Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #6

Blessing is for everyone. But it is not that just because I give it you will receive it; you will receive it only if you take it. The river is flowing—flowing for all. Trees will drink, animals and birds will drink, humans will drink. But only the one who drinks will be quenched. If you stand stiff on the bank, the river will not jump into your cupped hands. You will have to bend, you will have to form your palms into a cup—only then will you be able to drink. If you do not drink, if the water is not drunk, then do not complain about the river. The river was flowing.

But man is very upside down. If he does not receive blessing, he thinks the blessing must not have been given. But do you have the capacity to receive? Will you accept blessing? Blessing is not a cheap affair. Perhaps you think it is free. Blessing is fire—it will burn, it will change, it will transform. Courage is needed!

What else does sannyas mean? It means simply this: someone bent down, formed his hands into a cup, agreed to enter into relationship with the river. It means you became ready to receive blessing; you extended your bowl, you held out your begging bag. Blessing is pouring—but if you never make yourself a bowl, blessing will not fall into your hands.

It rains—even on mountains—but mountains remain as empty as before. They are so full of themselves. Rain falls on the mountains, and the water runs racing toward the ravines; it rushes and fills the hollows and a lake is formed. Will you say the water fell only for the lakes and not for the mountains? The water poured on all; but the mountains were too full of themselves—there was no space for water. Lakes were empty; there was room. In eagerness they had their doors open. The doors were already open; the water simply filled.

Blessing is raining continuously—upon you, upon the sannyasin, upon these trees as well. But how much one takes depends on them.

Sannyas means only this, nothing else: that you are willing to walk with me.

You want to receive blessing for free. You do not want to move even an iota from your place. You do not want to empty even a grain, and yet you want to become a lake. You aspire to become Manasarovar, and you do not have even a little courage to empty yourself.

Sannyas is the name of courage. Why are you afraid? Who is stopping you from taking sannyas? What is the fear? The fears are small. But man is clever—he plasters even his fear with smartness. Even to admit, “I am afraid,” feels difficult, because admitting fear hurts the ego.

Mulla Nasruddin got up early one night from the tavern. Friends said, “Where are you going? It’s only evening!” Mulla said, “I can’t stay late today; my wife has said, ‘Be back home before ten.’” The friends laughed. “Mulla, are you a man or a mouse? We have wives too. Why so much fear?” Mulla puffed out his chest and said, thumping it, “I am a real man, a real man! Don’t ever talk like that.” A friend said, “Then give proof! If you’re a real man, prove it.” Mulla said, “Proof? The proof is obvious: my wife is afraid of mice—she isn’t afraid of me.”

Man does not want to accept even his fearful state.

You ask: “Why, even upon reaching the camp, does a divide appear?”

Because there is a divide. And the divide is from your side. It is you who see it. Whoever is not a sannyasin is himself shrunken, frightened. He cannot open, cannot mingle. He is afraid—afraid that if he mingles more, dives deeper, goes beyond his limits, he might end up becoming a sannyasin; and then what of the home, the wife, the market, the shop, society! He moves cautiously, keeps his cunning, keeps his calculations—go this far, not beyond. And with these people drunk on the ochre robe, he too keeps his distance, stands a little on the side. To come close to them is not without danger either, because this disease is contagious. It is a communicable disease. If you stay too long with the ochre-clad, dreams of ochre will start rising in you too.

So the divide is because of you. You are afraid; therefore there is a divide. The divide is born of fear. Then it seems to you that blessing is not showering upon you. Why does it seem so? Because you see others delighted, ecstatic; you are not delighted, not ecstatic—so they must be receiving blessing and you are not. They are getting something special that you are not.

They are receiving exactly what you are receiving. But they go on drinking while you sit with your throat blocked. They have bent down and are filling their bowls; you are afraid. Because of your fear there is a divide, only because of fear.

You ask: “Does the whole distance vanish the moment one takes sannyas?”

Not the whole distance, but the vanishing begins. The whole distance will be erased only as it is erased. Distances created over births upon births will not vanish in a moment. It will take time. You will need patience. But the beginning is made.

One man is sitting, one is standing, one has started walking. All three are at the same place for now. One is sitting, one is standing, one has taken the first step. They are still on one line, but there is a big difference. The one sitting has not even begun to erase the distance. The one standing is at least in between; he may start. The one sitting will have to stand before he can walk; you can’t walk while seated! The one standing is closer to the walker than to the sitter, because if he chooses to walk, he can immediately walk. And the one who has lifted his foot has not yet reached the destination either; he is still where the other two are, but his distance has begun to dissolve. Even one step reduces the distance by one step!

Sannyas is the first step; the beginning of the vanishing of distance. And the first step is the most difficult step. Then steps go on rising one after another. The first step is the hardest. So regard the first step as half the journey.

Mahavira has a famous saying: “He who has set out has arrived.” Literally it is not true; setting out does not guarantee arrival—you may turn back midway, you may stop midway, your heart may change, your view may change. “He who has set out has arrived”—this is not literally true. But there is great meaning in it. Mahavira insists like this because the one who has set out has already completed half the journey—the first step itself is half the journey. The first step is the most difficult.

If you have brought the cup to your lips—the cup I am offering and saying “Drink!”—then the work is almost done. How much distance is there from lips to throat? If the cup has touched the lips, it will reach the throat. But if it hasn’t even touched the lips, if you haven’t even taken it in your hands, how will it reach the throat?

You ask: “Is blessing only for sannyasins?”

Blessing is for everyone, but it is only sannyasins who obtain it. Understand this well. It flows right past over your head.

An emperor once came to Buddha and asked some questions. Buddha said, “Come again after a year or two. I will give you a process of meditation; do it.” The emperor felt a little hurt. “I have come from so far. I am no ordinary person. I have brought questions I’ve pondered for days. I have asked many and they gave answers. You did not even bother to answer. And you say, ‘Meditate and come back after two years.’ This is discourteous. Do you want to insult me?”

Buddha said, “No.” He said, “Consider this: it rains, and a pot is placed upside down—let it rain as it may, not a drop will enter the pot. Then consider a second pot that is upright but full of holes: it will keep filling while it rains and emptying at the same time. The moment the rain stops, the pot is empty. It will look as if it fills, but it never fills, because it is full of holes; all drains away. And then a third pot: neither upside down nor holed, but filled with filth. Rain will fall, but the pure water will be made impure, poisonous. Don’t drink that by mistake, else you won’t get life, you’ll get death.

