Es Dhammo Sanantano #89

No, brother, had you truly known, the change would already be there! It never happens that one really knows and yet nothing changes. There must be some confusion in what you are calling “knowing.” Without truly knowing, you must be thinking you have known. You must have heard and thought you knew; you must have read and thought you knew—but you have not known. It is not your own experience.

Knowledge is only that which arises from your own experience. All else is just a way of covering ignorance. Knowledge is that which comes like the fragrance of your own life. It is the distillation of lived moments. As many flowers are pressed to make perfume, so many of life’s experiences are pressed to make knowledge. A single particle of real knowing holds the essence of thousands of experiences. This cannot be borrowed. This is not a perfume you can buy in the market. It will not come from scripture; it comes only by struggle in life itself, by walking inch by inch, by living. Without living, knowledge does not happen.

I understand your difficulty. For example, you say you know anger is bad. You do not know—what has happened is you have heard that anger is bad. If only you knew, how could you still be angry? You have heard Buddha say it, Mahavira say it, Krishna say it, Christ say it—that anger is bad. You have heard it since childhood, so deeply that it has become a conditioning. You repeat it too: anger is bad. But your own life-experience has not yet said this to you. Your experience is not ripe.

So as long as it is a matter of saying, you go on saying, “Anger is bad,” but when the moment to act comes, you fly into anger. You will do what arises from within you; you can go on saying beautiful sayings, learned from others, borrowed.

Erudition sits on the surface; it does not change you. Bookish scholarship is like ornaments. If you were homely, you remain homely—however many ornaments you wear, you do not become beautiful. The aura of beauty arises from within; it manifests from within. Think of a lantern, its flame extinguished. Paste paper around it and write in big letters—“Light, Light”—still there will be no light. If the lamp inside is lit, there is no need to write anything—there will be light.

When the lamp of knowing is lit in you, light begins to radiate in your life. That radiance itself is called conduct. Conduct is the fruit of knowledge; it is born of knowing. Knowledge is the flame; conduct is the light that spreads from that flame. And misconduct is the darkness that begins to recede and run away. But this will not happen through bookish knowledge.

You say, “I know what is right.”
No, you do not know. If you truly knew, doing otherwise would be impossible. You have recognized the door—you will naturally go out through the door; how could you try to pass through the wall? And if you truly knew what is wall, how could you try to go through it? If someone told you, “I know where the door is and where the wall is, but whenever I try to go out, I bang into the wall,” what would you say? “Are you mad? If you know, how is it you still attempt the wall?” It would be impossible. If breaking your head were your goal, that’s another matter—then going into the wall is not to get out, it is to break your head. After awakening, conduct follows you just as your shadow follows you.

But your knowledge is stale and borrowed, dead, written in books or in memory. You yourself are not illumined by it. You are not luminous. That is why I do not emphasize knowledge; I emphasize meditation.

Now there are three things here: conduct, knowledge, and meditation. Conduct is the result of knowledge, and knowledge is the result of meditation.

So begin at the beginning—at the seed. Do not expect the tree without sowing the seed. And if there is no tree, how will there be fruit? Conduct is the fruit, knowledge the tree, meditation the seed. The wise begin from the first. The foolish begin hoping for the last—and when the last does not come to hand, they repent and weep.

Keep this little story in mind:
A carefree youth was walking along the road. His eye fell on a sparkling stone. “Ah,” he said, “a colorful stone, a lovely stone!” He picked it up and, tossing it in his hand, went along singing. It was no ordinary stone; it was a precious diamond. But he knew only that it was a pretty stone—“We’ll take it home, the little kids will play with it.”

As he walked, tossing the stone and singing, a rider passed and said, “Friend, close your fist.” The youth said, “Why?” He did not understand and kept tossing the stone. The rider said again, “It’s not a stone; it’s a diamond, a precious diamond.” The open hand instantly closed; the tossing stopped. Not only did his fist close, he quickly slipped it into his pocket. “Brother, thank you!” he said.

The rider asked, “When I first said, ‘Close your fist,’ you did not. And now I did not even tell you to close it; I only said, ‘It’s a diamond’—why did your fist close?”
When it is known that it is a diamond, the fist closes by itself. Over a diamond the fist closes. Just a slight shift—of knowing, of insight—and everything changes. Behavior changes. But the seeing must be your own.

Now, for outer diamonds, another can inform you and that will do, because the diamond is outside you and outside the other too. If a jeweler says, “This is a diamond,” you trust. But the diamonds I am speaking of are inner diamonds; no jeweler can tell you anything about them. And even if someone says something, until your inner vision opens, how will you see?

That youth’s outer eyes were open, so he could see that what the rider said was true—that it wasn’t just a colored stone. He must already have had a suspicion—glinting in the sun, perhaps the thought crossed his mind, “Maybe it is valuable!” But then again, precious diamonds don’t usually lie along the roadside! So he concluded it was a colored stone. Still, something must have touched him within. When the rider said, “It’s a diamond,” the recognition struck in a single instant. But his outer eyes were open.

Suppose the youth had been blind. If the rider had said, “It’s a diamond,” he would have replied, “Why make fun of me? First of all, this is a road—where do diamonds come from here? And I am blind—how would a diamond fall into the hands of a blind man? So many people with eyes have passed by; anyone would have picked it up! And anyway, I cannot tell the difference—diamond or stone. It feels like a stone—because it feels heavy.”
It was his good fortune that his eyes were open, that he was not blind. But regarding the within, we are all blind; there we have not opened our eyes. The name of opening that inner eye is meditation.

When the eye of meditation opens, the Master’s word enters you instantly like an arrow and strikes the heart. Yet even then I say: the Master’s word. Not the scripture’s word—even after meditation, the scripture’s words will not work; after meditation, the Master’s words will work. Why? Because when the Master speaks, he does not only speak—behind the speaking is the force of his being.

Nanak gave birth to a wondrous religion—the Sikh path. “Sikh” is a lovely word; it comes from “disciple”—one who knows how to learn, who is skilled in learning. Sikh is the transformed form of shishya. Up to the ten Gurus the path remained alive; then it became dead. The day the scripture was placed in the Guru’s seat, that day the path became a corpse. After that the flame departed.

A book cannot be a Guru—even if it contains the words of Gurus. However beautiful the book, it cannot be Guru. A book cannot awaken you; it is asleep itself. A book cannot make you alive; it is dead itself. The book may be filled with priceless sayings; it may cry from within, “Arise, awake!”—but if you are snoring beside it, what will happen? You will keep snoring; the book will keep shouting—but you will not hear.

A living person is needed—someone who can shake you, jolt you, splash water on your face, prise open your eyes with his hands and say, “Get up! Wake up!” Someone who can shatter your dreams. A book cannot do this.

Through meditation, the inner vision slowly begins to open. And when, with meditation, the Master’s word is heard, you recognize instantly what the diamond is. The fist closes in that very moment. Conduct is transformed in that very instant.

