Jeevan Darshan #4

In a human being’s life, certainly, at times some hidden spring of joy opens unbidden; an inner resonance begins to be heard; a music seems to surround one’s very life-breath. Everyone will have a few such moments in memory. Then our mind longs to have that experience again—and just then, it is as if the doors to that experience close.

Two things need to be understood here.

First, whatever is truly important and supreme in life never becomes available through human effort. Man is very small, limited. His boundaries are tight—and joy has no boundary. Only when man is absent do the doors of joy open; and when, through great effort, man becomes very present, those doors close.

No one has ever found God by effort—only by effortlessness. Not through effort, but in effortlessness does His presence become apparent and is He realized.

If I give love to someone, and if I give it by effort, that love becomes false. Only if it flows without effort—spontaneously—is it true. Whatever is true and beautiful in life does not arise from human effort.

So the glimpse is given unbidden; then, when we try to bring it back by effort, it slips away.

Let me tell a small story; perhaps it will clarify.

There was a Christian mystic, Augustine. For thirty years he labored without cease to have a glimpse of God. He had left no stone unturned in his effort. His eyes were soaked with tears shed over thirty years. He had forgotten day and night, had neither slept nor eaten. In that very longing, that very thirst, that very prayer, he passed his days and nights. He had withered to skin and bone. Yet there was no sign of a glimpse. In fact, the more he tried, the farther it seemed to recede. As it receded, his efforts grew more intense; and the more intense the efforts, the farther it went.

One morning, after weeping through the night, he rose and went to walk by the sea. No one was on the shore. The sun had not yet risen. Suddenly he saw a small child standing by a rock, tears in his eyes. Augustine himself had cried all night. Why was this small child standing at the shore with tears in his eyes? No one was with him. Augustine went near and asked, “My son, why are you crying? What has happened to you? And how did you come alone to the seashore?”

The child said, “I have a reason to cry.” He held a little cup in his hand and said, “In this cup I want to empty the ocean—but the ocean won’t go in. That’s why I cry! How can I not? I want to take the ocean home, but it won’t fit. The cup is too small.”

What the child said struck Augustine like the very voice of God. He burst into laughter and said to the child, “You are not the only one caught in such a mistake—I have been caught in exactly the same mistake for thirty years. I too have wept and wept, trying to pour the ocean of God into the tiny cup of my intellect. It might even be possible that, someday, your cup could hold the ocean—for the ocean still has a shore—but how will the infinite God fit into the little cup of my mind, which has no capacity to hold the boundless? I will break my cup.”

Augustine danced back to his hut. His friends were astonished. They thought perhaps Augustine had found that for which his very life had been crying. They all gathered around him. There was a wondrous light in his eyes that day, a marvelous thrill in his being. He was dancing in ecstasy. They asked, “Augustine, have you found Him?”

Augustine said, “No, I did not find Him—but I lost myself. And the moment I lost myself, I discovered that He had always been found.”

Man’s ego is the obstacle to realizing God.

In effortless moments, when man’s ego is asleep, absent, sometimes a glimpse passes by from the shore. The moment that glimpse passes, a surge of joy wells up within. Then we become eager to seize that joy—we become greedy. We start running after it. The ego returns. The “I” stands up again, and then it searches and searches—but never lays a hand on it. The ego has never been able to attain Him.

The directions for attaining the world and attaining truth are utterly opposite. In the world, to gain anything you must strive, you must make effort; because the whole race of the world is the race of the ego. With the Divine it is exactly the reverse. There, whoever strives will lose it. There, whoever lets himself go in effortlessness will find it.

If a man falls into a river, he can swim or he can float. The one who swims is making an effort; the one who floats is not. The one who floats is carried by the river’s strength; the one who swims has to depend on his own effort. Personal effort has a limit—he will tire. But one who floats has no limit to his strength, because he has not used his own at all.

In the search for the Divine, those who try to swim fail; those who float succeed. Swimming must be learned; floating does not. Swimming is our identity, our ego—“I will attain!”

A small story, and then I will answer your next question.
A very untrue story—and very true as well. There was a remarkable sculptor. Death came to him. He was afraid; he wanted to escape death. He made twelve statues of himself and stood hidden among them. Death entered and looked at the statues. The sculptor too, holding his breath, was concealed among them. Death could not recognize which was the real man to take away—there were twelve identical figures. Death went back and said to God: There are twelve who look the same; whom should I bring?

God whispered a simple key in Death’s ear. He said, Speak this, and the real man will come out on his own.

