Hansa To Moti Chuge #8

Krishna Vedant! This is natural, spontaneous, the ordinary course of life. It cannot be otherwise. Jesus has said: A prophet is not honored in his own village. How could he be! The very village where Jesus was born and grew up, whose dust he played in, where he studied, where he sold wood in his father’s carpentry shop, where he cut timber in the forest and helped his father craft wooden things—how will that village suddenly accept that God has descended into Jesus? The event is so abrupt, so discontinuous from the past, that the villagers cannot reconcile the two. The carpenter’s son—suddenly the son of God! That hurts the village’s pride; it arouses jealousy, doubt, disbelief. And there appears no reason to accept it.

To see Jesus you need a little distance. To see anything, you need perspective. If you want to see your face in a mirror, you must stand a little away. Press your nose to the mirror and even your own face will not be visible. A little distance—and things become clear.

When Yuri Gagarin first went into space and saw the Earth from afar, he wrote in his memoirs: No feeling arose in me that I am Russian; none that communism has triumphed; none that Earth is divided into nations. From that distance the whole Earth seemed one. All the national borders became false—merely lines on imagined maps. The real Earth is not divided, nor the real seas, nor the real rivers. All the partitioning is in man’s maps.

Yuri Gagarin said the feeling that arose in him was: My Earth! Not my nation, not my race, not my religion, not my ideology, not my political blueprint—my Earth, simply my Earth! So green, so lovely!

By going far from Earth, Gagarin experienced the Earth’s reality. The villagers of Jesus could not recognize him. When Buddha came home awakened after twelve years, even his own father did not recognize him. Buddha’s father said, “Even now I can forgive you. You have hurt me badly. In this old age, my only son deserted me—no shame, no hesitation. It is cowardice. You’ve gathered a band of beggars. Still, return. Though the wound is deep and forgiveness hard, a father’s heart is a father’s heart—I will forgive you. Come and take charge of your kingdom. To whom shall I hand it over? My death is near!”

The father’s eyes were aflame with anger. Buddha said, “Will you hear me too? Will you listen to my plea? The one who left home is not the same as the one who has returned.”

Even in anger the father laughed, “What a joke! I do not recognize you? You are of my blood. You are of my bones and flesh and marrow. You are a part of me, my extension. I do not recognize you? You want to convince me you are not the one who went away! You are the same.”

Think a little. The father is also right in saying, “You are the same,” and Buddha is right in saying, “I am not the same.” A revolution has happened in between. Consciousness has been transformed. But that transformation is inner. It will be seen only by those who can bow. Buddha’s father could not bow; the ego of fatherhood stood tall. He burned with anger; where was the question of bowing? He was even thinking that in forgiving he would be doing a great favor. And when he said, “You were born from me, and I do not recognize you!” Buddha replied, “Then let me submit this: I have come through you, but I was not born from you. You were the path for my coming, but not my progenitor. And let me also say, I existed before you. In other births I have existed—others have been my fathers and mothers. Through uncountable wombs have I passed, but they were all pathways. I did not originate from them; I passed through them. I have passed through you as well. Please pacify your anger a little; look carefully at me; peer into my eyes.”

Buddha’s wife too was furious. He returned after twelve years; twelve years of accumulated ire burst forth. She was proud, a princess; she had never complained to anyone, never shed a tear. She was a kshatrani; such tears are not becoming. She swallowed everything, drank the poison—but the poison had filled her throat! When Buddha came, everything broke loose. Like a maddened lioness she raged at him—accusations, complaints, denouncements, sarcasm.

Buddha had left behind a newborn son; the child was one day old. Now he was twelve. In anger the mother said to her son, “Here—this is your father. You kept asking, ‘Who is my father? Where is he?’ Here he is! The gentleman who ran away, leaving me and you helpless! Ask him for your inheritance! He fathered you—demand your right from him!”

She was mocking, taunting. What did Buddha have to give? The boy did not understand; hearing his mother, he held out his little begging-bag of a palm. “If you are my father—then my wealth, my right, my legacy!” Buddha smiled and handed him his begging bowl—the only thing he had—and said, “Rahul, this is your initiation! You have become a sannyasin, because I do have one treasure, and it can be given only to renunciates. That treasure is not outward, Rahul. Not gold and silver, not diamonds and jewels—of the soul. You are still small; perhaps because you are small you may understand. The elders are filled with too much knowledge. Father is not even willing to listen; perhaps the son will listen!”

And it was the son who heard first. Rahul bowed at Buddha’s feet and said, “Accept me!” Seeing Rahul bow, seeing tears of bliss fall from his eyes, Yashodhara bowed—Buddha’s wife bowed. She remembered herself: What am I doing? With whom am I fighting? Let me look carefully—could this be the same person? Had I hurled so many abuses twelve years ago, the one who left me would have wrung my neck, would have cut off my head with his sword. But he stands silent, as though flowers are showering on him, not embers; as though not insults but songs of welcome, auspicious songs, are being sung! Unagitated, without ripples—this statue before me, is this the same man I once knew as my husband? No; this is someone else. Something inside has changed. The inner architecture has been rearranged.

Seeing Rahul bow—remember, Rahul was a boy of twelve—he bowed first; he was simple, with no fixed notions from the past. He had no memories of his father, hence no obstruction, no expectations. He could see directly. No mesh of concept stood in between, no blindfold on his eyes. No idea of what a father should be. He saw for the first time—and was overwhelmed, immersed in bliss. If this is my father... a feeling of wonder descended. In that innocent mind Buddha’s image formed clean and straight. Witnessing his transformation, Yashodhara bowed. Seeing Yashodhara bow, Buddha’s father, Shuddhodana, bowed. Then the whole family bowed.