But usually we do not search for a Master. A book is cheap. You get it in the marketplace. And a book will not challenge you too much. If you wish to read, read; if not, don’t. Open it when you like, leave it closed when you like. Generally religious books are never opened! They just lie there.

A man selling dictionaries knocked at a door. “Very valuable dictionaries,” he said. “Please buy one.” The housewife opened the door and replied, “What for? Can’t you see, we already have a dictionary?” She pointed to a book lying on the table, just to put him off. He said, “That’s not a dictionary; that’s a Bible.” From so far away he recognized it was a Bible. The woman was surprised—it was indeed a Bible. “Brother,” she asked, “how did you recognize from so far that it was a Bible?” He said, “Don’t you see how thick the dust is? Only the Bible gathers that much dust—who reads it! It just lies there.”

The Bible is the most printed book in the world—and the least read. Dust and more dust gathers on it. It seems made to eat dust. Once or twice a year, if you happen to remember, you dust it off and offer a couple of flowers. If you feel even more devout, you bow your head.

But neither bowing your head to a book nor offering flowers will awaken you. A true Master is needed. Learn the art of meditation at the feet of a true Master; then knowledge will arise. And with knowledge, conduct comes on its own.

You say, “This does not make sense to me.”
It will not make sense; it must be experienced. It must be realized. All explanation can do at most is persuade you to enter into the taste of it. But understanding alone will not do. This is a matter of experience.

Someone who has never tasted jaggery—tell him a thousand times, “Sweet, sweet, sweet”—that word “sweet” will create nothing inside him. The word does not carry sweetness. But if he has tasted jaggery even once, then the moment you say “jaggery,” a sweetness begins to spread within.

You have seen it: someone merely mentions a lemon and saliva begins to flow—if you have experienced it. Do not think that a person who has never tasted lemon will begin to salivate if you shout “lemon, lemon” before him. Nothing will happen. But one who has tasted it—even once in life—there, the matter is settled. He knows the meaning; the flavor is imprinted.

So this will not make sense to you. And do not try to understand this with the head. By “understanding, understanding,” you have become un-understanding. You have piled up so much secondhand “knowing” without experience—that is the burden crushing you. It is drowning you. Now move toward experience. Leave the rut of the intellect. Do not say, “I want to understand God, to understand the soul, to understand samadhi.” Now ask, “How does samadhi happen? I want to enter samadhi, not understand it.”

Night after night you have tried to understand; so much darkness you have traversed; so much sleep you have lived in—births upon births have been wasted in understanding. And nothing has been understood. Now bid farewell to understanding! Say to it, “Namaste—enough. Now we will do something else: we will experience.” Now begin gently to descend.

Meditation is experience. Knowledge is born within meditation. And with knowledge, conduct comes along. Then an incomparable beauty flowers in life.

As it is now: there is no meditation, so there can be no true knowledge—your knowledge will be stale, borrowed, bookish, paper-thin. Like making a paper boat and setting out to cross the ocean.

It is dangerous—you will drown badly. A paper boat only looks like a boat; it is not a boat. A boat is that which takes you across. How will a paper boat ferry you? Knowledge gotten from books is like a house made of playing cards. It is a “house” in name only; no one can live in it. Put your head inside and the whole structure collapses. Let a slight breeze blow and the house falls. The structures you have built on the support of the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible—you will not be able to live in them; they are not livable; they will collapse.

So knowledge will be false if meditation has not arisen within. And when knowledge is false and you try to run your conduct based on that knowledge, your conduct will be hypocrisy. Then you will forcibly try to do something that is not happening within you. Inside there will be anger; on the surface you will paste a smile. You will tear your lips apart and smile—while inside there is anger and fire is burning.

You know there are many kinds of smiles! The politician’s smile—the world knows it is not real. He stands before you, begging for votes, and how he smiles—showing all his teeth! You know the smile is false, completely false.

Or when you travel by air, the airhostess smiles at the door. What has she to do with you? Totally false. There is nothing substantial in it. It is not a smile at all. Behind that smile there is no one smiling. It is utterly fictitious.

And yet you are deceived by it. You are deceived by the politician’s smile. The salesman’s smile in the shop deceives you. He smiles at you as if blessed that you have come, as if his eyes were pining to see you! He is seducing you. If you look closely, you will find many kinds of smiles—varieties upon varieties—and all false. Inside there is something else; outside there is something else—this is hypocrisy.

When knowledge is not your own, this is bound to happen. You will split into two. And what is on the surface brings no fulfillment; what is within will scorch you and throw you into hell.

Therefore I am not in favor of borrowed knowledge. I am not in favor of conduct built upon such borrowed knowing. That has to be imposed. I am in favor of the spontaneous conduct that begins from the right seed—from meditation. Then on the second step, knowledge flowers; on the third step, conduct comes to be. Meditation is the soul; knowledge is the mind; conduct is the body.

So move from within. Begin from the very soul.

There are many differences.
First difference: Freud’s approach is medical; it is therapy. Buddha’s approach is not merely a therapy. Freud is concerned with making a sick mind healthy so it can function again—so that it finds adjustment. Buddha is concerned with dissolving the mind. Not adjustment with the mind, but freedom from the mind; samadhi beyond the mind. Buddha says, as long as the mind exists, there is disease. Freud says there are two kinds of minds: healthy and sick. Buddha says mind itself is the disease; there is no such thing as a healthy mind.

Which mind do you call healthy? The one that harmonizes with the crowd you call healthy; the one that loses step with the crowd you call unhealthy. But what if the crowd itself is insane? And the crowd is insane. Hindus go to burn a Muslim mosque; Muslims go to burn a Hindu temple; Hindus kill Muslims, Muslims kill Hindus—do you call this healthy? This is sick, diseased, mad.

Individual madness is noticed; the madness of crowds is not. And the harm caused by the madness of crowds is far greater than that caused by individuals. Individuals are mostly harmless. Some madman wanders naked in the street—whom does he really harm? But Hitler went mad, the entire German nation went mad with him; millions were killed, horrific slaughter. Napoleon was mad, Alexander was mad, and thousands following them were mad. Hindus mad, Muslims mad, Christians mad.

As long as you bind yourself within some circle, there is danger. Make too close a friendship with the crowd and you will have to move according to it: you will have to call right whatever the crowd does; wrong whatever it does not. You will not be able to hear your inner voice. Even if your heart says something is wrong, if your crowd does it, you will have to go along. The crowd is mad. And Freud’s psychotherapy does just this much: it takes the person who has fallen a little out of step with the crowd and brings him back into it.

Understand. A man was earning money—this actually happened, I have heard. He had made a lot of money. One day he returned from the bank with ten-thousand-dollar notes—he had plenty—and as he stepped into the street, it suddenly struck him, “What’s in money anyway?” He already had so much, and he had wasted his life chasing it. So he began handing out hundred-dollar bills to anyone standing nearby. Whoever received a hundred-dollar bill looked at him, startled: “Has this man gone mad?”

Naturally—if someone suddenly comes up and presses a hundred-rupee note into your hand, saying, “Please, take it, thank you!” what will you think? You’ll think he’s gone mad. People cut other people’s pockets, they risk lives for money—and this man is distributing it! Not to one or two, but to anyone and everyone he meets!

