Es Dhammo Sanantano #36

As far as the mind goes, so far duality will go. The mind cannot remain even for a moment without duality; it cannot stay without it. Duality is the very mode of the mind’s existence—the basic condition of its being.

If there is love in your mind, hatred will be walking in step with it. The day hatred departs, that very day love too will depart.

That is why the love of the buddhas feels so cool. The heat we associate with love is not visible there. That sort of love has gone—the tide, the fever, both are gone. That is why we do not call the love of the awakened ones “love”; we call it compassion, we call it prayer. To call it love doesn’t feel right. The passion, the haste, the storm of love—none of that is there.

Understand it like this: waves have risen in the ocean, a great gale has blown, a great storm has come—and then the waves fall silent. Will you say—when there is no storm in the ocean—“Now there is a storm, but it is quiet”? The storm is no longer there. To say there is a storm and it is quiet is nonsense. Silence means the storm is gone. And when a storm rises in the ocean, it does not rise from the ocean alone; it needs the lashings of winds, it needs gales. Where have storms ever arisen alone! Two are needed, duality is needed, conflict is needed.

All the dust-clouds of the mind, the whirlwinds of the mind’s grit, rise out of duality. On one side love—and keeping pace with it, hatred is also there. Yes, you forget. When you are filled with love, you forget hatred. When you are filled with hatred, you forget love. Because seeing both together is beyond your capacity. The day you see both together, you will be free of both.

On one side you worship with reverence; on the other, irreverence also grows. Only one in whom there is reverence can also harbor irreverence.

Try to understand this. If someone is filled with irreverence toward me, know well that somewhere, keeping pace, reverence is also moving along; he has not yet seen it. So do not take my enemies to be merely my enemies; my friends are hidden in them, present there. If not today, tomorrow they will show themselves. One who goes to the trouble of condemning me has a hidden praise within. Otherwise even condemnation will become pointless. Who would bother to condemn? There must be some attachment. There must be some link with me, some bridge.

Within the enemy, friendship is hidden; within the friend, enmity is hidden. Therefore you cannot make someone an enemy unless you have first made him a friend. Only by making a friend can you make an enemy. Friendship is the first step.

So when you bow your head in respect, at that very moment within you disrespect is also lifting its head. This is happening together. The day you begin to see this, that day you will understand: neither is there my reverence nor my irreverence. On that very day you will be free of both.

And what happens upon being free of both—that alone is surrender. The height of that surrender is far above reverence, because in that surrender even reverence has been transcended along with irreverence; both fields are left behind.

Let us understand it another way. You tell me, “The mind is restless; I want peace.” Wherever there is restlessness, the longing for peace arises. As you become restless, the desire for peace grows by your side. When you become very restless, you begin to seek peace. Only the restless seek peace.

The day you become peaceful, a new thing will dawn on you: now you will be very frightened of restlessness. Earlier you were never afraid. As soon as you become peaceful you will find that restlessness is standing near, and an accident could happen any time. You could become restless any time. The more peaceful you become, the more you will be anxious that restlessness is standing close by. It can come in through any door at any moment. You will become more frightened, more trembling. What kind of peace is this, beside which restlessness stands!

Therefore there is another peace, where there is neither peace nor restlessness; Buddha called it shunya—the void. The word shunya is very lovely, very precious. There is no word more precious. Even “Brahman” falls away one step before it.

Shunya means: duality is no more. Love and hate have negated each other. Peace and restlessness have negated each other. The energies of both collided and cut each other’s force. You remain alone, where no duality remains—a state without duality. In that nondisputing state, truth is realized.

I know you will not be able to achieve it all at once. First you must cultivate faith and be free of faithlessness. Let it be only this much: that faithlessness moves a little farther from you, its steps begin to fall farther away, and faith’s steps begin to fall nearer—that is your first step. Soon you will understand that faith too is to be dropped.

Understand it like this: a thorn has lodged in your foot; you pick up a second thorn to remove the first. When both thorns have been taken out, what do you do? Do you preserve the thorn with which you removed the other thorn? Do you worship it? Sing its praises? Compose scriptures and hymns for it?

You throw that thorn away together with the thorn that had been embedded and was pricking you. The one that gave you pain, and the one that took the pain away—you toss them both. You are free of both thorns.

The thorn of faithlessness is in your mind; remove it with the thorn of faith. There is no greater use of faith than this. The thorn of doubt is in your mind; remove it with faith. The thorn of violence is in your mind; remove it with the thorn of nonviolence; then throw away both.

Do not pull out the thorn of violence and then sit down as a nonviolent one. Otherwise the worship of the thorn has begun. Now you are entangled. You escaped one thing only to be caught by another. Saved from the well, you fell into the ditch. And the second thorn is more dangerous than the first.

It will be a little difficult to understand, because you have no experience of this second thorn. The first gave you pain; the second relieved your pain. But if you preserve it, if you show it great respect, then if not today, tomorrow it will prick you. The first may have pricked your foot; the second will prick your heart. You kept it too carefully; you held it too close to your heart; it will give you terrible pain.

The use of faith is essential; the worship of faith is not. So if you prostrate full-length, good—no need to be frightened that inside doubt is standing up. When you bow, it stands out even more clearly. Then the duality within you becomes plain: one lies prostrate on the earth, and one stands stiffly, watching, saying, “This lying down, this full prostration—this is all useless. Besides, how do you even know whether this person is God or not?”

Whether this person is God or not has nothing to do with anything. It is not the real issue. What is your purpose with that? How will you even know? What method have you for knowing? Where will you seek proof? You have no way. And no way is needed.

This person is only a pretext, so that the second thorn comes to your hand. This person is but a device. Even if he is not God, the intelligent will still make use of him. And even if he is God, the foolish will still miss. It is irrelevant. Even a stone idol can do the work. The real issue is training yourself in faith. If you can bow your head before the empty sky, the empty sky is also enough. Even a stone idol is not needed.

