Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #6

Satya Niranjan! Existence is growth, but there is no growth of Buddhahood. Buddhahood itself means the ultimate summit of evolution; beyond it nothing remains. Buddhahood means the destination has been reached. Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Mohammed, Jesus, Nanak, Kabir, Bhikha—among them there is no ahead or behind, no smaller or greater—each is equally established in Buddhahood. When Buddhahood happens it does not happen in pieces, not in fractions; whenever it happens, it is perfect and entire—it is not half, not more or less. And yet there are differences in the utterances of Krishna, Mahavira, Mohammed, and Nanak. The difference is in expression, not in realization. Their conduct and behavior differ—not their souls. Conduct, behavior, expression depend on society, and society is evolving.

Mohammed had to take a sword in his hand because the people among whom he lived were wild, fierce. Among them he could not have delivered his message without a sword. The songs of the Koran could not be sung except in the shade of a sword. If Mahavira had been born in Arabia, he too would have had to take up the sword. But if Mohammed had been born in India in Mahavira’s time, he too would have silently endured the stones—there was a different society, a different kind of people, a different culture.

Only yesterday I was reading a Sufi story from Mohammed’s time. A devotee, a Sufi, was reciting a verse from the Koran. The verse comes: “Eat, drink, make merry.” An Arab standing nearby heard this—“Eat, drink, make merry”—and he lifted a stick and struck the Sufi on the head. The Sufi paid no attention; he continued reading the verse: “Eat, drink, make merry—and then you will rot in hells.” The Arab who had struck him said, “Now you’ve come to your senses, now you understand—only after a beating did wisdom dawn!” He had no idea that what he’d first heard was only half the Koranic statement. He thought the beating had brought the Sufi to his senses, otherwise he was just saying, “Eat, drink, make merry.”

Among the people to whom Mohammed had to give his teaching, neither Krishna nor Rama nor Mahavira nor Buddha had appeared before. Mohammed had to break the ground for the first time. When you try to turn a rocky hillside into a field, you must pull out stones, wield the pick, clear the land—that is the kind of ground Mohammed had to work. Mahavira had behind him a five-thousand-year-long history. Over those five thousand years the soil had been well prepared. The field was ready; it was only a matter of a little watering, a little sowing.

So there will be differences in expression, and differences in conduct and behavior. But do not take this to mean that Mahavira is a greater enlightened one than Mohammed; in Buddhahood there is no greater or lesser. Do not think Buddha is greater or more advanced than Jesus; in Buddhahood none is ahead or behind. Buddhahood means the destination is reached, the attainment is complete; after that there is no development. How can perfection develop further? And yet, as time changes, people change, language changes, people’s ways of thinking change—so the expression of Buddhas will also keep changing.

What I am saying can only be said today; earlier it could not be said. Today there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Parsis, Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists, Jews—people of all the world’s religions are present before me. It was not so before Buddha; he had to speak only to Hindus, so a certain kind of expression was used. Mahavira was not speaking to so many religions either; therefore there is a single-voicedness in his expression. I am speaking to so many different people that I must employ the full scale; I must sound all seven notes.

Buddha wandered in the small region of Bihar; he did not go beyond it. Mohammed remained in Arabia. Jesus’ field was even smaller, and his time was very short—he had only three years to work. For me the whole world is the field; people are here from nearly thirty countries. I must speak keeping in view the cultures, civilizations, life-ways, and conditionings of people from thirty countries.

Therefore only those who are very broad will be able to understand me. Those who are not broad, who are narrow, dogmatic, bound to one sect or one fixed belief—they will be annoyed with me. I cannot please any single group, because I must keep others in mind as well. Hindus would like me to speak only of the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita—to not bring in the Koran or the Bible; then they would be pleased. But this compromise I cannot make. The Koran will come, the Bible will come, the Guru Granth will come, and the Dhammapada will come. Christians too would like me to speak only on Jesus and on no one else; then they would be pleased. But that too I cannot do. The Zen masters of Japan are as much my own as Jesus, and Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, and Lieh Tzu of China are as near to me as Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Kabir.

This experiment is unprecedented. But it could happen only today; earlier it could not. Science, and the technology born of science, have made the earth a small village. The earth has become very small; people have come very close. Such a small earth, and people so close—this had never happened before. We didn’t even know of others; there was no connection with them—each had his own well, his own language.

Therefore Hindus will be annoyed with me, Christians will be annoyed with me, Jains will be annoyed with me—if they are unintelligent. If they are intelligent, all three will be pleased with me, all three will be delighted with me. In this garden all flowers will bloom. In this garden there is no disparagement of anyone. But where all flowers bloom, one thing must be kept in mind: you cannot proceed by honoring only a single flower. Each flower has its own way—champa has its own color and fragrance, and the rose has its own color and way. You cannot impose the rose upon the champa, nor the champa upon the rose. Here no one will be imposed upon by anyone else. Here each will be given the space for his own self-unfoldment. That is why I speak on all the paths.

Certainly, Satya Niranjan, such an experiment has never happened before; but the reason is not that Buddhas did not want to attempt it. Even if they had wanted to, there was no way to do it. Everything unfolds in a chain. Think of it this way: do you believe an airplane can be built in a country where even a bullock cart has not yet been made? Impossible. First a bullock cart, then a motor car, then a train—and only then an airplane can be made. And do you think spaceships can be made in a country where there are not even airplanes? Impossible. When the technology of the airplane reaches its fullness, then the spaceship is born. In a country without railways, people cannot reach the moon. Although one does not go to the moon by train, the train is a link in that chain which later yields the airplane, then the spaceship, and man can reach the moon.

