Geeta Darshan #2

Now, the sutra: O Bharata, Krishna said: The faith of all men conforms to their inner nature, and man is made of faith. As a man’s faith is, so is he. Men of sattva worship the gods; men of rajas worship yakshas and rakshasas; and those of tamas worship ghosts and spirits.

The faith of human beings matches their inner state.

If your inner being is full of tamas, your faith cannot be sattvic. Faith sprouts within you; the seed breaks open in the soil of your heart; your soil nourishes and strengthens it; that plant is yours. So the nature of your inner being determines your faith. Knowing your inner being accurately becomes knowing your faith.

In this sutra Krishna is saying very important things for the seeker. First, you must know the condition of your inner being. Don’t imagine that tamasic people are purely tamasic. A purely tamasic person cannot exist. A person of purely tamasic disposition cannot exist—because without a mixture of the three no one can exist.

So when we say tamasic, we mean it relatively. We mean tamas is more, rajas less, sattva less—the proportion of tamas is higher, that’s all. No one can be totally tamasic; he would fall apart. To be, all three are necessary.

So if a person is tamasic, understand: perhaps seventy percent tamas, twenty-nine percent rajas, one percent sattva. But even one percent sattva is necessary. Otherwise, remove one leg of a three-legged stool and it collapses immediately; a person whose one leg is gone cannot live.

You are a tripod; you need all three legs. The proportions may vary. One leg may be extremely thin, thread-like—but it is still necessary. Another leg may be very thick, elephantine—that can be. But there will be three legs. Your chicken walks on three legs; with less it won’t walk!

A tamasic person is filled with deep inertia, but the other elements are present.

First understand this: no one is purely tamasic; no one purely rajasic; no one purely sattvic. Even in the purest, in a Buddha, until the body is dropped, the leg of tamas remains. It keeps thinning; the ratio reverses. Your tamas leg is elephant-foot; Buddha’s tamas leg is like a mosquito’s leg—yet it remains. As long as there is a body, the three remain.

Hence Buddha spoke of two nirvanas. The first nirvana is when samadhi is attained but the body remains—this is not complete nirvana. The person is liberated while alive—the chains are broken, but the prison stands. The prisoner is no more; the shackles are gone; it may even be that the jailer is pleased with this person’s sattva and has made him a kind of supervisor over other prisoners. He remains within the prison; the walls still exist. The jailer might be so pleased that he allows him to go in and out to buy vegetables; there is no fear he will run away. Still, he must return. Sometimes he even goes home and chats with family—but still he must return.

For now his boat remains tied to the bank of the body. His freedom has increased—a lot. He is almost as free as those outside the prison—but almost. A little thing is still pending: he is tethered to the body. We call him jivanmukta, liberated in life, because he is ninety-nine percent free. Nothing remains—everything is done. Only the falling of the body is left.

Therefore Buddha said: when the body falls, then comes the great parinirvana, the great samadhi. The jivanmukta then attains moksha; freedom becomes his nature. Now the walls have fallen, the prison is no more; the chains are shattered.

In a rajasic person too there is tamas and sattva. All three are present in everyone. That all three are present is precisely what makes transformation possible. Otherwise it would be difficult. If someone were one hundred percent tamasic—twenty-four carat tamas—then nothing could be done. He would lie like a corpse, in a coma, unconscious—because even awareness requires some rajas. He wouldn’t move his limbs; he wouldn’t open his eyes; his living would not be living—he would be like a living corpse. There would be no possibility of revolution.

The presence of the other elements opens the door to transformation; on their support one can go from one to another. Like sitting in a dark room where a thin ray of sunlight slips in through a crack in the tiles. Thick darkness everywhere, but a tiny ray enters the dark. That is the doorway. If you wish, you can travel along that ray to the sun itself, even if it is millions of miles away. If you catch hold of that one ray, you can reach the source of the sun. The deep darkness can be left behind; the journey is possible. So all three elements are present in everyone—this is the first thing to grasp.

The second thing: the proportion of the three is never static. At night tamas increases; during the day rajas increases; at twilight sattva increases. Hence Hindus understood twilight to be the time for prayer.

In the morning, when the night has gone and the sun has not yet risen—that is the brahmamuhurta. It is called brahmamuhurta because of the inner economy of the gunas. Night has passed, the earth is awakening, birds have begun to call, trees have risen, people are emerging from sleep; the net of tamas is shrinking across the earth. The sun is near the horizon; soon its net of rays will spread; soon everything will rise—rajas will be born. With sunrise, the world of work commences. The sun has not yet risen—rajas is about to arise. Night has gone—tamas has departed. This small middle interval is sandhya, the juncture.

Sandhya means the in-between time, the middle moment. In that middle moment the quotient of sattva is higher—it is the junction of the two. Therefore you should use that time for meditation. If meditation is born of sattva, it will be far-reaching. If you make that sattva into meditation, gradually sattva within you will increase.

Likewise in the evening, the sun has set, the rajas-business is closing down; the sun has folded up shop, closing doors. Night is coming; the first footfalls of night are audible. There is a small middle hour—that is sandhya.

All religions have chosen the middle times. Because at that juncture, when the two are briefly conjoined, the sattva-moment is significant.

Within you it may be that fifty or sixty percent is tamas, thirty or forty percent rajas, one percent sattva—at that middle time that one percent becomes dominant. And if you use it, you have used the brahmamuhurta.

Hence for Hindus the very word “prayer” became synonymous with sandhya. When they pray they say, “We are doing sandhya.” They have forgotten what it meant!

In Islam too there is a rule—at sunrise, at sunset, when the sun is at the zenith—five solar times were chosen. But two are there as well: morning and evening. In those hours sattva is intense. At night tamas grows; in the day rajas grows.

So within you the proportion does not remain the same through twenty-four hours. That is why beggars come to ask in the early morning. At that time there is a little shade of sattva—you might give. Beggars don’t come to beg late in the day. They know a man tired from rajas becomes irritable, angry. At the mere sight of a beggar he’ll be enraged—he’ll want to snatch rather than give.

Early morning you wake and a beggar arrives at your door—saying no is a bit difficult. It is still you; in the evening it will still be you; at noon still you. But in the morning refusal sticks in your throat—an emphatic no feels wrong. Something inside says, “Give something.” Sattva is deep.

One who is intelligent will structure his life to take precise advantage of these gunas. If you want to do something auspicious, choose the twilight; your progress will be greater. If something inauspicious, choose midnight; your momentum will be greater. Murderers, thieves, all choose midnight.

At dawn even a thief will find it difficult to steal; a murderer will find it hard to kill—the current of his life will be different. At high noon the world’s offices and shops open—eleven o’clock—the business of rajas. The market is in full swing when the sun is high. Then it all wanes. At night people gather in clubs, to drink, to dance. They knock at the doors of prostitutes—tamas is dense.

Sometimes you are astonished: a man you saw praying at dawn, the same man you see at noon cheating people at the market, and at night you find him in a brothel drinking. You’re amazed—“What’s going on? Is this the same man?”

You think his prayer is false. Not necessary. The prayer may have been true. You think the tilak and sandal paste he applies in his shop is all humbug. When he put it on, the feeling of tilak-sandal may have been genuine; don’t assume it was always false. The tilak does not fade—because the tilak is on the skin; what changes is the inner play of tamas, rajas, sattva.

So he sits in the shop saying “Hari bol, Hari bol” while he picks your pocket. It is not necessary that his “Hari bol” is always false; sometimes, in certain moments, it is utterly true. And the same man goes to the brothel at night.

