Jin Sutra #16

Every word is fraught with danger. Because the moment a word is spoken, the speaker’s ownership over it ends; the listener becomes its owner. I say something, and the instant it is said I am no longer the owner; the moment you hear it, you become the owner. What meaning you give it now depends on you.

So if one is afraid of words, there is no way to speak at all. Because I cannot put my meaning into you; you will put the meaning in. My meaning will remain in my heart; only the empty shell of the word will reach you; you will pour the soul into it. The meaning will always be yours. And since you are afflicted with inner turmoil, whatever meaning you pour in will be tainted by that turmoil. Because you are confused, your meanings will be confused; you will draw the wrong conclusions.

Does that mean those who have known should fall silent? But you will also interpret their silence—why did he fall silent? Buddha refused to answer many questions precisely because answering them would lead people into wrong meanings. And after Buddha’s death the greatest dispute among his followers was: why did Buddha remain silent on those questions? The fragments into which Buddhism later split were born of those silences. Some said he was silent because what he knew could not be expressed in words. Some said he was silent because there is nothing there to know; so what is there to express? Some said he was silent because he did not know; what could he have said?

You will interpret silence too! So there is no escaping meaning. Then what is the way? The way is: let each one use the word that feels right to him, and define it from all sides and directions, so far as possible, leaving you as little room as possible to insert your own meanings. Guard the word from every side with such definition that, even then, if you want to misunderstand, you still can.

But truth cannot be withheld out of fear that it will be misused. If ninety-nine out of a hundred misunderstand, no harm; if even one in a hundred understands rightly, speaking is worthwhile. Those ninety-nine who misunderstand—had they not heard, they would still be wrong; nothing is lost. They misunderstood because they were already wrong; they did not become wrong because of misunderstanding. So if they misunderstand, nothing more is necessarily spoiled in their lives. They were spoiled; they remain spoiled. But if even one in a hundred hears, agrees, rises and walks, it is enough. There is no need to fret about the ninety-nine.

Mahavira chose the word ahimsa—nonviolence. That was his preference, and he had many reasons. One reason was that the traditions running in the name of love and devotion had become completely distorted. If he spoke of love, he had no way to stand apart from that tradition; the revolution he wanted would not have been born. Using the same vocabulary would have caused him to be lost among the pundits and Brahmins, who were a great crowd. He used the word ahimsa. In doing so he gave a new definition, secured his distinctness, and avoided being lost in the crowd. It was useful to employ the word ahimsa.

But in these twenty-five centuries the word ahimsa has acquired such prestige that the same situation has returned. To use ahimsa today is to be lost in the queue of those who stand under that banner.

So for the same reason Mahavira used ahimsa, I cannot use it. The reason is the same. I prefer the word love. In these twenty-five centuries the word love fell out of use; no cultivation was done on that field. If a field is sown repeatedly its fertility is exhausted; if a field lies fallow for years, it regains its fertility. Love has again become usable; breath can again be poured into it.

A gap of twenty-five centuries—during which Buddha, Mahavira, and up to Gandhi sang the glory of ahimsa—has overcultivated that soil; now nothing grows there. Now the fear is that even the seeds you sow will be thrown back at you. That is why I look toward the field where no crop has been raised these twenty-five centuries.

The spiritual meaning of love has not been used; it is necessary to use it. I am not saying it will remain meaningful forever; soon this field too will lose its fertility, and then new words will have to be found. Let those who come worry about that.

New words are always needed, because with new words a new current of consciousness flows into man. And sometimes old words, unused for long, when revived are useful, because they have become new again—lying empty for so long, they regain capacity. The word love has regained capacity.

There are further points. Ahimsa is a negative word; its stress is on “no.” Mahavira emphasized “no.” My emphasis is not on “no.” For me, religiosity is in acceptance—in the mood of “yes.” You cannot build the pillars of life on “no.” Whoever dwells in the house of “no” shrinks. If Jainism has shrunk, the prime reason is this: the house of “no” has killed it.

Buddha too began with negative words. In five hundred years, Buddhism in India died out. Then Buddhist monks realized that the “no-words” had taken the life out. Words like Nirvana—“non-being,” “extinction”—who longs for non-being? People startle just hearing such words. So when Buddhist monks went outside India—to Burma, Ceylon, China—they dropped the “no-words.” Buddhism spread through Asia when it used “yes-words”: affirmative, creative, alive. It became a vast religion. Had they clung to Buddha’s original “no-words,” Buddhism would have met the same fate as Jainism. Buddha’s compulsion to use negatives was the same as Mahavira’s. The Brahmin tradition was full of “yes-words,” of affirmation. If you did not stand apart, that tradition would swallow you. To stand apart, they used negatives, to draw clear boundary lines. And when you are in a minority, you must define your boundaries very clearly, otherwise the majority will absorb you. Hinduism was a vast ocean; the Jain and Buddhist streams would be lost in it like ponds and puddles—you wouldn’t even know they existed. So those little lakes had to secure their own arrangements with great care. They stopped using all the words Hindus used. Those words were precious in themselves, but exigency dictated, because those words belonged to the Hindus. If you utter “Brahman”—you are drowned! If you say “Paramatma”—you are drowned! The Hindus had a long tradition; all the affirmative words were already in their treasury. That is the Hindu strength: affirmation, acceptance, embrace. If you remember the Vedic and Upanishadic rishis, you will see that, by what you call a monk or renunciate today, they would not fit. By what I call a sannyasin, they are. They were in the house, in the family; they had wives, children, wealth. A very affirmative form.

