Jin Sutra #18

Questions of superior and inferior are filled with great ignorance. At that height, comparison does not work. And a mind that compares will understand neither Mahavira nor Krishna, because the comparing mind is a shopkeeper’s mind, not the mind of understanding.

Take it like this: a glass is half full of water; one person says the glass is half empty, another says it is half full, and you ask me who is superior between the two—then you have not understood the point. What is half empty is also half full; what is half full is also half empty. They have chosen different ways of saying the same thing. One has emphasized affirmation, the other negation. One has looked at the filled part, one at the empty part. But both have pointed toward the truth.

Krishna says: doership is not yours; it belongs to the Divine. Therefore drop the feeling “I am the doer.” That very feeling is violence. Be a mere instrument; whatever He makes you do, you do. Do not stand in between; do not create any obstruction.

Become like a hollow bamboo reed; whatever He sings, whatever He hums—that is His will!

If you understand rightly, Krishna does not say, “You kill.” Krishna says only this: if He makes you the instrument in killing, then kill. The Gita has hardly ever been seen from this angle. Suppose someone else had been in Arjuna’s place—he might well have concluded in the end, “I will take sannyas,” because His will is towards renunciation. “I drop myself in every way,” and then he could say to Krishna, “Forgive me; as I drop myself completely, only one feeling arises: to take sannyas. So when His will is sannyas, how can I fight? When a single mood resounds in all my breaths—to drop everything and go to the solitude of the forest—then I go.” And Krishna would not object that you did wrong. Krishna would say: whatever He makes you do, do that.

Arjuna fought because his whole personality was that of a kshatriya. The talk of sannyas that Arjuna was doing was on the surface, intellectual; it was not real. If it had been real, then from Krishna’s Gita he would have taken only the essence of sannyas.

In Krishna’s Gita there is no precise instruction of “what to do.” The instruction is only this much: you do not do; let Him do. Then if He has chosen to have thousands cut down through you—His will! Do not think you are the doer. Surrender yourself in every way.

Krishna’s language is the language of surrender. Stand so emptied that wherever His winds carry you, you go. Do not swim, flow.

When Arjuna let go of himself, his mood of sannyas departed at once. He became ready for battle; he took up the Gandiva again. For the flute had been made for that very song. Only that song could Arjuna sing. Arjuna was a warrior, a kshatriya. He could be God’s soldier, not God’s sannyasin. That was his destiny.
This question has been asked by a Jain, so he says, “Krishna says: ‘Kill!’” Krishna does not say, “Kill.” Krishna does not say, “Do not kill.” Krishna simply says: let that which is to be done, be done. Do not you decide—let That decide. Hand over the reins to Him. Stand there like a zero, empty. And whatever rises from the innermost, whatever voice of His is heard—move in that direction. Krishna’s path is the path of surrender. Arjuna went to war because, having emptied himself in every way, he found this was the voice arising within: “Fulfill your duty! What else can I do now?”
Mahavira says: even the intention of violence is violence. Krishna says the same, if you make an effort to understand. Krishna goes further: not only is the intention of violence violence, even the intention “I practice nonviolence” is violence. “I do”—there is violence in that. The emphasis is not on the act, but on the doer. The very “I am the doer” is violence. Remove the “I,” and nonviolence happens.

Arjuna remained nonviolent even while fighting—he was not violent. Because one who has removed his very sense of doership—how can you hold him guilty for any act? Both are saying the same thing. Krishna’s emphasis is: drop the doer-hood. Mahavira’s emphasis is: transform the act.

Understand a little. If you go on dropping violent acts, your “I” will begin to crumble, because the “I” cannot stand without violence. The “I” needs violence—whether gross or subtle, it needs it.

The neighbor builds a house; you build a bigger house—violence has happened. You built the bigger house only to belittle the neighbor: “How did he dare to put up such a big house next to mine while I am here? Even if it costs my whole life, I’ll show him by building bigger.” You built the big house and inflated the “I”—violence has happened.

You swagger past someone—violence has happened. Wherever the current of “I” runs deep, violence happens.

So Mahavira says: drop those acts that cause violence. Drop whatever hurts the other. Drop whatever causes suffering to others. Then you will be astonished to see that exactly that which hurts the other is what strengthens the ego—and there is no other food for it. The ego’s very nourishment is that someone be hurt. Whether it lands in a cultured, civilized way or an uncivilized way; whether you hurl abuse or you mock; whether you defeat someone in the battle of life and knock him down; or you defeat someone in the battle of renunciation by proving him a smaller renunciate than you—there is no difference. Whatever the means, if through it another can be pained, that means is violence. And through violence the “I” becomes strong.

So Mahavira says: abandon all violent acts. Abandon even the feeling of violence—leaving aside the act—for even the feeling is enough; it too becomes food; it too will strengthen the ego. When you have dropped all violent feelings and acts, suddenly you will find your “I” has turned to dust, fallen, finished.

This is Mahavira’s process: the dissolution of the doer through the dissolution of deeds. Certainly this process is gradual. You will have to practice by keeping watch over each act, keeping account of each act, for actions are very subtle—a mere flicker of the eye, and violence happens. It is a long process, the path of resolve. You will have to struggle inch by inch, climb a mountain.