“And you are all three pots at once,” Buddha said. “You are toxic, impure, full of junk gathered over births upon births; upside down as well, and holed too. I have given two years of meditation so you can clean the pot a little, fill in the holes, set the pot upright. I am ready to shower. But at present the rain will be of no use. Just because you asked a question does not mean you must be given an answer; you may not yet be fit to receive one.”

This may feel harsh to you, Buddha’s words may feel harsh. But they were said with great compassion: “Come a little prepared.” Sannyas is preparation.

Even here, so many listen—and there too there are only three kinds of pots. Some are upside down; they will go from here empty-handed. And if you tell them you have found your treasure, they will laugh at you: “We came empty; how could you be filled? You are deluded, superstitious, emotional, lack understanding.” They are the “sensible” ones; nothing came into their hands—how will they consider you sensible? They will think, “He is naive, devout; he doesn’t know the art of thinking.”

Then there are those set upright; they fill many times. While listening it starts seeming to them that they are full. But they cannot even make it past the door before being empty again; all is forgotten. They are holed. And then a third kind: they do fill, they are not holed, they are upright; but whatever falls into them no longer remains “mine.” Their mind distorts it. They add their own commentary, their own meaning. They do take something from here, but it is not what I gave; they take what they had brought, a little more polished. What I say gets thrown into their trash.

It depends on you.

Sannyas means simply this: you are willing to scrub your pot; willing to dye it in my color; willing to seal the holes; willing to keep it upright. You drop your fear.

Sannyas is a rebirth; a new life. In one way you have lived up to now; by that way you haven’t attained anything. If you had attained, there would be no need to come to me or to go anywhere. From your question itself it seems nothing has been found in life. You have come in search of something. But you want to receive in such a way that you need not give anything. You want to get it without spending anything; to have it so that no one even hears a whisper that you have gotten something. You want to be the owner of diamonds, but you do not have the courage—the audacity—that such ownership requires.

If after being born you do not take birth again,
the inner chamber remains dark.
Paste however smooth a paper you will,
the book of life stays blank.

Pasting smooth paper changes nothing until Truth descends. And without being born again… By “being born again” I mean this: one birth your parents gave you; the other birth is from the guru. That is why we revere the guru even above mother and father. From mother and father you received the body, birth, life—that is earthly, material, gross. From the guru you receive the direction of life—that is subtle, of consciousness. From the guru you receive the soul; from the parents, the body. So one birth parents gave; the second birth is from the guru.

Sannyas is the courage to bow at someone’s feet. And in this world there is no greater courage than to bow. Do not take stiffness to be a great thing; all fools are stiff. There is no great glory in being rigid. The art is in bending.

Lao Tzu has said: great trees stand stiff; a storm comes and they are uprooted. The little blades of grass, small plants, shrubs—when the storm comes, they bend; when it passes, they stand again. The storm cannot uproot the grass because there is suppleness in it. It uproots the big trees because they are egoistic.

A storm is blowing here. These are not mere “talks” I am giving you. This is a storm that shakes your roots; it is a gale. If you stand stiff, it is hard to gain; harm is possible. You may even break. If you bend, harm is impossible; there is only benefit. This gale will leave you fresh, renewed; it will dust you clean. You will stand again, waving green. This gale will become sanjivani—life-giving—will become blessing.

Sannyas means you say to the Lord—and for now the Lord is far, so you say it to the guru. The guru is only the gurudwara—the doorway. Through him you present your petition to the Divine. You say, “I have not seen You; there is no acquaintance with You; I don’t know Your address. But there is someone who knows Your whereabouts. So we send our message through him; we send our prayers through him to You.”

Guru means: one who is like you and yet not like you; somewhat like you and yet beyond you. Guru means: one whose one hand is in your hand and the other in the hand of the Invisible. If you look with love, the guru’s invisible hand will begin to be understood—that somewhere in the guru, God peeks through. If you do not look with love, with surrender, you will see only the gross form the eyes can see. There is no way to see the guru without becoming a disciple, because only as a disciple do you become capable—you bend, you look with sympathy, with love, with affection—and then the other side, the invisible world, starts appearing through the guru. The guru is a window.

O player, I am your flute;
breathe into me and play.
There are slumbering notes in my body;
they do not awaken by themselves—this is my failing.
Give me the life-giving touch of your lips,
force sweetness into my mind.
Dispel this inertness—touch me as Ahilya was redeemed;
let self-awareness dawn today.
O player, I am your flute;
breathe into me and play.

You do not know what veena lies asleep within you. You go to a musician and say, “Pluck my veena a little so that I too may hear who sleeps within me; so that I may wake a little and know what my possibility is.”

In the presence of the guru you get your first glimpse of your own possibility.

Let my pain find voice,
let the empty grove resound again;
play such a melody steeped in sorrow
that the three worlds lose their senses hearing it.
Touch my wounds with changing fingers,
and keep raising a new scale.
O player, I am your flute;
breathe into me and play.

If I remain silent, my breath chokes—
I cannot remain without notes.
My relation with notes is only through you;
if you do not play, who will play?
Do not be so merciless now—
I can bear no more; do not keep me longing.
O player, I am your flute;
breathe into me and play.

Mute I have lain in the temple for so long—
lift me now, save my honor.
My breath is hanging on a single hope—
who knows on what day you will pick me up.
Before this body becomes a corpse,
just once, touch me with your lips.
O player, I am your flute;
breathe into me and play.

Sannyas means: you are requesting the guru—“I do not know who I am; bring me a little to my senses. I do not know who is lying within me; shake me awake! You know. I do not know where my treasure is. You know; show me the way to my treasure.”

Sannyas is placing your hand in the guru’s hand. It is an unprecedented revolution; only the audacious can do it. Because it is very difficult to leave yourself wholly in someone else’s hands. And you only leave when you leave totally. If you leave “a little,” leave with calculation—“I will leave a bit and see whether anything happens; if not, I’ll turn back”—then you have not left at all. Even if you become a sannyasin like this, the divide will continue. There are such people too who take sannyas with the hope: “Let’s see—if something happens we’ll stay; if not, who can stop us? We’ll change clothes on the train, hide the mala, go home as we were.” Such people exist. I will not send the police after you. Here you may be fine—but what you do in Amritsar, how would I know!

