Es Dhammo Sanantano #49

You can be with me in two ways: through thought and intellect, or through the heart and feeling. If you are with me through the intellect and thought, there will be great difficulty. Day after day you will find contradictory statements. Every day you will have to sort them out, and still you will not succeed.

The intellect never really resolves anything. Even where things are simple, the intellect tangles them up. And my words are very tangled. Even where everything is clear, the intellect creates problems. And I speak of paths filled with mist. Even if there were only one path, the intellect would find contradictions; here there are countless paths—contradictions upon contradictions. There is hardly a statement I have not refuted a thousand times. So if you are with me through the intellect, only two things are possible: either you will go mad and drop the intellect, or you will run away.

If you want to save the intellect, you will have to drop me. If you want to keep me, you will have to drop the intellect. There is no other bargain, no compromise. That is why many intellectuals come to me and then leave; their intellect seems more valuable to them. That is their choice.

I do not call them very intelligent, because they are clinging to the very intellect by which they have attained nothing. Here I offered a chance to be in no-mind, I opened a doorway—unknown, unfamiliar. Had they had the courage to take even two steps, they would have found something: a glimpse, a taste of life descending. But they got frightened, tied up their little bundle of intellect, and fled—saving precisely that by which they had gained nothing. So I do not call them very intelligent.

Those who are truly intelligent will see contradictions in my words, and yet, despite the contradictions, the flavor of my words will go on stirring their hearts. One day, gathering courage, they will take a step with me into the dark; that very day a revolution will happen within. The stream of their consciousness will slip out of the grip of the intellect and begin to flow along the path of the heart. That is the one and only revolution.

So those who have come to me through the intellect—if they want to stay, they will have to lose the intellect; that is the price. If they want to save their intellect, they will have to lose me. As you wish. The second kind are those who have come because of the heart: not by thinking about me or by merely listening to me, but by seeing, by experiencing; who have slowly formed a love-bond with me. That bond is not intellectual. In that relationship, what I say has nothing to do with it. What my beliefs are is of no concern. What I am—that is what is valuable. No matter how many contradictory statements I go on making, it makes no difference. The connection they have made with me from within is of the heart, beyond contradiction.

The intellect keeps weighing: which statement is right, which is wrong; which one contradicts which; what I said yesterday, what I am saying today. The intellect keeps accounts. The heart lives moment to moment; it does not go on linking everything to the past. What I said yesterday is not the point; what I was yesterday is the point. And what I was yesterday, that I am today. My statements may change, my words may change; my nothingness remains the same.

Sometimes I have told you to go into the temple and pray; sometimes, to drop and renounce all idols and go to the mosque to offer namaz; sometimes, to become drunk with God and dance in ecstasy; and sometimes I have said there is no God at all—drop all props and search for the self.

Naturally, these statements are contradictory. But within all these contradictions, I am. The one who told you to worship is the very one who told you to drop worship. And for the very reason I told you to worship, for that same reason I told you to leave it. I am the same, and my purpose is the same.

If you have related to me through love, you will see this; it will be clear. Then you can live with me for lifetimes, and no question will arise within you. This is auspicious; this is glorious. Love has never known any question. Yes, sometimes curiosity can arise. Curiosity is a far greater thing.

Keep this difference in mind.

A question arises from your information. You know something—and from that, the question is born. Curiosity arises from not-knowing. Because you do not know, the question is born. You read the Vedas, then I say something, and if it is contrary to what you read in the Vedas, a question arises. You read the Gita, and I say something that does not match your understanding of the Gita, a question arises. A question arises from your knowledge, your information.

A question simply means your knowledge has wavered; you want to stabilize it. You have become restless, insecure. Everything seemed neat and tidy; confusion has arisen. I said something and it shook you. You want to be steady again. You ask a question—this side, or that side? Either I must prove you completely wrong so that you can take me to be right; or I must be proved wrong so that you can go on holding your “right” as right. A question arises when an obstacle appears in your knowledge.

Curiosity is born of not-knowing. When a small child asks, it is curiosity. He knows nothing. He asks, Who created the world? A Hindu asks, Who created the world? He is asking with prior knowledge. He is really saying, I hold that God created it—do you also agree or not? Behind his question stands information. A small child asks, Who created it? Behind his question there is no information—there is vast curiosity. He is not asking on the basis of any belief. Therefore there is an innocence in his asking. He wants to know, so he asks. You already know, and therefore you ask. So whenever you ask, your question is a kind of debate.

Those who have loved me will not have questions; they will have curiosities. Curiosity is essential on the search for truth. Questions are useful if you want to argue, to engage in scholastic debate; but if you want to seek truth, they are obstacles.

It will make no difference. The longer you stay with me, the more it will feel as if you stayed too little. This is a love that only grows; it does not diminish. What diminishes—can that be love? This moon is such that it keeps on waxing. The full moon never truly arrives; it only seems to be arriving. This is the beauty of the path of love: the feet move on, and the goal moves along with them.

Feet move on; the goal advances with them,
and not for a moment does this procession halt.
No one’s foot ever treads upon the destination—
Beloved, no one’s heart is ever sated with love.

That which lets you get your fill is not love. That which never lets you be sated—that alone is love. Again and again you feel, “Now it is brimming, now it is brimming,” and when you look within, you find there is still space left, still more to fill. The destination always seems to come close—stretch out your hand and you’ll have it—but the foot never steps upon the destination.

