Jin Sutra #20

Bliss is the touchstone. Drop worrying about truth. Move in the direction where there is bliss. Truth will be found. In the direction of the false there simply cannot be bliss. That is why we have defined the Absolute as bliss: Sat-Chit-Anand—truth, consciousness, bliss.

Bliss is the touchstone. Never doubt bliss. If it is not true bliss, you will know soon enough; false bliss will not last long.

Dive! Wherever a ray of bliss is coming from, there lies the sun of truth. Catch hold of the ray and start walking. Forget about worrying over truth. If you hold the ray, you are already moving in the direction of the sun. And we have no other way. Only truth reveals what is right—because what is right fills life with music and bliss.

And when I say “what is right,” I mean person to person. What is right for you need not be right for your husband. What is right for you need not be right for your son. What is right for you need not be right for your brother, your friend, your neighbor.

Do not, even by mistake, impose on another what is right for you. Violence begins there. Live what is right for you—and do not give anyone so much authority that they can impose their “right” upon you. Slavery begins there.

Make no one a slave, and be no one’s slave—only then can you be religious.

And keep just one touchstone in your hand: wherever you feel a thrill of bliss, keep slipping in that direction. If the bliss is false—what we call “pleasure”—it will show itself.

“Pleasure” means: that which deceived you as bliss but was not; that which, on arrival, turned out not to be bliss. From afar the drum sounded sweet; it was a mirage. From a distance it seemed something else; up close it proved otherwise. Therefore I do not tell you to run from pleasure either; because if you flee a mirage without seeing it, then pleasure will keep haunting you.

I tell you: even go into pleasure so that it turns into pain—if it is pain, it will turn into pain. And if it is not pain, then from there the steps to the Divine will begin.

But the human mind has not been prepared for bliss. Hence the question arises. Hence you even turn your natural inclination into a problem.

If talk of renunciation does not give you any juice—drop it! It is not for you. This does not mean such talk is wrong. It will be for someone else. Some Mahavira may reach through that path. You have no use for it.

Your heart tells you every moment which soil will make your flower blossom.

Each tree needs different soil. Some stand only in sand. Some want pebbles and rocks. Some want rich black soil without a single stone. What is nectar for one becomes poison for another.

So always remember: no statement about truth is universal—it is relative to the person.

Talk of renunciation may make someone blossom. The real question is to blossom. Someone may be blessed to bloom only in the desert sands. Cacti bloom in the desert; they have their own beauty. Roses will not bloom there; roses have their own beauty.

So never force your heart. If a person goes on following the heart, and follows no one against the heart, then you cannot go astray from truth—you will arrive.

Where there is no bliss and you are deceived—how long will the deception last? How long can you console a thirsty man with false water? Soon he will understand: there is no stream here. Yes, but this can happen: if you never let him approach the false stream, he may never have the experience that it was a mirage, that there was nothing there; then perhaps his mind will go on weaving dreams, whispering: there was pleasure there, there was pleasure there!

This is what I see in your so-called monks and renunciates. “There is no pleasure in the world” is not their own experience; they have accepted it from someone who had experienced it. Their own heart kept saying there is pleasure; they denied and rejected that heart, and adopted someone else’s dictum. They did not listen to the voice of their own life; they started walking by someone else’s voice. Then their lives fill with great misery—because where they used to see pleasure, they will still see pleasure.

Eyes cannot be borrowed, nor can vision be borrowed. With my eyes I can see; with my eyes you cannot. For me, I can live; for me, you cannot live. And for me, only I can die; you cannot die.

No one can stand in the place of another. Yet precisely there we deceive ourselves.

If Mahavira said it, he said it rightly—indeed, rightly. But that he said it for you—there was no reason for Mahavira to speak tailored to you; you were not even present before him. Mahavira had no idea about you. He spoke his truth. Keep this in mind.

What I say to you here need not be your truth. It is my truth—that much is certain. Thus have I known. That you too will know it—there is no compulsion. You may know it; you may not.

If you tune with me, if your individuality resonates with mine, then perhaps my truth may become your experience too. But if there is no resonance, my truth will remain on the surface of you; within, only your own truth will remain.

All philosophies are autobiographical. They pertain to the person.

When Mahavira says something, it is information about Mahavira. When Buddha says something, it is about Buddha. When Meera dances and speaks through her dance, she is speaking about herself.

All proclamations about truth are the proclamations of those who have known truth. Through them, truth came; truth took a form. It is not necessary that the same form is right for you. How will you understand?

Some people accept someone’s word simply because many others accept it. If a billion people accept Jesus, some will accept just because they think, “How can what a billion accept be wrong?”

But remember, it is possible that what a billion accept is still not for you. It may be right for that billion and yet not right for you. Because God creates each person as unique, incomparable. That is the glory of man.

Leave man aside—even in this garden, pick a single leaf; you will not find another exactly like it on the whole earth.

Pick up a pebble from the path; search across endless moons and stars, and you will not find a second exactly the same.

God is not a Ford assembly-line making identical cars. God is not a mechanic or technician—God is an artist.

The greater the poet, the less he repeats any song. The greater the painter, the less he paints the same picture again. And if he does paint it again, he finds no joy in it.

It happened that a man bought a Picasso painting—for a huge price. Naturally he wanted to be sure it wasn’t fake. He took the painting to Picasso and asked, “I am buying this; it’s a matter of lakhs. Tell me, is it authentic? Is it painted by you—not a copy?”