But it will be difficult. If you bow before empty sky, it will look like madness—there is no one there. Here at least there is someone—someone is. Even if there is doubt, even if he is worthy only of doubt, there is still someone—that is a lot. Because where doubt can arise, faith can arise too. Where faith has come, doubt is not far. Where doubt has come, faith is not far.

Where does the mistake happen? If you get entangled in whether this person is God or not—whether this stone image is truly God’s image or not. If you obsess over this, gradually you will find that you have let go of faith’s hand and grasped doubt’s.

Doubt is within you, and faith is within you; you hold the hand of faith—yet you have firmly taken doubt’s hand and are walking with it. And remember, do not hold faith’s hand so tightly that it becomes a prison. Do not tie knots, do not take binding vows. Do not turn it into a bondage that cannot be shaken off. This too is to be left—sooner or later it must be left.

And if you keep this in mind—that sooner or later this too will go—then when doubt itself has gone, what will you do with faith? Faith was a medicine for the disease of doubt. Will you go on hugging the medicine bottles after the illness has gone? Sometimes the bottles become dearer than the illness. The illness leaves and the bottles take hold; now you wander around carrying the bottles.

Buddha has said: some fools cross the river in a boat and then carry the boat on their heads through the marketplace. Someone should tell them, “What on earth are you doing!” They offer strong arguments: “This boat is what carried us across; how can we abandon it? It has obliged us so much, we shall carry it on our heads.”

It would have been better if they had never crossed the river. At least they would have been free of the burden. They could have stayed on that bank and at least had the freedom to move about. Now even that freedom is gone—this burden of the boat!

But the boat is not at fault. You have acquired the habit of clinging. Only the habit of clinging has to be dropped; there is nothing else to drop. Only the habit of clinging has to be let go; there is nothing else like a renunciation to be made. And that alone doesn’t drop.

Sin drops, merit is clung to. Doubt drops, faith is clung to. Despair drops, hope is clung to. The world drops, liberation is clung to. But the clinging continues. Clinging itself is the world. Let go. Live by letting go. Live without clutching anything.

Those who know do not even use a boat in the river. Those who do not know carry the boat on their heads in the bazaar. Those who know simply swim across; there is no need of a boat. For them, a hint is enough, the finger of the awakened is enough. From such hints they fashion their own boat; the hints themselves become the boat. No crude boat is needed. There is no need to form a sect—religion is enough.

This is the difference between religion and sect. Religion is only a gesture, a pointing; a sect is a solid boat—a boat not even of wood, but of stone; it will drown you. You will not cross by it.

So do not be frightened; duality is absolutely natural. Do not become dejected. Duality is the very nature of mind; it will be there. There is no need to grow tired or restless about it—just understand it. Understanding is enough.

Let the stars go out, let darkness swell—
but those who are sure of the dawn are not downcast.

Let the stars go out, let darkness swell—
but those who are sure of the dawn are not downcast.

The horizon is already throbbing—whether it shows or not.
It is flushing red—whether you can see it or not.

The blush is rising—whether it is visible or not.
The redness is welling up, morning is drawing near—whether you see it or not.

I have heard that two steps ahead the gardens are fragrant—
I have heard—just heard. I have just told you; you have not yet seen. Naturally, doubt will arise. What is heard cannot be what is understood. What is heard cannot be what is known. The ear is not the eye.

I have heard that two steps ahead the gardens are fragrant—
spring has come, flowers have blossomed, the gardens sway—two steps ahead. Beyond two, one’s own spring is present.

I have heard that two steps ahead the gardens are fragrant—
that is why there is a delicate sting in the winds.
As you draw near to the garden, the winds grow cool. A delightful fragrance begins to touch your nostrils. Coolness caresses the body. The very quality of the air changes.

If, near me, you feel the quality of the air changing—enough. Whether I am God or not, drop the worry; what will you do with it? It is worth two pennies. What have you to do with that? It is enough if, near me, you catch even a trace of some fragrance in the breeze that gives you trust that gardens may be close.

I have heard that two steps ahead the gardens are fragrant—
that is why there is a delicate sting in the winds.
That is why a crease is appearing in the dark.

Even if you do not have a vision of the sun near me—no matter. If, in the darkness, even a single line of light appears, that is enough—enough for your trust.

You do not have to build a bridge across the whole river! You do not have to cover the whole earth with leather! If you can find leather enough to cover your feet and make a shoe, it is enough. What have you to do with my being God?

That is why a crease is appearing in the dark—
if, in the darkness, a slight pleat of light is visible, it is enough; that much will do. Catch hold of that. Give up the worry whether through me the whole earth can be covered. Whether I am God or not, whether I am the sun or not—what will you do with that? If even a small flickering lamp comes into your hand, it is enough. Your night will pass; your morning will draw near.

I have heard that two steps ahead the gardens are fragrant—
if from me you hear even this much—only this much, that there are gardens; and their fragrance begins to come to you—if you understand even this much that there is light, that a small glimpse is coming; then there is no worry.

Let the stars go out, let darkness swell—
but those who are sure of the dawn are not downcast.

Then what is there to fear? Let the stars go out, let the night deepen.

In fact, as the night grows darker, the morning comes closer. As morning draws near, the night grows deeper, more dark.

As your faith grows, so will your faithlessness. If you do not understand this, you will fall into great unnecessary suffering. You will weep, you will be torn apart. You will beat your chest within and cry, “What is happening? I want to increase my faith, but faithlessness is also increasing.” It will increase. Along with faith, faithlessness increases.

As a mountain rises higher, the gorge below becomes deeper. If a tree wants to reach toward the sky, its roots start going toward the depths of the underworld. Movement happens in both directions at once. Mind is duality.

But if you can get even a small glimpse of the nondual near me, it is enough—don’t worry; what have you to do with God or not-God? Do not get entangled in idle matters. Leave such work to those who have nothing else to do.