If you take sannyas in this way, the divide will remain—because you are being cunning. With whom are you being cunning? At least let there be one place where you do not play cunning. Let there be one place where you bow your head in totality; where there is no dishonesty, no deceit.

So I am not saying you must take sannyas. I am saying: if you do, do it after thinking, after understanding—take it with full courage. And if you do, do not keep this account that “I will return.” If the mind is set on returning, you cannot walk with me. How can one who intends to return walk? He will say, “If I go so many steps, I will have to return—better to stand here.” He will keep talking about walking—“I will walk, surely I will walk”—but will remain standing, because returning is fixed.

If the mind to return remains, you cannot embark on this journey. Sannyas is a journey where you are not to return; once gone, gone. Then it will surely happen. Then the meeting with the Supreme will be. Then you will grasp at once the rays of my blessing.

The second question is also much like the first—somewhat related. So understand that too.

As yet the supreme attainment has not happened, but there is so much fear of ochre, of the mala, and of the Guru that even this thought comforts the heart: “No worry—wear them for a few days, drape them for a while; once the supreme attainment happens, we’ll drop everything.” The attainment will never happen. Such a mind never attains. This mind has not even set out on the journey. It is thinking of stopping before it starts. It is calculating the destination before it has arrived. This is a very calculating mind; it cannot take you far.

First thing: “for the attainment of the supreme state…”
To begin with, all this talk of attaining the supreme state is nothing but the talk of a greedy mind. It has nothing to do with renunciation. “The attainment of the supreme post!” Posts here cannot be had—so the supreme post! No hope in the next election—so the supreme post! Delhi looks too far—so let’s go for the supreme post! But the supreme post must be had!
Do you ever see these cravings of the ego? The ego reappears again and again in new forms. A moment ago it demanded wealth, fame, position; now it shifts a little, but its essential note doesn’t change. The fundamental tone remains the same.

What are you seeking in religion? If you are seeking the ego, the journey is wrong from the very first step. Religion means there is nothing in posts—nothing even in the supreme post. The race for posts is futile. That race is the journey of the ego. And there is nothing in the ego. Just now you were strutting here; if you get the chance, you will strut in liberation too.

Just sit quietly and consider: if you were to reach moksha, you would strut there too. You would shove your seat a little higher there as well. You would continue the same game.

The very meaning of the search for religion is that we are tired of the ego; it no longer has any flavor for us. When the ego falls, that is sannyas. If the ego keeps taking on new forms, it is not sannyas. Sannyas means we have seen thoroughly that there is nothing in posts. If there is nothing in a post, what will there be in the supreme post? The supreme post is only a bigger version of the same thing. If there is nothing in wealth, what will there be in “supreme wealth”? If there is nothing here, there will be nothing there either.

Your heaven is only an extension of this world. What you ask for here is exactly what you will go on asking for in heaven—just a little polished, decorated. But the asking is the same. So long as there is demanding, greed, desire, ego—what “supreme state”? The very meaning of the supreme state has not dawned on you.

It often happens: the saint says one thing, you understand another. The saint says: that state where there is no ego, no greed, no illusion, no attachment—that state is called the supreme state. Your greed hears this and says: “Excellent, then let’s get the supreme state; why waste time on smaller posts?” Mind this—your greed is speaking. You have understood it all in reverse. You have missed.

So first, drop the very talk of attaining the supreme state. Drop the talk of attainment. As long as you are intoxicated with attainment, you will not find God. For God is present within you—he is not to be attained. You kept racing after attainment; that is why you went on missing him. You sought—and therefore you lost. That which is does not have to be attained. When all seeking falls, all racing falls, you sit silently, thought-free, desire-free; the winds cease, and clouds no longer form and disperse—then in that very instant you realize: “Ah! What I was searching for—is here!”

Buddha became enlightened. Someone asked: “What did you attain?” He said: “I attained nothing; what already was—I understood. Only understanding happened; nothing was attained.”

You are already seated on the supreme throne. Wherever you are, that is the supreme state. Wherever your soul abides, there is the supreme state. Just look within a little—see what a vast throne you sit upon! Yet you wander about as a beggar. You never come home to yourself. You are always running—sometimes after wealth, sometimes after position. And when, tired and disenchanted with these, you finally pause, you start a new race: now heaven must be won, samadhi must be achieved, liberation must be obtained.

So do not hanker after the supreme state, and do not take sannyas with an eye to attainment. Otherwise sannyas will not happen at all. Sannyas means greed has fallen as futile; now we will rejoice in what is. To “attain” means: tomorrow, in the future. The Divine is now. The Divine will not be tomorrow. The Divine is now—here. Liberation is your ultimate condition—now, here. Become quiet; let the smoke of desires that surrounds you dissipate, and the flame will appear now. The flame has always been. The sun is only covered by clouds.

Now, to the first question: “How helpful are ochre robes, the mala, and the Guru for the attainment of the supreme state?” You want to use the Guru, the ochre robes, the mala as instruments. There lies the mistake. To use the Guru as a means is a kind of exploitation. You remain the master; the Guru becomes the servant. You, the user; you want to go to liberation and you step on the Guru like a ladder. And you don’t even care to say thank you afterward. Because you ask: “And after the supreme attainment, is there any need for them?” How gracious of you! You climbed the ladder; the ladder is blessed by your grace—had you not climbed, what would have become of the poor ladder! You brought your lotus feet and climbed on it. The ladder will sing your praises through the ages.

The relationship with the Guru is of love, not of exploitation. If you turn it into a means, you remain the owner; you remain above, to use the Guru. That becomes unethical; it becomes ugly. With the Guru, the relationship is one of love. And it is such a relationship that a time comes—surely it comes—when the Guru himself wants to be left. Just as once he wanted you to hold on, a day comes when he wants you to let go, because you are now capable in your own right.

A mother teaches her child to walk by holding his hand. She will not keep holding it forever; if she did, it would harm the child. One day she herself loosens her grip. The child does not want to let go; he clings to her end of the sari and follows her around the house. She says: “Let go now—you can walk by yourself. Why do you still cling?”

One day the Guru himself wants to be let go. And then the disciple does not want to let go. He says: “How can I let go? How can I leave the one from whom I have received so much? If I leave the one through whom I have found so much, where am I to go?” Such a moment comes that if God and the Guru stand before the disciple together, the disciple says: “I can leave God, but I cannot leave the Guru.” For there was no acquaintance with God; there was no relationship. The relationship was forged by the Guru. If anything must be left, let God be left; if the Guru remains, the relationship will be created again. If the Guru remains, all is well: there is a door; the temple can be entered at any time.

