Hari Bolo Hari Bol #8

Anand Gautam! The hour of good fortune is near. Dawn can break at any moment. These are the first signs of spring; the first flowers have begun to open. Rejoice, feel blessed. These are the first steps toward samadhi. Fear will also arise, because when the skin seems to be empty, the breath begins to be obstructed, the body appears inert, the flow of blood seems to stop—fear comes. For these are also the signs of death.

Death and samadhi are very alike; and yet very different—on the surface utterly similar. As a man dies, so, to an outside observer, something similar happens in samadhi. For within, consciousness keeps slipping inward; the connections with the body grow loose. The bridge breaks. Our ties with the body—blood flow, the movement of breath—these are our links to the body. When consciousness begins to flow toward the center, its flow toward the body ceases. The bonds with the body begin to drop. Only nominal connections remain—just enough for life, the minimum. You are caught to the body, but not joined to it.

So fear can arise: What is happening? Am I dying? Do not panic. Attend to the second thing—the incomparable bliss that is happening; that does not happen in death. And that bliss does not arise merely because the circulation stops, nor because the breath is obstructed. The unique bliss happens when the soul joins with itself; when the person begins to come home; when the first ray of the divine begins to break.

So two things are at once: the connection with the body is breaking, and the connection with the soul is being made. Hence both sets of signs appear together. In death only the link with the body breaks; the link with the soul is not forged. In samadhi the bodily connection is broken—just as in death—but a new event occurs: a connection with the soul is made. Death is only negative. Samadhi is both negative and creative—negative from the standpoint of the body, creative from the standpoint of the soul.

A blessed hour has come! The sky of your consciousness is filling with the redness of dawn. Dance! Be jubilant! For the more welcomingly you accept it, the swifter the movement will be. Morning will arrive that much sooner; the sun will rise earlier. Only the first buds have opened. If you become afraid, even these buds will wither away. Spring, just arriving, will halt. It all depends on you. If you are delighted, open your arms in readiness to embrace, spring will break upon you—thousands of lotuses will bloom.

And do not be afraid—do not be afraid at all. There is no cause for fear, because that which dies is not you. You are immortal. It is the recognition of that immortality from which bliss is born. Bound to the mortal, what have you ever found except suffering? Tied to the body, what else have you gained but pain? Promises of happiness, perhaps—but when did happiness actually come? Only joined to the soul does the first hint of joy arise. But one has to pass through difficulties, through tests.

“Every wave is a snare, a ring of a hundred greedy shark-like jaws—
Let us see what the drop must endure before it becomes a pearl.”

Every wave is a net, and in the meshes of the net stand many crocodile-mouths agape; let us see what tempests break over the drop before it becomes a pearl! The drop must pass through many trials before it can become a pearl. And this is a hard test you are passing through. Do not go to physicians, otherwise they will think the body is ill. You need no medicine. The medicine will be generated by your own bliss; it will be prepared within you. In the shadow of that nectar, the remedy is produced.

You are approaching the source of the sanjivani, the life-restoring elixir. Do not ask others. Ask only those who have some experience of samadhi. But do not ask those who have none. And here even the inexperienced relish giving advice. Those who have neither known nor heard of anything like samadhi will begin advising you: this is madness, this is derangement, this is swooning, this is coma. What are you doing? Stop this meditation! You are entering danger! You might lose yourself!

Beware of these so-called wise men. And it isn’t that you must go looking for them—they will come looking for you. Such is the delight of advising. A truly wise person gives advice only when you ask; fools give it unasked. Look into their eyes. Ask them: Do you have any experience of samadhi? Have you had any glimpse of God? Have you drunk even a sip from the source of life? Look at them carefully, otherwise such advisers keep aborting the births of many a samadhi.

There are difficulties on the path. And the greatest difficulty is when the link with the body loosens and the link with the soul is made. A transmutation happens; a bend comes in the journey. Until yesterday you were running outward; your energy was running outward through the body, so you were linked with the body. Now the energy has set out on the inward journey; there is no need to go through the body now. Therefore the bodily connections will slacken.

Sometimes Ramakrishna would remain in such a faint-like state for six days at a time. His disciples would look after him, sit around him day and night to guard the body, because outwardly he lay unconscious. Outside there was unconsciousness, inside the lamp of the supreme awareness was lit. From the outside people would think, “Poor man! What calamity he is in!” When his eyes opened he would at once begin to weep, saying, “Again, again you have sent me back outside? Take me within. Take me back to where I was. Do not interrupt my inner journey. O Lord, take me there! Restore me to that state!”

People could not make sense of it, for they only saw: he is lying unconscious. Some doctors even announced that it was a kind of epilepsy in Ramakrishna—hysterical. Outwardly the symptoms look similar to epilepsy. You cannot even blame the doctors. Foam would come from Ramakrishna’s mouth, as happens when one falls in an epileptic fit. The eyes would roll up. The limbs would become completely rigid, like stone: if you tried to bend them they wouldn’t bend, they would be stiff. Naturally, medical science would say: this is epilepsy. But medical science knows nothing beyond the body. It is still grappling with disease; it has not yet taken steps toward health. For now medicine is busy with the question: how to rid a man of illness? It has yet to step toward: how to enter the joy and experience of health.

Religion is the medicine beyond. Buddha called himself a physician in this sense. Nanak also called himself a physician—in this sense. A further medicine. But the principles of that medicine are entirely different. So, even by mistake, do not take advice from just anyone. And do not stop because of someone’s advice. Such an hour comes with difficulty. To lose it is very easy; to find it is very difficult. This door only sometimes comes close enough to pass through. Miss it—and who knows when it will come again? No one can announce it; no prediction can be made.

Bear in mind that there will be a little discomfort—because blood pressure will drop, the breath will stop—so there will be some pain. This is the price we have to pay. It is worth paying.

“Who knows that in the smile of every flower
Glimmer the tombs of tiny, wronged dewdrops?”

When a flower laughs, remember: who knows how many drops of dew have become tombs in its laughter. Behind its smile the deaths of countless dewdrops are hidden. When someone attains the bliss of samadhi, many pains lie concealed behind it. To endure those pains with a feeling of grace is what is called austerity.

