Es Dhammo Sanantano #8

It is essential to understand love.

The energy of life becomes either love or fear. The world’s religious leaders have tried to bring man to God by way of fear. But has anyone ever arrived through fear? Does fear ever create relationship? From fear can come hatred, from fear can come resistance; but from fear, freedom cannot come. Fear is poison—even if it is “fear of God.”

That is why there have been many religious leaders but religion has not happened. Not because people do not want to be religious, but because the path those leaders prescribed is not the path of religion. The wonder is that a few became religious in spite of the leaders—some Buddha, some Christ—how they escaped the leaders is the wonder! Otherwise, through the leaders, the whole world has remained irreligious.

Fear is irreligion. And the leaders taught: hate this world and fear God. To me, both are dangerous; both will distort your life. I say to you: love this world, and love that God. And I have reasons. One who cannot love the world cannot love its maker. If you deny the creation, you deny the hands hidden behind it. You cannot say, “O God, we love you, but we hate the world you made.” What kind of sense is that? Could you say to a poet, “We hate your poems but we love you”? Or to a painter, “We would like to erase your paintings, and worship you”?

Love for the creation transforms into love for the Creator. Love for the visible is what leads to the invisible.

Love is a ladder. Do not stop on the ladder. The ladder reaches far. You have known love of wealth; know also love of the sacred. You have loved the body; go a little deeper, and you will find glimmers of the soul hidden in the body. You have loved persons; go deeper still, and within persons you will find the whole. You have recognized form; the formless stands hidden right within it. Form is a mode of the formless; shape is a ripple of the shapeless. A wave is the ocean. Do not take the wave as other than the ocean. Do not take the world as other than God. As a dancer cannot be separated from the dance, so the Creator cannot be separated from the creation.

Religious leaders taught you fear, because only on the basis of fear can you be exploited. They taught you to hate the world, because in that hatred they can keep you restless. The hatred can never be fulfilled; you will be filled with guilt. The unnatural cannot be done; and when you try the unnatural, guilt arises: “What should happen is not happening—perhaps because of countless past sins.” I tell you to be simple. I tell you to be natural. I tell you to be all-accepting.

So I am not against love. I am for knowing love in its full depth. Although, what you call love is not love. How could it be? You are not yet; the lover is not yet present—how can the act be real? If you are false, your love will be false. If you are full of hatred, how will love arise from you? You are brimming with violence, anger, jealousy, hostility—how will love come? Love has to arise from you; it must be within you.

Therefore I say: what you call love is not love. But if you take hold of that very thread and experiment slowly, what is today like a thin, fine filament in your hand will tomorrow become a great current.

There is an ancient tale. An emperor, angry with his vizier, locked him in a high tower. There was no way to escape; even a jump would be death. His wife was distressed—how to save him? She went to a fakir. He said, “The way I escaped, he can escape.” She asked, “Were you imprisoned in a tower?” He said, “Not in a tower, but I was imprisoned. The way I escaped will work for him. Do this...”

The fakir went to his garden, caught a small insect, smeared honey on its whiskers, and tied a thin silk thread to its tail. The wife asked, “What are you doing? How will this help?” He said, “Don’t worry. This is how I escaped. Release the insect on the tower wall. It will climb upward, following the fragrance of honey on its whiskers. As it moves, the scent moves ahead, and it must seek it. The thread tied to its tail will reach your husband. When the thin thread reaches him, tie to it a stronger thread. Then to that a string. Then to the string a rope. With the thick rope your husband will come down.”

That little insect brought the husband liberation. A very fine thread—but by its help, thicker and thicker cords came into hand.

Your love, for now, is a fine thread, full of trash and rubbish. So when religious leaders tell you your love is sin, it makes sense to you; for there is much trash—any jewel is buried. They become persuasive because you find their argument logical: “What has our love given us but attachment, clinging, sorrow, pain? What has it given but prison?” It seems right that love is bondage.

But I say to you: what you think is love, and what the leaders denounce as love—both are the rubbish. Yet within that rubbish lies a fine thread which even you may have forgotten. Free that thread. Through that thread you will go out of the prison.

Remember this truth well: the very thing that binds can also liberate. A chain binds—and by a chain one can be freed. A thorn draws blood—and with another thorn you remove it. The path by which you came to me is the one by which you will return home—only the face will turn. When you came, your face was toward me; when you go, your back will be toward me. The path is the same; you are the same. By love you came into the world; by love you will reach God—only the direction will change.

Beyond the stars there are yet other realms.
There are still more tests of love.
What you have taken as love is not the end.
There are still more tests of love to come.
The final examination of love is God.

