Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #4

Bhakti means: within what is visible, the shadow of the invisible begins to form. If you stop at what appears, bhakti will never be born. The hint of what cannot be seen begins to be felt. The footfall of what cannot be heard begins to ring in the ears. What is beyond the senses begins to fill the senses with a certain delight, a tingling thrill. That which cannot be seen becomes visible through a unique medium—and that medium is called bhakti. What cannot be seen directly, what cannot be made an object of the eyes, can still be seen. The invisible becomes visible. The miracle that makes the unseen seen is bhakti. Bhakti is alchemy, a science.

When you fall in love with someone, perhaps you have never noticed what actually happens. When you fall in love, do you see only bone, flesh, and marrow in your beloved? If that were all you saw, then one day you could fall in love with a corpse. No—something more begins to shimmer. Your eyes begin to enter within a person. The inner image of the person starts to reveal itself. Whenever you fall in love, whether you understand it or not, it means that through some window God has called you.

Therefore, in the beloved, the first glimpse of the Divine is found. And one who has not known love will never know bhakti, because bhakti is the flood of love. Understand love as a drizzle; bhakti is the flood. But the nature of both is the same. Love has limits; bhakti has none. Love ends—here today, gone tomorrow; it comes for a moment and is lost; it is momentary. The world is a raft at daybreak! When bhakti comes, it comes—there is no way to step out of it; once gone, you are gone; there is no returning. In love, returning is possible because love is hazy; bhakti is very deep.

So understand bhakti through love. Love is the first lesson of bhakti. As a husband, you have cherished your wife; as a father, your son; as a wife, your husband; you have cherished a friend—wherever there is love, search a little there, feel your way.

Love is like a diamond lying in the mine: not yet cleaned and pure, earth is stuck to it, pebbles cling to it; it has lain for centuries and lost its sparkle. Love is like a diamond just brought out of the mine—not yet cleaned; it has not yet reached the jeweler’s hands; the chisel has not yet fallen upon it. Only one who can see very deeply can recognize it as a diamond; you may not yet understand that it is a diamond. That is why bhakti is not visible in love—because love is an uncut diamond. This very diamond, in Meera, in Daya, in Sahjo, became refined. This diamond began to shine. This diamond met the artistry of the jeweler’s hands. Then it glows. Much must be cut away.

The Koh-i-Noor is the largest diamond in the world. When it was found, its weight was three times what it is today. After cutting and trimming and trimming, only one third remained. But the more it was cut and trimmed, the more its value grew, because the more beauty, the more new facets emerged. Today it is one third by weight. If you measured only quantity, its value should be less today than on the day it was found. But on the day it was found it had no value at all. Its worth came from its refinement.

In the West there was a great sculptor, Michelangelo. He would pass a marble dealer’s shop and many times saw a large slab of marble lying there, tossed aside by the roadside. He asked the shopkeeper, “This slab has been lying around for a long time, discarded and neglected—what is its price?” The shopkeeper said, “It has no price because it is absolutely useless; no sculptor is willing to take it. If you want it, take it away. It would be a relief to us. No price at all—just bear the cost of carting it off.”

Michelangelo took the slab with him. As he was going, the shopkeeper again asked, “What will you do with this worthless slab? It’s good for nothing.” Michelangelo said, “I’ll let you know in a few months.” A few months later he called the shopkeeper to his house. There, right in front, stood the statue of Jesus. The shopkeeper was spellbound. He said, “I’ve seen many statues, but where did you find this unique stone?” Michelangelo said, “It is the same stone you had thrown by your shop, the one I took away for free.” He could not believe it. “That crude stone—and this statue! There’s no connection between the two. And how did you know that such a rough stone could become a statue?” Michelangelo said, “Whenever I passed that way, the statue was calling to me from within the stone: ‘Set me free; release me from this prison; liberate me from these bonds.’”

Know this from me: in love—bhakti is in prison. And love is crying, “Free me!” The day bhakti is freed from love and comes out—refined, sifted—that day God is found. Love is gold mixed with dross; bhakti is gold that has passed through fire—refined, purified. The dross is burned away; what is pure gold remains. Bhakti is the purest love, and love is impure bhakti.

So there are two elements in love. Bhakti is hidden in it, and the world is hidden in it. The impurity is the world; and what is pure in it is bhakti, that is God. Therefore the connoisseur will find God through love, and the unknowing will descend into the world through the same love and wander astray. Love is a ladder: below it is the world; above it is God. If you go on purifying love, you will enter God; if you go on corrupting love, you will descend into the world. Love becomes a dream if impurity grows too much; and love becomes truth when purity is refined.

God is hidden in love—free Him. And many times in love you have had a glimpse of God. But you do not know how to free Him. Let love be less lust and more prayer. Do not ask in love—give. Do not be a beggar in love—be a king. In love, share—do not hoard. And slowly you will find the impurity of love melting away. And as that impurity melts, from love itself the pure flame emerges which we call bhakti.

A little pinch remains lodged in the heart;
we can never grow oblivious to Your remembrance.
Every love is that pinch; it is the remembrance of the Divine. Dim, very dim, buried under many veils—yet it is His remembrance. That is why, when you fall in love, you go a little crazy—yes, only a little, but you do go crazy.

No face matches Your face;
we wander the world carrying Your image.
And that is why every love promises fulfillment and yet fulfillment never comes. When you fall in love, at the beginning the beauty of love is unparalleled. But soon ashes settle. Soon love rusts. Soon quarrel and conflict and disturbance begin. Where does that height of love vanish? No one knows. Almost every love quickly becomes strife. But in those first moments, when your eyes were fresh and everything new, you had a glimpse—otherwise why would you have fallen in love? Someone called you; a challenge came. Whose challenge? Whose glimpse did you catch? It seemed the Divine had been found. It seemed you had found the one you were seeking, the beloved you longed for. But soon it is lost. The smoke of lust, the bustle of life, life’s pettiness—anger, impurity—overwhelm it. Soon you begin to drown. For a moment you had risen above the water and seen the sky; but it proves to be only for a moment. Only the wedding night proves true—and then you start going under.

