Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #2

Ajit Saraswati! The truth is that all journeys are false—even the inner journey. The truth is that what you are is sufficient; it is completeness. Where you are, there is nowhere else to be. In being exactly as you are, there is nirvana. But to embrace this truth is certainly difficult—not just difficult, as you say, it seems impossible. Because all our conditioning is for journeys. The whole foundation of our training is ambition, aspiration, the race to attain something. Whether the race is for wealth or for meditation—makes no difference. Whether it is for status or for God—makes no difference. The mind is not troubled by that. The mind says, “No problem—if not status, then let it be God! Keep the language of attainment intact and the mind agrees.” The language of acquisition suits the mind; the mind survives only on the language of getting. Mind means future. The hunger to attain can only be fulfilled in the future, not here and now. In the here and now there is no space left for the mind; no room in which to move. The mind needs a little room—to scramble, to run; then it is satisfied. Whether the goal is worldly or otherworldly—the mind is happy so long as you keep running to get something. The mind is even willing that you practice no-mind! Practice freedom from mind—the mind is willing even for that. It says, “Do something; keep doing something!” Because the mind knows: whatever you do, the mind will survive. In doing, the mind finds protection and nourishment.

That is why, when you first come to me, I, too, am compelled to speak your language. I tell you: attain God, attain bliss, attain liberation, nirvana. But frankly, that is only a device to keep you engaged. It is like baiting a hook with dough to catch fish. The fish won’t swallow the hook; it will swallow the dough—and the hook goes in with it; once the hook is in, the fish is caught.

Your mind needs the dough; so one must talk of sat-chit-ananda, of supreme nirvana, of that otherworldly great bliss awaiting you; of that truth far away—like the moon and stars—and your mind is pleased. It says: “We will go; we will undertake this journey.” The mind accepts the challenge. In fact, those who run after money or position cannot satisfy the mind so much, because the mind looks around: many have attained position—but what did they really get? Many have amassed wealth—what did they gain? The mind is not blind; it sees people’s lives all around. So when you say, “I want wealth,” the mind does not feel much challenge. Seeing the rich around, it already feels half dead, “Even if I get it, then what?”

But when you say, “I want meditation,” the mind stands tall; it regains strength; a flame lights up within; it fills with a new mission. “Yes, now there is something worth doing! I am not an ordinary man—I am extraordinary! I am not worldly—I am spiritual. These worldly people are entangled in petty things; death will snatch these away. I will attain the vast, the eternal, what even death cannot take away!”

Look closely—this is greed in a subtler form, very refined. Your monks tell you, “Why get stuck in the trivial? Seek the eternal—what thieves cannot steal, bandits cannot loot, death cannot snatch; that which fire cannot burn—nainaṁ dahati pāvakaḥ; that which weapons cannot pierce—nainaṁ chindanti śastrāṇi.” And you think, “Ah, this is lofty spirituality!” And the mind becomes eager; it accepts this challenge. The higher the peak, the more the mind is attracted. The farther away, the more alluring. Because, “If I could reach it, I would become unique. What joy is there in getting money? The real joy is in becoming a Buddha! What joy in gaining office? The joy is in becoming a Jina! What joy if a few people know your name, and then death comes and wipes it away like a line drawn on water? The joy is in becoming a Krishna, a Christ! For centuries the name resounds; for ages flowers will be offered at your feet.”

Look carefully—the mind is cunning. It says, “This is worth doing.” Hence talk of the spiritual journey appeals to the mind. I too speak to you of the spiritual journey—but in my reckoning, it is only bait.

Ajit Saraswati, once you are hooked, then the real thing must be said. And the real thing will put you in difficulty, in great conflict. Today or tomorrow, when I see you have come to the point where the real can be told, and yet you will not be able to turn back—when you have reached the point of no return—then I will tell you: there is no journey. God is not a destination; God is your very being. God is not to be attained—you never lost Him. For attaining God there are no methods, no techniques, no practices. Methods and practices are needed only to get what is not your nature, what is alien to you.

Yes, for money you need methods, techniques, strategies, a path. But God is your inner state, your interiority. You have never been, are not, and cannot be other than God. You have only fallen asleep. God is given to you so utterly that you have forgotten. What is too present is forgotten. You live in God, hence you forget. God is so near—nearer than the nearest—the life of your life; therefore He is overlooked. Not because He is far, but because He is not far. Distant stars are seen; what is very near is forgotten. If you want to see your face in a mirror, don’t press your face right up against it—you won’t see anything. A little distance, a perspective is needed.

Mulla Nasruddin was in court. He was asked, “When this murder took place, how far were you?” He said, “Seventeen feet and nine-and-a-half inches.” The magistrate and the whole court were startled. “You must have known beforehand a murder would happen! Were you standing there with a tape? I’ve run a court for years; never got an answer right down to half an inch! And it was a dark night, no lantern, no light—how did you see so clearly? How far can you see in the dark?” Nasruddin said, “Don’t ask that! Even on a dark night, I can see the stars. So this was not that far!”

