Es Dhammo Sanantano #51

Live by cause or live without cause—in any case you live causelessly. You may search for a cause, but there isn’t one. The cause is your own projection. Try to understand this.

Life is not going anywhere; life is. Life has no future, only the present. The present is the sole mode of existence.

You were born—what is the cause? If you ask, you get entangled. If you ask, you will also find someone to answer; and if no one is found, you yourself will conjure an answer for your mind. This is how all philosophies have been manufactured. Man asked—there was no one to answer—so man supplied the answers himself. Then, to save himself from the sting of further questions, he stored and treasured those answers, built caskets for them—the Vedas were made, the Quran and the Bible were made. Man’s restlessness is understandable. He feels, “Why? There must be a cause!”

But whatever cause you discover, your question applies to that cause just as much. You say, “God created birth.” But why? What occurred to God? What meaning is there in it? If he had not created, what harm would there have been? The question is not erased; it just moves a step back. Why is God? What answer will you give? All your answers will be circular. You will say, “God exists to sustain creation,” and “Creation exists because God made it!”

Whom are you deceiving with such answers? It’s like humming a tune in a dark alley at night. Humming doesn’t remove the fear, but hearing your own voice it seems there is someone with you. People start whistling. Whistling doesn’t conjure a companion—but it muffles the fear of aloneness.

Have you ever passed a cremation ground on a dark night? Even an atheist begins to chant a mantra. No mantra protects from ghosts and spirits. First, there are no ghosts and spirits that need warding off. You fabricate ghosts, then defend yourself with mantras. First you manufacture the illness, then you search for the medicine. If one medicine fails, you look for another. That is the whole wander and irony of philosophy.

You think that if a question can be asked, there must be an answer. Man formulates a question and then assumes that somewhere there must be an answer—since there is a question, there will be an answer. But you can fabricate any question. You can ask, “What is the smell of the color green?” There’s no flaw in the language. No logician can say the question is grammatically wrong. “What is the smell of green?”

But what has smell to do with green! You have manufactured a question, and off you go on a hunt for an answer. Watch small children. The questions they ask are the ones the so-called elders also ask. Only the packaging changes. Children ask, “Why are trees green?” What will you do!

D. H. Lawrence was strolling in a garden—a very significant man. A small child with him asked, “Tell me, why are the trees green?” Lawrence looked at the child, looked at the trees, looked at himself, and said, “They are green because they are green.” The child was satisfied. He had his answer. But was that an answer?

First you create a question, and then you think, “Since there is a question, there must be an answer.” The question bites, makes you restless, itches. Until you scratch, you get no relief. Then any answer will do. So somewhere you will settle on something or other.

Everybody has settled on some answer—some as Hindus, some as Muslims, some as Christians, some as Buddhists. Do not think this means they found answers; it only shows they got tired of their restlessness. Otherwise, the questions stand where they stood. Philosophy has not solved a single question.

You are causeless. Why were you born? There is no answer. What obstacle is there in accepting your causelessness? You will have to accept somewhere—so why not accept here? God, all religions say, is causeless; he has no cause. Then what difficulty is there in accepting for yourself what you so readily accept of God without any objection of reason?

All religions say God made the world; and when you ask who made God, they get annoyed. They say, “That’s an over-question. You are exceeding the limits.” No one is exceeding any limits; you are merely pulling away the ground from under their feet. Because if they accept this question, then there is no answer anywhere. If they say God was made by a Great God, then who made the Great God? It will go on endlessly; there will be no end. So somewhere they have to stop.

I tell you, why begin at all? If you are going to have to stop, and stop in such a clumsy way. Even your greatest philosophers have silenced you by force.

It is said King Janaka convened a great assembly of scholars, and had a thousand cows with gold plated on their horns stand at the gate, to be awarded to whoever would win, whoever would answer all questions, whoever would render everyone questionless. The finest cows; gold on their horns, studded with diamonds.

Naturally, the pundits came. There was great disputation. Then, in the blazing noon, Yajnavalkya arrived. He must have had great confidence in himself—he was a master logician, a great scholar. He told his disciples, “Yoke those cows and drive them to the ashram—they are tired of standing in the sun. I will settle the debate later.”

He must have been so sure of himself: take the prize first! The decision will go his way. Indeed he defeated all the pundits. His disciples drove the cows to the ashram. Even Janaka was dumbfounded—such confidence! But a woman put him in difficulty. After all the pundits had been defeated, a woman stood up. Her name was Gargi. She said, “You say Brahman sustains everything. Who sustains Brahman?” She touched Yajnavalkya’s weak nerve. He flared with anger. He said, “Gargi! Hold your tongue! This is an over-question. Your head will fall—or be made to fall.”

The Upanishads leave the story there. What happened after, we do not know. Perhaps the man’s force shut the woman’s mouth—but that is no victory. If it is an over-question, you should have stated at the outset that there is one question you cannot ask. Then you have not rendered anyone questionless. You have not answered all. “Who sustains the world?”—“Brahman.” And did Gargi ask anything wrong? If the question of sustaining the world is legitimate, then “Who sustains God, Brahman?” is equally pertinent and legitimate. The cows had to be taken—that’s one thing. Eyes were on the gold—that’s another. But this became a discourtesy.

