Es Dhammo Sanantano #74

The speech of the non-saints is barren, empty—like a dead man, a corpse lying there. And this very man was alive until yesterday. The body is still the same, but something inside the body has flown away. Now only the cage lies there; the bird has flown. The speech of the non-saints is like a dead man: the body of the word is there, but not the soul of experience. From the words of non-saints it is hard to receive fragrance; a stench will come instead. From the words of saints, contentment will arise, because contentment is the shadow of truth.

This much is right. But remember one thing: it is not necessary that those whose words give you contentment are saints. And those whose words do not give you contentment are not necessarily non-saints.

As far as the saints’ side is concerned, from a saint’s speech contentment should arise. As for the non-saints, from their speech contentment should not arise. But in what is received, the saint is not the only participant; you are a participant too. If it is raining and the pot is kept upside down, it will remain unfilled. So even from a saint’s words it may happen that contentment does not come, if you do not receive it, if you do not let it enter within, or if your prior prejudices, your ready-made beliefs, become a hindrance.

So understand it this way: it is not necessary that contentment will come from a saint’s speech; it will come only if you take it. And the other thing is also possible: even from a non-saint’s words contentment may arise, if you have set yourself stubbornly to take something. Then even where nothing is, you will manage to see something. Because in this give-and-take two persons are involved—a giver and a receiver—this event of exchange depends on both.

For example, if a Jain reads the words of a Sufi fakir, he will not feel contentment, because he cannot accept that a non-vegetarian could attain knowledge. For him it is simply impossible. Leave aside a Sufi saint: a Jain muni once said to me, “You mention Ramakrishna Paramhansadeva—do you know, he ate fish? How can a man who eats fish be a saint!” Now such a Jain monk will not find contentment in Ramakrishna’s words. Do not conclude from this that wherever contentment is not found, there is no saint.

Buddhists do not find contentment in the words of Jains. Hindus do not find contentment in the words of Muslims. Muslims do not find contentment in the words of Christians. What does this mean? It means you carry a notion of sainthood. If someone fits your notion, you will draw contentment from him; if he does not fit it, you will not feel even a little contentment. And sometimes it may even happen that a non-saint fits your notion.

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin, hungry and thirsty, came to a village. There was not a single Muslim there. The village was of vegetarians, and its holy man had devoted his whole life to the cause of vegetarianism; his entire life was dedicated to opposing meat-eating.

Nasruddin went to his assembly. The sadhu was explaining that meat-eating is bad, that animals and birds too have a soul. Nasruddin stood up in the middle and said, “You are absolutely right. Once a fish saved my very life.” The sadhu was delighted: “Come, brother, come! This is a great proof— even a Muslim is ready to bear witness.” They seated him near the front, arranged food for him, and said, “Stay here; there is no need to go anywhere else—this proof is enough.” And every day when the sadhu addressed the people he would say, “Ask this Muslim brother: a fish saved his life. Fish have a soul. Do not eat them.”

After a few days, one evening they were sitting together. The vegetarian sadhu said to Mulla Nasruddin, “You are almost my guru. Though I have served vegetarianism my whole life and opposed meat-eating, no animal or bird has ever given me proof like the proof given to you. You are almost my guru. Now tell me in detail: what was the matter, how did it save your life?”

Nasruddin said, “It would be better if you don’t ask for details. Everything is going well; what is the need for details?” But the sadhu insisted, “No, you must tell it.” He even caught his feet: “Gurudev, you must tell it.” Nasruddin said, “If you won’t relent, all right—but then I will have to leave.” “What is it?” asked the sadhu. “Why are you making such a mystery of it?” Nasruddin said, “The thing is, I was very hungry, and by eating the fish my life was saved.” That very night—not even waiting for morning—Nasruddin was sent packing.

Until then, great contentment was being found in his words; now there was no contentment in them at all.

So you ask, “By listening to or reading the words of saints, is the tension of the mind relieved?”

All saints? Then you would become a saint yourself; then no obstacle would remain to your becoming a saint. Or only some saints? The friend who has asked is a Muslim. Have you also read the words of saints whose views differ from Islam? From them you will not get contentment.

Is it proper to confer the title “God” on someone, or for anyone to accept such a title? Pharaoh’s greatest crime was precisely that he claimed to be God.

Now, this friend has mentioned Egypt’s Pharaoh but left out Al-Hallaj Mansur. It is true that the Pharaoh of Egypt publicly declared, “I am God.” That was his crime. But not because he said, “I am God.” The crime lay elsewhere: he said, “Besides me there is no God. I alone am God.”

Mansur—whom the Muslims crucified—said the same sentence: “I am God.” And I think even Farukh Khan would agree that the crucifixion was “proper.” Mansur too said, “I am God,” but there was a vast difference in meaning. He meant, “I am God, because all are God; there is nothing but God.”

What Mansur said was the utterance of a saint; what Pharaoh said was not—though the statement sounded the same: “I am God.” Pharaoh added, “Besides me there is no other God.” Mansur said, “What can I do? One has to be God—there is no other way to be, for only God is.” Yet the Muslims proved Pharaoh a criminal and put Mansur on the cross.

And if Muslims were to meet the rishis of the Upanishads who declared “Aham Brahmasmi”—“I am Brahman”—what would they do with them? They would hang them, crucify them. Such people could not appear to you as saints. How can one who says, “I am Brahman,” be a saint!

