Geeta Darshan #9

True masters are certainly different. Broadly, three kinds can be seen.

First is the kind of master like Krishnamurti; Mahavira and Buddha belong to the same line. Such a master has one central message: become utterly free, do not depend on anyone. Your liberation lies in your freedom. Liberation is not a final event waiting at the end; you must learn freedom from the very first step—only then will it flower at the last.

Krishnamurti’s famous book is The First and the Last Freedom: the first freedom is the last freedom; the very first step of freedom is already the last step.

So: do not go into anyone’s refuge, do not surrender anywhere, do not bind yourself to any ideology; avoid belief. Mahavira called this the state of ashraya-shunyata—no refuge. Take no shelter.

Buddha’s last message at the time of his death—Ananda asked for a final word to treasure forever—was: Appo deepo bhava! Be a light unto yourself. Do not borrow someone else’s lamp, do not live by another’s light; only then can you reach the ultimate freedom.

Naturally, one who has heard such a master will not go to another master. In fact, it is difficult even to remain near Krishnamurti himself. If he has truly heard, he will run away from Krishnamurti too. He remains there only because he has heard incompletely. But he has at least heard this much: he will not go anywhere else, he will bow to no one else. At most he will bow to Krishnamurti.

Even that is a misunderstanding. If truly heard, he would not bow even there. Whether it is Krishnamurti, or Krishna, or Buddha—what difference does it make? If you bow, you have slipped. The very message there is a rejection of bowing.

But the devotee makes compromises: “All right, we will bow to one, not to another. And we will bow to the one who taught us not to bow to anyone.” Yet all other doors close. Such a person becomes narrow.

Now this is worth pondering. Krishnamurti, Buddha, Mahavira do not want anyone to be narrow; they want you to become spacious like the open sky. Hence they insist: do not bind yourself, do not create a prison. Then you will remain vast, with no boundaries, no sect, no scripture.

But what Krishnamurti says is not exactly what the listener hears—unless a Krishnamurti is listening to Krishnamurti. But why would Krishnamurti go to listen to Krishnamurti? The listener hears from his own level. He says, “Exactly! Don’t bow anywhere—this we always knew.” It is his ego speaking, not freedom, not liberation.

When Krishnamurti says, “Don’t bow anywhere,” he is not saying, “Stand stiff with arrogance.” He is saying: bowing to a person becomes slavery. So do not bow to anyone in particular; simply bow. Not “to” someone—let there be pure bowing. Bow to the Whole: that is the message. Bow to the free sky—why bow to small courtyards? When the vast is present, why bow to the petty? When the infinite is here, why bow to the limited? He is saying: bow to the Total. But the listener understands: don’t bow at all, remain rigid.

Krishnamurti fears that if you bow to anyone—even if it be a Krishna—you will get entangled. He is wary even of that much bondage. But you hear: cling to yourself, never bow. In that case, it would have been better to bow to Krishna—he is far bigger than you. You are utterly small, the smallest of the small.

But the listener hears only what he is capable of hearing. He makes his own commentary. Ninety-nine out of a hundred who listen to Krishnamurti miss what he is saying; hardly one understands. That one will have no difficulty coming to me. He will come as close as one can come—no obstacle will arise. Because he has understood: do not cling, do not bind yourself; he is free—every door is open. Now his Ganges can flow anywhere; every path is his.

But for the ninety-nine, Krishnamurti becomes a bondage. “He is the one who taught us not to bow; he has validated our ego.” Having leaned on that, they cannot leave him, because wherever they go they will be told to bow.

So, there is the first kind of master—Krishnamurti, Buddha, Mahavira. The second kind are like Meher Baba—just the opposite approach. There the art is bowing. They say: bow totally, don’t hold back. The master is the divine. He is the Ultimate. Lose yourself completely.

Meher Baba is in the lineage of Krishna, who tells Arjuna: mam ekam sharanam vraja—abandon all, all your dharmas, and come to my sole refuge. Chaitanya Mahaprabhu! All who have attained through the path of devotion say: let go of all. Jesus says, “Leave all and come; follow me!”