Man has always wanted to reach the moon. There has hardly been a time when man was not fascinated by it. The moon is so lovely; its allure is deep. For centuries poets have sung its songs, and small children have stretched out their hands to catch it. But reaching the moon became possible only today; earlier it was not possible. Now that reaching the moon has become possible, reaching Mars will also become possible; and when Mars becomes possible, today or tomorrow we will enter other solar systems. Today or tomorrow we will reach the stars.

But this is a sequence, the rungs of a ladder. Buddhas too wanted the whole world to understand their message. They did what they could—they wandered from village to village, labored continuously for forty-two years. But wandering village to village, how many villages can you cover? How many people can you reach? There was no radio, no television, no newspapers, no printing presses—so they had to go village to village.

People ask me why I don’t go from village to village. If I were to do that, I would be mad. Buddha had to go because there was no other way. I can sit in one place and call people here from all over the world; there is no need to go village to village. And if I went village to village, I could not do the work that I can do by sitting in one place.

People ask me, what need is there for publicity? Buddha didn’t do it. Then what did Buddha do for forty-two years—swat flies? Yes, he did not advertise in newspapers, because there were no newspapers. He did not use radio, television, or film, because they could not be used. Had they been possible, you would not have been such fools as to not use them. Whatever means were available to carry the truth, he used them. He sent his disciples far and wide.

Today science has given us many means. All of them must be used. And humanity has received a great wealth today that earlier could never have been had. Jews, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—all, in their own lands, their own streams, in their own ways, discovered methods for realizing the truth of life. Today we can experience all the methods together, understand them together. Today we can extract the essence of all the methods. That great work is happening here. Here the Sufis’ dance is happening; a Buddhist monk comes and is amazed, because a Buddhist monk knows only to sit silently in meditation. He does not know that meditation can happen through dance. And when a Sufi fakir comes, he too is amazed, because he thinks meditation can happen only by dancing. But here Vipassana is also being practiced; people are sitting for hours with closed eyes.

The Sufi cannot understand Vipassana; the Buddhist cannot understand the Sufis’ whirling dance. Broadness is needed, a big heart is needed, a wide chest is needed. To understand this experiment a very deep and pure understanding is needed. Therefore, very few will be able to undertake this experiment; but blessed will be those who can. For this experiment will become the foundation stone of the future; this experiment is the first brick of the temple of the future. When a temple’s foundation is laid you cannot yet see its spires; they have not yet come, how will you see them? Only great visionaries, seers of the future—poets and sages—can see that the brick being laid today as foundation is not just a brick; soon golden spires will rise upon it. But at the base of golden spires are bricks.

And remember, a temple is not just bricks; it is something more than the sum of its bricks. A poem is not just the sum of words; it is more than their joining. Music is not just the sum of notes; there is a transcendence beyond the notes. Those who look from the outside will say, “What is happening? Only bricks are being laid.” Yes, for now bricks are being laid, but soon a temple will stand here; golden spires will be mounted upon it. And then the joy of those who laid the bricks will be boundless; their hands too were used in the process of building this great temple.

Buddha wanted this as well; Mahavira wanted this; Krishna wanted this. But what could be done then, they did; what can be done today will be done today. And even that is not the end—man is evolving, he will keep evolving day by day; in the future Buddhas will keep coming and new forms of this temple will keep revealing themselves. No journey ends at this temple alone. Therefore a truly religious person has the capacity to embrace new temples. The false religious are those who deny the new, who worship only the old, who worship only the dead.

Remember, Bhikha said yesterday: Blessed are they who can understand the words of the living Brahman. It is very easy to understand the masters after centuries, because by then a long stream of tradition, history, and legend stands behind them. But when a master stands for the first time, there is no tradition behind him—he is indefinable. In what category to place him, how to classify him, even that is not understood. What to call him is not known. There is as yet no language for him, no words, no definition, no commentary. Slowly the commentary will be found, the definition discovered. But it will take time, and by then the master departs. By the time you understand, the swan has flown; the cage remains, the swan has flown.

Those who have eyes do not get entangled in little things like commentary, definition, classification. They try to look straight into the eyes; they join directly in the experiment. That very experiment is sannyas. Sannyas means: without worry, you are ready to descend with me into the unknown. You are willing to take the risk; you embark with me in one boat that will sail the unknown ocean. There is no knowledge of the other shore, and no assurance can be given. This is a journey in which assurances do not exist. If assurances are given, the journey is spoiled, because assurances create expectation; where there is expectation there is desire, and where there is desire there is no prayer.

Satya Niranjan, an unparalleled yajna is taking place—become as much a participant in it as you can, and make as many others participants as you can—call them with love, invite them with prayer. People regret very much later, but later repentance is of no use—when the flower is in bloom, dance with it; when the lamp is lit, light your lamp from it. You have joined yourself to me; do not be content with only this—there are many others who are thirsty, many who yearn, many who seek; the message must reach them too.

Nothing is absolutely good or absolutely bad in every situation. There are times when even poison is good, because there are illnesses for which poison is medicine. And there are times when even nectar can be harmful, because there can be illnesses in which taking anything into the body is too costly—even nectar. There are conditions in which fasting itself becomes the door to health; at such times, don’t drink nectar either.

Nothing in life is fixed and rigid—but that is exactly what we try to make it. We want labels: such-and-such is bad—“fate,” for example. People ask me, say it clearly, is believing in fate right or wrong?

Fate can be understood rightly—in which case it is of great value. Fate can also be understood wrongly—in which case it is greatly misused. Ninety-nine out of a hundred understand it wrongly, because ninety-nine out of a hundred do whatever they do in a wrong way. It’s not only about fate. What is the common person’s idea of fate? “Dump everything on God.” Behind this dumping is laziness, sloth, non-doing: “What can I do? It isn’t in my fate.” So they sit idle.

