Geeta Darshan #3

As the realization of God deepens, longing increases. The nearer you come, the more the distance hurts. The closer you are, the sharper the pain. For only on coming near do you see for the first time that the whole life till now has been squandered in vain. And only on coming near do you see that even this last little distance is, in truth, a vast distance.

The one who has tasted is the one who suffers. If you have never tasted, how can there be pain? It is of what you have known a little that the thirst to know fully is born. What you have not known at all—how will the search for it arise?

Only when God begins to appear right before you does the fire of separation blaze in its intensity. That is why devotees weep; the non-devotees do not. Do you see non-devotees weeping in the world, in the marketplace, at their shops? You will find them laughing, smiling. They have no sense of the pain one feels at God’s door.

It is lovers who are seen weeping, not the loveless. Love makes you weep because love refines you. And do not take tears as misfortune; they are signs of great good fortune. When God’s pain begins to burn you, churn you, slay you—know then that the final hour of grace is near. For only when God has killed you in your separation can he enter you. When in the fire of your own longing you are utterly burned to ash, from that ash the new will arise. And that new within you is God’s own form.

When the devotee disappears, God is wholly available. The possibility lies only in your disappearing.

Naturally a question arises: if God is in front, the separation should end. But it does not end merely because God stands before you. It ends when you drink God—when he is no longer in front, but within. As when a thirsty man comes to a river: standing on the bank does not quench the thirst; you must step into the river. Even standing in the river does not quench it; you must bring the river within yourself.

So the more clearly the river is seen, the more the thirst intensifies. Till now you somehow managed; now you will not be able to manage. As the river comes nearer, your throat grows more and more frantic. At the sight of water the suppressed thirst surges up. Seeing water nearby, the mind which you had somehow been pacifying will no longer be pacified. Till now you walked bandaged and bound; now all arrangements break. Now a mad rush begins.

But even at the bank, even standing in the river, thirst does not end. Not until God and you become one—until the water begins to flow in your blood; not only into your throat but into your very heart—does thirst end.

As long as there is even an inch of distance between you and God, you will burn. Even that inch is an infinite distance. And only on coming near is the distance known. Do not take this as a paradox. While distance remains, you do not even know there is a God, that there is anyone to seek. For whom would you weep?

Before one can weep, a taste must come, a hint must be felt. Before one can weep, a remembrance must arise. But how will remembrance come if he has not been known at all? Even from afar if you have glimpsed his form, it must enter your dreams; then you can neither sleep nor stay awake; then day and night will be filled with restlessness.

Kabir has said: the one who thirsts for the Divine keeps awake night and day. He can neither sleep nor fully awaken. His restlessness is beyond measure. The fire of separation becomes terrible. A single cry begins to arise; the whole life-breath is filled with that one cry. Thirst is not only in the throat; it pervades every pore.

Therefore it is devotees who are seen weeping—supreme devotees who are drenched in separation. But that is a moment of good fortune. If you mistake those tears as misfortune, you will err. Do not misinterpret those tears; by misinterpreting, many turn back. “What use a river by which thirst increases as you approach? We came to quench our thirst.” “What to do with such water whose nearness inflames the fire?” Fear can seize you. Fear can also say, “If thirst grows as you near that water, then for heaven’s sake do not drink it—otherwise there will be nothing but flames! Run!”

Many have turned back from the very door of the Divine. They closed their eyes. Somehow they held themselves together. They were just about to fall in, just about to meet—only a tiny gap remained; one more step would have sufficed, but they returned. Then for births upon births they wander.

Therefore, the right interpretation at such a time is immensely meaningful. And the Master’s value lies precisely in these dimensions: he can give you the right interpretation. When your feet are being uprooted, he can plant them firm. When you prepare to run, he will tell you, “Just a little more; dawn is near. The goal is close—and you are running away!”

At that time a small support is needed—someone to hold you, to stop your feet. Do not turn back. Do not make a wrong interpretation.

And you are prone to misinterpret. How will you interpret rightly? Your logic will say, “Leave such a place—where coming near increases the fire, get away.”

Many come to me and say, “We never had so much unrest before meditation!”

One knows unrest only when one begins to grow a little quiet. Who could know unrest otherwise? If the whole wall is black, then draw even a fine white line, and the white line stands out—and the wall stands out too. Perception happens through opposites.

You have been restless; restlessness has become your nature. Apart from restlessness you have known nothing—so how would you even know it? The opposite is needed—contrast. If you know something else, comparison is possible. Therefore, the moment you begin to meditate, unrest seems to increase.

