Es Dhammo Sanantano #66

First thing: whoever comes with the intention to get something will miss. That is the greatest difficulty. Greed becomes an obstacle. So the first, fundamental point is: do not come to me with the attitude of taking. If the tension of wanting to take remains inside, that very tension will not allow the waves to enter. Then you are less eager to listen and more eager to acquire. Then you are not here; your mind has gone into the future, into results—“How much can I collect? How much can I gain? How much of these waves can I gather? How much of this grace can I fill my heart with?” You will miss.

Listen to me as one listens to birdsong—there is nothing to take. Then much will be given. Then the boundless will be given. Then you will be filled. If you come to take, you will return empty-handed.

I understand your difficulty. When something is received, the mind to take arises—of course it does. Your obstacle is clear to me; do not think I am unaware of it. Where there is something to be had, the mind wants to grab it. And because of this urge to take, not only will what was going to be given fail to be received, even what was being received will be missed. So the greatest point is: come having dropped greed.

Rejoice with me, join my celebration—but keep no intention in your mind of taking something from the celebration. The very urge to take is what creates the world—that is desire. And desire is insatiable.

First thing: sit here empty—nothing to take, nothing to give. The morning sun rises and you simply behold it. At night the moon ascends; you raise your eyes and see its beauty—what is there to take? What could you possibly take? Where is there any scope for the tendency to take? Birds are singing, or the murmur of a waterfall, or the gurgling of a river is heard—what is there to take? There is something to drown into, but nothing to take. There is nothing you can grasp in your fist. Clench the fist and you miss. Keep the fist open, and it will fill.

Slowly, persuade yourself toward this. Sit here like this—empty, void, with no concern for the future, no thought. Whatever is happening here, in my presence, just be included in it. If your presence and my presence merge, the waves will enter. They will make your innermost core dance. Ecstasy will arise, unprecedented perceptions will happen.

But when I say such unprecedented perceptions will happen—be alert! Let your mind not start saying, “That is exactly what we want—unique perceptions, extraordinary experiences. That is what we have come for.” Then you miss again. This is a great paradox. Jesus has said, “He who saves will lose; he who loses will be saved.” That is the first point.

Second thing: when you sit here, sit relaxed—relaxed in body; not tense, not stiff. We are not going anywhere, there is no need to run, therefore no reason to brace yourself. Sit quietly, sit relaxed. Sink, take a dip. Sit in rest.

An ashram means just this: a place where you can sit in rest; where there is no business, no hustle. Here I am not asking you to do anything. The whole teaching is of non-doing, of inaction. You have done a lot; by doing and doing you have missed. By doing and doing you have undone it all. For lifetimes you have been doing. Here, for the hour or so that you are with me, do nothing. Like little children play with toys, just sit. These words I am speaking to you are toys—play with them. Forget past and future; be relaxed in body, light, unstrained. Do not sit here like a student—what is there to learn here? Here something has to be unlearned, something forgotten. Here there is to be a letting-go of memory, not remembering.

There is a way of listening in order to remember; then a person sits tense, lest any point be missed. Here you sit utterly at ease—light, relaxed, at rest. Let the mind be in a pause. In that pause, if the eyes remain open, fine; if they close, fine. Who are you to decide to open or close them? If you keep them open deliberately, tension will arise; if you close them deliberately, tension will arise. The moment you do anything, tension comes—when the doer appears, tension appears. If, while listening, the eyes happen to close, let them close. Even if, while listening, a drowsiness comes, let it come. Because if that is what is useful, that is what will happen. Sometimes such a state of rest can arrive that you slip into a kind of trance. But what you cannot receive alertly in wakefulness may be given in that drowsiness. Perhaps the waves can enter more easily in your sleep, because you will not be sitting at the gate like a guard.

So do not control from your side. If the eyes are open, fine; if they close, fine; even if you doze, fine. I am pouring; even if you nod off, no harm. If you go to other sadhus and sannyasins, they will say, “Never doze! Stay awake, keep your eyes open.”

Here I am teaching you something else—different. Here I am teaching you rest. Often it will happen that when you let a tense mind go loose, sometimes the eyes will close; sometimes with closed eyes you will remain awake; sometimes with closed eyes you will fall asleep—no harm. Your cleansing will happen anyway. If the eyes open, fine; if they close, fine. Let it be natural. Let the stream of life flow by its own spontaneity.

For the one hour, hour and a half that you are with me, at least become as simple as nature wants you to be—like trees. The wind comes and bends the tree to the left: it bends to the left; it does not say, “I will not bend.” The wind comes and bends it to the right: it bends to the right. Some leaves fall in the gust; they fall—the tree does not prevent it. Become like that. If I incline you this way, bend this way; if that way, bend that way.

This was about the body; let the same be the state of the mind.

When I am speaking, do not inside you judge whether it is right or wrong. Who is keeping accounts of right and wrong here? No one has seated you as a judge, and you have not come to examine me. If you have come to examine, you have not come at all. It would have been better had you not come—you are wasting your time and occupying a place where someone else might have gone deeper. Do not do such an impropriety. Do not get into the arithmetic of whether what I am saying is right or wrong. It is neither right nor wrong.

In truth, what I am saying is not the point at all. The speaking is only a pretext, so that under this pretext your mind becomes engrossed—so engrossed that a direct meeting from my heart to your heart can begin. When the mind is thoroughly absorbed, the doors of the heart open. When the mind is not absorbed, it stands at the doors of the heart like a guard with a bayonet; it does not allow anything to enter. It is afraid. The mind is very frightened; the heart very courageous, the mind very cowardly. So the mind inspects each and every thing before letting it in: who is ours and who is not; what agrees with our scriptures and what does not; which of the truths we have believed so far does it support, and which does it contradict. The mind keeps doing this kind of accounting. The mind is very calculating.

