Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #6

Devendra! Sannyas is not taken; it happens. If you take it, it will be false; if it happens, it will be true. Sannyas is not mathematics to be worked out by thought. Sannyas is a kind of drunkenness—made for revelers, not for the clever, not for the prudent.

You are certainly over-clever. By thinking you will go on stopping. Thinking is the very mechanism of stopping. If you think, you miss. To think means you behave as if you already know what sannyas is. How will you think about what you don’t know? Sannyas is unknown to you—no experience, no taste. First taste it; then think. And those who tasted it never thought; and those who thought never tasted. They remain stuck in thinking.

It is a great grace of the divine that he has not left certain matters to your thinking. Otherwise you might never have been born from your mother’s womb! You would think: To be born or not? Nine months of silent, peaceful rest in the mother’s womb—no worries, no responsibilities, no work—why leave those restful days? Who knows what turmoil awaits! “Think a little, reflect a little; wait—what is the hurry? I’ll take birth tomorrow, thoughtfully.” And tomorrow never comes.

Whatever you want to postpone, say, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” It gets postponed forever. Tomorrow means never.

The divine did not leave birth in your hands. He must have seen that if he did, you would never be born. He did not leave death in your hands either. If he did, you would never die. The earth would be overcrowded; there wouldn’t be space to shake a branch; people would be standing on one another! Death doesn’t consult you: “What do you think—shall we die?” Otherwise you would certainly say, “I’ll think about it.” And where does thinking end?

Thinking applies to the known, not to the unknown. And sannyas is more unknown than birth and death—because sannyas is both birth and death. It is death to the past, to all that is gone—death to the mind, to the ego; and it is birth of egolessness, of innocence, of simplicity. It is death of the mind and birth of the witness. Birth and death are not as unknown as sannyas.

And Devendra, you ask: “How do I take sannyas?”

If you think, you will never be able to take it. This is not a question of how. “How” is the mind’s trick. The mind says, first understand the procedure. But there are ways which can be understood only by doing. Like a man who says, “Until I learn to swim I won’t enter the water.” He sounds logical. Without knowing how to swim, getting into deep water is dangerous! The instructor will say, “At least get into the shallow end; otherwise how will I teach you?” But the man insists, “What shallow, what deep? Where does it suddenly get deep? Where will my foot be right and where wrong? I’ll first learn to swim and only then enter the water.”

Mulla Nasruddin went to learn swimming. The instructor took him to the ghat. The steps were slippery with moss; Mulla’s foot slipped—he fell, got up, and bolted for home. The instructor shouted, “Nasruddin, where are you going? Don’t you want to learn?” Nasruddin said, “It’s done for now. I’ll come near the river only after I’ve learned swimming. From now on I’ll keep a mile away from water.” The instructor asked, “Where will you learn?” Mulla said, “At home, on my mattress and pillows. After all, one just has to move hands and legs—I’ll thrash about on my bedding. When I know how to swim, I’ll come to the riverbank.”

Can you learn swimming on pillows? Thrash your limbs; it may give you exercise, but it won’t give you swimming. For swimming you will have to gather the courage to enter water.

By water I mean the unknown.

Sannyas is not your experience. For lifetimes you have never been a sannyasin. The taste is untasted. Even if someone explains, he can’t make you understand. How will you explain sweetness to one who never tasted it? You can bang your head forever; it won’t get through.

How will you explain wine to one who never drank? You think he’ll understand? That ecstasy comes only by drinking. No one asks, “How do I drink wine?” And you ask, “How do I take sannyas?” It too is wine—the wine of the divine; a way to raise your cup to the Infinite. He stands with the flagon, ready to fill your cup. Didn’t you hear Gulal yesterday? He said: He roams with the flagon, but you hide your cup; even if he wants to fill it, how can he? And if you ever raise your cup you turn it upside down. Even if he pours, your cup remains empty. The wine spills, but your cup stays thirsty.

You sit here while it rains, yet you keep your cup upside down. Turn it upright. Holding the cup upright is called trust; holding it upside down is doubt. Upside down is: “First I’ll think, understand, be assured from every side; only then will I take a step.”

There can be no guarantees! Nor is there any set procedure for sannyas. Sannyas flowers within you from the realization: Whatever I have done till now has been futile; the way I have lived has been meaningless. My hands are full of the insubstantial; I have been gathering rubbish. Gulal says: A diamond of a life was squandered—I kept picking pebbles and got lost in toys.

Sannyas arises of itself from the understanding “As I am, I am futile.” Then what is there to lose? Let there be a challenge, an adventure—let us launch the boat into the unknown. If there is a shore here, there will be a shore there too; there is never only one shore. Whether it is visible or not, it exists—certainly exists! Fear will arise; there will be tremblings. This tiny boat, these small oars, these little hands, those towering waves, storms and tempests, clouds massing in the sky—who knows what may happen? Thunder and lightning—when might they strike? No map in the hand, no address—how to leave the shore?

You don’t leave because you know the other shore; you leave because you have known this shore thoroughly and found nothing. If you drown, you drown. If you don’t arrive, you don’t arrive. With nothing to lose, what is there to be afraid of?

From this insight one can take sannyas: that on this bank there is only futility and bondage—chains. I have seen much; all tastes are bitter. But people even become accustomed to bitter tastes; slowly even bitterness seems sweet. People get used to chains; they begin to look like ornaments. People get used to the prison; they decorate it as if it were home.

