Hari Bolo Hari Bol #2

The jnani’s language is the language of mathematics. The language of mathematics will be austere. God is not austere; but if you look at God through the language of mathematics, he will appear austere. The language of mathematics is a lens on your eyes.

God is neither harsh nor tender; neither compassionate nor wrathful. There is no way to capture God in words soaked in duality. God is beyond dualities. But whenever man thinks, he has only two tools—either the language of logic or the language of love; either mathematics or poetry. The jnani has chosen the language of mathematics. That language has virtues and it has hazards. Its virtue is clarity—clean, precise. Its danger is this: because it is clear, clean, self-ruled, whatever you see through it—God included—will seem strict and ruled by law.

The language of love has its gain and its loss as well. The gain is that God will not seem stern; he will seem compassionate, kind. You will be able to set out to seek him with ease; the journey won’t feel so arduous. But there is a loss: because you look toward God filled with feeling, your sense of urgency in life may weaken; torpor and lethargy can creep in.

The jnani’s danger is that he becomes dry. The bhakta’s danger is that he becomes lazy—“God is gracious; what’s the hurry? His grace is infinite; I’ll receive it. It’s only a matter of calling.”

The jnani, afraid of strict laws and the peril of missing, sets about changing his life. He strengthens it, carves it, colors it, gives it form—and with intensity, as though a naked sword were poised at his chest.

The bhakta falls asleep. He says, “What’s the hurry? Everything is in the Beloved’s hands. What are my sins against his mercy?”

These are the gains, and the losses come along with them. The jnani sees God as law and dries up himself. You will become like the God you carry: as your God is, so will you be. In the jnani’s life there is a mathematical neatness, but no poetry is born. No song resounds. No dance, no celebration. He becomes grave, melancholy, worried. If one walking toward God becomes anxious, how will he arrive? He becomes afraid. And where there is fear, where is liberation? Fear makes one shrink, and it is only in expansion that union is possible.

He is expansion. The whole existence is his expansion. When we, too, expand, we meet him. Become like him, and you meet him.

The jnani shrinks, hardens. He is harsh not only with himself but with others. Fall into the hands of a jnani and he will begin to torment you—molding you until you become mechanical. He becomes mechanical and makes you mechanical too. This is knowledge’s danger.

The bhakta is simple, spontaneous, assured, free of worry. He is not afraid. When his Beloved sits at the center of the universe, what fear can there be? In his imagination there are no hells; no flames of hellfire. He expands—easily expands. He dances, sings, celebrates. If there is God, then life should be a festival. A current of nectar flows within him.

These are the gains. But there are fools in the world who extract harm from everything. There are fools who pull a blanket over themselves and sleep. They say, “If he is all, and his compassion is boundless, why should we worry? Why take any care?”

Beware: these differences of language can cost you dearly! It all depends on you—how you use them. A wise person uses even a wrong situation so that the right result emerges, while a fool uses the right situation in such a way that it turns harmful. But these differences are only of language. They reveal nothing about God; they reveal the seeker who has set out to find God.

If you listen to Mahavira’s words one thing is clear: Mahavira is pure mathematics. This tells you nothing about God, because God is one; whether it is Mahavira’s God or Meera’s makes no difference. But Mahavira is as clean and exact as a mathematician. Students of the history of philosophy say: what Albert Einstein said twenty-five centuries later, Mahavira had said twenty-five centuries earlier—the theory of relativity.

There is a kinship between Mahavira and Albert Einstein—both see in a similar way: coherent, well-reasoned. And Mahavira suffered no loss on that account. He was neither dry nor sad. Where will you find such ecstasy! Such joy, such wonder! No harm came to Mahavira. Using the well-ordered rigor of mathematics, step by step he reached God—became God.

But those who followed after him—his followers—do not seem to reach anywhere. Mathematics has become a noose round their necks. They only balance accounts, keep ledgers, tallying sin and merit. “How much sin accrues from this, how much merit from that”—this is all they are occupied with. In the lives of the followers the relish of Mahavira is missing; the ecstasy is missing. That gait of Mahavira, that grace—is nowhere to be seen. Although Mahavira was naked, even Krishna in his most splendid garments was not so beautiful. Granted, Mahavira wore no peacock-plume crown—but why wear one? Beauty is beautiful even naked. Mahavira’s beauty lacked nothing. It is said that never again has a man as beautiful as Mahavira walked the earth. Perhaps he was so beautiful that clothes were unnecessary. That must be why he was nude: so beautiful that to put anything upon that body would have been to mar it.

You’ve seen it: the less comely a woman, the more she delights in ornaments. A beautiful woman becomes free of ornaments. Whenever the women of a people grow in beauty, ornaments bid farewell. A woman laden with jewelry announces only her lack of beauty; she hides it with jewelry, imposes borrowed beauty upon herself. If a face lacks beauty, a diamond in the nose will charm you—at least the diamond will charm, its sparkle will charm! If the hands are not beautiful, the tinkle of bangles on them may give you a sense of music. Those who are not beautiful in themselves, wrapped in garments, may produce an illusion of beauty.

The more the ugliness, the more the ornaments, the cosmetics, the arrangements. A beautiful woman is beautiful in herself. Ornaments would fragment her beauty.

Perhaps that is why Mahavira stood naked—his beauty was unparalleled, the grace of his being unique. The mathematical vision did not kill him or harm him. Nothing harms a wise man; he can turn even poison into medicine. But those who came behind him are stuck with arithmetic. Their lives are being spent in bookkeeping. They have forgotten ecstasy. When is there leisure to dance? The accounts never quite balance. When to sing? When to play the veena? When to lift the flute?

And remember, to play the flute it isn’t necessary to press one to the lips. The flute can play in silence. So it was with Mahavira. The flute was certainly playing. There was a rare magnetism in that person—attraction without any ostentation.

Then there is Meera—who danced, who sang, who saw God through feeling. For her, God is not a law. Laws belong to courts. For her God is not a judge. Can anyone love a judge? A judge is stern. A judge should have no personality at all—only then will his justice be impartial. If even a trace of tenderness enters, justice will totter. If someone stands before him for whom he has attachment, love, justice will become lenient. Justice will not be fulfilled. Or if he has hostility, enmity, justice will go awry—become excessively harsh. A judge must be free of love and attachment, impartial. No emotional state should be present.