You cannot trust it because you don’t know: a person is not one, he is three. In every person there are at least three persons. If there are thirteen, that’s another matter. But three there are at minimum. There’s a saying: when a person becomes completely corrupt, people say, “Three became thirteen.” Three are there, but now they’ve become thirteen—now the matter is bad; it’s all fragmented.

If you observe your life carefully, you will understand many things. Anyone who wants to live consciously should continually observe his life and note in which moments the auspicious becomes strong. Use those moments for the auspicious—and lengthen them as much as possible. Let your dawn be as long as possible; let your twilight be as long as possible. And the fragrance you gain in auspicious moments—try to draw it into the other hours too. Only then will transformation happen; otherwise it will not.

This change of proportion happens not only across a day; it happens across life. In a child sattva is greater—because it is life’s dawn. In youth rajas is greater—because it is the bustle, the marketplace of life. In old age both rajas and sattva wane and tamas increases—because death approaches. Death means falling into complete tamas.

Now, a curious fact—yet all old people like to instruct others. They even try to direct children. It should be the other way around: the old should follow the children. Evening should follow the dawn. The world is upside down. Here the river sits on the boat instead of the boat on the river. The old drive the children—this is wrong. Evening directing morning is wrong. The old should follow the children, because children are innocent.

Jesus said: Only those who are as simple and guileless as children will enter my Father’s kingdom.

An old person becomes cunning—how could he not? A lifetime of experience—ploys, arts, politics, tricks—deceptions given and received—so much experience. For an old person to be guileless is difficult; if he is, he is a saint.

A child is innocent, but not a saint. All children are innocent—naturally so. That is no earned virtue. A child’s saintliness will be lost. At fourteen sex will awaken; rajas will arise; all will be forgotten; the innocence of childhood will be lost.

Have you noticed? All babies look beautiful when they are born—not one is ugly. And almost everyone becomes ugly growing up—it is rare for someone to remain beautiful. What is the matter?

Children are in sattva; they have just come straight from God’s house. That fragrance still envelops their body. Freshly born—the dawn moment, the brahmamuhurta. Children are a brahmamuhurta. The prayer is still ringing; the temple bells are still sounding; the tilak is fresh; the sandalwood’s fragrance is on the hands—they have just come from the source. Tomorrow it will be lost.

If ever the world becomes wise, the old will follow the children and learn from them. Their childlikeness is the alchemy of sainthood. And when an old person becomes childlike again, a unique event happens in this world. When an old person becomes like a child, an incomparable beauty dawns.

No youthful beauty compares to the beauty of such an old person. Because youth carries tension, restlessness, running, commotion, hustle. How can a young person be that beautiful? There is a storm, a gale. In old age all becomes quiet—the storm has passed; the gale has bid farewell. These are the moments after the storm, when everything is still and a deep silence pervades.

If an old person reanimates childhood, he becomes a saint. Otherwise he becomes profoundly tamasic. That is why old people become very tamasic. Their lives become almost corpse-like—irritable, angry, demanding that everything be done for them, unwilling to do anything themselves! Expectation from everything and complaint about everything. Nothing satisfies. The whole world seems insubstantial, futile. Desire does not die; ambition remains lit. The demand endures; the doing is gone.

So within life, the hours change and the proportions shift. And not only across life—the proportions shift day by day. Circumstances also change the proportions.

At noon you were in a great rush. Suddenly someone brings you good news—at once the inner proportions change. A happy message halts your rush; joy arises; the inner ratio shifts. You were very sattvic at dawn; someone informs you that someone died—sadness descends, and tamas envelops.

So at every moment circumstances alter things. You should study all this within yourself carefully so that you can use it rightly. And the person who does not allow his inner ratio to be determined by circumstance, or by the flow of time, or by the stages of life—that person is a seeker.

That is why sadhana seems so difficult: one who is in blazing noon as if in brahmamuhurta; who is in old age as if in childhood—that is where sadhana begins.

First observe correctly. Then, thinking it through, change the rhythm of your life. And change it in such a way that there is no excess. Let the three proportions become equal.

One-third tamas—necessary. Therefore in twenty-four hours, eight hours of sleep are necessary—that is one-third tamas. Sleep less and there will be harm; sleep more and there will be harm. Eight hours are needed. Eight hours are needed for the hustle of life—rajas; running, striving; the expansion of ambition. That too must be experienced—because if unexperienced, you will not ripen; you will not go beyond. Eight hours for trade, work, bustle. Eight hours for sattva—prayer, worship, meditation. Divide your life into one-third, one-third, one-third.

If your whole time is divided in that proportion, gradually you will find the ratio stabilizes. Then it won’t swing with night or day, with youth or old age. This steadiness is what I call the attainment of sattva. Because when all three balance, a music begins in you—unknown, never heard before.

Therefore I say: don’t run to the Himalayas—because that is an attempt to live twenty-four hours in sattva. That too is an excess. So I tell the sannyasin as well: live at home. Eight hours a sannyasin, eight hours a shopkeeper. Eight hours in sleep—neither sannyasin nor shopkeeper. Rest is needed—from sannyas too, from the shop too!

In trying to be a sannyasin for twenty-four hours, India has lost much. Those sannyasins did not become true sannyasins—because they cannot. They tried to break off two legs of the tripod and stand on one—and became lame. India’s sannyas became badly crippled and fell in the dust; grandeur did not arise; the sannyasin lost balance.

And you cannot break the other two legs—because they are essential for living. They sneak back in by the back door. The sannyasin shows outwardly that he has no interest in wealth, while inwardly he hoards money. Outwardly he shows no ambition, but the mind remains stretched on expansion. Outwardly he shows there is no tamas in his life, but inside a terrible inertia gathers.

You cannot run away; you cannot go against the law of life. Use the law. The wise one uses the law of life to rise beyond life. The foolish one tries to break the law to get out—and only gets more entangled.

Sannyas is an art of balance.

O Bharata: The faith of all human beings accords with their inner being. Man is made of faith; therefore, as a person’s faith is, so is he.

Your faith is you. If your faith is in laziness, your life will be a story of laziness. If your faith is in rajas, in ambition and running, your life will be rush and race. If your faith is in sattva, in peace, in emptiness, in the auspicious, your life will carry a fragrance of heaven—not of this earth. Your faith is you.

Recognize your faith rightly, because not recognizing it creates great complexity. A man may be lazy at heart, yet crave the pleasures that come to the rajasic—then you’ll be in trouble. Your faith is you. Or a man may be rajasic, caught in hustle, yet want the peace that comes to the sattvic—this cannot be.

A politician comes to me sometimes. He says, “I want peace.” You cannot have peace. It’s nobody’s fault. In the frenzy of politics, how will you be peaceful? And if you do become peaceful, who will do the very running you are now obsessed with—how to become a minister, a chief minister, how to get this and that? If you become peaceful, that too will become peaceful.

So I said to him, “Choose between the two. I can make you peaceful—but then politics will go; this madness will go.” And if you want to complete this madness, don’t talk of peace. Don’t come to me.” He said, “I’ll do this: give me two years. Let me try two more years.”

He has become a minister in a state; now he wants to become chief minister. “Two years! After that I must be peaceful!”

He is unlikely ever to become peaceful. In two years is it certain he will be chief minister? And having become chief minister, will no ambition arise to enter the central cabinet? For running, the running remains; for “more,” the desire remains “more.”

He will never come. One who is going to come, comes now. One who understands, comes now. He who says “tomorrow,” does not understand—that’s why he postpones. Who knows about tomorrow? And the one who postpones to tomorrow will postpone tomorrow to tomorrow. He will form the habit of postponing to tomorrow.

