Hari Bolo Hari Bol #10

Satsang! I know what is happening in your heart. A revolution! And this revolution is not happening suddenly today—it has been happening slowly. This fire has been smoldering little by little. You did not even notice it. When a revolution happens all at once, one notices; but when it unfolds gradually—gently, as age increases or as the moon waxes night after night—one hardly notices. Such a revolution is taking place in your life—slowly, step by step, inch by inch. I have seen you moving from darkness toward light, from madness toward freedom.

This question is auspicious. You have understood rightly. I am not sitting here to expound scriptures, nor am I concerned with theories. I am not here to convert you to any doctrine. You are already afflicted by doctrines; I am here to free you from them. No temple is being built here. No new mosque is being raised. Temples and mosques have tormented you enough. Here the work is to topple temples and mosques.

You are right: we are building a wine-house, a madhushala. That is what Buddha did, what Mahavira did, what Krishna did, what Christ did. Whenever someone has been aflame and awake, whenever light has manifested within, whenever the inner music has found voice—a wine-house has come into being. When wine-houses die, temples are built. Temples are the corpses of wine-houses. When Buddha walks and lives, whoever joins in relationship with him becomes intoxicated, becomes mad with love.

To connect with a Buddha is to drink the deepest wine available in existence. Then all other wines become as flat as water. Whoever drinks the wine of the beyond finds the wines of this world useless.

And I want to tell you: the wines of this world seem so flavorful only because you have no taste of the wine of the beyond. And this taste for worldly intoxication persists; it will not end. For centuries moralists, politicians, saints, and sadhus have kept preaching—“Don’t drink!”—who listens! Rules are made only to be broken. The very making of stricter laws shows how strong the craving is. And the craving is so strong that it breaks the laws, erases them. All laws are made only to be broken.

Centuries have passed; man keeps discovering new wines. Let us inquire—why? Somewhere within, a deep feeling is seeking something, a deep thirst is there. Man longs to be in ecstasy. Without ecstasy, is life even life? And since the wine of the Divine is not found, he seeks substitutes. He makes do with anything. If real coins are not available, what can one do? One collects counterfeit coins, comforts the mind with the fake.

Therefore my perspective is different: if you become intoxicated by the Divine, the wines of this world will fall away by themselves. No law is needed. And by making laws nothing happens anyway. If you ban one kind of wine, you will drink another. There is the wine of position—terribly intoxicating! There is the wine of wealth—deeply intoxicating! The wine sold in shops is nothing. You drink at night; by morning it wears off. When the wine of status takes hold, it does not wear off. Even if you step down from the post, the intoxication does not step down; it keeps pushing to climb back up.

I am giving you wine so that all other wines drop. This is a madhushala. Here we are seeking that nectar such that if even a single drop falls, all oceans grow small. How it is found differs: some find it through meditation, some through love; some through satsang, some simply by sitting with the master; some by listening to the master’s words, some just through the master’s love. The doors to the Divine are many. But it must be found—otherwise life is wasted. Otherwise life has no meaning. Otherwise you merely live—buffeted by the winds, wandering here and there, stumbling about. Between birth and death there is nothing but stumbles.

So you are right: here, only mead is served. Here doctrines, scriptures, words have no value. We use them as steps—only to lead you beyond—into such an ecstasy that the sap of your own being begins to flow from within you. You are filled with rasa. The source is within you. A blow is needed. May my arrow pierce you, and may the spring burst open within. Then you will search nowhere else. Then you will go nowhere outside. You will close your eyes and dive within. That dive is called sannyas.

For a long time Satsang kept company in satsang, but postponed sannyas, kept dodging it. I never told him to take it, because I knew—if not today, then tomorrow—the event is bound to happen; there was no need to say anything. I kept pouring the wine. I trust pouring, not explaining. One day he came—with intoxication in his eyes. And one day he dove into sannyas. For years he avoided it. He stood on the bank and watched. But how long can you stand on the bank! Once the midstream’s invitation begins to call, how long can you delay! A little while, perhaps—but not long. When the call from the other shore comes, you have to go.

When people come here, it doesn’t take me long to sort out who will prepare to go beyond. Then I shower my love on them and wait—when, when will they gather the courage.

Satsang said: “Ever since I found you, I run to your gathering.”
This is true. Years ago, when I first came to Poona, he kept running to me. He never asked me any theoretical questions. He simply savored being around me. It is very difficult—to be with me and not ask questions. He has sat by me for hours. From morning till evening he has been with me. But never did he ask a theoretical question. This endeared him to me. Very few people can resist the itch to ask theoretical questions. For this I held him in special regard. And that is why, when he took sannyas, I gave him the name “Satsang.” Satsang means: being together without asking. Being together in silence. Drinking the nectar, like the bumblebee drinks.

“You alone know what you make us drink.”
Now you, too, know. Now all who are drinking know that here the prohibition against wine is being broken.

“Where even birds sing and plants sway.”
Now, Satsang, the moment for your singing and swaying has come near! Now you must outdo the birds; now you must surpass the plants. Only then does a human being appear in his full form, in his full glory—when birds begin to feel envy, when plants are filled with jealousy.

When Meera danced, don’t you think the plants and birds were filled with envy? And when Krishna played the flute, don’t you think the whole of nature fell still for a moment? No bird can play the flute as a human can, nor can the wind, moving through trees, produce such a tone. That capacity is not theirs. It is man’s alone. The kind of dance that can arise in a human being cannot arise in anyone else.

The old scriptures say even the gods long to be human. When Buddha became enlightened, the stories say the very first to bow at his feet were the gods of heaven. Why would gods bow at a man’s feet? This land has given as much honor to man as no other land has. It has made gods bow at a human’s feet. Why? Gods may be happy, supremely comfortable, prosperous, without pain, poverty, disease—yet that dance cannot arise in them which arises in Buddha, which arises in Krishna.