Then he boarded a bus, and he gave every passenger on the bus a hundred-dollar bill. Before he even reached home, the police arrived. They arrested him and took him to the station. “Have you lost your mind?” they asked. He said, “No, my mind was lost before. I was running after money all my life—that was the madness; now I’ve understood.” They said, “Be quiet!”

A psychiatrist was called. He also said, “Something has gone wrong; he needs electric shock.”

Who has gone wrong here? The man kept shouting, “Forgive me, first of all the money is mine. If I want to give it, who can stop me?” But they said, “You keep quiet. Don’t say a word. We’ll do what is necessary.” They called his wife. She too said, “Something seems to have gone wrong.” He said to her, “You too think something’s wrong? I’m perfectly fine! The money is mine, I earned it, I want to give it away. I’m telling you I was mad until now—I ruined my life for these scraps of paper. Today I can see, I want to give it all away. Let me go; I’ll go to the bank, withdraw more, and distribute it.” But who would let him go now! He was given electric shocks and not released from the hospital until he was “fine.”

“Fine” meant: once he was back in the same race the whole world is running. When he too began to say, “Yes, I must have had a bout of madness; who gives away money like that?” then they considered him well. He was brought home, and even then watched for days, lest he go crazy again.

What do you think—did he go crazy? Or are we all crazy? If he had gone crazy, then when Buddha left his palace, he was mad. If he had gone crazy, then when Mahavira left his kingdom, he was mad. It was their good fortune electric shocks had not been invented! And their good fortune that they were born in a backward India; had they been born in a developed country like America, the police would have taken them straight to the hospital! It was good they were born twenty-five centuries ago! Mahavira went naked, gave up clothes—surely he was mad! Who gives up clothing like that!

But think of what happened to Mahavira. One thing became absolutely clear to him: what is this shame that we cover the body with clothes? Why hide the body at all? Little children don’t cover themselves. They are innocent, simple. The day Mahavira became that simple, he said, “Why should I cover myself now?”

But I would say to them, don’t take birth again—the times have changed: now if you go naked, they’ll take you to the hospital! Freud hadn’t been born then. If you ask Freud, he would say Mahavira was neurotic, his mind deranged. Freud actually said about Jesus that he was mentally ill.

What is wrong with Jesus’ mind? Because Jesus would sit on a mountain, lift his head toward the sky, and talk to God! “That’s madness,” says Freud. “Where is God? What God?”

Freud’s whole effort is that whenever you begin to drift away from society and the crowd, to pull you back within its circle. Freud’s therapy is in the service of social order. There is no revolution in it. It is status-quoist, orthodox. Freud serves the existing social structure; he is in collusion with it.

Buddha’s message is different. He says: unless you rise above the crowd’s madness, unless you go into solitude and aloneness, unless you become utterly alone and shake off all the dust of the crowd, becoming pristine—until then, true health will not arrive in your life. The crowd is sick; walking with it, you will remain sick. That is why sannyas was born.

Do you understand sannyas? Sannyas means the courage to be free of the crowd. It means: now I will listen to myself, ponder within myself, walk in my own way—whatever the consequences. Whatever the price. It means: from today I drop all the beliefs society has given me; today I declare I am an individual. From this moment I declare my freedom. From now on I am not dependent. After this moment I will ask within what is worthy to do, and I will follow that—even if it brings hardship, even if it brings the gallows. Let people laugh, mock, call me mad—now I will listen to myself. From now on I am my own; I drop living on loan! I will no longer live trying to be what others want me to be. Whatever brings me joy, whatever brings me peace—that will be the direction of my life. This supreme revolution is called sannyas.

Buddha gave sannyas to more people than anyone else ever did on earth—he pulled them out of the crowd, set them free. The crowd has a hypnosis. And remember, those who live in the crowd remain sheep. You have seen sheep, how they shuffle along in a herd! If one sheep falls out, it quickly bleats and rushes back into the herd.

A teacher asked a boy in school—the boy was a shepherd’s son, so he could ask such a question—“Suppose you locked ten sheep in your garden and one sheep jumped out; how many would remain?” The boy said, “Not one.” The teacher said, “Are you in your senses? I say there were ten, and one jumped out; not one would remain?” He said, “Not one.” The teacher said, “You don’t know arithmetic.” The boy said, “Forget arithmetic; maybe I know it, maybe I don’t, but about sheep I know more than you.

“Sheep don’t know arithmetic,” the boy said. “If one jumps, all will jump. Not one will remain.” It is worth understanding—sheep don’t know arithmetic!

There are two kinds of people—lion-like and sheep-like. The one who lives in the crowd is sheep-like. The one who is free of the crowd is lion-like.

Freud’s therapy makes you a sheep. If a little lionhood begins to arise in you, they quickly treat you and cut it off. Buddha’s “therapy”—it is not right to call it therapy—is revolution, a radical transformation, a change from the very roots. Buddha’s way makes you a lion. It teaches you how to roar, how to give the lion’s call; how to be yourself, authentically yourself.

Further, Freud only considers that if a man has tensions and worries, their intensity should be reduced—an adjustment of degree. Suppose someone boils over at a hundred degrees and goes mad; if you are at ninety-nine, you’re not mad. The one at a hundred is in the asylum. What is the difference between you and the one in the asylum? One degree. It is only a quantitative difference, not a real one.

Buddha says the real difference happens only when your mind ends. When there is no mind, there is no way to go mad. As long as the mind exists, you remain near madness—sometimes farther, sometimes nearer—but mad nonetheless: one at ninety-nine degrees, one at a hundred, one at a hundred and one. The person who has just gone to the asylum was like you yesterday—going to the office, doing his work; you never imagined he would go mad. Tomorrow you can go mad too. A tiny difference in degree. A small thing—people say a straw can sink a boat; the last straw breaks the camel’s back. You too are at ninety-nine degrees. The wife dies, or you go bankrupt, the bank collapses, the house burns down and there is no insurance—just a small straw—and you leap from a hundred to a hundred and one degrees and you are in the asylum.

What will Freud do? He will pull you back to ninety-nine. He will return you to the prior condition from which you went mad. But that is not freedom from madness, because from that prior condition you can go mad again. Again and again you can.

Buddha’s way is transformation. It is to step beyond mind. As long as the mind is, we are ensnared. Let mind become utterly silent—not a matter of degrees.

Thus, the man filled with mind is the worldly one; the one Buddha calls an arhat is mind-free.

Buddha’s path is freedom from the mind. Freud’s path is not freedom from the mind; it is readjustment—rearranging the set-up. The furniture is the same; the situation is the same; you just place the table here, the chair there, redecorate the room—the furniture remains the same. In Buddha’s vision, you throw all the furniture out. You set aside thought itself. As long as there is thought, there is the possibility of derangement. The thought-free can never be unhinged. One who has entered no-thought has become the possessor of supreme health!

