Es Dhammo Sanantano #76

So that you can be intelligent. So that someday you can even become a Buddha.
Intellectualism is a false kind of intelligence. It is not the awakening of the consciousness hidden within you; it is only borrowed. Intellectualism is taking others’ thoughts as your own. Intellectualism is deciding, merely by thinking, about things you do not know—forming a belief about light the way a blind man might. Such a belief is intellectualism. He listens, he collects the songs others have sung about light, he asks many people, and on the basis of whatever he can find out, he forms a notion. But he has no experience of light; he has no eyes. Whatever notion he makes about light will be intellectualism. It is only a game of the intellect—an -ism.
If that man is truly interested in light, he will not fall into this deception. Instead of reading scriptures about light, he will get treatment for his eyes. Once his eyes are healed, there will be the experience of light. That experience is not intellectualism; that experience is Buddhahood.
A borrowed mind makes for intellectualism. Your own intelligence, rooted in your own experience, flowers into Buddhahood. The word buddhi—intelligence—is quite wondrous. When it falls, it becomes intellectualism. When it rises, it becomes Buddhahood. When it gets caught in the net of falsehood, it is intellectualism; when truth dawns in it, it is Buddhahood. Both are functions of the same intelligence.
I am not an enemy of intelligence; I am certainly an enemy of intellectualism. I say, taste! Reading cookbooks will do nothing; neither will your hunger end nor will you be nourished. Eat food; cook food. Even plain dry bread is better than the recipes written in a cookbook, however delicious the dishes described may be. Those are only recipes—you can neither eat them nor drink them. Do not mistake them for the treasure of life. That is why I say it is necessary to be alert to intellectualism.
And no matter how much you think about light and weave a concept, within you something will keep saying: this is only a notion. Where have you known? Where have you lived it? You don’t yet have eyes; you are groping in the dark.
Intellectualism is like our saying: a blind man, in the dark, seeing something far away. Blind to begin with, on top of that darkness, and then “he sees far”! He cannot even see what is near.
Living life as it comes is the reality,
and all the rest is advice from books.
Whatever roads exist were made by stubbornness;
the rut, after all, is the elders’ bequest.
It is deemed essential to don masks—
man’s desire is naked; what a predicament.
Even an insignificant man could accomplish much,
but at the crucial moment, alas, “respectability” digs in its heels.
How much reason has altered the truth—
yet, thank goodness, the feeling has not died.
Reason raises countless false shows, assumptions, beliefs.
How much reason has altered the truth—
yet it is a saving grace that the feeling has not died.
But there is one good thing: however much you become an intellectualist, something within you will keep saying—this is all talk, a web of ideas, a tangle of arguments; where is the experience? That sense will not die. On the basis of that very sense, there is hope that someday you will awaken.
The intellect runs along lines drawn by others. And that is no way to reach truth. You can never reach truth by walking the beaten track. A beaten track means a dead road. A dead road cannot take you to living truth.
What is a living path like? It must be made by walking on your own feet. The more you walk, the more it comes into being. The more you experience, the closer you come. Keep following others, and it is intellectualism. To be a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain—that is intellectualism. If you are religious, then something begins to happen. And what has religion to do with Jainism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity? Religion has no relation to any of these. Religion is experience. Just as light is the experience of the eye, so religion is the experience of the inner eye.
So set to work opening the inner eye. Don’t go on wasting life sitting and thinking. Who knows how many births you have been thinking; how many lives you have wasted in thought. Sitting has become your habit; now you do not walk—you only think. Rise and walk. Shake off the ash of ideologies so the ember within you can glow forth. The ember of truth lies within you; the ash you have gathered from outside—the ash of scriptures and doctrines. Do not be troubled by this.

You seem to have decided never to announce your own individuality. You have decided you will forever remain a carbon copy, never become the original man. You always want someone to prescribe what you should do. Someone should tell you how to get up, how to sit, what to eat, what to drink. You don’t want to be your own master. Slavery has seeped into your blood.

I said that even after the sense of doership (kartabhav) drops, action remains—and you immediately grabbed that as a crutch. There is no place for crutches there! You found your path to slavery right there. You began to ask, “Then please tell us what a sannyasin should do. If action remains even after the sense of doership goes, then tell us which action to do.”

I was saying: let doership fall, and let witnessing (sakshi-bhav) awaken. One in whom witnessing has awakened has no need to have actions prescribed. Action will remain, but now it will happen out of witnessing—not out of doership. And in the one in whom the lamp of the witness is lit, it becomes obvious what is appropriate to do. Such a person need not walk according to blind beliefs. The blind man asks, “Where is the door?” Does one with eyes ask? One with eyes has eyes—within those eyes are all doors, all paths. He simply stands and passes through the door; he neither asks nor even thinks, “Where is the door?” When it is time to go, he looks around and exits where the door is. The blind man says, “First ask which direction to take, where the door is, lest we bump into a wall.”

Witnessing! Where the feeling “I am the doer” falls away, there the feeling “I am the seer” is born. The very energy that was bound in doership, freed from doership, becomes witnessing. “I am only the one who sees.” In that seeing there is vision; there is insight; there are eyes. From that vision all the actions of your life begin to be guided. Then you will not need to ask.

But you are not so eager to drop doership. You ask, “When doership falls, action still remains—then tell us how to do that action.”

It is like taking a blind man to be cured, and he asks, “When my eyes are healed, whom will I ask, how will I grope around to find my path?” We would say to him, “Fool, be quiet—first let the eyes be cured; then these questions won’t arise.”

It happened—there is a mention in Jesus’ life. A man came, lame, making his way on crutches to Jesus. Jesus touched him, and he became whole, entirely healthy; his lameness disappeared. He thanked Jesus profusely, tucked his crutches under his arm, and began to go. Jesus said, “Hey, fool, throw away the crutches. Why carry them now?” He said, “Right—you reminded me, I had already forgotten that one can walk without crutches.”

Old habit! He is no longer lame, but how will he live without crutches? All his life he walked only with their support; it became a habit.

You too have made a habit of asking. You want someone or other to keep telling you. When will you live in your own way? The very meaning of sannyas is a declaration: “Now I will not live on borrowed capital; I will live in cash. I will live in my own way, whatever the consequences. I will not lose my freedom again; I will not search for new chains of slavery.”

I am here to give you freedom, not to prescribe your actions. Who am I to prescribe your actions! And how can actions be prescribed? Circumstances decide what is appropriate. No act is right in itself. What is right today may be wrong tomorrow in different circumstances. The medicine that works for one patient may not work for another.

You’ve heard the story, haven’t you? A Sufi tale. A physician had grown old. He said to his son, “I’m old now. Learn my art. I won’t be here long; I’ve had my fun. When I die you’ll starve. Come with me—watch the patients, try to understand; learn this science. I may live two or four years—meanwhile become at least able to earn your bread.” So the son went along. He had never bothered before, but it occurred to him too: how long will Father carry on? His hands and feet have begun to tremble. He went. The father said, “Watch carefully. Pay attention to everything I do.”

