Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #8

On the way home Mulla Nasruddin and a friend were walking back. Suddenly the friend grabbed Nasruddin’s arm and said, “Run! Quick—save yourself!” He dragged him into a nearby hotel. Nasruddin, shaken and out of breath, asked, “What’s the matter? Are the sterilization squads coming? Why this panic?” The friend said, “It’s a greater danger than sterilization. Don’t you see—over there on the road my wife is standing and talking to my beloved!” Nasruddin looked carefully and said, “Thank Allah—we’ve had a narrow escape!” The friend asked, “Why do you say ‘narrow escape’?” Nasruddin said, “You’re making one mistake. It’s not your wife talking to your beloved; it’s my wife talking to my beloved.”

But both statements can be true together; there is no contradiction. “Jin khoja tin paiyan” and “Jin khoja tin gavayan” (“Those who searched, found” and “Those who searched, lost”) can both be true at once. There is no opposition—try to understand. The one who never seeks will never find. And the one who goes on seeking forever will also never find. One day you must set out on the search, and then one day you must drop the search and simply sit. “Jin khoja tin paiyan” is the first step. Half the journey is through seeking; the other half is through dropping the search.

Buddha sought for six years—tireless effort; whatever could be done, he did. He did what the masters advised. He practiced yoga, chanted, performed austerities, fasted, loved devotion, meditated—he plunged totally into doing. But the result did not come. One day, utterly spent, he saw that there is no essence in doing, because in doing the doer remains; in seeking the seeker remains. Whether you practice yoga, austerity, or meditation, the ego is forged even from that: “I am meditating, I am a meditator; I am devoted, I am a devotee.” A subtle identity keeps forming. And the essence of all religion is this single insight: as long as the ego is, you cannot attain the Divine, because the ego itself is the obstacle. As long as you are, He cannot be found. Only when you dissolve can His coming be possible. Only when you move out from between yourself and Him can union happen. It is you who stand there like a rock. Once you were accumulating wealth and were wealthy; now you accumulate devotion and become a devotee. But you remain. Granted, this ego may be a little better—formerly it was of wood and stone, trash and scrap; now it is of gold, precious. The first ego was ordinary, the second extraordinary. The first worldly, the second religious. But ego is ego.

So six years of relentless search—everything was exhausted, except the ego. Doing never tires the ego; running never fatigues the ego. One day, after six years of austerity, Buddha saw: all is futile. Nothing was found in the world, nothing in renunciation. That night he let even renunciation drop from the mind. He sat beneath a tree. He did not meditate, did not practice devotion, did not perform austerity or chant. That night he slept. It was a unique sleep. Before this he had never truly slept, because some desire was always there—sometimes to gain wealth, sometimes to gain God, sometimes the world, sometimes truth. And where there is desire, there are dreams; where there are dreams, there is tension; and with tension, where is sleep, where is rest? That night, for the first time, there was rest. In that rest truth descended.

In the morning when the eyes opened—Buddhist scriptures say a very wondrous thing—they say, “In the morning the eyes opened.” They do not say, “He opened his eyes,” because now where is the one who opens? When sleep was complete, the eyes opened—like a flower opening at dawn. And Buddha’s opening eyes saw the last star sinking. It was the hush of early dawn. Over there the last star shimmered and disappeared, and here the last trace of identity, the last ego, flickered and was gone. In that very instant, the event happened.

Later, when people asked Buddha, “How did you attain?” he would say, “It’s a troublesome question. Because what I did did not bring it. On the day I did nothing, it happened. Yet it is also true that if I had not done all that I did, the state of non-doing would not have been possible.”

Understand this well. Those six years of austerity did not directly give truth. But without those six years, had Buddha sat beneath the tree, that hour of effortless rest would not have come. You can go and sit—even now the tree is there in Bodh Gaya. You may think, “Forget six years of effort; what is the point? He got it by sitting.” So you sit. Outwardly you may sit like Buddha, steady and still; but inwardly? That hammer-blow, pounded day after day for six years—“doing is futile, nothing comes from doing”—that realization would not be within you. You would be deprived of it. You might lie down under the Bodhi tree, but for you it would not be the Bodhi tree; for Buddha it was.

So what shall we say—did Buddha get it by doing or by non-doing? We must say both together. Through doing he came to the state of non-doing, and through non-doing truth happened. Therefore, “Jin khoja tin paiyan” is the first step—Buddha’s six years. And when I sometimes say to you, “Do not seek, otherwise you will lose,” I am saying the last thing. Beware that you do not keep on seeking endlessly. Make six years into sixty years or six lives—if you only go on seeking, you will only go on seeking and never arrive.

To reach the goal, running is necessary; then stopping is necessary too. If running becomes a habit, even when the goal comes near you will run right past it. You must stop upon reaching the goal—only then is the goal found. But the art of stopping comes only to one who has run totally, with his whole being, wholeheartedly.

These two statements are true together. In my words you will often find contradictions; whenever you do, understand that the mistake is somewhere in your seeing. Look again. However contradictory my statements may appear, they cannot truly be contradictory. Somewhere there will be a connecting thread, a bridge you are not yet seeing. There will be a chain linking the two that is invisible to you. Whenever you find two of my statements opposed—and you will find thousands that appear opposed—if you look closely, you will always discover that opposition only appears; it is not there. Both can be true together. And I also want to tell you: only when both are together does something really happen.

