Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #4

The one who goes before the Divine like a beggar is precisely the one who has gone like an emperor. The one who goes as a have‑not is the very one who goes as a victor. There is no contradiction in these two statements.

Who is it that can go to the Divine like an emperor? Only one who has no demands. It is demand that makes us beggars in this world. Because of demand we are mendicants. The one who goes to the Divine is the one whose worldly demands have come to an end—who has nothing left to ask for here, who has tried asking and found suffering, tried getting and still found suffering. When he didn’t get, there was pain; when he did get, there was pain. Having seen all the colors and ways of life, becoming well acquainted with it, his asking drops away. Asking makes a beggar; when asking disappears, one becomes an emperor.

But the one whose asking has disappeared, who has nothing left to ask for, naturally will not ask anything even of the Divine. Asking belongs to the world. Whatever you ask for belongs to the world. Look into your own askings: even what you call “religious” askings are not religious. Asking itself is never religious; asking is the world. Therefore no demand is otherworldly. Even when you ask for liberation, you are asking for pleasure—only the name has changed. When you ask for heaven, you are asking for success—only the label has changed. You are still asking for gratification of the senses.

Your heaven, too, is filled with wish‑fulfilling trees—apsaras of exquisite beauty and fountains of wine. Your heaven is merely the reflection of your demands, the projection of your own mind. If you ask for light, if you ask for immortality, you are still asking. And how will asking ever lead to the deathless? So when all demands fall away, you are no longer a beggar—you are an emperor. In this sense I have said: go before the Divine like an emperor—do not go asking for anything.

And I have also said: go before the Divine like a beggar—that is, go as emptiness. A begging bowl! No demand whatsoever. Only a pure emptiness. Let the bowl be held out. With no expectation of what it should be filled with. Not even the expectation that it must be filled—only that the bowl be outstretched. Let your heart be empty. Let there be no stiffness of “I” in it. In this sense I have said: go as a beggar. Let there be no conceit of “I,” no “I,” no I‑sense. There is no contradiction here: both happen together. Where asking disappears, the I‑sense also disappears.

In this world we ask in order to establish the “I.” If I have wealth, my “I” becomes big. If I have position, my “I” becomes big. All these efforts are attempts to enlarge the “I.” When one abandons asking, abandons “mine,” the “I” too goes. The “I” lives on the food of “mine.” The more the expanse of “mine,” the stronger the “I.” The person with the small house has a small “I”; the one with the big mansion has a big “I.” Small possessions, small “I”; great possessions, great “I.” The more clinging you have, the more the arrogance of “I.” That is why, when clinging drops—or has to be dropped—it feels as if “I” has died. Someone goes bankrupt and commits suicide; he cannot bear to live. Why? Because his money was his “I.” Now that the money is gone, how can he bear to pass down the street as a poor, wretched man? Better to die. As soon as demand goes, clinging goes, craving goes, the “I” within also dissolves.

Then a singular, paradoxical event happens. On the one hand one becomes a beggar, because there is no “I.” The begging bowl is empty. On the other hand one becomes an emperor, because there is no demand. That is why Buddha called his monks both emperors and beggars. Only two names were used for the sannyasin: bhikshu and swami. Those who stressed the sovereign splendor of this ultimate state called their renunciates swami, “master.” Those who emphasized the emptiness of this ultimate state, egolessness, called them bhikshu, “mendicant.” But these are two sides of the same coin. The one who is a master is a beggar; the one who is a beggar is a master. At his door, to lose is to win. There, victory and defeat are not different; the one who loses is the one who wins.

So there is no contradiction between these two statements. Practice both together. Understand the distinction. If you practice only one of the two, you will miss. If you say, “Fine, we will go as emperors,” and you go puffed up, full of ego, you will not be able to receive his grace. There will be no space within you to receive it. Your doors will be closed. Even if the Divine wishes to enter, he will not be able to—there will be no place, no openness, no inner sky. Where there is ego, where is the sky? Where is the space? How can there be entry? Even if the Divine wishes, he cannot enter you. Do not take “go as an emperor” to mean go strutting in with pomp, with band and parade, mounted on elephants and horses, blowing trumpets and beating drums. That is not the meaning of being an emperor.

Being an emperor means only this: do not go carrying desires. Go suffused with desirelessness. And at the same time remain a beggar. I understand why you see a contradiction—because in the dictionary “emperor” and “beggar” are opposites. In the dictionary, yes. Before the Divine, all dictionaries are useless. There the ordinary arrangements of logic do not work, and the usual definitions of words do not apply. There one must grasp new meanings, new expressions—one must rise beyond words.

So go like a beggar—empty, a hollow bowl—so that if he wishes to fill you, there is not the slightest obstruction. If he wishes to fill you completely, you are willing to be filled completely. Go like a valley, a hollow—not like a mountain. Rain falls on the mountain as well as into the hollows. But the mountain remains deprived. The rain falls, yet the mountain does not fill; the hollows fill—because they were empty, they become full. What is empty can be filled.

Therefore, the one who goes empty is the one who is joined to the Divine. Go like a beggar, and go like an emperor as well. Hold both meanings carefully. If both are fulfilled together, the supremely blessed moment of your life has arrived: where there is neither ego nor desire.

When a glimpse is had in meditation, revolutionary changes begin to occur in life—because the very foundations of life change. Until now you did not even know those windows existed: that such breezes can blow; that such light can descend; that such lamps can be lit; that such music exists.

As long as it was unknown, it was one thing: life had a certain manner, a routine, a style. When a new experience becomes known, the style of living has to be rearranged. Everything is thrown into disorder. The house of life has to be set up afresh, rebuilt. Space has to be made for the new.

So glimpses of meditation certainly bring a kind of disorder into life. What seemed meaningful yesterday no longer seems meaningful; and what you had not even dreamed of yesterday is what today seizes your very life-breath. Its call, its thirst begins to arise.

Before I met you I had no longing;
seeing you, I became your seeker.

We do not long for what we have not experienced. One who has never tasted sweets does not even desire them. One who has never slept in palaces and never seen them does not even raise the question of palaces. What enters experience awakens longing.

And meditation is an incomparable experience. Even a single ray of it is such a treasure that all the treasures of this world turn pale. But be careful—walk with great awareness. Lest your craving seize upon meditation so strongly that it destroys it. Keep this rule in mind: meditation bears fruit only when there is no craving. Even the craving for meditation becomes a hindrance to meditation.

Therefore this is an everyday occurrence here. People who come here, new people, when they enter meditation, the first experience happens very easily. And then the obstacles begin. The first glimpse is received, because before the first glimpse there is no craving. It is experimental: “Let’s see what happens. Let’s try and see what happens—let’s enter meditation, dance, sing, chant the Name, sit in silence, descend into stillness. Let’s see what happens.” Since there is no prior experience, there is no craving.

So the first experience happens smoothly, and the second becomes very troublesome. Because after the first experience, craving is stirred. Then craving says: “Now let it happen again and again. Let it happen like that again; let it happen every day. Let it happen every time I sit in meditation. And not just that—let it go further and further.” Thus the net of craving spreads.

The very craving that made you wander in the marketplace will make you wander in meditation too. The same craving that made you run after wealth will make you run after meditation. What is the form and color of craving? Its form and color are: more. “What has happened should happen more, happen again and again, happen in greater measure.” If there are a hundred rupees, let them become a thousand; if a thousand, let them become a hundred thousand. If there is this much prestige, let there be that much more. If this much glimpse of meditation has been had, now there should be more. The mind is no longer satisfied with this little. “Now the Divine must be attained. If not, I am ready to throw away my life.” Then you have gone mad; you have missed, coming right up to the door of meditation.