They saw a patient; he took the pulse, examined it, looked at the man’s tongue, and then said, “It seems you’ve eaten too many mangoes. Because of that your stomach is upset.” The son was amazed—“A miracle! How did you know from the pulse that he ate too many mangoes?” On the way he asked, “Father, everything else I understand, but how did you know from the pulse? Explain to me, because you said I should learn everything.” The father said, “It wasn’t from the pulse. You have to notice other things too. I peeped under his bed—there was a heap of mango pits. Just taking the pulse doesn’t do; you have to see other things as well.” The son said, “Now I understand.”

The next day the father had gone to see a patient. Someone came to call; the son said, “I’ll come. Father is out, but I’ve learned quite a bit now.” He went.

He put his fingers on the pulse—but he didn’t really know how to read it; he wasn’t even sure he had found it. His eyes were mostly under the bed, looking for what might be there. He looked under the bed, and he “understood.” He said, “Look here, you’ve eaten your horse—because under the bed were a saddle and such things—and if you eat a horse you’ll get stomach pain!” The man was astonished, “I’ve seen many physicians, but you are truly extraordinary—eaten a horse!”

What is right in one situation will not be right in another. What is appropriate in one moment may be inappropriate in the next. What is needed is awareness! So that in that moment you can know—or rather, without needing to decide, you can see what is right, and let that happen through your life.

So I don’t give you prescribed actions. I emphasize only one thing: learn a little awakening. That will work everywhere, in every circumstance. Rather than me explaining an action for each and every situation, it is far better that you receive such awareness that in every situation you can find your action yourself. Because situations are infinite.

Jesus said, “If an enemy strikes you on one cheek, offer him the other.” Now that becomes a fixed dictum.

A Christian fakir was slapped by a man. Naturally, he immediately thought, “What is right to do?” Jesus said, “Offer the other cheek.” He offered the other cheek. The man too must have been a rare one—not ordinary; some disciple of Machiavelli or Chanakya perhaps. He landed an even harder slap on the second cheek. The fakir had thought that when he offered the second cheek the man would realize his mistake—“What a holy man I struck!” But that requires a holy man to recognize it. This man thought, “Even better!” and gave another resounding slap.

The moment the second slap landed, the fakir leapt upon him, sat on his chest, and began to beat him. The man was startled, “Brother, what are you doing—being a Christian and all! Jesus said if someone slaps one cheek, offer the other. What are you doing?” The fakir said, “There were two cheeks. You slapped them both. Jesus’ saying ends there. There is no third cheek. Beyond that, I go by my own lights.”

No saying can accompany you forever. A point will come when the saying runs out. How can I give you a prescribed action for every moment? In twenty-four hours there are thousands of situations.

A disciple asked Jesus, “If someone harms us, you say, ‘Forgive.’ How many times?” A good question. How many times to forgive? Before Jesus could answer, the man said, “Seven times—is that right?” Jesus said, “No, seven won’t do.” The man said, “Seventy-seven times?” Jesus said, “No, that too will be too few.” The man said, “Do you mean seven hundred and seventy times?” Then perhaps it occurred to Jesus that even after seven hundred and seventy, the situation still remains! What about the seven hundred and seventy-first time?

No matter what arrangement you fix, it will be exhausted. A limit will come where the arrangement fails. Then what will you do?

If you follow others’ prescriptions, you will always be in trouble. You need your own eyes; you need your own awareness. The one who asks, “How many times should I forgive?” hasn’t understood the very essence of forgiveness. If you understand forgiveness, the very question “how many times” is wrong. “How many times” means that beyond a certain limit non-forgiveness will return. Forgive seven times and the eighth time you will take revenge—and perhaps you’ll take revenge for all seven at once, because you never understood forgiveness at all. You’re asking “how many times.” “After all, everything has a limit!” Forgiveness can have no limit. Jesus said, “Fine—seventy times seven.” But I tell you, even that won’t work. You are too cunning. On the seven hundred and seventy-first time you will take all your revenge.

Perhaps Jesus thought seventy times seven was enough—how much further to go! But man’s crookedness is vast. Your crookedness is endless. Your anger is endless; your hatred is endless. Your diseases have no limit. That’s why I have no interest in prescribed actions. I do not say, “Do this. Get up at five in the morning.” I say, “When sleep is complete—when your body is rested and the work of sleep is done—then get up.” If that’s five, then five; if that’s four, then four; and if one day you slept late and it’s done at six, then six.

Near my village I knew a rich man—a small regional king. A colorful character. All night he indulged—wine, song, dance—and slept all day. He fell ill, and the doctor—an English doctor—said, “You must begin to get up early; this night-time revelry must stop. You must rise at six sharp; otherwise your health cannot recover. Lying in bed all day is ruining your life. Night is for sleeping, day for waking and working. Get up at six.”

Do you know what the rich man did? He said, “Fine—what difficulty is there in that?” He made no other change in his life—only told his servants, “Whenever I wake up, set the clock to six.” The matter ended. The rule was fulfilled. Whenever I wake, make it six o’clock.

With rules there is always a way around. With rules you can cheat; only with awareness you cannot cheat. With rules some trick will be found. You know how many rules the government makes—and your lawyer finds a loophole. You also find one. No government has yet been able to make such rules that no way out can be found. They try to legislate every detail—pages and pages, all kinds of provisos—trying to plug every hole so no one can wriggle through, yet a trick appears.

Religion is not rules; religion is awareness. Because only with awareness—you won’t be able to devise tricks. In fact, there will be no need to. What I said was something else; what you understood was something else.

“Even after the sense of doership drops, action remains.”

Certainly. I said so to prevent you from thinking, “Now I’ll pull a sheet over my head and lie down—since doership is gone, why should I act?” There are many lazy people in this country who think, “Since there is no doer, why should I act? We are paramhansas now.” They sit idle and say, “God will do. Since God is the doer, why should we?” They have drawn the wrong conclusion. They did not drop doership; they dropped action. If doership is dropped, there is no need to drop action; you become an instrument of the divine. If God does anything, he will do it through you. He has no hands of his own; your hands are his hands. Whatever God does, he will do through you.

So if you have dropped action and sit idle, you did not drop doership. Had you dropped doership, you would have become a mere instrument—nimitta-matra. You would say, “Now, whatever you wish to have done, do it through me. Wherever you wish to take me, take me. Whatever your will, we go with you. We will flow in your current; your stream will be our stream; we will not resist. We have no private goal or destination. If you drown us—that is the shore. If you save us—fine. If you drown us—fine. We consent in all.” But this does not mean we pull a sheet over our heads and go to sleep.

That is why I said: even after doership falls away, action remains. But now the action is not yours—it is God’s. If success comes, you lay it at his feet; if failure comes, you lay it at his feet. Whatever joy or sorrow comes, you lay at his feet. You say, “I am no longer here—only you are. If you wish to do the good, do the good; if the bad, then the bad.” This is the entire message of Krishna’s Gita. He tells Arjuna only this: become a mere instrument. If the divine makes war through you, then fight; if the divine grants sannyas and leads you to the forest, go to the forest. But don’t go from your side—leave it to him.