You ask, “Are both possible together?” Only together are they possible! Separately they will never be possible. Because there are not two things here—there is just one. Two sides of the same coin. Once I have spoken from one side, another time from the other.
Understand.
“You said: don’t support the mind, and be natural toward life.”
These are two sides of the same coin. The mind is uneasiness. What does “mind” mean? Whenever you move against your nature, the mind is born. Mind is made out of effort. That’s why animals have no mind: they never go against their nature, they never wander. They are exactly as nature made them; hence there is no need of mind. Man has mind. This is man’s glory, and it is also his nuisance. It is his dignity, and it is his entanglement, his problem.
The very meaning of “mind” is that man, if he wishes, can go against his nature. This is human freedom.
Have you seen any animal doing a headstand? I don’t mean circus animals; those are distorted by humans. Leave them aside. In the forest, have you ever seen an animal doing a headstand? The idea never even occurs to an animal that one could do a headstand. And if animals see you doing one, they must laugh: “What’s wrong with these people? They were standing fine on their feet; now they’re standing on their heads!”
Man seeks devices to go beyond nature, to rise above it, to be different. Sexual desire arises, and man wants to impose celibacy. Anger arises, and man wants to suppress it and keep smiling. This is man’s dignity—his specialness—but this is also his tension and anguish. Wherever he goes against nature, there arise sorrow, strain, restlessness. Wherever you are aligned with nature, there is ease and rest.
So the very meaning of “mind” is: that which you have manufactured. Little children don’t have mind. It takes time for the mind to be born. Society creates mind, the family creates it. Through schooling, collective conditioning, culture and civilization, mind is made.
Have you ever thought? If you look back, your memories go only as far as when you were three or four years old; before that, there is nothing. Why? Because there was no mind yet to remember. So memory stops there. You need a mind to remember! You remember back to the day your mind began forming. Go back and you recall your childhood at four or five; before that, all is dark—blank paper. The machine wasn’t yet built.
Around four or five the mind becomes properly active. After that, it grows more skillful. An old person has a lot more mind. That’s why we excuse children. Even if they make mistakes, we say, “They are children.” Why? We mean: the poor things don’t yet have a mind; the programming isn’t complete; it will take time—they can be forgiven. We excuse the madman too: “He is insane.” If a drunk creates a disturbance, we excuse him: “He is drunk.” Why? Because when he is drunk, the mind is unconscious; the instrument that keeps control is lying in a faint. So he is like a child.
A drunk once abused Akbar. Akbar was riding his elephant through the city. The drunk had climbed onto his thatched roof and, from there, poured out a full vocabulary of insults. Akbar was surprised: a thin, frail fellow, speaking so boldly! He had him seized. The man was locked up overnight. In the morning Akbar asked, “Why did you abuse me?” The man fell at his feet: “I didn’t abuse you. And the one who did was not me.” Akbar said, “You call me a liar? My own eyes are witness.” The man said, “I’m not denying it was ‘me.’ I was drunk; the abuse was by the alcohol. Please forgive me. If there is a punishment, let it be for drinking—but don’t punish me for the abuse.”
Akbar found the point appealing. What punishment for a drunk? A drunk can be forgiven; a madman can be forgiven. Even if a madman commits murder, if the court proves insanity, the matter ends. On whom can you impose responsibility when there is no mind? So the child, the madman, the drunk are excusable because their mind is absent, suspended, unconscious, or distorted.
Human civilization and culture stand upon the mind. Mind is the foundation of being human. Now understand: animals have no mind and saints have no mind either. There is a small similarity—a small one! The difference is immense; the similarity small. The saint has gone beyond mind; in animals mind has not yet arisen. Hence saints are like small children. The child’s mind has not yet been born; the saint has put the mind aside. This is the greater revolution: to lay the mind down. Because if you are virtuous by means of the mind, what kind of virtue is that? A little alcohol and it slips away. If you are virtuous by mind, the virtue is not deep. It should be natural. That is the difference between a “good person” and a saint. The “good person” is good by effort. The saint is good by non-effort, by nature. The “good person” can be turned into a bad person; a saint cannot be made evil—there is no way. The “good person,” at a certain limit, can become bad.
Suppose a man says, “I have never stolen.” Ask him, “If you found one hundred thousand rupees lying on the road, would you take them? There is no fear, no one watching, no police—would you pick them up?” He says, “Never. I am not a thief.” You say, “What if it were one crore?” Then even he begins to think. There is a limit. Up to one lakh, perhaps he holds; his mind convinces him that remaining honest is more valuable than a lakh. But one crore, ten crores—then things begin to wobble.
Mulla Nasruddin was in a lift to an upper floor and met a woman alone. He didn’t miss the chance. “If I give you a thousand rupees, would you sleep with me tonight?” The woman flared up: “What do you take me for?” Mulla said, “And if I give you ten thousand?” She took his hand and said, “All right.” Mulla said, “And if I give you ten?” She exploded: “What do you take me for?” He said, “That much I have understood; now we are bargaining. If you can agree at ten thousand, now it’s only a matter of price. Because I have understood your range—who you are, how far your chastity extends. Now we are haggling. After all, I too have my means—where do I have ten thousand!”
The “good person” has limits; the saint has none. Because the mind has limits; awareness has none. The “good person” is good by mind; the saint by awareness, by nature, by spontaneity. That is the difference between conduct and soul. Conduct depends on mind; soul is freedom—ultimate freedom. One who lives from the inner is religious; one who lives from conduct is merely moral.
Now understand your question again:
“You said one should not support the mind and should be natural toward life.”
To be natural means this: whatever you have been doing via the mind—for example, you are angry, and by mind you have somehow suppressed anger; your compassion is not real, it is imposed, painted on the surface—you display compassion outside while within there is anger—this will not bring revolution in your life. You will remain hollow and a hypocrite. I say to you: do not suppress anger; understand anger. Through understanding, a moment comes—a space—when you are free of anger, and then compassion does not have to be imposed. When you are free of anger, compassion arises within. That I call naturalness. Often you attach your own meanings to my word “naturalness.” I know that too. That is why these matters are dangerous: when I say, “Be natural,” your mind thinks: “Then become an animal!” I understand your difficulty because you don’t know any other way of being natural. For you it seems to mean: if the mind is removed, hell breaks loose. Somehow you are holding yourself back; otherwise you would have run away with the neighbor’s wife long ago. And now I say, “Be natural.”
Have you heard the story? A very rich man took advice from a psychologist: “I am in trouble. No one works in the office. People sit with their legs on the tables; some read newspapers, some gossip. Even when I arrive, they only pretend to work; real work doesn’t happen. I asked them one day, ‘When I come you suddenly look busy; when I leave, work stops. How will this do? Should I sit on your heads all day? Whose head should I sit on? It’s a big office. What should I do?’”