You have seen: everywhere in the world we have designed special robes for judges. Not only robes—we even provide false hair for their heads, so that their personality is dismissed. After all, a man is a man—he has a wife, children, friends, enemies—he is a human being. We strip his personality from him. We seat him as a fabricated person. We tell him: forget that you are part of society. Your wig, your clothes, your manner of sitting; the way lawyers will address you—“My Lord!” as if God himself were seated there. The lawyers know well there is no such “My Lord,” but the proclamation must be as though a stern God sits there—impartial, distant, with no connection to us, who will proceed by pure rule.

Meera’s God is not a judge. Meera’s God is the Beloved. He is dancing with Meera. He is playing the rasa with her. His hand is in hers. Meera is dancing to his tune; and Meera, on her own tune, makes him dance. This is a relationship of great attachment, great love, drenched in nectar. Yet there is no deficiency in Meera—she is in no way less than Mahavira. So drenched in rasa, so love-filled, calling God with such feeling and life-breath, Meera arrived at the same place where Mahavira arrived through his strict austerities. Where Mahavira reached through penance and fasting, Meera reached singing and celebrating.

But there are many devotees too—so-called devotees—who are only pulling a blanket over themselves and sleeping; who say, “What is there to do? The Beloved sees all; he does all. Our sins—what are they? He will forgive. When we meet, we will bow at his feet and ask forgiveness. Our sins are petty; his compassion is boundless. Why should we trouble ourselves?” Lethargy is being born. Tamas is being born.

If the bhakta errs, tamas is produced. If the jnani errs, sadness, dryness, desert—every greenery departs, flowers cease to bloom. Spring does not come again.

Avoid the errors. Which language you choose is not of great concern. Just take care not to draw wrong conclusions from it. Then you can arrive by any path.

The jnani, speaking about God, is speaking about himself. The truth is, whenever we say anything about God, we are saying something about ourselves. Nothing can be said about God. He is ineffable, indescribable. And if one must say something about God, none of our words will do—neither love nor law. Our words are ours—small words, like our small courtyards. How will you fit the sky into these little courtyards? And yet it is not that there is no sky in your courtyard—there is a fragment of sky, not the whole. In the same way, each of our words can hold only a fragment of God, never the whole.

But human delusion and dogmatism are such that when we assert, we exaggerate. We forget our courtyard is small and proceed to call it the whole sky. The bhakta makes this mistake: from his small courtyard he declares, “God is love—and nothing else.” The jnani makes the same mistake: “God is law—and nothing else.”

I want to tell you: everything that has been said about God is true. And everything that has not yet been said but will be said someday is also true. And there are things that neither have been nor can ever be said—those too are true. God is vast, infinite. We will never exhaust him by speaking. All our languages will prove small. All our measures will prove small. How much of him can we pour into our tiny cups? The ocean is vast.

Aristotle was walking along the seashore when he saw a man who seemed mad. With a tiny teacup he kept drawing water from the ocean and pouring it into a small pit he had dug in the sand. He would run, fill the cup, pour it, run again, pour again. Aristotle kept walking, and kept silent—why interfere in another’s work? But his curiosity grew strong. He could not restrain himself. He said, “I should not interfere, but I do not understand what you are doing. You bring a teacup of water and pour it into this hole in the sand—it vanishes. You run again; by the time you return, the earlier water has been drunk by the sand. What are you doing? To what purpose?”

The man said, “I have decided to pour this entire ocean into this pit.” Aristotle began to laugh. “You are mad,” he said. Hearing this, the man laughed even more loudly. He said, “If I am mad, Aristotle, consider yourself. What are you doing? Is this skull of yours any larger than a teacup? Filling it again and again, you are trying to exhaust God.”

This is exactly what Aristotle had been doing all his life. He was a man of logic—the father of logic in the West. His very work was to make the whole of existence transparent by the method of logic. That man gave Aristotle a jolt. He must have been a knower, a carefree fakir who came to awaken Aristotle. From that day a great change came into Aristotle’s life. The old stiffness was gone. Whenever he sat to think, he remembered that man—the teacup, the ocean water, the pit.

What more can human intellect do? Whatever man says about God, he says about himself—about his eyes, his way of seeing, his way of living.

Choose what resonates with you, and move accordingly. But remember this much: every path has gains, every path has hazards. Beware of the hazards. There is no path without the possibility of harm. The greater the gain, the greater the possibility of harm. Gain and harm are always in proportion.

The second question is also somewhat related to the first. The second question is:

Games have rules—of course they do. Not just “also games have rules”; rightly understood, only games have rules. And love is not a game. Only when love is not a game does prayer take birth.

What you are calling love is a game; therefore it has rules. Between husband and wife there are rules. Otherwise, what is marriage? The whole play is run by rules. The band will play, the groom will ride a horse, the bride will be decked out, the procession will go forth—these are all rules. Through these rules a suggestion is being driven deep into the mind that something very important is happening. He may never have sat on a horse in his life—but today he mounts one. They call the groom “king,” he wears a peacock plume, a dagger dangles at his side—a dagger that couldn’t cut even vegetables!—but it gives him a strut. He is dressed in such special garments that if he wore them on an ordinary day people would gather around and ask whether he had lost his mind. All this is to stamp your mind with the impression that something momentous has occurred.

Then there are mantras, worship and ritual, the sacred fire, seven circumambulations around it. The priests chant Sanskrit you do not understand—neither do they. Something “special” is happening! An aura of specialness is manufactured. Seven rounds are taken, a knot is tied, vows are administered before society, in the presence of all. Society seals it. These are the rules of the game.

A gentleman once came to me and said, “I am very troubled. Since the day I married this woman, I have not known peace.” I said, “If there is no way forward, then separate.” He replied, “How can we separate? We have taken seven rounds.” I said, “Then take seven rounds in reverse—what else will you do? After all, they were just rounds; there is a way out. Have the band play again, mount the horse again—this time sit backwards. Gather the people again, walk the reverse rounds, untie the knot and say, ‘Namaskar.’”