Death returned. She went again into the room where the sculptor stood hidden among the statues. She examined them closely and then said loudly: Everything is fine—except for one small mistake.

The sculptor blurted out: What mistake?

Death said: Only this—that you cannot forget yourself. Come out. You could not forget that you made these statues. You could not forget that you are the maker. Had you even forgotten that much, I would have had no way to find you.

Where the ego stands, there can be a meeting with death, but not with the deathless. Where the ego is not, there is a meeting with the deathless. That deathless is the Divine. That deathless is bliss. That deathless is truth.

Let go of yourself so that That can come. Do not stand yourself in between and make a wall. Between us and the Divine there is no one else—except us. The more we strive, the more this “I” of mine becomes strong, the more the wall hardens, and the harder it becomes to receive its glimpses.

Drop yourself—drop yourself completely, as if you are not. The moment you are not, in that very moment the door is found.

Kabir has said: I am a hollow reed, a bamboo flute. His notes flow through me. If I become solid, his music will cease to flow. Because I am hollow, not solid within, his notes can stream through me.

The more solid we are, the less his music can flow through us. The emptier we become—empty of our “I,” of our effort—the more his notes begin to flow within. He stands continually at the door, but our doors are closed—and closed by our own ego.

Therefore, if a glimpse has come spontaneously in effortlessness, understand this key—everything is hidden in it: then do not make effort, let yourself go; the glimpses will come. And the day you let go totally, that day the Whole is attained. Step yourself aside.

In life there is neither suffering nor happiness. Life becomes exactly what we are able to see. Life is as our vision is. Among us, in this very life, live those who are filled with bliss and those who are steeped in pain and darkness. Such is life; the ways of seeing differ. If we have acquired a way of seeing that notices only gloom and darkness and suffering and pain, it is no surprise if we are deprived of life’s joy.

I have heard of a mother who was troubled by her child. He had no interest in any kind of food and would find fault with everything. He had no interest in any kind of clothing and would discover some flaw in every garment. He had no interest in any friends and would find something wrong with each one. The mother grew anxious; his future did not look bright. One whose vision seeks out errors and the dark side everywhere will turn life into hell.

So, worried, she took him to a psychologist. The biggest problem was his eating—he had practically stopped. In everything: the milk smelled bad, he didn’t like bread. This had that defect, that had this fault. And without food, even living becomes difficult. She took him to a very renowned psychologist who had cured all sorts of deranged people. This was just a small child at the beginning of life; how difficult could it be? The psychologist tried to reason with the boy in many ways—explained the virtues and benefits of food, had delicious sweets brought and placed before him. But the child always found some criticism. He was a born critic. He would say, “This has this mistake; I don’t like its color; I don’t like its smell; if I eat it, I will vomit.”

The psychologist too became a little uneasy, though he did not want to admit it before the mother. Finally he asked the boy, “Then you tell me: is there anything on this earth you would like to eat?”

The boy said, “Yes, I would like to eat earthworms.”

The psychologist was taken aback; the mother too. Earthworms! It was the rainy season, and worms were out. The psychologist did not want to lose to the child. He thought, perhaps he is only trying to frighten me; how will he actually eat them? Determined not to be defeated, he went outside and brought back a plate with ten or fifteen worms he had picked up from the rain. He set them before the boy. The boy said, “Not like this. I prefer fried worms. Aren’t you ashamed to serve me something unfried!”

The psychologist still would not give up. He went and fried the worms, all the while his own insides churning: what am I doing? But he wanted somehow to come close to the child, to create some intimacy; if he could fulfill one of the boy’s demands, perhaps the boy would listen to him.

He brought the fried worms. The boy said, “Not so many. I will eat only one worm.” The psychologist went out, threw the rest away, brought back one worm, placed it on the plate and said, “Here, eat.”

The boy said, “Shall I eat alone? You eat half!”

The psychologist did not want to lose. He had no desire whatsoever to eat a worm; his very breath was trembling. But it seemed necessary to win over the child. Somehow, with eyes closed, he ate half the worm. Then, angry, he said to the boy—because the boy had made him eat the worm—“Now eat!”

The boy began to cry. “You ate my half—my half! This is your half. You ate my portion.”

The psychologist folded his hands and said to the mother, “This is incurable. To treat him will be very difficult. He can see nothing except something to complain about!”

Many of us are like that; we see nothing in life except grounds for complaint.

It is not life’s fault; it is ours. Our way of seeing is wrong. Our vision is flawed.