The longer you remain with me, the more it will feel you stayed too little. Time will shrink. Before love, time is small. In the hour of love you do not even notice how time passes.

Have you ever noticed? Sitting with the beloved, hours pass and it feels as though only moments have gone by. Sit with an enemy, and moments pass and it feels as if the clock has stopped—hours drag on. In sorrow, time lengthens. In happiness, time shortens.

That is why they say hell is endless—because in suffering time stretches long. And they say heaven is momentary—because in happiness time becomes short; it seems neither to come nor to go. And in bliss, time becomes a perfect zero. Hence bliss is called timeless.

Think again: how long have you really been with me? It will seem very little. Look closely and it may even vanish, as if you were never here at all. It feels as if you had just arrived; not even a moment has passed—or even “moment” is not right, because nothing seems to pass; something feels utterly still. That is why the longer you stay, the more it will feel: too little, too little, too little. This water is such that by drinking it the thirst increases. A love by which thirst is quenched is not love. The love by which thirst becomes infinite and burns ever more intensely—that alone is love. And that very love will become prayer. And that very love will one day lead you to God.

When thirst becomes such that you disappear and only thirst remains—only thirst remains, and you do not remain; a restlessness remains, a separation-longing remains, a heated, intense yearning remains; you are lost—let not even the “thirsty one” remain, for it is because of the thirsty one that the thirst cannot be fulfilled. Some energy goes to the thirsty person and some to the thirst; it gets divided. When there is only thirst, and the thirsty one has no strength left even to preserve himself, then thirst becomes prayer; then thirst becomes God.

Here I am teaching you thirst itself. Here I am preparing you so that you come to possess an infinite thirst. The haste to be filled… Think a little: a man wants to quench ordinary thirst because he is afflicted by it. But he does not want to extinguish the thirst for God, because by that thirst he is not afflicted. Therefore Narada speaks of viraha-asakti—attachment to separation. There arises an attachment even to separation; even thirst begins to have its own sweet flavor.

If you understand rightly, let me say this: the devotee does not ask for God in order to end thirst; he asks for God so that the thirst may go on increasing. Let God become secondary to the thirst; let devotion become more important than God. For as long as devotion is a means, you will want release—let it end quickly, let the road be done, the goal attained. But when devotion itself becomes the end!

Here I am leading you toward just such a thirst. So how long you have stayed is something to reflect upon: it has not really been long. This question has been asked by Anand Trivedi. Granted, many years have passed; yet I say to you, not even a moment has gone by! You had just arrived, you are just now sitting, it has not been long—and if you reflect, you will find it so. If it truly had been long, the time to get up would be near. When it starts to feel long, one begins preparing to rise. But you want to sit a while longer; you want simply to remain. Until the desire to get up arises, until the urge to go away from here appears, how can it be called long? You are not bored yet.

The intellect gets bored quickly. The intellect is very shallow; it has no depth. It makes much noise, as shallow rivers do. The heart never gets bored; it is very deep. One cannot even tell whether it is flowing or not. Its current glides very slowly.

Good. You are fortunate. It is a very auspicious sign. This is how it should be. It doesn’t happen to everyone—unfortunate for them. If it happens to you, rejoice. It means a deep attainment is dawning in you, one that cannot be shaken by statements. What I say no longer worries you; what I am has begun to reveal itself before you. Which words I use makes little difference. You have begun to look through my words and glimpse my emptiness. Whether I speak for God or against God, it makes no difference—you experience me standing beyond both. You have started recognizing the tune of my song. In which language I sing does not matter. Whether you understand the language or not doesn’t matter. You are beginning to be attuned to the music of my song.

Neither philosopher nor mullah do I have any use for—
this is the death of the heart; that, the turmoil of doubt and viewpoint.

Pundit, priest, philosopher, thinker—what have I to do with them? Here the art of dying is being taught; their business is only the nuisance of opinions, doctrines, points of view. The pundit is merely a web of words.

Neither philosopher nor mullah do I have any use for—
this is the death of the heart…

Religion is the death of the heart; here one has to disappear.
…that is the brawl of suspicions and standpoints.
There it is only the quarrel of perspectives.

I am not teaching you how to quarrel here. I am teaching you how to dissolve the one who quarrels—how the ego can drown; that is all. And this is why I speak of many therapies: whichever brings it about will do. I have no attachment to any therapy—understand this. Your illness should end. There are people who are less concerned with ending the illness and more enamored of the therapy.

I have a friend who is a homeopath—mad for homeopathy, an enemy of allopathy. His wife told me it is difficult to fall ill in that house. The moment you are ill—homeopathy! No one seems to get well, but he is adamant. And you can’t go to an allopathic doctor. You can’t even tell your husband you have a headache or a fever; you have to hide it in secret, or else homeopathy begins! No concern for the patient—only the doctrine!

There are those who are crazy about naturopathy. They don’t care. A relative of mine lost his wife to naturopathy. I was present through the whole episode. I repeatedly told him, “You are killing your wife.” Fasts! She was weak and ill, and he made her fast. I said, “Fasting can sometimes help, but her condition is bad.” He replied, “Precisely because her condition is bad—the body has become toxic. The toxins must be expelled; only fasting can remove them. And I won’t give allopathic drugs; they are more poison.”

The doctrine was strong; the wife withered away. I said, “Your wife is wasting; her condition is worsening.” He said, “Just look at the radiance on her face!” She was turning yellow; he called it radiance.