Also note: in Freud’s view there is no transcendence, nothing beyond. This life is all. In Buddha’s view, this life is nothing; the other life is everything. The life of the body is nothing, the life of the mind is nothing, the life of the ego is nothing; one must be free of all three and enter the life of emptiness—nirvana is everything.

In brief: Freud at most can free you from a symptom or two; Buddha frees you from the disease of life itself. Freud treats diseases one by one; Buddha cuts the disease at its very root.

That is why, as we saw in yesterday’s sutra, he said: “Bhikkhus, don’t cut trees one by one; cut down the whole forest.” Why fight one ailment at a time? There is anger, sex, greed, attachment, jealousy, envy—why wrestle with them one by one? Cut the whole forest. And the way to fell the forest is: cut the mind—then the whole forest dries up, because all its roots are in the soil of mind.

Be free of the life of the mind. The life of the mind is diseased. Therefore Buddha says: life is dukkha.

What Buddha offered is the supreme medicine, the ultimate therapy—the method of freedom from the disease of life. It is the means to lead you into the divine. From it comes moksha.

Freud knows nothing of moksha. And Freud is entangled in the mind just as you are—no real difference. He is a man of thought, a keen analyst, logical—but caught in the same tangles as you. No difference at all. Given a small provocation, Freud himself would go mad. Such moments did come; a small incident angered him so much—once he became so enraged he fainted, flushed with fury, and fell unconscious.

Freud is teaching the whole world how to cure the mind’s diseases, but his own mind persists. And the mind’s diseases do not end as long as the mind remains. Eliminate the source—only then do the diseases go.

It is said of Chang Ching that he was a great poet, a great connoisseur of beauty. They say China never had a philosopher of beauty like him. He wrote priceless treatises on aesthetics as no one else did. He was like the Croce of those bygone days. For twenty years he was drowned in books, searching for what beauty is.

One night, at midnight, steeped in his books, he got up, drew the curtain aside, and looked out the door—the full moon was in the sky. Tall chinar trees stood as if in meditation. A gentle breeze was flowing, and on that breeze the fragrance of flowers reached his nostrils. A waterbird cried out loudly—and in that cry something happened, something dropped. Chang Ching, as if speaking to himself, said, “How mistaken I was! How mistaken I was! Raise the screen and see the world.” How filled with error I was! How mistaken I was! Lift the curtain and behold the world! Twenty years of books did not reveal beauty. He drew aside the curtain and beauty stood there, face to face, embodied.

You ask, “What is meditation?”
Meditation is the art of lifting the curtain. And this curtain is not outside; it lies within you, spread over your innermost core. Meditation is removing the curtain. The curtain is woven of thoughts—its warp and weft are thoughts. Good thoughts, bad thoughts—the curtain is woven out of them. As you begin to peek beyond thoughts, or succeed in stilling them, or in setting them aside, meditation happens. The state of no-thought is called meditation.

Meditation means such an inner meeting where you are, the world is, and between the two there is no curtain of thought. Sometimes seeing the sunrise, sometimes the full moon, sometimes these silent trees, sometimes contemplating the gulmohar blossoms—you are, the gulmohar is, decked like a bride, and between you no thought. Not even the thought, “This is a gulmohar tree,” not even the thought, “How beautiful these flowers are”—no words rise at all—you are left awed, silent, still. That moment is called meditation.

At first it will happen in flashes, only sometimes; and not when you want it—when it happens, it happens. Because the moment there is wanting, thought has entered. It is not a matter of desire; it happens now and then, unbidden.

So keep one thing in mind about meditation—grasp it deeply: it does not happen through your wanting. It is too vast to be produced by your desire. It simply happens, sometimes, in some quiet moment, on its own.

Then what are we to do? For meditation, what are we to do? Perhaps this is what you wanted to ask—what is meditation, and how to do it?

For meditation we can do only this much: relax ourselves, stop the running about for a little while; for an hour out of twenty-four drop all hurry and hustle. Take a pillow and go out, lie on the lawn, lean against a tree, close your eyes; go to the riverbank, lie in the sand, listen to the river’s murmuring. I am not telling you to go to a temple or mosque—where is meditation among stones? Seek living nature.

That is why Buddha told his disciples: go to the forests. There, all around, nature dances. If you remain there twenty-four hours, how long can you escape? Sooner or later—despite yourself—in some moment nature will seize you. If for a single moment the touch happens, if for a single moment the doors open, if for a single moment the curtain is removed, the first taste of meditation has happened.

And after the first taste, further experiences become easier. They become easier because then you understand one thing: there is no direct way to obtain meditation; the way is indirect. Stay relaxed, walk gently, drop haste. For at least one hour out of twenty-four, dissolve into nature; listen to music, listen to the songs of birds. If there is nothing to do, close your eyes and listen to your breath.

Buddha emphasized this greatly: just watch your breath—coming, going, coming, going—make a garland of it; there is no better rosary. If you turn beads in your hand, that mala is very inert. Here the living breath is moving; the rosary of breath is being turned—breath coming in, going out, coming in, going out. Just watch this inner circle, this mandala of breath, silently, quietly, fixing your gaze upon it—and you will be amazed: at some priceless moment, suddenly the rhythm settles; all becomes one; you disappear, the world disappears.

At first such glimpses will come for a moment and then be lost. When they are lost, don’t long for them intensely, otherwise they will never return. When they go, say, “Good. When they come again, we will savor them.” But keep the doors and windows open for their return.

Understand it like this: the sun is out, but you sit in your room with the door closed; the light does not enter. There is no way to tie the sun into a bundle and bring it inside! No way to herd the sun’s rays inside like cattle! What will you do? Open the door; the rays will come in by themselves. Sometimes it will be night and they will not come because the sun is not there. Sometimes it will be day and they will come because the sun is there. Sometimes it will be day but clouds will gather and they will not come because the sun is veiled. But sometimes you will get the right moment—daytime, no clouds, the sun manifest—then the rays will enter. At most, do not create obstacles; that much is enough.

Bear my point in mind: meditation is not done directly; do not obstruct. That is why I say: dance, sing. In dancing and singing you become absorbed, and suddenly, like a gust of wind, meditation comes; it bathes you, thrills every pore, makes you fresh. Slowly you begin to understand this art—meditation is not a science; it is an art. Gradually you will learn in what kinds of moments meditation happens, and how, in those moments, to leave yourself open. As soon as you learn just this much, the key is in your hands.

Use it like this: sometimes your sleep breaks at night and you lie awake—do not be troubled by insomnia; do not miss the opportunity. It is an auspicious hour. The whole world is asleep; wife and children are asleep—the chance has come. Sit up right there on your bed and listen to the hush of the night: the chirring crickets, the silence of the night, the whole world asleep, all clamor stilled—just listen quietly. This silence will ring the bell of silence within you; the silence resounding outside will create a resonance, an echo, in your heart. When the whole house and the whole world are asleep, it is hard to find a more auspicious time for meditation than quietly sitting on your bed at midnight.