Stars can be seen—they are far. Because they are far, they can be seen. What is very near is forgotten. This is a mind’s simple rule: what you already have, you forget; what others have, you notice; what is in your own house, you don’t.

When did you last truly look at your wife? It might be years! Neighbors stare at her with wide eyes—but a husband looking at his wife that way would be thought mad!

Nasruddin’s wife went to the doctor and said, “My husband’s eyesight seems weak; he needs glasses. He won’t admit it. Please come home and fit him with a pair.” The doctor asked, “How do you know he needs them?” She said, “What shall I hide from you—he actually stares at me! It’s clear his eyes have weakened—otherwise what husband stares at his wife? One day I was passing by, and he even whistled at me! Then I was sure he can’t see properly—otherwise would he make such a mistake?”

What is ours, what is close, is remembered only when it is gone. When you weep at someone’s death, you are not really crying because death happened. If you analyze deeply, you will find something else: “We were together so long, and I neither loved nor sat in joy with you—and now we will never meet.” When we were close, we stayed distant; now parted forever, there is no way to be close again. That regret makes you weep; that pain pricks—now what can be done? Now even if you wish, it is beyond reach.

God is so close to us—so close, always—that it is quite natural we forget. We have simply forgotten. We need only to be reminded—re-membered. Mind this: I say re-membrance. We only need to be shaken awake.

But Ajit Saraswati, I understand your difficulty too. You say: up to now the journey was simple. I know. Any journey is simple for the mind; even the most arduous journey is simple. The obstacle appears when I say: now no journey—stop! Be still! The mind is skilled at running. The mind is like a bicycle that stays upright so long as you pedal. Stop pedaling and it falls. Keep pedaling—new desires, new ambitions; if you’re done with this world, then the next world—just keep the pedals turning. Go anywhere, but go on. East or west—no matter—but don’t stop! The mind says, “Don’t stop; if you stop, I die! In stillness is my death.” And where the mind dies, there God is experienced.

Therefore at first I cajole you—like we give toys to a child. I tell you: practice, meditate, pray; you will attain God; bliss will shower; pearls will rain—“jharat dasahũ dis moti”—and you are enticed. This has always been the method of the Buddhas. There is no other way to take your hand. The truth can be told only when it is certain you can no longer turn back—when the bridges behind are burnt. Then the truth can be told; and then truth feels like a gallows. There is nowhere further to go, and no way back; you must stop. Stop—and the mind falls. When the mind falls, everything happens. As the mind collapses here, the hidden within you reveals itself there.

You are God. Amṛtasya putraḥ—the Vedas say: you are the children of immortality. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do. It will feel impossible. You will ask, “Then what shall I do?” And I am saying: nothing is to be done. In this world, nothing is harder than non-doing. Ordinarily, it seems non-doing should be simplest—when there is nothing to do, what difficulty can there be? But no—the truth is the opposite. Doing is not difficult; man can do the most difficult things. He can even go to the moon. But ask him to sit silently for two moments—don’t move, don’t stir the mind, let no ripple arise within, drop thoughts—and he says, “That I cannot do.” He will put his life at risk to climb Everest—but don’t ask him to go within. Because the fundamental principle of going within feels like suicide to the mind—and indeed it is the death of the mind. The inner is not a journey; it is the dropping of all journeys. When all journeys drop, you have arrived within. The “inner journey” is not one more journey; it is only a way of speaking. Freedom from all journeys is the inner journey. When there is nowhere left to go, you become still. In that stillness… Kabir says: “Jyõ kā tyõ thaharāyā”—just as it is, it stands still. You remain exactly as you are; the whole secret opens, the temple doors swing wide: jyõ kā tyõ thaharāyā.

It will feel impossible, and yet it will make sense—because now you have come to the place where it must make sense. Had it not been possible, I would not have said it to you. If I am saying it to you, it will be understood. But understanding it and remaining established in that understanding are two different things. It comes—and slips away. It comes and goes. For a moment everything seems clear—a lightning flash—and then deep darkness again. The intellect understands: “God is my nature; right—where to go, what to attain? We are already in Him; He is our life.” But then the mind—ancient, ancient, from birth to birth—remember this: in every life the body changes; the mind does not. When one body drops, don’t think the mind inside it also drops. The mind flies on and enters another body. The mind you carry is very ancient; the body is new—fifty, sixty, seventy years old at most. The mind has seen the whole history—countless ages of wandering. Indian seers gave it a symbol: the mind has roamed through the 8.4 million forms. The body kept changing; the mind remained the same, layered deeper and deeper with experiences, beliefs, cravings, fears, desires—until it became a Himalaya of habit.

You get a glimpse that the teaching is right; but the ancient mind won’t let the glimpse stay. It protests, “How can this be right? What will happen to me? Where will I go? If you are already God, then what is the point of religion? What meaning has practice? If you are God, then who is saint and who sinner? Who is Ravana and who Rama?” The mind creates a thousand disturbances. “Then what difference between a drunkard and a devotee—if all are God?” It becomes hard to answer such questions. And the truth is: between saint and sinner there is no difference—only on the surface, in the mind; within, the same One resides. Between Rama and Ravana there is no difference.

