Jin Sutra #10

First, your family is quite right. Do not be angry with them. What they call religion, I certainly do corrupt. There is no mistake in what they are saying; it is plain and simple. My definition of religion and theirs are different. If your definition also became different from theirs, you would neither be angry nor troubled. Your trouble is that your definition of religion is the same as theirs; that is why their words hurt you, why they cause pain. You want to prove that I do not destroy religion—that I set the wheel of dharma in motion. But you are mistaken about what religion is.

What they know as religion is the religion of tradition. I am against tradition. The religion I have known is ever-fresh—new every moment—eternal, yet ever-new. The religion they have known comes from scripture; the religion I have known comes from oneself.

Of course, scriptures too once came from the Self. But a long time has passed since that event. Time has piled much ash upon it, many layers of commentary. When Krishna spoke, he spoke from the innermost. But dust has settled on the Gita; it has acquired so many meanings that it has turned into meaninglessness.

So those who have known religion through scripture will feel that I destroy it—because I say, be free of scripture. My interest is not in the Gita but in Krishna’s consciousness. The Gita is leftovers from that consciousness. If you must become something, become Krishna. But to be Krishna you have to go within; you have to stake your life; you have to die—only then is there rebirth, only then a new life. That bargain is costly.

People want a cheap religion: to get it without doing anything; to enjoy the comfort of being considered religious without doing anything; to have religion as an ornament to decorate the ego without doing anything.

The religion I speak of will burn you, melt you, erase you. It can be only for a few.

The crowd will always follow scripture. The crowd does not even have the courage to say, “We are irreligious,” or “We are atheists.” Nor does it have the courage to set out in search of truth for itself. The crowd is compromising. It says, “We are religious,” but its religion is like a dead corpse—from which stench rises, not fragrance.

Certainly I say: throw this corpse away. Because by keeping it, you are dying. Live with a corpse and you will die. One becomes like that with which one lives. If you live with scripture, gradually only words will remain; truth will be lost. If you keep following the traditions of the past, your eyes will slowly grow blind; there will be no need to use them. You will always walk behind someone.

The one who walks on his own feet, who takes the risk of seeking for himself—his eyes become alert. He starts awakening. Each moment is a challenge; and within that challenge, discovery happens.

What your family, neighbors, friends call religion is sect—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. The religion I speak of is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain. I am speaking of that ember which, when it goes out, sometimes becomes Christian, sometimes Hindu, sometimes Jain. But these are extinguished embers—heaps of ash.

I speak of the religion that is alive. But to take a living ember in your hand, to place a living ember upon your heart—this is the work of a few daredevils. The crowd cannot do it. Do not expect it of them.

They are right to speak as they do; when they say such things, they are protecting themselves. Because of you, a danger has arisen for them. For the first time, there is a disturbance in their lives. Because of you, ripples have appeared; they are being forced to think.

They will create all kinds of trouble. They will try in every way to prove you wrong. Their eagerness is not to prove you wrong; their eagerness is: “Do not snatch away our security. We thought religion is in scripture. You say it is not, and you are pulling the ground from under our feet. What will become of us?” When people oppose, it is not that they relish opposition—they are defending themselves. Have compassion on them. Their attack is a means of self-defense. They will say, “This man corrupts religion.” By saying and believing that, they can avoid coming to me. If they did not say it, did not believe it, then someday they would have to come—yet they are not ready for that bargain.

So, first, they are right. I have begun giving you a new definition of religion. Understand it. I am not making you Hindu, Muslim, or Christian—I am making you simply religious. I am not giving you a temple or a mosque. I am giving you a process of self-transformation. I want to connect you directly with the Divine. I am not placing any intermediary in between—because I see that intermediaries rarely succeed in delivering; they succeed in blocking. Those whom you place in the middle become walls.

I am not making you learned, because all knowledge puffs up the ego. I am not making you ascetic, because renunciation gives birth to a very subtle ego. I am making you simple, straightforward, clear, authentic. I am telling you that becoming truly human is enough. If you become truly human, God arrives. It is enough to become simple and straightforward. Accept life as it has come to you. And pass through the experiences for which life opens the doors, because there is no greater university than that.

The greatest university is experience—
but its fees are high.

People want cheap experience, borrowed experience—someone should hand it over so they need not take it themselves, need not pass through the fire. But no one can live for you, nor can anyone love for you, nor die in your place—so how can anyone experience truth for you?

Whatever is highest in life is private. A sect means a crowd; a sect means an organization. The Divine has nothing to do with crowds or organizations. Our relationship with the Divine is private, personal. One goes to Him one by one, alone. And whenever anyone goes, he must leave the crowd—because the crowd walks on the highway, the broad paved road, safe. And God is very wild. Fortunately, He has not yet become civilized. He is still simple and natural.

So, whoever wants to seek God must become simple and natural. He must step off the highway, find his own footpath through thickets and brambles, on a thorn-strewn track—no guide, no map in hand, no book—alone, only trust in life!

I am giving you trust in life and taking away all other trusts. Your other trusts have made you impotent. You have lost self-confidence. You have lost your reverence for life.

I say there is only one faith worth having—the faith in life. Assume that the One who gave you birth, who has arisen within you, will also lead you to the goal. Listen to That, attune to That. Do not be afraid. Do not cling to the crowd. The One who has brought you this far will take you there as well. But out of fear we cling to the crowd. If you are not Hindu, not Jain, not Muslim, you will feel afraid: “Then who am I?” You want some support, some nameplate, some definition. To be Hindu feels like being somebody. To be Muslim feels like being somebody. To be Shudra, Brahmin, Kshatriya—again, to feel like somebody. You have renounced, you go to the temple, you perform worship—it feels like “I am somebody.”

Here I am teaching you that you are nothing; only the Divine is. You are not—make space. Vacate the throne; you have sat there long enough. My call is only for those who are supremely audacious. Religion is ultimate courage—it is not the path of the weak. That is why the weak, even in the name of religion, do politics. Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—these are all politics. The names are religious, the flags are religious—inside, politics. Churches, temples, priests, pundits—talk of religion; go a little deeper and you will find politics: the race for the world, for position, prestige, wealth, empire. Christianity wants to dominate the whole world—less zest for finding God than for covering the world. Islam wants to make the whole world Muslim—by the sword if necessary. If people must be cut for their own good, then cut them! If villages must be burned, settlements razed—still, man must be made Muslim!

What madness is this? It is enough for a man to be a man. There is no need to make him Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. It is all politics.