Austerity does not mean to inflict suffering upon yourself—there is no need to. When you go on the inner journey, many sufferings come by themselves. The one who bears those sufferings as good fortune, as God’s grace, as blessing—he is the true ascetic.

So, Anand Gautam, the auspicious hour has come—do not let it slip away. Continue exactly as you are doing. Proceed in the same direction in which the journey has begun. More will happen—deeper and for longer. Even if you are lost for hours, inform your friends and loved ones not to be afraid. You will return—always returning, and each time you will return with more. For the treasure is within. If you so much as meet the eyes of the inner Master, life becomes illumined.

“This moonlight, these breezes, the sway of rose-laden boughs,
This season of wine, these silent instruments of nature—
They have begun to be heard; within luminous breasts,
In delicate, crystal-clear hearts,
The tinkling of the ray of your thought is falling,
The tinkling of the ray of your thought is falling!”

For the first time within you the tinkle of his ray is descending. It is new, unfamiliar, unknown, unrecognized. And before the unknown we shrink. The new is frightening—who knows where it will take us, to what place? We try to cling to the familiar. You must refrain from clinging to the familiar.

Sannyas means: whenever the familiar and the unfamiliar stand before you, choose the unfamiliar, not the familiar. The familiar you have already known, understood, seen, lived. You have squeezed it dry. Now go into the unfamiliar. Why be stuck in the known? Now go into the unknown. Why be entangled in the known when the invitation of the unknowable has arrived?

Remember: “the tinkling of the ray of your thought.”

And this will not remain only in meditation; gradually you will find it in your twenty-four hours as well. Your connection with the body will not be as it was before. Your conduct will change—it must change. This I call the right transformation of lifestyle. One way is to force a conduct upon yourself—that has no value, not worth two pennies. It is deception, hypocrisy. Now the possibility of authentic conduct is opening in your life. When this inner bliss begins to glimmer, all your outer behaviors will change—they will have to change. Your style will change. What seemed meaningful yesterday will begin to appear futile today. And what you never thought could be meaningful may become meaningful. All the measures will change. Everything will be turned upside down. There will be great chaos. What you used to relish doing yesterday may no longer attract you. New tastes will awaken. Do not be afraid!

“The deeper grew the silence of the autumn evening,
The more each bud grew intimate with the secret of the garden.
The sorrows of the heart did the heart a favor:
Life, failing in worldly terms, became worthwhile.”

People will say: you have become good-for-nothing; a failure. They will say: you no longer work properly. You used to do this, you used to do that; you used to earn so much—what has happened to you?

Your competition, your rivalry will fade. Your ambition will fade. Your running will diminish. That decline in the rush of your blood is only the beginning. Now your outward running will subside. As your breath begins to pause, that, too, will change the speed of your feet. The stiff, swaggering gait of yesterday—you will no longer be able to walk like that. And the goals that so enchanted you yesterday, for which you would have given your life, will begin to look worthless. This is sannyas—true sannyas.

The inner change in consciousness becomes the outer change in conduct. It isn’t that you will run away, leaving everything. You will remain here—but your way of being will change. You will sit in your shop, do your work, go to your job. You will have a wife, children, a home—everything will continue—but the doer will die. The Doer will be God. You will only be the servant who obeys his command.

“In the gathering of your coming, when a faint rustle was sensed,
All saw clearly the candle’s flame begin to waver.
Even in warmth and smiles, tears tremble;
Within the joy of vision, the ache of separation gleams.
Restless are the fingers of the lords of lust—but
The bride of Life too has lifted her veil.
These buffets of waves, this swelling on the sea of existence—
This bubble of life—what wind has entered the head?
When I am lost in the seclusions of the ocean’s hush,
It is in those very moments your voice has come to my ears.”

When you are utterly lost, when you have no sense that “I am,” when all around, inside and out, there is silence; when you search and do not find yourself—“Where have I gone?”—only then:

“When I am lost in the seclusions of the ocean’s hush,
It is in those very moments your voice has come to my ears.”

“In the gathering of your coming, when a faint rustle was sensed,
All saw clearly the candle’s flame begin to waver.”

Gautam, the flame of your candle has begun to waver. The sound of his coming has begun to be heard. Within you the silence is deepening. Rays of bliss have begun to break. You are blessed! Count yourself fortunate, and silently descend into this unknown, unfamiliar, unknowable. Courage will be needed. I am with you.

If there is night, morning is certain. Morning is hidden in the night. Night is but the veil of morning. Night is not the enemy of morning; night is the mother of morning. Night is not the opposite of morning; it is the pathway to it. In the womb of night, there is dawn.

So never even think, “Is there a dawn in the destiny of my nights?” If there is night, morning is assured. In the very fact of night, it is already decided.

If there is sorrow, bliss is certain.
If there is death, immortality is certain.
If there is matter, the divine is certain.

One alone cannot be; they are complementary poles. Can you imagine a world with only darkness and no light? And if there were only darkness and no light, how would you even call it darkness? Or only light and no darkness? No; this pair cannot be broken. Darkness is only the lessening of light, what else? And light is only the diminishing of darkness, what else?

Understand it the same way with cold and heat—they are not two things. Two names for one process. It depends on you whether you call it cold or heat.

Try a small experiment. Warm one hand over a brazier. Cool the other hand on a slab of ice. Then immerse both hands in a bucket of water. Now you will be in a fix: one hand will say, “The water is cold,” the other will say, “The water is hot.” So what is the water—hot or cold? The hand that is warm will call it cold, because compared to its heat, it is less hot. The hand that is cold will call it hot, because compared to its cold, it feels warm. It is all relative.

Morning is hidden in the night—just look for it.

And remember, there is no such thing as destiny. Destiny is the lazy man’s excuse.

You ask, “Is there any dawn in the destiny of my nights?”

There is no destiny. Destiny is the device of the indolent. It is the philosophy of the inactive. They say, “What can we do? What is written in fate will happen.”

Be alert: when you choose fate, then fate becomes powerful—but it is your choosing that gives it power; fate has no power of its own. Whatever you choose, that becomes powerful. You are utterly free. But this is such a vast truth that a small mind cannot grasp it. Small minds like small notions. The small mind says, “It cannot be that I chose suffering. It is written in my fate. Why would I choose pain? If choice were in my hands I would choose the bliss of the whole world.”