It is hard—those who have been close, who have seen you from childhood, who have grown up, played, fought, quarreled with you—it is certainly difficult for them to understand. Do not be angry with them.

Bihari is right:
“Phulyo anphulyo rahyo ganvai gaon gulab.”
In a rustic village a rose bloomed—yet as if unbloomed, as if unchanged. “Phulyo anphulyo rahyo”—no one saw it. Even a rose needs a connoisseur! A diamond needs a jeweler! And these are diamonds of enormous depth. The Pacific is not so deep, nor Everest so high.

A man found a diamond on the road—a big diamond! But he was a rustic. He was returning from the market with goods loaded on his donkey. He thought, “Let me pick up this stone; the children will play with it.” When he picked it up and saw how it shone, and because he loved his donkey very much, he thought, “Let me tie it to my donkey’s neck. I have never been able to give him anything; he serves me so well. It will hang on his neck, glittering in the sunlight; it will outshine all the donkeys in the village.” He tied a diamond worth lakhs around the donkey’s neck!

He had gone only a little further when a jeweler rode by on his horse. He had never seen such a large diamond in his life. He was dumbstruck. He stopped and said, “Brother, what will you take for that stone?” It took courage for the rustic, because what price can a stone have! He mustered nerve and said, “All right, give me eight annas.” But the jeweler was a confirmed miser; he thought, “If I can get it for four annas, why waste eight? A diamond worth lakhs!” So he said, “Take four annas. What will you do with this stone? Who will give you eight annas for it?”

The rustic thought, “Why sell for four annas? Better to keep it on my donkey’s neck.” He said, “Not for four.” The jeweler went a few steps, hoping the fellow would come to his senses and realize even four annas is too much for a stone. But by coincidence another jeweler came by then and bought the diamond for eight annas.

The first jeweler returned, ready to give eight annas. But the deal was done. So he said to the rustic, “You are a colossal fool! You sold a diamond worth lakhs for eight annas!” The rustic replied, “If I am a fool, then what are you? I am a fool, so I sold for eight annas; but you knew it was worth lakhs—and you could not buy it even for eight! Who then is the greater fool?”

Diamonds require connoisseurs. And to recognize the diamonds of consciousness, connoisseurs are very rare. So the awakened ones are not recognized in their own places; the Tirthankaras are not honored where they are. This is the natural order. Do not be anxious or angry about it. Do not be enraged or slander people. What should happen is happening. What has always happened is happening with me too. And so it should be.

People are coming from afar. But the Indian mind faces a little impediment—its beliefs. When someone from the West comes, he carries no fixed notion. He comes in search. He certainly has a quest, a question, a curiosity—to know—but not a clear-cut preconceived picture of what he comes to know. An Indian, when he comes, has already decided. One believes in Krishna, another in Rama, another in Buddha, another in Mahavira.

In the West a great good fortune occurred: nobody believes in anything. The days of belief are gone. In the last three hundred years a great revolution has taken place; people’s minds have become unburdened. They no longer look back; that habit is gone. They look ahead.

India looks back. Now the man who believes in Rama will want to see a particular image of Rama in me. He will not find that image in me; where is Rama, and where am I! If he is Maryada Purushottam, I am Amaryada Purushottam! Here there is no maryada, no confinement. I do not stand with bow and arrow. Rama has his own personality, his own hue of life—beautiful, but it suits only him. If someone else tries to do the same, he will be a Ramleela Rama, not the real Rama. And even the Ramleela Rama will please you—the village ruffian who plays Rama—villagers touch his feet. They know who he really is—very well they know—but he wears the crown and carries the bow. Even “Sita” is some village boy in costume. People still touch “her” feet—“Hail Mother Sita!”—knowing perfectly well who he is. But he matches their idea. The moment the idea is matched, their heads bow.

I am not Rama. So one who comes to me with Rama’s image will return empty-handed—disappointed, dejected. Some come full of Krishna, some of Buddha, some of Mahavira—everyone with his own image. This country is so burdened by images of the past that very few here can see with an empty eye.

Certainly, those Indians who can see with an empty eye are coming to me and will continue to come. Only those Indians can relate to me who, in one sense, are no longer Indian—simply human, humane, global. Whose inner sky is vast, not cramped by small borders—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Sikh. My connection will be with such Indians alone. They alone will be able to appraise this diamond, because they have eyes—empty, free of expectation—and a perspective, a little distance. They will be able to see. Between me and them no Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira will stand. If anyone stands between you and me, he becomes a screen; you will not be able to see me.

And I cannot fulfill anyone’s image. I will live in my own way. I consent to no compromise. Millions of Indians could come if I compromised just a little. And compromise would not be hard: I could sit dressed like Buddha; then those with Buddhist notions would start coming at once. But such falsehood is not possible, such compromise is not possible. I will live as I am; if someone comes—good; if someone doesn’t—good; if no one at all comes—even that is good. There is no alternative. Not a grain’s worth of compromise is possible with who I am. Therefore only those will relate to me who come without the demand to make me compromise—who are willing to look at me directly.

