Jeevan Sangeet #6

What I said—“the search has to be dropped”—was said for attaining the truth that is within us; to seek it is futile, it is a hindrance. But there is truth outside us as well. And the truth that is outside can never be found without search.

So there are two directions in life: one that goes outward from us. If one wants to inquire into the outer world—the realm science explores—then one will have to search. Without search no truth of the outer world can be attained.

There is also an inner world. If one wants to know the inner truth, then searching must be dropped absolutely. If you search, it becomes a hindrance, and the inner truth will not be available.

These two truths are parts of one greater truth. Inner and outer are two extensions of the same reality. But for one who wants to start from the outside there is an endless search—one will have to search, and search, and search. And one who wants to start from the inside must end searching this very moment; then the inner inquiry begins.

Science is search, and religion is no-search.
Science attains by searching; religion attains by losing oneself—not by searching.

So what I said was not with science in mind. I said it with the seeker, with spiritual practice, with religion in mind: whoever wants to realize one’s own truth should drop all searching. Whoever wants to know in the scientific sense will have to search. But remember, however great a scientist one becomes and however many truths of the outer world one may discover, with regard to knowing one’s own truth one remains as ignorant as an ordinary person. The converse is equally true.

No matter how supremely self-realized one may be, as far as science is concerned one is as ignorant as any ordinary person. Go to a Mahavira, a Buddha, or a Krishna with even a small motor to have it repaired, and self-knowledge will be of no use. And go to Einstein wanting to know something of the mystery of the soul, and Einstein’s scientific expertise will be of no use.

Scientificness is one kind of search, one dimension. Religion is a completely different dimension, an altogether different direction. And that is why this loss occurred: the Eastern countries, countries like India, searched within; therefore science did not arise. Because the path to knowing the inner truth is exactly the opposite: there one has to drop logic, drop thinking, drop desire, drop searching—drop everything. The path of inner inquiry is the path of letting everything go. Hence science did not arise in India.

The West searched outward. To search outward you must argue, think, experiment—you must search; then the truths of science become available. So the West attained the knowledge of science, but in matters of religion it remained empty.

And if a culture is to be complete, it needs people who keep searching within—who drop all outer search; and it also needs people who search outside and know the truths of the outer.

However, one and the same person can be both scientific and religious. Let no one think that if one is religious, one cannot be a scientist; nor that if one becomes a scientist, one cannot be religious. But if both are to be done, one will have to work in two directions.

When he searches scientifically, he will have to use logic, thought, and experiment. And when he searches for the self, logic, thought, and experiment—all will have to be dropped. The same person can be both, but to be both he will have to undertake two kinds of experiments.

If a country decides to drop all search and seek nothing, the country will indeed become peaceful, but it will become powerless. It will become peaceful, even happy, yet beset by many kinds of difficulties. Inwardly it will be blissful; outwardly it will become enslaved, poor, and abject.

If a country decides that it will only search outward, it will become affluent, powerful, prosperous; sufferings will almost disappear. But within, restlessness, misery, and madness will take hold.

So if a nation wishes to create a balanced culture, it will have to work in both directions. And if an individual wishes, he can work in both directions too.

Even so, the ultimate goal of man is religion. Science can only make the roadway of life a little more beautiful, more powerful, more prosperous. But supreme peace and supreme bliss are available only through religion.

If you pray to anyone, it will not be prayer. Yet from the word “prayer” it seems as if it must be addressed to someone and done for some purpose. There must be a reason, a supplicant, and someone to whom it is offered. Then it seems to us that prayer cannot happen if there is no reason and no one to address. What would the lone one do—and how?

But my point is this: rightly understood, prayer is not an act; it is a disposition—a prayerful mood. The question is not of “a prayer,” but of a prayerful mood; not of “prayer,” but of a prayerful heart. That is an altogether different matter.

You are walking along the road. A prayerless heart passes by someone fallen at the roadside, dying, as if nothing has happened. But a prayerful heart will do something: it will lift the fallen one, feel concern, run about, get him somewhere. If there are thorns on the path, a prayerless heart will skirt them and go on, but will not remove them; a prayerful heart will take the trouble to pick them up and throw them aside.

A prayerful heart means a loving heart. When a person’s love flows from one person to another, we call it love. When that love is not tied to anyone, when it is for the whole, I call it prayer.

Love is a relationship between two persons, and prayer is a relationship between the one and the infinite. Whoever is loving toward all that surrounds us—trees, birds, everything—is in prayer.