And often it so happens that after the first experience, the next experience becomes very difficult. This is a daily observation. And I also understand the restlessness of the one who has experienced once; he says, “Why doesn’t it happen now?” And I explain to him over and over that precisely now it does not happen because now you are demanding, whereas the first time there was no demand. You have introduced a new element—demand—which is becoming the obstacle. Sometimes it takes four months, sometimes six, sometimes a year before the experience comes again.

It comes again only when the first experience has been forgotten. It comes again only when, after constantly hankering for the first experience, a person gets tired and thinks, “Let it go!” He begins to think perhaps it was only imagination—“Because why doesn’t it happen now? Perhaps I had fallen under some hypnosis; perhaps the circumstances, the atmosphere was such; others were dancing, ecstatic, and I was swept along in their current, flowed along with that stream. Now it doesn’t happen—what happened then must not have been true.” Then his longing drops. And if, after the longing drops, his effort continues, it happens again.

Once it happens again, the third time becomes easier. Because by then you also understand that my craving becomes a hindrance; therefore I should not crave. I should meditate, but not crave. I should meditate, but not demand. I should enter meditation and wait, but not hanker. Keep watch at the gate, but do not claim. Do not say, “It must happen today.”

Now this is your very obstacle.

You say: “I have had glimpses in meditation; since then a single thought keeps arising again and again that if union with the Divine does not happen, I no longer want to live.”

Now you have turned union with the Divine into a journey of your ego. Now this so-called union is becoming something to bolster your ego in exactly the same way as when someone says, “Until I become prime minister, I will not even live,” or “If I do not become president, there is no meaning in my life. I will live only when I conquer the whole world. I will live only when I possess this woman. I will live only when I buy this house—otherwise what is there in living?” You have put a condition on life.

Whoever puts a condition on life is irreligious. And whoever lives life unconditionally is religious. One who says, “Life is his offering; what is in my hands? To live or not to live...” Did you not hear yesterday what the wealthy Dharamdas said? The string is in his hands! We are only paper puppets. The string is in his hands. Why say such a thing as “I won’t live”? That again is the proclamation of “I.” You are complaining; the ego has made a new declaration.

And remember: the ego is very cunning, very subtle. It finds new ways to announce itself. You close off one road; it discovers another. It has now made a new goal: “I will attain God.” “A special person like me, who has even had glimpses in meditation—if I don’t attain the Divine, who will?” And the joke is that this will even sound good; if you say it to someone, he too will say, “A very religious feeling has arisen.”

But I would warn you: no claim of the “I” is ever religious—even if it is a claim about meditation or samadhi. That is why the Upanishads say: “Beware of one who says, ‘I have known.’ He will not yet have known. Sit near one who says, ‘I do not know.’ Perhaps he knows.” Why? Because wherever there is a claim, the ego stands behind it, delighting. I would say to you:

The state in which people pray to die,
in that very state I have vowed to live.

You say, “However the Divine keeps me, in whatever state, I will remain thus. Who am I to decide? Who am I to say, it should be like this, not like that? When I am worthy, he will descend. And until I am worthy, my shouting and crying will do nothing.” Always remember this—that is the meaning of shraddha, trust: that when I am a fit vessel, there will not be a moment’s delay.

What else does shraddha mean? It means simply this: that life is always just. Whoever is worthy of receiving something receives it. If it is not received, it only means one thing: that my worthiness is not yet there. The moment worthiness is there, it is received—instantly.

This is the meaning of trust: I have faith in life—that when the season comes, the seed will crack open and sprout; when spring arrives, flowers will bloom and the winds will be fragrant; when night passes, the sun will rise. What has to happen will happen when it must—and only then should it happen. Every thing takes time to ripen, and if anything happens unripe, it proves costly.

For example, if a five-year-old child becomes sexually mature, he will fall into trouble; if a ninety-year-old man remains sexually youthful, he too will be in trouble. Everything in its time; everything in its season, its proper rhythm.

This trust in the seasons is the trust of religion. The world moves by a wondrous law; there is no injustice there. You have heard the saying: “There may be delay, but there is no darkness.” There is not even delay—it only seems so to us because we are in a great hurry. There is no delay. Little children bury the stone-hard mango seeds in the soil—plant them at dusk and in the morning dig them up: “Still no mangoes? Still no tree? Still no fruit? I don’t even see leaves—what is happening?” They dig up the planted seed and see: “Nothing has happened yet!” and then bury it again. If you dig it up every day to check, the tree will never be born; it will never get the chance.

What is needed is trust. The seed has been put into the earth—now wait. At the right time, at the auspicious moment, suddenly one day a sprout will break through the soil. You give water and wait. Do not insist in such a way as “I no longer even want to live.”

You say: “Either make me meet the Divine, or free me from life.”

I set you free from the “I.” As for life—there is never any freedom from that. You will be here, or you will be somewhere else—but you will be. Death is a false notion, an illusion; death has never happened, nor does it ever happen. It cannot happen. This entire existence is filled with ambrosia; existence is a jar brimming with the nectar of immortality—raso vai sah. That alone flows. Where is death in this?

What you call death is, at most, a change of form, a change of body—as someone might change houses, moving from one neighborhood to another. People of the previous neighborhood may think, “Perhaps the gentleman has died.” He has not died at all; he has started living elsewhere. The journey goes on; bodies change; garments change.

Therefore Krishna has said: just as worn-out clothes are discarded, so, Arjuna, there is no death; it is only the dropping of tattered garments—and then the beginning of new garments. No sooner has one “died” here than one is “born” there. By the time you carry someone to the cremation ground, he has already been born; it may take you some time to reach the cremation ground—and there may even be a queue there. By the time your turn comes to set the corpse on fire, the very person you went to bid farewell to has arisen to life again; he has entered some womb; he has begun breathing again; he has taken up residence in a new house; he has settled in another neighborhood, in another color, in another mode.

Life has no end. Is this little stretch you are living now the whole of life? What you lived yesterday was life; what you lived before birth was also life; what you will live after death will be life too. And remember, those who are liberated—whom we call jivan-mukta—are not truly freed from life; they are freed from this so-called life. Buddha still is; Mahavira still is. Not in form now, not in color, not with shape—they are formless. They have become one with the Universal. They have dropped their separateness: the clay pot has dissolved and the water has merged into water.

There is no release from life.

You are life—how can there be release from it? Only one release is possible—note it well, take it deeply to heart: release is possible only from that which you truly are not. One can be free of the false; there is no freedom from the true. That is why we call it Truth—because there can be no release from it; it is eternal. That which is momentary, from which one can be released—that we call false.

In this world there are two untruths, and they are connected—two sides of the same coin. Understand them well. The two great untruths are: one, the ego—“I am”; and two, death. And both are joined. Because of this “I,” the feeling of death arises. This “I” is false, therefore it has to die one day; hence the “I” is always anxious that it may die, always trembling that death is coming—it must be coming. The “I” can never be sure that it is alive; the “I” is such a great lie.

The meaning of “I” is: I am separate from this vast existence. Not for a single moment are you separate. You are breathing—do you not see that existence is flowing into you and out of you? Not for a single moment are you separate. And separate yourself even for a single moment and you will see how much anxiety arises.