That’s what you have done, Devendra; hence the obstacle. “What is sannyas?” is not the question; “How to take sannyas?” is not the question. You have not seen the reality of what you are right now. You take your chains as ornaments, so you ask: “How do I drop my jewels?” If you see they are chains, you won’t ask how to drop them. Who clings to chains? One drops them. You are asking, “How do I give up diamonds and gems?” If only you could see they are stones and gravel, would you still ask? The moment you see, they fall away.

If you clearly experience that your way of living produces only futility, no meaningfulness—neither dignity nor grace arises from it; it builds no bridge to truth—then in a single jolt you will drop it and step out. You are holding it; it is not holding you. It is not that these useless things have grabbed you, so you ask “How to let go?” You are grabbing them. Hence the need is for seeing, for vision, for insight. Only insight.

You say you keep thinking and then you stop. Thinkers do stop; there is no contradiction here. You must be feeling a contradiction: “I think so much, then why do I stop?” You stop because you think. Thinking never brings a conclusion. Thought is barren—nothing is ever born of it. It is like the bullock at the oil-press; it goes round and round. It feels it’s moving—and it is—but what kind of movement? It never arrives anywhere.

The process of thought is like the oil-press bullock—circles upon circles, going round and round. Have you ever reached a conclusion by thinking? And if you started doing life’s actions by thinking first, you wouldn’t live a day. You’d have to think before every breath—“Shall I breathe or not? What is the point in breathing? What is the point in not breathing?” Even breathing would become impossible. “Why live? For what? And if I die, why? For what?”

Yet you live and breathe because you haven’t put thinking on these things. You keep them outside thinking.

Whoever thinks about love will not be able to love. He’ll remain stuck, thinking and thinking. How will he decide about love? Love is not something you think; it happens. That is why we say love happens. You don’t do it. It happens, and you are surprised: How did this happen? It happens in spite of you.

Sannyas too is an event of love. It is birth and it is death; it is love. It is the quintessence of all that is mysterious in life, the very soul of all that is meaningful. Sannyas is life’s fragrance.

But fragrance rises from the mysterious, the astonishing. Thought doesn’t give rise to fragrance. Thought is junk—borrowed, stale. Thought is never original. And sannyas is original—arising from the source.

Sit here; one day the intoxication will catch you. Wait! Don’t think and tinker; simply watch the road. One day you will begin to sway. So many revelers sit here, so many have drunk deeply—how long will you be spared? You will start dancing with them, swaying with them. Suddenly, one day, you will find you have been dyed in their color—you won’t even know when the color rained on you.

If you come to me through thought you will not arrive; thought is a barrier. Come in thoughtlessness—only then can you come.

You ask: “I keep thinking and then stop. What is this blockage?”

This very thinking is the blockage. Thinking whispers: “Take it tomorrow. First think it through, clear the path, check and test everything. See whether those who became sannyasins got something or not. Balance all the accounts before you set out—so you won’t have to repent.” Tomorrow. And does tomorrow come? Has it ever come?

And remember, you have no way to know whether others got something. This isn’t a gross thing. A rich man’s wealth is visible; fame and position are visible. But sannyas is of the innermost. Its flower blooms within; its fragrance spreads within. The incense burns inside; its aroma rises inside. Yes, it can be recognized if the same fragrance has begun to rise within you.

Two intoxicated ones recognize each other. Two revelers understand each other’s language instantly. But if you stand outside and inspect from a distance—this is not an object of observation.

How will you know from outside whether love has happened in someone? Whether it has happened or he only says so—who knows! He may sing the loveliest songs of love, but what certainty is there that love has happened? Often, those who sing of love have not known love; by singing they console themselves—love didn’t happen, so they lull the mind with songs. Song is a substitute. What assurance is there that bliss has happened inside someone? Will you identify it by smiles? Smiles are everywhere. You yourself know well that there is no smile inside, yet you smile outside.

Smiling is social etiquette, politeness, culture. Sitting among people, is one to cry? So you smile. But they will be deceived: seeing you smile, they will think you are in great joy.

Friedrich Nietzsche said, “When I smile, don’t be deceived. I smile only when I fear that if I don’t smile, I will start crying. I smile to stop the tears.” There is deep insight in it. Lest tears show! Who wants to shed tears in front of others? Who wants to be so helpless? People swallow their tears, push the sob back below the throat, and paint a smile on their lips—a painted smile. You see women, don’t you? Lipstick on the lips! It is a big symbol. What concern has it with the real color of lips? Lipstick will do. Tint the lips so they look red to others—enough!

Look carefully: lips smeared with lipstick look the ugliest, the most grotesque of lips—because nothing is uglier than falsity. But women, poor things, are deluded. They think their lips look beautiful. Faces are painted; powder is plastered.

A Bengali professor used to visit me. One day he came saying he would bring his wife along. I asked where she was; he had come alone. He said, “We did set out together, but she turned back because it began to drizzle.” I asked, “If you came in the drizzle, why couldn’t she?” He said, “What can I hide from you—her powdered face began to run; streaks formed. I too said, ‘You go back home; better so!’”

People are painted. As if on a stage in a play, everyone wears masks. Don’t be deceived by their smiles. Don’t be deceived by their tears either, for when necessary they cry too, while no tears are within.

I was once a guest in a house; there was a death. The only woman in the house—whenever anyone arrived—would burst into loud wails. I was amazed: two minutes earlier she was talking quite normally; the moment someone came, she let out a howl. Then I understood the utility of the veil: she would quickly draw it over her face and wail, because without it the face would show no expression—no tears, nothing.

It was winter; I used to sit in the sun outside. She had told me, “As soon as someone comes, ring the bell.” I asked, “Why?” She said, “Then watch how I wail!” She was indeed skilled.