And all the pundits sided with Yajnavalkya—perhaps the male ego was at stake. Gargi stood alone—and she was a woman.

They say that only after this were women forbidden to study the Vedas. “They raise such absurd questions in the middle.” So Hindus did not give women the opportunity to study the Vedas. If they don’t study, they cannot raise such questions.

But she asked a simple, straightforward thing—childlike. There was no flaw in it. I know Yajnavalkya’s difficulty: if Gargi is right, then all questions and all answers become futile. Then the whole business of philosophy is futile.

I am telling you: free yourself of philosophy by any means—then you will arrive at knowing. These lofty philosophical constructions only seem lofty; they have no foundation anywhere. These structures are houses of cards. A small gust of wind—a little question from Gargi—and the house collapses! Anger wells up.

I want to tell you: neither your birth has any cause, nor your life has any cause. Trees are green because they are green. You are living because you are living.

My words may seem a little hard to you—because you too have come to me seeking answers. I am not eager to give you answers. I am eager to fell your questions, not to answer them. For whatever answer I give, in a few days the question will find a way to stand up again. And I do not want to say your question is an “over-question.” I will not indulge in such crudity! That rudeness which Yajnavalkya committed is not possible for me.

I say to you: your question is not an over-question—it is meaningless. So meaningless that there is no need to go in search of an answer to it. If you go, you will return empty-handed.

Life is. Call life God—it makes no difference; it’s a matter of name. Name is your whim, your preference. Call it Ishwara; but Ishwara is. And there is no way to go deeper than this “is.” This “is-ness” is utterly profound. There is no fathoming this “is.” You cannot ask, “Where is this ‘is’ supported?” Even if you admit it is deep—there must be a bottom somewhere?

No, there is no bottom. Life is bottomless. You can find no cause behind it, no future ahead of it. Life is only now and here.

Yes, if you feel restless, you can invent a cause—but causes are toys. Be grown up. I call one mature who has seen the futility of questions and renounced them. One who keeps asking and assumes there must be answers is still childish. He hasn’t learned the fundamental lesson of life: that life is—causeless.

What difficulty do you have in accepting the causeless? Are birds singing for some cause? Are trees flowering for some cause? Do the moon and stars move for some cause? Why this itch in you that there must be a cause? And if I tell you some cause, will you be satisfied? If I say, “It is God’s lila, his play”—is that an answer!

This is what your so-called sages tell you: “It is God’s lila.” And you don’t ask, “Lila? For what?” Can God not be without lila? Is there some compulsion in him? Some restlessness? Can he not sit quietly without play? The saints teach us to sit quietly. God himself cannot sit quietly—then what of us poor fellows! Why this lila? We are told to renounce the world; he himself is indulging in the lila of the world? Strange! We are told, “Give it up; all this is an obstacle. Escape from the cycle of birth and death”—and he keeps manufacturing the cycle! If there is a culprit anywhere, if anyone has committed the grand offense, the great sin, it is God. Why does he weave this net?

And the sages say, “It is lila.” Understand the word lila a little! Lila means “purposeless, for no reason.” To call it lila is to confess that the wise have no answer. They are saying, “Forgive us—don’t ask further. It is all lila!” But by calling it lila, it sounds as if they have answered, as if they have explained. Ask again: “Why lila? For what cause?”

When a man suffers, he asks, “Why?” The so-called wise—because I do not accept that a wise man would offer causes that aren’t—say, “You must have sinned in a past life.”

Now see the fun: you are satisfied. Your suffering here made no sense: “Why am I suffering? I have harmed no one, hurt no one. Why do I suffer?” The sage says, “You did bad deeds in a past birth.” You are satisfied. You do not ask, “Why did I do bad deeds in the past birth?” The sage will push you further into the past—but how far will he go! Keep asking. Bring the wise to the place where they get angry and cry, “This is an over-question! Gargi! Your head will fall!” And I tell you, you will bring every “sage” to that place. Where Yajnavalkya arrived, others will not stand—just keep asking.

When I was small, I used to go wherever there was a congregation of saints and sages. A nuisance began. At the mere sight of me, the organizers would get nervous: “He’ll ask something.” Then even the swamis began to recognize me. They’d say, “That boy has come—throw him out!”

If you cannot answer a small child, what kind of sagehood is that! If you cannot satisfy a child, whom are you going to enlighten! It seems those who sit to “understand” are not truly eager to understand; they are eager for whitewash, they want to be reassured, they are in a hurry—ready to accept anything. Say anything and they nod, “It must be right.”

Look carefully at this tendency. Open your eyes again. Do not ask for causes. There are none. Existence is causeless. And that is precisely why it is so beautiful. Causeless means there was no reason for its being—without a why. When something is without a why, it is limitless. When something is without a why, there is nowhere any boundary to it—there cannot be. Cause creates boundaries.