Picasso glanced at it with indifference and said, “Fake—someone else painted it.” Picasso’s beloved was present, astonished, because the painting had been made in front of her, by Picasso himself. She said, “Perhaps you are forgetting—your memory is deceiving you. You painted this before my eyes. This is yours.”

Picasso said, “I painted it, but still it is fake—because I had painted it before. To call it authentic is not right. Once something is done, it becomes old. Whether someone else copies it or I myself repeat it—what difference does it make? I had painted this before. This is only an echo, a shadow; not authentic.”

God never makes anything twice. The Supreme Artist! It is not that the world has run out of ideas, that nothing occurs to Him, so He makes another Mahavira, another Rama, another Krishna.

You see—no second Mahavira, no second Krishna, no second Rama. Once one comes, he never appears again on the stage. Remember this.

You too are new. Learn from everyone; accept your own. Listen to all; let the final decision come from the heart.

So if talk of renunciation brings you slackness and sadness; your heart’s flower does not open but withers; the bud does not become a flower but, on the contrary, the flower closes its petals—as many flowers do at dusk when the sun sets—then understand: this is not your sun of truth. It may be someone else’s truth, because some flowers bloom only when the sun sets—night-blooming jasmine is like that. It may be hers; it is not for you. Then your path is perfectly clear.

Wherever you glimpse joy, go there with courage. I am not saying you will find joy there every time. Many times you will find there was nothing—only a heap of ashes. Even so, you will gain experience. Maturity will come into life. By seeing the heap of ashes you will understand. You will gain the art of recognizing ash heaps ahead. A second deception will be harder; a third deception will become impossible. A moment will come when, however tempting a scene, you will recognize from afar where there is ash and where there are embers; where there is life and where everything is extinguished.

Only by erring does a man learn. To know the false as false is the way toward the true. To recognize the illusory as illusory is the arrangement for becoming free of illusion.

So I am not telling you to run away quickly, obeying me. Go by your own experience. If there is pleasure, it will become the road to heaven. If there is no pleasure, experience will awaken.

Edison was conducting an experiment. He failed seven hundred times. His colleagues grew upset and tired. His students were frightened—when would it end? Seven hundred times! Three years wasted! One day all his associates said, “Listen! You return every morning cheerful and begin again—but think of us too! Is this how we’ll spend our lives? Seven hundred times we’ve failed—please stop! Do something else!”

Edison said, “Who told you I have failed seven hundred times? Each time I am coming closer to success. Suppose there are seven hundred and one doors to it; we have knocked on seven hundred—those were walls, not doors. Those doors were false. Now we are daily closer to the true door. How long can this go on? Who says we have failed seven hundred times? Each step has brought us nearer to success. Every failure brings us closer. These seven hundred experiences have made us mature. Our discrimination has become sharp. Now those seven hundred paths can no longer mislead us. Surely we are near the right path. How long it will take—hard to say.”

And they say that about fifteen days later Edison succeeded. He made the first electric bulb. Today the whole world is lit because of him.

What is true of the search for outer light is just as true for the search for inner light.

Where you find pleasure—go!

I am not here to frighten you. Has anyone ever awakened by fear? I do not alarm you. I say: go! With courage, with daring! If there is pleasure, you have taken a step toward God. If not, still you have taken a step toward God: one door has closed—no point going that way; one road proved wrong; you have come closer to the right road.

Listen to the heart. If, on hearing of devotion, love, and celebration, some inner melody begins to play in you, if the veena of your heart begins to vibrate—then that is your path. Then do not wedge in talk of renunciation in between, or you will distort everything. Once it is clear that the discourse on love fills you with elation, then leave talk of renunciates aside. That path is not for you; their talk will entangle you. The lover’s language is altogether different.

Ishq hâ’yl hai tere milne mein
hum se ye parda hataya na gaya.

The renunciate says, “Remove love and you will meet God.” The lover says: Ishq hâ’yl hai tere milne mein—Love stands as a veil in meeting You; people say that because of love we are not meeting You—so be it. Hum se ye parda hataya na gaya—But we could not remove this veil. If because of love we miss You, let us miss; but this love we will not remove.

For the devotee, love itself is God. For the knower, love is an obstacle; he calls it attachment—remove it! Awaken dispassion; only then truth will be attained.

The lover-devotee says, Do not remove the veil—erase yourself. Let only love remain; do not remain.

Ishq hâ’yl hai tere milne mein
hum se ye parda hataya na gaya.
Tujhko dekha to ser-chashm hue,
tujhko chaha to aur châh na ki.

The thirst of the eyes was quenched the moment we beheld You; the moment we desired You, no other desire remained.

The renunciate says, “Drop all desire, then God will be attained.” The lover says, “When His desire arises, all other desires fall away by themselves; the lover has no trouble dropping anything—His longing is enough.”

Tujhko dekha to ser-chashm hue,
tujhko chaha to aur châh na ki.

After desiring Him, is any other desire left anywhere?

But these are two different paths. The renunciate says, Drop all desire—even the desire for God. That too is a path: drown in desirelessness; let not even a trace of wanting remain within, not even for God. Stand in complete desirelessness, without the slightest ripple of craving or lust. In that instant—union!

