Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #2

Krishna Mohammad! Such people are to be pitied. They have not known what love is. And without knowing love there is no surrender. And one who is not surrendered is not a disciple. To pretend to be a disciple is one thing; to be a disciple is quite another.

A disciple is one who cuts off his own head and lays it on the ground; who wipes himself out, effaces himself. If even a trace of ego remains, where is discipleship? Only the one who bows so deeply that he never rises is a disciple. Where does a disciple find leisure! In his master he has found everything. In his master he has found all the enlightened ones—of the past, the present, and the future. He has found the very essence, the treasure. Now where to go? Why go? For what?

If your thirst is quenched you do not go looking for springs or digging wells. If the thirst has not been quenched, inevitably you will have to go in search of springs, you will have to dig wells.

This is the difference between a disciple and a student. A student means one who is accumulating knowledge—from wherever he can get it! From anywhere! The student is eager to stuff his ego with knowledge. The more he knows, the more he thinks he is. Information is his goal. So not only will he go to listen to enlightened ones; he will go to listen to those who are not enlightened as well. Wherever something is happening, the student is only collecting knowledge. If something can be had even from the ignorant, he will collect it from them too; why only from the wise! What has a mere student to do with the distinction between knowledge and ignorance! If he can get a few bits of information, a few facts, if he can enlarge his hoard of knowledge a little—people search and wander in pursuit of that wealth.

And the irony is that bliss does not come by hoarding knowledge. On the path of knowing, the greatest obstacle is precisely this accumulation of information.

A disciple is one who drops his information; who says: now I do not want to know—I want to be. For being, one is enough. For knowing, even the many are not enough!

Buddha and Mahavira appeared at the same time, in the same region. Sometimes it happened that Buddha passed through a village one day and Mahavira the next. Sometimes they even stayed in the same village for the monsoon retreat. Once it even happened that they stayed in the same inn—Buddha in one half, Mahavira in the other.

This question arose even then. It is not a new question of Krishna Mohammad’s. If a disciple of Buddha went to listen to Mahavira, or a disciple of Mahavira went to listen to Buddha, the other disciples naturally wondered: is he not receiving from his own master? The master is showering. Others are receiving; why not he? The failure must be his. His vessel does not hold; his doors are closed. Instead of opening his doors, he thinks: perhaps Mahavira does not have it; maybe Buddha has it. If not with Buddha, then perhaps with Makkhali Gosala; if not with Gosala, then with Ajita Kesakambala! Let me go here, let me go there—let me gather it from somewhere!

And the irony is that he does not know the art of receiving. So he will miss with Buddha, he will miss with Mahavira, he will miss with Ajita Kesakambala. He will go on missing for centuries—because receiving has very little to do with Buddha or Mahavira.

Consider a blind man. He cannot see, so he says: this lamp does not give light; I will look for another lamp. I will buy a better lamp, bring such a lamp that I begin to see. He brings another lamp. But what difference does it make to a blind man! This lamp or that—all lamps are the same. The blind man remains in darkness. Then, tired of this lamp, he searches for another. But one thought never occurs to him: let me seek treatment for my eyes.

You can find it with Buddha, with Mahavira, with Krishna, with Christ. Thousands of lamps have been lit; in all lamps there is the same light. But the blind will not find it in any. And the blind man’s ego is not willing to admit that there is some defect in his eyes; that is why he cannot see. The ego says: this lamp must not have light; look for another lamp. This well has no water; search for another well. And the thought that my own throat does not know how to drink—the ego will not accept. Ego never takes the fault upon itself.

So, Krishna Mohammad, they are to be pitied! Those who wander like this will not gain anything by wandering. At most they may collect some rubbish, a few bits of information. And those bits of information will become further obstacles on the path of wisdom.

And then, one true master has his way, another true master has another. Such people get into a muddle. They become neither here nor there—neither of home nor of the ghat; they turn into the washerman’s donkey. They hang in the middle! They hear contrary statements, and the difficulty increases rather than decreases. For one has said this, another has said that—and both may be right, each on his own path.

The state of such a person becomes like that of a patient who goes to a homeopath, to an Ayurvedic physician, to an allopathic doctor, to a naturopath, to a hakim, and listens to all of them! None of that will remove the disease; it will make not only his body sick but his mind as well. Now he will be in even greater trouble. For they are different paths, with different viewpoints—truth seen from different angles.

You do not have eyes. Therefore you cannot understand even one angle. How will you understand all the angles! You will only get entangled. Your knot will tangle further. The knot will not open—there will be knots upon knots. Then such a calamity arises that if you do this, an inner voice says: this is wrong. And if you do what that voice says, another voice says: this is wrong!

Sometimes people who follow Krishnamurti come to me. I ask them: what need is there to come here? They say: but we have been listening to Krishnamurti for twenty years; nothing has happened yet. I say: so it is clear that nothing has happened? Then meditate. They say: but what will meditation do? Krishnamurti says nothing happens through meditation.

Now the tangle! What Krishnamurti says has not happened; and if I suggest something, Krishnamurti will become a hindrance, because he says: what will meditation do?

Someone is here with me, meditating, and nothing is happening; he goes to Krishnamurti and says: I am there, I meditate, and nothing is happening. He says: nothing has ever happened through meditation!

Then, having listened to me again and again, a thought will arise within you: how can it be without meditation? And yet through meditation nothing has happened! Otherwise why would you go elsewhere? What was the point of going?

But now another trouble has arisen: if you meditate, Krishnamurti will hinder; and if you follow Krishnamurti, then I will hinder. Now you will be torn in two directions.

I am taking a simple example. If you gather the teachings of ten or twenty-five paths, you will be torn in twenty-five directions. You are already half-dead; you will die outright.

First thing: those who go to listen to another are not disciples; they are students. Students have permission—go wherever they like, listen to whomever they wish. There is nothing so precious in a student that one needs to worry about it. They are students, that’s all.

I remember something from my childhood—there was a word used in my village; I don’t know whether you know it or not. When the older children played, and some little child would push in, making a fuss that he too would join, in my village they would “include” him. And he had a special name: doodh ki duhaniya. No one bothered about him! Let him jump and hop; let him keep the notion that he is included. But he wasn’t included. Those who were actually playing knew he wasn’t part of the game. Yet removing him was hard—he would cry, make a racket, call a whole council on his behalf. So they accepted him. But there was a code word: doodh ki duhaniya! All right—he’s a milk-mouthed child, let him play. Let him bounce around. He is leaping for nothing and feeling very pleased. He is not part of the game at all. He isn’t counted in it. Neither defeat nor victory will come from him; his jumping about has no consequence.