If you get into this calculation, you will have wasted your time. This is satsang—there is no debate going on here; discussion is only on the surface. Some people are here to hear the discussion; fine, they will hear it and go. They have collected rubbish; they carry away the trivial. Others are here for satsang. For them it does not matter whether what I say is right or wrong—they are simply listening. If you can listen so thoughtlessly, so impartially, without becoming a judge, suddenly you will find: what is true appears as true; what is not true appears as not true. It becomes so clear in that luminous state, in that bright state of mind where you are not thinking—where there is no smoke of thought—that truth is seen directly as truth. You do not have to think whether it is true or not. How will you think, anyway? What do you know of truth? On what basis will you think?

Those who sit here thinking miss. Many times it happens that they have been listening to me for years, but they go on missing—they are thinking. They have not let themselves be with me. They have not placed their hand in my hand. Some have even taken sannyas, yet their hand is not in mine. Sometimes it may even appear to you that their hand is in my hand, but they have not left their hand in my hand. If they feel at any point that something wrong is going on, they immediately pull their hand back. They have not entrusted it to my hand; they are not companions through wrong and right—they keep selecting only what suits them. This means discipleship has not yet been born. They are students, not disciples. Such people will go on missing.

So to Samadhi I will say: listen in such a way that you do not need to decide anything. Where there is nothing to decide, consciousness becomes quiet; duality ceases. In that non-dual state, what is true appears as true, what is false appears as false; you need not think about it. That is vision. And where there is vision, there is revolution.

These things must be causing the obstruction: either thinking starts up, or greed comes in, or the ego arises—“This goes against me; how can I accept it?”—or your old beliefs step in and stand blocking the way.

If you can listen loose-limbed, without any greed, without becoming a judge, then you have listened in surrender. And then a great, astonishing truth will descend in your life: when you wasted so much time thinking and thinking, truth never appeared; now, without wasting any time, without wasting any energy, truth is seen. You need eyes to see truth—and eyes are there only when you are pristine.

So do not listen like a Hindu, do not listen like a Muslim, do not listen like a Sikh—just listen. And slowly you will also begin to see that what I am saying is not the purpose; the purpose is something else—the saying is only an excuse. And the day you begin to see my purpose—something else, an exchange of energy with energy, heart with heart—the day the bridge of that exchange becomes clear to you, that day you will laugh that needlessly you wasted so much time over what was said: right or wrong, why did he say this, why did he say that?—that was not the purpose at all.

Look at children’s books: they must have colorful pictures, big pictures. For a mango, an entire page has to be filled with the mango’s picture. Because the child can understand the picture of the mango; it is still too early to understand the word “mango.” Through the picture, he will come to the mango. As the child grows, the picture of the mango becomes smaller. And when the child has grown and become skillful in reading, the picture of the mango is bid farewell. Earlier he read: “aa se aam (mango)”; later he drops the mango and reads simply “aa.” Now there is no need to say “aa is for aam.”

I speak in words because you are still like little children. If you become mature, if you descend into meditation, I will begin to speak to you wordlessly. There are two kinds of people sitting here. Those who have gone a little into meditation do not even need to hear my words. They are listening to me; they are listening to my wordlessness. My connection with them is of silence. Therefore sometimes you will be surprised that someone has become so overwhelmed, and you were sitting right beside him—nothing happened to you. What is the matter? You will be surprised that someone is crying, tears are flowing from his eyes, and your eyes did not even grow moist. You do not even understand that nothing was said that should bring tears to the eyes!

In truth different conversations are going on. With him something else is happening; with you something else. In what is going on with you, eyes do not become moist. In what is going on with him, eyes become moist—there is a heart-to-heart exchange with him.

Bodhidharma, the father of the Zen tradition, has a famous saying: one kind of teaching is given through the scriptures, through words; and there is another that is beyond words, beyond scriptures—the real one is that. One kind of thing is said by saying it; and one kind of thing is said without saying it.

The unspoken is also happening here. Until you have heard that, do not bring the illusion into your mind that you have heard me. Until then you have only looked at the picture of the mango; you have not learned to read the word “mango.”

These are just excuses. That is why I go on speaking every day. Because for those who can only understand speech, for now I must speak. Slowly, among you, those whose depth grows a little go on becoming silently absorbed within. Their relish is simply to sit here in my presence. Heard or not heard—that is not important. Then there is true satsang.

And when you all are ready, I will stop speaking. Then I will come and sit here in silence, and you will sway, you will dance. I am waiting for that.

Speaking is painful for me too. I take no relish in speaking. Because what I want to say cannot be said; and what I have to say, I never wanted to say. But I wait for a large band to be ready. Because if I stop speaking now, I will remain useful only to a very few—very, very few. So first let me prepare a group that will be able to understand the unspoken. That preparation is going on. The day I see that now there are enough people who can understand without speech, that very day I will fall silent. Before then, make your understanding ready; otherwise there will be no way left for you. When I fall silent, I fall silent. Before that, learn the secret of understanding silence. Till then, make as much use as you can of this picture-book of words. After that, do not come and say to me, “You sat silently, and we do not understand silence.”

You are fortunate, because some people will come when I will be sitting in silence. Then there will be nothing at all to teach them. If they sit and learn, they learn. Right now I am holding your hand and making you write. Right now I am holding your hand to make you walk. You are fortunate. It is right to make full use of this good fortune.

The smell must be in you. It will be in your interpretations, in the assumptions of your mind. You hear only what is already hidden within you. And it is very hard to find a person in whom some kind of politics isn’t lodged. So if I ever even use the word “politics,” an uproar quickly starts within you.