Whenever you have felt the flavor of love, it is for this reason—

No face matches Your face;
we wander the world carrying Your image.
Understand this. In every person’s heart an image of the Divine is hidden. Carrying that very image, we wander—hoping to find someone outside who matches it, to find the One whose image this is. Until that Beloved of the soul is found, there will be ache, there will be pain, there will be seeking and wandering. Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, someone’s face seems to match; you call this love. But when you look closely, the matter slips away: no, that face was only an intimation. In the twilight, in the dimness, it seemed to match—but it did not. Again you missed.

That is why when you see the beloved from a distance, everything seems fine; as you come closer, everything begins to go wrong. For His face matches no one’s face, though He is hidden in every face. But no face matches His a hundred percent; one percent matches, ninety-nine percent does not. In the first moments of love, that one percent is visible; slowly the ninety-nine percent reveals itself.

By losing and losing in love, one day a person comes to bhakti. The failure of love is proof that you sought Him outside and did not find Him; now you will seek within. You sought Him in body, in matter, in form and color—and did not find Him; now you will seek in the formless, the shapeless; you sought Him in the transient...

Consider this: it is night, the full moon is in the sky, you are sitting by a lake, and the lake is still—you may feel the moon is inside the lake. If you have not raised your eyes upward, you may think the moon is within the water.

I have heard: it was during Ramadan, and Mulla Nasruddin was sitting by a well. He was thirsty, so he peered into the well to see how far the water was. It was a full-moon night. He saw the moon below. He said, “Poor fellow! How did he get trapped in the well? Someone must get him out! And there is no one around.” It was a lonely place. He forgot his thirst, threw a rope into the well, thinking to snag the moon somehow and pull him out—otherwise what will become of the world! The rope caught on a rock. He thought, “Good, it’s caught on the moon.” He pulled with great force. The result was that the rope snapped, and he fell flat. When he fell, he saw the moon above. He said, “No harm—though I got a bit hurt, sir, you are free now. That’s what matters.”

What we have seen in the world is the moon’s reflection in the well. What we have seen in the world is a reflection of the Divine. Our eyes have not yet been lifted toward the Divine. We do not even know how to lift them. When religions of the world pray, they raise their eyes to the sky. It is a symbol. God is not in the sky—but the gaze must turn upward, toward what is above us. How to look above oneself—that we do not know. We are accustomed to looking below ourselves. That is easy.

Whenever you look at someone filled with lust, you look down. And when you look at someone filled with prayerfulness, you look up. This looking up is bhakti; this looking down is love. The two are related. The energy is the same: moving downward it becomes love; moving upward it becomes bhakti.

And as the heart burns in love, so it burns in bhakti too. There is a difference—even in burning there is a difference. In the burning of love there is a kind of fever; in the burning of bhakti there is a coolness—a cool fire. In love’s burning there is only burning, as if acid has been poured on a wound. In bhakti’s burning there is burning—separation, pain—but very cool, very pacifying.

Perhaps this is what love is, Shefta:
a kind of fire burning inside the breast.
Fire arises in love; fire arises in bhakti. But the difference is vast. Love’s fire only burns; bhakti’s fire not only burns, it awakens. Love’s fire puts you to sleep; bhakti’s fire lifts and awakens you. In love’s fire you remain only a body; in bhakti’s fire the body dissolves and pure consciousness remains.

Bhakti means:
I seek the One who made me;
I long to meet the One from whom I have come;
I search for the Source,
for in the Source my ultimate destiny is hidden;
I seek the Absolute,
such that after finding It,
no other seeking remains.

But the knower seeks, and the devotee seeks. The knower’s search relies on the knower. The devotee says, “How will I find by myself? You too must lend a hand.” He says to God, “I may not know Your address, but surely You know mine. I may not know You, but You must know and recognize me. I may not have seen You—but how could it be that You have not seen me! So my search is incomplete. I will grope in the dark like a blind man. You must lend me Your hand. Take my hand in Yours.”

The knower relies on himself. Resolve is the journey of knowledge. The devotee’s journey is surrender. The devotee says, “I will search; I will search with my whole life. But one thing is certain: only when You wish to be found will the meeting happen. So You keep watch. Do not leave it to my search alone.”

I do call to Him, O passion of the heart—
but may things be such with Him that He cannot help but come.
I call, but what will come of my calling!
May it be such with Him that He cannot not come!
This fire must burn from both sides if something is to happen. From the other side it is burning too. God seeks you with as much urgency—perhaps more—than you seek Him.

Imagine a child lost in a bazaar or a fair, in the crowd. The child is searching for his mother. Do you think the mother is not searching? The child may forget many times—there are toys, a drum playing, a juggler’s tricks; he will stop and forget that his mother is lost. But no drum, no juggler, no show will distract the mother now. She will search like a madwoman. The child will forget the world. The world is a raft at daybreak! But he will begin to feel that all this is truth. He will stand at the toy shop. Or someone will give him sweets and he will forget—“This is fine.” What understanding does the child have! He will search—but what kind of search! And if the mother is not found for a day or two, he will begin to forget. After a month or two, even the memory will fade. After a year or two, even the image will be lost. But the mother will go on searching, go on aching.

Keep this second point in mind: God too is searching for you.

When you search relying on your own strength, you walk the path of knowledge. When you say, “I will search; I will put in my full strength—but one thing is certain, without Your searching me out, union will not be”—

May it be such with Him that He cannot help but come.
I do call to Him, O passion of the heart—
I will go on calling. But may it be such with You that You cannot hold back; You must come.

Bhakti is surrender. Bhakti is the complete renunciation of oneself.

The knower renounces the world; the devotee renounces himself. The knower gives up things; the devotee gives up his very identity. In moments of love you must have felt sometimes that the ego disappears—sometimes, for a fleeting moment. If you have truly loved, you will have found in those moments that the ego vanished. This happens for a moment in love; in bhakti it becomes steady—the ego is gone. You remain, but no “I-sense” remains. Where the “I-sense” is not, the temple draws near. Where the “I-sense” is not, the curtain lifts, the gates open. It is the lock of your “I” that is fixed upon the door.

