Es Dhammo Sanantano #40

If there is love, it will not hide even if you try; if there is no love, no amount of telling can convey it.
The very fact of love is its expression. When the sun rises, what further proof do you need that the sun is there? Its being is proof enough.
The light of love is greater than the sun’s; you do not see it because you have eyes to see the sun, but no eyes to see love.
When love is, it cannot be concealed. The happening of love is the most condensed event in existence; nothing is subtler, nothing more vast.
Love is a glimpse of the divine.
That is why, when you fall in love with someone, the divine begins to be seen in them. If you cannot see God in your beloved, love has not happened; it must be something else you have mistaken for love. Wherever love is, the divine begins to appear. With the eye of love, God is born.
Life is interconnected. Everything is linked to everything else. A blade of grass is connected to the moon and the stars. If a blade of grass trembles, the moon and stars tremble. All is joined.
The Upanishads have said: this creation, this universe, is like a spider’s web. Touch one corner lightly and the whole web quivers, even the distant edges.
Such is the resonance of the cosmos that in the desert of life the sudden opening of a bud tickles the stars.
A tiny bud! Yet the far-off, giant stars rejoice when a small bud blossoms.
If you are in love with me, drop the worry about whether I will know or not; it will be known. I have the eyes to see love. You won’t even need to tell me. You won’t have to say that you are in love.
I understand your confusion too, because you don’t yet have the eyes of love, so you are afraid: what if love is within you and I do not come to know?
I understand your fear. I have sympathy for it, but let it go. If there is love in you, I will come to know. You simply concern yourself with drowning in love. It has never happened that love is and it is not known.
Ordinarily we feel we must display love, proclaim it. Lovers never tire of saying, “I love you, I love you.” This only announces their fear: “What if we burn here and on the other side there is no news of it? What if we die here and the other side remains unaware?”
But such a thing has never happened. Love is such a great event, it cannot be hidden. Every hair of your body begins to speak; your very way of being begins to declare it. You rise and it is different, you speak and it is different; your eyes change, the radiance of your face changes. Love is the descent of the vast within you; your boundaries begin to sway. You move filled with a certain intoxication, like a drunkard.
And the one who has drunk the wine of love no longer needs wine. Wine is needed only when one has missed the wine of love. As love declines in the world, alcohol increases. Ecstasy is needed; a blessed losing of oneself is needed; otherwise how is one to live, on what support? Something overflowing within, some fullness is needed; otherwise why live at all? For what?
Without love, life does not appear a benediction; it becomes a misfortune. Then people drag life along. Life limps with you. Its blessing is not available; instead it feels as if some wicked God has played a joke!
Dostoevsky’s famous novel, The Brothers Karamazov—unique! One of its kind! In world literature there is no second like it—contains an atheist character who, so weary and extinguished by life, one day raises his eyes to the sky and says, “I don’t trust you; I don’t even know if you exist. But if you do, and if I can find you, I want to return this life to you. Take back the right you gave me to enter life. Not to be is better than this being.”
Without love, non-being becomes preferable to being. And if love is there, then even non-being absorbs a profound being. To speak of being is redundant: even non-being becomes blessed. Being is utter bliss; non-being too turns fortunate.
Love is the lamp of life. Without love, a house is like a lamp gone out—darkness in the home! Without love, life is like a veena with its strings broken—empty of music! Without love, life is like a tree that never blossoms—flowers refusing to appear: a barren tree! Love fills life. Without love, the cup of life is empty; with love, it brims.
Until love happens, you will go on feeling—empty… empty… empty… A sadness, a vexation, a worry, a futile running about! Nowhere any essence, meaning, or rhythm. As if someone has played a joke; as if God were not auspicious but a devil; as if he created you only to torment you, so you squirm and suffer while that wicked tyrant watches the game from above!
As soon as love touches you—like the cool morning breeze, you become fresh and thrilled; like the moon rising at night, silver spreads everywhere.
“This morning’s hue was never there before—
Who knows who is gliding softly through the garden today?”
Who passed today through my garden?
“This morning’s hue was never there before…”
There have been many mornings, but the first true morning is the morning of love.
“This evening flushes like pomegranate blossoms—just look!
Who is this that appears, bearing the torch of a radiant face?”
Who has walked through my heart holding a flaming torch?
“This evening flushes like pomegranate blossoms—just look!
Who is this that appears, bearing the torch of a radiant face?”
Love comes, and like a storm it awakens.
Love comes, and it breaks your sleep.
Love comes, and you are filled with light.
Love comes, and instantly you feel that life has movement and a destination; there is somewhere worth reaching. The boat finds direction.
I will understand, if you have understood this much:
“This morning’s hue was never there before…”
If you have understood that today the heart’s state is different; someone has touched the veena within and it has awakened, it has begun to hum; someone has touched, and silence has begun to speak.
If you know even that much, leave me to myself. I will know before you do. I will know before you know, because you are not as close to your heart as I am to your heart. I am closer to you than you are, because I am close to myself.