A young man came to me and asked, “I am always anxious. What should I do?” I said, “First think: what do you do that causes anxiety? You must be doing something, because trees have no anxiety, plants have none, birds have none—yet you have it. Do one small thing: hold your breath—if it is inside, hold it inside.” He asked, “What will happen then?” I said, “Then close your eyes and look within to see what happens.”

A minute was hard to pass. He opened his eyes suddenly: “Great panic arises.” If you stop your breath, panic will of course arise. I said, “Now hold your breath out. You have seen what happens inside; now hold it out.” He asked, “What will happen with that?” I said, “Close your eyes and see within.” He held his breath out; a minute was hard to pass; he was drenched in sweat; he opened his eyes: “You will kill me! Terrible panic arises.”

I said, “Now you have seen how to produce anxiety: cut yourself off from existence and anxiety arises. You held the breath inside—you were cut off; you held it outside—you were cut off. The bridge between the two broke; anxiety arose. Now look closely at your anxieties: wherever you have cut yourself off from existence, there anxiety will arise. That is why we find the religious person carefree. If you do not find him carefree, he is not religious.” Did not Malukdas say—

The python does no service; the bird does no work.
Servant Maluka has said: the Giver of all is Ram.

Now Maluk has no anxiety. What anxiety could there be? The Giver of all is Ram! The string is in his hands! What anxiety then? He has joined himself in every way. If he keeps me alive, I will live; if he kills me, I will die. If he makes me walk, I will walk; if he makes me sit, I will sit. If he lifts me, I will rise. He has removed himself from the middle.

See it in another way too. In every child’s life a time comes—around three, four, five years—when the child suddenly begins to disobey and starts saying “no” to everything. Have you noticed? In every child’s life that moment comes. He says “yes” less and “no” more, he begins to relish saying “no.” If you say, “Don’t do this,” he will surely do it; if you say, “Don’t go there,” he will surely go. This is the very root story of Christianity about the fall of man: God said to Adam, “Do not eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge,” and Adam ate. This event happens in everyone’s life.

Psychologists say this is the beginning of the child’s ego. The day the child says “no,” the ego is born. This is something to ponder.

The ego is born with “no”; its tone is one of negation. Therefore the more egoistic a person is, the more he is a negativist; the ultimate negation is, “God is not.” There is no greater “no” than that. Hence a century that is very ego-driven becomes that much atheistic.

If the ego is born with “no,” what is the way to dissolve it? “Yes.” The birth of “yes”—that is theism. The meaning of being a theist is: he says “yes.” “As you wish! However the Lord keeps me, I will remain. In every state I will say yes. ‘No’ will not arise at all.” This birth of “yes” is theism. Its supreme form is: “God is—only God is; other than him there is nothing.” “I am not—God is”: that is theism. “I am—God is not”: that is atheism.

The atheist becomes extremely anxious; therefore the more atheistic a country is, the more it is afflicted with mental diseases. The more theistic a country is, the more it is free from mental diseases. And sometimes it happens that those who, you would think, should be very mentally ill—hungry, poor, wretched, sick—do not appear mentally ill; they seem mentally healthy. And those who have wealth, position, prestige, all means and comforts, appear mentally sick. What is the matter? In truth, the one who attains wealth and status is egoistic; only the egoistic runs in that race, and the shadow of ego is mental illness.

If the West is heavily burdened with mental disease, it is not without cause. The West has said “no” to God. Nietzsche’s dictum is: “God is dead, and man is free.” Man declared that God has died and man is free—and now that very freedom is driving man mad, deranged. What is the declaration of this country’s sages? The exact opposite: they say, “I have died; you are.” Nietzsche says, “I am; you have died.”

To stand the “I” before the Vast is to invite anxiety. Your life is with him, in him. It is his breath that comes and goes in you; he himself pours life into you, he himself blows into you. You are his very gesture, one of his modes.

Therefore, never ask to be freed from life; ask to be freed from the “I.” You are asking the reverse. You want to save the “I” and be free of life. Save life—life is what endures. Let the “I” go; melt. Remember him; call to him; pray to him.

Tell me how I can forget you from my heart,
how I can extinguish the lamps of your remembrance.
Your coming is difficult—I know that well;
but what am I to do with these eyes fixed upon your door?
Your coming is difficult—I know that well;
but what am I to do with these eyes fixed upon your door?

Sink into prayer to the Divine. Wait—fix your gaze upon the door. Knowing well that “Your coming is difficult—I know that!” Your coming is hard; where is my worthiness?

“Yet these eyes remain glued to your threshold—what can I do?”
Still, I keep my gaze set. I will keep it set. Some day I will be worthy; some day there will be grace, compassion; some day my fortunes will open. And keep faith: even if he has not yet come, still keep faith—he will come.

I still trust his promise—
though I have tested it a thousand times.

And you have called many times and he has not come. But this very trust will, little by little, permeate your every vein. When not even a speck of distrust remains within you, in that very instant the revolution happens; in that very instant he descends. For now, remember him; soon the remembrance will become so dense that even if you try to forget, you will not be able to.

When I tried to forget,
his name returned as breath upon breath.

Then you will not be able to forget. For now remembrance is hard; then forgetting will be hard. These are the two steps of prayer: at first remembrance is difficult; later forgetting is difficult. Then whether you sit or stand, walk or move about—remembrance remains. Like the water-bearer who balances the pitcher upon her head.

Have you seen? The water-bearer walks with the pot upon her head; she does not even keep a hand to support it. She chats with her friends; along the way she meets someone and laughs and jokes, gossips—and the pot is steady on her head. And within there is an awareness of the pot. All this goes on—talking goes on, singing goes on, banter with companions goes on, laughter and teasing go on—yet within, the mind, the attention, remains on the pot; she keeps it steady; it does not fall.

In just this way, gradually your prayer will be held for twenty-four hours. You will sit in the market, sit at your shop, do your work, run your business, manage your home—like the water-bearer with the pot upon her head.

But do not give birth to this kind of craving. Though I understand what you are saying. I understand your pain, your thirst. I know that when glimpses begin to be received, a feeling arises that now it should be completed—now it should be total; why this incompleteness! These drops that come only whet the thirst; it would have been better to have remained thirsty when there was no taste at all. Now that these drops of nectar have begun to fall, it becomes even more difficult; now it is felt that there is a juice; hope is born; the longing arises to have the whole ocean. But if you turn that longing into craving, that very craving will negate meditation. Those glimpses that had begun to come will also be lost; soon you will even forget that they had come. Be careful.

Do not, under any circumstances, turn meditation into craving. Meditation cannot be wanted; it happens when there is no wanting. God cannot be demanded; he descends when there is no demand.

Meditation is an inner journey, and so are prayer and devotion. But their pathways are different.

Prayer, love, or devotion comes through the Other. Meditation goes straight into oneself. One who closes the eyes and dives within, who does not need even God in between, who does not take a beloved as a prop to dive—he is meditating. One who takes a beloved in between—God, the Supreme Lover, the supremely dear—and through that dives, is doing devotion. In both cases the plunge is within; but one has support and the other has none. One has an alamban, a prop; the other is without prop. Bhakti is meditation with a support; meditation is supportless devotion.