Know your faith rightly; and do not ask contrary to your faith. If you must ask for something different, then transform your faith. Otherwise you will be badly tangled inside; you will become a riddle to yourself.

People have become riddles. They want pleasures that belong to the rajasic; peace that belongs to the sattvic; and rest that belongs to the lazy—all at once. Impossible; nothing gets attained.

Know your inside rightly—because your faith is your life.

“As a person’s faith is, so is he.” And once you truly see within, you will quickly understand that fulfillment cannot come from just one; the confluence of all three is required. Only in the union of the three does contentment flower; only then does satisfaction rain down. And from the union of the three, the sense of the One begins to dawn. This threefold harmony slowly leads you to the One who is beyond the gunas.

What you have to attain is That which is beyond the three. That One is to be sought. Make the three legs equal in proportion and strength, and you will find the tripod has steadied. When the tripod is steady, all is steady. Now you can place your foot on the tripod and begin the journey to the One.

“Those who are sattvic worship the gods.”

These are symbols—keep them in mind. One whose inclination is sattvic naturally venerates what is sattvic. You respect what you are and what you wish to become.

If you go to the station to welcome a politician, even if you’re not in politics, the fact you go to welcome him shows you are rajasic. You may have had no chance to plunge into that turmoil—wife, children, livelihood prevent it—but you go to have the darshan of the politician—your faith! Or a film star comes and you throng—your faith. Or a sannyasin arrives and you go for darshan—your faith. Your faith moves you.

The sattvic worship the devas—the divine.

Divinity means those in whose lives the music of the three in harmony has begun. They have not yet attained the One; the journey remains; but a great milestone has been reached—the tripod is steady. In their life the music of heaven sounds. The rest is symbolic: that the gods dwell in heaven. There is no such heaven somewhere else. They live right here around you. But you will see them only if you have the eye of sattva. Without that eye you will not see—because faith is the eye.

Right next to you, perhaps your neighbor; perhaps in your own house; perhaps in your wife; perhaps in your husband. If you have the eye of sattva, you will see. If not, you won’t. If a husband becomes sattvic and the wife lacks that eye, she will see something else entirely.

Many women come to complain: “Don’t ruin our husbands; don’t entangle them in meditation. The children are still growing. Livelihood has just started. If he gets absorbed in meditation, what will happen?”

If sattva is arising in the husband, the wife doesn’t see it. Her faith is still rajasic—“We need a few more ornaments.” She is ready to sacrifice the husband’s meditation, not her ornaments. “The house is still too small—let it get bigger. There is hardly any balance in the bank—what will happen in old age? If something happens to him tomorrow, what will we do?”

No concern with the husband’s soul, no concern with his life. Only worry if something happens to him—so there must be a bank balance, whether the husband remains or goes. Faith in rajas.

So when a husband sits to meditate, wives obstruct. If the wife begins to develop faith in sattva, husbands become restless. They come to me and say, “What have you done! You’ve created upheaval. Now my wife has less interest in sex—she sits in meditation! What should I do? My sexuality hasn’t died! Please help. I’m still young.” These are old-age things, they say. “Better to teach her meditation after fifty.”

You see only in accordance with your faith. Even when an event like meditation is happening, you don’t feel blessed. The wife is becoming peaceful and the husband feels pain.

You’ll be astonished—people have told me, wives have said, “My husband doesn’t get angry anymore—it unsettles me. Earlier when he used to get angry, it was fine. Now it seems he’s become indifferent. In his non-anger we feel neglected.” They don’t see that a flower has blossomed in this man’s life—we should rejoice. They see only that “Now he doesn’t care; even if we abuse him he listens because nothing matters to him. He has become indifferent.”

Remember, people don’t like indifference. They would rather you abuse them—at least there is enough interest to abuse! Indifference hurts. “He’s out of my hands now. Becoming so detached, one day he’ll run away from home—what will I do?” She prefers that he be angry, quarrel, even beat her—just don’t meditate.

Only with the eye of sattva does sattva become visible.

Deva means one whose life is balanced; one in whom sattva has given the fragrance of equilibrium so that he now stands on the shore of liberation. Heaven is that boundary from where one can leap into moksha. He’s held back a little—the hold is that he has fallen in love with the music itself; he must dare to let go even of that. It is a golden chain—very sweet.

Hence we do not call the gods liberated. And whenever a Buddha is born, our stories say the gods come to listen—asking for the path to liberation. They must come—now they are bound by the joy of sattva. Heaven too is bondage—sweet bondage, but a thorn nonetheless. However sweet the pain, it must be plucked out.

Those whose faith is sattvic worship the devas. Wherever they encounter divinity, their heads bow.

“Those whose faith is rajasic worship yakshas and rakshasas.”

Rakshasa means one in whom rajas has become intense—sattva and tamas have been suppressed, only rajas is powerful.

Great politicians are rakshasas. You don’t think in those symbols anymore because you’ve forgotten their meanings. You think Ravana was a rakshasa. Why? He was the most successful politician! He built a golden Lanka. What more does a successful politician want? Your successful politicians can’t even provide mud huts for the people; society starves. But he built a city of gold. How much more successful can a politician be?

Ravana was the consummate politician; a cunning strategist; immensely powerful. His drive was vast. The story goes that had he not been removed from Sita’s swayamvara, he would have won her; Rama would have returned empty-handed. He was removed. There was fear—because he was such a master politician, and so powerful, that he did not have one head but ten! All politicians have ten heads. Not one face—ten.

All politicians are Dashanan. You can never be sure which face they are showing you. As needed, they show that face. When they need votes, they smile—one face. When the votes are won, they act as if they don’t even recognize you—another face. In power—one face; out of power—another: hands folded, head bowed, “We are your servants.” Ten faces! Cut one off and another springs up. That is why killing the politician is difficult.

At the swayamvara, the story says, seeing that Ravana might carry the day… There were many reasons: he was also a devotee of Shiva.

You will always find politicians as someone’s devotee. If not someone, then at least many astrologers in Delhi—they devote themselves there. Reciting Hanuman Chalisa—because they must win elections!

This Ravana had even propitiated Shiva by offering his heads, they say. He was a devotee of Shiva, and that bow was Shiva’s. He would break it. And he was a strong man.

So the gods, seeing this, conspired. “This will be dangerous. Rama is a humble person; he won’t step forward. Ravana will leap up and break the bow. Rama may not even get a chance; perhaps no one will ask if Rama had come. Rama, by his very being, stands behind; he does not push to the front; he is not ambitious.”

Lakshmana was more ambitious than Rama. He jumped up a couple of times. “Brother, if you permit, I’ll break that bow right now.” He had to be restrained: “Sit! Wait a bit.” He too was eager to break it. He too was ambitious—he was a politician.

Ravana was removed. The gods made a loud racket around the swayamvara: “Ravana, what are you doing here? Lanka is on fire!” When Lanka is burning…

This too is worth pondering. A politician can sacrifice love, but not his capital. He ran to Lanka—forgot Sita, love, all the show. A politician can sacrifice love, but not his post. That’s why you will find politicians ready to abandon their wives; even ready to never marry. Their real swayamvara is with power.

Otherwise Ravana should have said, “Let Lanka burn.” If he truly loved Sita. But a politician has no heart—where would love come from! He had come to win. This too was a conquest—to add another trophy to his thousand wins: “I won Sita.” Like people bring home trophies—Sita was a trophy he would parade to Lanka: “Look, I won this too.” He had many queens already—no shortage. It’s not that they were less beautiful than Sita. A full harem. Sita was nothing in particular to him. Otherwise he would have said, “Fine.”

