Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #6

Only the eternal can be rebellious. Only truth can rebel. Rebellion is against the false. Rebellion is against time. Time means tradition. Time means convention. Time means ash.
And fire is revolt against ash. A Buddha is a live ember. But as soon as the bird of Buddha’s presence flies away, the ash begins to settle. From that very ash “Buddhism” gets made. From such ash “Jainism” is made, from such ash “Hinduism” is made.

So understand that “dharma” has two meanings. One is dharma as that which upholds the whole existence; it is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian—it is simply dharma. The other meaning is dharma tied to a label: Hindu dharma, Christian dharma, Jain dharma, Buddhist dharma, Islam. That dharma is not the eternal law. That dharma was born at some point and one day will die. The snag is this: it is auspicious when a dharma is born; when its time is over, it should also be allowed to die. But it doesn’t die. We preserve the corpse.

You love your mother—and love is auspicious in all its forms. But one day the mother will die. You will cry; your very life will flow out as tears. You will beat your chest. And yet, you will have to prepare the bier and take her to the cremation ground. With your own hands you will have to light the pyre—crying, in great pain and sorrow. The wound won’t heal for months, the memory won’t fade for years, and the scar will remain for life. Still, the mother must be cremated.
If someone says, “How can I cremate my mother? I will keep her safe at home,” the whole house will fill with stench. It will become impossible to live there. Then a son will be born in that house who will rebel and say, “We are going to burn this corpse. We are taking it to the cremation ground.” Don’t think that son does not love his mother. But the one he loved has flown—what remains is only earth. There is no meaning in carrying earth on your shoulders. It is proper that dust return to dust.

When dharma is born it is beautiful, unprecedented. It carries the ray of the eternal. There is music in it, a soundless sound. When something descends into a Buddha, it is alive. But once Buddha departs, only the heard words remain. What is written in scripture remains. The music of those words has died. The vina remains, its strings have snapped. Now you worship the vina; now you build a temple for it. All this is false. And because of this falsity, it becomes hard for Buddha to be born again. Have you not noticed? Whichever religion a Buddha arises in, that very religion denies him.

So there must be two kinds of dharma: one, the dharma a Buddha brings; and two, the dharma that denies him. Buddha was born in a Hindu home; Hindus rejected him. Jesus was born among Jews; the Jews rejected him. Socrates was given poison by the Greeks themselves.

There is the eternal dharma that sometimes descends at someone’s invitation—when a soul blossoms; when someone’s lotus opens, a fragrance alights upon that lotus. Sometimes the sky meets the earth, and sometimes the whisper of the divine reaches into a human soul. Sometimes the divine image is caught in the mirror of a man. But the mirror breaks. Here, all mirrors are to break. Buddha’s mirror will break, my mirror will break, your mirror will break—everything here is on its way to breaking. Then you gather the shards and keep them. But no image forms in shards; it is all finished—and you go on worshipping the corpse.

The danger is this: because of worshipping that corpse, whenever an intelligent person is born in your house and says, “Be free of this dead body,” the whole house turns against him. “You tell us to burn our mother? To burn our scripture? Our tradition that has always been—our fathers worshipped this corpse, and their fathers, and their fathers. From this has come our very birth. This is our culture, our civilization!” Whenever discernment is born in such a house, there is turmoil; rebellion becomes necessary. Some son has to rebel. And the irony is: the son who rebels is the one who stands for life.

The traditionalist is an enemy of life, a mere follower of a line. He is a worshipper of the past—he has respect for the dead, and contempt for the living. Who were those who crucified Jesus? Not bad people—remember this. You often fall into the delusion that those who crucified him must have been demons. Not so. They were good people, respectable people; priests of the temple, pundits, cultured and civilized—the very ones you call virtuous, donors, builders of temples and mosques, the “decent” folk. Never fall into the illusion that those who crucified Jesus were evil. A congregation of “good” people crucified him.

What obstacle did they have with a man like Jesus? These “good” people believe in the old; Jesus brings news of the new. They want to hold fast to what the forefathers said; Jesus is the advent of the future. He brings a fresh message of God. He is a new prophet. Naturally there will be revolt and conflict—the conflict is between tradition and truth, between ash and ember, between past and present, between the dead and the living.

The definition is right: dharma is that which upholds. But has “Hindu dharma” upheld you? If Hinduism were to vanish, would the earth disappear? Do you know how many religions have come and gone? And each believed that everything was upheld by them alone. So many religions arose on this earth and passed away—their names not even remembered. Do you think if there were no Jains the sun would not rise? Think a little!

It is like the story of an old woman whose cock crowed at dawn, and she thought the sun rose because her cock crowed. She strutted before the villagers: “If I leave this village, you will regret it. Without my cock, the sun will not rise. Remember: when my cock crows, only then does the sun come up.”
In one sense it seemed true: every day the cock crowed and then the sun rose. Though there was no causal connection; the truth is exactly the reverse—the sun rises, hence the cock crows. But in the sequence of events, the cock crows first and then the sun appears.
The villagers teased her. She got very angry, took her cock to another village, pleased at heart, “Now they will repent, come rubbing their noses.” And in the other village, when her cock crowed, the sun rose there too. She said, “Now they must be weeping, rotting in darkness, a night without end. Here morning has happened—how could it be there?”
You think if Jainism vanishes the sun will not rise, the moon and stars will not move? The sun will rise just the same; the moon and stars will move just the same. For that which upholds the sun is not Jainism—it is dharma. It is not Hinduism—it is dharma. It is the supreme law. That law has nothing to do with these scriptures and traditions. Scriptures and traditions were formed because a glimpse of that law fell into some person.

Understand it like this: someone caught the sun in a mirror. You never saw the sun itself, only the sun in the mirror. You caught hold of that. Now you take the sun seen in the mirror to be the real sun. This is the mistake. And yet it is also true that the glimpse in the mirror was truly a glimpse of the real sun. But even a true glimpse is still a glimpse; it is not the sun. When you stand before a mirror and look at your face, you do not see your face—you see its image, its reflection. And the true reflection of a true face is still only a reflection; it has no other value. Whoever takes it as the face itself will sooner or later get into trouble.

So I say to you: in Mahavira’s mirror fell a glimpse of the real sun. In Zarathustra’s mirror too fell a glimpse of the real sun. A saint is one in whom the true sun is reflected. But the followers of Zarathustra caught hold of the reflection in Zarathustra’s eyes. That reflection is far removed from the sun. They sit with the memory of that reflection and worship that memory. And the irony is: the sun rises every day. You sit in your little shrine with your book open, while the sun stands right before you.