People are surprised, for they came to meditation thinking peace would increase. Peace does not increase at first; at first unrest seems to increase. It is not right to say unrest increases—unrest was there. Earlier you did not notice it; now you do. And as peace grows, you will notice still more. As you awaken, you will see how deeply you had slept!

A sleeping man does not know he is asleep; the awake one knows. In the morning, as sleep begins to break, as you turn over and get a hint of the waking world around—pots rattling, the milkman crying his wares, the street beginning to move—at that faint hint, now you are neither asleep nor awake; you stand in-between; the twilight has come. Then you know you slept the whole night.

In the moment of awakening, sleep is known; on becoming quiet, unrest is known. When bliss is about to descend, you will know what great sorrow you have come from. At the gate of heaven you will know that your journey till now was in hell—only at the gate. Before that you will not know, because the opposite is needed.

Coming close to God, the entire anguish of your being condenses and becomes apparent; therefore longing grows. Do not misinterpret that longing. It is good fortune. Receive that blessed moment—those tears, that separation—with rejoicing, with a sense of “ah, how wonderful.” Weep, but do not stop dancing. Let tears fall, but let your feet dance. Let the eyes be full of separation, but let the heart be filled with the aspiration and hope of union. Let there be thirst in the throat, but in the heart keep the trust that the river is near. Only a moment more.

And since you have waited so long, this moment too will pass. Infinite aeons have passed; universes have been made and undone; and you have remained thirsty. You have borne that much; for births upon births you wandered, the goal never came near; you kept straying. All that has already happened—so why panic for this one moment? Let the heart remain assured. There your faith will serve you; there your trust will be tested. For in that moment many have run away.

That is why it is difficult without a Master. Sometimes, even without a Master, someone attains—but only sometimes; we can treat that as an exception. Otherwise, without a Master no one attains. Because such stages come—who will give you confidence then? Who will hold your hand and stop you? Moments come when, even for a single instant, if the right interpretation is lacking, wandering begins again for endless time. And the person who once turns back from the temple of God shuts that journey down forever. He fears that path thereafter.

My own realization is that those whom you call atheists are precisely those who once turned back from God’s temple. Now they are atheists; now they say God is not. They are not trying to convince others; they are persuading themselves. The upheaval they once encountered near God in that journey of infinite time—the longing that terrified them so deeply—that in that panic only one defense remained: to convince themselves there is no God; then what is there to seek? Where is his temple? This world is everything; there is nowhere to go.

They are not persuading others. When the atheist argues that God does not exist, he is not convincing you; he is convincing himself—so his feet do not again turn toward that road. He fears himself: lest someone kindle that fire again; lest someone touch that wound; lest the longing arise; and lest he set out again toward that place from which he fled.

Rabindranath has a small poem: seeking and seeking, one day I reached the door of God. I had searched for endless time. As long as I had not found, the search was intense—how much I wandered, how much I labored, how many practices I undertook! And then today, as I stood at the door, the mind suddenly grew desolate. My hand had lifted the chain; I was about to ring, about to knock—when instantly a thought arose: Then what will you do? When God is found, what will you do?

Fear seized me; every hair trembled. What will I do? All the web of my doings will become useless. My journey ends. What will you do then? Nothing will remain to do. God means the state beyond which there is nothing to gain, nothing to do, nothing to become. God means a full stop.

The mind panicked. The very mind that was willing to search—for there was an occupation, a busyness, and the ego had a satisfaction too: I am seeking God. Others are fools, seeking wealth; others are ignorant, seeking position; others are searching the futile, the insubstantial. I am seeking the essential; I am journeying into the realms of mystery. The ego was very gratified, content.

Standing at God’s door, panic set in; the legs trembled: this is danger! The search will end! Nothing will be left to do! No ground will remain for the ego to stand upon!

Rabindranath has written a wondrous song; none like it has been written. He had great realizations, deep insights. He was extraordinary—not merely a poet; he was a rishi, like the seers of the Upanishads.

Rabindranath’s words should be understood as the words of the Upanishads. Rabindranath is a new Upanishad. Do not take him for an ordinary poet reciting in gatherings and enjoying applause; do not take him for some Kaka Hathrasi. He is a seer. His realizations have emerged from profound experience.