The lover says, Drown so utterly in His desire that you are no more; let all your life-energy become only His longing, His love. In that instant—union!

Meeting has happened from both sides. To say which is right and which is wrong is foolish. See simply with which path your heart blossoms.

Though you are separate in body from all,
you are not far in the heart.
No priest was joined, no altar adorned,
no mantras were recited—
yet this bride, birth after birth,
has placed her hands, unsold, in Yours.
Of all the ties in the world—
false and true, raw and ripe—
you are free of all, and yet
you are not far from the Vrindavan of love.
Though you are separate in body from all,
you are not far in the heart.

All other ties are worldly—but the devotee says, love’s tie is not of the world. Love is Vrindavan—not a tie at all, not something that forms and dissolves. It is a state of bliss, of awe; it is Vrindavan.

Of all the ties in the world—
false and true, raw and ripe—
you are free of all, and yet
you are not far from the Vrindavan of love.

Everything else will be an obstacle; love—and an obstacle? The devotee sees no obstacle in love. He reaches Him through love; by drowning in love he drowns in Him.

These are different languages—the language of the renunciate and the language of the lover. Whichever language begins to sing in your heart, in whose rain your inner seeds begin to sprout, in whose company your personality begins to be refined, in which taste rises, song awakens, dance arises—then know that the heart is pointing clearly which way to go. Then drop all other concerns—into which house you were born, in which religion, what teachings you received, which scripture was given to you—let all that be secondary. Through the heart God has spoken which path is yours.

But it will not be so for everyone.

There are some here who, on hearing talk of love, become restless and anxious; on hearing of renunciation they settle into peace—“Now this is right.” They are not wrong either. What suits them, what digests in them. Perhaps they have been much burned in life; as one scalded by milk blows even on buttermilk, so love may have burned them a lot. Though the love they have known so far was utterly petty, futile, in name only, still it burned them so much that they start at the very talk of devotion or love of God; they blow even on buttermilk. Fine—if by dispassion their heart opens, if peace comes and a state of ease arises, then that is right. Let them go by that.

And what I want to emphasize is this: never, even by mistake, try to make anyone walk as you do. This urge arises in all of us; it is a deep part of our ego. We want to make the other into our image. The father wants to mold the son exactly like himself; the mother wants to mold the daughter exactly like herself; a friend tries to mold a friend. We are all trying—if we could, we would mold the whole world into our image. This greatly satisfies the ego. I become the ideal, and all else my shadows. I become the measure of all life. Be a bit alert to this delusion.

You must find your own truth. And all truths are personal truths. Do not impose them on another. So neither impose, nor allow anyone to impose. If you can avoid these two—because the great danger is that those who don’t impose allow others to impose; and those who don’t allow others to impose go about imposing on others.

To live with understanding in this world is very difficult indeed. On both sides of understanding lie extremes of unawareness.

Machiavelli said, “Before anyone attacks you, attack first—for that is the best defense.” So here everyone tries, before anyone grabs your throat, you grab theirs; before anyone changes you, you change them; before anyone defines you, you define them.

Notice—we spend our whole lives defining one another, in a thousand subtle ways. The husband sits in the car honking; the wife takes time—by delaying she declares, “Stand there; it should be evident who is the master!” She is defining the husband.

Remember: the one who can make another wait defines him. You go to an office to meet someone—the manager will keep you waiting a bit, even if he has nothing to do; the clerk will see you after a long while, even if he is doing nothing. He’ll flip registers for show—because he wants to define you: it should be clear who is boss here!

“I can make you wait—so I am the boss.”

Who can make you wait is higher. So the husband sits late at the club, playing cards, making the wife wait at home for dinner; he will come late—a clear signal of who is master.

You’ve seen it—big leaders always come late to meetings. A big leader arriving on time? Impossible. The bigger the leader, the later he comes; the more he makes people wait—to make it clear who they are.

All our lives we try to press one another down—by known and unknown devices. The father wants to change the son: in that urge he simply wants to say, “I am the master.” When the son grows up, he will try to change the old father—because then the father weakens; the son will begin to instruct him in what is proper and improper, telling him, “You’re senile, you’ve lost your wits, you don’t know today’s world; the world you speak of is gone. Now listen to me!”

In this world it is very hard to avoid these two extremes. But the one who does—he is the seeker. Neither try to press another down, nor give anyone a chance to press you down. Make one thing clear: whatever the price, however risky, I will follow my heart. Even if I must lose everything. This inner resolve is what I call the mood of sannyas.

Sannyas is not an outer act—it is an inner proclamation: from now on I will follow my heart, even if for this I must lose everything—even if I become poor and destitute—even if I must become a beggar on the road. There is no need to become a beggar on the road; but even if that becomes necessary, I am ready. One thing is now decided: except for my heart, I will follow no one. My heart will be my Veda. My heart will be my Bhagavad Gita. My heart will be my Quran and my Bible.

And you will be amazed: the day you start listening to the heart, movement will enter your life. Some obstacles will come—from society, from others—because those you obeyed until yesterday will not agree so quickly; they will not accept so soon. But inside you will find: elation has arisen! Waves have arisen! A tide of energy has come! Inside you will find you are no longer poor—you have become an emperor.

So choose what delights you. If it is dispassion—then dispassion! People have reached God through that too. If it is devotion—then devotion!