Arjuna was saying, “I will withdraw and leave.” He wanted to become the doer. Krishna said, “Drop doership—the doer is that.” Arjuna said, “If I strike them, I will incur sin.” The notion of sin is part of doership: “If I do, I will bear the fruits.” Krishna said, “Drop that worry. Those who are to be killed are already killed. I see them as dead—only a push is needed. Become the instrument. If you will not, another instrument will arise. These who have come to die will die. Their death is decided. I see many corpses standing.” Neither sin will touch you, nor merit. Only doership is touched by sin and merit.

Hence the wise have said: sin binds and merit binds. Perhaps sin is like iron chains and merit like golden chains—but a chain is a chain, whether of gold or iron—it binds all the same. And the truth is, a golden chain binds even more strongly, because you don’t even want to drop it—you cling to it yourself. An iron chain you want to cast off—but who wants to let go of gold? People call a golden chain an ornament, a jewel, a possession.

Merit binds, sin binds—because fundamentally it is doership that binds. If you ask me, I would say doership is the only bondage. Doership is the world. To live without doership, in witnessing, is sannyas. Action will remain—you will rise, sit, feel hunger, drink water, walk by day, sleep at night, all will happen; what is useless will fall away—the madness born of doership will stop—but what is meaningful will continue. The insanity will stop.

When Buddha was enlightened, when Mahavira was enlightened, they did not sit down like lumps. For forty years they kept walking, speaking, explaining. Whatever the divine had done through them, they allowed it. Vast action happened—but with no sense of doership. And when death came, they did not sit and weep, “Now that I am going, what of my work—left unfinished?”

It always remains unfinished. Whenever you go, your work will be left unfinished. You will weep if doership remains. If doership is not there, then the owner of the work will take care. Unfinished—so be it; finished—so be it. As much as needed to be done through me has been done—now it will be done through someone else. I have not taken the whole contract. There will be others through whom the work will go on. Even after I go, the world will continue. What is unfinished will keep getting completed. And what ever is “completed,” after all? It all keeps flowing on. This stream is ever flowing—an endless chain without beginning or end.

In such a state of witnessing I said: action remains. Action remains so that you do not become inactive. It has happened. There is a famous couplet of Maluk Das that many foolish people have grabbed onto:

“The python does no service; the birds do no work.
Servant Maluka has said—Ram is the giver to all.”

This is a very high statement of Maluk Das.

“The python does no service...”

It’s true that a snake does no job; and birds do no work—no office, not clerks, station masters, professors—no employment. Yet all live in joy: food comes, rest comes—where is the lack?

“Servant Maluka has said—Ram is the giver to all.”

But it does not mean birds sit lazy, like your sadhus, lounging in temples and sacred places, saying, “Maluk Das has said,” and birds should hear and sit. They are at work. They do not “serve,” yes—that is true. But it is false to say they are not engaged. What vast action is going on! Do you hear? Birds are at work right now—calling to each other, exchanging, bringing things, taking things. Yes, one thing: there is no doership; hence no worry.

Even the python moves, even the python hisses. But he is not “working.” It all happens naturally—there is no effort. As a river flows—you don’t say the river is making itself flow. A tree grows—you don’t say the tree is making itself grow. It is happening. All this is happening—trees are growing, rivers are flowing, mountains are aging, clouds are gathering in the sky, lightning is flashing—this is all happening.

In the life of one who has attained witnessing, events happen as rivers flow, trees grow, birds hum their songs. There is no doership. That is why I said: action remains. Pure action remains. An uncommon action remains, full of flavor, full of juice—arising from your inner bliss. But you have taken from this the same wrong meaning that people took from Maluk Das.

You began to ask, “You said so, then for your sannyasin which actions would you prescribe?”

You will entangle yourself and entangle me too. Why should I prescribe any actions? Circumstance and time will attune you. God—“God” is the name for the total of circumstance, time, and all such forces. From within you there will be a response. Your consciousness will answer—and your answer will then never be incongruent; it will be harmonious.

If I give you an answer, your life will become completely incongruent. You will bind yourself to that answer, and does life bind itself to any answer? Life changes every day. Life is vast flux. It does not move according to your answer, as if it would ask only those questions for which you already have answers. It will ask questions you never imagined, never considered, that are in no scripture. Then what will you do? You will give the answer you have.

I taught in the university for years. I was astonished to discover that students answer questions that were never asked. Something is asked; they answer something else. I began calling them to ask what was going on. They said, “We can only answer what we know. The way you ask is outside our grasp. We can answer what is in our key.” If you ask only what is in their cribs, they will repeat it like parrots. Change the question a bit and they are in trouble. They have no awareness of their own—only keys, borrowed keys.

Do not hope to get any key from me. I do not want to make you a borrowed person. I want you to awaken. Let your own light be there; in that light, see; and whatever then happens in your life—let it happen. I say only this: don’t go on groping in darkness; light is possible, and eyes can open. You are not blind—you have kept your eyes closed, or covered them with a veil.

Therefore I do not want to prescribe any action. Do not think in that direction at all. I give you freedom. Put all your energy into awareness, into meditation.

That is why I don’t say “Give up alcohol,” I don’t say “Give up smoking,” I don’t say “Give this up, give that up; get up like this, sit like that; do this yoga.” I say, “Put all your energy into meditation.” Because if the spark of meditation is born, the rest will happen by itself. After that spark, it is certain you will not remain as you are. Smoking may drop, drinking may drop, lust may drop; greed for wealth, position—everything may drop. You will not remain as you are—that is certain. But I do not tell you to change those things. I say, “Just awaken.” Change follows your awakening. And then there is great beauty in that change. What is done by effort becomes ugly, because effort is forcing; it is not natural.

When I say, “Love is God,” I am saying they are not two. So don’t ask about a relationship. Relationship exists only between two. Love is God. Call it love or call it God—the same thing is being said. And it would be even better if you say love, because in the name of God so much hatred has been spread; in God’s name man has murdered, committed so much wrongdoing and oppression, so much depravity, that it would be good now to enthrone the word love upon God’s seat.

Love is God—so don’t ask about a relationship. You are asking what the relationship is between the two, which means you have already assumed two.
No: God is nothing other than love. Wherever your love comes, wherever the light of your love falls, there God is revealed. This is why in the one you love you begin to see divinity. Love unveils, uncovers the divine. Love an ordinary woman, love an ordinary man; let a son be born in your home and love him—and suddenly you will find that wherever your loving gaze falls, there divinity stands.

This is the lovers’ difficulty. Because once they have glimpsed the divine somewhere and later it doesn’t prove true, a great problem arises. In the woman in whom you saw a divine form, or in the man in whom you caught a glimpse of God, later in the dealings of life that glimpse is lost; it doesn’t remain, and there is pain. It feels like betrayal. No one is betraying you; only the eye of love that you have is not yet steady enough for you to see God in a person continuously. Whenever your eye closes, the vision of God disappears.

So in the beginning love is very divine—all loves are divine. Then they all degenerate, because the eyes are not used to staying that open. The day you can love the whole world, that day God will be revealed in the whole world.
I tell you: love is God.

Light has come upon every speck,
even the stars have started to shine a little more;
the moon’s radiance too has increased,
fragrant, the flowers preen a little more,
the very moment love’s wave arrives! Let a gust of love arrive!

Light has come upon every speck—
then a wondrous radiance begins to be seen on every particle. Have you seen a lover walking? As if the pull of the earth has no effect on him, as if he floats, as if wings have sprouted. Have you seen a lover’s eyes? As if lamps have been lit within them. Have you seen a lover’s face? Luminous—some divine aura begins to appear.

