Hari Bolo Hari Bol #6

God is not a person for whom you can ask, “Where is he?” God can have no address. What address could the Whole have? The limited can have an address; we can point a finger and say, “There it is.” The limited we can place in a direction — east, west, south, north, above, below.

The very word “God” has created great confusion. It makes it seem as if there is a “someone.” Because of the word we then gave him hands, feet, a mouth. We made idols, and we bowed before those idols and prayed — to the figures we ourselves had fashioned. Such foolishness took hold. The word “God” caused the misunderstanding.

God is not a person before whom you bow. God is not a person you can call out to. God is not a person before whom you can make a petition. God is merely a pretext for petitioning. The real thing is the act of petition; not God. God is just a device so you can bow. The real thing is bowing; not God. God is only a means. Do not give the means more value than it deserves. More valuable than God is prayer itself — Hari bolo, Hari bolo! God exists only because, without God, you do not yet have the capacity to bow. If you can bow, there is no need for God. Without God you would not be able to pray; so, in keeping with your need, the notion of God has been posited.

Patanjali said it rightly: God is only a device — one device among others, a method, a means. On the basis of this device, some people have reached truth. As I have told you again and again, we say to a small child, “Aa for aam (mango).” But what has “aa” to do with the mango? How else to teach the child? We must teach “aa,” yet the child feels no juice in “aa”; the juice is in the aam. He knows the taste of the mango; the very word aam makes his mouth water. By the excuse of the mango, we teach “aa.”

In the same way, by the excuse of God, we teach prayer. The day prayer arrives, God will disappear. Prayer is enough, sufficient. You cannot be intoxicated by nectar all by yourself; your habit, up to now, has always needed the presence of the other. If someone says to you, “Love,” you immediately ask, “Whom?” You cannot simply love. You cannot simply be loving. Instantly the question arises — whom?

People come to me; I say to them, “Meditate.” They ask, “On whom?” The instant question that arises is “On whom?” But meditation is a tranquil state of your own consciousness; it has no relation to any object. Does meditation “belong” to anyone? If it belongs to someone, then it is not meditation, because a ripple of thought will still be present. If you meditate on Rama, then the thought of Rama is present. If on Krishna, then the thought of Krishna is present. If on Buddha, then the thought of Buddha is present. And as long as thought is present, where is thoughtlessness? And meditation means thoughtlessness.

So when you ask, “On whom to meditate?” you are asking for a way to corrupt meditation. Yet I understand your difficulty. You have always been full of thoughts: sometimes thoughts of the shop, sometimes of the temple; sometimes of the world, sometimes of liberation — but thoughts have continued. One thing has always been constant — the stream of thought. If suddenly I tell you, “Be without thought,” it seems impossible. You have no experience of it, so, to bridge to your experience, a conceptual addition is made. Imaginary — “Meditate on God.” It is only a device — “Hari bolo, Hari bolo.” He has no name! By saying “Hari,” there isn’t some Hari sitting somewhere who will hear. But by chanting Hari, slowly, slowly you will become quiet. And a moment will come when even “Hari” will fall from your hand. Only then does That-which-is reveal itself. The other name of That-which-is is God.

You ask, “Where is God?” First, the word “where” is wrong. Ask rather, “Where is he not?” Second, properly understand the word “God.” Do not let there remain even by mistake any notion within you that God is a person; otherwise that will be your obstacle. This all — these trees, these birds, these people, these stones, these mountains, this moon, these stars — all of this, the sum of all this, is called God. Something holds all this together. There are subtle threads stretched between everything. All is interconnected. The name of that interconnectedness is God. The name of the totality is God.

Look at the trees: they are joined to the earth. They rise upward, joined to the sun. Joined to the winds. The rain clouds will come; joined to them. Now that the rains are nearing, the trees are elated, joyous.

The newspapers carried a report the day before yesterday that some scientists in London have invented a new instrument that converts the inner oscillations of trees into music. The study of inner oscillations has been going on for eight or ten years. And it has now been scientifically established that trees have feelings, inner moods. Just as you have feelings — sometimes sorrow, sometimes joy; sometimes elated, sometimes depressed; sometimes attraction and sometimes detachment — this much has been proved. But until now the methods were like the graph on a cardiogram. You cannot read that graph; for that a physician is needed — someone who understands the language of the graph. The ordinary person sees only lines drawn — high and low. Within those lines is hidden a secret: the heartbeats, the heart’s rhythm or arrhythmia are disclosed there. But how can an ordinary person understand? An expert is required.

Now some scientists in England have invented a new instrument. They connect it to a tree, and the tree’s inner feelings are transformed into music. Astonishing experiences have followed. Trees sing and hum. And on hearing their song — there is no verbal language in it, but a song of sounds — by listening to those sounds you can tell whether, at that moment, the tree is joyous, sad, troubled, elated — what its mood is. And when no one is in the garden, the trees carry on intimate conversations among themselves.

They wired the entire garden to the instrument, and the scientists were amazed: some trees stood utterly silent for hours, not speaking at all — in meditation. And some trees were just chattering away; there was talk among them; questions and answers. One speaks, the other falls silent; then the second speaks, the first falls silent. Nor do they talk only to trees; when animals come, they speak with them too. Instantly the language changes, the style changes. Not only that — when a human being enters the garden, their mode changes yet again. The sounds immediately become different. Ordinarily you see only silence.

Trees too are connected. Trees are as ensouled as you are. The same states of feeling are there as well. Mahavira must have heard these songs, without any instrument. That is why the idea arose: do not wound a tree, do not cut a tree. What scientists understood twenty-five centuries later, Mahavira must have heard inwardly, tasted, recognized. He stood silent in the forest for twelve years. Twelve years is a long time. And someone who stands silently in the forest for twelve years, naked, like the trees — they must have become tree-like. The Jain stories of the Tirthankaras say that for so many days, for so many years, they stood alone in the forest, silently, until vines crept up and wrapped their bodies; birds made nests in their hair. The vines forgot that a man stood there; they took him for a tree. He must have been just that simple. Slowly, the inner feelings of trees must have revealed themselves to him.

And if this is so with trees, what shall we say of animals, of birds! If not today, then tomorrow scientists will discover that mountains hum as well. Stones speak; even rock is alive.