On the other side, Hindus are anxious. People come to me and say, “Do something! Christian missionaries are turning Hindus into Christians.” I say, if by becoming Christian they become better human beings than before, what is the harm? Yes, if they become worse than before, then do something. If they remain the same—just as they were as Hindus, so they will remain as Christians—then what is there to worry about? Let it be! What difference does it make?

“No,” they say, “it makes a difference; our numbers are shrinking. With fewer numbers, political strength diminishes. Votes decrease. If this continues, Christians will rule.” Look closely and you will find politics hiding inside religion. The Hindu says, “We must save Hindu dharma.” It has nothing to do with dharma—what they want to save is Hindu politics! The Christian says, “We must spread Christianity.” What has Christianity to do with Christ? He is saying, “Spread our politics, our empire, our power.” Whatever the pretext, man is immersed in politics.

Remember: wherever your taste turns to the crowd, there politics enters. Take delight in yourself. Religion is an utterly personal event. God will happen in your innermost core, in your solitude. No one will even get wind of it. Your wife may be beside you and not know; your son—your own blood and bone—will not know.

When religion happens, it is entirely personal. Politics is collective. Wherever religion becomes a group, it turns into politics. I have no interest in politics. My interest is in individuals, not in groups.

Even here, as you sit, I am speaking to each one of you, not to a crowd. My eyes are on you—one by one. I have nothing to do with your crowd.

I am surprised there are even this many! By my account, even this many should not be here. That what I am saying still resonates with so many is itself surprising. And it’s not that I never had a crowd around me. I did. I shut off every path that led to it. The thousands were here too, once. But I found that for thousands it could only be entertainment. There was no longing for revolution in their lives—just a fair, a spectacle. The urge for revolution is not in the crowd. I left the crowd. I’ve now arranged matters so that the crowd-type cannot reach me—doors within doors so that the crowd does not get in. Only those few who truly want transformation should find their way to me. I have no taste for the others.

So the fact that even you few are here is a miracle. You’re here by breaking the rules of arithmetic.

Is there anything cheaper in this world than collecting a crowd? Understand the stupidity of crowds. Wherever there is a crowd, one thing is certain: something false is going on. The right never draws a crowd. Where are so many “right” people that the right could ever be crowded? People are few. Let two men start arguing in the street, and a crowd gathers. Let them hurl abuses, and a crowd gathers. People drop a thousand essential tasks to stand there. What is to be gained by gathering such a crowd?

But politicians are hungry for that crowd. And those you call religious leaders are hungry for it too—because there is power in numbers. The bigger the crowd around you, the more powerful you appear. But the longing to be powerful is the journey of the ego.

The strength of the strengthless is God. I teach you: become strengthless. Have no power—no power of position, money, or opinions. Let there be no props, become utterly without support. Only when you are totally supportless does the support of the Divine come to you. As long as you have your own supports, the Divine has no need to support you.

I have heard: Krishna was eating in Vaikuntha. Suddenly he sprang up from mid-meal and ran toward the door. Rukmini asked, “Where are you going?” He was in such haste—as if the house were on fire—that he didn’t even answer; but at the door he stopped, then returned, looking a little sad. Rukmini asked, “What happened? I couldn’t make sense of it. You suddenly ran off. You even put down the morsel in your hand. When I asked, you didn’t answer. Then why did you come back?”

Krishna said, “A beloved of mine is passing through a capital. A fakir of mine, playing his one-stringed ektara, singing. People are throwing stones at him. He’s bleeding; blood runs down his brow. But his song does not stop. He is immersed in Krishna, in Krishna’s melody. I had to go. He was so helpless—he didn’t even answer back! He didn’t pick up a stone. The veena kept singing, the song kept humming, and the blood kept flowing. If he has left so much to me, how could I sit and eat? So I ran.”

Rukmini said, “All right, that makes sense. The arithmetic is clear. Then why did you come back?” Krishna said, “There was no longer any need to go. By the time I reached the door, he had thrown away the ektara and picked up a stone. Now he himself is answering; now nothing is left for me to answer.”

The religious person makes himself ever more helpless. His worship and his prayer lie in becoming helpless. He breaks his supports one by one. One day he lets himself drift upon a vast ocean—no boat, no shore, no bank. In that very moment the Supreme Support is found. In that moment the hand of the Beloved reaches toward you. Meaning: when you have let go of all your props, it means trust has arisen; it means faith has happened. Before that your faith was in your own things—in money, position, opinions, the crowd, political power. You had some other kind of faith. But the day you drop all those faiths of yours, in that supreme emptiness the faith is born which is religion. On that day, apart from the Divine, you have no support. And in that very instant, the great revolution happens. In that instant you are lifted up. In that instant the rubbish within you burns away and the gold is refined.

That is why I have no interest in crowds. Religion, for me, is aristocratic—of the nobility of the inner. The crowd has nothing to do with it. Once in a while someone attains to that nobility, that inner aristocracy.

Understand it like this. Take a poet: the greater the poet, the fewer will go to hear him. Only when he is base can many people come—when he is speaking in the language people already understand, when he is stroking the same impulses they already know, when he is singing the songs of lust. Only when poetry descends to where the people are will the people understand, will they be stirred.

The novel that will sell is the one that is cheapest in every way—not only in price but in soul, with nothing special in it. The song that will be hummed is the one most trivial and low, calling from the lowest rung. The music that will be heard is the music that gratifies petty desires. The film that will run is the film that titillates lust. If there is violence, sex, murder—the film runs, people are drawn. But if a film shows the vision of samadhi—who will go? Let Buddha sit beneath the tree and the flowers of samadhi bloom—who will go? People will be bored. In the middle of the film they’ll get up to make a scene: “No fights, no killings, no sensational stuff—what is this?”

It has happened. Samuel Beckett made a film. An unusual man—he wrote tiny books, profound and deep. He made a film too. There’s nothing in the film, as people would say. A man returns home—after many years. The house is like a ruin. Where the wife went—unknown. Where the children went—unknown. He arrives, enters the house, his eyes searching the past. On the door, the wall, the picture, the calendar, the furniture—his entire past is shadowed there. He is lost, stands stunned. He begins to lift things, one by one. Not a single word is spoken; only his breathing grows louder. He is shaken. This is his whole past. All the threads are lost. Where is the son, where the wife—nothing is said; the viewer must understand. Not a word is spoken—only the sound of his rising breath. He picks up objects; tears spill from his eyes. Sobs come. The sound of his weeping—then deepening darkness. The film ends.

Wherever it was shown, riots broke out. Chairs were broken; screens were torn. People said, “This is fraud. Is this a film?”

But it’s a very subtle portrayal—feelings that cannot be spoken in words shown through the eyes. In the way he rises, sits, in the growing sound of his breath, in the dripping tears tap-tap from his eyes, in sobs dissolving into darkness—the whole of a human life. This is life.