He ran. It was a divine conspiracy—a sattvic plot—to remove this rajasic man. Sita was worthy of Rama, meant for Rama. Let sattva unite with sattva—the gods arranged it.

This Ravana is a rakshasa. Don’t think rakshasa is some species of human. Rakshasa is a quality; the name of the politician; one mad for position.

“Men of rajas worship yakshas and rakshasas.”

They worship those who have power—or position—or wealth. Kubera is a yaksha. Kubera means the one who has the greatest wealth in the world—the treasurer of the gods. So either worship of wealth or worship of post. But behind both is worship of power.

Even if such a person worships gods and goddesses, he does it for power. He asks for more power. “Give me such power that I defeat everyone! Let me be unassailable!”

“And others, who are tamasic, worship ghosts and spirits.”

The third category—those filled with tamas. Their ambition is simply that their laziness remain undisturbed. No one should awaken them; their desires should be fulfilled by others; they should lie there. Let them remain in their stupor—drunk, asleep, negligent; let someone else fulfill their needs. Hence ghosts and spirits.

Ghosts and spirits means entities themselves tamas-predominant. They keep fulfilling these people’s cravings. Such types exist. The agent who takes you to the brothel is a ghost-spirit. The one who hooks you on money and gambling. The one who sells you lottery tickets, exciting you to wager. They increase your laziness. “We’ll do it for you—just give a little support and all will be well.”

A similar economy exists among disembodied souls too. As soon as souls leave the body… there are three kinds—because there are three gunas. You can propitiate spirits.

Many of you are eager to propitiate spirits. Someone should give you a talisman so that your illness goes away; someone should give you sacred ash so that a treasure appears. Your desire is to do nothing, to remain lazy while treasures move toward you. Spirits seduce such people. They exist in bodies—and outside bodies too.

Your faith takes you. You go to sadhus and saints—but it may be you’re not going to them at all. It depends on your faith. You might be going to a sadhu in the hope that going to him will make money rain down.

A man met me on a flight from Delhi to Bombay—he sat next to me. “Great grace, what a chance encounter! Just need your blessing.” I said, “Fine; blessing costs nothing.”

Fifteen days later he came to Jabalpur to see me. Fell at my feet. “Amazing! By your blessing—” I said, “What happened? Don’t implicate me. I’m not even sure I blessed you. I kept quiet only to avoid rudeness. What happened?”

“I won my court case. I will get ten lakh rupees. And truth is I shouldn’t have won; by law I should have lost. My claim was false. But your grace!” I said, “Don’t entangle me!”

This man is asking for blessing for a false case—to win. Such a person cannot reach a saint. Wherever he goes, his faith will corrupt his going.

Now when people ask me for blessings, I first ask, “Tell me your intention. Are you looking for a ghost or a spirit? Otherwise later you’ll implicate me.”

What do you seek? The ask emerges from your inner faith.

Krishna says there are three types. Search and see which you are.

If you want to see India’s tamasic people gathered in one place—go to Sathya Sai Baba. You will find them there. No need to search separately. You never go anywhere without cause. Your faith takes you.

Enough for today.

God is not a person who could experience thrill and bliss the way a devotee does. God is the whole of existence. So the event of thrill and bliss does occur—but there is no experiencer there. Just as joy resounds in the small heart of the devotee, there is no such heart in the Divine in which joy could resound. The Divine is the whole of existence; therefore the entire existence becomes suffused with thrill. That is the difference.

The thrill will certainly happen, because the one who had wandered returns home; the far-off comes close; the lost is found again; the one who had his back turned to existence turns his face toward it. So the happening of bliss is inevitable. But God is not a person; there is no heart hidden inside a person there. Thus, though the devotee has an experience, in God there is no experiencer. He is the ultimate emptiness.

There will be a tremor of joy; it will be heard in the clouds; it will echo in the rivers; it will blossom through the flowers; it will give radiance to the moon and the stars. But there is no heart there that experiences. Or you can say this—this too is right—that it is heart through and through: the whole existence is its heart. The entire existence will be filled by a shiver, by a sweet moment of joy.

Only the devotee will know it; you will not recognize it. You can see the devotee’s joy, because the devotee is a person like you. You have a little tuning with him. However different he may have become, however his journey has changed and he has turned toward the Divine while you have turned away, still he is a person like you. Something will happen in his heart; tears will flow—you can recognize tears. He will begin to dance—you can understand a dance. A shadow of wonder will fall upon his face—even if you cannot understand it fully, you will grasp a little. That language is familiar to you. But the thrill that is happening in the Divine—you will not see it; you will not understand it.

Hence there are many stories that, having become stories, now appear like fables; yet they are true events. That when Buddha attained supreme enlightenment, flowers bloomed on the trees out of season. Whether others saw those flowers is doubtful. Buddha must have seen them. They were not ordinary flowers that bloom and fall with the season. They were the inner blossoms of the tree. You could neither sell them in the marketplace, nor pluck them, nor even see them. They were flowers of the invisible which appeared to Buddha.

It is said that when Mohammed attained knowledge, clouds began to give him shade in the scorching afternoons of the desert. But those clouds were perhaps visible to no one else. Those clouds that became parasols and hovered above Mohammed—Mohammed himself must have told others about them. Your eyes cannot see such a subtle event.

In truth, even that clouds formed is not necessary. But that shade began to fall upon Mohammed—this is certain. Even in the blazing noon the sun did not burn him; even in the fearsome desert a thirst did not arise in his throat—such coolness began to be given to Mohammed. A dialogue began with existence.

Surely, when you are filled with love toward existence, existence will pour its love upon you. Existence is not inert—that is precisely what it means to call existence God.

If it were inert, you might weep but a stone would not weep; it has no sensitivity. You might laugh but a stone would not laugh. No response will come from a stone. That is what it means to be a stone.

So we sometimes say, “That man’s heart is of stone.” What do we mean? We don’t mean that stones have hearts! We mean simply this: no resonance arises within him. Seeing you unhappy, he will not be unhappy. Your wet eyes will not moisten his heart. Your dance will not touch him. Your feelings will remain only yours; he will give no response. His heart is stone.

To call this existence God means that here nothing is stone. “Stone” is a false word. Even rocks are stirred here, because on all sides there is sentience, consciousness expanding on every side.

There will be responsiveness. But it is so subtle that only the devotee will know what is happening in God; ordinary people will not recognize it. They are almost blind and deaf. They have neither the ears to hear that nectar-sound, nor the eyes to see that formless.

So you will see Meera dancing—and you will think her a little mad. For the one with whom she is dancing is not visible to you. Meera is dancing with her Krishna. Krishna is not a person. In the gusts of wind it is Krishna; when the breeze touches Meera, it is Krishna’s hands that touch her. And I tell you this: when you have Meera’s heart, the wind will touch you differently. There is such a difference in touching!

You walk along the road and someone’s body brushes yours; then your beloved touches you, or your mother touches your head, or you touch your child. Is the “touch” in both cases the same? If we ask a physiologist to examine whether there is any difference between the two kinds of touch, he will not be able to tell a difference. He will say: in both cases skin touches skin; a little exchange of temperature happens; a little warmth moves from one body to another. That’s all. If a mother touches, this is all that happens. If a passerby brushes you, this is all that happens. If someone pats you with love, this is all that happens. If someone strikes you in anger, this is all that happens. As far as the physiologist’s grasp goes, these are the same events.