The student is a doodh ki duhaniya! Let him come and go, listen wherever he wants, to whomever he wants, do as he wants. But a disciple is not that. For a disciple, coming and going have ended. Only the one in whom coming-and-going has ended is a disciple. Nor is he merely “surrendered” in name. Surrender itself means: the matter is finished. I have found my truth. I have found the eyes through which I want to see. I have found the hands by which I wish to be led. For me the whole world has gone empty.

What does surrender mean? This person is my master—and apart from this person I have no master. That is the meaning of surrender. It does not mean that there are no other masters. There are other masters; they will be masters for other surrendered ones. Until you are surrendered to someone, that person is not your master.

Remember, a guru is not something stamped on someone’s forehead. “Guru” is the name of the relationship between the disciple and the enlightened one.

Consider: a guru has thousands of disciples. If they all leave and the guru remains alone, will you still call him a guru? Then he is not a guru. He may be a knower, supremely enlightened—but not a guru. One is a guru only in reference to some disciple.

Krishnamurti will be the guru of someone. Ramana will be the guru of someone. Ramakrishna will be the guru of someone—of “someone.” Being a guru is not a quality like gold, where gold remains gold even if everyone leaves. A guru does not remain “guru” in that way.

Understand it as with a wife. Being a wife is not an intrinsic attribute; it exists in reference to a husband. If the husband is no more, there is no wife. Then she is a woman, not a wife. A man is a man, not a husband. These are relationships.

A guru is an inner-relationship. By surrendering, the disciple gives birth to the guru. Two events happen in his surrender: on one side the disciple diminishes—disappears, becomes empty; and on the other side someone becomes full—whom he invites within.

Surrender is alchemy.

So those who do such things are neither disciples nor surrendered.

And then, there is no need to do anything secretly. They act secretly because, in truth, they are students, but they want to appear as disciples! The dignity that comes with being a disciple—the ego does not want to drop that. To accept, “I am still a student,” hurts the mind. So they do it on the sly.

There is no harm in going; whatever you want to do should be done openly. Why do it secretly? Doing it secretly is a worse sin! Doing it secretly means you are hiding from me. If you hide from me, all connection with me is broken. If you open yourself before me, the connection grows deeper; if you hide from me, how will it deepen?

Krishnapriya wanted to go to listen to Krishnamurti. No harm in that. In my heart there is immense respect for Krishnamurti—as much as for Buddha, as much as for Krishna, as much as for Kabir. She did right to go. But she told me she was ill and going to be hospitalized.

Now this is too much! There was no harm in going to Krishnamurti. But to lie to me like this—that caused the harm. Going to Krishnamurti would not have harmed her. It was good; auspicious. Sitting even for a little while with any man of truth is auspicious. But one who can live with me and still lie so much—if she cannot be true with me, how will she be true with Krishnamurti? If after years with me she still lies, how will she be true for even an hour with Krishnamurti? Impossible.

No connection will be made with Krishnamurti, and with me the connection is broken. No gain—loss instead. She went secretly so that she could still keep the idea here that she is my disciple; there was no need for that. So she went making the pretext of the hospital.

Those who are students will go out of curiosity and inquisitiveness. They are childish. Because the same lamp that is lit here is lit in Krishnamurti as well. If there are any differences, they are in the clay lamp, not in the light. If you did not see the light here, you will not see it there either. One has to learn the art of seeing light; then it will be visible anywhere—there as well, here as well. And the wonder is that one who has learned to see light begins to see it even in those who appear utterly extinguished.

Therefore Buddha said: The day I became a Buddha, for me the whole world became Buddha. The day I knew who I am, that very day I recognized who everyone is. That day I saw the truth hidden within all.

One who knows how to see will see light even in extinguished lamps. He will see light in you too. Leave you aside—he will see the Divine in trees, stones, mountains. For him the whole world is filled with God.

So some will have gone out of curiosity. They are students. For example, Swami Yog Chinmay went—he is a student. His curiosity is the curiosity of becoming a pundit. Knowledge will not happen through such curiosity. He knows nothing of being a disciple. Perhaps the notion of becoming a guru is there even before being a disciple. Perhaps he has become a disciple only so that somehow he may become a guru! So: collect as much as possible, from wherever, however—whatever information can be grabbed, bind it all together; it will come in handy! Fill the coffer! And the marvel is that those who become empty do not have to fill themselves—the treasury fills by itself. Into that emptiness, the Fullness descends of its own accord.

Then some must have gone out of defiance. Because while you are with me, I am not always sweet. It cannot be so. Yesterday you read Dhani Dharamdas’s words: “Extremely bitter, very sour.” Many times the truth I speak to you is very bitter. You get annoyed. Many times I strike straight at the mark. You writhe. You even want to take revenge on me. But you have no way to take revenge. This is one way you can: go away out of defiance. And if I am to transform you, I will have to wound you. If a sculptor wants to turn an unhewn stone into a statue, he must take up chisel and hammer. You are raw stone. Many chips have to be broken off. There will be pain, because you have taken those chips to be your very soul—though they are not your soul. Only when they are broken will you be free. Only when they break will your soul be revealed. But for now, whatever I take away from you, you feel great suffering: “I am being diminished, reduced, cut.”

When the Kohinoor diamond was found, it was three times bigger than it is today. But had it come to you as it was then, you would not even have recognized it. The one who found it did not recognize it either—he gave it to children to play with, thinking it a shiny stone. Today it is the world’s most famous diamond, though its weight has become three times less. Because it was refined, cut, facets were laid on it. The craftsman’s chisel kept working. As much as the chisel worked, that much brilliance came. The weight decreased, the luster increased; the value increased. Before, it was not a diamond; it was a rough stone. Now it is a diamond.

You have come to me like a rough stone. You have come precisely because you are an uncut stone, freshly taken from the mine. I will cut you, trim you, break you into pieces. There will be pain; there will be suffering. Your long-cherished beliefs will be shattered. Your long-held opinions will be broken. You will smart, you will burn, you will be offended, you will be angry. There will be a struggle between you and me.

But if there is surrender, you will accept that struggle in a spirit of joy. You will not take me to be an enemy. You will take me to be a surgeon—that if I am cutting and causing you pain, it is for your well-being.

That is why only a disciple can be worked upon, not a student. Disciple means: he is ready to lie on the operating table. He trusts enough that when you anesthetize him and cut open his belly you will not kill him. He has such faith that he places his life in your hands.

The master is a surgeon. Now if you start fighting—“You drew my blood, you cut my skin; will you kill me? I came already full of pain and you give me more”—then the surgeon cannot work.

So there are many in whom defiance will arise. Not many—some five or seven people left. Among them are some students, some with defiance. There are some in whom there is greed: “So much is available here; perhaps we can get a little more somewhere else.”

But the greedy one is not a disciple. Greed does not make a relationship with the master. This bond is not of greed; it is of love. Where there is greed there is no love; where there is love there is no greed.

