Jas Panihar Dhare Sir Gagar #8

This question is a bit complex and cannot be understood without entering into the process of human life. As long as the sense of “I” is there, there is no freedom; until then, you are on a leash held in someone’s hand. As long as the ego exists, there is no freedom. And the irony is that it is the ego that wants to be free. But the ego cannot be free. The ego is ignorance—where can there be freedom in ignorance? The ego is sleep—where can there be freedom in sleep? The ego is a swoon—how can there be freedom in a swoon?

But a human being can be free of the ego. And the moment one is free of the ego, freedom is attained. Then there is no one who is free, but there is freedom. This is the complexity; this is the riddle. As long as there is someone there to be free, there is no freedom; and when no one is left who could be free, there is freedom. Freedom comes to those who do not even want to be free, who surrender themselves in every way at the feet of the Divine.

This very question—“let me be free”—is, in one sense, a conflict with God. There is opposition in it; there is a fight in it. “Let me be free” means: let God have no sway over me; I should have sway over myself. Whatever I want should happen. As I want, so should it be. His will is not my will. And then you are dependent—because his will alone is the will. Then you will experience dependence at every step. Everywhere you will collide with a wall. And remember, God does not build walls for you to collide with. He has made doors everywhere. His sky is open. But your ego creates the trouble. Your ego constructs the walls. Your ego becomes a curtain over your eyes. And the ego wants to be free—and it is the ego that does not allow freedom. If you understand this complexity, the way to resolve this question will open.

The ego is your slavery. The “I” is your bondage. And who has bound you? The moment this “I” dissolves, there is nothing but freedom. You are not—and there is freedom. That very freedom is what is called God.

God is free. God is freedom. In becoming one with him, you too are free—you too are freedom. Remaining separate from him, remaining in opposition to him, struggling against him, you have no freedom at all. Then sometimes it will seem that you are free. That is an illusion. That illusion arises because sometimes, accidentally, your will coincides with his will. Then you feel, “I am free.” But more often you will feel that you are not free, because your will does not coincide with his. When it coincides, you win; you take that victory to be yours. That victory is God’s victory. But when your will does not coincide, then you experience your defeat. That defeat is your defeat. All victories are God’s, all defeats are yours—such is the arithmetic. Whenever you are defeated, understand: I was defeated because of myself. And whenever you win, understand: I won because of him.

Think of it like this: the river is flowing in a certain current, in a certain direction. If you go along with it, there is nothing but victory. You will think, “Ah, the river is flowing with me.” You are flowing with the river—but you can think that the river is with you. And if you start fighting against the current, start swimming upstream, trying to go upward, you will be defeated. Then you will feel that the river is against you, that the river is trying to defeat you, that the river is your enemy.

Wherever the wind turns, a dry leaf flies in that direction; it is victory upon victory. Lao Tzu has said: I was sitting under a tree watching a dry leaf fall. In its falling I found the secret of life. When a gust of wind made the leaf fall, the leaf did not say “no.” The leaf fell. The leaf consented. It did not protest even a little, did not refuse, did not negate. It did not even say, “What kind of justice is this? For so long I was joined to this tree, and you sever me from its stream of sap? You separate me from my roots? You destroy my life?” No, there was not even that much complaint. In a very prayerful way the leaf let go.

The wind carried it east and the leaf went east. And midway the wind changed its course and began to move west, and the leaf went west. The leaf did not say, “What kind of contradiction is this! Now east, now west, now here, now there. Where is the consistency? There is inconsistency in this conduct. I cannot consent to inconsistency. If you want to go east, then go east; if west, then go west. But what is this—now east, now west?”

No, the leaf said nothing at all. The wind took it east, it went east; the wind took it west, it went west. The leaf became one with the wind. It kept no duality, no separation. When the wind lifted it, the leaf rose into the sky. And when the wind let it fall, the leaf began to rest upon the earth. When raised into the sky it did not become egotistical—“Look at me, at my position, my prestige, my height, my exaltation.” And when dropped down, it did not weep; it did not lament; not for a single moment did it adopt inferiority or meekness. It was blissful in the winds; it was blissful on the ground.

Lao Tzu rose from beneath the tree, and that very moment became the moment of revolution in his life. Thereafter he himself became like that dry leaf. Then there was no more defeat. What defeat could there be?

Jesus was crucified. Just a moment before the crucifixion, a loud cry escaped from Jesus’ mouth. Looking toward the sky he said, “O Lord, what is it you are showing me?” A complaint arose. It means that Jesus wanted to see something else, and something else was being shown. Jesus wished to go east and the winds began to blow west. Jesus must have thought a miracle would happen: God would descend and save him. Something of that sort must have been there. But the crucifixion proceeded; no hand descended from the sky. Of that God with a thousand hands, not even a single hand was visible anywhere. In the sky no sign was seen that anything was about to happen. Everything was happening silently—the death was happening, the crucifixion was proceeding. No grace from God seemed to be arriving from anywhere.

You too would have cried out. Forgive Jesus. In that cry the humanity of Jesus stood revealed in its full form. Who would there be who would not cry out? One who had always trusted God and thought that all would be well—that whatever happens will be right—now stands on the final testing stone, and there is no trace of God anywhere. No footfall is heard; he is not seen coming. In this hour of sorrow, this hour of darkness—he has not even lit a lamp; not a single message has descended from his side. No revelation has occurred. He has not even whispered into Jesus’ heart, “Do not be afraid.” As if God is not, as if the sky is empty. As if all the prayers until now were in vain, as if all the calls until now had no purpose.

Naturally Jesus cried out, looking toward the sky—“O Lord, what is this you have shown me? Have you forsaken me? Have you abandoned me? Will I not receive your grace?” Here Jesus’ humanity was manifest. But instantly the point also became clear to Jesus, that a complaint had entered. My prayer has been broken. Where there is complaint, prayer dies. Prayer does not know complaint; prayer has no acquaintance with grievance. Prayer is supreme consent. If life, then life; if death, then death. If a throne, then a throne; if a cross, then a cross. Prayer does not even know how to say, “Lord, what is this you are showing me?”

Jesus saw the point. He was a man of deep wisdom; his eyes were clear. A streak of smoke had been drawn, a small cloud had come, and for a moment the sun was hidden. But the cloud passed and the sun shone forth again. And Jesus smiled and lifted his eyes toward the sky and said, “No, no—do not listen to me. Let thy kingdom come; let thy will be done. Do Thou descend; let Thy kingdom descend. Let Thy will be fulfilled.”

And I hold that in this very moment Jesus became the Christ. In this one instant the human departed and the divinity was revealed. Until then Jesus was human, a great human being. In this moment the leap occurred; in this very moment the transition happened. In this moment the Christ was born. Christ means Buddha; Christ means Krishna.