Man is a crossroads. Behind him lies the world of animals—one path. Ahead lies the realm of the gods—another path. And within man there is a third path: to rise above both hell and heaven. We call that state moksha. That is what I am calling wine. To be in hell means to be sunk in suffering. To be in heaven means to be sunk in pleasure. But pleasure runs out. And indulged in for long, pleasure becomes like pain. It goes stale. Think: today the same pleasure, tomorrow the same pleasure, the day after the same pleasure—how long will you relish it? Soon you will be bored. The gods are thoroughly bored. If there is a greatest question in heaven, the residents of heaven ask it—it is boredom. They are bored.

Look at rich people and you will see a small glimpse of boredom. In America, in Europe, where there is great affluence, the most philosophically weighty question is that of boredom. If you read modern philosophy you will be surprised: there may be no discussion of God, no discussion of soul, but there is certainly discussion of boredom. Boredom! Is that a spiritual question? It is. It is the question of the affluent.

Just think: the most beautiful women, the most beautiful houses, the most delicious foods, the finest clothes—how many days will you remain interested? Quickly, boredom arises: What next? The poor man is not bored; his hope remains alive. He thinks: tomorrow will be better than today, the next day better still; soon I too will build a good house, live in comfort. His hope keeps him alive.

The rich man’s trouble is that his hope dies. What more lies ahead? If Rockefeller thinks “Tomorrow will be better,” how can he think so? He has no room left for imagination. The rich man’s imagination commits suicide. And imagination is your life. You live by imagination. “Tomorrow will be better”—with that support you pass today. Understand the rich man’s dilemma: there is no way for tomorrow to be better. The best possible car is already there. The best possible airplane is already there. The best house, the best spouse—everything that could be is there. There is no possibility of anything better. There is nowhere further to go. He has come to the end.

The rich man becomes bored, harassed. And that is nothing compared to heaven—where the pleasures are multiplied many times. There, too, there is boredom. In hell there is no boredom. In hell there is hope. In hell the lamps of hope burn. A man suffers and thinks: today or tomorrow I will get out of hell. But where there is only pleasure, a man thinks: what now? What next? Must I live like this, only like this? Is this how I am to live forever? Nothing new will ever happen in my life.

Therefore India—and only India—has conceived moksha. There are other religions—Christianity, Judaism, Islam—but in those three there is no conception of moksha. In that sense they are a little incomplete. There is the idea of heaven, of hell; but not of moksha. In truth, there is no word in other languages to translate “moksha.” Because when the idea is absent, how could a word exist? “Moksha” is our precious word. It is our greatest discovery. There is suffering—one must be free of it. There is pleasure—one must be free of it, too. One has to go beyond the duality of pain and pleasure: where neither pain remains, nor pleasure. We call that state moksha. Only man can rise to that state. Only man can undertake that inner journey.

In hell people are so miserable that they have no facility for inner journeying. In heaven people are so comfortable—boredom weighs them down—there is no possibility of rising into the inner journey; boredom keeps killing them. They go on seeking new excitements. Man is the crossroads where all the pathways of nature meet. In man the greatest flower of life can bloom—call it moksha, call it nirvana. When this flower blooms, the flowers on trees pale. When this flower blooms, the songs of birds grow faint. When this flower blooms, the light of moon and stars seems dim and dull.

You say: “Where birds sing, plants sway.” Now, Satsang! You too sway, and you too sing. Drop shame and hesitation. Drop all conditioning. Ecstasy is arising within—let it flow outward as well.

People are great misers. A friend asked me just four or six days ago: “We have been with other true gurus as well. There it was always said that when energy rises, when kundalini awakens, keep it within. And here you say: give it expression. This is quite the opposite.”

I said to him: you must have been with misers—“keep it within!” A man’s stinginess never leaves him. Whatever arises within, let it be expressed without. The more you share, the more it grows. And what division have you made between inside and outside? Breath goes in; do you allow it to go out or not? If you don’t, you will die that very moment. That is why your so‑called saints are corpses. A little ray comes, a little flame, a little glimpse—and they pounce to grab it, and then get stuck there.

Lavish it! And much more will come. Do not be in a hurry to clutch. The well from which people draw water has fresh streams flowing into it; its water stays clear and alive. The well from which no one draws—if some miser covers it so that no one can draw, he himself doesn’t draw either; he dies of thirst but won’t “spend” the water—such a well will die. Its water will become dead. Its springs will dry. Soon its water will fill with poison, unfit to drink.

Do not hold back—share. Receive and pour out. Use both hands! Don’t be miserly in the least. That is what I am calling dance, that is what I am calling flowering. When you are filled within with ecstasy, let it overflow. When you are brimming full, ecstasy will overflow. It must overflow. And you will be amazed to know: the more it overflows, the more you will be filled. The more you give, the more you receive. Here, the givers are the ones who get.

Dance like the trees! Sing like the birds! Lavish it with a free heart!

Jesus has said: Whoever saves will lose, and whoever loses will find. Well said.

Here I want to give you such a dance, such a song. But your conditionings of thousands of years stand behind you. Even when you come to me, those conditionings hang on. They say: “If you find joy, keep it to yourself. Why tell? Why show?” Do not show for the sake of showing. Do not tell for the sake of telling. But do lavish it. And in lavishing, it may be seen—that is another matter.

Do not keep stinginess with me. That is why, after every meditation, I consider this an essential limb of meditation: when you are filled with bliss, express it by dancing. Breath went in; let it go out. What is outside, what is inside! All is His. He alone is—outside He, inside He. We take from Him and give to Him. Tvadiyam vastu tubhyam eva samarpaye—what is Yours, we offer back to You!

These flowers that bloom—whence do they come? From the earth. From the sky. From the sun’s rays. From the moon’s nectar. From the winds. And then they scatter themselves into the same, lavish their fragrance into the same; they fall into this very soil and become soil again. The sunbeam returns to the sun, the water to the ocean, the wind to the wind, the earth to the earth. Then a flower will rise again, a flower will awaken again. If trees become miserly and, when flowers bloom, clutch them and sit holding them, those flowers will turn into plastic, not remain real. The real comes and goes. The real has movement. The real has flow. The real has change.

Dance! Sing! Hari bolo, Hari bolo!