This is how people hang around saints and sadhus. Their faces turn yellow, and devotees say, “What gold-like austerity is manifesting!” An outsider would see an illness that needs treatment. The devotee says, “Ah! What a face emerging—pure gold!” When eyes are clouded by doctrine, brass appears as gold.

I said to him, “Your wife will die.” Not only did her body weaken; she lost sleep. A little food is necessary for sleep. If there is nothing in the body to digest, the body has no need to sleep. When sleep was lost, I told him, “She is losing sleep.” He said, “This happens when a person becomes peaceful. Even in the Gita Krishna says: ‘What is night for all beings, therein the self-controlled keeps vigil.’ My wife is attaining restraint.” He was impossible to convince. Then the wife went mad as well, but he kept his prattle going. She died. But the issue was the doctrine.

Remember, religion often proceeds in the same way. You don’t care whether God is found or not. If you are a Muslim, then it must be through the Quran; the Quran is more important. If you are a Hindu, then it must be through the Gita; the Gita is more important. If God himself were to say, “Today I am ready to be met by way of the Quran,” you would answer, “We are not ready; we will come only by way of the Gita.”

It is said Tulsi Das once went to Krishna’s temple in Vrindavan. He said he would not bow until Krishna took up bow and arrow. The idol had a flute in its hands. How could Tulsi bow before an idol of Krishna with a flute? He was a devotee of Rama, the archer. “Until you take up bow and arrow, I will not bow.”

What kind of thing is this! You have no real concern with God. You want to keep even God under your discipline. If he comes in your style, you will bow. Which means you bow to your style; you have nothing to do with God. You want to put God through drills. What ego!

Here I speak of all paths. Not so that you may walk on all of them. I say: when one path fits you, take it. Until then, for the sake of those for whom it hasn’t yet fit, I keep speaking on.

Therefore you will see contradictions in my statements: I am speaking to people who are themselves mutually opposed. Their expressions are so different. Where Buddha, where Christ! Where Krishna, where Mahavira! Where Patanjali, where Tilopa! Where Shiva’s Vigyan Bhairav, where Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching! So many different people, different centuries, different expressions. My whole effort is to show you that inside, they all point toward the One. The fingers are different; the moon is one.

So when I lift Lao Tzu’s finger to point at the moon, naturally it won’t be the same as Buddha’s finger. It cannot be. Buddha’s finger is Buddha’s; Lao Tzu’s is Lao Tzu’s.

If you watch me carefully, you will slowly discover that the fingers are not the point. Look where the fingers are raised—toward the moon. Look there; forget the fingers. If you have seen the moon, you will feel one stream flowing through all my words. If you look at the fingers, you will be in trouble; then my statements will seem disparate.

To see the moon, you must look at me with the eyes of love. If you come with the eyes of dispute, you will only see words. The disputatious mind is so eager for argument that it cannot even grasp the words; it snatches only those that can serve its quarrel and forgets the rest.

But if you listen to me with love—which is a unique way of seeing life—then you will see one music flowing through all my contradictions. Whether rivers run east or west, they all go to the ocean.

Nothing appears but his image—
the longing to behold has blinded these eyes.

The eye that belongs to love appears like blindness to the intellect. Hence the clever have always called love blind. Ask the lover: he thinks the clever are blind, because love sees what intellect cannot.

Yesterday a young sannyasin asked me: “Since I have been meditating, things appear in such a way that I am afraid I might be imagining. Flowers look more colorful—am I imagining? Trees look greener, fresh and bathed—am I imagining? These are the same trees; they haven’t bathed, nor become newly fresh.”

His concern is natural. As the inner mind is being cleansed, the outer too begins to look clean. I said, “Don’t be afraid. If you get scared and accept the intellect’s verdict—‘this is imagination, you’ve started dreaming’—then the door that was opening, the veil that was lifting, will stop.”

This is what intellect has always said. A poet sees in a flower what no one else sees. A small child on the seashore sees in pebbles, shells, conches what others do not see. He stuffs colorful pebbles in his pockets. Parents keep saying, “Throw them away; they are a burden; what will you do with them at home?” Even when he drops them, tears fill his eyes.

If the old folk found diamonds and gems, they too would fill their pockets. They have simply forgotten the language—the child still sees diamonds in the pebbles. Every colored stone is a Koh-i-noor. His eyes are not yet dimmed; they are still clear. He has just come from God’s home; his vision is clean; no dust has yet settled; the junk of experience hasn’t yet piled up.

Soon the elders will teach him: these are mere pebbles—leave them. And then they will set him chasing other pebbles to which they ascribe value.

When you fall in love again, you regain the child’s eyes. In love, you receive the poet’s eye. You receive the mystic saint’s eye.

So if you are in love with me, only then are you really with me—remember this. Otherwise, can anyone come close just by physical proximity? There is a soul-nearness. Then even if you live thousands of miles away, you are near. If there are no thoughts in between, you are near; if there are thoughts in between, you are far even while sitting next to me. Where love flows, you will see things that eyes empty of love cannot perceive—and those empty eyes will call you blind. Do not be distressed. For them, such a statement is natural. The clever will call you mad—they always have.

When people began taking sannyas by the thousands with Buddha, people said, “They’ve gone mad; this man has driven them mad; they are hypnotized.” When people took sannyas with Mahavira, learned a new way of life, a new gait, people said again, “They are mad.” The world has always called those who walk otherwise than the crowd mad.