You will be surprised to know that the word “Christ” is a transformation of the word “Krishna.” From Krishna came Khristo, and from Khristo, Christ. Bengalis still keep names in this manner. Those whose name is Krishna are called Khristo. In Bengali even now Khristo is a form of Krishna.

This supreme moment occurred within the span of a single instant. I want to tell you: when Jesus said, “O Lord, what have you shown me? Have you forsaken me?” then he must have felt clearly, “I am dependent, I am helpless.” The “I” was still remaining—a little bit remained, just a trace remained, a dim line. In that moment Jesus experienced, “I am dependent; hence the complaint.” But as soon as he said, “Let Thy will be done,” even that small line disappeared; the last stain was erased. And then there is freedom.

Keep this in mind: when no one is left to be free, then there is freedom. That is why Buddha’s statement is of great importance. Buddha has said: it is not the I that has to be freed; one has to be freed from the I. In liberation the I will not remain—only then is it liberation. So long as the I is, where is liberation? That is why Buddha called the ultimate state anatta—no atta, no self. He did not call it atma, the self; he called it anatta, no-self—because the word “self” carries the flavor of the I: “I am,” in some form or other.

As long as you are, you are dependent. When you are not, you are free. You are the bondage; your absence is freedom. For now—whatever happens, happens. What do you actually manage to do?

People say such things as “Don’t do this, do that.” But does it happen that way? Do you think the drunkard doesn’t know that alcohol is bad? He knows better than you. You haven’t even drunk; how would you know its evil? You may have read about it in books, heard it from sadhus and monks—who themselves have never drunk. Those who have never drunk, what do they know of its evil? Your talk is only talk. The drunkard knows from experience that it is bad.

Don’t ever tell a drunkard, by mistake, that alcohol is bad—give it up. He has told himself that a thousand times. It doesn’t drop. He knows it’s bad; he knows it every day. Every day the pain arises in his heart, and every day he wants to drop it. Don’t imagine that a drunkard doesn’t want to give it up—everyone wants to. Everyone wants to be free of that hell. The greatest pain is precisely this: that I am so powerless to drop it. This feeling of slavery hurts the most. Still, it doesn’t drop. As long as you are, it will not drop.

A cigarette doesn’t drop. Small habits don’t drop. Alcohol is a big habit—and it enters the chemistry of the body, so it becomes even harder to quit. But even the small habits don’t drop. Anger doesn’t drop. Greed doesn’t drop.

You fell in love with someone. You say, “I fell in love,” or, “I loved.” But what did you do? It happened. It’s an accidental event. The string is in the Master’s hand! You are a puppet; an unseen hand is making you dance.

Yesterday I was reading a poem—

Never again will I set foot in these lofty mansions—
I had once sworn the same before.
Because of the defeats of my poor love,
Life had earlier been ashamed, exasperated.
And I had vowed, in my ruined condition,
Never again to sing sweet songs of love.
Even if some veil were to call, I would still move on;
Even if a door opened, I would turn back.
Then your trembling lips’ hissing smile
Began to weave a net—kept weaving, kept on weaving.
I was drawn to you, while you,
Kept plucking flowers for my path—kept on plucking, kept on plucking.
My hellish imagining showered snow,
Yet a nameless flame stirred in my heart.
Finding your silent glances smouldering,
Even my jaded temperament took to love again.
Do not hide the demands in your altered eyes—
I can understand the meaning of such a style.
By the height of your torn little windows,
I can understand the portion allotted to my steps.
Never again will I set foot in these lofty mansions—
Once before I had taken such an oath.
At this same crossroads of wealth and bankruptcy,
Life had already felt ashamed, annoyed.

But what use are vows? What use are your decisions? They are not worth a penny. Yes, sometimes it seems they work—when they happen to sit alongside that Supreme Decision. That is accidental, a coincidence. When God is moving in a certain direction and you too happen to move that way, there is victory. And whenever you move opposite to That, there is defeat.

Defeat means to be against the Divine; victory means to be with It. All victory is with That; all defeat belongs to the ego. Therefore, in this world the victors are those who dropped the ego, and the losers are those who raised the ego higher and higher, bigger and bigger.

Live in selfhood—bondage. Live in God—freedom.

As you are, only what is happening can happen. And your so‑called religious teachers tell you precisely this: If you drink, give up drinking. If you lie, don’t lie. If you are greedy, don’t be greedy. They give you the illusion that the matter is in your hands. It is not so. Erase just one thing—erase yourself—and everything else will change by itself. Don’t worry about greed, dishonesty, theft, or lying. These are shadows of your ego. Remove the ego, and the shadows will vanish on their own. But you fight the shadows. You go on keeping the root while cutting the leaves—new leaves keep sprouting.

A fox came out of her den early in the morning. The sun was rising, and the fox’s shadow grew very long. A great shadow! Morning sun. The fox looked at her shadow and said, “Today at least a camel should do for breakfast.” Such a big shadow! She went looking for a camel. Even if she had found one, what would she have done? A fox cannot make a camel her breakfast. She didn’t find a camel.

Noon came; the sun stood overhead. Hunger was growing. No breakfast yet—and lunch far away. She looked at her shadow again. With the sun above, the shadow had shrunk to tiny. She said, “Now, even an ant will do.”

Your life depends on the size of your ego’s shadow. Someone says, “Give me the whole world and I’ll be satisfied”—his ego is casting a morning shadow. Another says, “Even a little will do”—his ego casts a noonday shadow. But both are egos—morning shadow or midday shadow; shadow is shadow.

Those you call worldly have morning shadows for egos, and those you have taken to be great saints have midday shadows. There isn’t much difference. The one I call a sage is the one whose shadow has disappeared. He knows: I am not. In the morning, a camel was needed; by noon, an ant would do. When I am not, even without breakfast it will do. Nothing is left to be done. Nothing remains to be sought.

Most people break and are ruined fighting shadows. Do not fight your passions. Then what am I telling you to do? Do one thing: bring awareness to your passions, fill them with watchfulness. Do what Jesus did in his last hour. He looked at his complaint, looked at it closely—and he understood. He saw: I had taken myself to be separate from God; I had cherished a separate will. In that very instant, all bonds broke.

Don’t live isolated from That. Live with That. This is religion’s essential message—the basic alchemy, the process that transforms a person. That’s why I don’t want to turn your attention toward desire; I want to turn it toward awareness. The question is not that you drink alcohol, or that you have fallen in love with a woman, or that you are attached to wealth. The real question is: wake up a little.

