Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #2

Santosh Saraswati! In faith it is impossible for doubt to arise. If doubt arises in faith, then it was never faith. You must have mistaken belief for faith, acceptance for faith. It must have been blind—without eyes. Blind faith is what is called belief. And blind faith has no value—not even worth two cowries. Compared to blind faith, a doubt with eyes is worth a hundred thousand times more, because what truly has value is the eyes. Faith and doubt come later; first come the eyes. If your doubt has eyes, a faith with eyes will also come.

But for centuries man has been told: Do not doubt; doubt is sin. Suppress doubt, sit on its chest, throw it into the unconscious—throw it as deep as you can, so deep that you don’t even remember you ever had doubt. Then, on the surface, drape yourself with belief, with faith, with creed. All that is false, because in your very life-breath there is doubt, and only on the periphery is faith. The valuation will be of the life-breath, not the periphery. The destiny of your life is determined by your center—and at the center there is doubt, and on the surface there is only whitewash.

People believe in God; they do not know. And what is believed without knowing is blind. Compared to that, a doubt with eyes is very, very precious. Because if you courageously keep walking with a doubt that sees, one day it will bring you to a faith that sees.

Doubt is a blessing. Only, do not stop in the middle, do not settle midway. At the completion of doubt, faith is born; therefore in faith doubt cannot arise. Faith has already crossed all the steps of doubt. All those wanderings, all those questions, all that inquiry have long since been crossed. Those mountain ranges are far behind; those ravines and pits have been lived through.

Faith is born only after being cooked again and again in the fire of doubt. So from faith doubt cannot arise. And if doubt does arise in what you call faith, it clearly means you left something incomplete—you saved some doubts. You slid a few doubts aside for later. You didn’t face certain doubts; you didn’t wrestle with them. You didn’t listen to your doubts and search, ask, arouse questions, inquire. You kept beating your doubts down, pushing them away. Those you suppressed are standing behind you. If not today, then tomorrow—at any weak or tender moment, at any opportune time—they will erupt.

Whatever is suppressed is never gotten rid of. What is repressed must be repressed again and again, and still there is no freedom. The repressed becomes a bondage upon your life forever.

So if doubt rises in faith, understand that the faith was false; it has not passed through the fire of doubt. You are asking as if, when we pour water into a fired clay pot, it might fall apart! If the pot is truly fired, it will not crumble when water is poured. But if the pot is raw, merely colored red, never passed through the fire—then the moment you pour in water, the clay will moisten and collapse. If the dye is raw, the first rain will wash it off. If the dye is raw, a little sun will fade it.

If your faith is raw, doubts are bound to arise—inevitably. And when they arise, you will suppress them. And if you suppress them, they will arise again and again. There is no cheap way to be rid of them. Doubts must be lived. One has to roast in the fire of doubt. There is no way, no alternative, except to pass through the anguish of doubt. You cannot bypass it; you must go through the very middle of doubt. And it is profoundly meaningful to do so, because only by passing through that fire will your clay be baked. Then, like a fired pot, you can hold water. When the vessel of faith is fired, then nectar can be poured—and the vessel becomes the chalice of ambrosia, and then the Divine descends.

In faith, doubt cannot arise—but the reverse is certainly true: in doubt, faith can arise. It is in doubt alone that faith arises. Had you asked whether faith can arise in doubt, I would have said: yes, assuredly, yes. Where else will faith arise? A lamp is lit only in darkness—where else could it be lit? But if the lamp is truly lit, darkness cannot enter. Morning comes out of night; it is upon the fullness of night that dawn happens. But in broad daylight, darkness cannot suddenly fall. If the sun has risen and darkness arrives, then that sun must have been false—paper-made, presumed, not real; an imagined sun, a dream. Only then can darkness return—night can descend, the new moon night can fall.

In the night there is day implied; night itself brings day. Doubt itself brings one to faith. Therefore, in doubt faith arises.

There is a Jewish story I have always loved. Two young Jews were studying with their rabbi, their master. Both had the habit of smoking, but found no opportunity. From morning till evening it was study, contemplation, meditation, practice—no time at all. Only one hour each morning and one hour in the evening were given to walking in the garden. And that too was not merely for strolling—it was to walk in meditation, what Buddhists call walking meditation.

Meditation can be done sitting; then, when you tire of sitting—you cannot sit twenty-four hours—your limbs need movement, the blood must circulate—so you walk. But the current of meditation continues. The quiet inner humming continues unbroken. If any of you have been to Bodh Gaya, you must have seen that place, that temple, that Bodhi tree under which Buddha was enlightened. Near that Bodhi tree you will have noticed a small stone-paved path—that is where Buddha would do walking meditation. He would sit an hour beneath the Bodhi tree, then, desiring some movement, some exertion, he would rise and walk for an hour, right there by the tree—maintaining the meditation he had gathered while sitting.

In the same way, that Jewish master had told his disciples: walk meditatively for one hour morning and evening in the garden. That was the only time, the only chance, to slip behind a tree or wander afar and smoke. But both felt embarrassed, ashamed, guilty. They decided, “Why not ask the master? If we do it with his permission, this sense of guilt will not arise.”

They agreed, and the next day in the garden one of them looked very dejected—sad, even angry—because he had asked the master, and the master had said instantly, “No, absolutely not, never! Don’t even raise such a question. How could such a thing be!” But the other was very happy. The first said, “Why are you so pleased?” He replied, “When I asked the master, he said, ‘Yes, yes, quite right. You may smoke.’”

It was baffling! To one he said, “Never, absolutely not!” and to the other, “Yes, you may smoke.” The first said, “This is injustice! He refused me and allowed you.” The other said, “May I ask what exactly you asked?” The first answered, “I asked what we had agreed to ask: ‘May I smoke while meditating?’ He said, ‘Never, not even by mistake—don’t bring up such a thing.’ He was furious.” The second laughed, “Now I understand. The mistake was in your very question.” The first asked, “What did you ask?” He replied, “I asked, ‘May I meditate while smoking?’ He said, ‘Yes, yes—why not?’”

One can meditate while smoking—what’s wrong with that? You are smoking anyway; if you can link those moments with meditation, it is good. But if someone asks, “May I smoke while meditating?”—that cannot be. Meditation and smoking? There you are falling downward. While drinking smoke, if you meditate, you are moving upward. The two questions seem alike, but they are not.