Light has come upon every speck,
even the stars have started to shine a little more;
the moon’s radiance too has increased,
fragrant, the flowers preen a little more.
A single flicker of your eyes
changed my life entirely.
When your lips gave assent,
the shyness in your eyes deepened a little more.
When our glances met for the first time,
it felt as if the heart were slipping out of my breast.
In the depths of your eyes
each moment I began to drown a little more.
This silent love has never
let me live in peace.
Whenever you smiled and looked at me,
the heart’s restlessness grew a little more.
A great kindness you did me,
giving support to this aching heart;
by accepting this silent call,
you widened love along my path a little more.

Light has come upon every speck,
even the stars have started to shine a little more;
the moon’s radiance too has increased,
fragrant, the flowers preen a little more.

This is about ordinary love—the love that happens between two human beings. What to say then of the love that happens between a human being and the Whole? I am talking about that love. What happens between two people is the meeting of two drops; what happens between a human being and the infinite is the meeting of the drop with the ocean. Even when two drops unite, they do not become very great.

You’ve seen it: sometimes on a lotus leaf two dewdrops roll together and become one, and yet a drop remains a drop. One drop has formed in place of two; nothing vast has occurred. The boundary grows a little. You were a little half-and-half; meeting the beloved you become a little more whole. You were alone; meeting the beloved you are no longer alone.

The path of love is the path of prayer. See: among Hindus, the images are made of Sita and Ram together, of Radha and Krishna, of Shiva and Parvati. These images are symbols—symbols that the love which happens between human and human is to be expanded, made so vast that it happens between man and the Infinite.

On the path of meditation this is not needed. That is why Mahavira stands alone, that is why the Buddha sits alone. On the path of meditation the other is not needed. On the path of love, the other is needed; without the other, love cannot fructify. Therefore on the path of meditation even the concept of God is not needed; but on the path of love the conception of God is essential, indispensable.

So when I tell you, “Love is God,” I am speaking the language of the devotee. Choose what resonates with you, what fits you. If you feel that in love you can easily melt, if your eyes begin to stream with tears, your heart begins to tremble, you start to dance—the peacock of your mind begins to dance—some cadence arises within you, a quickening takes place, every pore thrills with a certain shiver, if the feeling of love brings such a thrill within you, then know that devotion is the door for you.

If for you the word love comes out empty—nothing happens with the word love, no tears glimmer in the eyes, no heartbeat is stirred, no thrill arises—if the word love feels hollow, blank, as if there is no life in it, then leave this aside; there is no need.

Always remember: do not labor on a path that is not yours. All that effort will go to waste. Don’t be stubborn. Don’t say, “I have chosen, and I will stick to it.”

Many people come to me and say, “We have been praying for a long time; nothing has happened. Have we committed some sin? Have we done bad deeds in past lives?”
When I look closely, I find you have committed no sin—what sin could you commit! There isn’t much to sin with. The very notion of sin is part of the ego-as-doer. The doer is God; what sin will you commit, what merit will you earn! Our doctrine of karma—‘I did deeds’—this too belongs to the notion of a doer. It is a sign of ignorance. You have done neither sin nor merit. Whatever He had done through you has been done; whatever happened, happened. Then why are you stuck? You are stuck because you are trying to enter through a door that is not your door. You have been praying for years, but prayer is not your doorway. To console yourself you think, “Perhaps I sinned, therefore obstacles arise.” No obstacle arises. Search carefully: if prayer is not yielding, then…

Some people are engaged in meditation and nothing happens. I tell them: search through prayer. My focus is not on the path; my focus is on you. It isn’t very meaningful to me which path you arrive by; what is meaningful is that you arrive. Arrive by whatever vehicle—on a horse, on an elephant, on foot, in an ox-cart—arrive any way you can. Don’t worry too much about the vehicle; the vehicle is for you, you are not for the vehicle.

Up to now the earth has put too much emphasis on paths. Ask a devotee and he will speak only for devotion: he will say, “Only through devotion can one arrive.” He is half right: half the people can arrive through devotion. Ask a meditator, a knower; he will say, “Only through meditation can one arrive; how will you arrive by devotion! That is all imagination.” He too is half right: half the people have arrived through meditation, half through devotion. Those who tried to walk a path that wasn’t theirs, that didn’t harmonize with their heart, never arrived; they only wandered.

If you are wandering, the great likelihood is that you are trying to enter through a door that is not your door.

So when I say, “Love is God,” I mean it for those half of people who can enter only through love. I am saying it for them. Not everyone has to accept it. Those for whom it doesn’t click, let them drop it.

But we become very troubled. Sometimes we worry about matters that have no purpose.

Yesterday a friend—a clever friend—came at night. He asked a question, a rather strange one: “Why is Parashuram called an avatar? Because he only committed violence, slaughtered, emptied the earth of Kshatriyas—only destruction. Why is he called an avatar?”
First, what have you to do with Parashuram! If you don’t fancy avatars, forgive them and let them be. No Parashuram is going to sue you for not considering him an avatar. Forget it—what have you to do with Parashuram! Whether he existed or not is not even certain. Why take on this obstacle? He came all the way from Delhi to see me—and asked this!

And if it seems that you must solve Parashuram’s case before you can move ahead—which I don’t understand why; what purpose has Parashuram for you!—it’s an itch of the intellect: it doesn’t sit well. The influence of nonviolence—of Mahavira and Buddha—has touched him, and to him it seems that an avatara must be nonviolent, must do some work of welfare. Destruction! Why call that an avatar?

So if the teaching of Mahavira and Buddha truly resonates with you, then know that those on their path never call Parashuram an avatar—drop the worry. But if you feel you are entangled with Parashuram and your mind wants to accept that there should be avatars, and then your other notions obstruct you, then drop those other notions and try to understand.

Hindu thought considers the whole existence divine—violence and nonviolence both, creation and destruction both. That is the devotee’s understanding. The devotee says, God manifests in a thousand forms; all forms are His. Sometimes He manifests as a destroyer. Destroyer of what? Of His own. He alone is the doer; we are no doers. Sometimes He appears like Buddha—an ocean of compassion. And sometimes He appears like Parashuram—an axe in hand, very stern. Sometimes He appears as a rock, and sometimes as a flower. The rock is He, and the flower is He—the two are He.

Then, His purpose He knows. If it doesn’t fit our understanding—because it seems contrary to our values that someone is violent—still, sometimes violence has a purpose. Sometimes one must fight evil. And sometimes the only way to fight violence is with violence. The Kshatriya is a symbol of violence. When we say Parashuram emptied the world of Kshatriyas, we are only saying Parashuram emptied the world of violence. But to struggle with Kshatriyas, one must fight as a Kshatriya; there is no other way. They understand only the language of the sword.

From the surface it will seem to you that Parashuram is violent; but if you look inwardly into this symbol, you will see that Parashuram undertook as vast an enterprise to rid the world of violence as neither Buddha nor Mahavira did. Buddha and Mahavira continued to explain, “Do not be violent.” Parashuram took up the axe and fought: “We will eradicate it; we will cut violence at the roots.”