How could you recognize it now anyway? Until you have seen God within, how will you see Him without? I understand your helplessness. Until you have known yourself, how will you know me? I have complete compassion for your blindness; but do not create needless entanglements. Life is already very entangled. Do not fall into futile nets of argument. It is enough if you get from me even a small glimpse of the future—enough.

I say, it is enough even if doubt about yourself arises. Even if faith in me does not arise, it will do; if doubt about yourself arises, that much is enough—that much will do.

There is no need of a sword. Where a needle will suffice, what will you do with a sword? Let me be only a needle—forget the sword—yet the work will get done. And when the work is done, even the sword will begin to appear.

I know, you will understand me only when you have understood yourself. I am your very self.

God has no other meaning; the total meaning of “God” is only this: the one who has known That which is within all. The one who has realized “I am not—only That is.” The one who has disappeared—he is God. One who is, is not God.

I am an absence, a void. If you form even a small love-bond—faith—with that void, the capacity to see beyond the void will come to you. That void can become a window for you.

Worry about savoring the mango; why count the pits? Do not let the season pass while you sit counting stones—later you will regret it very much. Do not let it happen that the guest departs and only then you understand—then you will regret it very much.

But such is the mind: it repents afterwards, it weeps afterwards. It loses what is present. It laments what has gone. It cannot see what is; it remembers what is no more—and in that memory it builds great shrines and lights lamps.

All your temples are proofs of your mind’s dead habit. Your Kaaba, your Shiva-shrines—proofs of your dead mind’s habit.

Do not fall into such error. You have done it before. It is not necessary that this is your first time. This world has been going on a long time. You are very ancient travelers. You are not new on this path. Many times you have passed by buddhas, and yet the same question!

Do not ask the wrong question. What have you to do with whether Buddha is God or not? People asked Buddha this too, they asked Mahavira, they asked Christ the same. Do not ask this. What will come of it? What is the essence in asking this? And who can give you proof? Even if God Himself stands before you, the doubt will remain: Who knows! What proof will He give? What proof can even God give?

Perhaps that is why He is afraid to stand before you; He keeps Himself hidden. How many veils He has donned! He does not come straight out, because the moment He comes you will ask, “Are you God? What is the proof? How can we believe?”

What is the need? There is no question of believing. See the thorn of doubt within you. To take it out, wherever your faith can find shelter, refuge, make use of it.