So they left in different ways. Some said something and left, some left without saying anything, some slipped away silently. And nothing was wrong. It was good that they went. By going they did something useful: they gave me some news about you.

For me all this is meaningful. Because for the great work I am going to undertake, such things will be useful: whom to let go, whom to bid farewell; who cannot be taken deeper; who are fine to keep at the periphery and need not be brought to the center. So it is good. It gives me convenience. The work becomes easier.

Between Krishnamurti’s work and mine there is a fundamental difference. Krishnamurti does not accept anyone as a disciple. Krishnamurti’s relationship is only intellectual; it is not spiritual, not of the heart. Krishnamurti has said what he had to say; the matter is finished. If you want to accept it, accept it; if not, don’t. Do whatever you wish. Krishnamurti does not take responsibility for you; I take responsibility for you. Krishnamurti is neutral toward you—he has nothing to take or give. I am not neutral; I am committed to you. I have invested myself in you. I have staked myself with you. Krishnamurti utters a word—if you want to walk, walk; if not, don’t. I hold your hand and walk. I bear with you all the hardships of your journey.

So this is good—it keeps telling me who are useless, who are not worthy of deep commitment; who should be kept at the edge; and who are worthy to be taken into the innermost.

Thus were the stages set in the longing of love:
Part of the seeking was mine, and part of the seeking was His.

This journey of master and disciple is half-and-half.

Part I will walk, part you walk; part you walk, part I walk. That is how this journey will be completed.

Those who are unruly, who have no surrender to the sky of love, who are still full of ego—where there is ego there is anger, there is defiance; where there is ego there is greed: “Maybe we can learn a little more from somewhere; who knows, a diamond might fall into our hands!” And those who are full of curiosity, who are childish—that too is ego. For truly mature is only the one whose ego has departed.

Only that one is a disciple who can say: “Madhav, my birth is in your charge.” Who can say: Now this life is yours, this birth is yours. Make me as you wish, erase me as you wish. In your hands I am like clay: make a pot, make a statue—or do not.

“Madhav, my birth is in your charge!”—that one is the disciple.

But if the clay were to leap from my hands into someone else’s and say, “Let’s see over there too; perhaps something will happen there,” and then move to yet another’s hands—then this pot will never be made. I will make something, the second will make something else, the third something else. This clay will remain just clay. You will remain a lump of clay.

And I have news: who is doing what here, how each one is moving. Remember, whatever you are doing is shaping your future!

You may keep up the appearance of not knowing—that is another matter;
It’s not as though you have no news of me!

Remember, I may remain outwardly unaware and say nothing to you—you will not even know when you have lost me. I will not even let you know, because there is no point in giving you needless pain. Quietly I will withdraw my hand. I will see that I had given my hand to the wrong person—to one who had no respect for that hand. Quietly I will withdraw it. You will not even get wind of it. Perhaps you will not know all your life that the hand was withdrawn long ago.

I am joined only with those who can say:
“May your longing remain intact;
As for the heart—whether it remains or not!”

Those who are ready to stake everything.

I have learned to live, I have learned to die;
I have begun to recognize your gaze.

Begin to recognize this gaze. Already it has been too long. Do not behave like children anymore.

Surrender means—being a disciple means: there is nowhere left to go now; the temple has been found. If it has not been found, then search! I do not stop you; I am not your enemy. If this temple is not your temple, then certainly search. I myself will push you to go and seek.

But then there is no need to return here. When this temple is not yours, then you are not of this temple.

But you are dishonest! You want to keep your feet in two boats. You will get into trouble. No one can travel in two boats.

And remember, I am not telling you to board this very boat. I am only saying: board some one boat. I have no insistence that you board this one. The goal is that you reach the other shore. If you reach taking Krishnamurti’s support—good. If taking Gurdjieff’s support—good. Go—reach. My blessings are with you. Reach the other shore. But you can reach only in one boat. If you think you will ride all the boats—that you will hold one by the hand, put a foot on another, lie on a third—you will get into trouble. These boats move in different ways. One moves by sail, one by oars, one has a motor engine. They are all different. Their ways are different. They all can take you to that side; this is true.

And reaching that side is the destination. We are not to count the mangoes; we are to eat them. But belong wholly to someone. In belonging wholly to anyone, you will be free.

If you move half-and-half, divided, you will fall into fragments.

For living in this world, this much support is enough:
My connection to you, my affiliation with your lane.

Let at least one lane be yours—my bond with you, my belonging to your lane. Such support is enough. But if you indulge in such dishonesty, then remember: you do not harm anyone else. You harm only yourself.

Therefore I said, Krishna Mohammed, for such people one can only feel compassion. Because they are harming themselves, not anyone else.

First thing: the entire purpose of education is one—and that is to keep you from breaking with the past. The whole vested interest of education is this: not to let you become free of tradition. Education is employed in the service of tradition. And what I am saying is not tradition. What I am saying is not the past; it is the present. Education has nothing to do with the present.

Education looks backward. Its eyes are fixed on what is behind; it looks to the rear. It teaches and explains only what has already happened. What is happening today—education never relates to that. When this too becomes past, then education will teach it; remember. One day your educationists will teach me too, but they will teach me when I am gone, when I have become the past—when I am of no use.

An educationist grasps a thing only when it has turned to ash, when the live ember has gone out of it. When Kabir was alive, no educationist could connect with him; now you see how many Ph.D.s are written on Kabir! On no one else has so much been written as on that unlettered Kabir. Had Kabir aspired to a job in a university, even a peon’s post would not have been available to him—let alone a professorship. It is doubtful they would have agreed to admit Kabir even as a student. Who would let an unschooled Kabir enter a university! And today your so‑called pundits, professors, and researchers are spending their lives over Kabir—what Kabir means, what Kabir signifies. They are busy turning Kabir’s inversions right‑side up, trying to explain them. Kabir must be laughing in his grave that this is a fine joke indeed.

Those who crucified Jesus were the pundits—the rabbis—the educated, the cultured. And now those very people research Jesus; two thousand years and they are still at it. The same people—the same kind.

Understand the reason: education is related to the past. Education is for the dead, not for the living. Education accepts only the dead. Education is a postmortem, an autopsy. You don’t ask, “Your body is so beautiful; why don’t doctors perform your autopsy?” That question would sound absurd: such a beautiful, lovely body, and we see doctors cutting up corpses—so why don’t they cut you open and perform your autopsy while you are alive? In the same way, that question would be wrong—because autopsies are only of the dead, not of the living. Education is for the dead. Education is an autopsy. When something dies, becomes part of history—when the person has gone and only footprints remain upon the sands of time—whether of Buddha, or Nanak, or Dhani Dharamdas—then the educationist at once becomes eager. He wants to appropriate it quickly. He wants to make it part of tradition.