It is not doubtful; it is certain they will not regard it as right education. Certainly, what I am teaching will seem to them mis-education; they will feel it should be stopped. Because the politician lives on people’s unintelligence; if intelligence arises in people, the politician cannot survive. The entire strength of the politician lies in your ignorance. The more ignorant you are, the more powerful the politician. The day there is a little more wisdom on the earth, a little more awareness in people, the thing that will vanish from the earth that day is politics.

The very meaning of politics is this: you are not intelligent, and others say, yes, you are not intelligent; we are intelligent. We will organize your life. Since you are not intelligent, you cannot order your own life. Give us power in our hands; we will arrange things. You cannot be your own masters; make us your masters, we will take care. You cannot protect your own interests; we will protect your interests.

That is the sum total of politics. You need a leader only when you yourself do not know what to do. So politics does not want people to be aware—it wants people to remain asleep. Politics does not want people to become meditative. Because the moment people become meditative, they begin to move outside the circle of politics. Within the circle of politics what is needed is anger, enmity, jealousy, envy, hatred, conflict. As long as these fires of turmoil burn in you, you remain in politics. Politics needs violence; the race to dominate one another; the urge to suppress one another; competition, rivalry. Politics is a kind of struggle.

So as meditation deepens, as feeling grows, love grows, peace grows—you will start moving out of politics. You will not want wars in the world.

The politician thrives on war. If wars disappear, the power of the politician is gone. When there are wars, the politician becomes a great leader.

You have seen, the greatness of the world’s big politicians depends on war. If there is no war in a politician’s lifetime, his so-called greatness never even comes to light. So every politician wants a big war to occur in his tenure and that he emerge victorious in it, so he can prove, yes, I was the right man.

Politics is the expansion of ego; meditation is the dissolution of ego. Politics is deception, hypocrisy.

I have heard: in a dense forest, as if by some miracle, a lion suddenly became very simple and began greeting everyone with folded hands! The animals were amazed—what has happened? He stopped growling, roaring, all his thunder. Whoever he met on the path, he spoke of great brotherhood. One day he was hungry and for a moment he forgot—because politics is just a face on the surface. He saw a donkey standing under a bush. Normally the donkey would have run, but for fifteen or twenty days this lion had become completely nonviolent, a Sarvodaya man, so the donkey was not afraid; he stood there. In a flash the inner reality revealed itself: the lion sprang. But as he sprang, he remembered, what am I doing! Instantly he fell at the donkey’s feet and said, “Bapu! Forgive me, it was a mistake!” The donkey could not believe what was happening! A lion calling a donkey “Bapu”!

An owl was sitting on a tree watching. The donkey went on his way. The owl asked, what is the matter? This is too much! I too had heard rumors that you have become very simple, virtuous; but this is a bit beyond limits—to fall at a donkey’s feet and call him “Bapu”!
The lion said, you remain the fool you are! Elections are near—why should I forfeit my deposit by offending a donkey?

The entire ambition of the politician is one: how to become powerful over the maximum number of people. Politics blossoms only on ego. Therefore politics can never be in favor of right education. Politics is hypocrisy; there is no greater hoax than that. Politics is the trade of lies. Politics means: how skillful you are at lying.

Just yesterday I saw a politician giving a speech, explaining to people: just a little more patience, socialism is about to arrive. A man stood up and shouted, socialism will never come; we’ve been hearing this for thirty years. The politician said, trust me; now it is not far, it is just about to arrive. Not much longer, a little more patience. Just this one more election and socialism will be here. A few others stood up and said, socialism will never come. Your secretary was saying last night at the club that socialism will never come.
The crowd was so large and started shouting so loudly that the politician was flustered. He said, my secretary was saying that—how can that be? Because this speech has been written by my secretary. And I tell you again, socialism is coming.
But more people stood up. They said, socialism will never come. Stop this nonsense; we’ve been hearing it long enough. Then the politician saw the situation was getting out of hand, so he stood with folded hands and said, as far as I knew, it was coming; but since you say so, perhaps it is not coming after all. I will find out properly—perhaps the program has been changed.

Politics is exploitation, bombast, sloganeering. And naturally, if a person begins to become right within himself, he will lose his political outlook; he will also become capable of seeing right through others’ politics.

The day the world becomes even a little more intelligent, there will be no place for politics. Nor should there be any place. There is no need for it. Politics lives on ignorance. And whatever politics teaches you, it teaches only so far as no revolution happens in your life. You remain crippled and dependent on them—lest you become free somewhere! Politicians would never want that the world should have more Buddhas and Mahaviras and Krishnas and Kabirs and Christs—never. Because these are dangerous people. Politics could not tolerate Jesus—it had him crucified; it could not tolerate Socrates—it had hemlock forced upon him. These are dangerous people! What is their danger? Their danger is that they are straightforward and true. They will say only what is true; there is no trimming. They will not speak lies. They are not opportunists. They will speak only of the ultimate welfare of man. Even if man turns against them, still they will speak only of man’s ultimate good. That is the mark of a sage.

The hallmark of a saint is precisely this: to state what is, as it is; to show the way to live what is, as it is; not to tamper with what is, even a little. And what is, is so revolutionary that if you connect yourself with it, there will be a total transformation in your life.

Politicians have always been angry with saints; they have not been angry with priests and ritualists, but always with saints. Priests, pundits, ritualists have long been in conspiracy with politicians. They even yoke religion to politics; they press religion into the service of politics.

A saint means one who has sought to live life as the Divine, accepting no terms and conditions; drawing no boundaries and acknowledging none. Saintliness means rebellion. Saintliness is a burning ember. It will burn you; it will reduce you to ashes. And right where your ashes lie, there will be the advent of the Divine. The more people in whom the Divine descends, the more people will fall outside the net of politics. If a large number of people are immersed in meditation and devotion, the very atmosphere of the world will change. Those whom you now call leaders you would not even agree to make into followers. The blind are giving blind guidance to the blind.