Look—do you see any boundary in this existence? Forms keep changing, but there is no boundary. Shapes change; the play continues. If there were a cause, it would have run out long ago. Think a little—how many eons the world has been! What kind of cause is this that hasn’t been exhausted! Then someday it would be exhausted. When the cause runs out, the world would end. Can you even think the world will end? If there is nothing—there will still be something. Even emptiness is something!

So I tell you a deep thing: there is no cause here. Yes, if you find it hard to live without a cause—that is your compulsion—then pick any cause you like: “Life is to seek God.” But the real fun is—why is he lost in the first place!

Some say, “Life is to find God.” Then why doesn’t God manifest right away and finish the affair! Why trouble people needlessly! Do their tears not show to him? Do their terrible sorrows not show? Their anguish? They are perishing! What has occurred to the Gentleman! Sir, now come out! You have made them weep enough. “No, life is for seeking God.” But how did he get lost? Some say, “Life is to become virtuous.” Then how did one become vicious? All such talk…

I say to you: life is for life. Being is for being.

Someone asked E. E. Cummings, a very significant poet, “What is the meaning of your poems?” He thumped his head and said, “No one asks flowers what their meaning is—why are you after my life? No one asks the moon and stars, ‘What is your meaning?’ When moon and stars can be without meaning and flowers can be without meaning, why should my poem need to have a meaning? Why don’t you ask God, ‘What is your meaning?’ When the whole of existence is without meaning and doing perfectly well, with no problem arising anywhere, why are you after a poor man like me? I don’t know.”

Someone asked another great poet, Coleridge, “The meaning of your poems…! I’m entangled in one and can’t untangle it.” He said, “When I wrote it, two people knew—now only one knows.” “Who were those two?” “When I wrote it, God and I knew. Now only he knows. I don’t. I myself ask him, ‘Say something—what does it mean!’”

Do you see the point? The point is clear: the very urge to ask for meaning is a little foolish. There is no meaning. Do not take this to mean that life is meaningless—for meaninglessness is only in contrast to meaning. Here there is no “meaning” at all—so how can there be “meaninglessness”? Poverty exists only where wealth exists; if there is no wealth at all, how can there be poverty? Meaninglessness would require meaning to exist. Here there is no meaning—so how can there be meaninglessness! There is only is-ness. Causeless. Without a why. This is the mystery of being.

Therefore, batter your head as you like—you will not find an answer. You will only break your head. Yes, after battering your head you may panic and grab any answer as a pretext to soothe yourself—that’s another matter.

Those who carry answers are those whose search is incomplete. Those who carry answers are weak, cowards. Those who carry answers are people who could not go further in the search and set up a camp somewhere, declaring it the destination. They were tired.

I am not tired. I have no answers. I have no intention of making a destination. For I hold that the journey itself is the destination. Walk in delight. There is nowhere to arrive; the joy is in the walking. The very talk of “arriving” indicates weakness.

People are in a great hurry to arrive. Why? Are you not enjoying the path? Do you not see the flowers in bloom on every side? These trees’ shade, this greenery, the birds’ songs, the chorus—does it give you no joy? You say, “We have to reach the goal.”

Have you noticed the difference? You go to the market; you have to reach a shop. You go by the same road—but then you see neither trees nor the sun, nor do you hear the birds. You are in a hurry; you have to arrive somewhere. Another morning or evening you go out just for a walk—you have nowhere to reach, you went for a stroll; suddenly the quality of your being is different, the art of your being is different! You are more open. You hear the birds. You stand a moment under a tree. You have nowhere to reach. You sit on a little bridge and rest. You turn back from anywhere. There is no line, no bondage. Then you see the sun, you connect a little with the birds, the grass’s greenness shows, the flowers’ colors appear.

It is the same road by which you go to the shop. It is the same road by which you could go to the temple. But whether you go to the temple or the shop, to the market or the house of prayer—if you are going somewhere, you miss the journey; your gaze is elsewhere. You cannot be here. You are elsewhere, absent. I call this absence irreligion; this is unconsciousness. Awareness means: now and here.

Let me share a song with you:
This time will not return again.
If you must fill your lap with the longing for union, fill it now,
Before the noisy king called Day
Knocks at the dream-door of the silent palace of Shyama.
Till then, pour the Ganges water from the pitcher
Upon the courtyard, darkened by these uninvited clouds.
Time is a cruel, ruthless trader;
He gives no credit, not even a fistful of flowers.
The south wind will not sway and sing like this again;
If you must steal away your burning grief, steal it now.
This time will not return again.
If you must fill your lap with the longing for union, fill it now.

If you are to wed—then now. If you are to love—now. If you are to sing—now. If you are to dance—now. Prayer, worship—now. If you are to live—now. Dying can be tomorrow. Death can be postponed. Does anyone die “now”? Everyone dies “tomorrow.” Now is for living. Now is life.

When I say to you, “Live causelessly,” I am saying: do not make a goal. For the moment you make a goal, you start swimming against the current. If I say, “Live causelessly,” I say: flow. Do not fight the current. Do not make the current an enemy; befriend it. Mount the current. Flow with it. Wherever it takes you, go. Do not set up a separate personal goal. What destiny has a drop! Perhaps the ocean has some; but what purpose can a drop have! And I say to you, not even the ocean—because the ocean too is only the sum of the drops. If the drop has none, how can the ocean? Listen to the ocean’s roar—it is now. Recognize this deep Now. Plunge into this moment that is present now.