Muslims are annoyed with Jesus because he claimed, “I am the son of God.” What sort of claim is that! In our land there are people who say, “We are God”—why even settle for sonship! But Muslims are upset that Jesus claimed to be God’s son. If that isn’t acceptable, then what will you say of Buddha? Of Mahavira? Of Krishna and Rama? By your standard all of them become offenders, not saints.

So I want to say: your second question itself exposes what the word “saint” means in your mind. You carry a fixed image—“A saint should be like this.” It’s your image: whoever fits your mold is a saint; whoever doesn’t is a non-saint. And what true saint can fit into your small molds? If someone can, what kind of saint is he! The imitation of saintliness fits molds. You take great comfort—not because a saint’s words carry truth, but because your ego is gratified: “Look, how right my notion of saintliness is—here is the proof.” You bow to your own notion.

I was a guest in a Jain household. An old gentleman, around eighty, came to see me. For forty years he had lived a renunciate life while still at home—no shop, no household affairs; most of his time went into samayik, meditation, fasting. I had come to the village; he rarely stepped outside, but he came to meet me—with a dozen people trailing behind to witness this rare outing. He had read one of my books, Sadhana Path, and was deeply moved. He came, touched my feet, and said, “For me you are a Tirthankara. What I received from that book I have never received from anything; it has transformed my life.”

We were talking when the lady of the house came and said, “Please eat now; it’s evening.” I said, “This elder has come from afar; don’t interrupt—let me eat a little later.” The old man was startled: “What? The sun is going down, and you will eat after sunset!” I said, “You came from far away; you are old. Sitting with you is more delightful—food can wait an hour.” He said, “You do not understand.” He stood up: “If a man doesn’t even know that eating at night is sin, what else can he know!” He had come touching my feet; he left after sermonizing me to at least give up the sin of eating after dark. I know for certain that when he got home he burned that book—or threw it away. I doubt he even gave it to anyone: “Why corrupt another with a corrupt man’s book!” When he came I was a Tirthankara. How long does it take for a Tirthankara to fall! You cannot grant even this much freedom to your Tirthankara—to eat after sunset. Your Tirthankara has to be your slave; your saint, your slave.

So only slaves can be your saints. Those who are their own masters will not satisfy you. They will shake you like a storm, a whirlwind, and uproot you—uproot all your notions. They will topple the structures you have erected; your philosophies will turn to dust. In the presence of a real saint, first your beliefs will crumble. If you don’t panic when they do—if you are not frightened of dying—then true contentment will come, a contentment that does not leave.

There is also the kind of “contentment” you manufacture: whenever you find someone who fits your idea, you feel pleased. What pleases you? “My belief is right; this man is proof. Even if I cannot be the proof of my belief, at least this man is.”

Hence you ask, “To confer the title ‘God’ on someone…”

Even in your question your belief is hiding. “God” is not a title. It is not like being made a Padma Bhushan or a Bharat Ratna; not a university degree. No one can make anyone “God,” for Godhood is our nature. It is not an upadhi. In our language upadhi has two meanings: degree and affliction. God is not an upadhi. God is the recognition of one’s own nature. When you look within and see who is enthroned there, you discover: God is.

Divinity is our common dharma. As it is fire’s nature to burn, so it is man’s nature to be God. And when you begin to see God in a human being, gradually your eye will deepen and you will see God in animals and birds, then in trees, and then in rocks. The day you see God everywhere—when there is no place where God is not—know that you have come home.

When Nanak went to Mecca, he slept with his feet toward the sacred shrine. The priests were angry: “Do you feel no shame sleeping with your feet toward the holy house—and people call you a saint! What kind of saint are you! Don’t you even know where to point your feet?” The story is beautiful: Nanak said, “Then put my feet where God is not.” Now they were in trouble. Wherever they turned his feet, they found the Kaaba facing that way. I don’t claim the Kaaba actually rotated; it needn’t. The meaning is enough: the Kaaba is everywhere. Where will you point the feet? Wherever you point them, there is God. God is all around.

So, first, you ask about “conferring the title ‘God’ on a person.”

If it is conferred, it is already wrong—this is no title. Nor can anyone give it to anyone else. When you descend to your own source, it becomes your experience.

“And what of accepting such a title?”

It is not a title at all; acceptance or rejection doesn’t arise. When you know and find it so, what are you to do then! This is what happened with Al-Hallaj Mansur. The day realization dawned, he declared, “Ana’l-Haqq!”—“I am the Truth, I am God, I am Brahman.”

Mansur’s master said, “Keep it within. Do not speak this outside.” Sufis have always known this, but out of fear in Muslim lands they did not say it openly. The master said, “Keep it inside. I know it; now you know it too. But do not speak; otherwise there will be trouble.” Trouble did come. Mansur said, “Why not let what is inside flow out? How can I block it? And it is not that I am ‘saying’ it—at a certain state a proclamation rises on its own within: Ana’l-Haqq.” The master dismissed him: “If you must proclaim, go elsewhere; choose another master, another monastery. We do not want this trouble.”

The same happened with a second master, and a third. A fourth master said, “I understand your difficulty: when this event happens, sometimes one is no longer in control and the proclamation breaks forth—but it must be stopped, or there will be trouble. Restrain it, or I tell you, you will be hanged.” It is said Mansur replied, “I will hang on the day you remove your Sufi robe. Not before.” And the story goes that both prophecies proved true.