In the world there are two kinds of people, because there are women and men. By “woman” I mean one whose heart is primary. The heart cannot dive directly; it needs a support. The heart needs a mirror just as you need a mirror to see your face. The heart makes the relationship of love into a mirror and sees itself. The heart cannot go straight; its path is circular. It goes via the other; therefore it is also full of rasa, of flavor.

A solitary person is tasteless; hence you will find the meditator somewhat insipid. You will find the meditator dry. You won’t see flowers blooming in him; nor will you see him dance. That’s why Buddha does not dance; Meera dances. That’s why Mahavira does not dance; Chaitanya dances. Because Mahavira and Buddha are meditators; they took no support from the Other. Without the Other’s support the stream of rasa does not flow. The happening of knowing takes place—dry, plain, like a desert.

A desert has its own beauty. If you like it, you like it. Have you ever been to a desert? An immense desert: sand to the farthest horizon, only silence upon silence! The silence of the desert night is uniquely beautiful. The stars in a desert sky are uniquely beautiful. But in the desert no flowers bloom, no trees are green, no streams flow.

You may be surprised to know that many Christian ascetics chose the desert for meditation. For meditation, a desert is just right. Meditation and the desert harmonize. Bare mountains seem suited to meditators. Have you noticed? In India, almost all Jain pilgrimage places are on mountains, while Hindu pilgrimages are on riverbanks. That is the distinction between devotion and meditation.

Meditation is like stone. It is no accident that Jains and Buddhists were the first to make stone images. Stone has qualities that harmonize with meditation. The way Buddha actually sat and a Buddha carved in marble are not very different. But how will you make a statue of Meera? It is hard to sculpt a dance. If you had to make Meera’s image, perhaps you would have to make it in a fountain; it cannot be in stone. Perhaps only in a flowing cascade could it be made. Meera’s image must contain dance. How will stone dance? Even if you carve the stone in a dancing pose, still the stone does not dance; stone is inert.

Stone is in tune with Buddha. So many Buddha images were made that in Urdu the word but, meaning idol, is said to have come from Buddha; so many statues were made that Buddha almost came to mean “image.” Nowhere in the world are there more images than of Buddha. Artisans had it easy: to make Buddha’s image was the simplest task, because Buddha’s inner stillness and the statue were in attunement.

Meera’s image is difficult. Perhaps today we could attempt it—maybe in a fountain, or in a flash of lightning—but not in stone; stone will not be in tune. How will stone dance? Yes, if a veena were playing, perhaps in the rhythm and melody Meera’s presence could be felt; if someone danced with ankle-bells, perhaps in the sound of the bells Meera’s presence could be sensed.

This is the path of love; here the Other is essential. From the union of two arises variety; the stream of rasa flows. A man alone cannot give birth to a child; a woman alone cannot give birth either. For a child to be born, the meeting of these opposites is necessary. Yes, a man can paint alone, a woman can sculpt alone—but they cannot give birth.

For devotion, two are needed. Devotion is the unity that happens between two. Knowledge is the experience of the One. In the end, only One remains; thus both, ultimately, lead to the same place. But knowledge assumes the One from the very beginning; knowledge is nondual. Bhakti fundamentally accepts duality. The heart of bhakti is large: it says, let us accept the two; then we will unite them. Bhakti has trust in union. The faith that a bridge can be built between two—that faith is called bhakti.

Therefore among the Jains there is no place for a personal God, no existence of a Supreme Being. Buddha too has nothing to do with God. Even Patanjali, who does mention God, does so almost not at all—merely saying: this too is a method. God is not an entity; He is a device for attaining meditation and samadhi. By many devices samadhi can be attained; believing in God is one device among others—a support, a device. God, as such, has no independent truth in this approach.

It is like how we teach a child: “ga for Ganesh.” There is no truth in that; ga is also for gadha (donkey). It is only a method. In the child’s primer it says “aa for aam (mango),” and a big mango is pictured—because the child cannot yet grasp the word, but he can grasp the picture. Later, when he understands, the pictures disappear from the books. As the child grows older, the pictures get smaller, then lose their colors, then smaller still—until they vanish. By the time you reach the university, there are no pictures in your books. But on the very first day, there were only pictures; words were very few. It was a device.

Patanjali says, Ishvara too is a concept, a device. Through it also samadhi can be attained. But it is not mandatory. Without it also one can attain. All the knowers have been non-theistic: Sankhya is non-theistic, the Jains are non-theistic, the Buddhists are non-theistic. Why? Is there no God? No—their way of knowing God is different. For them, the Divine is known as the Self—not as the Other, not outside, not there, but here. Of the outside they say, neti, neti—this is not it, this is not it. They go on denying the outer. When all is denied and only the pure inner state of consciousness remains, they say: this very suchness is Godness.

Hence the amusing thing: Jains do not accept God, yet they call Mahavira “Bhagwan.” Buddhists do not accept God, yet they call Buddha “Bhagwan.” The theists become anxious: what is going on? If there is no God, how is Buddha God? Yet Buddha is God. This is the meditator’s way of attaining the Divine—found within. Its proclamation is: aham brahmasmi—I am Brahman. The devotee says: Thou alone art; I am not. The knower says: I alone am; Thou art not. These are two paths, but their ultimate meaning is the inner journey.

The devotee, taking God as support, reaches himself; he comes to himself in the end. The knower also comes to himself, but takes no support—he comes supportless. Your choice, as you wish.

If within you there is a male-mind, no support is needed. But the female-mind cannot move without support. There is no mistake here, no fault—just difference. A tree stands without support; a vine needs support. It takes the tree as its support.

And remember: not all men have a male-mind, and not all women have a female-mind. So the division is not merely biological. It is not as simple as saying: this is a woman, so she will go by devotion; this is a man, so he will go by knowledge. It isn’t that easy. Chaitanya went by the path of devotion; and in Kashmir there was a supreme meditator—Lalla—who went by the path of meditation. Lalla is the only woman in the world who lived naked. Many men like Mahavira lived naked, but Lalla is the only woman among fakirs who lived naked.

Ordinarily, a woman hides herself. That is a feminine quality—her sweetness, modesty, dignity. She hides herself in a veil. The veil (ghoonghat) is not accidental; it is the nature of woman.

Take away the veil from a woman and some of her natural quality is lost. That is why Western women do not appear as feminine as Eastern women do. In the Eastern woman there is a certain grace, a certain loveliness, that the Western woman does not have. The Western woman has come very close to the man; she has learned his ways; she rises, sits, walks like a man. Her body too, slowly, is becoming like a man’s. Her clothes are becoming like a man’s. Her behavior, her language too is becoming like a man’s. The distinction is breaking. And the result is unfortunate: the more a woman becomes like a man, the less rasa there is in her for the man—because rasa is in the opposite. The woman’s natural attitude is to hide herself. This is part of the play going on in the world: she hides, so the man may seek. Man is a seeker. She hides, and man searches. It is hide-and-seek.

A woman cannot even think that a revolution in life can happen without a beloved. Her whole feeling is tied to the lover. If God comes into her life, He will come as a lover. She will dance around God, serve Him, wash His feet, cook for Him, offer Him food. She will make a cradle for Him, put Him to sleep, wake Him, get Him up. And in just this she will become absorbed; and, becoming absorbed, she will descend within. But she will descend by this pretext. She will have to pass by this staircase.

Meditation too is an inner journey—straight and direct. Devotion too is an inner journey—but not straight, indirect. Bhakti has its own beauty; meditation has its own beauty. Choose what resonates with you.