The Divine did not get exhausted in Mahavira, nor in Buddha, nor in Krishna, nor in Rama. The Divine never exhausts. No matter how many descents, it does not run out. The day you raise your eyes and see the Divine, you too are an avatar. It will not be spent—you will be set ablaze with life. The sun shines on countless buds and flowers; they all bloom. The bud that turns toward the sun blossoms.

You too look at the sun. By rebellion I mean: whenever someone sees the sun, he wants to tell you that what you have so far taken to be the sun is a picture in a book. Do not rely too much on that picture. And let me repeat: the picture is of the real sun, but a picture is still a picture. Whom will you deceive?

There is a famous story about Solomon. Tales of Solomon’s wisdom abound; this one is most valuable. People came to test him because the whole world said no one was wiser. The Queen of Sheba came to test him. She used great cleverness. She brought two roses—one real and one artificial. One had fragrance, the other had none. But from a distance they looked identical. Standing about ten feet from Solomon’s throne, she said, “These are two flowers. I have heard much about your wisdom. Tell me which is fake and which is real.”
Solomon looked for a moment and grew a little uneasy. Both seemed real. Whichever was artificial had been crafted so perfectly that it deceived the eye. He thought for a moment and said to his courtiers, “Open all the doors and windows of the court. The light is a little dim; with more light I can see clearly.” They opened everything. He waited a moment, then indicated, “The flower in the left hand is real.” The courtiers were amazed. They had all been staring, and the extra light made no difference; both looked genuine.
The queen too was astonished. She asked, “How did you know?” Solomon said, “I could be deceived—I am human—so I had the windows opened. Did you not notice? A bee flew in. There is a garden outside. She went and settled on the real flower. You cannot deceive a bee. A bee will not sit on a fake flower. I was not thinking—I was waiting for the bee.”

You have a picture of the sun—take it and stand near a sunflower and then you will know whether it is a picture or the real sun. The sunflower will not turn toward your picture. You cannot fool a sunflower. A sunflower will not be taken in by ‘Hindu dharma’; it recognizes the genuine sun. Wherever the sun moves, the flower turns.

You also know that when you are thirsty the word “water” does not quench; when you are hungry, reading a cookbook does nothing. Food has to be cooked. The cookbook may be excellent, written by the most discerning, filled with the procedures for the most delicious dishes—yet reading it achieves nothing. And people are reading the Gita, the Koran, the Bible while their bellies are empty—hungry for God. The hunger for God is satisfied only by the experience of God.

So a truly religious person is a rebel. Rebel in the sense that he says to you, “Drop these paper pictures, drop these paper flowers. Search for the real flowers. Seek the living. Dive into that which upholds the whole cosmos.”

Thus one form of “religion” is tradition. All these are traditions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh. They are traces of the eternal upon the sands of time—footprints of the timeless on time’s beach. But the timeless has moved on; only the footprints remain on the sand of time. Do not go on worshipping the footprints. Seek the One whose footprints they are. Who walked in Buddha? Who rose in Buddha? Who peeped through Buddha? Seek That. You are clutching Buddha. You have grasped the footprints and forgotten the feet. Who danced in Meera?

I want to say to you: seek That which spoke in Krishna, which danced in Meera, which was crucified in Jesus. You are holding on to Jesus; someone else is holding on to Krishna. You have caught hold of the finger and forgotten the moon. Someone raises a finger and points to the moon: “There is the moon.” You grab the finger. The finger was not wrong; it indicated the moon. But you were to look toward the moon, not grasp the finger. Those who clutch the finger become Hindu, Muslim, Christian. The one who looks where it points is religious.

Therefore dharma is revolt; dharma is rebellion. Whenever dharma is born it is fiery, like fire. When it dies, heaps of ash remain. Then your fancy begins: you call those heaps of ash “vibhuti,” sacred ash. You are adept at giving pretty names to worthless things to deceive yourselves. Some saint hands you a pinch of ash, and you say, “I have received vibhuti.” The deception is in the name.

Your entire “religion” is ash. And naturally, around this ash many vested interests have gathered. Many have made a business out of it. Many have found their livelihood in this ash. Many vested interests are being satisfied by it. Much exploitation goes on in its name. So if anyone rebels, it will not be tolerated. He will be crucified, stoned, killed. It is not just a heap of ash; many people stand guard around it.

I have heard: a fakir had a devotee. The fakir stayed for a while in a village. When he left, because that devotee had served him much, the fakir gave him his donkey as a keepsake—the one on which he traveled. The devotee, a poor man, was delighted. In a few days the donkey fell ill and died. It was his entire wealth, and with it the saint’s memory was tied. The donkey was no ordinary donkey: it was vibhuti, sacred. The saint had given it; the saint had ridden it; he had touched it, bathed it; the imprint of his holy hands was on that donkey. It was no common donkey—accomplished, realized, a mahatma-donkey!
The poor man wept a lot. Not only had the donkey died, the memory of the saint had slipped from his hands. He made a grave for it, set a stone on it, adorned it with flowers. Seeing him weeping there and offering flowers, passersby too began to offer flowers. People follow people. Seeing him sit and cry, they thought surely it was some saint’s tomb. Who has ever heard of a donkey’s grave? It must be a saint’s. And who really cares which saint? Devotees are devotees. They offered flowers; some left money.
Slowly he began to profit more than from the donkey itself. Coconuts came, food offerings came. People began to make vows: if such-and-such happens we will offer five rupees, fifty rupees. If a hundred make vows, fifty are fulfilled. The full fifty may not come, but the remaining fifty do.
News spread and spread. The grave became famous. Years later the fakir returned. He came under the same tree and saw a temple had arisen there. He was astonished: who built a temple here? Inside he saw his devotee sitting as the priest. The scene had entirely changed—colors and bustle, attendants, people massaging his hands and feet. The fakir asked, “What happened?”
Seeing the fakir, the devotee fell at his feet: “Master, by your grace—vibhuti!” The fakir said, “I don’t understand. What is all this? Such a fine edifice, a temple, so many people, devotion and worship—what is the matter?”
The man said, “Why hide it from you? That donkey you gave me... Now I cannot lie to you. Please don’t tell anyone. Everyone thinks it is some saint’s tomb. And indeed it is a realized donkey—touched by you, given by you. It died; I made a grave; bit by bit this whole game arose.” The fakir laughed. The man asked, “Why do you laugh?” He said, “Because in the town where I live, the same game goes on at the tomb of this donkey’s mother. How do you think I live? That was this very donkey’s mother. Since she died, she blessed us! This is no ordinary donkey—she was of a noble line!”