People are acting. What certainty is there—who is happy, who is miserable, who is worried? You cannot tell even these ordinary things from outside—so how will you assess the most profound inner experiences: that sannyas has been born, that love has surged, that thirst for the divine has awakened? However much you think—what can you think!

Thinking is only your trick. You don’t even have the courage to say plainly, “I don’t want sannyas.” Gather at least that much courage! One who gathers that much may some day gather the courage to take sannyas. But people’s impotence is deep. They cannot muster even the courage to say, “I don’t want sannyas.” So they keep themselves in a convenient ambivalence: “I do want it, I will take it, one day I will—but that day hasn’t come yet. Tomorrow. The day after. Let me live a little more in the world first. What’s the hurry? Who knows—perhaps there is something in it. Let me dig a bit more; perhaps I’ll find treasure. One more effort.”

You’ve been taught: Keep trying; don’t accept defeat; however many times you fail, get up again, dust yourself off, start running again—one day you will arrive. Your history books give examples: Mahmud of Ghazni failed seventeen times; he won the eighteenth.

How did he get the idea to try the eighteenth time? Hiding in a cave after his seventeenth defeat, he saw a spider weaving a web. It fell seventeen times; on the eighteenth it succeeded. Ghazni said, “Aha! This is a sign from God. I too have failed seventeen times—one more try.” And he won.

In schools we tell children: Keep at it. Even if you’ve failed seventeen times, no worry—on the eighteenth you will succeed.

But there are things in which there is no victory—cannot be. Did Ghazni truly win on the eighteenth? What is there in that “victory”? He looted a little wealth, moved it from here to there. At last he too died, and everything was left behind.

One night a thief broke into Mulla Nasruddin’s house. While the thief gathered things, Mulla quickly spread his blanket on the floor. When the thief, ready to tie up the loot, looked for a sheet to wrap it in, he found a blanket laid out. He was a bit scared—when he had entered, there had been no blanket on the floor. He’d seen a man sleeping under it; now that man lay on the bed without the blanket, and the blanket was on the floor! But it wasn’t the time to ponder. He tied his bundle and set off. Mulla got up and followed. Hearing footsteps, the thief turned and saw the same man who had been on the bed—first under the blanket, then without it. The thief got nervous and said, “Why are you following me?” Mulla said, “Why not follow? I was the only one left back there! I’ve wanted to move house for a long time—so I’m moving. Since you’ve already carried the household, I’m coming too. Wherever you live, we’ll live.” The thief panicked, put down the bundle, and said, “Baba, take your goods.” Mulla said, “No need to fear. If I moved house I’d have to hire labor and haul things. You’re doing it for free—and I’m spared the hassle of finding a house—you must be living somewhere! If you can carry so much, you must have a place. Pick up the bundle; don’t worry. We won’t call it theft—we’ll just call it moving house.”

He’s right. Shifting goods from here to there—success! Moving money from one safe to another—success! Taking cash from one pocket to the other—success! Where is success in the world? The world is the name of failure. Not in seventeen tries, not in eighteen, not in seventeen hundred, not in eighteen hundred—success is neither found here nor can it be. This is the experience of all the awakened ones. But we postpone: “Let me try a little more.” This is what you are thinking, Devendra.

Let me add a reminiscence:
O my history, wait a while!
I thought I knew you
More than I knew myself;
Yet after so much doing—
Did I truly recognize you?
You still seem exactly
As you ever seemed;
Let me add one more memory—
O my season of blossom, pause a while!

Night brings no savor, dreams don’t please,
Day goes by like any other day;
I feel I too once was something,
But now nothing comes to mind.
Truly, how helpless I have become,
Estranged even from myself;
Let me add one more forgetting—
O my faith, wait a while!

This is all our tale—
With “The End” standing guard over “Thus it was”;
Perhaps I once wished to adorn it;
Now there’s only the readiness to go out.
Once there was the urge to create anew,
Now the effort is to avoid all effort;
Let me add one more veiling—
O my sannyas, wait a while!

“Let me do a bit more, add just a little more… O my sannyas, wait a while.” Thus you keep stopping yourself—by thinking and thinking. You imagine you will take sannyas by thinking; I tell you, by thinking you will go on stopping. The more you think, the more you will halt.

You seem very attached to your chains, very fond of your ignorance. You drink poison thinking it is nectar. When the talk of drinking nectar arises, you say you’ll think!

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, terrified by his drinking—nothing worked: scolding, pleading, love, hatred—finally took the last step and went to the tavern. Seeing his wife there, Mulla was shaken. A respectable woman in a tavern! All the drunkards were startled. The owner too was shocked. She sat right beside her husband and said, “Today I’ve decided to start drinking. Either you stop, or I start.” Before Mulla could say anything—he was utterly confounded, tongue-tied. A man’s tongue anyway stops when he sees his wife—especially in a tavern! She poured a drink and gulped it down—neat, no water, no soda. She didn’t even know how to mix. The bitter liquor touched her throat—she slammed down the bottle and cried, “You come here to drink this bitter poison every day?” Mulla relaxed, smiled, and said, “And you thought we come for fun? This is hard austerity! It takes great discipline; it’s not a disease for everyone. Go home, go!”

But even wine, if drunk daily, ceases to seem bitter. Slowly even that taste becomes palatable; slowly a sweetness appears—just from habit. Give someone his first cigarette; he will cough, tears will fill his eyes, his throat will choke. Let the same man smoke a while—then deny him a cigarette one day and tears come to his eyes.

What happened? He got habituated.