It is Saroj’s question.
This happens. It is natural. Because the moment we turn within, we become alone. That is why people are afraid to go inside.
Outside there are others; inside there is no one. Inside it is you, and only you. Outside are countless people, bustle and stir; inside, silence. Outside there is so much fullness; inside, the void. And for lifetimes we have lived outside—lived in relationships, with others, in the crowd and the marketplace, the house and household—thousands of occupations!
So when you begin to move within, you suddenly start to feel: all that is left far behind, and into this inner space not even your nearest and dearest can come. This is your utterly solitary space. It is so private that you cannot invite even your lover into it. Here there is only you—simply you.
In the beginning this great stillness, this hush, this emptiness will seem negative.

The road is unseen, and my destination is far;
there is no cupbearer—only me and my solitude.

There will be anxiety too, because the road is unseen; there is no sure address of the goal—where it is, where you are going, what is happening. There are no milestones within. Who would set milestones? There is no inner map either. Who would give you a map? There is no hand there to lead you. So suddenly one feels helpless.
If you pass through this helpless state—if you cross it calmly—then, for the first time in your life, inner strength will be born. But before that, it is necessary to pass through helplessness. When false things slip from your hands, your hands become empty. The emptying of the hands is essential for truth to descend. But between the going of the worthless and the coming of the true there is a small interval. In that interval there is great pain. One who cannot cross that interval panics—and runs back out again.

That “attack” is happening for this very reason. In fact, it is not that an attack is happening; rather, you keep trying to grab hold of good and bad thoughts so that the inner stillness does not become utterly terrifying. Let there be some prop. If only thoughts—at least some waves keep rising, some busyness remains.

People prefer being miserable to being empty, because at least there is misery! There is something in the hand! The hand is not completely empty. Pebbles and stones, granted—if not diamonds and jewels—but no one can say there is nothing at all.

Most people will not even drop their suffering, because they are afraid—if they let go of the companion of so many days, they will be left alone.

Have you noticed? After being ill for many days, when you get up from bed it feels very restless: now where to go? Being in bed had become a way of life. If someone lies in bed for two or four years, he may never get up again—not because the illness does not heal, but because once it heals he clings to the illness. Physicians know well that if an illness lasts too long, it becomes hard to cure the patient, because the illness becomes part of his habit. He assimilates it into his style of living, and then leaving that style becomes a hurdle.

If you have become accustomed to a particular pain, you will hold it tight.

That is why I often see people unwilling to leave the boundaries and situations of suffering. Even if your life is passing in constant quarrel with a wife, you don’t separate. Or if life with a husband has become hellish, still you don’t separate. Why? You will find a thousand excuses, but they are just excuses. The fundamental thing is that you have now become habituated to this suffering.

And a striking observation has started appearing in the West, where husbands and wives change rapidly. The experience is that a man who leaves one wife and seeks another ends up finding almost the same kind of woman he left—the same sharpness, the same troublemaker! He has hardly left the first before he finds the second just like her. Why? His taste has become sick; he is drawn toward the wrong. He will again bring a woman of the same personality, and the story will repeat. Then again he will renounce.

Psychologists studied one man. He had eight divorces, and each time he found the same kind of wife.

The seeker is the same—the one who is searching is the same—so he will seek the same.

Look carefully into your life: are there not many sufferings you are clutching that want to leave, but you won’t let them go?

So when silence comes, you invite the old thoughts; it is not an attack, it is your summons. Because in that way, for a little while, the inner emptiness gets filled. A turmoil arises.

Thoughts, anger, quarrel, some dream, some plan—during that time you fill the inner sky. For that time the void is forgotten.

Taste the void, and gradually these thoughts will disappear. This void is immensely glorious. This very void is what is called meditation. It comes by good fortune. Now that it has come, do not spoil it. Now dive into this void—even though in the beginning it will feel like dying, like death.

And in one sense it is true: you will die. The way you have been till now—if you dive into this void—you will be erased. The new will be born, will dawn.

“What shall I do? I feel half-crazed.”

It will indeed feel like madness. Go within—void; come out—the futile bustle of thoughts. Outside, nothing of substance; inside, panic. An infinite emptiness stands with mouth agape. So madness is felt. This madness lasts only until you acquire a taste for the void.

Savor the void. Make acquaintance with it. Hum it. Dance it. When the void arrives, feel wonder. Thank the Divine. It is his compassion.

The void is God’s greatest gift in this world, his prasad. Only a few blessed ones receive it. And even those who receive it cannot all sustain it; many destroy it. The gift is so great that your vessel feels too small.

“I find myself very helpless, alone, insecure.”

No harm. The mind will say, find some security. The mind will say, somehow bring someone into this solitude. If you make that mistake, the purity of the void will be destroyed. The world will be built again. That is how we become the ox at the oil-press, round and round, again and again.

Now that a window has opened, do not close it. If you feel helpless—so be it. Accept it! If you feel insecure—so be it. Accept it! Do not deny the fact that is appearing before you, do not try to change it. Look at it fully—with wonder, with gratitude. Say: if the Beloved has willed that there be emptiness, surely birth must be from the void! If my path passes through the temple of emptiness, then I must pass through it.