The word “religion” does nothing inside you. The word “God” raises no wave within you. But the moment you hear “politics,” ripples arise in you. That is where your taste is. The moment you hear “politics” you start clapping—there is your relish. You can grasp it; it is within your intellect, within your understanding. Then you proceed to interpret it too. Because you will at least admit this much: you may not be religious, but you certainly spout politics, you know quite a lot, you talk plenty—after all, you read the newspapers, don’t you? You chatter all day long, don’t you? In that you are very skilled. So at the mere sound of one word, a whole journey begins inside you. That journey is yours—don’t project it onto me.

Sometimes I deliberately use the word “politics,” and sometimes, quite knowingly, I even make a few statements about politics.

A madman was sitting on the window ledge outside a madhouse, holding a fishing rod. He had put dough on the hook and was dangling it from the window. Mulla Nasruddin passed by and asked jokingly, “How many fish have you caught?” The man said, “Including you, eleven.” Mulla asked, “Meaning?” He said, “Ten have already asked.” Then the madman added, “Why don’t you come inside as well? Where are there fish here?” So Mulla said, “Then why are you sitting with this rod?” He replied, “To catch you—to see how many simpletons pass this way!”

Sometimes I give a jab. Instantly the fish come into my hand; it becomes clear who got hurt, who got flustered. Letters begin to arrive, questions begin to pour in: “You went too far; this was not right.”

There was a qawwali program at Mulla Nasruddin’s home. Renowned qawwals had come. The guests were swaying with ecstasy. At such a moment, when one qawwal sang the line, “God knows what is happening behind the curtain,” there was applause on all sides. Again and again the qawwal repeated: “God knows what is happening behind the curtain, God knows what is happening behind the curtain.” Nasruddin—at whose house the event was happening—was filled with fury: “God knows what is happening behind the curtain!” This ill-mannered singer—he has so little sense that I invited him, and he is disgracing me: “God knows what is happening behind the curtain!”

At last there was a limit. And when people again cried “Encore, encore!” he stood up. He said, “Stop! There is a limit to tolerance—and decorum too has a necessity.” Quickly he rose, lifted the curtain and said, “Look, sir qawwal! Let there be no longing left about what is happening behind the curtain. Nothing is happening behind the curtain—see for yourself, my wife is nibbling betel nuts.”

Each one’s understanding is his own. Nasruddin thought the singer must be saying something about his wife: “Who knows what is going on behind the curtain!”

Your understanding spins the interpretations of your life. You are with me—and yet not really with me. Even after years with me you do not understand what possible concern I could have with politics! But you have not placed your hand in mine. You sit there alert, waiting for a chance—for some line that falls into your grip—and then you leap upon it. I may tell you a thousand times, “Meditate,” yet you never ask, “Why do you talk so much about meditation? Your talks smell of meditation!” Not once in all these years has anyone asked that my words smell of meditation. How would they? Only if the fragrance is within you will it arise in you. But let me, once in a few years, say a word or two on politics, and instantly… today an untold number of questions have arrived.

Swami Vishnu Chaitanya has also asked that my mind is full of partiality toward politics, full of prejudice.

You neither know what “prejudice” means, nor are you aware of your own prejudices. Let me tell you one thing: if you smell politics in me, then run away from here as quickly as you can. Wherever there is even a whiff of politics, don’t stay. It’s dangerous. Just run. Swami Vishnu Chaitanya, run from here as fast as you can—for where there is the smell of politics, there is danger. Lest the smell of politics infect you, lest this disease catch hold of you.

Make a little effort to search yourself. From where is this smell arising? I have told you so many times: don’t bring yourself in between when you listen to me. But when I speak of religion you never ask such questions, because those words don’t fall within your understanding—they pass right over your head. You grasp only what you can grasp. Then you seize it quickly, and a great commotion starts within you: “Ah!”

It never occurs to you to consider what kind of disciple you are; it never occurs to you that your discipleship is not there yet. But it certainly occurs to you that this guru is involved in politics! You have a complete ledger of how a guru should be. Of how a disciple should be, you have no ledger at all.

And mark this well: I say such things and will keep saying them. This has been one of my important methods. When I want to get rid of certain people, I use a few devices.

When a crowd of Gandhians gathered around me and I saw they were of no use, I criticized Gandhi. I had nothing to do with Gandhi; but the moment I criticized him, ninety percent of the Gandhians left. The ten percent who remained were truly people of worth. Their attachment was to me. My constant search is for those whose attachment is to me; I want to work only upon them. I do not want to spend my effort on the rest.

When the Gandhians left, I dropped caring about them. When I was speaking against Gandhism, naturally the socialists and communists all came to me. They felt, “This man is okay.” Then I spoke against socialism, when I saw too many socialists had gathered and I had no need of them. I spoke against socialism, and the socialists ran away. Some ten percent of them remained. Those who remained were mine. Those who left were never mine—why keep that crowd gathered? They would have left today or tomorrow anyway. They had come for another reason: because I spoke against Gandhi. They had no juice for me.

My continual effort is to work only upon those who have a taste for me. I want to give to those few what can be given. But it can be given only to those who are wholly with me—one hundred percent. Those who are ready to go to hell with me are the ones entitled to go to heaven with me. Those who stop midway and say, “You go to hell; we’re not coming,”—I am not going to take them to heaven either. They are not entitled to go to heaven with me.

So sometimes I will say such things—and I will keep saying them—because sometimes they are useful for sifting. I have no relish in those topics. You will understand this only much later—if ever, by good fortune—what I say at times and why I say it. If you do not bring your interpretations in between, it will be very easy; you will be able to understand more rightly. The prejudices are yours. The partialities are yours. The politics is lodged within you.