So you ask—and rightly so. What I call education, politicians are not willing to accept as education. Their whole effort will be to see that I cannot reach people with what I have to say. Every kind of attempt is made so that you cannot reach me, and I cannot reach you. The fewer people my words reach, the greater the advantage to the politician.

And the irony is that it isn’t that one kind of politician is opposed to me; all kinds of politicians are opposed to me—that is the amusing part. Usually, if someone belongs to Congress politics, the opposite party, the Janata Party, will be in his favor; and if someone favors the Janata Party, Congress will oppose him. But you will find that wherever saintliness manifests, all politicians will be against it; on that point they will all agree. Because saintliness pulls the very ground out from under politics.

The world can live in only two ways: one is the way of the politician, and the other is the way of religion. Until now the world has not lived religiously at all; it has lived in the politician’s way. So where has it lived? Has it lived at all! It has been dying, it has been decaying. No society has yet had the courage to live in a religious way, and politicians will not allow it. Who wants to lose their power! Who wants to lose their strength, honor, and position!

If the number of aware, enlightened people increases—if the proportion of meditative energy in the country rises even a little—many things will change in a single moment. One major change will be this: this flood of competition, this pressure, this violence, this rivalry against one another, the pulling of each other’s legs, and the prestige of positions will all lose their value. One who is established on the inner throne needs no other chair. He has attained the throne—there is no throne higher. And in whose life even a small stream of the Divine begins to flow, all journeys of ego stop at once. Politics, money, position, prestige—all are journeys of the ego.

The fundamental formula of right education is the dissolution of the ego. And the fundamental formula of mis-education is the cultivation of the ego. Your schools, colleges, and universities teach everything, but they do not teach the dropping of the ego; they teach the enlargement of the ego. That is why the one who comes first gets a gold medal. The one who gets ahead is praised. The one who gets a first division finds a job quickly. Competition is being taught.

You admit thirty small children to the first grade; the very first thing you do is politics: you throw all thirty into a struggle where each is pitted against the other twenty-nine. Each must come first; each is in enmity with the other twenty-nine. Enmity begins. Politics begins. Now you will make them adept in politics; you will make them cunning; you will make them dishonest. And then later you express great surprise. When an educated person becomes dishonest, you say, “What kind of education is this!” For twenty or twenty-five years you have taught a person how to be dishonest. Then when he starts picking pockets and cheating, you say, “What is this? The uneducated were better; at least they were not dishonest.” An uneducated person cannot even be easily dishonest; dishonesty requires skill. If he tries even a little dishonesty, he will be caught. It needs a bit of craftsmanship. For that, you need a university certificate.

What you call education is all an augmentation of the ego. What I call education requires that the ego be dissolved absolutely. Universities will be real on the day they do not teach ambition; the day a person returns from the university humble—returns as if he is not, returns with a sense of emptiness.

If the fear of death remains, there can be only one reason—certainly just one. And that reason is that you have not yet lived life. So there is a fear you might die before you live.

You think it’s a paradox. You think, How senseless, how odd: I find no taste in life, life isn’t delightful—then why does the fear of death remain? Your mind says, Logically, if life brings me no relish and life isn’t full of savor, the fear of death should vanish.

No, it won’t be so; you don’t know the deeper foundations of life. The fear of death doesn’t disappear until you come to know that “the world is a raft of the dawn”—that in life there is no relish at all. You aren’t tasting any relish, but deep down you still believe, “There is relish somewhere. It isn’t reaching me; there are some obstacles.” But the clear recognition that there is no relish in life—that hasn’t formed in you yet. That understanding hasn’t become dense.

It’s true your life is not full of savor; but that Life—the vast life spread all around—is also not full of savor; that you have not yet experienced, that encounter hasn’t happened. So you’re afraid: I haven’t even lived yet—what if death comes? I haven’t tasted yet—what if death comes? What if we remain flavorless and die halfway—never having lived, we die! Hence the fear of death.

The fear of death only tells you that you still have a taste for life. Your life may not be relishful—that I accept. But you still have hope in life; the thread of hope hasn’t snapped yet. It’s a fragile thread, but it’s tied. You still feel there must be some way, some path from somewhere. If I am not on the right path, there must be another that is. But life must have relish.

You are still running. You haven’t reached—yet that doesn’t prove there’s nowhere to reach. The day it becomes clear that there is nowhere to reach, that there is no savor in life, that life is only suffering—as Buddha said…

Buddha said there are four noble truths. The first noble truth is that life is suffering. He called this the first noble truth, the first great truth. One who knows this is noble, truly human—that life is suffering. The second noble truth is that there is a way to be free of the suffering of life. The third noble truth is that there is a state of consciousness that is freed from life’s suffering. The fourth noble truth is that this isn’t just imagination; others have attained it—it can happen to you too.

Of the four, the first noble truth is that life is suffering—fundamentally, through and through, from beginning to end.

You haven’t seen this yet. Why? Because you got entangled too soon in scriptures, in saints, in their words. You heard the conclusion too quickly. You did not recognize through your own living that life is futile; you merely heard someone say life is futile. Your mind keeps telling you life is full of savor. And you heard some mahatma say life is futile; now you’re in a dilemma—one door pulls you back, one door beckons forward. You are stuck.

I will tell you: forget the mahatma. Go into life. Wander a little more. Stumble a little more. Bang your head a little more. It’s a wall—it isn’t going to open; the door is not there. But until you are bloodied, the recognition won’t arise. Buddha may say life is suffering—but how will you believe? Had someone told the same to Buddha, he too could not have believed. He knew it himself, then he believed. You too will believe only when you know.

Don’t turn back half-finished on the hearsay of saints. Otherwise, religion will never become the truth of your life, because you’ll have missed the very first truth. Without a foundation, how will the temple be built? Don’t return from the middle on the saints’ word. Don’t return until you have your own experience, until your heart is torn and tattered from all sides. Otherwise, what happens is you become a hypocrite—you turn back midway; you start putting on a show of one thing while inside you are in a different state. You sit like a monk, but your mind is in the world—in the shop, in the market. You close your eyes to remember Ram, but Ram doesn’t come; something else, ever and again, only the nets of the world appear.