So, in the final phase the complication is not that the disciple wants to leave and the Guru wants to hold. The final complication is this: the Guru says, “Leave now,” and the disciple will not. A disciple means one who has loved so totally—how will he leave! There is great pain. He is even ready to let liberation lie where it is; only let him lie at the Guru’s feet—that is enough. At the Guru’s feet he has found so much that the thought does not even arise that liberation could give more; and even if it could, no true disciple can be so ungrateful as to agree to leave in an instant. In the beginning, it was hard for the Guru to hold the disciple’s hand because the disciple kept pulling away. Now it is this same gentleman who is pulling away. I, too, would like to hold his hand. His name is very lovely: Shyam Kanhaiya! But it seems only the name is lovely. Neither does there seem to be any urge to move toward Shyam, nor any courage. I would like to take his hand, but he is already making preparations. He asks, “You’ll let go later, won’t you? It will be quick, won’t it—once the supreme state is attained?”

With such a mind you will not be able to take my hand at all; you will be busy thinking how to let go. You will say, “Let this be over as quickly as possible.” Then the supreme state will never be found, because such happenings do not occur in haste. These are works of deep patience. They unfold in great stillness. Infinite patience is needed.

So the first trouble will be even getting hold of “Shyam Kanhaiya’s” hand. If somehow, with great difficulty, the hand is taken, the second trouble is greater still. It will arise when I see the time has come for him to leave me and leap. Then a bigger tussle will occur. For now the obstruction is due to the ego; but ego is no great power. Ego is like emptiness, a negation, a shadow. It has no reality—like darkness. Right now I am asking you to leave the darkness; I am standing before you with a lamp in my hand saying, “Here—take this hand.” You cling to the darkness and find it difficult to grasp the light. Just think of the day when you will have caught hold of the light, and I will say, “Leave the light now and plunge into the vastness of the Divine.” You will say, “No.” If you make such a fuss leaving darkness, how much fuss you will make leaving light! And the taste of light—the celebration, the music of light, the surge of light, the bliss of light—how will you leave it? The Guru makes you leave.

This is the great marvel: one day the Guru holds your hand, and another day the Guru makes you let go. The second struggle is the greater struggle. And when the Guru does make you let go, even then the disciple’s gratitude has no end. Truly, holding the Guru’s hand, the disciple is grateful; but on the day the Guru, however much the disciple writhes, frees his hand—then the disciple is even more deeply grateful. For in the Guru’s hand there was a lamp; when the disciple leaves the lamp, the light of the great sun is revealed. In the Guru’s hand there was a drop of nectar; when the drop is left, the ocean is found.

You ask: “And after attaining the supreme state, what need remains for these?” No need remains at all. Only out of gratitude—out of a grateful heart toward the Guru—the disciple keeps them safe.

One of Buddha’s disciples, Sariputta, attained enlightenment—he became a Buddha. Buddha sent him away: “Now go. There is no need to remain with me. Make space for others. Go from village to village and share what I have given you.” Sariputta began to weep. Buddha said, “Aren’t you ashamed—Buddha, and weeping?” Sariputta said, “Please don’t do this. I am even ready to agree that I have not become a Buddha—but please don’t send me away. Let it be so.”

Buddha said, “You cannot deceive me by saying you are not a Buddha. That won’t work. You have become. You may weep or beat your head; it makes no difference. Go. Now it is necessary. How long will you cling to me?”

Sariputta had to go—he went weeping. He must have been a truly extraordinary man, for to weep after enlightenment is rare. How profound his gratitude must have been! He left, but wherever he was, morning and evening he would prostrate in the direction where Buddha was. His disciples asked, “You yourself have become a Buddha; the Buddha himself has said so. Whose feet are you bowing to now? What is this?” Whether Buddha was in Gaya or elsewhere, Sariputta would bow toward that direction. He said, “Whatever has happened to me has happened by his grace. I can never forget his compassion.”

You say, “What need remains now?” You have no idea. You are great shopkeepers. “When we needed it, we fell at the feet; now there is no need—why bow?” Think a little—what are you saying? Are all these relationships matters of need? Then you know nothing of love. Love is a relationship beyond need. And it is in love that the flowers of the supreme state bloom. Only in love do they bloom. This is not shopkeeping—that when there was a purpose we said “Jai Ram ji,” and when the purpose was fulfilled, we forgot. “What’s the point now?”

That is how you are, isn’t it? Even your “Jai Ram ji” on the street is for a purpose! Even your invocation of Ram is a calculation. You say, “This man can help—he’s a bank manager, a deputy collector, a commissioner—let the work get done, then we’ll show him! For now, a polite greeting will do.”

Do you bow to the Guru in this way too? If so, then you are no disciple, and the one you take to be Guru has not been taken as Guru.

“Ochre robes, the mala, and the Guru…” The word “helpful” is not right. These are symbols of your surrender. People have become enlightened without ochre robes; so to call them “helpful” is not correct. Christ became enlightened; Mahavira became enlightened without any clothes at all. Buddha wore yellow robes. So there is no causal link between any particular garment and anything. These are simply symbols of your surrender. You are saying: “Now I will be as the Guru keeps me. Whatever color the Guru has, that will be my color. If the Guru says ochre, then ochre.” It is only a hint, a gesture from your side that you are ready to be dyed within. From the outside you are sending the news that you are ready to be colored within. How else to convey the inner? So you give the news from the outside.

When you embrace someone, what are you saying? Are you saying bones are meeting bones? In fact, bones do meet. Chests touch—skeletal frames meet, skin meets skin—is that what you want to say? No. You are saying: bones and skin are the outside; within, heart wants to meet heart, soul wants to meet soul. The outward act is only a signal.

You take someone’s hand in yours—by taking a hand in a hand, what of love is expressed? A little sweat perhaps. But you are sending news that this outward act is symbolic; inwardly we want to meet, just as our hands have met outwardly. Outwardly, a symbol.

These ochre robes, this mala—these are announcements that you have bowed; that you have declared to me and to the world that you now stand with your begging-bowl open. If grace showers, you will fill your bowl. You are ready to welcome it. You have opened your doors; should a guest come, he will not be turned back at the threshold. You have become a host; you await the Guest. That much news.

Such news has deep consequences. In some way or other we must express outwardly what is within, for the inner has no language of its own.