Sannyas means becoming unaffected by success and failure. Sannyas means that whether there is sorrow or joy, victory or defeat, one attains equanimity. That very state of evenness is sannyas.

You ask what effect the world’s successes, failures, ambitions, and the entanglements born of them have upon sannyas? You have not understood the meaning of sannyas at all—its very definition is that there remains no personal ambition. This does not mean the sannyasin will do nothing. He will do whatever the Lord has him do. But he will not act out of his own craving; he will act by His will. If He wants to make him win, let Him make him win; if He wants to make him lose, let Him make him lose. The victory is His and the defeat is His. The success is His and the failure is His.

The sannyasin removes himself from the middle; he becomes a mere instrument. He says: Whatever You wish to have done, do. Whatever song You wish to sing through my flute, sing it. I am only a hollow reed of bamboo. If You want to sing a beautiful song, sing a beautiful song; if You want to sing an unbeautiful song, sing an unbeautiful song. What have I to do with it! My task is simply to allow whatever You sing to happen, to let it enter. Whatever work You wish to take from me in the world, take it. I call such a state sannyas.

Therefore a sannyasin will do much; much will happen through him. But the sense of doership is not in him. There is only one doer—the Divine. Whatever happens through us, He is doing it. And when such a state arises, where can entanglement be? Entanglement arises when I feel I am doing—Will I win or lose? Will I gain or will I miss? If I do this, will I blunder; if I do that, will I err! Worry and entanglement arise because I have taken the sense of doership upon myself.

If the Divine is the doer, what is there for me to worry about! One acts, sleeps at night, rises in the morning, acts again, sleeps again. Even the sannyasin’s dreams depart—and they should. Because there is nothing to worry about; whatever He has done, is done. If He keeps me in a hut, I live in a hut. If He keeps me in a palace, I live in a palace. If He seats me on a throne, I sit on the throne. If He brings me down, I get down. I did not come by my own will, nor do I go by my own will. I call such a state sannyas.

The intoxicating touch of fragrant sandalwood
cannot lead astray the spark of the inner lamp.

Then, however many intoxicating desires may surround you like a whirlwind, however many entanglements may stand around you, you remain outside them. Within, and yet outside. To be in the world and yet not be of the world is sannyas.

The mirror’s water
is not muddied by a crowd of reflections.

So many pass before a mirror—does the mirror’s water become muddy by it? Such is the sannyasin: he lives like a mirror. Success comes, failure comes, pleasure, pain, honor, insult—everything passes by. And the sannyasin’s mirror-water remains clear as clear, as it was. Kabir has said, “as-is, as-is”—just as it was, exactly as it is. Not the slightest difference. When there was no crowd, it was thus; when the crowd has gone, it is thus—empty, empty.

Sunlight itself is moonlight;
the medium has transformed the properties.

Have you noticed? The night you call moonlight—how cool, how intoxicating! But it is the very form of sunlight which at noonday you call sun and fear to step out in, which burns if you stand beneath it; that very light is moonlight too. There is no difference. The only difference is that the moon drinks the sun’s light and pours it out at night.

Sunlight itself is moonlight;
the medium has transformed the properties.

Reflected from the moon, when sunlight comes by night it turns cool. The same that burns also heals. These very passions, these very desires, these very worries—through the medium of meditation their properties change.

For you, success is “yours,” and therefore you are disturbed. To the meditator it is seen, “I am not—there is only a kind of emptiness; whose success, whose failure?” Success happens and cannot agitate. Failure happens and cannot agitate. Success does not intoxicate you into madness—“Look, I have succeeded!”—nor does failure drive you mad—“Look, I have lost,” cursed and embittered. Both victory and defeat come and pass.

Sunlight itself is moonlight;
the medium has transformed the properties.

There is a small difference between the worldly man and the sannyasin. “Worldly” means a person without meditation; “sannyasin” means: worldly + meditation. That’s the only difference—a little meditation has been added. Hence my emphasis on meditation—not on anything else. I have not asked you to leave your home, your shop, the marketplace—nothing. Because I know: if meditation enters, your very properties change; the medium becomes new; everything changes—you will be in the temple while sitting in your shop. And right now, even if you sit in the temple, your shop keeps running.

So remember: sannyas means the art of remaining unaffected. The art of remaining untouched. The art of remaining virginal.

Kabir has said—“With great care I draped this cloak; with as much care I returned the cloak just as it was given.” That “great care” is sannyas. The word “care” is very lovely. To wear it consciously, with awareness. Not to live in stupor, but to live awake.

And who else would? Sannyas is not a pastime. Sannyas is not a child’s game. Those who have become aware of life’s futility, who have seen that no matter how much you run you arrive nowhere; no matter how much you accumulate, in the end all gaining turns out to be losing. Those who have seen that the drums sound sweet from afar but, when you come close, everything turns hollow; those who have recognized life’s mirage—only they become sannyasins. What does sannyas mean? Awareness of the futility of the world is sannyas.

You ask quite an extraordinary question: “Is sannyas taken only by those who have become aware of the futility of life?”
Those who still have hope in life—why would they take it! It’s a straightforward matter.

A mechanic had been repairing the clock in a clock-tower for a long time. When he had finished, he climbed down the ladder, drenched in sweat. Mulla Nasruddin, who had been standing on the road watching him all this while, asked, “Brother, was the clock out of order?” Hearing this, the mechanic was annoyed, but replied very calmly, “No, actually my eyesight is weak, so I climbed up to see the time.”

Now it’s simple. A man has been up there on the clock-tower for an hour, doing something—what is there to ask? “Brother, was the clock broken?” He gave the perfect reply: “No, my eyes are a bit weak, so I put up a ladder and have been trying for an hour to see what time it is.”