That itself is prayer. This dancing, this singing, this humming, this sense of rejoicing toward nature—this alone is prayer. What goes on in temples and mosques is not prayer; it is the beaten track of prayer, the name of prayer, not prayer itself. Ecstasy is prayer. It has nothing to do with words. Sometimes words will arise and sometimes they won’t. If they arise, good; if they don’t, good. Prayer is not a formal thing—Hindu, Christian, or Jain. Can prayer be Hindu, Christian, or Jain? Prayer is a state of feeling. Prayer is the perception of grace. It is gratitude to the Divine.
And what words do we even have with which to thank Him? That is why we bow down. How to say it in words? By bowing, we say it with our whole life-breath.

“We do not know, Lord, how to pray; we do not understand the language of heaven and hell.
Now we have nowhere to go and nothing to attain; to us this very world is dear.”

This is my message. There is nowhere anyone has to go. Liberation is not somewhere else; liberation is a way of being in this very world. Hell too is a way of being in this world, and heaven too is a way of being in this world. These are names for modes of being, not journeys. There is nowhere to go. Everything happens here. Like tuning a station on a radio—you don’t go anywhere when you tune in Delhi, or London, or New York. You simply turn the needle a little. You align the needle with the wave where Delhi is, and instantly you are connected.

Just so, within a person there is consciousness, and within consciousness there are waves. It is a matter of tuning those waves.
Have you noticed? When you are sitting in sorrow, run an experiment. Sitting in sorrow, suddenly make it an opportunity and ask: how can I connect with joy? At first it will be very difficult, because the old habit and old mode says: if I am sad now, how can I be happy now? As if Delhi is tuned in—how can London be tuned in? It can always be tuned in. Make a little effort: if you are sitting in sorrow, stand up and start humming a song. At first you will laugh. At first you won’t trust yourself. You will think, “Am I going mad? Is this the time? This is the time for sorrow!” Then begin to dance a little, and you will be astonished: very soon you will see this event happening within—that the cloud of sorrow has dispersed and the sun of joy has risen. And when you are very happy, try changing then too. You are full of joy, sitting in great delight—now change the air. Start thinking sorrowful thoughts—so-and-so abused me, so-and-so deceived me, so-and-so behaved so badly. Begin to sink into such thinking; carry the wave that way, turn the needle that way—and soon you will find: heaven has taken leave, happiness is forgotten, the mind is full of anger and enmity, full of jealousy and violence, the feeling of revenge has arisen; the hand is searching for a sword.

An old story: the emperor of Japan went to meet a Zen fakir. In those days emperors went to fakirs. Now it’s two-bit fakirs who go—to pay visits to dignitaries; recently there was news that the “dung-lord” of Ganeshpuri, Muktananda, went for the darshan of Morarji Desai. To take the darshan of Morarji Desai! You found no more fitting place for darshan? Times have changed. And not only did he pay darshan, he told Morarji Desai, “We are fortunate that a saintly man like you is the prime minister of India!” Can a prime minister be a saintly man? Would you even allow a saintly man to become prime minister? To be prime minister, unscrupulousness is a necessary condition. Yes, the show of saintliness is necessary. Inside, all the tricks, all the frauds; inside, all the dishonesty, all the pushing and shoving. On the surface, the garb of saintliness is necessary. Being a “heron-devotee” is necessary.

Look at the heron-devotee: standing on one leg, poised in yogic posture! Unmoving—greater yogis would be outdone! Eyes shut, not stirring at all—hence the “heron-devotee.” How devoutly he stands! Then a fish comes by—and he pounces.

One engaged in the race of politics cannot be a saint. The very race of politics is born in an unholy mind. The lust for position occurs in those afflicted with inferiority inside. Position is intoxication.

Back to the old story. The emperor went to the Zen fakir for darshan. The fakir was sitting, tapping his tambourine. The emperor asked, “I have come with a question—what is heaven, and what is hell?” The fakir put down the tambourine and said, “You’ve brought a big question, and your face is utterly foolish. Your skull is stuffed with dung.”

To speak so to an emperor! The emperor had never imagined a fakir would speak like that. And this man was held to be supremely wise, renowned far and wide; his ministers had praised him as the one person worth seeing if anyone was. The emperor forgot himself—he drew his sword. And as he drew his sword and was about to strike the fakir, the fakir burst out laughing and said, “There—this is the gate of hell.”

For a moment the emperor started—awareness flashed: What am I doing? What has overcome me? In a single instant the fakir had turned the key, shifted the needle! Just now he had arrived with great dignity, come for satsang, deeply moved, bowing at the feet—and he had pulled out his sword! When the fakir laughed and said, “This is the gate of hell,” the blow must have hit deep; the sword returned to its sheath, he fell full-length on the ground, grasped the fakir’s feet, tears began to flow. The fakir said, “This is the gate of heaven.”

Heaven and hell are two states of consciousness. In an instant—heaven; in an instant—hell. And so too the ultimate state, liberation—where you are free of both, where you abide between the two; where all identifications dissolve; where witnessing appears; where it is no longer “I am sorrow,” nor “I am joy”; where there is no talk at all of connecting with anything, all connections are severed, the sense of nonattachment arises—there is liberation, there is moksha.

This very world becomes moksha—but you understand it in your own way. When you hear “liberation,” you think somewhere far, very far in the sky! Liberation is right here where you are. When you hear “hell,” you have spun tales of somewhere far below in the netherworld. Where will you go? Dig down and you will find America. Keep digging and digging—and the Americans are thinking the netherworld is hell; if they dig down they will find you. The earth is round. Where will you search? And where is “above” you will go? In this universe there is no above and no below, because it has no boundary. If there were a boundary, there could be up and down. There is no roof anywhere in the sky. There is no roof anywhere. It is boundless expanse. So whom will you call above, whom below? Here everything is in the middle. There is no way to compare above and below.