This notion has made the Eastern countries poor, meek, beggarly. “What can we do? What God has written on our foreheads is what will be.” “Not a leaf moves without his will, so what is the use of our doing anything? He has written the eater’s name on every grain, so whether we act or not, the grain that has our name on it will find us.” This is a very wrong notion.

The West grew more and more prosperous because it didn’t accept such a notion of fate. It produced wealth, food, conveniences. Today the West has created all the comforts we imagined in heaven. We can only imagine them for heaven. Here we somehow endure. “This is just a short stop to be gotten through. This world is a wayside inn, a one-night halt—who cares, who bothers? It’s a railway platform—throw banana peels, peanut shells, spit betel juice right here. What’s our stake? Our train comes and we go; those who come after can deal with it.” And those who come after feel the same.

The country became dirtier, poorer, weaker, enslaved. We accepted slavery because of fate. No country in the world has remained enslaved for so long—such a vast country! How could small tribes come and enslave it? Huns, Mughals, Tatars—tiny peoples with no great standing, whom this country could have held in its fist—kept coming and taking over this vast land. But we had one notion: “That must be God’s will; it must be written in our fate. If slavery is bad, we will bear slavery.”

This is the wrong idea of fate. But there is also a right idea. The wise gave it—but the unwise always misunderstand. What is the wise view of fate? Not non-action—rather, total action, but freedom from the craving for results.

See the difference. The ignorant person’s view of fate is freedom from action; the wise person’s view is freedom from attachment to results. We will act, but as for the fruits...! The ignorant says, “Why act at all? If the fruits are up to him, then the action is too. Why sow seeds? If the fruit is his, the tree is his, the seed, the farming—everything is his.” The wise says, “Sow the seed, cultivate, tend the tree, make it green and thriving, manure it, protect it. But remember this: if fruits don’t come, don’t fall into despair. If fruits do come, don’t fall into ego. Don’t go about shouting, ‘Look how I made these fruits grow.’”

You are not the grower; the grower is the One. If you were the grower, you could make mangoes grow on a neem tree. You are not the grower; the grower is the One. And if fruits don’t come, don’t go about weeping. You did your labor fully; you left no stone unturned. If still the fruits don’t come—that’s his will. Perhaps even in the absence of fruit there is a lesson for you; perhaps there is a teaching in contentment there too.

If action remains and craving for results disappears—that is sannyas. Krishna told Arjuna just this: act, but do not desire the fruits; leave the fruits to him. Do not worry about fruits—whether you will win or lose, he will know that; but that you will fight—let that be your knowing. Raise your Gandiva; enter the fray. You are a kshatriya; your nature is that of a warrior. Express your nature—and then whatever the outcome. Results are not in our hands.

Why not? Because the outcome lies in the hands of the Vast. Existence is immense. Everything here is interlinked. You sowed the seed—fine; you tilled the land—fine. But a flood may come and wash away the fields. Or there may be no rain and the plants may wither. Pests may strike—a thousand possibilities. This is a vast universe; we cannot protect ourselves from every possibility. However much we try, many possibilities remain that we cannot even imagine.

In the West there is great industriousness—but an equally strong grip on the desire for results. So if someone loses, he jumps from the thirtieth floor and kills himself. If there is loss in business, he shoots himself. He takes everything on his own head. He loves a woman; she refuses to marry; he hangs himself or drinks poison. The grip on results is tight. Western industriousness is good, but because of the clinging to outcomes there is much dejection, much neurosis, much anxiety. In the East we have left even the desire for results to him—and also the action. Because of dropping action we have deep poverty, great destitution, great disease. The East is rotting, the West is rotting—because both have chosen only half. Both, in a way, have misinterpreted.

I would like you to understand and hold the Western approach regarding action; and to understand and hold the Eastern approach regarding results. Then within you a new human being will be born—neither Eastern nor Western, but filled with awareness; one who takes the best of East and the best of West.

If we keep our dharma alive,
If we keep our action alive,
If we keep our essence alive,
Then, as to fruits—trusting fate with contentment is not too bad!
This fault is not too bad!

Seeing the world’s injustice,
After years of silent lips,
When the trembling voice turns thunderous,
The anger that sparks a revolution in the world is not too bad!
This fault is not too bad!

Advancing, erasing and being erased,
Fighting the world, fighting the mind,
Standing firm upon ideals,
Burning like a moth in the flame of truth—such intoxication is not too bad!
This fault is not too bad!

The truly intelligent become adorned even by their so-called faults. Jesus lifted a whip in the temple and overturned the moneylenders’ tables; he wielded it so fiercely that the moneylenders fled. A single man drove many moneychangers out of the temple. Such blazing consciousness—you might say, “But that is anger, that is wrath; it doesn’t befit an enlightened one.” Who are you to define what befits an awakened one? What befits or does not befit the enlightened is decided moment to moment; there is no prior rule.

Seeing the world’s injustice,
After years of silent lips,
When the trembling voice turns thunderous,
The anger that sparks a revolution in the world is not too bad!
This fault is not too bad!

If someone like Jesus comes to anger, it isn’t bad. If such a person blazes up, it isn’t bad—it is good, it is auspicious. Everything depends on your consciousness.

You ask, is believing in fate always bad? In awakened consciousness nothing is always bad or always good. The decision is situational.

Just yesterday someone asked: the Sikh Gurus took up the sword—was that appropriate? In that situation, it was entirely appropriate. Our trouble is that we forget the situation and remember only the event—and then think about the event by itself, leaving out the background. Muhammad picked up the sword—that was perfectly right. Buddha did not pick up the sword—that too was perfectly right. Mahavira silently endured stones—that too was perfectly right. Their situations were different. Situations change from day to day, and the awakened one responds to the challenge of the situation.