If you have the courage to walk with me, you will also need the courage to laugh when people call you mad. Do not be angry. It is natural. They are not calling you mad; they are saying indirectly, “If you are right, then are we mad?” They are only defending themselves. Do not be angry with them. If you become angry, you will strengthen their idea that surely you have gone mad. Smile; put them into a sweet embarrassment. Say, “You are right—we have gone mad, but we are better than before, more joyful than before. Mad, yes—but in a good way.”

Let your madness become compassion for them, because they are tormented by their own madness. They too want to be free, to find some door. They are imprisoned. If they see you blissful and serene, you will draw them too. If you get angry, start defending yourself—“I am not mad”—if you enter into argument, you will close the door for them. That is exactly what they wanted: to drag you into a quarrel.

You smile. Bless them. Pray to God for them. Offer them a flower and come away. Do not argue. Then you will keep the way open for them. If not today, tomorrow they may also come. Their potential is just as great as yours.

“From time to time I have heard many different, even mutually contradictory, statements from you, yet no question has arisen in my mind about them. And despite them you have remained one and unbroken in my sight and heart.”

Only if I remain in your heart despite contradictory statements does your abiding have substance. If I seem rational to you, confined within the limits of your ready-made logic, and on that basis you agree with me, that friendship is not very deep. It is merely a bond of ideas, which can break at any moment—if my ideas change or yours change. And ideas change daily. Trusting ideas is like wishing to build a house upon ocean waves. Ideas are so fickle.

The mind is fickle like the weather—
belonging to all, and yet to none;
now morning, now evening,
now weeping, now laughing—
the mind is fickle like the weather.

If you remain with me supported by the mind, you will not be able to walk together for long. Such friendship lasts only a little while. Two travelers meet on a road, walk together a short distance, then my path separates and yours separates. We meet for a while and part. Love is such a foundation that it can be eternal. Even death cannot erase it. Life cannot shake it; even death cannot shake it.

When Buddha’s death drew near, he announced he would depart from the body that day. Ananda cried and wailed. But he was surprised to see another disciple, Subhuti, sitting quietly under a tree. Ananda said to him, “Didn’t you hear? No one told you? The Blessed One will drop the body today! You are not weeping! Are you in your senses? Your eyes are not wet! There will be no meeting again, no more of his words to be heard. Who will teach the true law? The Master is lost.”

Subhuti said, “The Master with whom I am related cannot be lost. The one to whom I am connected cannot die. I made sure of this long ago, Ananda. You have related yourself mistakenly. I have nothing to do with thoughts. My connection is deep—beyond thought. We are together; we cannot now be separate.”

Ananda reported this to Buddha. Buddha said, “Subhuti is right, Ananda.” Ananda said, “I have been with you forty years and yet I have not been with you—what is the obstacle?” Buddha said, “You think too much. Your connection with me is of thought. You have not yet joined me in meditation.”

Meditation is Buddha’s word for love. Call it meditation; call it love.

Only if you are with me despite all my contradictory statements are you truly with me. So let me tell you: there are many reasons behind my contradictory statements; one of them is this—that those who remain in spite of them are the ones I want near me. Those who move away because of them—many thanks! Their presence had no value. Adding to the crowd serves no purpose. They would only waste their time and mine. They would only occupy space—better that they left.

There are two kinds of people. Life’s happenings always divide in two. Among the thousands who come near me, when men come they say, “We like your ideas; therefore we connect with you.” When women come they say, “We like you; therefore we like your ideas.” And such a division between male and female is not very neat. Many men have a heart like women. Many women are intelligent like men. The intellect says, “Your ideas appeal; hence our attachment to you.” The heart says, “Our attachment is to you; therefore your ideas also appeal.”

Now think: if someone has tied himself to me because of ideas, what if tomorrow the ideas no longer seem right? I create thousands of such occasions when the ideas will not seem right.

Many Gandhians used to be around me. Then I sought to be rid of them. I had nothing against Gandhi, but because of Gandhiites I spoke against Gandhi. They fled. Those who stayed proved their bond was with me. When I spoke against Gandhi, socialists and communists began to gather; they had never come to hear me before. Then when I spoke against socialism, they ran away. A few remained—those were valuable. I have done this continually; I will continue to do it.

I want you to be with me because of me. No other extraneous reason. Only if the relationship is direct is your being here appropriate. Otherwise you are occupying someone else’s place—vacate it. Someone else will come, someone else will benefit. Do not crowd the doorway.

It is auspicious that in spite of all my contradictory statements you are here. Do not forget this. Keep it continually in remembrance. For sometimes it happens—understand this too—that I speak against Gandhi; you were never a Gandhian, so you felt no difficulty and thought, “Our bond is of love.” I speak against socialism; you were never a socialist; you say, “These contradictions don’t matter to us; our bond is of love.”

Wait a bit—somewhere I will catch your root. You will not be able to evade for long. Somewhere I will strike your opinion, your scripture. I must. Until I free you from your scripture, I cannot free you from your intellect. Until you are free from the intellect, the base under the ego will not be removed. Your structure will not collapse.

So I keep searching. In the end, the one who remains with me—having withstood every storm and gale—that one has passed the test. If you remain aware, there is no reason you should not also pass. But when a blow falls on your belief, awareness is lost; one becomes restless. Because to admit, “I believed something wrong,” is very hard. You—so intelligent—were believing something wrong! You do not suspect your intelligence.