But precisely to keep divorce impossible for centuries, we denied that opportunity, because if divorce is possible, the seriousness of the marriage game collapses. It will begin to look like what it is: a game. If divorce can happen, marriage begins to appear as play. If divorce cannot happen, then marriage seems not to be a game. In a game you can step out. You sit to play cards; if you don’t wish to continue you get up. A game can be stopped at any time. To fix in your mind that marriage is not a game, divorce was blocked. And wherever divorce has become easy, there marriage is receding. It will recede—because when it is understood to be a game, play as long as you wish; when you don’t, end it. There is no need to suffer.

Love—the love Sundardas is speaking of, or I am speaking of—is not play. It is about rising beyond play. In this world, only one thing is not a game: the Divine. Everything else is play. The name of joining with the Divine is love. How could there be rules there? For if there are rules, they can be broken. If there are rules, they can be kept. If there are rules, tricks can be invented to dodge them. Every rule can be outwitted.

But the relationship between the Divine and man is not of rules—it is of nature. It isn’t a regulation that man is joined to God; it is destiny. It is the order of existence. It isn’t a rule that the tree is joined to the earth. The tree is the earth itself, its very hue. The earth has poured its green into the tree, its red into flowers. The fragrance hidden in the earth has blossomed through the trees; a tree is the earth’s outstretched hand toward the sky. It is the earth’s longing to touch the moon and stars, the earth’s urge to dance, to be intoxicated. The tree is not connected to the earth by some statute—it is a part of the earth.

As the tree is one with the earth, so man is one with the Divine—His unfolding, His expansion. The day this is recognized, love awakens. That love has no rules. It is itself its own law.

You ask: “They say even games have rules.” Games do have rules. In truth, a game depends upon rules. That’s why in a game people do not break the rules. Break a rule and the game ends. Any rule you break—game over.

You sit to play cards; you must agree that this is a king, this a queen. You also know it is a piece of paper—neither king nor queen. You cannot stand up and declare, “We do not accept kings and queens; we are democrats.” The game ends; then what will you play? Without king and queen the game won’t run. They have gone from life, but they remain in the deck—and there they will remain.

They say that in the world to come only five kings and queens will be left—four in the deck of cards and one in England. The rest are gone; and even the English one, king or queen, is like a card—no power, only a name, a part of the game. No need to overthrow it.

Games depend upon rules. You cannot run your own rules. In play the rules are agreed. If you are playing chess you cannot say, “I will decide my own moves—how the knight moves, how the bishop moves, how the queen moves. There is no necessity that they move so; I will make my own.” The other will make his own—game finished.

A game is a compromise. It runs only by mutual consent to the rules.

Those whose lives run by rules are living a game of cards, a chess game. Seek something in life that is not a rule—that alone is truth. Seek something for which you have made no agreement, which will not collapse when you stop agreeing, something that is not your contract. All games are contracts.

So I say to you—you asked, “They say even games have rules.” I say only games have rules. And if your life is nothing but rules, you are caught in nothing but games. When will you ever know the real? How will you know it? Seek something beyond rules, which does not fit into rule. There you will find the door. Sundardas has called that love. And it is possible.

The obstacle is that what you have taken as love is a game. And you play it with great seriousness—no doubt about it. People have drawn swords over chess. Quarrels over cards have lasted a lifetime. People play very seriously. You have to play a game seriously; otherwise you will see that it is a game and wonder, “What are we doing?” If you don’t take it seriously, its foolishness becomes obvious.

Imagine a traveler from space landing—soon they will; flying saucers are flitting about—he comes and watches your games: football, volleyball. He will be bewildered: “Have these people gone mad? They throw a ball here and there—are they crazy? And thousands watching them—what are they watching? Such noise, even riots!” He will not understand at first what is happening. What is this? What for? If the ball is to be thrown that way, throw it; if this way, throw it—then go home. Or if it’s such a problem, keep two balls—each side throws its own, enjoy yourselves. But so much fuss—and so many people to watch! Where is the essence? What is the meaning?

There is no meaning. We have invested games with seriousness—heavy seriousness. Games are our device to avoid direct violence. Through games we enact fake violence and get the satisfaction of having defeated the other. It seems crude to sit on someone’s chest and pound him with your fists; it still happens, but it’s crude—so we devised techniques: “We won’t punch you; we’ll take it out on the ball.” The ball is the symbol: thrash the ball and you are thrashed. We find these devices. To punch someone directly looks uncivilized; we have invented excuses. Man is clever; he finds refined pretexts.

I have heard of a court case. Two men had cracked each other’s heads. The magistrate asked, “What happened?” Both looked at each other: “You tell him.” Finally the magistrate said, “Speak, or I’ll have both of you thrashed and jailed. How did the fight begin?”

They said, “What to tell you? We are friends. We were sitting on the riverbank, chatting in the sand. He said he was going to buy a buffalo. I told him, ‘Don’t buy a buffalo, brother, someday it will stray into my field. We have old friendship; there will be trouble. I cannot tolerate a buffalo in my field; I will beat it. You are stubborn; you won’t bear it either. Our friendship will be ruined for nothing. Don’t buy a buffalo.’ He said, ‘Who can stop me from buying a buffalo? If I wanted to buy it yesterday, I will buy it today. Who are you? What is your field? And don’t “imagine” it will enter—assume it will! Do whatever you like. I’ve seen many barkers like you—barking dogs don’t bite!’ He provoked it. I drew a line in the sand: ‘Here is my field; let your buffalo enter!’ He drew a line: ‘Here is my buffalo; let it enter! What can you do?’ And that’s how our heads got broken.” Now what could they say? He hadn’t bought a buffalo, nor did I yet have a field—I am only thinking of buying land.”

Man finds excuses; violence finds a support and breaks out. Your relish for games has other reasons: competition, inferiority, being beaten in life; so somewhere else…

If you go to a university, you will be surprised: the star athletes there are all dunces. There is a reason. They got beaten in one area—mathematics, language, science—so they must beat something else! They too have to survive, maintain a little self-respect. They kick a football, wield a hockey stick. In universities—I lived long in them—I know: those who are celebrated athletes are precisely those who never pass exams. But they find a way; they command respect. So much respect that even if they don’t pass, they are passed—lest they transfer to another college or university, taking the trophies with them. Competitions, college prestige are tied to them. They are retained, coaxed to stay. Their fees are waived, scholarships granted. There is nothing “scholar” about them—that’s why they are sportsmen.