And I tell you: the choice is in your hands. And if you wish, the bliss of the whole world can shower in your courtyard. It has showered in my courtyard; that is why I say so. It can shower in yours too—but you have never chosen it. You went on choosing suffering. And when you chose suffering and it arrived, you beat your chest: “It’s in my destiny, in my fate, my lot.”

Nothing is written in your lot. Existence does not send anyone with something scribbled on their skull. It hands you a blank page. It gives you a blank check. Then write what you will. Someone writes poverty, someone prosperity. Someone writes ignorance, someone wisdom. Someone writes the world, someone writes nirvana. The divine gives you a blank check.

Existence makes you free; it gives you the capacity to choose. Choose. Naturally the question arises: why would a person ever choose suffering? Why do people choose pain, when countless are in pain and only once in a while someone is happy, a Buddha? So many suffer—have so many chosen suffering? It doesn’t seem plausible. Everyone appears to be against pain. Everyone laments their suffering, asks how to be free of it. So it seems reasonable to ask: if it were in our hands, why would we choose suffering? Still, I say to you, man has chosen suffering.

When someone tells the story of their suffering, listen carefully and watch. They are actually enjoying it; they are savoring it. They exaggerate, embroider. They add sorrows that weren’t even there. Once they start talking, they keep stretching the tale. And if you listen closely, you will sense a juice behind each word. What is that juice? This is one of life’s great riddles.

Through suffering, the ego is constructed. In happiness the ego dissolves. In bliss the ego is simply not found; only in pain does it exist. And since you have chosen to insist “I am,” you have had to choose suffering. The house of “I” is built of the bricks of pain. That is why you inflate your woes, as if all the world’s suffering has been heaped upon you, unlike anyone else’s—because the bigger the bricks of sorrow, the grander the mansion of ego can be.

Consider this: if someone waved a magic wand and took away all your sufferings, what would remain of you? What do you have besides your pains? You would suddenly be empty, frightened, restless. You would ask for your sufferings back.

Think a little: would you be willing to give away your pains? When they are taken from you, it will seem better to be filled with pain than to be hollow and empty. At least there is something to clench your fist around, something to hold. People keep their sufferings housed within. You know anger brings pain—yet you cling to anger. You know jealousy brings pain—yet you cling to jealousy. You know where pain comes from—and you still knock at those very doors. And it isn’t that no one has told you from which doors joy comes. What else have the awakened ones been doing? Why does Sundardas keep beating this drum? What is he saying? A very simple thing: there is a door—the door of Hari—“Chant the name of Hari, chant the name of Hari.” From there the Ganges of bliss flows. You hear it and say, “All right, perhaps. When the time comes we’ll see. When it is in my destiny, we’ll see. For now, one must live life. For now, one must suffer.”

To live life—meaning: for now, one must suffer. For now, arrange pain from all sides. Although you don’t say, “Now I must suffer.” You say, “I must enjoy.” You say, “I must enjoy,” and in the enjoying, you suffer. If someone hears what you say, they’ll be misled; only by watching you does the truth become evident. What you seek under the name of happiness is suffering. You are skilled at giving things pretty names, and then you are deceived by those very names. We choose beautiful labels, and under their shadow, delusion happens.

What do you call happiness? “If I have more money, I’ll be happy.” Then look closely at the lives of those who have more money before you join the race. Do they have happiness? You don’t look. You say, “If I have a higher position, I’ll be happy.” But those who hold high office—peek once into their lives. You don’t, because you are afraid that if you look and see suffering there, what will you do then? You don’t want to see; you want to deny the facts of life. You say, “Maybe they are unhappy, but when I have the position I’ll enjoy; maybe they are unhappy, but when I have the money I’ll enjoy.”

Everyone lives in this delusion. The money comes, the position comes, the prestige comes—and a great hell comes along with them. By then it is very late. Turning back becomes difficult. To turn back then feels like swallowing your spit. The ego is pained: “Now turn back? What will people say?” So you keep going: “Just a few more days, somehow drag on.”

Has the ego ever given you happiness? Then why do you go on constructing it? Ego is only a thorn, a spike that pricks. Other things that hurt you, hurt only because of the ego. Someone insults you—you are disturbed. If you think you are disturbed because of their insult, your analysis is wrong. If there were no ego, you would not be disturbed. People abused the Buddha. People have always abused Buddhas. But the Buddha was not disturbed. He merely said, “If you have finished, may I go? I must reach the next village; people will be waiting. And if you haven’t finished, don’t worry—on my way back I’ll stop again and hear you out.”

They were abusing him. They could not believe there could be such an answer to abuse. One of them said, “What are you saying? We are abusing you—these are not words, these are poison-tipped arrows.”

The Buddha said, “If you throw a live coal toward water, it remains a coal until it touches the water; the moment it touches, it goes out and becomes ash. Within me there is such joy, such coolness now, that I cannot lose it for the sake of your abuse. Your ember leaves you as an ember; as it comes to me, it becomes a flower. I understand your trouble—you are in great pain, so abuses are issuing forth. But I am in great joy—what can I do? If you wanted a fitting answer to your abuse, you should have come ten years earlier. You are a little late. Ten years ago I would have had your head cut off. But you came late. Now you cannot make me miserable; I have learned the way to be joyful. Now you cannot dishearten me, because I no longer wish to be disheartened.”

Reflect on these words: Now you cannot make me unhappy, because I have dropped unhappiness. I simply don’t accept it anymore. You do abuse me—true. But I must accept it for it to reach me. What happens just because you offer? In the last village, people brought flowers and sweets and wished to present them. I said, “My stomach is full.” They took them back. If I don’t receive them, what will you do with the sweets? You will take them back. I ask you, what do you think they did with those sweets?

A man in the crowd said, “What would they do? They must have distributed them.” The Buddha said, “Then what will you do now? You have brought abuses; I am not taking them—I have closed my shop. I have no desire left for sorrow. I have had enough, lives upon lives. What will you do now? Those people were good; they had brought sweets—they could distribute them. But you—what will you do with these abuses when you take them back? They will fall back on you, because I have not taken them.”

