Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #2

It is difficult to cultivate the state of witnessing. Is there any other way to reach the Divine besides witnessing?

No one can awaken thirst. Water can be sought, but there is no device to kindle thirst. If it is there, it is there; if it is not, one has to wait. There is no way to manufacture thirst by force—and there is no need either. When the time is ripe, when your life-energy has matured, thirst will arise. And it is good that nothing happens before its time.
Your mind is greedy.
Like a small child who hears talk of love, hears talk of sex—let Vatsyayana’s Kamasutra fall into his hands—and he begins to think, “How can such lust awaken in me?” Greed arises. But sexual desire cannot arise in a small child; one has to wait. Only when the seminal energy ripens does sexuality arise. In the same way as sexuality ripens, God-longing ripens too. There is no shortcut. Nor is there any need to hurry. But hearing such things, greed is stirred; the mind thinks, “When will union with God happen?” You hear Daya sing God’s praises, you see Meera swaying in ecstasy—and greed rustles within you too: “May I have such intoxication!” You have no real concern with God; it is the ecstasy that attracts you. You become a seeker of ecstasy. You see a drunkard swaying on the road and you feel a wish: “May I also be so transported!” You don’t care for the wine; you may not even know what wine is—but the man’s intoxication provokes envy in you.
Beware: in the presence of saints, either envy can arise or prayer can arise. If envy arises, you will get stuck. Then a great restlessness will be born in you—“Thirst is not there!” And if there is no thirst, what will you do if a stream of water flows by? If the throat itself is not dry, what use is the stream? Even if you drink without thirst, there will be no satisfaction—because only lack can be fulfilled. You may even feel like vomiting after drinking.
No—don’t rush. Be patient; trust. When the time comes, when you are willing and ripe, the thirst will come. And understand the meaning of ripeness: when the flavors of the world start appearing futile to you, then the flavor of the divine is born. You have not yet seen the futility of worldly flavors. My telling you they are futile will not make them so. How will they be futile for you just because I say so? Elders tell children, “Toys are useless; why waste your time?” But the child sees essence in his toys.
A little boy is talking to his doll. His mother says, “Stop this nonsense!” He runs off. The mother doesn’t understand why he ran so fast. A little later he returns without the doll and says, “Now what do you want to say?” The mother asks, “Why did you run like that?” He says, “If the doll had heard you, she would have felt hurt! I put her to sleep. Now tell me what you want to say.”
It seems to you that he’s talking uselessly—but for him the doll is alive. The doll could be hurt. Even the suggestion “Don’t talk to the doll” will upset the doll; she will sulk.
The truth of the child is not the truth of the old. The truth of the old is not the truth of the child. And if a child forcibly accepts the elders’ words—“They must be right, they are wise”—and throws away the doll, he will still not sleep at night. His sleep will break again and again: “What must be happening to the doll? Is someone troubling her in the dark? Is she afraid? If it rains at night, will she get wet? Will some animal, some wicked person harm her?” He will not sleep; even in dreams there will be only the doll. The time to leave the doll had not yet come. A day comes—suddenly the child sees: “The doll is only a doll. There is no substance in its speaking, and it has never heard anything.” Smiling at his own foolishness, he puts the doll away in a corner and bids it farewell. He doesn’t even glance that way again.
So it is with life.
I understand your difficulty. You are greedy for happiness. You go on seeking happiness in money, in position, in many directions. You have not found it there; yet you also have not experienced that it cannot be found there. This is your dilemma. You haven’t found it, and it cannot be found—no one has ever found it there. Be as childish as you like, believe as much as you like that the doll will speak—the doll has never spoken and never will. There is no way. You have not found happiness there either, but your hope has not died yet. You think, “It might be found. The doll will speak. Let me try a little more. Perhaps I haven’t worked hard enough; maybe my race is incomplete. I did not throw my whole being into it. One more try—this time I will wager everything.”
Your hope has not died; it is alive in full force. In hope, the world is sustained—only in that hope. The day your hope breaks—and that does not mean it breaks by hearing someone say so, else a child would become old by an old man’s words—if it breaks by someone’s saying, it will not truly break. You will sit in a temple while remembering the marketplace. You will take sannyas, go sit in a Himalayan cave as a renunciate, and remember your children and your wife. There is no fault in this; it is perfectly natural. I am not saying you are doing something wrong.
One day Mulla Nasruddin took his shattered pocket watch to the watchmaker. It had fallen from a seventh-story window; it was so battered it was unrecognizable. When he put the heap of pieces and broken glass on the watchmaker’s table, the watchmaker peered through his glasses to make out what it was. He asked, “What is this?” Nasruddin said, “Hey, can’t you see it’s a pocket watch?” The watchmaker said, “But you…” He had only got as far as “But you…” when Nasruddin thought he was going to say, “But you—why did you let it fall?” So Nasruddin said, “What could I do? It slipped while I was leaning out the window. It fell from the seventh floor.” The watchmaker said, “I wasn’t asking why you let it fall. I was asking why you picked it up. What’s the point of picking this up now?”
The day you awaken, you will see there was nothing in life. You won’t then be thinking, “Let me drop it.” You will wonder, “How did I carry it for so long? Why did I pick it up at all?” You won’t be thinking, “Ah, renunciation is great.” Instead you will ask, “How did I remain immersed in indulgence for so long? How did this happen? Was I so blind? So dark? So unconscious that where there was nothing…?”
There is a Western saying: A philosopher is a man searching in a dark room, on a moonless night, for a black cat that is not there. This is the story of life—searching in a dark room for a black cat that isn’t there. There is no way to find it. But the darkness is deep, and you are convinced the cat is black, so you go on searching: “It isn’t visible yet—if I search, I will find it.” No one has ever found it. But do not step out of the room just because someone else says so—otherwise you will wander. You will keep returning to the room again and again. Even if you do not return physically, the mind will return; thoughts will return; dreams will return. What difference does it make whether you sit with your eyes open with a woman, or you sit with your eyes closed imagining a woman? What difference whether you count coins of money with your hands or count them in imagination? Money is imagination anyway. Those coins that seem solid, that ring when you strike them on a stone—they are as much imagination as the coins you count with your eyes closed. Both are imaginings. But they won’t become mere imaginings just because I say so.
Experience cannot be borrowed.
I understand your difficulty.
You say: “The thirst does not arise; the doors do not open.”
You are hankering after a borrowed experience. Beware of borrowing. Borrowing has deceived you; borrowing has made you wander so long. Stop borrowing now. If you still feel there is some happiness in this world, then go all the way. Go all the way—with body, mind, and life. Do not hold back even a grain. Whatever you hold back will haunt you; what you leave unfinished will pursue you. The world itself does not pursue you. Only those corners you left unexplored, those places you didn’t run to—those are what pursue you. You are free of what you have known; the bonds remain with what you left unknown.
So go in. If the thirst is not arising, why try to arouse it? Right now, the thirst is for the world. The two thirsts cannot coexist. As long as there is thirst for the false, there cannot be thirst for the true. As long as you relish drinking the lie, you cannot relish drinking the truth. So for now there is relish in untruth—relish in the ego. Ego means the lie. You still relish position, prestige, the throne—ego’s tastes. Live them through. And do not be afraid, because there is no real relish there. The cat is not in the room. That’s why I say: search courageously—every corner, every speck. Search it to the last grain.
You and your mahatmas are very frightened. Your mahatmas too seem borrowed. They tell you, “Do not go into the world—you will get entangled.” I tell you, “Go! How can you get entangled? What is there to entangle you?” Yes, if you do not go fully, you will remain entangled. Then your mind will forever say, “If only I had gone! Maybe I would have found it! Who knows—perhaps the treasure was in the spot I left unexplored!” How will you be sure there was truly nothing there, only emptiness, deception upon deception?
So I say: go! Wherever there is relish for you, go there. Do not try to change your relish. Everyone has relish for something; there is no person with relish for nothing—such a person could not live for even a moment. Why would someone with no zest at all draw breath? Why would he rise from bed? Why would he open his eyes? The moment the will-to-live departs, life departs.
So your relish must be somewhere. I understand your pain. Your relish pulls you toward money and status, and your mahatmas are holding you back. They say, “Where are you going? There is nothing there.” You fall into doubt: “Should I listen to the mahatmas? It seems likely they are right—good, virtuous people!” But your heart says, “Search a little more.”