You asked, Santosh Saraswati: “Can doubt arise in faith as well?”

Never. I wish you had asked, “Can faith arise in doubt?” I would say, certainly. And how else will it arise? Man lives in doubt. Doubt is his natural condition. We are born in the night of doubt. We are searching for the dawn, looking for morning, waiting for the sun.

Faith can arise in doubt—and let me add, only in doubt. Those who avoid doubt avoid faith. You have been taught very wrong things for centuries. You have been told, “Drop doubt.” I say to you, doubt—doubt to your heart’s content; doubt totally. Do not leave even a grain, because whatever you leave will haunt you later. Better to settle it now.

Doubt—why be afraid? Truth is so vast; doubt cannot destroy truth. If truth is, what can doubt do? It cannot so much as harm a single hair of truth. If truth is, batter it with doubt as much as you wish; if not today, then tomorrow your eyes will open and truth will be realized. Truth has such power; what doubt can erase it! Therefore I say, doubt deeply, doubt fully, doubt savoring it. All your doubts will fall; they must fall—because truth is. And when doubts fall—through the experience of truth, through direct seeing—how can they rise again? By then their very life is gone. They are corpses. How can dead things come alive?

But if you have been stingy in your doubting, and have walked by the old traditions—“Yes, there is doubt, but suppress it; above it spread the cloak of belief; inside there is doubt, but wear the ‘Ram-naam’ shawl on top”—you will be in trouble. Sooner or later you will find the shawl doesn’t work. A shawl is only a shawl. Inside there is no soul, only accumulated doubts. You will be afraid, frightened. A shadow of fear will follow you always, because you know well there are doubts with which you have been dishonest, and they can arise at any time. Any small incident can provoke them—someone’s remark, a little thing. You believe there is God; you feel you have deep faith that there is God—so you think. But a tiny doubt, raised even by a child, and your whole edifice will crumble.

You say, “Everything that exists needs a maker; therefore God is.” If a child asks, “Then who made God?” you will stagger. If you say, “No one made God,” then your basic premise collapses—the very basis upon which you posited God. And if you say, “God was made by another God, a great God,” where will it end? One can ask, “Who then made that great God?”

There are only two ways: either say, “No one made God”—then you have accepted unmade being, and if God can be unmade, why not the universe? Or say, “God was made by another,” who was made by yet another—you fall into an endless regress. Who made the final God? The question stands where it was.

You kept side-stepping, hiding, averting your eyes, escaping, running—but whoever runs and is afraid can never be free.

Fear never brings liberation. Face it! If doubt is there, it must have some use. God has given you doubt; it is like a sword. It has great utility. Use it to cut through questions. Cut through problems with it. Do not fear it.

God gives nothing in vain. If doubt is given, it has deep significance. It is given so that by walking the path of doubt, one day you arrive at faith. Doubt is possible only so long as there is no experience. And doubt will goad you toward experience. If you hold doubt rightly, a unique thing happens—understand this: if one assimilates doubt, does not deny it, takes it as the Lord’s grace—there must be some hidden mystery in it—then one day doubt itself is doubted. And that is an extraordinary moment! The day doubt is doubted, the hour of experience has arrived. You will say, “How long will I wander in words? How long will I be entangled in nets of argument? Now I need experience. I have thought enough about fire; thinking decides nothing about whether fire is. Arguments can be given on both sides—equal, comparable arguments.”

Reason is like a prostitute: it goes with anyone who will pay. Whoever is ready to pay the price—reason goes with him.

In Greece there was an old school—the Sophists. They were pure rationalists. Their faith was in argument. They used to say reason is everything, and they also said there is no such thing as truth. Truth is only your persuasion; for whatever you want to call truth, you erect a web of arguments, prop it up with crutches of logic, and it stands—though there is no such thing as truth. Everything is only argument. Therefore, for every so-called truth you want to accept, arguments can be marshaled.

A great Sophist had such confidence in his reasoning that he would take half his fee while teaching, and say, “I’ll take the other half after you win your first case.” Naturally, all his students won their cases. So he collected the rest later. But one great miser enrolled in his school. He paid half the fee, learned argument, and then never argued with anyone.

Months passed; the master grew restless. Years began to pass. The master asked many times, “Have you not taken up a case?”
He said, “I will never argue. Why invite the trouble of paying the other half! You won’t be able to take it from me—after all, I am your disciple.”

But the master couldn’t leave it at that. He filed a case in court: “He has not paid me half my fee.” The master’s arithmetic was clear: now the disciple must argue with me in court. If I win, I’ll collect the fee right there, because the court will order payment. And if I lose, I’ll say outside the court, “Sonny, where are you going? You’ve won your first case—now pay up!” Heads I win, tails I win.

But the disciple was his disciple after all. He said, “No worry. If I lose in court, I know you’ll ask for the fee outside, saying I won. I will appeal to the court: ‘I have won in court; how can I pay now? That would insult the court.’ And if I lose in court, then the question doesn’t arise; I’ll say outside, ‘I lost in court too—how can I pay for a first victory I never had?’” When the master realized this, he withdrew the suit—he had met his match.

Reason has no side of its own. In that sense, reason is impartial. The same reason proves God, and the same reason disproves God. The same reason proves the soul, and disproves the soul. Doubt lives in logic. But one day, if you keep living only in doubt, you will come to see that you have wandered into a desert of argument where there is not a single oasis—no shade of a tree, no green of grass, no spring of water, no music of flowing streams—you have wandered into a dry wasteland. Logic is a barren desert. Nothing grows there. In logic, even what has grown elsewhere will wither. Logic is poison.

But how will this be known? Only by walking in doubt. And one day, walking in doubt, you grow tired of doubt, nauseated by it; you see its futility, you experience its emptiness—then a new urge arises in the mind: “Let me experience. I have thought and thought and gained nothing; my hands are empty. Let me experience—life is slipping away.”

This yearning for experience is the first step to the temple of faith. And one who descends into experience—who knows the self—how will he doubt? One who knows the Divine—how will he doubt?