Very soon the face of this void will begin to change. If you accept it, you will begin to see beauty in it. Whatever we accept, beauty begins to appear there. That is why one’s mother never seems ugly; one’s child never seems ugly. Where we accept, beauty manifests. Beauty is not some quality “out there”—it is the shadow of our acceptance. Accept—and beauty will begin to become complete. Accept—and great joy will appear in beauty. Accept—and the void will become the abode of peace, of supreme peace. If you reject, there is no way except to run outside. And it was from the outside that, exhausted, you came within! Then great derangement will arise.

The void is God’s first experience. Fullness is God’s final experience. He comes as emptiness; he abides as fullness. He comes as emptiness, because our disappearance is necessary. He comes as emptiness, because we are only a heap of rubbish. We must be set on fire, so that we burn and only the pure remains—only the pure gold remains and the trash burns away.

So when the goldsmith puts gold into the fire, the gold too must feel frightened, anxious, wanting to escape the furnace. But it does not know the goldsmith’s intention. The goldsmith does not want to burn the gold. And the goldsmith knows well that gold does not burn; whatever burns is not gold. He places it in the fire precisely so that what is not gold may separate from the gold.

The void is fire. And God puts into it only those upon whom his compassion showers.

The void arises from worthiness. Do not panic! Do not leap out of the furnace. Otherwise more rubbish than before will gather. Accept.

On the inner journey, if the void has been met—this is the first news that you have begun to be a vessel. At least you are now worthy enough that God puts you into the fire. There will be great burning, great pain. Without that pain, no one has ever been born. Without that pain, the advent of new birth has never happened.

“My wits were lost before your arrival;
We ourselves were lost before we could attain you.
How to tell how life passed without you?
Who had any sense before your coming?
Our wits were lost before your arrival.”

Before his coming, your wits will be lost; you too will be lost. Because what you have taken till now as “I” is only junk—that is the obstacle.

We ourselves were lost before we could attain you!

Remember one very important thing: man never meets God. As long as man is, God is not. And when God appears, man is already lost. Man is the disease. When he dissolves, that supreme blessedness manifests. When you vacate the throne, only then does the Divine sit upon it. As long as you sit there, he cannot.

These lines are very sweet:
“My wits were lost before your arrival;
We ourselves were lost before we could attain you.
How to tell how life passed without you
—how the days went before your coming!
Who had any sense before your coming!”

Neither before your coming was there sense, because we were unconscious in the world; nor after your coming does sense remain, because we become unconscious in you. So between these two unconsciousnesses—the world’s wine and God’s wine—there is a short stretch of journey where a little awareness remains. People are either lost in wealth, in position, in intoxication; or they become lost in God. Between the two taverns there is a small gap where a little awareness remains.

Saroj is on that journey now—between two taverns. If she goes within, even then the wits will be lost. If, frightened, she comes out, again the wits will be lost. And when the choice is between two taverns, between two wines, then choose the wine of God. You have tasted the world’s so much—gained nothing. Now taste this unfamiliar, unknown one too. Be courageous! A kind of craziness will arise.

In Bengal there is a lineage of saints called the Bauls—mad ones! Astonishing saints. They dance—ecstatic! Intoxicated with that inner wine—lost, enraptured! Slowly they came to be called “mad.” But what you call sanity is worth far less than that.

What does your cleverness bring into your hands? A few shards that death will snatch away. A little name and fame that is wiped clean as you depart, to make space for others.

“Neither the world’s sense, nor any awareness of myself—
your beauty has rendered me self-forgetful.”

Drown in that! Self-forgetfulness is the way to find God. To vanish—the only possibility of being.

This void will frighten you, unnerve you. As when a bird has lived in the nest till now and suddenly today is in the open sky: it will panic, be anxious, restless! Again and again the mind will want to return to the nest: where are you getting entangled in these storms? These winds and this sky and these clouds; this sun and these moon and stars! And it is so vast! Run! Hide in your nest. It is exactly that state. The mind will urge strongly to descend back into the nest.

But now do not return. Now that He has called, keep going in answer to the call. And whether comfort or sorrow comes, pain or burning—accept it, because we do not know; perhaps this is precisely what is needed for the making of our life.

When a chisel begins to strike stone, the stone too must weep. But only by being chipped and broken by the chisel does the stone become a statue. What lay by the roadside comes to sit in the sanctum of the temple. The same stone that people used to kick as they passed—at whose feet people now bow their heads and offer flowers.

“By your oath—I have borne much sorrow.
False were my claims of patience and endurance—come!
For this impatient, aching heart—I am tired.”

By your oath—I have borne much sorrow!
However much the pain, go only toward Him.

By your oath—I have borne much sorrow!
If you must speak, even complain, complain to Him alone. Do not return outside. Take a vow that now you will not go back out. Because you have seen the outside so much—what did you gain? What will you gain by turning back now?

“False were my claims of patience and endurance—come!”
And all those claims I made of patience and self-mastery—they were false. Do not trust them much—come!

Man, in his ego, has so often thought: I possess endurance, I possess peace, I possess steadfast patience—my patience is unshakable!

“False were my claims of patience and endurance—come!
For this impatient, aching heart—I am tired.”

And now I am tired.

Saroj asks: helpless, without support…

Then do not return outside. Say to Him now, “I am very tired, I can no longer endure.” But do not take your eyes off the inner. These moments will be difficult. But whoever passes through these moments attains a completely new, fresh life. These are the moments of revolution.