One day you too will find that where everything was built, there is only a ruin. The sons are lost, the wife is gone, the husband is gone—everything is lost. Man remains alone. The sound of breath grows and then breaks. Darkness. Death. Sobs. Hands left utterly empty. And what else is there in life? The whole of life is placed in that. Yet the film could not run anywhere. And wherever it did, there was an uproar. The public said, “Give our money back!”

No—if you want to gather a crowd, you have to be base. A crowd will gather around Sathya Sai Baba, because your meanest desires are promised satisfaction there. Promises and assurances are offered. Someone wants to win a lawsuit. Someone wants a beautiful wife. Someone wants to make money. Someone wants his illness cured. The ordinary worries of life—well, it seems at Sathya Sai Baba’s place they might be fulfilled. Miracles happen. Swiss watches appear in the hand. Ash falls from an empty sky. Objects materialize. So if a man can pull watches out of nowhere, what can be impossible for him? If his grace falls on you, money can rain upon you. If his grace falls, you might win your case. If his grace falls, your disease might disappear. This hope arises. It is showman’s art; it tickles the hidden cravings in you.

Naturally a crowd gathers—because the crowd is made of the sick, the litigious, the money-mad, the power-ambitious. So the politician also goes to touch the feet, because he too has a case to win, an election to win. Perhaps a blessing, a bit of God’s support might help. He too brings back an amulet, he too brings vibhuti and keeps it safe.

There is not a single politician in Delhi without a guru. And when a politician wins, he may even forget the guru; but when he loses, he starts visiting gurus’ feet. A ray of hope—from somewhere.

Naturally, why would you come to me?

I will not remove your illness, I will not make you win your case, I will not find you a beautiful wife, I’m not here to arrange your wealth—on the contrary, I will take away even what you have.

Here you will have to let go of things. This place is for a few brave ones. My invitation is for those who are ready to dissolve. Those who still have a fierce will-to-live—let them go elsewhere. And it is good that they do not come here, because they would only create needless trouble.

Even so, despite all my constraints and arrangements, people do manage to come to me now and then. They say they want to understand about meditation. But when they reach me, I ask, “Do you truly want to understand about meditation?” Then they say, “Well, what can we hide from you? I’m trying everything, but my poverty won’t go, my wretchedness won’t leave. Please give a blessing.”

They come asking about meditation. Perhaps it is not clear even to them that their restlessness isn’t for meditation; it is for money. There is no money, therefore they are restless.

People ask me, “If we meditate, will we succeed in life?” They want to make meditation a means to success. Meditation is for those who have realized that the very nature of life is failure—‘for the defeated, the Name of Hari.’ Those who have seen that life is nothing but loss; here, victory never truly happens.

I have no enthusiasm for deceiving you. I also have no reason to deceive you, because I have no interest in gathering crowds. I am alone here; if you too are ready to be alone, come to me.

So yes, people will say I am corrupting religion. Certainly I am saying things that will corrupt what has been called religion. It should be corrupted—because that is not religion. What I am saying sounds foreign.

“Sharh-e-firaaq, madhh-e-lab-e-mushkboo karein;
Gurbat-kade mein kis se teri guftagu karein.”

Like someone lost in a foreign land where no one understands your language or style—if there you begin speaking of your beloved and your separation, who will understand? If there you start praising your lover’s fragrant lips—who will understand?

“Sharh-e-firaaq, madhh-e-lab-e-mushkboo karein—
With whom can we sing of our lover’s scented lips in this separation?
Gurbat-kade mein kis se teri guftagu karein!—
In this house of exile, with whom can we speak of you!”

So I am in search of mad lovers, who can understand this talk. I will not come down on your account. But if, on my account, you are ready to climb up, my doors are open. My music will not descend so you can understand it where you are. If you want to understand my music, you will have to climb the steps and come to where I am.

There are only two ways for us to meet. One is that I come down—which is impossible; no one who has truly gone up can come down. If someone appears to have come down, he was never up; he was already down.

The second way is that you climb toward me. Let my words catch you, let my call be heard by you, let a little disturbance enter your sleep and dreams, and if you can catch even a thread of my words and begin to climb—then, slowly, as you rise higher, what I say will become clear. As you rise, you will begin to feel what religion is. When your experience deepens you will see that I was speaking “against religion” because I am for religion; that I was speaking “against scripture” because I am for scripture. I want to give you a living experience. I have no faith in ashes. I sit with burning embers in my lap—for those who are ready to burn.

So your family is right to say what they say. Don’t be upset by them. Don’t argue with them. Don’t butt heads pointlessly; you will only waste your time. Just say, “Yes, you are right; what can I do—I have gone mad.” Save yourself by being mad. Don’t waste time in vain disputes, useless debates, and analyses of doctrines. Nothing of theirs will be lost—they have nothing to lose. You might lose something. You have something—or it is descending upon you. Every moment of yours is precious. Don’t spend it standing in the marketplace talking about the shops. You have the potential for meditation. Simply tell them, “You are right—but something has happened; I have gone mad!” Even if they consider you mad, what’s the harm?

Look into my eyes. Care about what I see you as. Stop worrying about what others think of you. If you have even a little trust in me, I tell you: you are on a path where becoming mad is also wisdom. And those who tell you you’re on the wrong path are being “sensible” while doing only mindlessness. There is just one way to make them understand: you transform. Your revolution will touch them. The new energy arising in your life will affect them—your love, your joy. Not your arguments, not your words—your being. Become what I am pointing to. Then you will see—they themselves will start asking you, “From where has this fulfillment come?” They are not blind. They have eyes. When diamonds begin to shine, they too will recognize—how long can they not? Become a diamond. Let a brilliance arise within you. That will be your argument.

I don’t ask you to enter verbal disputes. And do not worry at all that you have to defend me. There is no need to protect me. My being does not depend on what people say. I am. Whether they are for or against makes no difference. It draws no line across my being. So don’t bother about it.

My disciples should not be concerned with saving me. A guru who has to be saved by his disciples is no guru at all. One who survives on disciples’ support is not worth saving. Drop this concern.

It is your ego that gets hurt—I know. When someone abuses your guru, he is abusing you indirectly. When someone says your guru is corrupting religion, he is saying you are being corrupted. When someone says your guru is wrong, he is saying you are wrong. Your mind is hurt. A disciple wants the whole world to say that his guru is the greatest guru—because if your guru is the greatest, then you too are the greatest disciple. Your ego will be gratified. If people prepare plates for my worship and sing my praises, your praise will be hidden in it too—you belong to me. My worship would, unknowingly, be your worship. Drop this ego. Stop this nonsense. This is exactly what has always been happening.