And that is the fundamental mark of a religious person: the intelligence that begins to suspect itself has become religious. Only the one who doubts himself begins to change. Without doubt, why would you change? The one who recognizes, “I am ill,” goes in search of treatment, seeks the medicine.

To think in terms of which is stronger is, from the very outset, to raise a wrong question. And once the question is wrong, the answers will go on being wrong.

They say: in good hotels the waiter does not ask, “Will you have tea or not?” The waiter asks, “Will you have tea or coffee?” Do you see the difference? If he asks, “Will you have tea or not?” there are fifty chances for “no” and fifty for tea. If he asks, “Tea or coffee?” there are fifty for tea and fifty for coffee. He is not giving you a chance to slip away. He is not giving you the opportunity to say “no.”

That is why, in the West, salespeople are trained how to talk to a customer, what to say—because the customer’s answer will depend on how you put it. If you yourself give fifty percent opportunity for “no,” what kind of salesperson are you? You have already ruined half your shop, spoiled half your business. You asked from the wrong place. No, this is not a right way to ask.

Humankind has suffered from many such questions asked from the wrong angle. Once asked, a tangle is created. And our conditioning has trained us into the habit of yes and no: darkness and light, night and day, death and life—we look by splitting into two.

Life is not divided into two halves. Life is seven-colored—like a rainbow. If you ask, “Is a rainbow white or black?” what can one say? A rainbow is neither black nor white. It is seven-hued. Your black-and-white categories don’t apply.

It is like someone asking you, “Answer yes or no—do you still beat your wife?” If you say yes, it means you still beat her. If you say no, it means you used to beat her. He has left you no way out. It could also be that you never beat her at all.

We ask questions like: nonviolence or violence, love or hatred, anger or compassion? This is a wrong way of dividing life. Life is seven-colored. It is not split into yes and no. Between yes and no there are many steps, many gradations—rung after rung. There is also a state where there is neither hatred nor love—indifference. And there are also moments when both hatred and love are present together, side by side.

Psychologists say: the very person you love is ordinarily the person you also hate. That is why husbands and wives quarrel so much. The one you love is the one you hate. If you tell them, “Since you fight so much, why don’t you just separate?” you are speaking wrongly—there is love too. They can neither leave, nor can they live together. The relationship of husband and wife is such that they cannot live without each other, and they cannot live with each other either. When the wife goes away, she is missed; when she comes close, the wish for escape arises.

If you look at life directly—but if you bind it to mathematics and say, “Make it clear and straight: if there is attachment to the wife, fine, live together; if there is no attachment, then leave and finish the matter…”

If only life were that straightforward! If only it were divided like darkness and light! It is not. Life is very mixed.

If you ask someone, “Tell me exactly—love or hate?” he will also say, “It’s hard to be definite. Sometimes there is hate, sometimes there is love. In the morning there is hate; by evening it becomes love.” Inquiry has revealed that love and hate are two sides of the same coin; they keep turning into each other.

So let us not begin with a wrong question. Wherever you see an extreme in life, understand that in the middle there will be a bridge as well. Is the night anywhere separate from the day? Is death anywhere separate from life? Death does not happen outside life; it happens within life. You do not die before death comes; you remain alive. When death comes, it finds you alive. It is not that first you die and then death comes. Death is within life, not outside it. And death is not even opposed to life. When you move aside, you make space for someone else—someone else can live. An old person dies, and a child can be born. Old leaves fall and new leaves sprout. If the old leaves do not fall, the new leaves will not appear.

Think a little like this: had your elders not died, you could not be. You are because of their great compassion—they died. If they had kept on clinging and sat there entrenched, where would you be? Scientists say that wherever you are sitting, at least ten human corpses are buried beneath; so many people have lived everywhere. Just think—if no one died, life would become worse than death. Everyone old—just imagine! From the Kauravas and Pandavas to all the rishis and sages, all the demons, all sitting on the earth—and you have also come! They would choke you. Where was there any space for you?

You could be because someone became “not.” Your being is linked to someone’s not-being. Now if you insist very much that you should remain forever, you will become an obstacle to the being of others. When your turn comes, step aside so that others may be. Life runs alongside death. Death is life’s own device, its means. Death is a part of life itself. Once you understand that apparent opposites are joined, many things about life can become clear.

None. They are together. And if you are to drop one, you have to drop both. That is why the sages of India have said: if you want to be safe from death, you will have to renounce life.

Consider it this way.

The enlightened ones have said: if you want to be rid of death, you must be rid of life. As long as you cling to life, death will keep coming. In the very act of clutching at life you have invited death. The craving to live will bring death, and the wheel of life and death will keep spinning. Let go of life, and death drops by itself. You desired respect; then disrespect will keep arriving. Drop respect, and disrespect falls away by itself. You wanted to possess; then somewhere along the way you are destined to suffer the pain of loss. Let go yourself—then nothing can be taken from you. If you cling, it will be snatched. If you do not cling, the very issue of losing comes to an end.

Therefore the whole wisdom of the East says: if you want suffering to cease, renounce happiness. The law of the opposite is at work here. You want happiness to remain and suffering to be renounced—you are asking for the impossible. It means that if you want to drop the disease of hatred from your life, then what you call love must also be dropped. Then a stainlessness will enter your life in which there will be neither what you call love nor what you call hatred. There will be a wholly new fragrance, something utterly different—something your language cannot contain. It will be ineffable, inexpressible; new words would have to be coined.

Hence we cannot call Buddha a lover, because love, as you know it, cannot be without hatred. So we have called him compassionate—we shifted the word a little. But even calling him compassionate, is that right? For compassion too cannot be without anger.