Remember: that which expands you will take you to God. Love expands; fear contracts.

Do not fear the world; be filled with God. The more you are filled with God, the more you will find yourself free of the world. The world seems to hold you because your hands hold nothing else. When a man has nothing, he begins to gather pebbles. If there is no diamond mine, he collects stones. I say to you: the diamond mine is close by. I do not tell you to throw away the stones. I do not preach renunciation. Life is a grand enjoying. Life is a festival.

I say: when the vast descends into you, the petty will flow away on its own. Trust the vast, not fear the small. Invite the vast; do not push away the small. If you fight the small, you become small. The more you brood—how to drop it, how to be free—the more you bind yourself. Why even brood on the trivial? What power has it to bind? Who ever goes out to “renounce” garbage? Go in search of diamonds.

The leaders gave you a negative religion; I give you the affirmative. I say: dropping is not necessary; attaining is. Whoever has attained has dropped. Tena tyaktena bhunjithah—by that renounced, enjoy. When great wealth comes, small wealth falls away by itself. Then there is no pain of renunciation. If there is pain, even renunciation is false. What joy is there in a renunciation that wounds?

Life should be so simple that day by day you move further into God, and day by day the world falls back from you of its own accord; you need not shove it, you need not fight it.

There are only two ways: either hate the world, or love God. Hatred is easy for you, because you are adept at it. So the leaders’ message suited you—you said, “That we can do.” When I speak of love you grow anxious, because even you do not trust that you can love. But I say to you: you can. Granted, your love lies buried in much filth, but it is there, present. And do not be afraid of filth—out of mud the lotus arises. The lotus is hidden in the mud; it needs a little search. And then, could you ever connect lotus and mud? Where the lotus, where the mud!

The leaders say, “Throw away the mud.” That too sounds right: why keep mud in the house? I say: in this mud a lotus is hidden. Do not discard it—use it. In the very using, it will be left behind. When the lotus is found, the mud is already gone. But beware that in throwing away the mud you do not throw the lotus too.

If the note of love leaves your life, you may hate the world as much as you like—you will not find God. He is not found by hating; he is found by loving. Hatred is negative—it is like trying to shove darkness out the door. Love is constructive—it is like lighting a lamp.

You agreed with the leaders because it seemed easy. But look closely at your renouncers and ascetics; look into their eyes, feel the air around them—you will find they have certainly dropped something; but they have gained nothing. Mere dropping is no proof of finding. Look into their innermost chamber—you will find an empty house, emptier than yours. For at least you have darkness; at least you have trash and mud—they even threw that away. The lotus did not bloom; where has a lotus ever bloomed by throwing the mud out?

Lust becomes Rama. When the journey of sex turns about, it becomes samadhi. The energy going downward is lust; the same energy when it begins to move upward becomes Rama. Two directions of one energy. Whoever cuts off sex destroys the possibility of Rama.

Trust love. Love with trust. And do not be in a hurry to renounce. What is the hurry to drop? When the attainment comes, dropping will happen. I say, care for attaining. Turn your whole gaze to the search.

It is through passionate love, O pious one,
not through mere worship, that God is found.
Your worship is false if deep love is not within it. You may bow, you may perform prayers, ring temple bells, arrange plates of worship—this devotion is false until the note of passion sounds within it, until God becomes your lover, your beloved, until there is that intimate nearness.

But because love troubles you—because you have not learned to love, because you do not know how to dance—you say the courtyard is crooked. Who worries about the courtyard who knows how to dance? Only one who cannot dance worries about the courtyard. Those who flee the world are those who could not dance. For one who can dance, even a crooked courtyard is enough.

The real thing is to learn the art of living.

I do not want to break you; I want to join you. If you understand rightly, what I give you is Yoga—union. Love is the only yoga, because it joins; all else divides.

We have grown distant from God; we are broken off; we must come near, we must return home. Through hatred, opposition, renunciation, negation—how will you arrive? And even if you do, you will be full of those very poisons and you will not recognize God. If you stood before God as you are today, you would not recognize him. You would recognize only yourself. Nowhere in what you have known has there been any glimpse of God, any introduction to him.

Therefore I say: love is the first introduction to God. Whomever you fall in love with, you will begin to glimpse God in them. Where love happens, you will see transformation. The person you love is no longer ordinary; he becomes extraordinary. Your love begins to seek God within him. Love finds God—because without God, love cannot be. The faults of the one you love stop appearing; and the one you hate, you see only faults. In the one you hate you begin to see the devil; in the one you love you begin to see God. You see goodness upon goodness. Even if he does wrong, it seems right. Only fragrance seems to emanate. A temple begins to arise. This is the recognition, the acquaintance. If this acquaintance is with you, then some day, standing before God, you will recognize him. Without this, as is the case with your so-called renouncers, even if God stands before them, they will see only a devil.