The life of the Whole — that is what is called God. God is not seated far away in the sky upon a throne — he is spread here, scattered everywhere, on all sides — outside you and within you.

Better still, instead of “God,” use the word “life.” Then you won’t be able to form such questions. Then you cannot ask, “Where is life?” Life simply is; the atheist will accept that, the irreligious will accept that. What the religious one calls “God,” he means life. And he has his reasons. He loves life so deeply that the word “life” feels insufficient to him. The word “life” feels somewhat scientific — dry, arid. The religious one has known life with such love that he wants to call this life his beloved, his lover — my dear, my beloved! In the language of love, life becomes God. If you think, see, and test it in this way, your thinking will enter a new dimension.

There is a softness in the zephyr that is the softness of her hands;
A slow, slow pride swells in the heart today.
Those hands are searching the carpet of the gathering,
Asking where the heart’s stains are, where the seat of pain lies.

If you slip a little out of the net of words and recognize life, you will find that God is seeking you. He has come in the breath that goes into you. He has come in the food that goes within you. In the water you drink, he is there as well. There is nothing but him. Eat — it is him; drink — it is him; wear — it is him. There is no other way. We eat him, we drink him, we wear him, we wrap ourselves in him, we spread him beneath us — and we ask, “Where is God!” You too are one of his waves.

Do not raise philosophical questions. Philosophical questions are futile. Raise meaningful questions. Ask: Where is he not?

Alongside the caravans of clouds upon the sky,
Now ahead, now behind — to the right and left, both hands,
The beloved stars’ little bells are ringing.
Along the swaying footpaths, gentle talk walks,
Coy footfalls sometimes sending a hesitant greeting.
There was no fear, and yet here —
Compared with the breeze, a sudden, sharp gust descends;
A rustle, a faint soft noise, some dust lifting and flying —
Golden earrings begin to tinkle!

Where eager longings wave — the field of wheat,
In time’s pen, sheep and goats with their young,
Whose lushness tells the tale of ecstasy!
And then, on the shisham trees, birds large and small,
Each on its own instrument, their melodies swaying with delight,
Settling into the light without a care!
Alongside the caravans of clouds upon the sky,
Now ahead, now behind — to the right and left, both hands,
The beloved stars’ little bells are ringing.

All this — this full festival, this whole music, these sounds, these silences — that is he. Do not take him to be a person. He is the unpersonified. He is energy, power. Then you have asked the right question. And then the right question can lead to the right answer. A slight wrong turn at the question, and the wrong journey begins. Then you will go on asking all your life, and no one will be able to answer; or the answers given will be just as futile; or those who answer will be as uncomprehending as you are. Because the only one who can answer a wrong question is someone who does not yet know what an answer is. The one who does not even know what a wrong question is will answer it. You ask, “Where is God?” If someone points to the sky, he knows nothing. You ask, “Where is God?” If someone replies, “In the east, in the west,” he knows nothing. Your question is wrong, his answer is wrong. If a person learns to ask the right question, the answer is very near — very close — hidden in the right question itself. So I urge you, ask: Where is God not? Because I have not found any place where he is not. I searched hard to find a place where he is not; I tried every way to find a spot where God is absent; I could not find it.

You have heard Nanak’s story. He went to the Kaaba. One night he lay down, and the Kaaba’s priests were very angry. They had heard that a very wise man had come from India, but his behavior seemed very unwise! He was lying with his feet toward the sacred stone of the Kaaba. They said, “Are you not ashamed? You call yourself religious, a fakir, and you stretch your feet toward the Kaaba’s holy stone! You lie with your feet toward God!”

Nanak said, “Turn my feet toward a place where God is not. I seek your forgiveness. But what can I do? Turn my feet toward wherever God is not. For I have searched much and have found no place where God is not! The entire existence is his temple.”

The story goes even further. Up to this point it seems true. Beyond this it is meaningful, but not factual. In anger the priests grabbed Nanak’s feet and swung them the other way. The story says: the Kaaba turned that way too. It ought to have turned, if the Kaaba had even a little intelligence. But it would not have turned — a stone is a stone; how could it turn? Where would it get such intelligence? I do not say the story is untrue because I doubt Nanak; it is the Kaaba’s stone that is not so understanding. A stone is a stone. But if it had even a little intelligence, it should have turned. That is why I say the story is meaningful. However much the priests tried — wherever they turned his feet, there the Kaaba turned — the story means to say only this: wherever you place your feet, there too is God. Whether you place your head or your feet, there is nothing other than God. Start seeking where he is not — and you will find him everywhere. Start seeking where he is — and you will not find him anywhere.

That is why I say: your question is wrong. Do not begin with a wrong question. Your question will lead you toward atheism. If you start searching where he is, you will not find him anywhere. Listen to me: search where he is not. Dig in place after place. Ask where he is not. And you will be astonished — wherever you dig, you will find him there — his inner current! You will find the Kaaba turning on all sides; it is not fixed. On all sides there is only the movement of God, because “what is” is synonymous with God.

Ratan Prakash! When true seeing dawns, God is recalled through everything—at every turn, God is remembered. If the eye truly opens, how could God not come to mind?

That distant call of the cuckoo—this itself is worship, this itself is prayer. Listen to it with care and, in an instant, the whole existence is filled with sweetness. Listen! A stream of nectar begins to flow.

Look closely at the greenness of the trees—it's his very green! Look at the blossoming flowers—his dance is happening there! His colors, his rainbow spreads across the sky! When the sun rises, it is he who rises. The rosy glow that spreads over the morning sky is the blush on his own cheek.

Once seeing arrives, nothing else remains to be seen. Wherever you turn your head—there is the Divine; wherever you open your eyes—there is the Divine; wherever you stretch your hands—there is the Divine. Whatever you touch is God; whatever you taste is God.

But I also understand your point. First, he is glimpsed in the master, because only near the master does the courage arise to open the eyes. What does “guru” mean? One in whom you trust enough that you dare to open your eyes—nothing more. By hearing someone’s words, by seeing someone’s life, by being moved and inspired by someone’s colors and ways, you gather the courage to open your eyes.

Out of fear you keep them shut. You fear that when you open them, what you see might be worse than this. For now you are in dreams. Eyes closed, dreams are yours—long adorned and embellished across lifetimes. Each is lost in his own dream. You fear that opening the eyes will break the dream—and who knows if what appears might not be even worse than the dream!