He says: Seeing this, I fled. I was so afraid I even set the chain down gently, lest it ring by mistake. And I was so afraid I took my shoes—worn up the temple steps—into my hands, lest the footfall be heard inside; lest he open the door and say, Come; lest he embrace me—and then I would be annihilated. There would be no rescue then. And seeing him standing there, even running away would seem unseemly.

The song’s final stanza says: From that day, having fled, I wander on all roads except the road to that temple. My search continues. I tell people I am seeking God, practicing yoga, meditating. And I know very well where he is. Leaving only that place, I search everywhere else.

For me, the atheist is precisely that person who, in some birth, suffered a very profound pain—so terrible that he does not wish to repeat it. He convinces himself there is no God. He argues with himself. He weaves a net of logic around himself. He conspires against himself. He is not out to ruin anyone else’s religion, nor has he anything to do with you.

Otherwise think: there are atheists who spend their whole life proving that God does not exist. If he truly does not exist, why waste your life on it? Do something else. God does not exist—finished. Yet they spend their whole life!

My own realization is that sometimes they even surpass devotees. Even a devotee does not live with such involvement for God as the atheist lives for denying him. They write, think, pile up arguments, explain, even compose great treatises that God is not.

There must be a psychology behind all this. Who worries about what does not exist? No one tries to prove that sky-flowers do not exist. No one proves that donkeys have no horns. What is there to prove? And whoever attempts to prove it is a donkey—what is the use? That donkeys have no horns is obvious; the matter ends. There is no need to prove it.

But if God does not exist, if he were like the horns of a donkey, then what madness are you engaged in? Whom are you proving it to? For whom are you fighting? What is the point? Even if you prove it, what have you gained? What was not there, you proved was not there—what did you gain? Put your life’s energy elsewhere; seek elsewhere.

But behind the atheist is a knot. The knot is this: unless he proves God does not exist, he fears his feet may begin to move in that direction again. This is a very unconscious process; it lives in his unconscious. He himself does not know.

Therefore whenever an atheist comes to me, I take delight in him. I know he once came very near. His journey was about to complete. He is worthy of compassion; do not be angry with him. He deserves compassion. And he has reached where many theists have never reached. One leap, one moment more—and it would have been dawn. He is worth working upon, not worth fighting. Not to be opposed or criticized—he is to be taken wholly into love. If somehow it returns to his memory, in a single instant he can stand again where he had fled from.

For whatever we have known through endless births, we may forget, but we cannot lose. That is not the law of life. What you have known, you may forget—but you cannot erase it. You can forget it, hide it deep within, press it down into the deep unconscious so that even you do not see it; you can hide it so well that even if you carry a light within, it does not show. But you cannot destroy it. What has been known has been known; it becomes an indelible part of consciousness.

Therefore an atheist can become a theist in a single moment. For a theist to become a theist takes a long time. In him even the fear of God has not yet entered; he is only curious. A curiosity has arisen: perhaps God exists; perhaps God gives bliss.

An atheist is like the village proverb: one scalded by milk blows even on buttermilk. He is milk-scorched; now he blows even on buttermilk. The theist is one who has drunk only buttermilk; he will drink boiling, searing milk as if it were buttermilk—he will be scalded, and only then will he know. Then perhaps he too will begin to blow even on buttermilk.

Therefore, as you come near to God, as you become a devotee… For me, a devotee means precisely this: one who has begun to come near to God, whom the pain of longing has begun to haunt; whose every pore has begun to burn; who is fevered with love; who has become deranged, seized by love’s madness.

That is why Kabir calls himself a madman—says Kabir, the mad one. Mad—to the whole world, mad. No one is willing to listen to him. People think him intoxicated. And people cannot understand his pain or his tears. Others aside, even he cannot understand what is happening! The impossible happens, the unheard-of occurs; bonds with the unknown are formed. The entire familiar web breaks apart.

No, there is no contradiction here. When God stands directly before the devotee, then for the first time longing awakens. At that time a Master is needed—to stop you, hold your hand, support you, give you trust—lest you run away from the temple. It is a matter of a little while. And once you leap into the river and take the river into yourself, the journey is complete. Only then does the rain of the bliss of union fall. First there is the pain of separation—the desert of longing—then the rain of union.

And let me also tell you: the greater your burning in separation, the deeper the peace and bliss of your union. Therefore if someone tells you a shortcut—saying he will show a path by which you will arrive without longing; if someone says, “Why go to the river? We will lay a pipeline; in your home the tap will drip with God’s water”—do not listen. For God cannot be attained without longing; if someone says so, he is deceiving you.