Devendra, you have become habituated to a certain way of living. Sannyas is a new way of living. If your attachment to the old breaks, this leap can happen. I call it a leap—into the utterly unknown. It is audacity. It is the gambler’s move—putting everything at stake. But those who stake all, receive much—something worth receiving, something that even death cannot take away.

Preeti! Sannyas is the engagement! Everything else is only a pretext for engagement. All ties are false, all relationships are false. The rest is children’s play. The shehnai plays, the fire ritual is performed, the priests come, they make you take seven rounds, mantras are chanted, incense and lamps are lit, there’s noise and bustle, the band plays—and the engagement is done! It is all a game. It only serves to give two people the assurance that “now you are joined.”

Is union achieved like that? Is joining so cheap that seven rounds will do it? If seven can join you, then take fourteen, take twenty-one—keep on “joining.” Seven rounds haven’t helped much anyway; people are loosely attached, they can’t really join—at least take twenty-one. But however many you take, they are only rounds. The more rounds you take, the dizzier you will become!

A gentleman wanted a divorce. He asked me, “I want a divorce—but how can I take it! After all, we took seven rounds!” I said, “What’s the problem? Take them in reverse! Undo it, finish it! If a knot was tied, how long does it take to untie it? Open it the other way. If you must, have the shehnai play again, bring the band again—but in reverse melody, topsy-turvy; let the flute be played from the wrong end—and quickly take the rounds in reverse and end the hassle. Jai Ramji, be on your way! You only took rounds, didn’t you? You did nothing else.” He said, “Nothing else.”
What can happen by going in circles!

Sannyas is the engagement. It is an engagement with the Divine. What use are worldly engagements? They are devices to keep oneself entertained. The longing for engagement is certainly within—we want to be joined to the eternal, to a bond that does not break—never breaks. In search of that we make many relationships, and all of them break. And even if they don’t break, we drag them along; yet no fulfillment comes.

For centuries women have been taught that the husband is God. There is a small mistake in that saying. Say, “God is the husband”—that would be right. But you have been saying, “the husband is God”—that is wrong. How will a husband be God! It is a lot if a husband is even a husband.

An eighty-year-old woman went to the doctor. The doctor was astonished. After a lot of tests he said, “Forgive me, I myself can hardly believe it—but you are pregnant.”
The woman said, “What are you saying? I am eighty and my husband is ninety—how can I be pregnant?”
The doctor said, “I’m astonished too—but sometimes accidents happen. I’m helpless; I’ve tested in every way. There’s no illness—you are simply pregnant.”
She said, “This is rich! May I phone my husband at the office?” She called. “You decrepit old man! You have made me pregnant!”
From the other side came a shaky, frightened voice: “Who is calling?”
For however decrepit, there will be other ties as well. He panicked: who is calling?

How will husbands be God! Nor is the wife a goddess, nor the husband a god. Certainly, God is the Husband. And sannyas is the name of being joined to the Divine. From God’s perspective there is neither man nor woman. God alone is the only “male”—in the symbolic sense—and all the rest are feminine, in the sense that each of us is to invite the Divine within, to bow to the Divine, to surrender.

Preeti, you feel rightly that when Taru sings it is as if your wedding preparations are going on. Wedding preparations indeed—but not for an ordinary wedding. These are preparations for sannyas; and sannyas is the true marriage.

Someone utterly unknown till yesterday
has become the very ground of life.
A golden chain of memories
is binding the lonely mind;
sleep-heavy eyelids have lost
the silvery estate of dreams.
Over every pore a sweet,
unknown shiver keeps watch;
the one not even within the circle of sight
has become the very abode of my breath.

Birds of assurance—words—
chirp upon the branches of vows;
in the lotus-groves of longing
fragrant patience scents each step.
Words of love have sprung
in the innocent courtyard of affection;
someone’s name, unknowingly,
has become the base of my songs.

In the inner mirror I tried
to cast a form that belittles light,
but to confine the boundless
is not easy—there I was defeated.
Naked, failing lines
raise their hands and gaze at the sky;
the life of some unknown image
has taken on my very shape.

Here, prayer is being made. All these songs are prayers. Here, hands are being raised toward the sky. Here, the begging-bowl is being held out before God: fill it! The One who is unknown today, utterly unknown—that very One is to be betrothed. The One who seems so far is to be brought near. With the One from whom all our connections have been broken, we have to forge connection again. The One we have forgotten—we have to remember again; we must awaken remembrance of Him.

And Preeti, you were given the name “Preeti”—love—for this very reason. Love is your path. Love is your way. Let the engagement with God happen.

And when I say, let there be engagement with God, I do not mean: do not love anyone in this world. For the world too is He. And those in the world are all His forms. Love abundantly, love to your heart’s content! Let love not stop anywhere—only remember this much: let there be no wall around love. Let love keep growing, keep expanding. As when we throw a pebble into a lake, a small circle arises and then spreads—farther and farther—without end. So too, even if love begins with one person, let it spread farther and farther, let it touch the infinite; only then is there fulfillment.

May I fragrance your mind’s blossom
as love.
May I fall as dew into the cupped hands,
into the bashful bees;
today let me drown all intimacy
in perfumed cascades.
In the sky of your eyes
may I drift as a dream.
May I fragrance you as love.

Let me hum in the seven notes,
with gliding meends colored by raga;
at times to flourish in ascent,
at times to bless the descent.
In the forest of your meters,
may I chirp as a song.
May I fragrance you as love.

Let me break the veils of reserve,
the inner reserve of silence,
so that at the mere signal of touch
the anklets of your feet start ringing;
in the vow of your love
may I blaze as your very life-breath.
May I fragrance you as love.