Have you ever gone behind the stage of a Ramlila? There the reality is revealed. The curtain lifts: Rama and Ravana stand with bows and arrows aimed, ready for battle, eager to kill each other. Then the curtain drops. Go and look backstage—what’s happening? Rama and Ravana are sitting together, sipping tea, chatting. Mother Sita sits between them, gossiping; Hanuman has hung up his tail and removed his mask—they are all in their real selves. This world is a grand stage. Frontstage, with the curtains up, there are great differences; when the curtains fall, none. It is acting. Life is nothing more than acting. The mind is the actor. To be aware of the mind, to be a witness, is to peep behind the stage, to see what’s real.

You are what you have to be—and you have always been that. The understanding will come, because I have drawn your understanding this far. But often it will seem to slip, because the ancient mind will keep playing its tricks, kicking its heels; habits die hard. Even as they die, they make one last effort to save themselves, crying, “Help, help!”

Habits have their own life. These mental habits have taken possession of you. If you try to throw them out in one day, they will not go. No tenant leaves so easily! Even if they have stayed two or four years, they won’t leave; and these have lived for ages. They will try to throw out the owner himself. They will say, “If you are uncomfortable, you can leave! Go take some fresh air!”

They have occupied everything. So these habits will keep brushing away the coming understanding. But now they cannot win. For a while there will be tussle, Ajit—a tug-of-war between your habits and me. Now just watch! See whether your habits win or I win. I can tell you this much: they cannot win—however much time they take, however long the delay, they cannot win. The bridges back are gone. I assure you of this: there is no longer any way back. Whoever has come to me, sat with me, dipped a little into me—there is no way for him to go anywhere else. If you want to be safe from me, don’t come near me at all. And if you do come, sit absolutely deaf—don’t listen to a word! Whatever I say, keep other thoughts running inside. And if you run away, don’t ever come back!

Ajit, that time is gone. You have already drowned—drowned up to your neck. Now there is no fear. For a few days your habits will flap their wings, flutter, try their tricks. Poor habits don’t yet know how deep you have drowned. They still hope to drag you back to the old ways. Those ways can no longer be fastened on you.

You ask: “Am I expecting the impossible before its time?”

No—the time has come! And this is not the impossible; it is the natural. It isn’t even an expectation; it is the acceptance of what is natural. “Anal Haq.” Let this proclamation arise now. “Aham Brahmāsmi.” Let it resound in every fiber of your being.

You ask: “Is waiting a sadhana harder than sadhana?”

Waiting—for what? In waiting, the journey starts again: that someone will come, that the one-to-come will arrive. No one is coming. No one ever went. Whoever is—already is. “Jyõ kā tyõ thaharāyā.” Whom are you to wait for? No waiting is needed.

This existence is complete. The Upanishads give a lovely declaration of this completeness: even if from the Whole you take away the whole, the Whole remains; if into the Whole you add the whole, the Whole remains just the same. The Whole is unaffected. Such are the virtues of the Whole and the Void: take anything from zero—zero remains zero; add anything to zero—zero remains zero. Therefore Purna (the Whole) and Shunya (the Void) are two names for the same truth—two faces of one coin. Vedanta chose “Purna”; the Buddha chose “Shunya.” It is only a choice—according to one’s taste. But they point to the same reality.

You are That. Now keep this remembrance steady—this is the real meditation. Resolution will not come from my answers; resolution comes from samadhi. And samadhi can flower.

You are not expecting it before time. Time has always already arrived. The happening can occur this very moment—now, here. There is no need to postpone it even for a moment. Don’t bring in tomorrow. Whoever brings in tomorrow postpones forever. Tomorrow means “never.”

Hence those who knew said:
“What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now.
In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it then?”

But the sayings of the wise, when they reach the ignorant, get spoiled.

Chandulal went to his psychologist: “What should I do? No one works. No one comes on time. Once in, they stretch their legs, read the paper, drink tea, smoke, gossip. They hide small transistor radios in their desk drawers and listen. I’ve even fixed it with the peon that when I enter the office, he rings a bell—then everyone sits up, files open. The moment I leave, files close! No work gets done; the shop is sinking, bankruptcy near.” The psychologist said, “Put this plaque on everyone’s desk:

‘Kāl karai so āj kar, āj karai so ab.
Pal mẽ pralaya hoegi, bahuri karaiga kab.’

What you would do tomorrow, do today; what you would do today, do now.
In a moment may come dissolution—when will you do it again?