We are estranged from ourselves,
we are broken and battered.
Truth averts its eyes from us—
so false are we.
We grab this, we tie down that—
we are truly just pegs.
What can those swords do
whose hilts are us?
In every drinkers’ gathering
we are empty swigs.
Put us in a museum—
we are rare curiosities.
We will never become signatures;
we are only thumbs.

Don’t become false by listening to others. Don’t become mere thumbs by listening to others.

Live life by yourself. It is your life. You have received it so that you may go to its very end, seek its last depth. If you find relish—good fortune; if you do not—also good fortune. Because if you do not find it, then you can turn inward—carefree, undoubting. No questions will surround you. No outer call, no invitation will come. You return having known. You return having recognized. Take this as my fundamental teaching.

Therefore I say: even if you become a sannyasin, don’t leave the world—live right there! Awaken there! Experience there! A runaway, by definition, is still afraid. You run away from precisely where fear arises. If there were no fear, why would you run? The man who leaves his shop and flees to the forest is afraid of the shop. He fears that if he sits by the safe, the money will start tasting sweet. The one who leaves his wife fears that if he holds her hand, passion will be aroused. The one who leaves his son fears that if he looks into the child’s eyes, attachment will arise. Which only means the first truth of life has not yet been experienced; the knowing that “the world is a raft of the dawn” has not yet happened.

So I say to you: go into life. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be frightened! This is the arrangement of the divine. Ripen through experience. Return with experience. If you return with experience, your hands will be filled with pearls; if you come back on others’ words, you’ll return with cowries. Cowries won’t satisfy.

There is no relish in life—that I also tell you. But don’t turn back by accepting my words. Life is futile—that I also tell you. But my knowing is mine; how will it become yours? You cannot see with my eyes, nor walk with my feet, nor can my experience become your experience. Make it your own. Tie this knot in your bundle: someone has said life is futile. Let’s see! Perhaps I’m mistaken! Perhaps Buddha erred. Perhaps these few saints—countable on the fingers—are wrong! Because the greater number is of those who are immersed in life. These few could be mistaken. Don’t turn back on their word. Return through experience.

One day, I tell you, if you dive fully and reach the very bottom of life, you will find nothing there. And from there you will return empty-handed in one sense, and full-handed in another. Empty-handed in the sense that there is nothing in life; full-handed in the sense that now the divine can be sought—carefree, free of doubt. Now there is no obstacle in the search for God. Now no alternatives will arise. Now the crows of thought and desire will cease their caw-caw. Now you can move. Now the stream of your life, gathered into one, can fall into the ocean of the divine.

You see it every day—this is exactly what is happening here. Sometimes I am Lieh Tzu, sometimes Ashtavakra, sometimes Kabir, sometimes Meera, sometimes Mohammed. I have not the slightest difficulty. Not even for a moment does a dilemma arise that I was speaking of witnessing—now how shall I speak of devotion! Because as I see it, the paths are many, the destination is one.
Just as one climbs a mountain, one can climb from different directions by different paths. But the one who reaches the summit and stands there will see that all travelers are coming toward the same peak. If, even after reaching the summit, it seems that not all travelers are heading to the peak, then you have not reached the summit. If, on reaching the summit, someone still remains a Jain as a Jain, a Hindu as a Hindu, a Muslim as a Muslim, understand that he has not arrived. Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—these are matters of the road. Fine. When you have to walk the road, you must choose one. Even if fifty paths go there, you will go by one; you cannot walk on fifty. If you try to walk on fifty, you will go mad. You will never arrive. How will you walk at all? You will be in great difficulty.

I have heard: a stout woman went to a cinema hall. She handed two tickets to the usher who shows the seats. He asked, “Where is the other gentleman?” She said, “Forgive me, I am a bit fat, so I have taken both seats for myself.” He said, “As you wish, madam, but you will get into quite a fix.” She asked, “What fix?” He said, “One seat is number 51 and the other is 61. It is up to you to sit on both, but there will be a big difficulty.”
You cannot sit on two chairs.

A politician came to see Mulla Nasruddin. Mulla was sitting; he didn’t even say, “Please sit.” In election time, who tells politicians to sit! He looked at him as people look at beggars: move on, go somewhere else, don’t waste time! The politician got offended. He said, “Don’t you know, I am an MP!” Mulla said, “Fine, sit!” The politician said, “And not only an MP—after this election I hope to enter the Cabinet; I will become a minister.” Mulla said, “Please, please, sit on two chairs! What more service can I do?”

You cannot sit on two chairs, even if you are a minister. Nor can you walk on two paths; nor can you ride two horses; nor does anyone travel in two boats. You will be split in two.

Right—on the path you have to make a choice. So while you are on the path, choose. If the talk of witnessing appeals, go by witnessing. If the talk of devotion appeals, go by devotion. If Mohammed resounds in your heart, follow him; if Mahavira stirs you, follow him. I have opened all the doors before you. Do not try to go out through all the doors. Go out through one. But I have opened them all so that no hindrance remains for you. Choose what accords with your temperament, with which your taste finds its fulfillment, and go that way—by all means. But when you reach the inner sanctum of the temple, you will find that all the doors bring you there. When you reach the mountain peak, you will find that those who climbed from the east have come, those who climbed from the west have come, those who climbed from the south have come; those who were carried in palanquins have come; those who walked have come; those who rode horses have come; those who sang as they walked have come; those who walked silently, in silence, have come. All have arrived!

From where I am, there is no difference at all between Lieh Tzu and Daya and Sahajo and Ashtavakra. There, Lieh Tzu dissolves into Ashtavakra; Ashtavakra dissolves into Daya; Daya is submerged in Kabir. There all become one. Rivers are separate; when they pour into the ocean, they become one. And rivers have different tastes, different colors and ways. But in the ocean the taste of all becomes one.

As you wish! Everyone makes their own choice. If you’ve decided not to drink—sworn an oath against it—then there is no remedy.