You have noticed—when you feel surrender toward someone, you bow and place your head at their feet. The head is outside and the feet are outside. What are you doing? But this outward symbol brings the news of the inner: that within I am bowing. When you are angry with someone, you want the opposite; you want to put his head under your feet. It’s the reverse gesture: to trample him, to jump on his head—then you take off your shoe and strike his head. That, too, is a symbol—the reverse symbol. You are saying, “I have reduced your worth to nothing.” What difference does it make to place a shoe on someone’s head or to strike it? Can a shoe insult anyone? These are symbols; they carry the news of the inner.

Ochre robes are symbols; they only carry the news of the inner. There is no scientific reason here. It is not that wearing them leads to enlightenment, and not wearing them does not. They are not causes; they are poetic symbols. And here I am not teaching you science; I am teaching you the poetry of life.

Immortal, imperishable—eyes and mind in surrender—
When will you meet me?
The sweet tickle of breath’s own recognition—
You, the impossible;
I, the lifting of dwarf hands.
You, the supreme power;
I, devotion brimming with delight.
You, the immortal;
I, but the moment that rises a thousand times.
You, the law of effort;
I, ever-new self-surrender.

This is only the news that my self-surrender has happened.

Truth requires not even a single word. Truth never reveals itself through words; it is beyond words. That is precisely why there is an attempt to say it with so many words. If you don’t understand from this angle, perhaps you will understand from that one. If not from this direction, maybe from another. If not by this pretext, then by some other. Sometimes by the pretext of Sahajo, sometimes of Daya, sometimes Mahavira, sometimes Buddha, sometimes Christ—by any pretext at all I am trying to make you understand. If you miss this time, I will find another pretext. I have to say what cannot be said; I have to tell what has no way of being told. But if I remain silent, you will never be able to understand.

Truth does not fit into words, but if the blow of words keeps striking continuously, something within you begins to awaken—something that, once awake, can understand truth. Words are a blow.

Consider it this way: you set the alarm and go to sleep. In the morning the alarm rings. The alarm by itself is not capable of making you get up, because those who are very clever can keep on hearing the alarm and still not get up. The clever ones will find a trick: they will start dreaming that they have gone to a temple and the bell is ringing there. Now that the temple bell is ringing, they have falsified the alarm. The alarm is being heard, but they take it to be the temple bell. When they finally wake up, at nine o’clock their sleep breaks; then they will be startled and say, “What happened—what happened to the alarm!” While the alarm was sounding, they gave it an interpretation; they erected a dream and covered the alarm. The alarm, in itself, cannot awaken you; but if you want to wake up, the alarm can be a great ally. It strikes.

Have you seen the new alarm clocks? There is a slight difference between the old and the new. In the old ones the alarm would keep ringing—five minutes, ten minutes—just keep ringing; that had to be changed. Psychologists said that if an alarm keeps ringing for ten minutes, then if the first blow lands and the person wakes, fine; if the first blow does not, then even ten minutes of ringing are of no use. If he hears it for a minute and spins a dream, he will remain in the dream for the whole ten minutes. In the new clocks the alarm rings, then stops, then rings, then stops, then rings—so that if you miss once, there’s a second chance; if you miss the second, a third. It still rings for ten minutes, but in segments of two minutes. This has more effect. Experiments were done on this and it was found that it wakes more people, because once you fool yourself with a dream and then are resting a bit, it rings again; now you have to find another dream. Somehow you manage to explain it away again. But how many times will you do this? After a while your capacity to spin dreams gets exhausted. You can’t keep going to the temple again and again; that too won’t satisfy you repeatedly—that again you reached the temple and again the bell began to ring. You yourself will begin to suspect: how many times am I going to the temple, how many times is the bell ringing—what is going on! A little doubt begins to arise.

That is why I do not go on speaking only about devotion, otherwise you will fall asleep; I do not go on only about meditation, nor only about witnessing. Recently I spoke on Lieh Tzu; on those it worked, it worked—who woke, woke. For those who did not, that matter is finished; for them there is no point in speaking on it any longer. So I speak on Daya, on Ashtavakra, on Krishna.

All this that I am saying, in different ways. You have asked rightly: “What I am saying is just one and the same thing.” Certainly it is one and the same thing; I have nothing else to say. But you are asleep so deeply that I will have to call you again and again. I could also remain silent, but when you do not understand even when I speak, how will you understand the void?

Truth does not fit into words; yet if someone is willing to understand, he can even enter through words. Truth is revealed only in silence, but if one is not willing to understand, then silence will appear as sheer emptiness; no message will be received from there. Many sages remained silent—but who understood their silence? Some sages spoke. If they spoke to a hundred, ninety-nine did not understand; but if even one understood, that is enough. If even one awakens, it is enough. Then a chain begins: one who has awakened will awaken someone else.

When you awaken, do not sit back thinking, “These words are of no use.” No—have at least this much compassion: if you work with a hundred and even one awakens, that is more than enough. The awakening of a single person on this earth is a most unique event. Because the awakening of one person means that one person has become a temple of the divine; now around him the air will spread, waves will arise, light will shower, fragrance will rise, and his music will resound far and wide. In that music perhaps someone else will awaken. A chain is created.

Besides, words too belong to the divine, just as everything does. Truth is his, words are his, the void is his.

As henna is traced,
as a bindi is set,
you fashioned words.
Love—the two letters were meaningless;
you gave them meaning.
“I”—this sound
of dark barbaric caves—
filling it with yourself,
you granted it a new existence.
Like the circle of arms, like the rounds around the wedding pavilion,
like the tones of motherly affection, like the altar’s
mantra-murmuring mouth in the dark,
you fashioned words.
As upon cataclysmic waves
a single leaf of the imperishable banyan remains,
you fashioned words.

Word too is of the divine, as the wordless is of the divine. If there is a will to awaken, words will awaken you. If there is a will to awaken, the void will awaken you. If there is no will to awaken—if you have sworn, stubbornly decided not to awaken—then nothing whatsoever can awaken you. Surely you are eager to awaken; otherwise why would you come from so far, why undertake such a journey? Somewhere there is a thirst. In the innermost core something feels empty; someone is calling. The day you begin to understand the void, that day I will fall silent. Even then, through silence I will say exactly what I am now saying through words. I will say only this; there is nothing else to be said. But for the moment you are not even able to understand words. Words are gross; the void is subtle. Words have form; silence is formless. Right now you cannot even hold on to form; your eyes do not yet stay on form. In the formless you would be utterly lost.