In the present there is rebellion—and there is no rebellion in education. There is no element of revolt in education. That is why education is worth two pennies. The day revolt becomes an element of education, that day education will have value; that day there will be real education on the earth. Then education will not only make you skilled at earning a livelihood; it will also give you life. Right now it only gives you bread and snatches away life. Bread is necessary; but as Jesus has said, man cannot live by bread alone—something more is needed. That “more” is not yet given by education. In fact, all the means of attaining that “more” are being destroyed. Today it is very difficult to return from the university with your intelligence intact; it almost always gets destroyed.

Education was invented precisely so that the old generation could pass on its knowledge to the new. That was the original purpose; it still is. The father wants to give his son what he has known. Then knowledge became so vast that the father could no longer do this work himself—otherwise he could do nothing else—so servants, intermediaries were kept: they are the teachers. Teachers are in the father’s employ—to teach the son.

Keep this in mind; the whole secret is hidden here. The teacher works for the father—to teach the son. The teacher serves the father, not the son. Therefore whatever is in the father’s interest is what is taught to the son. What serves the father’s interest is what is imparted. What the father decides is what reaches the son.

Therefore, in Russia there is one kind of education, because there the fathers decide differently: nothing except communism should reach the children; even the name of God should not reach them. The father has decided, so the name of God does not reach the son.

In India the father decides that there should be religious education, so religious education reaches the son. Here the father is the controller. The father wants the experience he has had, the wealth of knowledge he has gathered, to be imposed upon his son: I shall die, but my ego will continue in my son. He wants to live on his son’s shoulders.

What I am saying is a live coal, an insurrection, a revolt. It is not in favor of the father; it is in favor of the son. It is not on the side of the past; it is on the side of the future. Education should be devoted to what is going to be, not to what has been—because what has been has been; it will not be again, and we have nothing to do with it now.

I am not saying there should be no respect for the father. There must be respect for the father. In fact, the more beautiful your future is, the greater your respect for the father will be—because it was the father who gave you life, who gave you freedom, who gave you fragrance.

Khalil Gibran has said: Give your children love and freedom, but not your knowledge—because your knowledge has grown old. Your children will live in a different world; your knowledge will not work there. A new knowing will be needed there. And this is becoming more and more important every day.

Three thousand years ago there was hardly any difference between the knowledge of father and son. So education was absolutely effective, because what the father had known was exactly what the son had to know.

Understand: a father stitched shoes all his life, so the son was taught to stitch, to join, to make shoes. For a long time no gurus were needed, no teachers were needed. Every carpenter taught his son carpentry; a shopkeeper taught his son shopkeeping; a kshatriya taught his son how to fight in war; a brahmin taught his son priestcraft. Each taught his own sons. Tradition carried things forward.

Gradually the stock of knowledge kept increasing. It became so vast that each father teaching his own son was no longer possible. So we had to create schools, build pathshalas. Through these we kept teaching what the fathers had known. In the past it was necessary to teach that, because if it were not taught, the children would have to begin again with their ABCs; that would be a great loss. That is why animals and birds could not develop: they have no network of education.

So, where the father ended, the son could begin; this is man’s beauty. The son makes use of the father’s ladder; hence there is development.

In the past, education’s gift was great and invaluable. But now, slowly, education is becoming an obstacle rather than a help, because new events are happening every day. Knowledge is erupting with such speed; there is such an explosion. Scientists say that in the last five thousand years as much knowledge developed as in the last fifty years; and as much in those fifty as in the last five; and as much in those five as in the last five months. The pace is so intense that our educational institutions have become almost futile.

Understand this: if you go to school to study psychology, your professor studied psychology thirty years ago; that psychology has become wrong. That is what he is still teaching. It is useless now. It is out of date—junk.

When I went to university to study psychology, I saw my professor teaching McDougall. He had studied McDougall; now even the name McDougall carries no relevance. It was fifty years old. When I stood up and said, “What are you teaching? McDougall today means nothing!” naturally he became angry with me. It became difficult for there to be any rapport between us.

You will be surprised to know that today, if a student is even a little alert, he will know more than the teacher. No great genius is required; with a little talent he can know more than the teacher—because the teacher is stuck with what he studied thirty years ago. In those thirty years the whole condition of science has changed; the whole ground has shifted. Now Newton has no value; after Einstein, what value has Newton? Newton remains only a historical name.

Today change is happening so rapidly, new information and new knowledge are bursting forth so fast, that it is very difficult for the guru, the teacher, to keep pace. In the West they are thinking of educating in a new way.

The future possibility of education is that the teacher will be bid farewell; he will have no value, or only a very secondary one. In his place there will be computers—because a man takes a long time to learn; computers learn quickly. In one minute a whole Bible can be memorized by a computer. Knowledge is arriving at such speed that the computer will learn it and the computer will teach the students; only then shall we be able to keep in step, otherwise all synchronization is breaking.

Television will be used. To teach geography in the old way—hanging a map—have you gone mad? Television exists, and you are hanging maps! You are explaining what London is like from a map—when the whole of London can be shown on television! And what is seen is never forgotten; there is no need to memorize. The world map—futile. Television can do the work. And in the future even television will not be needed; the world has come so close that within an hour one will be able to reach London. Take the students there, show them London, and the matter is finished. Why waste time! And then they will not forget.

What was not possible earlier is possible now. Technologies have developed. And they have developed in such a way that technology is future‑oriented. The human intermediary is no longer much needed.

You ask about “the maharathis of education.” First of all, where are “maharathis”—great charioteers—in education! People there are driving bullock carts; where are the chariots? Call them coachmen. In fact, whoever cannot become anything else becomes a teacher. First he tries to become a constable, or at least an inspector. When no place opens anywhere, he thinks, “All right, let me be a schoolteacher; it is not in my fate to be even a constable”—because the fun is in the constable’s hands; the “extras” are in his hands.

The teacher is the most pitiable creature. When someone says, “I am a teacher,” just look at his face! He is saying it as if, “What to do—compulsion! I am suffering the karmas of many births. I am a teacher!” A man hesitates to say, “I am a teacher.” When someone says, “I am a Collector,” his face shines. “I am a teacher”—all the shine disappears.

The teacher is poor and humble. And what capital does he have? A mere store of information. He is a bookworm; he has been eating books. He has not known life; his information comes from books. He has not seen life; he has seen life’s pictures printed in books. His knowledge is borrowed. He has not loved; he has read poems about love. He has had no experiences for his own joy; he keeps repeating what others have said. He is a parrot.

Parrots do not like talk of rebellion. A parrot likes only what it can repeat. If it can say “Hare Ram, Hare Ram, Hare Ram,” it goes on saying “Hare Ram, Hare Ram, Hare Ram.” Now if you teach a new mantra today, the parrot becomes upset: “So much time was spent learning Hare Ram, and now you come with a new mantra! I will go on repeating the old one.”