Understand this second kind too. They are saying: bow so totally that you do not remain. No one else binds you; it is your tiny identity that gets bound. What can the other bind? If there is no ego in you, no one in the world can bind you—there is nothing left to bind. When the ego disappears, you become the open sky. Try to hold the sky in your fist—no one can.

So they say: do not fear bowing, otherwise you will remain bound. If you keep even a trace of yourself, a little stiffness remains—and that stiffness is what gets chained. That ego is the root of all your afflictions; it entangles you in the world, ties you to wealth, to position. You will be bound to money, to status, to wife, to husband—but you want to avoid only the master? While the master is the one bondage that can become liberation.

Thus masters like Meher Baba say: drop yourself utterly; forget that you are. Become so erased that there is no one left to be dependent. Who will enslave you then? Therefore surrender totally.

Remember, in this world perhaps one percent can reach through the path of Krishnamurti, Buddha, Mahavira—not more. The disease of ego is terrible; in the name of freedom, only the ego gets strengthened.

With a Meher Baba, the number who reach is ninety-nine percent, because if you drop the ego, nothing is left to bind and nothing remains to be liberated. If you remain even in your liberation, then even liberation will be part of samsara. Moksha is not a place to go; it is a state where you are no more.

So for a follower of Krishnamurti, liberation is far away, for he will preserve his ego in that following. But someone—one in a hundred—will still attain through him.

Therefore I call the path of Krishnamurti, Buddha, Mahavira “Hinayana”—a small boat. It is not a great ship, not Mahayana. A few can cross in such a dinghy. One can cross in a dinghy—there is no harm. A dinghy offers a certain freedom: row when you wish, rest when you wish, stop at a bank when you feel like it. But there is danger too: dinghies often sink; they reach the other shore rarely. Freedom is greater, but so is risk. Often you never arrive; often, after wandering a little, you drift back to your own shore.

I have heard that H. G. Wells wrote a story. There was a man—a Sheikh Chilli type; in Spain they wrote a famous book about such a man, Don Quixote. He read that in ancient times people crossed the seas in small boats. There were no great ships, but the seas were crossed. One of Arjuna’s wives, it is said, came from Mexico. Then boats must have been small; she must have come in a dinghy. People traveled. By now even the tale of the Mexican wife is almost historical—many Hindu images, statues, temples have been found in Mexico. It seems Mexico was once a Hindu land. In the Mahabharata its name is Makshika—Mexico looks like a corruption of Makshika.

This man read such stories and got excited. He bought a dinghy, prepared three months’ provisions—kept them as light as possible since weight was a problem—vitamin tablets and all arrangements, and set off.

It was a great struggle, terrible storms. But he was courageous; he kept going. As the three months drew to a close, anxiety arose—no land in sight. Night fell. At dawn he saw land. He was overjoyed! He thanked God that he had arrived. Happily he reached the shore—only to be stunned: the stories had said when you reach another country, people will speak another language. Here they are speaking English again! After three months at sea! He went a little closer and saw—it was his own village. After three months of turmoil, the dinghy had returned to its own shore. Even that much is something—at least he landed in his own village. To voyage the oceans in a dinghy is difficult; the chances of arriving anywhere are small.

So, those who can understand—how many can? They will reach even in Krishnamurti’s dinghy. Those who cannot—and they are many—need the great ship of Meher Baba: where you need do nothing; you leave everything to the master; you hold back nothing. If the master says jump, you jump; if he says stop, you stop. No decision is yours now. You are no longer there.

This is one way—and of those who have reached, ninety-nine percent reached this way.

There is a third way, the one I am discussing with you. This way does not split the two paths apart. The two ways I have described—Krishnamurti and Meher Baba—seem like extremes, two poles. The way I speak of is their union, their synthesis. Because I say, all hundred should cross—why should ninety-nine cross and one be left out? Or why should one cross and ninety-nine be left behind?