The psychologist said, “Do one thing: hang a sign all over the office. It will have a big effect. Write on it: ‘Whatever you have to do tomorrow, do today—do it now—because tomorrow never comes.’”
They hung the placards. Next day the psychologist came to ask how it worked. The rich man was banging his head. “Worked! The cashier has absconded with all the money. The secretary has run away with the typist. And the office boy has threatened to worship me with his shoes as soon as I step out—he always wanted to, but kept putting it off for ‘tomorrow.’ Now I’m afraid even to go out. Wonderful advice—you can see the ‘results’!”
I also know: when you hear “be natural,” the question arises, “Then what? If I’m the cashier, do I run away with the money? I’d long planned to kill someone but held back because it ‘isn’t right’—now that I’m natural, do I murder? Do I steal? Be dishonest? What do I do?” When I say “be natural,” pay close attention to the things that arise in your mind. Those are exactly the things you have been suppressing with the mind.
When I say, “Be natural,” then sit for an hour and meditate on this point: If I became natural, what all would I do? Make a list. From it you will gain a wonderful understanding of your mind. All the things you want to do “naturally” are the things that are repressed within you—they are your pus, your wounds.
I am not telling you to be animal. When I say, “Be natural,” I am saying: don’t repress; understand. If anger is repressed within, understand what anger is. Meditate on anger. Don’t shove it into the dark cellar; bring it into the light. In the light, anger dissolves. And when anger dissolves, the energy that was bound in anger becomes compassion. Then compassion is natural.
As animality is natural to the animal, saintliness is natural to the saint. But saintliness comes through meditation; it never comes through repression. Through repression you can become a “good citizen,” but you will carry the entire hell inside you. Outwardly you will smile and laugh, but inside there will be tears. Nothing real changes. Society may honor you, but these are outer matters; inside you will have no respect for yourself. You will despise yourself, hate yourself, condemn yourself. You can deceive the world; how will you deceive yourself?
I understand: you hear only what you can hear.
A washerman’s donkey was run over by a truck and died. The driver tried to console him. “Don’t worry, brother; believe me, I will make up for it.” “No, no,” said the washerman, tears in his eyes, “you can never make up for it.” The driver said, “Why not?” The washerman replied, “Look at you—you aren’t even as strong and sturdy. How could you carry such heavy bundles of clothes from the riverbank to the house and back?”
For the washerman, it’s just this: the donkey. Without the donkey nothing works. This man says, “I will compensate.” The washerman looks him over: “How will this fellow ‘make up’ for my donkey? He isn’t even strong.” Each person has his own level of understanding—and his own craving. If your donkey has died, that was your whole support.
A villager once bought a wristwatch. One day it stopped. He opened it and found a dead mosquito inside. He began to wail. Someone asked, “Brother, why are you crying as if someone died?” He said, “Someone has died—the driver of my watch.”
How could a villager know how a watch works? He opened it, saw a dead mosquito: “No wonder the watch stopped.”
Each person has a certain level of understanding. If something is said beyond that level, you translate it into your own language. I say here, “Be natural.” You think, “This is a big mess—does being natural mean: become depraved, sinful, criminal?” Because you have suppressed the urges toward sin and crime; you are sitting on them. Move just a little and they raise their hoods; you dare not move. But is this any life? This is a life of misery. And whatever you have suppressed, you will have to suppress day after day. And what you have suppressed will wait for revenge. In some weak moment, it will explode.
That is why you see a “good man” suddenly commit murder. You never imagined he could. He seemed so nice, simple. But faces are not the real person; inside is something else.
Haven’t you seen many times—someone you trusted deeply betrays you. You couldn’t have imagined it. The person appears outside as one thing; inside they are another. Because of the mind, you appear one way outwardly and are another within. When I say, “Be natural,” I am saying: review what you have repressed. There is no release through repression, no transformation, no revolution. If you want revolution in life, examine everything you have suppressed, one by one. In seeing anger clearly, you are free of anger. To recognize greed is to be free of greed. To know lust is to be free of lust.
I do not ask you to take a vow of celibacy; that would be false. Saints say, “Take vows—take a vow of celibacy.” I do not speak of vows. I say: look straight into sexual desire; pour your entire attention into it. Recognize it exactly. In that very seeing you will be freed. Knowing is liberation; unknowing is bondage. If you look with clear eyes into lust, you will be liberated. And what flowers in that freedom is celibacy. Celibacy is not to be taken as a vow. Vow-based celibacy is false, imposed. The vow-based celibate will always be afraid, anxious: “What if a woman appears!” Where will you run? Women are everywhere. And how will you run? The woman is within you as well. You are half woman. Half your being comes from your mother, half from your father—half male, half female. The woman is within you. Where will you run? Go to the forest, sit in a cave—the inner woman will arise as dream.
You read the stories of rishis and sages being besieged by apsaras. Where are these apsaras? And why should they bother? And what taste would apsaras find in these dry, withered sages—half-dead, waiting for death, barely strong enough to turn a rosary? Why would an apsara pay attention to these poor fellows in caves? Go sit in a Himalayan cave yourself; do you think Hema Malini is going to come? No one will come. Sit and wait for an apsara; none will come. I say to you: even if the sages go knocking at an apsara’s door, the door will not open; the police will catch them.
But the stories speak a truth; they are not lies, for they have been forged out of centuries of experience. These apsaras don’t come from outside; it is the inner woman taking vivid form in imagination. No one is coming from outside; it is your own projection. And when a man stays hungry too long, imagination becomes very intense. When the belly is empty for days, everything looks like food.
Heinrich Heine wrote that he once got lost in a forest. For three days he had nothing to eat, wandered and wandered. Then the full moon rose. He wrote in his diary: “I was astonished; it felt as if a bread loaf were floating in the sky. I had never felt this before. All my life I wrote poetry and saw beautiful faces and beauties in the moon; that day I saw a bread loaf. I was amazed. I rubbed my eyes—what has happened to me!”
When the stomach is hungry, even the moon becomes bread. In hunger, you see food in everything. Suppress sexual desire and sit in a cave—how long? Desire will raise its hood. It can arise so intensely that you feel a woman is standing right in front of you—so clear you can touch her. The sages were not deceived; the woman was very clear before them, but it was the condensed form of their own imagination—a projection.
You will not become a celibate by taking vows, nor generous by vowing charity, nor non-angry by swearing off anger. All that only constructs mind.