Out of a hundred, ninety-nine never reach this state. And of the hundred who do, ninety-nine return back out. Therefore the scriptures say: the path is very arduous. One reaches again and again—and it slips away. Just as the destination comes into the hand, it becomes thousands of miles away.

I don’t add; I unveil. In the casket called ahimsa, the treasure hidden is love itself. I open the casket. I say to you, look inside! The casket is beautiful even from the outside—so finely carved! Master craftsmen have labored over it! But however beautiful a casket may be, it is still a casket; look within!

Ahimsa is only a word; the essence is love! And if the essence dies, then no matter how much filigree you continue to carve on “ahimsa,” you will go on hauling the casket for centuries—but from it, life, nectar, bliss will not arise. Then ahimsa will fall into the hands of logicians; they will go on splitting hairs over the word.

Mahavira used the word ahimsa for love. I say: set aside ahimsa and peep within. Open this casket!

I don’t add; I lay bare.

How can there be ahimsa without love? “Do not cause suffering to the other”—how can this be unless love has arisen toward the other? And if you accept it as a rule, a formal arrangement—“don’t hurt others because hurting others brings hell”—not out of love but out of fear, then there will be very little nonviolence in your nonviolence. Violence will show even in your ahimsa. No flowers of love will bloom in your ahimsa; your ahimsa will be lifeless.

This has happened: the Jains’ ahimsa has become lifeless. Its life-breath has been lost; only a corpse remains. Yes, with proper chemicals a corpse too can be made to look beautiful. But a corpse is a corpse. The most beautiful person’s corpse is still a corpse. Life has gone! Life is the creative, affirmative principle.

Love is the creative principle. Love means: something positive is alive within you.

Ahimsa merely means: do not do harm to the other.

And this is what I want to tell you: until you engage yourself in doing good to the other, you will not be able to refrain from doing harm. You will do something—life is action, karma. If I do not scatter flowers on your path, I will scatter thorns. And you will not find a person who says, “I only refrain from scattering thorns; flowers are none of my concern.” You will find that such a person shrinks—like the Jain monks have shrunk—afraid to step into life; for the moment you enter, action happens, and then either you lay thorns or you lay flowers. And his whole training became this: don’t lay thorns. He lost the courage to lay flowers. He dropped even the very idea of laying flowers—just: don’t lay thorns!

If you try only to isolate a person’s diseases without desiring health for his life, you will not give him health, nor will you be able to remove the diseases. Because the disappearance of disease and the birth of health within him are two sides of the same coin.

“Let me not cause suffering to the other” is a secondary matter. “May delight reach the other from my life”—that is the primary matter.

Love means only this: you begin to be happy in the happiness of the other. What does love mean? You say, I love my wife, or my son, or my friend—what do you mean? Only this much: when your son is happy, you are happy. When another’s happiness begins to make you happy, that is love. And when another’s happiness begins to make you unhappy, that is hatred. When another’s unhappiness begins to make you happy, that is anger, hatred, enmity, violence. And when another’s blossoming begins to touch you and make you glad, that is love.

For me, ahimsa means that everyone’s happiness begins to make you happy. Then what an immense shower will pour upon you! Dharma-megha samadhi—the clouds of dharma will burst over you. From all sides, anyone’s happiness will make you happy. A flower blossoms on a tree and you rejoice. The morning sun rises and you rejoice. A child smiles and you rejoice. Anywhere there is a smile and bliss enters within you too. Then the whole world begins to make you happy. The name of such a joyous state is sannyas.

And if everyone’s happiness makes you miserable—as it happens in the world—that very misery is called the world. You cannot bear to see someone laugh. The moment you see laughter, jealousy arises. You cannot bear to see someone’s big house being built. As soon as the house rises, dissatisfaction arises within you—rivalry, competition, violence, jealousy. If you laugh along with another’s laughter, it is a hollow laughter—on the surface—mere social etiquette.

The word “ahimsa” has caused great danger. It is negative. I want to expose the positive, creative love hidden within it. I don’t add; I am laying it bare.

What Buddha called shunya, nirvana—he said: dissolve, disappear. When you disappear, what remains within you is love. The more ego, the less love. When no ego remains, there is only love—love upon love—the ocean of love!

And remember this too: when I speak on Buddha, I will be speaking only on myself. At most, Buddha can be a peg. When I speak on Mahavira, Mahavira can be a peg; whatever I hang will be my own—there is no other way. Nor can there be. So when I speak on Mahavira, do not think I am speaking only on Mahavira. I am not a machine. I have my own vision. I will take Mahavira’s words in hand, but the color that falls upon them will be mine. I will turn their scripture inside out, but the meaning will be mine.

Never forget this. I am not offering their commentary. Their words are lovely, worthy of being revitalized. Much dust has gathered upon them; it is good to dust them. But what I am saying to you—Mahavira is merely a pretext in it; I am saying to you what I can say.

It appears to me that the very life-breath of ahimsa is love. It appears to me that when a person attains nirvana, becomes utterly egoless, what remains is the vast sky of love. But that is my vision. And if I have to choose between Mahavira and myself, I choose myself, not Mahavira. And I say the same to you: if you have to choose between me and yourself, choose yourself—do not worry about me. For the ultimate choice is of oneself.

Love, for me, is the essence of religion. And as I see it, wherever love got separated from religion, there religion died, decayed—became a corpse.