Ask the Jains: for them Mahavira is supreme; no one can be placed above him. Not only above—no one can even be placed alongside him. Krishna they consign to hell; Rama is worldly. Buddha is a bit of a problem: he is neither worldly, nor is he standing in a war like Krishna, nor inciting a war—but still, they cannot put him at Mahavira’s height. So they call Mahavira “Bhagwan” (the Enlightened Lord) and Buddha “Mahatma” (a great soul).

A Jain thinker used to visit me. He called himself tolerant, equal-minded toward all religions. He wrote a book. He did not write “Bhagwan Buddha”; he wrote “Mahatma Buddha,” and “Bhagwan Mahavira.” He brought me the book and said, “See, I am Jain, but I have goodwill toward all.” I said, “If you truly had goodwill, why such miserliness? You could have been a little braver on this side too.”

Mahatma means: one who is moving toward Godhood, not yet arrived. Mahatma means: one who has turned inward, toward the inner self. Bhagwan means: one who has arrived. He said, “That’s true, but Buddha is still only a mahatma—what can I do?”

Ask the Buddhists: among the false views they list, one is Mahavira’s view. They mocked Mahavira greatly. Because Mahavira’s disciples called him omniscient, knower of the three times. So in Buddhist scriptures they mock: Mahavira stands begging alms in front of a house and doesn’t even know that there’s no one inside—that the house is empty. And he is a knower of past, present, future! Later he learns the house is empty. He is walking along the road in the dark of early morning. His foot steps on the tail of a sleeping dog. Only when the dog barks does he realize it. And he is omniscient!

Buddhists are making fun.

Disciples always suffer from this: our guru must be the very best—otherwise would we have chosen him? We, such intelligent people, and the one we chose could be less than supreme? Impossible!

Be alert. When someone abuses me or refutes me, watch your ego. He is helping too; he is cutting your ego. Tell him, “Cut—cut it well.” Whether he speaks against me or not—what difference does it make? What difference does it make to me? It makes a difference to you. You get agitated. You are ready to fight, to quarrel. Someone said something about your guru, and it became a matter of life and death.

See it as an ego issue; it has nothing to do with life and death. And my whole teaching here is to break the ego, to drop it. So these critics are your friends as well. They are helping to break your ego. Thank them too.

As you begin to listen calmly to people, their words will stop seeming so important. It is the babble of the sleeping. They are mumbling in their sleep. They don’t know themselves—how will they know you, how will they know me? Don’t give their words much value.

Life is the name of a flowing.
Who can stop the river of water?
Life is, somehow, unrelated—
a stray fragment of some story.

Irrelevant—like a piece of a story blown in the wind, a scrap of paper that lands in your hand; you read it and neither its beginning is known nor its end.

Life is, somehow, unrelated—
a stray fragment of some story.

Irrelevant—people keep talking. People keep speaking. People are not in awareness. Do not waste your time. Put every moment into cultivating your awareness.

They too are right. There is nothing here. My whole teaching here is to become a nothing. They are absolutely right. There is no question here of giving you anything; whatever illusions you carry about being this or that have to be dismantled, broken, erased; you are to be brought to zero. Let there be such emptiness within you that no one remains to say, no one remains to see—only then does samadhi ripen.

They are absolutely right. If you want to see miracles, you should go elsewhere. I am no showman. I have no eagerness to gratify any of your cravings. I have no desire that you consider me glorious. I do not want to turn your eyes into a mirror in which I admire my own image. I have seen myself; I need no mirror.

So when you come to me, come knowing you are entering danger. You are coming to die. For the deepest secret of life is hidden in the art of dying.

The ancient scriptures say: the guru is death. They are absolutely right. In the Katha Upanishad a father sends his son to Yama—to the guru. He sent him to death. Because until you dissolve, you cannot become what you are meant to be. This thing you have become, this false scaffolding that has accumulated around you, this identity you take yourself to be—this is not your real being, not your nature, not your essence.

So people are right. If you want to see miracles, you should go somewhere else. If you are bored with “miracles,” if dispassion has arisen, if you have seen that life as you know it is futile, if the appetite for more shows and entertainments is gone, if you are tired of all the toys—then come to me. Only in that last hour is there any point in coming to me.

So first, roam around. Go to everyone. Look everywhere. If you find truth somewhere—excellent. If you don’t, then come to me.

People are right. There is no need to be angry with them.

“What is there in the taverns that the madrasas do not have?
Indeed, there, there was not even a heart without ulterior motive.”

A very sweet saying. What is missing in the so‑called schools of the learned? Something is missing that the tavern has but the scholars’ schools do not.

“What is there in the taverns that the madrasas do not have!”
—What is in the tavern that the madrasa lacks? What is that?

“Indeed, there, there was not even a heart without ulterior motive.”
—A desireless heart, a heart free of craving, a heart empty of lust—even the philosophers’ madrasas do not have it. People go there too out of desire. They seek God in pursuit of opulence. They ask for heaven out of the longing for pleasure. They worship God out of fear. “There was not a heart without motive!” Their hunger for reward has not ended. Only when the craving for fruits ends does your relationship with dharma begin. Only when there is nothing left to gain is the Divine found. Only when even God does not appear as something to be acquired is God found. When you are no longer eager even to want God; when you say, all wanting has become futile; I have seen all desires and found them all futile; the very urge to desire has dropped and non‑desiring has arisen—just in that non‑desiring the Divine becomes available.

Here the only “glory” is of emptiness. Here the “glory” is of death, the great death. And what I am teaching you is, in a very deep sense, self‑annihilation—how to wipe yourself out, erase yourself.

“He understood not, does not understand, nor will ‘Raza’ ever understand a thing;
He was a madman, is a madman, will remain a madman.”

Here I have called the mad ones. Because what the wise cannot attain, the mad attain. What the learned cannot attain, the lovers attain. What you will not find in the scholars’ madrasa is found in the revelers’ tavern.

This is a madhushala—a tavern. I invite those who are eager to dance with me at that ultimate depth. Those depths cannot be seen; there are no words for them. They belong to the formless. As you tune into my music, as you come closer, as an Upanishadic relationship forms between us—Upanishad means “to sit near”! The sayings of the Upanishads are words of those gurus by whose side a few disciples sat. Those words were spoken less by the gurus than caught more by the disciples.