For the Hindus, sannyas was not the opposite of household life; it was its ultimate fruit. It was not that whoever left the home was a sannyasin; rather, whoever completed the home was a sannyasin. One who lived the home fully and went beyond, who climbed each step of experience—that was sannyas. For the Hindus, sannyas was the final peak of life: first brahmacharya (learning), then grihastha (household), then vanaprastha (retirement), then sannyas—a sequence, an evolution. Very scientific. First, experience the world properly; know the pain of indulgence so that renunciation can be authentic. Know the futility of wealth so that dispassion can arise. Recognize the mortality of the body—not from scriptures, from life and experience. Everyone receives experience in his hands.

So for the Hindus, sannyas was not life-negating; it was life’s clarified butter, its ghee. Milk is set into curd; curd is churned into butter; butter is heated into ghee—such was sannyas: like ghee! After ghee there is no further transformation. Have you noticed—there is no further stage after ghee; you cannot make it into something else. Milk can become curd; curd can become butter; butter can become ghee—but you can’t turn ghee into anything more. It is the culmination. Nor can you reverse it: you cannot turn ghee back into butter, butter into curd, or curd into milk.

For the Hindus, sannyas was like ghee—the last thing, from which there is no return and beyond which there is no going. And to reach it, all the steps must be climbed.

In the midst of this eternal religion Mahavira appeared. The tradition had rotted; every tradition eventually rots. This is life’s natural law. As every youth grows old and every old person dies and is cremated—the same with cultures and religions: they are born, they bloom, they age, they die. Yet the courage we show in life—mother dies, you loved her, but what will you do? You weep, bathe, keep weeping while tying the bier; what else is there? You keep weeping and carry her to the fire—we could not show the same courage with religions: that they too become young, and when they are young, how delightful! When Hinduism was at its peak it gave birth to the Upanishads, to great epics; the Hindu song rang everywhere, with thrill and zest and youth! Then Hinduism grew old. And when Hinduism had grown old and died, or was near death, Mahavira and Buddha appeared. To be linked to a dying man in any way was dangerous; he was dying. To link yourself to him meant allying with death already. Naturally they sought new words.

Note: the Jains would not even use the Sanskrit language! Words aside—even the language was dangerous, because all its associations were Hindu. If Mahavira had used Sanskrit, how could he have sung higher than the Upanishads? Sanskrit had already reached its pinnacle; the finial had been placed on that temple. Mahavira therefore used Prakrit. Sanskrit was the language of the pundit, of the cultured, the elite. Mahavira used the language of the poor, the common folk.

Remember, whenever a new religion arises, it comes through those who were oppressed by the old. Those honored by the old religion will not choose the new; their interests are tied to the old. Naturally the Brahmin would not be moved by Mahavira’s ideas. The Kshatriya might be moved, the Vaishya might be moved, the Shudra might be moved. The Kshatriya not much, because his ties with the Brahmin were deep. In name the Brahmin was on top; in fact, the Kshatriya was on top—he held the sword. The Brahmin could remain above only by the Kshatriya’s permission and power. Whatever you say about the glory of saints—until the king came and touched their feet, who recognized their glory? So the Kshatriya too was established. That Jainism became the religion of the merchants is not surprising. The Vaishyas were most affected. The Shudras were little affected; even to be affected requires some understanding. The Kshatriya had interests; the Brahmin had no way to become a Jain—there was no sense for him. Even today you see: do Birlas, Singhanias, Sahus become Christians? It is the Shudra, the village poor, the tribal who becomes Christian—those harried by Hinduism. What Hinduism did not give them, Christianity promised.

So Mahavira and Buddha both said: there are no castes. But the Shudra was so downtrodden that even these words could not reach him; he was forbidden learning. He had no education. The Brahmin could not come; the Kshatriya had no reason to come; the Shudra could not understand—and bringing him in was dangerous, because the Vaishya would not allow it; he would sprinkle purifying water. His notions were Hindu too. If a Kshatriya came, the Vaishya would accept him; if a Brahmin came, he would accept him; but a Shudra below him—he would block him. Thus Jainism became a Vaishya religion, a shopkeeper’s religion. Naturally Mahavira had to use their language—the people’s tongue.

Buddha did the same. He too used the people’s language. He chose Pali. If he had chosen Prakrit he would have been bound to Mahavira.

Think on this: Mahavira was about thirty years older than Buddha. Mahavira had already been working for thirty years. The Brahmins spoke Sanskrit; Mahavira chose Prakrit. Buddha had neither option left. They worked in the same region, but Buddha chose Pali, so the distinction would be clear. Nothing creates a boundary as firmly as language.

You know: when a person does not understand your language, you become a stranger instantly. You may be sitting side by side, and there are thousands of miles between you—because man lives and connects through language.

By abandoning Sanskrit, the Jains parted cleanly from Hinduism. By using Pali, the Buddhists parted from both Jains and Brahmins.

Both opposed caste; only thus could they attract the Vaishya. Yet though Vaishyas came, habits die hard. Even today a Shudra is not allowed in some Jain temples; while Mahavira declares, “There is no Shudra, Brahmin, Vaishya, Kshatriya.” His whole revolution is anti-caste. Even so, the imprint remains.

You have seen: let a Brahmin become a Christian—he remains a Brahmin-Christian. In Christian communities I have seen that if someone comes from a Brahmin background and someone from a Shudra background, the Brahmin-Christian remains above; he will not marry a Shudra-Christian. Conditionings sink very deep.

