Geeta Darshan #2

Where there is demand, there is no prayer. It is demand that makes prayer fail. Prayer did not fail because you received or did not receive—no. Prayer failed the very moment you asked. The one who goes to God’s door asking will return empty-handed. The one who stands there empty-handed, without any ask, only he returns filled.

What does it mean to ask something of God? First, it means there is a complaint in you. Complaint is atheism. Complaint means: we are angry with what is. We are displeased with what God has given. It is not as we want; and as it is, we do not want it.

Complaint also means we think ourselves wiser than God. “What He is doing is wrong. He should do as per our advice—that would be right.” As if we know what is truly right for us.

If we are ill, we ask for health. But it is not necessary that illness is wrong. And very often even health cannot give what illness can give.

We are unhappy, so we ask for happiness. But it is not necessary that happiness brings happiness. Often happiness brings greater misery. Suffering polishes, refines, gives understanding. Perhaps only by passing through suffering will you be burnished enough to discover life’s truth—and happiness may prove a costly bargain for you.

Therefore the one who leaves “what is right” to God—that one is praying. The one who says, “This is right—now You fulfill it,” is not praying; he is advising God.

What is the worth of your advice? If only you knew what truly serves your good! But you do not. You don’t even know what you actually want. What you want in the morning, by noon you begin to deny; and what you wanted this evening may not be what you want tomorrow morning.

Look back at your wants. They change every day, every moment. And also look: when some wants do get fulfilled, what really gets fulfilled by their fulfillment? Had they not been fulfilled, what would be missing? We don’t truly know. What are we asking? Why are we asking? What will be the consequence?

I have heard: In a synagogue, an old Jew was praying, saying to God, “Even injustice has its limits! For seventy years—since I came to my senses”—he may have been about eighty-five—“for seventy years I have prayed to you. Three times a day I come to the house of prayer. Whether a child was born, or a daughter married; whether there was joy or sorrow at home; whether I went on a journey or returned; whether I started a new business or closed the old—there is not a single thing I have done in life that I did not begin with your prayer. I have lived exactly as the scriptures command. I never cast a bad eye on another’s wife; never coveted another’s wealth; did not steal; did not lie; did not cheat. What is the result? And my partner—wandering after women, he ruined his life. I never saw him pray to you. He finds theft, cheating, lies—all of it easy. He gambles, he drinks. Yet day by day his condition has improved. He is still healthy. I am ill. Not a scrap of money left in my hands. Except sorrow, nothing has fallen to my lot. What is the reason? And I am not saying you should punish my partner. I only ask: what is my fault? Why so much injustice with me? What sort of justice is this?”

In the synagogue God’s voice resounded: “Only a small reason. Because you have been nagging me day in, day out like an authentic wife. You think you pray three times a day? Three times a day you chew my head!”

If your prayer creates disturbance even for God, know well you will not find peace. What are your prayers? Nagging. You are chewing His head. These prayers are not evidence of your theism, nor of your prayerfulness. They have nothing to do with your heart. They are all your desires.

But our difficulty is such. Whether Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Muhammad, or Christ—they all say: all your wants will be fulfilled, but go to His door after dropping your asking. That is our trouble: then why would we go to His door at all?

Our problem is we want to go to His door precisely to get our petty wants fulfilled. And these teachers give a very contrary teaching. They say: drop your wants; only then will you be able to go to His door—and then even your wants will be fulfilled. Nothing will be left to ask; all will be given. But that condition—we cannot meet.

Mulla Nasruddin was a teacher in a small village. Slowly people withdrew their children from his school because he would arrive drunk and sleep all day. Finally his wife said, “Change your character a little, change your conduct. Stop drinking, or no one will send their children to you.”

Mulla Nasruddin said, “You’ve got it backward. I take the trouble to teach precisely so I’ll have money to drink. And you say, ‘Quit drinking so children will come to study.’ But if I quit drinking, what would I teach children for! I teach only so I can get some money to drink.”

Our whole condition is like this. We go to God’s door so that some petty desire may be fulfilled. And all these teachers say: go there only after dropping desires; only then will you enter His door; only then will your voice reach His ear. But our predicament is: if so, why would we want to raise our voice at all? Why would we go to His door? Why would we knock? We go there only to have a desire fulfilled.