When that Upanishadic bond forms between us, when you come so near that your melody blends with my inner melody, when my veena and your veena begin to vibrate together, when the pulsations fall into harmony; when my breath and your breath move as one, when my heart and your heart beat as one; when my being and your being are no longer divided by separate boundaries but begin to drown into one another—in such a union the Upanishadic relationship flowers. In that moment you will know the “glory” of what is happening here. Here no ash is being dropped from the hand, nor are Swiss‑made watches being produced. Something else is happening here—visible only to those who have learned the art of closing the eyes. Something else is taking place—seen only by those who have looked thoroughly at the world, looked and found nothing. If you still have a hankering to see some further “glory,” then wander—exhaust it. Be defeated in every way, then come to me. To the defeated—the Name of Hari!

“I am a madman indeed—take me back to my desert,
For I cannot be bound by the etiquettes of the rose‑garden.”

My invitation is for those who could not fit neatly into the rules of the garden, who could not fit neatly into society’s order. “I cannot be bound by the etiquettes of the rose‑garden”—those who cannot fit into the garden’s arrangements and flowerbeds, its divisions, its organizing, its proprieties; who are wild plants; who do not tolerate the gardener’s pruning; who have accepted the total freedom of their being; who want to be exactly what the Divine has sent them to be—nothing else. Who accept no other code and no other limitation, who are utterly reverent toward life—only for them is this invitation. And only they will come—and be able to come. Others may come by mistake, but no relationship will form. They will come and remain foreigners. They will not become my limbs, nor will I become theirs. They will come and return without becoming acquainted. Many come, and go. Everyone comes; not everyone finds acquaintance! A thousand come; ten can stay. Ten stay; one becomes acquainted.

“But this is my opinion. I have to live among those who oppose you. So kindly tell me how to protect my truth!”

Truth protects itself. You are afraid. You have not yet known my truth; perhaps you have believed it. Hence the fear. Hence the impulse to protect it. Hence you think, “What if they refute it?” Has anyone ever refuted truth?

Majnun fell in love with Laila. The village king summoned him and said, “You are absolutely mad! That Laila is an ordinary, ill‑favored woman. Seeing your madness even I feel pity.” He called twelve beauties from his palace and said, “Choose any one.” They were exquisite—royal beauties. Majnun looked carefully and said, “But none of these is Laila.” The king said, “Are you mad? Laila is not even the dust of their feet.”

Majnun began to laugh and said, “Perhaps. But have you ever seen Laila?” The king said, “I’m not speaking without seeing. Seeing your madness, I too became curious—surely there must be something. So I saw Laila—there is nothing. Madman! Come to your senses.” Majnun said, “Then you have not seen. To see Laila you need Majnun’s eyes—if you had borrowed my eyes, only then could you see. With your eyes it cannot be done.”

So if you have recognized my love, my truth, then there is no worry about protection. Truth protects itself. However unsafe it may look, truth is safe. You just start living it. What I am telling you, do not make it a luxury of words—let it become the waves of your life. Set about living it. Do not listen to what they say; savor what I have said and begin to embody it. As you become more true, you will find truth needs no protection. Even hanging on the cross, truth is seated on the throne.

Has anyone ever been satisfied by getting? You are asking the wrong question. You have taken the wrong direction. Whoever thought, “I will be satisfied by getting something,” has never been satisfied. Only the one who understands that satisfaction has nothing to do with getting is ever satisfied. In getting, dissatisfaction is hidden. If there are ten thousand, then it should be a hundred thousand; if there is a hundred thousand, then it should be a million; if there is a million, then it should be ten million. That tenfold gap keeps reappearing. The more you get, the further the desire to get moves ahead. The moment never comes when you can say, “I have got it.”

Yes, it is not that people have never been satisfied; but those who were satisfied are the ones who recognized this madness of dissatisfaction—that it is never going to be fulfilled. No matter how much you get, there will never be congruence between your craving to get and what you have gotten. Whatever you get, you can imagine something superior to it—and that’s the end of it! And this is the whole snare of becoming: that a human being can imagine something better.

You may attain the most beautiful woman, but can you find a woman in whom you will not find a flaw? Can you find a woman beyond whom you cannot imagine greater beauty? Can you find a woman who will not allow you to dream of a still more beautiful one? Then how will you be satisfied?

You build a big house—do you think a house can be such that no repair or improvement is possible, that it cannot be bettered? If it can be bettered, dissatisfaction has already begun.

The imagination of the superior will always be present. How will there be satisfaction? Whatever you become, whatever you obtain—none of it has any necessary relation to your becoming satisfied. Then what does satisfaction relate to? It relates to understanding this very process of dissatisfaction. Know it. See it. In simply seeing and knowing it, the entire net collapses: suddenly you find there is no reason to be dissatisfied.

Satisfaction is a way of being here and now. Dissatisfaction is the chase powered by the hope that tomorrow can be better. Satisfaction is the inner climate that says: what is cannot be better than this. In this moment, what could be best has already happened.

Therefore the wise have said: there cannot be a better world than this world.

Umar Khayyam has a song: O God! If You give us one chance, we will erase the world and remake it according to our heart.

But could you ever make the world according to your heart? Even that chance could be given. In fact, that chance has been given—that is what the world is. This very opportunity to make it as your heart desires. Your house, your garden, wealth, prestige, honor, your image, your wife and children—go, make them as per your own plan.

But who has ever been fulfilled that way! Even Alexander departs empty-handed.
Empty-handed we come; empty-handed we go.

Yet if you understand the words of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, and Christ, they say: we come with full breath, we live with full breath, we go with full breath. The focus on empty hands is itself wrong. Turn your gaze to the heart; the heart is already full. In this very moment, what had to happen has happened.

This is what I call trust in the existential: that what has happened in this moment is supreme, ultimate. There is no way to anything superior to this. Then suddenly you are satisfied. The whole race drops. To be here and now is satisfaction.

In the fancy of which imperial springs, Nadeem,
do you look desolate in the very season of flowers?

Spring has arrived. Flowers are in bloom. Birds are humming songs. The sun has risen. A web of rays spreads everywhere. In the season of blossoms you look desolate—what is the matter? Spring is raining down all around. Why do you stand so withered?

In the fancy of which imperial springs, Nadeem,
do you look desolate in the very season of flowers?

—In which dreams are you lost? In the springtimes of which fantasies are you absorbed—of conquering the world, of winning the world—so immersed in imaginings that you cannot see the spring present all around you?

In the fancy of which imperial springs, Nadeem,
do you look desolate in the very season of flowers?