When Mahavira broke the system of varnas, he also broke the system of ashramas, for Varna-Ashrama was one integrated idea—four castes, four life-stages. If you break one, the other must go; otherwise the Hindu framework remains. Born in a sea, you must create your own island. So he said there is no fixed sequence of brahmacharya, householder, forest-dweller, renunciate; you may renounce whenever you wish. Thus both systems were broken. Then he found new words, a new language.

The word love is dangerous. Why? Because with love, God enters at once. Have you seen—love an ordinary woman and a goddess begins to appear in her. A woman in love with an ordinary man starts seeing him as God. Where love enters, God comes from behind. In ordinary life, where you well know the man is not God, yet his beloved begins to see him as God. If you use the word love much, you cannot deny God, because love points beyond; love is an arrow shot from your heart to the heart of the other.

Love is dangerous—for attention. Love is dangerous—for nonviolence. Love is dangerous because with love comes God, and with God comes the entire Hindu vision of life. Therefore Mahavira had to deny God, deny love, deny prayer, deny worship, incense, lamps—deny everything. Let the person go wholly inward, and in no way outward. Even God is an outward journey. Thus Mahavira used the word ahimsa.

But ahimsa is a weak word; before love it does not stand—it limps. It was his need, his compulsion. Love, however, has legs.

Try telling a woman, “I have established a relationship of nonviolence with you,” and you will know! She won’t want to see your face again. A relationship of nonviolence? Meaning: I won’t beat you, I won’t hurt you. Finished! What will you give? This is only a pledge of “not giving”: I won’t give you pain—understood; I won’t hit you—understood. But can any relationship rest on that?

Ahimsa is a device for severing relationships, not for joining them. That is why a follower of Mahavira tends to become cut off from all. Ahimsa cannot join; there is no cement in it. There is no yoga in ahimsa.

You will be surprised: Mahavira did not use the word yoga. Stranger still: he used the word ayoga. Do not join; break. When Mahavira’s knower attains the ultimate state, he calls him “ayogi, kevali”—one who has broken from everything and is utterly alone: ayogi, kevali. Yoga is sin, for yoga is joining—and joining is the world. The essence is in breaking from the world.

Through ahimsa you can sever; you cannot unite. Ahimsa can contract you; it cannot expand you. Ahimsa will shut you inside yourself; it will not open you. Ahimsa has walls, not doors and windows. Hence the more you fill yourself with words like ahimsa, the more you will find yourself drying up—leaves withering, branches breaking, you shrinking, turning back. Your spread is lost. Your life’s adventure is lost.

So if the Jains have shrunk, it is not accidental. There was no device for expansion.

Never build your life on negation, because life’s nature is expansion. Here everything expands. Plant a small seed; a great tree arises, and on it millions of seeds. One seed becomes millions; spread those millions, the whole earth will be covered with trees. The whole earth can be green from one seed.

Look at the way of life. Christians say God created Adam and Eve, a single pair, and from them four billion people came. One pair is enough. The Jews tell that once God became very angry: people were corrupt, so he flooded the earth. But there was a devotee: Noah. God said, “I will save you.” Noah prayed: “People may be bad, but don’t be so angry—save the seeds!” God said, “All right! Take one pair of each animal into your ark.” And after seven days of deluge, the ark remained. When land emerged, they opened the door, and to their amazement out scampered ten or twenty-five mice! Noah asked his wife, “What is this? I had told you to take pairs.” She said, “I did take pairs, but in seven days they multiplied.”

One pair suffices. Saving that much saved all life.

Life’s nature is expansion. Love expands; ahimsa contracts. Therefore I prefer the word love. Ahimsa is a small part of love. Whom we love, we do not want to hurt—this is obvious. If there is love, nonviolence toward that one is already there. But from nonviolence toward someone it does not follow that there is love. Love is greater than ahimsa. How could we hurt the one we love? To hurt them is to hurt ourselves. If it happens by mistake, we ask forgiveness, we try to mend. Ahimsa comes of itself where love comes.

So I say: grow love. Let it not remain limited to persons; let it spread, include trees, animals, birds. And when I say love God, I mean: love this visible world so totally that in and through it the invisible is felt; that in every leaf He becomes visible. Ahimsa will arise by itself. There is no need to make a separate scripture for ahimsa.

Granted, the word love will still be misunderstood, yet I hold that love is the more living word. Even with the possibility of misunderstanding, it is the right choice. Ahimsa too has been misunderstood. And being a negative, dead word, the misunderstandings have piled up on a corpse, producing a great stench. A living word resists a little, throws up some protest when you twist it. Strike a stone with a chisel—it won’t resist. Try to chisel a living child—he will shout and kick, raise an uproar, gather the whole neighborhood.

Love is alive. If you try to change it, you won’t be able to so easily; it will make a commotion. Ahimsa is dead. You can paint it any color; it will not utter a sound. It will become whatever you make of it.

Be cautious with negation—it is absence. Do not stress absence, for by staring at absence you will become juiceless; you will slowly go out.

Mahavira had his compulsions; he chose accordingly. But I am not bound by his compulsion. He must have been right for his time—he was an intelligent man; he chose after deep thought. But no one can bind humanity forever. Who can bind? I have no such compulsion. That is my freedom. Even when I speak on Patanjali, I am under no compulsion. It is not a foregone conclusion that whatever Patanjali said is right for today. For today I do not worry; what I say today, I consider more right for today. They spoke for their time; as they had the right to speak for their time, so I have the right to speak for mine.

Certainly, I am not saying that what I say will be right forever; some day it too will rot and die. Then someone should change it—it must be changed. In this world no person can be decisive for all and forever; otherwise human freedom and glory would die.

Count, listen, understand—but never blindly trace old lines.