A gust of wind touches you, it touches me; but it touches you as if some stranger jostled you on the road. It touches Meera—and it is the lover’s hand. In that gust something has come. There is not only touch there; behind the touch a secret is hidden, a state of feeling.

Trees blossom for you too; you also see their colors and forms. Meera sees them too—but in those trees, her Beloved is what is blooming. The monsoon arrives; peacocks dance—you see that too; but for Meera, it is her Krishna who dances. For Meera, the whole existence has taken on the form of Krishna. So now whatever happens, happens in Krishna.

If you tell psychologists to analyze Meera’s songs, you will be shocked. Because what the psychologists will say—you yourselves will find hard to trust; whether or not you trust them, inwardly your own trust is often the same. When Meera speaks of Krishna and says, “I have prepared the bridal bed, I have strewn flowers; now you come,” the psychologist will say, “This looks like sexual repression; this is sex-suppression. She is seeking the husband in Krishna. It seems her mind was not fulfilled with Rana; something missed; desire remained unsatisfied. The bodily passion did not find expression; it was repressed; and now the same bodily passion is spinning new illusions. So she imagines Krishna as husband, prepares the bed.”

This adorning of the bed and the inviting—this will appear to the psychologist to be sexual desire. Psychologists have not yet bestowed their grace on Meera; they do not know much about her, because psychology is being born in the West. There are psychologists here too, but half-baked; they walk behind whatever happens in the West; they do nothing directly.

But they have pried a lot into Jesus. And women like Meera have appeared in the West; they have probed them deeply. Saint Teresa arose in the West; psychologists have analyzed her. She is Meera of the West. And her symbols are all of sexuality. What else will you do! The sweetest words humanity has are words of sexuality. When the supreme sweetness happens, what language will you use?

You have only two kinds of language. Either the language of the marketplace—very petty; in that language God cannot be grasped. Or the private language of two lovers: a little less petty, but still petty—because those lovers also belong to the marketplace. And when an event like Meera’s or Teresa’s happens, what should she do? Where will she find a language? If she uses your marketplace language, it appears utterly futile. What should she say—that in the gust of God millions of rupees arrived? Should she say the Reserve Bank was overturned by the gust of God? That too would sound crude; it would not seem meaningful. You would not grasp it. At most the income-tax officer would begin to chase Meera, “Where are they? Where are those millions?”

The other language is love—the language lovers speak to one another. It is very intimate. But its music carries the cadence of sexuality. Lovers ache; they wait; when union happens, they are filled with awe. That language is comprehensible. Meera uses it; Teresa has also used it.

Western psychologists have made a mockery of Teresa. The same they will do with Meera. They do not know Meera. They say, “This is sexual desire.” They find sexuality in everything; because of anything else they know nothing.

“This bed is prepared; the beloved has not come home. These flowers are strewn; I wait for you. Come, I am ready for the wedding night.” All this language is of love. Either we will say Meera’s mind is obsessed with sexuality and therefore that same desire is surfacing in the name of God. Or we will think Meera is mad. Because we can see Meera’s prepared bed, the flowers spread out; we can see Meera sitting and weeping, waiting for someone. But does he ever come? Has he ever come? Will he ever come? We do not even hear a knock at the door.

At one time we see Meera weeping—her separation has happened; at another time we see her dancing—union has happened. In the moment of separation we see no one leaving her house; in the moment of union we see no one arriving.

Meera is mad. People must have laughed a lot at Meera. That is why Meera says, “I have lost all regard for public opinion.” All respect was gone. Rana sent Meera cups of poison again and again, because his own honor was drowning behind hers.

“Of which lover does she speak? For which Krishna has she gone insane?” People would have taken her to be mad, or diseased, or afflicted by mental disorder. The husband too was in difficulty.

We saw the poison arrive; we even saw Meera drink the poison; but we did not see the poison have any effect on Meera. Then we were a little uneasy: this is strange. How did it not affect her?

If you ask a psychologist, he has an explanation for this too. He says this is autosuggestion. If Meera has firm faith that it is not poison, or that by God’s grace it will turn into nectar, then by that very faith the poison cannot enter the body. A psychologist will find some explanation for everything!

We are so eager to escape God that we can accept anything, however nonsensical—but cannot accept God.

The psychologist says, “This is an intensely concentrated mental state—‘this is not poison’—and so the poison does not enter the body; it is because of the mind. Some Krishna is not turning poison into nectar!”

Even if poison turns into nectar, we remain blind. We will still find a self-made explanation. Such a great event will not satisfy us. The reason is: we do not see that Krishna. And how can we accept the unseen? How foolish should we become?

But the event does happen. When the devotee meets God, the thrill that happens in the devotee—if you ask me exactly—infinitely greater thrill happens in God. It must happen, because compared to the devotee God is infinite. The devotee is a drop; God is an ocean. If a drop dances so much, imagine how the ocean must be dancing!

But he is not a person. This entire totality is that. So he dances in all forms, laughs in all forms, is thrilled in all forms. In greenery he becomes greener; in color he becomes more colorful; in the rainbow he becomes deeper. But he is visible only to the one whose heart is full of awe today, the one who is dancing today. To him the Divine appears dancing right along.

This is the meaning of the story that sixteen thousand gopis dance, and each gopi feels Krishna is dancing with her. If Krishna were a person, he could dance with only one gopi. Krishna is not a person. Krishna is the name of a principle. That principle is all-pervading. When you dance—and you gather the capacity to dance—you suddenly discover that the whole existence is dancing with you.

Then existence is vast; it is dancing with others too. Therefore the devotee feels no jealousy. Otherwise you might think what condition those sixteen thousand women would have brought upon Krishna—if this were a worldly matter, as historians think. And it is not difficult: there could have been sixteen thousand women; in those days, there were. When the Nizam of Hyderabad died recently, he had five hundred women. If in the twentieth century there can be five hundred, sixteen thousand are not that many—only thirty-two times more; not a great arithmetic. Five thousand years ago it was possible. Emperors had them; they gathered all the beautiful women of the kingdom. This is not difficult.

But sixteen thousand women! If you have experience of even one woman, you can understand. They would have murdered Krishna—if Krishna were a person. How terribly filled with jealousy those sixteen thousand would have been! And Krishna could dance with one—one could become Radha—and the rest would be left behind. Uproar would have arisen. But no jealousy arose.

It is a very sweet tale that no jealousy arose among the gopis. Their separation too was together; their union too was together. Because Krishna is not a person; it is a matter of a principle—the whole existence. Wherever you dance, existence surrounds you. Krishna’s arms are around your neck. The embrace is there—in the wind, in the sunlight.

From all sides Krishna surrounds you. He is ready to dance with you. Only your feet are not rising. Learn to dance a little; the Divine is willing to dance. Learn to laugh a little; the Divine is willing to laugh. If you weep, you will weep alone; if you laugh, the whole existence will laugh with you. Because the Divine cannot weep. Understand this a little.

The Divine cannot be unhappy. Therefore when I say: when the devotee rejoices, the whole existence rejoices—do not think that when the devotee weeps, the whole existence weeps. The Whole does not know how to weep. The Whole has no identity with crying, with lamentation, with sadness. The Whole has no relationship with pain and sorrow.

There is a saying: when you laugh, the whole existence laughs with you; when you weep, you weep alone. Weeping is private, personal.

That is why when you want to weep, you want to be alone. You close the doors and windows. You don’t want anyone to come. You don’t even want your wife to enter. You want to be left alone, utterly alone—because weeping is a private event.

But when you laugh, you call the neighbors. When you laugh, you send invitations. When you are in joy, you arrange a feast: “Come, friends, neighbors, relatives; let us all dance together; let us all rejoice together.”