But the one who wants desires fulfilled does not go to His door. He may go to the temple’s door, to the mosque’s door, but not to His. For His door becomes visible only when the mind is emptied of asking. His door is not built in some building. His door is in that consciousness where there is no demand, no craving, only acceptance. Where there is complete acceptance of His will—surrender to what God is doing—there, in that heart, the door opens.

Do not mistake the temple’s door for His door, because with desires intact you can enter a temple. His door is in your own heart. And on that heart stands a wall of desire. Let that wall fall, and the door will open.

So do not ask why your prayers, your bhajans, your meditation do not get your wants fulfilled. Because of your wants there is no bhajan, no meditation, no prayer. Therefore the question of fulfillment does not arise. That which never began—how will it be completed? Do not think you are missing the last step; you are missing the first. The first step itself is absent; the last step is not the issue at all.

Love is without demand. Love is unconditional. When you love someone, do you ask for anything? Do you set conditions? Love itself is bliss. Prayer is love at its peak. If prayer itself is your joy—if your bliss does not lie beyond prayer, if there is no wish standing behind it saying, “When this is granted, then I’ll be happy,” if joy arises in the very act of praying—only then does prayer happen. So when you go to pray, take prayer itself to be the joy. Beyond it there is no other joy.

I have heard: A fakir once dreamt at night that he had reached heaven. There he saw Meera, Kabir, and Chaitanya dancing and singing. He was surprised and asked an angel nearby, “They’re dancing and singing here too! We thought now that they’ve reached heaven, this commotion would stop. They did this on earth as well. We saw Chaitanya dancing and singing just like this on earth. We saw Meera singing kirtan like this. Kabir—this is what he did on earth. And if the same is happening in heaven—if after coming to heaven this is still what happens—then what difference is there between earth and heaven?”

The angel said, “You’re making a small mistake. You think Kabir, Chaitanya, and Meera have come to heaven. You think saints come to heaven. That is exactly your mistake. Saints don’t come to heaven; heaven happens in saints. Wherever saints are, there is heaven. Don’t imagine the saints have arrived in heaven; it is that they are singing and rejoicing here, and therefore this place is heaven. Wherever they are, there will be heaven. And they never danced in order to attain heaven. In dancing itself they found heaven. Therefore this joy has no end. Wherever they will be, there will be this joy. There is no way to put saints in hell.”

You usually think saints go to heaven. There is no way to consign saints to hell. Wherever a saint is, he is in heaven—because the saint’s heart is heaven.

When prayer truly arrives in you, you will not ask whether it has been fulfilled. The very coming of prayer is its fulfillment. After that, nothing is left. If even after prayer something remains to be gained, then on this earth there exists something greater than prayer. And if after praying there is still something left to get, then you do not know what prayer is.

Prayer is the end. A prayerful heart is the last blossomed flower of this world. It is the highest peak a human being can attain. Beyond that, there is nothing beyond.

But beyond your prayers lie very petty things: a job to be gotten, a child to be born, a lawsuit to be won.

Do not take such prayers to be prayer; otherwise you will remain deprived of the real. Real prayer means the celebration of existence. Real prayer means: thank you for the fact that I am. My being is such a great grace of God that for it I give thanks. Even a single breath comes and goes…

Have you ever thought: what need does existence have for you? If you were not, what loss would there be? Have you thought what necessity you are to existence? If you are not, what would be erased? And when you were not, what was lacking? If you had never been, would any place in existence remain empty? No meaning, no necessity of you is visible—and yet you are. The moment a person feels: there is no reason for me to be; there is no need for God to sustain me; and yet I am, yet I have being, yet there is life in me—

This sense of “Ah!”—this astonished gratitude—from it a dance arises, a song arises. This celebration of life, this feeling of gratefulness toward God: “I am of no particular use at all, and yet such is Your love that I am. Still You hold me and bear me. Perhaps I only dirty Your earth a little; perhaps I make Your existence a bit sad and sick. Perhaps my being only creates obstacles and nothing else. I am like a rock in the stream of Your music. And still I am. And You hold me as if without me this existence could not be.”

This “Ah!”—this gratitude—from this blessedness the song that arises, the bowed head, the dance, the wave of joy that wells up—its name is prayer. It need not be in words.