Till then, pour the Ganges water from the pitcher
Upon the courtyard, darkened by these uninvited clouds.

You did not call it—yet it came, uninvited. You did not even ask for this life—yet it was given, unasked. It is prasad—a gift. You did not earn it; it was given just like that. Give thanks! And you ask for a cause? Feel the good fortune! And you are not bound by any cause.

But the ego wants a cause. The ego says, “If there is no cause, how will I be? I can exist only on the basis of cause. This will not do—I will swim. If I flow, I am finished.”

Consider: if you flow with the river’s current—where the current takes you, there you go; if it drowns you—fine; if it saves you—fine—then where will your ego be? The ego says, “What unmanliness is this! Fight! Swim against the current! Enjoy the fight! You are losing to the current! You must conquer! Struggle! Wrestle!”

Dylan Thomas has a poem—written on his father’s death—in it he says, “Do not die without a fight. Fight! Struggle! As this dark night comes, do not surrender. Fight to the end!” And that is what modern man does. He fights all his life—when he begins to die, he fights then too. Life becomes ugly; death also becomes ugly.

I tell you: do not fight, flow. If you fight, you will lose. If you flow, your victory is certain. Has anyone ever defeated the one who flows? This is the very dictum of Lao Tzu and the buddha-like: flow!

You want to fight—you even want to fight in the name of religion. Those you have worshipped in the name of religion so far—if you look closely—you have worshipped fighters, not floaters. Because even there you enthrone the ego. Someone is fasting—you say, “Ah! A great saint!” Someone is baking himself in the sun—you bow; then you cannot restrain yourself—you touch his feet. He is roasting in the sun! You too want to do that—you think you can; you are a little weak, but someday you will challenge existence.

Would you touch the feet of one who flows? Of one who moves from the sun into the cool shade and sits quietly under a tree—would you bow to him? A man sleeping on thorns seems worthy of salute. That too is your ambition: “You are a little ahead—you have done what I want to do—at least accept my bow.” We too live with the same ambition. We have to give the world a tough time!

Clash nourishes the ego: “I am—if I fight. If I do not, I disappear.” And I tell you, the fundamental dictum of religion is: surrender.

So I say to you: there is no cause. I am putting you in a difficulty. It would be far easier if I told you, “Here is the cause. Here is the map. Here is the path to reach—fight. Vows, fasts, disciplines!” You would say, “Perfect!” Whether you fight or not, you would keep the map close to your chest—“When the occasion comes, I will fight.”

I tell you: there is nothing to fight. Know life as your friend. Life is your friend. You come from it—whom are you fighting? You are born in it—whom are you fighting? You are a fish in this ocean. This ocean is yours. You belong to this ocean. Drop these distances, this duality, this fighting talk. Live in this ocean with delight, with wonder. There is nowhere to reach. Wherever you are, awaken there.

Second question:
You told the parable of the three golden bowls in which the master accepted the disciple who handled the bowl rightly. But I am like the other two who either left the bowl dirty or broke it. On what grounds then have you accepted me? Please explain.

Had I been in that fakir’s place, I would have left the one he accepted and accepted the other two. Because the one he accepted would reach even without him. The two he rejected cannot reach without him.

He did something like a doctor who accepts the healthy and says to the sick, “You are ill—we will not accept you.” But what is the physician’s purpose? He is for the sick. He takes in the fit and sends the sick away—is that medicine! He accepted the easy case. There was no difficulty with that man—he was already clean. Nothing much needed to be done. The master saved himself the trouble. He revealed that he did not want to be bothered.

I am not eager to save myself from trouble. When trouble comes, I flow with it, accept it. When trouble comes of its own accord—who am I to refuse! Very troublesome people come to take sannyas; I say, “Take it!” No one else will give it to you. With anyone other than me, your sannyas is not possible. And I am happy—because that is the real fun.

That master did what a man making wax statues would do. Such statues do not last long—they are of wax, very easy. My relish is in carving stone. What is the point of giving a hand to those who will arrive on their own! There is some meaning, some substance, in giving your hand to those who cannot arrive by themselves.

I tell you, that man would have arrived anyway; his insight was clear, his vision transparent. He had not much left to do. The two who were rejected were also seekers—otherwise they would not have come. It did not befit the master to refuse them. He was a mathematician; clever he was—but he lost the grace of a master.

You ask on what grounds I have accepted you. I can understand your asking. You do not even accept yourself—and I have accepted you. Hence the question: on what grounds!

I say to you: since I have accepted you, you too accept yourself. For only through your acceptance will your sun rise. As long as you keep fighting with yourself, keep rejecting yourself, keep condemning yourself, how will you transform? Condemnation means you have split yourself in two parts. You denounce one part and enthrone the other. But both are you. The one you denounce is you; the one who denounces is you. Having raised this duality within, having cut yourself in two—you have become fragmented. Then what else can happen but that the music of your life is lost!