But that deception can become a business. The pundit, the priest, the clergy do just this. They say, “We will show you a cheap path. Why die in longing? Sit at home. We will perform the worship for you.” They say, “You need not do any sacrifice. We will do it; you just pay.” “Do not worry; do as we say; we will take care of the rest.” These middlemen are saying, “We will save you from the pain of longing. We will weep for you, laugh for you; you stay at home and mind your trade.”

Do not, even by mistake, fall into this delusion. For even if such a thing were to happen—which cannot happen; suppose it did—it would be like stuffing food into the stomach of a man who has no hunger. There will be no satisfaction. Not satisfaction—on the contrary, he will vomit. If we pour water down the throat of one who has no thirst, perhaps the stomach will be cleansed, but there will be no satisfaction.

It is just like this: if one who has never known longing has love come and stand at his door, how will he recognize it? Eyes of longing are needed. As much pain as hunger, that much satisfaction; that much savor. If your hunger is so deep that it cannot go deeper, then even dry bread will make the words of the Upanishads resound in your heart: annam brahma—food is Brahman. If hunger is deep, food becomes God. If thirst is deep, then in ordinary drops of water the shadow of nectar begins to fall.

What happens in ordinary life happens in that extraordinary life as well. The law is the same.

Weep for God, so that someday you may laugh in his joy. Let tears fall for him; only then will your feet one day tie on ankle-bells and dance. The deeper the arrow of longing pierces your heart, the more abundantly the spring of nectar will burst forth. The proportion of longing is the very proportion of the bliss of union.

Therefore you will not be the loser. Do not fear weeping. Do not hold back tears. Endure the pain; do not adopt devices to escape it. There are many devices to avoid pain. But whoever has escaped pain will escape God as well; he will escape bliss too.

If you can keep this sutra well in mind, then when longing comes you will take it as a blessing. You will understand: God is near—therefore longing has come. His shadow has begun to fall upon me somewhere. He is somewhere around. Otherwise how would these tears flow? How would this heart weep? How would every pore writhe? How would this fire burn?

Surrender is not a journey. The ego is no more, and surrender flowers. You light a lamp in the house; the darkness that had enclosed the house—does it go out through the doors? Does it make a journey? Have you ever seen darkness going out? The lamp is lit, and darkness is leaving! Stand at the door—you will never see darkness going out.

Darkness is not a thing that goes out. It cannot go anywhere. It is a lack, the state of the lamp not being there—an absence. Darkness is not something; it has no reality of its own.

Ego is darkness. It has nowhere to go; it cannot go. It has no existence; it is not a substance. That is why we call it false—a dream. The real question is: the lamp being lit.

Surrender is not a journey. If there were a journey, the ego would have to remain. Surrender is a leap, not a journey; an event that happens in a single instant. Surrender is sudden, immediate. The lamp is lit, there is light, and darkness disappears. There is not even a moment’s delay.

“Who makes the journey of surrender?”
First, there is no journey. The moment the ego drops, surrender happens—at once.

What you are, hidden within the ego—if you were only the ego, there would be no way to meet the divine. You can meet the divine because you are of the divine. Like meets like. You can meet the divine because in some sense you are still the divine—though you may not know it. Opposites cannot meet. The instant the ego falls, you find you are united—no journey occurs, the destination arrives.

So the real question is: how does the ego fall?

It will not fall by your effort, because all effort belongs to the ego. This is the intricate net. If you try, the ego will be trying—it will not fall. You may even hammer yourself into humility; then inside the ego makes a new proclamation: “No one is more humble than I. Look at my humility, how it blossoms! There are others in the world, but none more humble than me. I am the ultimate in humility; I am at the peak.”

That is the ego—declaring itself at the peak. Before, it declared itself through wealth, position, power. Now it declares itself through renunciation, humility, holiness, sainthood. The proclamation is the same.

Ego will not go by effort. Ego goes by seeing the ego. Not by doing, but by examining, testing, recognizing—by the attitude of witnessing.

Witnessing culminates in surrender. Just keep watching the play of the ego; do nothing. There is no need to do anything, because what is hidden within you is not a doer; it is a witness. Just watch. Watch the ego’s play—its lila. What a play it weaves! And how subtle!

You are walking alone on the road. Two men come out of a nearby house. Something changes within. Examine it, check from a little distance: what happened?
When those two were not on the road, you were walking differently. No one was looking; your face was different; you were humming a song; there was a lightness; you were simple, like a small child. Suddenly two men step out—something inside changes. You stiffen; the childlike quality is gone; simplicity is lost; your gait changes; the ego has arrived.

