Jin Sutra #24

The poem is borrowed. Someone else’s lamp must have been lit; he sang it. You will have to give birth to your own poetry.

Everyone’s lamp can burn. A lamp exists to be lit; it carries the possibility of flame. But no one else can light your lamp. Your freedom is ultimate. If you do not want it lit, no one can light it; if you want it lit, no one can stop you. You have not yet wanted the lamp to burn. You are still deeply attached to the darkness.

I often see people who want both: to keep the darkness and to have the lamp burning—a strange tangle, because there are big vested interests in darkness.

Like a thief who goes out at night: he bumps into walls and doors, gets bruised and thinks, “If only there were a light!” But if a lamp is lit and there is light, he will not be able to steal. So if someone says, “Here is a lamp, take it,” he will reply, “Do you take me for a fool?”

Your trouble is that your life is double. On one side is darkness, and in that darkness your self-interest is invested. On the other side are the pains of darkness; hence the thought of a lamp arises. Until you break your interests in the dark, you will not be able to light the lamp. This is simple arithmetic. So leave worrying about lighting the lamp; first look clearly: “Do I have a stake in the dark? Do I secretly wish the darkness to remain? Do I hope to get something from it? Have I tied my mind to it? Hidden my future in it, spun dreams in it?” If anywhere there is even the slightest idea of gaining from darkness, how will you allow the lamp to burn? Even if someone lights it, you will blow it out. The one who lights it will feel like an enemy.

Your self-interest is deeply invested in darkness.

That is why the lamp is not burning. However much anyone may pity your darkness, if you choose to remain in it, that pity will do nothing.

Mahavira comes, Buddha comes, Krishna comes, Christ comes—there is no lack of compassion. Great streams of compassion arrive. The sun itself comes and knocks at your door. Yet you hide within your darkness. You think, “Let the light come too.” But have you seen the inner conflict? With the light, all the vested profits of darkness will be destroyed. All the hopes tied to the dark will be reduced to dust. Those hopes rooted in darkness—this is what we call the world.

As long as you feel that something can still be gotten from the world, you will postpone; you will not let the lamp burn. You will fear the light. If light comes, you will turn your back to it. You will invent a thousand arguments and ideas to avoid it. You will say, “This light dazzles the eyes; this light shakes our whole arrangement; this light will make everything uncertain. We are fine—our darkness is fine!”

Even the dishonesty is such that if you looked at it plainly, a path could open. You could at least say clearly, “We will live in the dark! Stop talking about light. We want nothing to do with it.” But you are not even that honest.

When someone speaks of light, you are not clear enough to say, “Stop! We have nothing to do with this. We want to live in the dark, and we will live in the dark. Darkness is our comfort.” You cannot say even this. You also want to show that you are lovers of light, that you stand for the auspicious and the good.

A deaf man used to go to church every Sunday. He would arrive earliest and sit in the front row. He was stone-deaf. He heard nothing of the sermon, nor could he hear the music. One day a man asked, “Why do you come so early? You walk miles to get here. You can’t hear the music; you can’t hear the sermon. Why do you come?” The man laughed and said, “I come to show the whole world which side I am on. And so that God will note that I am not a worldly man—after all, I am religious!”

You cannot drop even this craving to be seen as religious. Religion carries prestige, power, dominance. In fact, the more dishonest you are, the more you try to appear religious—because there is no better way to hide dishonesty than this. You yearn for light in order to cover and conceal your darkness.

Your yearning for light is not the opposite of darkness; it is an arrangement to hide it.

You make much noise about light, weep and shout, “We want light,” so that the whole world will see: if there is darkness, it is not your fault. You are singing the praises of light.

Bertrand Russell wrote of a strange irony: the more immoral a person is, the more he talks about morality; by preaching morality, he creates an aura that suggests, “If anyone is immoral, at least it is not me.”

If a pocket is picked here, and the pickpocket has even a little cunning, he should raise the loudest alarm: “I’ve been robbed! Catch the thief!” He should run about. One thing is certain—no one will catch him, because if he were the thief, he would have run away. He will stand in the middle and speak against theft.

Two men were fishing when the lake inspector appeared. One man took off running and the inspector ran after him, finally catching him after two miles, panting. The man promptly pulled out his license. The inspector said, “Fool! Why did you run if you had a license?” He replied, “Because the other fellow doesn’t.”

People are very clever.

You talk a lot about light so that it is settled that you are its ardent aspirant. Then no one will suspect that you are in the business of darkness. People will be easily trapped in your trade. You will pick pockets more smoothly. To be a successful cheat, it helps to be seen as religious. If you want the shop to run well, you must go to the temple. Going to the temple becomes part of running the shop. Even the shopkeeper, when he opens his ledger, writes at the top, “Shri Ganeshaya Namah,” “Labha–Shubha.” He begins the book of the market by invoking God—as if to enlist God as a partner, saying, “Do not obstruct. We are your devotees!”