Swami Ramtirtha returned from America. He had received extraordinary honor and welcome there; thousands danced in his fragrance. Ram was an astonishing man—God’s glimpse was in every word, in his movements, in every blink of his eyes. But when he came to India, he thought to begin his journey from Kashi. The trouble began right there. Had he asked me, I would have said: leave Kashi out entirely; a journey cannot even begin from Kashi. And so it happened. He thought, “People of Kashi will understand. If people of a country like America—who have had no connection with religion—became so delighted, so blissful, danced, then in Kashi people will open their hearts, spread out their welcome; what I say, at least in Kashi they will understand.” But no one in Kashi understood. On the contrary, a pandit stood up and said, “What nonsense are you spouting? Is this Vedanta? Do you know Sanskrit?”

Ramtirtha did not know Sanskrit. He had studied Persian. Born in Punjab, in those days Persian was in vogue. He knew Urdu, Persian, English—but not Sanskrit. Now, must one know Sanskrit to be a Buddha? If so, even Buddha would not be Buddha, because he didn’t know Sanskrit; nor would Mahavira be a Jina, because he didn’t know Sanskrit either. And what to say of poor Mohammed! And Jesus and Moses and Zarathustra and Lao Tzu—leave them out of the reckoning altogether.

Ramtirtha said, “I do not know Sanskrit.” The pandit burst into laughter, and others laughed too: “If you don’t know Sanskrit, what Vedanta are you preaching! First learn Sanskrit. Without Sanskrit how will you know Vedanta? Read the Brahmasutra first.”

Ram had not read the Brahmasutra. Ram had read Brahman—so what dust would he read in the Brahmasutra! Having drunk from the very source from which Badarayana drew the Brahmasutra, why go to Badarayana secondhand? He had not read the Upanishads, nor the Vedas. The pandits advised: “First learn Sanskrit, then Vedanta; otherwise you yourself won’t understand—how will you make others understand?”

Not one of them peered into this man. Seeing this, Ram was so astonished, so dumbfounded, that he said, “What is the point of laboring among such people?” And in the very robes of these people he had carried his message to the world. That very day he dropped the ochre robes, put on simple clothes, and went to the Himalayas. His friends asked, “Why did you discard the ochre?” He replied, “Because those who, I thought, would recognize the ochre, did not. What worth is there in it now? In truth, by discarding the ochre I declare I am free—free of your so‑called rotten tradition. Do not consider me your sannyasin anymore.”

It has always been so. Those who come here from far lands—people from nearly thirty countries, from every corner of the world—come with minds empty like mirrors. In their mirror-like minds, the very form that is here arises. Those who come from other countries do not wish to find Jesus in me. Occasionally some old man or woman arrives who says, “I believe in Jesus; how can I accept you?” Then it is fine—the connection does not happen; a chance came and was missed.

But in India ninety-nine percent of people sit with ready-made images. Their images themselves are the barrier. A few fortunate ones who have no image, or who are courageous enough to drop their image—who can set the mind aside and look straight, eye to eye, heart to heart—they will surely recognize me. If they will not, who will? I am only for those few.

This country is very old-fashioned. Hence the hindrance. The flower has blossomed; the fragrance is flying, but your nostrils have gone rotten. Your nostrils are trained to a particular kind of scent; now you cannot comprehend any other. And the scents you can comprehend stopped wafting long ago; they are matters of the past.

Now Ram cannot help you, nor Krishna, nor Buddha, nor Mahavira. As soon as a true master departs, only the story remains. Then stone idols remain; words etched on paper remain. You can go on worshipping; worship is possible, but transformation is not. Worship a million times, bang your head as much as you like—you will remain the same. Perhaps that is why you bang your head so happily—because you are certain nothing will happen. Whether you bang it on the Gita or on the Quran—what difference does it make? You know you will remain as you are—neither the Quran nor the Gita will upset you. Neither Ram nor Krishna can do anything. What will Ram and Krishna do? They are toys of your own making, your own images—under your control. Put a crown on them if you like; take it off if you like. Offer prasad if you like; or not if you don’t. Bathe them if you like; or don’t. They are in your hands, at your disposal.

A living master is not in your hands, not under your control. You have to be in his hands. That is the risk. Therefore, one who cannot connect with a living master is only deceiving himself. By worshipping dead masters he consoles himself that he is religious; but he is not.

How will the fragrance remain of flowers that are no more? You sit in the shade of trees that no longer exist—whom are you deceiving? You sit on the banks of rivers that have dried up, thinking your thirst will be quenched! Wake up! Seek those rivers where the stream yet flows. Seek those trees whose branches are still laden with green leaves, where flowers bloom and fruit ripens. Seek those persons through whom God is speaking now, is awake now, is alive now, is dancing now. If you can join that dance, revolution can happen in your life.

So, Krishna Vedant, do not be anxious. What is happening with me is exactly what is to be expected. It has always been so; it will always be so. Do not waste time over it. Therefore I have not the least concern with “the others.” All my life-energy is devoted only to those who are willing to change, who are willing to recognize me. Only with them do I have a relationship; with the rest I have none.

I have my own world. Those who are willing to recognize me—that alone is my world. The rest of the world is to be left aside.

Always the Buddhas have a separate world—very different from this one. Call it a Buddha-field, call it a Jina-field—give it any name you like. That Buddha-field, that Jina-field, is taking shape. Lovers are coming, and will keep coming. Millions are going to be transformed. And I want to pour my entire energy and strength upon those plants that are ready to bloom. I am not prepared to bang my head against seeds that have stubbornly resolved to be stone.