Seeing it daily, something will click.” Chandulal liked the idea, got beautiful plaques made, put them on every desk, on walls everywhere—even in the bathroom—wherever you went, the same plaque. Three or four days later he met the psychologist on the road. “How’s it going?” “Don’t ask! It has never been worse. I feel like wringing your neck! That plaque… My cashier ran away with the safe, leaving a note: ‘What you would do tomorrow, do today.’ He wrote: ‘Sir, I had long thought of running off with it, but kept delaying. Your plaque gave me the signal: if you want to leave, leave now! “In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it then?”’ And my head clerk ran off with my typist. On the wall he wrote: ‘Keep your maxim in mind! I had wanted to elope for long, but thought, what’s the hurry? Your plaque reminded me.’ And if that were all, my peon barged in and started beating me with his shoe! I asked, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘Why did you put up that plaque? I’ve always wanted to set this Chandulal right—what peon doesn’t want to beat his boss? But I kept thinking: sometime, someday, if the chance comes. Since I read the plaque I realized: “In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it then?” So do what you have to do!’ He’s ruined my business!”

The wise say something; by the time it reaches the ignorant, its meaning is utterly altered—because the mind stands in between, skilled at making mischief. When I say “nothing is to be done,” don’t think it means: pull the sheet over your head and sleep. Don’t conclude: whatever you are doing is fine—there is nothing else to do. Don’t think: “If this world is only a play, then if I steal, what can I do? If I cheat, what can I do? God is making me do it! He gave me this role; how can I change it? If the role is of a thief, I must be a thief!” Your mind is very dishonest—the mind as such is dishonest. Be alert to it. It will devise such tricks. Because of this mind, the great sutras of this land have produced terrible side effects. Place gold in our hands—we turn it to dust. Malukdas said, “Ajgar karai na chākari, panchhi karai na kām; dās Malūka kah gaye, sabke dātā Rām!” “The python does no job, the birds do no work; says servant Maluka, the giver of all is Ram!” And every lazy fellow memorized this line: Why work? Why take a job? If Ram provides for all, He will take care of us too. The whole country became sluggish, lethargic. The result is in front of us: deep poverty, slavery, hunger, disease. We cover our illnesses with beautiful words.

When I tell you “You are God,” don’t turn its meaning into mischief. I am saying it exactly as it is—but don’t misunderstand. And note: I am saying this to Ajit Saraswati. There are many kinds of people here; some are utterly new. They will think: “If it is so, why meditate?” Ajit Saraswati is asking this after ten years of labor—tireless effort—which makes him worthy to ask. And this answer I am giving to him. That is why I take the name of the questioner—so you remember for whom the answer is meant. If you are new, you will think, “This is great—no meditation, no prayer, no worship! That’s exactly how we are living—a perfect spiritual life already!” This question requires qualification; to understand this answer requires great maturity, much preparedness. Meditation must have ripened you, brought you to the place where this question truly arises in your being—only then does this answer have meaning for you. Many here are first-timers; they have neither meditated, nor listened, nor understood. They will go away thinking: “What’s the use of going there? He says nothing needs to be done. We went for treatment, and the physician says no treatment is needed—let’s find another doctor.”

So be mindful of which answer is for whom. Those who have meditated five to seven years, for whom it is now clear there is no way back, and before whom this question stands: if there is no journey, how to go ahead? No going back, no going forward—then where to go? Nowhere. Exactly at the point between back and forward—the present moment—be still. Jyõ kā tyõ thaharāyā. From there reality dawns; from there God is experienced. No waiting. No one is coming. The One who was to come is already sitting within you—He is your breath, your heartbeat, the flow of your blood, your very life. Tattvamasi. You are That.

Krishna Chaitanya! Even within a curse, blessings are concealed. If you learn the art of seeing thorns rightly, they turn into flowers. If there are eyes, even darkness becomes luminous; even in death, the door of the divine is revealed. It is we who are blind. Because of our blindness, even a door appears as a wall, and a flower as a thorn. And what is life, after all, more than death? So learn the first lesson.

You say:
“Had I not received the sorrows that life gave me,
I would not have come into your refuge.”

So now learn also to thank sorrow. And when sorrow comes, welcome it as a friend. Because hidden behind sorrow is joy. If only you can welcome sorrow, you have learned the alchemy of transforming it, the art of it. You become an alchemist, a magician. And I want to make my sannyasins magicians—nothing less. This is the real magic: to find the song of joy even within sorrow; to discover the secret by which flowers bloom even in pain. The real magic is that even death ceases to be death for us. We are ready—with dance, song, music, celebration—to embrace it: the embrace of death. And then death itself changes. In death too the very face of God is seen. And one who can transform death—what shall life be for him but a great, great life! One who can transform thorns, for him the fragrance of the eternal will for the first time be in flowers. In the fleeting he will glimpse the timeless; in the momentary he will catch the hint, the scent, the whisper of the beyond.

“My failures themselves became lamps;
without them, I would have gained nothing at all.”

Learn this! Do not understand it only with reference to the past. Failures will keep coming, sorrows will keep coming. Remember it ahead too; do not forget. Anyone can appear wise in retrospect—bear this in mind. To be wise about the past is not very difficult. That is why the old so often speak words of wisdom. It isn’t hard; it’s quite simple. Becoming old and then talking cleverness is no sign of intelligence—every old person becomes “clever” in this sense. Having seen life, he can now calmly review its entanglements. But if you told them, “We’ll make you young again,” do you think they would not repeat the same mistakes? They would make exactly the same ones.