Once the worship of ash begins, and vested interests gather around it, if someone says, “This is ash,” people will be angry, enraged. Those whose interests are struck will never forgive. They never have.

That is why I tell you: the marks the eternal leaves upon the sands of time become enemies of the eternal.

There is one dharma, without adjectives, that upholds the whole existence. Seek that. Do not get entangled in Hindu, do not get stuck in Muslim. Only when you seek the eternal will you be a Hindu in the real sense, a Muslim in the real sense. And one who knows God in the real sense cannot differ from another who knows—there can be no difference. As long as differences remain, know that one is a Hindu in the false sense, a Muslim in the false sense. For the one who truly realizes the Divine, every temple and every mosque is his home. In the Koran are His verses; in the Gita are His songs. All is His. This whole variegated existence is His.

But this is bound to be so, and will always be so: there is a struggle between the pundit and the knower. The knower is rebellious; the pundit is traditionalist.

Yog Chinmay! “Pandit” is not a degree, it is an abuse—at least here it certainly is. “Pandit” is a kind of hammer I bring down on your head so that you wake up.

Saying you are a pandit only means this much: you become eager for information. There is a difference between information and knowing; I keep striking so that this difference becomes clear. And I strike because I love you. Among those gathered here I have great trust in Chinmay; that’s why I strike—again and again, mercilessly. Because there is a possibility that if you wake up, you will truly awaken.

And there is only one place where there is the danger of your falling asleep again; that is why I must use the abuse “pandit” repeatedly. That place is this: you get interested in information rather than in knowing. Knowing is something else. Information is borrowed; knowing is one’s own, intrinsic. Information comes from books; knowing wells up from the inner self. Information comes from outside; knowing happens within. Information is trash, a burden. Knowing makes one weightless, it frees. Knowing happens through meditation; information is accumulated by acquiring “knowledge.” And the irony is that information becomes an obstacle to meditation. Because the more you “know,” the stronger the ego becomes: “I know—what is left to know!”

This is the misfortune of this country: it has become a country of pandits—parrots. Everyone is repeating. Where does one find a truly ignorant person here? It’s “knowers” everywhere. Everywhere, discourse on Brahman is going on.

They say that when Shankara went to debate with Mandan Mishra at Mandla, he asked the women drawing water at the well on the edge of the village, “Where is Mandan Mishra’s house?” The women laughed, “You don’t even know that? The doorway at which even the parrots recite the Vedas—know that is Mandan Mishra’s house.”

There was a time when even parrots recited the Vedas. Now the situation is that apart from parrots there are no Veda-chanters. Times have changed. Now even Mandan Mishra himself chants the Vedas like a parrot.

What is the difference between a parrot and a man? The same difference as between a knower and a pandit. A parrot only repeats. It doesn’t know the meaning. It knows the words and repeats them. It doesn’t know why it is repeating. Nor does it know why the teacher taught it. When you repeat “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram,” do you know what you are repeating? Do you know Ram—as Dhani Dharamdas knew, as Kabir knew, as Nanak knew? Do you know the meaning of “Ram”? Yes, you will say, “I know—what is written in the dictionary: that Ram is a name of God.” Is that knowing? That is parroting.

If you have no experience of Ram, how can there be meaning? Meaning comes from experience. When you have had a glimpse of Ram and the name of Ram arises from your heart, then there will be meaning. Until you have such a glimpse, whatever you say has no meaning, because what you say has no accompaniment of your life-energy.

The mind is a device, a computer. Feed it information and it goes on repeating. It is a machine. Do not trust this machine. When I say “pandit,” I am saying you have trusted the mind too much. Awaken to consciousness; be free of the mind. Catch hold of the witness hidden behind the mind. Do not say anything that is merely information. And you will suddenly find that ninety-nine percent of your speech has fallen away—because ninety-nine percent is information. But the one percent that remains will bring a radiance into your life. From that, the wealth of life will arise.

You ask, “I am very little-educated. I never went to university.”

You are fortunate; otherwise you would not be here. The only danger in you is of becoming a pandit. That is your one sin. Had you gone to university you would certainly have become a pandit. It is good that you are not very educated, that you did not go much to university. Otherwise you could not have returned with your intelligence intact.

Only with great difficulty do people return from university with their intelligence preserved. Blessed are those who return.

The university destroys. It gives no opportunity for the growth of intelligence; it only gives opportunity for the growth of parroting. The university teaches: do not digest—vomit. Cram somehow and vomit it onto the exam papers. It teaches regurgitation. It does not make blood. A university degree does not establish who is intelligent; it only establishes who has a good memory, an efficient memory. Efficient memory has nothing to do with intelligence.

Psychologists say that often those with an efficient memory are not intelligent, and those who are intelligent often do not have an efficient memory. This happens often. Because when intelligence begins to soar to heights it forgets lowly things. And when lowly things are remembered too much, you cannot take a high flight. And the whole of university education depends on one thing: that you can reproduce somehow. Only that much skill is needed. They don’t even care how you reproduce; only how you memorize. How you cram and then somehow pour it into the exam booklet—and then, having poured it out, forget it forever. If, two years after returning from university, the same exam were taken, you would never pass the exam you passed two years earlier. If it were taken suddenly, out of your hundred graduates ninety-nine would fail. This is quite a joke.

Having done an M.A., after two years your understanding should have increased. But two years later, if you grab your M.A. and examine him, he’s finished! You would have to take back his certificate. Who remembers? Who cares when some super-fool called Henry the Eighth was king of England? What has anyone to do with it? Was it the eighth, the seventh, or the ninth—and whether he was or wasn’t—who has anything to do with it? Who keeps it in mind, and for what?

But the university makes you memorize such rubbish. It does so because the things you could remember naturally are not used for examination; you would remember them easily, you would have interest in them. You go to a film—it stays entirely in your memory. The university will not examine you on that, because there is no point; everyone would remember it. They have to examine such futile things as can be remembered only with effort: Henry the Seventh! Where is Timbuktu? What is the population of Lhasa? Such useless things which you cannot connect with any juice, which you are bound to forget—on the skill of remembering these they create the illusions of “knowledgeable,” “knower,” “pandit,” “professor.”