There was a Sufi woman, Rabia. In the Qur’an there is a sentence: “Hate Satan.” She struck it out. Now, to amend the Qur’an is dangerous. Others might tolerate some things; Muslims will not. A visiting fakir in her house read the Qur’an in the morning and saw lines struck out. He panicked. “Who has committed this sin? This is the final word of God. There can be no amendment. What had to be said has been said. After Muhammad, there will be no prophet. Who has done this foolishness?” He was furious. Rabia said, “Do not be angry. No one else—I did it.” He could not believe it. “You, a devotee—and you did this!” She said, “What can I do? I am helpless. Since love with God began, I see no Satan. Even if Satan stands before me, I see only God. So what meaning remains in ‘Hate Satan’? I struck it out. It is of no use to me. When Satan was visible, it might have been useful; now, of no use.”

As the recognition through love grows, slowly you will find that in this very world the colors and modes of life change. The birds are the same, but the meaning of their song has changed: no longer twittering, but the chanting of the Vedas. The flowers are the same, but their colors have changed: not mere flowers now, but messages of God. The streams still flow and murmur—but now they are anklets sounding on God’s feet. All is transformed. Whoever loves, transforms the world.

Your world is in your vision. And remember: if somewhere you err regarding love—and love is the first step toward God—if you err there, however far you go, you will not arrive.

Only one step I took, wrong, upon the path of longing;
my destination searched for me all my life—and still could not find me.

Be very, very alert about love. If the mistake happens there, you miss God forever. Correct it, and only then can you move toward God. Without love there is no prayer, and there is no God.

So I give you just one sutra: love without interruption; love without conditions; descend as deeply into love as you can. Do not waste attention on the futile; free the meaningful note in love. In love, take the diamond and leave the mud. In love, awaken the lotus and let the slime remain.

And the day the lotus awakens out of the mud, you will feel gratitude even toward the mud—because without it there could be no lotus. The day you can thank the mud, that day I will say you are religious. The day you can bow to the world in gratitude—for had you not wandered here, there would have been no way to meet God. This very wandering is a stage on his journey.

Awareness is present on both paths, but its definition differs on each. Awareness will be there, yet its flavor is very different on the two paths. The taste is different.

On the path of love, awareness will look like unconsciousness. On the path of meditation, unconsciousness will look like awareness. This may be a little difficult, a bit intricate, to understand.

In love there comes a kind of divine drunkenness, as if one were drowned in wine. To the whole world, the lover appears unconscious—the one mad in love; but within him the lamp of awareness burns. The deeper the unconsciousness appears to the world, the more wakefully that inner lamp begins to glow.

This happened again and again in Ramakrishna’s life. He was a pilgrim of love, and sometimes when samadhi came it would last six, twelve, eighteen hours—sometimes six, seven, even ten days. He would lie utterly insensate. The limbs would stiffen as if they were a corpse’s; only the breath moved very softly. His lovers and devotees would become greatly troubled, wondering whether he would return or not. And they, too, thought it was a great unconsciousness.

But as soon as Ramakrishna “regained consciousness”—in the devotees’ eyes, in the crowd’s eyes—as soon as he came to, he would cry out, “Mother, I don’t want this unconsciousness.” What the devotees called unconsciousness, he called awareness. And what the devotees called awareness—no sooner did he enter that than he would cry, “Mother, I don’t want this unconsciousness. Why do you send me back into this stupor? When such awareness had been established, call me back there.” Outwardly the body became corpse-like; within, a certain flame was burning.

On the path of love, what looks like unconsciousness on the outside is awareness within. A famous couplet says—

In my view he is no true drinker, O cup-bearer,
who still makes a distinction between sobriety and rapture.

He is no drinker at all who still distinguishes between awareness and ecstasy.

In my view he is no true drinker, O cup-bearer—
he has not yet learned to drink, he is no reveler yet, he has not recognized the tavern—

who still makes a distinction between sobriety and rapture;
who distinguishes between awareness and unconsciousness—he has not yet learned how to drink.

On the path of love, awareness and unconsciousness become one. The same happens on the path of meditation, but the taste is different. If Mahavira is sitting, or Buddha is sitting, you will find them in perfect awareness, yet within them a subtle intoxication is flowing such as only rarely flows on this earth. Within, that supreme tavern has become available. Within, honey is raining down. Within, they are drenched in bliss. Outwardly, awareness is utterly steady; inwardly, they are drowned. It will seem exactly the reverse: Buddha appears outwardly full of awareness; inwardly he is submerged. Chaitanya, Meera, Ramakrishna appear outwardly unconscious; inwardly they are in awareness.