Drop by drop the ocean is formed. Flame by flame the birth of great suns happens. In just this way, keep gathering the small understandings, the little insights; collect them, accumulate them. This is the beginning of the supreme light within you.
Do not wait for some great explosion; gather the tiny sparks. Life is made of little things. Life is not the name of grand events. The craving for big things is itself the ambition of the ego. People wait for something big to happen; that is where they miss.
Good.
If you listen to me with awareness, then slowly such insights will begin to gather day by day, to become dense. This is how one moves toward samadhi.
What I am saying to you is not for your entertainment. What I am saying to you is not for the stockpiling of your intellect. What I am saying is not so that you become very learned, a pundit. It is so that you can be transformed!
But it will not happen merely through my saying; it will also happen through your understanding. My saying is half. I extend one hand; if you extend one hand too, the meeting happens. If I go on speaking and no insight is kindled within you, then your hand does not reach out; mine remains extended—nothing will come of it. You too must rise and awaken a little. These small turnings, the eyes opening a little, these brief glimmers—this is how the path is formed.
Good. If even this much comes into your awareness—that the life I have lived up to now is futile—then a great revolution has happened.
And what else is there to know? To know this: that what I am living is futile. The moment you begin to see that what you are living is futile, your feet will halt. That journey stops, because no one can knowingly do the futile. The futile continues only under the belief that it is meaningful. The wrong goes on precisely because it appears right. It seems right.
No one has ever done the wrong knowing it to be wrong. No one has ever wandered knowingly in the futile. If you discover that this road leads nowhere, will you still go on walking? You will stop at once. You will say: Even if the right road is not yet known, at least it is clear that this one is wrong—let us not walk it. At least let us sit and rest. When the right one is found, we will move; but let us not proceed on the wrong. Because the farther you go on the wrong, the farther you will have to return.
If a moment of halting happens in your life, half the revolution is done.
Understand this too: he who has understood what is wrong will not take long to understand what is right. In recognizing the wrong as wrong, some criterion of the meaningful has already become active within you. He who has known darkness as darkness has, in some way, come into affinity with light; a glimpse has been had. A single ray, perhaps—but a ray nonetheless. Without at least one ray, darkness would not even be recognized as darkness.
Good that it struck you: “I am living a futile life; I am going round like an ox at the oil press.”
This is the condition. We move in circles; we come back to the same place, again and again. Our condition is like the ox at the mill. The ox walks all day, yet arrives nowhere.
You too move from morning till evening—where do you arrive? Do you ever hold anything in hand? Does the destination seem to come near? Where you were at birth, are you still there, or have you advanced at all? What a funhouse it is! What a spell! What a magic! What an illusion—that you keep running and running, yet arrive nowhere.
There is a children’s book, Alice in Wonderland. When Alice reached the land of fairies, she was exhausted—very tired from the journey from this earth to that fairyland. She was hungry, tired, thirsty, and she saw, in the dense shade of a great tree nearby, the fairy queen standing. Platters of sweets were set around her, trays of fruit laid out. As soon as Alice’s eyes fell upon the queen, the queen gestured, “Come.” The tree seemed so near that Alice began to run.
She ran... ran... ran, and then stopped in her tracks. To her great surprise the distance between her and the tree did not lessen; it remained the same. She had been running since morning; noon had come, the sun was overhead, the shadow had shrunk small; her hunger had grown with all this running, not decreased—and the distance remained the same!
Calling out, she asked, “What is going on? Have I gone mad, or have I come to a mad country? What are these rules?”
The queen was not far, because Alice’s voice reached her. The queen said, “Do not panic. You are simply not running properly. Run a bit faster; that is all that is needed.”
Alice ran faster, very fast, and, drenched in sweat, fell to the ground. Evening was near, the sun was descending; she looked—the distance was the same. She trembled, grew frightened. “What is happening? It’s as if a nightmare.” She shouted, “What kind of land is this? Do paths not get crossed by walking here?”
The queen laughed. “The same rule holds on the earth you come from. There too no paths are crossed by walking. Here they are not crossed, there they are not crossed. Has anyone ever crossed paths by mere walking, you mad girl?”
The story is for children, but fit for elders to understand. The land you live in is this land of fairies. It is false, full of magic. There is some spell, some blindness. You go on running—have you ever gotten anything? Have you ever arrived? Hunger keeps increasing, ambition keeps growing, the begging bowl becomes bigger; nothing fills. Running, running, noon comes—youth arrives; then evening begins—old age comes; your hands and feet grow tired; you fall to the earth—the grave is made. Did you arrive anywhere? It is the running of the ox at the mill.
If this becomes visible, you will halt. You will say, “I have run enough; now I will not run. Now let me sit and reflect”—that is what we call meditation—“let me sit and re-examine; let me contemplate my whole life anew; let me look again: Is there any substance in what I have done? If it has all vanished as the insubstantial, fallen like houses built on sand, erased like lines drawn on water”—on that very day begins the search for that which is eternal: Esa dhammo sanantano—such is the eternal law.
The journey toward the eternal begins when the transience and futility of life are seen.
Good; do not panic—because in that moment panic will seize you. When the whole life looks futile, all thinking an insanity, everything you have done turns to dust; so much effort made, so many buildings raised, and all have fallen—suddenly a panic grips you.
In that panic many people start running even faster, thinking perhaps we were not running properly. Others are arriving—someone became an Alexander, someone a Napoleon—others are getting there; only I am not. Surely there is some deficiency in my running.
Some panic and begin to run faster still. Do not make that mistake! For arriving has nothing to do with running. Whether you run slowly or fast, running has nothing to do with arriving. You cannot arrive, because the place of arriving is within. How will you reach within by running? One reaches within by stopping, not by running.
You cannot reach within by thinking either! Thinking is the running of the mind. When thought stops, you reach within. The stopping of thought is meditation. How will you reach by ambitions? One reaches by desirelessness.
The essence is this: by halting one arrives; running fast has nothing to do with it. By running fast you will tire quickly. By running fast the grave will come near more quickly. By running fast you will gather a thousand kinds of diseases; you will not arrive.
Do not panic; when suddenly such understanding comes that all is futile, a whirlwind encompasses you, a storm seizes you; panic arises—everything futile! All that has been done is futile. The ego wavers. The boat seems to be sinking! Let this boat sink. It is precisely because it has not sunk that your life has been going to waste.
So do not get busy saving it. The urge to save it is entirely natural. You will have to rise above this natural urge. Do not panic; darkness will surround you, the storm will envelop you—but you just sit.
By the side of night, somewhere the dawn is breaking;
Never in this world has darkness become the sovereign.
Darkness has never won in this world. Darkness has never become the world’s conqueror. Within darkness itself the morning is hidden and about to break—it is breaking. Darkness is the womb of dawn. The dark night is the mother of morning.
By the side of night, somewhere the dawn is breaking—
Do not panic; this darkness that surrounds you in the realization of futility—within it the morning is being prepared. A fresh dawn is near.
Never in this world has darkness become the sovereign.
Darkness comes and goes; do not panic. And a great darkness does encircle when life’s futility becomes apparent. In this hour a true master is needed, whom Buddha called a kalyan-mitra—a beneficent friend—who tells you, “Do not panic; morning is near.” Who tells you—
Never in this world has darkness become the sovereign.
Because many people, at this very hour, start running with even greater madness, thinking perhaps there was deficiency in running; thinking perhaps there was deficiency in reasoning, and they begin to argue; thinking, How can it be that I—and forever—have been futile? They get even busier with their own protection. They raise around themselves still more webs of argument—and say, “No, this is right.”
I know many who are afraid to come to me. Because they too catch a glimpse, a rumor seems to reach them, that the way they are going is futile. But they do not have the courage to admit it; they are weak, they are cowardly. And a coward does not admit he is a coward. So he gathers reasons for staying away. He says, “There is nothing there; what is the point of going?” In this way he deceives himself, so that he may go on living under the belief that what he has done is not futile but meaningful.
Ego is the opposite of the sense of futility, because if life is futile, the ego is gone, fallen. The ego needs the prop that what we are doing is very meaningful. Not only that what we are doing is meaningful—it also wants the prop that it is supremely meaningful, ultimately meaningful.
A man earns money, collects wealth; sooner or later he sees that it has all been futile. He panics and starts giving in charity, doing virtuous deeds. By the same potsherds that yielded nothing here, he now thinks something may be gained in the other world; but the potsherds are the same. Think a little. That which proved futile here—how will it become meaningful there? That which did not prove meaningful even in this world—how will it become meaningful in the beyond? By the very things that deceived you in the world, do you now want to be deceived in God?
Be mindful, do not panic. The day it is understood that all is futile, that day life breaks like a sorrowful dream—as if suddenly the strings of a veena have snapped; a shimmering remains, the music is lost. Slowly even the shimmering fades. You remain utterly still in emptiness. Emptiness makes one panic. The urge arises to do something—do anything.
Alas, the gardenings of dreams—
The moment I opened my eyes, the gardens withered.
All the gardens you had seen, the flowers you had seen, were dreams. And the beds you had planned and designed were all in dream.
Alas, the gardenings of dreams—
Those plans for flowerbeds and great designs for gardens—were all in dream.
The moment I opened my eyes, the gardens withered.
With eyes opening, it turns out the gardens begin to be lost; they sink into a distant darkness; they recede far away.
What brilliance was it that duped us so?
To what half-light did it deliver us?
It had seemed that by what we were doing we were coming nearer to light.
What brilliance was it that duped us so?
Into what twilight did it deliver us?
How the dreams cheated us! They promised us radiances and led us into shadows.
What brilliance was it that duped us so?
Into what twilight did it deliver us?
Panic will seize you; your hands and feet will tremble; your very life-breath will shake.
In the West, in Denmark, there was a very renowned thinker: Soren Kierkegaard. He has said that at precisely this hour the greatest anxiety of human life is born.
All other anxieties are ordinary. The wife is ill—there is anxiety. The child is ill—there is anxiety. The shop is sinking, bankruptcy looms—there is anxiety. One’s own old age is coming—there is anxiety.
Granted, there are a thousand anxieties; but Kierkegaard has said: those are anxieties, not Anxiety. The real anxiety seizes you when suddenly it feels as if the ground has slipped from beneath your feet.
Alas, the gardenings of dreams—
The moment I opened my eyes, the gardens withered.
What brilliance was it that duped us so?
Into what twilight did it deliver us?
Then Anxiety grips. This very anxiety can either become madness or the birth of Buddhahood. This anxiety is a crossroads. From this anxiety one road goes toward madness: you become so panic-stricken... so panic-stricken that you cannot gather yourself; you break, you scatter; because of the falling, the breaking of the ego, you cannot stand yourself back up. Many go mad.
Therefore the significance of a true master—whom Buddha called a beneficent friend—is immense. In such a moment, when you are about to fall, you need a hand to steady you. A hand that says to you, “Do not panic; do not infer from the futility of what was that all is futile. The meaningful is present. And this is a good hour, an auspicious hour. Take it as a benediction, be grateful that existence has already completed half the journey for you: it has shown you what is futile! One more curtain is about to rise, and the meaningful too will be revealed.”
Otherwise a person goes mad. Many religious people go mad. Walking the path without a beneficent friend can be dangerous. You may not be able to manage, you may not.
And remember, this is the beginning, the start of the road: the seeing of life’s futility. This journey is such that it begins—and then never ends. Once life’s futility is seen, the experience of that life begins which is supremely meaningful.
But that life is vast, immense; it has no shore or boundary. You will drown in it, be lost, never find an end. You will be erased in it, become nothing. You will know it, yes—but never be able to know it in its entirety.
Can a bird define the sky with its wings? It can fly, it can know, but can wings define the sky?
And this journey is endless; that is why we call God the Infinite. The world has a limit, because one day or another the experience of futility is understood; on that day its boundary is reached. God has no boundary; the meaningfulness has no end: meaningfulness upon meaningfulness, peaks opening upon peaks.
How delightful and peace-filled is this way,
Whose end does not exist.
Unique is this path. Wondrous is this way. It is filled with infinite joys. It is covered with clouds of great peace.
How delightful and peace-filled is this way—
How enchanting! How exhilarating, and how peace-giving!
Whose end does not exist.
A way that begins, yet does not end.
Good. A small insight has come to hand. Hold this lamp; protect this flame. This very flame will become the sun tomorrow.