It is good, Chinmay, that you did not go to university. There was danger. You would have been lost—lost in that jungle. Even now there is a little danger; that is why I keep calling you “pandit” again and again. Even now there is a deep conditioning in you that again and again misses the witness and grasps at knowledge. I strike in the hope that this revolution may happen within you. May it become visible to you one day, and you drop all information. Become weightless. Keep only one thing in mind: do not let the leaves of information cover the consciousness hidden within you. Keep the current of consciousness free of the leaves of information.

Here in Poona the river gets filled with leaves—so full that nothing behind can be seen; leaves and only leaves. In the same way the mind full of information gets filled with leaves. Slowly, slowly the leaves spread so wide that the inner current itself is forgotten. Let not the river of your consciousness become like the Nile and start flowing underground.

This is not a degree that I am conferring on you. It is not an honorific; it is an affliction. Stay alert. The day I stop calling you “pandit,” know that a most fortunate day has come in your life. I hope that day will come; that is why I say it.

I keep hope even with those with whom one should not hope. I do have hope for Chinmay, but there are also people here of whom I have no hope. I hope even against hope. Like Krishnapriya: she is a dog’s tail—about which the saying is, even if you keep it pressed inside a bamboo tube for twelve years, when you take it out it will still be crooked. Yet I still keep her in the tube. Who knows, the proverb might be wrong once in a while! I hope even against hope. And even if one is defeated, what is lost? If something is gained, something is gained. And there is a certain joy even in proving proverbs wrong. I go on working on Krishnapriya that if she does get straightened out, we will amend the proverb.

One kind of closeness is physical. Physical proximity does not bring you to the true Master. All relationships in this world are of the body; the Master’s relationship is non-physical.

You fall in love with a woman—this is love for the body. You love your mother because your body came from your mother. Between your body and your mother’s body there is a vibration, a link, a bridge. You love your brother, your sister, because you have sprung from the same source. There is a kind of parallelism within you.

Love for the Master is an almost impossible phenomenon. It does happen, yet it is nearly impossible—because there is no bodily connection. And if even with the Master your connection is of the body, then it is not a Master–disciple relationship. Then it will be friendship, love, something else, but not shraddha. Shraddha means: in one person you have not seen the body, you have seen the soul.

And it is not that the body is to be denied in the Master–disciple relationship. No, one has to rise above the body. The body is visible—of course it will be seen. But not only the body is seen; the luminous one seated within begins to be seen. And slowly, feeling becomes so immersed in that luminosity that the body is forgotten. The person by whose side, just by sitting, the body is forgotten—that is your Master. The person by whose side, just by sitting, the invisible starts being felt—that is your Master. The one from within whom the first ray of divinity is revealed to you, whom you could call “God”—that is the Master.

I am not saying that you should call the Master “God.” The one whom you can call “God”—that one is the Master.

It is not accidental that Buddhists called Buddha “Bhagwan” and Jains called Mahavira “Bhagwan.” And both religions are not theistic. Whether you believe in God or not—when in someone the feeling of the conscious within the earthen body is experienced, what will you do? You will have to use the word “Bhagwan.” Bhagwan does not mean God; it simply means that someone has realized the world does not end in matter. There is something beyond the body; a clue has been found. A glimpse beyond the body—sometimes it comes within grasp, sometimes it slips. There are fortunate moments when the eyes open and for a moment you are transformed.

So the first meaning of inner closeness to the Master is: the one in whom you see divinity.

Second: in whose presence a spontaneous feeling of surrender arises in you—not contrived, not effortful, not for any reason, not motivated—effortless. Where bowing happens unforced. If it has to be done, it is of no use. If you do it seeing others, it is also of no use. That is imitation, false.

This happens every day. Someone comes and touches my feet; the person behind him, seeing that, also touches my feet.

Once I was a guest at Mridula’s home in Bombay. Two friends had come to meet me; both were sitting there. They had known me for years and had visited me for years. A third man arrived. He was new; it was his first time. He didn’t know my way at all. He must have been visiting sadhus and saints. He quickly pulled out a hundred-rupee note and placed it at my feet. He must be used to putting offerings at his guru’s feet. Before I could say anything, those two gentlemen also hurriedly took out money and placed it at my feet.

I was very surprised. I asked them, “This man is new; to him a note looks valuable. Even at a guru he takes money as wealth. He has nothing else to offer; he is a poor man. But you know me. I have known you for ten years—you never offered money. What happened today?” They said, “When this man offered, we thought, ‘Oh, we never offered! We should offer. We have been making a great mistake.’”

Now the first man was making a mistake, but at least the mistake was his own. These others were making a borrowed mistake; even their mistake was not theirs. If you bow at someone’s feet because you saw someone else do it, it will be false. If you bow out of greed, it will be false. If you bow thinking you may gain something—standing in an election and hoping to win—

People come to me. They touch my feet and say, “We are standing in the election; now your blessing is in your hands.” I tell them, “If you truly want my blessing, you will lose the election. Because I can only bless that God forbid you should win. It’s better to get out of this madhouse before you enter it. Once inside, getting out becomes very difficult. Once you reach Delhi, people die at Rajghat and never return. After Delhi, only Rajghat remains—where else can you go? So I will get you out while you are still outside.” They say, “No, no—what are you saying! You are joking.” They get nervous: “Please don’t say that.”

If I tell them, “If you want my blessing, it is this: may you never succeed in politics. For whoever succeeds in politics is defeated in religion. Whoever succeeds in the world may never even remember God. He will wander in that success.” It is said: the defeated remembers Hari’s name. So I say to you: be defeated, so at least the Divine Name comes to mind. In defeat people remember; in victory they become arrogant. Victory ultimately proves costly. Then they say, “We go to other saints; they give blessings.” I say, “That is their business. What kind of saints they are, they know. I am no saint. I am simply telling you the truth. My heartfelt blessing is that you never win.”

Now did this man come to bow? He did not come to bow; he came to get something. Some craving, some greed was inside; there was a motive. If you bow with a motive, you will not reach the Master. Can you bow without motive? What would it mean to bow without motive? It would mean: there was a place worthy of bowing. A place where you simply could not remain unbowed. A place where you bowed before you could even think.

A state of rapture pours over me
just sitting, when your remembrance arises.

The Master need not be in front of you. Even a remembrance arises and you bow.

A state of rapture pours over me
a spell of wonder descends, a realm of mystery opens, a wine begins to rain down—
just sitting, when your remembrance arises.

At the memory of your gliding dance
the breeze begins to move, the wine begins to overflow.

The disciple is a lover—just as a lover is stirred by the remembrance of his beloved.

At the memory of your gliding dance
the breeze begins to move, the wine begins to overflow.