So my first teaching: end these fragments; drop condemnation. Acceptance is surrender; rejection is war. I say, agree to be as you are. What else will you do? Existence has made you thus.

When you condemn yourself, you are condemning the whole. You are saying, “Why was I made like this?” Your complaint is: “I should have been made otherwise. Why not a Buddha? Why not a Mahavira? What have you made me!”

Whom are you complaining to? There is no one there to hear your complaint. And no one “made” you anyway. You have happened. No one is responsible. And God has not made you apart from himself—you are a wave of God. You have happened. Accept. There is nothing to be gained by rejection. Reject and you will fight and suffer—be agitated, restless. Moments that could have been of good fortune will turn into misfortune. Where a great music could have arisen, you will remain busy denouncing the veena, and end up breaking it. Do not break the veena. If the strings are a bit loose, tighten them a little. If they are too tight, loosen them slightly.

And whoever you are—that is who you are; you cannot be otherwise. So what are you hankering for? What are you comparing yourself with? I tell you: you are good as you are. Existence does not repeat. Existence is supremely creative, utterly original. That is why Rama is not born again; Krishna is not born again. Once one is born into this existence—he is.

Therefore we have a very significant perspective: the one who is complete does not return. The perfect one is lost forever. What does this mean? It means he has no need to return. There is no question of repetition. Existence makes every wave new, original. These are not cars rolling off Ford’s assembly line—two hundred thousand all the same. These are human beings.

In nature, nothing repeats. Go pluck a leaf—then search forests the world over; you will not find exactly another like it. Go to the road, pick up a pebble—the earth and the moon and the stars comb them all—you will not find its exact replica. Existence does not repeat. It is original. It does not make copies. That is why it is so beautiful.

You are no one’s repetition. But you compare. You say, “Why was I not made a Buddha!” Now you are in trouble. The parts in you that are not like the Buddha—you denounce; and by the parts you think are like the Buddha, you denounce the rest. You have divided yourself. You are no longer one. And you are one. You cannot divide yourself. The same blood that flows in your feet flows in your brain; you cannot cut the stream in the middle. You are indivisible—one, a unity.

Drop condemnation! Condemnation takes you into duality; acceptance into nonduality. If you cannot find nonduality within your small stream of life, where else will you find it? First realize it in your own little river—then stretch the same vision to the whole existence. Whoever finds nonduality within suddenly begins to see it everywhere.

I understand—your question arises from deep self-condemnation. And this is exactly what the so-called religious teachers have taught you: “You are a sinner, despicable, destined for hell!” Hearing this so often, it has taken hold of you. By constant repetition, even lies become truths.

I tell you: you are not a sinner; you are not fit for hell. If you were fit for hell, you would be in hell. If you were a sinner, how could you be here! You are not a sinner. You are you. Any comparison will put you in trouble.

All comparisons create complications. If you decide to compare your nose…someone’s is long, yours short—what to do! Someone’s is short, yours long—what to do! There is no standard for noses. All noses are fine, beautiful; they do the job of breathing—that’s enough. But if you set the ideal of a long nose, your short one becomes a problem. If yours is short, you will start seeing someone’s long nose—now trouble begins. You are five feet six; someone is six feet—trouble.

You make such comparisons every day—someone is fair, you are dark; someone is very brilliant, you are ordinary; someone very virtuous, you very sinful—you are trapped in comparison. Comparison is the cause of misery. Drop comparison. You are you. You are like no one else. Embrace yourself—only then will you grow.

And I say to you: the moment one accepts oneself totally, peace begins instantly. For in total acceptance, all your energy is released from fragments. Music begins to play within.

Whoever in this world has attained ultimate awakening is one who accepted himself totally. Buddha was not trying to be like Rama; nor was Krishna trying to be like Rama. Had they tried, they would have wandered as you wander. Buddha sought his own being. Krishna sought his own being. You too seek your own.

And I say this because on the day I left comparison in my life, on that day I found. As long as there was comparison, there was trouble. The day I accepted myself, that very day I found a deep sutra—the key to accepting all. Since then, I have not condemned anyone. Whoever has come to me—as he is—what is there to condemn!

I have accepted you because I accept myself. You ask why. I have accepted you because I accept myself. If it is your joy to keep your bowl dirty, I accept that too. After all, you are your own master. The bowl is yours. If you have a taste for flies—blessings! What can I do! If you enjoy keeping your bowl dirty, you are your own master. No one else stands above you. I, at least, do not sit above you.

Here I can stand with you as a friend. I am not your owner. You are not my slaves. You need not become my shadow. Even if you take my hand for support—that too is your joy. If you take it, I am happy. If you do not, I am happy—because in your joy I do not wish to interfere.

That is why I do not impose any discipline on you. I do not say “Do this,” nor do I say “Do that.” I say: do that from which you hear the notes of joy within. How can I be the judge of your joy? Who am I to come between you and your life? If you have given me the chance to stand by your side, that is your grace; but I cannot step in between your life and you—cannot stand in your path. If you learn something from me—that too is your joy. I cannot force you to learn. You come to me out of your joy—I accept. Someone comes—I accept. Someone goes—I accept.