Whatever you are doing, do it with awareness. If you drink, drink with awareness. If you love a woman, love with awareness. If you are attached to money, bring awareness to it. Hold a little alertness. In that very alertness you will begin to melt. Just as the morning sun rises and the dewdrops vanish, so when the sun of awareness rises you will suddenly find the frost of your unconsciousness evaporating. As the stars disappear at dawn, so, with the awakening of awareness, all passions dissolve. In the night’s darkness they glittered; in the day’s light they cannot be found.

Awaken the light. One process to awaken it is meditation; another is devotion. The light can arise in two ways: either live wakefully, or live in surrender. In both cases, the ego dies. The one who awakens searches within and discovers: there is no ego at all. And the devotee, by surrendering himself at the feet of God, discovers: I was needlessly troubled; I was troubled by troubles that didn’t even exist. I had been seeing false dreams—and dreams can frighten greatly.

At night you dream: a snake appears; a scream escapes you. Your eyes open and you see it was a dream—then you marvel: how did a real scream come from a false dream? The scream real, the dream false. Or in a dream a mountain is falling upon your chest; you tremble, your heart pounds; you wake to find no mountain, nothing falling. Perhaps your own hand lay upon your chest; its weight gave rise to the image of a mountain. But while it was a dream, it seemed exactly as if you were finished, gone—no chance to be saved. Even after waking, your chest is racing. You are awake, you know it was a dream—and still the heart beats hard. A false dream can create real effects.

The ego is the greatest falsehood, yet its consequences are very real. The world is the consequence of the falsehood called ego. You are fighting the world; it is as if someone were fighting the snake in a dream. You are fighting the world; it is as if someone in a dream were pushing back a mountain so it would not fall upon him. Wake up. Look a little carefully at your life; observe it.

This is one path—the path of observation, of meditation, of right mindfulness, of awareness.

A second path is of the heart: bow down at some feet. The feet are a pretext; the bowing is the real thing. At whose feet you bow—Rama’s, Krishna’s, Buddha’s—makes no difference. If you bow, that very bowing will show you: the “I” has gone. It persists only so long as it remains stiff, upright. Hence all Eastern religions discovered processes of bowing.

Just now a young man took sannyas here; he had been with Tibetan lamas. Among Tibetan lamas the first meditative practice is: every time you meet a senior monk in the monastery, lie fully prostrate on the ground and bow. Sometimes it happens that a new monk must do this a thousand times a day. But the practice yields an extraordinary fruit. Bowing again and again, the rigidity breaks. In all that bowing, the ice melts. The ego is no longer hard.

Either melt, or awaken. In both cases you will not find the ego—and where the ego is not, there is freedom. Then the question does not arise—lust or no lust. You are no longer there, so there is no need for a decider. When you are gone, the Divine is the decider. For now, your love, the relationships of your life, are compulsions.

From a far silence, near to the shore,
By a young tree,
With the pains of age and the muddy marks of time,
Stands an old, almost elderly palm tree.
After centuries of aloneness,
Bending, it says to the young tree, “Friend,
There is a cold hush, a loneliness—
Say something.”

What is your love, what are your relationships? Only this: there is a chill hush, a loneliness—say something. In the name of love you are trying to erase your loneliness. Somehow, be occupied. In the name of greed, too, you do the same—lose yourself in the marketplace, drown in the crowd, so your aloneness disappears. In the name of alcohol you do the same. In the name of politics you do the same. Whatever you do has one effort condensed in it: “Friend, there is a cold hush, a loneliness—say something.” Entangle me in something. Keep me busy. Left alone with myself, I begin to feel sad. Let me have someone’s company—some friend, a wife, a husband, children, family—you are seeking worries.

People come to me and ask, “How can we be free of worries?” And I tell them: you are seeking them, and you ask how to be free? The truth is, your question is a search for a new worry: “How can we be free of worries?” The worries of the world are not enough; now you want to borrow the worry of God and liberation as well. Bring that in somehow too. The market is not enough; you want to drag the temple into the middle of it. Newspapers are not enough; you want to clutch scriptures as well. Wealth is not enough; now you want to make worry out of meditation too. Understand this difference.

Two kinds of people come to meditate:
- those who want to increase their worries, and
- those who have understood their worries and want to cut the root.

There is a great difference between them. The one who has understood his worries understands at least this much: until now I was searching for worries; when I didn’t find them, I grew restless.

Just think: if for twenty‑four hours there were complete silence in your mind, could you live? Forget twenty‑four hours; I see this happen every day. People meditate and ask for peace; when it begins to happen, they tremble. Frightened, they come and say, “Great fear is arising.” The first time the process of thought stops in the mind, it feels like death—because the lifelong noise stops at once. What has happened? A great unease arises—such as you’ve never known. Though you have always been uneasy, your former uneasinesses were childish. Now for the first time you taste a real uneasiness: silence all around. You even wish some thought would start up.

“Friend, there is a cold hush, a loneliness—
Say something.”

You say to your mind, Speak. Don’t fall completely silent like this.

Frightened, people come to me and say, “Meditation is happening, but now a great anxiety is coming. It feels like entering a void, falling into a bottomless pit, going into a cave whose other end may or may not be found; entering a tunnel—will we return? Pushing a boat into the ocean—will there be another shore?” They had come saying, “How can we be free of this shore?” And when the chain to this shore breaks, fear arises: “Is there even another shore? Will we find it? The bazaar is gone, the shop is gone, business is gone, relationships are gone—will God be found?” Fear grabs them, and a desire to fasten the chain back to this shore returns.

Psychologists say: there are very few grown‑up people on earth who can live even a little while without thought. People say, “If only thoughts would stop—that would be good,” but they say it the way people often say, “We’re tired of life; it would be good to die.” But nobody wants to die.

A Buddhist tale: An old woodcutter returns from the forest. Seventy years old. Tired of cutting wood, tired of earning bread. Old age has come; he can hardly cut wood, hardly carry the weight. Often he told his friends, “Now, God, take me.” That day he had a fever; he was exhausted and hungry. Bringing his bundle of wood from the forest, filled with gloom and irritation—seeing no reason to live: the same cutting of wood, the same selling, somehow earning two pieces of bread—what’s the point? He must have thought thus.

In that moment of melancholy he dropped the bundle, folded his hands to the sky, knelt on the ground and said, “O Death, you come to all; why are you angry with me alone? Why don’t you come to me? Take me away. You have taken the young, you have taken children, and you keep leaving me, an old man. Have you forgotten me?” Tears flowed from his eyes. A coincidence! The story is old; such coincidences don’t happen now. Death was passing by; she took pity and stood before him. Seeing Death, his heart sank; all melancholy was forgotten.

Death said, “Speak—why did you call me?” He said, “Nothing; my bundle fell. There is no one here to help me lift it, so I called you. Kindly put it on my head.” Death lifted the bundle onto his head and he went on. He forgot. He had said many times before...