The wind begins to flow, the wine begins to pour. What happens to a lover is nothing compared to what happens when someone bows at a Master’s feet without motive. Then it is not a drizzle of wine—it is a cloudburst. And the wind that comes never leaves. One steps into an altogether new realm.

O cupbearer, drowned in the intoxication of your gaze,
if it were up to me I would never come back to my senses.

This is a unique bond where, by peering into the Master’s eyes, you find the doorway beyond this world.

O cupbearer, drowned in the intoxication of your gaze—

Where will you find eyes more intoxicated than the Master’s? All other intoxications are petty. The eyes of the most beautiful woman or the handsomest man will be ugly tomorrow, because beauty belongs to the body. The body is presently wine-like, youthful—so everything looks beautiful. Tomorrow the flood will recede, and these same eyes will turn ugly.

Have you noticed? We have not made statues of Buddha in old age; nor of Rama, nor Krishna, nor Mahavira. Do you think they never grew old? They certainly grew old—otherwise how could they die? Yet we did not sculpt them in old age, because those who loved them, who knew them, knew something beyond the body—something that never grows old, that is ever young, eternally youthful. Those who looked into Buddha’s eyes knew they had come close to eternal youth. There they saw a glimpse of the timeless, which has no age. Hence all the images of Buddha are youthful; all the images of Mahavira are youthful; Krishna’s, Rama’s—youthful. They all became old, and yet there was a glimpse in them of the eternal, which never withers.

O cupbearer, drowned in the intoxication of your gaze,
if it were up to me I would never come back to my senses.

When the disciple bows, he does not wish to rise. And there is no reason behind it. If you ask a disciple, “Why did you bow?” he will not be able to answer. Whoever can answer is not a disciple. I repeat: if you ask a disciple, “Why did you bow at those feet?” he will stand dumbfounded. He will not even believe such a question can be asked, and he will have no answer. He will remain answerless, silent. Because to answer would mean to give a motive—why? There was no motive there.

When you fall in love with someone, can you give a reason why? No lover has ever been able to. Those who give reasons are not lovers. Someone says, “Because her father is very rich”—this is not a lover. Someone says, “Because she is very educated”—not a lover. Someone says, “Because that man has a good job, so the woman fell in love”—this is not love. Where there is love, there can be no answer to “why.” What answer can there be? Only a hush remains. “Why?” You can only say, “Because there is love.” But is that an answer? That is what was asked! “Why love?” You say, “Because there is love.” No reason can be given.

And love with the Master is the highest love in this world. Beyond it, only love for the Divine remains. After the Master there is no other step—only the sky of God.

You asked: “Kindly explain the meaning of inner closeness to the true Master.”
To bow without motive. To bow in egolessness. To bow in the state of no-me. To wipe yourself away. Not to protect yourself.

The ego uses great devices to protect itself. It is very skillful; it discovers very subtle methods. Beware of them.

Sometimes it even happens that you bow because of the ego. This sounds paradoxical. But if bowing itself satisfies the ego, you may bow for that very reason. You may carry this ego inside: “Look, how humble I am—I bowed at his feet. When others stood stiff, I bowed.” But then it is no longer bowing. You missed. You bowed and you did not bow. Wherever “I” comes in, the miss happens.

To be with the Master means to be in such a way that you are not. The less you are, the closer you are. The Master is not—he is merged into the Divine. He is a void. You come nearer to him to the extent that you become empty. And the day the disciple and the Master both become zero, that day union happens. That day the Master is no longer Master, the disciple no longer disciple. Two do not remain; only One remains.

This will begin to happen even by remembrance. Hence, being physically with the Master is not essential. Wherever you are, it can happen there.

The secret of love could not be hidden behind the veil of decorum:
the moment I heard your name, I bowed my head.

Buddha had a great disciple, Sariputra. When Sariputra attained enlightenment, Buddha said, “Sariputra, now you no longer need to be with me. Go, and awaken those who are asleep.” Tears began to fall from Sariputra’s eyes. Buddha said, “And you weep?” For years Sariputra had not left Buddha’s side; he moved like a shadow. But now he knew the moment had come—he must go.

When Buddha commanded, he went. But wherever he was, every morning he would bow down to the earth in the direction where Buddha was. Many of his disciples said, “You yourself have become a Buddha—why do you still bow?” He said, “It is precisely for that reason that I became a Buddha—that I am no more. To say ‘I bow’ is not even right—bowing happens. And I can never forget the grace of the one by whose nothingness I became nothing. I can never repay that debt.”

That is why the ancient saying goes: one may repay the father’s debt, one may repay the mother’s debt, but there is no way to repay the Guru’s debt. There is only one way: whatever you received from the Master, distribute it to others. As the Master awakened you, so awaken someone else. Let the unlit lamps be lit by coming near your lit lamp. Let this transmission keep happening through you to others—that’s all.

Closeness means to be effaced.

A death without its appointed time came to him
whom you looked upon with a full gaze.

The ancient scriptures say something unique: “Acharyo mrityuh”—the Master is death. Go to the Master and you will die, you will be erased. Only by dying will you be.

A death without its appointed time came to him
whom you looked upon with a full gaze.

You looked upon him with a full gaze—the Master always looks with a full gaze. He cannot look with half an eye. His every act is total. But you protect your eyes. A disciple is one who does not protect his eyes, who endures. When the Master’s sword falls, he receives it like a garland of flowers.

Do not put me to the test—
I will die if I am far from you.

There is a death that happens near the Master, and there is a death that happens far from him. The death that happens far from him is what you have been calling life till now. And the death that happens near the Master—that is the supreme life. That is resurrection, new life, divine life—call it what you will: nirvana, awakening, samadhi.

It is natural. Here you are in a wave; you flow with my tide. When you go back into the world, you become alone again. You do not yet have the art to take me with you there as well. I am ready; in time, that too will happen. Here you are in an atmosphere. This is a world of its own for these ochre-clad sannyasins. It has its own rhythm, its own breeze. In this breeze you effortlessly rise into the high sky. Left alone, you do not yet trust your own wings. Along with me you take a far flight; but when left to yourself you become frightened, full of doubt. Trust does not arise in you; self-confidence does not lift enough for you to live at such a height. When you return to the world, there is a crowd and all kinds of people. The air there is of another kind. In that air you get pulled downwards again.
So Pratibha’s question is important; it is useful for everyone.
“Everything goes well, and then in some weak moment...”
Those weak moments will keep coming. But watch those weak moments with awareness. Do not identify with them. Do not take yourself to be one with them. They are not you. A weak moment will come—stand a little apart and watch in the witness attitude. Do not fight it, do not quarrel with it, do not try to push it away, do not try to change it. Look at it with indifference.