Surely, the Buddhas have said, “Leave everything in his hands.” But that doesn’t mean they said, “Do nothing.” They said, “Do all that you can do—and still, leave everything in his hands.” Do act, but don’t be the doer—that is the essential understanding of fate. If you become the doer, anxiety will seize you: if you lose, it’s trouble; if you win, it’s trouble. Win—and ego swells, a terrible burden, a disease. Lose—and inferiority grows; guilt arises; the defeated mind fills with all kinds of troubles, breaks, shatters; only death seems the way out—suicide.

In the West many commit suicide; many are deranged. Psychologists say at least three out of four minds are wobbly. That’s no small number. If three minds out of four are suspect, the fourth isn’t very reliable either—how long can you trust him? Those three will drive the fourth mad too! Why the neurosis? Because of the sense of doership and the craving for results. And in the East, in any condition—rotting in the gutters—people go on living: “What can we do? It’s written in fate!”

In the East a kind of deathliness has spread; in the West, a kind of derangement. Both are diseased states. We have to rise beyond both—to a balanced way, a middle path. Like a tightrope walker who leans a little left, a little right—but not for the sake of leaning; he leans so he can remain in the center.

The art of life is just like that. Do your action fully—and leave the fruits to the Divine. Then see how flowers of joy bloom in your life. You will find a certain humility, a sense of “ah, so,” of gratefulness. Whatever comes is prasad, not a confirmation of your ego but a gift from the Divine. And what doesn’t come is also prasad—because right now that may be exactly what you need.

A Sufi fakir used to thank God every evening: “O Lord! Your grace is boundless; your compassion is immense! Whatever my needs are, you always fulfill them.” His disciples were often puzzled, because many times needs didn’t get fulfilled during the day—yet the gratitude went on. Once it went too far; they couldn’t contain themselves. They were on pilgrimage with the master. For three days the villages on the way would neither allow them in nor let them stay. Sufi fakirs are not tolerated by orthodox minds—indeed, true fakirs are not tolerated anywhere, because their truth cuts; it exposes people’s lies; it drops their masks. For three days, in the desert, no shelter, no food, no water—the situation was dire. And still, every evening the gratitude continued.

On the third day the disciples said, “Now this is too much.” As soon as the fakir said, “O Lord! Your grace is boundless; you always fulfill my needs,” the disciples interrupted: “Now you’ve gone too far. We put up with it for two days, but we cannot any longer. No water, no bread, no place to sleep—what kind of thanks is this? Which need was fulfilled? We saw none.”

The fakir opened his eyes; tears of joy were flowing; he laughed. “You didn’t understand. For three days, our need was precisely this: no food, no water, no shelter. Whatever he does is surely our need—he is testing us, examining us. Gratitude cannot be allowed to falter. What sort of gratitude is it that thanks when bread comes and stops when it doesn’t? From the same hands from which we received sweet fruit, we must accept the bitter as well. If he gives a bitter fruit, there must be a purpose.”

One who leaves all fruits to the Divine cannot be anxious. This Sufi fakir can never go mad. Impossible—how will you drive him mad? He cannot be worried—how will you worry him? No situation can disturb him. A deep peace will always remain within, an unbroken flame will go on burning. Yet the endeavor continues. The next morning he will again knock at the village gates; he will again seek shelter, food, water. Effort continues. Let the process continue; let the labor continue; and leave the fruits in the hands of the Divine—then a wondrous harmony is born in your life.

If we keep our dharma alive,
If we keep our action alive,
If we keep our essence alive,
Then, as to fruits—trusting fate with contentment is not too bad!
This fault is not too bad!

Advancing, erasing and being erased,
Fighting the world, fighting the mind,
Standing firm upon ideals,
Burning like a moth in the flame of truth—such intoxication is not too bad!
This fault is not too bad!

If you burn like a moth for truth, even that “intoxication” is not bad; that “madness” is not bad. If you become a lover-moth and offer yourself to the flame of truth, that offering is not bad; that bargain is not bad. What matters is the situation—and a conscious response to it. Never move with a pre-fixed idea of what is right and what is wrong. If you decide in advance, you will never be able to respond in tune with the situation. And whenever you fail to respond in tune, your growth stops. That is what is happening. People carry ready-made answers. Life is new every day, while their answers are old—so their answers never match life, nor life their answers. They keep missing the train; by the time they arrive, running, the train has already left. They never receive anything in life—how can they?

A Zen story. Two temples in one village; the temples are at odds, as temples usually are. The quarrel is ancient. The priests of the two temples won’t speak to each other; they avoid even each other’s shadow. Each priest has a little boy who does odd jobs—buying vegetables, drawing water, sweeping. Children are children; they are not yet old enough to inherit feuds. Sometimes they meet on the road and chat. Their priests dislike it. The priest of the first temple warned his boy, “Mind yourself: if the other temple’s boy meets you, slip by without looking, turn your face away. We have hereditary enmity going back centuries.”

The other priest warned his boy too: “Don’t talk to that boy.” But children are children. One morning they met. The first boy asked, “Where are you going?”

He had been hearing lofty wisdom in the temple. “Where am I going? Wherever the winds take me. What is in man’s control?” He was remembering some discourse: “Man is a dry leaf; wherever the winds carry him.”

The first boy was stunned. He hadn’t expected such high philosophy. He didn’t know what to say. “Why did I ask that question! My master was right—don’t talk to that boy. These people are wicked—they’re bad. I ask, ‘Where are you going?’ and he starts preaching philosophy!”