There’s a saying: you can lead a horse to the river, but you can’t force it to drink. I can bring you to the river; after that, it’s your will. If you enjoy just coming and going, then come and go—you are welcome. But for how long? And what is the point of this to-and-fro? Have a sip! And stop looking for excuses. Humans are very cunning; they throw their responsibilities onto someone else.

From your question it sounds as if you have no fault in it.

In love’s marketplace, sometimes fate strikes the bargain;
Time and again the deal of my heart is made, then undone.

At times you blame fate, at times circumstances; at times you find some other cause. These are all alibis. If you don’t want to drink, don’t drink—but don’t hunt for excuses. It takes courage to drink.

You say, “People drink and stagger!”
You must be afraid of staggering. The desire to drink is evident—otherwise why ask, why come at all? You must be afraid of staggering. You want to drink but not to reel. That won’t happen. If you drink, you will stagger. Somewhere inside you’re calculating: perhaps I can drink in such a way that I won’t stagger.

People come to me. A few days ago a gentleman came and said, “Give me sannyas, but inner!” I asked, “What is this? What is inner sannyas?” He said, “Such that no one finds out—just between you and me.”

See the cleverness: let no one know! I go home and neither my wife nor my children nor anyone else should find out.

So I said: then there’s no need for sannyas at all. With me, if you drink, you must stagger. Everyone will know. People will laugh.

Then he said, “All right, I’ll wear the mala. Can I wear it inside, or must it be outside?”

People have lost their nerve. They have become extremely weak. There must have been truly brave ones who went naked with Mahavira. They did not say, “Master, would it do if we remain naked under our clothes?” That could have been done—everyone is naked under their clothes; what’s the obstacle there? They were courageous people. They staggered gloriously!

There is a story in the Jain scriptures: a young man returned after listening to Mahavira. He sat in the bathhouse; his wife was bathing him, rubbing him with paste and washing his body. They began to talk. The wife said, “You too went to hear Mahavira; my brother also goes. He is thinking of taking sannyas.” The young man said, “Thinking? Thinking means he doesn’t want to take it. What’s there to think? If the point has struck home, it has struck home. What’s there to think? Thinking means: tomorrow, the day after.”

The wife felt hurt that he was insulting her brother. She said, “No, he will surely take it—give him one more year.” The husband said, “In a year death may come. And who knows, in a year he may change his mind? There is no courage. To say this as a kshatriya! One year later! Then be quiet now and bring it up after a year.”

The wife was stung further. She said, “You also go to listen—do you think you could take sannyas at once?”
The husband stood up and walked out of the bathhouse. The wife said, “Where are you going?” He replied, “The matter is settled.” She said, “At least put on your clothes!” He said, “What for now? Mahavira will have me take them off anyway.”

The wife began to weep and shout; the household gathered. He went to the door and stood in the street. Father and mother tried to reason with him: “Madman, this is just a conversation…” He said, “Not a conversation—the matter is over. Now I see that when I said about another, ‘What’s the use of thinking,’ I too was thinking inside. Now I understand; it’s finished.”

Such were the brave. Slowly, people have become very weak—so weak that they fear even wearing the ochre robe, fear even keeping the mala outside, lest someone say, “Hey, what’s happened to you?” Lest someone take them for mad!

You come; the taste is yours. The craving must have caught. Even if you haven’t drunk, the little wine poured here perfumes the air; its fragrance is in the very breeze. Your nostrils must have caught a whiff. And around those who drink and are intoxicated, an atmosphere is created; it must have brushed you. You do want to drink—why else would you come? But you fear staggering. Have the courage to stagger too. What’s the joy of drinking if you don’t reel? Then drinking or not drinking comes to the same.

The very meaning of sannyas is that the old life will be uprooted and a new life will be established. Sannyas is revolution. Roots will be pulled from the old soil and a new ground must be sought. In between, difficult days will pass. The transitional period will be troublesome. People will laugh and mock. They always have. And it’s not even their fault. When they mock you and laugh, don’t think they are laughing at you; they are protecting themselves. They too are afraid. When you come dancing in the ochre robe, intoxicated, the one who laughs at you is also frightened. He sees that if he does not oppose this person, the attraction might seize him too! He opposes to protect himself. He says, “You are wrong.” He shouts that you are wrong, that you have gone mad. In truth he is saying, “May this madness not befall me.”

Whenever you begin to oppose someone, look closely within; somewhere inside there will be an attraction to go that way. That is why the opposition; otherwise there would be none. Those who oppose you will follow you—just stagger a bit.

Razing a heart may be easy, tyrant; building one is not.
A dwelling is no child’s play; it becomes a dwelling by long settling.

It takes a little time. Then even in staggering, the staggering ceases to be. Even in reeling, an order appears. Even in ecstasy there is a rule, a golden rule. Even madness has a method. At first it seems madness; slowly everything settles. And then for the first time you see that what was before was all madness—now for the first time you have become wise. The world will call you mad, but you will know that you had been mad till now; now, for the first time, a ray has descended into your life and the madness has dissolved.

Gather a little courage. Sannyas is courage. And this is a tavern. This time, go on staggering. If you have the courage, I am always ready to bless you.

Who knows what vague dread we fear—
What we don’t want, we do compelled.
We make of living a mere excuse,
And all our life we die at every step.

What are you panicking about? What is there to lose? What do you have to lose? What is the fear? What are you trying to save? Nothing at all. And you go on doing what you do not want to do, while what you do want to do, you fear to do. Recognize this. Stop searching for excuses. And if you show a little courage, the journey into the unknown will begin.

Courage! I repeat it again and again, because the divine is as yet unknown; an unfamiliar wine, never tasted; an unfamiliar path, never trodden. God is not a royal road; it is a forest footpath. You will be alone. The crowd will be left behind on the highway. Politicians, crowds, noise, processions, pageantry—all will be left on the main road. Sannyas is a journey into aloneness. Meditation is a device to be alone. To drown in devotion means: the world will begin to be forgotten; your whole attention will be fixed on that single distant star. Only that one star will remain within you, and all else will slowly fade. Hence the fear—going into such aloneness! Such solitude! Transcending all relationships!