Is there any guarantee that truth will be beautiful? Any guarantee that truth will triumph? The seers say, Satyameva Jayate—truth alone is victorious! But it seems quite the opposite. They say truth always wins; what seems to win is falsehood. Your lifelong experience says: the lie wins, not truth. Speak the truth and you’ve chosen a losing game. Tie yourself to truth and you begin to slide; you lose; you’re finished! Here, people climb the ladders of lies; the bigger the lie and the bolder it’s told, the more successful one becomes. Here, the truth-teller appears to sink. And surely the seers must be right—but who knows what world they speak of? In what realm does this rule apply, where Satyameva Jayate is in force?

They also say: truth alone is beautiful—Satyam Shivam Sundaram. That alone is the beautiful, that alone the auspicious. But we have learned something else: we have found beauty in the false. As truth is revealed, we have watched beauty recede. On the seashore you are enchanted by a woman’s beauty—there is distance, a gap; drums sound sweet from afar. She too is enchanted by you—distance, a gap; from afar the drum is pleasant. You are drawn to each other; you want to bind one another forever—how can such beauty be left? Who knows if it will ever come again! Then you bind yourselves—marriage. You live together. Slowly beauty bids farewell and the unbeautiful emerges. That woman you saw on the shore must have been someone else, it seems—or perhaps you were deceived. For now in this woman what emerges is un-beauty, even ugliness. Words come from her mouth you never imagined could come from such a lovely face! These sweet, tender lips speak crude, coarse words to you; they wound you hard and deep—who would have thought! She too never imagined your reality could be so ugly. The dream of love you saw together at the sea begins to break; the real uproots it.

Human experience says: truth is ugly, the lie is beautiful. The seers say: Satyam—Shivam—Sundaram. Who knows what realm they mean, or whether such a realm even exists.

Sigmund Freud and psychologists like him hold that all this is fancy—consolations. Life here is quite ugly; to cover its ugliness, we have these pretty words. These are human aspirations, not reports of truth. “Truth alone triumphs”—that is only a wish. The seer is saying: truth ought to win. But where does it? The seer is saying: truth ought to be beautiful. But where is it?

The realities of life are rather ugly. One thing on the surface, something else within. A golden gleam outside—inside, not even brass. The shine of a flower on top, within a thorn.

When you fish, you put dough on the hook. The fish comes for the dough, not for the hook. It is caught by the hook while coming to take the dough. The dough entices; then it is trapped; then getting free is difficult.

The beauty you see in one another—might it not be the dough? Ask the experienced; they’ll say: it is the dough, and behind it the hook. Pleasure is only the festoon at the doorway—false. Enter within, the door shuts, and it is sorrow upon sorrow.

I’ve heard of a politician who had a dream. He dreamt he had died and was standing at the gate of hell. He was surprised, and not surprised. Surprised—because he had always thought he would get heaven: after all, he’d always heard that whoever dies in Delhi becomes “heavenly” afterward.

Here in our land, whoever dies we call “the late, the heavenly.” “Hellish”—we call no one. Whoever dies, even a politician, becomes “the heavenly.” If politicians go to heaven, who then will go to hell?

So he had thought he would go to heaven. What was he doing at hell’s gate? But then he also understood: how could he go to heaven? What he had done was hardly heaven-worthy. People must have been speaking politely.

People speak well only of the dead; of the living, no one speaks well. Curious rules people have made: of the living—slander; once they die—“the heavenly”! “What a marvel he was! Unique! Irreplaceable!” Two days later, no one remembers that gentleman whose absence was supposedly irreparable. “An irretrievable loss! His place can never be filled!”—and within days he is forgotten.

Remembering his deeds, he thought, “Fair enough.” He went inside—and was even more astonished. He was seated in a reception hall; it was exquisitely beautiful. Even in Delhi he had seen no such building. The presidential palace was nothing—like a servant’s quarters compared to this! The building was of gold, inlaid with diamonds and jewels. He was grandly welcomed; sweets were brought, fruits, garlands. He was amazed. “Brother, this is hell? It seems better than heaven!”

Satan said, “See, judge for yourself. One-sided propaganda is running in the world. God’s books are in circulation—Bible, Vedas, Quran; I have no book. There’s injustice being done to me. You’ve only heard one side—that hell is bad and heaven is good; all advertisement. Every company advertises—God keeps advertising. I have no ad-man. I’m a simple fellow. I sit here with my shop; when someone comes, the truth becomes evident. Now see for yourself.”

The politician said, “I’ll decide this very day—this is where one should live.” And just then he woke up. Years later, when he truly died, he had a single wish: to go to hell. He could not forget that beauty. He went to hell. Even if he hadn’t asked, that’s where he was headed! What happens is what must happen; your wishes change nothing. Sometimes they coincide and you think you succeeded. He was delighted—but the moment he entered hell, Satan leapt, grabbed his neck, and began punching him. Five or ten others fell upon him. A hideous scene: a ghastly atmosphere, flames leaping, cauldrons boiling with oil, people being thrown in. “Brother, what’s going on? The first time I came it was altogether different!”

Satan said, “That was the welcome—that’s for tourists who come for a lark, to look around. This is reality. That time you dropped in by chance, in a dream. That was enticement—the reception hall is built for guests. This is the real hell.”

Even in hell there is dough; behind it the hook is hidden. Life’s experience says: truth is ugly; dreams are beautiful.

Psychologists say man dreams for this very reason—truth is ugly. If he didn’t dream, what would he do? How would he live? Life is so ugly that he keeps himself distracted with dreams. Because life is so ugly, man writes poetry and paints pictures. He distracts himself somehow—builds beautiful houses, hangs beautiful paintings, creates music, composes verse. These are all ways to make the bitter reality of the world a little sweet—or at least to sugarcoat it, the way we sugarcoat a poisonous, bitter pill.

That is poetry, that is art: to make this life in some way livable, to draw curtains over its ugliness.

So man is afraid to open his eyes. In the master’s company the courage arises: “Come, let me open my eyes once and see.” Because someone with opened eyes keeps saying, “No, truth is not ugly—and what you knew as truth was not truth at all. Truth is supremely beautiful. And truth never loses. What you saw losing in the name of truth was no truth; it too was a kind of lie—lifeless, inert, impotent. Come to me. See the truth—alive, vibrant.”