So I have arranged things thus: small dinghies are tied around a great ship. Those who enjoy the dinghy may sit in it, but remain tethered to the ship. Some people only feel at ease with a little trouble—unless there is some fear and restlessness they cannot relax. Let them sit in a dinghy—but the dinghy is tied to the ship.

Thus I speak for both—the one percent and the ninety-nine. Therefore, wherever you meet a knower, bow joyfully. Bow totally. My disciple should see me in every enlightened one—nothing less. Bow completely. No one will be able to bind you.

The fear of being bound is itself a sign of weakness. Who will bind you? This fear—“I may get bound”—why live with such smallness? Do not be afraid.

Wherever you see a true master, bow with your whole being—even if that master is saying that bowing is not right, still bow. If he has taught even that much, it is grace; thank him!

For those who are with me, whether it is Meher Baba or Krishnamurti, Buddha or Krishna, Rama or Mohammed—it makes no difference. I am not teaching you the outer shells of difference; I am revealing the inner secret of consciousness.

Bow everywhere. No one will be able to bind you. Your freedom is in surrender. Also listen to the one who says surrender is wrong, for one percent are freed that way too. Who knows—you may be among that one percent.

For you I have left all doors open. I have kept none closed. I am trying to make you so vast that even if someone binds you and takes you away, you do not get bound; rather, the one who binds must become free in your company.

Such things have happened.

Diogenes, a beggar-sage in Greece, a fakir like Mahavira, lived naked—carefree, untroubled, radiant, healthy, strong. Eight men were passing through a forest; he was resting under a bush. They traded in slaves. Seeing this carefree man asleep, they thought, “If only we could catch him! But how? Though he is sleeping and we are eight, if he awakens there will be trouble. If he falls into our hands, he will fetch a great price. We have sold many slaves, but such a diamond has never come to market.”

They were plotting when Diogenes, hearing them, opened his eyes—but kept them closed, and said, “Don’t worry; tie me. I will come along. Don’t be afraid.”

They were even more frightened. What sort of man is this? When you try to enslave someone, even a weak person creates a thousand problems—shouting, struggling, fighting. And this man lies there with eyes closed—hasn’t even looked to see who we are.

He said, “Do not fuss. Fussing is my enemy; my teaching is: drop worry. Go ahead, tie me. I am willing to go; I will not resist.”

Trembling, they tied his hands. He offered them forward. They tied him, but something in them broke. He didn’t feel like someone who could be bound. They had never seen such a free man—so willing to be bound.

Only a supremely free man can agree to be bound. He trusts himself so totally, trusts his freedom so wholly—how will you destroy it? And if eight men can destroy it, is that freedom at all? Is that liberation if a master can destroy it?

Krishnamurti has gathered around him the arrogant and the weak—protecting themselves, afraid. How will they come to me? Here there can be danger.

Diogenes was bound. He asked, “Which way shall we go? You tell me, because I am strong—if I walk east, you will have to go east. You eight can do nothing. So give me the direction; let one man walk ahead.”

One went ahead. But on the way they began to fall under his influence—his radiance, his gait, his humming, like a lion taken from the forest. So fearless that you cannot bind him; he himself agrees to be bound!

They finally asked, “What kind of man are you? In our life trading slaves we have seen no one like you.” He said, “You too are slaves. Those who deal in slaves cannot be better than slaves.”

Remember: only slaves bind slaves. What free man will bind you? A free man knows well that one who binds another is himself bound. Bondage is never one-sided; it is a double-edged sword. If I bind you, I am bound to you; wherever you drag, I must be dragged.

Diogenes said, “I have understood this secret: the enslaved enslave others. We are free. How will you bind us? We ourselves are unbound.”

They were deeply impressed. Slowly they removed the chains themselves. “Chains on you? You are walking with us anyway.”