But I am not saying set an alarm for midnight and sit up—never! Otherwise you will be deceived. If you make it a rule that you will set an alarm and get up at two in the morning, then everything will go wrong. Meditation does not come by your tugging. It is such a delicate thing. If you call it, it shrinks back in shyness; it does not come. Meditation is a very delicate bride. Do not force it, otherwise it will be rape. You have to coax it very gently. Remember the word: coax. Meditation has to be coaxed. Then it can happen any time in the twenty-four hours; only remember that it is to be coaxed, not organized. Otherwise people get up every day at five in the morning and sit to meditate—like logs, mechanically, like a machine. No, meditation does not happen that way.

Yes, be mindful; keep some feeling for your heart. When your heart is flowing, do not miss. Even if there are a thousand tasks, leave them and sit in solitude. Even if you sit in your bathroom, it will do. But when you feel, “Yes, the inner moment seems to be arriving; thoughts are a little less, tension a little less, the mind somewhat buoyant, joyful—this is the moment!”

People usually do the opposite. When their mind is unhappy, then they meditate. People remember God in misery! That is when the wind is against you; it will be very difficult. Remember in happiness.

My sutras are unusual. I tell you: when your mind feels very happy—an old friend has come home, you have met after long, you have embraced, chatted, the mind is fresh, light, you are very cheerful—do not miss this opportunity. Sit in solitude. In this moment the note of joy is playing; the divine is very close.

Happiness means only this: whether you know it or not, the divine is near. When happiness rings within you, it means the divine has come close. Wandering by some unknown path, you have reached near the temple; that is why happiness is sounding. Do not miss this moment. In this moment, search quickly; somewhere right at the edge, within arm’s reach, the door of the temple will be found.

But people remember in sorrow and forget in happiness! In sorrow you have fallen far from the temple—the distance is infinite. In sorrow you cannot even trust that God could be. How can trust arise in sorrow! In sorrow it seems as if there is no one in this world. In sorrow it seems as if some devil is running this world—some wicked one! In sorrow it seems better to finish oneself—no gratitude, no thankfulness arises; how could it? Yet people go to temples and mosques in sorrow, remember God, pray—and in happiness they forget.

And I tell you, it happens only in happiness. Only in moments of happiness are you closest. At such times, slip away. Lie down on the ground full-length, place your head upon the earth; lie on the cool, damp lawn; close your eyes. In that moment, feel that you are meeting the earth, becoming one with the earth. And you will find that sometimes a wave comes; like a ripple, something trembles in your life-breath within, a new reed begins to play. Slowly you will recognize it. Slowly you will learn the art. You will begin to discern when the moments for its happening are; what state you are in when this nearness occurs, and what state makes it difficult. Then you will get the knack; your self-knowing, your recognition will gradually become clear. At first it is like groping in the dark.

But meditation happens. And sometimes it happens even to those who have never thought about meditation—to the irreligious too—because meditation has no precondition. It happens to small children; it happens more to children than to adults. A child runs after a butterfly; the morning sun has risen; running after the butterfly, he forgets everything; the butterfly becomes his all; he forgets even himself, as if he too were flying like a butterfly—in that moment a glimpse of meditation descends.

People remember all their lives that childhood was full of joy. What joy do they remember? Do you think you had great wealth in childhood? You did not; you had to cry even for two pennies! For a single penny you had to depend on father and mother! There was no wealth. Did you hold some high post? How could you! There were all kinds of hassles; school was a prison to which you were sent bound every day; where, sitting and sitting, you got nothing but harried and confused. Everyone oppressed you; you had no strength; everyone sat on your chest.

So what happiness was there in childhood? No money, no position, no prestige; no one respected you—how could there be happiness? The happiness was of another sort. In running after butterflies a ray of meditation had descended. Picking shells and conches on the seashore, a moment of supreme bliss had come down. You brought home pebbles and stones and thought you had brought diamonds—and how proudly you strutted! There was nothing in your hand, yet there was a certain availability to meditation.

As I see it, in childhood there is no happiness other than that of meditation. You have forgotten; you only remember that there was great joy. If someone asks you to list what joys there were, you will be in difficulty. And you do not remember meditation at all; even the word has become unfamiliar. The child did not even know it was meditation. But what does knowing matter? Whether you know you are asleep or not, sleep is sleep.

As you grew up, meditation slipped away because you became more and more occupied with thought. You were trained in thinking. School, college, university—all teach thought. It is the misfortune of humankind that not a single university teaches meditation yet! Thought upon thought—slowly you became filled with it. Worries upon worries—and you missed those tiny moments when the curtain used to lift—on its own.

Have you seen how children seem so delighted? Tiny children who have nothing at all! There is no reason for them to be happy, and yet they are uncausedly happy. That causeless joy is meditation. You have seen a small child in his cradle—there is nothing to suck, so he sucks his thumb—and how delighted he looks! Alexander would not have been so delighted, nor Akbar or Ashoka; owners of vast empires have not been so happy! He has nothing—at most his own thumb or toe in his mouth—yet something is happening. The curtain is still open; thoughts do not yet arise; the inner flute is still playing.

There is a tale among Jews: when a child is born, angels come and stroke the child’s head so that he forgets the bliss he knew in God’s house. Otherwise life would become very difficult—out of compassion they do it. If that bliss were remembered, life would become impossible by comparison. Then whatever you did would seem futile. Earn money, gain status, bring home the most beautiful wife or husband, have the best children, a big house, a car—nothing would have any savor if that bliss were remembered.

So the Jewish story says: out of compassion an angel descends and simply strokes every child’s forehead. With that touch the curtain closes; he forgets God. Bliss forgotten, he starts thinking he will find happiness in the very miseries of life.

That curtain has to be opened again—the one the angels closed. I do not think angels close it; angels cannot be so foolish. Society closes it. Perhaps the story is indicating that. Parents, family, society, school—close it; they draw the curtain. They draw it so thoroughly that you forget there is a door here and start believing it is a wall. Meditation means removing this curtain.

Let it happen of itself; let it catch hold of you now and then—and when this wave seizes you, drop a thousand tasks and sit down, for there is no work more precious than this. Whether night or day, morning or evening—do not look at the clock. You will not miss anything; nothing will be lost. And then your wealth will be incomparable. This treasure lies within you; it is only a matter of lifting the curtain.

“What is meditation?”
Meditation is lifting the inner curtain.

Do you think those who have taken sannyas came here to take sannyas? Do you think those who have come to me all set out in search of God? Then you are mistaken. They did not come in search of God—how could we search for God? We no longer even remember God. One searches only for that which one remembers. One searches only for that which one has, at some time, experienced. The unknown cannot be searched for; only the known can be sought. Once you have tasted a certain joy, then the search begins—before that, how will you even search?
A small child has not known the joy of sexual union—how will he search for it? A tribesman living in a forest has never seen a car; he knows nothing about it—will he ever dream of buying a car? Will he even think of it? The question does not arise; it cannot arise. We seek only that of which we have had a little taste.