He went back and told his master, “Forgive me. You warned me, but I forgot and asked him. But it’s necessary to give him a fitting reply. It won’t do for me to lose the argument—it’s the temple’s prestige. I asked a simple question—‘Where are you going?’ He started with philosophy: ‘Man is a dry leaf; wherever the winds take him.’ I couldn’t think what to say.”

The master said, “Tomorrow, stand in the same place. Ask again, ‘Where are you going?’ When he says, ‘Man is a dry leaf; wherever the winds take him,’ say, ‘And if there is no wind? If the winds have stopped—then what?’ His tongue will be tied.”

Well prepared, repeating his line—“If the winds don’t blow, what then?”—he stood under a tree till the other boy came into view. He refreshed the line once more, the way pundits do. “Where are you going?” he asked, with a swagger.

“Wherever my feet take me,” the other boy said.

Now there was trouble. “If the winds don’t blow—” was useless. “They are cheats! Those people are cheats. He changed so quickly! There should be fidelity, some loyalty. Once you say a thing, stand by it!”

He went back. “You were right; one shouldn’t talk to them. But I must answer him once. Today he changed it—said, ‘Wherever my feet take me.’”

The master said, “Tomorrow tell him: Many are lame. God forbid, but if you become lame, what then? If your feet can’t take you, where will you go?”

“Good,” the boy said. “I should have thought of that.” The next day he stood ready. “Where are you going?” he asked. The other boy said, “To the market, to buy vegetables.”

Ready-made answers don’t work; life changes every day. Yet you all carry ready-made answers. Your answers have become so rigid you don’t see that life is changing and you go on repeating your stock replies. Life asks you one thing; you answer another.

Nothing is always right, nothing is always wrong. Mahavira called this syadvad—perhaps-ness. Albert Einstein called it relativity. Mahavira arrived at it through meditation; Einstein through scientific experiment. But it is a great treasure of humankind: nothing is fixed. In each situation, context changes meanings. Every context brings a new challenge—and you must be ready. Be like a mirror, not like the film in a camera—where once light falls, an image is captured and it’s over. That is the sign of a foolish mind—like film: once it has captured something, it clings, while life keeps changing. The intelligent person is like a mirror—he captures nothing, clings to nothing, puts no chains on his feet, no noose around his neck. Like a mirror, empty: whatever comes, he reflects; whatever departs, he lets it go, and is empty again.

You need the freshness of a mirror. I call that freshness meditation; the perfection of that freshness is samadhi. Don’t get entangled in theories of fate or karma. Master one thing: become a mirror—become meditation, become samadhi. Then samadhi will tell you what is right and what is wrong. And you will be amazed, very amazed: what was right yesterday is not right today; what is not right today may be right tomorrow. What was perfectly right a moment ago is not right a moment later.

The world is a continuous flow; your stream of consciousness must also flow. Then there will be a harmony between you and the world. The juice that flows in that harmony is called bliss. When you are out of tune with the world, the tastelessness that arises is sorrow. When you are in tune, the sweetness that arises is rasa, ananda—satchidananda. In perfect harmony there is liberation, nirvana. Don’t worry about doctrines; worry about realization. The one tangled in doctrines never becomes realized; the one who is realized has nothing to do with doctrines.

Dulari! Do not worry about clothes; it is a matter of the heart’s feeling. If your family is not willing, if they are not understanding, if they are stubborn, if they are bound by some fixed ideas, then do not give them sorrow—nor take sorrow upon yourself—just for the sake of robes. Clothing has its use, certainly, but not so much. And I know your heart. Your heart is dyed; even if the robes are not dyed, it will do. Your heart is ochre—I give you that certificate. Drop all worry.

Do not give needless pain to your family. What is their fault? They neither listen to me nor understand me. They do not have the courage to come here. They must be afraid of society, afraid that if you roam about like a sannyasini, people will question them, trouble them. Understand their difficulty too. There is no point in useless writhing. Crying and lamenting has no purpose. As you are, you are good. Dive into meditation—that is sannyas. The robes too will be dyed one day. Don’t be anxious; that moment will come soon enough.

And do not think you are weak. If you were weak, your family would have torn you away from me long ago; for years they have been trying to separate you, and they have not been able. If they do not let you wear the robes, nothing essential is broken by that. The truth is, the more they have obstructed you from wearing the clothes, the more deeply you have become connected with me. The more they tried to raise a wall, the closer you came; your love has grown more intense. What you need, your family is actually doing—do not be afraid—they are strengthening your love, your prayer, your longing.

You are not weak, nor do you lack courage. I also know that the day I tell you, you will leave home and come—and precisely because of that I am not telling you. I am certain that if I say it, you will not be able to wait even a moment; no power will be able to stop you. And I do not want your family to suffer. I want suffering in no one’s family—your children, your husband, your other relatives...

I would never want my sannyas to sow seeds of sorrow in anyone’s family. My sannyas should bring joy to your life—yes—but also spread the fragrance of joy into the lives of those near you, your loved ones. Immerse yourself in meditation. Drop worry. The rest I will do when the time comes. The day I feel that now you must leave, I will tell you. For now there is no need to leave. For now, by your staying, at least your family remembers me. Even if only to abuse me—still, by that excuse I come to their minds; by that excuse they think about me. Even if only thus—who knows, today or tomorrow they too may come closer.

And the simplest way to bring them closer is this: do not cry, do not writhe; be joyous, dance, sing, play the sitar, sing bhajans, be intoxicated, become a Meera. It is your ecstasy that will transform the family. If you writhe and weep—if, poor and pitiful, you beg them, “Let me change my clothes, let me do this, let me do that”—you are giving them power; you are making them strong. The more you plead, the more they will torment you. Forget worrying about them. Pour that strength into dancing, into singing. Your dance and your song will win them.