No—their notions are childish, meant to explain to little children. When we must explain to children, we choose symbols. Such symbols were chosen for you. The truth is something else. The simple truth is that heaven and hell are psychological states, modes of your being. If you are sitting here quiet and blissful beside me, you are in heaven. You return home, the joy is all forgotten, you enter your old world again, the same commotions catch hold of you—you have come to hell. If awareness begins to awaken, then slowly you will carry what arises here back home, and keep it there too. You will make every occasion a test: the wife is flaring up, but you hold on to your heaven; you say, “I will not let heaven be spoiled.” You hold your awareness: let the wife make noise, let her bang the plates, slam the doors—let her do what she will—I will guard my heaven. One day you will find that you can preserve it there too. You can preserve it at the shop as well. Slowly this experience will grow deeper: wherever you wish, you can preserve it.

To rise from hell to heaven, and from heaven to liberation. But it is all here. There is no world other than this one.

“The halting night of death has reached its end.
Dawn has broken; a new life has come into view.”

Beloved ones in satsang, wake up! Morning is near; stretch out your hands and seize it.

“The halting night of death has reached its end—
the night of death is about to finish.
Dawn has broken; a new life has come into view.”

That dawn is about to be. That new life is about to be born. But the new life is not some other life. The new life is a new form of this very life—a new polish, a new style, a new manner.

“The halting night of death has reached its end.
Dawn has broken; a new life has come into view.

These are the turns where even shadows will not go along;
tell the travelers that her pathway has arrived.

The air was the smiling breath of springtime,
yet, upon reaching the beloved’s destination, the eyes brimmed with tears.

In someone’s festive gathering, life was being handed out;
among the hopeful, yesterday even death was seen.

How could every person bear the burden of humanity?
Even this calamity fell upon the heads of your lovers.

Today, after ages, your remembrance came into hearts—
with a smiling face and eyes grown moist.

The message of sudden death is not new to me;
in a thousand hues tidings of myself have reached me.

As though some melody were cleaving the air,
just so your glance descended into hearts.

After a brief union, look in the mirror, my friend:
the maidenly freshness of your beauty has blossomed.

It is no wonder if every flower becomes garden upon garden;
the breeze went and filled its lap with every bud.

On the night of separation, even more pains rose within the heart—
how shall I tell you, your remembrance came all through the night.”

The moment to remember the Divine, the nearness of satsang, has arrived! Dance! Hum! Be intoxicated! Share!

You say you do not understand what prayer is. There is no need. Prayer is a state of feeling; there is no need to understand it. Prayer is the joy of bowing, a salutation, gratitude, a sense of grace.

And you said: “There is nowhere to go, nothing to become.” Then you are beginning to understand me. That is exactly what I am saying. There is nowhere to go, nothing to become. There is awakening. Whatever you are meant to be, you already are. And wherever you are meant to be, you already are. You are only asleep. Wake up! And if you begin to dance you will wake up.

Just think: if a sleeping man gets up and starts dancing, how long can he remain asleep? Did he dance because he woke, or did he wake because he danced? The journey moves from both sides. Those who begin to awaken begin to dance. Those who begin to dance begin to awaken. These are two sides of the same phenomenon. How can a man who is dancing sleep? How can a man who is singing sleep?

Let the song rise in full force! Let the music of your life-breath resound loudly.

The faltering night of death has come to its end; the dawn has broken, and a new life has come into view.

Mala! Where is the room to ask? If love happens, it happens; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Where is the question of “doing”? Where is the scope for decision in love? Does love give you the chance to choose? Love seizes you. Love is not in your hands—you are in love’s hands. Love is bigger than you. And when it comes, it comes—and it sweeps you away, like a flood, like a storm. Such is love.

You ask:
“I have no control over love—still,
tell me: should I love you or not?”

If you have understood that love is not in your control, then where is this “but, still”? Don’t bring back the language of control. Love does not ask. And in the love that is arising between you and me, there is no need to ask at all—because this love is not a bondage, this love is freedom.

Love has two forms. One is love as bondage—that is what people know in the world, and from it they suffer, are harassed, exhausted—utterly tired.

Just last night I told a story. A man was celebrating his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. There was music and dancing; the liquor was flowing. Friends had gathered. It was in America, where to stay in one marriage for twenty-five years is an extraordinary event. In three or four years, as people change other things, they change their wives too. Twenty-five years! He was celebrating his silver jubilee. But suddenly a friend noticed he became sad and went outside. The friend followed. Inside, everyone else was reveling—dance and song, liquor pouring, food being served. The friend went after him. The man whose silver jubilee was being celebrated stood under a tree and began to weep; tears rolled from his eyes. The friend asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you crying on such a happy occasion?”

He said, “There is a reason to cry. After five years of marriage I was so bored of it, so tired of its bondage, that I thought I’d just murder this woman. I went to my lawyer—to ask, if I kill her, what will happen? If I’m caught, what then?

“The lawyer said, ‘You’ll get at least twenty years. At least. That’s for sure. It could be more, but not less than twenty years.’ I got scared and didn’t do it.”

The friend asked, “Then why are you crying now?”

He said, “Now I’m crying because if I hadn’t listened to that foolish lawyer, today I would be free, released from prison. Today would have been a day of celebration—but by listening to that fool, I got stuck, and stuck I remain.”

You have known one kind of love in the world—bondage. Naturally, in that, you have to take the other’s consent. When you set out to bind someone, you must first ask, “Brother, are you willing to be bound or not?” Hence we say love-bondage, nuptial-bond. Invitations read: Our son and daughter are entering the bond of marriage. Bondage! So of course, at least in the beginning, one must ask once for consent, make an agreement. Once bound, you are bound—and getting out isn’t easy. Then the two of you will settle it between yourselves. But at least at the start, there must be acceptance, a pact.

With me, love is not that kind of love. With me you are not getting bound. You are not binding me. I am setting you free. And when I am setting you free, then naturally this is a different kind of love. This is love. The definition of love is this: that which frees. That which leads into bondage would be enmity—how could it be friendship? If what breaks your freedom, puts chains on your feet and shackles on your hands, becomes a noose around your neck, is called love—then what will we call hate? If prison is called love, where then is the temple? How will a temple ever be?

Love is a temple, not a prison. And love grants freedom. Love breathes only in freedom. Love spreads its wings only in the sky of freedom.

You have come to me to learn freedom. If you are falling in love with me, it is because you love freedom—there is no other reason. Even the relationship you make with me is so that you may be free—liberation, supreme freedom, may be realized.