One who is close to himself is close to all, because to be close to oneself is to be close to everyone. In that inner world, is there any “mine” and “yours”? Is there any “I” and “you”? The day I came close to myself, that day I came close to you.
It may happen that love is born within you and you realize it a little late. At first you will be startled; at first you will not be able to trust it; at first you will be filled with doubt: “What is this? Surely it is imagination, some game of the mind—another trick, another dream has caught me.”
At first you will make every effort to deny it: “It isn’t so,” because there is danger here, risk here. This path is not without peril. At first you will try to hold yourself together. Your feet had never stumbled before. You had always walked carefully. You were very clever—and today what madness has descended? What is happening today? Your feet are faltering. You had never drunk, and what is this intoxication now?
At first you will be bewildered. Your whole past will wobble. You were never like this. Something new has happened! You will deny it, because the mind—your past—wants to remain tied to what has been. The mind is afraid of the new. That is why the mind never finds God, for God is ever-new.
The mind is a fakir of fixed grooves; it runs comfortably on set tracks. Like a tram, it runs on laid rails—that is the mind. The first time you find the rails have vanished beneath you and you are moving into the unknown without tracks—you panic, you freeze, you try to grab the old formula, you try to avoid the new.
But when love arrives you cannot escape; sooner or later you will have to accept it, because the bliss of love is such. Unfamiliar—yes, because bliss itself is unfamiliar to you. Unknown—yes, because what you have known was not worth knowing. You are entering a realm with no map in hand.
Fear is natural, but only until the event of love has not happened. Once it happens, slowly fear falls away. Who would abandon love for fear? For a while there will be struggle; you will fight, you will evade, you will try many devices—but love renders them all futile. Love is bigger than you; your devices cannot prevail.
I come to know before you. There is a language of existence; and one who has known himself has learned the language of existence.
So many people come to me; when someone comes in love, his very manner of coming is different. Only one who comes in love truly arrives; the rest only seem to come and seem to go. The others come in order to go. The one filled with love has arrived; then there is no question of leaving. In love there is no return.
So if you feel it, if a message has reached you—if the news from your heart has reached your mind where you sit, if the twang of the heart’s strings has reached the head—then don’t worry about me. Before you knew it, I had already accepted. I am waiting for that alone. My constant effort is only this: that love be born in you. For only through love is the thread to the divine found.
Do not panic and do not fall into the worry whether I will accept or not. Who has ever been able to reject love? If love is ever rejected, it is not because of love but because of desire hidden within it. If love is ever rejected, it is not for love’s sake but because of something else that had put on love’s mask.
A young man came to me and said, “I am in love with a girl; will she accept me?” I said, “I have no idea about that girl, but I do know love; if there is love, love is never rejected. Think again: is it love?” He wavered and said, “I can’t say.” I said, “When your own feet are trembling, it is not yet clear to you. Think again and come. For seven days meditate on this. Forget the girl; she is irrelevant. No one has ever gone against the laws of life. If you have love, think again and come.” Seven days later he returned and said, “Forgive me, it was not love; it was only lust. I had given it the name of love.”
That even lust gets accepted—that is the surprise, the miracle. If ever love were rejected, that would be the miracle. Such a miracle has never happened.
And those who fall in love with me—what can you gain by it? Only lose. What will you get by falling in love with me? You will be effaced. You will dissolve and disappear.
So with me love cannot happen if you have any demand, any desire. To love me means prayer.
If the news has reached you, move forward with courage; perhaps the goal is only a few steps away. With love, the goal is never far; just a matter of a few steps.
On the lane of memory where, in just this way,
Ages have passed with you walking and walking,
Let it all end—just walk two or four steps more:
There comes a bend where the desert of forgetfulness begins,
Beyond which there is no I, no you.
For so long you have been walking! On this very path you have spent many births! If only one preparation be made—the preparation to be lost—then just two or four steps more!
Let it all end—just walk two or four steps more:
There comes a bend where the desert of forgetfulness begins,
Beyond which there is no I, no you.
To receive the news of love is to receive the news of death. The call of love is the call of death. And this is a death after which one is not born again.
I am not speaking of the death in which you have died many times and been born again. That death changes little. Clothes are changed; the body is exchanged, worn-out garments replaced by new ones. In that death nothing essential is erased. You do not die in that death; you remain, you survive. The death you have known till now—bodies are taken away, but the mind remains. The mind continues on its journey.
On the lane of memory where, in just this way,
Ages have passed with you walking and walking…
I am inviting you to a death that is final, ultimate, absolute—not the body’s end but the dissolution of the mind; the ending of you.
On this side I have already dissolved. To love me means that the longing to dissolve has arisen in you. To love me means the moth has turned toward the flame. To love me means you are ready to burn your wings; you are ready to be effaced.
This is why only very few will be able to come to me. It has always been so; very few are ready to vanish. But fortunate are those who are ready to vanish, for only by vanishing is the supreme truth of life attained.