Sitting with the true master, soaking in his current, drinking his breeze, one day the courage comes: “Let me open my eyes and see.” Just once—who knows, perhaps it is as the master says! A guru is one who prepares you to open your eyes.

So you are right, Ratan Prakash—
“We were never believers in God;
seeing you, God came to mind.”

The one whose very sight brings God to mind—that is the guru. Wherever remembrance arises, there is the guru; wherever remembrance arises, that is a place of pilgrimage. Don’t bother with who it was whose presence evoked it—Hindu or Muslim or Christian, man or woman—who cares? Whoever, on seeing, gives you even a faint hint that the world is not futile but meaningful; that here not only matter exists—within matter the Divine is hidden; that what appears on the circumference is not what is at the center—bow there.

Sikhi yahin mere dile-kafir ne bandagi:
Rabb-e-karim hai to teri rahguzar mein hai.
Here my infidel heart learned devotion:
if the Merciful Lord is, he is to be found on your path.

Where love flows, there the experience of God begins. And of all relationships in this world, the purest is the bond between master and disciple.

Sikhi yahin mere dile-kafir ne bandagi:
Rabb-e-karim hai to teri rahguzar mein hai.
On love’s path, God is found. There are many kinds of love in this world—most will break, most will fall away—but there is one love that does not break, does not fall away. Fortunate are those who get a glimpse of that love, for by holding to that very glimpse one can reach God. What does “true master” mean? Only this: where the talk is of that light—and not mere talk, but a source of experience within the one who speaks. Not scriptural talk, but existential.

Gulon mein rang bhare, baad-e-nau bahar chale
Chale bhi aao ke gulshan ka karobaar chale
Qafas udaas hai yaaro, saba se kuch to kaho
Kahin to bahre-Khuda, aaj zikr-e-yar chale
Let the flowers be filled with color, let the new spring wind blow;
Do come, so the garden’s business may go on.
The cage is desolate, friends—say something to the morning breeze;
For God’s sake, let talk of the Beloved begin somewhere today.

Wherever there is talk of the Beloved’s remembrance—“Hari bolo, Hari bol,” say Hari! say Hari!

Qafas udaas hai yaaro, saba se kuch to kaho
Kahin to bahre-Khuda, aaj zikr-e-yar chale
For God’s sake, let there be some mention of the Beloved! And where he is discussed—such a discussion as pours from experience. Not just words—behind the words, the proof of experience. In those eyes where you can see that proof, there for the first time you will receive the news that God is. If there is a guru, then God is.

This is why it is no accident that in this land the true master has been addressed as Bhagwan, Paramatma, Ishwar—“Guru is Brahma!” Not without reason. From that doorway the first glimpse of the Divine was received; through that doorway the sky opened; through that doorway the Vast was felt.

Bada hai dard ka rishta, ye dil ghareeb sahi
Tumhare naam pe aayenge, gham-gusar chale
Jo hum pe guzri so guzri, magar shab-e-hijran
Hamare ashk teri aqibat sanwar chale
Huzur-e-yar hui daftar-e-junoon ki talab
Girah mein leke girahban ka taar-taar chale
Maqam “Faiz” koi raah mein jacha hi nahin
Jo ku-e-yar se nikle to sue-dar chale
Great is the bond of pain—though this heart be poor;
In your name we’ll come, as comforters of grief.
What befell us, befell us—but on the night of separation
Our tears went on to adorn your hereafter.
In the Beloved’s presence, a ledger of our madness was called for—
Clutching the torn threads of our collar, we went on.
No station on the road quite pleased, O Faiz;
Once we left the Beloved’s lane, it was toward the gallows we went.

In this world only two experiences are truly meaningful—first, the experience of the true master, for that is the first experience of the Divine; and then the experience of the Divine, for that is the master’s final experience.

Gulon mein rang bhare, baad-e-nau bahar chale
Chale bhi aao ke gulshan ka karobaar chale
Qafas udaas hai yaaro, saba se kuch to kaho
Kahin to bahre-Khuda, aaj zikr-e-yar chale
God is present everywhere—not only in the master. But in the master he is present consciously; everywhere else he is in deep sleep. In the tree too—but there he sleeps; self-awareness has not yet been born there. In the stone too—but very deep; you will have to dig long to find him. In the master, you can find without digging. In truth, the master wants to dig in you. Everywhere else you will have to seek God; with the master, God seeks you. His hands reach deep into your heart and feel around.

Sab qatl ho ke tere muqabil se aaye hain
Hum log surkhru hain ke manzil se aaye hain
Sham’-e-nazar, khayal ke anjum, jigar ke daag
Jitne chiragh hain, teri mehfil se aaye hain
Uth kar to aa gaye hain teri bazm se magar
Kuch dil hi jaanta hai ke kis dil se aaye hain
All slain, we have come from facing you;
We are vindicated—for we have come from the very destination.
The lamp of the gaze, stars of thought, the scars of the heart—
Whatever lamps there are, they come from your gathering.
We have risen and come away from your assembly, but
Only the heart knows with what heart we have come.

Wherever there is light—“the lamp of the gaze”: sometimes a flame burns in an eye. “The stars of thought”: sometimes in meditation stars flash forth. “The scars of the heart”: sometimes the wounds of a heart in love glow like flowers, burn like lamps—rich in color and light.

Sham’-e-nazar, khayal ke anjum, jigar ke daag—
All the lamps are the light of that very Divine. In the true master, his lamp burns with great intensity. When you find it, do not fret about what the world says. It is not necessary that what is visible to you be visible to others. Ways of seeing differ, as do timing and maturity. Here each person stands at a different point; we are not all in one class.

Take a small child with you into a garden. What you see, the child does not; what the child sees, you do not. Both stand in the same garden.

A true master is not necessarily visible to all—fitness to see is needed. Buddha walked the earth—how few could see! And people are so unfortunate, they weep for centuries: “If only we had lived in Buddha’s time! If only we had sat at his feet!” It’s not that you were not there—you were. You have always been here. Buddhas must have passed by you. Caravans passed—of Tirthankaras, Avatars, Buddhas. Lamps blazed, torches went by—but you lacked the ripeness to see. Those who saw, you called mad. “We see nothing,” you said. The crowd is yours; the majority is yours. Seers are few and far between—they seem mad. So it is not necessary that all should see.