Preeti, remember these sutras!—
May I fragrance your mind’s blossom
as love.
In the sky of your eyes
may I wander as a dream.
In the forest of your meters
may I chirp as a song.
In the vow of your love
may I blaze as your very life-breath.
May I fragrance you as love.

My sannyas is not life-negative. My sannyas is infinite love with life. Not a renunciation of life, but a renunciation of stupidity. Not a renunciation of life, but of ignorance. Not a renunciation of life, but of unconsciousness—of hatred, jealousy, enmity. Do not run away abandoning house and home—what has the home done to you? If you must leave something, leave the inner darkness; leave the inner sleep. Light the lamp of awareness within; let the lotus bloom within—of bliss, of love, of celebration.

My sannyas is surely an engagement.

Prem Chaitanya! Very difficult! It’s the season of 26 January! The leaders somehow hold themselves back all year—after all, their Holi and Diwali should come too! Think of it as Holi.
Don’t take offense! Let them babble.

And this is nothing. Last year was even more amazing. The neighbors requested an elderly leader to hoist the flag on 26 January.
Pleased, the leader said: Fine. I have an old flag lying around; I’ll send my servant right away to have it planted in the school grounds. What’s the need to buy a new one! I’ll come in the morning to hoist it—don’t worry.
The leader told his servant to go plant the flag. The servant was a drunkard—after all, a politician’s servant. He forgot. At three in the night he remembered. Poor fellow, in a panic, went and planted it. The only mistake was that, in the darkness, instead of the tricolor he tied his wife’s petticoat to the pole.
In the morning, when the leader pulled the rope, the petticoat fluttered in the air! The crowd craned their necks and applauded. The leader said: Brothers and sisters, happy Republic Day! Then, pointing to the flag, he said: This is that national emblem under whose canopy we have been nurtured for the last thirty years. We are proud of it. No other nation in the world has such a beautiful emblem.
Hearing this, people laughed so hard they doubled over. Seeing the crowd so delighted, the leader got fired up too; raising his hand toward the flag he said: This is the very thing to which I devoted all my youth. To protect its honor I went to jail three times. Truly, I had sworn that if I live, I will live for this, and if I must die, I will die for this.
The crowd enjoyed it immensely. The leader continued: Although it’s also just a piece of cloth, such secrets are hidden in it that for its sake men like Subhashchandra and Bhagat Singh sacrificed their lives. Ah, this thing is such that seeing it makes the blood surge; not only the young, even the old feel heat in their veins.
The field resounded with applause. The leader said: Knowing that you all, so full of joy, are beholding our national emblem with such love fills me with great delight. When it waves in the air, rising and falling, all Indian citizens gaze at it in rapt wonder; from this it is known how pure the feelings of our countrymen are toward Mother India. And when we lift it high and stride proudly through the streets, young and old alike are elated—and in this way express their true reverence for Mother India.
People started making a great commotion. The leader said: Brothers and sisters, with just one more thing I will end today’s speech, then we will sing the national anthem. This old man’s prayer is that when I die, cover me with this in place of a shroud, so that having loved it all my life, my soul may find peace lying beneath it at the end. Jai Hind! And now I am going to look for that bastard of a servant who seems to have tied Mother India’s petticoat to the pole instead of the flag.

They get a chance one or two days a year—let the poor fellows make a little noise. And don’t think, Prem Chaitanya, that they are trying to disrupt the discourse going on here. They are just letting off steam. They have only these two occasions: 15 August and 26 January; let them blurt out whatever they want to blurt, say whatever they want to say.

A politician—and then the Marathi language on top of it! In Marathi, even if you love someone it sounds as if you’re quarreling. I sometimes wonder how they make love in Marathi. It feels as if a fight is about to break out—any moment now!

Don’t worry about them; they aren’t causing any real hindrance.

Krishna Chaitanya! I am not explaining any scripture. I have no interest in doctrines. I am not giving you information; I am opening my heart and laying it before you. The nectar I have drunk—if even a faint fragrance of it reaches you, if even a drop slips down your throat—that’s enough! Then you will set out in search of the ocean from which that drop has come.

The Sadguru is but a drop from the ocean of the Divine. I am only trying to give you a little taste. Sitting here we are not engaged in metaphysical discussion. Sitting here I am inviting you to what has come to me—calling you, invoking you—to know that it can be yours too. I want to restore your trust—in yourself. I want to kindle your reverence—for yourself.

You have lost your reverence. You have forgotten what you can become. You are not only what you appear to be. Much lies within you like a seed, needing soil; if the right season and the right gardener are found, thousands upon thousands of flowers of every hue can bloom within you. You can become a rainbow that joins earth and sky. You are seven-colored. There is great fragrance within you—and yet you roam astray, like the musk-deer that runs about not knowing: “Kasturi kundal basai”—the musk dwells within its own navel. I wish only to remind you of this: “Kasturi kundal basai!”

All my effort is contained in this one small sutra of Kabir.

You are running here and there, never stopping, never pausing. I want to say: stop, pause, look a little within; what you seek is present there—present even before your seeking begins. That which you go out to find is hidden in the very seeker. Your supreme treasure is within you. The kingdom of God is within you. And the day this is remembered, the heart begins to sway in ecstasy; longings burst into bloom.

You say:
“This heart, this life, this very living
I would lay at a single glance of yours.”

If you can recognize my eyes, then in my eyes you will not see me; you will see a depth that is your own. My eyes will become a mirror. You will glimpse your own original face. And then—how could you not be intoxicated! How could you not be filled with joy! How could you not break into dance!