So when I say, “Be free of mind,” I mean: take each process that shakes your life—lust, greed, attachment, jealousy, pride—and meditate on each. Understand. Recognize. Go deep. When you experience them thoroughly, their grip on you loosens—and your grip on them loosens. For on close inspection, you will see: there is nothing there, it is insubstantial. Insight into the insubstantial is the key to release.
You have been angry many times—but what substance did you find in anger? I am saying this to you, but it won’t help. You must enter fully into your own process and see whether there is substance or not. If you accept it because I say so, it will become repression. Know your process directly.
Consider that no one has ever been born before you—you are the first man, Adam. Adam had no scriptures, no saints. That was his great fortune. No tradition. Whatever Adam knew, he had to know by himself. Anger arose, and he had to know anger, recognize it; there was no one to say, “Anger is bad—stop it.” Consider yourself again like that: you have come to earth alone for the first time; no saints, no sages are there to advise you. Regard yourself as first, so you can recognize your life-processes completely. Prejudice prevents recognition. You already assume that lust is bad. You have assumed it.
People come to me. I ask, “You haven’t seen for yourself; then why believe lust is bad?” They say, “The saints say so.” Let the saints say it—so what? Saints can be wrong. After all, how many saints are there? The un-saints vastly outnumber them. Do you believe in democracy? Then take a vote: the majority will vote for lust. Ninety-nine out of a hundred will vote for lust. One man may be deluded—why take his word? When ninety-nine people say lust is life, there must be some depth to lust, some powerful hold. You will not be freed from such a tenacious force by vows and rules. You must go to the bottom. You must apply the energy of awareness. You must enter it without bias—neither good nor bad—no partisanship. Know and recognize. Let the decision arise from knowing; that decision becomes freedom.
When I say, “Be natural,” I mean simply: don’t suppress your life-processes; don’t make enemies of them. They are steps. By climbing those steps one reaches the divine. You can make them stones around your neck—or stairs beneath your feet. It depends on you.
Often it happens—note this—that people don’t have the same disease. Suppose a person is full of sexual desire; then in his life greed will not be so dominant. It cannot be—because the energy is being devoured by sex. Such a person will easily conquer greed; it won’t be difficult. He will then preach to others: “What is there in greed? I dropped it just like that—took a vow and finished.” Don’t fall for this lie; his life-situation is different from yours. Each person’s situation is as different as fingerprints.
When someone went to Gurdjieff, he would say, “First find out what is your greatest defect—your chief disease. Everything depends on that.” Because often a man fights small illnesses and keeps enjoying little victories, while the real issue is untouched. You must see the real one. In someone’s life sex may be the most powerful, untamable drive. Such a person might easily drop wealth, position, anger. But don’t assume dropping anger will be easy for everyone. If in your life anger is the root, you may drop sex easily. You must find your own situation.
I have heard: In a toy shop, a woman was buying toys. The shopkeeper was also a woman. The shopkeeper said, “For children—look at this doll. As soon as you lay her on the bed, she will close her eyes and fall asleep like a real doll.” The older customer laughed: “Child, it seems you have never put a real child to sleep.”
A real child doesn’t fall asleep so easily. The more you try, the more she opens her eyes and screams! The woman was right: “Child, you’ve never put a real doll to sleep.”
Often those who have put fake dolls to sleep start advising others: “You can do it too; what’s in it? It’s easy.” Don’t fall for the illusion that what was easy for another will be easy for you; nor that what is hard for you will be hard for another. That is why other people’s advice rarely helps; more often it harms.
That’s why you will find many contradictions in my words, because I give different advice to different people. My attention is on people, not on advice. To one I say one thing; to another, something else. Sometimes I say things that seem openly contradictory. But my eyes are on you, not on advice. I am not mad about principles. Principles are not valuable; man is not made for principles—principles are made for man. Scriptures are not made for man; scriptures are made for man’s sake.
My attention is on you. When I see you, I say what seems necessary for you. It need not be right for someone else. Don’t grab it and start preaching to others. Don’t think because I said it to you, the matter is settled—you now know the truth. Even truth appears differently for each person.
Mulla Nasruddin shouted from the sitting room, “Something is burning in the kitchen—what is burning?” The wife, irritated, shouted back from the kitchen, “My head!” Mulla said, “Then it’s fine. I thought it was the vegetables.”
Each has his own values. Vegetables seem more valuable; a wife’s burning head is no cause for alarm.
Remember: attend to what is valuable for you. So first, among kama, krodha, lobha, moha, mada, matsarya—the shat ripu, the six enemies named by the scriptures—find which is your enemy. Start there. If you settle the root, the remaining five will fall away almost miraculously. Win the chief and the rest follow. Attend to your chief enemy. And don’t be in a hurry. Meditate daily. Don’t try to “drop” it; try to be natural. If it seems risky to be natural outwardly—too costly—
Suppose anger is your enemy. If you begin to rage at everyone outside, you’ll lose your job, your wife will divorce you, your parents will throw you out—troubles will arise. Then do it in solitude—in your room. Lock the doors. Get angry with your whole heart. Keep a symbol. Just as one keeps an image of God, keep an image for this. If you are angry at your office boss, draw his picture and sit with a shoe. Hit with all your heart. At first you’ll feel, “What madness am I doing?” But within a few minutes you’ll find the heat rising; it feels good.
In Japan they have experimented with this on a large scale. Some big companies, on psychologists’ advice, have installed statues of the owner, the manager, the foreman in a special room. Workers, naturally, get angry. A clerk can resign, but a worker must vent. “Go in and hit!” It has been observed: after a man hits and returns, he is happier and lighter. Work’s pace and joy increase—and slowly compassion arises too: “Ah, I beat him needlessly!” Goodwill grows.
Try it. In the West many such experiments are underway—and they work. Instead of beating your wife, keep a pillow. Write her name on it, or paste her photo—beat it. No one is hurt, and your anger will come up fully. Soon you will be trembling with rage—hands and feet shaking, eyes red, teeth clenched. When the heat reaches its peak and you are burning in flames, then close your eyes and watch this burning. Only in that moment is seeing possible. You can’t see a seed—only when it flowers. At that peak, meditate on anger.
Mahavira was the first Indian seer to speak of four modes of meditation, among which two are raudra (wrathful) and artta (sorrowful) dhyana. What is happening in the West now—Mahavira had already named it. The meditation on anger he called raudra; the meditation on sorrow he called artta. If you are sad, don’t repress it. Close the room and weep; beat your breast; roll on the floor—live the sorrow fully. And when the clouds of grief surround you on all sides, then sit silently amidst them and be a witness. You will be astonished—you have found the key. In this way, slowly, one day you will find you have become natural—not animal naturalness but saintly naturalness. Then you are beyond mind.