Prayer does not mean that a man sitting in a temple with folded hands is praying. Prayer means a person who, wherever he looks, whatever he touches, wherever he steps, every breath—at all times—is filled with love, is loving.

There was a Muslim fakir. All his life he went to the mosque. He had grown old. One day people did not see him there and thought, has he died? For him to be alive and not come to the mosque was impossible. They went to his house. He was sitting outside the door, playing a little tambourine and singing. They said, What are you doing? Have you become an atheist at the end? Will you not pray?

The fakir said, It is precisely because of prayer that I could not come to the mosque today.
They said, What do you mean? You didn’t come to the mosque because of prayer? How can there be prayer without the mosque?
The man opened his shirt. A sore had developed on his chest, swarming with worms. He said, Yesterday I went, and when I bowed for namaz, some worms fell from the sore. It occurred to me they would die—how would they live without the sore? So today I cannot bow. Because of prayer I could not come to the mosque.

Very few will understand this prayer.

But when I speak of prayer, this is what I mean: a prayerful mood, a prayerful attitude. The question is, in the life we are living, how prayerful can we be in all directions?

It is not a matter of worshipping some God or deity. For me prayer means love, and I say again and again: love is prayer. If we get tied to one person, the stream of love is blocked and turns into attachment. If we expand and the current of love is freed, love becomes prayer.

Bear this a little in mind.

If love stops at one person, it becomes attachment and a cause of bondage. And if love goes on spreading, over all, and slowly becomes unconditional—no conditions remain like “I will love this one”—if only one feeling remains: that I can only love, I cannot do otherwise.

There was a woman mystic named Rabiya. Somewhere the Quran says: Hate the devil. She crossed out that line. A friend staying with her said, Who has altered the Quran? Can anyone amend a scripture?
Rabiya said, I had to, because it says “Hate the devil,” and I have become incapable of hatred. Since prayer has flowered, I cannot hate. Even if the devil stands before me, I am compelled only to love. The question is not who he is; the question is me—because I have nothing except love. So I had to strike out that line; it is not right. Now whether God comes before me or the devil, I can only pray, I can only love. Hence it is difficult even to tell who is the devil and who is God—and there is no need to tell, because whatever it is, I can only do the same!

Love, stopping at one, becomes bondage, becomes attachment—like a river dammed that turns into a stagnant pool. Understand it: the river stops and becomes a puddle; it does not flow, it begins to circle round. A pond comes into being; it will rot, it will go bad; it will not flow. If the river is stopped it becomes a pool; if it grows and spreads it becomes the ocean.

The stream of love within us—if it makes a puddle around one person, or around two or four persons—around the son, the wife, the friend—then it stagnates there. From that “love” nothing rises but stench. That is why families have become centers of stench. They are all puddles, and puddles will smell. Our relationships have all gone rotten, because wherever love stops, decay begins. Between husband and wife there is nothing but putrefaction; between father and son, nothing.

Where love stops, its purity goes, its innocence goes, its freshness goes. In our attachment, out of fear that love might be shared with all, we try to stop it. Everyone tries to stop it, thinking if it stops perhaps we will get more. The irony is: once stopped, it rots—and then nothing is received. Let it grow, let it spread, keep spreading. The more it spreads, the more it reaches to the maximum, the more it turns into prayer. In the end, as love grows it reaches the ocean—then love becomes prayer.

So the question is not “to whom.” When you ask “to whom,” you are really asking to whom shall we bind it—tie it to Rama, to Krishna, to Mahavira, to Buddha? The way we bind love personally, we bind prayer too. If someone is crazy about Shiva’s temple, he won’t go to Rama’s; if he is a devotee of Krishna, he will not bow to Rama. That prayer is fettered too!

There are so many temples along the road—each with its own! Can even temples be “mine” and “yours”? A temple can only be of the divine. Yet everyone has their own temple. And even within those temples there are sects. Those who follow Mahavira alone will litigate within the same temple—because someone’s Mahavira wears clothes and someone’s Mahavira remains naked. The one of nakedness will not allow clothes; the one of clothes will not allow nakedness. And the quarrel goes on! What a joke!

I heard of an incident: in a village the festival of Ganesha is celebrated; Ganesha is taken out in procession. People of every community make their own Ganesha. Everyone has their own Ganesha: the Brahmins’ Ganesha, the blacksmiths’ Ganesha, the merchants’ Ganesha, the Shudras’ Ganeshas—each has his own, and they all go in procession. By custom the Brahmins’ Ganesha goes first.