As I see it, hundreds of people want meditation. But they are not willing to fulfill the conditions under which meditation happens. No one is willing to fulfill even a single condition. They want it unconditionally, for free. And I tell you, if it were possible to give meditation gratis—it is not, which is why you ask for it so comfortably—if it were possible for me simply to hand it to you, you would not even ask for it. You would run from it. You would say, “Not now! My children are growing up. Let me stabilize life a bit more. Meditation? Not yet!” Because meditation might throw everything into disarray. And meditation is a great revolution; it will.

As you are, you have built a world around you in that same shape. Your world is spun around you. If you change, your world will collapse—because the person at the center around whom the wheel turned has been removed. A new world will be formed.

If you are racing after wealth, you will not be able to meditate.

A prominent politician used to visit me. He said, “Give me some method for peace.” I said, “You create the unrest, and you ask me for peace? Drop ambition. Ambition breeds unrest. Wherever you are, you will be tormented and troubled, dissatisfied. How will there be peace?”

He said, “Don’t say that. I have come to you precisely so that with a little peace I can compete better. Because of inner turmoil I cannot compete. I don’t sleep at night; I am restless. Those behind me have become chief ministers, and I am stuck at minister. I can’t run about as they do. That is why I have come to your feet—give me some peace so I can run about properly.”

Do you see? He wants peace so he can remain properly unpeaceful. He is not prepared to give up the sources of unrest. Even his demand for peace is to keep unrest going.

I told him, “Go elsewhere, then, because I cannot do the impossible. No one can make you peaceful until you understand that the mechanisms of unrest must stop. Wherever unrest arises, you must withdraw your hand. For peace, you do not have to do anything—simply withdraw from unrest, and peace appears. Peace is the absence of unrest. There is nothing to do directly for peace.”

You have tied vast aspirations to darkness; remove them, and the lamp will burn. The lamp is eager to burn—eager every moment—because a lamp is made to burn. It came with the possibility of flame and is crying. I see tears dripping from your lamp: “When will you light me? Will you send me away unlit yet again?” For many lives you have dismissed it so. Birth happened, but not life.

Life does not come automatically with birth. Birth is only a possibility. Life must be earned. It is not necessary that because you were born you attained life. With birth you receive an unlit lamp; then you must light it.

Through deep struggle the flame of life appears. As fire is born from the friction of two sticks or two stones, so when you meet the challenges of life head-on, the lamp within you catches fire. There is no other way. A borrowed flame cannot burn within you.

This poem is someone else’s. And it is not necessary that the one who sang it had his own lamp lit. Often people sing poems and think their lamp has been lit. Those without love in their lives console themselves by singing songs of love.

I know many poets. I have not found any difference between their troubles and yours—perhaps theirs are worse. The difference is only this: they are skillful at decorating dreams; you are less skilled at coloring dreams. They are so skillful they can treat an extinguished lamp as if it were lit, and hum a tune.

It often happens: what you don’t have, you gather comforts about in many forms. One without love sings many songs of love, and little by little convinces himself that love has happened. This is a deep irony. Of all who have sung of love, ninety-nine never knew love. What they could not live in reality, they lived in dreams. Dreams are compensatory.

Modern psychology accepts this truth: dreams compensate. What you cannot do in life, you do in dreams and convince yourself. Fast by day, and at night you feast in sleep. Practice celibacy by day, and at night beautiful women or men dance around you. The nymphs who danced around your sages did not come from anywhere. Which Indra would trouble himself? There is no such Indra. It was the sage himself—what he had suppressed and refused to express in life—that emerged in the silence of the night, in the twilight of trance and sleep. If the repression is very deep, you won’t even need to close your eyes; the nymph will appear with open eyes. It depends on how deep the repression is. If it goes so deep it can no longer be borne, then even with eyes open you will dream. The difference between open and closed eyes is only the depth of repression. You dream with closed eyes; madmen dream with eyes open.

In an asylum a man claimed to be a prophet sent by God. The Muslim caliph who had imprisoned him came to see him after ordering him tied to a post, flogged, and starved for three weeks. He asked, “Well, do you still think God sent you as a prophet?” Before he could reply, another man tied to another post said, “Don’t listen to him—I never sent him! He is a liar.” The first man, the “prophet,” smiled and said, “It is written in the scriptures that God’s prophets will always suffer. Your whips prove only that the scriptures are true.”

What does “mad” mean? Only this: one who has begun to dream with open eyes; who believes in his dreams so much that reality becomes false and dreams seem more true.

There is not much difference between your poets and madmen. Poets are skilled madmen, with a touch of talent—able to compose beautiful songs or paint beautiful pictures. Often, do not go to the poets; if you look beyond the beauty of their song, you may find an ugly man there. Listen to the song; it can be very beautiful. Sometimes poets touch great heights of sky. Dreams have no obstacles—no mountain, no sky stops them. But the dreams you see report what is missing—what you fulfill in sleep. A beggar dreams of being an emperor; and often emperors dreamed of being beggars—not only dreamed, but fulfilled it. Mahavira and Buddha were emperors, but the dream of being a beggar arose. They not only dreamed it; they lived it.