Keep one thing always in mind: friendship is also a relationship of attachment, and enmity is also a relationship of attachment. With whom you connect in love, you get tied; with whom you connect in hatred, you also get tied. Both are bonds. Not only friends are close kin to each other; enemies too become very close kin. Friends may even forget, but enemies do not forget. Therefore remember this unavoidable law of the mind: with the things you want to be free of, do not create aversion or hostility; otherwise a bond will be formed. Then it will be difficult to be free. Neither make friendship nor enmity—indifference! Indifference is the key. Just keep watching as if we have nothing to do with it.

As when someone passes along the road—what have we to do with it? A good man passes, a bad man passes—what have we to do with it? A poor man passes, a rich man passes; the road keeps on. In the same way, on the road of your mind many kinds of things pass by. Stand a little apart; let this traffic move. Maintain indifference in it.

When you notice a weak moment coming, neither be frightened nor tighten your sleeves ready to fight. In both states you will get entangled. It is a weak moment—watch it. Anger arises—it is a weak moment—watch it. Neither obey anger and act in anger, nor get busy suppressing anger. For what is suppressed today will surface tomorrow, and with continued suppression it will surface in a very nasty way. No one ever becomes free through repression. And what you do today becomes a habit; tomorrow you will have to do it again.

Nor does one become free by venting it. No one becomes free by expressing anger either, because the habit grows denser. And no one becomes free by suppressing anger, because the energy of suppressed anger gathers as if the kettle’s lid were shut and steam were building up inside—the kettle can explode.

So neither fight with anger nor make friends with anger. Just silently keep watching: anger came, a smoke rose. As it came, so it will pass. Buddha told his monks to simply say within the mind: “Anger has come.” And when you see that anger is now going, then say within: “Anger has gone.” Maintain just this much awareness—anger came, anger went. There is no need to take any greater concern. And gradually, toward the things you treat with indifference, their coming will lessen.

The past will surround you again and again, because the past does not go easily. You created it. You polished it. You watered the roots of the past so much—how can it vanish all at once? You labored hard for it; this prison in which you are confined is a house of your own making. It will not disappear in a single stroke; it leaves little by little.

Now when the storm of the past arrives—and it comes moment to moment—memories close in: that very pressure of memories is the storm. Even then, keep your indifference. Simply see that memories have arisen, that the mind is surrounded on all sides; then stand right in the middle of the storm.

Have you noticed? In a gale there is a place at the center where no gale exists. In the hot months when a dust devil rises and the wind circles fiercely, lifting the dust—and in some countries it blows so hard it can lift people themselves; small children get carried off, old men and women too. In some places they even hang ropes along the roads tied to posts so that when a whirlwind rises you can quickly grab a rope; otherwise there is danger.

But when the whirlwind passes and you go look at the ground, at the dust, have you seen the marks it leaves? The whirlwind is everywhere, but at the center there is no whirlwind. Like a wheel turning—the wheel moves; the axle-pin remains still. The moving wheel revolves around that which does not move. If the pin were not still, the wheel could not turn. It is a marvelous thing: what moves does so upon that which does not.

However great a storm arises within you, there is a center that is always outside the storm—that is your inner center. Slip there; stand there. Let the storm rise. In a short while, it has come, and it will go. Just now it was not; in a moment it will again not be. And if you learn the art of standing at your inner center, there will be great joy. Then you can even enjoy the storm. Whatever the storm—of memories or of fantasies, of anger or greed or attachment or lust—whatever the storm, their nature is one. And within you there is a center which no storm ever reaches. Earthquakes come, yet within you there is a point where no tremor ever arrives. It is unshaken. That is what I am reminding you of. Entering that is meditation. Awakening that is Buddhahood. To delight in that, to become one with it, is nirvana.

"Everything goes well, and then in some weak moment my whole past surrounds me like a storm and seems to say, ‘I will not let you go.’"

The past always obstructs; it pulls you backward. The past is your burden. But it can pull only so long as you are identified with it. That is why a sannyasin’s name is changed, why his clothing is changed. Why? What will happen by changing a name or a robe? There is an inner alchemy. If you receive a new name, your identification with the old name breaks.

Suppose your name was Rahim and I make it Ram—or your name was Ram and I make it Rahim. Until yesterday your name was Ram; today it is Rahim. Slowly you will become one with this new name. If someone abuses “Ram” on the street, you won’t even be bothered. Your identification with it has dropped. And then you will understand something else: if Ram can become Rahim, and Rahim can become Ram, then I have no fixed name. All names are makeshift. I am nameless.

Awaken this remembrance, Pratibha: I am nameless. I have no past, I have no future. I am only now; I am here. This very moment is my eternal life. To be shaken by anything other than this moment is the world. To stand utterly unmoved in this moment is liberation.

You say, “In discourse a resolution happens, but then going back into the world the same forces try to become dominant.”

Naturally! You listen to me, you absorb me, you set out with me on a new journey. You forget your past; it lies behind. Returning to the marketplace, the past tries again to seize you. It will want to take revenge. For an hour you forgot it; now it will grip you all the more tightly—tighter than before, because doubts about its hold on you have begun to arise. You might someday slip away altogether. You might someday completely forget it. So the past will spread every kind of net.

But whether you sit here or go outside, make the effort to keep alertness intact. I am with you, if you are with me. Let this remembrance sustain you, Pratibha; that is precisely why sannyas is given. Wherever you go—on the road, in the bazaar, in the crowd—let these ochre robes remind you that you have accepted a new style of living, a new dimension.

Make it your remembrance that you are no longer eager to search for the world; your eagerness is for the divine. And recall this many times a day. For a moment, whenever, close your eyes and remember. The more often you can remember during the day, the better. This very remembrance will gradually become dense. Buddha called it samyak smriti—Right Mindfulness. You will have to remember again and again. As the saying goes:

A rope, coming and going, leaves a mark on the stone.
By constant practice, the dull-witted become wise.

It is a rustic proverb. Yet sometimes rustic proverbs express the wisdom of centuries. Even on stone, an ordinary rope that keeps coming and going at the well leaves a groove—the rope’s mark! No one could have imagined it. On the first day when the rope’s journey began, no one would have believed that on something as hard as stone, something as soft as a rope would leave a mark.

Lao Tzu has said: a stream of water falls from the mountain onto rocks—the tender stream falling on stone. The stones cannot believe they will be broken. But one day the stones become sand and are carried away. And the stream of water—if anything can be called the softest, it is the stream of water.