Words are needed only because we have not learned the art of living. Otherwise prayer would be silence. Words are for the novice, for the beginner who knows nothing yet. The one who learns the art—his whole existence becomes the dance of gratitude.

A poor fakir was praying in a mosque. Near him a very learned scholar of scriptures was also praying. Seeing the poor fakir, the scholar felt at once… A scholar always feels the other is ignorant. The pleasure of being a scholar is precisely this: the other’s ignorance is visible, and the ego is gratified by the other’s ignorance.

So, seeing the poor fakir—his clothes not proper, his appearance uneducated, uncultured, rustic—the scholar thought, “What could this man be praying! And since my own prayer hasn’t yet been heard, who would be listening to his! How can the prayer of such an uncouth, rustic, uncultured fellow reach God! I have refined and refined mine, made it subtle and pure—and still my voice hasn’t reached; how could his reach!” Yet he became curious to hear what the fakir was saying, who was softly humming.

The fakir was saying to God, “I don’t know language, nor do I know the arrangement of words. So I will recite the entire alphabet—A, B, C, D… all of it. You put it together, for in these letters all prayers are contained. You yourself compose the one that is fitting.”

The scholar was alarmed: “This is the limit of stupidity! What is he saying! ‘I know only the alphabet; I know only the letters; I’ll recite them all, and the arranging is Your job, because all scriptures are made from these, and all prayers are formed from these. I will blunder; You will arrange it right. Your will is my will!’”

The scholar was greatly disturbed. He closed his eyes and said to God, “This is too much. My prayers have not yet reached You, because none of my demands has been fulfilled—for we think a prayer has reached only when a demand is granted. And this man—what is he saying!”

He heard in his meditation that the fakir’s prayer had reached—because he had neither any demand nor any pride of scholarship. He wasn’t even stating his want. He was saying, “You compose it.” The one who leaves it that totally to Me—his prayer has reached.

Prayer is to leave it to Him. Clutching and holding is desire; leaving it to Him is prayer. Considering oneself wise is desire; feeling that all wisdom is His and we are fools—that state of heart is prayer.

It is a little complex, but try to understand. As soon as a seeker begins the journey, he has no clue about the within. He knows only the outside. He has experience of the outer. If he is to be taken within, even then he will have to be taken within by using the outer as a support. And if he is to be freed from the outer, that too will have to happen gradually with the help of the outer.

So God is placed outside. It is only a device—a method—that “God is up there in the sky.” God is everywhere. There is no place where he is not. He is the same outside and inside. In truth, inside and outside are distances created by us. For him there is neither inside nor outside.

In your house you say the sky within the room is the “inside,” and the sky outside the room is the “outside.” But the sky is one. If the walls collapse, there is neither inside nor outside. What appears to us as within and without is also one. It is only the thin wall of our ego that creates the distance.

Therefore it seems as if there is my soul inside and your soul outside. But the soul is like the sky. The day the sense of “I” falls, inside and outside also fall. That day only That remains; there is no inside or outside. But when the seeker begins, you have to speak to him in the language of the outside. You will understand only the language you already know.

It’s a delightful point: even if you have to learn a foreign language, it has to be explained through the language you already know. You know the language of the outer. To explain the language of the inner, one must begin with the language of the outer.

So the devotee keeps God outside, and says: renounce all lust for the world and attach all that lust to God. This is because lust is what we actually have; we have nothing else. But lust has one peculiarity: if you want to preserve lust, you need many lusts. To keep lust alive, it needs ever-new objects. The more the lusts, the more lust survives. The moment the totality of lust is fixed on God, lust begins to evaporate.

Try a small experiment and you will know. In the darkness of night place a lamp in your room, and fix your eyes upon the flame without blinking. After only two or three minutes of unwavering gaze you will repeatedly suspect that the lamp has vanished. The flame will disappear off and on. If your eyes remain fixed, several times you will be startled: where has the flame gone? As soon as you are startled, the flame reappears. The flame does not go anywhere. But if you want to preserve the eyes’ capacity to see, they must see many things. If you fix them on just one thing, in a short while the eyes stop seeing; thus the flame seems to be lost.