Spring is here. God is. What more needs to happen? Live! Do not make a plan to live! Sing! Spring has arrived; it is knocking at the door. Wake up! Dance! Celebrate! There is nothing here to get; what is to be gotten has already been given. You were born with it. It is your nature. The moment one sees one’s nature, one becomes satisfied. Satisfaction is the shadow of the experience of one’s nature. Wandering in plans and fantasies contrary to nature, a person becomes dissatisfied. Dissatisfaction is the shadow of the effort to be other than one’s nature.

I have seen You in the innocent springs;
I have seen You in the fancied stars.
By the oath of Your veiledness, my Beloved,
I have seen You in rows of tears.

Not only in flowers—His vision will be there even in tears.
I have seen You in rows of tears.

Once the art of seeing arrives—once the eye arrives, the gaze arrives—pebbles and stones turn into diamonds. Simple food becomes divine prasad. A modest house begins to outshine palaces. A slight breeze becomes a shower of immeasurable grace. It is a matter of vision. Without that vision, diamonds and jewels are but pebbles; palaces are but huts; the supreme richness of life goes unnoticed. Everything seems stale. It is a matter of the gaze. Change the gaze.

If dissatisfaction seems to persist, you are clinging to a wrong gaze.
It has been asked: “After all, what is it that I want?”
There is nothing to want; it is already given. That is why, however much you may desire, you will get into difficulty. That which is already given cannot be found by searching for it! Drop the search, so that consciousness can return home! Drop the search! Because through the very search you have gone outside yourself and cannot see what you are. Stop! The Divine is not something to be searched for! The person who drops all seeking suddenly finds: the Divine is. Your state is such that the diamond lies right in front of you, but your eyes are fixed far away—on the moon and the stars; your distant dream is leading you astray. Here you do not look; here you become blind.

As I see it, people have only one disease—they are all farsighted. They can see what is far, not what is near. Near-vision is lost. This happens with the physical eyes too: someone needs glasses to see what is close; without them he cannot read a book, though he can see the moon and the stars. The far is visible, the near is not. Some can see the near but not the far—so there are two kinds of spectacles. But in spiritual life there is only one kind of disease, one disease of the inner eye: what is near does not appear; what is far appears. Because the far appears, the longing is for the far. The drums in the distance sound sweet—so the mind wanders.

In the fancy of what Jahangir-like springtimes, Nadeem,
that even in the season of flowers you seem desolate?

The name of the vision that sees what is near is dharma. The name of making acquaintance with what is already given is dharma. The recognition of that which has never been lost—that is dharma.

“After all, what do I want? All that I have received and am receiving is not small.”
But it feels small to you. It will not be small. It is not small. But it feels small to you, because the mind keeps saying: more can be had, more can be had, more can be had.

The night before last a sannyasin asked me for my sandals: “Give me your sandals.” She had come before too; then also she had asked for sandals. I had given her something—because the question is not what I give; I gave. I gave her something and said, “Take this.” Because if the disease of asking for sandals spreads, I get into trouble! How many pairs should I give? And if one person is seen with them, a second comes to ask, a third comes to ask. Then whom do I refuse? So I gave her a small wooden box. This time she came again and again asked for sandals. I asked her, “Had I given you something earlier?” She said, “Nothing—just a small box.” Now even if I give her sandals, next year she will come and say, “What did you give—sandals!” Because that is how the mind is.

Even if I were to place emptiness into your hands, I would still be giving you something. You need the eyes to see. And even if I were to get up and come to your house, you would say, “What new trouble has come into the house! Now who will take care of him?”

It is a matter of vision. So much is being given, but the mind you carry cannot see what is. The mind has the habit of seeing the lack.

You know how it is when a tooth breaks—the tongue keeps going there! While it was there, the tongue never went. When it breaks, the tongue goes there again and again—to the empty spot, the absence.

You may try to pull it away—what is the use; you already know the tooth is broken—but still, absentmindedly you will find the tongue groping there. Just as the tongue keeps feeling for the gap, so the mind keeps feeling for what is not. The mind has no habit of seeing what is.

People ask me why God does not appear. He does not appear precisely because he is so much, so dense; he is everywhere—outside and inside. The seer is he, and the seen is he—that is why you keep missing. Not because he is somewhere far away, very far away.

If he were very far, we would have found him. We have reached the moon—how far could he be!

When the first Russian cosmonaut returned, they say Khrushchev asked him first, “Did you find God?” He said, “No, there is no God; the moon is absolutely empty.” In Leningrad they built a research center for space travel, and over its gate they inscribed these words: “Our cosmonauts reached the moon and found that God is not there.”

Those who do not find him on the earth—how will they find him on the moon? Think a little about that too! You are you; the seeing is yours. If he were to be found, he would be found here.

Ravindranath wrote a poem about Buddha. The poem is very sweet.
Buddha has returned after twelve years. Yashodhara asked him: I have only one question; I have lived just to ask this one question—could what you found there not have been found here? What you found by going to the forest, could it not have been found at home? I have only this one question to ask.
Buddha had never been seen so stunned by any question as he was then, standing silent. He could not even say that it could not have been found here. It was a matter of vision. Now it is here too. Once the eye opens, it is the same at home and outside, in the shop and in the temple. Therefore the real question is of the eye.

Do not ask, “What do I want?” And do not ask, “What shall I get that will satisfy me?” You will not be satisfied by getting anything. Has the getter ever been satisfied? The dissatisfaction of the one who keeps getting goes on moving ahead, grows larger, keeps spreading—like a balloon. That is why the rich remain poor, and emperors remain beggars.

Farid once went to Akbar. The villagers had sent him. They said, “Our village needs a madrasa. Tell Akbar; he respects you so much.” Farid went. Akbar was praying, offering the morning namaz. Farid stood behind. At the completion of the prayer Akbar spread both his hands and said, “O God! Give me more wealth, more riches! May your gracious glance be upon me!” Farid turned back. Akbar rose and saw Farid going down the steps! He said, “How did you come—and how are you leaving?” because Farid had never come there; whenever he went, it was Akbar who came to him.
“How did you come and how are you going?” Farid said, “I had thought you were an emperor. Seeing a beggar even here, I turned back. And then I thought: I will ask directly from the one you are asking. Why keep a middleman in between! The villagers had sent me to ask you to open a madrasa; I had come to ask for that—but not now. That would take a little from your wealth. I would not like to see you impoverished. My only wish is that all be prosperous. But you are a beggar.”

Your emperor too is begging. And begging. And begging. Those who have are also asking for more.

So one thing is certain: getting does not end asking—renunciation ends asking.

Thus a unique thing happened in the East: we found emperors who were beggars, and at times we found a few beggars who were emperors. Mahavira, Buddha stood as beggars, with nothing in their possession. Because they saw one thing: run and run and run—you will never arrive. Stop; just stand!