He stayed with them. They reached the marketplace. A crowd gathered. People could not decide who was master and who slave. The so-called masters proclaimed they had brought a slave. People saw a powerful man without chains.

Diogenes said, “Wait, you cannot manage this.” He climbed onto the auction block where slaves were sold and spoke in a unique way: “A master has come to be sold—who is ready to buy a slave?”

“A master has come to be sold—who is ready to buy a slave!” A master is master even in prison; a slave remains a slave even under the open sky. For slavery and freedom are not outer happenings; chains have little to do with them—they are inner qualities.

Therefore I say to you: bow! Wherever your heart feels a tide, bow. If you meet Krishnamurti, dance, bow, salute—there too a lamp is lit. It is the same sun’s light. If you meet Meher Baba on the way, be with him, dance with him.

If you understand rightly, this is my device to free you. That is why I speak on Krishna, on Buddha, on Mahavira—so that you do not get stuck anywhere; you become free of all. So that you can love all, and remain free of all.

And here is the paradox: if you want to be free of all, there is no way except to surrender to all. Then no one can bind you—not Mahavira, not Buddha, not Krishna. If you are surrendered you are divine. Who can bind you?

After that surrender, whether you stand alone or walk behind someone, it makes no difference. Whether you travel by dinghy or sit in a great ship—it makes no difference.

To prevent your inner being from getting caught, I speak of opposite paths. You get confused. When I speak on Mahavira, you are impressed by Mahavira. But soon I will speak on Krishna, and the opposite current will come—and you will be puzzled: what now?

Your difficulty is that you want me to name one place where you can settle—and be done. A house is barely built when I start another. You haven’t even performed the house-warming; the band is just being arranged, invitations sent—and it is time to pull it down and build another! And the second looks even more beautiful. But the same will happen again—I will build a third. I want to free you from houses. I want your house-warming to be in the sky, not in houses. And there is only one way: I must show you all the houses where you could be imprisoned, and also the sky hidden within and beyond them.

So my way is very different. Krishnamurti wants to make you free; he manages with one or two, ninety-nine remain bound in ego. Better to have been bound to a master—there was at least some hope, some ray; maybe a path would have opened. Bound to a lamp, some light was possible. Bound to your darkness—what path will you find?

Meher Baba advocates bondage—“Leave everything; surrender with undivided trust.” He is more effective than Krishnamurti. Yet many will miss even there, for people are of many kinds. The lazy flock to surrender: “Good! No more bother; now we need do nothing.”

The arrogant gather around Krishnamurti; the lazy gather around Meher Baba. The rajasic—driven by passion and activity—gather around Krishnamurti. The tamasic—inertia-prone—gather around Meher Baba: “Good, now you will do all; take care! We are at ease; we have nothing to do.” Not that they will stop what they were doing; they will continue the shop, the theft, the cheating—and say, “We have left it all to Baba; what will our doing accomplish? Let God do.” It seems God then makes them steal and cheat! They are clever. “We have left it all to Baba.”

I know a man who spent thirty years in Meher Baba’s company. After thirty years he told me, “We need do nothing—not even meditation, not even prayer. We have left everything to Baba. He will do.”

I asked, “Thirty years you have left it—has anything happened?”

He said, “Why should we bother about that too?”

It looks like deep trust; but the mind is cunning. Theft and cheating continue. “Leaving it to Baba” does not mean that if Baba says, “Don’t steal,” they will stop; or if he says, “Don’t drink,” they will quit. They will tell Baba too, “We have left it all to you; what is there for us to do?”

Such people come to me as well and say, “Since we have left everything to you, why do you involve us in meditation? You do it.” I say, “If you have left it to me, then I say: meditate.” They reply, “Now only your grace is needed.” They won’t even listen to what I say. They are fixed on one tune: “We have left it all to you. What is there for us to do?” And they keep doing exactly what they always did.

So, where surrender is emphasized, the lazy gather; where no-refuge is emphasized, the arrogant gather.