Four or five days ago a young woman came. From Europe she had asked for a name, for sannyas—we had sent it. She had never come, never seen me, no acquaintance. She came and said, “I feel some unease in sannyas—some sense of being bound.” I said, “Then return the mala. Sannyas is to free you, not to bind you.”

She was a little shaken—she had never thought this. She must have thought I would persuade her: “Never do such a thing.” I said, “Don’t delay now.” She said, “Give me time to think.” I said, “Think later; return the mala now. Bound like this, even your thinking will not be complete. Think in freedom—and this mala will wait for you. When you have thought—and thought well—and find that it does not hinder your freedom, take it again. If you come a thousand and one times and return it and come back again—I have no problem. But if there is even the least unease, I am against it. I cannot give you an unease.”

She became very nervous. She said, “You are giving me such freedom that I can even drop this!”

That is precisely the freedom. Freedom means: if there is no freedom to go against me, then what kind of freedom is it! And when I give you even the freedom to go against me, then if you are still with me, there is some dignity in that being-with. If that freedom is not there, all dignity is gone.

As for that master—so be it. I would not have done so. Do not think I am condemning him. I am only saying: I am I, he is he. So be it with that master. He did what felt right to him. What fitted his nature. Nowhere am I saying he did wrong. Each has his own way.

There are many fine poets in the world;
they say Ghalib’s way of saying is unique.
Poets—there are many, excellent ones.
They say Ghalib’s style of speech is something else.
Each has his own style.

So I am not saying I have any condemnation for that master. He did what he did. What could happen through him—happened. That must have been natural to him, spontaneous. What is spontaneous to me—I do.

How can I say this to you in many ways? There is no comparison in my mind. In your mind there is comparison—so big mistakes happen. Whenever I say something, you begin to think comparatively.

When I speak on Buddha, I say, “Ah! No one has ever uttered such words!” Now you are in difficulty—because I said the same while speaking on Mahavira: “No one has ever spoken such words.” And the same I said when speaking on Krishna. Now you are troubled: “This is a contradiction. If Krishna spoke such words as none have spoken, then this should not be said about Buddha.”

You are comparing. I am not. When I speak of Buddha’s words, there is no one in my mind except Buddha. When I say, “No one has spoken such words,” I am drenched in the bliss of Buddha’s words. Do not raise Krishna then—he will get into trouble. Do not bring Mahavira in between—I will move him aside. When I speak of Mahavira, I am immersed in him.

Try to understand me. When I am standing before Gaurishankar (Everest), I say, “Ah! There is no peak like this.” Do not take that to mean I am saying the other peaks are pale before this one. I am not saying that. I am saying only: this peak is so beautiful that it makes one exclaim, “How can such peaks be!” The same I will say standing before Kanchenjunga. Everest may be higher—but not everything is height. Beauty has other measures too.

Do not string my statements into comparisons. My statements are atomic—each separate. Do not make a garland of them. Each bead is separate—and each bead is so beautiful that I am overwhelmed.

So yesterday, when I spoke of that fakir, you must have thought the fakir did absolutely right—because I was utterly immersed, merged with the fakir’s nature. Today, when you have asked me about myself, I have remembered myself. So now I say to you—

There are many fine poets in the world;
they say Ghalib’s way of saying is unique.

Why have I accepted you? Because acceptance is my joy.

Understand this too. I have not accepted you because of you—but because of me. Ordinarily people accept you “because of you”: you are beautiful, so they accept you; you are gentle, so they accept you; you are balanced, so they accept you; you are disciplined, so they accept you. That is not the point. Accepting is my nature—therefore I accept. I do not calculate what you are like.

Who will bother to split hairs about what you are like! Who will waste time! What purpose of mine is served by analyzing you! You think about yourself. I accept you. This acceptance is unconditional. There is no condition—“If you are like this, I will accept you; if like that, I will accept you.” And in accepting you unconditionally, I give you a teaching: accept yourself unconditionally.

Just see: when I have accepted you, why do you raise an obstacle? You are closer to yourself than I am. If even I have raised no barrier in accepting you, made no standard—then why do you…?

A song I was reading yesterday—

Life keeps running out—but
the bundle grows only heavier.
The mind is spotless, yet the body’s cloth
is patched a hundred times.
The saints set down the life-cloth
just as it was—
But I, a frail human—how long
can I keep it clean and pure?
Childhood soaked it through,
youth made it grimy;
God knows when I’ll find the dyer
who’ll dye my scarf desireless!

I am that dyer. I don’t bother in the least whether your cloth is dirty or not—I dye it. This saffron dye! If the dyer too begins to fuss—“Have you washed it or not?”—who will fuss! The dye is ready here—come, I dip it! You can later consider whether to wash or not.

Third question:

You did right. It was good that you stayed. Such moments come only once in a while in life—when the ocean draws near and one can take the plunge. Such moments are rare, when the ocean is visible to you and the intense longing to dive arises. In such moments it is essential to drop all calculations.