But wherever it shows itself to you—melt there, fall there, crumble into a heap there; take your last breath there. Die into the master, and you will rise with a new life—and a life that has no end.

Vedant! Something auspicious is happening. Your old world is falling apart. Your old building is collapsing—it was a house of cards. There is no point in saving it. Your boat is sinking—it was a paper boat! Let it sink; the sooner it sinks, the better. Because if it sinks, you will look for a new boat. If it sinks, at least you will learn to swim. Trusting it, you have been wasting time.
All is well. It is auspicious.

The lamp burns all night.
It wears a crown of fire upon its head,
it pierces the secret of my heart’s burning,
it has brought into this dark house the gift of tears.
The lamp burns all night.

Soaked, soaked are my lashes,
with every blink my tears spill,
from these two eyes pours a rain without clouds.
The lamp burns all night.

Why have old loves broken?
I may know—or perhaps only the lamp knows;
burning and burning it burns away,
yet never speaks the heart’s secret.
The lamp burns all night.

All revelries I have forgotten,
the buds of hope lie scattered;
such a storm of separation has blown,
not a leaf remains upon the boughs.
The lamp burns all night.

A storm has come; dry leaves will fall. Do not clutch at them. A storm has come; your house of cards will be blown away. Do not resist. This paper boat is sinking—let it sink. You are fortunate. This sadness is not really sadness. This darkness carries news of the coming dawn. Just before sunrise the night grows very dark, and just so, before celebration is born, melancholy deepens.

But fear does arise when the mind turns sad and it seems that everything is becoming despair, that there is no meaning in life. A man panics: How will I live now? On what support? With what excuse? But there is also a life that needs no supports and no excuses. In truth, only that life is real which has no need of a future, which does not lean on dreams. The life that needs the crutch of dreams is false; that is what has been called maya—illusion.

There is an art of living moment to moment—without future, without longing, without any race, without any goal. That very art I am teaching you. Before you awaken to the present, your future will fall apart. It is from that that you feel sad. If you keep coming and sitting near me, you will come to see your past has been futile. I will take your past away from you—and all your treasures lie there: your knowledge, your virtue, all are in your past. And once the past is removed, the second blow will fall on your future, for there lie all your springs of juice. “Tomorrow it will happen; we live for tomorrow—who cares about today? Tomorrow it will be so!”

And it is not only worldly people who live in tomorrow; the so‑called religious live in tomorrow even more than you do. They say: after death there will be heaven; there will be moksha there. Happiness will be there—where is happiness here?

I say to you: if the past and the future fall away, then here and now moksha descends. Moksha is not a geographical place you have to go to. Moksha is a way of living, an art. Moksha is not a place you reach by boarding a train. Your monks and renunciates have set out thinking like that—trains keep moving and arrive nowhere. Moksha is not a location—it is a state. And a state can be had now. That state has but one mark.

Mahavira said: the moment the mind becomes timeless, the moment time is erased from the mind, that very moment is moksha. Let time be erased. What is time? Past and future are time. The present is not part of time. If you have read in books otherwise, then change it. You have read that time has three parts—past, present, future. I want to tell you: time has only two parts—past and future. The present does not belong to time; the present belongs to eternity. The present is timeless; it is not a limb of time.

So you will feel sad. Whoever comes to me—I take much away from him. Although what I take away is exactly what you never had to begin with; you only had the illusion that you had it.

Understand it like this: a man moves about convinced he has a diamond. Look at his swagger! Look at his gait.

I have heard a story. Two fakirs were passing through a forest—a master and a disciple. The master was old, the disciple young. The disciple was a little troubled, for he had never seen the master so disturbed before; today he was very anxious. Again and again the master would put his hand into his bag and feel for something—again and again. And he was walking very fast—faster than ever. Again and again he asked his disciple, “Will we reach the village before nightfall or not? What if night catches us in the forest!”

The disciple thought, What does it matter whether we sleep in the forest or in the village? Many times before we have spent nights in forests; I have never seen the master so afraid. What is the matter?

Then they stopped at a well. The master set his bag on the parapet and said to the disciple, “Keep an eye on the bag,” and began to draw water. The disciple got his chance; he put his hand into the bag. A brick of gold! The whole secret became clear—why the panic today, why the fear, why the rush to reach town, why such restlessness at the thought of sleeping in the forest. Bandits—someone might rob him! The young man took out the gold brick and tossed it near the well, and picked up a stone of the same weight and put it in the bag. The master washed his hands and face, bathed, glancing at the bag now and then. The disciple smiled to himself: Keep watching the bag—now it is only the bag. Then, quickly finishing his bath, the master slung the bag over his shoulder, felt it from the outside—the brick was in its place. Pleased, the two set off. He was walking very fast, almost running. He was old; he began to pant. The disciple said, “Walk slowly—what is the hurry? And if we don’t reach the city, so what?”

At last the master said, “If we don’t reach, it will be difficult—there is danger.”

The disciple said, “Be carefree; I have already thrown the danger behind.” Startled, the old man thrust his hand into the bag; he found a stone there. But for two or three miles even the stone had been gold for him. He sat down at once. First a deep sadness enveloped him: “What have you done! You threw away the gold brick!” And then laughter arose as well; it occurred to him: when a stone brick lay in the bag, my belief that it was gold made me anxious; even if a gold brick lay in the bag and I believed it to be mud, why would there be any anxiety? Both things are possible.

When you come to me, you come with the notion that a gold brick lies in your bag. No one has a gold brick in his bag. If it were there, you would not have come here. You are empty, but you have assumed there is a gold brick. When you come to me, I show you in the light that there is no gold brick in your bag. Then a great sadness arises—because the conviction of so many days, the support by which you were living, the relish of life born of “I will do this, I will become that”—all gone, all turned to dust! There is no gold brick with you—now what will happen? Sadness surrounds you.

Until yesterday you moved on thinking, “Today is futile, but tomorrow success will come, my lucky star will rise.” You come to me, and I take your future away. I say to you: no lucky star ever rises tomorrow, because tomorrow never comes—never has, never will. Tomorrow has no existence; you have been lost in illusions.