A man can stand beside a rosebush and blaspheme God, filled with anger and sorrow: “What kind of world is this? With great difficulty there is one flower and a thousand thorns. Who could be happy with one flower among a thousand thorns?” One may see that there are thousands of thorns and one flower—what is there to be happy about? But another person can look and say, “How wondrous is this world: where thousands of thorns grow, there is still the possibility of a flower.” One can see that too. And upon this seeing will depend the entire structure of their life, the movement of their whole being.

Someone may say: there is one bright day from the sun, and on either side two dark nights. He will feel, “Two dark nights and between them a small day of light—what a bad world this is!” And another can see: there are two shining days, with a small dark night in between—how good this world is! It depends on our seeing.

Are we eager to see the radiant side of life, or its dark side? In truth, this is not our habit.

A professor was explaining something to his class. Behind him was a blackboard. He pasted upon it a large sheet of white paper and made a small black dot on the paper. Then he asked his students, “What do you see here?” Every student raised a hand. Each one, asked in turn, said, “We see a small black dot.” After asking the whole class, the professor laughed aloud and said, “I am amazed—no one sees this big white sheet! Everyone sees the tiny black dot, but this large white paper pasted here, no one sees!”

Not a single student said, “I see a white sheet on the board.” No, everyone saw the black dot upon the white.

We all look at life in this way. We don’t see its flowers, we see its thorns. We don’t see its whiteness, we see its blackness. We don’t see its love, we see its hate. We don’t see its joy, we see its sorrow. And then we keep collecting only that. Our whole mind gets formed in such a way that we can only search for and see the same things. And then, if life becomes a hell, what is there to be surprised about?

Life can also be heaven.

Heaven and hell are perspectives on human life. Hell is not somewhere below, nor heaven somewhere above; they are hidden in human vision—how we see. If you want to obtain misery, look for the dark nights in life. If you want your eyes to rise toward joy, then flowers do bloom in life—look at them. What you see shapes your vision, your capacity to see; it builds your attitude. If today you spend the whole day seeing flowers, tomorrow your capacity to see flowers will have grown. If today you spend the day seeing thorns, tomorrow from the morning you are bound to meet thorns.

So, as we live day by day, moment to moment, we should live searching where there is light in life. If there is joy anywhere, seek it.

A fakir was sitting in his hut one night, around midnight, writing some letters, when someone shoved the door. The latch was loose; the person entered. He had not imagined the fakir would be awake. He was the most notorious thief in the town. Seeing the fakir awake, he grew nervous and pulled out a dagger, expecting a quarrel. But the fakir said, “My friend, put the knife away. You have not come to a bad man’s house where a knife would be needed. Put it in and sit down. Let me finish this letter, then I will talk with you.”

Startled, the thief sat down. The fakir finished his letter and asked, “How come, so late? And such a big city, such grand mansions and palaces, and you chose the hut of a poor man like me! How did you come here?”

The thief said, “Since you ask, I must tell you—and perhaps I cannot lie to you. I have come to steal.”

The fakir sighed gently and said, “How foolish you are! Good man, if only you had sent word a day or two in advance, I could have made some arrangements. This is a fakir’s hut; it is very difficult to find anything here at any time. And how was I to know? Just this morning someone came and offered me some rupees; I returned them. If I had known of your plan, I would have kept them. In future, never do such a thing as to come unannounced. A few rupees are lying there—don’t be offended; I will give them to you.” He had ten rupees. He said, “On that shelf there are ten rupees; take them.”

The thief was bewildered. He had stolen much, but had never met such a man. In his fluster he quickly picked up the ten rupees. The fakir said, “Could you do me this kindness—leave one rupee. In the morning I may need it. I will remain your debtor for one rupee; someday I will repay it.” The thief hastily set one rupee down and began to run out. The fakir called, “My friend, the rupees will be gone by tomorrow; don’t rely on them too much. At least give me your thanks—thanks may be useful later.” The thief thanked him and left.

Later the thief was caught. There were other thefts against him, and this one too. The fakir had to go to court. The thief was frightened that if the fakir even said, “Yes, this man had come to steal,” no further testimony would be needed. The fakir was so well-known that his word would be proof enough. The thief stood trembling. The magistrate asked the fakir, “Do you know this man?”

The fakir said, “Know him? He is my friend. And one is known as a friend precisely because in need he trusts you—that is a friend. One night when this person was in need, he did not go to a palace; he came to my hut. He is my friend; he trusts me.”

The magistrate asked, “Did he ever steal from you?”