The very one who wants to find out—that itself is the ego. Now the ego is looking for a trick. It says, “All right, granted; why argue? I accept! But at least let me find out what is ego and what is not?”

Everything is ego. Whatever you have—everything is ego. I say this unconditionally. Because if you set conditions, the ego will survive within those conditions; whatever you spare, it will hide in that.

If you say, “But prayer isn’t ego, is it? Love isn’t ego, is it?” then the ego will survive under that cover. These are the ego’s devices—finding cover. It says, “Prayer isn’t ego!” So it slips behind prayer: “From now on I will only pray.” And then you will begin to say, “I am a worshipper of God! A priest of God! Look at my worship—there is no priest like me. Look at my love—will you find a lover like me anywhere?” There the ego stands.

If I tell you, “Humility is not ego,” it will stand behind humility. The ego will say, “Has anyone ever been as humble as me!”

The ego has found many sanctuaries. One says charity, one says worship, one says namaz, one says renunciation, one says fasting, one says sannyas—fine, the ego will hide right there. It has no difficulty hiding behind anything!

It doesn’t only need wealth; the poor have ego too. Not only the rich strut, the poor also strut. The rich strut because of wealth; the poor strut because of poverty. They say, “We may be poor, but so what! What’s there in silver pots? Poverty is a great blessing.”

The city man struts because he’s from the city; the villager struts because he’s from the village. Those with great intellect strut that they are wise; those without intellect say, “What’s in intellect? We are simple folk.”

Any excuse is enough for swagger. That is why I say to you, unconditionally: whatever you have—everything is ego. The day this understanding dawns—that all you have is ego—the ego will have nowhere left to hide; then it won’t be able to conceal itself anywhere.

Cleverness becomes a refuge, and so does foolishness. Indulgence is a refuge, and so is renunciation.

Look at the renouncer’s ego—how radiant, how dazzling! The indulger’s ego is a little blunt; the renouncer’s ego has an edge. Its sword has just been freshly sharpened. The indulger is a little afraid; he says, “I am an indulger—how can I boast? The whole world knows it.” The renouncer is not afraid; he declares, “I am a renouncer.” He wants the whole world to know. The indulger hides a bit. The sinner is afraid and hides so no one finds out; the renouncer announces and becomes exhibitionist. Have you seen processions for sinners? Processions are for “mahatmas”; chariots roll for them.

It’s a great difficulty. But if you catch it at the root, it’s not great—just a small matter. Yes, if you don’t catch it at the root, then it is a difficulty.

You will clean one room; the ego will hide in another. The mansion is large; there are many rooms. Then this hide-and-seek goes on birth after birth. That is how it has been. You escape from one side and get caught on the other. Escape from the second and get caught from the third.

Stop this game of hide-and-seek. I tell you: everything is ego, because you are the ego. All that is yours is ego—everything.

It may sound a bit too much; it may seem I am exaggerating—but I am not, not even a little. If you want to be free of the ego, this deep understanding is needed. And if it becomes visible to you, a sigh will arise. If it becomes visible, then something will remain within you that you do not yet know, that is currently hidden in every way by your ego; the moment the ego falls, it will be revealed.

Existence will be, but you will not be. Pure existence will be—your boundary will not be. The courtyard walls will fall, and the courtyard will become the sky.

The courtyard asks, “Which part of the wall is it that makes my boundary? Let us knock down that part.” But the entire wall is the boundary; it is not that one portion alone creates the enclosure. If only a portion made the boundary, you could put a door there—but then the courtyard would remain a courtyard. It would be a courtyard with a door, not the sky.

All the walls must be bid farewell—unconditionally.

Understanding is needed. Don’t ask me, “What is not ego?” Because whatever I say—if I say “the soul”...

This is why poor Buddha had to deny even the soul; he saw that many people were hiding behind the soul. They say, “We are the soul—aham brahmasmi. Not just soul, I am Brahman.” What will you do with that?

When the seer of the Upanishads said, “I am Brahman,” the emphasis was on Brahman. But those who came later, when they repeat “aham brahmasmi,” the emphasis is on aham—on “I.” “I am Brahman”—here the real thing is the I, whether Brahman is or is not. Brahman could even be a delusion, but I am—and even Brahman is mine. The rishi of the Upanishads had said, “Since I am not, therefore Brahman.” The emphasis was on Brahman; what does it matter whether the I is or isn’t! It was a matter of language.

Buddha said, “Not soul, not Brahman.”

He left nothing in your hands to grasp. Never was there a harsher teacher, because never was there a greater source of compassion. He left you no refuge, he took everything away; he said, “Put everything down—everything. Not your body, not your mind, not your thoughts, not your soul, not your God, not your scriptures, not the Vedas—nothing. Put everything aside that you can put aside; then that alone will remain which you cannot put aside, because it is your very nature.” The name of that pure nature is nirvana—the unmade. It is not obtained by doing; doing only fattens the ego.

Many sannyasis come to meet me whose every breath is full of ego. They walk stiff-backed—the echo of “aham brahmasmi!” But look at their noses, their eyes, their nostrils—inside everything the ego seems to be breathing hard. Seating two sannyasis on one platform is difficult. Who will sit higher? Who will sit lower? Whoever sits lower becomes low. Their minds are still stuck here... and such people are being worshipped.

A great sannyasi with many disciples invited me, so I went. He was sitting on his dais. Beside him was a slightly smaller dais, and on that sat another sannyasi. As I began talking with the host, he said, “See, do you notice who is sitting here?” I said, “I see someone sitting, but I don’t know who.” He said, “This man was the Chief Justice of the Allahabad High Court, but he is a very humble man. Do you see his humility? He always sits below me.”

He sat on the big dais, the other on a medium dais, and the rest on the ground. I said, “He may be below you, but he is above the rest of us. Dig a pit and seat him in it; this won’t do.”

“And if by sitting below he is humble, then what about you who are sitting above?”

“And why mention that he was Chief Justice? He is a sannyasi now. What’s the point of talking about who has ‘died’? But you are really telling me, ‘Among my followers there are even High Court Chief Justices. And even they sit below me.’” I said, “I am watching him closely—he is a legal man; law is visible in his gaze. He is watching for the moment you shift, so he can sit above. That’s why he sits in the middle; no one can bypass him.”