There is no need to ask me. You are not going to bind me, nor am I binding you. Here all bonds are to be dropped. Love—abundantly, as much as you can. And I want to tell you: why only me? Love! Why pour it in only one direction? If so much bliss comes from flowing in one direction, why not flow in all directions? The bliss will be infinite.

So instead of making a stream of love toward persons, cultivate the state of love itself—let it flow all around. Whoever you meet, wherever you sit, wherever you stand, the fragrance of love should spread. If only I can teach you such love, my work is done!

But remember: in bondage-love the ego need not die. In truth, the more the bonds, the more the ego is protected. Bondage is an ornament for the ego. Where love means freedom, there the ego has to die. Freedom is death to the ego; it is its grave. That is why people prefer love-as-bondage; they do not prefer love-as-freedom—because there they must lose the ego. If there is nothing to bind, the ego cannot survive, for the ego needs boundaries, and bondage provides boundaries. I am husband, I am wife, I am father, I am mother, I am son, brother, friend—these give boundaries, a definition. Not husband, not brother, not son, not father, not wife—all boundaries gone, all limits dissolved. What remains cannot be called “I.” How will you say “I” now? All the bricks with which the house of “I” was built have been removed. Now—aham brahmasmi! Now only the Brahman is. Now—tat tvam asi! Only That is. You are gone.

Prepare to dissolve, Mala! To fall in love with me means: prepare to dissolve.

“Love struck me before every pain and its cure;
Love punished me before any crime or fault.

The fire of love blazes even before the wind arrives;
In love, lips are singed before a prayer is uttered.

What lack remains now for your empty-handed ones?
By your own oath, there was nothing before renunciation and annihilation.

On its own the robe of locks and fetters tore open—
What wind was that which blew before the dawn breeze?

O passion for life, we once feared the very name of death—
But you had slain me already, before fate could come.

The confusions of this perishing existence will tell you
What my condition was before the feeling of annihilation.”

Love is the great death—a death before death! And it is not death; rightly understood, it is self-slaughter—because the ego must be killed by your own hand. It needs great courage, the daring to risk everything—audacity.

Mala, if love has seized you, rise and enter this audacity. Efface yourself. There is only one way to fulfill the condition of love with me: efface yourself. I am effaced; you too efface yourself—only then can you be joined to me. To join with one who has become a zero, you too must become a zero—there is no other condition. I am fana—erased. There is no one here. Let it be so within you too—only stillness, only emptiness—then union is possible. If you would be with me, become somewhat like me.

This love is a costly bargain. But if it has begun, there is no way to stop now. And why would I stop you?

You ask me:
“I have no control over love—still,
tell me: should I love you or not?”

I am only inviting you. That is why I have called you, and you heard the call and came. That is why I am calling you—casting these lines so that love may be born. Slowly, slowly, listening to the messages of love I send, keep sliding closer, keep dissolving. One day that auspicious hour will come when you find no one within—only silence, only emptiness. That day you are the infinite. And that day you will not only meet me; you will meet yourself. Only that day do you meet yourself!

A Master is one who unites you with yourself. And the day you meet yourself, you meet the Divine too—because the Divine is your Self, your innermost core.

I do not tell you to do love—I tell you to be love. Doing is a small, petty thing. There, only defeat and wounds will come to your hand.

And it is good that society put an obstacle in your way; otherwise, as in the story I just told you, by now you would be celebrating your silver jubilee. Society showed you great kindness. Thank society. Take it as grace.

And you cannot forgive that woman! What kind of love is this that cannot forgive! What kind of love is this that is full of revenge! And these wounds are not precious wounds. They do not go very deep. They are on the surface—like scratched skin. They are no deeper than the skin. All these heal. Time heals them. Do not sit clutching them.

Friend, do not be disheartened!
Affairs have often kept forming and breaking.
Why those starry tears trembling on your lashes?
You grieve that your beloved you could not obtain,
And the life your dreams had carved
Today shattered somewhere against hard facts.
Know, I too have loved,
And you know well the outcome of love.
Countless people in this world have failed;
Your failure is nothing new, my friend.
Who has ever escaped the bitterness of life?
Willy-nilly, everyone drinks this poison.
Do not be taken in by tales of life-forfeit lovers;
Who dies of love? Everyone goes on living.
Time wipes out every wound, every sorrow.
With time, even this shock will pass.
And these very words that I have repeated to you now,
One day you will repeat them yourself.
Friend, do not be disheartened!

Time heals such wounds. And the wounds that time can heal have no value. Only those wounds are precious that only eternity can heal. You have not yet tasted such a wound, and you are not understanding what I am saying. You will not understand, because you are sitting with one experience of love and you think that experience is the meaning of all love.

I have heard: a certain politician went to a museum. There lay a mummy brought from Egypt. Below it was written: 3 B.C. The guide said, “This…” The politician said, “I know. This is Dhanno’s corpse.” The guide said in astonishment, “Dhanno’s corpse? What are you saying?” The politician said, “Yes, brother, the truck under which she died—its number was B.C. 3.”

The love I am speaking of is something else—you are telling me about Dhanno’s corpse that died under your truck. You have imposed your own meaning; I am speaking of a different love. But the moment you hear the word love, meanings from your own experience rise within you; your meanings stand up. You begin to think: that love which did not succeed.

And those who “succeed” here—do they really succeed? Look closely. Here everyone fails. Those who fail, fail; those who succeed also fail. The loves of this world do not suffice. No relationship of this world suffices, because all the relationships of this world we forge in ignorance and stupor, in unconsciousness.

There is another love that flowers in awakening. Another blossom. I am speaking of that love. I am not telling you to love; I am saying: become love. And that is a very different thing. In “doing” love, the other is needed; in “being” love, there is no question of the other. Like a flower blooming in solitude somewhere—whether anyone passes by or not, whether anyone sees it or not, what difference does it make? The flower simply blooms. The flower is drunk with its own ecstasy. It is not as if, if no connoisseurs come by today, the flower becomes sad and withers; that because no painter came, no photographer came, no journalist came, the flower covers its head and starts crying. It is not that if the public did not arrive today, then why smile, why dance in the breeze, why spill fragrance. No; the flower remains the same in its own joy—if someone comes, fine; if no one comes, fine.