One who goes by the path of meditation will have awareness on the outside and the swoon within. One who goes by the path of love will have the swoon outside and awareness within. Yet both are together.

The last moment of awareness is also the last moment of unconsciousness. Why? Because where it is known, “Who am I?” right there the “I” dissolves. Where the “I” dissolves, there one knows who one is. Where we become the void, there the advent of the Whole occurs. And where the Whole arrives, everything becomes a void. In that final hour, on that last summit, on that Gaurishankar peak, all distinctions, all dualities fall away. All pairs of opposites dissolve. There awareness is no longer awareness, nor is unconsciousness unconsciousness.

It is rightly said—

In my view he is no true drinker, O cup-bearer,
who still makes a distinction between sobriety and rapture.

If you place Ramakrishna before Buddha, he will recognize him. If you ask Ramakrishna to recognize Buddha, Ramakrishna too will recognize him.

Understand it like this: a coin is in your hand; one holds it heads-up, another tails-up—what difference does it make? The coin is in both hands; both will go to the market, and the coin will fetch the same value. No one will ask whether the coin’s head is up or down. A coin is a coin.

In the world of love, the swoon will be on the outside and awareness within. In the world of meditation, awareness will be outside and the swoon within. And both will be equal. Both will have equal force. The two pans of the scale will balance.

Where unconsciousness and awareness meet, there the supreme event happens, which we call nirvana, moksha, Brahman-realization. Beyond that, all differences are only of names, only of words.

Love is the path of losing! And that very love will take you to the Divine—the love that teaches you how to lose. Only that lover can lead you to the Divine who himself, slowly, keeps losing himself, and coaxes you too to be ready to lose.
On the path of love, to be effaced is to attain. Effacement is difficult. It hurts. The mind wants to save itself. But whoever saved himself, lost. Only the one who is willing to die comes to know love. Love is death—and a great death; not the ordinary death that happens every day. That dying is no dying at all, because you do not die—the body merely changes. But in love, it is you who must die while the body remains. That is why love is the great death, the supreme death.

Even this will not do—“neither does death arrive, nor does breath depart.” Even if the breath were to depart and death were to arrive, it would still not suffice. When the hour of dying in love comes, one feels: it would have been better if only the body had died, if only the breath had left—that seems less dangerous.

This is precisely the hurdle of love—this is its tapas: love kills from within. When that inner “I” is gone, then whether the breath comes or goes makes no difference. You are no more.

Those who have agreed to walk with me have agreed to be effaced. Only then can one walk with me. And naturally, if I am to persuade you to be effaced, I must move farther and farther away and disappear. You keep seeking me and come further along—until one day you find that I too have disappeared, and in seeking me, you too disappeared.

“You—who knows in what world you are lost.”

These are the milestones of love, and the trials that lie ahead.

Beyond the stars there are yet more worlds;
The trials of love are many more still.

The final test of love is that there the lover is lost. And the very day he is lost, that day he gains all. That is why the language of love is not the language of mathematics. Love does not speak the language of accounting. Love speaks the language of madness, of ecstasy, of divine intoxication.

So I would say to Taru: instead of thinking, “Who knows in what world you have been lost”; instead of thinking, “Neither does death come, nor does breath go—what has happened to my heart”; think—

May my longing for you remain steadfast;
What of the heart—whether it remains or not.

Even if everything is lost, the immortal is not lost. Only that is lost which can be lost. And whatever can be lost, the sooner it is lost the better—because the longer you cling, the greater the trouble; the longer you tangle, the more time is wasted. The sooner you wake, the better. The longer you sleep, the longer the night—wasted.

Remember: the more you are prepared to be effaced—and know that effacement is painful—the sooner the night of pain ends. It is only until you are not yet effaced that there is pain—because there is to be effacing, effacing, ever more effacing. Hurry—be effaced. Accept death. Drop that inner struggle to survive. Then the pain too ceases. The moment the struggle is dropped, the pain ends. But a man’s resolve is an earning of many lifetimes, and surrender is difficult. Even when we do surrender, we do it grain by grain.

One day a man came to Ramakrishna and placed a thousand gold coins before him. He said, “Please accept these; I wish only to lay them at your feet.” Ramakrishna said, “What will I do with them? And who will safeguard them now? Do one thing—tie them back up, go and drop them into the Ganges. I have accepted. Now these coins are mine. On my behalf, you go throw them into the Ganges—do this much more. You brought them this far; do this for me.”