The Caliph sent word to the master: “There is a man in your hospice who says, ‘I am God.’ Expel him. He is committing a crime.” The master ignored it. A second message came, then a third. When the seventh came, soldiers with naked swords arrived and said, “Now you must sign that this man is a criminal; he will be executed.” The master thought, “How can I sign wearing a Sufi’s robe? Every Sufi knows within that this is true.” So he took off his robe and threw it aside. The soldiers asked, “Why are you discarding it?” He said, “Wearing a Sufi robe I cannot sign such a thing; let me remove it.” Mansur had said rightly: the day you shed this robe, I will be hanged. The master set aside the robe, put on a cleric’s garments, and signed: “Yes, he is a criminal; give him whatever punishment is deemed fit.” Then Mansur was crucified.

Sufis hid the truth, because in Muslim countries there was no way to make it public. In this country there was no such obstacle. Here Sufis spoke openly. Where even Sufis cannot speak openly, how can religion flower? Where the highest summit of truth must be hidden like a thief, such a land cannot be religious.

India has a different tradition—a free atmosphere. Here you are permitted to proclaim whatever arises within you. Who is there to stop you? If the Divine has chosen to declare through you “Ana’l-Haqq, Aham Brahmasmi,” let it be declared.

This is no title. No one gives or takes it, no one accepts or refuses it. When the lamp of your innermost is lit, you know: it is so. It is the experience of a fact, a recognition of truth, a direct seeing.

But I know your difficulty: you have grown in a Muslim tradition and have thought in that mold. That is why you said Pharaoh’s greatest crime was his claim to be God, and yet you played clever even in your question! You dragged in Pharaoh—ancient, almost forgotten, a five-thousand-year-old Egyptian king. Why leave out the more contemporary, burning example—Al-Hallaj Mansur, Farukh Khan? You left Mansur out because you were afraid to bring a Sufi into it.

You will be in trouble. If you were to meet Buddha, you could not accept him as a saint. If you met Mahavira, you could not accept him. If you met Rama or Krishna, you could not accept them—by your measure they are criminals. How will their words ever satisfy you?

So I say: the words of saints truly hold nectar, but only if you allow them to reach your very life-breath. That can happen only when your doors are open, when your mind is free of nets of notions, of biases and prejudices. Then, indeed, there is great substance in a saint’s words. A single word can awaken you; a single gesture can do it.

But if you resist, then even if a saint batters his head against your sleep for a lifetime, he cannot wake you. How many saints there have been—and yet you sleep on. Flowers bloom and wither; stones remain unmoved. The flowers are not heard. And there are reasons you do not hear: your ears are already stuffed.

If you have thought like a Muslim, you haven’t thought at all. If like a Hindu, you have not thought. If like a Jain, you have not thought. A thinking person first puts aside all these garments, forgets who he is: “I don’t yet know who I am—so what are these labels?” You happened to be born in a home—Muslim, Hindu, Christian—purely by accident. Those people taught you what they knew. They did not know, and you do not know; their parents taught them, and they did not know. Such instruction goes on; conditioning goes on.

Buddha said: conditioning is suffering. These identities—Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—are conditionings. Parents begin loading your head: “You are a Muslim; the Quran is your book; Muhammad your prophet.” Or “You are a Hindu; the Vedas are your scripture.” Or “You are a Christian; the Bible is your book.” The child is small and tender; these things keep accumulating. Before intelligence is born, the mind is already crowded with imprints. Then the whole life is seen through those imprints.

So I would say to you—

Pour such a color
that bears no stain of hate,
no dye of sect or creed.
Pour such a color
whose every splash
is only love, only love.

Let all distances dissolve,
draw so near
we become a single shade;
bodies meet body,
and heart meets heart.

Place your steps so softly,
pour such a color
that even its footfall
is only love, only love.

In everyone’s eyes,
everyone’s breath,
everyone’s seeking,
let there be just one sky,
one single longing.

Hold such a cord
whose every knot
is only love, only love.

Pour such a color
that bears no stain of hate,
no dye of sect or creed.
Pour such a color
whose every splash
is only love, only love.

Then you will see what truth is. “Saint” means: where truth has descended. “Saint” means: where truth has taken flesh. “Saint” means: the body in which truth sits enthroned. If you go to a saint with an impartial, blank, silent mind, supreme contentment will be yours—a contentment that will not fade. Not a contentment of belief, not consolation, but the contentment of experience—of joy experienced. And such contentment will begin to make you a saint too; you will be dyed in that dye, soaked in that hue.

Here, the effort is to pour just such a color, to dye you in just such a hue.

What kind of color is it
that rinses off with water?
Pour a dye
that colors a whole life.

As childhood was,
as youth was,
the clay’s color is still the same.
Around the eyelids
many sorrows hover;
yet the color of dreams
is still the same.

What use to tint
only a little corner?
Pour a dye
that colors a whole city.

What kind of color is it
that rinses off with water?
Pour a dye
that colors a whole life.

Inside colors
there are subtler colors—
go within the colors and see.
Inside images
there is breath—
go within the mirror and see.

To dye only springtime bodies
is cowardice;
pour a dye
that colors even the fall.

What kind of color is it
that rinses off with water?
Pour a dye
that colors a whole life.