Krishna says: if you drop acts one by one, bit by bit, it will take a long time. And between Krishna and Arjuna there was no time. The Gita of Krishna was spoken in a very special situation. Mahavira spoke to his disciples for forty years. Krishna’s Gita happened in moments. And these were no ordinary moments—they were extraordinary. It was a time of great crisis. There, to say “Drop one act after another” would not do—there was no time. War stood at the door. War stood facing them. Conch shells had sounded. War had been announced. The warriors stood arrayed against each other. Arjuna himself had said, “Drive my chariot between the two armies.” And Krishna brought the chariot to the middle. Exactly at that moment, with the war before him, not a moment to spare, the conches blowing, battle about to begin, slaughter imminent—just then Arjuna saw; he was shaken, a tremor ran through him. He felt, “This is futile—so much war, so much violence—what meaning is there?” His hands went limp, his body slackened, the Gandiva slipped from his hand. Exhausted, afraid, he sank into the chariot. He said to Krishna, “I think I should renounce and go away.”

This was a moment of great crisis. A process that takes lifetimes of practice could be of no use here. So Krishna said something that could happen instantly—by a single leap.

Resolve proceeds slowly. Resolve is a journey—step by step, inch by inch, grain by grain. It is retail work. Surrender is a leap—wholesale, all at once. It can happen in a single moment.

The disciples Mahavira addressed were not on a battlefield. Keep this special context in mind. Krishna could not say, “Change your actions.” Krishna could only say, “In such an hour, put down the doer itself.” And by putting down the doer, the same result comes. Because ultimately, by transforming acts the doer falls; if the doer is to be dropped, then drop him directly. Abandon the doer.

Surrender is the devotee’s path. He says: lay it at the feet of the Divine; say, “I am nothing; now let Thy will be done. If You make me do the bad, I will do the bad; if You make me do the good, I will do the good. The doing is no longer mine.”

But in both cases the same event happens. The final result is one. So the one who asks, “Which is superior?” is asking the wrong question. He has understood neither. If you understand Mahavira, Krishna must become understandable. If you understand Krishna and Mahavira does not make sense, then you have not understood Krishna. As I see it, whoever has understood one who knows has understood all who know. Then the differences of language, of style, of expression, will no longer entangle you. Nothing will be able to cloud your eyes. But I see that those who take the side of Mahavira are against Krishna, and those who take the side of Krishna are against Mahavira. If you side with Mahavira, how will you be on the side of Mohammed? If you side with Mohammed, how will you tolerate Mahavira’s words?

Clearly, none of these have understood. They have clutched at words. They fight each other because one says the glass is half empty and the other says the glass is half full. They are ready to behead and be beheaded. Naturally, in language they seem different: one says “half empty,” so the emphasis appears on empty; the other says “half full,” so the emphasis appears on full. Now empty and full! They become contradictory. But just consider the “half.” In that half lies the whole essence.

In my view there is no deep difference in what the two say—it cannot be. If you do not see it, splash a little water in your eyes. Try to wake up. Do not decide hastily.

Whenever you see a contradiction between two men of truth, first of all think: the mistake must be in my seeing somewhere. Tie this as a knot in your kerchief. Whenever a contradiction seems to appear between two seers, first think: somewhere I am making a mistake—in my seeing, in my understanding, in my thinking, in my definitions, in my interpretations. Because two men of truth cannot truly say opposite things—even when they seem opposite, they cannot be opposite. In their opposition there will be some harmony. Between their oppositions there will be a bridge—there must be. There is no other possibility.

But your mind carries into the ultimate realm the same standards with which it evaluates the world—comparison: who is good, who is bad; who is beautiful, who is ugly; who is wise, who is ignorant. With those yardsticks you also stand in that supreme domain and begin comparing: who is greater, who is smaller; who is ahead, who is behind; who has known more, who less; whose knowing is right, whose is not—and you get entangled in this. And in all this churning you never consider one thing: that you have not seen anything yourself yet. When two who have seen have spoken, how can I—the unseeing one, the blind—decide who speaks rightly? If you must decide, decide by seeing—open your eyes and fill them with light. Then you will laugh.

Consider it like this: a poet comes into this garden; when he returns and you ask, “What did you see?” he hums a song. Not everyone can hum a song. Someone else comes into this garden; he too finds the same flowers, the same trees, the same breeze, the same birdsong—but he does not know how to sing. He too will go out and tell what he saw. Naturally, there will be a difference between the poet’s statement and his. A third man, a woodcutter, arrives; in this garden he sees only wood—what can be cut and carried. What language one brings depends on who one is. Then when each gives his statement, do not think these different statements are about different gardens. They will be entirely different statements, and yet they will be about the same garden.

Truth is one; those who have known have spoken it in many ways. For the knower will speak in his own way. How can there be harmony between the statements of Mahavira and Meera? Meera is intoxicated with love. Meera is a woman; Mahavira is a man. Meera will speak by dancing, by humming. The bells on her feet will ring. She will speak in that way. Mahavira will neither dance nor wear bells nor sing. Mahavira’s statements will be absolutely scientific, aphoristic. As concise as possible. The arrangement of their sayings will be different, and you may get worried because of that.

But let me tell you one thing: do not decide until you yourself have known.

Then you will ask, “What should we do? From where are we to know?” I say: choose anyone. It is not a question of superior or inferior. Whosoever suits you, resonates with you, with whom your being feels in tune—that one is superior for you. Otherwise you will get into trouble. If you go on thinking, “We must not decide who is superior—then whom shall we walk with?” When you want to decide who is superior, don’t decide who is superior in absolute terms. Decide only: who is for me? Keep the “for me” in mind. The statement is relative to you.