Old people often say, “Now let Death take me,” but don’t think they mean it. If Death comes, they will also say, “I’ve been unwell—no medicine? No remedy? You are Death; you must know every remedy. Who knows better than you the relation of life and death? Give me a few formulas.”

In the same way, people sometimes, vexed by the mind, say, “If somehow we could be rid of thought—that would be good.” And similarly, people, troubled by ego, say, “If only we could be free of ego.” But these are all false statements. When freedom comes, they get frightened; they tremble.

The great work of a Master is not to get you started with meditation; the great work comes when meditation begins to happen and you begin to run away. When you are afraid and shaking and say, “No, I won’t go,” that is when the Master is truly needed—to stop worrying about your fears and give you a push. You may scream, but he gives a push. That is when the Master is truly needed. Methods of meditation can be found in the scriptures—they are written there, the techniques. But when the crisis-hour comes, the scripture cannot push you. And the greatest crisis is this: when God stands before you, your great death happens.

In the name of love you only want to escape your aloneness. In the name of lust you also want to fill your loneliness. All your passions can be pressed into one conclusion: you are not yet willing to be with yourself. You are frightened of being with yourself. You need some screen to hide behind—sometimes greed, sometimes attachment, sometimes love, sometimes anger, sometimes jealousy—something or other. You want something so you stay engaged. You want a disease so you remain entangled.

With small children we hand them a toy so they won’t make a racket—so they stay occupied. In the same way, you have created many kinds of toys; their name is “passion.” Giving them up will not help. If you forcibly give them up without awareness, you will sit in temples and invent new toys. Someone will sit counting a rosary—that too is a toy. Earlier he used to count his money.

Think about it: what is the difference between counting money and counting a rosary? Earlier he counted bundles of cash; now he counts beads—Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram. What’s the difference? The counting continues. Earlier he kept his accounts of wealth each evening; now he keeps accounts of merit—how much has he earned? The shop is still running. He is not free of the marketplace. Earlier the market was small; now it has grown a bit—he has included heaven in it. The map has merely become bigger; nothing essential has changed. It is the same man. Even sitting in a temple or an ashram, what will he do? He will devise new ways to keep himself entangled.

That is why I don’t tell you to run away from the marketplace. What is the point of running? If you cannot live without inventing ways to entangle yourself, wherever you go, you will invent them there too. I say: awaken. Start looking.

Desire is not evil; the real evil is: why do you want to entangle yourself? You fear aloneness. Why? Because in aloneness the ego dies. If you remain absolutely alone, you will be amazed to find that you are not there. For the “I” to continue, a “you” is needed. As long as there is a you, the I persists. Where the you disappears, the I disappears—they are two sides of the same coin. That is why aloneness frightens: aloneness is the death of the ego, and in the death of the ego lies supreme freedom.

Each person is unique—his own preferences, his own inclinations. He has his own window through which he looks at life. This whole existence is filled with the Divine. All colors are His; God is all colors. Yet each one has his own insight, and one must find one’s own symbols.

Kabir and Dharamdas greatly praised red:
“The redness of my Beloved—wherever I look, all is red.
I went to see His redness; I myself became red.”

Yesterday I told you the meaning of red: red is the symbol of life; the symbol of celebration; the color of flowers and of spring. That is why the ochre hue is also called vasanti—the color of spring. Red is the symbol of life in full bloom, of the sun, of light, of revolution, of fire. This is what I told you. Naturally, the question arises: then why didn’t Muhammad choose red? Green is no less; green has its own meanings.

Try to understand. Green too is a symbol of life. As long as the tree is alive it is green; when it dies, it is no longer green. That green current that flows within the tree is the current of life. And yet there is a difference between the two symbols: the flower comes at the end. Green appears first; red comes later. Red is fruition, red is the destination; green is the journey.

Muhammad’s emphasis is more on the journey. In a certain sense, that is very important. If the journey is right, the red will come by itself. If the tree is truly green and the sap is flowing, then flowers are bound to come—don’t worry about them. You don’t need to think about flowers. If the means are sound, the end will arrive. The essential concern is the means. If the means are not right, you may think of flowers endlessly—flowers will not come.

The gardener does not tally flowers; he attends to the greenness of the tree—gives water, gives manure—keeps the tree alive. Then at life’s last heights those peak-flowers appear on their own. You don’t drag flowers out of a tree—they come by themselves. They are spontaneous expressions. If anything proceeds steadily on the right path, the destination is found. Therefore the destination is not to be brooded over; not the pilgrimage-place, but the pilgrimage is to be considered.

Red is the end; green is the means. Muhammad chose green because it is the means. All religions are means. The end is the inner experience that happens within. The thousand-petaled lotus will bloom within; one day that deep crimson will spread within. But there is no substance in imagining it. Make the tree green.

Understand it in another way. Muhammad did not choose the full moon; as a symbol he chose the second-day moon. Why? Because the second-day moon is on a journey; it has set out—it will surely reach. Fullness is bound to happen. The Buddhists chose the full moon; Muhammad chose the second-day moon.

There is a historical anecdote. The Shah of Iran sent a vizier to India to meet the Mughal emperor. As in royal courts, the vizier had rivals and enemies eager to trip him up. When he addressed the Indian emperor in court, he said, “You are the full moon; the Shah of Iran is the second-day moon.” The rivals got wind of it and poisoned the Shah’s ears: “This is the limit of insult! Your own man calls the Indian emperor the full moon and calls you the second-day moon!” The Shah was angry. When the vizier returned, he was arrested at the city gate, chained, and brought before the court. “Answer—or face the gallows.” He laughed—he must have been very wise. He said, “Indeed I told the Indian emperor he is the full moon, and you are the second-day moon. For beyond the full moon there is nothing but decline—death. The full moon has reached the last point; where there is fullness, there is death. You are growing; much remains for you to become. You are a rising sun; he is a setting sun. Why be troubled?”

Just as the second-day moon is in growth, so green is growth. Red is consummation; green is growth. Therefore Muhammad chose green for life. It is the symbol of possibility, of journey, of means, of the path.

Muhammad’s emphasis is on development, not on revolution—on evolution, not revolution. He holds that everything develops in its own time. Revolution is a leap, a hurry. Development is patience, forbearance. Then you will understand: green is the symbol of development, red of revolution.

Green is the symbol of peace. Have you looked closely at green? That is why in the forest you feel peace; sitting on a green hillside, the mind falls silent. Gazing at green, your eyes too become green—calm. The fruit of the color green is peace. The very word Islam means peace. There is great emphasis on peace—that is the posture of meditation.