But now that the dip has happened, you can go home. Because if an attachment to the ocean forms, then it wasn’t a dip—it becomes a new world. Immerse yourself in me, but if the dip has truly happened, then wherever you go you will remain immersed in me. If now and then a layer of dust settles, come again and take another dip. But there is no need to sit forever on the ocean’s shore. There is house and home, family and children; God is there too—just as much as here.

I do not want to break you from anything. I want to join you to the Divine, but I do not want to break you from anywhere. I want to say this as emphatically as I can. I do not want to sever you from the world; I want to connect you with sannyas. Any sannyas that depends on breaking from the world will be opposed to life; it will be incomplete—crippled, handicapped.

That is why your so‑called sannyasins are crippled, lame—dependent on you, moving at your signals. It’s quite a spectacle: householders run the sannyasins and give them cues. If a sannyasin ever comes to see me, he has to ask his shravaks, his lay followers: “May I meet him?” If they say yes, fine; if they say no, he cannot come.

Jain monks want to come meet me; sometimes they slip in secretly and say, “The shravaks won’t allow it.” Shravaks! The worldly won’t allow them. What a sannyas that is! And they imagine they have renounced the world. How can you renounce those on whom you depend? Somewhere you will ask for bread—the chains are hidden in the bread. Somewhere you will ask for clothing—the prison comes wrapped in the cloth. Somewhere you will ask for a place to stay the night—and in the morning you will find fetters on your feet.

So I say to you: do not make me creators of crippled sannyasins. When even a monk has to depend on the world, then it is better that the monk remain a householder. At least he will be free. My sannyasin is, at the very least, free—dependent on no one. He does his job, runs his shop; and the moments that remain he pours into devotion to the Divine, into singing the glory of truth, into meditation. At least he is not dependent on anyone. He is not a burden on anyone, he does not need to ask permission from another. He is free.

I do not want to tear you away. Where you are, there you are to be a sannyasin.

You have taken the plunge into the ocean; now go! Return home! Take with you the nectar you have tasted. This nectar is not something external that is left behind if you leave here. If it were lost by leaving, what would be the point of staying? That would be a deception.

So I say to my sannyasins: come and go! Yes, if sometimes you feel like taking another glimpse, descending into another depth—come again. But always remember: whatever depth you find must be safeguarded in the marketplace of life. Whatever meditation blossoms here must be preserved amidst the bazaar. My longing is that one day your shop itself becomes your temple.

You did well to stay. Had you run away in that moment, it would have been unfortunate.

If you are to live, live by drinking.
If you are to drink, drink by living.
Dissolve the Beloved’s glances into your draught and drink,
Drink crying, “Hail to the Cupbearer!”

But then go. And when you have time there, close your eyes there too and take the dive. If you ever feel the experience slipping a little from your hands, come again. Bathe in me again. But hold one thing firmly in the back of your mind: one day you must bring your life to such a point that you can dive right where you are, with no need to come here. Coming and going for a while is fine. But it is necessary to be free even of me. If you are freed from the illness and then get bound to the medicine—that too is bad. Having been freed from the illness, gradually reduce the dose of the medicine too, and be free of that as well.

The day you are utterly free—the day you are simply yourself—that day the work is complete. From that day others will come to you and take their dip in you.

I want to create a chain. From my flame you have lit your own—good; if it grows dim now and then, come back. Fan it. Freshen it. If your zeal wanes, your enthusiasm is lost, the inner tune seems far away, the thread feels as if slipping from your fingers—come back. But gradually, as your flame burns on its own and your house fills with light, there will be no need to come here; then others will come to you, and you can light their lamps.

Light lamp from lamp, and keep lighting!

So don’t create any kind of inner conflict. I do not want to create conflict; I want to dissolve it. Do not form an attachment here. Attachment will create conflict. Then the children there will writhe—there will be their pain; your wife will be saddened—there will be her pain; there is the family, mother, father, the elderly—there will be their pain. No—I have never approved of the way of Buddha and Mahavira. Thousands of homes turned desolate. Thousands of wives were widowed while their husbands still lived. Thousands of children were orphaned while their fathers still lived. That way has never appealed to me. I have always felt there is some mistake in it.

That is why, if Buddha and Mahavira became uprooted and their shadow did not fall upon the depths of this life—well, it is natural. The very stance was such that it could not. If you go against life, you will be uprooted; it cannot last long.

Granted, under Buddha’s influence thousands took sannyas and left their homes. Because it was a matter of religion, people could not even criticize; had they left for any other reason, people would have condemned them. Wives swallowed their tears; they could not even cry, they did not have the freedom to weep. Had the husband died, she could have cried. Had he turned thief, dishonest, run away—a deserter—she could have cried. Even that outlet did not remain. He took sannyas. She had to swallow the bitter draught. The children’s eyes dried up with unshed tears. Thousands of homes and families were ruined. Where there was liveliness, dullness entered. Where homes were adorned, ruins remained. Such a thing cannot endure for long.

I am not in favor of that. I say: only if, because of me, a little radiance comes into your home is it right; if the radiance diminishes, then I have proved your enemy.

Go! Come now and then! And you will find that your wife and children will not be against me. If you go back carrying love—having drowned in me—and return more loving, they will not oppose you.