Sannyas means simply this: where until yesterday we had hope, there is no hope anymore. It is a transformation. Everywhere we thought there was happiness, there is none. We thought it would be in wealth, in position, in prestige—in attachment, in pride and envy—there is none. And yet life must be lived. When there is no happiness in the world, a new kind of life begins: happiness is within, happiness is in oneself; happiness is an inner wealth, one’s very nature.

People often ask questions like, Which came first—the chicken or the egg? But even if you find out, what will you do with it? And what substance is there in such knowing? Suppose it becomes definitively clear that the chicken came first, or that the egg came first—then what will you do? What will it solve? What revolution will it bring to your life? The intellect is very skilled at raising such futile questions that have no essence.

I was once a guest in a village. Two old neighbors came to see me at night. They said, We’ve waited a long time for you. Now that you’re here, please settle a question—we’ve been quarreling over it for thirty years. One was a Jain, the other a Hindu. We’ve been arguing whether God created the world or not. The Jain says no—there is no God, no creator; existence has been flowing forever. The Hindu says, How can anything exist without being made? Where does that happen? If there’s a clock, there is a clockmaker; if there’s a pot, there is a potter. There must be a maker. So the Hindu says God created it—even if God isn’t visible, the doer’s signature is clear everywhere; the stamp is on all things. We’ve quarreled for thirty years—there’s no resolution.

I asked them, Suppose it is resolved—then what will you do? Suppose it’s conclusively proved that God created the world—what will you do then? They said, What is there to do? Or if it’s decided that God did not create the world—then what will you do? What revolution will this bring to your life? Why waste time on something from which no transformation will come? Such idle talk is like scratching an itch. Time is wasted for nothing, and the pain increases—the little sweetness you feel in scratching is costly; it’s an expensive bargain.

Whenever someone came to Buddha and asked a question, the first thing he asked was: Tell me first, what will this answer do for you? Otherwise don’t waste my time, and don’t waste your own. What will this answer do for you? Will it bring liberation, bliss, freedom, the cessation of suffering? What will it do for you?

If someone said, No, we ask out of mere curiosity—how many hands does God have? A thousand? If it’s nine hundred ninety-nine, what do you lose? And if it’s one thousand and one, what goes from you? How many faces—three or not? How many forms? People waste time in countless such useless inquiries. And not without reason—there is something behind it.

By entangling themselves in the trivial, they keep avoiding the essential. It is an escape from what is meaningful—a convenience. You entangle yourself in the futile and think you are engaged in very important contemplation. And all the while you squander time on the nonessential, the essential lies waiting at the edge; had you paid attention to it, a revolution would have happened in your life.

Now you ask: Kindly explain whether bliss comes from knowledge, or knowledge comes from bliss?

They are two sides of the same coin. If you ask me which side of a coin comes first—the head or the tail?—the question of first and later simply doesn’t arise. Both sides come into your hand together.

If I give you a rupee, it’s not that I give you one side first and the other later. At most, one face may be up and the other down—that much can be. The obverse may be visible, the reverse hidden—but both fall into your palm simultaneously.

That is all the difference. For the devotee, bliss comes into view first; afterward he discovers knowledge. For the devotee, the bliss side is up, the knowledge side down. For the knower, the knowledge side is up, the bliss side down. The knower goes into meditation first; then one day, suddenly, he finds: Ah! Along with meditation, on its reverse, bliss has also arrived. And the devotee becomes absorbed in bliss first, intoxicated, drowned in ecstasy; then one day, suddenly, in astonished wonder he finds: I was diving into bliss—how did this knowledge come into my hands?

Both are surprised.

Knowledge and bliss are not separate.

All I can submit is: then sannyas will never happen. You wasted half your life in the scriptures—now will you waste the other half thinking about sannyas?

Mulla Nasruddin had been on the phone with a friend for half an hour. His wife stood by the table waiting with the food. When it got too late she said, getting upset, “Stop it now—enough talking!” Mulla put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Don’t disturb me. Do you know who I’m talking to—a very learned man who has spent half his life in research!” His wife shouted back, “So is he planning to spend the other half talking on the phone? Half is already ruined—don’t ruin the other half. And the food will get cold. If the plan is to spend half his life on the telephone…”

Don’t let your feeling for sannyas go cold! Don’t let the food get cold. When the feeling is hot, take the jump. Hot food is digested; cold food becomes poison. And not just cold—by now it will turn stale; you’ve been thinking for two years already. So what is the plan—how long will you go on thinking? What is there to think about?

Your trouble, I think, is this: you are waiting until the mind agrees a hundred percent. But have you ever found in life that the mind agrees a hundred percent to anything? To anything at all? That is not the way of the mind. It is not the nature of the mind to agree a hundred percent; if it did, the mind would have become non-dual.

The mind’s nature is duality, two-ness. In everything it creates two pulls: shall I do it or not; shall I go here or there; shall I do this or that? The mind thinks opposite thoughts simultaneously. It never exists outside of conflict. You are hoping for a hundred percent—what hasn’t happened even to the buddhas, you think you will manage! It has never happened; it cannot. The mind’s nature is to split things into two, to break them into duality.

Have you ever tried even a small thing in which the mind was a hundred percent in agreement? “Shall I wear this sari or that one?”—and the mind gets into a tangle. “Shall I see this film or that one?”—and the mind is at war. “Shall I marry this woman or that woman?”—and the mind is torn in two.

Conflict is the mind’s habit. The mind lives by conflict; conflict is its food, its nourishment. That is why one who lives by the mind is never free of inner conflict. Whatever you do, there is regret. Marry this woman and there is regret, because the mind starts thinking, “Had I married the other one, it would have been better; what trouble I’ve gotten into!” Marry the other and it would be the same—regret again. If you follow the mind, whatever you do, there will be remorse—because half of the mind was saying, “Don’t do it.” Once you do it, that half takes revenge: “Now see—you’re trapped! I warned you. Had you listened, it would have been good. You didn’t—now suffer!”