Muhammad had to raise the sword, but in great helplessness. He did not want to raise it; he was forced by opponents. There was no other way. Yet even on the sword the message engraved was: “My message is peace.” It was carved upon the sword. A strange sword indeed—bearing the message of peace. This tells you that if it had been up to Muhammad, he would never have lifted a sword; he would not throw even a pebble at anyone.

But it was necessity. The surrounding milieu was very wild. Muhammad did not have the conducive conditions to work. So he had to fight for peace. It seems paradoxical. And in that very thing Islam also became corrupted. Muhammad fought out of compulsion; those who came after began to enjoy fighting. They forgot his compulsion. The message engraved on the sword faded and disappeared; the sword remained in the hand. A sword is dangerous: in the right hand it is useful; in the wrong hand it becomes very costly—like giving a sword to a small child.

And there are wrong people in the world, crowds of them. In their hands even a flower becomes dangerous—what to say of a sword! Give them a flower and they will use it like a stone to break someone’s head. And if a sword—no need to speak! They got an easy instrument.

Thus Islam—the religion of peace—became a cause of unrest. But Muhammad’s choice was right; no fault can be found in it. He chose green as the color of peace.

Nanak chose blue. Blue is the color of the vast—of the vast sky, the infinite, the endless. Nanak’s heart is absorbed in the infinite, that which is unseen and yet is; ungraspable and yet is; that which cannot be bounded and yet surrounds all—like the sky; such is God.

You have seen, the sky is blue. You will be surprised to know scientists say the sky has no color—indeed, it has none. Then why does it appear blue? They say the vastness of the sky creates the illusion of blue. Wherever there is depth, blue appears—even if it is not actually there. When a stream of water is shallow it looks white; when it is deep it looks blue. Fill a cup with water from a blue river and you will find it is clear, yet the river appears blue. Why? Because of depth. The dimension of depth creates the illusion of blue.

There is no color in the sky, only an immense depth. Which river has such depth? And then the ocean? The Pacific is the deepest, yet its depth is five miles. Five miles is great—but compared with the sky, what is it? The sky is endless. It cannot be measured in miles; it must be measured in light-years.

A light-year is the smallest unit with respect to the sky. Understand it: in one second light travels one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles. In one second: 186,000 miles. Sixty seconds—one minute—sixty times that. Then sixty minutes—one hour—sixty times sixty. Then in a year—three hundred sixty-five days—how far light travels is the smallest unit to measure the sky. Even with that, it cannot be fully measured. We go to a limit; our limit arrives—the sky’s does not. Our instruments are exhausted; the sky is not.

Nanak chose blue as the color of the vast. For Nanak, the sky is the symbol of God—so unfathomable, so unknowable, so unmanifest. So is Omkar. Blue is the color of the attributeless; that is why we have painted Krishna and Rama blue.

Now, there are no blue people, no blue race. People are white, black, yellow. There are no blue people in the world. Yes, sometimes infants are born with a blood disorder—they cannot survive; they are blue. Their blood is faulty; they have no immunity; their blood is not red but blue. Yet this land painted Krishna and Rama blue. Krishna’s very name became Shyam—so blue that his name itself became “Blue.” Shyam means blue: a symbol of depth, of the attributeless, of the formless, of vastness and infinity.

Different religions have chosen different colors. All colors are His.

The Jains chose white, because pristine white is the symbol of renunciation. Scientists agree. If you ask a scientist to analyze colors, he will tell you: if you see a red flower, it means the flower has reflected the red rays. When light falls upon a flower it has seven colors—the full rainbow. Now, here is the amusing part: a flower appears to you as the very color it does not drink. It drinks six colors—you do not see them; it has assimilated them. The one color it throws back is the one you see. A flower is red because it did not drink the red rays. Amusing: the flower that is not red is what appears red. The flower that is yellow has thrown the yellow rays. The flower that is blue has thrown the blue rays; it has drunk the other six. What it has drunk has sunk into it, become one, been assimilated. What is left over—discarded—falls upon your eyes; that is what you see.

Black means: it has drunk everything, left nothing. Therefore black is the symbol of greed—swallowing all, leaving nothing. Black is not a color; it is the absence of colors. White means: it has reflected all colors—left all seven, drunk none. When all seven are reflected, their union appears as white. White is the meeting of the seven colors; black is the absence of all seven. The rest of the colors lie in between.

The Jains chose white because their key is renunciation—leaving everything. To be so immaculate that nothing remains by your side; such nonpossessiveness that no possession remains; let nothing of “mine” remain. Where nothing of “mine” remains, “I” ends. Therefore, in a pure, pristine state of consciousness, ego cannot be—it is not. That too is a very lovely symbol.

The Buddhists chose yellow because yellow is the symbol of death. And Buddha says life is suffering: birth is suffering, youth is suffering, old age is suffering—here there is suffering upon suffering. One needs release from this life, therefore yellow became the symbol. Yellow is the color of release from life. When a leaf turns yellow, it falls. Yellow is the color of death: release from life, release from life’s turmoil; a leap out of the wheel of becoming—you have jumped. Yellow is the color of nirvana.

And death means egolessness—again, egolessness. You have died; nothing remains—not even “I.” Emptiness remains. Thus yellow became the symbol of the void.

These different religions have their own practices, their yogas, their meditations, their paths of travel, their particular goals—their symbols. But keep one thing in mind: the Divine is all colors. God is the whole rainbow. Yes, you must take hold of one process and move by it; take hold of one ray and travel by it. Hold to that ray with intensity. But do not imagine the other colors are not His. All colors are His.

In the very phrase “crying and wailing,” your attitude has already been revealed—you have not accepted the path of love. “Crying and wailing” carries condemnation, criticism; it shows this doesn’t appeal to you. Why doesn’t it appeal? You also gave the reason: because it looks like what ordinary lovers do.

Love is never ordinary. Wherever love is, there the extraordinary is. Love is the extraordinary element in this world. Even when it happens between two ordinary people, it remains extraordinary. A diamond lying in the mud is still a diamond. Mud does not diminish the diamond’s nature. Even between two blind, lust-driven egos, when love descends it is still the diamond. It may be smeared with mud, but what can mud do to a diamond? One dip in water and the mud is washed away. Mud never becomes the nature of the diamond; it stays on the surface, on the periphery. It cannot pervade the center of the diamond.

That is why you will see that when love happens even between two ordinary people, an extraordinary radiance appears in their eyes.

Have you watched a lover walking? His gait changes. Yesterday you saw him dragging himself along—somehow going to the office—crying and grumbling. Now he doesn’t “cry and grumble.” Now you can’t call it that—now he sings and dances. A new luster is seen in his eyes, a new glow on his face, a fresh energy in his being. There’s a dance in his steps, a new humming in his heart.

And remember: even when a lover cries, it is not “crying and wailing.” Even in his tears there is joy. His tears are tears of bliss. His tears are precious. Don’t spoil such tears by calling them crying and wailing. What on this earth is more valuable than those tears?