The fakir said, “Never. I gifted him nine rupees. And one rupee is still my debt to him, which I have not yet repaid. I must pay him back. Theft does not arise at all. I gave him the money; he thanked me. The matter ended.”

The thief was released three years later and came to the fakir’s hut. He said, “That day you said I was a friend, and for these three years I have kept thinking that apart from you I have no friend. That night I had come to leave; now I have come not to leave. I will not go from here. You changed my life.”

The fakir said, “I did nothing.”

The thief said, “You were the first person in my life who saw some goodness in me. You were the first who saw a radiant aspect of my life. You were the first who challenged my soul. You were the first who drew out all the music within me. Everyone else I met saw only my dark side. And when the whole world saw darkness in me, slowly I became surrounded by that darkness, and I accepted it. You challenged my life. For the first time you made me think: I too can be a good man!”

When we begin to see joy, the auspicious, the benediction, the light in life, not only does our own vision fill with bliss, but wherever we see the auspicious and the good, we also throw a challenge there—for that person too, that the auspicious may arise and grow within him. The world appears so bad not because people are so bad, but because people have no habit of seeing anything other than the bad.

If so many people sitting here were all to look for the bad in me, talk only of my faults, expose only my darkness—how long could I stand against them? Slowly, they would all convince me that I am a bad man. They would fill me with such anger that I would feel, “All right, if you say so, I am even worse than that.” All possibility of the auspicious arising within me would end.

In a Tibetan village there was a monk named Marpa. A man came and said, “Please come to our village and stay there for some time.” Marpa said, “In the village you come from there is a man who plays the flute very well. Have you heard or seen him?” The man said, “What flute will he play! He drinks, he gambles, he is dishonest. What flute could he play!” Marpa said, “I will not go to your village.”

After he left, another man came and invited Marpa to the same village. Marpa said, “I have heard there is a man in your village who plays the flute. He plays very well. Have you ever heard him?” The man said, “He is so dishonest, such a thief, utterly immoral—what flute will he play! Who would go to listen to his flute?” Marpa said, “Let it be; I cannot come to your village.”

That evening a third man came, whose invitation Marpa accepted. Marpa said to him, “I have heard there is a dishonest, thieving, immoral man in your village.” The man replied, “I don’t know about that, but he plays the flute so beautifully that I cannot believe he could be a thief!”

Marpa said, “I will come to your village. In your village there are people who look for life’s goodness. A village where people see the good becomes heaven on earth.”

We have turned our earth into hell.

Sorrow is not outside; it is in our vision. Joy is not outside either; it too is in our vision.

So do not impose your sorrow on the outside. Understand and inquire into your own way of seeing, and there you will find the causes. And if the outer world were truly hell, then no one could ever be blissful—who has the power to change the whole world? But if the hell is in the inner vision, then it is in our hands to enter heaven, because anyone can change his inner vision whenever he chooses.

Therefore I will pray: search within your vision to see where sorrow is, where pain is. Look there. There you will find the causes clearly. And changing those causes is not difficult at all, because no one is willing to remain in misery. Once he understands, “I myself am the creator of my sorrow,” then changing it is no longer difficult. We simply do not know that we ourselves create our suffering. We think the rest of the world is the cause of our pain. And thus we go on dissolving in misery, and no path is found.

There is a way; the way is within. Turn a little thought in this direction, and the truth can be seen.

It’s a very good question. But you didn’t understand me. I did not say that whoever is beautiful on the outside is bad within. I said this: the pursuit of outer beauty is often used to hide inner ugliness. There’s a big difference between the two statements. I did not say that whoever is ugly on the outside is beautiful within. Nor did I say that whoever is beautiful on the outside is ugly within.

What I said is that the search for outer beauty becomes a device to cover inner ugliness. It hides ugliness, but it cannot make one beautiful. Yet the one who discovers the inner ugliness and beautifies the inner life becomes beautiful on the outside naturally. There is no difficulty in becoming outwardly beautiful then. When the light is lit within, its glow spreads outward as well. When fragrance arises within, fragrance pervades without too.

But to seek outer fragrance to suppress the inner stench is a mistake. That is what I told you.

I am a lover of beauty in every form. But beauty that has ugliness lurking behind it is dangerous—not because beauty is wrong, but because it becomes a veil that conceals a great ugliness. And because of that veil, the ugliness remains hidden.