If you cannot decide, you will be in difficulty—
From Kaaba to the temple, from the temple to the Kaaba,
the wanderings of the road will kill you.
From temple to mosque and from mosque to temple—the dust of the road itself will finish you. You must decide something—temple or mosque. Somewhere you have to sit and pray! Somewhere you have to worship!
So if you begin to wobble like this, it will become difficult. If you have asked this question to know who will be right for me, then it is rightly asked. If you have asked to decide between Mahavira and Krishna, then it is entirely wrongly asked. Yes, for you, one will fit.
For those who relish resolve and for whom surrender is impossible, Mahavira is right. For those for whom surrender is easy and resolve is difficult, Krishna is right.

Krishna says: mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja—abandon all! sarva-dharmān parityajya—let go of all dharmas; come into my refuge. That alone is dharma, the supreme dharma.

Mahavira says: forget about seeking anyone’s refuge. The moment you take refuge, you are entangled; you become a slave. Will liberation come through refuge? Such refuge is bondage.

Aśaraṇa-bhāvanā—this is Mahavira’s sutra: the feeling of “no refuge.” No refuge anywhere; stand on your own feet.

Both are right. But both cannot be right for you at the same time. For me, both are right at once. You will have to choose one of the two. Otherwise—

From Kaaba to the temple, from the temple to the Kaaba,
the whirling of the road will kill you.

In the smoke and dust, the hustle and bustle of the road, you will be lost: you won’t even have time to enter the temple or the mosque. If you want to pray, you must choose somewhere. But be mindful about the basis of your choice—choose because of “me,” not because of which of them is superior. Keep the relativity on your side. I cannot choose both together. My heart is not that vast yet. My vision is not so immense that I can hold both together. My house is not so spacious that I can host both as guests at once. Accept this compulsion and choose: the house is small; I can invite only one.

The day you awaken, you will find both are two different faces of the same truth. But until then, you must decide. And decide very consciously. Do not leave this decision to your birth—“I was born in a Jain home, so Mahavira must be supreme for me.” If only things were that easy! “I was born in a Hindu home, so Krishna must be supreme.” If birth decided so much, the path would be very simple. But nothing of the sort is decided; there is no way it could be.

Jesus was born in a Jewish household, yet the Jewish path did not fit him. Mohammed was born among idol-worshippers, yet idol-worship did not fit him. Mahavira was born in a royal house, a kshatriya, trained in warfare; but the language of war, the palace, kshatriyahood, politics—none of it suited him. He left it all and became a sannyasin.

What will suit you? Do not ask your birth where you were born—if you do, you risk getting lost. What will suit you? Carefully examine and inquire into your tendencies; analyze them. Recognize the current of your own taste. It won’t take long; with a little experimenting it will become clear what truly fits. You quickly discover which food agrees with you. The food that suits you brings a sense of lightness and joy. The food that doesn’t will feel like a burden after eating—as if stones were placed in the stomach; there will be nausea; the body will try to throw it out; the system won’t accept it.

It is exactly the same with spiritual food. When a path suits your being, flowers begin to bloom all around. You become joyful, uplifted. That is the sign. If you begin to wither, grow sad, become meek and shrunken, then things have gone wrong.

I have heard: a priest, a Christian cleric, was passing along a road. Suddenly clouds gathered, a fierce wind rose, lightning flashed, and rain poured down. He ran to stand beneath a nearby tree with dense shade. Under that tree an old man was sitting, praying. That cleric had led thousands in prayer all his life and had prayed himself thousands of times—but he had never tasted prayer. He performed a formal ritual, a ceremony. Born in a Christian home, educated as a Christian priest, he made others pray too; but no inner wave ever arose. Seeing this old man sway, hearing his broken words, and yet the intoxication in his eyes, the aura on his face—he felt for the first time: Ah! I have never known prayer. Such stillness, such presence, such sacred presence he had never experienced.

Wrinkles lined the old man’s face. He was very old, near ninety. He was a woodcutter; a bundle of wood lay by his side. He must have been returning to the town; the rain came, so he stopped. The time for prayer had arrived, so he was praying. When his prayer ended, the priest asked, in great wonder, “You have great love for God!” The old man said, “Yes—and He has great love for me! To tell the truth, He is very fond of me.”

I was reading that priest’s life; he wrote: I have never heard anything so astonishing about prayer. The old man said, “To tell the truth, He is very fond of me.”

When prayer suits your being, when it fits your inclination, it isn’t only that you love the Divine—you immediately find that He loves you too. Love is not one-sided. You will feel communication from the other side, messages arriving. You will find His love showering upon you in a thousand forms.

But if prayer does not fit, then only you will keep doing it; nothing will come from the other side. It will feel like a burden. You will do it because it must be done, you will get it over with because it is a duty, or because it has always been done at home. But there will be no thrill, no sense of wonder, no joy.

And without that sense of wonder and awe, how will prayer ever satisfy your hunger?

So remember: recognizing your inner state is far more important. Whether Mahavira is right or superior, or Krishna—that is a futile issue. Do Mahavira truly fit you? Not merely because you were born in a Jain home. If they “fit” only for that reason, you will go astray. If they truly fit—so much so that had you been born in a Muslim home you would still have gone to a Jain temple to pray; so much so that even if you were born in a Hindu family and had heard the Gita since childhood, the day Mahavira’s word touched your ear, you would forget the Gita and run after Mahavira—if they fit like that, then Mahavira are your path. If not—if such a strong call does not arise within you at the sound of his name, no bells ring in your heart, you merely think, “All right, it’s our religion”—then there is no substance in it. Look elsewhere. Knock on the door of another temple.

Religion is always one’s own chosen path—only then is it religion. The world has become irreligious because we fix religion by birth. Religion is not a will or a legacy. It has nothing to do with blood, bone, flesh, or marrow. Religion is not hereditary—that because you were born in a Jain home your blood is Jain. Go to a doctor and have it tested: in the blood of a Jain, a Hindu, a Muslim—no doctor can tell whose is whose. Bones are not Hindu, Jain, or Muslim. “Hindu,” “Jain,” “Muslim”—these you must decide.