The man did not like it. He said, “What kind of instruction is this?” But he could not refuse Ramakrishna either. He tied the bundle back, unwillingly. A long time passed—he did not return. Then Ramakrishna said, “What happened to that man? Go see if he hasn’t drowned! Perhaps he left the bundle on the bank and drowned himself—people save their wealth and destroy themselves. See what became of the poor fellow.” People went and found him striking each coin on a stone, counting them one by one as he threw them into the river—and he had gathered quite a crowd. The people said, “What are you doing? Paramhansadev has called you.” He said, “I’m coming—just let me finish the counting!” When he returned, Ramakrishna said, “Fool! Counting while collecting I can understand. But counting while throwing away? If you were to toss them, you should have tossed the whole bundle at once. But you kept on counting even while letting go.”

If you let go by counting, the night of pain will become very long. If you are going to drop it, drop it without counting. And if you cannot drop it, then do not concern yourself with love—there is the path of meditation. No need to force it. Then meditation is right. Meditation is more mathematical—it is a technique. On that path, you will survive and still the work will go on. That too will efface you, but slowly.

Love is a leap. In meditation, you can set things in order gradually; in love, no arrangement can be managed. If it happens, it happens wholly; if not, it does not. Do not think too much. On the path of love, courage to be mad is needed. And if you calculate too much, if you proceed by account, not only will it be delayed; you may become so habituated to accounting that even if the Divine stands before you someday, you will be absorbed in your reckoning and will not be able to see.

Ramtirtha used to say: A lover went to a distant land. His beloved waited and waited; he did not return. Each time a letter came: “Now I am coming, now I am coming,” yet the delay continued.

One evening the lover was writing a letter—as lovers write long letters—writing on and on. He did not even lift his eyes to see who stood before him. The beloved, seeing that he would not return, had come searching to his village and was now standing at his door. But he was absorbed in writing the letter. He was so engrossed that the one for whom the letter was being written was standing before him, yet he did not see her. And the beloved, thinking it unkind to interrupt such absorption, stood quietly, letting him finish.

When he finished the letter and lifted his eyes, he could not believe it. He was startled—how could his beloved be here? He thought it must be some ghost—who knows what! He rubbed his eyes. His beloved said, “Do not rub your eyes—I am completely real. I have been standing here for a long time, but you were absorbed in writing. The one to whom you were writing is standing before you, but you were so engrossed that I did not wish to interrupt.”

Often we are engrossed in our calculations while the Divine stands at the door. Perhaps it is always so. We are busy figuring out how to reach Him—He is standing right in front of us.

So many times has the longing for a glimpse deceived me,
He sits before me now—yet I cannot believe.

So often it happens that you imagine your beloved, and then find it was only imagination. You dream, and upon waking, find it was only a dream.

So many times has the longing for a glimpse deceived me—
So many times, by my own imagination, I took the Divine to be manifest, and each time I found it was a deception.

So many times has the longing for a glimpse deceived me,
He sits before me now—yet I cannot believe.

And now, even if the Divine is seated before you, you cannot believe. Perhaps your imagination is tricking you again; perhaps you have only projected it; perhaps you have fashioned this image yourself.

Prepare to be effaced, not to decorate your imaginations. Give up the worry of seeing the Lover; worry about dissolving yourself. In your dissolution is His vision.

The lover’s art is the art of dying. The meditator’s art is the art of awakening. But both bring you to the same place.

For love there is no distance of time and none of space. Love is the one alchemy that dissolves both time and space. With one you do not love, even if he sits right beside you, body touching body, you are thousands of miles apart. And the one you love—though seated far away among the moon and stars—is forever by your side.

Love is the one experience in life where time and space both become futile. Love is the only experience that trusts neither the distance of space nor the distance of time; it erases them both.

In the definition of the divine it is said: he is beyond time and space, timeless. Jesus has said, “Love is God”—for this very reason. In human experience only love is timeless and spaceless; through that alone a connection with the divine is possible.

So it makes no difference that Krishna lived five thousand years earlier. The lover annuls the interval. It depends on the intensity of love. For Meera, Krishna was contemporary. Others may not have seen him; Meera did. Others may not have understood; Meera was dancing before him. Meera danced to his very gestures. Every hint from him was clear to her.

This may seem a little puzzling to us, because our trust is in the body. The body, of course, was not present.

Buddha himself has said: those who will love me and understand my word—no matter how much time passes—I will be available to them. And those who did not love Buddha—though they might have been sitting right in front of him—he was not available to them.