A saint means: one who decants truth into you. One who dyes you in what has happened to him. A saint is a dyer. He gives you a dip in that which is beyond your present capacity. He places you behind his eyes and lends you his vision: “Look through my eyes; see what I see.” He lends you his heart for a while. And if you are willing, it happens—quickly. It is happening here. If your consent is whole, then any moment, wherever that consent is complete, suddenly my heart will beat in place of yours; you will look with my eyes. Then everything is utterly different—seen in a wholly different way.

You have learned to recognize saints only as “Hindu saints,” “Muslim saints,” “Christian saints,” “Buddhist saints.” When you begin to recognize the saint of all, then you will know what a saint is. And the contentment you receive then is a transformation—it will remake you, make you twice-born, give you a new birth.

Surely such speech cannot come from non-saints! Their words are empty, hollow—no life inside: a cage with no bird. And people carry cages around, imagining there must be a bird—because father said so, and his father before him; because the crowd says so, the society says so, the mullah or the pandit says so. You do not look for yourself to see if there is a bird—or whether you are worshipping an empty shrine. You even fear to look, lest you discover there is nothing there; so you keep your cage tightly covered.

At times you must suspect whether there is anything inside—but you don’t let the doubt stay. “Doubt isn’t good,” you say. “How could parents lie? How could priests lie? Why would society lie?” So you never lift the curtain to see whether anyone is there.

Of your hundred “saints,” ninety-nine are empty temples with nothing inside; yet the worship continues. Often those who truly have something are the hardest to worship, because they shatter your notions. Those with nothing can easily walk your line; only the bankrupt live on borrowed capital. Borrowed coin looks fine on the surface; inside, it is empty.

I heard of a wealthy Jew. In front of his mansion was an iron-barred gate. A poor man was scratching his back against the bars. The rich man felt pity. He called him in, told the servants, “Bathe him thoroughly, massage him well.” The poor man was scrubbed with soaps he had never seen, seated under fountains of hot and cold water, anointed with perfume and oil, dressed in fine clothes, fed, and given some money. Word spread through the village. Two men thought, “This is marvelous!” They went and began scratching their backs on the gate. The rich man saw them and sent his men with chains: “Bring them here.” They protested, “Why chains? The other man was treated so well!” Dragged before him, they cried, “What’s the matter?” The rich man said, “Be off! Never come back. That fellow was alone and his back itched—he couldn’t scratch it. But you are two—why can’t you scratch each other’s backs? At least have that much sense. Now go, and don’t come here again.”

It happens often. Mahavira realized and stood naked. Many thought, “By standing naked one attains.” Even today many stand at doorways scratching their backs: they stand naked. For the Digambara Jains, nudity itself became the mark of a saint. Mahavira was nude, so they made it the definition, as if a saint could be defined once for all!

A saint can never be defined—and no two saints have ever been the same, nor will they ever be. When someone attains the summit of saintliness, he becomes unique—solitary, incomparable. There will be other saints, but each in his own way. All saints are original. A saint occurs once, never to be repeated.

Thousands stand naked. There is nothing in most of them. But a Digambara will worship them, because nudity has been grafted onto his definition. Hence a Digambara cannot worship anyone clothed. Put Muhammad before him and he will say, “Huzoor, you are still wearing clothes! If you still wear clothes, enlightenment has not happened—Mahavira shed his garment when he was enlightened.” A Jain will not accept Muhammad.

One of my books was presented to a Jain monk. The friend who gifted it told me later, “Something odd happened. The monk flipped through it and said, ‘Everything is fine—but how did Muhammad’s name enter this?’—and he threw the book away.” The book was on Mahavira; he tossed it merely because it mentioned Muhammad. “What relation has Mahavira with Muhammad!” He could not tolerate the two names together. And I have a bad habit: I connect them!

It did not sit well with him. Muhammad—so worldly, a householder! If you think like a Jain, it will seem so: “How many wives did Muhammad have?” A Digambara even denies that Mahavira had one wife. In fact, Mahavira had a wife, a daughter, and a son-in-law—historical facts. But Digambara texts write that he never married, because it offends them to think Mahavira married. Even had he married in ignorance, what harm? He became enlightened later. But for them, even in ignorance Mahavira was so lofty he could not have married. So they deny the marriage. A daughter was born? Impossible—for that would mean he had sex! “Mahavira and sex—unthinkable!” So they cut the problem at the root: “He never married.” Remove the bamboo; the flute won’t play.

On the other hand is Muhammad, with nine marriages—hard to digest. But look from Muhammad’s side, think straight. None of those marriages were about lust. The Arab lands were warlike; men fell in battle, the number of women rose, men became fewer. Where women are many and men few, great immorality spreads—inevitably. So Muhammad made a rule: every Muslim should marry up to four women. To others, in lands where the numbers never skewed so, this may look absurd; but in that historical moment it was meaningful. Those four marriages saved the morality of Muslim societies; otherwise they would have sunk.

Muhammad himself married nine times. That too is reasonable: if the disciples are to go four steps, the master must go further. It is simple arithmetic. He went ahead by two steps so you would move a little—otherwise you would not move at all.

A man is harried enough with one wife—do you think four is a small sadhana! I tell you, the discipline of celibacy is not as difficult as the discipline of four wives.

