, “I have risen,” what difference will it make? The blind man will ask, “Are you telling the truth?” Even if the sun says, “I am telling the truth,” the blind man will ask, “Any proof?” The blind man has not asked the fundamental question. He should have asked, “Am I blind? I cannot see anything.”

Turn the question always toward yourself, because the search is your own. What have you to do with my being or not being a true Master? Why make it your concern? And if you are asking me—how will it be resolved? If I say yes, what difference will it make? Your mind will immediately raise another question: is what he said right, true? Doubt will remain where it is. Even if I gather a few testimonies—“Here are people who say so”—doubt will arise: perhaps these witnesses have been tutored!

See the real point. Within you there is doubt, not trust. And through doubt there can be no relationship with the Master, nor with Truth. Leave worrying about me. Worry about yourself—that is enough.

This much I tell you: if you have the capacity to learn, if you are ready to learn—readiness to learn means you are ready to bow, to admit “I do not know”—then there will be no need to ask this question; you will become my witness. And until you become my witness, no testimonies will help.

Open your eyes—look at the earth, look at the sky, look at the vastness;
Look a while at the sun emerging from the east.

But before looking, your eyes must be open.

Open your eyes and look at me—there is the answer. If you keep your eyes closed and look at me, no matter how many answers I give, they will not reach you.

If you are ready to learn, if you have emptied your vessel, I am ready to pour myself out completely.

But in your vessel I see not even space for a drop. You are so full—no emptiness, no space. Where is the room to enter? You have shut all doors and windows. You have built walls of logic, walls of scriptures. You are hiding behind them, and from there you ask, “Are you a true Master?”

The question comes from blindness; otherwise you could see all true Masters in me—even leaving aside “one.” If you have eyes, the sun is risen.

Open your eyes—look at the earth, look at the sky, look at the vastness;
Look a while at the sun emerging from the east.

But you have forgotten how to open your eyes. People think it is Truth’s responsibility to prove itself. Why should Truth bother? As if it were the sun’s responsibility to open your eyes! Why should the sun bother? The sun will not knock at your door; it will come and stand there—if the door is open, it will enter; if closed, it will remain outside. It will not knock; it will not say, “I have come, open the door.” It will wait silently.

And this is beautiful. Because if Truth knocks at the door, it becomes interference. If the sun tries to force its way into your house, it is encroachment. If God tries to wake you by force, where does your freedom remain? If there were no right to sleep, no possibility of going astray, man’s dignity would be lost.

All of man’s good fortune is just this: if he wishes, he can fall into hell, into the darkest layers; and if he wishes, he can attain the infinite realm of light. Man’s glory is that he is free. His freedom is unhindered. Man is freedom—this is his beauty, his pride; and this too is his obstacle, his difficulty. This is his dilemma.

You would have preferred that there be no possibility of going astray, and that you be like railway tracks on which carriages run—no need to go anywhere else. But then Truth, if it is slavery, compulsion, becomes ugly. And if Truth becomes ugly—it is no longer Truth. In the beauty of Truth is included that it will be free.

That is why God is not manifest. His manifestness would be a great bondage. His unmanifestness is freedom.

Think a little: if God kept standing in your way everywhere—you go to smoke a cigarette, He stands before you; you are about to pour wine, He stands in front; you are picking someone’s pocket, He arrives—living would become impossible, difficult.

No, you have been left to yourself. You have to learn from your own mistakes. You have to wander and wander and then find the path. And a path found without wandering is not of great value. What is found after much wandering—that has value. That for which you pay a price—that has value.

So I say to you: seek me; I am present here. I stand at your door, but I will not knock; you will have to open the door. I am ready to come in, but without your invitation I will not come. Until I find your heart has become a welcome, there is no reason to enter.

Ask this: are you a true disciple? Ask this: are your eyes open? Are you ready to learn?

For if you wish to recognize the true Master, you must attain discipleship; there is no other way. What is the recognition of a lake?—that you are thirsty. You stand by a lake, not thirsty, and you ask the water, “Do you have the capacity to quench thirst?” What will the lake say? If there is no thirst, what way has the lake to prove it can quench?

There must be thirst. Then you won’t ask; thirst itself will take you into the lake. The thirsty does not ask whether water will quench; the thirsty writhes for water. He drinks without asking; by drinking he knows thirst is quenched. And from that experience, understanding arises. There is no understanding other than experience.

Am I a true Master or not, a lake or not—there is no other way. Awaken thirst and come. Come with thirst. Drink and see!

The essence, the sutra, is only this: keep your gaze on yourself, your attention on yourself. The gaze toward the other is the worldly outlook. If your gaze turns toward your own self, you will learn a great deal—not only from me, but from many others as well. And if you are ready to become a disciple, this whole existence will appear to you filled with true Masters. Trees and rocks and waterfalls will all become Masters.