In the mosque the mullah preached; when he finished he said, “All those who want to go to heaven, please stand.” Everyone stood except Mulla Nasruddin. The mullah was a bit surprised. When they sat, he said, “Now all those who want to go to hell, stand.” No one stood. Nasruddin still remained seated. The mullah said, “Mulla, what is your intention? Don’t you want to go anywhere?” Nasruddin said, “I do want to go to heaven—but not yet. And you speak as if the bus is already waiting outside and people are ready to leave. Not yet! Heaven yes, but not yet. There is still a lot left to do here. I am not finished.”
He is more honest. Those who stood—if they were told the bus is waiting—would sit down too. They were only expressing a wish: “We want to go to heaven”—but not now. Who wants heaven now? There is still so much to do in the world. There are still intentions, desires, aspirations. The dreams have not yet broken; rainbows of dreams still arch across the sky. Great bridges still shimmer on the horizon; mirage-oases still appear in the distance. The mind keeps saying: “Just a little more. Delhi may be far, but it does not feel far—only two steps more, four steps more. We will arrive. A little effort, a little patience…”
Your relish is in the world. Then you look at the faces of worldly people and it seems unlikely—none of them has found it. You look at saints and it seems they may have found—it: serene, blissful. Yet inside your experience says, “Not yet. Not yet. Search a little more. Who knows—what no one else found, I might find.”
Here is a deep fact about the mind: the mind says, “You could be the exception.” Granted, no one else found it—but does that prove you will not? The mind always hides the truth from you by whispering that you are the exception. Everyone dies; the earth is a graveyard; every day someone dies; yet your mind tells you, “Others die, not you! Have you ever seen yourself die? Perhaps you will not die!”
Up to the last breath a person thinks death is always the other’s, not one’s own. It is someone else’s bier that is carried; has anyone ever carried yours to the cremation ground? Deep inside, a hope remains that perhaps God will exempt you from the rule.
When a thief goes to steal, he knows thieves get caught; but he thinks, “Perhaps I won’t be caught. Those others were unskilled.” When a murderer kills, he knows the consequences, but he thinks, “Will I be caught? No. I have arranged everything.”
You use this rule daily. You were angry yesterday; you were angry the day before; each time anger brought you suffering; today you get angry again and still think, “Perhaps this time there will be no suffering, no remorse.” How many times have thorns pierced your hand and made it bleed? Yet you think, “Let me play with the thorn once more—perhaps this time the thorn will turn into a flower, perhaps it will have pity on me. Perhaps I have become so skillful through experience that the thorn will not hurt me now.” Thus the mind keeps protecting its illusions.
When one sees the eternal rule—that I too am not an exception, that I too will die, I will fall into dust; if not today, tomorrow I will lie in the earth; no position, no prestige, no wealth can protect me—on the day this is seen clearly, a revolution happens in life. The thirst that was aimed at the world, at the outside, turns inward; it becomes thirst for the divine.
Wait.
Love is both life-wasting and patience-testing.
The soul both nurtures rapture and is intimate with pain.
Love is restless to attain—and yet it is patient; it can wait. Love has two opposing aspects. The lover is restless: “May the beloved come!” A dry leaf moves at the door and she leaps up—“Perhaps he has come!” A gust of wind touches the door, she runs and opens it—“Perhaps he has come!”
Haven’t you seen yourself waiting for a letter? Someone passes on the road and you run: “Maybe the postman!” You are busy with a thousand tasks, yet the mind stays at the door: “What if the guest comes and goes, and I am distracted? What if I am not present to welcome him?” There is great restlessness—and at the same time great patience. Even if one has to wait for lifetimes, there is sweetness in the waiting. One will wait.
So love contains impatience and patience—love is the meeting of opposites.
Therefore, if thirst has not yet arisen, do not be alarmed. Do not be hasty. Live through life’s experience. If you feel—by knowing, not by hearing—that the world has lost its taste, then have a little patience. The other taste will come. There is often a brief interval between the two—between one journey ending and the next beginning, a short halt.
It may be that your relish for the world truly has ended. Then do not panic. Be a little patient; give your energy time to turn back inward, to acquire a new habit, a new style, a new direction. Give it a chance.
Ordinarily a man is like Ford’s first car: it had no reverse gear. The idea hadn’t occurred to them—there was a gear to go forward, none to go back. Only with experience did they realize what trouble that is: you drive forward, but to return home you have to go around for miles. Even to put the car back into your own garage—if you’ve pulled it out, you must circle the whole village to get it back in. So they added reverse.
Your mind’s vehicle has been running for lifetimes without a reverse gear; it only goes outward, toward the other—there is no way to return to yourself. You never even thought of coming back to your own garage. You will circle the whole world before you arrive at yourself. And the world is vast; even after many births, the circuit remains unfinished.
So it may happen that your taste for the outer truly has ended—but it will take a little time for the reverse gear to engage. The possibility is within you; it is rusted with disuse. God did not make you only for going out; he made you capable of going in too. In the end you must return within. There is no flaw in your mechanism—but through lifetimes you have never tried turning back. Like a neck that has never looked behind, it stiffens; after years if you try to turn, the muscles protest.
Your mind is in just that state. So—patience, a little waiting.
“The thirst does not arise; the doors do not open.”
How will the doors open? Thirst itself is the knock upon the door. When you are parched and writhing—like a fish thrown onto the sand from water—when the world becomes for you like burning sand is to the fish, and you long for God like the fish longs to return to the sea, in that very throbbing you strike the door.
Jesus said: Knock, and the doors shall be opened unto you. But what does knocking mean here? There are no physical doors you can go to and rattle a latch. This is about the inner door. There is no physical latch hanging there. It is when a total longing rises from your very life-force—just as you desired your wife, your child, money, position, the world—on the day all your desiring streams into one current and you desire God, that day the door opens. In the face of such a flood, what door could remain stuck? The flood comes—your whole energy pours forth—and all doors and gates break. And, truly, nothing is locked; there are no real bolts. God is not protecting himself from you; he is calling you. It is you who have not heard. God knocks at your door every day, but unless you knock at his, the meeting cannot happen. How could it?
So if thirst does not arise, the doors certainly do not open. Two things. First—if there is taste for the world, do not hurry. God has given the world precisely so you may go through its experience, so the experience itself tells you there is nothing to be had outside. The running is empty; your hands remain empty; your heart is never filled.
The world is an experience.
Mulla Nasruddin told his little son to climb a ladder. The boy climbed. Mulla said, “Now jump—into my arms.” The boy hesitated—what if he slipped and fell? Mulla said, “What are you afraid of? Don’t you trust your own father?” The boy jumped—and Mulla stepped away. He crashed to the ground and began to cry: “What have you done?” Mulla said, “I taught you a lesson: never trust even your father. Don’t trust anyone—that is the sign of an intelligent man. Understand?”
God made the world as an experience. Do not trust the outside here. There are great temptations, beautiful temptations. Drums sound sweet from afar; only from afar. As you approach, the sweetness fades. When you come right up to it, it proves a mirage.
The world exists so that you may gain the taste of its opposite. The real treasure is within you; as long as you search outside, you will remain poor. The day you are tired of outer searching—eyes closed, you dive within—you find that the treasure of treasures was present there.
God sent you as an emperor. But you become capable of being an emperor only after you have known all the beggary of the outside. One who has not known darkness cannot recognize light; one who has not known the thorn cannot savor the beauty of the flower. Without experiencing futility, meaningfulness cannot descend into life.
People ask me, “Why does the world exist at all?” For the same reason that in school we write with white chalk on a blackboard. You could write on a white board too—but it would not be legible. You never ask why we write on a blackboard. Because white letters stand out on black; on a white board you must write with black ink, then they stand out.
This world is a blackboard; upon it your life’s white energy can stand forth; without it, it will not.
The sorrow of the world is the background; against this background, sat-chit-ananda—truth-consciousness-bliss—appears. There is no other way. Against the background of death, life reveals itself; in failure, success; in melancholy, joy; in losing, the secret of gaining. Only when you are thirsty is your throat quenched; only when hungry does satisfaction happen.
This world is God’s device. Without going through it, you will never arrive at yourself. If you have not yet gone into the world—if some attachment, some taste still lingers—go! Go without hesitation. Listen to everyone, but digest only your own. When you yourself discover that it is sand, all sand, and you cannot squeeze oil from sand—then you will return. Then the scriptures will make sense to you. They will make sense by experience. Then the doors will open; then you will find no obstacle at the threshold. The doors are already open.