The situation today is almost the same. The word love will be misunderstood. But there is a difference with me. I am not eager to found a new religion, to create a new language, to write a new scripture. There are plenty of scriptures, plenty of religions, plenty of languages. Now we should explore the essence within all religions. My effort is not what Mahavira’s was. Mahavira was wary of the Hindus; I am not afraid. Buddha and Mahavira were wary of the Hindus; I am not. I am not afraid of Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Jains, Buddhists—there is no reason to be afraid of anyone. Yes, if I had to establish a new religion, fear would arise. I would have to keep an eye on the market: my product must be new, distinct—its fragrance, its color, its trademark must be different; only then can it survive; otherwise it will be lost in the marketplace.

My intent is very different. What has already been known—and much has been known—let the essence of that knowing begin to reach people now.

Religions have no future. Religions are gone; they belong to the past. Just as science is one, so in the future religion will be one. There will be no Hindu, no Muslim, no Christian. Each has poured its stream into the ocean of religion. Now we do not call the ocean Ganga or Yamuna; there is no need. The ocean is greater than the Ganges, than the Yamuna, than the Brahmaputra; it swallows thousands of rivers and does not rise an inch; thousands evaporate into clouds and it does not drop an inch. Now religion must become ocean; there have been ponds and lakes enough. They have gathered abundant material of insight. There is no need for Hindu to fight Muslim, or Jain to fight Hindu. What is needed now is that the essential core common to Jain, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh be revealed, so that a science of religion may be born.

Science is science—neither Christian nor Hindu nor Muslim. If a Christian discovers a scientific truth, we do not call it Christian truth. Einstein discovered the theory of relativity—it is not Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. Whether a Muslim discovers it or a Hindu or a Jew, it is science. So with religion: whoever discovers points toward the one supreme truth. Drop the fingers now; look at the moon!

My effort is to loosen your fixation on the finger and show you the moon, because all the fingers point to the same moon. Yes, some fingers are adorned with jewels; some are dark and rough; some weak; some beautiful and young; some old; some very ancient; some like a child’s tender sprout—but the moon to which they all rise is one. We have paid too much attention to the fingers; now leave them and attend to the moon. Understand the indication.

So I will continue to use the word love. There is danger—but why fear danger? It is by shrinking from danger on all sides that man has become impotent. Avoiding danger everywhere, you will discover you have avoided life, because life itself is danger. Whoever avoids love will, today or tomorrow, avoid life too. Life too is dangerous. Death happens only in life.

Have you ever thought? My old grandmother used to fearfully forbid me to fly. Whenever I left home she would say, “Remember one thing—never by airplane.” I asked her why she feared planes. She said, “In the newspaper you read: it crashed, people died.” I said, “Do you know ninety-nine percent of people die in bed? Shall I stop sleeping on a bed?” She said, “That’s true.” It dawned on her. “If accidents are to be avoided, it is the bed that must be avoided. Once in a while someone dies in a plane.” She said, “Then go, no problem. If we avoid the bed, how will we live?”

There is a Persian saying: one who sleeps on the floor never falls from the cot. True. If you sleep on the floor, how will you fall from the cot? But how far can you go on avoiding? How will you live? Such living becomes escape. Here, everything carries risk. Love—risk; stepping out of the house—risk; breathing—risk: infection; drinking water—risk; eating food—risk. Here, it is risk upon risk. Only the dead are beyond risk.

Have you seen—a dead man is entirely beyond risk. First, he cannot die again; no disease can catch him. Others avoid him; he avoids no one. Those who calculate danger, danger, danger slowly die inside. The deadness of this country owes much to the obsession, “there is danger in this, in that”—shrinking and shrinking—where will you go?

I have heard an old village tale. The landlord was on his throne when a Brahmin came. The landlord should sit below when a Brahmin arrives. The landlord said, “This is not proper; it is against the rule. You sit on top; I will sit below.” The Brahmin said, “But this will create a lot of trouble.” The landlord was stubborn. The Brahmin said, “How far will you go? If I sit below, what will you do?” He said, “I will dig a pit and sit below.” “If I get into that pit?” “I will dig another, lower.” “And if I dig a further pit?” The landlord said, “Then I will fill up the pit and go home. What else? If you keep following me, I will fill the pit over you and go home.”

How far will you keep running? Somewhere you must bury fear. Somewhere you must fill it in.

I know the word love is dangerous. All living words are dangerous. Ahimsa is clinical—washed, wiped, sterile, hospital-clean. It has no microbes; how will it have pathogens? It is a very medical word—sprinkled with antiseptic. So doused that it is no longer potable, like water over-dosed with chemicals.

Love is a living word—as it should be, because the whole existence lives by love. You were born of love. You will live in love. And if only you can die in love—you are blessed! Everyone is born; few truly live; and it is only once in a while that someone truly dies. Everyone is born in love.

Hence the intense longing for love—to receive love, give love, share love. The whole economy of life runs on the currency of love. Do not run from love; whoever runs from love runs from life—and whoever runs from life will never find the temple of God.

“The shoal-water will make you flop like a fish;
if you want to live, let there be the possibility of storms in your river.”
Do not be afraid of tempests. If you want to live,
let the possibility of gales and storms remain in your river.
If you remove all possibility of storm and gale, your river will no longer be a river; it will become shallow. Then shallow water will make you flop like a fish. Let storms remain; only by facing storms does life get polished. It is by passing through tempests that life gains luster.

I call love religion. But it is arduous, because you have known love only as lust. I understand your fear. You panic: love? You have known love only in its lowest form. That is your error; love is not to blame. If a man holds a diamond and uses it to crack someone’s skull, is that the diamond’s fault? Will you avoid diamonds therefore? A pebble could have done that job.