If you can do even this much, everything will happen. If you can simply let go, everything will happen. If you can trust at least this much, have this much faith, everything will happen. For faith is a great alchemy, a great revolution.

Do not end the story upon finding love;
let the plot swell with a rising tide.
Ferry the boat of love and then drown;
lengthen the life of memories and drown.

If you reached the goal on the very first campaign, what was gained?
If you never stumbled or strayed, tell me—did you truly walk?

Walk in such a way that the goal is proud of you,
that your footprints, after you, are honored like lamps.

You’ve long been enamored of the storm;
after so many blows, you are already wounded.

Bedeck the current with anklets—and drown;
raise the last gale—and drown.

What can I say? Your drowning is your crossing.
Your victory is to lose yourself for someone.

To keep another’s heart, bury your own heart;
let another’s sacrifice be complete—make your life the oblation.

Listen—ponder again!
What can I say? Your drowning is your crossing.

If you can muster the capacity to drown in me, if you can do just this much—come, let us drop it all, utterly drop it! Grain by grain, atom by atom, let it be dropped. In that very surrender you will find that a revolution has happened. In that very surrender you become whole—because you dropped the last grain; you dropped the whole. To drop the whole is to become whole, to become gathered. At least in doing this one thing, you gather yourself; your fragments become one. In that oneness you will taste, for the first time, the juice of your own soul. Therefore surrender is a key. And faith is an incomparable key.

The god of the wave will demand sacrifice.
You—gather the wealth of your dreams,
offer the libation of your tears and drown;
drown your desires—and drown.

Do not fret for the shore; first whirl through every vortex.
Gather the current in your arms and kiss every wave.

Wherever you drown, that place will become a pilgrimage of light.
Wherever you are buried, that spot will become like a temple.

Let there be pain, but let no water fall from the eye.
Friend, live your life this way.

Awaken the human within—and drown;
raise a new sun—and drown.

Do not be obstinate in vain; you will have to strike the tent.
Whether you will or not, you will have to drown.

The guest called breath will not stay; you will have to sing farewell.
This is the chess of breath; you will have to accept checkmate.

Drink the poison and become immortal—see!
Behold the kohl-dark lining of humanity today.

Bow down the very head of Time—and drown;
sing the song, crown yourself with the wedding garland—and drown.

Awaken the human within—and drown;
raise a new sun—and drown.

Surrender means: you have made your effort from your side, thrashed about in every way. I was just telling you the story of Buddha: for six years he tried every possible effort; when it still didn’t happen, he dropped it and simply sat. That is the meaning of trust. That is the meaning of surrender. If it has not happened through you—fine; what more can you do? You have done everything; now drop it. But then do not keep returning to it again and again. Once dropped, let it be dropped. Then, as God wills. However the Divine keeps you, remain; however the Divine moves you, move. If good, then good; if bad, then bad. If he makes you a gentleman, a gentleman; a saint, a saint; a rogue, a rogue. Then leave it unconditionally. Do not keep, inwardly, a test: “If he makes me good, fine; if he makes me bad, we will resist.” Then it is not surrender.
Surrender means: whatever happens, let it be—if auspicious, auspicious; if inauspicious, inauspicious.

Awaken the human within—and drown;
raise a new sun—and drown.

And in this drowning, nothing is lost.

Do not be obstinate in vain; you will have to strike the tent.
Whether you will or not, you will have to drown.

One day or another, death will come—and we will drown.

Discipleship means: before death arrives, you have drowned in the Master. The ancient scriptures even say: the Master is death. Sometimes the old scriptures have astonishing utterances! The Master means death. The very meaning is that you have died in the Master, you have drowned in the Master. Now whatever happens, happens. Now you are no more. No accounts remain in your hands.

It is an important point—worth understanding. So long as you think you are alone, you will go on searching and never find. Because you search out of loneliness, you will seek the wrong thing. You have no taste for the divine; you only want to stuff your loneliness. You are not interested in the search for God; you are lonely—you want a companion, a fellow traveler. You are the important one. You don’t want to become God’s fellow traveler—you want to make God your fellow traveler.

I keep saying, there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who are ready to go with truth, and those who want to bring truth along with them. There is a great difference. Do you want to be the divine’s companion—or make the divine your companion?

Don’t think it’s just a play of words—there is a big difference. If you want to make God your companion, you want to use God. You are lonely. Once you hoped a wife would fill the heart—she didn’t. Then you hoped friends would fill it—they didn’t. Then you tried position and prestige—they didn’t. In clubhouses, in crowds, in the bazaar, in shops—you tried a thousand ways to fill yourself, were defeated on all sides; your heart did not fill. Now you say: God will fill me. “I am alone; I seek a companion.”

But this is not the devotee’s feeling. The devotee’s feeling is quite other. And there is a great difference between loneliness and loneliness—between two senses of being alone. One kind is when you are brimming with bliss. Aloneness means you are filled with your own presence. You are intoxicated in your own meditation—alone. We call this solitude. The other kind is when you are tormented by the other’s absence; you have no sense of your own presence—only the lack of the other pricks like a thorn. Between loneliness and solitude there is a great difference. The lonely one weeps. The one in solitude sits delighted, joyful, blossoming. Loneliness is negative; solitude is creative.

The song you have written is the song of loneliness: “I am alone; I seek a companion.” There is sobbing in it. There are tears. There is lack.

“It is only you I seek, evening and morning.
Come into my heart, spread through my eyes.
Come into the colorful nights of love.”

You are thinking of God just as you used to think of a wife or a beloved. Not much has changed. The same old desire, the same old craving—you have projected it onto God.

“How fragrant, how lovely this night is—
yet you alone are not by my side.”

You are sad, even though the night is fragrant. Life is festive, but you are sad because your beloved is not at your side.

“I am alone; I seek a companion.
It is only you I seek, evening and morning.”

Go on seeking—you will not find. One thing is certain: you won’t find, even if you keep seeking—morning and evening, day and night. You have been doing the same for lifetimes. You won’t drop the old habit—you just go on seeking. There is a fundamental mistake in your seeking.

I want to tell you: become joyous in your aloneness. Be delighted in your solitude. Turn your solitude into samadhi. Do not weep. Do not be a beggar. Ask nothing of God. The one who asks misses. The moment you ask, prayer is spoiled, made impure.

I want to tell you: the day you sit in your supreme joy, blossomed like a lotus, fragrant—on that day God will seek you. That day the divine will come to you. He comes through the door of your joy, not through your tear-filled eyes; he comes through your song, through your radiant fragrance.

You seeking God will not bring God. Do something so that God seeks you. Where would you even search? Think a little. Do you know any address? Search morning and evening—but where will you search? You will surely search in the wrong place, because you do not know the right address. You don’t even know his face. Even if he were to arrive, how would you recognize him? Just think: if today God were to stand at your door, would you recognize him? You would not. You could not. You have never seen him before—how will recognition happen? No one has introduced you; you’ve never met. If he suddenly stood at your door today, you would shut the door: “Move along—why are you standing here? What do you want?” You can neither recognize God nor search for him. Where would you go to search? How would you recognize him? No. Do something so that God searches for you.