But notice something amusing: neither through the teachings of Buddha and Mahavira does violence go, nor through Parashuram’s cutting down the Kshatriyas eighteen times does violence go.

A deeper truth is hidden here: from this world, duality never vanishes. Good and evil are together. Violence and nonviolence are together. Compassion and severity are together. It will never happen that you can fell one and be done with it. Buddha and Mahavira could not remove it by explaining, and Parashuram made a tremendous, fearsome effort—“If there is no bamboo, there will be no flute”—yet again and again violence reappeared. From this world duality is not going to disappear. This is the deeper meaning of the tale.

Then what should one do? You can be outside of the duality; the world will not be rid of duality. You can slip out of it, though the world will never lose it. Yes, whenever you wish, you can slide out—and the art of sliding out is witnessing. Become a witness: neither nonviolent nor violent; neither here nor there. Stand in the middle and pass through. Say, “Now I am not the doer.” But don’t get entangled in futile questions, in idle intellectual knots.

If you are inclined toward meditation, then drown in meditation—and don’t ask questions about love. Where is the time! Why waste time uselessly? Tomorrow is not certain. The next moment is not certain. If talk of love resonates, then forget talk of meditation and plunge into love. There isn’t much time. Yet I often see people spending great effort on such things.

The friend who asked me this is certainly anxious. The anxiety seems rather pointless, but he is anxious, no doubt. And his distress seems sincere. There were deep furrows on his face. “Why is Parashuram called an avatar?” Even after speaking with me, after my explaining, he said, “You don’t have much time now; I’ll come again.”
But it still didn’t sit well with him. It didn’t sit well that it is useless and ought to be dropped—what has it to do with anything! Which means he will continue thinking. Parashuram has become not a man but a disease!

And whether Parashuram committed violence or not—the violence you are doing to your own life by clinging to Parashuram, that you do not see. If something has no use, there is no need to think about it. Why waste even that much of your energy?

So if there is love in your life, and you feel love will be easy for you, step in. Then you will find that as you go into love, you go into God. One day you will find that the crescendo of love is God. If there is no juice in love, don’t get entangled in such questions; enter meditation.

And beyond these two there is no third path. So deciding is not very difficult. It is good that there are only two paths. Even with just two you are not able to decide; if there were many more, it would be a great obstacle—then you would never be able to decide. Try both.

Sometimes it happens that there is a state of indecision: it seems love is right, and it also seems meditation is right. Then experiment with both. Devote a whole year to devotion. If it happens, good; then there will be no need to try the other. But give yourself wholly. If it does not happen, at least one thing will be settled—that this is not your path.

Half-hearted, lukewarm people have great difficulty. They have never done anything wholeheartedly; therefore it never becomes clear whether a path is theirs or not.

I tell you: whatever you do totally, a decision will emerge out of it. A total act is decisive. Either it will become clear, “This is my path,” and then go—you need never turn back. Or it will become clear, “This is not my path,” and even then the tangle is gone—the other is your path. In every case, the decision will come.

Such extreme miserliness! You would even make joy wait—wondering when to celebrate it! To be stingy with sorrow would make sense—ask, “When should one be miserable?” That would be fine. But you ask it about joy! Joy is your very nature. A person should be happy twenty-four hours a day, ecstatic every moment. Celebration is a way of living. Celebration is already going on all around. This vast existence is absorbed in festivity. It’s your choice: if you want, stand outside and don’t dive into it; if you want, take the plunge.

You ask, “When should a person celebrate joy?”
I understand the intent. Most people carry this question. People show not the slightest miserliness with sorrow—they don’t check the time, season or reason. They are ready to be miserable twenty-four hours a day; only give them an excuse. Sometimes they even manage without an excuse. But with happiness they are terribly stingy. Pile up a thousand reasons and still they barely smile—and even that, haltingly, as if some injustice were being inflicted on them. Laughter seems difficult, dancing seems difficult, humming a song seems difficult. We have tied a tight knot with sorrow; we have made sorrow our way of life.

Hence you ask, “When should one celebrate joy? When should one celebrate a festival?”

I once heard a Russian tale. A gentleman gave a ruble to a beggar on the street. This was back in those golden days when, like a rupee, a ruble could buy a lot. A little later, when the gentleman returned along the same road, he saw that beggar sitting in a restaurant demolishing a plate of tandoori chicken. He couldn’t restrain himself, went into the restaurant and rebuked him: “You beg on the streets and eat tandoori chicken?” But the beggar was a remarkable fellow. Instead of being embarrassed, he scolded the donor. “You fool! Earlier, when I had no ruble, I couldn’t eat tandoori chicken. Now that I have a ruble, you tell me I shouldn’t eat it? Then when should I eat tandoori chicken? Without a ruble I couldn’t; with a ruble you say, ‘Don’t,’ because I’m a beggar. So when shall I eat tandoori chicken?”

I say to you: ruble or no ruble—eat the tandoori chicken! Because the “tandoori chicken” I am talking about doesn’t need a ruble at all. Don’t ask “when.” For the celebration I speak of, every time is the right time, every season the right season. The spring I speak of can spread through all twelve months; it can be perennial. The flowers I speak of can bloom anywhere, in any country, in any circumstance—success or failure; youth or old age; wealth or poverty. I am speaking of the flowers of the eternal.

Now you ask, “When should a person celebrate joy?”
What’s your plan—will you fix a day? “Let’s do it on Sunday, on a holiday.” You will suffer for six days and suddenly be joyful on the seventh? The practice of the six days will cling to you.

Have you noticed what people do on holidays? They do more chores than on workdays. On holidays wives get troubled, because the husband comes home and starts creating a racket—opens up the car to clean it, dismantles the radio, takes apart the clock—more fuss than on any other day. Six days of work have become a habit; how will you suddenly remain idle? All week he thought, “The holiday is coming, we’ll rest,” and when it arrives, resting is not so easy! Only if rest has become your way of life can you truly rest. That habit of tension, of hustle-bustle, feels uneasy—“Now what to do?”

So he drags wife and children off: “Let’s go to the hills.” At least he will drive. More accidents happen in the world on holidays than on any other day. And people return from holidays so drained that they need two or three days at the office to recover. The holiday turns expensive. Celebrating a holiday is not easy—unless holidaying has become your art of living.

So you ask, “When shall we celebrate joy?”
If you set conditions—“When these are fulfilled, then I’ll celebrate”—that is exactly why people are miserable. They bind so many conditions: “When I have a grand mansion.” “When my bank balance is big.” “When I possess the most beautiful woman.” “When I reach a high position.” “What’s there to celebrate now?” They’ve tied so many conditions that they are never all fulfilled—and so they never celebrate. And it’s not that conditions never get fulfilled; sometimes they do—but by then a lifelong habit of misery has formed.

Omar Khayyam said something very sweet. “O preachers, priests, mullahs and pundits! You say that streams of wine flow in heaven, and here you don’t allow us to drink. Without practice, what will we do with those streams? At least let us practice here! Here we get only a cup or a mug—let us get used to it. Otherwise, think: all your life you never once entered a tavern, and suddenly you reach heaven where rivers of wine flow. Will you drink? You won’t be able to. You will be filled with condemnation: ‘This is sin.’”