Man has used love-energy in its lowest way—for procreation. The supreme use of love is to give birth to oneself. The ordinary use is to give birth to another. Love’s ultimate culmination is self-birth—inner birth. Love’s peak does not end with bodies, forms, colors. When that which is hidden in color, in form, in the visible begins to be seen, then know you have used love fully.

You have a lamp, but if by its light you only look at life’s dirt, the lamp is not at fault. That same lamp could reveal life’s ultimate beauty.

“Since your beauty became the focus of my gaze,
all things have fallen in value in the market of my eyes.”
Once even a glimpse of His beauty appears—once, peeping through flowers you catch His eye; once, in the waves of the ocean you sense His wave—

since His beauty became the center of your gaze,
from that day everything else loses value. From that day wealth, position, fame, body, objects—they all drop in worth. Mahavira says: drop their value and truth will be attained. I say: begin to glimpse the Divine a little; let a tincture of His beauty enter your eyes; let a little of His intoxication make you tipsy—then things will drop on their own.

There are only two ways: either drop things and vision comes; or begin to see the truth and things drop. I say the first path is dangerous. It is not guaranteed that by dropping things vision will come; you may only shrink, losing even the capacity for vision. This has happened. Once in a while a Mahavira is an exception. But as a rule I see many who dropped and dropped and gained nothing; much was lost, nothing was found. They became afraid to receive. I tell you: do not drop until the higher has been experienced. Let the higher descend; let the light come—then darkness goes.

You were playing with pebbles; someone brought diamonds. The pebbles will fall from your hands. With diamonds before you, who will clutch pebbles? But if you first drop the pebbles, it is not necessary that someone will come and fill your hands with diamonds.

Often Jain monks who come to me leave me with deep sadness. They say: we have given up everything, but we have found nothing. Life has gone in renunciation; now death draws near. Hands and feet are trembling. Fear enters. Now we cannot return to the world we left. To lick back what we have spat is not good. Time is gone; strength is gone. A doubt arises within: did we do right in renouncing? Perhaps we made a mistake. Perhaps this world itself is all—and we left even this? The other has not been found; this is gone.

You do not know their pain, because you only hear their sermons. In sermons they repeat what entrapped them. In sermons they do not tell the truth. Man has not yet become so authentic as to speak the truth in sermon. He speaks what pleases you, fits your scripture. Among Jains he must speak what suits Jains. When they came to me earlier (now even their followers do not let them come), they would say: we must speak alone. They would ask their followers to wait outside: “Before them we cannot speak truth.” Alone they would ask three foundational questions: first, we have renounced all, but inner flavor has not gone. Second, the desires we repressed— as the body weakens, those repressions surge more strongly; after forty-five one begins to see that whatever was suppressed becomes troublesome, because the suppressor grows weak; the coal of the suppressed desire remains hot. Third: a doubt—was our course right? Perhaps the world was itself right?

It is a pitiable state—more pitiable than yours. You at least have something—the world. Their hands are empty. See the poverty of empty hands.

I do not want to make you poor. I say: seek God. As He comes, the world will recede. As your hands fill with Him, your hands will withdraw from the world—no need to pull them back. If you have to wrench them back, it is repression. If they fall away on their own, there remains no trace, no pain.

“Since the day love became the leader of our caravan,
we have moved ahead of every caravan.”
The day you place your reins in the hands of love, the day love becomes your guide and pathfinder, that day you will find you have gone farther than all. None has gone ahead except by love. Love is the guide. Love is the lamp of light.

I know the risks that love carries, because you have known its distorted form. But to withhold truth from you because you may misuse it would be even more dangerous. I will say what is right. If you want to extract the wrong from it, extract it—that will be your responsibility. I will not kill you for fear you might err. Your life must be filled with full energy. No harm if today you go wrong; with the same energy you can return.

But temper love. Raise it daily. See that it has new and subtler steps—sweet, love-soaked steps.

What you call love is a mixed state—like gold alloyed with much dross. That is why hatred is mixed into your love. You love the very person you hate. Have you observed your mind? Your wife gets annoyed and you think, “It would be better if she just died.” “O God, take her away! Where have I gotten stuck?” A mother, when her son does not obey, says, “Better you had never been born.” Your love is not far from hate. Your blessing is not far from your curse; they sit side by side. Your smile is not far from your tears.

Wake a little; see it. Your love turns into anger in a moment. You were ready to give your life for someone; in a moment you are ready to take his. Look and see.

This love is mixed with many impurities: anger, hatred, jealousy, envy, attachment, aversion, violence. You press the throat of the one you love—so much violence. Lovers often kill each other. The wedding date often proves the death date.

A man was to be married. On the road a friend met him. The marriage was the next day. The friend said, “Congratulations!” The man said, “You must be mistaken; I’m not married yet; it’s tomorrow.” The friend said, “That’s exactly why I’m congratulating you—after that there will be no occasion. One day is left—live! Walk freely!”

If you see a man and woman walking on the road, you can often say at once whether they are husband and wife. The husband walks timidly, gaze down, not looking left or right—otherwise trouble!

This love cuts off the neck.

I was once traveling by train. A woman shared the compartment. Her husband was in another coach, but he came at every station. I said to her, “I suspect this cannot be a husband.” She was startled. “How many years married?” “Seven or eight.” “This can happen in novels. Seven or eight years—and the husband comes at every station in all this crowd?” She said, “You have guessed right. He is not my husband; there is an attachment.” Then it makes sense. Attachment is one thing; wife you must be to someone else. Otherwise what husband keeps alighting at every station? Once he has missed you, arriving at the last station is quite enough!