You say:
“Why should I not long for you?
In longing for you there is repose.”

Search is born—longing arises—only when a little taste has touched the tongue, when a few breaths start catching the links of that song; when one begins to dwell in that music; when one is soaked in the nectar of Hari.

You say:
“I have drunk; I have some inkling…”

Indeed, this drinking is such that it does not bring unconsciousness; it brings awareness. This wine is such that it does not put you to sleep—it awakens you, awakens you forever. Beware of any wine that puts you to sleep, that makes you unconscious. Drink to the full the wine that awakens you—and awakens you so utterly that even if you try you cannot fall back into sleep.

You say:
“I have drunk; I have some inkling
Of the effect in your single glance.
At times I see sheer ecstasies,
At times I see a gentle intoxication.”

But let me remind you: what you are seeing is your own reflection. Do not even by mistake imagine—otherwise you will become dependent—that the intoxication is mine, that the ecstasy is mine. Dependency arises from that. And a true Master is there only to free you from all dependencies. If you become dependent even on the Master—if you are blissful while sitting near him and sorrowful when away—then that is not truly sitting near the Master. Sitting near the Master means learning the secret of being blissful wherever you are.

Sitting near the Master is only to learn the lesson. Once learned, like we teach children “ga for Ganesh”—nowadays they say “ga for gadha (donkey),” because India has become secular; you can’t take the name of Ganesh, he belongs to a religion; but you can take the name of the donkey—as though the donkey were the symbol of all religions, as though the donkey embodied equal respect for all creeds—whether “ga for donkey” or “ga for Ganesh,” to teach a child you need a device. If you simply say “ga,” it won’t register. Say “ga for donkey,” he understands at once, because he recognizes the donkey; he has seen it walking around; its picture is vivid in his eyes. Through the donkey he connects with “ga.” By the donkey’s pretext he understands “ga”—though “ga” is hardly the ancestral property of the donkey!

But if that child grows up and every time he reads “ga” he first says, “ga for donkey,” then you will call him crazy.

It was a way of teaching, a beginning, a device—to be left behind. Once you have learned to read, if you must keep adding “ga for donkey” to every letter, how will you read? Reading would become impossible. If with every character you continue the old associations… By now you don’t even remember how the primer in school drilled those words into you. “A for aam (mango),” and a mango picture beside it. If even now, every time you read “a,” you have to say “a for aam,” how will you read “a”? You’ll get tangled in the mango; reading will become difficult. But you have forgotten; the devices are gone.

The Master is such a device—“a for aam.” Once you have learned “a,” be free of the mango. Then wherever you sit, your connection with the Divine should arise.

The Sadguru is shallow water where we learn to swim. Thereafter, go as deep as you like! Once you know how to swim, it makes no difference whether the water is five feet deep, or five hundred feet, or five miles—the swimmer is undisturbed.

Krishna Chaitanya, the ecstasy, the intoxication you experience here should slowly be experienced everywhere: by the trees, under the stars, on the riverbank, upon the seashore; among friends, in the family; in temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras—wherever you sit—in the shop, in the marketplace—that ecstasy should remain spread like a fragrance. It should not ebb. Only then know it is true. Otherwise you will become dependent on me—and that is a fresh bondage. Perhaps at the beginning some dependence happens; it will. For a while you may have to lean. But I want to remind you that you must be free even of that dependence.

When the Master frees you even from the disciple’s dependence upon the Master, then know that you have found a true Master.

But do not be in a hurry. Let the lesson settle. Let it not remain raw. If you have just learned to paddle a little, do not plunge straight into the deep; otherwise you will drown, and all the effort will be wasted.

Let them be drawn across the brows—
those ruby, piercing arrows!
A little more, a little more!!

Let the rainbow be made moist,
O land of the veil;
Let dreams rain down,
O vastness of the sky;
Do not bind the very breath of vision
with restraint!
Let the rounds still turn—
a little more!
A little more!!!

Let every particle be made fragrant,
O songs of the soil;
Set life ablaze,
O friends of blossoms;
Let the lips be allowed
to drink the honey to the full—
somewhere, in the abode of fragrance!
A little more!!!
A little more!!!

Let body and mind be thrilled,
O edges of melody;
Let the goblet of love brim over,
O holes of the flute;
Let, in the bowers, the bees’ strains arise;
Place upon your head the crown of sound!
A little more!!!
A little more!!!

A little more—dive a little more! When my eyes are no longer visible to you, when I myself cease to appear and only your own reflection begins to glimmer; when I remain merely a mirror—and when a mirror is perfectly pure, the mirror itself is not seen, only the image is.

But do not get entangled in the mirror. What is in the mirror! The mirror has shown you your face—offer thanks, be grateful—but do not become bound to the mirror; do not begin to carry it around; do not bear it upon your head!

Buddha has said: people are so foolish that the very boat in which they crossed the river, they then hoist upon their heads: “This boat has done us great kindness; it ferried us across!” Having crossed, offer gratitude, yes—but there is no need to carry the boat on your head! Yet do not jump out midstream either, thinking, “What need of a boat? Buddha has said so!” Do not step out in the middle—else you will drown. Cross over first. The beginning has been made, an auspicious beginning; rays have begun to filter through—soon the full sun will be yours.

Arjun! The ‘and’ that has come between the sannyasin and the householder is thanks to your mahatmas. Otherwise there is no need for any ‘and’. Householding is the very ladder to sannyas. There is no need to differentiate between the two, no need to draw a boundary. Where does householding end and where does sannyas begin—no one can say exactly. Householding itself becomes sannyas. Simply understand the life of a householder rightly: the householder’s life is a school for sannyas. If the householder is the seed, sannyas is its flower. If householding is the climate, the prologue, the preparation, then sannyas is its fulfillment.