The gardens swayed, the buds gave fragrance,
Courtyards rang, the lanes danced—
Yet my own buds did not open.
Who set such a latch
That a whole lifetime frayed away trying to open it!
So lost was the remembrance
That not even a letter was sent.

The little hut of the mind is empty,
Only a censer of sandalwood smoulders.
Enough, beloved, of hide-and-seek—
Now let there be a hearing.
Morning itself has turned to evening—
So lost was the remembrance
That not even a letter was sent!

When morning turns into dusk in the searching—searching, running till you collapse—at that very moment the latch opens, the door opens. In that very moment the Beloved descends.
A deep experience of the world is the indispensable process of finding God. The world is not the opposite of God; it is the arrangement for seeking God. Then your whole vision changes.
What your so-called mahatmas tell you has little worth. They make it sound as if the world is God’s enemy and God is the world’s enemy. Strange indeed! And you never ask them, even though they also tell you that God created the world. He is the creator. Then they add that the world is God’s enemy. Both statements cannot be true. If he created it, how can it be his enemy? And if it is his enemy, how could he have created it?
No—the world is not God’s enemy. The world is the necessary journey toward God. A necessary journey. You cannot drop it and run off midway and find God. It is an examination; you must pass through it.

It’s true: when one finds bliss, who would agree to lose it!
Understand, though.
There is a pleasure the world promises—but it never arrives. Hope is spun that happiness will come; what comes is sorrow. At the door it says “Happiness”; once inside, you meet suffering. The world’s pleasure is false. The bliss of the Divine is true. Between the two stands the Master. The Master is the doorway—the point from which you enter the Divine from the side of the world. The Master is like a traveler, weary under the sun, who rests in the shade of a tree—like sitting down in the cool shade.