Joy is not private; it spreads, it diffuses. Sorrow is private; it shrinks, it festers. You remain alone in sorrow. And suddenly you find your tuning with the whole world is broken. The more unhappy you are, the farther you are from God. Or, if you prefer the reverse, say it the other way: the farther you are from God, the more unhappy you are. Both statements are the same. The nearer you are to God, the happier you are. And the other is also true: the happier you are, the nearer you are to God.

Therefore my teaching is of joy. I do not want to make you gloomy—closing your eyes, meditating, sitting sad and corpse-like with a long face—as if you were doing some great work, as if you were conferring a favor upon God, as if you were being very gracious by sitting for an hour with a rosary in hand like a stone. No. There are plenty of stones. There is no need for you to become another stone. Dance.

People come to me and say, “What kind of meditations are these of yours? We always thought meditation meant closing the eyes, fixing oneself in lotus posture, and sitting quietly. Dance! Music! What kind of meditation is that?”

I tell them: have you ever seen God sitting like that, gloomy? Look all around—birds are singing, the wind is dancing, and what to say of the thrill of the trees! A celebration is afoot, a festival is on. Do you want to be a participant? Dance! Dance so that the peacocks turn pale. Sing so that the birds fall silent to listen. Be so thrilled that the winds feel shy. Only then will you come near to God. The one who is joyful comes near; the one who comes near is filled with great bliss. As you come nearer, you realize this celebration is not yours; it belongs to all.

Religion is celebration. And the temples have fallen into the hands of the wicked; they have fallen into the hands of the gloomy. There are reasons for this.

Gloomy people become aggressive. And aggressive people become blusterers. Aggressive people begin to dominate others. They begin to tell others the way. Those who are gloomy start taking delight in making others gloomy.

But Mahavira is not gloomy; nor is Buddha gloomy. Krishna certainly is not—his flute rests upon his lips. And I tell you, a flute rests upon Buddha’s lips as well. It is invisible; you do not see it. I have seen it; therefore I say so.

Whenever someone has become a Buddha, a flute has certainly been at his lips—whether seen or unseen. Krishna’s flute is visible; Buddha’s flute is not. But under that bodhi tree too, the venu is playing, the song is rising. You have seen Buddha sitting silently—that is your illusion. If you had looked attentively, you would have perceived that inner dance. Whenever someone has found God, he has danced. And whenever someone has danced—God is already dancing—he at once becomes one with you; his arms fall around your shoulders.

But remember, God is not a person. God means the totality.

Sometimes only silence can truly help. Sometimes help can be given by speaking. Sometimes speaking will cause harm. Sometimes only remaining silent will help. Sometimes the message can be given in words; and sometimes it cannot be given in words. Sometimes you are ready for what you have asked, and sometimes you are not; you have asked out of season. And out of season, nothing can be given. You may not know, but the Master knows that you are not yet worthy to receive what you are asking for. To give it now would be futile. If diamonds and pearls were handed to you now, you would mix them with pebbles and stones. As yet you have no sense for diamonds and pearls; the discerner has not been born.

Sometimes the Master remains silent because you are not ready. You have asked your question out of season. And then you become stubborn—you get stuck on that question and you keep asking it again and again. Ask a hundred thousand times; even then, an out-of-season answer cannot be given. You may not know the timing, you may not know maturity, but the Master does. He will answer on the very day you are ready. It is not a matter of how many times you ask. Even if you do not ask, on the day you are ready, the answer will be given—even if you have never asked at all.

The answer depends on your preparedness; it does not depend on your curiosity. And often there is no harmony between your curiosity and your preparedness. You ask of the sky while you stand on the earth. You ask about love while your mind is full of lust. If anything is said, you will interpret it in terms of lust. You ask about God while your ambition remains fixed on position and prestige. God too becomes for you a kind of status—supreme perhaps, but still status; supreme wealth perhaps, but still wealth.

It is not necessary that you are ready whenever you ask. The Master answers according to your readiness. Therefore, many times he will remain silent. In his silence is his compassion. Because an answer given at the wrong time becomes harmful. You will think you have received the answer, when in fact you have not, because the real question had not yet been born in you. You will memorize that answer by rote. You will begin to pass it on to others.

You yourself know nothing. You had no thirst, and water was given. How will you drink it? When the throat is parched, then you drink. If this water falls into your hands before there is thirst, what will you do with it? You will try to force it down others’ throats. If knowledge comes to you out of season, you become a pundit, not a knower.

So often the Master remains silent. He is saying to you: Wait, do not hurry. Ask a thousand times—it makes no difference. Because the issue is you, not your asking. The Master looks at you; what you ask is secondary. Even if you do not ask, he goes on looking at you. When you need something, he will speak.

And many times you may be ready, but your question is such that its answer cannot be given in words. Then he is silent. Silence does not mean no answer was given; silence means the answer has been given through silence. Silence is an answer.

A new playwright invited Bernard Shaw to see his play. Shaw went. After watching for a minute or two, he closed his eyes and began to snore. The playwright, sitting beside him, was very distressed: “It would have been better if he hadn’t come at all. What manners are these!” But it was not right to wake the old Bernard Shaw, and Shaw had a somewhat irascible nature. So the new playwright said nothing: “Well, whatever happened—at least he came.”

When the play ended, Shaw opened his eyes and got up to leave. The playwright asked, “And your comments? You said nothing!” Seeing Shaw silent, he said, “How could you comment? You slept the whole time.” Shaw replied, “Sleeping was my comment. It’s rubbish—worthless. Sleeping was my comment. I have said what I needed to say. If there had been life in it, I would have stayed awake. There was no life. A dead play. My snores were better. I gave my verdict.”

Sometimes sleeping is a verdict; sometimes silence is an answer. Whatever the Master does—if he speaks, listen attentively. If he does not, listen even more attentively. For when he speaks, even if you listen with less attention, you will still hear. But if he does not speak, only with great attention will you be able to hear. And when you keep asking the same question again and again and the Master remains silent each time, then it is very clear that he is repeating the same answer again and again—and you are missing it again and again.

Being with the Master is an art that has been lost. It is a very subtle art. The Eastern lands had developed it; slowly it has withered away and been lost. It is the subtlest communion between two beings. And the disciple should not insist, “My question must be answered.” He should accept whatever comes as grace—only then does his receptivity grow.

People come from the West with no understanding of the Master-disciple relationship, so great obstacles arise. A woman writer came from the West—an important writer, with many books to her name; so there is a lot of commotion in her mind, a whole web of thoughts. She asked something. I sidestepped. She went back very angry. She told the sannyasins, “My question was not answered. I am leaving upset. I had come with great eagerness to get the answer to my question.”

Try to understand: when your question is not answered, what hurts you? That an answer was not given—or that your question was not answered?

And the amusing part is, she was here for ten days; not a single day went by when I did not answer her question. Not one. I did not answer it directly. She wanted a direct answer in such a way that she could grasp: “My question has been answered.”

The question was not valuable; the ego was valuable. For ten days I answered her question continuously, in many ways. But it never came within her grasp. Her question was not valuable. If the question had been valuable—if there had been thirst—she would have drunk the water I kept pouring every day.

But no, the question itself had no value. There was no thirst. The question was a kind of intellectual itch, not a thirst. A little irritation in the head. And she wanted me to answer directly, in the very language in which she asked. Deep down the desire was: answer me, pay attention to my ego, let my ego be satisfied.