Certainly, expression is only a limitation. Whatever manifests has a boundary; the moment it appears, it is limited. That which remains unmanifest is the limitless.
Creation has limits; the Creator has none.
A poem has limits; the poet has none.
A painting has limits, a frame; the painter has none.
For the unmanifest is far more than what appears. It is infinitely more than what shows itself.

What I have said to you has limits. What I will never be able to say to you has no limits.
Buddha is walking through a forest. It is autumn; the forest floor is covered with dry leaves, and the wind is tossing them about with great clamor. Ananda asks, “Bhagwan, I have a question. Today we have a little privacy; no one else is here. Tell me—have you told me everything you know?”
Buddha gathered a handful of dry leaves in his palm and said, “What I have told you is like these leaves in my fist; what I have not said is like all these dry leaves that cover the whole earth.”

Naturally, whatever is said comes within a boundary. Language creates boundaries. Language becomes definition. That which is not said, not expressed, that which remains beyond expression—that alone is the infinite.
Silence is infinite; speech has limits.

So I speak to you—but only so that you may move into the unspeaking. I say this much only to set you searching for silence. If through my speaking you taste even a little silence, if even a drop of the flavor of the void touches you, the purpose is fulfilled.

This finger I raise toward the sky—this finger is not the sky; the finger is very limited. Forget the finger, set out on the journey to the sky. Yet when I raise the finger, it does at least point to the sky. If I were to fall silent and simply sit, you would not understand; then not even a finger would rise to point. Even as I speak and speak you do not understand; though I go on saying, I do not reach you. Without words the matter would become utterly unintelligible for you.

I speak to build a small bridge to your understanding. But the very moment the bridge is built, the whole effort is to take you beyond understanding. It depends on you. The words I am speaking—if you understand, they become pointers; if you do not, they become like graves, with some truth dead within them. If you do understand, then from these very words shoots will sprout within you—of emptiness, of silence. If you do not, you will only accumulate information.

In these very words lie interred the consciences of kings;
in these very words is shrouded religion’s god.

Those who truly knew, who became their own masters—their utterances lie buried in these same words.
In these very words lie interred the consciences of kings;
in these very words is shrouded religion’s god.
And within these very words the God of the religions stands confined.

It depends on you. If you grasp the essence of these words—the essence is the void, the essence is silence. It is a very paradoxical thing: the unspeaking must be said with speech. Very contradictory, very upside-down. Buddha spoke for forty years for only one reason: so that people might become silent.

I go on speaking every day so that people may become silent. It seems mad: if you want to convey “be silent,” why not sit silently yourself? The message would be clear—people would understand: one has to be silent. But the matter is such that, if you want to show a white line, you must draw it on a blackboard. You could draw it on a white wall; it would be drawn, but it would not be seen. Even a schoolteacher knows a blackboard is needed. A white wall could serve; he could write on it—but who would read it? To make a white line seen, a dark background is needed.

To explain silence, words must be used. Words are the dark background. So what I am saying to you is between the words. What I am saying is in the intervals between the lines. What I am telling you is not in what I say, but around it—around the words.