A sattvic person—one of balance and clarity—benefits everywhere. He will cross with Krishnamurti, he will cross with Meher Baba. For in truth neither Krishnamurti nor Meher Baba nor I take anyone across—sattva takes you across.

Look within and see whether what you are doing arises from tamas, from rajas—or from sattva. It should arise from sattva.

Thus with Meher Baba you will meet people not very logical or intellectual—more heartful, loving, with tears in their eyes, singing bhajans. With Krishnamurti you will find intellectuals whose tears have dried forever, whose hearts feel no thrill, who are skilled in argument.

Rajas is argument. Tamas is such lethargy that one won’t even argue. Sattva is trust born after understanding. Sattva is the balance of rajas and tamas. The sattvic person benefits everywhere; wherever he goes, he gains. He cannot be harmed.

I am trying to teach you this balance. Then if you meet Krishna, you will benefit; if you meet Buddha, you will benefit; if you meet Krishnamurti on the road, you will benefit. If you do not rise to sattva, then even with Buddha you will be harmed; with Krishnamurti you will be harmed; even living with me you will be harmed—no benefit will come. Gain and loss do not come from another; they depend on your consciousness, your receptivity.

I speak of all, so that you learn the art of bowing—and learn it so deeply that the element within you which refuses to bow, the ego, dissolves. Then you will gather treasures from everywhere.

If we call Krishnamurti’s way the path of freedom, no-refuge; and Meher Baba’s the path of dependence, surrender—what shall we call my way?

My way is interdependence. In my understanding, no one is completely independent in existence—nor can one be, because you cannot be alone. Nor is anyone completely dependent, because that too is impossible. Neither absolute dependence nor absolute independence is possible. The nature of existence is interdependence. Everything depends on everything else.

Hence the supreme knower lives in interdependence. He is neither dependent nor independent. Independence is an egoic proclamation; dependence is the ego’s bondage. Where egolessness flowers, you see everything linked in a chain, nothing separate. No person is an island, no landmass stands alone. All is connected.

You are connected to the moon and stars, to people around you, to birds, plants, stones. A hurt to you echoes through existence; when you dance in joy, the whole existence rejoices with you.

It is one, undivided—so what independence and what dependence? If non-duality is, talk of independence is false: if there is no other, who is there to make you dependent? And if there is only One, whose dependence? Contemplate the One, and you will understand me.

I say: the flutes differ—Krishna’s, Buddha’s, Mahavira’s, Krishnamurti’s, Meher Baba’s—but the music is one. Don’t focus too much on the flutes. Their ragas differ, their styles differ; attend to the music. The music is of the One.

When you see this, you will return enriched from everywhere. Great wealth awaits you; all treasures wait for you. You can be the master of all.

Therefore I do not stop you. I encourage you: wherever you see a lamp lit, go sit near it. That association with light is satsang. Drink a little of that light, be filled by it. Do not be afraid. Do not worry about what he says—that is his way of speaking. You need not fuss.

Keep only one thing in mind: the ghats are many, the Ganges is one. Slake your thirst at all the ghats. The more you visit, the more you will understand that ghats don’t matter; Ganga matters.

Buddha is one ghat. In olden days we gave our enlightened ones a telling name: the Jains call their awakened ones Tirthankaras. Tirtha means a ford, a crossing-place, a ghat. Tirthankara means “maker of a ford.”

Ganga is one; the ghats are many; the makers of ghats are many. This word tirthankara is sweet; neither “prophet” nor “avatar” has its flavor. It means: Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ are builders of ghats. The Ganga is vast; no one can build ghats along its entire course.

It is my effort to show you many ghats. Why? Because only by seeing many ghats will you realize that the Ganga is one, ghats are many. Whether a ghat is marble or black stone—what difference does it make? One is black stone, one white—one is Krishnamurti, one Meher Baba. If you look at ghats, the differences are great; but if your eyes turn to the Ganga flowing by them…

What has the Ganga to do with ghats? Without ghats she flows, with ghats she flows—by the rich man’s ghat and the poor man’s ghat. Passing a cremation ground or a bustling town, her song does not change.