But people are weak, sluggish, indolent, timid. Who wants the hassle! So they settle it by any excuse: “All right, if birth has already decided, the bother is over.” They avoid seeking for themselves; they avoid using their own discernment. Who will analyze, who will search, where to go, whom to ask? Decided for free—fine.

It is like tossing a coin and thinking religion will be decided by heads or tails. Heads—Mahavira; tails—Krishna. As absurd and irrelevant as that is, so is birth. Where you were born has no real connection with your stream of life and reflection. You must find your religion.

Religion is found only through seeking. Religion is discovery. And when someone finds his own religion through search, that very seeking gives it a radiance. The light and glory enjoyed by those who first came to Mahavira through their own seeking—children born in Jain homes twenty-five centuries later are not enjoying that.

Those who came to Mahavira seeking, who came from afar, thirsty, who undertook pilgrimage; who chose Mahavira in spite of all difficulties; whose hearts were touched and stirred by his call; those who chose Christ or Mohammed by their own free, inward choice—be that mindful. And be that honest. Because if there is dishonesty here, in this fundamental matter, you will go astray for life.

‘Guna’s’ difficulty is exactly what I have just been talking about. She was born in a Jain household; therefore the word “God” does not carry meaning; even the word “thirst” carries no meaning. In the language of a Jain home there is no place for God or for prayer. The conditionings are Jain; the life-breath is not. On the surface the entire current—intellectually—is Jain; but within, the life-breath is that of a deeply emotional woman.

She could have been dyed in Krishna’s color. With Krishna there could have been dance. With Mahavira, dance does not sit well; if you dance with Mahavira, it feels like a disturbance. There is no place for dance there—no place for song or instruments. That is the difficulty.

So when I say “thirst for God,” a Jain can listen, but nothing moves within. All his layers of conditioning say, “What God? What thirst?” Because he has some love for me he listens and bears it, but it doesn’t penetrate within those layers.

Likewise, when I speak of the feeling of being without refuge, of resolve, of standing on one’s own feet—when I speak in Mahavira’s idiom—a Hindu listens, because he has love for me; but he thinks, “Somewhere this is all talk of ego. Standing on one’s own feet—there’s no surrender in this. Everything should be left to God, and here there is no talk of surrender. It doesn’t fit.”

That is ‘Guna’s’ difficulty. Guna has an emotional heart that can sing, dance, hum. She needed a different language. The Jain language is not her language. She is caught in that language, and she doesn’t have the courage to step out of it.

Prisons are not made only of stone bricks; they are made of words too—and those are stronger. What you have heard since childhood, what you have understood since childhood, the conditionings you have received—they become a wall around you. Later, to go beyond that wall creates great anxiety. It feels as if going beyond it would be irreligious; only staying within is religious. And yet within, your life-breath feels stifled.

Mahavira’s way is very different.

I am being sought—
No, not a search—
for in a search there is craving,
a kind of pursuit;
even if suppressed,
there is still a longing.
No longing, no craving,
no pursuit, no search—
just a small soreness,
a slight scratch.
I am being sought—
No, not a search.

The language of “search” is not suitable here, because “search” means looking outside, as if God is hiding somewhere and must be found.

I am being sought—
No, not a search—
for in a search there is craving…

And with searching, desire arises—yearning, longing. Even the search for God is still a desire, an aspiration, an urge.

…there is craving,
a kind of pursuit.

And desire quickly becomes an intense, restless desire; it becomes sharp and starts burning.

On Mahavira’s path the way opens through the renunciation of all desires— including the desire for liberation.

Understand this a little. The one who is liberation-oriented says: even the desire for liberation has to be dropped; then liberation happens. Even the desire for God must be dropped; only then. Desire itself is the obstacle.

Ask the devotees! The devotees say: if liberation must be dropped, we are ready—but let our longing for you remain! Let the ache to attain the Beloved remain! We are ready to kick even heaven, but let it not happen that we lose the deliciousness of your separation!

The devotee wants to preserve even God’s separation. Union is a far-off thing—even separation is precious. The knower wants to drop even the desire for God. Separation is far off—he does not even desire union, because desire itself seems an obstacle to liberation.

These are different languages.

…there is craving,
a kind of pursuit;
even if suppressed,
there is still a longing.

Suppress it, discipline it, refine it as much as you like—yet the longing remains, the desire remains.

That is why on Mahavira’s path the word “prayer” is wrong. Meditation! There is no place for prayer—because in prayer a trace of longing remains.

…even if suppressed,
there is still a longing.
No longing, no craving—
no wish to attain, no petitioning to attain.
No pursuit, no search—
no search, no frenzy of seeking. Then what?

The devotee says, “We go searching because of our thirst for God.” The knower says, “There is a wound inside, a pain—it has to be removed.”

Just a small soreness—
there is a wound within.
A slight scratch—
and there is pain in that wound.

Try to understand this. The devotee’s pain is also thirst. He says, “Beloved, give me pain. Make me thirsty. Burn me.” For the knower there is no God, no thirst, nothing else—only a pain of ignorance. This pain is not thirst; it is suffering. It pricks like a thorn. It has to be pulled out and thrown away.

These are two different languages. And until you find the precise, appropriate language that tunes with your heart, there will be this friction. My words will seem to pass over your head. Some things that match your conditioning will be understood—but so what? If they do not match your heart, they’ll be understood yet be useless. And what would have matched your heart will pass over your head because conditioning will not allow it to enter. What you understand will not be of use to you; and what would be of use, your mind will not let you understand.