Everyone finds some route, some trick. All kinds of games go on in this world, and behind them, more hidden games. Find at least one thing that is not a game—where your ego isn’t involved, your violence isn’t involved, your inferiority, jealousy, competitiveness aren’t involved. Find one thing. Sundardas calls that love. That love has no rules. That love is sufficient. When it descends into a life, everything else falls into place on its own. Such a life has a beauty, a truth—not cultivated. Cultivated truth has no value. Such a life has conduct—not practiced. Practiced conduct is worthless; it is hypocrisy. Within, a spontaneous conduct arises. One who has loved the Divine radiates a spontaneous aura. It happens because of that love. There is a grace, a divinity—not a divinity achieved by practice, nor a “character” achieved by effort. The kind of “character” you talk about is not there. There is a unique quality for which we lack a word. Only “sahaj”—natural, effortless—expresses it. Such a person is sahaj; he lives moment to moment, in naturalness.

The day came when Socrates was to be given poison. He had been sentenced by the court; from that day his hands and feet had been chained. On the day he was to be killed, that morning his chains were removed from hands and feet. A disciple came weeping: “I have news. Your chains will be removed today because by evening they have fixed the time to kill you.” He wept that Socrates would die. Socrates said, “Why are you crying? These chains were heavy; my ankles are wounded. How good that they’re coming off.”

When the shackles were cut, he was delighted. His disciples wept—the end was near—he rejoiced. He said, “Why are you crying, you fools? Look at my joy! Because of these chains I couldn’t walk; my hands and feet were full of sores. The pain was from the chains; the pain is gone—and you are crying!”

One said, “What are you saying? This pain is nothing. By evening you will be given poison and you will die.”

Socrates said, “Evening is far away. Have I not told you all your life—live moment to moment? Evening is far—who knows if it will come? When it comes, we will see.”

This is natural living: in this moment, whatever happens naturally. Socrates is jubilant because the chains are off. Then evening came. Socrates lay down, waiting for the poison. Again and again he got up and looked out the window; the poison was being prepared. He asked, “Brother, how much longer?” The poisoner said, “I have prepared poison for many; it’s my life’s work. Whoever the court condemns, I prepare the dose. But you are the first to ask again and again, as if some great fortune is arriving. And I have love for you. I have heard your words and found great joy in them. So I am delaying, so you may live a little longer. I am grinding the poison slowly—an extra quarter hour of life for Socrates. Why are you in such a hurry?”

Socrates said, “Because I have seen much of life; now I want to see death. I have lived life fully; now I want to live death. What is death? I am eager to see it. It is my inquiry.”

This is an unparalleled conduct.

Then the poison was given. His disciples wept. He said, “Do not weep. I will die; then you may weep as much as you like—you’ll have plenty of time. For now, be with me. My breath is still here; the poison will take time to spread, to take effect. Be with me till then. If anyone wishes to ask anything, ask now. Later you’ll have your whole life to cry; I will be gone. At least do not cry in front of me. All my life I have taught you to laugh, to dance, to sing—and you are crying!”

The disciples held their tears in their chests and sat quietly. Socrates said, “Now the poison has reached my knees; my knees are cold—so that part has died. But within I do not feel even a little that I have died. Now my body is dead up to my waist.”

He pinched himself here and there—no sensation. He said, “How astonishing—half my body is dead, yet I experience myself within as whole, not diminished. Now my hands too are cold. Now the beat of my heart is slowing. Now my tongue is beginning to falter.”

His last words were: “Now my tongue is faltering; perhaps I will not be able to speak another word. But let this be my testament: I tell you, I still experience myself within as entire, not the least diminished. If so much of the body can die and yet I am, then perhaps when the whole body dies I will still be. My fullness is unbroken.”

Socrates never proclaimed that the soul is immortal, because he said, “I have not died—how can I say so?” He did not propound a doctrine of immortality. But could there be a more beautiful expression of it than this?

This is a spontaneous proclamation, not a doctrine, not a logical conclusion— a living experience.

When a person joins himself to the Divine, experiences begin to arise in his life; all experiences change. The old rubbish floats away, as when a flood comes the riverbank’s gathered filth is washed off. When the flood of love comes, it carries all away. You do not have to straighten your character. If you try, you will still get it wrong—because the doer is you. You are the mistake. Whatever you do will be flawed. You are a deceiver; you have deceived others and you will deceive yourself. You are dishonest; you will not spare yourself either. You are not to be trusted. He is to be trusted.

Devotees trust Him. We open ourselves to Him—let His ray come, His wave come—and let it transform us! It does. No rules are needed. Love is the great law.

But there is your “love”—by that understand the difference from the love Sundardas speaks of.

The third question is also related; let us take it along. The third question is:

Good that it happened—don’t be troubled by it. That woman showed you great compassion. Usually women aren’t so compassionate. You must have found some compassionate goddess who said, “Why entangle the poor fellow!”

I have heard: Before the wedding the father said, “Son! You are getting married, but after the wedding there should be a reign of Peace in the house.” After the wedding the son followed his father’s command to the letter and named his wife Shanti (Peace).

What else will you do? The empire of Peace is established! And then the entanglements only increase; they don’t lessen.

I’ve heard another too— Opening his math book, the tenth son asked his father, humbly: “One and one together make how many?” “First two, then eleven!” the father replied. First two happen, then eleven. Then you get even more stuck; the whole world piles up on you.

“Saved his life and gained millions; the simpleton returned home.” Why are you worrying?

And now you ask, “What if love is not accepted?” Then seek the love that is always accepted—that is acceptance itself! Now lift your eyes to the sky. You’ve crawled on the earth long enough. How many times has your love even been accepted—and what did you gain? Those who weren’t accepted gained nothing, and those who were accepted gained nothing. Here there is nothing to be gained. In this world there is no such thing as “getting”; there are only the illusions of getting. Seek that love which is forever approved. Only your seeking is needed. Raise your hands in that direction, spread your hem in that direction—from where the treasure is eager to pour.