I speak on all so that you may see the one Ganga. Difficulty arises for you, because when I speak on Krishna I become so absorbed in that ghat that I forget the others. Those devoted to Krishna are delighted: “This is what we always believed!” Don’t be in a hurry—have patience! When I speak on Ashtavakra, I will forget Krishna as if that ghat does not exist; then Ashtavakra’s ghat will be all for me. This is my way: to live moment to moment so totally that the moment at hand is all. Therefore there will appear contradictions in my words. Sometimes I say Mahavira has no equal—you think the matter is settled. Then I say Krishna has no equal—and you feel troubled: first Mahavira was unique, now Krishna is unique!

And when I am filled with Krishna, if you raise Mahavira, he won’t appeal to me in comparison. When I am filled with Mahavira, do not bring up Krishna, or unnecessarily Krishna will seem neglected. In the moment I speak, my whole being is in tune with that expression; for that moment, that ghat is everything, that much Ganga is everything. But through this I am taking you on a pilgrimage.

Pilgrims set out. Swami Akhandananda leads special trains to take people to all the visible tirthas. I too have set out to take you on pilgrimage—but to the invisible tirthas, the real ones. No special train goes there. Only a special state of mind and heart can reach. To create that is my effort.

If you ask, you will get only the petty, because the very meaning of asking is petty. Even if you ask for God, it is not God that is petty—your asking makes even that petty.
Asking makes things small. What comes without asking is wealth; what comes by asking is leftovers. What comes without asking is the vast; how can something received with a begging bowl be vast? It will be only what fits your bowl. Boundaries are not for the vast. Asking is a begging bowl. To ask is to be a beggar.
If you ask even for God, it will still be you who is asking! Your asking will be soaked through with your own life.
Think a little about this. On the surface it seems that asking for God is not a small request. But you were standing in the marketplace asking for money; then with folded hands before a woman, asking for her body; then before a man of position, asking for security. You have made thousands of requests in thousands of ways. All these askings have made you. They have shaped your very way of asking, molded your begging bowl. Then suddenly you think of God.
Why does this thought of God come to you? Precisely because these other askings have not been fulfilled. If they had been, perhaps you would never have brought up God at all. Who remembers God in happiness? People remember in sorrow, in failure, in gloom.
You asked much, and nothing came of it. All day long you stood with your begging bowl—lifetimes you stood—and when evening came, only shards! Just enough chips fall into the bowl that you can survive tomorrow to go on asking again, that’s all. You get just enough to keep you crawling, so tomorrow you can spread your bowl again and ask again.
Your ceaseless asking has made you petty; your asking has left its imprint even on your asking for God. Suddenly you stand up and begin to ask the Divine! But you are the same! Your mind is the same! Your experience is the same!
And what do you know of the Divine anyway? If you look closely, for you the Divine is the sum total of all your demands. You imagine that with the Divine you might get all that asking never brought—money, status.
People come to me and ask, “If we meditate, will our business succeed?” Human foolishness seems to have no limit! What has meditation to do with business success? “Will my illness go away?”
One gentleman asked me, “If I meditate, will my anxiety end?” I said, “Your anxiety will certainly lessen; but first tell me, what is your anxiety?”
He said, “A lawsuit is going on against me.”
Meditation will not remove the lawsuit! Yes, you won’t be so anxious; the case will go on, and you will remain at ease—that I can say. But he replied, “If the case goes on, how can anyone be at ease?”
“Will meditation bring business success?” No, not success in business; but even if failure comes, it will not feel like failure—that meditation can bring. “My wife is ill—will she live or die?” Meditation has nothing to do with that. Meditation is not a medicine for your wife. What is sure is this: if she lives, it will be fine; if she does not, that too will be fine—you will come to such a state.
Even when you come to meditate, layer upon layer of demands lie hidden beneath your meditation. When you ask even for the Divine, “God” is simply a collective name for all your cravings. What does “God” mean for you if we ask you to open the lid? Lift the lid off “God” and below you will find “wealth”—for the wise have said, the supreme wealth is the Divine. “Status”—for the wise have said, the supreme status is the Divine. “Splendor”—for the very word Ishwar (Lord) comes from aishwarya, splendor!