That day, however, the Brahmins’ Ganesha was delayed, and the oil-pressers’ Ganesha reached first. When the Brahmins arrived and saw the oil-pressers’ Ganesha in front, it was intolerable. How could the oil-pressers’ Ganesha be in front! The Brahmins said, Move that oil-pressers’ Ganesha back! Is Ganesha also theirs? Move it back! Has it ever happened? The Brahmins’ Ganesha goes ahead. The oil-pressers’ Ganesha was forcibly pushed back and the Brahmins’ Ganesha moved ahead. If Ganesha is anywhere, he must be banging his head!

Does anyone care for Ganesha? Only “our” Ganesha! And even among them there are differences!

Prayer too gets bound; it asks, “to whom?” Whose prayer shall we do? To no one in particular. The very meaning of prayer is: to all. The love that flows toward the totality that pervades everywhere—that is called prayer.

It is not a matter of folding hands and being done. It is a matter of living, twenty-four hours. Live in such a way that love keeps flowing toward all—then prayer is fulfilled. But the dishonest have found tricks to avoid real prayer: they go for two minutes, fold their hands, come back from the temple and say, We have prayed. These are tricks and insincerities—ways to escape real prayer.

Love is prayer. Love for the whole is prayer.

Let us live so that our love does not run dry. Let us live so that love goes on growing. Let us live so that love does not stop or stagnate anywhere. Let us live so that, little by little, our love becomes unconditional.

Our love is always conditional. We say, If you are like this, I will love you. If you do this, I will love you. If you love me, I will love you. Wherever conditions are placed on love, love becomes a bargain, a marketplace. When I say, I will love only if this happens...

I have heard of a very great saint—better not to mention names, because in this country names bring all kinds of trouble. This great saint, a devotee of Rama, was taken to Krishna’s temple. He said, Until you put the bow and arrow in his hands, I cannot bow my head! What a joke. Even in love a condition: take up the bow and arrow, then I will bow! Meaning, even this head will bend on condition. First do as I say, then I will bow. The devotee is trying to be the owner even of God, possessive. He says, behave like this, then I will bow; otherwise, finished—no relation!

This mind of ours cannot be prayerful. A man bound by conditions can never be prayerful. Unconditional—not because of how you are, but because I can only give love, I want only to give love; my capacity is only to give love; I have nothing else. What you will do is not the important question.

One small incident and I will finish. Tomorrow we will take up the remaining questions.

One morning a man came to Buddha and spat on him. Buddha wiped his face with his shawl and said to the man, Have you anything more to say? If someone spits on you, would you say, “Anything more to say?” The monks sitting nearby were filled with anger. They said, What are you asking—“anything more to say”?

Buddha said, As far as I can see, there is so much anger in this man that he could not say it in words; he has said it by spitting. But I have understood that he has something to say. When anger is too much, one cannot speak, one spits. When love is too much, one does not speak, one embraces. What he has said by spitting—I have understood. Now, is there anything more to say, or is it finished?

The man was astonished; he had never imagined such a response to spitting. He went away, could not sleep all night, and came the next day to ask forgiveness. He fell at Buddha’s feet and tears began to fall. When he rose, Buddha said, Have you anything more to say? The monks exclaimed, What are you saying! Buddha said, Look, I told you yesterday. Today too this man wants to say something, but he is so full of feeling that only tears come; words do not come—he holds the feet. Words are not found. I understand. But is there anything more to say?

The man said, Nothing more—only this: all night I could not sleep. It seemed to me that until now I had always received your love, but by spitting I have lost my worthiness; now I will never receive your love.

Buddha said, Listen—how strange! Did I love you because you did not spit on me? Was that the reason for my love—that you did not spit? You were not the reason for my loving. I love because I am helpless—I can do nothing but love.

A lamp is lit; whoever passes by, the light falls on him—not because of who he is. Light is the nature of the lamp; it falls. Whether an enemy passes or a friend; even if one who comes is to extinguish the lamp, still the light falls.

So Buddha said, I love because I am love. What you are is irrelevant. Whether you spit, throw stones, or touch my feet—it is beside the point; it has no bearing. You do what you will; allow me to do what I must. I have to love—that I will go on doing. You go on doing what you do. And let us see whether love wins or hatred.

This man is loving. This man is prayerful. The name of such a consciousness is prayer.

As for the rest, we will speak tomorrow.