A teacher does not show eagerness to learn the new—and life is new every day. Therefore the teacher has no living relationship with life. The real teachers of life are the poets, the painters, the musicians—those who live! But who recognizes them as teachers? They are the heralds of the new. The new descends through them. Existence takes their support—it does not take the support of parrots.

Plain talk is never really understood. What is understood is only what has been explained to you again and again. Understanding does not arise from straightforwardness; it arises from repetition. Whatever has been driven into your skull so many times that it has taken root there—that alone “makes sense” to you. It may be utterly upside down, useless, wrong, inconsistent—but if it has been repeated often enough, it will be what you understand.

What do you mean by understanding? Usually you mean only this: if what I say matches what you already know, you call it “understanding.” If it does not match, you get upset—“What will happen to my information? To the knowledge I have gathered so far?” Then there is a snag.

You hear only that which supports you. That’s why, when something is said that pleases you, your head nods—“Absolutely right.” Why? Do you know what truth is? You don’t. But whatever aligns with you must be true—and whatever does not align with you, how can it be true? Sometimes very plain things do not penetrate.

For example: for centuries man has believed the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening. Scientists discovered and declared that the sun neither rises nor sets. Still, our language has not changed—sunset, sunrise are in use and will remain so. There’s no sign that it will stop. Even now you think in the same language: “the sun rose.” For centuries the mind has been conditioned that the sun rises and sets; so even though you have heard, known, even accepted that the sun neither rises nor sets—it is always in its place, and the earth moves around the sun—you still, in every practical sense, assume that the sun rises, “Look, the sun is overhead.” You still speak the same language and will go on speaking it.

Scientists say the earth is round. But for practical purposes you still behave as if it were flat. You read it, you hear it—but centuries of conditioning! Sometimes even the most simple, most truthful statements don’t sink in, because a mesh of conditioning lies crisscross against them.

Yesterday I said to you—when Kabir said to the wealthy Dharamdas, “What is in these idols? Stone!”—Dharamdas must have been deeply hurt. Terribly hurt. All along he had worshipped these very stones, considered them divine. And now this strange man stands before him! He’s not a Brahmin; it’s not even clear whether he’s Hindu or Muslim. He’s a weaver. What would he know of Brahmavidya! He has woven cloth—and now he talks of the ultimate. And those millions upon millions who worship stones—are they all fools?

Kabir’s statement is utterly plain: it is stone. Stone it is. Who doesn’t know that? But once you have taken a stone to be a deity and believed it long enough, it stops being “stone” for you and becomes “idol.” A groove settles in your feeling. Conditioning becomes so solid that Kabir’s simple, compassionate statement—compassionate, because as long as you take stone for God, how will you seek the real God?—doesn’t get through.

It is compassionate, and it is true: this is stone—you made it. You bought it in the market. You know very well the marble came from the Makarana quarries, that such-and-such artisan carved the image; you purchased it for such-and-such price; then you called the pundit-priest, performed rituals, yajna, havan, and installed it. But it is stone all the same. Break it and you will find only stone. You will not find a beating heart within it, nor will blood flow.

But people are very clever, very cunning. There is a kind of stone that absorbs vapor; when heat rises, that vapor seeps out like moisture. People have made idols from such stone and announce, “God is sweating.”

In Punjab there is an idol of Mahavira. Thousands gather when “God sweats,” to see it. What madness! But the mind wants to believe that God is sweating. That stone—bring it from anywhere, keep it in your house—it absorbs moisture from the air, its pores are tiny. When heat comes, the vapor flows like sweat. But because you have believed, belief turns it into “truth.” And when something has been believed for centuries and suddenly someone says the opposite—how will you trust him?

I was reading last night: In Chicago, a small boy—ten years old—on his way to school saw a cat with two tails. He was astonished. He rubbed his eyes. Yes—two tails. He looked carefully, but by then the cat had leaped over a wall and vanished.

He went to school and said, “This is incredible. Today I saw a cat with two tails.” All the boys laughed, “You’ve gone mad—how can a cat have two tails!” He insisted, “I swear I saw it, and I looked carefully.” Who would believe him? The children told the teacher, “He’s lying—a two-tailed cat!” The teacher scolded him, “Tell the truth. There is no such thing as a two-tailed cat. You’re lying.”

The boy said, “But I saw it.” He stuck to his claim, so the teacher caned him, made him kneel, and said, “Until you apologize—you are lying, and still you’re being stubborn!”

That day the boy went home and ran away at night to look for that cat, so he could catch it somehow and show them. Catching a cat is not so easy. He searched all night. Early morning he saw it again on a parapet—the same cat, two tails—but how to catch it?

He returned to school and said, “I apologize. Beat me if you want, but I saw the cat again.” Then people concluded he had gone mad. Earlier they thought he lied; now they thought, “He’s completely crazy.” If even a beating won’t change his mind, he must be insane.

For eight days the boy wandered the town. For two or three days he did not return. The family panicked, looked everywhere. He had hanged himself from a tree. It was a great shock. The children also felt guilty—they had had a part in it: first calling him a liar, then calling him mad. Who knows! The teacher felt guilty too. The school was closed in mourning. Everyone joined his funeral procession, and when they were lowering him into the grave, everyone saw that cat. It was sitting in the cemetery—a cat with two tails. But now it was too late.

This is how it is: whatever you have believed, you refuse to accept anything otherwise. If you have seen God in a stone, you will not accept any alternative. Then when Kabir says, “I have seen: in stone there is only stone—no God etc.,” first you say, “He’s a liar.” If he doesn’t give in, if he holds to his stand, you persecute him, stone him, insult him. If he still stands firm, you say, “He’s mad.” And if he still remains unbending—when he dies, you say, “He’s a fakir, a great realized one—worship him.” But you never accept what he said. First you call him a liar, then insane, then exalted—but in every way you keep him far from yourself.

Worship too is a device to keep someone at a distance.

Worship is also a form of rejection. You say, “All right, sir, we will worship you—just don’t trouble us too much. You must be right—if you say it, it must be right. We are tired; we touch your feet—but be quiet, sit peacefully. We will remember you always, but don’t disturb us, don’t upset us. Don’t talk of two-tailed cats. Let us see as we have always seen. Comfort us. Don’t trouble us further.”

Remember, the search for truth and the search for consolation are two different quests. Whoever seeks consolation does not seek truth. If a lie consoles him, he is satisfied with the lie. Whoever seeks truth does not seek consolation. Even if all lies shatter and with them all his consolations are destroyed, he is ready.

I am telling you very simple truths; but in these truths there is the tincture of truth, the flavor of truth. And you have tied many consolations to untruth. Your consolations get broken.