Let your remembrance have such continuity. Whenever you feel the past grabbing you, relax for a moment, take your mala in hand, glance once at your ochre robe, close your eyes and remember. Instantly you will find you are outside; the storm has passed. Gradually the stone-like habit of the past will also break. Certainly it breaks. By practicing and practicing, everything is mastered. Only patience is needed, and a sustained trust that it will happen.

If there is one thing this century has lost, it is patience. People want things instantly—right now. Some things take time. The more valuable a thing is, the more time it takes. Plant seasonal flowers and in a few days they will bloom—but in a few days they will also be gone. They have no permanence. But if you want to raise a great chinar tree, it will take years. When the great tree stands and converses with the moon and stars, then there is delight—but years of discipline lie behind it. Do not be in a hurry; do not be impatient.

With patience and continuous practice, one day a revolution surely happens. It happened to Kabir, it happened to Krishna, it happened to Christ—it can happen to you. What has happened to one human being can happen to every human being.

The very meaning of love is: two are needed. The current of love flows between two banks, just as a river flows between two shores. With only one bank there can be no river. One bank can hold only a dry riverbed—there will be desert, not a stream. To hold a stream, two banks are needed. Meditation can happen alone; love cannot happen alone. Therefore, in the ultimate process of meditation the guru can be forgotten; the guru can be dropped.

It is not without reason that Krishnamurti says a guru is not needed, because his whole process is meditation. In meditation the guru is not essential, not indispensable, because meditation means going within. If any help comes from a guru there, it is very preliminary—like asking someone on the road which way the station is. That does not make him your guru. You thank him and go on your way.

On the path of meditation, the guru is simply a kind of guide. But on the path of bhakti, on the path of love, the guru is immensely precious; without him the happening will not happen. There he is not merely a guide; he is himself the symbol of the Divine.

So a meditator, if he wishes, can be free of the guru and still arrive. Yet even there a complication appears. To understand even this—that the guru is not needed—people have to go to Krishnamurti to understand it. So Krishnamurti becomes the guru. What does “guru” mean? One without whom you would not understand.

If Krishnamurti truly holds that no guru is needed, then he ought not to speak. What does speaking imply? That there is something which, if I do not say it, you will not come to know. If without my speaking you are going to know, why should I speak? And Krishnamurti speaks insistently, with great insistence. If you do not understand, he even gets angry. He seems to beat his head. Understandable—he makes such effort to explain, and still you do not get it. Many times in Krishnamurti’s meetings it happens: all night you watched the Ram Leela, and in the morning people ask, “Who was Sita to Ram?” Krishnamurti explains for hours that meditation has no method, and when question time comes someone stands and asks, “How should we meditate?” We are back where we started! It’s enough to make one beat one’s head. This person has not listened at all; he again asks, “What is the technique? How to do it?” Krishnamurti says, “There is no guru,” and people ask him for the way, for direction.

On the path of meditation the guru is a guide. It can happen without him. And even if he is needed, it is secondary; he is not the central element. But on the path of bhakti the guru is absolutely central. On the path of devotion you can forget God, but you cannot forget the guru—because it is through the guru that God will be found. Therefore the guru cannot be forgotten.

Kabir said:
Guru and Govind both stand before me—whose feet should I touch?
Blessed be the guru, who showed me Govind.

Yet again he blessed the guru, because it was only through the guru that he met Govind—otherwise he would not even have known of Govind. In the guru he first caught the fragrance of Govind. In the guru he first saw Govind. The guru became the gate; through that gate the hidden mysteries within were revealed.

For the devotee, “guru” is a word of great majesty. And when you are understanding one path—like Dhani Dharamdas’ path, which is the path of bhakti—then “guru” is not an ordinary word here; it is the most important word. The meaning of the word guru is “the weighty one.” Guru means weighty. No word bears more weight. It has gravitas; it has gravitation. The guru is like a magnet. Without the guru, the scripture of bhakti cannot come into being at all.

Even in searching, the cure for the heart’s pain is not found,
Though spring arrives, the lotus of the heart does not bloom.

In this life many times you will find that spring came, the season of love came and went, yet the wound of the heart remained as it was.

Even in searching, the cure for the heart’s pain is not found,
Though spring arrives, the lotus of the heart does not bloom.

Then, coming to someone, the lotus of the heart opens—that is the guru. In whose presence the lotus of your heart opens; one who is like the sun for you, at whose touch your petals open at once. All night long the lotus remains closed; at dawn the sun rises, and it opens. In the world you wander and wander—that is the night, the dark night.

Even in searching, the cure for the heart’s pain is not found,
Though spring arrives, the lotus of the heart does not bloom.

Many times small lamps are lit, stars twinkle, yet the lotus will not open. In whose presence the petals suddenly open—in whose presence you suddenly find you are no longer a bud, you are a flower—you have come to the guru. How will the guru be recognized? Just so. Outwardly there is no mark, no external symptom. The recognition happens within you.

Therefore it is not necessary that one who is a guru for you will also be a guru for another. Your lotus may open beside someone; another’s may not. He may need a different sun. So never, even by mistake, impose your guru on someone else. And never, even by mistake, take someone else’s guru to be your own. There is only one touchstone—the lotus within you begins to open. Beyond that there is no other criterion. Recognize by this alone. Then do not worry about the world, because the world will not understand. Your wife will not understand, your husband will not understand, your son will not understand, your father will not understand—no one will. Even the closest will not understand, because no one can enter within you. Except for you, no one has access there. Only you will know: my lotus has opened.

When your lotus opens and you begin to follow someone, the whole world will say you have gone mad: “What has happened to you? You have lost your senses? What are you doing? We see nothing.” And they are not wrong; they do not see. It is not their fault. Forgive them; do not be angry with them. But there is no need to accept their verdict either. Forgive them, do not be angry—and keep walking your path, because a guru is hard to find; sometimes he is met only after long, long times—after lifetimes.

A guru is one in whose presence, for a little while, the world is forgotten; for a little while you forget that there is a man or a woman; for a little while the body is forgotten; for a little while the person recedes and the mood, the gesture of the Divine appears.

Ruby-red lips, sapphire eyes, a body of topaz—
Your diamond glance has wounded my heart.

In someone’s eyes you glimpse the eyes of Ram and Krishna, of Buddha and Mahavira. Reaching someone, you feel: I have arrived at a place from which there is no need to go further. Beneath someone’s shade the heart wishes to rest, and let this wayside become my destination.