I take away your past—your gold bricks turn to clay. I take away your future—the mansions of your ambition collapse. Then sadness seizes you.

This sadness is auspicious. If you do not run away, Vedant, from this very sadness celebration will be born—if you remain, with courage. And this is exactly the moment to remain. In just such moments people run away, thinking, “This has gone the wrong way. We came to gain, and here we are losing. We left home thinking a little more joy would come into life; here, even what was there has been lost.”

First I will have to take everything from you, because it is false. Only then can I give you what is true. And the delight is this—let me repeat it: I am taking from you only what you never had, and I shall give you only what has always been yours, though you have forgotten it. But for the remembrance of what is truly yours to happen, it is necessary that what is not yours be taken away.

In your dreams your truth is lost. In your rubbish your diamond is lost. Half the work is done—now do not run away!

The fourth question is of the same kind.

First thing: the shore that has slipped away—there is no way to grasp it again. Remember the old fakir’s tale. As long as the illusion lasted that a gold brick lay in his bag, it was one kind of journey. Once he knew it was only earth, only a stone in the bag, do you think the same heat could return to his stride? Could he once more run eagerly toward the city? Could he again press his disciple, “When will we reach? Night is falling—there is danger”? There is no way.

That is exactly what happened. Under the very tree where he discovered the “gold” was not gold, he lay down and slept; he did not take another step. What was the point of going? Now the wilderness itself was a blessing. Fear had vanished. There was nothing left to lose. What could anyone rob now?

Dharma Bharati, the shore that has gone cannot be held, because it no longer exists. It existed only in your belief—not in reality. It is true you held on; it is not true a shore was there. You assumed it, clutched it, imagined it into being, breathed life into a fantasy. Now it has slipped; now it is seen there is no substance there.

There is no going back, no holding it again. Close your eyes as much as you like—you will still know it is empty. That life is spent; it turned to ash. It was ash; now you have recognized it.

The passion for the destination was so swift,
life itself turned to the dust of the road.

As long as ambition held you, you ran—swallowing dust, panting, harried. That can no longer happen.

Those who were our companions through birth and death turned against us too.
Take me back now—enough of this grand tour of the world.

There is no medicine to breathe life back into that delusion.

Fire in every hair, every vein soaked with pain—
“Aali,” life struck us with its full, crushing blow.

Do not look back. What did you find there? What is there worth gripping? All was momentary.

They came like a whirlwind and were gone—
for whose arrival we burned like lamps.

And when they came—those long-cradled desires for which you staked your life—what was fulfilled?

They came like a whirlwind and were gone.

Here, whatever you receive in one hand slips from the other. Everything here is fleeting. Only the illusion of “having” persists. Enough of this burning!

We were reduced to ash on the pyre of grief, morning and evening,
the day set, and night stood there with hair unbound.

So it went: somehow the day passed, then night arrived; night passed, then day arrived.

Thus morning and evening keep happening;
thus a whole life is used up.

What has been gained? The first shore is gone. Now you say the second shore is nowhere in sight. There is no second shore either. “The second shore” is spoken of only to help you let go of the first. It is a device to free you from the first shore. Even now, your “second shore” is only the first shore projected elsewhere. You say, “The world is gone; now where is heaven?”

What is heaven? Dreams born from worldly suffering. The world brought so much pain—unbearable—so a heaven was imagined: just a few more days, death will come, then rest—rest in heaven. Bear it a little longer; we’re almost there… almost there…

Buddha was passing through a forest. Anand asked a farmer working his field, “How far is the village?” “About two miles,” he said. They walked two miles; still no village. They asked a woodcutter, “How far?” “About two miles—almost there.” Anand was puzzled: “But we just walked two miles.” They walked on; dusk began to fall, no village in sight, no distant lamps. Darkness descended. Anxiously, Anand asked a man sitting by his hut, “How far now?” “About two miles,” he smiled. Anand lost patience: “This is too much! I’ve seen liars, but none to match you. The first said two miles, we walked them; the second said two miles, we walked again; and you say two miles! Will this journey ever end?”

Buddha said, “Anand, don’t be angry. I understand their secret, because I am doing the same. There is no village ahead. They are kind; they don’t say ‘You won’t arrive.’ They say, ‘Keep going, keep going,’ so you don’t collapse with exhaustion, don’t stop in sorrow, don’t fall into despair. They aren’t lying; they are keeping your courage alive by saying, ‘Just about two miles… almost there.’ This is the method of the Buddhas. They always say: ‘There is the other shore. You don’t see it; I do. Come, come.’ First, the initial shore drops away. When it does, naturally you ask even more urgently, ‘Where is the second?’ And the awakened ones say, ‘Just about two miles…’ Gradually they bring you to the place where you yourself see: there is neither a first shore nor a second shore. The very idea of arrival is meaningless.”

Life is an endless journey—no here to end, no final destination. The journey itself is life. Where to arrive? And arriving, what will you do?

Think a bit, Dharma Bharati. Suppose the second shore appears—then what? How long will it delight the mind? The scriptures say those in moksha sit there for eternity, on their siddha peak. Now imagine it: some sage sitting for endless time—what will he do? How long can he sit? Soon he’ll feel, “Let me go tour the world a bit; what is there to do sitting here?” For eternity—what a punishment that would be!

Life is an unending journey. Every moment, the new is born; at every moment, new sky, new doors open. The point is not to arrive; the point is to see there is nowhere to arrive. Then a deep freedom dawns. The race to arrive falls away, worry dissolves, the burden is lifted.

I want to make you weightless. Talk of the second shore only loads you with a new weight. Let the second go along with the first. We remove one thorn with another, then throw them both away. To pry you loose from the first shore, the second was imagined. Now the first has gone; so let me tell you the truth: there is no second shore. It will feel like a jolt—“Then we shouldn’t have left the first; had we known there was no second…” That is why the second must be spoken of.

When both shores are gone, what remains is the Divine. There is nowhere to go, nothing to reach; all is here, now.