But this is a halt, not the destination. Joy will come—great joy. You had not known joy in the world; therefore, in the Master’s presence, in love for the Master, through the Master’s grace, you will taste much joy. And since you have known nothing greater, the mind says, Why leave this now? Let me hold it fast. Yet if the Master is truly a Master, he will say: an even greater bliss is possible. Don’t cling so soon. He will say: Look, when you left the world, you found me; now if you leave me too, you will find the Divine. You listened to me once, and by leaving the world such happiness came; listen a little further—leave me as well—and the infinite bliss will be found.

But I understand the devotee’s difficulty. In this desert of the world he had never found an oasis—only thirst upon thirst, hunger upon hunger, burning upon burning—only wandering. Now he has found rest, a spring, a waterfall; trees stand green by the falls, soft green turf appears. He lies on the grass, drinks from the falls, sits in the trees’ shade. If someone now says, “Leave this,” how can he leave? For to him there are only two options: if he leaves this, there is the desert. He has only two experiences. To leave this means to return to the desert. He has no third experience.

Yet what does the Master say? He says: this little stream flowing here is joined to the ocean; it is not of itself. Left to itself, every stream will dry up. If a stream has only its own trickle and no connection to the sea, how long will it last? Soon it will be spent. A stream is not a tank. A tank is closed, with no inflowing source; its water soon stagnates and soon is gone. And the water of a tank is dead.

This is the difference between a scholar and a sage. The scholar is a tank. The water may look like the knower’s water, yet it is dead—borrowed, stale, lifeless, rotting. There is no living spring to keep it fresh, buoyant, pure. When water flows, it is pure; when it is shut, it becomes impure.

The Master is a spring. A knower is one in whom the Divine is streaming. To you the Master appears as Gangotri descending, falling from a small Gomukh, the Cow’s Mouth. The Master is Gomukh—only the mouth; what pours is the Divine. Do not clasp this small stream and sit there. There is joy in this flow, but compared to the Infinite from which it descends, it is nothing.

So the one who makes you stop with him is no Master. The very sign of a Master is that he says: come into me—and go beyond me. Hold me—and release me. Make me a ladder—climb upon me—but do not stop.

What do you do on a ladder? You climb. You don’t sit on the ladder saying, “It brought me so far, lifted me so high—how can I leave it now!”

You board a boat. Buddha would say again and again that the Master is a boat. You sit in the boat; it takes you from this shore to that. Then you do not carry the boat on your head. You do not say, “This boat brought me across, gave me such happiness; we were wandering in darkness on that shore, and it ferried us to the light. Now we will carry this boat on our heads; we’ll build a temple to it, worship it, and never leave it.” That becomes a nuisance.

Buddha told a story: once four fools crossed a river and then hoisted the boat onto their heads and walked into the marketplace. People asked, “What are you doing? We have seen people in boats, but never boats on people.” They replied, “We will never leave this boat. It is so dear. Because of it we came across. There was danger there—night, darkness, wild beasts. This boat saved us. We are not so ungrateful as to ever leave it. We will carry it on our heads as our crown and guard it as our life’s treasure.” Buddha says, someone should explain to those madmen: the boat is to cross over—and one should keep deep gratitude for what ferries you across—but there is no need to lug the boat on your head. That becomes stupidity.

So I understand. Nirupama is right: finding me brought joy, shade, a refuge. Now I say, “Go beyond me.” It hurts—I understand. There is pain—I understand. For you have only two experiences: before meeting the Master and after meeting the Master.

But I carry three experiences. Keep some remembrance of the third—the ahead. And when the Master says, “Come, move on,” then trust the one through whom so much joy has come; through him even greater joy can come.

The supreme Master is the Divine. That is why we also call the Master “God,” because the Master is the subtle representative of the Divine—and the Divine is the vast expansion of the Master.

When I say to you, “Leave me,” you are not truly leaving me. When I say, “Leave me,” you will find me in a larger form, in a vaster form—where no limit remains; where the stream is no longer a stream but the ocean. Every little stream is linked to the sea. The current that comes in them comes from the ocean. All water is His.

Wherever there is knowing and wherever there is light, it all flows from the Divine.

So the Master is the Cow’s Mouth, from which Gangotri falls. Drink to your heart’s content, bathe, take a dip! But take from this experience only this much: there is still farther to go, farther to go. Do not stop until the Supreme Place is reached—beyond which there is nowhere further to go. That is what we call the Divine: beyond which there is no beyond. Beyond the Master there is still some “beyond” left.

That is why Nanak named the Sikh temple “Gurudwara.” A perfect word. It means: the Master is the door. One does not stop at the door; one passes through. One doesn’t sit on the threshold; if you sit on the threshold, you are a fool—belonging neither to the inside nor the outside: the washerman’s donkey—neither of the home nor of the ghats. You must go from outside to inside; you must cross the threshold; you must pass through the door.

There are many words for places of worship—mosque, chaityalaya, church, synagogue—but the word the Sikhs gave is unsurpassed: Gurudwara. It is deeply meaningful: the Master is the door. Take his support—cross over. This does not mean you are ungrateful. Having crossed, you become even more grateful. Understand this: if by holding to the Master you feel so much joy and so much thankfulness, then upon crossing you will be supremely thankful.

Hence Kabir said:
“Guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch first?”
Whose feet should I touch first? If I touch Govind’s feet first, might I insult the Master? If I touch the Master’s feet first, might I insult God? What a quandary.

If a day comes with such a dilemma, it is great good fortune. When it comes to you—blessed! It is a moment of difficulty, yet of immense auspiciousness: “Guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch?” Whom shall I hold first? Let there be no disrespect, no mistake!

Naturally Kabir would have trembled—here stands Ramananda, his Master; there stands Ram. Whose feet first?

Kabir’s line is wondrous:
“Guru and Govind both stand—whose feet shall I touch?
Blessed be you, O Master, for you showed me Govind.”