Mulla Nasruddin lay on his deathbed, a hundred years old. Reporters gathered—he had lived long. One asked, “Although perhaps I should not ask at such a moment, you are leaving and this question will keep pricking me like a thorn. If you were given life again, would you commit the same mistakes you made in this one?” Nasruddin opened an eye and said, “Yes, I would—only I’d start a little earlier. This time I made many mistakes, but I started them a bit late.”

Nasruddin is right. Few old people are that honest, but if any old person looked within and thought, “If I were made young again, what would I do?”—he would do exactly what he did before.

To be wise about the past is easy. Wisdom is needed in the present. And there is nothing easier than advising others in this world.

Remember two things in the world. First, giving advice to others is the easiest thing there is; second, accepting someone else’s advice is the hardest. So advice is given most freely—people are ready to give it for free—and nobody takes it. You may give a thousand, no one will accept. Why? Because your advice is coming from your past, and the one you are giving it to must apply it in his present. That’s where the difference lies. To be wise in the present is difficult. It needs a keen, sharp flame of awareness, the refinement of meditation.

Krishna Chaitanya, you now see that the failures you met, the setbacks you suffered, brought you here. Today you can thank them. But if a failure comes tomorrow, you will again forget. I say this because it is the very nature of mind—to forget. You will forget, and repeat the same mistake.

Remember this: if a failure comes today, know that some success must be coming behind it. Failure is the veil of success. And if some misfortune breaks upon life today, don’t panic! Soon the clouds will scatter and the sun will rise.

If only in the hour of sorrow you can remember; if in the hour of failure you do not forget and do not fall unconscious—then a great key has come into your hands.

You say:
“These flowers would not have bloomed in the hem of my robe,
had its fabric not been torn by thorns.”

So the next time a thorn snags your hem, do not curse it—thank it! Will you be able to? In that moment, can you remember this truth? If you can, your life is transformed; you go on from here new. You came a beggar, you go a king. That is the only difference between a beggar and a king!

“The strings of my heart have risen in music,
which I would never have sung otherwise.”

A few things must be remembered here. Indeed, in the presence of the master, songs rise from the disciple’s heart-strings, a music awakens, such as he could never imagine he could sing. Yet remember: the song is yours; the music is yours. It was asleep in your own sitar. The master cannot give you a song or give you music; he cannot even pluck your heart’s veena with his own fingers. He can only indicate. Your own fingers must strike the strings. The strings are yours, the fingers are yours, the music is yours. The Buddha has said: Buddhas only show the path; you must walk it.

But I understand your feeling. When, for the first time, music awakens, it feels exactly like this:

“The strings of my heart have risen in music,
which I would never have sung otherwise.”

“I could never have sung this; this could never have happened through me.” Yet let me remind you: whatever is happening, it is yours. You are singing. Nothing of mine is in it. Yes, it was unfamiliar. Your diamond lay buried under the rubbish within you. I merely pointed. Whatever you have found is your own—for only what is yours can be found. My fragrance—when you leave here—will remain here. My song—when you go—will be left here.

Therefore I do not give you a fragrance that can be lost, nor a song that can be misplaced. I want only this: that you learn the art of playing your own sitar. I give you the awareness so that wherever you are, you can pluck your strings—there the song will arise. And as you become more adept, that song will gather ever more dignity and glory; it will grow richer, new dimensions will join it. The music will become sweeter; it will draw ever nearer to samadhi.

From the disciple’s side, gratitude is natural. From the master’s side, this reminder is equally necessary.

Who are you, remaining on life’s path,
like anyone’s inert footprints?
Being erased on the sands of time,
indifferent to strength, unknowing—
Which happy-dream broke, whose memory,
turned into a stream of tears,
sits blocking your way today
even amid nature’s dawn?
Which withered hope is it that,
upon empty pages with a deep sigh,
becoming the pen of despair,
keeps writing the history of birth and death?
What goal is that which, throwing far away
the burden of your duties,
slipping the noose of detachment on your feet,
has brought you to this shore?
When man heard the cuckoo’s soft, sweet call,
music resounded in his heart;
consciousness scattered and became song.
Anointed with the collyrium of curiosity,
spellbound, eyes widened for a moment,
man only remained gazing,
becoming the discernment of love’s attraction.
Blue mantle clasping crimson,
a body shining like bright quicksilver,
with a shimmering dark-cloud veil—
as if dawn herself is arriving.
With a cool breath he said,
“O embodiment of beauty!
Who am I—what can I tell you?
I have long been a stranger to myself.”

You come as a stranger. You are—but not acquainted with yourself. You have no recognition of who you are. There is a veena in your heart, but you have forgotten it. This happens, doesn’t it? You see someone and feel, “I know him, I recognize him; the name is right on the tip of my tongue”—and yet it won’t come. You remember that you remember, and still it won’t come. The face feels familiar, the name known, but somewhere, like a stone wedged in between, something prevents memory from reaching you. Between your awareness and your heart something small is obstructing.