This is meaningful. It is not about alcohol; it is about the joy of life. Omar Khayyam is a Sufi fakir—what has he to do with wine? He likely never drank. He is maligned needlessly because he spoke so much of wine; people thought he meant literal wine. Wine is only a symbol for ecstasy. He is right: if you are not intoxicated here, how will you be intoxicated there? If you never danced here, will you suddenly dance on arrival in heaven? It won’t suit you; you will look absurd. If you never sang here, and there suddenly you start singing, your voice will be out of tune and people will say, “Brother, please be quiet; don’t disturb heaven’s peace.” You will carry on your old practice there too: the long, sad face, sitting under some tree, practicing yogasanas.

You ask, “When should a person celebrate joy?”
Let a person celebrate only joy—walking, standing, sitting, sleeping, eating and drinking; in happiness and also in sorrow. Celebrate in joy, and celebrate even in pain. When a child is born in the house, celebrate—of course; and when someone departs, celebrate then too. At birth and at death. Do not leave any opportunity for celebration unused. Find some pretext or another.

Chuang Tzu was an extraordinary Chinese sage. His wife died. The emperor himself came to offer condolences. On the way he must have rehearsed: “Chuang Tzu is such a thinker, such an unusual man—what shall I say to him? I’ll say: ‘Your wife has died—this is very unfortunate. Do not grieve; all will be well; the soul does not die’”—he must have prepared such words. But when he arrived he was thrown into great confusion, even discomfort. There was that gentleman, sitting under a tree with his legs stretched out, playing a little tambourine and singing! And that very morning he had buried his wife! Same evening—the day isn’t even over; the sun that witnessed the burial has not yet set, the wound is still so fresh—and he is sitting under a tree playing a tambourine!

The emperor had already come; he had to say something, though he was perplexed. He said, “Sir, it is enough if you are not miserable—but to be happy, to play a tambourine and sing, this is a bit too much. Not grieving is fine—that is what I came to say. But now there is no need to say any such thing. Still, at least don’t grieve—enough. But to be happy, to play a tambourine and sing!”

Chuang Tzu said, “Why not? Whenever there is an opportunity for joy, why miss it? Can I not sing to bid farewell to my wife? Then to whom shall I sing? And with the woman with whom I lived my whole life, can I not at least do this much—that while she departs, I play the tambourine and say to her, ‘Goodbye’? Who are you to stand in the way of my celebration?”

The emperor couldn’t make sense of what to do next. Chuang Tzu had said something astounding: with whom he had seen the colors of life—joys and sorrows, ups and downs—who had been like his shadow every moment, should he not even be able to bid her farewell with a song? That would be ungrateful. This is my gratitude, my “ah!”—I am only expressing my thankfulness.

If you seek occasions for joy, you will never find them. If you know how to be joyful, every occasion is an occasion; every season a season. Every moment you will discover some device. What a marvelous man Chuang Tzu must have been—at such a moment he found a reason to play the tambourine! One should be such a person.

So I say to you: celebrate every moment.

“When is celebration appropriate?”
Every moment is appropriate. Because only when you are in celebration are you close to the divine. And when you are not participating in the celebration, you are outside the divine. To be in celebration is to be in God; not to be in celebration is to be outside God. Your choice! If you want to live outside the divine, live so—then there will be affliction, melancholy, sorrow, pain, anxiety. That is your choice. The very energy that could become celebration will become worry; the very energy that could become a blossom will turn into thorns that pierce your breast.

But the choice is yours. If you wished, your whole life could be a celebration. It should be. Don’t wait for celebration—“when?” Do not leave any opportunity. Turn every instant into festivity.

Fifth question:
What is the secret behind making the world miserable?
The way you ask, it sounds as if someone has made the world miserable for you—someone else. You have made it so; no one else has. It is in your hands. You can live in such a way that the world becomes nirvana, and you can live in such a way that nirvana becomes the world. Samsara and nirvana are not two.

Listen to this revolutionary proclamation—samsara and nirvana are not two; they are two ways of seeing. Reality is one. See it wrongly and it is samsara—and you suffer. See it rightly and it is nirvana—and you are blissful. It is a matter of seeing, only of seeing. Vision is creation.

So take care of your eyes. Your question—“What is the secret behind making the world miserable?”—sounds as if someone has made it miserable, and surely there must be some secret behind it. You have made it miserable. And the “secret” is only this: you do not truly want to be happy.

You will say, “This doesn’t land right—we all want to be happy.” You want to be happy in such a way that the result is misery. There is some delusion in your demand for happiness; it is your very effort to be happy that produces sorrow. The direction you have chosen for happiness is wrong. Your method is so wrong that you do not reach happiness. And guidance has been given again and again—enlightened ones have come and gone, they have spoken—but you do not listen. You say, “Master, if you pester us too much we will worship you—but we will not listen. If you make too much noise we will install your statue in a temple, light incense and lamps—but we will not listen.”

Why? Because you are deeply allied with suffering. You have become attached to it; it is your habit now. You are afraid: if sorrow departs, what will happen then? You fear: if sorrow is no more, you will be left utterly alone.

Here every day I encounter such things. If someone practices meditation sincerely for two, four, six months, the time starts coming when anxiety no longer arises, when tension doesn’t form, when thoughts begin to thin out... Yesterday a young man came and said, “I won’t go mad, will I? I am feeling scared. Now no worries come; days pass and no tension arises—I am frightened, will I go mad?” Tension was an old habit, anxiety was familiar, known; now suddenly it is disappearing, and it feels as if the earth beneath your feet is slipping away.

Psychologists say man wants to keep his misery going. He waters it. Outwardly he says, “I don’t want to be miserable,” but he keeps watering it. Whenever you show him a way out, he says, “How will that be possible?”

A woman comes to me and says, “My husband has become interested in another woman; I am very miserable, save me from this misery.” I tell her, “Jealousy is the cause of misery; drop jealousy.” She says, “How will that be possible?” “Free me from misery, but I won’t drop jealousy!” And jealousy is the cause. This much is clear—clear as the distilled essence of all the Buddhas: jealousy brings sorrow. That woman—she is a sannyasin; her husband is a sannyasin too—says to me, “That cannot happen. I will die; I will commit suicide.”

She is ready to commit suicide, not ready to drop jealousy. Think! Jealousy is valued more than life itself. She says, “This cannot be; I simply cannot tolerate it; I cannot even think that my husband is interested in another woman.” And as yet he is only interested! Nothing else has happened. Just some interest—that they sometimes sit and laugh together.

She first told me, “I have been meditating for two years; about six months ago a woman started appearing in my meditation.” I asked, “In meditation—a woman! You have brought quite a new experience! People usually report kundalini and chakras—but a woman appears in meditation!” I already suspected something fishy.

I asked, “Then what happened?” She said, “Gradually her face became clear, and one day I saw in meditation that she was combing her hair. Then I recognized who she was—she is the wife of the man who lives next door. This came through meditation. From that day I began to investigate what is going on—why does this woman appear to me?” By and by, through snooping, she discovered that her husband is interested in her. “All this came from meditation!”