The moment you stand still, your connection with the eternal is made.

So I cannot tell you what, by getting, will satisfy you; I can only tell you this much: contentment has nothing to do with getting. See the futility of acquiring. In the very seeing of that futility, the race to get will fall away. Suddenly you will find yourself standing, not running. Suddenly you will find the wisdom within you has become steady, no longer trembling. In that one unmoving moment you will be fulfilled.

And once there is a glimpse of fulfillment, the kingdom is in your hands—the eye is in your hands—the way of seeing has arrived. God is; what is needed is the way of seeing.

Do not look at the world of beauty with your ordinary eyes;
invent your own way of seeing.

This world of God’s beauty, this world of supreme beauty—do not try to see it with ordinary eyes; otherwise you will remain dissatisfied, you will live in lack. You will remain a beggar!

Do not look at the world of beauty with your ordinary eyes;
invent your own way of seeing.

Find a new way, a new style of seeing. Look from contentment. Until now you have looked from discontent. Looking from discontent, discontent kept increasing. It was in your eye, so it spread. Look from contentment; let contentment be in the eye—you will find contentment spreading.

Your way of seeing life becomes the truth of your life. What you think becomes your reality. Until now you have groomed and decorated only discontent; you sowed its seeds, you saw through it—naturally, discontent kept growing. Whatever seeds you sow, that is the crop you will reap. Recognize this little arithmetic. Look a little with contentment. Look as if there is no dissatisfaction, that everything is. With eyes full, a joyful heart, filled with gratitude, soaked and steeped in gratitude—look like that. Suddenly you will find there is nowhere any lack! Everything is whole! Everything is brimming! Nowhere is there anything empty! What remains to ask for?

Such glimpses will come gradually and grow. First a few seeds will sprout, then more seeds will sprout; then flowers will come from those seeds; and in the flowers newer and newer seeds will form. One day you will find spring waving all around you. That supreme beauty, that spring, is what we call God. That is contentment. That is the ultimate fulfillment.

No, with these two eyes no one ever meets the Beloved. It is precisely because of the two-ness that meeting does not happen. To attain Him, one needs a single eye—this is why we speak of the third eye.

“Crow, eat my whole body, pick at my flesh bit by bit;
Spare only these two eyes—for they hold the hope of meeting my Beloved.”

The utterance is sweet; but it is a poet’s, not a seer’s. It belongs to a seeker, not to one who knows. With these two eyes, the beloveds you meet are outside: a sweetheart, a husband, a wife. These two eyes are doors that connect you outward. To meet Him, a third eye is needed—the Supreme Beloved who has made His home within you, who waits for you: When will you come? When will you return? How many births have passed since you left—when will you come home? To attain Him, one eye.

For with two eyes you meet duality; with one, you meet nonduality. The two eyes divide the whole world into two; they look outward and cannot look within. That is why, in all meditation, the eyes are closed—so the world of the two eyes dissolves and disappears. Then the energy that flows through the two eyes gathers into a third eye. Between the eyebrows, the energies of these two eyes collect and condense—and a new eye is born, which sees within.

Your longing is right, and rightly directed. And you will have to burn. You will have to become ash. That too is true.

“Life would have passed as it is;
Why did the memory of your pathway arise?”

Those whom the Lover calls feel exactly this: life would have passed as it was—and then this new trouble, that You called! As if the old sorrows were not enough; now the fire of your separation burns.

“Life would have passed as it is;
Why did the memory of your pathway arise?”

Your remembrance came, and then the path to You appeared—this is the beginning of a new kind of pain.

The pain you have known in the world is destructive: you only melt away and vanish, and nothing is gained. On the path of the Divine there is pain too, there is burning; but it is profoundly creative. You melt and you vanish—and something new is born. There, death is never alone; with every death, a new birth arrives.

“The lover, though dying a thousand times, never truly dies;
Each time death comes, it brings brand-new life.”

On that path one must die many times—moment to moment. For the moment you fail to die, the ego begins to gather again. It must be burned, moment to moment. Otherwise, miss a little and the dust settles again, the “I” stands up anew. This “I” is so subtle—it stands on wealth, on status, on renunciation—even on the feeling of humility: “I am a nobody.” It can stand even on that.

“The lover, though dying a thousand times, never truly dies;
Each time death comes, it brings brand-new life.”

This continuous process of dying is meditation, is prayer, is worship, is adoration.

“In your divine fire I am burning to ash.”
Do not be afraid. Thank Him. Blessed are you that He found you worthy to be burned! Blessed that His gaze fell upon you to burn you! For in this burning, in this disappearing, the new begins. The sun will rise. Do not be afraid. If there is pain, weep—let the tears flow; but do not pray, “Stop it, end it.”

Even Jesus came to such an hour. Hanging on the cross, in the final moment, he lifted his eyes and said, “O God, what are You showing me? Stop it!” On the cross, who would not feel so! But then he came to, awakened, and instantly changed his words—on time, at the precise moment, or he would have missed. He lifted his eyes again and said, “O Father, forgive me. Thy will be done! If You wish to burn me, that alone will be auspicious. If You wish to annihilate me, to crucify me, surely that is for my good. You know my well-being better than I do. Thy will be done!”

“When the tongue is tired, then silently
let the tears do the work.”
Weep. If words cannot be found, say it with tears. But do not pray for the opposite. Live the pain. Accept the burning.

People will advise you. They will say, “Come back—once you were fine. Why take on this trouble?” People tried to dissuade Meera, they tried with Chaitanya, they tried with Buddha: “Turn back! What madness has seized you? Keep your wits about you!” The whole world is wise.

So when you weep in separation, when His fire burns you, when your heart is cut inch by inch, everyone will ask you, “What has happened?” Do not return, heeding people; nor begin explaining to them. For there are matters that are not to be explained or understood that way.

“Everyone asks me the reason for my weeping;
My God, how can I make the whole world my confidant!”
How can I make everyone a sharer in this secret? Everyone asks: “Why are you weeping? Why singing? Why dancing?” The “why” stands there. The very moment you act otherwise—different from people—they demand, “Why?” They want you just as they are—not a hair’s breadth different; to move like a statue, like a machine, with the crowd. When you weep, when you sing, when sometimes you laugh in ecstasy—this will happen, for the inner journey takes you through all the emotions. Every emotion becomes a pilgrimage. Sometimes it will seem you are utterly mad—laughing and crying together.

“Everyone asks me the reason for my weeping;
My God, how can I make the whole world my confidant!”

“I asked where the ultimate destination lies;
Khizr showed me the path—to the tavern.”
I asked where the final goal is, and the true guide pointed me to the tavern—of ecstasy, of intoxication, of love, of prayer!