Do not seize the word directly—that is where the mistake will be. Do not pounce upon the word, or it will become a tomb. Listen to the word gently, very gently, in a most indirect way. Catch the cadence of the word, the song of the word, the music lying within the word, and let the shell of the word fall away.

Into the word I have placed the void and sent it to you. The word is only a capsule; the medicine is within. Everything will depend on you. Do not do this: that you chew the shell of the capsule and throw away what is inside. This is what has been happening.

One letter is not less than a long tale;
one tiny letter can contain everything that needs to be said.

One letter is not less than a long tale;
one drop is not less than the expanse of an ocean.

In a small drop the whole ocean is hidden, the ocean’s full vastness concealed. If you come to know the drop, you will know the ocean. After knowing the drop, what remains to be known in the ocean? What is in the drop in a minute form is what is in the ocean in an immense form.

If, at the midnight hour, it rises from a heart of pure sincerity—
one sigh is not less than a century of worship.
One sigh is not less than a century of worship.

Rightly, in the proper way, in solitude, in silence, in the half-dark night—
if it rises from a heart of pure sincerity
when the whole world sleeps, and no one knows.

For man is very given to display. Even prayer he does to show others. Watch in temples: as the crowd swells, the clamor of prayer grows. When no one remains, there is silence. People know: now no one is here—what is the point?
The prayer is not to God; it is for the crowd to hear. Let people come to know how religious the one praying is!

At midnight! The Sufi fakirs have said: let no one know. Quietly, even one sigh—
one sigh is not less than a century of worship.
A hundred years of prayer can be contained in a single small sigh.

A seeker of truth came to India from America. He was searching for a Sufi fakir. He had obtained a hint. But Sufis are not easy to locate. He heard there was a fakir somewhere around Dhaka and reached Dhaka. He hired a taxi and asked the driver, “Do you know this fakir?”
The driver said, “Somewhat.”
“Will you take me to him?”
The taxi driver said, “That depends a lot on you, not on me.”
The seeker was startled. The reply sounded very Sufi. First “somewhat,” and then, “it depends on you; I will do my best from my side.”
They sat in the taxi. This man seemed strange. Along the way the seeker asked, “Are you also a disciple of some Sufi? There is a little fragrance of worship in the air around you.” The taxi driver stopped the car right there and prayed to God: “Forgive me!”
The seeker was astonished. “What is the matter? Did I hurt you?”—for the driver had begun to weep.
The driver said, “If another comes to know of one’s prayer, the prayer is spoiled. This is what my Master taught me: hum inwardly. How did you come to know?”
But when someone hums with the remembrance of God within, the air around him changes. When someone is filled inside with the remembrance of the Divine, there is a fragrance in the air around him—a perfume, a freshness, as though lotuses are blooming within. Others cannot see it, but if the other has also prayed—even only performed the ritual, not gone very deep—even then he will recognize it, at least a little.
The driver said, “I have erred; you came to know. Surely some hidden ego is lurking.”

If, at the midnight hour, it rises from a heart of pure sincerity—
a half-night sigh from a heart full—
one sigh is not less than a century of worship.

What I am saying to you are small, small words. What I am saying has limits. But what I want to say has no limits. Do not grasp my words too tightly, or their life will slip away. Let them descend within you; do not clench your fist, for words die very quickly. Words are delicate, fragile—handle them with great care. Do not let my words get lost in the crowd of your thoughts, or your thoughts will destroy them before they even reach you. Do not let my ideas collide with your arguments, or your logic will tear them to pieces.

Give me a little space. Step a little aside. Step a little aside even from yourself, so that I may enter you directly, silently.

Granted, these words are small—like tiny seeds. And if you give them soil, a little moist place, damp with tears, I know for certain you carry a very fertile earth within you. Great possibilities are there. God is your possibility—what greater possibility could there be?

Yes, expression has its limitation—it must. One has to use words, concepts, language. All these impose limits. Now the intelligence lies with the listener: do not fixate on the limitations; attend to that which, from within the limited, is trying to flow as the unlimited.

Look at the river; do not stare at the banks. The banks are limits, the river is flowing toward the limitless. The river is always oriented toward the ocean; is it bound by the banks? Granted, it flows between the banks; but bound by them—where?

What I am saying—words are the banks. Without their support the river would not reach the ocean; their support is needed. Otherwise I could not reach you. That is why I keep speaking. Today you may miss, tomorrow you may miss, the day after you may miss—but someday a moment will come when you will not stand in the way, and I will reach you. If even one seed reaches, it is enough. Once germination begins within you—once a seed breaks open inside you—everything else follows.

A single skiff is your remembrance;
an ocean is my loneliness.

Until remembrance of the Divine arises within you, you are an ocean—of emptiness, of isolation, of aloneness.

A single skiff is your remembrance;
an ocean is my loneliness.

And the moment remembrance of the Divine begins to awaken within you—even a single seed breaks, memory stirs—a boat is made. His remembrance is the boat. That remembrance carries one across.

This is the whole meaning of satsang: come, let us remember the Beloved. Let us remember Him; let us find pretexts, speak of Him. Create some occasions; awaken His memory.

The Dhammapada is an excuse, the Gita an excuse, the Quran an excuse—by any excuse whatsoever! Come, let us remember the Beloved. Let us remember that One we love.

But people are very foolish. If I speak on Mahavira’s sayings, Jains come to listen—nothing to do with the remembrance of the Beloved. If I speak on Buddha’s words, they are absent. If I speak on Christ, the Christian grows eager. If I speak on Nanak, some Sardars begin to appear, then disappear again—save only our Sardar Gurudayal!
No, there is no concern with the remembrance of the Beloved. Otherwise these are only pretexts. By many, many pretexts we are remembering the same One. Who knows which pretext will fit? At what moment the event will happen, the seed will descend?

To be defeated in the world; to be defeated in lust; the failure of craving leads you to the divine, leads you inward. When a deep wound awakens in you—that life as you are living it is futile—then the excitement about the outer life drops.