The body is circumscribed by time and space. But the consciousness within you is untouched by time and space. It is beyond; it has overstepped; it is on the other shore of both.

The Krishna whom Meera loved was not the embodied Krishna. That body departed five thousand years ago; it has long since returned to dust. That is why the wise say Meera’s love is even greater than Radha’s—and so it should be. If Radha rejoiced in having Krishna before her, that was no great feat. But Meera found him before her even five thousand years later—that is tremendous. The gopis who had Krishna in his physical presence and loved him—he was so lovable that love would naturally flow to him; such a celebratory presence rarely comes to this earth—anyone would fall in love. Yet when Krishna left Gokul for Dwarka, the gopis wailed, they wept, they suffered. Even the distance between Gokul and Dwarka their love could not bridge. That gap was not so great; it was only a spatial distance, not even a temporal one.

Meera had both distances to cross—of space and of time—yet she transcended them and went beyond both.

By the arithmetic of love, Meera is unmatched. Not for a single moment did doubt touch her; not for a single instant did she behave as though Krishna might or might not be. Such faith, such single-pointed devotion—and then there remains no distance of time at all. The distance disappears.

The soul is eternal. Those who have peeped through love’s window come upon that ever-present soul. Those who have attained the deathless—whether Krishna, or Buddha, or Christ—whenever anyone loves them, whenever anyone loves at all, that one comes near to them. They are forever available; whenever you love, your eyes open.

Do not worry about how Meera could love after five thousand years. What has love to do with years?

Ramakrishna was dying. He had cancer of the throat. The doctor said the final hour had come. Sarada, his wife, began to weep. Ramakrishna said, “Stop, do not weep. That which will die was already dead, and that which was alive never dies. And remember—do not break your bangles.”

Sarada is the only woman in the whole history of India who did not break her bangles when her husband died. Because Ramakrishna had said, “Do not break your bangles. Did you love me, or this body? Whom did you love—me, or this form? If you loved this body, then as you wish—break your bangles. But if you loved me, then I am not dying. I will remain. I will be available.” And Sarada did not break her bangles. Not a single tear fell from her eyes. People thought the shock had driven her insane. To people her behavior seemed madness. But she continued all her work exactly as if Ramakrishna were alive. Each morning she would come and wake him: “Now get up, Paramhansadev, the devotees have arrived”—just as she did every day; the devotees would come, and she would wake him. She would stand there, opening the mosquito net—just as she always stood. At the time he used to eat, she would bring the plate and set it down. Coming out among the devotees she would say, “Now come, Paramhansadev!” People would laugh—and they would also weep for her—“Poor woman! Her mind is gone! To whom is she speaking?” She would set the plate, sit beside it, and fan him. There was no one there.

If the eye of love is not there, then indeed no one was there. But if the eye of love is there, everything is there. That is why the lover appears mad: he begins to see things the unloved cannot see. And the lover seems blind—what a paradox! The lover alone truly has eyes, yet to those with ordinary eyes he looks blind. Because he sees what you do not, you think him mad, blind.

Sarada remained a married woman in spirit. She attained a very high peak of love. For her, Ramakrishna never died. Love knows nothing of death. But only one who has first died in love can know love’s nectar. Love itself is death—then what other death could love acknowledge?

No—the differences of time and space mean nothing. Love erases all distances. There is only one distance—the distance of lovelessness. So long as there is lovelessness in your life, you are far from everyone. The day love awakens in you, the day its spring bursts forth, you will be near to all. And if you link your heart in love even with one, you will find you have tasted love’s flavor. Why then only one? Then link with all. Then you can be joined with the Whole. Love is the primer of prayer.

Beyond the stars there are yet more worlds;
Love still has many tests to come.

Love is the primer of prayer; it is the alphabet. Then come the greater examinations. The final examination is where your love turns toward the whole of existence, and the All becomes your beloved. To love one is only like peeping at the world’s beauty through a window. Once you have peeped through the window, why would you stop at the window? The invitation of the outside has come; the moon and stars are calling; then you step out beneath the open sky. One learns the lesson of love at the window—so toward the window there will always remain a sense of gratitude.

With the Master one learns the lesson of the divine. With the beloved one learns the lesson of love. One’s gratitude remains, forever and ever. But soon one must go beyond, for the Vast surrounds on all sides. Why look at the sky through a window when the whole sky can be met—when it is available?

There are no kinds of nirvana. When a fruit ripens it falls in a single instant; there are no “types” of falling. But there are many steps to ripening. An unripe fruit—green—has not yet fallen; a half‑ripe fruit is closer, but still on the branch. The actual falling happens in one moment. Once it is ripe, not even a moment is needed: it simply drops. There are no steps in the dropping; but before the drop there are many steps.