Whatever you concentrate upon—first other things disappear and one remains; shortly even that one will disappear. Concentration first dissolves the many, and then even that upon which you were concentrating.

If all lust is withdrawn from the world and placed upon God, at first the world will be lost. And one day you will suddenly find that God too has been lost from the outside. And the day God is lost from the outside, you suddenly arrive within—because now there is no longer any way to remain outside. The world used to hold you; you left it for God. And when only the One remains, that too suddenly disappears—you find yourself flung inward.

And this concept of God we have placed outside is actually the noblest conception of what is hidden within us. It is your future, your possibility, which we have projected outward. It is not outside; it is within. But we understand only the language of the outside, and by the outer language we must learn the inner.

Psychologists today are experimenting much on why, in concentration, the object gets lost. Wherever concentration happens, in the end the very object you concentrate upon also vanishes; it does not remain. The reason is that the very existence of mind is restlessness. For mind to be, it needs movement. Mind is a flow, a river current. If mind is not given a flow, it ceases—that is its nature.

There is no such thing as a stable mind. When we say “restless mind,” we are repeating ourselves; we should not say “restless mind,” because restlessness itself is mind. Saying “restless mind” uses two words needlessly, because the very meaning of mind is restlessness. And there is no such thing as a still mind; wherever stillness comes, mind dissolves. Just as there is no illness called “healthy illness”—as soon as health comes, illness disappears—so when stillness comes, mind disappears. For mind to exist, non-stillness is necessary.

Understand it this way: there are waves on the ocean, or many ripples on a lake; the lake is agitated. We say, “the waves are very restless.” We should not say that, because restlessness itself is the waves. When the lake becomes still, will you say, “now there are still waves”? There are no waves then. Only when there are no waves is there peace. Waves are only when the lake is disturbed. So restlessness is the wave.

Your soul is the lake; your mind is the waves. There is no such thing as a peaceful mind. Restlessness itself is mind.

So if in any way we fix ourselves upon a single thing, in a short while the mind will be lost, because mind cannot be concentrated. That which concentrates is not the mind; it is the inner ocean, the inner lake. Only That can be one-pointed.

Therefore any object—whether an image of God, a yantra, a mantra, a word, any form or shape—whatever it is, its sole use, kept outside, is that you will forget the whole world and one will remain. In the moment one alone remains—simultaneously—in that very moment even the one will be lost, and you will be thrown into your within.

This outer object is a jumping board from which the leap into the inner happens.

So become concentrated on anything. That is why it makes no difference whether you call that point of concentration Allah, Ishwar, Ram, Krishna, or Buddha. What you call it does not matter. What you do matters. What you do with Ram, Buddha, Krishna, Christ—this matters. What you call them does not.

Doing means: do you use them to make yourself one-pointed? Have you made them an outer point from which you will leap within? Then what difference does it make whether you leapt from Christ, from Krishna, from Ram! The day you arrive within, you will meet That which is neither Christ, nor Ram, nor Buddha, nor Krishna—or is all of them. From where you took the leap will be forgotten.

Who remembers the diving board once the ocean is reached! Who remembers the steps once the summit is attained! Who remembers the road once the destination arrives! Which road it was does not matter. All roads can be used; it depends on the one who uses them.

Right now you are outside; therefore the conception of God has to be kept outside—because of you, not because of God. The language of the inner would not be intelligible to you.

There was Ikkyu, a Zen fakir. Someone came and asked Ikkyu, “Give me the essence, the very gist of religion in brief, because I do not have much time. I am a man of work and business. What is the fundamental essence of religion?” Ikkyu was sitting on sand; with his finger he wrote: Meditation. The man said, “Good, but expand a little. I did not understand.” Ikkyu wrote again, in larger letters on the sand: Meditation. The man became a bit suspicious: “What will happen by repeating the same word! Make it a little clearer.” Ikkyu wrote in even bigger letters: Meditation.

The man said, “Are you mad? I am asking you to clarify.” Ikkyu said, “The clarity will come by your doing, not by my doing. Now you clarify. I have told you the essence. The doing is yours. I cannot say anything more than this; if I say more, it will create a mess.”

Probably nothing of it made sense to that man, because the language Ikkyu was speaking would have been too subtle for him. He said the purest thing. But there must also be the capacity to understand the purest.