Be careful: do not turn my words into scripture, and do not transform my words into pedantry. Otherwise you have not awakened; on the contrary, you have made further arrangements for sleep. As if an alarm did not wake you, but instead lulled you further. Such alarms can be made; such alarms do exist.

A friend brought me a radio. It also works as an alarm clock. Set the alarm for six, and at six o’clock music—the vina—will play. You don’t wake even to a harsh alarm; if a vina begins to play, you’ll think your mother is singing a lullaby. You will roll over, pull the blanket tighter, curl up even more. You will say, “Good! The sleep that was perhaps breaking will knit itself again.”

I am not singing lullabies here. Here I am trying to wake you up. Therefore sometimes I also hurt you; sometimes I give you a shove. Sometimes you feel offended; you bristle; sometimes you even get angry. Natural. When one has to wake someone, one must also accept their anger.

Have you ever tried to wake someone? Even if he himself went to sleep saying, “Wake me at five in the morning,” still he will rise as if you are his enemy. He said it himself. But no one likes to have their sleep broken.

And this is a sleep—a spiritual sleep in which you are. Listen to my words. Catch their sting. Try to awaken through their blow. If awakening does not happen, then do not store up my words; do not become a scholar from them; forget them. They were wasted. I will speak again. Then listen again to the blow of the word. Do not come to me and become a pundit. For sinners may perhaps arrive; scholars never arrive.

A spoonful of sunlight, or a pinch of fragrance—
if you can, close your fists around them.
Though there be no notes, letters do speak;
meanings kept sealed open in their own time.
A ladleful of moonlight, or a sip of verse—
if you can, close your fists around them.

If grass sprouts, it will rise upward—
will it, becoming a flame, turn downward and smother?
A fifth-note call bound to Phagun’s blossom—
if you can, close your fists around them.

What I am giving you are live coals. If you close your fists around them, they will wake you; they will not put you to sleep.

A spoonful of sunlight, or a pinch of fragrance—
if you can, close your fists around them.

But do not make knowledge out of these; otherwise the live coal has turned to ash. Knowledge is ash; knowing is ember. When I say something to you, on my side it is a live coal; now it depends on you whether you will bear that coal as a coal upon your heart, allow the blow to land, allow a wound, and wake with a start—or whether you will turn it into ash, stash it in your strongbox, become a little more knowledgeable and carry the load, drag the load. It depends on you. Once I have said it, with the saying it has gone out of my hands; then you are the master. What use will you make of it? How will you use it?

Therefore, the one in whom too much knowledge has piled up cannot truly listen; the capacity to hear is lost. Because while listening he says: Oh, this I already knew; oh, this I have heard; this I knew beforehand; this is written in the Upanishads, written in the Qur’an; the Bible says the same. While I am speaking, he keeps doing this tally inside—where was it written, where did I read it, where did I hear it!
When I speak, do not do any accounting. Because in that very accounting you will miss.

Character is organized from the outside—you arrange it, you manage it from above. Individuality wells up from within—you don’t arrange it, you don’t manage it; you allow it to be revealed.

Character is like plastic flowers, and individuality is like a rose blooming on a rosebush. Individuality is alive; character is dead. It may look very pure and holy—and it can look that way—but character is dead, superficial, imposed, false. Individuality carries a truth, an intimacy; it comes from your very life-breath. Its roots are in you.

My entire teaching is for individuality—not even a little for character. Hence my whole emphasis is on meditation, not on morality. Because through meditation what is asleep within you will awaken. With that awakening your character will also change, but that change will not be on the surface; it will come from within. If something drops, it will drop because a ray of understanding has entered you.

Ordinarily we do the opposite—when there is something to drop, we practice dropping it.

A friend came. He had the habit of smoking. For many years he had wanted to quit. Someone advised him, “Do this: if you can’t let go, cultivate some other habit and this one will fall away.” So he began sniffing snuff. He dropped cigarettes, and now he sits with a little tin, sniffing snuff. I asked him, “What’s the point of this? Earlier you were misbehaving with your mouth; now you’re misbehaving with your nose! The misbehavior continues. What difference has it made?” He said, “Now how do I quit this?” I said, “Then grab something else—start chewing tobacco, and this will drop.”

But is that really dropping? There is no understanding. People say smoking is harmful, so give it up. But there is no understanding of why smoking has such power over you.

Have you ever noticed when you smoke? Whenever you are sad, restless, whenever there is no ease inside, when you don’t know what to do—then you light a cigarette, you take the smoke in and out. At least there is something to do! When you are anxious you smoke more; when you are at ease you smoke less. So the real question is not the cigarette; the real question is how to learn to be at ease, how to drop anxiety. The cigarette is only on the surface. If anxiety disappears, even if someone urges you to smoke and offers you a hundred rupees with each cigarette, you’ll say, “Do you take me for a fool? Why should I? What is the point of taking smoke in and out?”

But try to understand the person who is smoking. Or if you smoke yourself, just watch: on the day there was anxiety, you smoked more; on the day there was none, you smoked less. On the day your heart was joyful, you even forgot. On the day it wasn’t—after a quarrel with your wife, trouble with the boss, someone bumped into you on the road, something went awry—then you smoked a lot; that day you couldn’t settle until you smoked. Which simply means this habit is a device to cover anxiety. If you drop cigarettes while the habit of anxiety remains, you will start sniffing snuff, or you will do something else. It doesn’t matter what you do.

You have seen small children doing the same—only with slight differences. If the mother gets angry, the child quickly puts his thumb in his mouth—he begins to “smoke.” No one will give him a cigarette yet, he can’t go get one, he’s still in his cradle. But he has begun to smoke. This is the gentleman who will smoke tomorrow; today he sucks his thumb. What is the reality? The mother is angry, the child is frightened; anxiety has gripped him—who knows if he will get the breast again or not? So he creates a false breast—his own thumb. He says, “No need to worry; I have my thumb. I’ll suck this.” He starts sucking and falls asleep. You must have noticed—whenever children suck their thumbs, they fall asleep soon. Whenever sleep doesn’t come, they start sucking.