Ramadhar! Even if you desire liberation, is it so easy to get? You don’t want it? Then you won’t get it—don’t panic. Don’t carry needless anxieties. No liberation is chasing you! Even if you chase liberation, will it happen? Not easily. You are surrounding yourself with pointless worries. Is anyone handing out liberation somewhere that you say, “I don’t want it”? You sound as if you’re afraid I’m ready to dump liberation on you!

Liberation isn’t a garment I can change for you. It isn’t a dye I can color you with. It isn’t an object I can thrust on you against your will. Liberation is never by force.

Do you understand what liberation means? Supreme freedom. If you don’t want it, it won’t happen. Be at ease—birth after birth, be at ease. For all eternity, be at ease. If you don’t want it, it won’t happen. Liberation happens only in your supreme freedom. When you want it with totality, it happens. And even then it isn’t easy—as if you wish and it drops. You must pass through great tests and great fires. It happens with great difficulty. It isn’t a downhill stroll; it’s an ascent. It is climbing the high peaks; the breath grows thin, the legs feel like breaking, courage begins to fail. It’s not some little stream you can hop across. It is a boundless ocean—the other shore is not even visible. And our boats are very small, our hands short, our oars small. Only the truly audacious venture into it.

So don’t worry, Ramadhar. You don’t want liberation? Tathastu—so be it! Liberation will not be.

You say: “I want to be born again and again.”
You certainly will. You’ve been receiving life again and again until now; you’ll go on receiving it. You have already had infinite lives. You have wandered through the 8.4 million wombs before becoming human. From insects and worms to now is a long journey. As you wish. If you want to go back through those 8.4 million wombs, you can. Whatever you desire, the Divine blesses. It’s your lila, your whim. If you wish to crawl in drains and not fly in the sky, then crawl in drains. To the dung beetle, dung itself seems like heaven. Separate a dung beetle from dung and it protests: “What are you doing? I want to be a dung beetle again and again.” You know the poor thing is rotting in filth—but the beetle’s understanding is only that much. Dung is its whole world. Sit it by roses and it complains, “Why did you bring me here?” Place it on a lotus and it cries, “Brother, why are you killing me? Why take my life? I want Mother Cow’s dung.”

If you want to be born again and again, then again and again you shall be born. The Divine will never do anything against you. The Divine has given you supreme freedom. This is the glory of being human—and also life’s greatest calamity. Glory, because whatever you choose, you become. Calamity, because you choose wrongly; out of a hundred choices, ninety-nine are wrong; only by accident do you ever choose rightly. All your arithmetic is wrong. Your reckoning is wrong.

Why do you want to be born again and again? What have you gained in this life? Ask yourself—what have you gained? You ran and hustled—what did you get? And even if something came—some money, some position—say you became prime minister or president—what did you gain?

Think a little. You have this life in your hands. What have you attained in it that you wish to have life again and again? My experience is otherwise. My observation is different. My observation is: only those who got nothing out of life want to be born again and again. Those who found something say, “Enough.”

Why? It may sound upside down, but if you try to understand, it’s plain as two and two are four. Those who got nothing want life again and again—because nothing came this time; perhaps next time it will. Until now it hasn’t; maybe tomorrow it will.

Hope for tomorrow belongs only to those whose today is empty. And the irony is: if today is empty, tomorrow will be even emptier. Where will tomorrow come from? It grows only out of today. Tomorrow is just today evolved. Tomorrow doesn’t descend from the sky; it sprouts from your today. When today is empty, tomorrow will be emptier still—another twenty-four hours of practicing emptiness. When you are void today, you will be more impoverished tomorrow.

Children are rich; the old become poor. Children are brimming; the old are spent. Their sap has leaked away through a thousand cracks. In children a bit of exuberance is visible; in the old, no zest, no sparkle—everything is dry. What happened? If life were truly meaningful, the old would become golden summits, temple finials. But no—because life yielded nothing, you fear life may be snatched away before you get anything. Hence you ask for more and more life. But the way you’re living now is the way you will live again. And living this way has brought you nothing; live this way a thousand times—you’ll still get nothing.

A man married eight times. In America, it’s easy. After his eighth marriage, a startling realization dawned on him: “Every time I changed the woman, yet every time I found the same kind of woman.” Eight times, he sought out the same type. After all, the seeker was the same.

Reflect a little: you fall in love with a woman or a man—who chose? You chose. Your choosing has a particular lens. What appeals to you? What charmed you? What did your mind fancy? With that mind you loved a particular person. Then you were bored because expectations are never fulfilled. Expectations are only expectations; dreams only dreams. They look beautiful in dreaming; the moment you try to pour them into reality, they shatter. They’re water bubbles. Dew drops—seen from afar they gleam like pearls; grasp them and only water remains—nothing else in your hand.

You tired of one woman, one man; you concluded: wrong choice, wrong person. You think you chose the wrong person; you don’t think that the chooser himself is wrong. No one accepts responsibility—that’s how the ego protects itself most deeply. No one says, “It’s my mistake.” You say, “I chose the wrong woman—misjudged. I thought her one thing; she turned out another. She deceived me, was dishonest—painted nicely on the outside, different inside. Poor innocent me—was cheated. Now I’ll choose again, choose another.”

But who will choose? You will again. And the same traits will please you. The same gait will draw you. The same nose, the same hair color, the same proportions will attract you again. You’ll like the same type. Minor differences, but they don’t matter. Fundamentally, you’ll choose the same kind as the first—and in four to six months, the same turmoil. The same disillusionment.