There was a Sufi fakir, Hasan. When he was dying, someone asked him, “Who was your Master?” He said, “The list is very long, and my breaths are few. If I speak of all my Masters, I will need a life as long as the one I have lived, for at every moment there were meetings; everywhere they came to me.”

Still the man insisted, “At least tell us of the very first Master, from whom you had your first glimpse.” He said, “I was passing through a village. Then I was very puffed up, because I had studied philosophy, read scriptures, memorized texts, learned logic; there was great arrogance. I saw a small boy going toward the mosque with a lamp in his hand. I asked him, ‘Listen, did you light the lamp?’ He said, ‘I did.’ I asked him a philosophical question: ‘Since you lit it, you must know—from where did the flame come? It must have come from somewhere. And since you lit it yourself, you must have seen—from where did the flame come?’ The child said, ‘Wait.’ He blew out the lamp and said, ‘The flame is gone. Can you tell me where it went? It went right before your eyes.’”

Hasan said, “My arrogance broke. I bowed and touched his feet. A small child threw my entire philosophy into the trash; opened my eyes. I was trying to teach even a small child something that I myself did not know. He broke my attempt at being the guru—and became the guru.”

And you go to Buddhas, to Mahaviras, to Christs—and ask, “Are you a true Master?”

There is no limit to your blindness. Those who have eyes find true Masters even in little children. Events along the road become scriptures. From accidents they glean formulas for liberation. From the essence of their wanderings the path is made. From mistakes they distill perfume. From the bricks of error they build the mansion of freedom. The real question is your readiness to learn.

Dive into your own mind and find the clue to life;
If you won’t become mine, no matter—at least become your own.

But if you become your own, you have become mine. If you become your own, you have become God’s. You are not even your own—that is the obstacle.

And the third question: “Are you capable of bringing God to me?”
As if this were my problem! As if I am being challenged!

If you are not a vessel, then no one is capable; and if you are a vessel, no intermediary is needed. Your very receptivity brings God. The very moment you are ready, the shower happens; there is not even a moment’s delay. There is a saying: “There is delay, but no darkness.” I say to you: there is not even delay. There is neither darkness nor delay. The proverb is somewhat wrong. The moment you are ready, that very moment it happens. And until it happens, know only this: you are not ready—do not complain.

“Are you capable of bringing God to me?”
What have I to do with it? You are; your God is; your search is. If because of me you get a little support—enough. For that you should be grateful. Here you are challenging me—as if this too were my job. As if, if God does not come to you, it will be my fault. As if I will be caught: why did God not come to you?

How many ways you have found to remain slaves! You simply will not drop slavery. Sometimes slavery to wealth, sometimes to position; and if you escape from there, then slavery to a guru. Slavery means someone else should do it; you depend on another. Why this insistence on remaining a beggar? God has wished that you be an emperor.

I can give you a few hints; the search—you will have to do.

This does not mean I am not capable of bringing God to you; if I have brought Him to myself, what obstacle to bring Him to you? There is no obstacle except you. I stand before you always, holding the gift of God. Just open your doors, just look at what I have brought for you. I am standing right before you holding it, and you ask, “Are you capable?” What a joke. You have no vision; you have greed, but no vision. You want to get, but you make no readiness for getting.

And God does not have to be brought—He is already here.

Since when do the emporiums of Existence run empty by looting and snatching?
Here, mountain upon mountain are diamonds; here, ocean upon ocean are pearls.

Plunder as much as you like—God will not run short!

Here He has surrounded you from every side.

I am giving you only what you already have. And I want to snatch from you only what you do not have. This will sound absurd, but there is no other way to say it.

Let me repeat: I want to snatch from you what you do not have; and I want to give you what you have always had.

Good, auspicious.
To come to a halt is everything. When, awestruck, something stops within—when the inner movement ceases—the world’s movement ceases. The moment something stops inside, time outside stops. The moment something stops inside, the moon and stars stop. The moment something stops inside, everything stops. The instant becomes eternal.
And where thoughts come to a stop, there for the first time meaning dawns. Where the mind halts, pauses, becomes no-mind—there for the first time the clue to life is found.

In truth, if you ask, the whole point was only this:
the tongue fell silent right where words were about to be spoken.
What you wish to say—the tongue will fall silent as you try to say it. What you wish to think—will not come in thinking; thinking will halt. And this is not a destination you reach by walking; it is one you reach by stopping.

In the world, you run—you must run; the goal is outside, the goal is distant—always there, where the sky touches the horizon. Run as much as you will, you never arrive.
Have you ever tried to understand that however much you run in the world, you never arrive? And to attain the Divine there is no need to run; for it is the home you never left. However far your eyes may have gone—to the moon and the stars—you have been sitting in the same home. However far dreams may have taken you, the journey is of dreams. When you awaken, you will find yourself in your own home.
For the Divine you do not have to run—you have to stop. By running we are losing the Divine.