Jealousy is so crammed in the heart that even in your meditation only its images will arise. In your meditation the divine will not come, light will not come—a woman combing her hair will come! And then she started the investigation. She even “found” that the husband is interested. Only interested as yet—but she is burning. She says, “I will commit suicide; I cannot even imagine this.” She is ready to suffer, ready even to die—but not ready to drop jealousy. Now what can one say?

I told her, “If you die you will become a ghost. Since in ‘meditation’ you already see this woman combing her hair, there is great danger—if you become a ghost you will torment your husband and this woman as well.” She said, “Let me become a ghost if I must—but I cannot live.” She is even ready to be a ghost! I said, “Do you know what pains ghosts suffer?” She said, “Whatever it is—just get me out of my misery.”

Think a little. You think someone is creating your misery—first. Then you think someone else will take you out of it—second. And you do not look at the fundamental fact that you create your misery, and only you can come out of it. No one else is creating it, and no one else can remove it. You are the master—and this is your dignity, that you are your own master. Otherwise, how ugly it would be if someone else created sorrow for you and you had to be miserable! And how insulting if someone else could take you out of it—because the one who takes you out could at any time dunk you back in.

No—your freedom is supreme. But see: do you really want to be out of sorrow? If you truly see this, then what is there to cling to in jealousy? What is there in the husband, in that other woman? And with just a small ray of understanding jealousy drops—like someone taking off old clothes—and you are out of misery.

And perhaps, once out of misery, you will find that the husband is not even interested; it may be the sheer expansion of your jealousy. Because of jealousy you can see things that are not there. And to me the likelihood is exactly this: that “seeing” a woman’s face in “meditation,” seeing her combing her hair, then identifying her, then collecting “proofs”...

“How did you find out?” I asked. She said, “He plays your tapes, and she also comes to listen.” “Do others come too?” “Yes, others also come.” “Who sent you here?” “My husband sent me. He said, ‘Go there—this is beyond me. I’ve tried and tried to explain to you there is nothing,’ but she won’t listen; she is busy gathering proof that there is something.”

And remember: if you hound someone with suspicion—“There is something! There is something!”—you might create it. People are people. You can evoke interest. Maybe the wife nags him so relentlessly day and night that just to escape her he becomes interested in that other woman.

If jealousy breaks, she might see it was her projection. And even if it isn’t projection—even if it’s true—what difference does it make? What has it to do with you? It’s the husband’s business; he will bear the consequences. If he has that interest, he will reap what follows. What is it to me?

If a person wishes to step out of suffering, no one is stopping him. If you wish to be out of sorrow, anything and everything becomes a pointer out of it.

I told you about this woman; now, by contrast, hear a story by Strickland Gillilan.

A man had a little daughter—his only child, dearly beloved. He lived for her; she was his life. So when she fell ill, and the best physicians could not cure her, he became almost deranged. He moved heaven and earth to make her well. But all efforts failed; the child died.

The father’s sanity broke. A searing bitterness filled his heart. He cut himself off from family and friends, shut his doors, abandoned every interest that had once given him pleasure. His whole life fell apart. He met no one, worked no more; he turned his house into a tomb and lay within it.

One night he had a dream. He had reached heaven. There he saw a procession of little angel-children. Their endless line was passing by a white throne. Each child, dressed in white, carried a burning candle. But he noticed that one child’s candle was unlit—every little angel held a candle, an endless white-robed procession was passing—but one child’s candle was out. Then he saw that the child with the dark candle was his own little girl. He rushed towards her. The procession stopped. He gathered his girl into his arms, caressed her and asked tenderly, “Daughter, why is only your candle unlit?” “Father, they light it again and again—but your tears keep putting it out.”

Just then the man awoke. The message was clear. It touched him deeply. From that day he stepped out of his solitary prison, and again, joyfully, as before, he began to meet his old friends and relatives. The candle of his beloved daughter was no longer being quenched by his futile tears.

It is a dream—a dream of his. A dream carries a hint; it rises from your unconscious. It is not that he truly went to some heaven and saw his daughter with an unlit candle. His unconscious told him: “You are being foolish, senseless. How long will you keep shedding these tears?” The unconscious sent a signal through the dream: your tears are falling upon your child’s candle and dousing its light—now stop. If you are miserable, the one you loved will suffer. If you are miserable, you draw the whole world into sorrow. You become a rung in the ladder of misery.

He understood. He began to live again, opened himself, came back into the light, saw flowers again, the moon and stars. He must have danced again, sung again, met friends again, built bridges of relationship again, lived again. He came out of that tomb. The hint worked. Your dreams are bulletins from the inner churnings of your unconscious.

Now this woman saw a woman in her “meditation”—it too is a dream. How could such scenes appear in meditation? She must have been nodding off while sitting there. In meditation, women do not appear—but she thought she had discovered something profound. If she had a little sense, she would see the meaning: her mind was saying, “Your heart is full of jealousy.” That jealousy took form and stood before her.

The truth is, even before this “vision,” she had begun to suspect the neighbor’s wife. Though the suspicion may not have been clear, it must have been there, hazy—without it that dream could not arise. She says the opposite: “From the dream I found out.” But it doesn’t happen that way. The suspicion preceded the dream. Perhaps not suspicion of that woman; then suspicion of the husband. Suspicion was there—that suspicion took on a body.

Now she burns in jealousy, and she still isn’t certain there is any relationship. Even if there were, what is the cause for jealousy? Who is anybody’s husband, anybody’s wife? And it is you who burn with jealousy; you suffer. If you have decided to suffer, then fine—water jealousy, tend it.

I gave one example. People suffer because of competition. Someone else suffers because of ego. Another suffers because of poverty. But the causes of all these sorrows are within you. You desire wealth, hence you suffer in poverty. You crave respect, it doesn’t come, so you suffer. You want to expand your ego and prove something to the world, the world refuses to oblige, and you suffer. No one else is creating your sorrow. Your sorrows are self-made. And that is good—that they are self-made—because hidden in this is the secret: if you wish, you can step out of them right now. And I say, now! I don’t even say tomorrow or someday. In this very moment you can step out of all sorrow. If you delay even a moment, it means only this: you have become attached to your sorrows; you do not want to leave them.

Just like a man holding a burning coal who cries, “How shall I let go of this coal?” That is your condition. What will you tell him? “Madman, if the coal is burning you, what is there to delay? The coal cannot hold you—you are holding it.” So you both burn—hence you suffer—and you also want to be free; and yet you have some attachment to the coal—so you don’t release it. Such is the conflict.

We have a certain taste for suffering; we don’t let it go. And because suffering gives pain, we also want to leave it. Thus we move and ask, “How to be free of sorrow?”

God
poured joy
into a golden cup
and gave it to man
saying: Drink it—
and forget yourself in ecstasy.
Only today is truly yours;
forget past and future.

God
poured grief
into an earthen cup
and gave it to man
saying: Drink it—
and understand the meaning of joy.
In the end, in everyone’s fate
tears are written;
whatever in the world is shiny and showy—
count it vain.

There is happiness in the world, and there is sorrow. God handed happiness in a golden cup: “Drink and lose yourself in ecstasy.” Then he gave sorrow in an earthen cup: “Drink—and understand the meaning of joy.”

In the end, in everyone’s fate
tears are written;
whatever in the world is shiny and showy—
count it vain.