Think it over: if abuse is not accepted, how can anyone give it to you? But you are so eager to receive that sometimes the other doesn’t even give—and you take. Your eagerness is such that two people stand whispering on the road and you become anxious—“They must be talking about me.” Someone standing at the roadside laughs, and you take it to be at you—“He laughed seeing me; I’ll teach him a lesson.” He may be laughing for some other reason. You are not the only person in the world; there are many others too. Those two people who fell silent when you passed were not necessarily talking about you. The world is vast—but you take it upon yourself.

No insult is given—and you take it. No disrespect is intended—and you take it. You seem ever ready. As if you have gone out proclaiming, “Come on, trouble—hit me!” The day you don’t get your dose of misery, the day feels a bit empty, a bit blank: no quarrel, no tangle.

Psychologists say: in a good man’s life, there is no story. How could there be? A good man’s life is so plain—what story could it have? Writers say: you cannot write a novel about a good man’s life. What would you write? “There was a good man”—the end. A bad man’s life has story—plenty of plot! Murders, thefts, deceit—all kinds of mischief, and so the story has substance. The day you choose to be empty, that very day you will be happy. But you want a story; you want your own saga. You want your autobiography—meaning, the tale of the ego.

Dawn is every human being’s birthright. Yes, you can delay it as long as you wish. If you do not let it come, dawn will never come. It may even happen that dawn arrives and you close your eyes—then you will go on remaining in darkness. Dawn comes and you close your ears; the birds sing, but you hear nothing. The sun rises and you stand with your back to it. It rains, and you turn your pot upside down. All these possibilities exist. If you have decided to live in sorrow, to live only in the night, then you will live in the night. Everything depends on your decision. The deeper you let this truth sink within you, the better. Because from this very decision the revolution will happen.

Shaam-e-gam—speak a little of that proud, tender glance.
Self-forgetful ecstasy keeps rising; speak of the secret.
Do not go on with the tale of disheveled tresses, the saga of the evening of grief.
Until morning breaks, speak in this very tone.

Dawn will come, inevitably. “Hari bolo, Hari bolo.” Until then, speak a little of the sap of morning, the light of morning, the morning sky, the flying birds, the blooming flowers. If these sink deep into your mind, then when dawn comes you will recognize it; you will not keep your eyes closed, nor your ears. For the one who knows that when morning comes, birds sing—his ears will wait eagerly for the morning; his ears will remain alert. And the one who knows that when morning comes, the sun rises—flowers of a thousand colors bloom, the world suddenly becomes a festival of colors—such a person will not be able to keep his eyes closed. He will keep them open. At the slightest hint of morning he will rise to his feet.

Do not go on with the tale of disheveled tresses, the saga of the evening of grief.
Until morning, speak in this very mood.
This is what satsang is called. This is the meaning of satsang.

This hush of despair, these snapping heartstrings—
in the silence, speak a little of the cracked instrument.
Let every vein of the heart keep entering ecstasy, even if it aches;
just keep speaking of the Beloved’s graces, rightful and wanton.

Some light is filtering through the bars of the cage.
Speak a little of the sky, a little of the longing to fly.

The One whose separation transformed the very body of love, O Firaq—
today speak of that companion whose breath is like Jesus’, life-giving.

Speak of the Lord’s compassion. Speak of the Lord’s boundless grace.

The One whose separation transformed the very body of love, O Firaq—
today speak of that companion whose breath is like Jesus’, life-giving.

Let there be talk of that pure-hearted Friend. Let there be remembrance of the Beloved.

Some light is filtering through the bars of the cage.
This descended light, these awakened rays—this is morning. “Kuchh faza”—a little of the sky. “Kuchh hasrat-e-parvaaz ki baatein karo”—speak of the longing to fly. Speak of the urge to fly. Dawn is close at hand; before it arrives, flutter your wings—lest it happen that dawn comes and your wings do not remember how to flutter! Lest the morning sky awaken and call out, and you remain bound in your old habits, with no longing to fly arising at all! Then what can the sky do?

The sky cannot force birds to fly. The sky only gives space: whoever wishes to fly may fly. Flying you will have to do. If you keep your wings folded, or you have even forgotten that you have wings—because for lifetimes you have not flown and the very thought of flying is forgotten—then the sky will remain present, but you will miss.

Some light is filtering through the bars of the cage.
Speak a little of the sky, a little of the longing to fly.

Dawn is near. Dawn is always near. It depends on the intensity of your longing—how near, how far. Ask, and it will be given. Call out—and the doors will open.

Do not bring destiny into it at all. Talk of fate is brought in by those who want to dodge the dawn. “We left everything to fate”—then they are at ease: now what is there to do? Then they turn over, pull the quilt over themselves, and go to sleep. If you can awaken, awaken.

The very question “how long” tells me you do not know the art of waiting. “How long” is already impatience—where is waiting in that? “How long” is haste—where is waiting in that? True waiting is infinite. Anything less than the infinite is not waiting; it is a counterfeit. And the one whose waiting is infinite will find it this very moment. The more impatience you have, the longer it will take. Let this arithmetic settle within you: the more the haste, the longer the delay. The more the impatience, the longer the delay. For a mind full of impatience is agitated, trembling; it cannot be still. An impatient mind keeps peering into the future; it is not present in the present. An impatient mind broods—now will it happen, then will it happen, it should happen now, why hasn’t it happened yet? A thousand complaints arise, a thousand doubts surround the mind—will it happen or not, is there anything there at all, am I wasting my time, what am I sitting here for? By now I could have earned something. Of God there is no sign; and the world too is slipping from my hands. Whoever has impatience within is seized by such turmoil.

Waiting means: when my readiness ripens, it will happen. Let me watch the road in stillness. Let me watch it more and more silently. If it hasn’t happened yet, it only means a little impatience still lingers in me. Let me gather more patience. Let me become more silent. Let me become utterly quiet. Let me not impose my personal longing upon existence.