I am telling you that no word of your language can apply to a Buddha. Whatever word you use forces you to accept its opposite as well. You cannot call him a renunciate, for one is a renunciate only in contrast to being a sensualist. You cannot call him a knower, for one is a knower only in contrast to being ignorant. You cannot call him a sannyasin, for one is a sannyasin only in contrast to being worldly.

Then what to say? Therefore the scriptures declare: about that, one can only remain silent. Nothing can be said. In that realm, silence is the statement.

So first: both are together, of equal weight. Neither hatred is more nor love more. Second: moment to moment in life the situation keeps changing. When you are young, infatuation seems more. It seems so—this is the delusion of youth. Love seems more—this is the delusion of youth. Indulgence seems more—this too is the delusion of youth. Then you yourself will grow old and begin to speak the language of renunciation—that is the delusion of old age.

That is why conversation between the old and the young is difficult; they speak different languages. The old man says, all that you talk about is a dream. The youth says, all this is the talk of defeat—your tired exhaustion. Now you have grown old, death is approaching—you have become frightened of death.

The old man becomes a theist; he begins to believe in God. Youth is atheistic; youth does not want to acknowledge anyone but itself. The young man says: the old man has become afraid of death, therefore he has begun to believe in God—he is terror-stricken. All these gods are born of fear. And the old man says: the youth is still blind. Youth is blindness—and to the blind everything appears green. This intoxication will wear off; it is all intoxication. Then sense will arise.

But I tell you: neither the young nor the old have understanding. Understanding has nothing to do with youth or old age. Until you find within yourself a space that is neither young nor old, no ray of intelligence can enter your life. The young man is harried by youth and speaks the language of youth. The old man is harried by old age and speaks the language of old age. The old man feels, “I am wiser,” and the young man too feels, “I am wiser.”

Hence a gap opens between generations. The father cannot understand the son; the son cannot understand the father. The father has completely forgotten that he, too, was once a son and young, and that he too spoke the same foolishness; he simply forgets—people do not remember their follies. And the young man forgets that this father too was once young and then grew old. I am young today; tomorrow I too will grow old—let me not dismiss what he says. If not today, tomorrow this will come into my life as well; let me not scorn it. But no—the young are blind, the old are blind.

Eyes belong to the one who finds within himself that current which is outside of time—neither young nor old.

Yesterday, on the rose’s bough where the nightingale
sang the songs of youth in the perfect fifth,
now I can see tears gathering in her eyes;
her song is muffled by the hiss of autumn’s fall.

Under the shade of those coral-petalled lids
there was a market of wine, a festival of bees;
today its petals lie scattered on the earth,
a clod of soil stands upon its breast.

This happens every day. A moment ago the flower that flaunted itself to the sky is, a moment later, pressed into the soil. A moment ago youth was singing; a moment later old age is weeping.

The mind keeps changing every day. Sometimes one note seems important, sometimes another note seems important. With the mind this deception, this hide-and-seek, goes on continually. The law of the mind is: it cannot see the whole.

Try to understand this.

The mind can see only the half. Suppose I put a coin in your hand. The coin is small—can you see both faces at once? When you see one face, the other will be hidden. When you see the other, the first will be hidden. No human being has ever seen a whole coin. You think you have, because in imagination you join the two faces you have seen separately; otherwise you have not seen the whole coin. If you are very rigorous, you can say nothing about the other side of the coin.

I have heard: the great thinker Wittgenstein was traveling by train—a very rigorous man. A friend sat beside him. They peered out the window: a winter morning, the sun out, and in a field many sheep stood. Their wool had just been shorn. They were trembling in the cold, huddled together in the sunshine. The friend said to Wittgenstein, “Look—it seems the sheep have just been shorn. The cold is setting in and they’re shrinking from it.” Wittgenstein looked carefully and said, “As far as the side visible from here is concerned, certainly they have been shorn; about the far side I do not know. No one is seeing the whole sheep—how can we know about that side? That they are shivering, from this side, is certain. About the other side I can say nothing.”

The mind can see only one aspect of a thing at a time. In youth it sees one aspect; by the time the coin flips in old age, it sees the other. So in youth one says, “This is important.” In old age one begins to say, “Something else is important.” In youth color and song were important; in old age the language of renunciation becomes important. In youth one went to the tavern; in old age one starts going to the mosque. In youth: taste, tune, splendor, luxury; in old age: talk of sannyas, renunciation, dispassion—the entire language changes. But in truth only this much happens: the other face of the coin turns up.

I want to tell you: do not overvalue either face of the coin. The other is just as valuable. Both have equal worth. And if, at once, you weigh them equally—if both balance on the scales—you will be free of both.

I call only that person attained to right-knowing who has looked at all the mind’s opposites together; who has stopped choosing; who has said, “This whole mind is hide-and-seek—one comes to the fore, the other hides—and then we are deceived.”

He who is not deceived—who, seeing both, seeing their opposition, seeing their inevitable companionship, becomes free of both; who is free of conflict, of duality, of twoness—he abides in the supreme eternal. He alone attains his intrinsic nature.