Someone said to Ghalib that people do not understand the meaning of your poetry. Ghalib said:
No desire for praise, no concern for reward;
If there is no meaning in my verses—so be it.
I have no longing for applause, no wish for prizes. If my songs hold no meaning—so be it.

When a song arises within, the joy is in singing—for one’s own delight. When the dance arises, the joy is in dancing—for one’s own delight. And when love arises, the joy is in pouring love—for one’s own delight.

I am telling you to be love, not to do love. Love as an act is a very small love. And until you are love, how will you love? Your love will be a cheat, false, a performance, hypocrisy, a show.

Before you can give fragrance, you must become fragrance. You can give only what has happened within you.

So I told you something else. I speak of love every day, because for me love is God. But remember this love carefully—do not mistake it, do not confuse it, do not connect it with your own love. Otherwise you will turn meaning into mismeaning. You will misunderstand entirely. And instead of finding a path through me, you will find a wrong path.

You say, “I loved, and still I cannot forgive.” In love, forgiveness must come. Forgiveness follows love just as a shadow follows you. If love cannot forgive, it was not love; it was something else. You wanted to possess a woman. You wanted to be the owner of a woman. You wanted your hands on a woman’s neck. You wanted to lock a bird of the sky in your cage. Your wish was not fulfilled. You wanted to cut someone’s wings—could not—and now you writhe. You wanted to chain someone—could not. Your expedition of ownership fell apart. You had set out to conquer someone—hence you use the word defeat. You say: “But I was defeated.”

Has anyone ever been defeated in love? In love there is only victory. In love, defeat does not exist. You loved: the matter is complete. In love there is no expectation of return. In love there is no longing for reward. You did not love—you did something else. You wanted the woman to love you too. You wanted the return on love. You wanted an answer, but none came. You made a plea, and your plea was lost in the sky. You are offended. You feel insulted. You feel neglected.

Such a man cannot pray, because prayer has this one essential point: only he can pray who does not demand an answer. You will pray, and no answer will come from the sky. You will say, “O Lord!” and from there no voice will say, “Yes, tell me, what is your command?” No answer will ever come. If you keep the expectation of an answer, prayer becomes impossible.

Only he can pray who asks for no answer, who says: I found the answer just in praying. My eyes grew wet—what more is needed? My head bowed—what more is needed? My heart overflowed—what more is needed? I need no answer.

No answers come from the sky. Existence is silent. There is perfect silence there. The prayer you offered went and was lost in the infinite. It became one with the infinite. No answer will ever come. But this does not mean there is no benefit. The benefit lies in the very praying. The benefit is already there before the praying finishes. That you bowed…

A Sufi fakir, Al-Hallaj, was asked, “You pray so much, you call upon God so much—do you ever get an answer?” He said, “You too are mad! Who wants an answer? Should I trouble Him? The answer came before my question. My prayer is thanksgiving; not my demand, not my craving. I want nothing from Him! He gave so much before I could ask—this is my thanks. It is acceptance of His grace. He has already given, before I asked. I need nothing. I need no answer.”

Do you think your prayer is meant to change God’s heart? Most people do. When you go to the temple and say, “O Lord, I cannot find a job; my wife is ill; my son is going astray—do something,” what are you doing? You are trying to change God’s heart through prayer. No—that is not prayer. In prayer, it is the heart of the one who prays that changes; there is no question of changing God’s heart. In the very act of praying, the heart is transformed.

In the life of Vivekananda it is written: his father died. The father was a whimsical man. He must have been—only then could a son like Vivekananda be born. He saved nothing; spent freely all his life. He earned much, but kept giving. When he died he left debts. Whatever there was went into paying the debts. The home became so poor that even two meals were hard to gather. Vivekananda would tell his mother he had been invited to eat somewhere and then wander the streets hungry. He would return home rubbing his belly and pretending to belch so his mother would believe he had eaten and would herself eat the little that there was. For it was so little that either Vivekananda could eat or the mother.

Ramakrishna came to know and said one day, “You are a fool! Why don’t you go to the temple and speak to Kali? Why wander here and there? Go once, ask, and all will be settled. Go pray.”

If Ramakrishna says so, how could Vivekananda refuse? He went. An hour passed. Outside, Ramakrishna sat on the platform waiting. When Vivekananda came out, tears were streaming from his eyes, he was intoxicated with ecstasy. He had been hungry for three days—he had forgotten it utterly. He was blissful. He fell at Ramakrishna’s feet.

Ramakrishna said, “Leave the other matters aside—did you say it? Did you make the prayer?”

Vivekananda said, “Ah, I forgot! I was so lost in prayer!”

Ramakrishna said, “Go again.” The same happened three times. After the third time, Vivekananda came out, looked at Ramakrishna and said, “Forgive me; this will not be possible. The moment I go there, prayer overwhelms me—there is no question of speaking small, petty things. To ask such small things feels indecent, improper. I cannot do it, Paramhansadev. Forgive me! I cannot.”

Ramakrishna pressed Vivekananda to his chest and said, “That is why I sent you three times. I wanted to see whether you could still ask for something in prayer or not. If you cannot ask, you have learned the art of prayer. Now I am at ease. You have learned prayer. Prayer is not asking, though we have corrupted the very meaning of the word so that ‘suppliant’ means ‘one who asks.’ We have debased the word.”

A suppliant does not mean one who asks; a suppliant is one who bows. Prayer does not mean asking; prayer means wonder, gratitude.

If you asked for something in love, you missed love. And now you have come to me. And if you are still clutching that experience of love within you, you will miss prayer too. You say: I cannot forgive. You loved—that completes the matter on your side. Whether love came in response or not, whether society obstructed or whatever happened—what has that to do with it? Did you love? Is that not enough to leave you grateful? Keep a heart of thanksgiving.