No—doubt cannot arise in faith; but the faith must be genuine, with eyes—arrived after crossing all doubts; refined by all doubts; honed, sharpened, fired by all doubts.

Therefore I say to my sannyasins: do not avoid doubt, do not suppress doubt, do not run from doubt. Doubt is the servant of faith, not its enemy. Yes, it is the enemy of belief—but the servant of faith.

If you ask me, belief is the enemy of faith; doubt is its servant. One who has settled for belief will never come to faith. One who is a Hindu by belief will never be religious; one who is a Muslim by belief will never be religious. He has refused the trouble of the search. He has accepted cheap substitutes, borrowed “truths.”

Another’s truth can never become your truth—never has, never will. Truth is always one’s own—intimate, self-realized. And when truth is of one’s own experience, what doubt?

Santosh, in faith no doubt can arise. Faith comes after killing, crossing, and drinking down all doubts—assimilating them—nothing is left to arise again. But in doubt, faith certainly arises. If you doubt, one day you will reach faith. Do not be in a hurry to believe. Do not be hasty. Do not settle for cheap faith. Do not accept because your father believes. Though a father dearly wishes to have you believe what he believes—for his ego’s satisfaction—do not accept it. Do not accept what your teachers believe—again, for their ego’s satisfaction. Do not accept what your priests, pundits, and politicians believe. All of them want quick assent.

And the result is disastrous, because you accept the beliefs of innumerable kinds of people. All are eager to make you believe. None of them wants you to doubt, because none has the courage or capacity to take you to truth. Only one who can lead you to truth will accept your doubt, will invite you: come, doubt; ask; inquire; let us search together. But those who are themselves afraid—who have gathered stale leftovers, crumbs fallen from others’ tables—they cannot tell you to doubt. They themselves tremble before doubt. They will climb on your chest and force belief upon you.

And their imposed belief will prove disastrous for you. So many are trying—mother imposing her beliefs, father his, brother his, sister hers, relatives and acquaintances theirs. You will study with countless teachers from first grade to university—each will impose his beliefs on you. Then countless politicians, countless newspapers, countless books—all eager to impose their beliefs. All this rubbish will pile upon you—contradictory rubbish—so that you will live in a near-deranged condition. One says one thing; another says something else. And both agree on one point: “Believe us. We speak rightly. We speak for your good. Do not doubt; if you doubt you will be lost.”

In this way contradictory beliefs accumulate within you—they suck your life, drink your blood. So many opposing voices gather within that you can no longer discern which voice is of the soul, which of the Divine. And such things are said that, if you reflect even a little, you will be astonished. People are told, “Be honest,” and at the same time, “Be honest and trust in God.” Consider the contradiction: be honest—and trust! If you are honest, you cannot trust, because to trust before experience is a kind of dishonesty. Only when there is experience will there be trust; how can there be trust before that? If a man is honest, he will be an atheist—that alone is possible—because he will say, “I do not know God—how can I believe?” And if he believes in God, he cannot be honest. And notice: the very word iman (faith) has become synonymous with religion—Muslims call religion “iman.” Religion has come to mean belief.

An honest man cannot believe; only a dishonest man can. An honest man will raise questions—thousands of them—hard questions; questions for which no answers can be given; questions no scripture can resolve. Such a person will certainly be disliked—neither parents nor teachers nor leaders nor priests and mullahs will like him. Who likes a questioner? He exposes your ignorance. His questions scrape off the veneer of knowledge you have plastered on yourself and bring your inner ignorance out. He stands on your chest and asks, “Truly, have you known God? Truly known?” He makes you nervous, scares you. You cannot say “yes” with confidence. Even in your “yes” there is fear. You have not known; you have only believed.

Those who question and doubt are not liked. People want you to believe; accept what they say. If you believe them, it bolsters their sense of knowing. When they see many believing them, they feel, “We must be right—otherwise why would so many believe?” This is a great net, a great conspiracy. To prop up one’s ego, one must drag many people into untruth. My way is entirely different. I hold that doubt is born with man; therefore doubt is God’s grace, His gift. If you use doubt rightly, a wondrous faith will be born one day. Then no doubt will ever arise—nor can it. And only such faith is liberating, in which doubt is impossible.

Suman Bharti! Those who have been initiated into sannyas have joined their very soul with me; they have dissolved themselves in me, and taken me into themselves. That is the meaning of sannyas: we have dropped the inner conflict, dropped duality, erased twoness—out of two we have become one. Disciple and master… by the master’s grace and the benediction of being together in satsang… become one. The denser this oneness grows, the more truth reveals itself.

And truth still has to reveal itself. Many steps of truth are yet to be climbed. So the thought of my not being here will bring pain—naturally it will. What is to happen has not happened yet, and someone snatches away the ladder! You had stepped on the ladder and were only halfway up! You had just sat in the boat and someone took the boat away! You had gathered the courage to enter the doorway and someone shut the door—of course there will be a jolt, of course there will be pain.

So you are right when you say, “I have never cried over anyone’s death.” Who cries for another’s death? Whenever people cry, they don’t cry for the other; seeing the other’s death, they are reminded of their own, and they weep for that. Who cries for whom? You do not rejoice in others’ happiness, nor are you truly pained by others’ sorrow. Yes, you display it—you shed a couple of tears out of etiquette, you smile as manners demand. If someone dies, you even cry. One must cry; otherwise people will say you are hard, a stone, a rock. You don’t want anyone to call you a rock, so you cry.

I was once a guest in a house. There was a death in the family. It was winter; I was sitting outside. The lady of the house came to me and said, “You are sitting outside; people will soon be coming to sit with us—it has been three days now. I’ll be inside. Please ring this bell.”

I asked, “What is the point of the bell?”

She said, “As soon as you ring it, I will burst into loud sobs. Crying is absolutely necessary; otherwise what will people say—someone has died in the house…?”

I witnessed this miracle: she would carry on her chores quite cheerfully, everything went on smoothly, and as soon as someone came and I rang the bell… The first time no one had even arrived—I rang the bell and went in myself. She pulled her veil over her face and began to wail. I said, “Stop—I rang it only as a test…” She peeped out from under the veil and started laughing. “You have gone too far!” she said.