Both were very annoyed. They said, “You are breaking the limits of etiquette.” I said, “I thought I was speaking to sannyasis—what etiquette? Truth-etiquette! Worldly people keep etiquette; with sannyasis it should be truth. Why be annoyed?”

They had invited me to speak, but now they were alarmed. That evening there was a great meeting—about twenty thousand people. Politics began: should we let this man speak or not? Who knows what he will say! This much truthfulness doesn’t suit them.

Just before evening the message came: I wouldn’t be allowed to speak. I said, “Fine, then I’ll come to listen.” They couldn’t forbid that. “Since I’ve come so far, I will at least listen.”

When I sat on the platform, people started shouting that they wanted to hear me. I said, “Now what shall I do—listen to them?” He was the chairman. He said, “I am the president.” I said, “But the whole assembly is speaking. Shall I obey the president or the assembly? You are no longer the ‘pati’ (lord) of the sabha; this is a divorce! Now I will speak.”

You can imagine the plight of those who had invited me. The ego finds many ways. He got up and left. He stood and declared, “The assembly is dissolved”—though it wasn’t; he simply walked out.

The ego hides in humility. Ignorance hides in the refuge of knowledge. Look closely at your darkness! Your darkness is very skilled. It may well be hiding with the help of light. Darkness is very cunning.

There was a great Hindi poet—mahakavi Dinkar—he would always come to meet me. When I went to Patna—his region—he would surely come; if he heard I was nearby, he would come. A towering poet, a great talent; he felt close to me.

Once he came and told me he had diabetes. I said, “That’s difficult,” because he loved sweets dearly—as do all Biharis… our Maitreya-ji is sitting here. Now a real problem—diabetes, and sweets! He said, “I am in great difficulty. Life is unbearable; I can’t live without sweets.” So I recited to him one of his own poems—two lines:

“No one wishes to be ill;
But when the disease has come near,
What remedy is there but bitter medicine?
It will not be calmed by sweets.”

“It’s your poem,” I said. “You must have written it because of your diabetes.”

No one wishes to be ill;
But when the disease has come near,
What remedy is there but bitter medicine?
It will not be calmed by sweets.

Someone who reads it will think, “The one who wrote this knew.” The one who wrote it did not know; he suffered all his life. He has just departed, left the body; his greater sorrow was not diabetes, it was giving up sweets. Whenever he came he would ask, “Is there no trick? You discover so many methods—give me one so I can keep eating sweets and not be troubled by diabetes.” Centuries will pass; the poem will remain. No one will even remember that Dinkar had diabetes. People will regard it as a valuable maxim—and it is.

What you say does not prove what you are. You may say “aham brahmasmi,” and there on the throne sits only the aham. You may speak with wisdom, and it is only a device to hide stupidity. You may become humble, and that is only arranging ornaments for the ego.

Therefore I say to you—unconditionally: whatever you have—the whole sum, not leaving even a grain—pure ego. So don’t worry about what to drop; drop everything, go beyond everything; then whatever remains...

And something will surely remain, because you have within you something that is greater than you. Your sum is the ego, but within you there is something that is greater than your sum, beyond you. Within you there is something vaster than you, deeper than you, higher than you—something untouched by your “I,” virginal.

Better not to give it a name. If you give it a name, the ego will hide behind that name. Call it soul, and it will sit right behind it. It will say, “Good—I am the soul; that settles it.”

Therefore Buddha said, “You are nothing—you are shunya.” Behind shunya you cannot hide. He did not use the word Brahman not because he objected to it, but because he was aware of your cunning. Behind Brahman you will hide very comfortably. Brahman will become a blanket, and you will crawl under it and relax. You cannot make a blanket out of shunya.

Every word of Buddha is used purposefully. He chose each word with great thought and attention. He did not use the word moksha, because in moksha the “I” remains—“I will be liberated.” He said nirvana—“You will not remain at all.”

The mind will want to explain it away as a defect. The mind will say, Why get into such hassles? Are you losing your head? Where are such lights ever seen! The mind will search for devices so that you cannot go beyond the mind.

If you have looked at me full-on, it is bound to happen that your eyes will be dazzled. If they were not dazzled, it only means that you did not see me at all; you kept looking here and there. You did not meet eye to eye. You kept dodging. You were being clever. You did not clash with me like a madman. You passed politely from the side.

It is bound to happen. And often it happens the first time, because the first time you are not cautious. When someone comes to me for the first time, he is not cautious; he does not know to whom he is coming. He comes straight in, gets into trouble, gets entangled. The second time you become skillful. The third time you become very skillful. Then layers of skill surround you.

The first meeting is very important.

Good that it happened. The eyes will be dazzled. What is the capacity of the eyes! The eyes have a great limitation. If even a glimpse of the invisible comes near the eyes, even a small drop of the unseen arrives, the eyes will be dazzled. You will be shaken, as if a stone has been hurled at your head. In broad daylight, you will see the moon and stars.

Then the mind will want to make a thousand and one interpretations, so that what has happened can be understood by the mind, boxed into its definitions. If it fits the mind’s definition, then fine; the mind relaxes, because then it has become a part of the mind. If it does not fit the mind’s definition, as is happening...