Friedrich Nietzsche has said: Do whatever you like to a man, but don’t break his lies; otherwise he will never forgive you. He also said—most significantly—that man cannot live without lies. Man is so weak he must have lies. He needs some lie or other, and he relishes lies.

You go to an astrologer, show your horoscope. He tells you a few lies, and you relish them. He knows exactly which lies you will enjoy. He says, “Until now you have suffered a lot.” Everyone has—so no problem. Tell anybody, it fits. “Until now there have been many troubles—crises, struggles!” Who hasn’t? “Money comes to your hand but doesn’t stay.” Whose does? “The dishonest win, the honest lose.” Everyone agrees, for everyone has lost; “one must be honest”—that’s why they are losers. “But the future is very bright”—the heart is pleased. You went to pay five rupees and you hand over ten. “The future is bright. An auspicious time is coming.”

Man lives on lies. You prefer the doctor who tells you, “Don’t worry, it’s a simple illness, the treatment will set it right soon.” You avoid the doctor who first lays out your illness in full detail and makes your chest tremble. You shy away from that doctor.

You are content with lies. We are steeped in lies. We are all lying to each other. The wife lies to the husband; the husband lies to the wife; friends lie to friends. You praise each other—and that praise is a lie.

Freud has said: If people began speaking the plain truth, not even four friends would remain in the world; all would become enemies.

Just think: if you said exactly what you think about your friend, would the friendship survive? It would end that very moment. You wouldn’t look at each other’s faces again. You are sitting at home; someone knocks at the door. Inside you say, “Where did this wretch come from! Day ruined.” But on seeing him you blossom, “What a blessing! I was waiting for you! Please come! Please step in!” You lay out the red carpet—while inside you are thinking, “Where did this pest come from, and when will he leave?” Where do you ever speak truth! And don’t think only you are lying—he is lying too. Life here seems to run on lies. All relationships here are almost entirely made of lies.

Lies function like oil in a machine: pour oil and the machine runs smoothly; without oil it grinds and screeches. Lies are the oil; they keep a certain smoothness between relationships. You come home and buy a flower on the way for your wife. It’s a lie. You hadn’t remembered her all day. The truth is you linger at the office because the longer you are free of your wife, the better. But when you come home you bring a flower or an ice cream. It’s a lie. Your wife too breathes easier when you leave for the office—she can relax: “The nuisance is gone.” But in the evening when you return she is at the door, “I have been waiting all day.” All this runs on lies.

Hence the difficulty.

What I say are simple truths. They break your lies. There is no room in them for your deceptions. Only the courageous will agree to them. Only the brave will walk with them.

So the giants of the academic world, the so-called intelligent of the world, will not understand me. And the politician is the most diseased mind in this world—the sickest of all. Ambition is an illness, and politics is the ultimate ambition. If Buddha is right, the politician is mad. If the politician is right, then all Buddhas are mad.

Buddha renounced the kingdom. You have heard this often. Have you ever thought that in leaving the kingdom, politics too was left? No Buddhist scripture, nor Hindu, nor Jain says: Mahavira also gave up politics. They say he left his kingdom—then politics goes with it. What else is politics? They tell you, “He left the state,” but not, “He left politics.” In truth he left the kingdom because he saw the filth of politics. Had he remained on the throne, he would have had to run politics.

I want to tell you: it was not the kingdom he left—he left politics; therefore the kingdom dropped.

Those who are traveling the road of politics and keep marching toward Delhi—keep marching, keep marching—if you keep marching long enough, one day you will reach. Delhi is not that far. If your mind is filled with dullness, you will surely reach Delhi. Don’t tire along the way, don’t lose heart. You must be stubborn and thick-headed. An intelligent man will stop midway and ask, “Where am I going? What is there? A thousand times the question will arise—what am I doing with my life!” To reach Delhi you need unintelligence: never let this question arise; just lower your horns and push through—like a bull in a crowd, not seeing what’s happening. Keep going, and you’ll reach.

But politics is blindness. Politics means: how can I become the master of others! Religion means: let me become master of myself—that is enough; no other mastery is needed.

So Kabir said to Dharamdas—Dhani Dharamdas. When all wealth is relinquished, then one is truly “wealthy.”

When all politics drops, only ethics is born. As long as politics remains, there is immorality. A politician cannot be moral. The very phrase “political ethics” is a lie. “Politics” sounds as if there were some policy of the state; there is none.

Politics is immorality, but it is clever; it chooses nice words. Politics is only dishonesty, only the fever of ambition. By hook or by crook—arrive. Straight if straight works, crooked if crooked works. How you arrived—no one asks. If you arrive, no one asks how you arrived. If you don’t arrive, everyone says, “Ah, he failed because he was dishonest; he failed because he was a cheat; he failed because he had no character.” If you arrive, then you possess “character,” you possess “honesty.”

You know the old proclamation of dharma: Satyameva Jayate—Truth alone triumphs. What is the proclamation of politics? Whoever triumphs is the truth. The reverse. Not “truth always triumphs”—whoever wins is truth. Might makes right. Once you come into power, everything is fine. Whatever you did is forgiven. Whatever you did is good. Because you will write the history, you will run the newspapers—now everything runs by your power.

You see it: when a man reaches power, how people change! Blitz used to write against Morarji Bhai Desai continuously. When Morarji Bhai came into power once, look what Blitz tried to prove—Morarji is a Mahatma. Instantly the story changed. Now he’s a Mahatma! Now they are trying to prove he is an avatar; the power of God is behind him; now he is a great yogi—such are the efforts.

Once a stick is in your hand, everyone says, “The buffalo is yours.” They have to say it. When the stick is gone, then you will see—the buffalo herself won’t say she’s yours. Understand?

Politics is the most pathological dimension of this world. Therefore the politician cannot understand me. Only those will understand whose fever of ambition is breaking—those who are waking up. Politics is the deepest sleep, a swoon—coma. Man lies utterly unconscious. Those in whom a little awakening has begun will understand me.

The talk is certainly simple and plain; whoever wants to understand can. But the politician does not want to, because his fever of ambition still burns; he does not want a medicine that would reduce it. Through meditation the fever will go. Through meditation peace will come. Then who cares where to go! One becomes absorbed within; then what is there to attain! No race, no goal.

And the educationist won’t understand either, because he serves the past. Only those will understand in whom this has begun to be seen: the way we have lived up to now has been wrong. The way we have lived is not living at all—it is worse than dying. The way we have lived has yielded nothing but thorns; no flowers have bloomed.

Whoever feels this pain intensely will understand these simple truths. And the moment you understand, revolution happens. These truths are such that as you understand them, they transform you.

Jesus has a famous saying: Truth is liberating—the truth shall set you free. Understand—and liberation happens. Once the truth is realized, that very realization changes you. Then there is no need for any separate effort to change.