It is etiquette. Who cries for whom? When a wife cries for her husband, she is not really crying for the husband. The husband had carved out some space within her, and that space has gone empty—that emptiness hurts, and until it is filled she will cry. She is weeping for that hollow place. Having lived with her husband for years, a place inside her—inside her very soul—had become reserved for him. With his departure that space stands vacant. That empty wound oozes; it aches.

The Upanishads say: husbands do not weep for wives, wives do not weep for husbands. Husbands do not love their wives, nor do wives love their husbands. Here everyone is in love with their own love. Everyone is engaged in worshiping their own ego. You do not love your wife! Look carefully and you will see: via the wife, you love yourself—via. How can you love yourself directly? You need something in between. Like a mirror: you see yourself only through a mirror; without a mirror how will you see your face? If someone stands before a mirror you don’t say he is looking at the mirror. Who looks at the mirror? Through the mirror—via—he is looking at himself. In the same way, when your wife becomes radiant just seeing you, you have seen your own image in a mirror. The wife runs to you, washes your feet, takes off your shoes—ah! you have seen your reflection in the mirror.

Mulla Nasruddin was telling his psychologist that circumstances had completely changed and life was being ruined. “When I married—it’s only been three years—when I came home in the evening my wife would run and take off my shoes, and her dog would bark. Now three years have passed and things have reversed. Now my wife barks and the dog pulls at my shoe.”

But the psychologist said, “I don’t see the problem; the services are exactly the same. Earlier the wife took off the shoe and the dog barked; now the dog pulls at the shoe and the wife barks. What difference does it make? You are receiving the same services.”

In the wife you see your own image. The husband comes home with jewelry, with flowers, ice cream, sweets—the wife sees her own picture: Ah! He still loves me, he still desires me. Though very shrewd wives feel suspicious about such gestures. “He doesn’t bring ice cream every day; today he has. Something is fishy—there is something black in the lentils.” He must have had some loving talk with a woman at the office; he feels guilty, so he has brought ice cream. He doesn’t buy a sari every day; today he has—surely there’s something black in the lentils. Wives who are very skilled, seasoned, accomplished—they won’t let it pass so easily. They see something else. They look deep into the mirror; they see into the mirror’s innermost, into his unconscious.

But remember, whether you are pleased or angry, you use the other as a mirror. All relationships are mirrors. No one loves anyone, nor does anyone… in any real sense there is no relationship between one and another. We all circle around and return to ourselves. …So who weeps for whom, Suman!

But hearing talk of my death, you say you tremble. The reason is clear. You have set out with me on a journey—a journey yet unfinished. Even with me it is very difficult to complete, for there are a thousand obstacles—on your side. But still there is trust that I am here, so it can be postponed till tomorrow. Hearing that someone might shoot me, your heart will skip a beat; the bullet will strike you now. Then what will happen to you! The journey has hardly begun.

When Buddha was about to die and Ananda began to weep, listen to their dialogue. For forty years Ananda had been with Buddha; at the news of Buddha’s dying he began to cry—Buddha had not yet died. Buddha said, “Now I will leave this body. If anyone has something to ask, ask.” Ananda at once began to weep. He had never wept—he was a kshatriya, a prince, Buddha’s cousin. Buddha had never seen tears in his eyes. How many monks died, how many were buried—he never cried. Today suddenly he wept. Buddha asked, “Ananda, tears in your eyes—and you are crying? Why?”

He said, “Until now there was trust that, with you here, there would be deliverance. With you here, some way would be found. So long as the lamp was lit, even if my eyes had not opened, today or tomorrow, sooner or later, they would open and I too would be filled with light. Now if you go, what will become of me?”

Consider it: Ananda is not crying for Buddha’s death—“If you go, what will happen to me?” Ananda too is crying for himself. The Upanishads are right. Leave aside ordinary husbands and wives; even after forty years in the company of Buddha, being the closest disciple, Ananda says, “What will happen to me if you go?” There is much complaint in it: “You are deceiving me by leaving. You are abandoning your promise. What of your assurances? You gave so many enticements—what of them? We lived by your promises till now, and now you go—what will happen to me?” Look closely and you will see, Ananda weeps for himself.

I am not condemning this; it is natural. If Ananda did not weep, what should he do! He had surrendered forty years at the feet of this man; the ladder had not yet ended and it began to shake, began to fall. The boat had not reached the other shore and started to sink midstream. It is natural.

Suman, the shock you felt is natural. Don’t sit and brood over it—use it. It was only someone’s question. It was not that some person was about to shoot me who asked it. Do people who shoot ask questions? Are you mad? Will they raise a fuss by questioning? If one asks a question and then fires a gun, he will be in jail the next day. The questioner only said, “I have great love for you and yet sometimes hatred arises. There is deep attachment to you, but sometimes such hatred arises that I feel like shooting you.” He has only asked a question—he feels that way sometimes. He is not a person who will shoot—he is our own sannyasin. He cannot shoot; he cannot even throw a stone—far from shooting. He cannot even throw a flower—far from shooting. He has simply expressed his feelings—plainly, honestly—“If there is so much love, why does this happen?”

Precisely because love is so much. For our kind of love is not free of hate; it is the reverse side of the same coin. The more dense our love, the more dense our hate. They remain in balance. There is another kind of love—the love of the awakened—but that comes after Buddhahood; in that love there is not the slightest trace of hate. In that love there is only love. Imagine putting wet wood on the fire—smoke rises. If the wood is very wet, it is all smoke.

One day Mulla Nasruddin became very angry. He had a quarrel with his wife. In rage he said, “I’ll set this house on fire!” His little son sitting in the corner began to laugh. Mulla grew even angrier: “Why are you laughing, you little fool? Why are you laughing?”

The boy said, “I’m laughing because you can’t even light the stove, and you’re going to burn down the house!” In fact, the quarrel started because the stove wouldn’t light—his wife asked him to light it; he couldn’t—and now he is talking of burning down the house. “Let’s see!” That is why I laughed.

If the wood is very wet, fire will not be born—only smoke, smoke. The drier the wood, the less the smoke. And if the wood is completely dry, there is no smoke at all; a smokeless flame burns. What does this mean? It means smoke is not produced by wood; the water in the wood produces smoke. Smoke comes from the moisture, not from the wood. Never think that wood produces smoke. Fire does not produce smoke; moisture does.