Follow the mind again and you will find it makes you suffer again. That’s how the world goes: you get bored with one thing and grab another; you get bored with the second and grab a third. You keep on changing, but you fail to see one truth: the mind is always in conflict. Because of this conflict, there can never be peace. The mind is never a hundred percent.

So I want to tell you only this much: if fifty-one percent of your mind wants to take sannyas, then take it. Fifty-one percent—if the mind wants it, take it. Because who knows when that fifty-one may drop to forty-nine. The winds of the mind change daily. It’s like market prices. Today something I say strikes you, and you feel, “Let me take sannyas.” Today you saw a sannyasin blissful, and you feel, “Let me take sannyas.” Tomorrow you see a sannyasin looking dejected, and you think, “Forget it—why get into this mess? If he is a sannyasin and still sad, what am I going to get out of it!”

The proportions in the mind are never stationary. They are very political—think of them as members of parliament. You can’t say which party they’ll cross over to. Now the honorable member is here; now he has crossed the aisle! Very difficult. It keeps wobbling. Party-hopping is an ancient habit of the mind.

So when the urge to do the good arises, do it. The awakened ones have always said: when the urge to do the good arises, don’t delay; and when the urge to do the bad arises, delay a little. We have always done the opposite. When the urge to do good arises, we sit down to deliberate; and when the urge to do bad arises, we don’t think for a moment—we do it instantly. Have you ever said to yourself, when anger arises, “I’ll get angry only when it reaches a full hundred percent”? No—who has that much leisure! Someone abuses you now; if you don’t get angry now, by tomorrow it will have cooled—what will be the point! When it’s fresh, it happens.

The awakened say: if you are going to do something bad, pause a little, think—because if you pause to think, the bad will never happen. But you use this trick with the good. If you want to give charity, you say, “Let me think. I’ll go home and talk to the wife and children; I’ll sleep on it, keep it in mind, and decide properly in the morning…” By morning you will have changed. If you are to give, then give. If you are about to hurl an insult, pause a bit—ask your wife and children, sleep on it, pray in the morning and think again; if even then the mind insists, then do it—say it. But you will always find: if you pause a little, whatever you paused with—good or bad—stops right there.

If you pause with sannyas, it will stop. So make only this much examination—I am not saying that if thirty percent of your mind says, “Take sannyas,” and seventy percent says, “Don’t,” you should take it. Because then that seventy percent is already in opposition; troubles are bound to come. Even if seventy percent of the mind says, “Take it,” there will be difficulties after taking it, because the remaining thirty percent will take revenge—but that can be resolved. But if thirty percent says, “Take it,” and seventy percent says, “Don’t,” then don’t—never take it; don’t make such a mistake. On such a tiny minority you won’t be able to stand; it will be swept away.

So just keep this in mind—don’t wait for a hundred percent. If fifty-one percent of the mind says yes, then take it. And remember one more thing: when fifty-one percent of the mind says “Take sannyas,” and forty-nine percent says “Don’t,” if you wait, you are actually obeying the forty-nine percent. You are siding with the minority. And to side with the minority, here, is dangerous. By good fortune such a moment comes when a strong longing to do the good is born—sometimes such a height appears.

So if the feeling has truly arisen—I am not saying a hundred percent—if the feeling has truly arisen, if there is a movement within, then don’t cool it down.

Remember, it is better to repent after doing the good—at least the good was done. And it is better to repent for not doing the bad—at least the bad was avoided. Someone abused you on the road and you did not reply; later you repented, thinking, “I should have answered back”—that’s better. To repent for not doing the bad is better. You gave someone charity, and later you repented—that too is better. To repent after doing the good is better—at least it happened.

In this way, as practice grows and grows, the quantity of good within you will become dense. It has to be raised grain by grain. For lifetimes there has been practice of the bad. The bad has an ancient tradition; the good has no tradition. The good is a fresh sprout; the bad is an old rock. If you want the good to win, then let all your energy flow toward the good in every way possible; whenever it can, let it flow. Let as much water as can pour into the channel of the good pour there; and avoid the bad as much as you can. One day a revolution happens—the greater stream of your life begins to flow toward the good.

This is what Buddha said: see the bad with awareness—don’t do it; see the good with awareness—and do it; and day by day keep purifying the mind.

It happens because of the mind. The mind has a rule: whatever you keep doing, you get bored with it. Wear the same kind of clothes and the mind gets bored: “Get some different ones.” Drive the same car and the mind gets bored: “Buy another.” Live in the same house and the mind gets bored: “Find a new place.” It gets bored with the same wife, the same husband—so much so that it gets bored even with the same master and says, “Now find another.” This is the mind’s nature. The mind is momentary, changeable. It is always hunting for sensation—something sensational, something new.

Those who got bored with the rose installed the cactus. Soon they’ll tire of the cactus and bring the rose back. That’s why in the great countries of the world you invariably end up with two political parties. Many parties can’t last long, because the mind plays most easily when there are two. You keep one in power for five years, you get bored; the other comes in. In another five years it bores you; the first returns. Man keeps getting bored, keeps changing.

Understand this boredom.

A boy took his dog to the vet. “Name?” the doctor asked. “Tony,” the boy said. “Not the dog’s name,” the doctor said, “your name.” “I’m telling you mine, Doctor. The dog’s name is Munna.” The world has flipped. Once children were named Munna and dogs were Tony; now the children are Tony and the dogs are Munna-lal. Things keep changing. The human mind keeps doing this.