Lose yourself! When I say you will burn, it means only this: you will dissolve, you will drown. Gradually you will find that your ties with the old have snapped and a wholly new consciousness is born. In this consciousness there will be ecstasy—and awareness. A drunkenness that contains awareness. There will be a kind of unconsciousness, as Mahavira says: withdrawal from the world, engagement with the Self. In this drunkenness there is unconsciousness toward the world, awareness toward the Divine; unconsciousness toward the “other,” awareness toward the “Self.” From the outside it will seem you have been robbed; within, infinite wealth will be revealed—treasures upon treasures.

“Then flowers fragranced my gaze, and candles were lit again in my heart;
Once more imagination took the name of going to that assembly.”
Have you seen the moth? It burns! Again the candle burns, the lamp burns, and again the moth comes. How many times it has burned—and yet it returns, and is lost in the flame. Certainly moths are not thinkers and rationalists; otherwise they would call it madness. People, of course, do.

This lover of the Divine is also like the moth. We think he goes to burn; but ask the moth—ask his heart!

“Then flowers fragranced my gaze, and candles were lit again in my heart;
Once more imagination took the name of going to that assembly.”

The search for God is the search of love. Do not bring bookkeeping into it. Go wholly. Do not even say, “Spare the two eyes, for the hope of meeting the Beloved.” Do not say even that. Say instead: “Drown me in every way!” May the hope of union become so deep that it no longer even appears as hope. Let there be no one left within to be the hoper.

As one lost in a desert for days without water: at first there is thirst, and with it the sense, “I am thirsty.” The thirst grows; water is not found. Gradually the thirst becomes so dense that sometimes the thought arises, “I am thirsty,” otherwise there is only thirst. Then comes a final hour when only thirst remains—the thirsty one is gone. There is not even the strength to set oneself apart and say, “I am the viewer of this thirst, the knower of this thirst.” One becomes thirst. The whole being blazes as thirst. In that very moment, union happens—when you drown wholly. Do not try to save yourself. Do not even try to save the two eyes. For in the urge to save anything, you will end up saving yourself. The self is what must be lost, must be dissolved.

“You not knowing”—how could that be? Those who have formed a connection with me—whatever happens to them, I will know. If no connection has been made, that’s different. But those who have joined with me, who have had the courage to walk with me—for walking with me, what will you gain? Not wealth, not prestige, not position. Whatever position and prestige you have will be lost. You will have to lose your social respectability. With me you will only lose; what is there to earn?

So whoever has dared to walk with me—whatever occurs within them, I will come to know. The threads have been joined! That is what I call sannyas—the name for being joined to me. When something clicks in your heart, I will know. You will know too; perhaps I may even know before you do.

“You not knowing”—that will not happen. Just fulfill one condition—connect—and after that I will take care of the rest. If the very first condition is not fulfilled, then the rest cannot be taken care of. And don’t be afraid.

The morning breeze has once again come and knocked on the door of the living;
Dawn is near—tell the heart not to be afraid.

The morning air has arrived; it has knocked once more upon the prison-house!
The morning breeze has once again come and knocked on the door of the living;
Dawn is near—tell the heart not to be afraid.

Here I have come, knocking on your heart. If you have heard it—dawn is near; tell your heart not to be afraid.

These moments of pain—someday you will count yourself blessed for them. Today, of course, there will be pain. On the path there is pain. On reaching the goal the traveler comes to see that the pain was nothing; what has been attained is infinitely more.

What passed in journeys of fragrance,
What passed in the city of moonlight—
It is alms; the only life that truly remains
Is what was spent upon your pathway.

Once you arrive you see that all else—
What passed in journeys of fragrance,
What passed in the city of moonlight—
Is beggary—everything else is mere alms—whether on the path of perfumes or in the city of the moon.
The only true life is that
Which was spent upon your pathway.

What is spent in seeking the Divine—that alone is life. The rest is life only in name.

So on the one hand I say to you: everything will have to be lost. But blessed are those who are willing to lose—because they alone become worthy to receive everything. On one side it will seem you are losing; on the other, you will find you are gaining.

I often seem lost in love—
Or say it this way: I have begun to come to my senses.

The world will begin to fall away—truth will begin to be found. Gamblers are needed! Those who will stake themselves are needed. If you have staked yourself, then don’t worry. If you have dared to make the connection, some responsibility is mine as well. When you join to me, it is not only you who are joining; I too am joining to you. Just take care of this much: are you truly connected to me? Is it not merely on the surface? Is it not just words? Many people come.

Someone comes and says, “Now everything is surrendered at your feet.” I say, “Good—then take sannyas now!” He says, “That is a bit difficult.” Everything is surrendered! That is a bit tough.

What were you saying just a moment ago? “Everything is surrender!” The meaning of “everything surrendered” would have been this: leave aside sannyas—if I had said, “Go, drown yourself in the river,” you would have gone. And if saving you were needed, I would have come running. You needn’t have worried. But people use words; perhaps they have no sense of their meaning. People have learned formal phrases, social courtesies. “Everything is surrender!” Did that “everything” not include sannyas? In “everything,” even death was included.

Just keep this in mind: from your side let it be complete, authentic, heartfelt—then it will not happen that I do not know. Whatever is happening, I will keep knowing.

It is not necessary that I fulfill your prayer, because you get frightened quickly. You say, “Don’t make me weep anymore, now it’s enough!” You say, “Don’t burn me anymore, now it’s enough!” You tire quickly, you panic quickly. My only use with you is to give you courage—to say, just a little farther; you don’t have to walk much more.

Once Buddha was passing by a village, going to another. He asked the villagers, “How far is it?” They said, “Just about two miles.” After they had walked about two miles into the forest, they asked a woodcutter, “How far is the next village?” He said, “Just about two miles.” Buddha smiled. Ananda got a little annoyed. He said, “Ill-mannered, dishonest people! We’ve already walked two miles and it’s still two miles, he says!”

After another two miles, evening began to fall, the sun was setting. They asked another man; he too said, “Just about two miles—almost there.” Ananda said, “I’ve never seen such liars. One could spend a lifetime traveling like this!”

Buddha said, “These are not liars; they are people like me. They are very good people. They give courage. They say, ‘Just two miles!’ They keep you walking. Look—you’ve already walked six miles!”

Now I too say to you: only two miles.

Many times you get tired, you want to sit down; I have to say to you, “It’s just about to happen.”

The morning breeze has once again come and knocked on the door of the living;
Dawn is near—tell the heart not to be afraid.

That’s all for today.