Human love is like wet wood. There is love in it, and there is hate in it. Therefore much smoke is produced. The fire hardly burns—only smoke, smoke. In the name of love, where does the flame really burn? If the flame were to burn, you would become pure gold. Only smoke is produced; it hurts the eyes.

Just look at lovers: they quarrel more than they love. Gradually they begin to mistake the quarrelling for love. Then, on a day when there is no quarrel, a void is felt; a craving arises. If the wife goes to her mother’s for a few days, at first it feels good; then a craving arises. Craving for what? For the quarrels, the clatter. Sitting at home like a fool—how many times can you read the same newspaper! If the wife were here, some color would emerge; one thing would lead to another; there would be a little noise in the house—some rattling of utensils, a few cups falling and breaking. Something would be happening—life would have a bustle. The wife has gone to her mother’s…!

You had often thought it would be good if she went away for a while—some peace. But in a day or two the peace starts to grate, to hurt. You begin to write letters—love letters. And the wife believes those love letters! And these are from the very gentleman she left two days ago; with whom even a minute was difficult, with whom there was a quarrel every hour. But when they write love letters… people write astonishing things in letters. If it is only a letter, why be stingy! They pour out poetry from the heart. Those who are not poets become poets while writing letters.

And the great fun is this: those whose lived experience of you is exactly the opposite still believe. The husband writes, “Without you my mind doesn’t settle,” and the wife believes immediately: “Ah! Without me his mind doesn’t settle—I told him; I warned him that when I go, you will yearn and cry.” That is why wives often threaten, “I’ll just die!” Their threat means: “Then you will repent. You will cry. You will beat your head. You will remember me.” And they are right. Husbands too think, “If I die, then she will know. While I live, she gnaws at my life. The day I die, she will remember; she will place flowers on my grave, light lamps; that day she will cry bitterly.”

But no one dies—neither wives nor husbands. Wives, when they try to die, swallow sleeping pills—but always just enough to be saved. Ten women take pills; at most one dies. Husbands too make many arrangements to die—but they don’t die. They leave home saying, “I’m going. That’s it, I’m leaving,” take a round of the neighborhood, gossip a little, and return home.

One day Mulla Nasruddin left home like that. “Now I’m going,” he said. “It’s all over. I will go, lie down in front of a train and die.”

His wife said, “Go.”

I was in the house. I said, “Don’t send him like that.”

She said, “You wait—and watch. Let him go. Go!”

After a little while Mulla returned.

I asked, “Why?”

He said, “It started to rain, and I went without an umbrella.”

One who is going to die worries about an umbrella!

One day I heard he actually reached the railway. There were two tracks. He looked carefully at both, then lay down on one.

A shepherd grazing his sheep and cows nearby watched him lie down. He was puzzled: Mulla carefully inspected both tracks to decide which one to lie on. He asked, “A curiosity arose in my mind—since you are leaving the world, tell me: you investigated thoroughly which track to lie on. Why?”

Mulla said, “Should I lie down without investigation? This track is rusted; trains don’t run on it. Going by the rust, I have lain on the other. That one is shining—clear case, the decision will be certain.”

The man asked, “Since you are willing to answer, one more question: why did you bring this tiffin?”

Mulla said, “What if the train is late? Should I die hungry?”

He came to die with a lunchbox!

Nobody dies…but the threats go on. These threats are given to see what effect the other shows! Husbands and wives only quarrel—quarrel all day long. Amid the quarrel, once in a while, there are moments of love too—like bubbles on water, bursting as they arise. The love you know is this.

When you love me, naturally at first it will be the same; where else will you bring a different love from? In your love there will be respect, and hidden deep somewhere, resistance too. In your love there will be love—and hate as well. On one side you will remain a friend, on another, an enemy.

But there is nothing surprising in this; it is natural. Keep moving along—sitting, walking, living together—and slowly you will refine. You will evaporate the water; you will dry the wood. The very work of satsang is this: to dry the wood. The master’s grace, the seeker’s company! Sitting and sitting, the wood will dry. It will become so dry that when the fire rises there will be no smoke. A smokeless flame is love in its purest form.

Suman, the one who asked the question—“Sometimes such hatred arises”—did not speak only for himself; he spoke for all of you. It arises in you too. I know sannyasins who by nature carry big expectations; when an expectation is not fulfilled, they grow angry. They snatch off their mala and throw it—then they pick it up and press it to their head and quickly put it back on. I know sannyasins who take my picture down and throw it outside the house; after ten or five minutes they hurry out, kneel, bow, ask forgiveness, bring the picture back and hang it. And because guilt has arisen, they also light a lamp and offer flowers. Sannyasins have themselves come and told me: “All this happens. If it ever does, don’t be angry.” I said, “I don’t bother whether you offer flowers or you throw the picture. The picture is yours—and a mirror of your own mind; what have I to do with it!”

These are natural states of mind, because the mind is always dualistic. There is always conflict in the mind. The mind constantly breeds opposites. When you rise beyond mind, the opposites disappear. When the mind falls silent, when you are full of awareness, then you will have a love in which there is no hate, reverence in which there is no doubt, bliss in which not even the shadow of sorrow falls. That day will come. But it cannot come today—your strength is not yet enough, your intensity is not yet so keen, your longing not yet so aflame.

Do not be troubled. The one who said, “Sometimes I feel like shooting you,” is not someone who will shoot. He probably doesn’t even own a gun. Even if someone put a gun in his hand, he might not know how to use it. He only spoke of a feeling.

And this irritation arises because people carry too many expectations. Someone comes here thinking, “I will go back enlightened.” Then he meditates for eight or ten days, and if enlightenment does not happen, what should he do but get angry! He is filled with rage because he came thinking someone else would give him enlightenment, as if I would hand it to him. People write to me: “We are leaving your door empty-handed.” As if… they think like beggars, as if I should fill their begging bowl. They have no trust in themselves at all—that they are not beggars, that their bowl is not to be filled. They are already full; only recognition is needed. You are masters, sovereigns, emperors—rich with infinite wealth—only remembrance is needed. I have nothing to give you; there is nothing to give and nothing to take. What you must receive has already been given—only a reminder is needed.