As for the point that ordinary people also weep in love, weep in separation, suffer—it looks similar. Yes, in some ways it will look similar. Talk of the bed, of the beloved, of union, of palaces, of embraces—these are the themes of ordinary lovers. It all seems similar. And when God is not found, there are tears, separation, songs of separation! Try to understand.

Whenever God manifests in this world, one has to express Him through some method drawn from ordinary life. There is no other method.

Buddha spoke. The language he used was the language of the marketplace. You don’t say, “But that is the common language; how can the ultimate truth be conveyed in it?” How else can it be said? It’s the same language in which two people quarrel, in which two people love. In that very language the Upanishads are composed, the Guru Granth is compiled, the Bible is written. The language is the same; the words are the same.

This very hand, explaining God, uses the same gestures I use when speaking to you. The same hand, the same tongue, the same eyes. And if one sits silent—that too is silence. Ordinary people also sit silent; it will look like the same silence. And yet it will not be the same. The language is the same, but there will be a certain majesty in it. The words are the same, but their meanings are new; the meaning of Buddha is infused into them.

It is true: when tears flow from the eyes, they are the same tears that flow from ordinary people’s eyes. But when they flow from the eyes of the wealthy Dharamdas, the eyes are different! The tears are the same; if you tasted them, they would be equally salty. And if scientists collected them and examined them in a lab, they would find no chemical difference between those tears and anyone else’s.

Do you think your blood is different from Buddha’s blood? Your bones different from his? The same elements that compose your body compose Buddha’s body. And yet Buddha is not like you; something else has happened. The house may be the same, but the guest inside has changed utterly.

Yes, Dharamdas’s tears are like yours—and yet will you say they are the same? Their expression is different. The sky has descended into those tears. The footsteps of the Divine are imprinted in them.

And one must express through the ordinary—there is no other way. If you speak, it will be ordinary language; if you don’t speak, it will be an ordinary person’s silence. If you dance, these very feet will dance! There is no physical difference between a prostitute’s feet and Meera’s feet. By examining the feet you cannot decide whether they are Meera’s or a prostitute’s. But when Meera dances and when a prostitute dances, can you not see the difference? If you cannot, then you are blind. Then nothing is visible to you. Then your life is a city of darkness where sweets and vegetables are sold at the same price—a chaos in which you have no discernment.

Meera’s feet—blood, bone, flesh, marrow—are the same as a prostitute’s. But the dance is different. How to capture that dance? There is no material means to capture it. Only eyes filled with subtle empathy will understand. Only one who watches with utmost heartfulness will grasp it. It is very delicate, very fine.

The same feet that take you to the brothel will take you to the temple. Where will you get a different pair of feet? There is no other pair. And will someone say, “You are bringing into the temple the same feet that used to carry you to the brothel? Leave them outside. How can these feet enter the temple? They used to go to the brothel.” I tell you, these feet do both. They carry you to the brothel; they bring you to the temple.

This tongue does both. It can speak the language of desire, and it can speak the language of compassion. These tears do both. They can be of ordinary attachment, and they can be of supreme love. In this very body both happen. In this body the world happens; in this body nirvana happens.

This world touches hell on one side and heaven on the other. One end of the ladder of existence rests in hell, the other in heaven. The same ladder takes you down; the same ladder takes you up—only the direction changes. You do it at home every day: you go up by the same stairs by which you come down. You don’t say while going up, “How can these stairs take me up? These are the very stairs that brought me down.” The stairs that bring you down also take you up; only direction changes. Just the direction changes. The direction of Dharamdas’s tears is different.

You say, “I don’t understand.”

You will not understand. Perhaps this is not a matter for understanding; it is a matter for love. If you drop understanding, it will be understood. If you rise a little above the intellect, it will be understood. It is not a matter for logic. That is why for logic there is no God. The one who clings to logic will never experience God. He has already decided by clinging to logic.

Consider a man who trusts his eyes very much—and there is reason to, because through the eyes we know so many things. Scientists say about eighty percent of life’s experiences come through sight. That is why we feel such pity for the blind—more than for the mute, more than for the deaf, more than for the lame. Because the poor fellow is deprived of eighty percent of life. Seeing a blind person, your heart softens. Beggars often pretend to be blind—more often than any other pretense—because there is more chance that your hard heart may melt a little.

I have heard: a man begged by a bridge. Someone, perhaps in high spirits from a lottery or some windfall, gave him a coin. The beggar took it in his hand and examined it, flipping it over. The giver asked, “What are you looking at? You are blind.” He said, “Forgive me. The man who usually sits here and does the blind man’s job went to the cinema today. I am actually lame. I am sitting in my friend’s place.”

Beggars easily act blind; hearts are touched more readily. Seeing a blind person, one feels like taking his hand, taking his stick, helping him across the road.

A young blind man came from Srinagar to meet me. I said, “It must have been very difficult for you to come so far, changing so many trains, and you being blind.” He said, “Because of this blindness I am very much at ease. I face no difficulty. Someone always helps me down from the train; someone puts me on the next one. Look, that rickshaw driver outside brought me from the station for free and is waiting to take me to the dharmshala once I have met you.”

We feel pity for the blind, and rightly so, because eighty percent of life is missed.

We learn most from the eyes—but do not conclude that every experience can be taken in through the eyes. Don’t go to hear music with your eyes, or you will be in trouble. If you insist, “I will believe in music only if I can see it,” then for you music does not exist. In that very decision, you have eliminated music. Your world becomes soundless. Music is heard with the ears, not with the eyes; you cannot see with ears, nor hear with eyes.

The mind is an instrument for knowing the outer world. Logic is a process for understanding the outer. Love is the process for understanding the inner. If you decide, “We will proceed only by logic, because logic has given us so much”—and I also say, it has given much; the whole development of science is the development of logic; all our modern conveniences have come through science and logic—then you say, “I will accept even God only through logic.” But then you are mistaken. God is not attained through the door of logic. As sound is known by the ear, so God is known by the heart—by feeling.

You say, “I don’t understand.”

You will not understand. Put the intellect aside, and then you will understand. There is another kind of understanding, of the heart. It has nothing to do with your so-called intellectual understanding; it is of a different order.

“I don’t understand how even supreme devotees like Kabir and Dharamdas…”

You do say “supreme devotee,” but you know nothing of devotion. Precisely the supreme devotee will weep supremely. Lesser devotees will weep in a small way—stingily dropping a few tears. The supreme devotee will be flooded. In his tears will be his very soul. In his tears are his offering, his experience. He says, “There is no other way to speak to God than this.”