The whole work of the true master is just this: to remove a few pebbles, to do a little digging, so you can reach the spring. That digging can be hard and sometimes painful to the disciple—because the stones he had taken for diamonds, the master picks up and tosses away like stones. He had thought them diamonds; he had polished and arranged them; he had saved them, thinking someday he would need them.

Carl Gustav Jung, the great Western psychologist, endorsed a new principle. I say “endorsed,” not “invented,” for it is not new. For centuries it has been used in satsang. But in the West it is new. Jung called it the law of synchronicity. Science stands upon the law of cause and effect: heat water to a hundred degrees—cause—and it becomes steam—effect. If the cause is present, the effect must occur, without exception. Water does not turn to steam at ninety-eight or ninety-seven—there are no personal moods in water. Water is bound by necessity; at a hundred degrees it must become steam. It cannot say, “I’m not in the mood today. I’ve got the flu. It’s my day off. Heat me as much as you like, I won’t become steam.”

Science rests upon this rule of determinism. Hence it accepts no freedom—declares that man too is similarly determined. Therefore it cannot accept soul or God, for soul and God are proclamations of freedom. Science holds that all is bound by necessity, with no exceptions.

This law of synchronicity that Jung articulated is the acceptance of human freedom. In satsang we have always known it. Satsang means exactly this: synchronicity. Satsang means to sit near the master. Upanishad means to sit near; upavas (fasting) in its root means to stay near; upasana, worship, means to sit near. All these point to one thing: if you can sit near one in whom the happening has happened—who has known “Who am I?”—then in his presence, if you leave your doors and windows open—that openness is what we call trust—the tides of his awakening can enter you. Doubt means: sit with locks fastened. Doubt means: sit afraid that something might be lost, some treasure looted. Though there is nothing to lose, some people are very strange!

Once, in Delhi, at a political conference, a lame man, a cripple, a blind man, a deaf man, and a naked man happened to meet. And why not? Where else would such people gather if not in Delhi! Delhi is a strange carnival—no wonder they all met there. They were returning home by a forest path when the deaf one said, “Friends, do you hear those hoofbeats in the distance? It seems bands of dacoits have surrounded us. Those bugles, that commotion!” Hearing this, the limping one said, “It would be best if we ran and hid somewhere. Otherwise, today death is certain.” The one-legged man roared like a lion, “You cowards! Talk of running? And what about me! Today I’ll have a bout with them—I’ll make each dacoit remember his mother’s milk!” Listening to them, the naked man said, “You fools, will you just keep babbling? Do something! Are you planning to have me looted?”

People keep themselves so tightly shut lest someone rob them—though they possess nothing! Guards posted at doors and windows lest some treasure be stolen.

Satsang means: leaving doors and windows open—“I have nothing to be looted. If something can enter, let it come in—sunlight, fresh air, a gust of rain, a breath of wind—I have nothing to lose.”

A thief entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house at night. He was creeping in the dark, feeling his way. Nasruddin sprang up, quickly lit a lantern, and stood behind him, holding it up to help him look. The thief was aghast. He had stolen all his life, but never had the owner come with a lantern to show him around! He said, “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” Nasruddin said, “What am I doing! I’ve been living in this house thirty years and found nothing in broad daylight; you’re looking in the dark! Brother, I brought a lantern—if you find anything we’ll share it half-and-half. I’m with you—don’t be afraid!”

There is nothing—and yet people are so suspicious, so cautious, so alert, lest any idea, any wave of thought, slip inside. Satsang means: eager that a wave might enter. Thirsty to drink, should a drizzle begin. And when such an open heart sits near an awakened one, the vibrations of his awakening begin to stir you. The veena that plays within him reminds you of your own unplayed veena. The light that has arisen in him fills you with the sense, “I too am made of bone, flesh and marrow—so there must be light within me as well.” Once that remembrance starts, it is not difficult. Finding the light is not hard—the lamp is already burning, without wick and oil. And once you hear the music of someone’s being, immediately your own inner music calls out, “How long I have lain here, calling!”

Have you not seen? When a dancer dances, your feet begin to tap. This is not cause and effect, note well. It is not compulsory. If a dancer dances here, it is not necessary that all your feet will begin to beat time; it is not a scientific law like water boiling at a hundred degrees. There is freedom in it. If you consent, if you find rhythm with the dancer, your feet will begin to tap. If a true musician sings, you will begin to keep time on your armrest—though you may know nothing of tabla or tala or swara, something begins within. This is what happens in satsang.

Satsang means only this: that what is taking place within the master, you are ready to receive. It is not an inevitability. So it may also happen that someone sitting next to you says, “Nothing happened to me!” Do not argue. He did not remain open. He stayed closed. He did not let himself be tuned by reverence. He kept his doors and windows shut. The sun stood at his threshold and he sat inside with the door barred. Doubt closes doors; trust opens them.

To open the door needs a little trust—to trust that you will not be looted. To have faith takes courage: “Even if I am looted, what harm? I have nothing to lose. And if someone does rob me—let me take it as an honor. There was nothing to steal, and yet he considered me worthy of being robbed—that itself is an honor!”