Say it like this: Even by running and running, the world is hard to gain. To gain the Divine there is only one way: stop. That which cannot be attained even by running—that is the world; that which is found without running—that is the Divine. The names will differ.

The Gita says: sthitaprajna—where wisdom is steady, where the mind is not shaken.

“Something inside has become suspended.”
Let it be so. Support it. Do not, in haste, spoil it; do not start shaking it. Because the mind, burdened by old habits, is greatly troubled and tormented. The new the mind cannot recognize. And when the mind comes to a standstill, a great panic arises, the heart trembles. A great restlessness seems to descend—what has happened? The ever-playing melody, the ever-running thoughts, the ever-turning wheels—suddenly they have stopped! And the fear arises: even by constant running we could not arrive—now we are stopping; how will we ever arrive? Panic sets in.
Do not, in that panic, restart the mind that had begun to stop. This mistake happens again and again. When meditation begins to settle—even for those who were very eager to meditate—panic grabs them. The urge arises to set the mind moving. To start anything at all!

For when meditation begins to settle and emptiness starts to descend it feels: dead! Now dead! Death has happened! Because you have taken yourself to be the mind. Beyond it you have no experience of your own. When the mind halts, it feels as if we too are gone. This is too costly. You had thought, we will be saved—more beautiful, more true, more auspicious. We will be saved—eternal. This has turned out the opposite. We went to cure the disease; the patient himself has begun to disappear. The medicine has worked a bit too well. Panic will seize you.

At just that time the company of the true Master is needed. The Master’s nearness is deeply needed in two places: first, to set you on the path; and second, when the goal draws near, to keep you from running away. Otherwise you will want to turn back. You will say, forget it! This is too much. We did not come to die.

Meditation is death. When thoughts stop, it will seem that death is arriving. One must learn to accept death. Whoever has accepted death becomes immortal.

And therefore within, a rhythm of dance is sounding; within, a dance is on. Only when the mind halts does the dance awaken. Only when the mind halts do unfamiliar, ever-new songs arise. When the mind halts, windows open; new breezes, fresh winds of existence begin to ripple through your very life-breath.
No sooner do you “die” here than life begins to descend there. Your death is the beginning of the supreme life. Your crucifixion on one side, and on the other side you sit enthroned. The cross and the throne are two sides of the same coin.

My senses were lost before Your coming;
we ourselves were lost before attaining You.
So it will be. The mind will be lost—who will be left to keep awareness? The mind will break—where will the ego remain? The ego is only a construct of the mind, a mirage of the mind. The notion “I am” is itself a thought. When all thoughts halt, this thought too will halt. You will not even know “I am.”

My senses were lost before Your coming;
we ourselves were lost before attaining You.
Always it has been so. Man never meets God. As long as man is, God is not. When God is, man is not. The meeting never “happens.” To meet the Divine is to meet your great death. But only through that great death is the door to the great Life.

Is there such a way, by your grace, O Saki,
that I might lift your tavern and place it in my heart?
Is there such a way—he asks the cupbearer—

Is there such a way, by your grace, O Saki,
that I might lift your tavern and place it in my heart?
—so that I may place the entire tavern within my heart, and need not drink cup by cup?
Yes, there is such a way. This school exists to teach precisely that. Why sip by handfuls? Why drink by mugs? There is a way to lift the whole tavern—place it in the heart.
When the Divine enters within, life becomes a season of honey; the whole tavern comes within. Then a dance is born—a dance in which there is no movement; a dance where all is still and yet the dance goes on. A song in which there is no sound—complete, empty silence—and yet the tone resounds. That is what is called anahat nada. That is what is called Nada-Brahma. Sound disappears, yet the resonance remains. It is hard to say; hard to understand; but it happens.

However hard it is for the intellect to grasp, that only proves how far the intellect can go. It lies beyond the categories of the intellect—and yet it happens. Those who sit thinking whether such a thing is possible or not will just go on sitting.

Gather courage; it happens—I tell you. And you are not far from that moment either; it is only a matter of extending your hand a little. May reasoning not cripple you. May reasoning not become your paralysis. May it not happen that, lost in reasoning alone, you are deprived of the dance.

You have seen enough of the orgy of logic; now see a little of the dance of the illogical, of trust, of no-thought. The very moment you see it, all other dances grow pale. And after seeing it, you begin to see its dance everywhere.

Every mirror is Your mirror;
every glance is Your glance.
If I become the tear in any eye,
I offer it to You alone.

Every play is Your play;
every pain is Your pain.
Whatever game I play,
my wager is placed only with You.