“Years ago when I first saw you, my eyes were dazzled; and from that very day a light has remained kindled at the center of my vision every moment.”

That light has always been lit; that day you saw it. In that moment of bedazzlement you turned inward. Clashing with me, you were thrown back onto yourself. As if someone hits a ball against a wall and the ball returns; just so with you... you collided with me. Your gaze struck me and bounced back. The returning eye showed you that which has always been burning within.

Everyone’s lamp is lit, it has never gone out. If it were to go out, no one could ever light it again. If it went out, how would you be? The fact that you are is proof enough that the flame is burning. But you do not go within; you keep going outward.

That day, suddenly, your eye was hit and turned back inside. On that return journey it met its own light. That light is yours; I have nothing to do with it. At most I served as a wall against which the ball of your eye struck and bounced back. I threw you back onto yourself. You were filled with dazzle, you reeled, felt dizzy, but you became aware of your own light.

And once it comes to mind, you cannot forget it; it will keep returning again and again.

The experience is so unprecedented, so sweet, the space is so solitary, that sometimes it is seen only in the reflection of the gaze. That day you touched your depth. In that moment of dazzle you had a little recognition of yourself. And what has been known now stands within you. Now you know. Now whenever the eye goes inward, that light will be available to you. You will close your eyes, and it will be available.

Now the mind is trying to explain that this light and all that is nothing—maybe a trick of the mind! maybe a defect of the eye!

Your eye has become right; earlier it must have been defective. Your eye has become clear; earlier there must have been a film. Your mist has broken. A little space has opened, a little clearance, and from there the light has begun to be seen. If the whole eye is cleared, the inner light becomes a great sun.

Kabir has said, it is as if thousands upon thousands of suns rise together—something like that has happened. The same will happen within you.

There is only one purpose for your being with me: that you become acquainted with yourself. There is only one purpose for my being: that I throw you back upon yourself. Do not get entangled in me; you have to return to yourself. There is no substance in your eye going on looking at me. Only if, seeing me, your eye returns to you—there is a reversion, a withdrawal of the gaze (pratikraman, pratyahara)—does it have any meaning.

Consider this experience auspicious; nourish it. Do not become uneasy because of it, nor get worried about treating the eye.

I am singing; you learn to hum.
Learn to shimmer in the storms.

Let a humming arise within you on hearing my song; by being near me, come to be near yourself.

What has come to me lies within you too. There is not the slightest difference between me and you. I know; you do not. We are equal owners of the treasure. We bring the treasure with us, because our very being is the treasure. I only have to turn you a little toward yourself. You used to run away; you bumped into me and you halted. Your gaze used to run outward; it collided with me, was dazzled, and returned toward itself—what is called reflection, pratikraman: something turning back.

When a sunbeam falls on a mirror, it returns. Therefore from a mirror your eyes can sometimes be dazzled. If someone takes a mirror in sunlight and throws the reflection on your eyes, your eyes will be dazzled.

Like a mirror, your gaze must have struck me and returned. You were not on guard; you just came as you were. You did not know what was going to happen.

Yesterday a young man took sannyas. Energy was revolving in circles within him, he did not know it. As soon as I touched him, he said, Energy inside me is moving in circles, whirling. It was already moving. I touched him for the very reason that I saw the energy whirling inside him. But he will probably think that my touch made the energy whirl. The truth is exactly the opposite: I touched him because I saw that the energy was whirling.

But the moment I touched him, he returned to himself; what he had never looked at within, he saw. A moment later he started saying, I am getting frightened! Not for long. He felt that I was doing something. This does not happen through doing; it is non-doing. I am not doing anything. Let your light strike my mirror and return—that’s all! The light is yours; I am returning it to you. The light is yours; I am giving it back to you.

Many seekers come and tell me, It’s very strange: at night we think of coming to ask this question, and in the morning you give the answer.

I don’t keep accounts of your nights and what all you think; I would get into trouble. But when you are present before me, your question strikes me and begins to return. In that return you begin to get the answers. The answers are within you. I only have to throw you back upon yourself.

It is an auspicious experience. Consider it good fortune; be grateful to the divine, take it as grace. Do not accept the sudden prasad that has become available without thankfulness.

Not that the divine needs your thanks; nothing is gained by the divine from your gratitude. But by your thanking, your possibilities of receiving prasad go on increasing. The more you give thanks, the more you thank filled with wonder, the more you open; the more available you become; the more will begin to happen within you.

The meaning of thankfulness is that you have not accepted what has been given with indifference. Because indifference would mean that perhaps you were not even a worthy vessel. Indifference would mean that you did not even understand the significance. Indifference would mean there is no sense of grace within you; perhaps you had no need, perhaps you were not even seeking.

The feeling of indifference will close you. And the possibility of prasad will be closed. Not because the divine gets angry at your indifference—what kind of God would that be, who gets angry! What kind of God would that be, who demands thanks! There is no demand for thanks there, nor any question of anger. The divine simply is as it is; ever the same—one color, one form.

But it will make a difference to you. If you offer thanks, you will become a more open door; you will be able to receive the prasad more fully.

Therefore, if even a small ray comes, dance as if the sun has arrived; soon the sun will indeed arrive. If one sun comes, dance as if a thousand suns have descended; soon a thousand suns will also descend.

Make way. Your gratefulness invites grace.