You are sitting alone at home—no one there; you are one way. A servant passes through the room. You may not even notice; the body hardly moves, but inside everything shifts. Observe, examine.

Someone comes and says, “I’ve never seen a man as intelligent as you.” Inside, a leap happens. You are atop a mountain peak. Keep watching inside—what is going on! This man uttered a few words. What are words? Bubbles in the air. He said, “You are very beautiful, very intelligent, I’ve never seen such a renunciate.” Inside, a leap happens. Just now you were on the ground; suddenly you are on Everest—you have conquered Gauri Shankar!

Another man comes and criticizes, condemns: “There is no one more low and dishonest than you.” A fierce blow lands; a wound opens. The ego writhes to take revenge. You flare up. This man you had taken as a friend becomes an enemy. You say, “Get out, or I’ll have you thrown out.” You push him out the door.

Keep examining! In countless forms, in countless situations, in countless events—just keep watching what is happening in this play: when the ego forms, when it is hurt, when it falls, when it stands up again, the many ways the game goes on. Just watch. Being the witness is enough.

If someday your seeing becomes steady—and it will become steady only by steady practice—you will not be able to see all at once. Seeing is the greatest art.

That is why those who have known we have called seers, the ones who see. And their words we have called darshan—seeing, vision—because they have seen, they have known. What have they seen? They have seen the play of the ego.

The day seeing is complete, the ego drops instantly. In that very moment surrender happens. In that very moment you are no more. Surrender is not something you do; it happens. If you try to surrender, it will remain false—the doer will always be the ego.

What has been “done” as surrender, you can take back. What is its worth? But when surrender happens, you cannot take it back—the taker is gone, the doer is gone; only the witness remains. You simply see that it is happening. Surrender is seen to have happened.

Watching the ego again and again, suddenly one day you find that in the very flow of that seeing, in the very light of that seeing, the darkness of the ego has dissolved. You find yourself gone—emptied, a void. Surrender has happened. You have entered the river’s current, and the river’s current has entered you. Now there is no distance between you and God. The only distance was the ego. The doer is God, and you had taken yourself to be the doer—that was the distance. There is only one doer: God; he alone is doing; all doing is his. You had assumed yourself the doer—this was the delusion. That delusion has dropped.

As you keep examining, the inner delusion keeps falling away. You will find you are not doing anything; everything is happening. Hunger arises, thirst arises—the search for water begins. Sleep comes—the bed begins to be prepared. Youth comes—desire surrounds you. Old age comes—desire drifts away like smoke.

As a small child you knew nothing of sex. You chased butterflies, caught flowers, brought pebbles and stones home. The family said, “Throw them away.” You thought they were precious—that too was happening. Then youth came, a new madness came. Now you don’t run after ordinary butterflies. You still run after butterflies, but now their names are woman, wealth, position. You still collect pebbles—only now their names are Koh‑i‑Noor, diamonds and jewels—you collect them. The game continues. Someone is making it happen. And all the while you think, “I am doing it.”

Anger happens—have you ever done it? Love happens—have you ever done it? Were you born, or did you create yourself? Will you die, or will you kill yourself? Even those who commit suicide do not kill themselves—that too happens; they cannot escape it. It happens. What can you do? The idea of suicide seizes a person; you did not create it.

If you analyze rightly, you will find: everything is happening. And without cause you created a doer in yourself—“I am the doer.” Let the capacity to see arise, and the sense of doership disappears. The one who does is one.

Witnessing is surrender. Witnessing is offering. Witnessing is your dissolution. And where you are not, there God is.

If you feel happy on seeing me, then when you cannot see me, you will feel unhappy. If someone’s praise of me pleases you, then when someone condemns or criticizes me, you will feel hurt. Pleasure and pain go together. If you choose one, you cannot escape the other. If you want to escape the second, you will have to drop both.

So do not be happy on seeing me—be quiet. If you become happy on seeing me, then when you cannot see me, you will be sad. Pleasure brings pain along with it. Therefore, seeing me, become quiet. Because pleasure is an excitation; it is not a very good state—it's a tension. That’s why one even gets bored of pleasure.

Have you noticed you cannot remain happy for long? One gets tired. To remain happy for long is difficult. Sorrow is rest. If you are happy, you will get tired; then in sorrow you will have to rest. Happiness is like day; sorrow is like night.