That man married eight times and later wrote in his memoirs, “I can say today that each time it was as though I married the same woman again; and each time, the same tragedy, the same ending.” You ask, did he marry a ninth time? He did not—because he understood one thing: whatever I choose will be wrong. I am wrong; until I change, all my choosing will be wrong.

What does liberation mean? Self-transformation. To choose life means: you remain the same—and then choose life again. What will you do with it? Suppose I grant you another hundred years—what will you do? Anything other than what you did yesterday and the day before? What will you do differently? You’ll repeat the same stupidity. You’ll make a repetition. You’ll waste those hundred years just as you’ve wasted these years.

And with rebirths there is an added snag: after each death you forget the previous life. That makes repeating your mistakes even easier. You don’t remember you’ve erred before. In every birth it feels as if you’re doing something new. Every time love happens—it feels new; every time you chase position—it feels new. How many times you’ve done it already—how many times!

A young prince took initiation with Mahavira. He heard Mahavira’s words, understood, and was initiated. Understanding and initiation are one thing; initiation has its own difficulties. In Mahavira’s order there was a rule: those initiated earlier were to be honored. Those initiated later—regardless of age, wealth, or education—must honor those senior in initiation.

The very first night they stopped in a village. The dharmashala was small; the rooms went to those senior in initiation. Some of them were younger in age, some beggars, some destitute in their previous lives. But the prince had been initiated only that day. He got no room; he had to sleep in the corridor. All night people came and went; he could not sleep. Mosquitoes bit him. He had never slept in a corridor—he had lived in palaces. He thought, “This is trouble I’ve invited. In the morning I’ll apologize and return home.” But before he could say anything, at dawn Mahavira came to him and said, “So—you’re going home?” He was startled. “Who told you?” Mahavira said, “Who told you has told me as well… So—you’re going home? But let me tell you: this is not the first time you’re going. And this is not your first initiation. In past lives too you took such initiations and turned back over trifles like this. This time, muster a little courage. Don’t miss the opportunity again.”

When Mahavira said, “You have taken such initiation before and repeatedly turned back over small hurdles,” a memory rose from some unconscious womb; scenes opened one after another before the young man’s eyes. He saw that yes, this had happened before. He bowed at Mahavira’s feet and said, “Now I will not let this happen.” Mahavira and Buddha both used a very wondrous science—past-life remembrance. They would lead each renunciant into the memory of previous births. There are meditative methods by which past lives begin to be remembered—because the memory is stored in your unconscious; it is only a matter of bringing it up. And when past lives begin to surface, you will be amazed. Ramadhar, then you would not be able to ask such a question. You’ve been born many times, lived many lives—and your hands have always come up full of ash. What will you do with even more lives? The mind can be very persuasive; it can sugarcoat this delusion with fine sentiments.

Yesterday I was reading a poem—
“Liberation is death; bondage is life!
Daily I see the toiling birds
racing from earth to sky.
Tie them with a couple of straws—
they will return again to their nests!
Again and again my heart cries,
liberation is death; bondage is life!

A river is a river only so long
as it has the support of banks.
Who can say, once the bonds break—
we call it then merely a run of water.
Bondage is a gentle, enticing form—
liberation is death; bondage is life!

On the simple bonds of love
countless times I would stake my freedom.
If this be life’s defeat,
may I be thus defeated birth after birth!
Bondage is life’s support—
liberation is death; bondage is life!”

If you wish, you can craft sweet poems. You can hide a false notion behind fine thoughts. You can say: when a river enters the ocean, it disappears—what is the use of entering?

“A river is a river only so long
as it has the support of banks.
Who can say, once the bonds break—
we call it then merely a run of water.
Bondage is a gentle, enticing form—
liberation is death; bondage is life!”

You can say: liberation seems like death; only in bondage is there life. See—a river lives bound by banks; the moment it leaves the banks, it dies. True—leaving the banks, it “dies”—but that’s half the truth. And half-truths are worse than outright lies. Leaving the banks, the river does not die—it is liberated; it becomes the ocean. You won’t call it “river” now—but that is because it has become the ocean. The small has become vast, the limited the limitless. What was definable has become the undefinable.

The ego wants to remain bound, because the ego can live only in the limited. The more confined the situation, the stronger the ego; the larger you become, the more the ego wanes. The more you expand, the more spacious you grow, the nearer you come to the Brahman—the more the ego departs. And the ego will argue, it will try every way to save itself:

“On the simple bonds of love
countless times I would stake my freedom!”

The ego says, “I will sacrifice a thousand liberations for my bonds!”

“On the simple bonds of love
countless times I would stake my freedom.
If this be life’s defeat,
may I be thus defeated birth after birth!
Bondage is life’s support—
liberation is death; bondage is life!”

But be alert. Sweet talk won’t do. Elegant arguments won’t do. Truth can be hidden but not abolished. No matter how sweet the poison—it is poison. And no matter how bitter the nectar—it is nectar. Often nectar is bitter and poison is sweet. Poison must be sweet—who would drink it otherwise? What need has nectar to be sweet? The ones who can recognize will drink. And nectar is for them—the drinkers, the recognizers. Poison advertises its sweetness; nectar does not advertise at all. The seekers come.