Have you not experienced it? When something goes beyond all bounds, there is no way to express it except through tears. In great joy, tears come. In great sorrow, tears come. In big sorrow tears flow; in great happiness too, tears flow. Why? Whenever something becomes so vast within that it cannot be contained, it overflows as tears.

Tears are not always of sorrow. If you have known only tears of sorrow, you have not known real tears; you have known only the lowest rung of tears. You have not known the higher tears, the noblest tears. You are unfamiliar with another journey of tears—there are tears of bliss, tears of awe.

Then how to speak? When so much grace is received from the Divine, how to tell it? Words are small; speech is unable. But the eyes can say it.

So tears are both supreme expression and purity.

These outer eyes and these outer tears are symbols of the inner eye and inner tears. Just as you have heard of an inner eye, so too there are inner tears. Perhaps no one has told you that, but if there is an inner eye there must be inner tears. The tears spoken of in Dharamdas’s verses are inner tears. It is not necessary that outwardly his eyes were brimming. It is an inner experience.

And if you ask an ophthalmologist the purpose of outward tears—their significance in the body—he will say tears keep the eyes clean; they prevent dust from settling. Tears wash the eyes; they keep them fresh. Tears are the moisture of the eyes; that is why when a man forgets how to cry, his eyes become hard.

Men’s eyes often become hard, stony, because all over the world this foolishness is taught: a man should not cry. How can a man cry? That is womanly. Nature does not make such distinctions. The tear gland in a man’s eye is as large as in a woman’s. Nature made no difference; otherwise nature would not have given it—just as nature did not give a man breasts because he does not need to nurse a child. If nature had differentiated between male and female eyes, the tear gland would not be there in men. But it is equally present. Still, in a woman’s eyes you find freshness, gleam, moisture, feeling. A man’s eyes become stony, hard; they lose the chance to be washed.

Sometimes, cry. Sometimes crying is tremendously blissful. Don’t call it crying and wailing; call it crying and singing. Sometimes cry, sing. Let yourself melt now and then—otherwise you will turn to stone.

And what is true of the outer eye is even more true of the inner eye. That third eye will not be cleansed until you cry within, until your heart fills with sobbing.

“In remembrance of that idol I wept so much,
my two pupils, bathed and washed, became Brahmin.”

If you weep, you become Brahmin—pure.

“When someone, somewhere, calls your namesake,
my heart leaps—lest it be you!”

The devotee is ever ready—waiting every moment. Everything reminds him of the Beloved. Every sign points him toward the Beloved.

Have you ever loved? If you have, then everything reminds you of your beloved. Another woman passes by—the flutter of her scarf in the breeze—and you remember your beloved. A neighboring woman speaks—the tone of her voice—and you remember your beloved. If you have loved one woman, then in some way every woman reminds you of her: her way of walking, her way of speaking—something or other. In truth you are ready, poised; by any excuse you remember the beloved.

One who has loved the Divine is reminded by everything—leaves and flowers on trees, stars in the sky, the flowing of rivers, waterfalls tumbling down mountains—everything in some sense appears as the gestures, the veil of the Divine.

“When someone, somewhere, calls your namesake,
my heart leaps—lest it be you!”

Understand also the devotee’s helplessness. He has seen the vast One, yet is bound to the limited. He has experienced the Infinite, yet the chains of the body still remain. Life still continues.

“When life is a disease and death does not draw near—
may no helpless one be tormented so.”

So he weeps. His weeping is also prayer. Through his sobs he says, “What is this? Now call me; now free me.”

“When life is a disease and death does not draw near—
may no helpless one be tormented so.”

“And I am helpless; nothing can be done on my side. Only by Your doing will it happen. If You do, it will be.”

“May no helpless one be tormented so.”

The devotee begins to live in a swoon, in an intoxication. Because everywhere he feels surrounded by God. The winds are His, the lights are His; in all around—women and men, animals and birds—His glimmer. He lives in a rapture, in a wine. In that intoxication he weeps. In that intoxication he sways. In that intoxication he sings.

“The rapture of the wine-maiden’s wine still flickers in me;
I am somewhat in my senses, and yet I am drunk.”

Understand the devotee in his own language. If you want to understand the devotee, catch his style, his color, with sympathy. Logic, doubt, thought—their paths lie elsewhere; in the realm of feeling they have no movement.

When God becomes visible, the devotee is amazed and wonders: why did I not see until now? How much I have wasted! He could have appeared yesterday, the day before—for when He appears one sees that He was always there; I must have been sitting with eyes closed.

“I am still alive, but in solitude I keep wondering:
by what longing did I live until now?”

What kept me alive without the Divine Beloved? Without Him, for what reason was I living? There was nothing worth living for, and yet I lived. The devotee also weeps for the past—the births upon births, the eighty-four lakh journeys—for what? “By what longing did I live until now!” No reason appears; all seems reasonless. All that has been done seems futile. And what is worth doing now is beyond my capacity; it will happen only by His will, in His grace. “May no helpless one be tormented so!”

And the closer the devotee draws to God, the more he dissolves. From this melting too, his tears flow. They report his liquefying; they announce that the devotee is slowly disappearing. If your eyes are hard, unfamiliar with tears, you will never be free of ego.

“The ships were saved from the waves and whirlpools,
yet—why did they sink just as they reached the shore?”

We survived the storms, the tempests, the hurricanes. “The ships were saved from the waves and whirlpools—” The world is a great storm; what greater storm can there be?

“The ships were saved from the waves and whirlpools,
yet—why did they sink just as they reached the shore?”

And as the shore appears, the boats sink. God is such a shore that is like midstream; there one must drown. Only those who drown in Him find Him. If you do not know how to drown in tears, you will never know how to drown. Only the one who has drowned in tears knows what drowning is. So heed me: do not call the devotees’ weeping “crying and wailing.”

You ask, “I don’t understand why even supreme devotees like Kabir and Dharamdas are tormented by separation.”

Whom else can separation torment? Only them. Those who have tasted a little of the nectar of Ram—only they can be tormented. Only those who have known a little of the flavor can be plagued by longing.

“They write songs of crying and wailing like ordinary lovers—I don’t understand.”

This shows only one thing: that in the love of ordinary people, something extraordinary is present; and in the love of extraordinary lovers, something of the ordinary remains. The two are connected. That is why I say: the journey from sex to samadhi is a continuous journey. The path from the world to nirvana is one and the same, continuous, connected. On this end is sex; on that end is samadhi. On this end, the world; on that end, nirvana. On this end, kama; on that end, Rama. Kama becomes Rama.

Our habit of constantly seeing the world and God as opposites creates the difficulty. We have fixed this notion. So-called saints have been preaching for centuries that God and the world are opposed. I say to you: it is His world—how can there be opposition between Him and His creation? Think a little!