Therefore courage is the essential trait of a religious person. The violent can become religious; the angry can become religious. The lustful can become religious; but the coward cannot become religious. Reflect on this.

Your scriptures tell you: leave violence, leave anger, leave lust. I tell you: leave cowardice. Because if you don’t drop cowardice, how will you drop violence? If you don’t drop cowardice, how will you drop anger? If you don’t drop cowardice, how will you drop wealth? If you don’t drop cowardice, how will you drop attachments? Drop cowardice and the first step is taken. Now you are strong; now you can drop anything.

Someone utterly unknown till yesterday
Has become the foundation of life.

Take heart. If you show courage, you will suddenly find a strong hand has taken hold of yours.

Someone utterly unknown till yesterday
Has become the foundation of life.

Become helpless, and you will find the support of the divine.

Someone utterly unknown till yesterday
Has become the foundation of life.

Binding the solitary mind
Is a golden chain of memories;
Sleep-laden lids have lost
The silver estate of dreams.
On every pore a sweet,
Unknown shiver keeps its watch;
That which lay beyond the rim of sight
Has become the very source of breath.

Of which there was never any news, which you had never seen…
That which was not even within the field of vision
Has become the very reservoir of your breath.

That will suffuse your every breath.

Birds of assuring words
Chirp upon the branches of speech;
In the lotus-groves of longing
Fragrant patience scents each step.
Words of love have sprung up
In the guileless courtyard of affection;
Some unknown name, unawares,
Has become the gratitude of songs.

The name by which you have no recognition, which is as yet nameless…
Some name, unawares,
Has become the very thankfulness of songs.

In the mirror of the inner self
I brought down the form of light’s welcome;
But to limit the limitless
Is not easy—there I failed.
Naked, unsuccessful lines
Raise their hands and gaze at the sky;
The life of some unknown portrait
Has taken on my very shape.

A little courage, a little daring—accept the challenge to enter the unknown, the unfamiliar. And you will not be alone. The divine is with you. But before the divine can be with you, you must show the courage to be alone. The divine is with those who are alone.

There is no loss at all—because you can know what the loss is only after you have found God. Loss is felt only when something gained is then lost. What has never been gained—how could you know the loss of losing it? What you do not yet have—how can you even estimate whether gaining it would be a profit or a loss?

If a little child asks, “What’s the loss if I never grow up?” what will you say? It’s hard to explain what the loss would be of not becoming young. If a blind man asks, “What’s the loss if I never get my eyes?”—he has never known light. He doesn’t know that he is deprived of the kingdom of light, the web of colors, the rainbow, the sun, the moon and stars, flowers, trees—the whole wondrous world that light reveals. If he says, “Even if my eyes aren’t healed, what’s the loss?”—how will you explain loss to him? The only way to explain loss is: you have it, then you lose it, then you know.

You ask: “What is the loss if God is not found?”
I know what the loss is. Your question is valid too. You have not known God—how will you understand what the loss is? Let’s approach it from the other side.

What is there in the life you are calling life right now? Is there anything for which it feels meaningful to live? Anything for which you would want to live again? If God were to ask you, “We can give you another life—would you want to live it exactly as you are living now?” Would you want to live it just like this, again? Think on it. You would not—because there is nothing in it. Empty, dry! Nowhere do flowers blossom, no veena sings. The heart never lifts the flute; no music is born in it. There is nothing anywhere. You just go on, pushed and pulled. You go on because—what else to do? You go on because you find yourself in life, so you go on. One day death will come, and it will all end. Perhaps, knowingly or unknowingly, a man even waits for death.

Sigmund Freud counted two fundamental drives in man: sex and the death-drive. Strange, isn’t it? One is the sex-drive that keeps pushing man along. And Freud says: deeper still, somewhere in the unconscious, a hope persists—life is futile anyway, today or tomorrow death will come, and all will be set right.

Have you ever noticed? Beyond waiting for death, what else is there in your life? If this dry, withered tree falls, what is the loss?

So let me turn it around: if this is all life is, what is the loss in losing it? This getting up each morning, going to the office, returning home, sleeping again, then quarrels, then fights—if this is life, what is the loss in losing it? The greatest thinkers of the world have asked precisely this.

The great Western thinker Jean-Paul Sartre asks: if this is life, what is wrong with suicide? This is not something to dismiss lightly. Suicide is the biggest question—because if this is what you call life, what is surprising if someone wishes to end it? What is there in it? Tomorrow you will do the same thing—get up again, drink your tea, quarrel with your wife, read the newspaper, go to the office—just like a gramophone record that has cracked and the needle gets stuck in one groove, repeating the same line, the same line, the same line. Your life is like a broken gramophone record.

You ask: “What is the loss if God is not found?”
What is there in your life now?

To find God means only this: that meaning enters your life. Nothing else. To find God means your life becomes fragrant, musical. Your life becomes a celebration, a surge of joy! Your life no longer remains stale, borrowed; it becomes fresh—fresh like the morning, like droplets of dew, virginal. There is a glimmer of moon and stars in your life. There ought to be—because among all things in this world, man has the most unique treasure: consciousness. Having received such an extraordinary wealth, what are you doing with it? Rushing about to raise your salary a little, to pile a little more money in the safe, to replace the small car with a big one, the small house with a large one?

With this supreme consciousness, what are you attaining? In this supreme consciousness, the bliss of the whole existence can dawn.

To find God means only this: the doors of your being open to joy. The celebration of life enters you. You begin to dance. Or, think of it this way:

Today the kachnar blooms,
Shyam is not in the palace.
Friend, you adorn yourself in spring’s finery,
vermilion bright in your tresses.
You laugh along with the moon,
stop mid-sentence,
loosen, tighten your embrace—
but youth, like a maiden’s fragrance, will not be contained
in golden silken robes.
Today the kachnar blooms,
Shyam is not in the palace.

As when a lover is not at home—what do flowers mean
to the beloved then?

Today the kachnar blooms,
Shyam is not in the palace.
Breezes flit in, cooling the body,
the eyes are dry and pale,
springtime ebbs away,
the night drains out on the eyelids.
Today the kachnar blooms,
Shyam is not in the palace.