The world gives joy—and with it, sorrow. Only with the taste of sorrow will the taste of joy be understood. And when you become skillful in understanding, you will see—every joy carries sorrow bound to it; every golden cup is followed by an earthen cup; every day is bound to a night; every birth is knotted with death. The day you see that here every joy hides a sorrow, that day you will step beyond both. The way to be beyond both is witnessing.

Let sorrow be—see it. Let joy be—see it. Keep knowing within: I am neither of the two. I am beyond, other, separate. In the awareness of this otherness, bliss descends into your life. Bliss is beyond pleasure and pain. In the awareness of this separateness, celebration comes into your life.

Celebration is already happening. It is not that some decorations must be set, musicians must arrive, dancers assembled. All are present. This world is a play. This world is a great celebration.

Maitreya-ji has to tell you, “Don’t cough”—and you’ve noticed something amusing: you even obey him and don’t cough. So the coughing is almost false.

And you’ve seen it: one person coughs, then another will cough, a third will cough, a fourth will cough—a chain is created.

There are reasons behind coughing. Seldom is a cough the real reason for coughing—perhaps one time in a hundred. Then you simply cannot hold it back, no matter how much Maitreya-ji bangs his head. What can you do! What can anyone do! But ninety‑nine times out of a hundred you can stop it. Whatever you can stop is false.

Why does a false cough arise? Because you are sitting idle. Sitting idle makes you very restless. A man, left idle, starts smoking. Idly, he reads the same newspaper again. Idly, he feels hungry, opens the fridge and eats something. He cannot sit idle. To sit without doing anything is very difficult. You will do something or other.

When you sit to meditate even for a little while, you’ll say, “An ant seems to be crawling”—there is no ant; look, there is no ant. Then, “An itch has come in the leg, the hand has gone numb, something is happening in the ear, something is happening inside”—a thousand things begin to happen. Nothing is happening at all. These thousand things are caused by the mind’s habit of restlessness.

Now you are sitting here for an hour and a half! If you can’t do anything, you will cough. And if one coughs, suddenly another will feel he too has to cough.

Human beings live almost by imitation. Darwin is not wrong: man is the offspring of the monkey.

Have you noticed? You are walking along the road and someone goes into a urinal; suddenly you feel, “Ah, I too need to pee.” Even now—notice—just because I used the word “urine,” many of you will feel the urge at once. A mere word! If someone mentions a lemon, saliva starts flowing on the tongue—just from the name. Man is so steeped in imitation.

So Maitreya-ji stops you. It is not that I will be disturbed. But even when you are sitting quietly you do not manage to hear me; and if you get entangled in coughing and coughs, then you will not understand at all. What disturbance will there be for me? But the very purpose for which you are sitting here will be disrupted. Your mind loses its balance very quickly. The smallest of things becomes an obstacle for you. It is so difficult for you to remain undisturbed. That is why he tells you.

As for the sparrows, they are not going to listen to Maitreya-ji! However much he tells them, they will do as they please. But birds can be forgiven. Their coming is delightful. Their coming announces that you are sitting in silence. Their coming announces that they have no concern about you. Like statues—that is how they take you: marble figures sitting. No hindrance; they play here, make a little noise, and go away. Their occasional coming is a symbol of your silence. It is beautiful.

And then you say, “We were astonished!”

There is nothing to be astonished about. If my speaking does not disturb the sparrow, why should the sparrow’s chirping disturb me! At least grant me as much dignity as you grant a sparrow! If sitting on my hand causes her no difficulty, why should it cause me any? She could sit precisely because she sensed there would be no disturbance.

Slowly, as you become more and more quiet, you will find they begin to sit on your head as well, on your hand as well—just as their confidence grows that good people are sitting here, there is no cause for fear from them. It is because of fear from you—fear that you might harm them—that they stay at a distance. As waves of fearlessness begin to rise from your side, there remains no reason for them to stay far.

Man has frightened animals and driven them away—and in driving them away he has lost something very important: the connection with nature. Even trees are afraid of you when you go near them.

Scientists are researching this a great deal. They have made instruments that are attached to trees, and messages begin to come from the tree—just as, when you have a cardiogram, a graph is traced on paper showing the heartbeat. In the same way, a graph is made of the waves moving within the tree. As soon as the tree sees a person approaching, its waves change. And they change from person to person. If it sees a woodcutter approaching with an axe—he hasn’t cut yet, he is still far away—instantly its anxiety increases. The waves become very intense; the tree becomes greatly agitated. If it sees the gardener coming with water, its waves become very calm.

It is no wonder the stories of Saint Francis may well be true. No wonder the accounts from the lives of Mahavira and Buddha are accurate. The meaning is clear: animals and birds would come and sit near Mahavira—even a lion would sit. The state is so tranquil that even the lion must have caught that wave. That where Buddha passes through a forest, dry trees turn green—the trees would be so stirred by the wave of Buddha’s arrival.

So there is nothing to be astonished about. Little by little, as your vibration settles, and when we succeed in creating here an atmosphere in which not a single person gives them fear, you will see—astonished—that, just as you are sitting here, many birds too will come and sit. It is because of you that fear persists, agitation persists. Violence is within you, so its vibration is all around. When that vibration is removed, a connection with nature is restored.

It is said that a man came to ask Saint Francis something. Francis was standing by a river. The man asked, “We have heard that animals and birds also come to listen to you. What do you say about that?” Francis said, “What can I say—are there any animals or birds here? Is anyone here, brothers?” He called out loudly. There were no animals or birds there, but the fish raised their heads—the whole river lifted its heads of fish. Francis said, “Ask them. What proof can I give? Ask them.”

This is possible, because the whole existence is moved by the same life-breath. Inside animals and birds is the same soul as ours. Inside trees too is the same soul as ours. The difference is of bodies; there is no difference in the soul. The tree has taken the body of a tree, the bird the body of a bird, you the body of a human being. This difference is on the surface. It is a difference of clothing—someone has put on red garments, another blue, another white, and someone stands naked. Someone wears Eastern dress, someone Western—but these are differences of clothing. Within, what is hidden is one.

The bird sitting on the electric pole
sings ting-ting,
with what fullness of heart it has been filled,
how much compassion it brings.
Wings flickering, beak swaying,
she springs and gathers her strength,
like a little madwoman
teaching the mantras and mysteries of living.
Above, the sky lies open,
below, the earth is bare,
and in between, your glory
is hung with stars on every side.
Whose are the palaces, whose the huts?
Whose the flowers, whose the thorns?
Close your eyes and you see
these moving processions—whose silences are they?
Like Giridhari’s blanket,
like Radha’s clasped bangles,
like immortal verses brimful
with the insights of inspiration,
like the Yamuna’s mad ripples,
high and low, sullied and pure,
like the unbridled, ecstatic surge of the wind
rising to the sky,
like salutations, showering in words,
chirping, wandering,
like the joined-hands “Ram-Ram”
of a half-naked village child—
moment to moment she plays,
how much delight she brings.
The bird sitting on the electric pole
sings ting-ting.

Learn to listen. Clean your ears a little; lift the curtains from your eyes, and you will hear the message of the Divine from everywhere. In every situation there are only His hints.

That’s all for today.