There is a very old tale. The earth had been created and people populated it. Finally, God created Beauty and Ugliness. The goddesses of Beauty and Ugliness descended from the sky to the earth. On the way down, dust and grime clung to their clothes. They stopped by a pond and said, “Let us bathe.” Both left their garments on the bank and entered the water. The goddess of Beauty swam farther out. Perhaps the goddess of Ugliness had been waiting for just that. She quickly came out, put on Beauty’s clothes, and ran away.

Beauty saw that Ugliness had run off wearing her clothes. She came out of the water, naked. Dawn was near; villagers were waking up. There was no way left but to put on Ugliness’s garments. To stand naked was difficult. She put on those clothes. It is said that the goddess of Beauty, wearing Ugliness’s clothes, is still running after the goddess of Ugliness—but the clothes have not been returned yet. The chase goes on and on.

Ugliness wants to wear Beauty’s garments so that it can hide.

I said: when you pursue such outer beauty, be alert—are you, perhaps, intent on hiding an inner ugliness? If so, then strive to end the inner ugliness, not to cover it. When it ends, the inside will be beautiful; the rays of that beauty will spread outward.

Who would not wish for life to be beautiful—beautiful in every limb and aspect? But let life become beautiful from the inside out, not merely beautiful on the outside. For outer beauty alone becomes very dangerous; it turns into self-destruction, self-deception.

And you must have understood what I mean by outer beauty. If it’s a matter of knowledge, we learn words on the outside and hide ignorance inside. Ignorance is ugly. We learn lovely words; we memorize scriptural verses. They stick on the surface. Within, ignorance remains standing. If it’s a matter of morality, desires keep sliding around inside while we take vows of celibacy on the surface. Sex stands within; the robes of celibacy stand without. Anger burns inside; we learn serene facial expressions outside. Tears are within; we paste on a smile without. In this way we cheat life. Something is going on within, and we become something else without. This creates constant strain and tension, because moment to moment we are one thing within—the real—and something else without—the fake. Between the two a conflict goes on, which drains all the joy from life and saps all our strength.

Revolution must begin within, not without. Something must change from the inside, not the outside. Inner change becomes outer change, but outer change cannot become inner change. For within lie our life-breath, our center, our roots. Whoever forgets the roots and worries about the leaves—his tree will wither today or tomorrow. Then he will have to bring plastic leaves and stick them on the outside, and buy plastic flowers from the market. Earlier there were paper flowers; now even stronger imitations have come—plastic. We can sit at home after arranging them. Someone may be deceived into thinking they are flowers—but is a plastic flower a flower? In just this way we have found plastic flowers for our lives too.

So when I said what I said... I am not an enemy of flowers—I love flowers. What could be more delightful than for your home to have flowers? But if you mistake plastic flowers for real ones, that is a serious mess. I oppose plastic flowers—because counterfeit coins drive real coins out of the market. False flowers murder real flowers. False conduct becomes an obstacle to the birth of true conduct. And when we become so eager to care for the flowers and leaves that we forget the roots, everything goes wrong. This is exactly what has gone wrong in life.

Let me tell you a small incident. Mao Tse-tung was a child. His mother had a very beautiful garden. No one in that region had flowers as fine as hers. She had tended them with great love, and love brings reward; the flowers were marvelous. Then the old mother fell ill. She did not worry about her illness or her death; her concern was that her flowers should not wilt, her plants should not wither. Mao was little. He said, “Mother, don’t worry. I will take care of them.”

For fifteen days his mother was sick, and Mao worked in the garden. He did not sleep at night; day and night he labored. But his efforts bore no fruit—the flowers kept drying up, the plants kept wilting. He became anxious. What was happening? After fifteen days, when his mother recovered a little, she came outside and began to weep. Mao also wept. He said, “I worked as hard as I could, but somehow the flowers dried and the plants withered.” His mother asked, “You were in the garden day and night. What were you doing?” He said, “I was dusting every single leaf, spraying water on each flower. I don’t know what happened, but they all kept drying up.”

His mother laughed. She said, “You are a fool. Life does not dwell in the flowers and leaves. Life is in the roots, which are unseen.”

He had given no water to the roots; he had been caring for the flowers and leaves—dusting them, spraying a little water on them. He was a child; he did not see the roots. He paid no attention to what cannot be seen. We care for what is visible. He didn’t even know that beneath the soil there are roots in which life resides. If the roots receive water, then the flowers and leaves will receive it on their own. But by watering the flowers and leaves, the roots cannot be watered.

He was a child—but we are all children like this in the garden of life. We care for the flowers and leaves. We have no concern for the roots. In fact we ask, “That which is not visible—where is it?”