If you want to win this world, win it by singing, by dancing—not by crying. Let your ecstasy become such that they are compelled to admit that something has happened in your life that has not happened in theirs. Let your ecstasy be such that one day they must say, “Forgive us.” It is by your ecstasy that they will bow.

And I will not separate you quickly. Until I draw them too, why would I draw you alone? You are already drawn; you are already joined with me. But they too must be brought—your children, your husband. And there is only one way to bring them: let your husband become jealous of your joy. That will be the proof that what I am saying is right. What other proof can there be of the right? Truth is not established by argument; truth cannot be proved by logic—but it can be proved by dance. So you are neither weak nor lacking in courage; I simply have not given you the command yet.

You say, “But the longing to come to you always remains in my heart.”
That is the valuable thing. Whether you can come or not is not so valuable—the continuity of the longing to come is what has value. There are many who come here and yet do not come. What will happen just by coming here? Even if you sit here, what will happen? Sitting like an upside-down pot—the rain may fall, but you will not be filled. Some come here as mere onlookers, spectators, tourists—their coming has no value, not even two pennies’ worth.

But if you are at home, far away, with a thousand obstacles to coming—and yet your very being aches to come—that aching itself is prayer; that longing is becoming your prayer. You are fortunate. In my view, you are losing nothing. Your family is becoming the basis, the reason, to send you to me. When you see life in this way, I call this very seeing faith. Then even among thorns we see the flowers hidden.

You ask, “When will my sannyas be complete?”
Foolish one, your sannyas is already complete. Only the clothes remain to be changed; what difficulty is there in changing clothes? They can be dyed any time. The real difficulty is dyeing the heart, and yours is dyed.

And you ask, “How shall I know whether what I am doing is right or not?”
Ask me right there, sitting at home. And be assured that I will answer. Dance, sing, hum, sit silently, and ask. Let me tell you even now: what you are doing is right. Your growth is moving in the right direction. Your consciousness is rising, awakening. Your longing is growing strong. Your prayer is deepening.

And you asked, Dulari, “Will I miss you?”
Impossible—there is no way to miss. Even if you wanted to, you could not miss. Those who are connected with me cannot miss. The real question is to be connected, and that connection is an inner event. Many have not been able to take sannyas and yet are connected with me. Many cannot come here, yet are connected. Many may never be able to come here, and yet are connected. They will not miss. The connections are inner; they are not dependent on place or time. The bonds of the soul are beyond time and space, beyond all fields and dimensions.

And you asked, “If I am hiding something, please tell me so that I may know myself.”
No—you are not hiding anything. Before me your heart is an open book. Be carefree, absorbed, ecstatic, intoxicated—go on living. The day I feel it is time to give you the command to drop everything, that day I will give it; wait for that day. And you are not weak; you do not lack courage. You will do it; like a moth you will burn in the lamp’s flame—of this I am confident.

Rahim! If you have fallen in love, now no will of yours will work. To fall in love means to become helpless. Love is not an act that you can do if you wish and not do if you don't. Love is grace that descends from above, overwhelms you, and drowns your heart. It is beyond your hands now; you will not be able to do anything. Now there is no way except to go deeper into this love. Yes, you can still cling hard to the bank and refuse to flow with the current of love—but then you will suffer needlessly; you will have pain and misery. For the current has sent its invitation, the call has come; the moment to let go of the bank has arrived.

As for what you call your conditionings—what value do they have? One is Hindu, one Muslim, one Christian, one Jain—all are learned, taught by others; all are borrowed. And what comes from others is not truth. Truth reveals itself only in one’s own experience. Truth is self-experience. What is the worth of conditioning? If your name is Ram, it is Hindu conditioning; if it is Rahim, it is Muslim conditioning.

What does conditioning mean? It means others have stamped you; others have imposed themselves upon you; others have hypnotized you. You were a child—small, raw, soft—and any imprint could be made on you. If you had been placed in a Hindu household in your childhood, you would not be Rahim, you would be Ram. And you would never even remember you were born a Muslim. Because blood is neither Muslim nor Hindu. Bone is neither Muslim nor Hindu.

When you go to a doctor and he says you have TB, you don’t ask, “Is it Hindu TB or Muslim TB?” TB is just TB.

When you are born, you are born simply as a human being—and soon nets are cast over you. You then carry those nets all your life, and you carry them with great pride, thinking they are a peacock-crown, ornaments. You carry a prison around you and think it is your freedom, your religion.

Religion is not obtained so cheaply. It does not come from parents; it does not come from priests, nor from the Vedas or the Koran—religion comes by diving within. If my love can do anything, it is only to give you the courage to dive within. I will push you into yourself. I have no other teaching. I am not teaching any doctrine here. I am not giving you a fixed chain of thought. On the contrary, the work is to take all your thoughts away. If you bring Hindu thoughts, they are to be taken away; if you bring Jain thoughts, they are to be taken away—because thought is what has to be taken away. I have to leave you in no-thought. Then whatever happens in no-thought is the truth. Then whomever is seen in no-thought is the divine. Then whatever you experience in no-thought is bliss, is liberation.

You say, “It seems I have fallen in love with you.”
It does not seem so, Rahim—you have fallen. Don’t console yourself with “it seems,” don’t lull yourself to sleep.

And you say, “I am in great confusion too.”
You will be—because love means revolution. Love means transformation: from one place to another, from one plane to another, a journey from one direction to the opposite. You were going east; now you will have to go west. What you believed till yesterday, today you will have to know something altogether different.

There will be much confusion. Confusion is a good sign. Only fools have no confusion; the intelligent have a great deal of it. The more one thinks, the more one gets confused. Only the dull never get confused; there is not enough thinking there. They keep holding on to what others have handed to them. They never even examine whether what they cling to has any value—is it a diamond or a stone? Today the thought has arisen in you: “What I hold—is it a diamond or a pebble?” And what I am telling you is: what you hold is a stone, not a diamond. But you have held it so long that a habit has formed, and the mind trembles to let it go. And now that it is becoming visible that it is a stone—confusion is bound to be there.