Mulla Nasruddin was once caught stealing. The magistrate said, “You are a decent man and this is your first offense. You yourself suggest the punishment.” Mulla said, “Give me whatever you like—only don’t give me the punishment of two marriages.” The magistrate laughed, “Is that even a punishment? Explain.” Mulla said, “I would not have been caught if this fellow hadn’t had two wives. At two in the night I entered his home: one wife upstairs was pulling him up; the one downstairs was pulling him down—each grabbing a limb—while he was stuck on the stairs. Seeing this panic and the state of that house, I hid in a corner to wait it out. But it never ended; morning came. I couldn’t escape, for the only exit was those stairs. That’s why I was caught. So I beg you: give any punishment—but not two marriages.”

You think celibacy alone is sadhana—then you think wrongly. Even four marriages can be a sadhana—and a great one.

Muhammad’s first marriage was to a woman twice his age. No man prefers to marry an older woman. You can forget “older”—if a woman is even an inch taller, you shrink from marrying her. Any “greater-than” in any respect and you don’t like it. A much younger wife can dominate you enough; an older one needs no comment. Five or seven years younger can manage you; if she is older and more experienced, more educated, the “trouble” multiplies. Although by scientific reasoning, a man should marry a woman older than himself. Worldwide statistics show women outlive men by five to seven years. If you live to seventy-five, your wife will live to eighty or eighty-two. If you marry someone five to seven years younger, you create a ten-year gap between your death and hers—you leave her a decade of widowhood. That is unscientific. If you think scientifically, you should marry a woman five to seven years older, so you depart the world around the same time, sparing each other prolonged loneliness.

Muhammad had the courage to marry a woman older than himself. His circumstances were different, his people were nomads, unlettered. First they had to be freed from idol worship; their greatest entanglement was three hundred sixty-five idols in the Kaaba—one for each day. To proclaim “Aham Brahmasmi” to them would have been madness. That is a final lesson in the university of religion—possible in India because it requires a millennia-long preparation. Here, people could understand it and not be enraged.

Different conditions, different personalities, different ways. A Jain will not admit Muhammad attained enlightenment. A Muslim will not admit Mahavira did: “He went naked! Improper, anti-social!” No one accepts another’s saint, because each carries a fixed picture of saintliness.

I say: drop all pictures; in emptiness, peace, and silence look—and you will be astonished: Muhammad attained the same glory as Mahavira; Buddha the same as Christ. The ways differ—so they must. A person happens only once; never repeated.

God never makes carbon copies. Leave aside people—pick up a pebble; search the whole earth and you will not find another exactly like it. Pluck a leaf from this garden; search the forests and you will not find an identical leaf. God makes originals. Each thing is new and unique.

If this is true of small things, how much more of a Christ, a Muhammad, a Mahavira, a Buddha. They are the ultimate, the last word—unique. Do not fall into imitation. Don’t try to be like anyone. If you can become truly yourself, only then will you attain God. And when, in your own fullness, you become yourself, a resonance rises within—“Aham Brahmasmi, Ana’l-Haqq.”

Pharaoh spoke falsely because he said, “I am God—and there is no other.” Mansur spoke rightly: “I am God—because only God is. There is no other; only God is. Stones are God—so I too am God.”

See both the similarity of their statements and the difference concealed within.

If you want to understand a Buddha’s words in their entirety, then without meditation there is no way. But small glimpses can be had even without meditation. A little hint can reach you even without meditation. And if even that hint did not reach you, how would you move at all? Then you would say, “When meditation happens, I will understand; until I understand, how can I proceed?” And until you proceed, how will meditation happen? Then you would fall into a big whirl, a vicious circle.

So keep two things in mind. Neither is it true that what an enlightened one says can be heard with the intellect and thereby understood. No—if that were enough, there would be no need for meditation at all. Nor is the other statement true, that only when meditation happens will understanding come. Because if it were only after meditation that understanding came, then how would you even begin to meditate? Only when some flavor of the enlightened ones begins to appeal will you turn to meditation, won’t you? While listening to the words of the enlightened, total understanding does not arrive—never. Full understanding will come only when you too become enlightened. When you become like them, only then will the whole be experienced. But for now, a little hint can indeed be felt.

When a small child begins to walk, it is true he cannot yet run; but he can totter! And if you say he cannot even totter, then he will never be able to walk. When a small child takes his first steps, see how fearful he is, how he longs for support—he wishes his mother to hold his hand; holding her hand, he gathers courage and walks two steps. The little one has legs sufficient to support his body—not as big as yours, of course, but neither is his body as big as yours; the proportion is exactly the same. You have big legs to support a big body; he has small legs to support a small body. His legs are sufficient to support him. But he lacks experience; he does not yet trust that he can stand; he lacks that self-confidence. So he walks holding his mother’s hand.

To walk holding the Guru’s hand means only this: where you have not yet walked—though you can—because you have never tried, you take the hand of one who has walked, who is walking. Then slowly the mother begins to loosen her hand; then she lets you hold only a finger; then slowly she pulls even the finger away. One day the child discovers, “Ah! I can stand and walk all by myself!” When children first walk, you must have seen, they don’t stop; they don’t sit down. However much you try—“Now you’re tired, sit”—they keep circling about! Such joy they feel, as if a marvelous event has happened: “I too can walk!”

Exactly such an event happens on the path of meditation. At first the words of the enlightened only give a glimpse: for a brief moment lightning flashes; a single ray descends. But that ray fills you with thirst, and you begin to feel reassured—perhaps it is possible, this too can be. It has happened to this person; why should it not happen to me? It has happened to one just like me.