But no—you don’t even lift your eyes toward the Lord. Here you beg from another beggar. Even if the one you asked actually had love, it would be something—but does she have it? She is begging from someone else. Beggars begging from beggars. No one’s bowl seems to fill.

Go to those whose love was accepted and look at their state—wretched! And it isn’t that only men are wretched; women are just as wretched. This is not a man–woman issue. What you call love is a kind of delusion. You take the counterfeit for the real. Then—if not today, then tomorrow—the illusion breaks.

It happened in a madhouse: a politician came for an inspection. In one cell a man sat with an old, torn photograph clutched to his chest, crying and beating his chest. “What happened to him?” the politician asked. The superintendent said, “See the photo? He was in love with this woman. She didn’t accept his love. He went mad.”

They went on. In the next cell a man was smashing his head against the bars, trying to break the wall—violently insane, dangerous. Chains on his hands and feet, and a guard posted. “And what happened to this poor fellow?” “Better not ask,” said the superintendent. “That woman fell in love with him—and married him.”

The first writhes because he didn’t get the woman; the second writhes because he got the same woman. Here, those who get it suffer; those who don’t get it suffer.

You have escaped one entanglement, though I think you must already have fallen into another. No one gets free so quickly. You escaped one net and found another—and perhaps that’s why the first net returns again and again to your memory: this second has proved to be a net, so you imagine liberation lay in the first.

Liberation lies nowhere in that. Liberation never happens in a net. In this world, no relationship can give liberation. The very nature of worldly relationship leads to bondage.

And I am not saying that if you have a wife or husband you should run away. Just understand this: the time has come to lift your eyes upward. You lift your eyes—and let your wife lift hers too. You have both loved each other and tormented each other enough. Now lift your eyes upward. Now both of you love That. And you will be amazed: if both of you become prayerful, if both of you fall in love with God, then between you a stream of love will begin to flow that never flowed before. It is an ancillary flowering of being connected to the Divine.

On the wealth whose strength fueled your siege of love, today the bloom of that wealth has grown old. With the garment by which you veiled your edifice’s sores, the hand of mishap turned the garment inside out. In the palaces where you dreamt colorful dreams of separation, time’s earthquake brought the domes down. The blood has now congealed in your impatient heart; you are to be buried now in the grave of your longings.

Here, nothing else happens. All your dream-palaces collapse, and all your hopes become your shroud. The very hopes you cherished become the cause of your drowning. The sooner you wake up, the better.

So I say: your love wasn’t accepted—good. Thank that woman. Be grateful to her. And now lift your eyes toward God. Look a little above the earth—the sky is filled with moon and stars. Rise a little beyond the body—there dwells the nectar. Here there are only the games of ego. At most, you can hope there won’t be too much hassle. Life should pass with some convenience. Such people we call a “good couple.” No real joy is found; the only aim is not to give each other too much pain. That’s all. We call them a good couple—they don’t hurt each other much. The work goes on, the cart keeps rolling, not too much disturbance. Some sort of adjustment has been arranged.

But where will you arrive? That cart will fall into the grave. Whether you lived with convenience or inconvenience—what difference does it make? Ahead lies death. Before death, it is necessary to find the nectar. Love the nectar.

The nature of the world. The nature of dream. A dream is not real; therefore there can be no success in a dream.

You are asking a question like someone who mistakes the word “food” written on paper for actual food; he tears pages from a cookbook, chews them, and says, “The cookbook contains every kind of dish—then why doesn’t chewing its pages satisfy me?”

“Food” written on paper is not food. Money found in a dream is not money. Whatever is obtained in the world is not truly obtained—only seems so. Because you are asleep—and your being asleep is what is called the world.

What does “world” mean? These trees, this moon, these stars, this sun, these people—is this the world? Then you have misunderstood. The world means the sum total of your desires; the total of your dreams. The world is inside you, not outside. Your sleep, your condensed unconsciousness—that is what is called the world. In unconsciousness, whatever you do cannot bring fulfillment. In unconsciousness you don’t even know what you are doing. You are moving in a stupor. You are like a drunk.

One night Mulla Nasruddin came home very drunk. On the way he fell several times, banged into an electric pole, his face got bruised and scratched. He reached home at midnight and thought, “My wife will make a fuss in the morning: ‘You drank too much.’ And the proof is plain—wounds, scratches, skin peeled off the face. I must make some arrangement.” So he went to the bathroom and stuck belladonna plasters all over his face—by morning there should be some relief. “And at least I’ll prove that if I had been very drunk, would I have remembered to put on belladonna? I simply slipped on a banana peel on the way. When I reached home I tended to my wounds.”

He slept delighted. In the morning his wife said, “What happened to your face?” He said, “I fell down; my foot slipped on a banana peel. And listen, I wasn’t especially drunk. The proof is clear: I put on ointment and bandages over my whole face.”

She said, “Yes, there is proof. Come with me.” He had put the plasters on the mirror. The face was only showing in the mirror. “The evidence is there,” said his wife, “you certainly did the bandaging—you’ve ruined the entire mirror. Now I’ll be busy all day cleaning it.”

What can you trust a senseless man to do? Something or the other will surely be wrong.

The world is the name of your unconsciousness. That is why failure is inevitable.

Another night Nasruddin came home very drunk. Poor fellows who come home drunk have to make some arrangements. He slid into the room somehow, trying not to make a sound—but a sound happened anyway. His wife asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “Reading the Qur’an.” If one is doing such a good thing, even at midnight, how can you stop him? A religious act cannot be stopped. The wife got up and thought, “The Qur’an? At midnight? And I’ve never seen him read it!” She went and saw him nodding his head with an open suitcase before him.

“Where is the Qur’an?”

He said, “Right there in front.”

Whatever a man does in a stupor will be wrong.

You ask, “Why is failure inevitable in the world?”

Because the world is the name of your unconsciousness. And there are many kinds of unconsciousness. Not only the stupor of alcohol. The stupor of alcohol is actually the least. The real stupors are far deeper: the intoxication of position—office-drunkenness. Watch a man who attains office: his feet no longer touch the ground. Someone becomes prime minister, someone becomes president—he no longer walks on the earth, he sprouts wings. Office-intoxication! Someone gets wealth—wealth-intoxication. These are the real liquors. Compared to them, alcohol is nothing. You drink and in an hour or two the effect wears off. But these intoxications stick, they hound you all your life. They stay on.