Think a little yourselves: when love leaves your life, you become a living corpse. Only so long as love is there is there a heartbeat. Whatever the form of that love—whether it is lust or longing for the Lord; whether for wealth or for dharma; whether of the body or of the soul; whether the tiniest love or the vastest—without love you become utterly empty. Suddenly you find you are living, but life is no longer there—it has slipped away. The bird has flown; the cage is left behind.

Our ways are unlike the world’s:
we consider imitation a kind of suicide.
Someone may think it a prison, but, O heart,
we know love as freedom.

Our ways are unlike the world’s:
we consider imitation a kind of suicide.
One who walks blindly behind another is committing suicide.

We consider imitation a kind of suicide.
Someone may call it a prison, but, O heart,
we know love as freedom.
If someone says love is a prison—then that love is not love. Somewhere a mistake is being made—you have taken something else to be love. For love has always liberated. Love liberates so totally that your godhood becomes fully available. That which binds is not love; that which frees—that is love. That which brings your ownness to light—that is love. That which refines and purifies your being—that is love.

Love has never bound anyone.

Those who said love is bondage must have known some false forms of love. And those who thought that by dropping love they became free must have mistaken the loss of life for life. They must have been people who shrank.

As I see it, you will reach the Divine only by expanding. The more you expand, the more auspicious it is.

O ill-fated ones, O hearts torn to shreds—
your dawn is not somewhere high in the skies.
Where you and I are standing,
the bright horizon of morning is right here.
Here the sparks of sorrow together
have become the garden of the crimson dawn.
Here the murderous hatchets of grief,
rows upon rows of rays,
have turned into flaming garlands!

Where we are, as we are—right here in our very presence and in today’s condition—the door can open. That door is love.

Do not search for God in the skies—otherwise you will wander in vain. Seek God in the love of the heart; then the door will open. And if love is mastered, everything is mastered. Then within rays, doors of rays go on opening.

Someone asked Saint Augustine, “Explain the whole scripture to me in a single word so that I can remember it always.” Augustine thought a while and said, “If you want such a word, then love. Remember this one word. Do not go against it. Always act in accord with it; everything else will set itself right.”

Think a little: if love enters your life, even if you never go to a temple, you will reach the temple. If love enters your life and you have not read the scriptures, you will understand the scriptures. “He who reads the two-and-a-half letters of love becomes a pundit.” If love is set right, there is no need to get into big philosophical debates.

Love is the existential religion. Existential! All the rest is nonsense.

Where surrender is ripening—meditation has already happened. Otherwise there is no need to do any meditation. If you are enjoying surrender, then hold on to that very joy as your support and go deeper and deeper into it. Cry, let tears flow—out of bliss, out of exuberance.

The day before yesterday a friend came and said he feels a little frightened, because whenever he sits to meditate, ecstasy arises and then tears start coming; the body begins to tremble and gooseflesh appears. I asked, “What do you do then?” He said, “I forcibly stop it.” He is a well-educated man—how can one cry! And he is quite advanced in years, around sixty-five. All his life he has never cried, never moistened his eyes. Gooseflesh comes, the body begins to shake. Someone might think he has gone mad, or that some illness has struck—so he restrains it.

I told him that this is dangerous. On one side you are bringing it forth—through prayer, worship, meditation—and then you are stopping it. This becomes a contradictory act. It will create conflict, a crisis, in your life-energy. It is dangerous. Be glad, let the tears flow in joy!

Tears are the signs of bliss! But we have known tears only in one way—the tears of sorrow.

Human beings have lost the experience of many important things; among them, an important one is tears. We have confined tears: we cry only when we are unhappy. Tears have nothing to do with sorrow. Tears are related to overflow. When sorrow becomes too much, tears are needed. When joy becomes too much, tears are needed. Whenever anything becomes so much that the cup overflows, tears come. Tears are related neither to sorrow nor to happiness—but to excess.

So have you ever cried in joy or not? If you have not cried in joy, you have missed the highest, ultimate experience of tears. Then you have known only the very ordinary experience of tears—those of sorrow. And because of sorrow, people say, “Keep courage, don’t cry!” People say, “Be a man, don’t cry! Why are you crying like children or like women?”

Humanity has been deprived of that other unique form of tears—the tears of joy, of wonder.

Narada has said in his aphorisms: the devotee is thrilled! He becomes filled with tears! His voice is choked! His body begins to tremble! Every pore quivers with delight!

Therefore one who is finding joy in surrender, in refuge, should not worry about meditation. Prayer! Light incense and lamps! Dance. Cry! Be thrilled! Learn the art of being mad for a few moments! For a while forget cleverness and the world! For a little while become a Meera! Lose concern for public opinion!

There is no need for meditation—there is a need for prayer. Meditation is on the path of will. Prayer is on the path of surrender. Before the Divine comes, pray deeply, brighten your eyes well, weep! Let it not happen that he arrives and your eyes are not wet!

There is hot news of his coming—
and today not even a mat has been laid in the house.

There isn’t even a seat to spread in the house, and the news of his coming has arrived!

No worry; it will do without a seat. But there are other things even more essential.

Let me wipe my Beloved’s feet with my eyelids today;
let my tears inquire after the state of his heart.

If the mat is not ready, that will do. But let it not happen that there are no eyelids to wipe his feet! Let it not happen that there are no tears to ask after the heart’s condition!

Let me wipe my Beloved’s feet with my eyelids today;
let my tears inquire after the state of his heart.