So those who have come here did not come to seek God; after coming here they got a taste, and the search began. Those who have come here did not come to become sannyasins. They came here and got entangled. They came here and got caught. They came here and slowly forgot that they had not come to take sannyas at all.

So, Hema, sannyas will happen to you. Whether you decide to take it or not, it will happen. It is very hard to escape it. In one sense, it has already happened.

You ask, “What is my relationship with you?”
The relationship has already formed. And when a relationship with me has happened, you will be dyed in my color too—it is only a matter of sooner or later. A little time!

“And why do I keep coming to you again and again?”
You will have to come. And this repeated coming will make you a sannyasin as well. And the search for God will begin—perhaps it has already begun on the unconscious level. That is why it is not clear to you why you must keep coming again and again; it is clear to me. First the event happens in the unconscious, and only later does the news reach the conscious. Sometimes it takes months, sometimes years, sometimes lifetimes—there are some unfortunate ones for whom it takes lifetimes to know for sure what has already happened within them. You do not yet know.

And you say, “I do not want to take sannyas, I have no desire to take it.”
The desire has already arisen; otherwise even this question would not have arisen. Somewhere the seed has begun to sprout. Perhaps the shoot has not yet pushed above the ground; it is still pressed under the soil, still in the dark, in the unconscious—but it has started to rise. It won’t be long; soon the sprout will have the darshan of the sun.

And what does sannyas mean? It simply means that what is available to us in the world is not enough; something more is needed for fulfillment. That’s all it means! Sannyas means only that what we have does not satisfy us, does not bring fulfillment, does not make the heart overflow; something remains a bit dry—everything is there, and yet somewhere there is an emptiness. Out of that emptiness sannyas is born. That is why you keep running here again and again.

This restlessness is not yet clear. But from today it will begin to be clear. From today, I will pursue you. First you will take sannyas in your dreams, then in reality. From now on, dreams of sannyas will begin. From now on, wherever you look, you will see the saffron hue.

You do not yet have the search for God—fine. Who begins with the search for God? In the beginning one searches for love. Then, as the search for love deepens, it slowly becomes the search for God. The condensed, intensified form of love is God.

So your love for me has happened; that is why you keep rushing here. Now this love will grow. This love will become God. And if you consciously cooperate with it, the happening will be quick.

Often it happens that people obstruct this happening: they get scared, frightened, keep creating blockages. Even if you put up obstacles, it still happens—but then it takes longer. If you do not obstruct it, it happens quickly.

God is standing right at the door; just do not create obstacles, and he enters.

Nirvana is not a matter of give-and-take! It is not an object that can be picked up and handed over. It cannot happen by someone giving it to you; nirvana is your own blossoming. When the lotus of your being opens, it happens.

If you want it, and you want it from your innermost core, with urgency, with intensity, then it happens. You will weep much, you will scream and cry—then it happens. This is not a gift that someone can simply give. And if someone did gift it, you would not even understand its value. Value is understood only when we attain through our own effort. It is a long journey, a climb up a mountain.

No, the Buddha cannot give it to you. Not because the Buddha is miserly—even if he wished to give, he could not. It is not in the nature of nirvana to be given. Samadhi cannot be handed to anyone.

Understand this incident—
A man of critical intellect—no doubt someone like you—came to Buddha one day and said, “Sir, you explain so much, you work so hard; instead, why don’t you simply deliver people straight into nirvana? What is the point of all this explaining? And who understands through explanations! No one seems to be understanding. If you have attained, why don’t you share it out? If you have it, what is the obstacle to giving it?”

The man, too, is speaking reasonably: if you have it, then give it. You got it; share it with us. Why this stinginess? Why this miserliness?

Buddha said, “Do one thing: I will answer at dusk; before that, there is another necessary task for you—go and do it.” He asked, “What task?” Buddha said, “Go into the village and ask every person what his ambition is—what he wants in life.” The man did not quite understand what this was about, but he went. He returned in the evening with a list. It was a small village—maybe a hundred or a hundred and fifty people lived there—and he brought a list of all. He came back tired, carrying a long list.

Buddha asked, “So what have you discovered? What did you find?” The man said, “I have made a long list of their desires. One is mad for power, one for position, one for prestige, one for authority, one for wealth and prosperity; one for beauty and health; one for comforts and conveniences; one for love; one for longevity; someone for beautiful women, someone for handsome men; someone for a palace, someone for a kingdom—these are their kinds of aspirations,” and he read the list aloud.

Buddha asked, “Did anyone desire nirvana? Did anyone express an aspiration for nirvana?” The man grew sad and said, “No, Lord, not one—no one.” Buddha asked, “Did you include your own name on the list or not?” He said, “I did.” His name was there at the end. “What do you want?” He wanted a long life.

Buddha said, “No one wants nirvana—how can I force it upon them? You don’t want it either! And in the morning you came asking why I don’t give nirvana to people. If no one wants it, how can it be given? Nirvana cannot happen by compulsion; it cannot be imposed on anyone. The very meaning of nirvana is ultimate freedom—and ultimate freedom cannot be imposed.”

Understand this well: dependency can be imposed upon a man, freedom cannot. You can put someone in prison and make him a captive, but you cannot make someone free. Liberation is a very inner state. If someone wants to remain bound, what can you do? If someone has become enamored of his chains, what can you do? The desires for wealth, position, prestige—these are bonds.

“All these aspirations that you have brought on your list,” Buddha said, “are obstacles to nirvana. Not only does no one in your village want nirvana, but because of what people do want, nirvana cannot happen. Nirvana means that this life has been seen as insubstantial; a longing arises to seek the life beyond—something else, something substantial, something meaningful—let us seek that.”

No, the Buddhas are not miserly. For forty years the Buddha tried continuously to share—but there must be someone ready to receive! Here there are beggars for wealth; who is a beggar for dharma? Here there are beggars for position; who is a beggar for the divine? Here people are aspirants for the world; who is an aspirant for truth?

I gave you the name Prema precisely because love is your path. Devotion is your path. You will not be able to go by Buddha’s way. Buddha’s way is the way of meditation. It will not suit you. And such a thing has in fact happened.
Before coming here, a year ago, Prema Bharati tried Vipassana. Vipassana is the Buddhists’ meditation. And since then she has been suffering from headaches, a heaviness in the head, the body feels broken, there is restlessness, trouble; since then her consciousness, instead of becoming more lucid, has become more blurred, smoky.

Vipassana is for those for whom the way of meditation fits well. Not every path suits everyone. Basically there are two paths—love and meditation. Therefore experiments must be made very carefully. That is why a true master is absolutely necessary—how will you decide?

Now the person who made Prema do Vipassana has no idea what he is doing. He may know the technique of Vipassana, but he is not a true master. Otherwise he would have stopped her from doing Vipassana at all. To make Prema do Vipassana is to push her toward self-destruction. Her current was of the heart. Vipassana is just the opposite of the heart. Her current was of love. Vipassana dries up love. And this trouble that has been with her for a year is because Vipassana has erected a wall across the spring of her love. And that love was her natural disposition. That was the path for her to reach the divine.