But they will not remember; they sit here hoping that with a blessing everything will be given, their bag will be filled and they can go home! If it does not happen, irritation arises, anger arises.

The greater the expectation, the greater the disappointment, the greater the anger, the more the hatred. Do not expect. Sit with me in a state of non-expectation. Only one who sits in non-expectation is truly in satsang. There is nothing to want, nothing to ask for. What is, is enough—more than enough. What is, is in excess of all needs. For what is, give thanks to God; for what has been received, bow in gratitude. Then hatred will not arise; then opposition will not arise.

But I have understood you. You say, “The day I heard talk of someone shooting you, I kept crying. I have never cried in my life even over someone’s death! Now I tremble merely hearing talk of your death. Why? Please explain.”

For the first time you have loved. For the first time someone has made flowers bloom on your heart. For the first time someone has touched and plucked the strings of your heart. For the first time someone’s life has become valuable to you. For the first time your life has found a bond with someone’s life. For the first time there has been a feeling of kinship, oneness, intimacy, nearness—and that is why.

I cradle upon my eyelids
this delicate dream of someone’s.
Why does someone say
I am lost in the tangle of the dark,
that in smoke-filled streets
I have wept like lightning, hiding?
I am pouring into every particle, O bee,
a love like tears for someone’s.
I cradle upon my eyelids
this delicate dream of someone’s.

On the dust the thorn’s soft kiss,
in the sky the clouds’ invitation;
today the ocean of cataclysm
greets my trembling.
A storm-messenger has brought,
fragrant, someone’s breath as a gift.
I cradle upon my eyelids
this delicate dream of someone’s.

The pupil has stolen the sky,
the heart has hidden a lightning-realm;
like body-color upon my limbs
is the boundless shadow of the One.
Upon my own body, O bee, how becoming
is, I know not why, someone’s adornment.
I cradle upon my eyelids
this delicate dream of someone’s.

For the first time you have seen a dream beyond the world. For the first time you have peeped through my eyes, seen from my window. A new color, a new fragrance, a new song has arisen in your life. The links of this song are yet to be set. The instrument is not yet fully tuned; the strings have begun to hum, but the vina still has to be tightened—one string is slack, another too tight; the instrument must be set. The first beat has fallen on the drum; the first sound has come. But there is a long way to go, a long journey to a distant land. The call has been heard, but the call is not the end—it is the beginning.

And therefore if someone says he will put an end to me—what will become of you? The vina within you that has begun to vibrate—will it remain just a vibration? That resonance too will be lost. Your heart says: No, a little longer. Let something happen in me. Let me become something. Let me attain something. Let this song be completed; let these links fit perfectly; let this music ignite in full; let this taste be fulfilled.

A clay edifice, after giving shade,
lies leveled back in clay.
Now there is only work with emptiness—
and tell me, friend, whose emptiness has become a friend?

Tiptoeing in fear I place my steps
in the desert of dreams, as if
this sand has now become chains,
this shade has now become a wall.

Every leaf fell, heavy with weight,
all branches bent and broke;
the very rain that made the crop
ruined it in the end.

A touch of wind upon the skin
pricks like thorns within the veins;
a hundred autumns must have come—
yet only this time it is felt.

These wails are of restlessness;
even the silence screams.
This night of pain—who knows
how long it will remain awake.

Now it is no longer in our power
to turn back to the path of flowers;
the path we must tread
has become a sword.

Now let alien winds blow as they will,
let the air remain hot;
the wound in the chest has become a lamp,
the fire in the hem has become a spring.

Suman, there is no going back now—do not be afraid. Whether I remain or not, the song that has taken birth in you will be completed. The note that has arisen in you will come to fulfillment.

Now it is no longer in our power
to turn back to the path of flowers;
the path we must tread
has become a sword.

Now let alien winds blow as they will,
let the air remain hot;
the wound in the chest has become a lamp,
the fire in the hem has become a spring.

Now do not be afraid. The moment has come when wounds become lamps, and the fire at your hem turns into spring. Now even embers will be cool flowers. But fear arises—it does. Until the matter is complete, until the happening is fulfilled, until practice turns into realization, there is the worry: let the true master not be lost. The worry is natural. But do not panic.

If someone has truly loved me with reverence, then even if this body falls, nothing will be lost. The fingers that touched the strings of your heart will go on touching them; the notes that called you will go on calling—perhaps even more deeply. For then they will not come from the outside; they will arise from within you. And the presence you have known near me is not something that will end. And for those in whom it ends, understand that they never had it. The love of the disciple and the master is the one love that goes beyond death. Death cannot break it. In the face of death it remains invincible.

Avinash Bharti! What is seen is not me; what is seen is not you either. The seen is a deception, a dream; the seer is the truth. And you cannot see my seer. There is only one way to see my seer: see your own seer.

The seer is neither mine nor yours. There is only one way to come to know it: loosen your grip on the seen, and slowly, gently, catch hold of that which is seeing, that which is seeing everything. You are listening to me—you can listen in two ways. One is to concentrate entirely on my words and forget yourself completely. If the listener is forgotten and only the speaker remains in view, you will miss. You will hear my words, but their meaning will elude you. There is another way of listening—hear my words, but even more valuable is not to forget the remembrance of that within you which is listening; do not let that be lost.

Let the arrow of your awareness be double-pointed—one point toward my words, and one toward your own consciousness. You are looking at me—that is one end of the arrow. The other end, more precious, should be: who is looking? Do not get stuck in the seen, do not wander in the seen, do not be imprisoned by the seen. Otherwise your fate will be like that of the bumblebee. It becomes so lost in the lotus that when evening comes, the sun sets, and the petals begin to close, it still doesn’t remember. The petals close, the bee is shut inside the lotus and cannot fly out.

In just this way we get bound in the seen, as bees get trapped in lotuses. We get stuck in the seen and forget the seer.

Remember the seer. Awaken it, refine it. Use the seer as much as you possibly can. Look at a flower, but do not forget the one who is looking. Look at the moon and stars, but do not forget the one who is looking. Walk through the marketplace—see the people, the shops along the way—but do not forget the one who is looking. Let the looker remain within you constantly, day and night. This is what Bhikha called sumaran—remembrance. This is the Buddha’s sammasati, right mindfulness. This is Gurdjieff’s self-remembering.