Along with the caravans of clouds upon the sky,
now ahead, now behind, to the right and left—
the sweetheart-bells of the stars are ringing!
On swaying footpaths, the soft amble of gentle talk,
the stylish sound of footsteps, at times a hesitant salute—
there was no misgiving, and yet, here:
in place of a breeze, a sharper gust descends,
a rustle, a faint light noise, a little flying dust,
and the golden ears of grain begin to jingle.
Fields of wheat where rippling longings sway,
in time’s enclosure sheep and goats with their young,
their freshness telling tales of ecstasy.
And then, on sheesham trees, birds large and small,
each on its own instrument, swaying in the intoxication of song,
dissolving into the light—surely!

Here, in this very moment, everything is. What “second shore”? What shore at all? There is nowhere to go—there is to be, here. Be here in totality. Awaken here in completeness. Every moment is prayer; every moment is meditation. And this so-called ordinary life is not ordinary at all—wipe the dust from your eyes and you will see: the world is liberation. That is what the Zen fakirs mean.

Nothing less than madness will do. In the real world of life, only the mad enter—only the possessed lovers enter. The clever are left out there, because they are schemers, because they calculate, because they are cunning—so they miss. There, what is needed are the mad ones who stake everything—who say: “Either this or that. Either I remain or You. Now there will not be two; only one will remain. Either You dissolve into me, or I dissolve into You.”

Such courage the sensible do not have. In fact, the “sensible” have no courage. Have you seen? The more “sensible” a person is, the less courage he has. Sense says: walk after thinking, walk carefully, step by measured step; keep accounts of every grain. Sense calculates so much that time is spent just in calculating; the opportunity passes, and only then is the calculation complete. By then, time itself has gone. The calculators keep calculating; the takers take.

What does mad mean? Mad means: we will no longer proceed by accounts.

You ask: “Will you leave me only after making me mad?” In no other way can I be of real use to you. I am mad, and until I make you mad, this friendship is not yet formed. I will leave you only after making you like myself—dyed in my color.

This journey is difficult, because dropping cleverness is hard. The profits of cleverness are plain; the dangers of madness are plain. But those who live amidst danger—only they live. Those who avoid danger do not live; they only die. Whoever wants to be safe from every danger should lie down in his grave, for there is no danger in a grave.

An emperor built a palace. To be safe, he kept only one gate. He placed guards upon guards at the gate. A neighboring emperor came to see. He too had his dangers. Seeing this palace he was astonished. Such arrangements that there was no way for an enemy to enter anywhere: a single door in the whole palace, no windows; and at that door a terrifying guard, guards upon guards. When the visiting emperor was taking his leave and the owner came to see him off, the visitor said, “I will have such a palace built too. It is very secure. No place could be safer than this.”

An old beggar was sitting by the roadside; he began to laugh heartily. Both were startled and asked, “Old man, why do you laugh?” He said, “I laugh because I watched this house being built. Sitting here I grew old. This house kept being built before my eyes, built and built. I always thought: it has only one flaw.”

The owner asked, “What flaw? So many have come to see it and no one found a flaw. What flaw do you see? Speak! I will fix it.” The beggar said, “The flaw is this: once you go inside, have that one door bricked up with stone. Then there will be no danger. This one door is dangerous. Through this very door death will enter, and your guards will be of no use.”

The safe place is the grave. Therefore those who want to live in safety do not live—indeed, they cannot. They live so frightened, how can they live? They tremble to take a step. They remain stuck—somehow, fearfully, pass the time and then die. Very few truly live here. Those who live need a kind of madness.

To live you need a mad longing—a divine craziness. And the more wildly you live, the nearer you will come to God, because God is the name of life’s intensity.

What has cleverness ever given you? Why are you so afraid of becoming mad? Had cleverness brought you anything, your fear would be understandable—then the fear would be fine. But what has cleverness brought? For lifetimes you have been clever—only losing; what have you gained? Yes, you may have amassed shards—but what are shards? Tomorrow you will go; the shards will lie here.

On the road of autumn, we kept searching for spring;
From the pitch-black night, we begged the Beloved’s beauty.
You have searched for spring in the fall till now—asked the Beloved’s beauty from a dark, black night. This is what you have done.

At times we thought of the Beloved, at times we talked of the Beloved;
On this meager merchandise we kept our trade going.
Just talk—only talk! Sometimes you remembered, sometimes you spoke—but your entire business remained just talk.

We do not complain of separation—for by this very means
We kept the bond of heart with Him firm.
And now what complaint will you make? With only this much you wanted God to be attained? With only this you wanted life to be yours? What did you give? What did you stake?

On days when there was no reason at all to wait,
Among them we kept waiting for none but You.
There is no reason in your life why life should be granted to you; no reason why God should shower on you. You keep waiting and waiting. Mere waiting will not help. Let worthiness stand behind the waiting. And only the mad are worthy.

We were proud of our secret, not ashamed;
We shared the confidences of that secret with everyone.
By their grace the marketplace of intellect is lit—
Those who, now and then, chose madness.
Look carefully: in this world, wherever a few lamps seem to glow, wherever in this market a little glimpse of liberation appears—whose grace is it? It is by their grace—those who, now and then, dared to choose madness.

I do indeed want to make you mad—but not with ordinary madness.

There are two kinds of madness. One is to fall below the mind; the other is to rise above the mind. They are very different, though sometimes they look alike. One thing is common in both: mind departs. But there is a huge difference. In one, man falls below the mind—that is madness; in the other, man rises above the mind—that too is madness. The first mad are in asylums; the second mad are enthroned in liberation.

I want to make you the second kind of mad. This is the talk of the masts, the drunkards—not of the clever, not of the accountants and bookkeepers. Do not be afraid. Welcome this madness with jubilation, with a heart of “ah!” Set aside the intellect. Nothing has come from it, and nothing will. Now seek mindlessly; seek thought-free.

“O cupbearer, turn the mouth of the flagon this way—
Make the hand of fate ineffectual.”
Just nudge the intellect aside, and from His decanter the wine will begin to pour into your cup.

“O cupbearer, turn the flagon this way.
Make the hand of destiny powerless.
The heart’s pain is sharp today, O Saki—
Sharpen the bitter edge of the wine.”
Make this wine denser—more intense.