Therefore those who are very compassionate speak in our impure language—not because there is any relish in speaking impurely, but because we can understand only the impure. And only slowly can we be drawn onto the inner journey. We relinquish an inch at a time with great difficulty. We grip the world so tightly that even an inch we give up with great struggle! And this is a journey of giving up everything. Until the grasp loosens and the hands are empty, they do not rise toward God. Hands that are full cannot bow at his feet; only empty hands can be placed at his feet. For the man with full hands does not bow.

That is why Jesus has said: a camel may pass through the eye of a needle, but a rich man will not be able to enter my kingdom of heaven.

Which rich man is he speaking of? All are rich whose hands are full; who feel they possess something; who feel there is something worth holding; who think they have some treasure. They will not be able to enter that gate.

For the one who has something, the gate will seem very narrow; he will not be able to pass through it. For the one who has nothing, the gate is as vast as can be—so vast that the whole world could pass through it. But for the one who has something, even the eye of a needle is large; the gate will become small. The more our hands cling to things, the heavier and weightier we become, incapable of flight. The more our hands become empty...

Therefore what Jesus meant by inward poverty is only this: the one who has let go of all holding on to the world is inwardly poor.

But man is very troublesome—very clever—and in all his cleverness he traps only himself. Because here there is no other whom you can trap. You yourself weave the net and get caught; you yourself dig the pit and fall into it. We each dig our own graves and keep them ready—so that whenever the chance to fall comes, we can fall! Others make us fall, yes, but we are the ones who dig the graves. And those others help us only because we have been helping them!

Man is very complicated and thinks he is very smart. So sometimes it happens that he leaves outer, worldly wealth, and then he clings to the wealth of inner qualities.

I have heard: a so-called saint was being introduced. The introducer—as often happens at speeches—kept heating up, his enthusiasm mounting. He began showering high praise on the fakir: “There is no other such fakir upon the earth. Knowledge like his happens once in millions of years. Great pundits come and sit at his feet and bow their heads. Love like his is impossible to find again. People of all kinds bathe in his love and are purified.” He went on and on.

When the introduction was nearly over, the fakir gently tugged the speaker’s coat and said, “Do not forget my humility. Don’t forget my humility—say something about that too!”

“Say something about my humility!” Now, would that man be humble? Then even humility has become ego; humility has become an asset. This man may have left everything outwardly, but within he is holding everything. Nothing has been left, because the grasp has not been left. And the one who is holding on to humility is as egoistic as anyone else. Often the gross ego is visible even to oneself, but the subtle ego is not.

This journey to God is, in truth, an inner journey. But if we can let go outwardly, we begin sliding inward. So that we can let go outwardly, we have placed God outside. All our temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras are symbols. In reality, there is no temple outside. But temples had to be built outside because we can understand only outer temples at present. But that outer temple can be a place from where, leaving the world, we enter the temple. And then even that temple will be left. Because when such a vast world has been left, how can this tiny temple remain for long! And when the world is gone, the image of God seated in the world will also be gone. It is only a pretext.

So that we can leave the world, we keep God outside. Then that too is left. And the one who could leave the many will leave this one too. When neither the many remains nor the one remains, only then, in truth, does That One remain which we have called advaita—nonduality. That is why we did not call it “one.”

Because the many are outside, to leave them we use the conception of the One God. We leave the world for the sake of that One. Then when even that One is left, what remains—what shall we call it? We cannot call it “many”—the many was the world; it has gone. We cannot call it “one” either, because that “one” which we made outside was also a device, a pretext; it too is gone. Now what remains: what name shall we give it? We cannot call it many; we cannot call it one. So we devised a wonderful term: advaita—not two. Neither one nor two. We have only said: that which is not two. We have denied numbers.

All numbers are outside—“one” and “many” both. Both have been dropped. Now we have reached the place where there is no number. But to reach this, outer symbols can serve as supports.