You say: “Even after seeing you again and again it feels as if I have not seen!”
It will feel so, because what you see is not me—what you see is this earthen body: yesterday it was not, tomorrow it will not be again. That is not me. The consciousness hidden within this clay—this is me, and that is you as well. There we are one. Your body is different, my body is different; but your soul and my soul are not separate. Consciousness is one ocean. In that consciousness, the waves of bodies are endless.

If you dive into your own seer, then you will be able to recognize me. Only if you descend into samadhi will you recognize me; otherwise you will not. Whoever sees me only from the outside and goes away came in vain and went in vain. I understand your difficulty. You want what has happened within me to happen within you. That very longing is contained in your thought: how to see so that the image descends, truly descends? But if my image grips you too much, you will be imprisoned in my image. And I am not an image. It will become a bondage, a prison, a chain.

Seek the conscious in the clay, the luminous hidden in the earthen. And that search is an inner search. You will first find it within yourself; only then will you be able to see it within me. A longing has awakened—an auspicious longing. Then its full offering too will happen; its completion will come.

If in this world of dust and earth
one has sown the tiny seed
of light and bliss,
then with rains make it sprout and grow,
beyond neti, soften a little.

Buried in dust and earth, I am helpless,
my own vexation is consuming me!
Touch me and reawaken me into consciousness,
let the flower smile and the clay and dust wear away!

In the earthen vessel light a flame,
become a moth and be enamored of the flame,
if in this world of dust and earth
one has sown the tiny seed
of light and bliss!

For now it is a tiny seed—of light, of bliss. It will become a tree, a great tree under which thousands of birds make their nests; beneath whose shade hundreds of travelers sit. Each sannyasin has to become a vast seed. Each sannyasin has to grow from seed into the immense.

If in this world of dust and earth the seed of consciousness has been sown—and God has sown it—into dust, into clay:

If in this world of dust and earth
one has sown the tiny seed
of light and bliss,

But no seed is truly tiny; it only appears small. Botanists say: from a single seed the whole earth could become green—so much is hidden in it. Why only the earth? From a single seed even the moon and stars could turn green—so much is hidden in it. Because from one seed comes a tree. A tree bears millions of seeds. Then from each seed again millions of seeds. …

Think a little! Scientists are searching how greenery first arose on this earth. Where did the first seed come from? Only one seed would have been needed; then, slowly, it would spread. From one seed came the infinite; from the infinite, more infinity; and the whole earth turned green. It must have been a single seed. How did it come? Who brought the first seed?

Scientists propose many hypotheses—perhaps while passing near some comet a seed fell. Perhaps with a meteor… at night you see stars falling, don’t you? They are not stars; stars do not fall. They are little stones that ignite from friction with the air and appear star-like. Perhaps with some meteor, from some far-populated planet, a seed arrived—one or two seeds stuck on and came. Just one seed greened the entire earth, filled the whole earth with life. A seed looks small, but it is not small.

If in this world of dust and earth
one has sown the tiny seed
of light and bliss,
then with rains make it sprout and grow,
beyond neti, soften a little!

Then naturally there arises in the heart this yearning: when this seed has been sown in the soil—O dweller of the far, O distant gardener, O Master—

Then with rains make it sprout and grow,
beyond neti, soften a little!

So then, be a little moved. O Soul of the universe! Show a little compassion, a little grace! Rain, so that this seed breaks, so that it bursts forth, so that it becomes vast, so that it spreads! The longing for expansion is hidden in everyone—in the seed and in the human being. This longing for expansion, for vastness, is the fundamental search of religion. The last word we have given to God—Brahman—is very endearing; it means: that which goes on expanding. Our word vistar, expansion, is formed from Brahman. That which keeps expanding without end—that Brahman is also the seed within us, which wants to expand, which wants to become Brahman.

Thus the prayer rises—

Then with rains make it sprout and grow,
beyond neti, soften a little!
Buried in dust and earth, I am helpless,
my own vexation is consuming me!

Naturally, as long as the seed is buried in the soil and has not sprouted—it frets, it falls into melancholy. Will my auspicious moment come, or not? Will that blessed instant arrive, or not? Will I die an unlucky seed? Will this shell break or not? Will this prison, these chains that surround me, dissolve or not? Will green shoots ever emerge from me? Will I rise skyward, become upward-moving, upward-flowing? Will greenness be born in me, leaves and flowers? Will birds sing upon me? Will I too converse with the moon and stars or not? Irritation arises; until the seed breaks, it frets.

And you will find that same irritation in every human being. Everyone is irritated. Look closely; there often aren’t even clear reasons for the irritation! Even on a day when there is no obvious cause for sorrow in your life, still there is a vexation. It feels as if something is missing. Something was to happen that is not happening. You cannot grasp it clearly; the cause slips from your fist—why am I annoyed, why am I irritated? It seems unreasonable. And since we cannot tolerate the unreasonable, we find some pretext. The husband snaps at the wife—why is the bread burnt today? Why isn’t the water cool? The wife snaps at the children—why did you come late from school? Children tear their books.

Irritation passes from one to another. And the real cause is only this: even if there were no cause for sorrow in your life, you would still remain unhappy. Even if all your conveniences were fulfilled, you would still be unhappy. Why? Because the cause of vexation is not the lack of conveniences. It is the absence of expansion, the absence of Brahman. The seed wants to be a tree; the tree wants to be infinite seeds; the infinite seeds want to be infinite trees—to go on expanding. This expansion of consciousness does not want to accept any end; it does not want to be bound within any limit.

Buried in dust and earth, I am helpless,
my own vexation is consuming me!
Touch me and reawaken me into consciousness,
let the flower smile and the clay and dust wear away!

This has been the prayer of lifetimes: touch me, reawaken me into consciousness. Break this earthen pot so the nectar is freed! Let the flower smile! Give just one chance for my flower also to smile in the sky. And let the clay and dust wear away!

In the earthen vessel light a flame,
become a moth and be enamored of the flame!