If you want to avoid sorrow, be alert: you will have to avoid happiness. If you nurture the excitation of pleasure, then who will endure the excitation of pain? You will have to endure that too. It is the opposite, but the other extreme of the same thing.

We want to avoid pain—where do we succeed? We want to gain pleasure—where do we truly obtain it? The one who realizes that pain is linked to pleasure, that they are two sides of one coin, throws away the whole coin. In throwing away that coin, there is peace.

When you come to me, do not cultivate a mood of happiness. Do not nurture any excitement. Come, be quiet. If you remain quiet near me, you will remain quiet away from me too. Because peace is not an excitation; peace is a natural state. In peace there is no tension. Therefore one can remain peaceful for eternity.

That is why Buddha gave place only to peace in liberation—not to pleasure. He did not even use the word “bliss.” Because even in “bliss” you carry the shadow of pleasure; you feel bliss is the supreme pleasure, a pleasure that will never end. But there is no such pleasure that never ends.

So Buddha called nirvana “peace”—a peace so deep that you yourself are not there; only peace is. That can remain for eternity; it has no end.

Pleasure is like music—say, Ravi Shankar playing the sitar. It is delightful, but how long can you listen to Ravi Shankar’s sitar? An hour or two at most. If he keeps striking the strings all night, you will call the police that the man will kill you. If he will not stop and follows you around playing the sitar, you will go mad in two or four days—no longer than that.

For an hour or two, there was great joy in the sitar; then it turned into pain; then madness began to approach. Because music too is an excitation—an impact, a blow. However sweet, it is a blow: the strike upon the string, the strike of sound, the resonance on the ear, the resonance on the heart. However pleasing, it strikes. The market’s noise, however unpleasant; the clatter at a railway station, however unpleasant—these too strike; you don’t want to hear them even for a moment. Ravi Shankar’s sitar you will want to hear for a little while.

But there is also a music that is anahata—unstruck—not born of impact. In that music there are no notes. That is what we have called Omkar; hence Omkar is called the unstruck sound. There are no fingers, no strings, no blow. What is that music? It is the music of emptiness, of silence. In that you can remain for eternity; you will never tire.

One tires of pleasure, and one tires of pain. Therefore the alternation goes on—from pleasure to pain, from pain to pleasure; night to day, day to night; work and rest, rest and work. The duality continues. With duality, unrest continues. Peace is becoming non-dual.

When you come to me, do not let happiness be born. What to do? Just keep watching. If you remain awake near me, happiness will not be born; it is born only in sleep. You remain quiet. Sit near me, meditative. Then you will find that near me or far from me, all is the same.

The day of Buddha’s death came. Ananda began beating his chest and weeping. There were other monks; among them was one, Mahakashyapa. He was sitting beneath his tree. News arrived; someone said, The Buddha’s last day has come; he has said, Today I will dissolve. Whether he heard or did not hear, he sat just the same. Ananda began to cry.

Buddha said, Ananda, why do you weep? Why don’t you look at Mahakashyapa? He too has received the news, but he sits silent—as if nothing has happened, as if no wave has arisen, as if nothing at all has occurred, as if no one has said that Buddha is about to die.

Ananda looked toward Mahakashyapa. He said, My understanding fails; I cannot grasp it. While you were here, there was so much happiness; with your going there will be great sorrow.

Buddha said, Ask Mahakashyapa. Mahakashyapa said, In his presence there was great peace; in his absence also there will be great peace. Because peace is an inner matter; it does not depend on his presence or absence. With his support the inner was cultivated; it is accomplished. Whether Buddha is or is not, there will be peace. Ananda, you are chasing after happiness; therefore you are entangled. Drop happiness. Peace!

Try to catch hold of the flavor of peace. Otherwise, how many days will I remain with you! Then you will be unhappy. The happiness I gave you, I will give you even more sorrow—because the staying is brief, and the not-staying will be very long.

Buddha lived eighty years; then two and a half thousand years passed. And those who found happiness with Buddha are still finding sorrow—two and a half thousand years! Now they will find sorrow birth after birth; that pain will remain. The one who found happiness with Buddha—how will he find happiness now without Buddha?

No, do not make that mistake at all. This mistake of “bliss”—avoid it. Mahakashyapa is the adept; he understood the secret of what is to be cultivated. So long as Buddha is present, cultivate peace.