I did not say that going to an enlightened person, going to some other enlightened person, is a lack of faith in your guru. I did not say that. I said only this much: you have not yet found your guru. If the guru has truly been found, then there is no more coming and going. If you are still going here and there, the search for the guru is still going on. I never said there is a lack of faith. There cannot be a lack of faith in the guru, because the guru-disciple relationship is born from the feeling of trust itself. Otherwise, there is no relationship at all.

Try to understand this. How does the guru–disciple relationship arise between someone and you? Only when there is trust. If there is no trust, then he is not your guru and you are not his disciple. So the phrase “lack of faith in the guru” has no meaning; the relationship itself is absent. The matter ends there.

This is what I said to you: if you have found your guru, then all this wandering drops. Where is there to go then? The fact of going anywhere means an inner search is still continuing. If a devotee of Krishnamurti comes to me, I certainly ask him, “Why? What need is there to come here? If Krishnamurti has been found, hasn’t everything been found?”

Last year Krishnamurti was speaking in Bombay. Some of my sannyasins were there. Seeing those in saffron robes, he even said, “You have already found your guru, then what are you doing here?”

That has only one meaning: you must have made a makeshift connection. You are deluded. You think you have found your guru, but you haven’t. You are still searching. Secretly you are still looking around to see if perhaps there is a “better” person somewhere, someone who might get you to God more quickly.

Faith hasn’t been born yet—where is the question of lack? It hasn’t yet arisen. And remember, faith is not a matter of more or less. It either is, or it isn’t. Faith has no fractions—twenty percent, thirty percent, fifty or sixty. If it is, it is a hundred percent; otherwise, zero. There are no fragments in it. You cannot say to someone, “I have a little faith in you.” “A little faith” has no meaning. A person is either alive or dead; no one is “a little alive.” The one who seems a little alive is also fully alive. Life doesn’t come in slices.

When one finds the guru, all these restlessnesses fall away. If such restlessness continues, know simply that the guru has not been found.

And I did not say to you, “Don’t go.” I only said, “Be alert that you have not yet found your guru.” Then search. But let the search be conscious—without dishonesty, without trickery. Don’t keep pretending, “I have found my guru,” and still keep peeking here and there: “Let’s go and have a look.” I only clarified your situation.

I didn’t tell you to do anything—note this—I gave you no commandment. I did not say to you, “Don’t go to any other enlightened person.” If you want to go to fools, go to them—what have I to do with it? But go knowingly. Don’t be in this self-deception that you have found your guru, and for a little entertainment you wander here and there. Don’t stay in that deception. You haven’t found your guru. If this much is clear, then search rightly.

The whole tangle of life is that we go on assuming one thing for another. Then we cannot do what needs to be done. If you haven’t found a guru, then you should search. Then you should go—why just to one? Go wherever you hear any news. Until the guru is found, the search must continue. But once the guru is found, you have arrived at a resting place. Then surrender completely where you have found.

Do not even by mistake think I am telling you to surrender here. I am saying: surrender anywhere—but once you surrender, then surrender wholly. Don’t keep holding yourself back a little, thinking, “Perhaps someday a better guru will come along.”

Gurus are not “better” or “worse.” This is an ultimate relationship of love—it is incomparable. Once you find your guru, you have found all gurus in him. In him is your Buddha, in him your Mahavira, in him your Christ, in him your Krishna—your everything is fulfilled in him. And until you find such a person in whom all your longings to see the light are fulfilled, understand that the guru has not yet been found. What’s the hurry? Search.

And Indira has said we are ordinary people. By all means, remain ordinary if you wish. Do you ever want to rise above, or not? If you only want to remain ordinary, I have no problem with your remaining ordinary. How could I have a problem? Remain ordinary and be happy. But one sets out in search of a guru precisely to rise beyond this ordinary life, this two-bit life. You are with me to go beyond it. And when I ask you to go beyond, you cannot argue, “But we are ordinary people; how can we go beyond? We are ordinary; we will remain ordinary.” Then what are you doing with me? What is the purpose here? The world is vast; countless people remain ordinary—go and remain with them.

Here an unusual experiment is happening—a striving to take you across. You are being offered a boat to cross to the other shore. You are holding the boat, you have boarded the boat, and when the boat starts moving you shout, “We are ordinary people; we will stay on this shore.” Then why did you get into the boat?

Make life clear and clean. Don’t unnecessarily tangle the arithmetic of life. It’s already tangled enough. I am not telling you, “Don’t go to the cinema, don’t go to a play, don’t go to a film.” I say only this: whatever you do, do it with awareness—know what you are doing. Go to a brothel, go to a tavern—but go knowingly: “This is what I am doing. This is what I take my life to be, and I don’t want to go beyond it. Here I will remain.” You are your own master.

If you are with me, it is because you want to go beyond this. You will fall many times, yet keep the striving to rise; you will rise again and again after falling. Do not accept falling; do not endorse it. Say to yourself: the effort will continue. However much I slip, however much I fall, the effort to rise will continue. The name of this effort to rise is sannyas. Uttishthata, jagrata, varan nibodhata. Arise, awake.

If you come here and insist on remaining “ordinary,” there is no need to be here. And remember, I am not being harsh. I am only saying: your life is yours—do not entangle it needlessly. If you want to watch a movie, watch a movie—don’t sit in a temple. Usually people do exactly this: they sit in the temple while wishing to watch a movie. And some don’t sit in the temple—they sit in the movie while wishing to be in the temple.

Two youths went out one evening. A recitation of the Ramayana was going on. One said, “Let’s listen to Rama’s story. They say by listening to it all sorrows are removed; one crosses the ocean of existence.” The other said, “Up to you—if you want to listen, go ahead. I’m going to see the dance of a courtesan who has arrived in the village.”

One went to the courtesan’s dance; the other sat to hear the Ram-katha. The one who watched the courtesan’s dance kept thinking again and again, “What have I come to! Who knows what showers of bliss are falling there—in the Ram-katha! The remembrance of the Lord must be happening there. I, unlucky one, am watching the antics of this plain-looking woman. I should have stayed there.” And the youth who stayed at the Ram-katha kept thinking, “What is this same old, hackneyed story—Rama and his Sita stolen away, and Ravana, and all that—the same stupidity! What have I gotten into! Who knows how much fun my friend is having! What delight he must be enjoying! Who knows how beautiful that woman is, what kind of dance she is doing. I’m a fool!”

The first youth, who sat in the brothel, returned very peaceful—because the remembrance of Rama continued the whole time. The second youth, who listened to the Ram-katha, returned very disturbed—because throughout he remembered the courtesan.

Such are the tangles. I want you to become untangled. Let there be a clear direction in your life. If you want to be ordinary, be ordinary—you have my full blessings. If you want to rise above ordinariness, then commit yourself to that resolve. Then do something to rise. Don’t talk of going higher, and when I ask you to ascend, slip downward and say, “We are ordinary people; how can we rise?” Then don’t talk about rising at all. One should not create unnecessary tensions in life. A life without tension is beautiful, it is natural.

If you are here with me, it means only this: that you have sought something extraordinary—at least you have aspired and inquired. You are ordinary, but you do not want to remain ordinary—this is the beginning. Now don’t keep falling back again and again, and don’t keep pleading ordinariness.

Now Indira has said: you have said that going to some other enlightened person shows lack of faith in one’s guru; this seems understandable. It does not seem understandable at all. If it had been understood, the question would not arise. This “understanding” is false—just cleverness, a show. These are show-teeth, not real teeth. If you had understood, what would there be left to ask?