That mistake I cannot make. I am here to break the ego, not to decorate and polish it. Only those who are ready to dissolve can remain here. Those who somehow cling to themselves—let it rain, they will still go back thirsty.

A disciple means one who has placed himself in the Master’s hands. If he answers—good; if he does not—better still. If he calls you—his grace; if he pushes you away—even greater grace. One is a Master only when the disciple has surrendered so totally that the Master’s will becomes all. If he says, “Remain silent your whole life,” he remains silent and never asks again. Therefore faith is essential.

But as Krishna has said, faith is of three kinds. This too must be understood.

Even when you ask, your faith is of three kinds. One kind of questioner comes with tamasic faith. Tamasic faith means he wants the Master to do everything; he himself need not do anything. He will sleep and snore, and the Master should meditate and enter samadhi. And when the food is cooked, he is not even willing to chew. He wants you to chew it for him as well. If there could be a way to deliver meditation and samadhi as an intravenous injection, he would say, “Just hang the bottle of samadhi and fill me with it. I can’t even move my hands and feet now!”

A tamasic person’s faith is such: he comes to the Master so that the Master will do everything. And even his surrender is for the sake of dumping responsibility: “Here, now you take over.” He thinks he is doing the Master a great favor by surrendering.

What did you have to surrender? Your darkness! Your sleep! Your ignorance! What are you surrendering?

People of this sort come to me. They say, “We have surrendered everything to you; now you decide; do as you will.” But if I say to them, “Please get up and sit over there,” they become annoyed. If I say, “Go take four rounds of the building,” they get upset. “We have left everything to you—why are you making us do this? If we have left everything to you, you take the rounds! We have left it all; nothing is left of us!” Is this what surrender means? This is tamasic faith. He surrenders only to avoid the bother of doing.

Then there is rajasic faith. He too says, “I have surrendered,” but he cannot let go. He keeps on doing, he keeps his own activity going. “I’ve surrendered everything,” he says, but he cannot surrender—because he cannot sit idle after letting go. He wants something to do. He is always asking, “Give me something to do.” If you tell him, “There is nothing to be done,” then the relationship breaks. Meditation is non-action; the relationship breaks.

A tamasic person agrees that meditation is non-action—but in his language non-action means laziness. Non-action is not laziness. Non-action is the subtlest, the highest form of action. It is the very quintessence of action. Non-action does not mean doing nothing. Non-action means to act in such a way that the difference between doing and not-doing disappears. To rise in such a way that within, no one is rising—no doer remains. To walk in such a way that it is emptiness that walks—no hint, no sound, no footfall.

Non-action means: do everything, but let the doer be absent. Then who acts? Then God acts. The day your doer dissolves and God becomes the doer within you—you may do much, but now it is no longer action, because you are not there; how can there be action? Now you are a hollow bamboo flute; you do not sing—his songs flow through you; you only provide the passage.

But the lazy man, full of tamas, agrees completely with non-action—except his meaning is idleness. “Perfect! This suits me,” he says. “I’ll just lie down.” He takes meditation to mean sleep. He thinks meditation means doing nothing.

If you tell a rajasic person about non-action, it doesn’t suit him. Even if he understands a little, he asks, “What should I do to practice non-action? Tell me something to do so that non-action can be achieved!” But non-action means not doing; it means dropping the doer. He cannot drop the doer.

People of that type come to me. If I say, “Sit silently”—and I say this again and again to the rajasic, because it will take him beyond rajas—he says, “That won’t work. Give me some support. Can I chant a mantra?” He is saying, “We cannot sit silently. If we at least have the prop of ‘Ram, Ram’—that would work. We’ll turn even that into a kind of frenzy: inside we’ll chant ‘Ram, Ram’ so loudly that all our rajas gets poured into it. Give us something to do—should we turn the rosary? Recite the Gita? Practice asanas? Fast?” The language of doing is what he understands. The language of non-doing he cannot grasp.

Only one with sattvic faith can truly understand what non-action is. Non-action is not laziness. Non-action is not inaction. Non-action is the state of non-doership. It is a very subtle action, the purest action. So pure that the presence of the doer would create impurity—therefore the doer is absent.

As the winds blow, as clouds drift in the sky, so does the one with sattva drift and flow—the river flows to the ocean. But there is no feeling of “I am flowing.” He reaches the ocean, but there has been no journey. He does not think, “I am going to the ocean.”

Have you seen the Ganges with a timetable in her hand, a map spread out, “I am going to the ocean”? There is no timetable, no map. That is precisely why she arrives at the right time. If there were a timetable, time would be wasted in the timetable itself—and everything would go wrong.

I was once sitting at a station for eight hours; the train kept getting later: first two hours, then four, then six. I went to the station master and said, “I can understand two hours late. But is the train going backwards? Four hours, then six, now eight—what’s going on? If it goes like this, how will it ever arrive? And then, what is the use of printing a timetable?” He said, “Sir, if there were no timetable, how would we know how late the train is?” This made sense to me too. The only use of the timetable is that it lets us know how late the train is.

The Ganges arrives—on time. No map of where to go. Something carries her.

The Infinite is carrying you too. You make a racket for no reason. In that noise, you are delayed; in that noise your connection with the Infinite breaks.

Non-action means: I am not the one who will go; I am in your hands—You are the one who will take me. It does not mean I will do nothing. It means: whatever You make me do, I will do. It does not mean: now You do it while I rest. It means: now whatever You have me do, I will do. There is now neither my rest nor my action. When You give rest, there will be rest; when You give action, there will be action. But each moment it will be You, not me.

This art of “not being” is the very art of being a disciple. And then much happens without your doing. Then much is received without your asking. Then the journey is fulfilled without wandering. The goal is found without travelling. You are moving needlessly; under the burden of that effort, you are being crushed in vain.

A disciple is one who has placed himself in the Master’s hands: whatever he has me do, I will do. And this faith too is of three kinds. Only if it is sattvic will the revolution happen. If it is tamasic, you will miss. If it is rajasic, you will miss.

Those who come from the East—from India—often have tamasic faith. Those who come from the West often have rajasic faith. Because the East has a very ancient training in laziness, in fate; we have turned it into our tamas. In a fine web of words we have hidden our laziness and our inaction.

All the West’s training is rajasic: run, achieve; nothing will come sitting at home—you must do. They have become so skilled at running that even when they reach a goal they cannot stop; they create a further goal. They go on running.

The East is sleeping; the West is running. The tamasic sleeps; the rajasic runs. Both miss. The sleeper misses because he never walks to the goal. The runner misses because often the goal draws near but he cannot stop. One does not know how to walk, the other does not know how to stop.

Sattva means balance. Sattva means to know when to move and when to be still; to know when life needs motion and when it needs rest. One who knows right rest and right action attains to sattva, to rightness. Right motion and right repose—just as much as is needed, not a fraction more. The recognition of this “just right” is called discernment.

Examine within yourself: you will often find excess. If not one excess, then the other. What is needed is non-excess—freedom from extremes. Work, and also rest. Day is for work; night is for rest. If a harmony arises between the two, you will find that you are neither day nor night; you are the consciousness of both, the witnessing of both. That is what is experienced in sattva.

He couldn’t possibly have; it wasn’t even within the bounds of possibility. Uddhava was a man of knowledge—and when has knowledge ever managed to make lovers understand? Krishna must have been joking. He played a joke by sending a man of learning. A knower can never make a lover understand—because a knower carries only bare words. Uddhava was a pandit; he must have been a great pandit, skillful at expounding. But whoever he had managed to convince before, those were not gopis touched by the nectar of love.