Mulla Nasruddin worked as a servant in a nawab’s house—much favored by his master. One day he sat to eat with the nawab, as he often did. Okra had been cooked. The nawab asked, “Mulla, what do you say about okra? It’s excellent; I love it.” Mulla said, “Ah, my lord, what to say of okra! The scriptures are full of its praise—botany overflows with it! As you are the nawab among nawabs, so okra is the vegetable among vegetables—foremost, a crown jewel!”

The cook overheard that such a jewel it was, so he served okra the next day, and the third, and the fourth. On the fifth day the nawab shouted, “Have you lost your head? Are you trying to kill me? Okra, okra, okra! Mulla, what do you say now?” Mulla said, “My lord, it is poison—sheer poison! A plot to murder you. This cook will take my life along with yours!”

The nawab said, “But Nasruddin, earlier you were calling it the crown of vegetables—nawab among vegetables—and now you call it poison!” Mulla replied, “Your honor, I am your servant, not the servant of okra. I serve you; what have I to do with okra? When you said ‘good,’ I said ‘good.’ I’m a ‘Yes, sir!’ man. Now that you are angry, I am angry.”

Eat okra five days and you’ll be bored. The mind demands change—because the mind is change. Consciousness is the eternal. The one who connects with consciousness gradually connects with the timeless. That’s why I said: the mind even wants to change the guru. People spend two-four years with one master and then wander on.

People come here who have been with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, with Krishnamurti, with Prabhupada—some with almost everyone. I know such people are travelers; they’ll stay here a while and then move on. You can’t rely on them much. They go on from one place to another.

There is another kind of relationship—not of the mind. If your love is of the mind, you will change wives, change husbands—as is happening in the West. If your love is of the heart, of the soul, then there is no question of change. If your reverence too is of the mind you will change—today this guru, tomorrow that. But if reverence is heartfelt, of the soul, the matter is finished.

Understand this process of the mind. With the mind, nothing stays long. Yet if you stay long with anything, it is beneficial, because the mind will drop. Stay with something and the mind’s dropping becomes certain. First the mind will try its best: “Move! Change! Go elsewhere—what’s left here?” If you keep on staying, the mind gets tired and falls. Where the mind falls, there is samadhi.

Therefore all religions devised ways to tire the mind. See the sannyasi’s robe? I say ochre. People ask me, “Do you object to other colors?” I don’t object to any color. But one color had to be chosen so that one color could tire your mind. You will get bored—day after day ochre! So people invent tricks even within ochre—lighter, darker, reddish, less red—and the saris start collecting: “No problem, I’ll wear this one today, that one tomorrow.”

But the device is this: if you accept one color, slowly the craving for clothing fades; the very thought of clothes starts disappearing. Those to whom this has happened come and tell me: “A strange thing—earlier when we went to the bazaar, especially we women, the newest sari in every shop jumped to the eye; now it doesn’t. We pass by and the cloth shops don’t even register. What’s the point when we have only one kind of dress?”

Jains, Buddhists, Hindus, Sufis, Christians—all chose one color for their mendicants, because that very one color helps break the mind’s habit of changing colors. Then they chose one routine: up at five in the morning—every day five. Slowly six or seven cease to be options. A time comes when there is no option; you simply get up at five—no debate. Sleep at such-and-such time—so you sleep then. A fixed meal—just enough for the body; the mind gets no chance to play. Eating, clothing, sleep, rising, sitting, walking—everything gradually comes within a boundary, within a discipline.

Keep this word in mind: maryada—limit, discipline. When all things come within limit and discipline, the mind has no room to jump about. The boundary tightens and tightens and one day the boundary becomes the mind’s noose. It tightens around the mind, and the mind dies. And the moment the mind dies, what awakens within is what you truly are: tat tvam asi—that is your nature.

You ask, “Upon the rose’s throne the cactus now sits—why?” Because of the human mind—because of your mind. The cactus will also descend; it won’t reign forever. The rose will return, sooner or later. Watch fashion: it goes just like this. A thing is in; then it vanishes. Two, four, ten years later it returns. For years it is completely out; anyone who uses it seems a back number. Not long ago women wore nose rings; then they went out of fashion. Anyone who wore one seemed rustic, old-fashioned, unmodern. Then nose rings started coming back. Now noses aren’t even pierced, so rings are clipped on from above. Back in fashion again. Ears were bare; then things began to dangle—same old things; where else will you get new ones every time?

If you survey human history, you’ll see we’ve done the same things thousands of times. Where will you bring novelty from again and again? The old saying of this land is: “There is nothing new under the sun.” There cannot be. All fashions have been. Whatever man is doing today, he has done before—many times. He forgets. In five or ten years it is forgotten, and the fashion returns. It feels new—though nothing is new. Then it disappears, then returns. So it goes.

Take note of this and be alert. In this way man keeps himself entertained. A revolution of life does not happen—only entertainment.

Mulla Nasruddin suffered from insomnia. In despair he went to a doctor. After thinking it over, the doctor prescribed: “On any night when sleep doesn’t come, drink a peg of liquor every hour. It’s no cure, and you still won’t sleep, but at least your sleeplessness will turn into entertainment.”

This life is sorrow-laden. Change clothes, change cars, change houses, change wives and husbands—keep changing; nothing will come of it. You won’t find joy. At most the gloom will turn into a bit of entertainment, a little thrill. Between one car and the next there is a small flutter—an hour or two, a day or two—then it cools. Then change again.

In America people change cars every year. Sometimes last year’s car was sturdier; they sell it and buy a weaker one—still they change. Sometimes you see a man fall for the maid—while his wife is beautiful and the whole neighborhood is crazy about her—and he is crazy about the maid. You bang your head: “What’s happened to this man? A plain, dark woman—and he’s mad for her! His wife so beautiful!” You don’t understand—okra, okra, okra… What to do! Even a bitter gourd begins to look appealing. Okra, okra, okra… a man will agree to eat karela just for a change!