This is the difference: the knower seeks God; God seeks the devotee. The devotee becomes absorbed in his own joy, he dances, he rejoices in his own ecstasy. And remember: even if a devotee weeps, his tears are tears of joy—not of sorrow, not of pain, not of desolation, not of complaint—they are tears of gratitude, they flow from his fullness. He is so full that if he does not overflow in tears, how else can he flow? He flows in speech, he flows in dance, he flows in tears. Now laughing, now crying. Haven’t you heard Daya say: now laughing, now crying, now rising, now falling—such a strange affair! He goes to place his foot somewhere, and it lands somewhere else—such a strange affair!

The devotee is tipsy, intoxicated. He has drunk the wine of his own bliss. God comes to seek him. The devotee’s feeling is not “I am alone.” The devotee’s feeling is something else:

From the dawn’s arriving ray to the night’s departing touch,
a soft, seeping fragrance walks with me.
I am not alone.

Make the distinction; weigh it. Your question is:

“I am alone; I seek a companion.
It is only you I seek, evening and morning.”

This is a lover’s language, not a devotee’s. The devotee speaks like this:

From the dawn’s arriving ray to the night’s departing touch,
a soft, seeping fragrance walks with me—
I am not alone.
My gaze takes the measure of all three times;
the stars are jewels upon a lofty brow.
Time’s emperor himself, hoisted on shoulders,
brings along the palanquin of my progress.
I am the rim of darkness—take this light;
place the child’s hand in yours—gather me to your breast.
I am the Truth, standing motionless beyond dispute—
accept me, simply.
From the churning and reflection of the question
to love’s offering and salutation,
that your final vow walks with me—
I am not alone.

My feet rest upon the far horizons,
in my breath life and death are steadily tuned.
Dreams bloom upon the earth as flowers,
my imagination is the veil of the horizon.
Thus along the Malaya-breeze pathways I wandered, lost,
slept at ease in tempests;
but fragrance again soiled
this body the tide had washed.
From pain’s repeated scraping
to the cascading fall of tears,
a remembrance, breaking every bond,
walks with me—
I am not alone.

The devotee experiences: I am not alone. He experiences: God surrounds me on all sides.

From the dawn’s arriving ray to the night’s departing touch—
I am not alone.

Where does this certainty of the devotee—that “I am not alone”—come from? It comes from diving within, from descending into oneself.

It is said in the life of the Prophet Muhammad: the Prophet and his companion Abu Bakr were being hunted by enemies. Thousands were after them, and the two were left alone. They hid in a mountain cave while the enemies searched. Horses thundered on all sides. Muhammad sat untroubled; Abu Bakr trembled. At last he said, “Prophet, you sit so peacefully! The situation is dire; the enemies are many. Not much life remains. Do whatever must be done—how long can we last? The hoofbeats are coming closer every moment. We are two, and they are a thousand.”

Muhammad laughed and said, “Fool, two? We are three. They may be a thousand, but we are three.” Abu Bakr looked around. “Whom do you mean? Are you in your senses? We are two.” Muhammad said, “Look again—look carefully—we are three. Count God as well.”

From the dawn’s arriving ray to the night’s departing touch—
I am not alone.

There is a similar mention in the life of Saint Teresa. She wished to build a church—a great church. One day she gathered the villagers. A poor, fakir-like woman, she said, “I want to build a great church, such that there is no other like it on earth.” People said, “You’re mad—how will it be built? How much money do you have?” She had one coin in her country’s money. She took it out and said, “This is what I have. The church will be built; it shall be built. I will give all I have.” They laughed: “You’ve lost your wits. One coin—and a great church will be built?” She said, “You only see my hand and my coin; you don’t see God standing with me. One coin of Teresa—and God’s wealth—how could a great church not be built!”

From the dawn’s arriving ray to the night’s departing touch—
I am not alone.

And the church was built. It still stands. They say there is none like it on earth. It was built by the devotee’s trust—by that feeling: I am not alone.

Drop this talk of loneliness, or you will keep wandering. If you enjoy the weeping and the hustle, that’s another matter; but God will not be found.

The first step to finding God is this: wherever you are, as you are, become still—be joyful, absorbed, ecstatic. Your fragrance itself will call him. He will come, bound by the fragile threads of your fragrance. Your noise does not reach there, but the scent of your life does. Like a bumblebee, God comes. Cultivate the worthiness.

As yet, you are not there; for now only the body can dance. When you too arrive, then you can dance as well. Right now you are not; right now there is only the body. Why are you raising matters from a place where you are not? You have heard about the soul, but have you known it? You have read about the soul—have you experienced it? For now you are the body. For now the soul is only a dream. Can you make a dream dance? How will you make that which is not yet, dance? For now, let the body dance. Dance with what you have. Begin with the body.

People come to me and say, “We want to take sannyas; but give us the inner—what is the use of the outer sannyas?” I tell them, where is your “inner” yet? I am ready to give you the inner too—but where is it? For now there is only the outer. Where is your within right now? I would color your within; but let there be a within first! Since the within is not yet, I color the clothes. Let it be a symbol, at least a beginning. Color the outside, and by coloring it, the inside too will be colored. One has to start somewhere. And you must start from where you are. You cannot begin from where you are not. You think of “within,” but what is that within at present? Have you ever closed your eyes and seen where the within is? Even when you close your eyes, the eyes still look outside. You close your eyes and you see the shop, the marketplace, friends and relatives—these are all outside; where is the within visible yet? You close your eyes and thoughts begin to flow; these too are outside.

Thought is as outside you as objects are outside you. The within will be known when there is no memory of objects and no stream of thoughts—only you remain, solitary awareness. Then the within is known. When the within is known, you are already a sannyasin. Right now the within is unknown, but man is very devious: he does not want to walk, and talks about places where he has not yet arrived. He says, “inner sannyas”!

Now you ask, “In meditation should I dance, or should my body?” You have already assumed that you are separate from the body. If you truly knew this, then whether you dance or not would be the same. But be careful—do you know it? You are dancing precisely so that somehow the within may be known. This dance is the beginning of that discovery. Once the within is known, then it will be your joy—both have happened in history: some danced and some did not. Meera danced, Daya danced, Sahajo danced, Chaitanya danced; but Buddha did not dance, Mahavira did not dance. Once the within happens, you will not even feel the need to ask. Whatever is spontaneous from the within—if it is to dance, dance; if it is not to dance, then don’t. But these are matters after arriving within.

You raise questions that are merely verbal, scriptural.