After all, the Buddha’s bones, flesh, and marrow are just like yours; there is no difference. Eyes, ears, nose like yours; when hungry he ate as you do; at night, tired, he slept as you do; he became young as you do, he grew old as you do, and one day he died as you will. In every way an enlightened one is just like you. They fall ill, get diseased, become healthy again. When old, their hair turns white; when old, their hands and feet tremble—just as with you. But in a person just like you, something has happened which seems not yet to have happened in you. From this, courage arises: if it could happen in one like me, perhaps it can happen in me too. Perhaps I too carry within me a possibility, a seed that has not found the right soil. Perhaps I too carry a possibility within which I have never experimented with, never tried to make real.

Seeing a singer sing, you remember your own throat: a voice, after all, I have too. Seeing a dancer dance, you remember your feet: I have feet too—if I wish, I can also dance. Seeing a painter paint, you remember: if I wish, I too can paint. In just the same way, seeing a Buddha, you remember: if I wish, I too can attain Buddhahood. This very wishing—this is not the whole understanding—this is the beginning of thirst.

A kind of light spreads.

However it may be, every time passes by,
The gist remains, but the heap scatters.
In sorrow burns the heat of the Vaishakh sun,
In such a season even the ocean recedes.
All day long we journey through darkness,
Come evening, a kind of light spreads.
Every continuity breaks, friends,
Sometimes such a moment passes.
Some hope flashes forth as a ray,
For a little while every burden slips from the heart.
A kind of light spreads.
Some hope flashes forth as a ray.

At the feet of the enlightened ones, the Tirthankaras, the true Masters, the Paramahansas, the Sufis—

Some hope flashes forth as a ray,
For a little while every burden slips from the heart.
Only for a little while, for but an instant; no full sun rises, but a single ray streaks down. In that ray you begin to see your own future: this can be.

Every continuity breaks, friends,
Sometimes such a moment passes.

For a moment, for an instant, the eyes open—and then they close again. Yet that one instant proves to be the moment that can change a life.

You ask, “Is it possible to grasp the poignant meaning of an enlightened one’s words without having attained meditation?”

Yes and no. Yes, in the sense that glimpses come; a ray descends. An upsurge arises, a thirst begins to rise, an unknown pull is born—so yes. And no, because by merely hearing, the whole never happens. You will have to walk, you will have to rise, you will have to change; there is much rubbish—you will have to burn it. You must pass through fire so that the gold is refined.

Hearing the words of the enlightened, the journey begins; the destination does not arrive. The destination will come only when meditation is complete. And when meditation is complete, only then will the whole be understood. For there is only one meaning to “understanding the whole”: that what was their experience has also become my experience. Only when the experiences become the same does the word truly make sense.

Don’t get into useless worry from now. When an unprecedented event like attainment happens, you will also find a way to say thank you. That’s a small matter! When such a great thing happens, do you think you won’t be able to find a way to express gratitude? You will find God and not find a way to say thank you?

It will happen on its own. Don’t worry about it. And there is nothing to practice in advance—that you will rehearse gratitude. If you practice it, it will be false. And if a false practice persists, then at that moment you may end up thanking from that same falseness. At least let that gratitude be spontaneous—don’t prepare for it. Don’t rehearse it.

Mulla Nasruddin once returned from a train journey and told me that on the way a ticket inspector kept staring at him in a very strange way. I asked, “Strange? What do you mean, Nasruddin?” He said, “I mean he was looking at me as though I didn’t have a ticket.” I asked, “Then what did you do, Nasruddin?” He said, “What could I do? I also stared back at him as though I really did have a ticket.”

These are the kinds of rehearsals going on. The ticket inspector stares at you as if you don’t have a ticket; you stare back as if you do.

Don’t fall into false rehearsals. Don’t even ask this question. Gratitude will arise from that experience fresh, just bathed, new—like a tender sprout breaking forth, like the morning sun rising new. Such thankfulness will sprout, and that gratitude is something else altogether.

In Zen, in that tradition, such understandings prevail. Every disciple offers thanks in his own way when enlightenment happens. Sometimes very strange things occur.

A young man, Bokuju, stayed with his master for years, seeking meditation and samadhi. And whenever he went with the news that a great experience had happened, the master would give him a stinging slap. At first he was startled; then he began to understand. He asked others, the elders who had long been receiving such slaps; they said, “It’s great grace—he hits only when his grace is upon someone. Otherwise why would he waste even a slap! He strikes because whatever you bring is not yet true; it’s imaginary.”

Sometimes he would come saying, “Master, a great light has dawned”—and a slap! “Master, the kundalini has awakened”—and a slap! “The chakras are opening”—and a slap! Whatever experience he took, he got a slap.

Then he too began to see: all this is just an imaginary web. As long as something is being experienced, it is precisely not it. Whatever is experienced is separate from you. If kundalini has awakened, then you are the seer, not the kundalini. The one who is seeing within that the kundalini is stirring cannot be the kundalini—kundalini has become the object. The one who saw that the inner third eye is opening has become just as far from the third eye as he is from these two eyes; that third eye too is separate. The one who saw that a lotus is blossoming within—the seer cannot be the lotus. The seer is beyond and beyond and beyond… He is known only when no lotuses open, no light happens, no kundalini stirs, no chakras whirl—nothing happens; silence descends. Nothing comes into experience; only that remains, the witness—witness to the void.