Waiting means: let existence’s will be fulfilled. If you are a devotee, say: God’s will be done. His will be done! Whenever he wishes, it will happen. I will keep watch. This does not mean laziness. It means waiting. Waiting is not a state of indolence. It is a very alive state—incandescent, wakeful—but filled with deep patience.

How long the hope of death, how long life’s pounding headache?
Granted, we are patient in love—but how long?

In the Beloved’s precincts, isn’t there even a limit to diversion?
How long will the poor not remember your door and threshold?

These contrivances can never turn into love’s destiny.
We’ll keep ourselves forgetful in separation—but how long?

Favor, grace, kindness—surely there is some limit!
How long will one go on dressing the wound of the heart?

Someone’s beauty was defamed behind veils upon veils.
How long will the magic of a glance fail to take effect?

Do not speak at all of “how long.” When you ask,
How long the hope of death, how long life’s pounding headache?
Granted, we are patient in love—but how long?
…then you have not understood patience.

The Sufis gave God ninety‑nine names; one of them is As‑Sabur—Patience. Infinite waiting, infinite forbearance! A beautiful name. Many names have been given to God in many traditions, but the Sufis surpassed them all. In that name is the hint: only when you too become sabr—patience—will you be able to find Him. To attain Him you must, in some measure, become like Him. We can attain only that which we become like; we cannot attain what is utterly unlike us. There must be some harmony between us and Him.

See His patience! See His forbearance! Rabindranath has a poem: O God, when I contemplate your patience my head swims! What patience you have—you keep creating man, and man keeps misbehaving with you; and still you keep creating him. You never give up hope. You think, perhaps this time he will be all right—this time he will be all right. You keep giving breath even to the sinner. Your patience never runs out! Even the worst murderer does not lose, in your eyes, the right to live; you give him life too. You hope: if not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the day after. How long can he wander! He didn’t come home today—he will tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. He will come.

People wander birth after birth, yet your compassion never turns harsh. Your compassion is as it always was—just as generous, just as showering. You do not bother to ask who is a sinner and who a saint; your clouds come and rain on both. It is another matter that the saint drinks from your rain and the sinner does not—that is their choice. But from your side there is no distinction. From your side there is non‑discrimination. Your sun rises and pours light on all; it is another matter that someone keeps his eyes shut—that is his wish. But from your side the gift never varies. What patience you have! Have you not grown weary of man’s murders, hypocrisies, disturbances? Does it never occur to you to say: Enough—end it? Do you still trust man?

Rabindranath says: whenever a little child is born, I feel again the urge to thank you—once more you have sent a ray of hope. Every newborn is a sign that God has not yet given up on man; He still trusts man; He still hopes in man.

The Sufis are right: He is sabr, sabur—forbearance, patience. Become something like Him. Do not ask “how long.”

I know—we get tired, we tire quickly. A few days of meditation and the mind says: how long must we go on? A few days of prayer and the mind begins: are we to do this our whole life? Nothing has happened so far—what will happen later? Our mind is very skeptical. Because of its doubts, we sometimes turn back from the very door. Sometimes only one more stroke of the spade and water would have been found—but the mind says: enough digging. No water yet—what will come now!

I want to tell you: there is water everywhere in the earth—somewhere at a little depth, somewhere a little less. Keep digging, keep digging; if you simply keep digging there is no place where water will not be found. There may be sooner or later, because each person has collected a different kind of soil around himself. Someone has piled up rocks—then digging will take a little longer. Someone has spun a big web of karmas—digging will take a little longer. Someone has nourished too many thoughts—digging will take a little longer. But one thing is certain: dig from anywhere, if you keep digging, you will surely strike the aquifer. Even in the desert, if you go on digging, you will find water. One who is like a desert should not despair.

Then meditation and prayer, devotion and worship, aarti and archana—do not do them with a goal. Svantah sukhaya—for the joy of the heart itself. Bhajan is ecstasy in itself—what more do you need? What have you made of yourselves! You say: I did bhajan, now God should come—as though you had done something great! You ring the temple bell and start waiting: how long, O Lord, how long?

How long the hope of death, how long life’s pounding headache?
Granted, we are patient in love—but how long?

You ring the bell and ask: but how long? You offer two flowers and ask: now how much longer? Think what you are asking. Even if after a journey of eternity He is found—He was found for free, remember. What value can there be to what we do? What weight is there in our actions? There is no cause‑and‑effect linkage between our deeds and finding Him, for you to ask, how long, that I have done so much—so many fasts, so much pranayama, so much meditation, so many prayers—how long now? Do you think God is the result of your actions? That He is the effect of your deeds?

No. If you are delighted in the doing, then He is found. Not as the result of the act—but in the inwardness, the heartfulness of the act. Understand this difference. Not the result of the act—the heart of the act. How wholeheartedly you prayed—that is how you find. Not how many times you prayed. How deeply you bowed—that is how you find. Not how many times you bent. Between you and God there is no measure of the quantity or number of acts—but of the depth, the urgency, the intensity. Therefore I say: svantah sukhaya—pray for the joy of prayer. Do not even bring up God. Become intoxicated in prayer. Prayer in itself is so wondrous—why worry about God!

Atheists come to me and say, can we also meditate? I tell them: you, above all, can. Because a theist comes and soon begins to ask:

How long the hope of death, how long life’s pounding headache?
Granted, we are patient in love—but how long?

You have no hassle at all—there is no God to meet—so meditate at your ease. Your meditation will bring result quickly, because you have no goal in front of you. You are meditating for meditation’s own sake. Do it!

A song has its own joy. Singing has its own joy. Humming has its own joy. And you start haggling even over this? You begin to bargain: look, I sang one song—now meet me! Look how much I nodded my head—now meet me! “I danced so much, Gopal—now meet me!” “See, I am dripping with sweat—how long must I keep sweating? O Lord, how long the waiting?”

No—union will not happen that way. Union does happen, but you keep missing its gate. The ecstasy of prayer, the melodiousness of prayer, the divine intoxication of prayer—that is reward enough. What more do you ask? Virtue is its own reward. Whoever seeks heaven through virtue is worldly. Virtue is its own reward. Someone was drowning in a river; you ran and saved him. Will you then say to God: write it down in your ledger that I saved a drowning man? If you say that, you are irreligious. By saying so you have severed your bond with God—just when it was beginning to be made, you broke it. But to save someone from drowning has its own joy—the reward is already given!