Alright. When not-knowing is accepted, it becomes simplicity. The one who wants to get rid of not-knowing becomes cunning. The one who sinks into not-knowing becomes guileless, becomes innocent. Not-knowing is not a sin. In cleverness I have seen many sins; in not-knowing I have seen none. Not-knowing is utterly innocent.

Remain a simpleton. Not-knowing has great joys, because the simpleton receives much that the clever never receive. The clever are always trying to get; they claim that they must get. They struggle. The simpleton doesn’t even know how to struggle! He doesn’t know, “How will I attain? What will my doing accomplish?” He simply waits, keeps patience. He says, “When your grace descends, it descends. Even if I, the fool, try—what can I do?”

Much happens—what is unearned happens—grace showers. Remain a simpleton. There is no evil in ignorance. I have seen the learned wander astray. Knowledge is given by the world; ignorance is given by God.

Have you ever thought in this way? Ignorance is given by God; knowledge comes from worldly experience, from reading and writing, from hearing and thinking. You came carrying ignorance—a blank book on which nothing is written, on which the black blots of ink have not fallen. Keep this book just like that; don’t write anything on it.

“I have returned the cloth just as it was;
with great care, Kabir kept it pure.”

Keep this book with great care; keep it exactly as it is.

The Sufis have a book: The Book of the Books. Nothing is written in it; it is empty. Generation after generation, one lineage has handed that book to the next. Sufis even read it—they sit in the morning and open it. Compared to this book, the Quran, the Gita, the Bible, the Dhammapada are nothing. Those have writing in them, ink stains upon them; this book is empty—an open sky. It has not been soiled in the least.

“I have returned the cloth just as it was.”

Accept ignorance with grateful awe; then ignorance will not feel like ignorance—it will become guilelessness. Then you will not want to be saved from ignorance, because the very desire to be saved from ignorance is the ego. It says, “I will know, for by knowing I will be. How can I remain without knowing? I must know. I must clutch truth in my fist, hold liberation in my hand; I must obtain everything—be it wealth or religion.”

Have you ever noticed? Knowledge is a kind of trespass. The scientist—the seeker of knowledge—keeps transgressing. He lifts the veil even where it need not be lifted. Where it would be good for the mystery to remain a mystery, he will not let it. We need shade; we need darkness too. Light is stimulating; darkness gives rest. The scientist will not allow darkness to remain anywhere—he is wiping it out on all sides. Living will become difficult.

All the deep happenings of life occur in darkness. Have you noticed? A seed breaks open in the earth’s profound darkness; leave it on the surface and it remains sealed, it cannot break. This is such a secret—how to lift that veil in public? It is very shy, very noble; it is not like a prostitute who stands in the marketplace with her veil thrown open. In the deep womb of the earth, in darkness, when you press it down and no one is watching, when no eye intrudes, then in that silence it breaks open. Silently! There is not even a sound. Buds too, when they open, make a slight sound—they are a bit shameless. But when a seed breaks, no one even comes to know; not a whisper of news passes from ear to ear—it breaks in utter silence.

In the mother’s deep womb, in darkness, life is born; there the child is formed. Now scientists are trying—in test tubes... someday they will manage, but it will be great shamelessness; something essential will be lost. Even if man is produced in a test tube, something vital will be lost.

The scientist digs everywhere, strips everything bare; he makes all things naked, unveils them. This is, in a sense, a rape of nature. That is why I call science rape—debauchery.

Religion says, “Why should we rape? The One who made us made everything. What is within us is within all. Somewhere we are connected. Why lift the outer veils? If it is His will, the curtain of mystery will rise by itself.”

And when it rises by itself, the joy!

If you forcefully rip a woman’s veil away—threatening her with a knife—her face will be exposed, but her beauty will not be revealed; beauty will be lost. But when the woman herself lifts her veil—for the one she loves—then not only is the veil lifted, beauty too is revealed, but in freedom.

There are two ways to know God or truth. One is rape, force: science is rape. Religion is not rape—it is love. Religion says: we will wait.

The ignorant also know, but their way of knowing is utterly different. They wait. They do not strive to become clever. They say, “We are fine as we are—better to be fools.” They will wait: the One who made us will tell us, if something is necessary. He Himself will tell us if something is necessary. And if He does not tell, perhaps it is necessary that He not tell. They do not snatch knowledge, do not steal it. If knowledge comes as a free gift, as grace from God, it is accepted; if it does not come, even its not coming is accepted. However He keeps us, by whatever method He keeps us—that is accepted.

Alright, remain a simpleton. And that occurrence—that during the last question-and-answer some unfathomable thing happened—happened for this very reason; if you had been a knower, it would not have happened.

Pundits too sometimes stray in here; nothing happens to them. I can tell by seeing them. Sometimes even a single pundit comes and sits here, and an obstruction arises. His presence... here there is a lake; he becomes like an island. I can see that around him the flow of energy is not there; a dead thing is placed there. Among living people lies a corpse. The current flows around him—he is an island, rocky; nothing passes through him. The message goes skirting along the edges.

If you are a simpleton, you are fortunate. It is very hard to attain simple-mindedness. Not-knowing itself is given—but to gain the understanding to remain not-knowing, that is very hard.

By its very nature, what has happened you will not be able to explain. It would not have happened at all if you were among those who can explain.