One day Mulla Nasruddin came running to the hospital. He jumped off his scooter in a rush, ran inside and asked the doctor, “Is there a bed free? My wife is about to have a child.” The doctor said, “Good man, why didn’t you inform us earlier—you’ve just turned up! Well, by good fortune a bed is free. Bring her—where is your wife?” Nasruddin said, “Then there’s no worry. I only came to make arrangements. I wanted to see whether a place could be found.” The doctor asked, “When is your wife due?” Nasruddin said, “What are you talking about? I don’t even have a wife yet! I’m thinking of getting married.”

But a clever man, you see, prepares everything beforehand! The marriage hasn’t even happened, and he’s making preparations for the child.

Don’t be in a hurry. Let the marriage happen first. The moment of the soul will also come; for now, dance with the body. I know what you mean: you don’t want to dance with the body, so you are searching for an excuse. You think, “Let the body sit still; I will make the soul dance.” Where will you make the soul dance? If only the soul were present, what question would remain! It’s not that the soul does not exist, but you do not yet know it.

Always remember: travel from where you are. Don’t use such talk to block your journey.

Become a flower, fragrance will come;
let it be carried on the wind.
Be dyed in colors,
sing, color the world.
Fill the parting of that bride
who has come adorned.
Become a flower!
Ah, become a flower!

Become a flower, beauty will come,
a smile will arise;
scatter it,
behold it.
A radiance will appear in earth and sky,
a nectar will surge
in the parched hearts of many.
You will become the home of many poems.
Upon the earth you will be a divine, resplendent radiance.
Become a flower, blessings will come;
before even the devotees, you yourself will meet the Divine.

But how can a man become a flower? In the ordinary sense, a man cannot become a flower—he is not a plant. But when a person blossoms, he becomes a flower. In Hindi, prafull—blossoming—comes from phool—flower. Prafullata means to bloom, to open. When you are joyous, you become a flower; when you are sad, your petals close. Hence my emphasis on dance. When you dance with an open heart, all your petals will open.

Become a flower, fragrance will come;
let it be carried on the wind.
Be dyed in colors,
sing, color the world.
Become a flower, beauty will come,
a smile will arise;
scatter it,
behold it.
A radiance will appear in earth and sky.
You will become the home of many poems;
upon the earth you will be a divine, resplendent radiance.
Become a flower, blessings will come;
before even the devotees, you yourself will meet the Divine.

Dance—don’t bring in hesitation. Don’t get caught in small inhibitions. If you delight the body, joy’s shadow will fall upon the mind that stands behind the body. Slowly it too will be enchanted, it too will sway. And when the mind sways, then upon the soul hidden behind it, that shadow will also fall—it too will sway, it too will dance.

A disciple is one who has come to learn. Only one who has come to learn can be taught. One who has not come to learn will waste my time and his own. There is no need to meet. If you have come to learn, the doors are open.

I have no interest in pedantry. I have no taste for idle theories and chatter. If you know—then you know. Why waste my time and yours? If you don’t know, then come. But come with precisely that feeling: that you do not know.

It is very difficult to make the knower know; to awaken the one who is already “awake.” And the subtlest ego in this world is the ego of knowing—of scholarship, of scripture. I have no interest in these subtle egoists. If you have already come to know, you are blessed. Then why trouble yourself here? What will you find here? If you have come to know, the matter is finished. If you have not, then leave all your rubbish at the door and come in. Readiness to learn means coming with the acceptance: I do not know; I am ignorant. Then the doors are open for you.

A great Russian mathematician named P. D. Ouspensky once went to meet George Gurdjieff. Ouspensky was world‑famous, and his book Tertium Organum had become celebrated around the world. And Gurdjieff—no one knew him; he was a fakir. When Ouspensky went to meet him, of course he went full of stiffness—the way a renowned person goes to meet someone. Gurdjieff looked him up and down, picked up a sheet of paper, handed him a blank page, and said, “Go into the next room. On one side write what you know, and on the other side write what you don’t know.” Ouspensky asked, “What do you mean?” Gurdjieff said, “Whatever you already know, we will not discuss. Why waste time? We’ll discuss what you don’t know. So go to the next room and make it clear—your face radiates ‘knowledge.’”

It was a cold night, snowing—a Russian night! When Ouspensky went into the next room he began to sweat, and the paper trembled in his hand. He tried hard: What do I truly know? But the man must have been honest. Not a single word came that he could write under “I know.” Soul, the Divine, liberation—what do I know? He had written books, but books are written out of information; knowing is not necessary. Not all books come out of knowing—most come out of information. He trembled. An hour later he returned and handed back the sheet completely blank. He said to Gurdjieff, “I don’t know anything. Now let us begin.” Gurdjieff said, “Now it will do.”

People come here every day—sannyasins, pundits, scholars. I have no curiosity about them. I don’t have even a moment for them. Let them understand this well. If they know, the matter is over—my blessings! If you have known, the story is finished. May the Lord bless you. If you do not know, then come like a blank sheet of paper; only then can some work happen.

One thing is certain: if someone truly knows, why would he come? What is the need to come? I don’t go anywhere. You have come—it is clear you do not know; you are caught in the illusion of knowing. And you yourself know it is only an illusion. Nothing has happened—no spring of joy has burst forth, no song has arisen, no moon has risen. The light you are seeking has not dawned; you are filled with darkness. That is why you search. But the ego is strong—you cannot even admit that it has not happened.

Many times people come to me. One gentleman came—he had been a sannyasin for thirty years. I put him off for a long time because there was no point in meeting; but he insisted, so I said, “All right, let him in.” I asked him only this: “Has it happened or not?” He said, “This is too much—you ask at the very start whether it has happened or not!” I said, “Let us make it clear at the outset. If it has happened, the matter is finished. If it hasn’t, then something can be done.” He said, “No, it hasn’t happened… well, it has happened a little.” I said, “Such a thing has never happened in this world—that the Divine happens ‘a little.’ Will you perform surgery on God—cut off a hand and run away with it? That nothing came, only the appendix turned up? The Divine is indivisible. Truth is indivisible. You cannot take it in pieces. ‘A little has happened’—what are you saying? Have you run off with God’s loincloth?”

“No,” he said, “it hasn’t happened—there have just been glimpses.” I said, “Speak honestly. If there have been glimpses, keep moving in that direction. Why waste time here? If glimpses have happened, the matter is settled—go on, don’t waste your time with me. If you have had a glimpse, proceed.”

Only then did he say, “No—why are you so insistent? There hasn’t even been a glimpse. Now speak.” I said, “Now something can be done. Now the matter is clear. Otherwise it would be a useless quarrel.”