It is said Bokuju took slaps for twenty years. And the last time he came—do you know how he gave thanks? He came and planted a slap on his master’s cheek. The master laughed heartily, rolled in delight. He said, “So—it has happened today!”

So what form gratitude will take is hard to say. That was the right gratitude: after twenty years of slaps, there was nothing to say. The Zen tradition is unique. All the traditions of the fakirs are unique.

I was reading the memoirs of a Zen fakir. He had gone to America and there received an invitation from a Hindu sannyasin to come and meet. Reading it, it seemed to me that the Hindu sannyasin could be none other than Baba Muktananda. He has not written the name, but the description of appearance and manner fits Muktananda. And he has also written that he does not speak English.

Muktananda must have sent for him. The fakir went. Muktananda was seated on a lofty throne, and below it a little mat was spread for the fakir.

It seemed to me it must be Muktananda, because he did the same with me. He sent me many invitations; and when I went, he sat on a high seat and had a small mat placed below for me.

The fakir sat down. Muktananda presented some sweets. The fakir’s disciple said, “No, he won’t take sweets; he has diabetes.” So Muktananda said, “Diabetes! Then walk three miles every morning, do asanas and exercises; it will be cured.”

This is sheer blindness. The man sitting in front is in the ultimate state. To tell him, “Walk three miles, do asanas, learn yogasanas”—it’s a sign of dullness.

The fakir laughed and said, “Diabetes is very dear to me. It is God’s gift.”

All this was being translated. A female disciple of Muktananda was translating. Muktananda spoke in Hindi and it was translated into English; what the fakir spoke in English was translated into Hindi.

Then Muktananda said, “Any inquiry?” First he had invited him, and now he asks, “Any inquiry? Ask something. If there are any questions, he will resolve them.” So in the Zen way the fakir said, “Is there God or not? If you say ‘yes,’ I’ll slap you; if you say ‘no,’ I’ll slap you too. Speak!” The lady translating was very flustered—what kind of conversation is this? “If you say ‘yes’ I’ll slap you; if you say ‘no’ I’ll slap you—speak!”

She hesitated—should she translate it or not? She was startled: What is this? The fakir said, “Translate—or you will be beaten unnecessarily.” Frightened, she translated. When Muktananda heard it, he was very perturbed: What sort of metaphysical discussion is this? He said, “You don’t seem to be a philosopher. What kind of metaphysics is this?”

But this is metaphysics. The Zen fakir is saying: say yes and you’re wrong, say no and you’re wrong—because in either case duality has arisen. In both cases I will slap you. He is saying: in both cases you have erred. Concerning the Ultimate, neither yes can be said nor no can be said. Silence alone is the right answer. But that spoiled the meeting—the talk of slapping did not appeal. So the Zen fakir writes in his diary: “Baba quickly looked at his watch and said, ‘I have to go elsewhere.’ Satsang over!”

Every tradition has its ways. But merely learning the traditional ways yields nothing. In Tibet, when realization happens, there is a customary way to thank the master—but if you have learned the way from tradition, then the way itself is false. It won’t do.

So don’t even ask how you will thank me. Care about realization—that’s what matters. What’s there to worry about gratitude? Even if you don’t offer it, it will be fine!

When a master sees that it has happened to a disciple, do you think he will only know when you tell him? Then he is no master. If he finds out because you inform him—what kind of master is that! The truth is, when it happens to you, even before it fully happens to you—before you yourself know—the master will know it is happening.

There is a story about Rinzai: when his enlightenment happened, it was two in the morning. He was sitting in meditation; suddenly all the doors opened. He had been working hard for about twelve years. When those inner doors opened at 2 a.m., the thought arose to go and place his head at his master’s feet. But at two in the night, to wake him from sleep wouldn’t be right. No sooner had he thought this than there was a knock at the door. He opened it—his master was standing there.

The master said, “You fool, what did you think—that you would awaken and we would be asleep! Such a great event is taking place—and once we are linked with you, we are linked in every way—such a great event happening to you and we could sleep? And do you think you will know first and only then we will know?”

You will be amazed to hear that in the West many experiments have been conducted—there remains some unknown thread between mother and child. Just as when a child is in the mother’s womb he is physically connected to her navel and the doctor cuts it, there is another golden thread that remains joined, which cannot be cut. Many experiments have been done on this—especially in Soviet Russia—and the results have been astonishing.

The experiments are like this: if there is deep attachment between mother and child, take the child thousands of miles away and distress him; the mother begins to feel that the child is being troubled. She starts to feel discomfort; she grows restless.

And because human beings have become so distorted, the experiments were done on animals. A cat was left on a pier above, and her kitten was taken in a submarine down into the ocean’s depths—a mile below. The cat above was connected to instruments to register her mental state—when she becomes disturbed or restless, even the slightest change. As soon as the kitten below was tormented—its neck pinched—the mother cat became instantly agitated. A mile of distance, the kitten in the fathomless deep! As soon as the neck was released, she calmed again. Pinch the neck again—she was disturbed again. Many experiments have shown that wherever there is love, a golden thread keeps beings joined.

But that is about mother and child—don’t even ask about master and disciple. For that love is nothing compared to this. That is the love of the body; between master and disciple there is a spiritual bond, a connection of the soul.

The day realization happens to you, do you think you will know first? Then you have thought wrongly. Your master will know before you do. And it may well be that the master won’t give you the chance to thank him; he will thank you before you can thank him.