There is, of course, a danger. The danger lies in man, not in the symbols. The danger is that someone may turn the ladder itself into an obstacle. And one who is intelligent can turn even a stone lying on the path into a step. It depends on you whether you use it as a stair and climb and move on, or whether you sit down beside it, saying, “Now there is no way to go; this stone blocks the path.” A step can become an obstruction; an obstruction can become a step. It depends on you. Symbols become dangerous if someone clutches them tightly. Symbols are for letting go. They are only pretexts. Use them—and throw them away. And the one who keeps dropping everything, as long as anything remains to be dropped, only that person is able to reach the final point.

One more question, and then I will take up the sutra.

First thing: How should an experience-less seeker move toward experience? First, he must truly see that he is experience-less. That is very difficult. Everyone fancies, “But I do have experience.” To admit one’s lack of experience is hard. Yet in religion we are experience-less—this recognition is the first necessity. You can only search for what you do not have; what you already have, you don’t go looking for.

If a sick man considers himself healthy, the question of treatment does not arise. The first need of a sick man is to realize he is sick. If a person locked in a prison thinks he is free, there is no possibility of release. And if he has decorated the prison walls from the inside, taking the cell to be his home, then even if you go to free him he will refuse, “Why are you throwing me out of my house?” If he has gilded his handcuffs and studded his chains with glittering stones, he will mistake them for ornaments—and if you try to break them, he will cry out, “Save me, I’m being robbed!”

What should a prisoner do to come out? First, understand that he is in prison. Then the question of coming out can arise. Then he can look for a way. Then he can listen to those who have gone out, ask them how they went beyond. Anything is possible—after the first step: the experience-less person must realize, “I am experience-less.”

But it is very difficult. We read books; scriptures we can recite; their words fill us and create the illusion that we, too, have experience.

Just the other day an elderly gentleman came to me. As soon as he sat down he said, “I have already experienced samadhi, but still I thought I would come and ask you.” I said, “Then make it clear. If samadhi has already happened, let’s talk of something else; leave that aside. What is left to ask?” He said, “I just thought, what harm in asking?” I said, “If it has happened, don’t waste my time or yours. Let me give my time to those for whom it has not happened.” He said, “Alright, then you may assume that it has not happened. But tell me how to meditate.” I replied, “I will not assume anything. You yourself decide. If it has happened, the matter ends. If it has not, then we can begin.”

What an obstruction the ego is! He wanted to know what meditation is, yet he wouldn’t admit he didn’t know. He thought, “Of course I know meditation; I just thought I’d get your opinion too.” I told him, “I don’t give answers to passersby. Go back, decide, come with clarity. I won’t be satisfied with ‘as if.’ Say yes if it has happened—finished. Say no if it hasn’t—then we can start.”

We hear, we read, words crowd the mind, settle there; we repeat them and imagine we know. Perhaps a little less, someone else a little more—but we think, “We do know.”

Remember: experience is not in degrees. It is not “more” or “less.” Either it happens, or it does not. If you feel “I have a little bit of it,” don’t deceive yourself. The divine cannot be cut into pieces. Either it is known wholly, or not at all. No one truly knows “an inch of God.” If you think you know a quarter and someone else knows a full measure, you are mistaken. The divine is indivisible, an undivided experience.

If you feel you have “somewhat” of it, know that you have none. And one in whom it has happened—his whole search ends. If your seeking still continues, if even a trace of dissatisfaction remains, if there is any feeling of something missing, know that the experience has not yet happened. After it, no sense of lack remains, no wound of discontent remains—nothing remains to obtain.

If anything seems yet to be gained—if there is a sense of incompletion—know that it has not happened. God is the end—the end of all experience, all journeying, all search.

So first, the experience-less seeker must realize, “I am experience-less.” Not because I say so—he himself must feel it. That very realization becomes the path.

Keep one distinction in mind. One who is not a seeker asks, “Does God exist or not?” The seeker asks, “Have I experienced or not?” Understand this difference. The non-seeker—just curious, a philosopher—asks, “Is there God?” His interest is in God as an object, not in himself. This inquiry is futile. How will you decide whether God is or is not? The meaningful inquiry is: “I have not experienced; how may I come to experience?” Whether God is or isn’t is not the big question; the question is how I can know. If I experience, then he is—for me. If I do not, it does not prove he is not; perhaps the fault lies in my search.

Therefore a seeker never denies. He says only, “I have not yet experienced.” He will not say, “There is no God.” What right have I to say God is not? It is enough to say, “I do not know.” But our language is mistaken.