You have seen small children clamp the corner of their blanket in their mouth or clutch a toy to their chest—and then sleep comes. These are habits in the making—dangerous habits! As age changes, they will take on new forms. But the root behind them is anxiety. If the mother truly loves the child, these habits won’t develop. And when the child puts his thumb in his mouth and the mother yanks it out—she only makes him more anxious, more frightened. He pops it back in even faster. Because now it’s gone too far: the mother is displeased with him, and he doesn’t even have the freedom to suck his own thumb. A sense of guilt also arises. He watches for his mother; when she comes, he quickly pulls the thumb out and hides his hand. As soon as she goes, he starts sucking again. The first “sin” has entered his life—he begins to think, “I’m doing something wrong.”

People smoke cigarettes with the same guilt—they smoke and are afraid at the same time: “Is some mother, some father, around, watching?”

It is necessary to understand anxiety; it is necessary to dissolve it. When anxiety dissolves, individuality gains a polish, a radiance. Then some things fall away on their own.

Character means: replace one habit with another. Character means: install one lie in place of another. Character means: keep dyeing the skin; don’t go within; don’t look into the heart.

Individuality means: inquire into what is within you. If there is anxiety, enter it and go deep. If there is anger, go deep into it. If there is lust, recognize it; don’t take vows of celibacy. Vows of celibacy will do nothing; lust won’t change, and the disturbance will increase. Lust will remain inside and celibacy will stand on top of it. You will be more split, more cut in two, more in conflict; tides of confusion and anxiety will arise within you. No—understand lust.

See the difference. If you go to a temple and take a vow of celibacy, that is character. Because if you had truly understood that lust is futile, there would be no need to go to a temple and take a vow. The matter would be finished. If you have seen that lust is futile—if it has entered your own experience that it is futile—one day you suddenly find there is no substance in it, not because Mahavira says so, not because Buddha says so, but because you have known it yourself—then, that very day, a celibacy will manifest in your life. That celibacy is a real flower. That is individuality. That is the rose blooming on the bush.

If you go to the temple and take an oath—before some mahatma, before society—“From now on I take the vow of celibacy,” that is a plastic flower. Inside, the thorns of lust will go on pricking.

Life is not an ocean; it is a stream, a spring.
But it is of two kinds.
One current is that which, upon encountering ice, has frozen;
After traveling a long way,
Now it has stopped in one place.
This current may be pure, may be holy,
But it is not the individuality of life; it is character.
And the other current is that in which fire flows;
Here, ecstasy heaves in waves;
Courage cracks and speaks aloud;
From this current the storm of love arises;
Whatever trees stand upon the banks,
Their every branch sways;
Those on whom the smudges of smoke have settled,
The fire, with its liquidity, washes and bathes them too—
This current is called individuality.

Character is just this—hollow, imposed, not deeper than the skin. Scratch character, and quickly you will find everything goes wrong. Dig into individuality as much as you like, and you will find the same flavor. From skin to soul, individuality has a single flavor—without inner conflict, nondual. A single taste. If there is love, dig as deep as you want in a person of individuality—you will find love, love to the very end. Do not get into such entanglements with a man of character. Love will be on the surface, and the moment you scratch his skin, anger will come out, hatred will come out, enmity will come out.

Keep a little distance from the man of character. He is not trustworthy. He is a false man. Like cloth dyed with a cheap dye—you fear going out lest water spill and spoil everything, or the sun fall and the color fade. The name of the raw dye is character, and of the fast color is individuality. But the color becomes fast only when it comes from within—from your very life-energy.

My whole effort is to give you individuality—not character. Individuality is the soul.

Don’t worry. Being skeptical is natural. Doubt is human nature. Don’t condemn it either. Whatever the divine has given has some use. Learn its use. Drop condemnation altogether. Those who are ready to walk with me should drop condemning. With me there is nothing to condemn. If there is doubt, we will use doubt itself. If there is poison, we will make a medicine out of the poison. Even poison becomes a remedy—it takes a person of understanding.

What does doubt mean? It simply means you are thoughtful, not blind, that you don’t accept everything. That’s perfectly right. What’s wrong in it? What is there to be worried about? There is no need to believe everything.

I don’t tell you to believe in the divine. I say: look closely at life. You will find there is nothing here. Peek a little inside life and you will find nothing but ash. Then won’t a question arise in your mind whether another kind of life is possible?

If you are truly skeptical, apply your doubt to life. Put your doubt to the love you have known so far—ask whether it is really love. You have earned money—put your doubt onto money. Inquire whether money is really wealth or you are just collecting shards; tomorrow death will come and all will be finished. The direction in which you have invested your life, direct your doubt there as well. And you will be amazed: if doubt is applied to the world, you cannot remain a householder in it for long.

What have you done till now? Just the reverse: you have put faith into the world and doubt into the divine. Turn it around. Put doubt into the world. Then you will suddenly find: the faith that was fastened to the world begins to search for a new source—because faith must root itself somewhere.

I have not seen a person without faith, nor one without doubt. They come together—they must. They are two sides of the same coin. As day and night, so are doubt and faith. But what is the difference? The religious person directs doubt toward the world and faith toward the divine. The irreligious person directs doubt toward the divine and faith toward the world. That’s the only difference—no more. Both carry both treasures. Now it is in your hands.

I will not talk to you of faith right now, because you say faith doesn’t settle. Let it be. Doubt settles, doesn’t it? Doubt is enjoyable, isn’t it! Then doubt the world. Refill your whole life with doubt. You will be amazed: where doubt sits with the world, things begin to look false, futile. Position, prestige, respectability—everything starts looking vain. Suddenly you will find a new direction opening—of faith.

Doubts are windows
through which the intellect peeks beyond its limits;
what truth it cannot speak plainly,
it assesses in a stammer.
Doubts are steps;
trust is the topmost floor.
Once, doubts were thought to be sins,
but now we do not hate doubt—we love it.
Religion disappears again and again into darkness,
and through doubts, again and again,
we rediscover it.

Doubts are steps; trust is the topmost floor. Make your doubts into stairs. Doubt wealth, and reverence for meditation will begin to arise.

Yesterday a young man took sannyas. His name was Dhanesh. I renamed him: Dhyanesh. Hmm. Now it is finished. He moved away from dhan (wealth) and attached himself to dhyan (meditation).

You have great faith in the body; doubt it. Once doubt about the body arises, how will you avoid having faith in the soul?

So I do not say to you, as your ordinary saints do, “Don’t doubt at all.” They know nothing. I say to you: use doubt rightly. There are many areas in life where doubt is necessary. The whole of life is worthy of doubt. Uncover it layer by layer and see—and then you will find that by climbing the stairs made of these very doubts, you have arrived at trust, at faith in the divine.