Don’t get caught in this worry. The real concern is only how to attain That. Thanks or no thanks are matters of social etiquette.

Whatever I say is one and the same; I say it in many ways. Understand!

When I say aloneness is the nature, I am saying: this is the path of meditation. Aloneness means meditation. You are left alone—unrelated, unattached. You hold no idea of the other. You forget the other; you even forget God, for that too is the other. You remain alone, utterly in solitude. The Jains and the Buddhists move in this way. Utterly alone—that is why their moksha is called kaivalya: only-ness. Only pure consciousness remains. Aloneness is the nature.

When one becomes alone, another thing arises—freedom is the nature. When you are alone, you are free. Now there is no dependency, because there is no other. You are liberated, you are free. Your own spontaneity becomes available to you. You begin to hum your own song. You no longer sing borrowed songs, you no longer sway like someone else’s shadow, you no longer follow anyone. From within, from your center, the juice of your life begins to flow. Thus, freedom.

Then I say a third thing: love is the nature. Only one who has become free and alone can truly give love—because only he has love to give. But how will you give love? You are begging—how can you give? You want someone to give it to you; if it were with you, why would you beg? You don’t have it, that’s why you ask. We ask only for what we don’t have.

But the one who has become free, who has drowned in solitude, who is lost in his own ecstasy—he will have love. He will share it. And his love will not be like yours; he will give—unconditionally. He will give to anyone; he will not even ask, “To whom should I give and to whom not?” There will be no boundary. He will share, he will pour it out, as a flower blooming in solitude scatters its fragrance to the winds—if it reaches someone, good; if not, also good. It is not scattered for anyone’s purpose. No address is written on the fragrance saying: go to such-and-such house, my beloved lives there; my lover lives there—go there. It simply spreads, whoever receives it. The flower has blossomed—what need has it now?

When a person becomes free, his love blossoms; his flower opens. And when the flower has opened—the fourth thing—bliss is the nature. The one whose inner flower has bloomed is blissful. Without the inner flower flowering, when has anyone ever been blissful?

So when I say aloneness is the nature, freedom is the nature, love is the nature, bliss is the nature—I am speaking of one path: the path of meditation. In it, aloneness comes first, then freedom, then love, then bliss.

The second path is the path of devotion. On the path of devotion, love comes first—love is the nature. One has to be filled with such single-pointed love for the Divine that your sense of “I” disappears, your “I” is surrendered. And in the life of one in whom love has arisen, such surrender to God has happened, such prayer has arisen that he has in every way surrendered his ego—inevitably bliss will arise in his life. When the one who was is no more, when the “I” is not left—where can sorrow be?

Ego is misery. Ego stings like misery; it is a thorn, a poison. Where the devotee’s ego has fallen, there bliss has arrived. And where bliss comes, there remains no need of the other. The need for the other exists in suffering. When you are miserable you seek the other—someone to share your pain. The need for the other arises only in misery. When you are blissful, what need is there of another!

So the person who attains love, who attains bliss, attains aloneness. He needs no other. And the one who is alone—that one is free, that one is spontaneous.

This is the second formula of devotion—love is the nature. From love arises bliss. Bliss is the nature; from bliss arises solitude, aloneness, seclusion—so aloneness is the nature. And aloneness means freedom, spontaneity.

Whichever path you walk—there are only two paths. Either remain purely alone—you will arrive. Or lose yourself totally—get lost—and you will arrive. Either be effaced—you will arrive; become a zero—you will arrive. Or become whole—and you will arrive.

The Jains and the Buddhists proceed by meditation—becoming alone. They purify the “I,” purify it, bring it to perfection. Hindus, Muslims, Christians proceed by love—by surrendering themselves. In surrender the ego slowly disappears; not even a trace remains. The day the ego is lost, that very day the Divine manifests.

There must have been a little doubt; otherwise you wouldn’t ask. What is there to ask about in a matter free of doubt? A little doubt must be there. Because of that very doubt you have also said that it is doubtless—otherwise you wouldn’t even have said that.
The point is lovely. The point is important. But there is a small difference. The king of the country stopped Lao Tzu, because he was fleeing to the Himalayas without writing a single line about his experience. He had chosen that his grave be in the Himalayas—what more beautiful place could there be to die! So he was leaving China, running toward the south; the king had him stopped.
The king must have been very wise; such wise kings are rare. “King” and “wise” do not easily happen together. He sent word, dispatched policemen and horsemen, and had him halted right at the border, at the customs post—the last gate out. Stopping him, he said that until he wrote down what he had known… Lao Tzu had never written in his whole life, and whenever people asked, he evaded; and whenever many pressed him, he would say only this: truth cannot be said.
But the king said, “Now you are leaving the country, so this time you shall not go without saying—write down whatever you have known, then you may go. If you don’t write, I won’t let you out.”
He had to go, so under compulsion he stayed three days right there at the customs post and wrote his wondrous book, the Tao Te Ching. He wrote it in three days—brief sutras. Quickly he wrote and handed it over.
In the very first sutra he wrote that the truth cannot be said, and whatever can be said will not be the truth; keeping this in mind, he proceeds. So he cleared the matter at the very outset. He paid the customs duty. It was a compulsion, so he had to pay it—then he slipped out and was gone.
You say, “Just as the king of that country did not let Lao Tzu go without paying the customs duty, in the same way the Divine has kept you standing at the gate of moksha.”