Because of the impact of Buddha and Mahavira, however much outward respect there may be for sannyas, a very deep wound remains in India. At the mere mention of sannyas the wife is frightened, the mother is frightened, the father is frightened. They are frightened even by the name of my sannyas, because the old association persists. Sannyas! If someone else’s son takes it, they go and touch his feet. Their own son? Then it’s ruin. The word sannyas has been distorted; poison has entered the word.

Wives come to me. They say, “What are you doing—giving our husbands sannyas!” It is not their fault. Two and a half thousand years have passed since Buddha and Mahavira; then a thousand since Shankaracharya; the wound they inflicted is still fresh, it has not healed. The wife trembles: “What are you doing—giving my husband sannyas!”

In Poona a young man took sannyas. His mother and father came. The father somehow sat there, tears streaming from his eyes; the mother rolled on the ground. I said to her, “At least listen!” She said, “I will not listen at all. Don’t say a word to me. Lest you persuade me—don’t speak. Just take back the mala. Give me back my son.”

I understand. In her weeping, in her rolling on the ground, the hand of Buddha and Mahavira, of Shankaracharya, is present. I took back the young man’s sannyas. I said, “Do not worry.” But it is not her fault; great hands are involved.

My sannyas is not that kind. My sannyas is creative. Where you are, you must become ever more beautiful. Where you are, you must become ever more loving. Where you are, I do not uproot you from what you do. I do not tear your roots from your soil. Nor do I snatch the shade from those who live under your shade. So go!

The last question:

It is natural. When attachment to me arises, attachment to my body also arises. For now it is difficult for you to make a distance between me and my body. Difficult—because you have not yet made a distance within yourself between you and your body. What has not happened within you, you cannot do with me either. The arithmetic is straightforward. There is only one remedy: begin, within yourself, to create a distance between the body and the one you are.

I am perfectly healthy. About the body I cannot say anything—speaking of me, I am perfectly healthy. But the body has its own laws. The body has its own structure. It will go its own way. And if the body is to die, then, by falling ill now and then, it will give notice. It has to go; it has to take leave. It cannot leave all at once; it will depart gradually, step by step.

Look at me. Forget the body. Do not become overly attached to the body. Attachment happens; it is natural. I do not condemn it. But awaken yourself. Because your attachment will bring only suffering to you.

By whose weeping has anyone ever been stopped here?
All have come only to go, and all will go.
Life is but the preparation to move on;
Some left in the morning; some will fold their tents at dusk.

Go we must. So the body begins to send the news that it will go. Everyone must go—accept this truth. There is no need to struggle much with it. If there is pain, make an effort to awaken. If there is sorrow, try to understand whether attachment is forming somewhere. Wherever attachment forms, there is sorrow. You cannot be free of sorrow until you are free of attachment.

And there is only one way to be free of attachment: see me and my body as two. Yes, it is right to care for the body, to be concerned, to protect it. Still, it will go. And once the event of awakening happens, the connection with the body breaks.

Understand this as well.
My body cannot be made completely healthy by any means; because one essential factor for the body’s health has ended: my identification with it is gone. My connection with it has broken. It is as if the boat has cast off from the shore. A few small pegs remain by which it stays tied to the bank—tied so I may be of a little use to you. But this staying cannot be for long. And the body cannot become wholly healthy. The very basis on which the body remains healthy—tādātmya, identification—has dissolved...

Therefore try to understand this point: whoever truly knows “I am not the body” will never again be able to enter a body. Whoever awakens cannot enter a body again. Because the fundamental basis for entering a body—“I am the body”—has dropped; the identification has broken. When you are drunk you stagger on the road; but once the alcohol wears off, you no longer stagger. Even if you try to stagger, you will find it is only an attempt—you cannot actually stagger.

The bridge that connects the soul to the body is identification. “I am the body,” therefore the soul remains linked to the body. The body is not holding you—you are holding the body. When you awaken, when you know “I am not the body,” the hand loosens. Then even if you are in the body, your roots are no longer in it; you can walk on for a little while. Then the body is not a home but an inn; and at any dawn one must set out again.

I feel your sorrow. I understand your pain. Nothing can be done. Begin to distinguish between my body and me. And this distinction can happen only when you make the distinction within yourself—for from there the understanding will begin.

I have not understood till now this mystery:
Why does the whole world fear death?
Why does the cremation ground’s silence scream
when dust weds its own dust?
And dust, brother, never truly perishes;
it only changes the blouse of its form.
The music of one’s sargam does not change;
only the singer’s tongue changes.

Bodies come and go. Many have come, many have gone. Bodies have come and gone infinite times. Health in the body is a deception; for there can be no nectar in the body. Its alliance is with mortality. It will break. But by its breaking, nothing real breaks.

The music of one’s sargam does not change;
only the singer’s tongue changes.

So do not pay too much attention to the tongue; catch the sargam. Do not go by my words; catch my music! Do not look at my house; look at me! Protect the house as much as you can. For as long as it stays, it serves your work. But do not weep, do not be sad. For the time wasted in sorrow and tears would be better used for awakening.

That is all for today.