The consciousness within a human being is his root. There are the roots. The soul of man is his root; it is not visible.

Roots are never visible. Their work is invisible. Whoever tends the roots finds that many flowers appear in the outer life, much beauty manifests, much truth and much music are born. But whoever forgets the roots within and busies himself with the flowers and leaves without—his life withers.

All our lives have withered in just this way. To hide this withering, we bring flowers from the market, we attach leaves. The real plant dies. Slowly, only the fake leaves and flowers remain with us. How can there be joy in a counterfeit life? How can there be fragrance in a false life? How can there be that thrill, that dance, that pulsation in what is fake and untrue? It cannot be. Where there is no life, how can any of this happen?

Therefore I said: awaken inner beauty; do not hide inner ugliness. It is to be ended, so do not conceal it. If you want to preserve it—then hide it. Whatever we hide survives. Whatever we expose begins to dissolve. I believe my point has become clear.

One small question more, and then I will conclude the talk.

Love is simply love. It does not belong to a person, nor to a country, nor to humanity, nor to God. In a heart where love is present, that love cannot tolerate any kind of violence or hatred. But we are very clever: we say we love humanity—and we go on killing human beings. It is astonishing. Apart from human beings, is there anything called “humanity”? Go and search—will you find “humanity” anywhere? Wherever you go, you will find human beings; you will not find “humanity” anywhere. And we say we love humanity so much that, if needed, we can kill human beings. Such cleverness, such cunning, such craftiness.

Can a person whose heart is full of love have a country? He cannot, because love has no boundaries. For one whose heart is loving, all countries are his own. He cannot say, “India is mine and Pakistan is not.” His love will not acknowledge any limits. In the name of patriotism we find a way to hide our hatred toward the rest of the world.

The earth is one. All the lines are the handiwork of a few mischief-makers among us. The earth is not cut anywhere, not divided anywhere. The division of the earth into nations is not religious; it is political. It is not a division born of love; it is a division born of hatred and violence. And then wars arise along these borders. We say: for our patriotism we will have our people killed at these borders, and we will kill others. And the politicians of the other nation say the same: you too must kill and die for your patriotism.

In the name of patriotism, in 5,000 years the world has seen 14,000 wars—three wars every year! Fourteen thousand wars in 5,000 years in the name of patriotism! And people are butchered and die. But we are very shrewd: whenever we want to do something bad, we find a lofty slogan—love of country! love of humanity! love of religion! We hide sheer foolishness behind fine words.

A person whose heart holds love cannot agree to violence at any price. He cannot be ready for violence at any price. Nor can he agree to those things that bring violence. National borders are boundaries that bring violence.

One whose heart is loving will be in favor of there being no nations left in the world. He cannot be in favor of preserving nations. He cannot be in favor of preserving divisions of Shudra, Brahmin, Kshatriya, and Vaishya. He cannot be in favor of preserving Hindu–Muslim divisions. He will stand for the understanding that all these boundaries bring war, bring violence; therefore, no boundary should remain in the world.

All this talk of patriotism—Hitler spoke it, Mussolini spoke it, Stalin spoke it, Mao spoke it; everyone everywhere speaks it. And what is the end result of this patriotism? War, murder, and violence! When will we understand that the words “love of country” are false?

If there were love within human beings—and there is not, though it can be born—it will arise only when we clearly see that what we presently take to be love is not love.

When India is attacked by Pakistan, or China attacks, all over India people say: a wave of love has surged; people have come together, organized, unity has appeared. I ask you: is that unity of love, or of hatred? The enemy stands before you; a fierce desire arises to destroy him. A strong surge to grapple, to kill, to be violent runs through you, and we gather together. That gathering is not a gathering of love.

To this day no organization of love has ever been formed in the world. All organizations are of hatred. Then that hatred subsides, the war ends, and we return to our separate corners. That entire unity dissolves. Then the Maharashtrian starts fighting the Gujarati; the Hindu starts fighting the Muslim; the South Indian starts fighting the North Indian; the Hindi speaker starts fighting the non-Hindi speaker.

The day humanity accepts the truth that there is no love within us yet—that we have not yet given birth to love—that day a great blessing will dawn in human life. Then we will be able to think how to give birth to love. As long as we remain in the illusion that love is already within us, even the science of bringing love into being cannot be contemplated.

There are many more questions; I will speak with you about them tomorrow morning.

I am deeply obliged for the way you listened to my words with such love and stillness. In the end, I bow to the divine seated within all. Please accept my pranam.