The green fruit is still attached to the tree, the half‑ripe fruit is also attached—if we only look at their still being on the tree, there is no difference. The difference is that the half‑ripe one is nearing ripeness; the green one is far. Yet both are on the tree. Nirvana happens in a single instant. But take a person who has never meditated, never loved—he is a green fruit, still in the world. Another has loved, has meditated—he too has not yet broken away and fallen; he is still in the world. If you only look at “being in the world,” both are here. But if you take into account the event lying ahead, one has moved a few steps closer to the fall, and the other stands far away: one is green, one is half‑ripe.

In the Buddhist view there are three stages of meditation. In the first stage, a sense of emptiness arises. Whatever you do outwardly, inside a feeling of void remains. In Japan they call this Zhinmai—the first stage. Sometimes even you may not notice it, because it is very fine, very subtle, and happens on the unconscious layer. It often occurs to the meditator: he continues to work outside, but the taste for the outer has gone. He speaks, gets up, sits down, runs a shop, but his relish for the outer has been lost. He just goes through the motions—fulfills duties. All the sweetness has turned inward, and within an experience of emptiness begins: as if there is nothing; a deepening peace. This is the first stage.

The second stage is called satori in Zen. It is when that inner emptiness sometimes becomes so profound that there is a conscious illumination of it, an awakening to it. Suddenly, for a moment, like a flash of lightning, the inner void flashes forth. But like lightning it flashes and is gone. The lightning flares, there is light for a moment, and then it is dark again. Many satoris can happen.

The third stage is samadhi. Samadhi is not like lightning; it is like the sunrise. Once the sun has risen, it has risen. It is not that it goes out and then rises again and sets again—no. It has risen.

Samadhi is the final stage. The fruit has ripened. Samadhi is the name of the moment just before nirvana: the fruit is ripe; now—any moment—it will drop. And when the fruit drops, that dropping is nirvana.

To reach this nirvana, first—through meditation or through love—an inner emptiness is cultivated; an inner settling happens; there is a withdrawing from the outer; energy begins to flow inward; a kind of nonattachment blankets the outside; everything is done, yet there is no relish in the doing; if it happens, fine; if it does not, fine; success or failure, pleasure or pain—it is the same. One lives as an actor in a play—only acting.

This is the first step in sannyas: to become an actor. You do everything you did yesterday, but now you do it as if you have nothing at stake. It is needed; you do it. Yesterday you did it out of deep attachment and involvement; now you do it out of a sense of duty.

Then comes the second stage, when glimpses begin. Suddenly the door opens. Suddenly you are transformed; you pass from one plane to another. You see the distant peak—clouds part and the lofty summit of Gauri Shankar shows itself; clouds part and the moon appears; then clouds gather again. This will happen many times.

It is said of the Zen master Rinzai that he had eighteen hundred satori experiences before samadhi. Eighteen hundred is only symbolic; they could be eighteen thousand. However many glimpses there may be, a glimpse is only a message: “I am coming closer, closer”—but I have not yet arrived. The goal begins to be seen, and then it is lost again, because the moods of the mind keep changing. On some days meditation settles easily—the mind is buoyant, quiet, blissful. On other days it does not settle—there is a miss, and a great distance arises. So there is often a coming near and a moving far.

But once the glimpses begin—once the taste comes—you cannot be led astray. One thing is now certain: what you are seeking is. It is not imagination. Whatever the births it may take, it is. Faith arises. And as soon as faith arises, satori slowly ripens into samadhi. The joining of faith and satori is samadhi. The lightning has flashed in the dark night; you have seen there is a path, and in the distance the temple’s golden spires have been seen. The lightning is gone, darkness returns; but one thing is certain: the temple is. Its golden spires were seen. The path is. Now you grope in the dark—sometimes you hit upon it, sometimes you miss again—but the path is, the temple is. Even if it takes births, you are no longer seeking in vain. Truth is. God is. The self is. Nirvana is.

And as this certainty deepens—“It is”—your steps gain strength; the urgency of the search increases; courage arises to stake everything.

Then you reach the temple’s door. The sun has risen. You stand at the threshold; all the steps are complete. This is the state of samadhi—just a moment before entry. After this is nirvana: the fruit falls; you have entered.

Even at the door one can pause. The cause of pausing at the door is not desire, it can be compassion.