But your mahatmas have declared sannyas and householding to be opposites and have created an upheaval. For centuries you’ve been taught that sannyas is the renunciation of life—of home, hearth, wife, children. Hence a panic has spread. If someone becomes a sannyasin, his family panics. The old word puts them in great difficulty. They feel he will leave; that now he’ll run away, go to the mountains. What will happen to the home, to the children? It is a tender age, a tender household. So everyone together tries to stop him.

You worship sannyas too—but only when the sannyasin is in someone else’s house. If someone in your own house becomes a sannyasin, you all stand in opposition. This is a strange contradiction.

And because sannyas has been life-negating, the earth could not be dyed in that color. How many people can be life-negating? Those who are life-negating are sick people, not healthy. Otherwise life is the divine itself—how will you oppose it? To oppose life is to oppose the divine.

My sannyas is not life-negating; it is a deep love for life; it is an engagement to life. Therefore, in my sannyas and householding there is no ‘and’ between them. They are limbs of one process. Householding is the beginning, sannyas the end. Life should begin with householding and be fulfilled in sannyas. Nowhere is there any interruption.

And if we can make the world understand this new sannyas, then countless people will drink the nectar of sannyas, will be intoxicated with its ecstasy. Because then there will be no fear left. The old sannyas was very wicked, very cruel, very violent. If you do the accounting you will be shocked. Even people like Genghis Khan, Tamerlane and Nadir Shah did not cause as many killings as happened in the name of sannyas. For, of all those who became sannyasins, what happened to their wives—there is no accounting! How many begged, how many committed suicide, how many women became prostitutes—who bears responsibility for all that? And those who left their homes and became sannyasins—what happened to their children? Where did those children get lost? They became orphans. The suffering they endured—if someone were to calculate it, you would be very astonished! In India there have been millions of sannyasins. So many millions have suffered on their account.

Is this any sannyas that depends upon causing suffering to others! Is that even a kind of happiness worth having which depends upon making so many people suffer! This is sheer violence.

Therefore I am changing the entire definition of sannyas—beginning again from ABC. A sannyasin is one who is blissful himself and makes others blissful as well. Why cause anyone sorrow! The same divine dwells within the other too. In the wife you are leaving, the same divine resides. In the children you are leaving, that same divine has descended again and again. Here you torment God and then you go off to search for God! No one could be more foolish than you! God is standing at your doorway and you are running toward the mountains!

The meaning of sannyas is: as things are, where you are, in whatever situation you are—supreme contentment right there. A vision of the divine in those who surround you. A vision of the divine in the wife, in the husband, in the children; a vision of the divine in the neighbors. This work is difficult! To sit in a cave is very easy. Any fool can do it. Animals and birds can do it—what is your virtue then! Wolves can do it—what is your distinction then! But to sit in the middle of the marketplace, to stand amid the dense struggle of life and yet be serene, silent, prayerful, full of gratitude, not to miss grace—that is difficult. That is the real challenge. Only that is worthy of acceptance.

People think I have made sannyas easy; they are mistaken. I have tried to restore sannyas to its supreme dignity, to its height. The old sannyas was easy—it belonged to escapees. Escapism is always easy. What great skill is there in turning your back and running away from the battle! One who turns his back on the battlefield we call a deserter, an escapist, a coward. And one who runs away from life’s battle—you will call him a sannyasin? He too is a coward; he too is a deserter.

Do not run away from life. Awaken in life. Do not flee—awaken! And then, Arjun, you will find that there is no ‘and’ between the sannyasin and the householder: they are connected. Two ends of the same wave, two poles—two ends of the same wave.

Sharananand! It is true that truth cannot be hidden. Truth is like light—how will you hide it? Even in the darkest darkness it will show itself. There is no way to conceal truth. We do try to hide it, but all our devices prove futile. Still we go on trying, hoping that perhaps this time we might succeed. All our lies are caught—sooner or later. It may take a little while, but they are all found out. Yet man keeps thinking, “Maybe this time I won’t be caught.”

A lie has no legs; it cannot walk. And when it does walk, it walks by borrowing the legs of truth—remember that. That is why every liar has to prove that what he is saying is the truth. He has to shout and shout to establish that it is true. He is borrowing legs from truth. A lie cannot move by itself; it is lame. If it gets the legs of truth, it can hobble a little.

But how far can you travel on someone else’s legs? Not very far.

Mulla Nasruddin was on trial for having married two women, which is against the law. His lawyer proved that the charge was false. Nasruddin said, “No, I haven’t married two women; I have only one wife.” The lawyer was clever—the lie passed. He pulled out fine points of the law and it was established, and the magistrate said, “All right, Nasruddin, it has been proved that you have only one wife. You are acquitted; now you may go home.”

Nasruddin said, “Your honor, one more thing. Which home should I go to? Because both wives will be waiting.”

Hide it as you will—you won’t be able to hide for long; from somewhere or other truth will reveal itself. In one way or another, truth will come out.

When Shri Morarji Desai became prime minister, Chandulal and Dhabboo-ji were passing the crossroads, talking. All fired up, Chandulal was saying, “That cranky old man has now sat on our chest. Now only God can save us. The country has fallen into the hands of donkeys. Owls sit on every branch—what will be the fate of the garden!”

The constable at the crossroads said, “Stop, Chandulal! You’re speaking against Morarji Desai, you’re speaking against the country’s prime minister—come to the station!”