Much is mixed into your love. You press each other’s throats. Yes, we invent pretty pretexts. But what we should call love is still far away. Yet even what you call love contains the gold. Therefore I will not say, “Throw it away.” It must be refined. There is clay in the gold—granted; remove the clay, preserve the gold. Some people take the clay as love—that is wrong. Others say, seeing the clay, “Throw away the whole love”—that is worse; lest you throw out the gold with the clay.

This is what has happened in the doctrine of ahimsa: throw away love, it is dangerous; it brings trouble, tension, restlessness—throw it away. But the gold goes with it. I say: avoid both extremes. Remove the clay—cut away hatred, anger, envy, jealousy—refine love.

Life is a laboratory for refining love. Blessed are those who completely refine their love. In the purified form of that love, the way the world appears—that is what is called God. In that purified form of love, the destiny you attain—that is what is called the Self.

Such a question arises in many minds; it is natural. But you are not understanding the complexity of life. Your nature is “lost” precisely so that, without losing it, you could never come to know it. That loss is part of the knowing. What you have—always, always, always—you grow blind to. It has to be “lost” so that you can find it. To find, losing is essential. And even then, you do not really lose anything, because your true nature is that which cannot be lost.

We call it “loss” when there is forgetfulness. You have forgotten. And it is very necessary to understand what this forgetting means. Forgetting does not mean you have become something other than what you are. It only means you have taken yourself to be something else. You remain what you are. Suppose tonight you sleep here and in a dream you see yourself in Calcutta—you have not actually reached Calcutta. You won’t need to catch a plane to get back. Someone will shake you awake and you will wake up in Pune, not in Calcutta. You won’t complain, “What trouble you’ve caused—now I must rush to the station and catch a train to Pune; this man woke me up in Calcutta!” You were in Calcutta only in a dream. In reality you were here in Pune.

The Divine cannot be lost. You are in the Divine—whatever dream you may dream. And to dream is your freedom. Dreams are very sweet. Nor are dreams altogether bad, because through them you create a distance from yourself to yourself. Then union becomes a joy. A fish that remains forever in the ocean forgets the ocean; it cannot know it. Throw the fish onto the shore—it writhes; then for the first time it remembers what the ocean is.

You are writhing on the shore of your dreams. This writhing will take you back into the ocean. Now you ask, “What is the use of relighting the lamp that the storm has blown out?” It has not gone out. No storm can blow out your lamp—otherwise, there are so many storms. No storm can put out your lamp. Who is it that knows this? Who is it that says, “What’s the use of lighting again the lamp that the storm blew out?” The very one who says this is your lamp—your very sense of consciousness. Who is it that says, “What is the use of seeking that Divine which has gone far from home?” But who is it that is saying this?

That is your divine essence. That witnessing, that consciousness, that knowing, that awareness, that light. The lamp does not go out. This is not a lamp that can be extinguished. And had it gone out, there would be no way to light it again. Had it gone out, you would not even be there; there would be no one to think, “How shall I light it?” You are. You are complete. Only a dream has encircled you; a cloud has come and covered the sun.

This play of sun and shadow is very sweet. That is why the Hindu definition is so unique: they call it leela—divine play. You are taking it as a very serious matter—“I have lost it; now what’s the use!” Didn’t you ever play hide-and-seek as a child? Two children play, both close their eyes and hide. They know perfectly well the other is hidden right here, in this very room. They circle around, search, make a great commotion—and they even know where the other is hidden, because how big is the house anyway? Under the bed… behind the wall… everything is known. But if everything is known, the fun of the game is lost. So you run a bit, pant a bit, peep here and there—and then you catch each other.

Hindus say this world is hide-and-seek, leela. You yourself are seeking yourself; you yourself are hiding yourself. You will ask, “Why? Why play hide-and-seek?” Then don’t play. Religion simply teaches the art that those who don’t want to play can meditate; they step out of the hide-and-seek. Meditation only means this much: if you are tired and don’t want to play anymore, declare, “I am stepping out of the game now—I will rest,” or “I am hungry; I am going home.” Those who still relish the play—let them play. Those who are getting tired—let them return home.

To seek the Divine means simply this: enough of the hide-and-seek; I am tired now. That remembrance alone is enough—rest. Just as after a day’s labor a person sleeps at night, you don’t stand at night and argue, “Why sleep, when I have worked all day?” As you wish—if you don’t want to sleep, don’t; stand there. And when you have slept through the night, in the morning when someone wakes you, you don’t say, “I won’t get up now; I’ve been sleeping all night—why get up?” After not sleeping comes waking; after waking, sleep. After day is night; after night is day.

Meditation and the world, the formless and its forms—moving between these is the journey. This play is very sweet. One only needs the art of playing. And in play, do not raise the question “why.” “Why” is a shopkeeper’s word, not a player’s. Two people play football and you ask, “What’s the use? From here you kick the ball there, from there they kick it back here—why not put it in one place and sit peacefully?” People play volleyball—you see what madness! A net is strung in the middle; from here they throw it there, from there they throw it back here. And leave the players aside—crowds gather to watch! Such a small thing is happening: the ball is being tossed back and forth—two machines could do it. Where’s the essence? The shopkeeper asks, “Why? What will you gain?” But then you miss the point. There is nothing to gain; the relish is in the play itself. That exuberance of play—that is the juice.