Can there be opposition between a musician and his music? Between a painter and his painting? Between a sculptor and his sculpture? Between a dancer and his dance? Between a singer and his song? If there is opposition between singer and song, why would the singer sing? If there is opposition between dancer and dance, why would the dancer dance?

No—there is no opposition between the world and God. This is His gesture, His expression. And the day you understand this, you will see that here there is nothing ordinary. Even ordinary people are hiding the extraordinary. There are no mere pebbles here—everything is diamond. The diamonds have forgotten they are diamonds—that is their misfortune; but diamonds they are.

People sometimes come to me and say, “You give sannyas to ordinary people?” I ask them, “Where will you bring the extraordinary from? Who are the extraordinary?” Perhaps the questioner thinks he is extraordinary. He assumes, “I am extraordinary. These ordinary folk—you give them sannyas?” I tell them, “Bring me just one person who says, sincerely, ‘I am ordinary.’ Don’t bother about someone saying it on the surface—bring me someone who says it from the heart.” No one likes the idea that he is ordinary—and rightly so, because no one is ordinary. Everyone here is extraordinary. When God indwells all, how can anyone be ordinary?

This existence is extraordinary. Declare it. And begin to seek the Beloved in the smallest things of life—you will find Him. Certainly you will find Him. If He is in each particle of dust, He will be in each drop of tears too.

The realization that there is nothing other than Him—this is bhakti, devotion.

When it happens, everyone feels, “How did it happen?” Because it doesn’t happen by your doing. And I don’t trust your doing either. The meaning of sannyas is simply this: I have done everything and nothing happened—now let God do something. Sannyas means I surrender. Sannyas means I am defeated by myself. Now you take me. Wherever you want to take me, take me. However you keep me, so will I remain. Whatever you feed me to eat or drink, I will accept. Your gesture will be my destiny. That is the meaning of sannyas.

After this event, things begin to happen on their own.

That’s what happened. You had been drinking for ten years, and for ten years you must also have been trying to quit—and it wouldn’t quit. Even in trying to give up there is ego. You surrendered. You saw, after doing everything, that nothing happens by your own effort. And when one addiction comes, ten come with it—no addiction comes alone. No illness comes alone either. Now, one who is drinking—why would he not smoke? He thinks, “If I am anyway drinking, I’m bound for hell; what difference will a cigarette make? And I might as well gamble too. If I’m sinning anyway, why be stingy?” One addiction is linked to another.

Illnesses arrive together; vices arrive together. Virtues also arrive together. Let one virtue come, and slowly it brings along its companions. Start speaking the truth—a small virtue—and you will find you don’t know how many things have come along with it. And you don’t know how many things have taken leave because of it. Begin with one thing, and you will be amazed.

A great German thinker, Count Keyserling, was sent a wooden casket by a friend in China—a very precious chest, some two thousand years old. The casket had a long history. It had been in the hands of the mighty—in the hands of emperors, great poets, great sculptors. Its history was ancient and illustrious, and the entire record was sent along. The maker had laid down a condition: the casket must always be kept facing east. And for two thousand years the condition had been maintained.

The casket was so beloved that whoever possessed it honored the condition. Keyserling’s friend wrote to him, “This is the first time the casket is coming to the West. This condition must be observed. Its face should remain toward the east.”

Keyserling writes in his memoirs: I was in a dilemma. There was no real obstacle. I placed it on the center table of my room. It was a marvel. Nothing in my house was so valuable. I faced it eastward, because when there is a condition, it should be fulfilled—and the request had been made with such love. For two thousand years no one had broken it.

But then came the problem. The whole room began to feel disordered because of the casket. So the room’s furniture had to be rearranged, changed. It had to match the casket! Otherwise the casket looked utterly out of place, incongruous in the middle—no harmony, out of tune. And it was so precious that the room seemed to need changing for its sake. But when the room was changed completely—even the doors—so that it would harmonize with the casket and create one tone, then came the surprise: that room lost harmony with the rest of the house.

Keyserling was a stubborn man. He changed the whole house. Then he found the house had fallen out of harmony with the garden.

One thing arrives, and with it, other things begin to arrive. That casket changed the entire building, the garden—everything was transformed.

Sannyas is a beginning. This feeling in you—“I surrender”—means you are defeated, tired of yourself; now you say, “Let me be in Rama’s hands.” The defeated takes refuge in God’s name. In that letting go, the first ray from beyond entered your life. Now this ray will start the transformations.

Perhaps you drank for precisely this reason. My experience, my observation, is that people drink because they are searching for God. There is a certain similarity between drinking wine and seeking the divine. By drinking you forget yourself—for a little while, yes, but you forget yourself. That brings relief: self-forgetfulness. By drinking God you forget yourself forever. Wine is a small wine; God is the vast wine. After ordinary wine, you wake up and the ego again finds its place—perhaps more distorted. Worries return and reclaim their place—perhaps worse, more tangled, because time has passed.

But the drunkard, too, is searching in a way—for self-forgetfulness, for egolessness. He wants somehow to be freed from the tangle of worries, from this “I.” The remedy is wrong, but the longing is right. The direction is wrong, but what he seeks is right.

Perhaps with sannyas your direction changed. Sannyas means a transformation of direction. The drink dropped. Do not call it a miracle. For the divine, nothing is a miracle. You just let go, and miracles upon miracles begin. Trust him—say only, “Take me into your hands and shape me as you will. I will not obstruct, I will not be a hindrance.” And you will be amazed: what didn’t happen by your doing starts happening without your doing anything. And when the wine went, smoking went, gambling went. They had come along with it. That was their company, their circle. When the leader of the circle is gone—when the guru has gone—the disciples go as well.

And you have written, “After descending into meditation, a pure intoxication has arisen that does not subside.”

This is exactly what you were looking for in alcohol. That used to wear off; now you have found the right wine. I only sell wine.

Slowly you will understand the secret of this, too. The secret is only this: you gave him a chance. You gave the divine a chance. In his hands the impossible is possible. Just learn to let go.

Ramakrishna used to say: You are needlessly rowing the boat. Why don’t you open the sail? Keep the oars, but unfurl the sail. His winds are ready to carry you that way. That’s all.

People keep rowing and wrestling with the river’s current, while his winds are ready to carry them. Open your sail; the winds will fill it and the boat will move. And you will be astonished, thinking, “What has happened! I was rowing and rowing, wearing myself out, and the boat wouldn’t move. My arms were tired. And now the boat is flying. Who is taking it?” His winds are taking it. The winds are invisible; so is his grace invisible.

Sannyas has unfurled the sails of your life. Now his winds will carry you to where you always wanted to go but could not—because of yourself. Sannyas has dissolved your ego. And if a little remains, let that go too. The going of ego is good fortune.

Enough for today.