Let me repeat it: it happened precisely because you are innocent, like a small child; it would not have happened if you were one of those who explain and understand.

It is a great paradox. Only in the lives of those do the truly important events occur who cannot even say what happened; they cannot tell it. Those who are very skilled in saying and telling—because of that very skill, a hindrance arises.

And remember, even those who have spoken—how much could they speak! How much I am saying to you—how much can I say? What I can say is something else; what I wanted to say is something else. Every day I try again: “Come, today let it be right; I failed yesterday, today I will say it.” And then I find that the thing...

The song that must be sung cannot be sung—but one must attempt to sing it. Perhaps the full song may not be sung, but a little of its rhythm may reach you. Perhaps the whole verses may not descend to you, but some fragments may reach. Perhaps it may not fill your belly, but if even a taste reaches your throat, that is not little. Therefore the effort to speak goes on. No one has been able to tell it. The happening itself is such that it cannot be told.

That which can be said is not truth. That which is truth cannot be said. It is beyond saying and hearing.

“How can I express grateful awe toward the Master? I do not even understand that.”

It has already been expressed! There is no need to express it. The very thought of grateful awe has arisen—finished. It is done. No bands need to play; no noise needs to be made. The thought has arisen in your mind—it is done. Grateful awe has arisen—it is done. It is not a matter of telling; it is a matter of feeling.

“He who rose from prayer, purified—
he has already received prayer’s fruit.”

If you rose from prayer bathed—finished, it is done. If you rose purified by prayer—it is done. If you returned filled with prayer—it is done.

“He who rose from prayer, purified—
he has already received prayer’s fruit.”

Prayer has no other fruit; prayer itself is the fruit. Therefore Narada says in the Bhakti Sutras: devotion is of the very nature of the fruit. Devotion itself is the fruit.

Having prayed, do not wait for the fruit; otherwise you are missing the point. The whole thing has gone wrong. Prayer itself is the fruit.

Yesterday, prayer happened. You listened; something stirred within; some blow struck; you were bathed. In that bathing, grateful awe naturally arises—it is the natural flower of prayer. There is no need to say anything.

And remain a simpleton, so that this continues to happen. Here is where the danger arises. Now that it has happened, there is the fear you will become clever. You will say, “It happened—I have known something, recognized it.” Now you will think you have understood. This taking-yourself-to-have-understood will become an obstacle for what is ahead. Then it will be difficult for it to happen again. And when it does not happen, you will expect, long for, demand. The more you demand, long, expect, the more difficult it will become for it to happen—because it happened without your asking.

You did not ask yesterday. You had no idea—and it happened. You were not there; then it happened. Listening to me, you must have gotten lost; a wire must have connected with me. Listening, you must have sunk into a rhythm. Listening, your mind must have fallen silent; for a moment thoughts must have stopped. Listening, a pause must have come. Listening, your note must have tuned with mine; the tempo must have matched—and it happened. You did nothing—unearned! Had you been doing something, it would not have happened; a hindrance would have arisen.

But now there is danger; therefore be alert. You will now think: it happened; I tasted the nectar, was overwhelmed. Now let that nectar not become a craving of the mind.

The mind will say, “Now it should happen every day; it happened yesterday, it should happen today, and tomorrow too. Why is it not happening today?” Then you have taken on a trouble. You have missed; just as the sutra was coming into your hands, it slipped away.

Forget it entirely. You did nothing—who are you to remember it? You did nothing—who are you to demand it? You did nothing—so what expectation!

Grateful awe arose—matter finished, closed. Forget it, let it be effaced. Become ignorant again, just as you were before it happened. Stand again in your old state. Then it will happen again and again—deeper and deeper; it can filter very deep.

But the moment it happens the first time, trouble stands up. You begin to demand. The mind seizes it and turns even this into desire. And the moment demand arises, prayer goes.

Prayer is a moment, a state of feeling.

“He who rose from prayer, purified—
he has already received prayer’s fruit.”

Forget the matter. The matter is over—be new again. Let this line not remain upon your mind. This is what I call simple-mindedness; this is what I call ignorance. Become ignorant again. Return to where you were yesterday before this happened. Let it be as though it never happened—as though you heard it happened to someone else. Do not make this your possession; otherwise knowledge will begin to be manufactured—and knowledge is the obstacle.

There are many stages of meditation.

First stage: When a person begins to meditate, the mind becomes more restless than it was even before meditation. Such turbulence arises as never before. One feels afraid: “This has increased my confusion. I came to untangle things; instead, more turmoil has been invited. I wanted peace, and more unrest has come.” This happens not because unrest has increased, but because your awareness has increased. The unrest has always been there inside you—stockpiled, a whole bazaar within—but you were so busy you couldn’t notice. When you meditate you turn inward, and for the first time you meet your whole inner tumult. In this first stage there is a great panic; restlessness seems to soar. Thoughts start running like a madman. The noise seems to grow. The uproar seems to grow. And you think, “What is this? I had hoped meditation would calm me, and I have become more agitated.” Then panic arises and you feel like turning back. But if you simply continue, gradually this turbulence subsides; the mind begins to grow quiet.

Now the second moment arrives—“a kind of dullness is coming into meditation.” This is not dullness; rather, the speed of thought is weakening. Until now you have known only one kind of movement: the movement of thought. You have no feel yet for the movement of consciousness. When the movement of thought begins to slow, it can seem, “Am I becoming inert? What is happening?” As you grow quiet it appears like dullness.