In my view the fruit of sin is contained in sin itself; the fruit of virtue is contained in virtue itself. Fruits do not wait. Put your hand in fire today—it burns today; it is not that it will burn in the next life. And if right now you look at someone with love, if you steady someone who is falling, if you give water to the thirsty, if you take someone’s hand with a heart full of joy—the reward is given now. In this very moment you have tasted a grain of heaven. It is not that you keep doing this and someday later you will get heaven.

God is not credit. God is cash. God pays now. But if your eyes are fixed on the future, on the result—“how long?”—you miss. He gives, but you do not see, because your eyes are stuck ahead: when will the result come—how long?

Forget God, forget heavens, forget the language of liberation. Live the moment—for the moment—whether it is worship, or prayer, or meditation, or service—but immerse yourself so totally in the moment that nothing remains beyond it. So much so that even if God were to come and stand at your door, you should be so lost in your prayer that you would not even see Him.

You know the image of Vitthoba in Pandharpur. There is a story behind it: a devotee is massaging his old, tired mother’s feet; her death is near. He is a devotee of Krishna, and Krishna is pleased with his devotion and comes, ready to give darshan. But the devotee does not even look back. He says: come a little later; right now I am serving my mother’s feet. If a devotee is like this, how can Krishna leave and go? So He stands there. Seeing that He stands and will not go, the devotee slides a brick toward Him and says: sit on this—or stand on it—but do not interrupt now. I am serving my mother.

Krishna stood on that brick. The image of Vitthoba in Pandharpur is linked to this sweet tale. Whether the tale happened or not is not important, but I know this much: this is the state of a devotee. He is so absorbed in devotion, so engrossed in service, so immersed in his act, that even if God comes and stands at the door he will say: stand there; sit for a while in the outer room. I am absorbed in prayer right now. Do not interrupt. Do not interfere.

This is one state. And the other state is: you pray, and in between you keep looking back to see whether Vitthoba has come yet. The prayer is broken. You have corrupted the prayer. If it can be so, you can have it now—there is no need even of tomorrow. I know—the human mind is, after all, a human mind, and complaint is our ancient habit. From life to life we have practiced it; even in prayer, complaints creep in; sometimes the mind even gets angry. I understand human weakness. But these weaknesses have to be dropped gradually—only then will you become a vessel.

Why don’t you give the sentence of living just once, and be done?
If I am a wrong letter, why don’t you erase me?

The savor of this pain—the night of separation—has grown old.
If you must give pain, then why not give a new pain?

If I am your shadow, then what reason not to keep me by your side?
If I am a stone, why don’t you remove me from the path?

Sometimes a devotee does get angry: enough is enough. The scriptures say I am your shadow, your maya—if I am your shadow, then why not keep me with you? And if I am not your shadow—if I am a stone—then why don’t you remove me from the road? Finish it in one stroke. Wipe me out. Why this daily trouble, this daily pain, this daily waiting? Granted, sometimes a devotee complains. But so long as there is complaint, God does not come. Prayer becomes complete when it becomes free of complaint. When you can say: as it is, it is beautiful. Your not being is beautiful. Your waiting is beautiful. Your not coming is beautiful. Whatever is, will be beautiful. It must be needed for me. This is how you will refine me. This is your way of shaping me—by burning me, by making me ache—so that I become pure gold. I know; therefore everything is accepted. Everything is embraced. Come today—fine. Come tomorrow—fine. Come after infinite births—fine. Whenever you come, that will be soon enough.

Such is the mood of waiting that is needed.

Chandrasekhar! “Faith” and “blind”? Then you don’t yet know what faith is. Faith is never blind. And what is blind is not faith. True, to a mind crammed with logic, faith always appears blind—because faith has different eyes, and logic has different eyes. Logic is a way of seeing through the head; faith is a way of seeing through the heart. Faith has its own eye, but that eye is not the eye of logic.

So logic thinks faith is blind—because faith does not share logic’s kind of eye. And logic’s eye is no great eye. What is seen through logic is petty; what is seen through faith is vast. Logic is like groping in the dark. Faith is like the sun rising—light everywhere, everything revealed.

Naturally, a man who has always groped, if he sees someone walking without groping, will say, “Are you mad? You’ll bump into things! You’ll go astray! Grope—has anyone ever found a way without groping?” Like a blind man with his stick: he taps his way along. When his eyes are cured, do you think he will still walk tapping with a stick? He will throw the stick away that very moment.

There is a story: a blind man came to Jesus. Jesus touched his eyes and they were healed. The man had come tapping his stick. He started back, still tapping. Jesus called out, “Brother, leave the stick. What is the stick for now?” Then the blind man remembered—ah yes, the old habit. All his life he had groped; the stick had been his eyes.

The eye of logic is just like the stick in a blind man’s hand. Through logic you can see the body, not the soul. Through logic you can see matter, not God. Through logic you can see the outside, but not what is within; no connection forms with the inner. Is that an eye?

If you must use the word “blind,” then say: logic is blind. Doubt is blind. Faith is never blind. Faith is the eye of love. But love’s way of seeing is different—utterly different.

Understand it this way: a rose blooms. If you look with the eye of logic, you will not find beauty. Where is beauty? If you are strictly logical, you will not be able to prove that beauty exists. Where is the proof? “Show me; I want to touch beauty—place it in my hand. I will weigh it on a scale—how much does it weigh?” Then you will be in difficulty. You will say, “Brother, beauty is not something to be weighed or touched. Nor can I show it to you. If it is visible to you, fine; if not, I cannot make you see it—yet beauty is.”

But if a person is drowned—completely drowned—in logic, he will defeat you. He will say, “Let’s take this flower to a scientist, have it analyzed. Let’s see what it contains.” Everything will be found—earth, water, sunlight, the various substances—everything but beauty. Do you think beauty was not there?

No; beauty requires another kind of eye. It needs a heart filled with poetry. It needs sensitivity to beauty. The poet is not blind. To a scientist, the poet may seem blind or mad. Their ways of seeing are so different.