A pandit will only seem meaningful to you until the taste of love touches you. The thorn of love cannot be pulled out by a pandit. A pandit can only handle those who aren’t pricked by love’s thorn. He is useful to those in whom thirst hasn’t even awakened. To them he seems a great, great scholar—so much information he brings! But the moment thirst arises, the moment even a hint of love is heard, the moment an unknown melody begins to play in the heart, the pandit is rubbish. Uddhava was futile.

My understanding is this: Krishna did not send Uddhava to explain things to the gopis; he sent him so that the gopis could teach Uddhava. No one has ever said this, but this is how I see it. He fooled Uddhava to give him some sense: “Go and see!” Here you are strutting around as a big pandit. Because those you are lecturing haven’t tasted love, their thirst hasn’t arisen. So you talk of knowledge and they nod. But when you meet a lover, then you’ll be in a fix; your talk of knowledge will be useless. If a man is thirsty and you explain the science of water, what good will it do? He’ll say, “I need water.”

The gopis said, “We need Krishna—what have you come for?” Uddhava made a grand fool of himself. He shouldn’t have gone, if he had even a little sense. But pandits do not have sense. No one is more lacking in sense than a pandit. He shouldn’t have gone; he should have folded his hands right at the start: “Gopis? I’m not going. I’ll only prove useless there.”

They were asking for Krishna, not Uddhava. They didn’t want a messenger; what use is someone carrying letters! They had called the lover—what came was the postman! What have they to do with him? They sent Uddhava back, postage due.

Krishna must have staged the whole thing just to teach Uddhava. He knew for certain the gopis could not be preached to; Krishna knows they cannot be persuaded. They will not settle for anything less than Krishna.

A lover means one who will not settle for anything less than God. Tell a lover about God and he will say, “Why all this useless talk?” He doesn’t want to know about God—he wants to know God.

What do the Vedas say about God, what do the Upanishads say, what do the scriptures write and not write—he will say, “Stop this nonsense. I want God.” If God is found, the Vedas are found. God is his Veda.

But the pandit says the Veda is God! The pandit declares the scripture to be God. For the lover, God himself is the Veda. And there is a vast difference—earth and sky apart. You ask for God; he brings you piles of scriptures. He says, “It’s all written here.”

It is like someone dying of hunger and you place a cookbook in front of him: “All kinds of foods and sweets are written here.” The starving man will throw your cookbook away. Yes, with a full belly he might sit leisurely and read a cookbook. But for the hungry, what meaning has a cookbook?

For one who has become hungry for God, the Vedas are pointless, the Upanishads blather, the Gita tasteless. He wants God; he will not settle for less. And the gopis not only wanted God, they had already tasted God; they had known God.

Yes, one who hasn’t known God, in whom thirst has just arisen—perhaps for a little while the pandit might mislead him. Because he has no yardstick of experience. So the ignorant one can be led astray by the pandit. But one who has even a faint inkling of meditation—the pandit cannot fool him.

These gopis had danced with Krishna; it was a temple enshrined in their memory. That memory did not fade, did not disappear. Day and night it flashed within. Once you have tasted being with Krishna, danced with him under the trees on full-moon nights, no pandit can cheat you, no pandit can make you waver.

Uddhava must have explained a lot—spoke words of knowledge. The gopis didn’t listen at all. In fact, they were upset: “What kind of joke is this Krishna has played! This is beyond endurance.” And a lover can be angry with God—only a lover! A pandit can never be angry. A pandit is afraid. The lover does not fear; love is fearless.

The gopis were angry. “This joke is intolerable. Why send this Uddhava? What have we to do with him? If he wants to come, Krishna should come himself. At least don’t send pandits. We want God, not scriptures; not knowledge—experience.” The gopis were very upset. Lovers can be angry.

I have read of a Jewish fakir, Jhusiya. He used to go to pray—he was a great fakir; many devotees; a unique man. When he prayed in the synagogue he would sometimes say to the people, “Now all of you go outside, listeners. I have to set this God’s child right.” People would step out; then his quarrel with God would begin. He spoke to God directly. Such a quarrel that if the chance arose, they might come to blows. If someone in the village was dying of hunger, he would be furious: “How is this happening under your watch? Your lover is dying hungry—this we cannot tolerate. We will stop all your worship and rituals.”

They say no one like Jhusiya happened in the Jewish tradition. Imagine how deep his love must have been if he was ready to fight with God. A quarrel—then for several days he wouldn’t go to the temple at all. “Let him be; no worship, no prayer. If our plea is not heard, why should we hear his!”

In his prayers Jhusiya said, “Look, understand one thing well: we certainly need you—that’s sure; but you also need us! So don’t imagine you are bestowing some favor on us. Without us, you won’t be God. How will there be a God without a devotee? Granted we might not be devotees—that’s fine—but then you won’t be God either. As much as we need you, you need us. Always keep this in mind; don’t forget it.”

A lover can fight; only a lover can. There is no fear. A pandit trembles, is afraid. He worries lest he commit some mistake in the ritual, that the procedure as laid down in the scriptures be followed exactly; that no error occur. Who knows—God might get angry!

He hasn’t known God. Does God ever get angry? He hasn’t recognized at all. He is a fool. He does not know God does not get angry; anger never happens in God. And in that very moment when a devotee like Jhusiya says to God, “We’ll stop your prayer,” God must be dancing—“Certainly, a lover exists somewhere!”

The gopis were very angry at Uddhava. They sent him back “postage due”: “Go! Who invited you?” And they laughed a lot at Uddhava and his wise talk. The pandit must have been made a complete fool. A pandit will always be in trouble in the presence of a lover. This story is profoundly symbolic.

A pandit can never succeed before a lover. If he seems to succeed, it only means that a lover is not present; no one is seeking God. That is why you see pandits seated on thrones everywhere.

The day you start seeking God, that very day the pandits will climb down from their thrones; they will have no place. Then you will enthrone only one who can give not knowledge but experience; who does not tell you about God but can give you God. That one we have called the guru.

Hence Kabir says: Guru and Govind both stand before me—whose feet should I touch? Both stand before him. Kabir is in great difficulty: whose feet should I touch? For if I touch God’s feet, it won’t be right. And if I touch the guru’s feet, even that seems awkward. God stood before me, yet first I touched the guru’s feet! The verse is very sweet and has two possible meanings.

Guru Govind dou khade, kake laagoo paay. Balihari guru aapki, jo Govind dio batay.

Two meanings are possible. One is that seeing the disciple in a dilemma, the guru gestured towards Govind, “Touch Govind’s feet.”

I don’t agree with that meaning; it doesn’t sit well with me. I prefer the second meaning, which, as far as I know, no one has offered. The second meaning seems to me to be this:

Guru and Govind both stand before me—whose feet should I touch? Kabir is in a bind. Whose feet shall I touch? Both stand before him. Then he fell at the guru’s feet, because he understood, thought:

Blessed am I to have a guru who pointed out Govind to me. You are the one who revealed Govind; otherwise how could I have ever seen Govind! Therefore I touch your feet first.

Guru means one who has known and can make you know; who has seen and can make you see; who has tasted and can make you taste. Words cannot do this.

A guru also uses words, but only to lead you to the wordless; he takes the support of scripture only to leave you ultimately without any support; he explains only to take your mind to that space where both understanding and non-understanding fall away. Therefore, for the guru, words are not the end—they are only a means. For the pandit, words are everything—the means and the end; beyond them there is nothing.

Uddhava lost. The pandit has always lost. And Krishna did exactly right by sending Uddhava and getting him into a mess. If Uddhava learned something from it, good. Otherwise, he is probably still wandering.