Make that preparation! If you have sent the invitation, he will surely come. If you have called, he will come. Now, instead of worrying about his coming, make your own preparation.

And the greatest preparation is that you can weep with a full heart; that you can dance, drowned completely; that speechless, wonderstruck moments pass and you remain transfixed!

You met me, and melody pervaded my breath!
A forgotten youth grew new again;
the day love’s flute sounded in my life-breath,
the flow of childhood was renewed.
Those tasteless years filled with nectar
when your beauty charmed me.
You met me, and melody pervaded my breath!

The devotee proceeds already taking it for granted that you must have set out! That the news must have reached you! He throws himself into preparation.

The seeker searches for God; the devotee assumes God. The seeker still has to decide whether God is or not. For the devotee that much is decided—that God is; now only this remains to be seen: whether I am worthy or not. Remember this distinction.

The seeker gathers his qualification in order to search for Truth. The devotee—Truth is, the Lord is—now gathers his qualification so that he may become worthy of Him. There is a great difference in their directions.

The seeker of Truth moves on the wings of thought and no-thought. The devotee—neither thought nor no-thought; feeling, devotion, worship, prayer! For him one thing is settled: the Divine is—therefore there is no question of searching for him. He does not get into the hassle of seeking. His very own being has given him sufficient proof: there is life, therefore there is a source of life. Seeing his own ray, he understood there is a sun—otherwise how would there be a ray? I am—this is enough. You are, too! Now how shall I prepare myself?

So wait, filled with immense love! Listen for the sound of his footsteps! He must be coming! Sit with your ear to the door. In his separation, until he has not come, in his absence, in his lack, experience his presence. Even his absence is dear! Understand this.

Even if the things of the world are attained, nothing is attained; and even if God does not meet you, if only his remembrance is attained, everything is attained!

A laughter and playfulness that can be lost so easily has no value. I will teach you a laughter and playfulness that cannot be lost again.

There is one kind of childhood in which children are happy. That happiness does not have great value—life will destroy it. And there is another childhood that comes out of life’s ultimate maturity. Then the saint becomes like a small child again. A new laughter, a new playfulness is born; then no one can take it away.

So this must be what is happening.

Many young men and women come to listen to me. This is an auspicious sign. It is inauspicious when the old come to hear about religion, because the old turn to religion only when all their strategies in life have failed and death is drawing near—out of fear of death. And when only the old begin to go to temples and mosques and the young disappear from there, those temples and mosques become like graves—dead. It is good that the young try to understand religion, because through them religion also remains young. Whenever religion is alive and youthful, the old come—and the young come too.

Understand this difference: even the old who come to listen to me can do so only when, in some deep sense, they are still young. And if ever you find a young person in temples and mosques, he is there only because, in some deep sense, he has already become old; he is no longer alive, he is ailing. For what I am saying is not anti-life. What I am saying is the search for the Great Life.

So it often happens that young people come to listen and, on listening, many transformations occur. What they had called fun and happiness until yesterday no longer seems like joy. Good—some awakening has begun. Because what they had taken as joy was only ignorance, only childishness. They were still playing with toys. Coming to me, they see: these are toys. The taste is lost.

Before real life can begin, it is necessary to lose interest in the toys.

Then there will also be fear in coming. You will want to come, and you will also shy away. It will be impossible to keep away, and yet there will be fear: “What if all the juice of life is lost?” And it will be impossible not to come, because some new taste will arise that calls and beckons. A dilemma will be born. This too is a good sign. It is the mark of a thoughtful person.

A thoughtful person faces a thousand such moments in life when a decision must be made—where half the mind says, “Don’t go,” and the other half says, “Go.” The coward listens to the half that says, “Don’t go.” The courageous listens to the half that says, “Set out! Seek the new! Choose the unfamiliar path!”

A great Western poet was once asked, “What was the most important thing that determined the meaning of your life?” He replied, “When my father was dying, he called me close and said, ‘Listen: at every step two roads open. One is the known road, the one you have been walking; the other is the unfamiliar and unknown, the one you have never walked. The mind will always say, choose the known, because the mind is very orthodox. Never choose the known—because if you keep walking the same road, what more can happen? Choose the unknown.’ And at every turn two paths open—always keep choosing the unknown.” The poet said, “I obeyed my father’s words. It was very difficult. Many times I forgot. Many times I slipped. But still I held to that sutra. And in this way, every day a new dawn of truth came into my life; a new sun of truth arose.”

Unknown, unfamiliar, unknowable—whoever chooses that has chosen God.

So there will be fear in coming here, because every day I will push you toward the unknown, the unfamiliar. The mind will say, “Stop, don’t go.”

Years ago I was speaking in Allahabad. The friend who had invited me—a Hindi poet and writer—was sitting in front. For ten or fifteen minutes I saw tears falling from his eyes; then suddenly he stood up and walked out of the hall. He was the one who had invited me. For three days there was no trace of him. On the day of my departure he came to see me off at the station. I asked, “Where did you go?” He said, “I listened for fifteen minutes, then I got frightened. I felt this man would take me into danger. So before any trouble began, I thought it best to leave.” And he left.

This situation will come before everyone. If you are to walk with me, much that you considered valuable until yesterday will become valueless. But I say to you: keep your doors always open to the unknown. For that is the very door through which God enters.

Enough for today.