Imagine you have lived only in the marketplace; go to the Himalayas and you will feel bored—no fun, nothing of interest, everything seems dead. The habit of the bazaar still follows you there. You crave the market. In the market there seems to be bustle, movement, life. On the mountain everything seems inert.

So this second stage has come; you must pass beyond this too. Slowly you will discover that what you earlier called movement was itself dullness. A new movement will be felt within—the movement of consciousness. A new sense of life will dawn—the life of consciousness.

But for the old life to drop and the new to arrive, there will be an interval between the two. One house has been left; you are going to another. First the old house is left—then there is upheaval. All your things are scattered, you’re packing trunks and bedding; everything is topsy-turvy. You have not yet reached the next house either—you’re stuck mid-journey on a rickshaw or in a carriage, luggage piled up, heading toward the new place. The new house is not yet there. All the more difficult—everything is in disarray, closed up, entangled. Only when you settle into the new house, arrange things slowly, will relief come.

For now it will feel like dullness. This is the middle period. Do not be frightened by it. In this interval neither complete unconsciousness remains nor complete awareness. You will feel a little awareness and a little unconsciousness. And a deeper confusion: “What is this?” A mingling of opposites, a kind of khichdi state. You may feel, “It was better when I was fully asleep—at least there was some uniformity. Now I’m neither fully awake nor fully asleep—stuck in between!” It will feel like the state of Trishanku, suspended in midair.

The arrow has left the bowstring and has not yet reached the target. There is no support from the bowstring, and none yet from the target—only when it pierces the target will support be felt. In the middle it hangs.

But this is natural; there is no need to panic. Continue the meditation you are doing; this middle period will pass on its own.

It is uncertain where rivers and mountain gorges will be met.
It is uncertain where orchards and lovely forests will be met.
Where the journey will end is also uncertain.
It is uncertain when blossoms or the arrows of thorns will be met.
Whatever comes, make such a pledge that you will not stop.
Whatever comes, make such a pledge that you will not stop.

Let only one remembrance remain—do not stop; keep going. There are many possibilities, because each person is different; so the stages cannot be described too precisely.

It is uncertain where rivers and mountain gorges will be met.

Guidelines can be given, but each person is very distinct, very different. Where you meet mountains, another may not. Where you meet dullness, another may not. It depends on your habits in life, on the structure of your living. One who has always lived in the mountains will not feel dullness there; for him the mountains are just fine. You go there and you feel dullness—you belong to the market. You are a creature of the bazaar. Then it will be very hard. Bring a mountain man to the market and he will feel derangement: this is madness. He will want to run away.

Gurdjieff once experimented with his disciple Ouspensky. He kept him in absolute silence for three months, in complete solitude in a secluded house; he was not allowed to go outside. No speaking, no thinking, no reading; even gestures of the eyes were forbidden. Any kind of signaling is also language. Gurdjieff had chosen thirty people for the experiment; within fifteen days he sent twenty-seven away. Some ran away on their own, frightened; those who didn’t, he dismissed. He would roam constantly through the house and his instruction was: even if you see me passing by, remain as you are, as if no one is passing. If your foot even steps on my foot, do not let the feeling of apology arise, because no one is here—you are alone. Such utter solitude, such silence!

Three remained. When the three months were complete, Gurdjieff took them into the city. Ouspensky writes in his memoirs that on entering the marketplace it seemed to him that the entire world is so mad—and he had never known it. Mad people talking to mad people, mad people running shops, mad people buying goods, mad people rushing about—what is going on? He grabbed Gurdjieff’s hand and said, “Take me back! Here I will go mad; this is a madhouse.”

If for three months you have experienced silence—if the Himalayas have descended within—then the whole world will appear mad.

It depends on you: your condition, your habits, the shape of your life, your inner order, your style.

It is uncertain where rivers and mountain gorges will be met.
It is uncertain where orchards and lovely forests will be met.
Where the journey will end is also uncertain.

For each, the place will be different. Inwardly, the same thing happens at the journey’s end, but outwardly the situations vary greatly.

They say that when Mahavira attained supreme samadhi he was squatting. Now someone might say, “Is squatting any way to sit?” In Jainism they call it gaudohasana—the cow-milking posture; they don’t say “squatting,” because that doesn’t sound very dignified. He was in gaudohasana. Mahavira had no cow to milk—what was he doing, sitting squatting?

Where the journey will end is also uncertain.

Buddha was seated beneath a tree. Since then many people have sat under trees; that in itself has nothing to do with it.

Everyone’s journey will end in a different outer place. Nothing can be said about how it will happen! Within you, the same event happens—but it happens in different ways. Meera was dancing; in dancing it happened. It’s nearly impossible to predict how it will happen.

I was reading the life of a Sufi fakir: he was peeling potatoes when the happening occurred. Now what connection is there between potatoes and the soul? Could you find two things more opposite than potatoes and the soul? Since then his disciples have been peeling potatoes—perhaps there is some connection between potato-peeling and the soul!

Where the journey will end is also uncertain.
It is uncertain when blossoms or the arrows of thorns will be met.
Whatever comes, make such a pledge that you will not stop.

Just keep moving.

Buddha’s word is: Charaiveti! Charaiveti!
Keep going, keep going—until your very being drops. That’s all for today.