Do not stop at this. Turn this good fortune into great good fortune. Take meeting me as the starting point of the journey.

Meeting me becomes meaningful only on the day you meet yourself. Until you meet yourself, whether you meet me or not will not have far-reaching consequences. I am here to bring you to yourself. I am here to connect you with yourself.

This feeling of gratitude is precious. It will become wings to carry you forward. But remember: you must go on. Many times we stop too soon. Many times we mistake a wayside halt for the destination. Many times we say, “There is already so much joy—what more is there to do?” No. There is far more bliss. There are far greater heights—heights upon heights, endless heights. After one summit there is a higher summit.

I am your point of departure, not the final stop. The final stop is the divine.

So rejoice with me. Be filled with gratitude. But let it not become an obstruction. Let gratitude not turn into slackness. Do not let it be, “All right, now I have met the Master—what more is there to do?” No. Precisely because you have met me, now there is something to do. Had you not met me, what was there to do anyway? Now you have had a glimpse of light—let that light be kindled within. Let it permeate every pore.

Do not stop until you become as I am. So many possibilities lie dormant within you that once you awaken and start to seize them, there will be no end to your treasure, no end to your kingdom.

Blessed is the feeling of gratitude. Yet even within gratitude there are great distinctions. This is Swami Ageh Bharti’s kind of gratitude. Swami Yog Chinmay wrote a letter a few days ago: “I am greatly obliged to you that in the ashram I can stay free of charge, there is free food, I can listen to discourses for free, I can meditate for free. I am greatly obliged.”

That too is a kind of gratitude! A two-paisa gratitude. Free lodging, free meals—is that your relationship with me? Is that gratitude toward me? If somewhere you get even better food and a better place to stay, then what will you do? You will say, “Jairam ji! There the favors are even greater.”

Is that gratitude? Do not anchor your gratitude in small, petty things, otherwise your gratitude too becomes petty. Anchor your gratitude in the vast, and then it will make you vast.

You can offer thanks for the wrong things too. “Thanks” is not always right; if given for the wrong reasons, it becomes wrong. Is that any kind of thanks? He must have thought, I should express gratitude. Gratitude is a lofty thing! He must have thought the feeling of gratitude is the devotee’s state. In those days I was speaking about gratitude—when he wrote that letter—that in a devotee gratitude arises; in a disciple a supreme gratitude arises. So he must have thought he should express it. He searched, pondered how to express it—and came up with this. Gratitude became two-paisa and fell into the dust.

Thanks for what? Only for this: that you have found me.

Now take energy from this, take the hint, and set out on the journey to meet yourself.

This is the only way to repay your debt to me: know yourself. The day you know yourself, that day I too shall be blessed.

Those who have joined themselves to me—my longing is that all of them, in this very life, depart only after knowing. There is no reason to stop. Those who have given me a place in their heart—their life can be the last. If you stop, you will stop because of yourself; from my side there is no, no obstacle at all. I want to give you a push as quickly as possible. You take the leap.

Gratitude is natural, because through me your remembrance of yourself has begun. Through me you have started coming to your senses.

Your sorrow, your contemplation, your words, your memory—
Such wealth had never before filled the hem of my garment!

It is natural that the supreme feeling of gratitude should arise toward the Master.

The night passed; your memories too tiptoed away.
One by one, stars descended into the heart.

These words I am speaking to you—if you can carry them into your heart—each will become a star. Each word will become a flower. Each word will become an experience.

This longing of yours has bestowed such a grace
that no prayer now can even be asked of me.

This is how it becomes. When you are in deep love, nothing remains to ask for. When love is deep, asking disappears. When love is deep, there is such fulfillment that nothing else even occurs to be asked. There is no need to ask. But the search does not end. Your love for me is the beginning of a great journey—the beginning of a pilgrimage.

The lament is not, why did you ruin my heart;
the grief is that you ruined it so late.

And I will ruin you. I will erase you. Because without erasing you, you cannot be given birth. Upon your death is your rebirth. As you are, only by dissolving can you become as you should be.

You will be broken. Therefore, many times you will be angry. At such times this gratitude will serve you. Regard this gratitude as your wealth; it will help you when difficult days come and I break you. And when I cut you, if the feeling of gratitude remains, you will stay bowed. You will be filled with trust. You will say, “Whatever is happening must be right—even if it brings me pain, even if I suffer, even if I am wounded—still, what is happening must be right.”

And I tell you, one day you will certainly say:

The lament is not, why did you ruin my heart;
the grief is that you ruined it so late.

That “exaggeration” is something others notice. And it is natural that others notice it. But those who have loved are not exaggerating. Their difficulty is of another kind: they feel that no word is worthy enough with which to speak of their master. Every word seems too small.

For one who has loved Buddha, the whole language feels petty—by what words can one sing Buddha’s praise? Yes, for those who have not loved Buddha, it looks like gross exaggeration. “These devotees of Buddha are calling him God! That is going too far. God is the one who created the world. Did Buddha create the world? He was not here yesterday, he is here today, and tomorrow he will be gone. God is the ruler of all. Is Buddha the ruler of all? God is the one at whose gesture leaves tremble; without his gesture leaves do not move. Will any leaf stir at Buddha’s signal? Is the world running by Buddha’s nod? Buddha even falls ill—what on earth can happen by his gesture! He has grown old. His day of death is near.”

The one who stands far away thinks, “This has gone too far. You cannot call Buddha ‘God.’ At the most, call him a ‘mahatma,’ a great soul.”

And the irony is: even if a devotee were to call Buddha a “mahatma,” the one standing far away would still not be satisfied. He would say, “A mahatma? If he accepts Krishna as a mahatma, he cannot accept Buddha, because his standards of saintliness are different. If he regards Mahavira as a mahatma, he cannot accept Buddha, because Mahavira is naked—being sky-clad is the criterion of a mahatma. But this Buddha is sitting wearing clothes! What kind of mahatma is that? Well then, call him a pious man.” But even if you call him a pious man, the one at a distance is not pleased, because he sees a thousand things that do not fit his notion of a pious man.

Take a Christian: to him Buddha does not look like a saint, because saint means Mother Teresa—go and press the feet of the sick. Saint means open schools and teach the uneducated. Saint means serve the poor. And this Buddha is just sitting under a tree!

You hear it in this country too—we use the word seva (service)—but here its meaning is almost the reverse. Ask the Jains, “Where are you going?” They say, “We are going to do seva of the revered monk.” Here, one serves the holy man! In this land there was never the notion that the holy man should serve anyone. That Christian notion came later: a saint is one who serves. Here, a saint was one who was served.

Now this creates great difficulty. Your sort of saint does not appeal. Buddha is sitting under a tree! A saint is Jesus, who gave his life in the service of the world. What did Buddha give?