This is man’s condition. Until God—until Shyam—abides in your innermost core, all of life is dry, empty, lifeless, without soul.

The search for God means enthroning Shyam upon the throne of your heart—call him by any name you like. Right now the throne of your heart is empty. The palace is there, but who knows where the emperor is!

I received the gift of birth, even from death—
but at your door my plea found no hearing.
The world changed, life changed, thrones changed,
the sky and the earth changed, spring and monsoon changed—
but who knows in what bracelet you have bound me tight;
till today my wrist has not been set free.
I repeated your name upon the sea-shore,
became cloud and called out in the deserts,
turned into toys and games, I searched in crowds and carnivals,
I cried out wearing a shroud in cremation grounds.
Measuring the road, the traveler himself was lost;
the feet of breath grew tired, the journey was over—
yet from this prison-house of pain
there has been no release for my body and mind.
From which window are you standing, peering in—
thinking so, I bowed my head at every temple door.
Who knows when you will come and rattle my latch—
all life long I have not slept for this grief.
Always my eyes stayed brimming, open, open,
bit by bit the body melted away, the pitcher drained—
but O my moon, without you in this world
my life’s night has never become moonlit.

Without God, man is a dark night. Without God, there is no moonlight. Without God, man is a seed—closed, inert. With God, the seed sprouts; the flowering, fruiting journey begins. Without God, the temple is there but the deity is not—you are hollow, empty. Shyam is not in the palace! And you know this.

Do not ask what will be lost if God is not found. Ask: what do you have right now? If God is not found, what will you gain? Ask the question this way—it will be more meaningful, more fitting: if God is not found, what did this life give? Ask it that way and you have begun the search from the right direction.

God means simply this: the truth of your life is revealed. The destiny you carry within comes to light; your lotus blooms. When the lotus blooms, there is supreme celebration. That very supreme celebration should unfold within you. That is why we seat Buddha upon a lotus, why Vishnu stands upon a lotus. And the yogis have called the ultimate energy-center in man the sahasrara—the thousand-petaled lotus. When your consciousness fully blossoms, it is as though a lotus of a thousand petals has opened. Only on that day will you know what you had lost till now. On that day you will know how much you had squandered. On that day you will know: ah, what I called life till now—was not life at all.

Sri Aurobindo has said: when I awoke, I realized that what I had called life was worse than death; what I had taken for light was deep darkness; and what I had drunk as nectar was poison.

There is a Tibetan story. A Buddhist monk lost his way. Night fell. A few twinkling stars, a little light in the sky. He had been thirsty all day. He searched everywhere, not a single lamp could be seen. Parched, hungry—he fell on his knees, exhausted, and remembered the Buddha. “Lord, now you must help; I will die. Water is needed this very moment; my throat is scorched.” And as soon as he collapsed to the ground, he saw a golden bowl right before him—filled with water. He lifted it and drank. He set the bowl down and fell asleep, blissful in the Lord’s grace.

In the morning, he was shocked. There was no golden bowl. Before him lay a human skull. And not an old one—the man must have died only a few days before; some wild animal had killed him. Blood still clung to it. Bits of flesh stuck to it, decaying, crawling with maggots. And in that, a little water. That is what he had drunk in the night. In the moments of deep thirst, exhaustion, and darkness, it had seemed a golden vessel. In the light of day he saw: where was the golden vessel? It was a rotting human skull. He panicked. He began to vomit. And they say, in the very moment of vomiting, realization happened—samadhi descended. He understood the whole thing; the secret of the world became clear.

In just such a swoon you have taken what you call a golden bowl to be a human skull—filthy. What you call love is mired in muck. What you call life is not life at all. The day your eyes open—God means: eyes opening—the day your eyes open, that day you will startle and see: what I called life till now was worse than death.

But that comes later. For now? How will you understand this now? So leave it for now. For now, think simply: what is there in your life? If you find there is nothing, then you must search. Use the time you have in your hands.

This much I tell you: the one who searches, finds. The one who seeks, it is given to him. For the one who knocks, the doors open. The seeker never returns empty-handed. Seek with courage. Right now there is nothing in life. Do not try, by asking inverted questions like “What is the benefit of finding God?”, to persuade yourself that there is no benefit. If that is so, just keep doing what you are doing—since, after all, what is the benefit of finding God!

People come to me and ask, “What is the benefit of meditation?” I ask them, “You have been angry up to now—did you ever ask what the benefit of anger is?” “No,” they say. “Yet you ask the benefit of meditation! You have practiced violence, hatred, jealousy—did you ever ask what the benefit is?” “No, we never asked.” Then I say, “Ask now, here in front of me: all the anger you have indulged in until now—what benefit?” They say, “None.” Then I ask them, “Will you still continue with anger?” They become nervous. If there is no benefit, then what? If you live only by benefit, drop anger, drop lust, drop jealousy. You have gained nothing from them. And if you drop anger, lust, jealousy, greed, attachment, you will immediately begin to see the benefit of meditation—because in dropping them, meditation begins.

The benefit of meditation can be known only by entering meditation—how else beforehand? Kabir has said: it is like sugar in the mouth of the mute. Those who have tasted cannot explain. They can only say: you too, taste.

That is what I say to you. Only after finding God do you know that there was but one thing in this world worth gaining—God. All else is futile. But that is after the taste. For now, keep asking—and ask again and again—what is there in my life now? Take up each thing in life and examine it. Open each thing and see: what is there? You will find nothing. Silence! Bare silence! From that barrenness your ambition arises—fill up with wealth, fill up with position, fill up with something. Inside is empty, you try to fill it with something. But no matter how you fill, it won’t fill—because money cannot go inside, nor can status go inside. However big a house you own, it cannot go inside. However large your shop, it cannot go inside. Only one thing can enter within—God. Because he is already within. When he is revealed within, you fill from within.

To be filled within is what God-realization means. And when you are full—utterly full—then there is contentment, fulfillment, sat-chit-ananda.

That is all for today.