Learn to say “no”; “yes” will also come. When there is strength in your “no,” you will find “yes” also coming.

Therefore do not be frightened, do not be anxious. I am ready to give sannyas even to an atheist. Because I hold that often atheists are more honest than theists. Theists are often hypocrites. Atheists can be hypocrites too, but at least not in India; in Russia they are. In India it is a little difficult to be an atheist. Here even one who is an atheist shows himself as a theist, because that is convenient. There is a crowd of theists all around—who will take the trouble to be an atheist! Here only one who truly has courage can be an atheist.

If you are skeptical, an atheist, full of doubt—the door of my sannyas is open to you. You will not find anyone else in the world willing to give you sannyas; I tell you this. Such courageous theists—who can take even an atheist inside—have disappeared from the world. But this temple is open for all. Come. We will turn your doubts into steps. By those very steps you will reach the temple. Always remember: whatever the divine has given cannot be useless, even if we do not yet know its use. So seek the use. Whatever it is, it will have some use.

I have heard: In one house, for centuries there had been kept a unique kind of instrument. It looked like a sitar, but it had many strings and was very large. No one in the household remembered how to play it. And it was taking up space—half the sitting room it had occupied. Trash would collect on it. Sometimes children would pluck at it and it would disturb the household; sometimes at night a mouse would jump on it and their sleep would break. Finally one day they decided to get rid of it; what was the point of keeping it! They carried it out and threw it on the rubbish heap by the road. They had not even reached back home when sublime music began to arise. They stood there, stunned; they ran back. A crowd gathered. A beggar, passing along the roadside, had picked up the instrument and started to play. For an hour people were spellbound. When the beggar finished playing, the owners of the instrument—who had thrown it onto the rubbish heap—tried to snatch it back and said to the beggar, “This instrument is ours.” For the first time they realized it was extraordinary; such music they had never heard.

But the beggar said: The instrument can belong only to the one who knows how to play it. You have already thrown it away; you no longer have any ownership over it. And what would your ownership mean anyway—what would you do with it? Once again it would just occupy space in your house. The instrument belongs to the one who knows how to play it.

I say to you: life too belongs to the one who knows how to play it. And here nothing is useless. Doubt is not useless either; don’t throw it away. We will make steps out of it. And these very steps one day will take you to the truth.

Good that the heart has stayed. Because if you had left after just a moment’s look, it would only mean you did not see at all. If even for a single breath you truly looked, the heart is bound to stay. If you took even one breath with me, the heart is bound to stay. If even once you looked eye to eye with me, the heart is bound to stay—it ought to stay. That is the whole purpose here: somehow the heart should remain.

Who is this new stranger come again to the village of dreams
Who has made a dwelling once more in the shade of these eyelids
What temple is being raised in the wasteland of my mind
Who celebrates a birth‑festival in the sages’ cremation ground
Who spills the wealth of feeling on me here in this poverty
What rain‑clouds have spread again across my sky
Who sings a love ballad in my courtyard
Whose restless invitation is in the massing, rumbling clouds
Who is it that gives me check by sacrificing his own pieces
Who is the trickster winning me by losing to me
I lost the mind’s diamond in the very first throw
My emptiness startled—at whose footfall
As if the curse were lifting from the inertia of my mind
Which boon‑bestowing touch was hidden in Rama’s feet
Who is this new stranger come again to the village of dreams
Who has made a dwelling once more in the shade of these eyelids.

Your heart had been desolate for a long time. Your heart had slept for a long time. The veena of your heart had not been played for a long time. Good that you came. You thought you would take a look for a moment and go—“well then, under that pretext we came.” It often happens so.

In this life, miracles do occur. Sometimes, all of a sudden, a certain ray makes its advent. Even uninvited, the divine sometimes knocks at the door. Unknowingly, even when you were not waiting, sometimes your hand falls into his hand. In that moment, be courageous. In that moment, do not be afraid. That day, walk with the unknown, the unfamiliar.

Now do not run away taking your heart with you. The mind will say: “Run away.” The mind is very cowardly. The mind will say: “Why get entangled? Run!” Do not run. Otherwise you will miss the moment when destiny opens. You are fortunate that the heart is caught here.

Since the moment your breath met mine,
this life feels like life.

If you keep a little courage, a new light, a new radiance, a new rhythm will be born in life.

Since the moment your breath met mine,
this life feels like life;
since you poured down as compassion,
every season feels like the monsoon.
Before this, what was life
but a mere excuse to keep living?
Age was a load, breath a debt,
to be paid off somehow, anyhow—
but since the moment I met you,
every celebration feels sacred.

Stay—do not run away. Life can become a festival. Life can become sacred.

Without you, this fair of the world
felt to me like a cremation‑ground, empty;
until I had met you,
every sorrow doubled and redoubled—
but since the moment you met me,
the fair feels delightful.

This is what I want: that you not run away from the world. Do not even leave the crowd of the marketplace. Let the crowd become delightful. Even in the crowd, let God become visible. Let the small acts of life become worship and adoration.

Before, life was a curse,
the mind a stone, a grieving Ahilya;
I felt this life
like a broken austerity—
but touched somehow by you,
this stone‑mind feels alive.

Life was mourning before;
when you came, it became a festival.
My life was nothing but darkness;
when you came, it turned to light.
For Radha’s sake, as if
Mohan has returned again from Gokul.

If the heart stays, let it stay. Leave it here. Take your mind along with you—because I have nothing to do with your mind. If your love remains here, if the thread of your life‑breath stays in my hand, then I will transform you; there will be no difficulty in your changing. Transformation is assured. You can be confident that change will happen. For all transformation comes from the heart, from the soul; and all obstruction comes from the mind. So take your mind with you, and when you come again, do not even bring the mind—leave it at home. And leave your heart here.

For now your clothes have been dyed; now we will dye your heart as well. I am a dyer; if you are ready, we will dye the heart in the color of the Divine. And when the heart is dyed, only then will you find that the life which was like a stone has, for the first time, become alive, consciousness has awakened; the earthen lamp that was empty till now has received the flame.

This life has the potential to become a supreme temple. Do not settle for less than that. Do not settle for little things. Keep the holy discontent awake. Until the Divine enters within, remain dissatisfied. Become content with the world, and toward the Divine remain discontent. This thirst will burn you, will awaken you, and will transform you.

Enough for today.