For the one who stands afar, whose attachments lie elsewhere, everything will look like exaggeration. But for the one in love, even calling him “God” will not feel like exaggeration. To him, even the word “God” seems small. Why? Because he has seen in Buddha the light that is eternal. He is not calling Buddha’s body “God,” not calling the lamp “God”—he is calling the flame in the lamp “God.” And that flame is visible to the surrendered disciple; it is not visible to others. It is visible to the lover. Others will say, “Ah, you have become blind in love; that’s why you see it.” Fine—indeed, they speak truly.

Love brings a kind of blindness, and also a kind of vision.

Understand it this way: the so-called exaggeration people have made about spiritual masters is the same kind lovers have always made. But you do not raise objections against lovers. Ask Majnun what he says about Laila—you won’t object. You won’t say, “This is exaggeration.”

Listen to these words. A lover is speaking to his beloved:

O embodiment of color, O embodiment of light, O embodied tenderness and warmth—
What need was there to come from the moonlit assembly?
Where you were, in that very paradise your beauty would have blossomed—
What need was there to people this hell?
These dimples and moles, this body carved from dreams—
And a heart for which even the softness of dimples would be sacrificed.
Here it is only thorns, only sparks everywhere—
Step carefully, O springtime of spring, tread with care.
When thirst is upon you, even poison is drunk like nectar—
Who knows on which goblet that innocent gaze might come to rest?
I have seen even the tavern drown in those eyes—
Whether the thirst of those eyes will be quenched or not, who knows!
All are lovers of beauty, people of vision, people of heart—
Someone at home, someone in an assembly will adorn you.
You are not merely a body; you are a poem, a song—
Who will sing you beneath the dense shade of tears?
With you there is a bond of pain too, not only love—
Let me shed tears upon your shawl.
Go wherever you will—who am I to stop you?
But let me light lamps along your path.

O embodiment of color—O form made of living color! O embodiment of light—living radiance! O embodied softness and warmth!

O embodiment of color, O embodiment of light, O embodied tenderness and warmth—
What need was there to come from the moonlit assembly?
There was no need for you to come here from the gathering of the moon. You could have remained upon the moon; you were worthy of that place.

What need was there to come from the moonlit assembly?
Where you were, in that very paradise your beauty would have blossomed—
What need was there to people this hell?

When someone falls in love, it seems to him that the one he loves is celestial. There was no need for her to descend into this ordinary world.

“These dimples and moles”—these cheeks, that beauty spot! “This body carved from dreams”—as if adorned by dreams, such is your form.

“And a heart for which even the softness of dimples would be sacrificed—
Here it is only thorns, only sparks everywhere.”

Here, on this earth, there are thorns upon thorns, embers upon embers.

“Only thorns, only sparks everywhere—
Step carefully, O springtime of spring.”

Walk with care, O abundance of spring—be cautious; here there are many thorns and many embers.

“When thirst is upon you, even poison is drunk like nectar.”

If there is thirst, deep thirst, then even poison tastes like nectar.

“When thirst is upon you, even poison is drunk like nectar—
Who knows on which goblet that innocent gaze might come to rest?
I have seen even the tavern drown in those eyes—
Whether the thirst of those eyes will be quenched or not, who knows!”

When you look into someone’s eyes with love, you don’t see eyes; you see a tavern. You see streams of wine flowing. Looking into a lover’s eyes, you begin to grow faint, to lose yourself.

“All are lovers of beauty, people of vision, people of heart—
Someone at home, someone in an assembly will adorn you.
You are not merely a body,” says the lover, “you are more than a body.

“You are not merely a body—you are a poem, a song—
Who will sing you beneath the dense shade of tears?”

Who will be that blessed one who hums your song in the shadow of tears?

“You are not merely a body—you are a poem, a song—
Who will sing you beneath the dense shade of tears?
With you there is a bond of pain too, not only love—
Let me shed tears upon your shawl.”

I ask no more than this—let two drops of my tears fall upon your hem; that alone is supreme blessing!

“With you there is a bond of pain too, not only love—
Let me shed tears upon your shawl.
Go wherever you will—who am I to stop you?
But along the way let me keep lighting lamps.”

Wherever you go, let me keep lighting lamps along every path; may your way be filled with the light of flames.

You do not get angry with lovers. You will not say, “This lover has said something untrue.” You will not say, “He exaggerated.” You will say, “Lovers do speak in hyperboles. Love itself is hyperbole.” And if you forgive lovers, then forgive disciples too, because a disciple’s love is even greater.

What do ordinary lovers know of love! In their hands is only the ordinary love of the world. In the disciple’s hands dawns a love beyond the world. He sees everything in his master. Forgive him. Do not object to him. He is blessed.

And why do I ask you to forgive him? Because if you forgive him, perhaps someday you too may find your master. If you do not forgive, you will never find your master. In forgiving him your door opens. In forgiving him your hardness melts.

Those who called Krishna “God” knew it so; such was their experience in love. The Jains did not; they consigned Krishna to hell. They did not love Krishna, so they put him in hell. They had to, because they had their own criterion—nonviolence. And Krishna precipitated violence, a great war. Arjuna was entirely ready to become a Jain—he would have become a monk. Krishna ruined it all. The world was deprived of one more monk. And as if that were not enough, he caused a war, and as if that were not enough, millions died. So they sent him to hell.

Mahavira appeared as God to the Jains, but the Hindus did not even mention him in their scriptures—not even by name. Why? He did not appeal to them!

At least Krishna appealed a little to the Jains—they sent him to hell; they took that much interest! The Hindus did not take even that much interest in Mahavira. “Some madman, perhaps, who went naked. Leave it—do not even bring it up. Forget it altogether. Such people need not remain in history.”

Those who loved Buddha called him God. Do not be angry. Do not complain. Because if you complain there is danger. If you get angry with Majnun, and with Farhad, then remember, you will never be able to fall in love with anyone. For when you fall in love, you will feel, “I too am making the same mistake. No, how can I make this mistake! Majnun already made it, Farhad already made it. I have always opposed this. I cannot do this.”

You will harden yourself. So take care that it does not happen that someday you come to someone by whose side you too might have seen God, where a window might have opened, from where a gust of wind might have come and refreshed you—and you sit with your doors and windows shut! That is why I say forgive—not because your forgiving or not forgiving makes any difference to the devotees. What difference does it make to them!

Those who have seen God in Buddha—have seen. Even if the whole world says there is nothing there, it makes no difference. Your saying so makes no difference to the devotees. If it does, they are not devotees. But your saying it will make a difference to your life. Have compassion for the devotees, because that is the only way you can have compassion for yourself. Do not call it exaggeration. The devotees have not found words to describe their masters. That is why they say, “Gurur Brahma.”

That is all for today.