So the Master said: Don’t hesitate, don’t think now—bow to Govind’s feet. That is what the verse says; it has many layers of meaning. But my sense is that Kabir first touched the Master’s feet. That seems the more meaningful reading; because when he says, “Blessed be you, O Master,”—when he hesitated seeing both before him, “Whose feet first?”—the Master quickly gestured, “Bow to the Divine; leave me aside.” But how could Kabir then bow first to God? To the Master whose grace is such that he helps you become free even of himself—his feet must be touched first. Hence: Blessed be you, O Master! You signaled; otherwise I was in great trouble. You gave even the final signal—the signal to leave yourself. So I hold that first he bowed to the Master’s feet—for that gratitude must be offered.

This is the meaning of Master: the one who brings you out of the world and delivers you into the Divine.

So, Nirupama, only half the journey is done: I have brought you out of the world. The journey is not yet complete. Even halfway, there is such flavor! Even halfway, such ecstasy! Even halfway, a song hums, a fragrance of joy spreads—then think of the whole journey. We have not reached the goal; we are at a way-station.

Do not become attached. Do not cling and stop—even knowing that the urge to stop is natural.

Since you have come, even the very face of doors and walls has changed—
how colorful my evening is becoming!
Even if the Master comes in the evening of life—in the final moments—how colorful my evening becomes! Evening turns to morning, old age becomes childhood; flowers bloom again, lotuses open, spring returns.

So I understand: the difficulty is perfectly natural.

Somewhere far away, strings of rays begin to tinkle;
the notes of dreams dissolve into the earth’s song.
Millions upon millions of lamps of stars are lost
in the faint smile on the lips of the East.
Dawn breaks; the trees’ veena begins to sway;
leaf by leaf trembles, bough by bough sways.

Your very life-breath will thrill. The Master’s touch will fill every hair with an unprecedented bliss. A dance will be born. A song you never sang will begin to be heard in the innermost of your being. A veena will sound that never sounded before, for which you had yearned for lifetimes. Something dimly begins to appear; the goal, though far, begins to be seen—glimpsed. As if from thousands of miles away you see the lofty, snow-clad peaks of the Himalayas—so something begins to be seen. It will be hazy, with clouds. At times it will disappear, at times reappear. Such happenings will occur.

But do not stop. What has glimmered must be carried to the point where the glimmer becomes the truth of your life. The joy you have now received has come through me; you must reach the place where the Divine rains directly into your life, with no need of my mediation. If I stand between you and That, there remains a hindrance—a veil. A lovely veil perhaps, a gold-and-silver veil, studded with diamonds and jewels—yet a veil. Even that veil must go. The Master’s veil too must be removed.

“One hand on your hem—
even this much support feels enough.
You look with eyes of love—
even this much gratitude feels enough.

“Even if, at a distance, the lamp of form burns,
it burns nonetheless;
seeing it, this breath-wayfarer
keeps walking the arduous path.
To brighten my roads,
even this much light feels enough.

“My loneliness had long been yearning
for someone of my own;
since you came into my life,
the whole world seems mine.
You are somehow my very own—
even this much belonging feels enough.

“My lips stay wet with smiles,
the garden of the heart is fragrant;
the soul’s pied cuckoo calls,
the monsoon of remembrance keeps raining.
To keep a whole life green,
even this stream of nectar feels enough.

“How fortunate my heart—
a boon of lifetimes has been given:
a soft song to sing,
a God to worship.
Even if I can never repay it in a lifetime,
even this love feels enough.”

I understand. In your place, I too would say:
“One hand on your hem—
even this much support feels enough.”

But much yet remains to happen. Why gaze at the lamp from afar? One must draw near—more than near: you dissolve into the lamp and become one.

You have seen the moth die in the flame. So, one day, the devotee dissolves into God. That is the day the whole happening is complete. Before that, do not settle. Many times you will feel, “Enough—stay here; the place is so beautiful—what could be more beautiful?” Do not stop. Keep going.

There is an old Sufi tale. A fakir meditated in the forest, and a woodcutter cut wood each day. The fakir felt compassion. An old woodcutter—seventy perhaps—still chopping wood. Bones and bones, a frail body, bent back—still carrying bundles. One day he said, “Listen, madman! All your life you have only cut wood—go a little farther!” The woodcutter said, “What will be there? Only more forest. I am old; I can barely walk this far. What will I do farther on?” The fakir said, “Trust me—go farther. There is a mine there. In one day you will get what now takes seven days of woodcutting.”

He went. There was a copper mine. He brought as much copper as he could, sold it; it sufficed for seven days. He became content. Now he came only once a week. The fakir said, “Listen, don’t stop. Go a little farther; there is another mine.” “Why bother?” “Go there and what you bring once will suffice for a month—a silver mine.” He obeyed—reluctantly. He found the silver mine. He began to come once a month. The fakir said, “See—you don’t get wisdom on your own. Go a little farther; there is a gold mine. Bring it once, and it will suffice for a year.”

“Why do you entangle me in old age?” But now he had begun to trust the fakir: twice he had spoken true. “Once a year? I have wasted life.” He went. He found the gold mine. Then he was seen but once a year.

The fakir said, “Now you are growing very old—go a little farther. Fool! Why don’t you go on your own?” “What more can there be? Gold is the last.” “Nothing is ever the last. Go a little farther.” He went, and there was a diamond mine. He brought one load—enough for a lifetime. Then he disappeared. The fakir went to his house and said, “Fool, can’t you see?” “What is there now? Not only enough for me, but for my children too.” “Go a little farther.” “What can be beyond diamonds?” “Beyond the diamonds—there is me. Come.” He went, and beyond the diamonds the fakir sat—supremely tranquil. The woodcutter forgot everything. He bowed at his feet and did not rise. Hours passed. Such peace, such bliss he had never known. A current flowed. The fakir cried, “Fool, have you stopped again? Go a little farther!” He asked, “But what could be beyond this? Never have I known such supreme bliss.” “Go farther—beyond is the Divine.”

This is what I say to Nirupama: a little farther, a little farther.

There is joy at the Master’s feet. Weigh it against the world—unprecedented. Weigh it against the Divine—nothing. Do not stop before the Divine.

I say this understanding your pain. Leaving is very hard. First, finding the Master is very hard. It takes lifetimes to find someone with whom your rhythm comes into tune. Across lifetimes you meet many teachers, but the attunement doesn’t happen. With the one with whom the attunement happens, that teacher becomes the Master. Without that attunement, however great he may be, for you he is only a teacher.