Once confusion has happened, my work has begun. Once confusion has happened, you can no longer escape. Wherever you run, confusion will follow. Once the doubt arises that what is in your hand is a stone, you will have to search for the real diamond.

You say, “Your words feel right.”
That is precisely why confusion is arising: if my words feel right, what happens to all that you have believed until now? And with those beliefs you had tied many self-interests; you have lived with them; they have become your habits. And remember: bad habits do not drop—but neither do good ones. The trouble with habit is the same, good or bad. Someone is habituated to smoking—he cannot drop it; someone to turning a rosary—he cannot drop that either! Both are habits. The rosary-man can console himself, “This is a good habit; if it does not drop, no harm.”

But habit is slavery. There should be no habit at all. A man should live by awareness, not by habit. Whether you draw smoke in and out—that too is a kind of rosary; smoking is a kind of mantra-chant. And if you want to make it religious, when you draw the smoke in, say “Ram,” and when you exhale, say “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram...” It will become a mantra! Even smoking can be made into a mantra. After all, that is what yogis do: breath out—one half of the mantra; breath in—the other half. Your breath is just a bit smoky; you are not committing some particularly great sin.

But no one gets free of smoking; it is a habit. And no one gets free of the rosary either. People come to me and say, “We have been turning the beads for thirty years. Now, hearing you, a great difficulty arises: that there is no essence in rosary, rules, vows, fasts—and we have been doing them for thirty years. How to drop them now? If we drop them, we fear: what if dropping is a mistake? If what we did for thirty years was wrong, then for thirty years I was a fool!” That too hurts the ego.

But if my words begin to feel right to you, the sooner you drop, the better; otherwise you will only get more entangled.

And you say, “The moment I listen, tears of joy begin to flow.”
Good signs—the signs of spring.

The heart longs to weep—
something is about to happen today.

If the heart longs to weep out of joy, do not hold it back; something is about to happen, something deep. And if in love tears of joy do not flow, then where will they?

Before us too, love met the same fate:
Qais was unfulfilled, Farhad too unsuccessful.

Love brings very dark nights as well—but only after the dark nights does the radiant morning take birth. In love, tears will come, and hidden in the tears the smile will come too. Love will show many colors. But if you even repress the tears...

You say: “The tears begin to flow, but they are against all my conditionings, so I hold them back.”
If you hold back the tears, you are blocking the revolution that is about to happen; you are blocking the great transformation that is on its way. And now it is not something that will stop by your stopping it. These tears will writhe within; they will enter the very beats of your heart.

Jigar: I hid my grief a hundred times, but
my face revealed every state of my heart.

And your face will begin to tell it, your eyes will begin to tell it; your walking, sitting, rising will begin to tell it. When someone falls in love, everything about him begins to declare that he has fallen in love.

Difficulty is certain, Rahim. I have sympathy for your difficulty. But now there is no remedy—it is too late. The illness is beyond your hands.

Daag: What shall I tell you what happened in love?
Sitting quietly, life caught a malady.

A great trouble arises—an entanglement while sitting quietly. You must have come here thinking you would pick a few nuggets of knowledge and increase your treasury of knowledge a little. You did not come thinking you would get entangled here. You thought you would return sorted out. But remember: you can be resolved only if you are ready to be entangled. Your old solutions will all be thrown into disorder, and then there will come a moment in between when everything gets tangled. If you have that much courage, then the moment of resolution can also come.

If someone asks, “Why are your eyes so red today?”
I rub my eyes and say, “I couldn’t sleep last night.”
A thousand times I want to, but I can never say
that all night I longed to weep—and could not.

Don’t do that. Don’t swallow your tears; let them flow—they will lighten you. Let the tears flow; with them much dust of the eyes will wash away. Let the tears flow; in their flood much rubbish of the heart will be carried off. Let the tears flow without inhibition. Cooperate with them. With them your being a Muslim, a Hindu, a Christian will also be washed away. Tears will bathe you. And let me tell you: to bathe in tears is to bathe in the real Ganges. Those who bathe in the Ganges do not become pure, but those who bathe in their tears certainly do.

How troublesome a thing love is—
just in speaking of it, the eyes fill.

And the path of love is the moth’s path. Are you frightened already? This is only the beginning—wait and see what all happens! If you are scared already, what will you do later?

The intoxication of love—let one die if he must;
this headache is such that let the head go if it must!

This is a great madness, an ecstasy. The intoxication of love—let one die if he must. This intoxication rises, but it never subsides: death comes first, then the intoxication wanes. This headache is such that let the head go if it must! Right now you are stopping tears; when the moment of offering your head comes, what will you do? For now the confusion is intellectual; it will deepen—become of the heart, become of the soul. Then what will you do?

And I understand your difficulty. Some Muslim friends have taken sannyas; their troubles have greatly increased. When they returned to their villages they were caught in great messes. But the gain is exactly in that measure. As much trouble, that much gain. As much challenge, that much touchstone. The more people create difficulties for them, and the more they face them, the more something dense and strong is crystallizing within; the soul is being born.

Silence only makes a trouble more serious.
Agitate, O heart—agitation brings a little soothing.

So do not drink your tears; do not hold them back. Do not be afraid. This is an assembly of mad lovers. This is a place of drunkards. If you weep here, no one will think you are doing something wrong. If you weep here, people will understand. No one will think you are crazy—“Why are you crying?” Everyone here has wept—some today, some yesterday, some the day before; some have wept, some will weep, some are weeping.