So, Ramadhar, your mind can convince you that life is beautiful. And I don’t say life is not beautiful—but I am speaking of another kind of life: the life that dawns when the sky of liberation opens within you. You are speaking of a life in which there is no light within, no soul, no awareness—not even a thin ray of awakening. Unconscious, drowsy, asleep—do you call this life? It is just a long night, a dark night, in which you mutter in your sleep, see dreams, and take them for truth.

But as you wish. Liberation cannot be forced upon you. At least I will never do such a thing. If it is your wish to be born again and again—tathastu! So be it.

Anand Satyarthi! Where there is love—ordinary love—there is also hidden hatred. Hatred is the other face of that love. Where there is respect—ordinary respect—there is a concealed aspect of disrespect.

Every ordinary emotional state in life carries its opposite along with it. The love you have known till now is very ordinary, very worldly. Therefore, you will not be free of hatred. You still have to see a new sky of love, a new dawn, to blossom a lotus of a new love! Such love is possible only after meditation.

Two kinds of people fall in love with me. First, those who like my words, who find what I say pleasing. And who knows—they may find them pleasing for the wrong reasons! Suppose a drunkard comes here, and I say: I accept all; I hold no condemnation for anyone. Now this drunkard has been condemned by everyone. Wherever he went he was abused. Whoever he met advised him: stop drinking. Hearing me say that I accept all, he feels very good—as if someone has patted his back! Love arises in him for me. That love is arising for a very wrong reason. It is arising because, knowingly or unknowingly, his ego is receiving a climate of support. That love is not happening out of understanding my statement. He is using that statement to strengthen his own personality. So love will happen, but behind that love hatred will remain hidden.

There is a lack of love in your life. Neither has anyone loved you, nor have you loved anyone. And when I accept you with my whole heart, your repressed love surges up. But this love hides hatred behind it. And remember, just as night follows day and day follows night, so hatred follows love. Many times the love will subside and you will suddenly be filled with hatred—baseless hatred! And you will not be able to understand: you love so much, then why this hatred? The hatred is there because the love you feel has not yet arisen out of meditation—it is intellectual, sentimental.

There is another kind of love that is born of meditation. When love passes through meditation, the dross in the gold gets burnt away in the fire of awareness. Passing through the fire of meditation, love appears as pure gold. Then there is no hatred in it. Then there is a reverence in which there is no irreverence. Otherwise, those who show reverence take no time to be disrespectful. The same people who garland you start abusing you; the same people who touch your feet get ready to cut off your head.

Such is your state, Anand Satyarthi!

You say: “Sometimes I am so full of hatred I could shoot you.”

Naturally. There is another reason behind it as well; understand that too—it applies to everyone. Whatever you receive from sannyas is so much that you cannot pay any price for it. Whatever you receive from sannyas is so much that all your thank-yous fall short. And then you will not be able to forgive me. It may sound a little strange. When someone gives us something, we feel small before him. If we can return something in response, we become equal again. But if we are given such a thing that we can return nothing—that there is no way to repay the debt—then we can never forgive such a person, never pardon him.

I have an acquaintance, a very wealthy man. Once he traveled with me by train. He had never spoken of this before, but we were alone together. In the course of our talk, this came up. He said, Today I dare to ask. There is an accident like a dark new-moon night spread over my life. The accident is that I have given so much to all my relatives, my friends, everyone, that today all my relatives are rich, all my friends are rich, all my acquaintances are rich.

They have plenty of wealth. And indeed he has given with an open heart. Yet none of them is pleased with me! On the contrary, they are all annoyed with me; they can hardly tolerate me. I cannot understand this—I did so much, for everyone...

And it is true. I know his relatives—those who were beggars are wealthy today. I know his friends—those who had nothing have everything now. It is true; there is not the slightest exaggeration in saying that he has given a lot and has not been stingy in giving. His hands are very free. He has given with a free heart. So naturally his question is meaningful: Why are they displeased with me?

I said, You don’t understand, but let me ask you one thing; it will make it clear. Have you ever allowed these friends, relations, family members to do anything for you in return? He said, No, there was never any need. I have everything. And if ever anyone wanted to do something, I refused: What’s the point? I have plenty. So I never took anything in return from anyone.

I said, Then the matter is clear—why they are angry. They cannot forgive you. They will never be able to forgive you. You have put them down. There is a guilt inside them. They know you are above—generous, a giver—and we are beggars. Beggars can never forgive donors.

Do one thing, I said to him: let them do small things for you as well. I know you need nothing, but small things... If you are ill and someone brings a rose, accept it—and feel grateful for it. Sometimes ask a friend, Brother, only you can do this; I’m not able to manage it—please handle it. Give them a chance to do something—small chances. I know you need nothing; you can do all your work yourself. But if you can give them a little opportunity to do something, then slowly they will be able to forgive you. They will feel, We didn’t only receive, we also gave. They will feel, We are not just below; we have become equal.

But this is against his ego. He couldn’t do it. When I asked him two years later, he said, Forgive me! I cannot take from anyone—not even a rose! It is against my way of living. I cannot accept that I should receive from anyone. I have learned only to give, not to take.

Then I said, Those to whom you have given will remain your enemies.

Anand Satyarthi, that is the difficulty here—not because I hesitate to take from you, not because I have any ego. But what is being given here is such that it cannot be returned. I do try all sorts of small ways—whatever I can. I give people small tasks. If someone is going to America I tell him, Buy a cutting for me, bring a sapling for my garden. As it is, there is no space left in my garden. So many cuttings have piled up that Vivek keeps asking me, What are you going to do with all these? She has to look after them, keep everything neat. And when someone is about to go again and I say, Bring me a cutting, it is beyond his understanding—What need is there?