‘Guna’s’ difficulty is the difficulty of an emotional, feminine heart.

The Jain path is a masculine path. By “masculine” I do not mean that women cannot walk it—they can, but those women whose inner disposition is masculine. Krishna’s path is a feminine path. This does not mean men cannot go—they can, but those men whose feeling-state is feminine. The cowherds (gop) can go too, but only outwardly are they cowherds; inwardly their feeling is that of the gopi.

Therefore Krishna’s devotee begins to take himself to be a woman—Krishna’s gopi. He drops his masculine stance. The Jain nun, slowly cutting off all her feminine feelings, becomes like a man. All attachment, all rasa, all flavors are to be ended—become like a desert.

It is not a matter of right and wrong—it is what suits you. This difficulty will remain until you clearly recognize and reconcile the conflict between your conditioning and your heart.

‘Guna’ will have to drop her conditionings. She will have to recognize the language of her heart; otherwise she will remain in distress.

If I could not become the tender link
in your song,
then what is the boon of the sweet spring?
What is the pride of immortal existence?
You did not come? Then don’t—give me remembrance.
I left the verdict to you; just grant the plea.
The mind does not insist—give the taste of your feet.
Just bestow the endless grace of your blows.
Let the world witness: sobbing, my worship mounts the cross.
If I could not become the tender link
in your song,
then what is the boon of the sweet spring?
What is the pride of immortal existence?

If ‘Guna’ does not awaken, does not understand, then she will end in vain. One day, in the last twilight of life, she will have to say:

If I could not become the tender link
in your song,
then what is the boon of the sweet spring?
—Life came and went! It went in vain!

Sing, dance! For you, not meditation—prayer will be the path. Holy intoxication! Not guarded alertness, but a blessed drunkenness is your medicine.

You did not come? Then don’t—give me remembrance.
I left the verdict to you; just grant the plea.
The mind does not insist—
—not the craving for intellect and knowledge.
The mind does not insist; give the taste of your feet!
Just bestow the endless grace of your blows!
—Then there will be fulfillment.

The one who has truly recognized himself quickly finds the path to his fulfillment. Drop worrying about paths; worry about yourself. Paths are not made for you—you are not to be sacrificed for scriptures, as is happening. Millions are sacrificed to scriptures. Scriptures are for you. If you feel cold, burn them for warmth; if sleepy, use them for a pillow; if it chills, wrap yourself in them. Scriptures are means; man is the end. Keep this in mind, and the obstacle that seems to be there will disappear.

“You have been with me for a long time.” But where do conditionings allow nearness? I am absolutely near—‘Guna’ has been with me for long. But between us is a rigid wall of conditioning. I reach out, but my hand cannot reach you. Your wall stands there. It seems we are standing close, because the wall is transparent—it is made of words. If it were stone you wouldn’t even see me. That is the cunningness of a wall of words: it is transparent, like glass. You see through it and feel we are standing very close.

Have you ever noticed? Stand on either side of a windowpane—just that much glass between, and even that is enough. We are near and yet far from each other—an infinite distance.

Break this glass wall. And often, those who have been close for long fall into the illusion that they are close. The glass is not seen; slowly, seeing through it, one forgets it. But the glass is still there.

“And I am very ignorant and without intellect—you know this well.”
I know it very well. That is precisely why I am saying: for the ignorant and the witless the path is devotion, the path is love.

Not judgment, but a plea.
Not mind, but the taste of the feet—
That is enough.

“Many of the things you say go over my head.”
The very things that are for you go over your head. I see them passing—because your head does not let them stay. Those words which are for you and should have reached the heart—the head does not allow them to enter. It turns them back at the door—the gatekeeper separates them. And what your head allows inside are not the things you need, because your head carries its conditioning.

If a Jain comes to listen to me, he allows in only what matches his Jainism; the rest he stops at the threshold: “Wait! Where are you going? You are not Jain.” A Hindu comes to listen; he allows in only what matches his Hinduism; to the rest he says, “Do not enter.”

So you hear only what your head permits. You do not really hear me. The one who truly hears me—transformation is certain.

Dismiss this guard; give him leave. Then what is now passing over the head will enter the depths of the head. And if it does not enter the head, how will it reach the heart? The head is the gate. When something sinks into the head, gradually it drops into the heart, settles in the depths, and from there the revolution happens.

“The pain of separation from God you speak of—I never felt it.”
There isn’t even the idea of God! Pain would arise only if you had the idea that God is. The very concept of God is negated; when the concept itself is denied, how will thirst arise? And even if it arises, you will take it for something else—thirst for wealth, or for love, or for status. But if the word “God” is not in your vocabulary, then your thirst cannot turn toward God. And the kind of manly energy and stormy resolve needed to go inward toward the Self—that you do not have. No harm. It is no defect.

In the world, half will reach through resolve; half will reach through surrender. But our trouble is: we cram everyone into one mold.

Women should explore more on the path of devotion; men, more on the path of resolve. Then, if the husband is Hindu it is not necessary that the wife be Hindu too. On the day the world is truly healthy, the wife will choose her own religion, the husband his own. The sons and daughters will be given open opportunity to choose theirs when they are grown. In a good world, in a single household there will be eight or ten different religions—there should be, because each will take what suits him. You don’t insist about clothes—one wears white, another green. You don’t insist about food—one prefers rice, one prefers wheat. Why insist in religion that one religion be imposed on all?