Logic thinks; faith sees. Logic thinks because it cannot see. Faith does not need to think, because it can see. Understand this. If a blind man is sitting here and wants to go out, he will ask, “Brother, where is the door?” Before asking he will think, “Whom should I ask? Should I go north, south, east, west—where is the door?” But a man who has eyes will get up without asking and walk out through the door. He won’t ask or think where the door is. He can see it; there is no need to think. We think only about what we cannot see. The blind man thinks; the one with eyes passes through. The logical person thinks and thinks and thinks—concluding by thought. His conclusions are products of thinking; they lack living experience.

So, Chandrasekhar, you say, “I am not superstitious.”

Then you are certainly blind—blind with the blindness of logic.

And you say, “For the last five years I have been in your company through discourses and books.”

Is that a way of being in someone’s company? Yes, a logical person will do just that. He will hear what I say, but he will miss what is unsaid. And the unsaid is the truth. Speaking is only a device. Around the said, the unsaid is wrapped and sent. With the support of the said, the unsaid is poured into the heart. If you cling to the said, it is as if the medicine was given in a bottle—you threw away the medicine and carefully kept the bottle.

Words are only bottles. The wine is wordless.

You can listen to me through logic; there will be no satsang, no true company. Yes, my words may seem right to you, and you may be impressed by them. But that rightness and impression will remain confined to the intellect. You will become knowledgeable, a pundit—but not a lover. And only the lover has wisdom. What does the pundit have? Rubbish. He gathers the useless. He misses the essential and grabs the means.

Understand it thus: I point my finger to the moon; you seize my finger and say, “This is the moon.” Then, however lovely this finger may be, you have missed. The finger is not the moon. However lovely—whether it belongs to Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, or Mohammed—the finger is not the moon; it is only a gesture toward it. If you want to see the moon, you must let go of the finger.

You say, “Through your books and discourses I am in your company.”

You are clutching the finger, Chandrasekhar. When will you raise your eyes to the moon? And the result is clear. You say: “Yet nothing has happened.” How will anything happen? You are not allowing it to happen. Has anything ever happened through words? How vast is our wealth of words! We have the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Gita, the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada—what wondrous edifices of words we possess. But what do they give?

By memorizing the Quran you do not become Mohammed. Yes, if you become Mohammed, whatever you speak will be the Quran. By analyzing the Dhammapada you do not become Buddha. Yes, if you become Buddha, then whatever you utter is the Dhammapada. From scripture no one attains realization; but when realization happens, from that Himalayan peak of experience the Ganges of scripture flows—inevitably flows.

You have grasped my words. You have found them sweet; that is why you have come here. The day I become dear to you, that is another matter altogether—utterly different. It has nothing to do with my words. Then true company happens. Only then can something occur; before that, it cannot. Then you are connected to me.

What is sannyas?—To be connected with me, despite my words. If tomorrow I do not speak, if I sit here in silence, there will remain no reason for Chandrasekhar to sit here. Understand: if tomorrow I sit here silent, and the day after I remain silent again, Chandrasekhar will soon take leave. “What is the point now?” But still some people will remain sitting here. Those who remain are connected with me; what have they to do with words? I used to speak, so they would listen to my speaking; now I do not speak, so they will listen to my silence. Their relationship is with me. But the one who came to hear words—when I stop speaking, he will depart that day. He has no further purpose.

Sannyas means: I am more than what I say. I am not the sum of my sayings. What I say is nothing. What I want to say cannot be said. What I want to say, I cannot say; no one has ever been able to say it. To know that, you will have to fall in love with me; you will have to become a little mad.

And that is what you call blind faith. By using the label “blind faith” you have closed that door—the door of love. You have named it blind faith. You do not yet know faith, nor the eye of faith. But your logic has already decided: “I am not blindly faithful.”

Good man! First have a little experience! Taste a little! Try a little faith! Do not decide before you have tasted.

And I tell you: even if faith were blind, it sees farther and deeper than logic’s eye. If you had to choose between logic’s eye and the blindness of faith, I would tell you: choose the blindness of faith. If you had to choose between the eye of mathematics and the blindness of love, I would tell you: choose the blindness of love. For what will you gain by mathematics? You will gather rubbish and shards. You will become crafty, clever, skillful. But you will miss life’s ultimate treasure. Only the lover knows and attains that treasure.

So my request is: before you have the experience of faith, do not name it, do not label it. Once we stick a wrong label on something, we stop going toward it.

Imagine: if a temple door bears the label “Toilet,” you will not enter; what need remains? Finished. And if the toilet bears the label “Temple of Lord Hanuman,” you will be inclined to go—one should go!

People are greatly influenced by labels. So fix labels with much awareness. People live by labels; they get moved by words. Words have become the directors of your life.

Say nothing; do not label. You have not yet known this temple. Take a few steps into the temple of faith. If it does not suit you, you can turn back. But taste it once. And I tell you: whoever has tasted has never returned. Then, however much you tempt him with logic, he says, “Keep your toys to yourself.” Something precious has come into his hands; he no longer gets entangled with toys.

Logic is like a man collecting colorful pebbles. Faith is like chancing upon a diamond mine. One who has found a diamond mine no longer fiddles with colored pebbles: “You play, brothers. You decide whether God is or is not. You assemble proofs. You argue. You take sides. I have dived—and I have crossed.”

Though to one standing on the shore it seems: “What is this? You are drowning midstream!” He does not know there is a joy in drowning—a way of drowning and arising. To a man chained to logic, a man of faith looks like this: “Poor fellow, he’s finished—he’s drowned!”

All props of those stricken by love’s pain have broken.
Yesterday our boat sank; today the shore itself has gone under.
You grabbed the shore in fear of storms.
We clashed with the storms—poor us, we drowned.
Behold the lovers’ courage, behold the lovers’ fate:
They set out supported by the heart, and by the heart they drowned.
What once awakened the dawn now made evening out of morning.
The very stars that lit the night have sunk.
The boat was of no use, nor the clever tending of the wind.
Those who came to ferry us across—along with us, they drowned.
Behold the lovers’ courage, behold the lovers’ fate:
They set out supported by the heart, and by the heart they drowned.