There are many intoxications. And one who wishes to awaken must be watchful of every intoxication. There are only two ways to awaken—either take the sword of meditation and cut the roots of all your intoxications; or fill your eyes with the love of God. The remaining intoxications will run away on their own—they cannot remain in his presence. Either be filled with the love of God, or be filled with the meditation of the Self. These are the only two ways. These are the two gates out of the world. Choose the one that suits you.

You ask, “Why is failure inevitable in the world?”

Because that is the world’s nature.

Having wasted our years, only today do we recognize: The river rose and then receded, and the homes were left desolate.

Life comes and goes. The river rose and then receded, and the homes were left desolate. Life comes and goes; you are left desolate, you become a ruin. Life leaves you nothing; it takes things from you. It takes your capability. It takes your opportunities—the very opportunities by which you could have met the divine, you sold for a pittance. It takes your soul from you.

Below the surface it’s the same as above the surface. Where can the fish escape, when the whole water is a net?

Here the whole water is a net. Where can the fish escape? To find that way out is religion itself. How to be free here? This way is a net, that way is a net. Go east—it’s a net. Go west—it’s a net. Enter wealth, enter position, enter prestige—nothing but nets. Above and below—nets everywhere. But there is one place where there is no net: go within!

There are eleven directions; in ten directions there are nets; in the eleventh direction there is no net. And only the one who goes into the eleventh direction meets the divine.

God is in the eleventh direction.

If you understand life, one thing won’t take long to see—

At last we’ve grown accustomed to the tally of defeats; The graves of our hopes lie hidden among the flowers of memory.

Did the sun rise, or set, or thicken into gloom— Or is the earth flushed crimson only with our blood?

Never was the wealth of pain so lavish before; Wherever one goes, markets of wounds are set up.

A man may advance by the hundred, the distances never shrink; He keeps pushing it away, yet cannot disperse the haze.

Such is the state. Wherever you look, bazaars of wounds. Just raise your eyes and look around! The world is a vast hospital where every person is ill. Only rarely, once in a great while, does one find a healthy person—some Buddha, some Krishna, some Kabir. Once in a while you may meet a Dadu, a Rajjab, a Sundardas. In this entire hospital all are sick. Some in this way, some in that—the diseases have a thousand names. People have appropriated different kinds of illnesses.

And the strange thing is, the sick are not merely sick—they are mad as well. The proof of the lunacy of the sick is that they don’t admit their illness is an illness. They regard their disease as their good fortune, as their ornament. They defend it; they protect it.

In these twenty years I have had the chance to see the illnesses of thousands. And each time I discover that a man protects his illnesses. If he is told a way to be free of them, he won’t do it. He hides his illness, defends it, finds excuses and tricks, makes every arrangement against the medicine.

Never before was the wealth of pain so lavish; Wherever you go, bazaars of wounds stand.

Look closely, lift your eyes—everywhere chests full of wounds. All eyes filled with tears. All feet trembling—because death is coming, coming—it has already come! We are all standing amidst death. Our boat is about to sink. One thing is certain: this boat we sit in will sink; nothing else is certain. After birth, besides death, nothing at all is certain. All is uncertain—only death is certain.

In such a death-filled world, what else can there be but wounds?

A man may advance by the hundred, the distances never shrink. He keeps pushing it away, yet cannot disperse the haze.

And here nothing ever truly changes. It’s like walking to touch the horizon. It seems right there, so near—just a few steps more, a little more running—and you’ll reach. But you never reach the horizon, because the horizon is not—only an illusion. It appears, but it is not. The more you move toward it, the more it moves away. The distance between you and the horizon remains exactly the same.

A man may advance by the hundred; the distances don’t shrink. This is the world. You keep advancing, and the gap remains the same. You had ten thousand rupees, and you desired twenty thousand. Now you have twenty thousand—and now you desire forty thousand; the gap is the same. Tomorrow forty will come, and you will bring a desire for eighty; the gap the same—doubled. You wanted “double,” so you will keep wanting double. You were born wanting double; you will die wanting double.

And in this chase for doubling, you don’t even know what you have lost. You have lost God. You don’t even have an account of what this chase cost you, because you don’t know what could have been gained—what a rare opportunity this life was! When you meet Ram, then you will know. Those who have found become compassionate toward you. They weep for you, because they feel you can find it too. You too are eligible to be the master. But you do not listen. The saints call out—you don’t listen. Far from listening, you get annoyed. You oppose them. You say, “They won’t let us sleep in peace. Let us live our life our way.”

You are falling into a pit. If someone sees the pit and does not call out, what should he do? He calls, “There is a pit!” And you say, “Be quiet, because I can see a gold mine there.”

He says, “I have gone there, I have seen—there is no gold mine there; it shines only from afar. Distant drums sound sweet. Don’t run in vain.”

But you say, “Keep quiet. Don’t pour water on my hopes.” If I tell you—as I did while answering the previous question—“It is good your love was not accepted,” do you think the person will be pleased? He will be angry with me. He will say, “We came for a remedy; we came to ask for a technique; we came for a blessing so that by your blessing the matter may be settled.”

Another gentleman has written a similar question: “I have a wife, but I have fallen into ‘true love’ with another girl. Please bless me so that my ‘true love,’ my love from the heart, may create love for me in her heart as well.”

Now what should I tell this gentleman? What blessing should I give?

“True love!”—and it has happened with one girl? Then was the love that happened to Sundardas false? Was what happened to Rajjab false? Was what happened to Meera false?

And not only has he fallen into true love; on the strength of his true love, that woman must also feel true love toward him!

Go on a satyagraha! Spread your bed in front of her house and lie down. And there are loafers enough in every village—they’ll come. The news will get into the newspapers. Such are the items that get printed. Launch a satyagraha for true love: “Until this woman loves me, I will not eat. Until she herself brings me a glass of sweet-lime juice, I will not move.” Then your name will become widely known; you’ll be counted among great leaders; and if fortune favors, you might someday become a prime minister too. This is how people become prime ministers. Do satyagraha—don’t miss the chance.