And if you cultivate peace, you will be amazed: whether someone praises me or someone criticizes me, it will all become equal. Why are you hurt when someone criticizes me? Why do you feel good when someone praises me?

You do not understand. When someone praises me, your ego gets a boost: you feel you are with the right man. When someone criticizes me, your ego is wounded: you feel you are with the wrong man.

This has nothing to do with me. Neither can the one who praises truly praise me, nor can the one who condemns truly condemn me. Both are ignorant; neither has any idea of me. The one who praises knows one part; the one who condemns knows another part. Neither knows the whole; otherwise they would fall silent. Whoever understands me wholly will fall silent about me, because the whole can fit neither into praise nor into condemnation.

Those who do not understand—some of them criticize; those who do not understand—some of them praise. A friend praises because he loves; an enemy condemns because he hates. But friends can become enemies tomorrow, and enemies can become friends tomorrow; there is no obstacle in that.

You are hurt by criticism because your ego runs into an obstacle. You are pleased by praise because your ego swells. Watch this carefully. Do not tie it to me at all. It has nothing to do with me. Recognize it within yourself.

And if you cultivate peace near me, your vision will become clear. Only in peace does vision become clear and flawless. Then you will be able to smile. Seeing the one who praises, you will remain quiet; seeing the one who criticizes, you will also remain quiet. And then, I tell you, you will even become capable of transforming both.

If someone comes and abuses me, and you listen silently, and you remain as if someone drew a line on water—could not even draw it and it vanished; he looks back and there is no line—if you remain like that, perhaps the one who criticizes will have to think again: If by being near the man he criticizes this person has become like this, then it is necessary to reconsider.

But if someone criticizes and you become unhappy and upset, restless and angry, or you start defending me—how will you defend me?—or you start arguing and fall into dispute, then you miss the one opportunity you could have given the other to change.

No one ever convinces anyone through dispute. Has argument ever changed anyone? Do not fall into that delusion. You may give a thousand arguments; at most your arguments may close the man’s mouth. But they will not change his heart. He will remain on the lookout to bring even stronger arguments, to prove to you that you are wrong—because you challenged him, wounded his ego. He will take revenge.

There is no substance in argument; there is no juice in dispute. Something can happen by seeing you. If someone comes and abuses me and you listen quietly, as if nothing has happened, that man will return thoughtful. Your peace will pursue him. You will enter his sleep; you will suffuse his dreams. He will be restless. Again and again he will feel like coming back to you: What is the matter? I abused him; there should have been a response! Something has happened to this man!

And who does not wish for such a state—that someone abuses and no hurt is felt! You have seized this man; he will not be able to escape. And this has happened by coming near me; you have shown him the first doorway toward me. You have opened a door for this man.

Do not push; just open the door. By pushing you will not be able to bring him in. Has anyone ever been brought inside by being pushed? Just quietly open the door so that he does not even notice. If not today, tomorrow he will come; he will have to come. Your serene presence will pursue him.

Become peaceful. Do not grasp at happiness.

And you say you stand before my picture and say, If you cannot give me bliss, then just kill me.

That too is the same pursuit of pleasure. You are ready to die, but you are not ready to drop yourself. I tell you, there is no need to die; let only the ego die. You live quite happily. Your living is no obstacle at all. But you say, I am ready to die. Yet the one who says, I am ready to die—that “I” is not ready to be dropped.

Even while committing suicide you will remain the same I: I am committing suicide; I am sacrificing. As if you are complaining to the whole divine, to the whole existence: Look, if there is no bliss, then I renounce life. But the one who renounces is the ego.

The one who clings and the one who renounces—both are the ego. Wake up. By clinging or renouncing, nothing will happen.

Why do you ask for bliss? You have been asking for bliss forever—and that is why you are so miserable. Wake up. Let peace, emptiness, become your tone. And then bliss will come to you. Bliss is not obtained by asking; it showers when one becomes empty. Bliss is not given to beggars; it is given only to emperors. And I call him an emperor whose asking has stopped. The one who asks is a beggar.

If you say “bliss,” you will never get it. Just become peaceful. And the moment you are peaceful, you will find that from all sides the springs of bliss were flowing; because of your restlessness you could not see them. The treasure lay before you; your eyes were blind. The doors were open; you did not lift your eyes to look. You were missing it because of yourself. Existence is not eager even for a moment to deprive you.

The whole existence is giving support: Come—the doors are open; the treasure is yours. But you stand with a begging bowl. And into a begging bowl this treasure cannot fit; it is far too vast. The begging bowl will have to be dropped.