Tomorrow is an illusion. Only today is true. Whether the next moment will come or not—no one can say. What has come is all that has come.
So how can you leave it to tomorrow? Where is tomorrow?
Last night a young man came from Europe and took sannyas. I asked him, “How long will you stay?” He said, “I’m staying till tomorrow.” I said, “Then you will never be able to leave, because tomorrow never comes.” He was a little shaken. If you are staying till tomorrow, you’ll have to stay forever—because when tomorrow comes it becomes today. Anything comes only as today.
The nature of time is today, now. Tomorrow is the mind’s imagination. Tomorrow is the mind’s expansion. Tomorrow is a device to avoid today.
So if you say, “We will enjoy being God tomorrow,” you will never be able to. God is now, here. Everything is already set. Why are you leaving the song for tomorrow? The veena is before you, your fingers rest on the strings—why postpone the plucking to tomorrow? Are you sure? It may be that the veena will still be there tomorrow, but you won’t be.
The habit of postponing to tomorrow is the most dangerous habit in the world. Live today. But you’ve always been taught to leave it for tomorrow. Because you were taught that you must prepare for everything. Preparation needs tomorrow. How can you enjoy today? Want to play the sitar? First you must learn. To learn, you must wait for tomorrow. Want to sing a song? Then you must train the voice. You must give it discipline. So you will need tomorrow.
But I tell you, to taste God nothing at all needs preparation. That which is available without preparation—that is God. That which is obtained by preparation is called the world. My words will sound upside down to you.
Let me say it again: That which is attained through practice—that is the world. That which is already given is God. The world needs tomorrow, needs time; God needs nothing. This is a song in which the voice needs no training—just sing. This is a note that requires no instruction. It is like the peacock dancing—without training, without ever going to a dance school. The birds are singing—without schooling their throats. Just as you are, God is ready to manifest. Just as you are, so has God already accepted you. Yesterday I was reading a poem; it delighted me—

These passionless deniers, these philosopher-poets,
Flutter in very lofty skies.
The garden’s flowers, the gait of the breeze, the snap of the rose—
They fear every living joy.
May God forbid these elders ever smile;
And if they do, with what clumsy, ponderous gravity they smile!
Upon the fire-tempered strings of life’s rabab
They lay the snow-laden shroud of thought.
It is the deathly Thought, that dead high-flying,
From which the nerves of life cramp and twist.

Philosophers, pundits, priests, thinkers, scholars talk of very high airs, of very high skies. But they are only words; they never fly in those skies. You will find their lives crawling on the ground—while they talk about the heavens. These are only dreams. And—

The garden’s flowers, the gait of the breeze, the snap of the rose—
They fear every living joy.

And you will always find that wherever there is a living joy, they are afraid of it. They talk of dead joys—or joys that will be someday. Of heavens that will be. Of heavens that once were.

The garden’s flowers, the gait of the breeze, the snap of the rose—
They fear every living joy.

Wherever the happiness of life appears, wherever a living joy is felt, they are afraid of it.

I tell you, whoever fears living joy is an enemy of God. For the flowers are His. The ripples of the wind are His. The birds’ songs are His. This dance that is happening all around, this festival of life playing everywhere—this is His. Whoever fears it, is ashamed of it, avoids it, that man is dead. His God too will be dead. The living God is here. The dead God lives somewhere else—beyond seven skies.

May God forbid these elders ever smile;
And if they do, with what clumsy, ponderous gravity they smile!

Such people hardly ever laugh. And may God forbid they ever do! For when they laugh, even their laughter is full of anxiety, such seriousness, such condemnation! Their laughter is not laughter at all; it carries the stench of a corpse.

Upon the fire-tempered strings of life’s rabab
These lines are very dear to me: the notes of life are fiery, warm. Because they are alive, they are warm.

Upon the fire-tempered strings of life’s rabab
This is life’s instrument, life’s music. Its strings are hot and eager. Ready—pluck them now. It is an invitation, a call: dance now, sing now.

Upon the fire-tempered strings of life’s rabab
They lay the snow-laden shroud of thought—
And these pundits, priests, mullahs lay the icy coverlet of worry and thought over life’s warm strings. They chill it. They kill it.

It is the deathly Thought, that dead high-flying—
And all these discussions and flights of ideas are dead.

From which the nerves of life cramp and twist—
From which life cramps. The limbs of life seize up. These are only words, all of them contrary to life. They take the side of death.

Those whom you have known as religions till now—leave the Buddhas aside, leave Mahavira and Krishna aside; you have no direct connection with their religion. Their religion is precisely this: become God now. Their message—every one of them—is that there is no time other than the present. All of them have said: make this moment eternal; drown in it. But in their names, the pundits and priests who have built sects—all of them tell you to prepare for tomorrow. They say, leave today; prepare for tomorrow. Because of them you are sad; because of them your life’s limbs have cramped; because of them you cannot celebrate anything.
Gurdjieff used to say that all religions are against God. It is a hard statement. For it seems to us that religions are on God’s side. Gurdjieff says all religions are against God. I say the same.
A religious person is not against God. Religions are against God. A truly religious person appears only once in a while. The religious establishments are opposite to the Divine. Your so-called holy men are all opposed to the Divine. The saints teach you to renounce life—yet the Divine has given you life. The saints say, “Leave it,” while the Divine says, “Enjoy it; life is the supreme celebration.”
If you understand me rightly, I am saying: make your God the very summit of your life. Do not place God in opposition to your life; otherwise you will be in trouble. You will belong neither to life nor to God. You will sit astride two boats going in opposite directions. Understand God as the very tone of life, and make every moment of life into prayer. Live in such a way that living itself becomes religious. Do not carve out separate compartments in life for religion. Let religion spread over your whole life.
But people are addicted to misery; they cling to it. They arrange every kind of suffering in life. First they are miserable for wealth, then for position. Somehow they get free of these—then they become miserable in the name of God. But their habit of suffering never leaves them.