A Zen fakir, Rinzai, once had a thief enter his hut. There was nothing at home. Rinzai was sleeping wrapped in a blanket. He rose quickly, handed the blanket to the thief, and said, “Brother, please don’t be disappointed! Take this blanket. But don’t come like this—announce yourself a couple of days in advance. I am a poor man. You’ve honored me today. In our hearts we too felt, ‘Ah! So we are somebody! To see you gave us confidence that we are not utterly destitute—thieves come even to our house, not only to emperors’. You’ve given us the dignity of an emperor. This little gift from our side. We truly have nothing else.” The thief hesitated, for Rinzai was naked—the blanket was his only possession: his attire, his bedding. Rinzai said, “If you refuse, I will be very pained: you came so far, and we are so poor, so fallen, that we could not give you anything! And promise this: if you ever come again, send word two or three days ahead; we’ll beg and gather something so you won’t go empty-handed.”

See Rinzai’s feeling! “You have honored us.”

What do you have that can be stolen—or that you might be considered worthy of being robbed? Yet you keep watchmen posted—sentries of doubt—over your emptiness. Thus satsang does not happen.

Satsang is not compulsory. You can even pass by Buddha, Jesus, Krishna—and nothing will happen within you. And you will tell others, “Nothing happened to me! You must be hypnotized. What madness are you in? We went too—we returned just as we were; nothing seemed right to us. Are you in your senses?” If someone says this, do not be annoyed. What is his fault? His only illusion is that he kept himself closed. And satsang is not a law of cause and effect; it is synchronicity. If you open yourself, something will start to resound within you. But remember: what resounds is yours. The master is only a medium, a catalytic agent. It happened in his presence—that’s all. It might have happened elsewhere too—you could have been sitting in a forest and heard the call of a cuckoo; if only you had listened with reverence, it could have happened there. If you had looked at a blooming flower with reverence, it could have happened there. If you had heard the ocean’s roar with reverence, it could have happened there.

Still, I accept your feeling, Krishna Chaitanya. From the disciple’s side, gratitude is natural.

You say:
“The strings of my heart have risen in music,
which I would never have sung otherwise.”

From your side, this is right—so new, so unprecedented, so unfamiliar: how to believe you could have sung it yourself? But I tell you: you could; hence you did. It could happen; therefore it has. This flower has bloomed in you because its seed lay in you. Otherwise a gardener may use a thousand devices, yet from the seed of the neem he cannot bring forth the fruit of the mango.

The master can do only what a gardener does: give your seed the right opportunity, the right climate, the right field of energy. But the flower that blooms is yours.

You say:
“I’ve begun to understand some of your hints—
things I could never have grasped with intellect.”

That is true. Some things can be understood by the intellect—outer things. And for some, intellect is itself the obstacle—inner things.

You have begun to understand a little—because you could set the intellect aside, because you could take the jump into sannyas. To take sannyas is to put the intellect aside. Sannyas is a kind of madness—because it is a kind of love. All lovers are mad. Sannyas is a kind of divine frenzy. And the mad have done a great service to this world. Had there been no mad lovers, this world would have remained very poor indeed. If there had been no moths, none would have sung the glory of the flame. The lamp would burn and no moths would come—what would be the lamp’s majesty then? The mad have done a great favor—to the “wise”! For the “wise” would remain fools if the mad were not. The “wise” are fools, only deluded about being wise.

There is another wisdom very different from intellect—the wisdom of love.

You were immersed in love; a little began to be understood. Immerse yourself more and more, and more will be understood. So deeply that you are no more—and all will be understood.

You say:
“But how can I forget you,
when without you I would never have found love?”

When you are no more—when you are utterly drowned in love—then naturally, where “I” goes, “you” goes. The disciple’s fulfillment is only when the disciple disappears. But when the disciple disappears, the master disappears too. Who remains to call anyone “master”? “I” and “you” live together. By your deliberate forgetting you cannot forget me; but if you dissolve, then you are gone, and the master too. And where neither disciple nor master remains—there is God. This too is duality—the final duality. All other dualities fall away; this one loosens the rest, and at the end it too must be dropped. As with one thorn we remove another, and then throw both away, the duality of disciple and master is a thorn that removes all your other thorns. And when all thorns are out, what will you do with this one? Throw it away with the others. You too will not remain—love will drown you so totally—that in that moment the master will be forgotten as well. Who is who is no longer clear. Who is disciple, who is master—the distinction is gone. That state of non-division is the goal. Until then, some lack remains.

And do not be anxious!

You say:
“Today I am leaving your gathering—”

From this gathering you can no longer go anywhere. Wherever you are, this gathering continues. It is not bound to this place. Wherever there are those who love me, there is this assembly. Wherever two lovers sit together, this gathering begins; the song rises, the music arises. Do not worry about that!

You say:
“keep an eye on me, O God, for
I keep fluttering my wings, yet cannot fly.
I have not yet been able to free myself from my own notions;
caught in them, I stumble and fall.
Only in your shelter do I find rest.”