Go to Buddha: if the attunement happens, he is Master; if not, a teacher. Come to me: if the attunement happens, I am Master; if not, a teacher. Then you will learn something and go. If the attunement happens, going ends; you drown in me—the matter does not end with learning. You begin to become one with me. This is the meaning of sannyas. Those with whom the harmony happens will be drawn toward sannyas. Others come, listen, like it, pick up a few things, and go—will treasure the sayings, recall them sometimes; but the heart does not dive. They do not become moths, intoxicated. The mind has gathered some wealth; the heart has not melted; the stream of rasa has not flowed.

Sannyas means: you have drowned. You say: Now these feet are found; now we will never leave them. Now we are ready to go mad for these feet.

So first it is hard to find the Master; and when you do, a second and greater difficulty comes: one day the Master says, “Now leave me too; for my function was to hold your hand and lead you to the Lord. I am the door; now that the Image has appeared, forget me and drown in the Lord.” That is harder still. First it is difficult to find the Master; then it is even more difficult to lose him.

“You have issued the command to renounce longing—
with what heart can anyone renounce longing?”
You have said, “Leave love, leave attachment.”
“You have issued the command to renounce longing—
with what heart, with what sigh, can anyone renounce longing?”

“Mine is the desire that He Himself lift the veil—
while He waits for someone to beseech Him to do so.”
Even in the final hour, in the moment of meeting the Divine:
“Mine is the desire that He Himself lift the veil—
while He waits for someone to urge Him.”

“Either one should have no daring to behold,
or else one should see with my very eyes.”
Either never take on the madness to see the Beloved—or, if you dare, then see through my eyes.

When I say to you, “Leave me,” remember my vision. I see something that you do not yet see. You trusted me this far—when I said copper, you went to copper; when I said silver, to silver; gold, to gold; diamonds, to diamonds. When I said the mine of meditation, you plunged into meditation. Now a little farther. There, all ends: no meditator, no meditation; no disciple, no master; no seeker, nothing sought. There all becomes one. The river meets the ocean. There lies the supreme bliss. What you found with the Master is only a faint hint of that.

As the fragrance of a flower rides the breeze and reaches your nostrils—though the flower itself you have not seen. Somewhere it must be; only the fragrance has drifted. The Master is the fragrance of the Divine.

Take hold of the thread of this fragrance. Holding to it, slowly find the flower. Hold to the Master—and find the Flower.

You have already taken one great courage: to take hold of the Master is to leave yourself, to surrender the ego. Now take another courage: leave the Master too. Then all holding drops. Then a state arises where there is no one to grasp and nothing to be grasped. There the Divine descends.

There is. We speak of it every day. This very language of compassion, this way of grace, is the other means. Bhakti, devotion, is the other way.
There are two ways: sakshi—sakshi means meditation; and bhakti—bhakti means feeling.
Sakshi means: stay awake and watch.
And bhakti means: drown—drop all watching, and the rest.
Bhakti means: to sink into utter forgetfulness. To be so absorbed in prayer, in dance, in song, as if drunk; you forget; there is self-forgetfulness.
Self-forgetfulness is one means; self-remembering is the other. The processes are different, but the end is one. The paths differ; the destination is one. Self-remembering means witnessing. Keep remembering yourself—do not forget for even a moment. Keep yourself separate, remain apart from everything. Whatever appears before you, remember: it is other than me. Do not let identification form. No matter what it is—even if the divine appears before the witness—the witness remains a witness there too. He will not say, “Let me merge into the divine.” Merging does not belong to the path of witnessing. He keeps on seeing.
That is why the followers of witnessing have said—do you know? The Buddhists say: even if the Buddha appears on the path of the witness, pick up the sword and cut him in two. The meaning of witnessing is that whatever becomes an object before you is not you. You close your eyes to meditate and Krishna appears, playing his flute—pick up the sword and cut him in two. “This is not me. I am the seer.” The day this goes on and on—neti, neti; denying and denying, “This is not me, this is not me”—until all objects are lost, the mind becomes objectless, thoughtless, without alternatives; when supreme silence descends, and you alone remain—the knower—and nothing is left to be known, then you have arrived.
So the one who travels by the way of witnessing will not see God standing before him. The one who goes by witnessing will experience: I am the divine. Therefore the Upanishads say: “Aham Brahmasmi!” That is the path of witnessing. Therefore Mansur says: “Ana’l-Haqq! I am the Truth!” That is the path of witnessing.
On the path of witnessing, when one day all the disturbances of the mind fall utterly silent, you yourself become the proclamation of the divine.

The feminine mind—devotion, feeling, self-forgetfulness! The difference: in witnessing (sakshi), whatever appears is to be cut off, set aside; only the seer is to be retained. In devotion (bhakti), what appears is to be preserved, and the seer is to be drowned. The two are entirely different, exactly opposite. Krishna stands there—the image of Krishna stands alive in feeling—then you are to dissolve yourself and preserve Krishna. Pour your entire life-breath into him. Pour yourself so utterly that the image of Krishna comes alive, ripples with your very life. Pour yourself so completely that your life-energy itself starts playing Krishna’s flute. This is what the devotee has always done.

The devotee’s path and the witness’s path are so different that even their languages are different. The devotee says: Self-forgetfulness—forget yourself! Be drunk, drown in remembrance of the Lord! Forget yourself as the drunkard forgets himself in wine. Make the name of the Divine your wine. Pour that wine into your house and drink it. Become intoxicated.

If witnessing is difficult for you, there is no need to be frightened. Devotion will be your path—ecstasy, divine intoxication. Move in that direction. Dance and hum! Drown in the Name. This is Daya’s message—this is Sahajo’s; this is Meera’s.

On a solitary forest creeper,
there slept a bride of fortune,
lost in a tender dream of love,
a young body, stainless, soft—
a jasmine bud
asleep.
Who knows how, the Beloved arrived—
the hero kissed her cheeks;
the garland of the creeper swayed
like a swing in motion;
yet she did not wake,
made no slip, asked no pardon,
her languid, curved, vast eyes
kept closed—
or was she drunk
on the wine of youth—who can say?
The pitiless hero then,
in utter ruthlessness,
with showers of gusts,
shook that delicate, lovely body
through and through,
and crushed
those fair, rounded cheeks.
Startled, the maiden sprang awake;
her astonished glance
searched all around,
saw the Beloved by the bed;
with a gentle face she smiled, blossomed,
and played in the Beloved’s hues.