No—it isn’t understood. But you don’t have the courage to admit, “I am not understanding.” So you carry both together: “I do understand—and yet, but, however.” “But, however” are not auspicious signs. If something is understood, it is understood; there are no ifs and buts. If there are ifs and buts, it has not been understood.

Be clear always. If you don’t understand, don’t pretend that you do. Say it plainly. You are here with me so that you may understand. Whom are you deceiving? Don’t tack on “but” and “however.” Say plainly, “This did not make sense to me.” Then I will explain again; I will explain to you a thousand times. But you don’t even say that you haven’t understood.

You say, “I have understood—but!” Now that “but” is absurd. If you have understood, the matter should be finished. Yet every “but” shows that the ego of understanding is not dropped, and the thing is not understood either. So you start searching for arguments: “We did this because we are ordinary people.” Or, “We did this because we have a thirst for truth.” Or, “We did this because you and they say the same thing.” Or, “We did this because everyone’s ultimate goal is the same.”

All these things you bring—if they were truly understood, you would be a supreme knower. Then you would not need to be a disciple; you would be a guru. But you have understood nothing. You don’t even know whether my words and theirs are the same. How could you know? You don’t yet know what the “thing” itself is. That both say the same will be known only when you know what that thing is. And that will be by experience. Right now you want to assume that both must be saying the same. You want to assume it—because you don’t want the hassle that if they are different, anxiety will arise within you.

This happens here every day. Letters arrive daily. Each projects what he follows: one writes, “What you say is exactly like Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa. I am his devotee.” Another says, “What you say is exactly like Krishnamurti. I am his devotee.” Another says, “What you say is exactly what is written in the Quran.”

What are these people saying? They know neither the Quran, nor Ramakrishna, nor Krishnamurti, nor me. Where is their snag? Their snag is they want to convince themselves that the message should not be different—otherwise trouble will arise: who is right? Krishnamurti, or Ramakrishna, or Ramana—who is right? They don’t want to get into so much trouble. They don’t want to pay such a costly price. They say, “All are right; whatever we have grabbed is fine. No need to consider or reconsider anything.”

Among the “synthesizers” you see in the world, ninety-nine out of a hundred are simply dishonest—chanting, “Allah–Ishwar, in Your name, may God grant wisdom to all.” They are just avoiding the issue: What does one call Him—Allah or Ishwar, or what? “Whatever—fine. What do we have to do with it? It must be one.” They are indifferent. They do not even have enough respect to put in the effort to determine what is true.

Most people say, “All religions say the same thing,” in order to avoid the trouble of choosing—not because they have discovered the oneness of religion. That is known only to one who has experienced the essence of religion, who has reached that peak. Ramakrishna knew all religions are one. I know all religions are one. You do not. And if you proceed by assuming “all religions are one,” the only result will be that you will not be able to follow any religion. You’ll say, “All are one. Why follow?” “We already know—what the Gita says, the Quran says.” You have read neither the Gita nor the Quran.

Even after reading, you might think both are one. But you don’t yet know that One—so how will you find it in the Gita, or in the Quran? I have seen books written to prove that the Gita and the Quran are one—written by Hindus. And books to prove the Quran and the Gita are one—written by Muslims. And the fun is, the two kinds of books are entirely different.

The man who holds the Gita as right finds in the Quran only those points that match the Gita; he discards the rest. His book arrives at one meaning. The man who holds the Quran as right finds in the Gita only what matches the Quran; he discards what is in the Gita but not in the Quran. His book produces a completely different meaning. The two are worlds apart.

Mahatma Gandhi also said that the Quran contains the same teaching as the Gita. But he left out precisely those portions of the Quran that are essentially the Quran. He only picked up echoes of the Gita. He “knows” the Gita is right; now whatever in the Quran matches the Gita must be right. But what will you say about what does not match? And there are many such points. And there are many points not only unmatched but opposite—what will you say of those?

There the snag arises. Only one who has known truth can speak there—one who knows truth has many facets; the Gita speaks one facet, the Quran speaks another. They are not the same. Their vistas are very different.

You open one window of your room facing east, and you see the sun rising. That is one view—of the same sun, the same sky, yet a particular view. Then you open the west window—there is no sun yet. You see other sights—mountains, birds flying in the sky. Granted it’s the same sky, but the view is entirely different. Birds are not the sun; mountains are not the sun.

Now the person engaged in making the Gita and the Quran “one” will try to prove that “mountain” means “sun,” Allah–Ishwar, Thy name; or that “sun” means “mountain.” It “must” be one! The east window shows the east, the west window the west; the south shows the south, the north shows the north.

Truth has many facets. One religion speaks of a single facet—indeed can only speak of one. And truth has so many facets that some stand directly opposite another facet. The statements are not identical. They pertain to the same truth, but they are utterly different.

So someone writes to me, “We listen to everyone. We listen to you as well, to them as well.” I have no objection. Listen to me, listen to them too. But when will you walk? Will you only keep listening? Your ears are already worn out from listening. How long will you go on? One listens in order to ponder; one ponders in order to do. You only listen. Do you think something will happen just by listening to this one and that one?

You are a great merchant. You think, “Who knows whose words might work! Listen to everyone—what’s the harm!” You go to the Ayurvedic doctor and take his medicine; you go to the allopathic doctor and take his medicine; you go to the Unani hakīm and the homeopath too—and you mix all the medicines together and drink them. You will die! The disease will not be cured; the patient will be finished. And all the medicines are fine—I am not saying there is anything wrong with them. But homeopathy has its own analysis, its own window; allopathy has its own analysis, its own view; their styles of grasping life differ. Don’t chant, “Allah–Ishwar, Thy name; homeopathy–allopathy, Thy name.” Don’t do that.

Allah has his own science of sound; Rama has his own science of sound. The process of Rama’s mantra is different; the process of Allah’s mantra is different. The mantra “Allah” arises from a different center within you; “Rama” arises from a different center. Their maps are different. Don’t mix those maps. Otherwise you will miss Rama and miss Allah too. Don’t let it be that the patient dies while the disease remains.

Never mix medical systems. These are all healing sciences. Buddha said, “I am a physician.” These are all medical sciences. Each discipline has its own completeness, its own uniqueness, its own diagnosis, its own personality. Don’t spoil it. And when you choose to follow one discipline, forget all the others. Only then can you be immersed, only then can you go fully into it. This is all I have said. Wherever you feel a resonance, wherever you feel love, dive in there wholly—so that you can arrive.

Freedom is possible only when the Self has arisen. That is the very meaning of the word. Right now you do not even know the Self—how can freedom be possible? Without the Self there can be no freedom. The seed has not yet been sown, and you are trying to reap the harvest. First sow, then reap. If I say to you, “You haven’t sown the seeds yet and you are harvesting,” you say, “You won’t let us harvest.” As you wish—harvest! But where is the crop? There has to be a crop.

Freedom is the shadow of the Self; that is why its very name is sva-tantrata—self-governance, the mechanism of the Self. But where is the Self? Where are you yourself? Where have you known that which is your innermost? Where have you recognized the soul? If you talk of freedom now, you will go astray; you will fall into pits. And still, I am neither denying you nor forbidding you. If just now, without the Self, your taste is only for freedom—go ahead. I only want to make you aware of the outcome. The consequences will be harmful.