Understand this a little. I see many people who are eager for the inner life, but they have not been wounded; the outer life has not failed for them, yet they get interested in the inner. Then their so‑called inner life is only a part of the outer life; it is not inner life at all. Their temple too is just a corner of their shop. Their prayer is merely the opening line of their ledgers—“Shri Ganeshaya Namah.” The ledger begins with God. To keep the shop running smoothly they remember the Divine. By remembering God they make arrangements for hell.

As far as I know, these shopkeepers must have written “Shri Ganeshaya Namah” even on the gates of hell. Their journey... Have you seen thieves? Even thieves, when they go to steal, take God’s name. Some such people come to me and say, “Give your blessings so the desire is fulfilled.”
At least tell me the desire!
“Now, you know everything already.”
Someone wants to win a lawsuit...

Until your desires have turned futile, the inner journey will not begin. You will offer flowers at the temple—and even that will be a tactic to succeed in the world. Placate God too—who knows, someone might throw an obstacle in the way!

That is why Ganesh’s name is written at the beginning. They say Ganesha was a mischief‑maker. The original tale is quite amusing: Ganesha was troublesome and created obstacles in others’ undertakings. So people began to take his name first, to appease him in advance. Then, little by little, they forgot what the real point was. The real point was only this: out of fear of his mischief, whenever they did anything—marriages, opening a shop, building a house—they would first take his name: “Be pleased with us. We are yours; look after us.” Gradually the story changed. Now Ganesh has become the god of auspicious beginnings. Slowly people forgot that they remembered him because of his obstructive, troublemaking tendency. The word turned over and took on a new meaning.

People offer flowers in temples, visit a fakir’s tomb, tie on religion’s amulets—but all for the world.

All desires are outward-going; desire as such moves outward. There is no desire that takes you within. Desire always carries you out.

So naturally the question arises: then how are we to go within? Because if there is no desire to go within, why would we even attempt it?

A very significant question: “Then what is it that leads one on the inner journey?”

The failure of craving, the collapse of desire, the defeat of the world. There is no craving to go within; when all cravings are defeated, you suddenly begin to slip inward. When all cravings fail, you stop going out; going out has become futile. And then, suddenly, you are pulled within.

Understand this distinction: no one “goes” within. You go outward; you can go outward. Within, you are drawn. Therefore reaching within is grace. Just do not be filled with the outside, and you will be drawn inward. You are clutching the banks so tightly that the inner current cannot pull you. You have tied your boat to the pegs on the shore; otherwise the river is capable of carrying it on a long journey.

There is no craving to go within. There is no desire for liberation. When there is no desire at all, that state is called liberation.

My defeat became the messenger of my victory.
My defeat itself became the principle of realization.

My defeat! My loss, my downfall, my becoming futile in the world, my deep failure—

My defeat became the messenger of my victory.
That very defeat became the herald of victory—of inner victory.

My defeat itself became the principle of realization,
And the outer defeat became the basis, the essential thread, the principle of inner knowing.

That is why I say to you: do not hurry to run away from the outer; be defeated. Be defeated once and for all; be thoroughly vanquished once; be defeated in such a way that not a trace of hope remains. If even a single thread of hope survives, you will not be able to go within. You will go on clutching some peg outside. You will say, “Perhaps something more can happen. Maybe tomorrow… not today, but tomorrow… the day after; let me try a little more, make a little more effort—what’s the hurry?”

When all hope sets—now this must be understood—when all hope sets, you might think there will be great despair. It’s a subtle point! When all hope sets, you are not despondent, because despair arises only because of hope. The more you keep hoping, the more you become despondent. Whenever hope is defeated, you become despairing.

When hope is defeated in such a way that winning is no longer possible, simply does not happen—when you understand this truth, that hope will be defeated as a rule; not that your particular hope failed, but that failure is the very nature of hope, that hope is a deception—then you are not despondent. Neither hope remains nor despair remains. With hope, despair also departs. Success goes—and failure goes with it. Suddenly you are empty of both hope and despair. Night and day both are gone.

If despair still remains, it means that hope still lurks somewhere. If you are still in despair, it means you still think, “There could have been some way.” You still think hope could have succeeded. “This particular hope lost”—that does not mean that hope loses. “This hope failed”—that does not mean all hopes fail. “If I take a few more measures, do it properly, arrange things better, I will win.” Hence the despair. If failure is the very nature of hope, then there is no reason left for despair.

Many have taken Buddha to be a pessimist, because he says: the world is sorrow, life is sorrow, birth is sorrow, death is sorrow—everything is sorrow. People think Buddha is pessimistic.

No. Buddha is only telling the truth as it is; he is not a pessimist. There is not even a shadow of despair on Buddha’s face. Neither the sickly gleam of hope nor the dark shadow of despair. Buddha is utterly serene; there is neither hope nor despair. It is in this very moment that the inner journey begins.

My defeat became the messenger of my victory.
My defeat itself became the principle of realization.

Habit does not create inertia; habit becoming your master does. The point is not to abandon habit but to rise above it—to transcend it. Whatever you do, let the mastery remain with you. Use habit—use it fully; you will have to. Habit is a tool, an instrument.

First, keep this in mind: when you speak it is habit, when you get up it is habit, when you walk it is habit. But watch carefully: who is the master? If you are walking because the habit of walking makes you walk even when you don’t want to—“Oh God, save me; I don’t want to walk, but it’s a habit, so I walk—what to do?”—if you are smoking though you don’t want to—“What to do? It’s a habit! Save me!”—

If habit becomes the master, then it brings inertia. If you remain the master of your habits, there is no problem; nothing at all. Then if you want to smoke, enjoy it; if you don’t, don’t. Just keep this much clear: you are the master.