We constantly speak forgetting ourselves. If someone says something you don’t like, you don’t say, “What you said does not appeal to me.” You say, “You are wrong.” You dump the responsibility on the other.

The sun rises and you find it beautiful; you don’t say, “This sunrise appears beautiful to me.” You say, “The sun is beautiful.” You err—your neighbor may say, “Not beautiful at all.” He is also saying, “It doesn’t appear beautiful to me.” Why drag the sun in? The only thing decidable is how it seems to you.

Someone abuses you; you don’t like it—don’t say, “This abuse is bad.” Say, “It feels bad to me. For the kind of person I am, this abuse feels very painful.”

The seeker keeps himself at the center. If God is not apparent to him, he will not declare, “There is no God in the world.” That is foolishness. He will say, “I do not experience the divine in the world—for me.” The seeker always keeps himself the center. Then the real question arises: “Since I do not experience, what can I do so that I may?” He won’t ask for proofs that God exists; he will ask for paths.

So first: a deep recognition that I have no experience. Second: What is the way to experience? If I have no experience, it means I am not in the place from which it can be seen; not standing at the door from which it can appear; not on the plane from which its glimpse can come. My veena is not tuned; its strings are loose or broken. I must tune my instrument; I must become worthy of experience.

The search for God is the search for self-transformation. It is not a hunt for God out there; it is self-purification. I must become capable of seeing, capable of his touch and taste.

Are you aware that among all the things around you, you register only a tiny fraction? Scientists say you notice about two percent of what is present—because you attend to that two percent. Your attention decides your experience.

You sit in a car; the engine makes a faint knock. You won’t notice; the driver will, instantly. Same seat—why don’t you hear? Your attention is elsewhere; his is on the engine.

You sit in your room. The wall clock ticks, yet you don’t hear it. Close your eyes and sit silently, and the ticking will surface—even amidst outside noise, if you give attention, you will hear it. If you grow a little quiet and attentive, even your heartbeat becomes audible. It beats all day, but you don’t notice because your attention is not there. Wherever attention goes, experience happens.

So the seeker must ask, “How should I attend in order to experience the divine? Where should I focus so that if he is, I may recognize his presence?” His recognition depends on the flow of his attention.

You see what you look for. A cobbler doesn’t see heads, he sees feet; his attention lives at the level of shoes. By a glance at your shoes he can gauge the state of your pocket; your shoe tells your story.

I heard of a tailor who went sightseeing in Rome. On returning, his partner asked, “What did you see?” He told many things and said, “I also went to see the Pope—an amazing man!” The partner said, “Tell me more about him.” The tailor said, “Spiritual, slender, no more than five-foot-two—and his shirt size is thirty-six, short!” He had gone to see the Pope, but being a tailor his attention went to the shirt. If he returns reporting only the Pope’s shirt, it doesn’t mean the Pope had no soul—it means to see the soul requires a different kind of man.

Where attention rests, that is what appears. So the seeker asks, “If I don’t experience, is there some dimension I never attend to? How can I aim my attention there?” Then there are methods of attention, methods of prayer. Choose among them. Whichever feels congenial, dive in wholly. If prayer, kirtan, bhajan fill your heart with joy and freshness, then don’t worry about anything else.

But we are strange people. Even in the search for God, we worry about the neighbor—“What will people think? If I sing at dawn, the neighborhood will think I’m crazy.” We are so concerned with neighbors that even while dying we don’t remember God; we worry, “Who will accompany the corpse? Will so-and-so come to the cremation?” Alive we are obsessed with neighbors; maybe if you begin to dance, your neighbor will dance too—he is also waiting for you!

If prayer appeals to you, drop fear, let your heart dance with joy, dissolve in it. If prayer doesn’t feel right, don’t sit condemning prayer; there are paths without prayer—meditation, methods to fall beyond thought. Begin the experiment of dropping thought.

But we are funny people. If told to pray, we say, “What will people say!” If told to meditate, we say, “Too hard; I can’t.” We find a thousand excuses not to do. A seeker finds excuses to do—any excuse will do, but he will do. One whose search is creative—today or tomorrow he turns his attention toward where the divine can be sensed.