Let the attitude of refuge arise—everything else will happen on its own. Surrender! Buddham sharanam gacchāmi, sangham sharanam gacchāmi, dhammam sharanam gacchāmi.

Go to the refuge of a true master; go to the refuge of satsang—the sangha. Go to the refuge of the dharma, the lamp burning within the master. Then drop all worry—everything will happen by itself. Offer yourself wholly. What is to be, will be, and keep on happening. And when you are not, whatever happens is auspicious.

Chandrakant! The usefulness of marriage is great. The greatest usefulness is that if you have a wife, she will protect you from other women. Otherwise, who will protect you? You’ll go mad! The wife is a guard. She won’t let you look here or there; won’t let you peep here or there. She’ll keep watch twenty-four hours a day. Even in your sleep she’ll keep accounts of what you’re dreaming. Otherwise, what are you worth! So many women in the world—how will you survive? You’ll be badly thrashed. That’s why the wise made a rule that at least one wife should be there. But be careful—don’t take too much medicine. A little medicine works; too much causes harm. One wife has usefulness, but two are dangerous. With three, you’ll end up on the gallows.

A thief broke into a house to steal and was caught—caught red-handed. The magistrate said, “Do you have anything to say in your defense?” He said, “Your Honor, just one thing: give me any punishment you like, but please don’t give me the punishment of marrying two women.” The magistrate said, “I’ve given many people many punishments… why are you so afraid of this?” He said, “If this man didn’t have two wives, I wouldn’t even have been caught today! And what I saw of his condition… earlier I didn’t believe in hell at all! One wife lives downstairs and the other upstairs, and life has to be lived in between. One wife was pulling him down and one was pulling him up; such a tug-of-war was going on that I got absorbed in watching the spectacle—I forgot why I had come! And just like that, morning arrived. Give me any other punishment, but not the punishment of two wives!”

So the usefulness of one wife: she will save you from others. But don’t imagine that if one has so much usefulness, then two will have more, three even more, four even more! Don’t do that arithmetic; life does not run on mathematics.

Chandulal’s son sent him a packet and a letter from England. In the letter it was written that in this packet are pills which, when taken, reduce a person’s age by twenty years.

At that time Chandulal was forty-five and his wife forty.

Some time later, when the son returned from abroad, he saw his mother sitting with a five-year-old boy in her lap. He asked in astonishment, “Mummy, who is this? You never wrote that you had another son.”

Mummy said, “You fool, hush! This is your father, and by mistake he took two pills instead of one.”

So, Chandrakant, if you want to marry, then by all means do! Without falling into the pit—without experiencing—there is no other way. And without marriage there is no sannyas in the world—remember that! It has great usefulness! It is marriage that gave birth to renunciation. Had there been no Yashodhara, we would never have heard of Gautam Buddha. All the credit goes to Yashodhara. Now that your heart is set, it’s not even appropriate to stop you. And if I try, you won’t stop—because these matters don’t move by advice. Before marriage there is a scene that is very enticing, and after marriage the scene changes completely. But that after-marriage scene appears only after marriage! There is no way for it to arrive beforehand.

Before marriage:
My heart longs to keep
gazing at you, unblinking,
The mere glimpse of you
is the support of my living.
The intoxicating sweetness of your lips
is life’s nectar to me,
The soft blush upon your cheeks
is the monsoon’s bounty to me.
Your playful glance, your lively eyes—
like moonlight to the chakor-bird,
Or a tipsy bee that forever sips
a bud’s intoxicating, honeyed pollen.
Your loosened tresses
spread across your face
like dark rain-clouds in the sky,
Your coy face, half-veiled,
like the moon hid behind the clouds.
Each word that issues from your lips
pours ambrosia into my ears,
By any means, to make you mine, beloved—
this alone my inner heart repeats.
If you would take my hand,
I could forge my way,
Walk with me as my companion—
and I can strew our path with flowers.

After marriage:
Why are you sitting on my chest?
Is there no work in the kitchen?
What a heartless wife you are—no trace
of pity for your husband!
Clinging to me all the time,
why do you steal my peace and rest?
You let me do nothing all day,
and you yourself do nothing best.
With unwanted tears in your eyes
you get every stubborn whim fulfilled;
Whenever I’m about to say a word,
you arm yourself and tears are spilled.
Your disheveled tresses
are circles of problems for me,
Your irritated, lifeless face
is a grim, dark future for me.
Each word that issues from your mouth
is not a word but a piercing dart;
O maker of trouble, snatcher of peace,
in threads of your mercy my sobbing breaths are caught.
Take these children of yours away from here—
in tuneless cries they keep braying on,
My papers, pen, inkwell, books—
all over each other are flung and strewn.
I can no longer drink your taunts;
Yes, more pain I still can bear,
If you would only leave me be,
I might live a few more days yet here.

A feeling has arisen in your mind, Chandrakant—go ahead and do it! For now you are Chandrakant; then you will become Chandulal.

That’s all for today.