Love drowns. Love effaces. Logic saves. But because logic “saves” you, you remain encircled by the ego. Love drowns; the ego disappears. Love is self-annihilation—and in that very annihilation the flower of the divine blooms. If you look from the outside, you will get into confusion and draw the wrong conclusions. If someone is drowning midstream, you will say, “We told you not to go—don’t wade in blindly; you’ll drown! We are the sensible ones; we are safe on the shore!”

But you do not know: because you are “safe,” you are perishing; and because that man is perishing, he is arriving.

Remember Jesus’ saying: “Those who try to save themselves will lose themselves; and those who dare to lose themselves will be saved.”

Come to the temple of faith! Climb down a little from the skull, Chandrasekhar! Go a little into the heart! Step down from thought into feeling—take a dip in the well of feeling! That is all sannyas means.

Now you ask: “Nothing has happened yet. I have come with the desire to take sannyas.”

Even that desire will be a product of logic. I will not give you sannyas if you want to take it because of logic. Because there is no telling with me: today I say one thing; it appeals to you and you take sannyas; tomorrow I say the opposite; it won’t appeal and you will be in trouble. And I do change my sayings every day. Only those whose relationship is of love can remain with me. If you stop because of a “saying,” one day you stop; the next day you find, “This has gone wrong—now he has said something else; this does not appeal.” One thing appealed; you stayed. One thing does not; now what? But for one to whom “sayings” are not the issue—one to whom I appeal—he remains. If I say “God is,” he remains; if one day I say “There is no God,” he still does not mind; he remains. He alone is a sannyasin. He says, “Whatever you do, whatever you say, we are staying. We will not be entangled in what you say. Now we have begun to glimpse what is behind your words. Now our relationship is with that.”

A desire has probably arisen in your mind: “If reading books brings so much joy, if understanding ideas gives so much pleasure, why not take sannyas? Perhaps more joy will come!” You will get into a mess. And putting people into a mess is my trade.

It happens often: someone hears one of my statements; it fits him perfectly. The next day—I do not let that statement survive long—I contradict it myself. I am paradoxical. I demolish it. Because I do not want to trap you in any statement, I demolish it. I want to take you to where all statements end. So I say—and I erase. With one hand I build, with the other I raze. Because I want to take you to that space where all thought is emptied, all logic dissolves, where the mind has no ripple, where everything is unstirred. You like one ripple and you come to me. Tomorrow I will erase that ripple—then your heart will have a hard time.

In these twenty years it has happened many times. Many kinds of people have come and gone. This is my way of sifting people. But some people have sat and stayed. See how that tree sits here, spreading its roots! Some have sat and simply sat. They have settled in. They say, “Push us as you like; say this or that—we do not listen to words. Something beyond words has begun to happen.” They are the sannyasins—who have sat like that.

So, Chandrasekhar, if you are ready for sannyas, do not take it from logic. Take it from love. Then something will happen. If you take it through logic, trouble will come. First, taken from logic, true sannyas will not happen. And when true sannyas does not happen, after a few days you will think, “I even took sannyas, and still nothing is happening. Still nothing has happened! What kind of thing is this? I’ve been dyed in ocher, turned into a fool. Now, wearing a mala, wherever I go people laugh—and still nothing has happened: no God, no liberation, no meditation—nothing.”

Sannyas has not happened; therefore nothing else can happen. You took sannyas with logic, by calculation, by arithmetic, out of cleverness. Leap in foolishness. Leap in madness. Put logic aside. Look at me. Do not worry about what I am saying. Listen to the gaps between my words. Dive into the silence between two lines—then you will understand me. Then the indication will be recognized. Then a sannyas will happen in which, day by day, you will come closer to me. And in that coming closer, buds will flower, blossoms will open, stars will appear. All that happens on its own.

But the first thing must happen first. If the first does not happen, everything is difficult. If the first happens, all the rest follows. If the seed is sown, sooner or later the rains will come, the sprout will break forth. But if the seed has not been sown, even if rain comes, from where will the sprout arise?

And remember: the seed is of faith; logic has no seed. Logic is a pebble—barren. Nothing has ever been born of it, and nothing ever can be. The intellect is sterile. Whatever is born is born of the heart. Take sannyas from the heart, and much will happen—day by day it will go on happening. You will hardly be able to believe how it is happening, out of what emptiness it keeps happening. If the first thing happens, the rest happens by itself.

Shivanand, you are truly blessed! This color is not mine; it is the color of the Divine. You see me; I see the Divine. You are drowning in “my” color—but I have no color. This color is only the Divine’s. Very soon you will find, as you go on drowning, that I have stepped aside and the Divine has revealed itself. That is the very meaning of the guru.

One hand of the guru is in the hand of the Divine, and one hand is in the hand of the disciple. Thus the guru becomes a bridge. Do not stop at the guru; go beyond the guru. Take the support of the guru to reach the place where no support is needed.

So yes, I do dye you in my color—and then quickly remind you that it is not mine. What color could be mine? I am not—how could I have a color? The color is his alone. I am only an instrument.

Understand it this way: I am a sprayer; the color is his. Does a sprayer have a color? I am a flute; the melody is his. Does a flute have a melody of its own? You can see the flute because as yet you lack the capacity to see his invisible lips. But if even the flute has become visible, it won’t be long before his invisible lips too become visible.

For the one to whom the guru has become visible, the vision of the Divine is not far. Half the journey is done.

You are blessed! Drown in this color! Keep on drowning. Soon you will find that you set out to drown in me and drowned in the Divine. Let me become a doorway for you—that alone is the purpose of this sannyas.

“As darkness in the eyes on the night of new moon;
like a jamun‑purple drop in the rippling waters of the Yamuna.”

Drown just like that!

“In this way my mind is no longer mine, mother.”

You speak rightly. If you became a failure, you became useful. Now your mind will no longer be yours. You will step aside, and I will be enthroned in your place. And then, at the next step—midway in the journey—I too will dissolve, and only the Divine will remain.

You have embarked on this wondrous journey, and you have already completed half of it. For this I thank you. Sadhu! Sadhu!

That’s all for today.