Where should one seek God? There is no clue, no address. Where is he hidden? No hint is given. When children play hide-and-seek, they at least give a little hint. They hide and then call out from there. They give a direction for searching. But God is so hidden that not a single sign appears—where!

The wise say: in every particle. They say: in every moment. Jesus said: lift the stone and there you will find me; split a branch and within it you will find me. But you lift a stone and nothing is found. You break a branch and nothing comes to hand. The branch only breaks from your hand, lifting the stone was just more labor. The wise say: he is in every particle. They say: he is everywhere; no address is needed, no sign is needed—he pervades all directions. But the talk of the wise is known to the wise.

The ignorant asks: give me an address, a location; where shall I write a letter?

A letter arrived at a post office. A man had written to God: my wife is very ill and I need fifty rupees at once; less will not do. Send fifty rupees immediately by money order. And on the address it was written: To be delivered to the Supreme Father, God. The people at the post office felt pity. Poor fellow! And more pity because he does not even know that letters cannot be sent to God—who knows his address? But he must be in great trouble and must be simple-hearted, so the clerks said: let us collect a little and send him a donation. They collected, but only twenty-five rupees could be gathered. They sent twenty-five so at least some help would reach him.

By the return mail another letter came. Addressed: To God. It was written in great annoyance. He had written: this is not right. Next time please send directly. When it was sent through the post office, those rascals deducted twenty-five rupees as commission.

There is no address for God. When you lift your face to the sky and pray, you are groping in the unknown. When you bow and place your head on the ground and pray, you are still groping in the dark. There is no address for him. Does your language even reach him? Are your prayers capable of finding him, or do they get lost in empty sky? Therefore whoever understands the exact formula of prayer will pray like this—

In the earthen vessel light a flame,
become a moth and be enamored of the flame!

We cannot become moths, because we do not see your flame anywhere. Now there is only one way—make us the lamp and you become the moth. You seek us; only this way remains now. Our seeking does not work. We have searched and searched and become weary. We have been searching for lifetimes. Searching and searching, many have decided that you do not exist. After all, how long should one search?

In my view, those who are atheists have been seekers for countless births. They searched hard and did not find. Again and again they searched, and did not find. After all, a human being has limited strength. How long can he search? At some point he has to decide: if he is not found, then it is better to decide that he is not. The hassle ends; now there is no need to search. In the atheist I see a believer hidden across lifetimes. When an atheist comes to me, I look within and see he has searched much—searched till he is so tired, so filled with despondency, that how long should he go on? For self-preservation there is one way left: you are not. Then there will be no flute if there is no bamboo. If you are not, the search ends. Now the trouble with you is over. Now let me do something else. Life is short; let me enjoy it. Why waste it searching for you?

When an atheist comes to me, I become very eager to give him initiation into sannyas. Atheists ask me: we are atheists—will you give sannyas even to us? I tell them: I am not as eager about the theist as I am about the atheist. Because the atheist has searched much—perhaps to ninety-nine degrees. One more degree, and the revolution would happen, he would evaporate.

But the exact form of prayer can only be this—

In the earthen vessel light a flame,
you become the moth, enamored of the flame,
now only one way remains—that I become the flame and you the moth. You become the moth, be enamored of me. You come; by my coming nothing can happen. How shall I come? You run—run toward me.

And I tell you: if you become empty, God runs toward you from all directions. Have you ever gone to a river and filled a pot with water? As soon as you dip the pot, a hollow forms in the river, and from all sides the water rushes in. Nature doesn’t like hollows. You see in summer whirlwinds rise, storms of wind arise. Why do they rise? How? When the sun’s heat beats down, the air becomes so heated it turns rarefied—its density breaks; hollows are created. And where a hollow appears, from all sides air rushes in. That rushing we call a whirlwind. The air runs so fast to fill the hollow that a whirlwind is produced.

Exactly so, the day you become empty in meditation, that day God comes like a whirlwind. He comes from all sides, all directions—from above and from below; from left and right; north, south, east, west—he comes from everywhere.

In the earthen vessel light a flame,
become a moth and be enamored of the flame,
if in this world of dust and earth
one has sown the tiny seed
of light and bliss!

If the seed has been sown, do not neglect it now.

Avinash, I know: those who are gathering here around me are precisely those in whom the urge has arisen to break the seed. This is not some ordinary place of pilgrimage where for centuries the dead have gathered and so more dead keep coming and going. This is not Kashi, where people arrive at the last moment to turn over for a final time. This is not Mecca-Medina, where having made the journey one believes all is done. Here there is space only for those who are ready to dissolve, ready to break, ready to lose, ready to become nothing.

Become empty, and God will start running toward you. Become empty, and your seer will awaken. And once you see your own seer, you will see me. Until you can see yourself, you will not be able to see me either.

And do not be frightened, do not be sad; there is no reason for despair. When the night is very dark, then dawn is near.

Dusk is descending,
let it descend;
let the darkness grow deeper;
let the silence
turn and settle in the cave of the mind!
Time, with tireless speed,
is moving on—
(be still!)
becoming a hunter,
fitting a sun-ray arrow
upon his bow,
he will topple, in a single instant,
the deer of darkness.

Night is coming; let it come. The hunter of the dawn is also coming—the sun as hunter is coming. As the night grows darker, the sun draws nearer. With his bow he is fitting the arrows of light… with a single shaft he will destroy the darkness of your lifetimes. With a single arrow he will snatch away your death.

But remember: in the life of a seeker the dark night comes. The Christian mystics named it well—the dark night of the soul. Yet it comes only in the lives of the fortunate—the supremely fortunate. The greatly blessed are those in whose lives it comes—because after it, morning is certain. Burn now! Evening has begun to fall, night is deepening, the fire of longing is blazing—let it blaze more; pour ghee on it, fan it, so the flame leaps high. Morning will come soon.

Dusk is descending,
let it descend;
let the darkness grow deeper;
let the silence
turn and settle in the cave of the mind!
Time, with tireless speed,
is moving on—
(be still!)
becoming a hunter,
fitting a sun-ray arrow
upon his bow,
he will topple, in a single instant,
the deer of darkness.

This deer of darkness will fall with a single arrow, in a single moment. But waiting is needed. Remember these two words: prayer and waiting. In the midst of prayer and waiting, God happens.

That is all for today.