People come to me saying, “You said such‑and‑such, but such‑and‑such scripture says otherwise.” What am I to say? Am I under contract to keep account of what is written in which scripture? If what I say feels right to you, then revise your scripture. If what I say feels wrong, that’s between you and your scripture—I have no quarrel. There is not the slightest difficulty for me in that. You and your scripture—stay with it. If it were satisfying you, why would you come here? It isn’t satisfying you, and yet you cannot accept that. And if there is a difference between me and the scripture, and my words resonate with you, then amend the scripture. There are so many scriptures in the world—am I going to keep track of what is written where?

Naturally, your very question reveals it. You ask: “Are you only for your disciples?”

Water is for the thirsty. A master is for the disciple. If you are a disciple, I am for you. If you are not a disciple, then neither are you for me nor am I for you—the matter ends there. No connection is made; and without a connection, nothing can happen.

This much I do want to tell you:

Where your ambitions
hover like eagles,
beyond even those, there are higher heights.

Beyond the ego
that you know everything,
there are truths beyond all that.

The depths you think you have crossed
are not the end—
there are deeper depths still.

What you took to be the destination
are all way-stations.
Like the peels of an onion,
layer upon layer.
The first is the prerequisite for the second.
The first is the prerequisite for the second!

One must step on the first and move on. Certainly, at first one comes into contact with the pundit, because it is not directly possible to come into contact with the enlightened. The first is the condition for the second! First one comes into relation with scripture; only then does one come into relation with the true master. The first is the condition for the second! But keep in mind:

Where your ambitions
hover like eagles,
beyond even those, there are higher heights.

If there is a search for those heights, a longing—my doors are open. But my doors are open only for those who have truly set out on the search. If there is thirst in you, a call, only then am I willing to shower upon you. I do not wish to soak your clothes without cause and have you get annoyed and say, “It rained for no reason; now I must go home and dry my clothes”—I do not wish to give you such trouble.

The clouds opened wide and filled the earth’s heart—
filled it, filled it.
A bird called from forest to forest—
“O Beloved, O Beloved!”
Love kept raining thus, with the heart flung open;
thirst kept yearning—what could it say?
The earth silently drank, slowly, gently;
fragrance filled the paths, monsoon-sweet, monsoon-sweet.
“O Beloved, O Beloved!”—
a bird called from forest to forest.

They flowed on, bearing summit-water upon their crowns;
time is drenched; fragrance drips, stringing moments together.
Paddy ripples; the horizon raised its sickle
and gathered it in, gathered it in.
“O Beloved, O Beloved!”—
a bird called from forest to forest.

When you become that bird wandering from forest to forest, crying, “O Beloved, O Beloved!”—only then are you a disciple.

What does disciple mean? Eager to learn—so eager as to be ready to lose everything; ready to drown scholarship, ego, all that has been done so far. A disciple means: ready to set down every burden from the head. You put down the load, and I will take your hand in mine. Otherwise, I have only a little time; in that little time, let my water fall only on those whose throats are parched. Do not come idly and waste my time. My eagerness now is for those who are true vessels.

Come in such a way, then something will happen, something will unfold. Come in such a way—ready to be erased, ready to sink. Come ready to die, and a new life will happen.
Here I am not eager to give knowledge—resurrection! What’s the point of anything less? But for resurrection one must pass through crucifixion.

The lakes have unfurled the boats’ sails;
Chaitra has quaffed the wine, arrived with a carefree gait.
The air turned blue, the flowers red and yellow;
Dreams, wings spread, took flight somewhere;
The hands of the palash have taken up the torch—
The lakes have unfurled the boats’ sails.

Golden pollen is raining on every speck,
Every limb of the butterfly is dyed in bridal hues;
From the peaks the silver shawl of snow is slipping—
The lakes have unfurled the boats’ sails.

Over here I am unfurling the sails of boats. If you want to journey, board the boat. I have no interest in debate. Here we are preparing to go to the other shore. Have that much courage. Because the other shore is not visible from here, you will have to trust me. And I might be mad—who knows! I may make you leave this shore, and that shore may not even exist! You might have to drown with me somewhere midstream! These are all risks.

Therefore the clever cannot walk with me. Do not come clever. Come un-clever. Only a gambler can walk with me. This shore will have to be lost—the known and familiar. The Hindu shore, the Muslim shore, the Jain, the Christian shore—this is the known and familiar. The shore of scripture—Veda, Quran, Bible—this is the known and familiar. The shore of doctrines, of society—this shore is well known. On it you have sunk roots, driven in your pegs. I tell you: leave all this. I have opened this boat, the sail is set, the journey is beginning—get in.

And I am not much interested in discussing whether there is another shore or not, in proving it, because it cannot be proven. Come with me—I will show you. I have seen it. I am ready to take you.

You are eager to argue: Is there truly another shore? If there is, what is it like—yellow, green, red, or black? I have no taste for that. Because none of the colors you know are the color of that shore; they are all colors of this shore. All the forms you know are forms of this shore, not of that shore. The language we can speak belongs to this shore; that shore has no language. Silence and stillness are that shore’s language. If you are ready to walk, then set out.

There is danger, of course. One who is ready to pass through danger—I call such a one a sannyasin. The danger is that this shore is left behind and whether the other will be found or not—who knows? You are moving on the trust of this madman’s word.

So it can only happen in great love. Such trust can only happen in an extraordinary love.

A disciple means one who has fallen in love with me; one who is ready to drown with me—not even concerned to surface alone—ready to drown with me. A disciple means: if I go to hell, he says, “We’re coming.” One who says, “If it’s possible to go to heaven without you, we will not go; we are ready to go to hell with you”—that is the meaning of disciple. To be a disciple is a matter of great courage—unprecedented daring!

You won’t even come to know; in fact, it is never known. This revolution happens so silently that not even the sound of footsteps is heard—when it happens! If you are willing to open, it happens quietly. Not the slightest commotion arises.

"What have I become, from what to what—I could not know a thing;
Setting your eyes in mine, you stole away my very life-breath;
The strings of the heart began to sing Holi again;
You drenched me in color."

Disciple means: one who is ready to look straight into the eyes; who says, "Pour it in—my vessel is empty, empty in every way; fill it!" Such preparedness is discipleship.

Now it is a very simple matter: I am eager for vessels, eager for disciples. Be like “Sita,” then come. Otherwise, wherever you are, may the Lord bless you! As you are, may he bless you as you are! That’s all for today.