So when I speak on Buddha, I always warn you to think carefully: if love does not attract you at all, if there is no juice in love for you, if devotion raises no feeling within you, if prayer seems utterly meaningless to you, then go by Buddha’s path.

But if tears come to your eyes in prayer, if the heart trembles, becomes ecstatic, intoxication descends, if trust is simple in you—then do not go by Buddha’s way. Then it is Narada’s path; the way of Meera and Kabir, of Chaitanya.

In the world there are only two paths, because within a human being there are two centers—heart and intellect. Buddha’s path is the path of intelligence. Refine the intellect, purify it; purify it so much that the dust of thought falls away and only pure intelligence remains—then you have become a Buddha. Narada’s path is this—polish and cleanse your heart; polish it so completely that attachment does not remain, only love remains; delusion does not remain, only love remains. Let pure, causeless prayer remain—no demand, no desire at all.

The result of both is the same. When thoughts are gone—desires end; when thoughts are gone—attachments end. But when thought disappears, the first experience of the traveler on the path of meditation is of pure consciousness, pure awareness. The traveler on the path of love first experiences pure love, unconditional love—love flowing toward the whole of existence, for no reason, causeless; like streams flowing toward the ocean, so does your heart flow toward the All. Lust falls away, attachment falls away, and thoughts also fall away—for how can thoughts remain in the deep moment of love!

On the way of meditation, meditation happens first; love comes later from behind. And on the way of love, love happens first; attention, meditativeness follows behind.

I gave her the name Prema for this very reason—Prema. In that I indicated her path. Do not get into the mistake of meditation. For you, love itself is meditation. Sing, hum, dance, sway, be intoxicated; drink the wine of the soul.

You parted and met a thousand times,
now on this shore, now on that.
At times you fell as tears breaking from the eyes,
at times you burst forth as a song from the breath.
You broke and were joined a thousand times,
now on this shore, now on that.

On the path of darkness you left lamps burning once,
in the alleys of rays you filled kohl once.
You flamed and were extinguished, beloved, again and again,
now on this shore, now on that.

Sometimes you were found smiling among flowers’ throng,
sometimes you were found anguished in thorns’ embrace.
You bloomed and you fell, beloved, again and again,
now on this shore, now on that.

You tired as a dream, you walked along as remembrance,
as a heartbeat you bound this body for life.
You halted and you moved, beloved, again and again,
now on this shore, now on that.

When you were near in body, you felt far in mind,
when you were near in mind, you felt far in body.
You parted and met a thousand times,
now on this shore, now on that.

Sing, hum, dance; sway in ecstasy. The drunkard’s road is your road. Do not think the path of love is easy and the path of meditation is hard. Nor think meditation is easy and love is hard. For those not made for love, love’s road is hard. For those not made for meditation, the path of meditation is hard. For those made for meditation, meditation is utterly smooth; for those made for love, love’s road is smooth.

So I give you a touchstone—what feels smooth for you, that is your path. What is simple for you, that is your path. Do not entangle yourself with the difficult. Beware of the difficult. Avoid the difficult. The moment you feel something is becoming very difficult, understand it is not suiting your nature. When something suits you, new leaves appear, new flowers sprout; everything becomes easy. Easy is right.

And I do not want to put you into unnecessary complications. Although the mind always enjoys complications. The mind wants to show it can do the difficult, because difficulty satisfies the ego; keep this truth well in view. The attraction of the difficult is that it challenges—“show that you can do it.”

So often it happens that people get entangled in a path that is not theirs. Those who would go by love and arrive effortlessly, they get caught in meditation. Those who would go by meditation and arrive effortlessly, they get caught in love. Man’s mind is very strange. It is deranged; it suggests the opposite. Skulls—all skulls—are upside-down skulls. Here the whole matter runs contrary.

Therefore be very alert about this. The difficult seems very attractive—“Come, let me show I can do it.” And the ego gets gratification, the ego is strengthened. And the stronger the ego becomes, the farther the divine recedes.

The lover does not even notice there is any difficulty in love. The meditator notices. When a meditator looks at a lover, he thinks, “What a difficult affair!” The meditator does not notice difficulty in meditation; the lover sees it.

Listen to this small story. Prema is from Punjab; this story too is from Punjab.

There was a fakir who went through the streets calling, “Take God, take the Name.” Nanak gave immense value to the Name, even made it synonymous with God. The Name is everything. So the fakir would cry, “Take God, take the Name.” In Punjab, “Naam” was also the name of a jewel, an ornament. Because of this, a gentleman thought he wanted to sell that ornament. He traced the fakir’s home. His daughter was to be married; he wanted to buy that ornament.

The fakir was not at home; his young daughter was. The man said to her, “I have come to buy the Naam; where is your father?” The girl said, “What need is there for him? If you are ready to pay the price, I can give you the Name.” The girl went inside and began to put an edge on a knife. She had heard from her father’s mouth that to attain God, one must give one’s life. So she was sharpening the knife thinking, “This gentleman will have to donate his life, so let me prepare the blade.” The gentleman grew impatient at the delay, peeped through the window and asked, “What is the girl doing? I am standing here, quickly give me the Name!” The girl said, “Wait—you will have to give your head too. I am sharpening this knife for that.” Hearing this, the gentleman flared up. Hearing the commotion, the neighbors gathered. The gentleman said, “I will hand these rogues to the police. The girl wants to murder me.”

Meanwhile the girl’s father returned. He understood the situation and said, “Crazy girl, such a cheap price for God! If you want the Name, you must give thousands of lives—what will one life do? If you want the Name, you must lose thousands of lives—what will losing one life do! And you, sir—frightened to give a single neck, and you run to the police!”

Only then did people understand what “Name” means! In the end the fakir said, “It is precisely because there are sellers willing to sell God at such a cheap price, like my child, that God is not found today.”

Try to understand. All around are people who are giving you techniques at very cheap rates. They themselves do not know what they are doing!

Now, those from whom Prema learned Vipassana—just the fact that they taught her Vipassana is enough proof that they know nothing. I do not say they do not know the technique of Vipassana—they will surely have technical knowledge; they will know what to do, when to do, how to do—but they cannot have their own experience. Technical knowledge is one thing; firsthand experience is entirely another.

Think of it like this: a man has read a book that explains how to drive a car—he has read everything, every detail—but he has never driven a car. Do not sit in a car with such a man if he goes to drive! He will crash you somewhere, take you into danger. He has read all the details in a book; if you give him a written test he will pass perfectly, giving precisely correct answers to every question. But written answers are one thing, and driving a car is quite another.

For a year Prema has been distressed. A condition almost like derangement has arisen. It is bound to happen; people who sell techniques at cheap prices are easily available! People who know nothing.

Now this little girl did not know what the matter was—what the Name is, what its price is; she knew nothing. She had heard her father say that to take the Name one must give one’s life; so the poor young girl—her we can forgive. But even the great ones do the same. They have read in books, heard someone, and then they tell others. Beware of them! Your life is precious—do not let it become someone’s toy.