Chandulal instantly changed his tune. He said, “Oh, what are you saying? I wasn’t talking about our country—I was talking about Lanka.”

The policeman said, “Do you take us for madmen? Don’t we know in which country that cranky old man has sat on the chest!”

You won’t be able to hide it. It will be exposed—if not from here, then from there.

There is a simplicity in truth. That is why a person who speaks truth doesn’t need much memory of what he has said and what he hasn’t. The liar has to keep many accounts. A liar must be certain of one thing: his memory has to be good. If the truth-speaker’s memory isn’t so good, it will still do; but the liar must have an excellent memory—because he must always remember where he told which lie. And to protect one lie he has to tell more lies. To save one lie, a thousand more are needed. And when even one is caught, how will you save yourself from the thousand? The more lies you tell, the more you get entangled in the net—you will be caught.

A liar’s life gets tangled in his own hands. A truth-teller can live simply. He doesn’t have to keep many accounts in the mind. His consciousness speaks what is; he speaks as it is. There the matter ends. Lies give birth to children; and the children beget more children. The lie is thoroughly Indian—it does not believe in family planning! Truth has no offspring—truth is a celibate. Once truth is spoken, a full stop comes. You don’t have to do anything to protect it, nor to conceal it.

Truth has a majesty and a fragrance. The more truth there is in a person’s life, the more fragrance, the more sweet aroma. And the more lies there are, the more stench there will be. So if politicians stink, it is no surprise. If pundits and priests stink, it is no surprise. They are all living in lies. Even if they sit on thrones, they still reek. And a person like Jesus—even when raised on the cross—leaves only fragrance behind him, which echoes through the centuries. His music is heard century after century.

Truth is eternal, and the lie is momentary. A lie is like a water bubble. It looks beautiful while it lasts; in the morning sunlight it can appear very colorful—like a counterfeit diamond! A drop of water resting on a blade of grass and shining in the sun looks like a pearl—but a slight puff of air and the secret is out. A lie, too, is exposed easily; it does not last long.

And you all have built your lives on lies. And the irony is that those who talk to you about truth are the very ones who have made you build your lives on lies. The biggest lie is that you have assumed that God exists. I am not saying that God does not exist. God is—certainly—but don’t believe: know! If he is, then know—why believe? That which is not, that you have to believe. That which is, you should know—why believe?

But a lie is cheap, and truth asks a price. Belief is utterly cheap—believe whatever you like. But knowing is a costly process. One must pass through a revolution. To know, the mind must be made pure. To know, consciousness must be awakened. To know, you must be free of mind. To know, samadhi must be created. Then there will be resolution; then truth will descend. All that is costly work! What is there in believing? Believe that God is; believe that there is hell and heaven; believe that the Koran is right, the Bible is right, the Vedas are right—what does it cost? Nothing is spent; nothing needs to be done. And when God comes so cheap, who would not take him! But a God that cheap will only be false.

Your God is false; your temples are false; your mosques are false—because your very foundation is a lie, your cornerstone is falsehood.

Beliefs are all false; what is needed is experience. My emphasis is on experience—existential experience. I do not want to make you believe that God is; I want you to experience that God is. Therefore, I must first free you from your beliefs. If you are a Hindu, I have to take away your Hindu-ness. If you are a Muslim, I have to take away your being a Muslim. If you are a Jain, until your Jain-ness drops, no ray of hope can dawn in your life. Because your being Jain, Hindu, Muslim, Jew—this is all false. It stands on beliefs. People told you and you accepted it. Your forefathers believed, so you believed. The air around you carries it, so you believed.

But have you inquired? Have you investigated? Have you felt the yearning? Have you had the longing for liberation? Have you staked your very life? If not, there can be no freedom from these lies. Because of these lies you have been wandering for lives upon lives. That is why your belief in God, your worship, your prayer—all seem two-penny affairs. If only you were to know even a particle of God, light would spread through your life; you would become luminously alive.

Truth cannot be hidden. Let just a glimpse of truth enter your life, and others will begin to know of it by themselves. People from far and wide will start coming of their own accord, asking for your address—as if someone unknown begins to inform them: “Go—where truth has happened, where truth has descended.” This is how a true master is found. Otherwise, how will you seek a true master? There is no stamp on his face. How is a true master discovered? In just this way: his truth begins to express itself like subtle vibrations, and far away, wherever there are thirsty hearts, they begin to feel the attraction—as if a magnet has begun to pull.

You ask rightly, Sharananand: “Truth cannot be hidden.”

There is no need to hide it either. Only lies are hidden; only lies need hiding. Because it is a lie, it must be concealed. Truth has no need to be hidden—why would you hide it? Let truth be expressed. Jesus said: Climb to the rooftops and call out; let truth speak, let it resound; give truth a voice, give it a song—so that as many as possible may hear it, may recognize it—that is good!

On this earth, only a few have known truth in its fullness. It is because of those few that there is humanity in man. Remove ten or twelve names from the earth—Buddha, Zarathustra, Jesus, Mohammed, Mahavira, Lao Tzu—remove a mere ten or twelve names, and man will become a wild animal. Whatever is dignified in you, whatever is noble; whatever little poetry, beauty, music is within you—exists because of these few. Their truth still creates resonance within you even today. When one person attains to truth, the whole of mankind climbs a step with him.

If some truth arises in you, if it is felt in your experience, then share it. Share it without hesitation; do not be miserly, do not be stingy—do not keep it hidden. And even if you try to keep it hidden, you will not be able to. It cannot be hidden.

That is all for today.