It will be like a small child saying to his mother, “I want to go toward the fire. It is my freedom—freedom is everyone’s right.” I would say to that child, “Go by all means, but be prepared to be burned. And if you are burned, don’t blame the mother.” The irony is, if the child is burned, he blames the mother: “Why didn’t you stop me? You knew fire burns. I am innocent—why didn’t you restrain me?” And if the mother restrains him, it is felt as an obstruction to freedom.

If I stop you from doing something wrong, it appears as a hindrance to your freedom. If I don’t stop you, tomorrow you will hold me responsible: “Why didn’t you stop us? We were blind; you were not. If we were heading toward a wall, why didn’t you say we would crash and be hurt? If we were about to drink poison, why didn’t you warn us that it is poison, not nectar?” Do you understand my predicament? If I restrain you, you feel your freedom is obstructed. If I let you go, sooner or later you will say I did not fulfill the responsibility of being a master. So I simply want to make the situation clear; then it is your choice.

Always remember: whatever I say to you is counsel, not command. Keep in mind the difference between counsel and command. This is not an army where orders are barked—“Do this, left turn, right turn.” I only tell you what may be of use to you; ultimately the decision is yours. If I say, “Don’t go that way, there is a pit,” I am not saying you cannot go, or that if you go I will punish you. No—I am only saying there is a pit; if you go, you will fall and suffer the consequences. Not that I will punish you; the fall itself is the punishment. Even so, I am not saying, “Do not go.” I am only saying, “Go knowingly, go with acceptance.” If you have the courage to accept the possibility of falling into the pit, then go by all means. But do not come back and say, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Between love and freedom there is a difficulty. That is the difficulty of all parents, and of all masters. If you love the child, he demands freedom. If you grant freedom, the parents’ love does not seem proven. To give total, unconditional freedom is possible only when the parents have no love. Then, if the child is falling from the roof, they can calmly stand and watch: it is his freedom. He is walking into the fire—his freedom. He is drinking poison—his freedom. But will you call such people parents? They have no love. And if, out of love, they pull him back here and there, do not let him go into the fire, do not let him fall from the roof, then you say, “What is this! They will ruin the child; his freedom is being destroyed.”

Parents must see that a balance is maintained between the two. Love should not be so much that the child’s life is destroyed; freedom should not be so much that the child’s life falls into misery or is destroyed. A balance between love and freedom is needed. Just as when you have seen an acrobat walking a tightrope—he holds a pole in his hands for balance. When he leans too far to the left, he quickly leans to the right to restore balance. A little more and he would fall. To avoid falling to the left, he leans to the right; after leaning a little to the right, he immediately tilts back to the left, otherwise he would fall to the right. Only then can he walk the rope. And life is like walking a tightrope: just as difficult, with just as much chance of falling. Between love and freedom, the same balance has to be mastered.

A master will love, and he will also grant freedom. But when he sees love has become so much that freedom is beginning to break, he will lean toward freedom. And when he sees freedom has become so much that love will be strangled, he will lean toward love. The true master is the one who allows neither freedom to be destroyed for the sake of love, nor love to be destroyed for the sake of freedom—the one who can master both.

Passing through his alchemy, both wings will grow in your life—the wing of freedom and the wing of love. Then you will be able to soar in the sky. No one can fly with one wing. The wing of freedom alone is not enough; the wing of love alone is not enough. Loving freedom—these are contradictory words, but this is the alchemy of life.

What has love to do with thinking? Do it! Live it! Burn for it! Thinking and thinking, you will waste your life. People who think too much often cannot love. Thinking happens in the head; love happens in the heart. They are different centers, different dimensions. The thinker may earn money and lose love; the lover will gain love, and may lose money. They are different journeys. One must become clear: do you want to walk the path of love? If yes, then don’t think.

Love is a feeling, not a thought. What will you think about love? Even after thinking and thinking, what will you be able to think? It is like a blind man thinking about light—he can go on thinking. What will he think? His eyes must be treated; thinking will not help. What can you think about love? You will have to pass through the pain of love.

And remember, if you do not go through the so‑called worldly love and its pain, you will not attain divine love either. This world is a ladder; you must climb it. In this worldly love, slowly you begin to hear the whisper of that other love. I am not telling you to run away from the world; I am saying, use this world completely. It is an opportunity, a great opportunity. Here there are innumerable chances to love. Seek them rightly, explore them, experience them, squeeze them, distill their fragrance. That very perfume will be useful in your prayer. In the end, it is this very color that will suffuse your prayer!

One who has never loved his wife—his love for God will remain incomplete; something will be missing. One who has never cherished his son, who has never loved her husband, who has never loved her father—what meaning will their love for God have? What kind of love will it be? Think!

Jesus called God “Father”—Abba. If Jesus had never loved his own father, then when he called God Abba, what meaning would that carry? The word would be hollow, empty, devoid of content. Meera called Krishna “Beloved.” If there had been no experience of a beloved—of husband or lover—what meaning would the word “Beloved” have? It would be a meaningless word.

The Sufis called God their sweetheart, their beloved. But one who has never shed tears in the love of a woman, who has never burned in the love of a woman—what will he know? How will he call God the Beloved? How will he cry out, “My life’s darling”? The words may be on the lips, not in the heart. One who has not loved his child—like Surdas singing so many sweet, tender songs of Krishna’s childhood—how will one who has not loved a child ever love the child-form of Krishna? Can he love? He may sing a hundred thousand times that the child Gopal dances, that the anklets on his feet are ringing. He may do that endlessly, but he has nothing to do with the Gopal whose anklets are ringing in his own home. It is impossible.

The meaning of your words comes from your life. Recognize the love of this life rightly. Do not stop there—yes, that is true—but you must pass through it. Do not stop at it, and do not bypass it. What are you thinking about? Life slips through the fingers.

Yesterday I was reading a song—

I think I should turn aside from love,
make the heart a stranger to allurements and desires.
I think love is a notorious madness,
a crowd of a few useless, absurd notions,
a craving to bind the free,
a delusive effort to make a stranger one’s own.
I think love is intoxication and ecstasy;
by its radiance the skies of existence shine.
I think love is man’s very nature—
to erase it, to make it vanish, is very difficult.
I think life gleams because of love—
to snuff out this flame with one’s own hands is very hard.
I think love carries harsh conditions;
in this civilization, heavy terms are set upon joy.
I think love is a kind of lifeless, dejected corpse,
shrouded in the sheet of honor and modesty,
a disgraced being crushed by the age of capital,
rejected at the thresholds of religion and morality.
I think the madness of man and love
in such a moth-eaten civilization is a perilous task.
I think love will not survive alive—
this errant corpse will rot before its time.
Better that, becoming a stranger to affection,
I search within my breast for the passion of hatred,
and turn away from the bargain of love,
make my heart a stranger to enticement and desire.

The song begins with, “I think I should turn aside from love—keep away from love,” because love brings many entanglements—great joys and great flowers, and equally great thorns.

The thinker will, of course, think of everything—flowers and thorns, days and nights, pleasures and pains.

I think I should turn aside from love,
make the heart a stranger to allurements and desires.

Empty the heart of longings, because desire leads to suffering. But you have not yet gone into suffering. Yes, the Buddhas have said desire leads to suffering—but they said it after going through it, out of experience. You have not yet gone. You think, “Let me turn aside from love.” If you turn aside, where will you run? Where will you go? You will be deprived of an experience. You will never become a Buddha. The Buddha loved—and knew. Through that knowing, he rose above. He did not turn aside, did not run, did not avoid. He bore the wounds. In grasping the flowers his hands were bloodied by thorns. But from that came understanding, from that came maturity.