Devotion is the quest for the Beloved. In devotion, God is not “Truth”; God is the Beloved, the Dear One. Devotion is the search for the Lover.

She saw the Beloved by the bed;
with a gentle face she smiled, blossomed,
and played in the Beloved’s hues.

The path of devotion is full of colors. It is the path of spring. Flowers bloom along the way of devotion. The veena sings, hands beat upon the mridang. The path of devotion is the path of anklet-bells—dance, song, music, love, affection. And all love and affection are offered at the feet of the Lord. All love is to be poured—pitcher after pitcher—at his feet. Pour yourself so utterly that nothing remains behind. When all has been poured out, the arrival happens.

For those who find devotion difficult, there is witnessing. First, try for devotion, because devotion will seem easier to most. It is full of rasa, of sweetness. If one can reach by dancing, why trudge there solemnly? If one can reach by singing, why go with a long face? If one can reach beating the drum, in delight—if cheerfulness can accompany you—then why get into all that saintliness and renunciation? Leave that to those for whom devotion does not fit. If devotion fits, if love fits, everything fits; there is nothing else to fit.

But I know the trouble. If I say “devotion,” fear arises. People come to me and say: In devotion we lack the courage. We don’t dare to be that mad. Even madness people keep within limits—only so far and no further.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife lay dying. At the end she asked, “Nasruddin, if I die, what will you do?” Mulla said, “I will go mad.” The wife said, “Oh, stop it! Whom are you fooling? I won’t even be dead properly before you marry again.” Mulla said, “I will go mad—but not that mad.”

People keep accounts even in madness—how far to go! If I talk of devotion, people come and say, “That is a path of madness. Dancing, singing, kirtan—like Meera said, all public shame is lost; all social face will be lost! I’m a deputy collector, or a tehsildar, or a doctor, or an engineer—this will upset everything.”

A doctor used to see me. I had some trouble in my thumb and he operated. A lovely man. By chance he came to operate and fell in love with me. He began to say, “I will come, but not now. I certainly will come. I must come one day—but I feel afraid right now.”
I asked, “What is the fear?”
He said, “The fear is that if I come, this dancing, singing—this will catch on. And I fear it could, because I’ve always felt that way within. It would be a great difficulty.”
He didn’t come. He didn’t come again. Many times he sends word, “I will come, I’m coming,” but hasn’t appeared yet. He knows such an event could happen. It could. His heart has that rasa. But outside there is another kind of prestige. It goes against that. Outside, people think, “He is a doctor, serious, a great surgeon!” What if he starts dancing!
And he said, “I fear that if I come I will end up wearing ochre too. Since I came to you, I’ve been dreaming of ochre robes. The night I operated on your hand, I dreamt I was wearing ochre and dancing. Not that—not yet. Please be kind to me. I have children, a wife; everything is settling. Arrangements… One day I will come, but today I’m afraid.”

There are many who are afraid of devotion. If you tell them, “Witness,” witnessing doesn’t fit either—because witnessing is a hard path—of austerity and discipline, dry and stark! Where there is dryness, fear arises. Where the streams of sweetness flow, there is fear of going mad.

Devotion is the path of the mad. And in madness, no bookkeeping works. If you want to keep accounts, the path of witnessing is there. There is mathematics—pure mathematics. Madness never comes there. There is no way for madness there; it is a straight scientific process. Choose what resonates with you. But sooner or later you will have to decide.

In my experience, when I speak of devotion people start thinking of witnessing—because devotion frightens them. When I speak of witnessing they think of devotion—because witnessing feels too austere, too hard, and that hardness scares them.
“No, perhaps we don’t have the capacity to be that dry.” And as soon as you enter witnessing, all the rasa of life starts slipping away. If you practice witnessing, you will see your wife—but you will not be able to see that she is “yours.” The sense of “I” dissolves. Only the witness remains. Someone will abuse you—you will hear that an abuse was uttered, fine—but there will be no insult, because how can a witness be insulted? Someone will place a garland on you—you will feel the garland placed around your neck, fine—but there will be no honor in it. So a hurdle arises: “My whole life will be at stake. Even the little sweetness I have—someone garlanding me…” In fact, no one has yet garlanded; you were still waiting, and before that the witness begins—this is trouble. If someone abuses you, you still feel like taking revenge.

Witnessing will cut you off from all this. Witnessing means: you will live in the world and yet stand utterly untouched. Nothing will touch you—like a lotus in water. Not everyone has that much courage.

There is no problem in devotion. But in devotion there is another matter. If you look at your wife through the eyes of devotion, you will see God. If you look at your husband through devotion, you will see God. You will see God even in your son. That too looks like madness. God in the wife! It doesn’t sit well. Women might accept God in the husband—because they’ve been told so for thousands of years—but God in the wife! Husbands feel some difficulty. But if you create the mood of devotion, some day you will find your head at your wife’s feet.

I had a friend—simple-hearted. One night he talked with me a long while. The talk struck him. For some reason the theme of “God in all” arose, and I said, “God is in everyone—God is in your wife as well.” I said it as an example. It struck him. He went home and placed his head at his wife’s feet. The wife panicked. She woke the household—“What has happened to him!” And he enjoyed it so much, head at his wife’s feet, that he went on to put his head at everyone’s feet in the house—even the servants. The family thought he was gone—lost his mind.
They woke me at two in the night: “What have you done!” I said, “What’s the harm? The wife has always touched the husband’s feet; you never thought she was mad. Today the husband touched—what’s the loss?”
They said, “What are you saying? We were already telling her not to go near you.”
And he enjoyed it all so much that he stayed in that ecstasy for three months. The family got after him—medicines, exorcisms. He laughed, “I am not mad.” They started driving out ghosts—maybe a spirit had possessed him. Finally, they didn’t listen to me; they gave him electric shocks. Matters kept getting worse. He had become so blissful he would touch anyone’s feet on the road—yet there was not the slightest harm in him, not the slightest. He was a guileless, simple-hearted man.
So devotion too can look frightening, because it opens another world.