“The heart’s pain is sharp today, O Saki—
Sharpen the bitterness of the wine.
O cupbearer, turn the flagon this way—
Toward me, a little!” But you can say this only when you have prepared the vessel of madness. When you are willing to sway with the drink—then God will serve you too. Right now you are so afraid of swaying, so frightened that your foot may step beyond bounds. Because of your fear the divine wine is obstructed from descending into you.

“The surge of wildness is still thirsty—
Make the rent in my hem fresh again.
O Player with my fate,
Make me oblivious of my fate.
My humble wares are being plundered—
Ah, if only He would cast a glance this way!”
A single glance of His is enough—but His glance rises toward the mad, toward the lovers. For only the lovers are worthy for God to dwell within them. We have called such lovers paramahansas. The Sufis call them masts—God-intoxicated ones. Call it what you will, sannyas is the search for precisely this madness. Every path that goes beyond the intellect leads into God. How you go beyond is secondary: if you go by meditation, the mind must be dropped; if you go by love, the mind must be dropped.

For now, we are speaking on the branch of love. Sundardas’s words are the words of a lover. And lovers—lovers of this world are mad; the lovers of the other world need a supreme madness—must need it! With anything less, nothing will be possible.

Amrit Siddharth! This is the first step. Beautiful. Good that you took it! But remember, it is only the first step. There is one more step, and beyond it yet another. Do not stop here. With this you will become a sadhu; you will not become a siddha.

The sadhu says: every mistake is mine, all that is right is Yours. This is his prayer. He says: all errors are mine, all sins are mine, all lapses are mine; and whatever virtue there is, whatever is right, all that is Yours. In this world, only the bad has happened through me; if ever something right happened, You must have done it. It must have been Your hands. From me only bad can come; I am the bad one.

This is the sadhu’s language: when he went out looking for the wicked, he found no one worse than himself. And if a few good things did happen in life, if flowers bloomed now and then, how can I take the credit for those flowers? This is the sadhu’s humility: he says, no—everything good is Yours, everything bad is mine.

But remember: this is the first step; do not stop here! What does the siddha say? The siddha says: what is right is Yours, and the mistakes are Yours too. Who am I to come in between? For siddha means egoless; sadhu means humble. Humility is not egolessness. Humility is a very subtle ego. The sadhu is saying, all the bad is mine—but I still am. And look, look at my humility; just see my attitude: I am taking the bad upon myself and giving all the good to You! Have you noticed my generosity? Have you seen my magnanimity?

Somewhere inside the tune will go on: the thorns are mine, the flowers are Yours! Do you get it? The sadhu is saying: Do you understand? I have left everything at Your feet; I have become so egoless! Such is my humility! I am the dust of Your feet! But I am. That very being is the obstacle.

What does the non-sadhu say? He says: all mistakes are Yours, all that is right is mine. Whenever something goes wrong in his life, he says: O Lord, what have You made me do? What did You write in my fate? What decree of destiny is this! And when things go right, he struts. Then he says: See what I have done! He takes the glory of the right and throws the responsibility for the wrong onto God. This is the mark of the non-sadhu.

The sadhu turns the non-sadhu upside down; he stands on his head. He says: every mistake is mine, all that is right is Yours. This is the first step. The state of the siddha is beyond both. It says: all is Yours—where am I? There is no “me” at all. I cannot even claim that the mistakes are mine. Understand this a little: he says, merit is Yours, sin is Yours. Then supreme liberation flowers. One becomes weightless; no burden remains. Then whatever You had me do, that was done—good as good and bad as bad. If You made me a Ravana, the role of Ravana was enacted fully; if You made me a Rama, the role of Rama was enacted fully. As was Your will, so it happened. We were actors. We played upon the stage. Whatever part You gave us, that we repeated. There is nothing of ours in it.

Do you think that the one playing Ravana on the stage is a sinner, and the one playing Rama is a virtuous soul? People start thinking like that. So the one who plays Rama in the Ramleela—when the procession passes through the village, people touch his feet, even drink the water from washing his feet. He has become Rama! Ravana is not looked upon kindly. I know, in my village the man who played Ravana—people thought of him as a very corrupt man, not a good person. Otherwise why would he play Ravana? Couldn’t he think of anything else?

On the stage, who is Rama and who is Ravana! It’s all play. There is not the slightest difference. Both are fulfilling His will. This is the state of the siddha. This is the second and final step.

So, Amrit Siddharth, what you said is lovely, but you still have to go further. Do not hold back even this: do not hold back the mistakes either. Otherwise the ego will survive behind the mistakes. Give it all. Give it utterly. If you have offered yourself, then what is there to preserve in the name of mistakes? If mistakes happened, He made them happen too.

This is the courage of the devotee! The knower cannot do this. The jnani stops—gets stuck—at being a sadhu. The jnani says: at the most I can say this much—merit is His. To say “sin is His” too—the jnani does not have that courage. This is the courage of the lover and the madman. He says: What am I anyway? Whatever You made me do, I did; if You had not made me, how could I have done it? If You put desire in me, there was desire; if You put anger, there was anger; if You put greed, there was greed. Wherever You led me astray—even through hells—I wandered; but the onus is on You—the whole responsibility is on You. I am a puppet in Your hands; the strings are in Your hands. As You made me dance, I danced. If You do not make me dance now, I do not dance. If You gave me the world, then the world. If You gave me liberation, then liberation.

The devotee has no aspiration of his own. The devotee leaves no corner to save himself. The devotee opens himself utterly. In this very opening is moksha, liberation. In this opening is supreme freedom. Take one more step: now give the mistakes to Him as well. You have given the merits—good. But giving merit is not so difficult; giving sin is difficult. In giving merit there is a certain relish: look, what a beautiful thing I am offering! In giving sin there is hesitation: sin—and I should give it to God? Fear arises. What will He think?

But the offering has to be total, not partial. That is why I do not make much distinction between the sadhu and the non-sadhu. They are the same kind of people. They move opposite to each other, yet they are the same kind. Their outlook on life is not different. The siddha’s outlook is altogether different. And I would not want you to stop at anything less than the siddha.

Go further, and take courage. Give everything to Him.

Just think, think for a moment: if everything is given to Him, what sorrow is left then? What pain? What worry? Will not this very moment become a supreme celebration? When all is given, what remains? What suffering then? Not even a line of pain can remain. Your sky will become clear. In that clarity alone is He known. That clarity itself is the eye.

That’s all for today.