The way a devotee sees the guru, others do not; hence there is never any true accord between the devotee and others.

Those who see you
walking about
do not know you.
I have seen you
flying—
now from a mango bough,
now
joining with the Milky Way!

But naturally, if you tell this to someone, no one will believe it. Do not tell anyone. Such things are to be shared only when two mad lovers meet.

Those who see you
walking about
do not know you.
I have seen you
flying—
now from a mango bough,
now
joining with the Milky Way!

Even the remembrance of the guru brings, hidden within it, the remembrance of God—because the guru is the lane from which somewhere the temple of the Divine will be found.

Remembering something, tears spilled from the eyes,
After ages we passed again through his lane.

The guru is the lane.

Remembering something, tears spilled from the eyes,
After ages we passed again through his lane.

“Guru” means: the temple is near—somewhere near. The distance is no longer great. Now we are nearing home.

The guru is the beginning of God. Through the guru God has called to you. Through the guru God has looked into your eyes. Through the guru God has sent you a message. That is why Muslims say “Paigambar”—prophet—meaning messenger, letter-bearer; he has brought a letter from God.

As if for the very first time the moon has risen today,
Cold lips have repeated someone’s name today.

But lovers will understand this. Those who will think about it intellectually will find these things merely poetic. They are not poems. They are the highest, most secret truths of life—but truths only for those who have the capacity to understand with the heart. For those who live in the intellect, these are not truths.

As if for the very first time the moon has risen today,
Cold lips have repeated someone’s name today.

A sweet oblivion has descended on all today;
Someone has struck the strings of my heart.

Man is a veena that has not yet been played. The guru is the one who, for the first time, plucks your veena. For the first time you come to know: I have music within me; I have beauty within me; I carry melody within me; I have been carrying a scale; and my pain was precisely this—that I did not know my own instrument.

I have heard a story. In a certain house there was an old instrument—very old, passed down for generations. It was large. No one knew how to play it. No one in the house even remembered when it had last been played. That instrument had become a nuisance. Sometimes a cat would leap on it and its strings would jangle. Sometimes at night a mouse would pull at the strings and wake people up. Sometimes children would jump about it and the whole house would be in an uproar. At last the householders were fed up. They said, “Throw it away; it is ruining our sleep. There is no peace in the house because of it. Some child always gets to it. How long can we keep watch? And how can we keep watch over mice and cats? Besides, it needs dusting and wiping, and it takes up space—and the family is growing; we need the room. Throw it out.”

They picked up the instrument and left it at the municipal dump. They had not even reached home, were still on the way back, when a beggar began to play that instrument. They turned straight around. A crowd had gathered. People stood spellbound. Such music had not been heard for ages. Only then did the family understand what a priceless instrument they had thrown away! As soon as the music ended, they rushed forward and said to the beggar, “That instrument is ours.” The beggar said, “That is not true. The instrument belongs to the one who can play it. You had already thrown it away.”

The guru reminds you, for the first time, of your instrument. That is why the disciple becomes the guru’s—because the instrument belongs to the one who can play it.

Far and wide temples and mosques came into view
Whenever I bowed at your threshold.

Whenever someone bows wholeheartedly at the feet of the guru, temples and mosques appear to him.

Far and wide temples and mosques came into view—

All the pilgrimages open—Kashi and Kaaba, Girnar and Jerusalem.

Far and wide temples and mosques came into view
Whenever I bowed at your threshold.

From those feet all the pilgrimages open. From those feet nectar begins to flow. But this is the language of the devotee.

It is not the language of the meditator. The meditator has no right to say anything about this language; he does not know it. He should not speak on it. He has a different language.

Consider it so: there is a language of mathematics—that is one thing; and there is a language of poetry—that is another. A mathematician has no right to say anything about poetry, because in poetry sometimes two and two are four, and sometimes they are not. Sometimes two and two are five; sometimes two and two are three; sometimes two and two together become one.

Poetry is a different realm with a different logic. The heart has its own logic, to which the mind has no door of access. A mathematician has no right to speak about poetry; and a poet has no right to speak about mathematics. Yet it has often happened that meditators condemn devotion, and devotees condemn meditators.

For the first time in human history I am making a unique experiment: I am speaking from both sides—of the devotee and of the knower—because I have walked both paths and seen that both lead to the same. Therefore I tell you: Krishnamurti is both right and wrong. He is right as far as meditation is concerned: no guru is needed, no meditation, no yoga, no methods and techniques. And he is wrong as far as bhakti is concerned—people have arrived from there too, and in fact more have arrived from there. By nature man is closer to love. Love is more natural. Affection is more natural. Meditation is effort, endeavor, discipline. Love is ease, naturalness.

That is precisely why I speak of it—because this is only the beginning of sweetness. Do not take it to be the end. The Master is the beginning, not the end. Pass through the Master; do not stop at the Master. The Master is a doorway; go beyond it. If there is so much joy at the door, just imagine the sanctum within the temple! That is what is called moksha.

It often happens that even two drops can make a thirsty person feel utterly satisfied—thirst of lifetimes! A single drop falls into the throat. But do not stop there. Let the drop begin your search for the ocean. If there is a drop, there is an ocean; somewhere the ocean must be. And if the drop has been found, the ocean will also be found.

So savor the sweetness at the Master’s feet, but do not just sit there. Move on. One has to keep moving on. Stop only when there is no further to go. As long as anything remains ahead, do not stop. Further and further—only then will you reach the Divine. Otherwise the world can stop you, and religion can also stop you. Some people get stuck in marketplaces; some get stuck in temples. Do not get stuck anywhere.

A true Master is one who does not let you get stuck in him.

I understand what you are saying. If sitting by me gives you bliss, and you have never known a greater joy than this, I can see where your difficulty is. You think, “What more is moksha? Where is there to go now, what to do?” I understand you, but I also understand myself. Beyond this there is much more—what I have known. You have known only this much. I will not leave you until I have brought you there. On that journey you will have to leave me too, because the doorway will be left behind.

My definition of a true Master is this: one day he says, “Hold my hand,” and one day he says, “Let go of my hand.” Hold the hand until the world drops away. As soon as the world has dropped, let the hand go—because the hand that was a support will now become an obstacle. I want to free you from the world—hold my hand. Then I want to unite you with the Divine—let go of my hand.

So far you have received only His shadow; you have to meet Him. You have seen His reflection in my eyes; now seek Him. You have seen the moon reflected in a lake; now search for the moon. The reflection in the lake is very lovely, but a reflection is, after all, only a reflection.

Enough for today.