If the wife must be a devotee, let her be; let her offer worship in Krishna’s temple. If the husband wants to remain Jain, let him remain so; let him walk with Mahavira’s light. If the son feels to become a Buddha, there should be no reason to stop him. The real question is to be religious. If by walking Buddha’s path someone becomes religious, that is auspicious.

Ninety-nine percent of people in this world are irreligious because they never got the chance to choose the right religion. The world is not irreligious because of atheists; it is irreligious because of the so‑called religious. If what is tasty to me is not given, and I am forced to carry what is not to my taste, I drag it—there is no interest in it.

Religion is freedom; the choice of one’s own free will.

“I know nothing of thirst for God. Then why am I here? And what am I doing with this meditation and so on?”
The obstacle is that you are covering your heart, repressing it. Move the head aside; let the heart be revealed. Then this question will be clear. The situation will become absolutely clear. The door will open.

Life is not mathematics. Nor is life driven toward some goal. There is no “somewhere” toward which life is going. Here, the goal is to be blossoming each moment. Here, the goal is to live each moment in a mood of bliss. Here, the goal is to be immersed in delight, moment to moment.

Ask the flowers, “Why did you bloom?” What will they say! Ask the stars, “Why are you luminous?” What will they say! And yet, everywhere an “ah-song” is going on! An “ah-ness” is dancing! Moment to moment!

Religion is a way of living so that you squeeze the joy out of each moment. In each moment heaven is hidden—suck it, squeeze it, drink it. In each moment a stream of rasa is concealed.

People come here and ask, “Why are we meditating?” They are asking, “What will we get from it?” Has meditation ever “got” anyone anything? Meditation itself is the receiving. In meditation there is joy, blossoming, dance. In the moment of meditation everything is contained—intrinsically. Outside the moment of meditation there is nothing. But this is the language of the devotee.

The knower’s language is that of ends and means. This is the lover’s language. The lover says, “Everything is in love; what is there outside love! Love is not a means to something else; it is the end.” The knower asks, “Means? If this is a means, then what is the end?”

So that Jain intellect sitting in the mind keeps asking, “What will I get? If we fast, we’ll get this; so many fasts will get us that; so much renunciation, so much tapas—so much merit will be earned. This will bring heaven. And what will this meditation get us? What are we doing this for?” I never told you that you would get something from it. I tell you: it is in this that it is gotten; it is being given in this. Do not let your gaze go outside it. Dive into it; plunge. Immerse yourself so totally that neither any search remains, nor any searcher. Such absorption, such totality appears—then this very moment becomes a God-moment.

Every moment God is raining all around you. God is a presence of bliss. Just tune your inner instrument a little—and the melody will begin. Springs will start bursting forth within you as they burst from the mountains. And within you, flowers will begin to bloom as they bloom upon the trees.

Religion is the art of growing flowers within man. And the flower is the final, the ultimate; beyond it there is nothing. Each moment is ultimate. The world is not going anywhere—the world is. You too, sink into this “is.” But if your language is that of mathematics, which asks, “I will do this, but for what?” then you will miss.

The language I am speaking is the language of play, not of the marketplace. Little children are playing. You arrive and scold them: “Why are you wasting time—what will you get?” The children are puzzled; the very idea of “getting” does not make sense to them. Getting what? Will the bank balance grow? Will more entries appear in the ledger? It doesn’t occur to them. They were playing—and it was being gotten. They were dancing—and it was being gotten. What is there beyond this to get!

Therefore the devotee says: life is a play.
The knower says: life is an account book—a net of karma. Gather means to attain ends.

I prefer the devotee’s language. The knower’s language is not so majestic. Mathematics can never be as majestic as poetry. And when life can become poetry, why turn it into mathematics? Yes, if poetry cannot happen—if it is sheer helplessness—then make it mathematics. But when dance can happen without argument, why bring argument in? Yes, if you don’t know how to dance and only argument comes to you, then fine—live through argument.