Who were the madmen who named God “Ishwar,” who knows! It is a word formed from aishwarya. It exposes your craving—what is it you really want? Not Ishwar—you want aishwarya. You have even hidden it in the name.
Ask the devotees, the so-called believers in God, “What is it?” They’ll say, Vaikuntha, supreme happiness, nothing but bliss!
You are dreaming. You are not seeking truth. Even in your “truth,” dreams are hidden. You have not yet been defeated by the world, not yet disillusioned. Your “God” is only the last station of your worldliness.
So I tell you, as long as you ask, whatever you ask will be petty. If you ask for the Divine, it will be petty; if you ask for liberation, it will be petty; if you ask for samadhi, even that will be petty. Your asking will make everything petty, because you are petty. And asking is petty—how then can the vast come of it? Is there any request that could be vast?
No—asking cannot be vast. Think a little! Can you conceive of a request that has no limit? Then it would cease to be a request. How will you ask for the limitless? Only the limited can be asked for. The limitless will not fit into your words or your feeling. In the limitless, you dissolve; the limitless does not dissolve into you. So how will you ask for the vast?
Asking itself makes things small. What is asked for becomes small. Don’t ask. That is why the supreme knowers say: desirelessness is the way to the Divine. Without cravings—no asking. To be content with what is; to drop asking. Fulfillment, contentment—a satisfaction so complete that what is, is enough, more than enough; there is nothing to ask for. Instantly you will find the vast beginning to descend into you—unasked!
Through asking, you lose. Without asking, you receive. Remember this arithmetic well.
If the Divine is not coming to you, your asking is the obstacle. Drop asking! It is unseemly to ask of the Divine. The Divine meets emperors, not beggars. Become an emperor a little.
And the irony is: your emperors too are beggars, so how will you become an emperor? Become a master, at least a little. Learn to thank more; ask less. Fill yourself with grace; thin out your demands. Taste the prasad, the grace already given, so you can say with grateful wonder, “You have given me more than I deserve; thank you!”
I have heard—there is an account in the life of the Sufi fakir Bayazid—that Bayazid prayed, worshipped, remembered; but he never asked. They say even God was put in a fix. For one who never asks—what to do with him? Even God began to feel restless. The story is sweet: God grew uneasy—what to do about this Bayazid! Something had to be settled, otherwise God was becoming indebted. This man meditates, worships, prays; never asks. If only he would ask for something—give it and be done!
So, they say, God sent deities. It’s a story, a symbol. The deities told Bayazid, “God is very pleased—ask for something.” He said, “What is left to ask? If He is pleased, then all is received. Just say, ‘Thank you.’”
The deities said, “We won’t go back so cheaply. You’ve created a problem. You are making Him restless; ask for something so the account can be closed. Your prayers hover over His head. Your meditation circles around Him. And you go on and on; yet you ask for nothing—how can the work be finished?”
Bayazid said, “If He is pleased, what more is needed? But if my not asking makes Him restless, then I will ask for one thing.” The deities were delighted. “Just one? Quickly, say it.” He said, “Only this: that I may never ask for anything.”
He outwitted even God. One boon: that no desire ever arise! That I may never come to His door as a beggar! That I never ask! The day you do not ask, that day the Divine becomes eager to give.
And I tell you, this is not only about your relationship with the Divine; it is the law of all of life. Whoever you ask from, that very one becomes afraid. The wife asks the husband for love; the husband becomes wary, miserly in giving; if he gives, he gives with trouble. The husband asks the wife for love; something shrinks.
It is a symptom of life’s consciousness itself: whenever someone asks, a contraction happens. When no one asks, a generosity to give arises.
So when the wife does not ask, the heart wants to give. When the husband does not ask, the heart wants to give. When a friend does not ask, the heart wants to give. Because then, in giving, you are the master. When someone asks, it feels as though you are being exploited, something is being snatched, force is being used upon you.
This is life’s way: when there is desirelessness, showers fall at your door. When you are full of desire, all doors close.
No—never ask for the Divine. That very asking is the wall between you and Him. Go to Him not to ask, but to give thanks—for what He has already given—go in the spirit of gratitude.
Let the prayers in the temple not be your demands; let them be your thanksgivings.