Now do not come even into the embrace of my imagination.
I cannot bear to see your disheveled tresses.
By your reddened eyes, by your trembling lashes,
I cannot bear to see those quivering tears.
Now do not come even into the embrace of my imagination.
Let it go—if the hem of fidelity has slipped.
Why this delicate gait, these regretful glances?
You did not break it; the bond of hearts simply broke.
Now do not come even into the embrace of my imagination.
May my sighs not wither these cheeks.
Nights bathed in rapture must be searching for you;
Go, lest the blossoms of the bridal bed should wither.
Now do not come even into the embrace of my imagination.
Lest I seat you at this desolate side,
Lest I steal the salt of your sweet lips, the sweetness of your rosy cheeks
Onto my parched lips.
Now do not come even into the embrace of my imagination.
The world will not let you keep even this ritual;
This fresh spring will cling to your hem as it advances
And will not let you come even into the embrace of my imagination.

A lover is content in every circumstance. He says:
Now do not come even into the embrace of my imagination.
Do not come into the lap of my imagination either. The real embrace could not happen—do not come into my imagined embrace either.

Now do not come even into the embrace of my imagination.
I cannot bear your disheveled hair.
By your reddened eyes, by your trembling lashes,
I cannot bear those quivering tears.

A lover is always ready to forgive; not only to forgive, but to take his leave as well. If he will be an obstacle, if he is going to bring pain, he will quietly slip away, step aside. He will leave the path clear. And you sit cradling your wound! You keep scratching it! Perhaps you are not even letting it heal. Perhaps now you have fallen in love with the wound itself.

This often happens: people fall in love with their illnesses. Then they cling to them. Perhaps now this wound is your only companion. Alone, you sit and scratch it, you do not let it heal.

Be alert! Learn at least some lesson from love. This was an opportunity. You loved, there was no return—understand from this that to ask for return in love is itself the mistake: from this come the wounds. Learn this, and the learning will become priceless. Now love in such a way that there is no expectation of return. Now love that does not ask—only gives, quietly gives! That makes no noise! That is not full of insistence! That has no insistence at all! Then you will find a new fragrance in your life, a new perfume, a new dawn beginning.

Love is its own reward. Become love. There is no question of doing love. Let love be the state of your being. Not a relationship—an inner state.

I can explain, and then you will understand it theoretically again—and it still won’t come into practice. That becomes a vicious circle. What use is that?

Understand this from the fact that things are grasped theoretically yet don’t come into practice: theoretical understanding is no understanding at all. Real understanding is that which flowers into action; otherwise it is the illusion of understanding. Theoretical understanding is a thoroughly deceptive kind of understanding. Naturally, the words I speak are simple and straightforward; they reach your mind. But what is hidden within those words is far bigger than the words themselves—that is missed. You collect the shell of words; the pulp, the kernel of meaning, is missed. What will the shell do for you? It has no essence.

And you also ask: once I understand theoretically, how do I bring it into practice? The truth is, when it is truly understood, there is no “bringing it into practice”—it begins to happen by itself. If you still have to bring it into practice, I would tell you it hasn’t been understood. Only the one who hasn’t understood has to make efforts to practice. For the one who has understood, the matter is finished; the very question of trying to practice doesn’t arise. If it really hits you that there is poison in a cigarette, the half-smoked cigarette will remain half-smoked; it will slip from your fingers—finished. You won’t then say, “Now let me practice quitting. I’ll take a vow. I’ll reduce from ten to nine to eight to seven—slowly, over years. It took years to get into the habit; it will take years to get out.” If you proceed like that, one thing is clear: it has not struck home.

If your house is on fire, do you rehearse how to get out? Do you say, “We’ll exit gradually. One can’t just rush out; first some yogasanas, a headstand, read the scriptures, attend satsang, do shravan-manana-nididhyasan—and then, bit by bit, we’ll get out. We’ve lived in this house for so long, one can’t leave all at once. The house is on fire—let it burn. I understand that it’s on fire, but first let’s make arrangements for leaving.” Would you do that? Would you say that? If the house is on fire, you won’t look up a scripture for the technique of exiting, nor go in search of a guru, nor ask anyone. You’ll make a dash and be out. If the front door is aflame, you’ll jump out of the window. You won’t bother about modesty or propriety. If you were bathing naked, you’ll run out just as you are. You won’t even think, “People might mistake me for a Jain monk—what a mess that would be!” You’ll simply bolt. Where then are social norms or social shame? There’s no time! And no one will blame you either. No one will say, “At least wrap a towel.” When the house is on fire, no one blames you for not wrapping a towel.

When things are truly understood, the result is instantaneous. I say instantaneous—without losing even a moment. The moment a thing is seen, it is finished right there. There is no need to “bring it into practice.” If you still need to bring it into practice, it means only one thing: it hasn’t entered your understanding; you’ve been duped by the idea of understanding. Inside you, you’re understanding one thing; on the surface, you’ve accepted something else. A double understanding has formed. On the surface you’ve agreed that smoking is bad; deep down you still believe there is something good in it—or there are inner reasons that say, “Granted it’s bad, but it’s not that bad.”

Someone told Mulla Nasruddin, “Stop smoking, otherwise you’ll die early. Scientists say it takes a year off your life.” Nasruddin said, “We’ll live sixty-nine instead of seventy—but to live one extra year at the cost of a whole life without the joy of cigarettes, that I don’t understand.” That’s the double-talk. He accepts that scientists are probably right: a year less. A doctor told him—because his illness kept worsening—“Brother, stop drinking, stop smoking; now you’re old—stop running after women, or you’ll die soon.” Nasruddin said, “What you say is fine, doctor. But if I stop all that, what would be the point of staying alive? Tell me that too. Don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t chase women—then sit like a dummy! What would I live for?”

And it isn’t only with men. I read a story: A man died—must have been a Christian. He reached the gates of heaven; Saint Peter received him. Peter asked, “Give an account of your deeds—we must check the ledger.” The man said, “I never did any bad deeds.” Peter asked, “Did you chase women?” “Never! A lifelong celibate—since childhood! Never got into that mess.” “Did you drink?” “Never! Do you take me for a fool? Drink poison?” “Smoke? Gamble?” To everything he said, “No, no, no.” Finally Saint Peter slapped his forehead and said, “Then why did you take so long? What were you doing all this time?” Even Saint Peter asks: what were you doing? There must be some answer—what did you do all that time?