This happened in one village. I say it because it has happened. A gentleman fell into the same kind of true love as you. Such misfortunes befall many; such troubles come to all. He went to a political leader for advice: “What shall I do? You always find a way.” And what would a politician know of love? He said, “There is no way but satyagraha! And if the love is true, then satyagraha must be done. Spread your bed in front of her house; sit firm; gather ten or five men to shout slogans and spread the news that a satyagraha is on. Until she agrees to marry you, keep the satyagraha going. Her father and mother will fear disgrace, and they will worry that now the whole village knows—marrying her elsewhere will be difficult. Create a crisis. And lie there with your eyes closed, ready to die if need be.”

The man did just that. The father panicked, a crowd began to gather, people raised slogans: “True love must triumph!” If the love is true, it must triumph! Who will listen to the poor father? Who will listen to the girl? The lover is virtually dying. When someone begins to die, people stop caring what is right or wrong—they listen to the dying. This is the key to satyagraha: the one ready to die becomes absolutely right. “He has staked his whole life—his demand must be just. Look at him, poor fellow! Majnu and Farhad did not do what this modern Majnu is doing.” Majnu and Farhad did not know satyagraha—Gandhi had not appeared yet.

The father got very worried. “What should I do?” He asked his friends. Newspapers carried the story, pressure mounted, the telephone rang nonstop, people encircled the house: “This satyagraha must end now—it’s a matter of a man’s life.” He asked, “Who advised him this?” It turned out to be such-and-such politician. “Then I should go to his rival for advice—politicians know each other’s tricks.” The rival said, “Don’t worry. I know a courtesan. She’s almost on her deathbed. Even if she dies, no harm done. She’s putrid. Bring her, costs five or ten rupees. Have her spread her bed there too. If that fellow asks, ‘Mother, why are you doing this?’ she should say, ‘I have fallen in true love with you.’ Start her satyagraha—there is no other way now. The man will run away that very night, because if there are two satyagrahas, it becomes very difficult.”

That is exactly what happened. When the woman came and spread her bedding, the man asked, “Mother, what are you doing?” She said, “I have fallen in love with you. The moment I heard of your satyagraha, true love arose in my heart.”

He said, “You were not the one I wanted to awaken love in. This arrow has missed the mark.”

But the woman said, “Until you serve me a glass of sweet-lime juice, I am not leaving—even if I die.” She was near death anyway. That night the young man packed his bed and ran away—left the village altogether, for the entire game had turned.

You ask that you have fallen into true love with some woman—then do satyagraha, brother! You won’t like what I say. You don’t want to be free of your illnesses. You give your illnesses pretty names.

How much love is your love? What depth, what truth? Today it is; tomorrow it evaporates. It vanishes like camphor. Momentary. A bubble on water. Great loves here have rotted into the dust. If love is truly true, it becomes prayer. There is no other way.

Such love will meet failure; such attachment will meet failure. But the mind does not accept—it says, “Others may fail; why must I?” The mind always uses one trick: it tells you that you are the exception, you are special.

A man reaches power. Before power, when others were in power, he shouted, “Power has corrupted them.” But regarding himself he thinks, “Power will not corrupt me.” Power corrupts everyone. The truth is, only those who wish to be corrupt are eager for power. One who does not wish to be corrupt—why would he be eager for power? The very eagerness for corruption, the convenience of being corrupt—that is what the pursuit of power is.

Everyone thinks others are erring, others are at fault; I am not. And the greatest fault is precisely this. The greatest fault is: “I am the exception.” Here no one is an exception. Here all loves are false, all attachments are false. I say this without exception—all. Don’t think I am saying it to others and not to you; that you are of a different order. No one is of a different order. In this world, whatever we construct is false. What he—the divine—has made is true; what we have made is false. Connect with what he has made and the world bids farewell. Connect with him and failure comes to an end—then there is only success. With him there is never a defeat. Alone, there is nothing but defeat.

Day and night you light lamps, foolish girl—yet you find only deep darkness. Who will now call you obstinate? This is your end.

Emptying the lap of night, moon and stars fled, In the darkness behind them, light went on ahead— And little by little, morning slipped from the eyes, A dense darkness fell— This is your end.

A desolation as far as the eye can see, a rancid shadow, What has hope gained flying from earth to sky? Darkness advanced on all four sides, worries encircled— A dense darkness fell— This is your end.

Who will gather the broken stars; from where will flame arise? Who will spread a bed on the sky? The flowers have withered. Who in this city will now come and make a home? Day and night you light lamps, foolish girl—yet you find only deep darkness. Who will now call you obstinate? This is your end.

Here all lamps will go out. Here all flowers will wither. Try as you may, it cannot be otherwise. Where you yourself must vanish and die, what standing can your love have? If you yourself will not remain, how will your acts remain? When you are here only for a moment, how can your relationships be eternal?

Think a little; it is simple arithmetic: how can the relationship of two momentary waves be eternal? Both are bound to fall, to vanish. If you must tie a bond, tie it with that which never perishes. Tie it to the ocean. And the wonder is this: one who ties himself to the ocean finds his bond with all waves forming on its own; and one who tries to tie himself to a wave cannot even tie himself to that wave—how will he ever be tied to the ocean?

Understand this secret. Understanding this secret brings a great revolution to life.

Ego even in sin—“a great sinner”! Will small-time sin not do?

Man’s ego is such that even if he speaks of sin, he wants to see himself as a great sinner. If someone else comes along and says, “I’m a bigger sinner than you,” a quarrel will start—“Who do you think you are? What do you take yourself for? Bigger and more sinful than me? No one is a bigger sinner than I am.”

Man must be great—wherever he is. If it’s wealth, he must be the wealthiest. If it’s position, he must hold the highest office. And if it’s sin, that will also do. But one thing must be there—“great”!

What sin have you committed? Picked a pocket? Robbed somewhere? Killed someone? “Great sin!” What great sin could it be? All small acts, all petty.