The only need is that I want to give you a chance to do something for me.

Right now I am not in a hurry that someone should shoot me. Later you can do it. Wait a bit—let a little work be done. That would be the final award. For now the work has only just begun. For the present, be careful. Anand Satyarthi, keep the gun ready if you must, but be careful. Let the color of this sannyas spread a little over the earth!

Yes, someone or other will shoot. And the likelihood is that it will be a sannyasin—someone for whom it will become utterly intolerable, who cannot bear it; one who receives so much that he has no way left to respond. After all, Judas sold Jesus—for thirty pieces of silver! And Judas was Jesus’ greatest disciple, the foremost disciple. He had Jesus killed. He had him crucified. And Devadatta made many attempts to kill the Buddha—and Devadatta was Buddha’s cousin, and a chief disciple, a leading disciple.

All this is natural. There is a mathematics of life behind it. The mathematics is that you are pressed down so much by the debt that what can you do? If you don’t shoot, what else can you do?

But not now—wait a little. At the right time I myself will say to you, Satyarthi, where is the bullet?

This is the transformation of ordinary love. Every ordinary love will turn into hatred. Therefore, if you truly want that no hatred remains in your heart toward me, you will have to pass through meditation. Meditation is a process of purification—the alchemy that purifies love.

There are a few people here who love me but do not meditate. They say, We love you—what need is there for meditation? Their love is dangerous. Their love may cost them dearly any moment, because hatred will go on accumulating. Wash the hatred away through meditation so that love may go on being refined. Then one day the birth of such a love certainly happens that within you there is nothing opposite to it. To experience that love is to experience the nectar of immortality.

Santosh Saraswati! To realize the Divine, first there must be an intense longing—in the first stage—indomitable, unwavering, unmoving. A longing bold enough to stake everything. Like a moth racing to the flame—such a longing! The longing to be annihilated. The courage to take every risk. Such urgency, such density that only one longing remains, and all other longings are absorbed into it. Let your heart become a single arrow, catch the flight of the Divine, and set out for the Divine’s destination.

First such longing is needed. And then comes a very paradoxical law: the longing must be dissolved. No one arrives merely through longing; and without longing, no one arrives either. Longing is indispensable—but in the final moment the longing itself becomes the obstacle. In that last hour, longing too must fall away, in that very instant.

First, longing refines you, shapes you, makes you undivided; then the longing itself departs. As we remove one thorn with another and then throw both away. Worldly cravings are many—remember, cravings, in the plural: for wealth, position, prestige—who knows how many! They pull you in every direction. To pull out all those thorns, one longing for the Divine is needed—so that only one thorn remains and all the others are gone. And when a single thorn is left, there is no need to keep even that; bow to it too, and offer it to the river—with gratitude, for it freed you from all the rest.

The first difficulty is to consecrate all desires into one desire; but an even greater difficulty arises at the end—when even the longing for God must be dropped. For in dropping that, your ego dissolves. After all, longing itself is the projection of the ego: “I want.” Behind every desire stands the “I.” Even behind the longing for the Divine, the “I” stands.

The day you drop even the longing for the Divine—having already dropped all other desires—no prop will remain for the “I.” The “I” collapses, scatters, is reduced to ashes. And where “I” is not, there God is.

You ask: “To long for you is easy, but you are difficult.”
The longing is easy, the Divine is also easy—but letting go of longing is difficult. And the very longing for which you gave up everything—dropping that becomes very hard.

And Santosh Saraswati, you are still a new seeker; even for mature seekers, those almost at attainment, it is hard—even for someone like Ramakrishna.

When Ramakrishna met his final master, Totapuri, he was near the state of attainment. I say “near”—mind it. A small gap remained. In the world, people already believed he had arrived. Ramakrishna himself knew a single step was left—but how would others know? Seeing such heights, they thought he had touched the sky. Who could guess that one last step remained!

Ramakrishna asked Totapuri: “One step remains—how do I cross?” Totapuri said: “It is not difficult, and yet in a way it is. Not difficult, because if you have crossed so many steps, why should one more be a hurdle? Cross it as you crossed the rest. The same formula: just as you dropped every other desire, now drop even the longing for the Divine.

“And yet it is difficult, because all the other desires were petty. Dropping the desire for wealth, status, prestige—there was a kind of joy in that, a lightness, as if a useless burden had been thrown away. But dropping the longing for the Divine? You staked everything on this longing; to be told to drop this too! You kept this and let go of everything else; now you are told to let even this go. So it is difficult. But if you make the effort, it can happen.”

Ramakrishna said, “Help me. Alone I cannot do it. The moment I close my eyes, Kali stands before me. I forget everything. I am drenched in rasa. Duality remains—the devotee and the Divine. Nonduality does not happen.”

Totapuri said, “I will do one thing. Sit with eyes closed, and as soon as I see the image arise, when duality begins and the image of Kali, your chosen deity, appears before you, I will call out: ‘Ramakrishna, lift the sword and cut her in two!’ Don’t delay—lift the sword and cleave her.”

Ramakrishna, that extraordinary being, asked, “But where will I get a sword?”
Totapuri said, “That’s rich! And where did you get this Mother Kali from? She too is imagination. By constant imagining, the image has taken form. From the same place, bring a sword.”