If you drop all “sins,” what remains worth doing? You can adopt, on the surface, the belief that drinking is bad, smoking is bad—this is bad, that is bad—but inside you know: then what will we do? Where is the juice in life? This is the very juice! We have entangled ourselves a little in these; where else will we get entangled? Life will become a heavy burden; anxiety will take over. Do you realize that if you suddenly drop all that you want to drop, you will be left utterly empty—unoccupied? Suddenly there will be a great silence. You won’t know what to do or not do. No cinema, no club, no dance hall, no horse racing—then what? No cards, no chess—then what? No gossiping, no slandering, no hurling abuses at each other—then what? Just think! Cut off everything people call “bad”—what remains? Only one “bad thing” would remain to do: kill yourself! What else? Jump off a cliff, lie down under a train.

So on the surface you accept, “Yes, it must be bad; if you say so, likely you’re right”—but inside there are invested interests. Intellectual, theoretical understanding won’t help. A different kind of understanding is needed—inner understanding, heart-understanding. Total. Whole. When I speak to you, keep one thing in mind: I am not interested in changing your behavior. Not in the least. I am interested in changing your consciousness, not your conduct. But all those you have gone to so far have been interested in changing your behavior. They explain to you so that you may practice. I explain so that you may awaken; then practice and the rest are irrelevant. If you awaken, revolution will happen in your life on its own.

I know this much: an awakened person won’t sit and smoke. Why? Because it is sheer stupidity—drawing smoke in, pushing smoke out, in-out, in-out. An awakened person won’t drink—not because he “quits,” not because he takes a vow at a temple. Those are the marks of the asleep. He won’t drink because a far greater intoxication has begun within him. Who bothers with the small stuff now! He will drink God. Raso vai sah! He will drink that essence. The supreme nectar starts flowing.

An awakened person won’t get entangled in the petty things you’re entangled in, because there is no juice left in them for him. Now joy comes in being empty, unoccupied, unengaged. When one becomes empty, such bliss flows! When one sits quiet, the circuits connect. Then the notes become one with the Divine’s music; they fall into a single rhythm. The dance with the Divine begins; the rasa is enacted. Now the most precious moments of life are when one is in solitude, alone, empty. How will you then tell him, “Come, let’s play cards. We have to kill time—come, let’s play”?

For years I traveled by train. Often it would be just me and one other person in the compartment. Naturally, he would try to chat. What else to do, sitting for twenty-four hours, thirty-six hours, even longer? I’d respond with yes and hmm. Soon he would get irritated: “You don’t seem interested. We’re both alone—let’s talk.” I’d say, “I enjoy being alone.” He’d say, “How will we pass the time?” I’d say, “Who has to pass time? Why does time need to be killed? Strange people! On one side you ask, ‘How shall we pass time?’ and on the other you ask, ‘How can life be longer?’ Odd folks! If you get life, you want to kill it; if you don’t, you want to lengthen it!”

America has created just this trouble—lengthened life; now how to kill it? So invent newer and newer entertainments—how to pass life, how to kill time. People would pull out cards: “Come, let’s play.” I’d say, “I’m quite happy; you play alone.” Sometimes they’d spread a chessboard, thinking they were doing me a favor.

Why does a person want to be busy with such futile things? Because he hasn’t yet tasted the joy of being unoccupied. He hasn’t tasted the flavor of unoccupiedness—and unoccupiedness is meditation.

So I’m not asking you to change your behavior. But your old assumptions persist. You go to saints and monks and the emphasis there is on changing conduct—take some vow. People go to Jain monks; they say, “Take a vow. You’ve come for satsang—leave with some vow.” There is a bit of social pressure in the crowd; it doesn’t look good to refuse, so people take some vow: “Once a week no salt,” or “One day no ghee,” or “Once a month we’ll fast.” Something or other.

Narendra’s father took just the right kind of vow. He is a carefree man. He went on a Jain pilgrimage, had darshan of a monk. Jain monks always say, “Brother, take a vow. You’ve come on pilgrimage—leave with an oath.” There was a crowd; he bowed for darshan. The monk said, “Take a vow.” Being a free spirit, he said, “All right. Until now I didn’t smoke bidis or cigarettes; from today I will.” People think him mad, but to me he’s a man of great worth. Even the monk was startled: “What kind of vow is that?” He said, “What are you saying? Speak sensibly!” He replied, “Brother, vows to ‘give up’ don’t stick with me. I’ve taken many—always broke them. Now I’m taking a vow I can actually keep.” Since then he smokes bidis and cigarettes. Having taken a vow, he must do it. Now mind, the sin will fall on the monk. This fellow isn’t going to hell—His Holiness is.

Don’t drag me to hell. I want you to take no oaths. I urge you to neither drop nor pick up anything. I want to give you eyes, not rules of conduct. Let you begin to see. I lay everything open before you. Don’t start thinking about practice so quickly. But you sit there calculating: “Which of this shall I do, which can I manage? This or that? Will this be possible or not?” In that arithmetic, what I am conveying doesn’t reach you. Later you feel, “I grasp everything theoretically, but nothing comes into practice.”

Here, don’t bring up practice at all. With what I am saying to you here, drop even the worry of “putting it into life.” Even that much anxiety will obstruct understanding. Simply enjoy the understanding. Be blissful with me. Sway with me. Sit and rise with me. Let things become clear. Let the light grow dense. Suddenly you will find that to the extent a thing is understood in depth, to that extent conduct happens by itself. You will be surprised: “Ah! How is my behavior changing? How am I being transformed? I have made no effort to transform.”

The transformation produced by efforts to transform is superficial—imposed, hence hollow. There is another transformation that arises from within, with a powerful surge—and it illumines your whole life, fills it with a new light.

When the within changes, conduct changes on its own.

Meditate. Dive into meditation. Love. Become love. The rest will happen by itself.

Chant Hari, chant Hari!

That’s all for today.