Remember this: the ego stands behind anything and feeds itself. It stands behind renunciation and says, “I am a great renunciate!” It stands behind virtue and says, “I am supremely virtuous!” It stands behind knowledge and says, “I am supremely wise!” Look—now it’s standing behind sin and saying, “I am a great sinner!”

One thing the ego wants: I must be unique, special, extraordinary!

Cut this root—this is the root of all sin.

So first I want to say to you: drop the word “great.” The moment this “great” falls, a big shift happens. Let the mansion of “great” collapse—if only the ruins remain, ninety-nine percent of the revolution has already happened. Because even the sins man commits are born of this very ego.

In Buddha’s time there was Angulimala. He wanted to prove himself the greatest murderer in the world. He had vowed to kill a thousand people and string their fingers into a garland. Hence the name “Angulimala”—his real name is forgotten. He wanted to be the greatest sinner.

I have heard: when Nadir Shah was returning from his victorious campaigns, a village held a celebration. It was his birthday. From four or six neighboring villages some beautiful courtesans came to dance. At midnight, when they started back, they were a little afraid. The road was dark, it was an Amavas night. Nadir Shah said, “Why are you afraid? Don’t worry!” He told his soldiers, “Set fire to every village along their way so there will be light.”

Even the soldiers hesitated. “What kind of order is this? Who knows how many children will die, how many women, how many people? The fields will burn!” But Nadir Shah said, “Don’t delay. Let it be remembered by those to come that even the courtesans who danced in Nadir Shah’s court, when they returned on a moonless night, their path was lit.” In the end, fires were set. Some six villages were burned down. The fields were all aflame.

How does this taste—this filthy relish—arise within a man? Nadir Shah wants to declare: no one greater than me in slaughter. I am a great sinner!

“Sinner,” fine—but the mind is not satisfied with “sinner”; it is satisfied with “great.”

Beware of “great.” To be ordinary is enough. And the one willing to be ordinary—I call that one religious.

Second: your religions have taught you that everything is sin—taste is sin, love is sin, everything is sin. Everything has been condemned. So you cannot live, you have shriveled up. I tell you: this is all play; there is no such thing as sin or virtue here. Neither sins here are real nor the virtues. It’s a play of play. Virtue is a somewhat better play—in it, others suffer less. Sin is a somewhat worse play—in it, others suffer. If you must play, play the game of virtue; but remember—it is only a game. The sins here are false, the virtues here are false.

Consider it like this: one night you dreamt you became a murderer and killed countless people. In the morning you woke and found, “Ah, it was all a dream—no one died, no one was killed.” Or you dreamt one night that you became a Buddha—begging bowl in hand, leaving a palace like gold, leaving your beautiful wife, leaving your child, meditating under the bodhi tree. Morning came, you woke, and discovered—there was no palace, no wife, you did not become a Buddha, there was no bodhi tree, no meditation. Do you really make a difference between these two dreams? Both are dreams. From the perspective of one who is awake, there is no difference. From the perspective of one who sleeps, there is.

So I say to you: if you must dream, then dream a virtuous dream. But the difference is only the difference between dreams; there is no fundamental difference. If you must dream, dream a good dream. If you dream of murder, you will be disturbed yourself. Even in a dream, murder is not easy. Panic will rise; enemies will chase you; you will have to guard your own chest. Fear will always cling. It’s a dream of sorrow. If you must dream, dream a good dream.

That, in my view, is the only difference between sin and virtue—a good dream versus a bad dream. And I am saying: if you must dream, dream the good one. But the real thing is to awaken from the dream—from both dreams: the sinner wakes from sin, the virtuous from virtue. The sinner comes out of sin; the virtuous comes out of virtue. Only then does religion begin.

The witness of your sin, the witness of your virtue—he is hidden within you. Find him. Don’t get entangled in dreams. Don’t get lost in their details: “What did I do, what did I not do, was it good, was it bad, should I have done this, should I have done that?” If you get tangled in details, you will never cross.

At every level—the lowest of the low and the highest of the high—only the One abides.

In the slow gait a waft of sandalwood; in the flourish, the gleam of pure gold.

In the lower note there is shade; in the higher note, sun.

It’s all his play—his sun, his shade.

In the lower note there is shade; in the higher note, sun.

All is his. And you must be free of shade and free of sun. You must know: I am the seer, the witness—I have seen the sun, I have seen the shade. I am separate from both.

And then what is your fault? As God made you, so you are. As the dreams were given, so you dreamt. This entire doing is his; do not become the doer in it. Leave it all to him. This is the path of devotion.

Do not be clever—dump the bad on him and keep the good for yourself. People often do exactly this. If they succeed, they say, “I succeeded.” If they fail, they say, “Fate.” If they fail: what to do—destiny wrote it so! If they fail: God did not support us. If they win, God is not remembered at all—then you are the one who wins. The devotee leaves both to him: the good and the bad, all yours. In that way he becomes carefree.

This is what Krishna told Arjuna in the Gita: leave everything to That. Surrender everything to me—“mam ekam sharanam vraja!” Don’t fret about good and bad. Do what God has you do; see what God shows you. You are merely an instrument.

Listen to these lines—

If this universe is not a malady within your power to cure,

then why did you create the universe?

If, having settled it, you were to lay it waste like this,

then why did you arrange this gathering?

Granted man bears the punishment for his sin—but

why did you give him the very sense of sin?

Having made man superior—above all things,

why incline him to strife?

Forgive the fault—man has no real blame;

your wrath has besieged him needlessly.

If there is no proof of crime, then why the punishment?

The sin is yours, the fault is yours.

These lines are beautiful, the words apt—the sin is yours, the fault is yours. But remember the other side too: when something auspicious, beautiful, and joyous showers in life, remember then as well—it is his compassion. His are the sins, his are the virtues; his the good, his the bad—everything is his. Such a mood is called devotion. And from devotion, the greatest revolution happens. The alchemy of devotion will bathe you, wash you clean, make you new.

So do not think of yourself as a great sinner, and do not think of yourself as supremely virtuous either. Neither great sinner nor great soul—only the seer, only the witness, pure consciousness—silent, ordinary, aware. He is the doer. Put all the burden on his shoulders. Become weightless. And then see how lovely life is! And then see—what a celebration life is!

That’s all for today.