I think I should turn aside from love,
make the heart a stranger to allurements and desires.
I think love is a notorious madness—

Love looks like madness. To those who have not gone into love, it looks like madness. To those who have gone into love and risen beyond it, it also looks like madness—but there is a great difference in their knowing. The ones who did not go into it call it madness because their intellect says, “What is the profit? What will I gain? What’s in it?” Those who did go into it also call it madness—but why? Because now they have seen a greater madness—the love of the Divine. In its presence, this small madness no longer appeals.

I think love is a notorious madness,
a crowd of a few useless, absurd notions,
a craving to bind the free,
a delusive effort to make a stranger one’s own—

A false attempt, an illusory effort to entangle a person, to make him a slave.

I think love is intoxication and ecstasy;
by its radiance the skies of existence shine—

Then at times it seems love is ecstasy, intoxication. And by its light the world shimmers. Because of love people live. Because of love the father labors, breaking stones. Because of love the mother melts herself away. Because of love the husband stakes his life. The wife pours out all she has. Because of love a few lamps are lit in this world; otherwise the whole place would be a cremation ground.

Just imagine for a day that love departs altogether. Suppose love itself decides, “Enough is enough.” As you are tired of love, one day love gets tired of you and says, “Enough. Let us depart from this world; this earth is no longer fit to live upon.” What then? Just think. The earth will not hold together for even twenty-four hours. Everything will break, everything will scatter. Here all the threads are of love. The entire order here is of love.

I think love is man’s very nature—
its erasing is very difficult.
I think life gleams because of love—
it is very hard to snuff out this flame with one’s own hands.
I think love carries harsh conditions—
people have placed many conditions upon love; many entanglements. Whoever loves falls into difficulties.
In this civilization heavy terms are set upon joy—
people have placed heavy terms upon happiness too. The bargain has become very costly.

I think love is a kind of lifeless, dejected corpse—
then another thought comes: love is an old thing; it is not new. It has been here forever; it has rotted; it is a corpse.

Shrouded in the sheet of honor and modesty,
a disgraced being crushed by the age of capital,
rejected at the thresholds of religion and morality—
the religious, the moralists, the respectable, the saints and sadhus—they have all rejected it. It is fit only to be rejected.

I think the madness of man and love
in such a moth‑eaten civilization is a perilous task—
I think love will not survive alive.
It will die. Why relate to something dead or dying?

I think love will not survive alive.
Let this mistaken corpse rot before its time—
before it rots,
Better that, becoming a stranger to affection,
I search within my breast for the passion of hatred—
better to seek hatred in the heart rather than love.

It is a delightful poem: it begins with love and ends with hatred. If love is so futile, so troublesome, then better to seek hatred.

Better that, becoming a stranger to affection,
I search within my breast for the passion of hatred,
and turn away from the bargain of love,
make my heart a stranger to enticement and desire.

And this too is true. Read the life of Adolf Hitler—you should read it. Just as the lives of great souls are worth reading, the lives of these “great souls” are worth reading as well; sometimes even greater insights come from them. Adolf Hitler kept seeking love and could not find it. Then he filled his whole life with hatred. He wanted to become a painter and could not; the creative became destructive.

And look closely at those you call so‑called saints. The essence of their lives is less love of God and more hatred of the world. They too have gone in search of hatred. There is a big difference between the two.

One person, filled with love for God, dances, meditates, worships. Another person sits in the temple only because he is full of hatred for the world. These two are not the same. Their facets are different, their motivations are different. One is sick; one is healthy.

The one who sits in the temple out of hatred for the world will make the temple unclean, because the essence of his life is hatred. The one who saw, knew, recognized the love of the world—and through that very love slowly caught the clue of the Divine; by the support of that love understood that this whole existence is made of the element of love; that behind all of this stands a vast ocean of love—“Let me seek That. Why live on drops when I can have the whole ocean?”

The one who, by experiencing the love of this world, goes in search of God—wherever he sits, temples arise. Wherever he sits there is pilgrimage—there is Kaaba, there is Kashi, there is Kailash. And the one who, filled with hatred for the world—who could neither love, nor give, nor receive, whose energy turned sour, rotted; whose love, not having developed, turned to poison; whose creativity became destructiveness—if such a person sits in a temple or mosque, even the temple and mosque will grow desolate.

Just look—how desolate your temples, mosques, churches have become! Why? Because those who sit there had sought love, failed, and went in search of hatred.

You say, “I think a lot about love. Sometimes your words seem right, sometimes wrong.”
If you keep thinking, you will remain in this muddle—this is right and that is right. Know! Decision comes from knowing, not from thinking. Experience! Life will pass by like this; at least love. And I place no conditions on you: any kind of love—of a friend, of a master, of a wife, husband, son, daughter. Love someone.

There is an old story: A man came to Nagarjuna and said, “I want to meditate.” Nagarjuna asked, “Do you love anyone?” The man said, “What is there to hide from you? But I feel embarrassed to say it.” Nagarjuna said, “Still, tell me.” He said, “I love my buffalo.” He was a cowherd and had a single buffalo—his food, his routine, his all. He would take her to graze, bathe her, bring her home, sell the milk, and was content. He said, “I am very embarrassed—what will you think? Love for a buffalo! Couldn’t you find anything better?”

Nagarjuna said, “It doesn’t matter. The object does not matter; love matters. Don’t worry. Go sit in that cave opposite and contemplate your buffalo.” The man said, “What are you saying! Contemplate a buffalo? I thought you would tell me to contemplate God.” Nagarjuna said, “Sit in that cave and contemplate your buffalo, and contemplate so deeply that slowly you become absorbed.”
The man did not quite believe it—“Is he joking?” But he thought, “If Nagarjuna says it, it must be right.” He went and sat. Nagarjuna said, “Continue until you feel you have become the buffalo. Then I will come. Don’t come out until I call you.” The man went inside. One day passed, two days, three days. Then Nagarjuna knocked at the door. The cave door was open. He said, “Now come out, brother.” The man stood up, came on all fours, and at the doorway got stuck. Nagarjuna said, “Why don’t you come out?” He said, “The horns get stuck.” For three days he had been absorbed in one single feeling—buffalo, buffalo, buffalo! He became a buffalo.

Nagarjuna said, “You have found the key. There are people who have been working for years and have not experienced this truth: meditation is transformation—you become that which you contemplate. You have the key in your hand. Now apply the same key to the Divine. Begin to contemplate God now. Pour this same love there. That is love: you poured it into the buffalo and became a buffalo; pour it into God and you will become God.”

Those who proclaimed “Aham Brahmasmi”—“I am Brahman”—are no different from this man. Both have followed the same process.

Love. Become acquainted with love. Do not waste your life in thinking. Earn the wealth of experience. And then one day, when you know what love is, offer that very love at the feet of the Divine. That is the real flower to be offered—the flower of your love. Do not worry where it bloomed. Remember, lotuses bloom only in the mud. So don’t wonder how to bloom a lotus in the mud! Lotuses bloom only in the mud. This world is the mud—let the lotus bloom here. In this mud, love is the lotus. And when the lotus of love has bloomed, offer it at the feet of the Divine. You will be certainly accepted; the shower of grace is inevitable.

That is all for today.