Like a straw I carried the floods of events;
We brought the storm along with life.
The storm has come with us. Life itself is a storm—great waves rise, great tempests come. Then a great silence descends. For silence, a storm is necessary; for the storm, silence is necessary—the two are complementary. Here there is meeting and losing; gaining and parting; remembrance and forgetfulness. These are the two wings by which you fly in the sky of life.

These happenings that block you at every single step
Will one day become the very support for your feet.
If the age frowns, so what, Ravish—
We will smile a little more at this sternness.
These happenings, these events at every step—these stones that stand in your way—themselves will one day become the steps beneath your feet. Do not be frightened; they are not stones, they will become stairways. This very wandering will become the path to arriving. This very going far will become the way of coming close.

These happenings that block you at every single step—
these stones, these events, the tangles of life, the bazaar and shop, craving and attachment and a thousand thousand things—will themselves one day become the support for your feet. Do not be afraid—keep playing. As yet you have not understood the play, the mathematics of it. When you do, the taste will arise. Then even climbing those stones will become a joy. You will thank those stones: “Good you were there—otherwise what would I have climbed?” Good that you were there—otherwise where would I have had the chance to test life, where the opportunity?

If the age is scowling, what of it, Ravish?
At such severity we will smile a little more.
Learn to smile a little at the uproars the world raises.

A seeker of the Divine moves as if it were a play. You are moving with great seriousness—that is a hindrance. Your so-called religious people have taught you grim faces—as if prayer were some work! Prayer is play, not work. There is no profit or greed in it; there is the sheer joy of being. Ask these birds! These crickets humming—ask them, “For what?” They will be astonished you even raised the question. It is delightful.

As long as the world delights you, run with it. When the Divine begins to delight you, stop. It is a matter of delight.

I am not against those who are in the world. I say, if they are enjoying it, let them enjoy. Trouble begins when you are enjoying the world and you get into someone’s talk—someone tells you, “What’s there in the world? All is dust; all will be left behind—this splendor will be left when the caravan moves on!” Their caravan may have started, but for you it was still play—you were pitching your tent, making your arrangements. That word reaches your ear and now you are in conflict. You keep driving in the tent pegs while thinking, “All this will be left behind.” Now a hindrance has come. You are no longer single. Your personality splits into fragments. Your so-called religions have made you neurotic.

I am not saying “Leave and depart.” I am saying: pitch the tent properly. You have got a chance to wander from God—wander well. If the moment has come to go far—go far. Why be miserly even in this? In my seeing, the farther one goes, when remembrance seizes him, the more intensely he returns. There is a proportion between going far and coming near. There is no real losing—there is play. If you must, play weeping; if you can, play laughing. The one who plays laughingly—I call that person religious. The one who plays weeping is no player at all.

If it is night, then after it dawn will come bringing radiance;
If it is morning, then night will come too, with the stars’ shining garlands.
If it is night, dawn is near—don’t be afraid. Enjoy the night; morning will come. Don’t cry and scream for the morning. This night is already on the way to morning. This night is the coming morning in a hidden form.

If it is night, then after it dawn will come bringing radiance.
The morning will bring light. First, savor the darkness well. If your eyes do not know darkness well, you will not become fit to relish the light.

Have you noticed? When after darkness you see the light, the darkness has prepared your eyes—you become capable of seeing. In darkness the eyes rest; they become fresh. Then again you see skillfully. That is why the eyelids keep blinking—have you ever asked why? They create a momentary darkness each instant so the eyes remain fresh. When you go to a movie, you forget to blink for three hours; that is why the eyes grow tired—not because of the film or television, but because you forget the natural process of bringing darkness in between. You tense up so much you stare with eyes wide open. Next time at the cinema or TV, keep blinking—you will find no fatigue. The secret is in the blink. It is a play of darkness and light, of sun and shade.

If it is night, then after it dawn will come bringing radiance.
Rest a little in the night.
The world is the Divine’s rest. Morning will soon come; the Divine will come, bringing light. Don’t rush about. Don’t stand on your head with pointless postures. Night’s going has nothing to do with that. Night comes and goes on its own. You simply remain a witness.

If it is morning, then night will come too, with the stars’ shining garlands.
This is the wheel of life that goes on turning. In this wheel, learn to play—first condition: not with seriousness but with the jubilant mood of a player, with relish. And a second thing will arise slowly out of your playfulness: witnessing. When you see that night comes on its own, morning happens on its own, evening comes again, and stars begin to sparkle—everything is happening on its own—then why should I run about uselessly? I will simply remain a witness, watching, tasting, relishing whatever happens. The Divine assumes so many forms, dances so many dances—let me be the seer. So first, be a player; then become a witness. Whoever has both in life—has arrived.

Why take a broken heart as the defeat of life?
If the tavern stands, a thousand goblets are safe.
The exalted song of man resounds in the assembly of stars—
Who knows when a new star may suddenly laugh!
Life, as yet, is only a reflection of Life—
What has the world understood of Life so far?
If you are defeated, do not take it as defeat of life. Life never loses. If you lose, you will be carried off, called back—life goes on. A wave is defeated and merges back into the ocean.

If the tavern stands, a thousand goblets are safe.
If one goblet breaks, why panic? If the tavern is intact, a thousand cups are ready to be filled. People get frightened by little things. Someone’s wife dies—suddenly “renunciation” arises. If the tavern stands, a thousand goblets are safe! Why such haste? Someone’s shop runs at a loss—bankruptcy comes. Well—you celebrated Diwali so many times; now celebrate “divala” (bankruptcy) too! Why panic so much?

If the tavern stands, a thousand goblets are safe.
No one has ever reached religion out of defeat, failure, or gloom. Gloom brings sickness, not the health of life. One reaches religion not through sadness but through joy, through uplifted cheerfulness.