I don’t tell you to quit smoking; even the talk is pointless. You get nothing from smoking—what will you get by quitting? If by quitting you could get something, then by smoking you must also be getting something. In that case smoking is very valuable. Some people have made it seem that if you stop smoking you will find God. If only matters were that cheap! Those who don’t smoke—what have they found?

No habit is important in itself; it becomes important—becomes dangerous—only if it becomes the master. And the beauty is: if you are the master of your habits, many habits will drop by themselves. You won’t have to drop them, because they are pointless.

Smoking is not a sin; it is foolish. I don’t call it sin. What sin is there in it? A person inhales smoke, exhales smoke—where is the sin? Think a little! He is fingering a rosary of smoke—where could the sin be in that? Foolishness—yes. He is needlessly ruining his lungs. So much clean air is available… And while it is available, take it in; soon it will be smoke upon smoke. If it’s the lungs you want to exercise, do pranayama: take pure, fragrant air in; chant that rosary. You are taking disease inside! It isn’t sin; it is foolishness. To call it sin is too big a word; for such a small matter we shouldn’t say sin.

And to roast people in hell for such trifles doesn’t quite fit either. First they made a mistake; now God is making one. First they wallowed in smoke; now God is throwing them into smoke, into fire. That is a bit much. It’s a rather innocent kind of foolishness. Its grip on you is this: you can’t get free of it; you are not the master.

And then I tell you: if you are not the master of your bad habits, they are bad of course; but if you are not the master of your good habits either, they too are bad.

If it is such that you simply must pray every day—that a craving arises, that if you don’t pray the whole day feels as if something is missed, something is empty; again and again it nags, “Do it!”—then that prayer too has become smoking. That habit has grown too big; it has become bigger than you.

Let no habit be bigger than you. Pray by all means, but remain the master. If some day you don’t feel like it, don’t let the habit make you do it—“I have to.” Let habit not seize your mastery; then there is no worry. The delightful thing is: the moment you are the master, futile habits fall away by themselves, because there is no point left in doing them. You were doing them only because you were not the master and the habit was compelling you: “Do it!”—and you had to.

What does craving mean? Compulsion! An uncontrollable surge from within: “Smoke a cigarette!” If you don’t, it’s trouble; if you do, it’s trouble. If you do, you feel you are sinning; if you don’t, a restlessness grips you, the whole body tightens. You can’t settle to anything. A whole nuisance has arisen.

The nuisance is not of smoking, nor of telling beads; the nuisance is that you let habit become the master.

If habits sit on your chest as masters, hang from your chest like a slab of stone and drag you down, then inertia comes; a knot is formed.

To be nirgrantha—unknotted—means: no habit as master.

“No habit” does not mean: then how will you walk, how will you speak, how will you eat, how will you bathe? “No habit” means: no habit holds any mastery. When needed, you use it; when not needed, you set it aside.

I call no habit bad or good. A habit is neither bad nor good. A habit becomes bad if it becomes the master; a habit becomes good if you are the master.

And understand one more trick—it is deep. People give even bad things pretty names. You have handed your mastery to many habits and you call them “good habits.” By calling them good you have set the pain aside; now there seems no need to drop them.

A man says, “I pray every day. The day I don’t, I feel very restless.” No one will tell him this is a bad habit. Yes, I will say: this is a bad habit—drop it. Otherwise no one will say so, because it is a religious habit, a good habit. Why drop it! People will say, “How wonderful that you crave prayer—great good fortune!”

I tell you: whether the craving is for a cigarette or for prayer, it is the same. Craving means something has become bigger than you—bigger than your consciousness. Something has pressed your neck down. If today you don’t want to do it yet you cannot not do it—if you are forced to pray today even though you don’t want to—then what is the difference between this and a cigarette? No difference at all. And against cigarettes there are other reasons; against prayer there are none. Doctors can’t say it causes cancer, TB, and so on. Prayer? It causes neither TB nor cancer. It is a very clean habit—and therefore even more dangerous.

Remember: no habit is good, none is bad. Don’t use the labeling tricks. You paste nice labels on bad things and stick them on, and then life gets tangled.

My accounting is very simple. If you are the master, it is good—even if the habit is drinking alcohol. You are the master—good. You are the one who decides. If you decide to drink poison, drink poison. It is your freedom.

Only, take care that there is no dishonesty—that it is truly your freedom. Let it not be that you are compelled and you say, “No, I drink out of freedom,” while in fact you cannot do without it. Don’t cheat, because the cheat is on yourself, not on anyone else.

And I also tell you: if even the habit of prayer and worship has become your compulsion, it is bad. Changing the name changes nothing. But the business of name-changing goes on.

In the Parliament of India there was the question of culling the nilgai found in the Himalayas. It looks like a cow, and it was damaging the fields, and its numbers had greatly increased—around 1952. Now how to kill a “blue cow”? Its very name carries “cow”; it isn’t a cow—only cow-like. A mess would erupt, fools would create an uproar; sadhus and sannyasins would attack Delhi: “You are killing cows? This is a great sin! Killing one cow equals killing a thousand Brahmins.” A storm would break loose.

So the politicians were clever. First they changed its name—to “blue horse.” Matter finished! Now kill away. No one rose—no Shankaracharya, no sadhu, no sannyasin—no one marched on Delhi. The matter was closed. It is a blue horse; what harm in killing it? But the one dying was the same animal.

If you call the whistling storm the gentle morning breeze—
if you call the dust-choked gale the fresh air of dawn—
if you call the whistling storm the gentle morning breeze—
no change will come in the weather.

Don’t get tangled in names. Names deceive. Because of names we have devised all sorts of tricks. “Good habit”—no one is against it; I am against it. “Bad habit”—everyone is against it; I am not.

My definition of good and bad is only this, simple and clear: it has nothing to do with habits; it has to do with mastery. The habit that has become your master, that has settled upon you like a prison, that has become a chain in your hand—even if it is of gold, even if studded with jewels—is bad. The habit of which you are the master is good.

Your mastery is the measure. Your ownership, your ultimate freedom, is the only touchstone.

That’s all for today.