Expression will always be limited. Expression will always be relative. The speaker and the listener—both create the boundaries of expression.
I will say only what can be said. You will understand only what can be understood. Truth is vast.
If I go to see the ocean and you say to me, “On your way back, bring a little of the ocean,” I will not be able to bring the whole ocean. I may bring a little water from it. But in that water much will be missing. There will be no storm of the ocean, no waves. And that was the real ocean: that tumultuous roar and fierce thunder! Waves crashing against cliffs! Those surges rising and spreading for miles! That swell! None of that will be there. I will bring a vessel filled with a little ocean water. Still, there will be something! If you taste it, it will be salty. What of the ocean can be in that pot? A slight taste of saltiness, that’s all.
Truth is vaster than the ocean. When we carry it cupped in the palms of words to give to someone, the real is lost. If even a faint taste reaches you, if a little salt touches your tongue, that is much! So the speaker sets a limit, then the listener sets a limit. Then there is the language of the age—the style of speech, the conventions, the measures. All of these set limits. Whenever truth is known, it is absolute; but whenever it is said, it becomes relative. Therefore all expressions will be limited.
That is why Mahavira says, all utterances—syat! No utterance is complete. And no utterance can be spoken with absolute finality, because to speak with absolute finality would mean there is nothing left beyond it to say. Each expression will be true up to a point, and beyond that point it will go wrong. Therefore the supremely wise speak with great hesitation. They speak knowing that what they are saying is very limited; what was to be said was vast. What was known was great; what is being stated is very small.
Naturally, different knowers will indicate it in different ways. And their sayings will even seem contradictory, because truth holds all opposites within itself. There is night there and day as well. There is birth, and there is death. So one person may bring news of truth and try to explain it through birth. Another may bring news and try to explain it through death. One may bring news and explain through raga—as Narada did: divine rapture, divine love, divine devotion. Another may bring news of the Divine and try to explain through dispassion—as Mahavira did. Both are within it. It is a vast sky. Everything is contained in it.
So whenever someone expresses, he must choose—from where to speak. His own inclination, his own preference, his own way.
Therefore expressions of truth will also be contradictory. But they appear contradictory only to those who have not understood. They seem disputatious only to those whose eyes are filled merely with words, and in whom the meanings have not revealed themselves.
A devotee, standing before God, is struck dumb. The voice stops. Nothing comes. When he returns from that realm of God, then things begin to occur to him; but by then God has departed. That supreme presence which had surrounded him is no longer there. So he tries to grasp by memory. Many times the devotee thinks beforehand, “This time I will ask. I will ask Him, ‘How shall we give news of You?’”
Not a word escaped my tongue before You;
Look—I'd come with so many plans in my heart.
And there he goes and just stands, frozen. Even in ordinary love, language limps and falls; what then to say of prayer! There, only stark speechlessness, wonder, silence remains. Yes, when that glory has passed, when that great moment has gone, the dust remains, rising behind the chariot—then awareness returns. Then the intellect comes back. Then he tries to gather himself a little. But then only the dust can be caught; the chariot has gone. And he knows even as he tells of it: What is this I am reporting? This is dust that rose from the chariot’s wheels. This is no chariot. And as for the One who was seated in the chariot—what to say of Him! In that moment I was utterly effaced. There was no mind, no “me.” I could not even capture one image, draw one likeness to show others! Even so—let it be the dust of His feet! If His feet touched it, or the chariot’s wheels touched it, then even in this dust some flavor must have come. That is all—the talk of that dust.
For the knower, when he reaches the supreme state of meditation, all thoughts fall silent. When the experience is, thoughts are not. When thoughts return, the experience has already gone. So thoughts always arrive belatedly. One gathers whatever is broken, secondhand, a few lines left on the sands of time. We weave expression out of that.
What has been known has never been said. What has been said was, in truth, never known in that way. Therefore do not cling to words.
This is why I keep saying that scriptures cannot really be companions. For when you are with a true master, then even in his words there is the resonance of his wordlessness. Even in his expression, the unexpressed within him begins to bloom in you. In his speaking you hear his unspeaking. His presence, his being-there, touches you, caresses you, bathes you. What he says in words—that is fine; scriptures can say that too. But what you experience in the touch of his presence, the scriptures cannot say. Therefore, in the company of a true master there are moments when it seems to you that his expression has touched it. The thing has been indicated, told; the pointing has happened. A window opened; you saw. It even seems to you: what I myself wanted to say but could not, you have said.
See the savor of discourse: whatever he said,
I felt as though it, too, was already in my heart.
Many times, sitting near the master, you will feel: Right—perfectly right—this is exactly what I wanted to say, but words would not gather, I was incapable. What I wanted to say, you have said. Many times, in the master’s presence, your heart will come to the very place where something is experienced. But that experience comes through presence. That is satsang. In the scriptures only ash remains—the ash of the ash, the shadow of the shadow.
So if you can find a living person, if such good fortune be yours, then leave a thousand tasks aside and do not miss the opportunity to sit at his feet. For what the scriptures cannot say, though they try to, his very presence will say. Therefore those who were with Mahavira, what they knew; those who were fortunate to be with Krishna, what they knew—you will not come to know that by reading the Gita; you will not come to know that by reading the Jina Sutras. There is no way. The snake has gone; the sloughed skin lies there—that is scripture. When the skin was still on the snake, it was still only a skin, but then it was alive. When the snake moved, the skin moved. When the snake hissed, the skin seemed to hiss. Now the snake is gone; the skin lies there. Now it flutters in a gust of wind, but it does not move; it has no life of its own, no living soul.
All religions are born in the presence of some true master. When the master departs, the snake’s sloughed skins lie about for endless centuries—and people go on worshipping them. Yes, if you cannot find a master, it is a compulsion; then worship the scriptures. But it never happens that there are no true masters upon the earth. They are always there. The misfortune is that while they are, very few recognize them. When they have gone, many worship the dead skin. People have a certain fondness for the dead, and a certain nervousness about the living! There is some fear of life; of death there is great worship!

It will happen; it is natural. Those who have sipped a little of me will naturally feel that others too should drink of me. One who has found a lake, on seeing some thirsty traveler along the road, will take his hand and want to lead him to the lake. Sometimes it may even seem like compulsion. Because he knows: even if you get annoyed now, once you reach the lake you too will say, “Good that you forced me.”
Love wants to share. Whoever finds love wants to share it. If somewhere you have found the fragrance of the Divine, you will want to share. Burning at both ends like a torch, you will want to share. So whenever you meet someone thirsty, a flood will rise in your life. You will want to pour everything into him. And naturally, when you bring him to me, a slight lack will also be felt. That slightness is due to the little “I-ness” that remains. Because when you explained and brought him to me, in one sense he was walking behind you, taking you as his guide. While you were bringing him, he was stirred and influenced by you. Then, when you bring him to me—naturally, you brought him precisely so that he connects with me—he will no longer walk behind you. He will have a direct relationship with me. That is what you wanted, that was your prayer. Yet even so, the ego will feel a slight jolt: “Ah! He found the lake and forgot me!” Let that ego go too—and the song is perfectly right: “Ram Shri Ram, Jai Jai Ram.” Keep humming it! Don’t even preserve so much as this much ego.