The exalted song of man resounds in the assembly of stars—
Who knows when a new star may suddenly laugh!
Life, as yet, is only a reflection of Life—
What has the world understood of Life so far?
What you call life now is only a shadow of Life. You have not yet learned its full secret. Do not be in a hurry. Do not conclude: “What is the use—if the lamp has gone out, why light it again? If the home is lost, why seek it?” Thinking like this you will collapse from weariness; you will become a living corpse.

Arise! Life’s journey is to be traveled in exuberance.
And whenever something is lost, understand this too: that loss is itself a way of gaining.

Auspicious—this very mood is the mood of a devotee. And one in whom this feeling of acceptance has arisen, who has gained the capacity to accept even nonacceptance; in whose “no” there is no sting; in whose defeat no thorns prick; who receives both pleasure and pain as gifts from the Divine, as prasad—his destination is not far. His feet have begun to draw near the goal; his path is nearing completion.

Guard this state of feeling. Deepen it slowly. Let it soak into every pore of your being. Let it settle into every heartbeat.

Those whom I find happy and rejoicing in every condition—
in their garden I find a spring without autumn.

Those who are happy in every circumstance—spring comes to their life, and fall never arrives.

Blessed the eye they call the yearning eye;
blessed the heart that remains captive in love.

If such a mood of love is arising in you—if the first glimpses have begun, where you can take both joy and sorrow as the Lord’s grace—then soon a heart of that very kind will be formed in you.
Blessed the heart that remains captive in love!
Blessed the eye they call the yearning eye!

Then your eye will surely see the Divine. This is the test of the aspirant’s eye. Everyone accepts happiness; that tells nothing. It is known only of the one who accepts even sorrow. When flowers fall, everyone agrees and rejoices. But when thorns appear in life, the one who still keeps smiling—

Blessed the eye they call the yearning eye.
That eye has come—the aspirant’s eye, the eye capable of beholding the Beloved.
Blessed the heart that remains captive in love.

A kind of madness will come; do not be afraid. This is indeed the talk of the mad. The “wise” accept what seems proper: they accept pleasure and reject pain; they pluck flowers and put thorns aside. But it is the way of the passionate lovers to accept both.

And I tell you: there is no greater wisdom than such divine madness. For those who accept pleasure and reject pain end up with lives full of pain. Your rejection does not make pain vanish—it doubles it. The thorn has pricked and the hurt is there; by rejecting it you only make the hurt more intense. The thorn has pricked and you accept it; you say, “It must be the Lord’s will! Surely there is some reason He let it pierce.”

Bayazid was once walking along a path when a stone struck him; he fell, and his foot began to bleed. He lifted his hands to the sky and thanked God: “Thank you, my Master! You take such care!” A disciple asked, “Isn’t this a bit too much? This is exaggeration. Blood is flowing, a stone has hurt you—where is the cause for thanksgiving?”

Bayazid said, “Fools, it could have been the gallows! See His care—how He looks after His fakirs. He spared me with only a slight wound. For a man like me, even hanging would be too little. Look at my sins, my transgressions!”

Thus, the wound in his foot and the flowing blood became good fortune.

Bayazid had been hungry for three days. They halted in a village. Each evening prayer he would say, “Lord, whatever my need is, You always fulfill it.” That day the disciples were a bit upset—they had been hungry three days. No lodging was found; people wouldn’t let them stay; the villagers opposed them. Still that night they said, “Let us see what Bayazid says today!” He again said, “O Lord! You are truly wonderful. Whenever I have a need, You fulfill it.”

A disciple said, “Listen! We’ve been hungry for three days. What fulfillment of need is this?”

Bayazid laughed. “You did not understand; for three days hunger was my need. A three-day fast was my need. He fulfilled it.”

See, such a person cannot be made miserable. How will you make such a person unhappy? Even God must be in a quandary with such a one—what to do now! This person turns every move into a win. There remains no way to make him suffer.

And happiness arises precisely when there remains no way to make you unhappy. If you clutch at happiness and throw away sorrow, you will slowly find your happiness too turning into sorrow. The one who clings to happiness becomes unhappy: first from craving for it, then from the fear of losing it. And lose it he will—what happiness is permanent? It comes and it goes; it is a wave upon water. Neither sorrow stays, nor happiness stays. The one who clutched happiness has begun to suffer: “It’s slipping—now it’s going, now it’s gone!” But the one who has accepted sorrow transforms even sorrow. Happiness is happiness—but he turns sorrow into happiness too. Understand this alchemy—that is religion.

Ecstasy, in every hue, is jubilant and glad;
Reason—its brow is furrowed in every state.

Love’s divine madness—ecstasy—is happy in every condition.
But intellect, the calculating mind, bears a frown in every condition: whatever happens, it is never satisfied; whatever is gained, discontent remains.

It is great good fortune if you can dwell in this kind of feeling. Let it not be only your poetry—let it become your life. Don’t just show cleverness by asking the question—let it become your heart’s mood, dense and deep. Then you will find that from every side the Divine has opened new doors; from every side His breezes begin to touch you.

Every manifestation is Your allure for me;
every sound becomes Your message to me.

Be ready. This is the way to prepare. Keep it in remembrance twenty-four hours a day. Soon sorrow will come—remember. Happiness will come—remember. In every condition, keep surrendering everything to Him. Say, “All is Yours; all is sent by You!” And soon you will find that the tug-of-war of pleasure and pain has disappeared from your life, and a supreme peace has taken its seat—a peace not of the earth, a peace only of heaven.

That is all for today.