And then, when you weep, relief and lightness will come. And in that lightness, understanding becomes possible. In that lightness, wings sprout. In that lightness you can fly toward the sky, toward the moon and the stars. This much I will surely tell you: if you understand my words rightly, you will come closer to Mohammed than you have ever been; and the Koran will, for the first time, make sense to you as it never did. The same is true of the Gita, and the same of the Bible.

My message is not bound to any one scripture, nor limited to any one sect. My message is not like a single flower; it is the attar—the distilled essence—of a thousand flowers.

Narottam! No one is ordinary; everyone is extraordinary. People have settled for appearing ordinary—that is another matter. Because God is within all, how could anyone be ordinary? God is within everyone—He may be asleep, perhaps—but even asleep the divine is not ordinary; it remains extraordinary. Each person is unique.

No, don’t use such words. To say “ordinary people” carries contempt; it is an insult. No one is ordinary; all are extraordinary. The same God abides in everyone—as in me, so in you, so in others. And not only in human beings—He abides in animals and birds, in plants and trees, in stones—the same One is present in all.

Drop this notion. There are no “ordinary people.” Yes, there are difficulties in understanding me. The difficulty is not that people are ordinary; the difficulty is that people are asleep. The difficulty is that people have already “understood” many things without ever having understood them. Their inner consciousness is filled with God, but around that inner consciousness there is a dense net of social conditioning—a Great Wall of China! They listen to me; I say one thing, they understand something else—because they cannot truly hear me. That wall in between creates such echoes, such distortions, that I say A and by the time it reaches them it has become B.

A woman at a party, being short, had piled her hair up very high and was wearing the highest heels. Seeing her, Mulla Nasruddin said, “Sister, for your height you’ve really put your heels and topknot to work!”
Have you ever heard the saying “heel-and-topknot effort” used like that? But how apt!

A divorce petition was being decided when the judge asked, “You have three children. It won’t be easy to divide them. I don’t know what to do.”
At this, the wife pushed her husband toward the door and said, “Come on then, we’ll get the divorce next year.”

People have their own kind of understanding.

The poet’s son said:
“Papa! Give me two synonyms each
for ‘helpless’ and ‘merciless.’”
The poet said:
“Write:
for ‘helpless’—
husband and slave,
and for ‘merciless’—
wife and mother-in-law.”

Words in themselves hold no meaning. When I speak a word, it carries my meaning; by the time it reaches you, it is filled with your meaning.

Two neighbor women were gossiping. The first said, “You know, I think cooking your own food saves a lot.”
The second shot back, “Of course! Because Pappu’s Papa now eats less than half of what he used to.”

It is natural—when even everyday matters are hard to convey to one another, then the truths I speak of are very transcendental.

“Sir, I heard your house is vacant for rent,” someone asked a landlord.
“Yes, it is,” said the landlord, adding a condition, “but I can give the house only with a family.”
“Forgive me, sir,” the man replied, “I only want the house on rent—the family is my own.”

Words give rise to great misunderstandings. And apart from words there is no other means of dialogue—yet words create dispute; they do not allow dialogue to happen.

Those whom you call ordinary are not ordinary; an extraordinary light resides within them. The day it awakens, Buddhahood will manifest in them too—thousands upon thousands of suns will rise, and thousands upon thousands of lotuses will blossom. But they are asleep. And even if you shake them, they are so deep in sleep that they do not understand that you are trying to wake them. Someone will grumble and curse, “Who is waking me up? Who is spoiling the early morning?” Someone will turn over, pull up the blanket, and go back to sleep.

Have you seen this? You must have experienced it. You have to get up early; you must catch the five o’clock train, so you set the alarm for four. At four the alarm rings, and inside you see a dream that the temple bells are ringing. Thinking the bells are from the temple, you dismiss the alarm through your dream and go back to sleep. Is there any reason to wake up because the temple bells are ringing? Outside the alarm is ringing; inside, because of your sleep, you created a dream, gave the bells a new meaning—that they are temple bells. And you were free of the alarm.

I am calling out to wake you, but what meaning that call will carry by the time it reaches into your sleep depends on you—on your sleep. Only those who want to awaken will hear the call. Those who do not want to awaken will not hear it. Those who have decided that sleep is their destiny, who have decided that beyond sleep there is no state of consciousness—how can they understand what I say? Yet even then I will not say they are ordinary; their extraordinariness remains extraordinary. And my respect for the God within them remains undiminished. Whether anyone understands me or not; whether someone understands rightly or wrongly—my reverence for the divinity seated within each will not lessen in the least.

I cannot call anyone “ordinary.” All are extraordinary. All are temples of the Lord. Some have awakened today, some will awaken tomorrow, some the day after; some in this life, some in the next. What is the hurry? Eternity is there. People will go on awakening; the awakeners will go on calling; someone or other will keep rising from sleep. The one who gets up is fortunate; the sooner he gets up, the more fortunate he is.

But let there be no sense of contempt in your heart for the one who is asleep. Because of such contempt, much mischief has happened in the past. Christians think that only a Christian will reach heaven—therefore make people Christian; even by force if necessary. Muslims think only a Muslim will reach—so even by the sword if need be. Out of “compassion,” put the sword to their necks and make them Muslim: “It is for your good; otherwise you will not reach—you will go astray, you will fall into hell.” And this is the assumption of all religions: only those who follow us will reach; those who don’t—are ignorant, sinful, disciples of the devil. Do not bring such a notion into your mind.

The one who agrees with us is God; the one who does not agree is also God. The one who has joined us is God; the one who is opposed is also God. If this remembrance is not forgotten even for a single moment, only then are you a true sannyasin, only then have you understood me.

That’s all for today.