There is a story from Buddha’s life: He comes to the gate of nirvana. The door is opened. But he turns his back to it. The tale is sweet, and very telling about buddhahood. The gatekeeper says, “Please come in. We have awaited you for ages. For ages we have watched you coming step by step closer.” Buddha says, “But behind me are many people. If I dissolve into the void, I will not be able to give them any support. Let me remain here. I would like everyone to enter nirvana before me, and I will be the last.”

It does not actually happen so. It cannot happen. But it is a symbol of great compassion. Yesterday I was reading a story of a Jewish mystic, even sweeter than this.

A Hasid mystic named Zusya dies. He stands at the gate of heaven—the gate of nirvana. He will not go in. He says, “What is the point of going in? What had to be attained has been attained. And many still need me. Let me stay here.” God himself becomes anxious—there seems no way to persuade Zusya to enter. God sits on his throne; Zusya stands at the gate and watches. God says, “Come in.” Zusya says, “What will we do? I have seen, I have realized. Now I must help others. Let me remain here. Have mercy on me. Close the door.”

Seeing no other way, God, who was holding the Jewish scripture—the Torah—lets it slip from his hands. The book falls to the floor. Out of old habit, Zusya runs—because if the Torah falls, you should pick it up. He rushes to lift the book; the door is shut behind him. From then on he could not get out. God had to resort to a trick—he had to drop the Torah.

The story is very sweet. Zusya wanted to remain there—at samadhi; he did not want to go to nirvana. But some device must be used: one cannot actually stop at samadhi. Once the fruit is ripe, it must fall. However much it may wish to remain, there is no way. To be fully ripe is to fall. To be established in samadhi is to be in nirvana.

Yet before nirvana these three happenings occur: first, a continuity forms within at the unconscious level; then glimpses begin to appear in consciousness; then one stands at the door; and then everything is lost. Neither the knower nor the known remains; neither devotee nor God; only that which is remains. Krishnamurti calls it “that which is.” Only that remains: wordless, ineffable. That is the goal. That is to be attained.

I have told you two ways to attain it: either through love, or through meditation. If possible, take the path of love—it is rich and green; there are rainbows and flowers, the murmur of waterfalls, the hum of song, and there is dance. If not, then there is the path of meditation. The path of meditation is a bit like a desert. It has its own beauty, its own clarity, its own vastness—but it is a bit dry. There is not much poetry, no greenery, no oases. Each person must see what suits him or her.

A feminine mind can go by the path of love. Many men have a feminine mind; they too will go by love. A masculine mind can go by the path of meditation. Many women have a masculine mind; they will go by meditation. So do not be guided by the body’s being male or female; be concerned with knowing your mind. Make sure it does not happen that you could have gone by love but try meditation and fail. Nothing contrary to your nature will succeed.

Therefore, for seekers on the path the greatest thing is to know their own type. That is why a master becomes essential—how will you recognize your type yourself? You do not have enough distance from yourself to observe yourself. Someone is needed who has gone along the path, someone who can stand apart and see you and recognize you and tell you what your type is. The most crucial thing happens there. If the type matches rightly, what does not happen in lifetimes can happen in moments. If you keep striving against your type, what could happen in moments will not happen even in lifetimes.

In my experience, in my seeing, it is not so much because of your sins or karmas that you go astray, but because you choose the wrong method. It is essential to choose the congenial. Choosing the uncongenial is like a rose trying to become a lotus. It will never become a lotus, and it will not remain a rose either—its energy will be wasted in the effort. A rose can only be a rose; a lotus can only be a lotus.

But it is neither a matter of lotus nor of rose; the real issue is blooming. Whether you bloom through love or through meditation makes no difference. In the final account, bloom—do not die as a closed bud. If you die closed, you will have to return; if you die in full bloom, there is no return. The one who goes in full bloom has gone forever—has been received.

That is why we offer flowers at God’s feet. It is only a symbol that at his feet only those are accepted who go like flowers in full bloom. Those who are still like seeds must return.

Nirvana means to bloom: what was within has come into the open; what was unexpressed has been expressed; the song that lay unsung has been sung; the dance that lay undanced has been danced.

The day your destiny is fulfilled, you are filled with fragrance, your petals have opened—that day you are accepted. You have attained freedom. You have earned liberation. Existence opens its arms to welcome you.

The whole of existence celebrates on the day even one person attains buddhahood. For existence waits for centuries, and then—out of millions—one arrives. And all were entitled to arrive. All are meant to arrive. All should arrive. It is a misfortune that people get entangled in other, unnecessary things; they do not recognize the essential, they do not recognize the non‑essential.

Buddha says: the one who has known the essential as essential and the non‑essential as non‑essential—that one attains.

That’s all for today.