Be a little wary of this mind. It has been leading you astray. And it does not let go of its grip because you keep yielding to its changes. It says, “Alright, this woman no longer suits you; are women scarce in the world? Why be troubled? She was faulty from the beginning—I told you so!” The mind has that great convenience: “I told you so.” People change trades, jobs, towns—keep changing. Thus entertainment continues and life gets wasted.

Beware of entertainment! Entertainment is lethal. Don’t entertain the mind; strike it. Annihilate it. Uproot it from the roots. Only then will you come to joy.

Inside there is a blind well
Outside there is only smoke
Where can my mind abide?

Echoes of far-off sounds
Are heard in the emptiness of night
Shadows of unseen dreams
Fall upon the mirrors of lakes
All these are false phantoms
The entire ego is decrepit
Where can my mind roam in delusion?

On dimmed, misty roads
Faces are withered
The evening is desolate
In the dusty bun of gathering dark
A stale flower is tucked
All scenes are ravaged
All colors have peeled away
Where can my mind come to rest?

Like the water of worship
Held in cupped hands
Time keeps flowing away
I had something to say
It cannot be said
Walls and roofs have collapsed
Foundations are trembling
Where can my mind be stilled?

The mind does not come to a halt. In truth, the walls of the mind are forever trembling. The mind is the name of vibration. That which trembles within you is the mind; that which is unmoving within you is the Self. So all yoga, all religions, all methods of meditation say one thing: become unmoving; do not ripple. Still the waves; become wave-less. But this mind raises new waves every day. You read an advertisement and go mad that now you must buy this. You see someone has something; you too must have it. In this way you scatter yourself. Gather yourself.

There is nothing to gain from the cactus, nothing from the rose. The cactus is cactus; the rose is rose. There is no need to enthrone anyone. Let the cactus be in its place, the rose in its place. Let your throne remain empty, and on that empty throne God comes. An empty throne, a void throne, becomes the doorway for the Divine. Keep the throne empty—seat nothing upon it—and the Divine will sit. Seat a cactus or a rose—it makes no difference. The cactus and the rose have a conspiracy. When the rose is on top, the cactus opposes it; when the cactus is on top, the rose will oppose it. They have divided the parts between themselves.

I have heard: one night a man was stopped by two fellows who bowed to him. It was dark and silent on the road. They said, “Good sir, do you have a one-anna coin?” “What will you do with a coin at this hour?” he asked. “Just a small matter,” they said. “We two are having a dispute and need to settle it.” “What dispute?” he asked. “The matter is: who will take your watch and who will take your wallet. We don’t have a coin. We’ll flip it—heads or tails—and decide right now. Give us a coin.”

That’s the whole game: to loot you—deciding only who will keep your moneybag and who your watch. This is what is going on. The cactus argues against the rose; the rose argues against the cactus—to you. Both intend to sit on your chest. Their quarrel is only over who will be your master. Otherwise they are friends.

The day you understand that the sole quarrel in the world is this—who will be your master—that day you will step out from all claims of ownership. There is no benefit to you in any of it. Whether wealth owns you or status owns you—what difference does it make who sits on your chest? You are crushed all the same. The day you seat no one on your chest—neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither the Veda nor the Koran nor the Bible—you set them all aside and say, “I will remain empty”—only in that emptiness does the Whole descend.

Let it not remain merely a thought; let it be so. Let it not remain a poem; let it become life. Then it will be truly meaningful. If this has settled in your heart—that
“Sometimes a thought arises in my heart,
as if you were made for me”—
do not stay entangled in the thought; a thought will deceive you. So bring what I am saying into your life; walk in the direction I am pointing. Then there will be proof, there will be evidence. You will have to gather proof for your poem. You will have to provide evidence.

“As if before now you were dwelling somewhere among the stars,
and were called down to earth for me.”
I was here, but something has come into me that dwelt among the stars; it can come into you as well. You too can become a medium for it. You should—only then will there be radiance; only then will there be celebration, music, and dance in your life. That which dwells among the stars is for your very life-breath; it is eager to descend. Make room; set the ego aside a little; open the door.

If it feels so—truly feels so, not merely as poetry—then listen to me. Not only listen; assimilate it.

The earth has begun to call,
the sky has begun to call—
Rise, O human,
the resonance of consciousness has begun to call!

At the dawn of a new day
the night has come to an end;
smiling radiance—
all creation has become spring.
In every lane the flowers bloom,
here a garden, there a garden;
behold the earth’s adornment—
the sky has begun to call—
Rise, O human,
the resonance of consciousness has begun to call!

Lush, surging waves,
gathering countless dreams,
you have lain upon your couch,
squandering priceless life.
Dreams are not your kinsfolk—
they are the cheat of crooked jest and mockery.
Robbed so long—
rise, creation has begun to call—
Rise, O human,
the resonance of consciousness has begun to call!

The marred life’s parting
is now being adorned;
any moment the palanquin will lift,
the little drum is beginning to sound;
anklets’ runun-jhunun—
beloved’s union, beloved’s union!
Rise, look at the wedding procession—
the omens have begun to call.
The earth has begun to call,
the sky has begun to call—
Rise, O human,
the resonance of consciousness has begun to call!

So listen, assimilate—listen to my call; only then will there be proof that I am for you. Nothing will happen by saying; something must be done. You will have to gather evidence through action; you will have to become a witness. Otherwise, poems are often belied. Fine songs are often forgotten. The net of fine words sometimes turns into dreams and leads you far astray. What you have said is pleasing, but it will be even more pleasing if you can also live it.

Rise!
That is all for today.