Understand a few things.
One: Doubt ordinarily does not doubt doubt itself; if it does, doubt dies. Doubt is complete only when doubt itself comes under doubt. Only then are you a true thinker; only then is there some genius in you. If you doubt everything but never doubt doubt, your thinking is not complete; you have not reached the peak; your doubt is incomplete; your atheism is not profound.

When, doubting and doubting, you come to that moment where doubt arises about doubt itself—“That which I have assumed and followed till now, is it even worthy of being assumed? That which I have been following like a shadow, is it worth following? Will it take me anywhere? I have made doubt my master—was it worthy of being a master?”—the day you become suspicious about doubt, that very day doubt dies. On the death of doubt, faith is born. A new journey begins.

You will have faith in God, faith in the master, faith in the scriptures; but that faith is as incomplete as your earlier doubt was incomplete. Faith becomes complete only when it is not in God, nor in the master, nor in the scriptures, but when there is faith in faith itself—then faith is complete.

When doubt is doubted, doubt becomes complete and ends. When faith rests upon faith, faith becomes complete—and ends.

If you live in doubt, you are an atheist; if you live in faith, you are a theist; and when you go beyond both doubt and faith, then you are neither atheist nor theist—then religion is born, then you are religious. The religious person is beyond duality. The conflict of faith and doubt is a duality.

Remember, the one who doubts also carries a little faith—faith in doubt. And the one who believes also carries a little doubt—doubt toward disbelief. The doubter’s faith is in doubt; the believer’s faith is in the opposite of disbelief, in opposition to doubt. But the other remains present in a small measure. When we say someone is a man of faith, it means that somewhere in a corner doubt is also hiding. Otherwise, what would faith even mean?

People come to me and say, “We have firm faith.” I ask, “Why ‘firm’? Isn’t ‘faith’ enough? Why do you add ‘firm’?” ‘Firm’ means doubt is hiding inside and you are pressing it down with firmness. Otherwise, faith is enough.

If someone says, “My love is very firm,” beware. Love is enough. What was lacking in love? What are you doing by making it firm? Love was not enough; hatred is hiding within, and you are suppressing it with firmness.

Within the theist a little atheist is hiding. Within the atheist a little theist is hiding. When both depart, the supreme religion is born.

So first doubt doubt, so that the atheist dies. Then have faith in faith, so that the theist also dies. And where neither doubt remains nor faith remains, there you alone remain. You—that is, the all. You—the total. You—the whole of existence. There, no mind remains.

Remember, the mind is present in doubt, and present in faith too. In doubt, understand, it does a headstand; in faith, it stands on its feet—but the mind does not go. Only when both are gone does the mind go. As long as there is duality, there is mind. Where nonduality arises, there is freedom from mind.

Freedom from mind is liberation. Freedom from mind is the attainment of the divine. And so I repeat: the mind itself is demand. As long as there is demand, the divine will not be found.

When the mind goes, demand goes, desire goes. The divine is already found. Not that it is newly found; when craving drops, you suddenly awaken to the fact that He was always within. He was sitting in the temple; where all did you wander! Where all did you search! Everywhere except within—you scoured the earth, the moon and stars. You left out one place. The day the mind ends, entry happens at that very place. You enter the inner sky. That which you were seeking was never lost. It was always there. It is ever present.