Every voice is Your voice;
every veena is Your veena.
Whenever I strike a note,
I call out only to You.

You don’t really know the old masters either. It only seems as if you know; there is an impression of knowing—but do you actually know? If you truly knew, the old would at once become new. Then how would the old remain old?

If you know Buddha, he becomes contemporary—not someone who lived twenty-five hundred years ago; he is here now, standing beside you. If you recognize and know Jesus, the distance of time disappears. No gap remains; you become fellow travelers.

You don’t recognize the old either. If you could even recognize the old, where would there be any difficulty in recognizing the new? Tradition only creates an impression. You appear to know, granted—but you do not know.

Born in a Jain home, you feel you know Mahavira—stories heard since childhood. Born in a Hindu home, you feel you know Krishna. Born in a Muslim home, you feel you know Mohammed.

By hearing and hearing, through repetition, the mind gets imprinted. With constant reiteration it begins to feel as if recognition has happened. What has repetition to do with truth? This is propaganda.

It is just like what goes on in the marketplace. Open the newspaper: Lux toilet soap. Go to a film: Lux toilet soap. Along the road, boards everywhere: Lux toilet soap. Repetition is being done. Now there are electric letters, and scientists have arranged for them to flicker, to go off and on. Because if the neon letters stayed lit without going off, you would read them once; there would be no repeated impression. If it takes you five minutes to pass by and the letters go off and on ten times, you will have to read it ten times—Lux toilet soap, Lux toilet soap... You will be made to repeat it ten times. What can you do? The light up ahead is flashing. That repetition carves a groove in the mind.

Then you go to a shop; the shopkeeper asks, Which soap? You say, Lux toilet soap. If you think you are the one saying it, you are mistaken. The companies spending crores on advertising are not mad. It is not you speaking; their advertisements speak through you—Lux toilet soap! You think you chose. You think you considered independently. You think experience taught you that Lux is the best soap. You have known nothing. Your mind has been filled.

When someone asks you, Are you a Hindu? you say, Yes. That yes isn’t coming from you either—Lux toilet soap! Someone asks, Do you believe in God? You say, Yes; and with great pride, I am a theist. That theism isn’t yours either—Lux toilet soap! Are Mahavira a god? You say, Certainly. That certainty isn’t yours either—Lux toilet soap!

They are repetitions, reiterated so many times that you have forgotten. Turn back, look carefully. It is only conditioning. And because of this conditioning you cannot recognize the old; because of this conditioning you cannot recognize the new either.

This needs a little understanding. This “old” does not let you recognize even the old, because recognition becomes possible only when your mind inquires free of conditioning.

Have you ever investigated whether Mahavira were truly divine or not? Have you ever inquired whether Buddha was a master or not? Have you ever researched with impartiality, with a mind free of predetermined conclusions, without prior bias?

No; you have not recognized the old at all. Having accepted the old as God, you hesitate to accept the new. The old faith feels wounded. It seems as if you have cheated someone—as if you married one person and then fell in love with another. Inside there is guilt, pain, a sting: What has happened? The marriage was with Mahavira, with Buddha; the seven rounds were taken with them. Now to accept someone else as God? To accept someone else as guru? Inside there is guilt, pain, trouble. In the inner consciousness there is sorrow. It feels as if you are deceiving, betraying.

By this very device you remain entangled with the old and avoid seeking the new. Find the old—there is no harm; because the old is just as true, just as complete, as the new.

In the realm of truth there is no old and new! There is no time there! There everything is fresh, forever fresh. There all are just-bathed, fresh from the waters. Dust never settles there.

But you do not recognize even the old. The very possibility of recognition is not allowed. Before a child can think, we dump rubbish into his head. We pour our beliefs into his mind, lest he think and find our beliefs wanting. Parents are very afraid; they themselves doubt their beliefs. They stuff the child’s mind before he can think, before he can reflect. And he will do the same with his children. Thus propaganda continues generation after generation.

Propaganda is not religion; religion is revolution. Religion is a decision each person takes out of his own free will. No one can give religion to another. Religion can be taken; it cannot be given.

Let me repeat: religion can be taken. If you wish, you can take it—but no one can give it to you.

But religion is being given. Parents are giving it; the school is giving it. All over the world parents worry that children should be given religious education. And what do they mean by religious education? That a Hindu be made a Hindu, a Muslim be made a Muslim—lest anything go wrong.

And I know that if children are not made Hindu or Muslim until the age of twenty-one, what parents call “going wrong” will indeed happen. I do not call it going wrong; it will be great freedom. A wondrous world will be born. Because I hold that religion is such an intrinsic need that they will have to search for it themselves—they will simply have to. These false religions that are produced by teaching prevent them from setting out on their own search.