The ego is the begging bowl. Do not ask for bliss. Just become peaceful—and bliss will be given. Bliss always comes to those who have become peaceful. Those who ask receive sorrow. Then, in sorrow and pain, you say, I will even commit suicide; kill me; let me die.

There is no solution in that. Even if you die, you will remain you. Then you will be born again. Then you will begin asking for bliss again. This is exactly what you have been doing. This hocus-pocus is very ancient. You are not new; you are very ancient. Many times you have done just this: asked, not received; died; then asked again. But you did not allow the asking to die.

Do not you die; let the asking die. You live. You are eternal; you cannot die. How will you kill yourself? How will you erase yourself? You did not create yourself—how can you be the one to erase yourself? The one who created can erase. And, truly, no one created you. You are the very essence of this whole existence. You have been forever; you will remain forever—beginningless, endless. There never was a time when you were not, and there never will be a time when you will not be.

What will come of erasing? Erasing and erasing, you will go on being. Drop that matter altogether. Do not ask for bliss; ask for peace. And the delight is this: bliss has to be asked for; peace does not need to be asked for. Peaceful you can be; how will you be blissful? Tell me, what means of becoming blissful is in your hands? But peaceful you can be. Do what you can; the rest will happen on its own.

As when rain falls: the mountain remains empty, because it was already full; the holes become lakes, because they were empty. You become empty. Peace means becoming empty—becoming like a hollow. Bliss is raining; it will fill you. You will become a lake of bliss.

Who understands this? Who is saying, “There is much tamas in me”? Surely it is sattva that is speaking—because tamas never accepts itself. The very sign of tamas is denial: “Me—lazy?” Say “lazy” to a lazy man and he will snatch up a sword to fight: “Who said so? Me—lazy? Me—tamasic?” Even the tamasic drops his tamas for a moment to fight. You cannot call a lazy man lazy; he will pick up a stick. Tamas does not admit itself.

Who is thinking? Who is seeing that “I am tamasic”? That very voice is the tone of sattva. Recognize this voice properly. And lean a little more toward it. Only a shift of balance is needed; nothing else has to change. Energy is one. It is the same single energy that flows as sattva, as rajas, as tamas.

The very man who is asleep is the one who will awaken; the energy that sleeps is the very energy that will awaken; no “other” energy will come awake. Tamas will turn into rajas; rajas will turn into sattva. The current is one, the energy one, the power one. These three are only its modes of expression.

Right now the entire current—or most of it—does not flow through sattva; it flows through tamas and rajas. Yet a few drops are flowing through sattva as well. Take hold of those drops. Lean the rest of the current that way too. Only a little rebalancing is needed. When the three legs become equal—sattva, rajas, tamas, each carrying one-third of the energy—suddenly you will find music arising within; the anahata nada begins. Where the three become equal, they cancel one another, and from there the dimension beyond the gunas starts.

This is what Krishna is explaining to Arjuna—the whole division of the three gunas—so that he may go beyond them, become gunatita.

Your nature is beyond the gunas. You are split into three because you are asleep and you don’t know it. In sleep, more of the energy will flow through tamas—because sleep is the condition of tamas. When you are filled with ambition and run after position and wealth, more energy will flow through rajas—because movement, ambition, running, are the dharma of rajas. When you become quiet, when you seek meditation and samadhi, silence, the thought-free, optionless state, then the same energy begins to flow through sattva—because meditation, thought-freeness, optionlessness are qualities of sattva.

And when one day, in a certain fortunate moment, all three sit together, their tones fall into harmony, in that confluence the One is born. That is why people go to the Triveni for pilgrimage. That pilgrimage is within you. Where these three meet, there the Triveni forms; there is Prayagraj, there is the shrine; from there the One is experienced.

Don’t be frightened, don’t be anxious. All the provisions are present; only a little arrangement is needed. The Sufis say: the flour is there, the water is there, the salt is there, the greens are there, the wood is stacked, the matchbox is ready—but the meal is not cooked.

Everything is ready. Just a little organizing: light the wood; set up the hearth; mix some water into the flour; add a little salt; knead the dough; bake the bread; hunger will be stilled, fulfillment will be.

The Divine is present; only a small confluence has to be made. He is present within your three gunas; they have to be slightly coordinated. Religion is the art of coordination—nothing more. Then the One is born within you. Where the three meet, the One comes into being. Therefore the Triveni is a place of pilgrimage.