There is such a thing as good ego too—remember! Bad ego of course exists, but there is also good ego, a “pious ego.” When you do something good, a fine feeling arises: that you did something, something good! That too has to be dropped. Ultimately that too has to be dropped. So when Pratibha brought someone and felt that he is now connected to the lake and no longer cares for her, then this “Ram Shri Ram, Jai Jai Ram” was spoken a bit out of compulsion: “All right then—let it be Your will!” No—say it with the feeling of joy. It makes a big difference. Right now you say, “Let it be Your will,” but in saying “Let it be Your will,” you are confessing that it was not your will. “Let it be Your will” really means: “Fine! It wasn’t my will, but if it’s Yours, so be it.” Ram Shri Ram, Jai Jai Ram—but there’s compulsion in it.

No—next time you bring someone, bring him already with this understanding, with this feeling: that he should drown in the lake and forget you. Because if he remembers you, it will hinder his drowning in the lake. And when he does drown and forgets you, give thanks. Don’t say, “Let it be Your will”; say, “Thank you! My prayer is fulfilled. That’s exactly why I brought him.” And then hum: “Ram Shri Ram, Jai Jai Ram.” And then the feeling behind it will be entirely different. The words remain the same; the feeling changes greatly. Then it will be a feeling of wonder and gratitude. Then it is thanksgiving to the Divine: “Good! You were so gracious that You didn’t allow me so much ego that I would become an obstacle.”

Whenever you bring friends to me, this will be everyone’s experience. But from the very beginning bring them with awareness that you bring them precisely so that they forget you.

And this training is necessary, because I too have to do the same. One day I too must say: Ram Shri Ram, Jai Jai Ram! Because I am also leading someone toward the One—to where, when he goes, he goes. So this training is essential. What Pratibha has said is also my experience. But this is the entire endeavor: may it succeed—that is the good fortune.

So do not hesitate thinking, “Now what’s the point of bringing anyone—whoever I bring betrays me.” Do not hold back on that account; do not restrain yourself. No—when the flood comes, let it come.

Jabt ki koshishen baja lekin
Kya chhupe shauq-e-bepanah ka raaz
Har kisi ko sunai deti hai
Meri aawaz mein teri aawaz.

The efforts at restraint may be proper, but how can the secret of boundless longing be hidden?
Everyone can hear—in my voice—Your voice.

Those who have loved me, who have truly come to me having left all coverings—if they try even then to restrain themselves, to hold back—

Jabt ki koshishen baja lekin

—if they want to wonder, “How to tell anyone? What to say?”—even if they hesitate, it will make no difference.

Kya chhupe shauq-e-bepanah ka raaz!

—boundless love begins to reveal itself.

Har kisi ko sunai deti hai
Meri aawaz mein teri aawaz.

Those who have loved me—your voice begins to be heard in their voice.

And in every situation—because this is just one situation Pratibha has asked about: you bring someone and he is absorbed. But often it will happen that you will want to bring someone and won’t be able to. The more you try, the more he will resist and won’t come. Even then, don’t be restless. Don’t think anything wrong is happening. Even then, it is right. For now this is what he needs. Don’t be angry with him; don’t think he is stubborn, egotistical, ignorant, sinful. These feelings arise quickly. If someone doesn’t listen to you, one feels like getting angry. It doesn’t take long for the impulse to send someone to hell—“You are trying so hard, and only for his own good, and look at this fool, this dogmatist—he won’t listen, he’s deaf!” No—then understand that the Divine wants him not to come yet. Not all of His secrets are revealed; nor should they be. Sometimes someone needs resistance itself. Sometimes someone fights with you—that is his way of falling in love with me; let him fight. He will fall by fighting. Each has his own way, his own style.

Chamak uski bijli mein, taare mein hai
Yeh chandi mein, sone mein, paare mein hai
Ussi ki bayaban, ussi ke babool
Ussi ke hain kaante, ussi ke hain phool.

His radiance is in the lightning, in the stars;
He is in silver, in gold, in quicksilver.
His is the wilderness, His the acacia;
His are the thorns, His the flowers.

So even if someone seems like a thorn, know that he too is His; don’t get upset. Don’t be overly delighted with the flower, nor overly angry with the thorns. Remember this much: you made your offering; the matter is finished. You didn’t hide it. You shared what you knew. And in what you say, don’t carry the insistence that it must be accepted. Insistence destroys truth; it sullies love, makes it cloudy. Simply, without any insistence, say with a non-insistent heart: “I too have heard a Call; perhaps it may be of use to you. I went somewhere; some of my thirst was quenched—maybe this water will also quench your thirst.” But say, “Perhaps—not necessarily. Your thirst may be different; you may need different water. And perhaps right now you have no thirst at all and no need of water.” So make the offering—and forget it.

If you have spoken without insistence, you will succeed in bringing the news to many. This news is such that it can be conveyed only in utmost humility, utmost love, utmost simplicity.

Bringing someone to me is not missionary work—that you pounce on him and start arguing, explaining, proving, proving him wrong. No—this work is not so petty. Religion cannot become a mission. Missions are all of politics. You just let a little of my fragrance waft—let it spread. If that fragrance can draw him, it will draw him. And if the need arises in his life, he will be drawn; or the fragrance will linger in his memory, and when the need comes, he will remember. Your work is complete.

Just don’t be miserly; that much is enough. Only this: don’t become a missionary, and don’t be a miser. Balance between the two! There is no need to force anyone to understand. Has anyone ever understood under compulsion?

This is a very delicate work. These threads are like silk threads. These are not iron chains with which to bind and drag. They are silk threads—very fragile! And only if someone can be drawn by such a fragile thread is it right. Even if someone is dragged here by iron chains, his coming or not coming are equal. The true skill is to be able to bring him without even a thread.

That’s all for today.