You have your mosque; I have my tavern—
O preacher, each his own fate.

Some turn life into a wine-house—their life is a celebration, a great festival, a ceaseless joy.
And some turn life into a mosque, a church—gloomy, lifeless. It becomes a part of the cremation ground, not of life. Each his own fate!

O preacher, each his own fate.

Do not strive to become a religious leader. Drop the worry of “being religious.” Embrace the Divine’s festival. Whatever life has given you, savor it so deeply that in that depth you begin to see the Divine everywhere. Even when you eat, do it with such reverence that the Upanishadic utterance becomes true—Annam Brahma: food is Brahman. Look at beauty with such awe that all beauties begin to shimmer with His beauty. Get up in Him, sit in Him, walk in Him. Wake in Him, sleep in Him. Let the Divine become your very clothing. Let Him surround you. Only then do I say you will become truly religious. Being religious is a twenty-four-hour affair; there is no provision for a holiday. There is not even a Sunday in it.
There’s a Christian story that God made the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Now in the West there are union men. They object; they say work should be five days—six days? I think those unionists must have negotiated with Him even then: “Work only six days, keep the seventh off—otherwise everything will go wrong.”
As I see it, God is working all seven days—day and night. One asks for a holiday only when work is suffering. When work itself is joy, who wants a holiday? Has anyone ever wanted a holiday from love? People want a holiday from work because their work is not their love.
Do not seek a holiday from God. Then there is only one way: whatever you do, let it be offered to God, dedicated to Him. Whatever you do, let the fragrance of prayer be infused into it. Let the incense of prayer surround your life from all sides and make it fragrant. And if you pray before some God of the future, that prayer will be false—because God is always of the present. Future gods are your inventions—deceptions. And if you pray before a future god, there will be no ecstasy in that prayer; ecstasy is possible only now.

Your faith is without Presence, your prayer without rapture—
Pass beyond such prayer, pass beyond such faith.

There is neither ecstasy in your prayer, nor is there God in your prayer.

Pass beyond such prayer, pass beyond such faith—
Your faith is without Presence, your prayer without rapture.

Make prayer into ecstasy. Better still: make ecstasy your prayer. Dance, sing. It can happen this very moment. God has been waiting for you so long. How long will you keep Him waiting?
Certainly, this is my teaching: if you are to live God, then now. If you are not to live Him, then say plainly that you do not want to—why postpone it to tomorrow? At least be honest. Say only that you want no part in it; you do not want to be delighted, you do not want to be blissful; you want to be miserable. Be miserable consciously; at least you will be truthful. And one who suffers consciously cannot suffer long. Today or tomorrow he will recognize: “What am I doing? I have been given a great opportunity, and I am wasting it. Where lotuses could bloom, I am sowing thorns.”
No, your trick is this: you say, “We do want to be happy—but tomorrow.” Under the pretext of tomorrow, you secure your misery today. You say, “How can we be happy today? We will be tomorrow. Today we are in sorrow, so we will somehow pass it, somehow get through.” But only through today will tomorrow come. If today goes in sorrow, tomorrow cannot be happy. It will arise from this very sorrow. This very sorrow will be its foundation. The temple of tomorrow will be built on these very bricks you are throwing away as “today’s moments.”
Therefore I say to you: build the temple today. It is already built—pray today. Leave tomorrow to tomorrow.
Jesus has a famous saying: Tomorrow will take care of itself. You live today.
I call only that person religious who has made living in the present the only way to live. Then he does not have to go searching for God.
The Sufi dervish Al-Hallaj Mansur said, “What fun is it that we go searching for God? There are also ways in which He comes searching for us.”
I am giving you just such a way—so that He comes searching for you. What fun is it that you go looking for Him! Where will you look? He has no address, no fixed abode. Live in celebration, and He will find you. He is a companion of celebration. He loves festivity. That is why there are so many flowers, so many songs, so many moons and stars. He is mad for celebration. The moment you celebrate, your invitation reaches Him. You celebrate—and your message is delivered. Dance—deep in that dance you will suddenly find His hands in your hands; He is dancing with you. But only in the dance is He found. People sit with such gloomy, corpse-like faces—God too hesitates.
There is only one way to be with Him: dance. Dance has a certain movement, a certain gesture, in which you disappear and He begins to dance. Dance has a process. Just as at a hundred degrees water becomes steam, so too there is a hundred-degree process of dance—where you vanish. Suddenly you find: where have I gone, and who is it that has begun to dance? Who has arrived?
Certainly, this is my message. If you are to live God—then now. There is no other way.
There is no need for preparation; the instrument is tuned. The veena is eager for you to pluck the strings. The song is waiting for you to sing. God has long been sitting, watching for you to dance—so He may dance. Enough delay has already happened—do not wait anymore, and do not make Him wait. At least try what I am saying.
It goes against your habits, I know—but habits are to be broken. Your habit is to be sad and gloomy. But habit must be broken—broken by breaking. Only by shattering does it shatter. And if the point is understood, in this very moment you can leap outside the habit.
Give it a little chance—give this vision a little chance. From this very moment live as if God is with you, within you. You have lived in one way—found nothing. Give this way a chance too—live like this and see. I have found—and I say to you, you can find too.
That is all for today.