But Ramakrishna said, “To cut the Mother—with a sword! I would rather die myself.”
Totapuri said, “As you wish. But this must be done if you want to cross the last step. Now this Kali—your deity, your worship and prayer, your devotion—this itself is the obstacle. Try.”

Again and again Ramakrishna closed his eyes and tried, but could not. The moment he closed his eyes, tears streamed; he swayed in ecstasy. And Totapuri said, “Again the same! Why are you swaying? In nonduality there is no swaying. What need of tears? In nonduality, all becomes still.”

Ramakrishna said, “I simply forget. I don’t even remember you. I forget your instruction. As soon as I close my eyes and behold the Mother—ah!—then I remember neither you nor your teaching.”

Then Totapuri said, “I will try a last remedy, because I must leave tomorrow morning.” He went out and brought back a shard of glass—perhaps from a broken bottle. He said to Ramakrishna, “Close your eyes. As soon as I see you start swaying, as soon as I see tears coming, as soon as I sense the image has arisen, I will cut your forehead with this shard. At that very moment, you muster courage, lift the sword of imagination, and cut the Mother in two. As I cut your forehead, you cut the Mother.”

It was a difficult thing—terribly hard. To kill one’s mother is hard enough; to cut Mother Kali, harder still. And all of Ramakrishna’s life had been this very sadhana. So many flowers had bloomed in it, so much nectar had flowed, so much joy had welled up, so many songs had been born. To wipe it all away at once! But Totapuri would leave in the morning—and finding a man like Totapuri again would be difficult.

He gathered courage. Totapuri cut his forehead. A stream of blood ran down Ramakrishna’s brow. And at that instant, remembrance arose within him. He lifted an imagined sword and split Kali in two. For six hours he became utterly still—not even a hair moved. For six hours he was like stone. When he opened his eyes, an unprecedented state was there—beyond joy, beyond all expression. His first words after six hours were: “Today the final barrier has fallen.” He thanked Totapuri deeply: “Your compassion is boundless. Today the last step has been crossed.”

Longing too has to be dropped. That is the difficulty.

You ask, Santosh:
“To long for you is easy,
but you are difficult.
I could not quiet
this longing for you.
My years passed in longing,
yet you did not come.
Death began to glimmer in life,
yet you did not come.”

If you want the Divine to come, let go even of the longing. Do not raise this demand. Do not set this condition.

The more I tried to make you mine,
the more you became unknown!
Such is the arithmetic of life. This longing is of the “I.” It is possessiveness—“Let the Divine be mine, in my fist.” It is the ego’s final subtle operation. Beware! Be alert!

The more I tried to make you mine,
the more you became unknown!
Human strength is not such
as to dismiss the human.
O proud one, is it for this
that you turned to merciless stone?
The more I tried to make you mine,
the more you became unknown!
Age after age we made you living,
offered unbroken rice, vermilion, flowers;
but at the hour of giving,
you turned lifeless again!
The more I tried to make you mine,
the more you became unknown!
I never wished that from my lashes
tears should spill from my eyes,
but the heart’s outpourings, reaching the lips,
turned into song as they came!
The more I tried to make you mine,
the more you became unknown!

To make the Divine yours, the “I” must be erased. Otherwise the Divine becomes more and more a stranger. So long as the “I” is, there is distance. The “I” is the distance. Other than the “I,” there is no distance at all.

You are as close to the heart
as close as this breath is;
you are as far away
as the hope of eternal union.
You are as sweet
as the tenderness of love,
yet as bitter
as the pursuit of selfishness.
You are as simple
as a child’s heart,
yet as crooked
as the wish for deceit.
You are as restless
as the yearning for gentle union,
and as still
as the feeling of detachment.
You are as compassionate
as the stream of futile tears,
and as pitiless
as the stroke of death.
You are as close to the heart
as close as this breath is;
you are as far away
as the hope of eternal union.

It all depends on you. Your Divine is your own reflection. As long as you are, your God will be your shadow. In your temples your own images are enthroned, for you have shaped them in your imagination. In your mosques, your prayers are your own—by you and to you. In your churches you kneel before your own reflections.

So long as the “I” remains, delusion remains in all you do. There is one supreme key: bid farewell to the “I”! Become empty, become a void.

In emptiness there will be much anxiety, much restlessness, much fear. It will feel like death. And it is a death—the death of the ego, the great death. But into that death, the Great Life descends.

Blessed are those who die in the eyes of the ego, for into their life the Divine descends.

So long as you are, God is not. Where you are not, God is. Lose yourself, and the Divine is found; keep yourself, and the Divine remains lost.

Attaining the Divine is simple. First, kindle an intense longing. Then drop even the longing to attain.

Hearing me, two kinds of people arise. Some say, “If in the end it is to be dropped, why desire at all?” They will never find the Divine. Others say, “If the longing must be pursued wholly, then why drop it?” They too will not find.

The mathematics of the Divine is a bit abstruse. First, hold on totally—so that you can let go totally. Hold so completely that no miserliness remains. Then drop it, and let your hands be empty. You will be astonished, wonderstruck—the ocean of nectar will pour into you.

Not only does the drop fall into the ocean; the ocean also falls into the drop—but into a drop that is empty. Only then can it contain the ocean; otherwise how will a tiny drop hold the sea?

Santosh, for now you are a drop—brimming. Become empty. Then the ocean is yours. Then there is no hindrance.

Emptiness is the key. Emptiness is the sadhana. And the one who is empty becomes fulfilled and accomplished. Emptiness is the practice—fullness is the fruition.

Enough for today.