Often this is how it is here. When I explain witnessing, people come with their objections; when I explain devotion, they come with objections. Decide once and for all. And in deciding, don’t calculate in terms of obstacles. Only one thing matters: with what does your being harmonize? Nothing else is important. Everything else is secondary. If you feel devotion is full of rasa for you, gather courage. And don’t say, “One day I will do it,” because that “one day” never comes. If not today, then never. Tomorrow never comes. And who knows—death may come first!

So whatever makes your heart ripple within, whatever melody plays in your heart… If you think of Meera dancing and something in you longs to dance like that, or if you have seen the Buddha, serene, seated as a witness—if you have seen an image of Buddha and felt, “May I become like that; may I sit like that”—with what does your inner being tune?

Nothing else is worth considering. Not even the family you were born into. It may be that in your family the path of devotion prevails—Vallabha’s path or Ramanuja’s—but if you find your rasa in Buddha or Mahavira, if their images call you, forget the worry. Where you were born has nothing to do with it. Then witnessing is your path. And it makes no difference whether you were born in a Jain or a Buddhist home, or among Vedantins. Feel your heart. If when you hear Meera’s bhajan, something inside begins to sway; if seeing the veena in Meera’s hand, some veena is raised even in your dream; if an image arises of one day dancing like that, utterly absorbed, utterly drunk, forgetting all—and even that imagining begins to flow with streams of sweetness, a fragrance spreading—then forget the worry that you are Jain or Buddhist or Vedantin. These are trivialities. The house you were born into is mere coincidence.

Recognize your heart. That is your true home. Take your thread from there—and then, difficulties will arise on every path. If you think there is some path on which no difficulty ever comes—then there is no such path. Then you will never walk. Difficulties arise because you have already created a certain style of living, a structure; it has to be changed. So difficulties come. You have shown people one form of yourself; now another form will appear—there is difficulty. But difficulties are quickly resolved. It takes courage.

That is why I call courage the first quality of a religious person. The coward cannot be religious.

So I say to you: if witnessing does not settle, don’t be sad or discouraged. If it becomes clear that witnessing won’t do for you, then the other path is plain. Besides these two there is no third path. And one of the two will fit. Only one needs to be mastered. There are only two kinds of people in the world. Then sing, hum, and drown in the form of Rama.

The rich have wealth in millions;
I, the poor—my only wealth is You!
Sing! Lay your head at the Lord’s feet! And everywhere are only his feet. Wherever you bow, those are his feet.

Some wear strings of rubies,
some set red gems,
some paint their feet with mahavar and mehndi,
some fill the parting with pearls;
those of gold, those of silver,
those of water, those of stone—
the body has a thousand adornments,
my mind’s only ornament is You!
Say this—say it to the Lord.

Some go to Puri-Dwarika,
some meditate on Kashi,
some do austerity at Triveni-Sangam,
some dwell in Mathura.
North-south, east-west,
inside-outside—the whole world is manifest;
others have hundreds of pilgrimages,
my only Vrindavan is You.
Make this petition.
Others have pilgrimages by the hundred;
my only Vrindavan is You.

Some take pride in beauty,
some swagger in strength,
some boast of their knowledge,
some flaunt their wealth;
body and illusion, wife and riches,
fame and defame, pleasure and pain, the threefold torments—
the world lives and dies in a hundred ways;
my birth and death—only You.

Seek—seek with love if witnessing does not fit. Seek through devotion if witnessing does not fit. But seek you must. Don’t keep convincing yourself by listing difficulties: “It is hard—how to go?” If you must go, you must go—who bothers about difficulties! We worry so much about difficulties only because we have not yet gathered the courage to go—so we weave a web of difficulties.

I have heard: Emperor Akbar was returning from the hunt. Evening fell, the time for namaz came. At the edge of a village he spread a cloth and sat under a tree to pray. He had just begun, was entering his prayer, when a woman came running—young, intoxicated, wild with love. She ran right across the cloth laid for namaz; her sari brushed Akbar, interrupting his prayer, and she was gone. Akbar was furious, but in mid-prayer he could not speak. He hurriedly finished his namaz, tightened his horse’s girth, and was about to go searching: “Who is this woman? Such insolence! Even if someone else were praying, such rudeness would be wrong—then the Emperor!” But he did not need to go. The woman was returning. He stopped her: “You ill-mannered woman! Don’t you have even this much sense—that when someone is praying to the Lord, one should not cause obstruction? And you didn’t even see that the Emperor himself was praying?”
The woman looked carefully. She said, “Now that you remind me, I think there was indeed someone praying when I ran by. And I remember that the end of my sari brushed someone. You remind me correctly. But my lover was coming, and I was going to meet him. I couldn’t see anything. Forgive me. I have only one question: you were going to meet your God, your Supreme Beloved—and you noticed that my sari brushed you? And I was going to meet my ordinary beloved, yet I didn’t notice you. My push hit you; your push did not hit me. This, Emperor, does not quite fit. What kind of namaz was that?”
Akbar had written in his memoirs: the blow that struck my heart, I never forgot. Truly, my prayer was no prayer. These petty hindrances—that someone passes nearby and the prayer is hindered! If there is love, can it be hindered? If the stream within is flowing, will a brush of cloth stop it—that a piece of cloth touches you and the prayer is broken!

You too sit to meditate, and the smallest things disturb you. They disturb because your meditation is not meditation yet. You sit to sing a hymn, and petty things disturb you—because your hymn is not yet a hymn.

If you are pretending, there will be obstacles in everything. Be authentic. Decide once, with what your heart harmonizes, with what your being agrees. Then walk upon that. And walk wholeheartedly. Without total immersion, neither the witness arrives nor the devotee; neither the meditator nor the lover. You will have to drown. If you think drowning itself is the obstacle, then you will never be able to move. You must drown—either drown in witnessing or drown in devotion. Drown you must.

Both paths have difficulties, both have glories. There is no path with no difficulties—then it would not be a path. If you walk, there will be obstacles. If you journey, you will bear sun and heat. There are pebbles and stones on the way, there are thorns.

But in the life of one to whom the remembrance of God has come, in whom the longing has arisen, all difficulties are forgotten; even the difficulties become steps.

Enough for today.