For Prema, love alone is the path. Do not get into meditation. At least do not get into the Buddhist meditations. They will be dangerous, harmful to you. As a rule, Jain and Buddhist meditations do not fit women—generally speaking. Both of these paths are predominantly men’s paths.

That is why the Jain scriptures even say that no woman ever attains liberation directly through the Jain path. First she must be born in a male body; only then will she attain liberation. Only men attain liberation; women do not. Women too attain—but first they must once be born as men, and then they will go to liberation; a woman never goes straight to liberation.

There is a reason behind this. It does not mean a woman cannot go directly to liberation. I tell you—she can. Meera went, Sahajo went, Daya went, Lalla went—many women went directly; there was no need to return midway.

But through the Jain path, no woman has ever gone directly—this is true. There are other paths through which they have gone.

And Buddha for a long time did not even give initiation to women. Only with great difficulty did he concede. Buddha strongly opposed initiating women: “No, I will not give initiation to women.” But the pressure kept mounting; after all, women too saw that so many people, so many men were renouncing, becoming monks, going into meditation, attaining supreme peace—so women also pressed.

Buddha’s mother had died at his birth, so he was raised by his stepmother, Prajapati. Finally the women prevailed upon Prajapati and said, “You come—he will listen to you.” So the women came with Prajapati and she requested. Yet Buddha refused: “I will not initiate women.”

This went too far. Then Buddha’s monks also stood up to pray—especially Ananda, his beloved disciple. He said, “No, Lord, now this is injustice. What fault is it of women? They too need God, they too need liberation, they too need peace. Please be compassionate.” When they pressed hard, Buddha said, “All right, I will initiate women—but let me tell you: without women my religion would have lasted five thousand years; now it will last only five hundred.”

A very striking thing to say! But there are reasons. Buddha’s fundamental teaching is for the male psyche. The male mind leans more easily toward intellect and only with difficulty toward the heart. The female mind leans more easily toward the heart and with some difficulty toward intellect.

So Buddha spoke rightly that his religion would last five hundred years—and even five hundred it did not; it decayed sooner. Because where women entered, love entered. Where women entered, ecstasy entered. Where women entered, humming, dancing, ankle-bells entered. Those poor monks were soon in trouble, in difficulty; they were shown to be pitiable.

But my situation is different. For me, both paths are equal. Therefore, whether a woman comes here or a man—both are the same. And I say both can attain liberation—each can go from where they are. I can say this because I have no insistence on any one path. I give no value to the path; my value is on you. I look at you and then I decide the way.

Buddha decided the path first—one path, of Vipassana, of meditation. Now if he saw a woman, he knew this would not suit her, and a woman would not suit his path; so he tried to save his path. If Buddha himself had gone to Narada, Narada too would have said, “Sir, forgive me—you will not fit here. Go find a Parshuram. What has a warrior to do here? Here the vina is playing, the hymn is being sung—your way will not work here. You are a Kshatriya; go somewhere else where there is scope to wield the sword.”

The path of intellect is the path of struggle and resolve. It is the path of the warrior. The path of the heart is of song and resonance. Not of resolve, not of struggle, but of surrender, of faith, of trust. For me both are equal. I look to see by which path you can go. And let me also tell you: it is not necessary that because you are in a male body you will always be suited to the male path. There is no such binding. Sometimes in a male body there are very tender hearts. And sometimes in a female body there are very masculine minds.

Just as Madame Curie could win the Nobel Prize. For Madame Curie, Narada’s path could not suit; Buddha’s would. One who has won a Nobel Prize, who has such a clear mathematical mind, such capacity of thought—Buddha’s way will suit her. She cannot dance madly like Meera—it is not possible.

Now take Ramakrishna—he is a man, and yet Buddha’s path would not suit him. Within him there was a feminine heart. You will be astonished to know that Ramakrishna was so feminine, so absorbed in song and dance, in music, that his breasts had developed. And not only that—once, while he was practicing a particular sadhana of the Sakhi sect, he even began to menstruate. Perhaps you have never heard this. For six months it continued. And once his breasts had developed, even after he stopped that practice and they shrank, they still remained somewhat enlarged—you can see it in his photographs. Such a heart-centered mind—tender as Meera’s.

So do not think that all men are simply men and all women are simply women. If things were that easy, there would be no need of a master at all. The matter would be settled by your biology. You have a woman’s body, you have a man’s body—finished. Men go by Buddha’s way, women go by Narada’s way—finished.

But it is not that simple. There are many men more tender than women, in whose hearts great poetry and dance are hidden. They have to be sought out, brought forth. And there are many women in whom a blazing intelligence is hidden—they too must be brought forth, discovered.

With me, it will do!
On Buddha’s path there is resolve and struggle; there the lazy won’t do. My doors are open to all. Buddha’s doors are open to the select. With me, even the lazy will do—because even laziness can be used to reach the Divine. One’s very laziness can become the door to the Divine. Surrender—leave everything at His feet! Do nothing, don’t even keep the sense of doing; say, “Now whatever You make me do, I will do.”

We were speaking of Baba Malukdas a few days ago—
“The python does no service, the birds do no work;
Servant Maluka has said, the Giver to all is Ram.”
So, Sheela, become Daas Maluka! Drop worry! If it seems you cannot enter into struggle, there is no need to. The Divine belongs to all; from just where you are, a path will open. You don’t need to change very much either; understand well how you are, and let your life flow in accord with that—naturally. If there is laziness, we will make laziness itself the sadhana. If there is industriousness, then industriousness will be the sadhana. For me, what matters more is how you are. I am not a slave to any fixed doctrine. I accept all. When the Divine accepts you, why should I not accept you?

If the Divine did not accept Sheela, He would have stopped giving her breath long ago. Yet breath still moves! He raises you, seats you, lays you to sleep, takes complete care. When the Divine accepts Sheela, who am I to obstruct? I accept her too.

Only keep this in mind: if someone like Sheela sets out on the journey of resolve (sankalp), she will get into obstacles, into difficulty. The Divine will not be found, and she will also lose the peace of her life. You must address your own nature, in your own way. Bloom as you are, right where you are, and offer that very flower at the feet of the Divine.

Laziness is beautiful. Buddha could not have said such a thing to you. I can say such a thing. No one has ever been able to say such a thing to you—because all the religions that have existed in this world have special dogmas. They propose a particular path. Whoever fits that path fits; whoever does not begins to look wrong.

So Buddha would not even speak properly to that lazy monk. But you know how sweetly I speak to Sheela! Buddha would not even talk to him. I speak sweetly regardless—whether you are of resolve or of surrender; whether very hardworking or very lazy; whether you move by the way of knowledge or by the way of love—and even if you do not move at all, even if you just sit where you are, the sweetness of my speaking does not change. Because I say: if you sit there with courage, then the Divine will come there. What is the great need to go? It is not only you who are seeking the Divine; the Divine is seeking you too. If you sit down—Now You, Your will—become Daas Maluka—it will come; it will have to come. This fire is not lit from one side only; it is lit from both sides.

That’s all for today.