Those who have nothing dream of having it. What is lacking in life is seen in dreams.

So it is not necessary that the one who wrote these lines—yes, the lines are lovely, meaningful—
“Sitting quietly, an innocent heart had this thought:
We did not come here; someone brought us.”
The thought is correct. But it is not just a thought—it is truth. You did not come here; someone brought you. You neither decided to come nor desired to come, nor did anyone ask you, “Do you want to go to the world, descend into life?” Someone set you down. One day you suddenly woke to find yourself here. We have always found ourselves in the middle of life; no one has found himself at its beginning. Surely someone brought us. Someone bound the blindfold and left us in this garden.

“Sitting quietly, an innocent heart had this thought:
We did not come here; someone brought us.”

And if it remains only a thought, it will not last; it will go. Thoughts come and go; they do not abide. There is no great reliability to a thought—unless it becomes meditation. Until this thought becomes meditative awareness, do not trust it. It is only a ripple; it will pass. It will be here now, gone in a moment.

The day this thought becomes meditation—your steady inner mood—“Someone brought me,” what will be the result? Far-reaching consequences. If someone brought you, there is no room for the ego. Birth was given by another; life was given by another. Why do you strut about? You carry the burden of “I” needlessly. You did not come; you are not; you will not go. Someone brought you, someone keeps you, someone will take you away.

Hindu Puranas tell a sweet tale: the one who brings is Brahma; the one who sustains is Vishnu; the one who takes away is Shiva. They leave nothing for you to do. Brahma brought you, Vishnu sustains you, Shiva will take you. The meaning is simply this: the Vast has made a wave of itself in you.

When the Vast wishes, the wave will subside.

Do not bring yourself into the middle. When such vast things happened without you, do not keep accounts of little things: “I built this house.” When you did not make yourself, how will you make a house? The One who made you had it made—He had you make the house.

I read a story: an atheist was giving proofs against God. Finally, with dramatic flourish, he banged his fist on the table and said, “If there is a God, I challenge Him: right now send one of Your angels to slap me—so that the slap can be heard and seen.” Angels do not come; God does not accept such challenges—if He did, He would be in trouble. There are too many challengers. But a man rose from the audience, came up, and slapped him. The atheist shouted, “What are you doing?” The man said, “God sent me. He said, ‘You aren’t worthy of an angel; this will do.’”

He has things done through you. He runs a shop through you, builds a house through you, gets a thousand tasks done. He made you, placed in your nature seeds of desires and longings; from those seeds arise the trees of your life.

Look at birds. They have had no architectural training. How do they build such lovely nests? Some birds fly away after laying their eggs; they leave the eggs behind and go. The egg hatches later. The chicks never even meet their parents; there is no chance for instruction, no school. Yet when they grow up, they build nests—and the nests are just like those of their parents. They too will fly away, leaving their eggs, and the egg will hatch without parents present. For ages the chain continues.

Scientists were amazed: how do these nests get built? And a nest is not simple. Try to take apart a nest and rebuild it; you will be in great difficulty. With twigs, threads, and feathers, birds make such beautiful nests—sometimes very complex.

Someone has them made. The One who made the birds perhaps planned within them the building of nests. Without schooling, He gets it done.

You say, “I fell in love; I fell for a woman.” Did you do that? Or did the One who gave you birth give you that love?

Examine life a little. Sift it again; analyze it anew. You will find: someone is doing it all.

The thought is excellent—if it becomes meditation. By meditation I mean: if this thought becomes a steady inner realization, your abiding awareness.

“Sitting quietly, an innocent heart had this thought:
We did not come here; someone brought us.”

With just this, all religion is complete—if you understand: someone brought us, someone will take us, someone breathes within us, someone lives within us. Then you attain the sense of non-doership. You are not the doer.

And when you are not the doer, your life-energy becomes witnessing. Until now it was invested in doing. If your hand withdraws from doing—no, action will not stop; action will continue—more gracefully, more auspiciously. Mistakes will lessen, because the obstruction caused by you will be gone. Its unobstructed flow will move through you. Action goes on—that belongs to the Doer, the Perfect One. But your energy is saved, and that conserved energy becomes witnessing. That energy becomes samadhi.

“Who lit this tiny lamp of love,
Taking pity on the darkness of a desolate heart?”
That very energy, that samadhi, becomes the lamp. When it burns, you are illumined. Until the flame of meditation is lit within, you cannot be illumined. No one can pour that flame into you from outside—it blossoms only in the innermost.

As flowers arise in trees when sap flows, and at the farthest tip of the sap’s journey colorful blossoms are born, so the sap of life flows in you. When that sap ripens as meditation, flowers of samadhi bloom. Then the lamp within you is lit.

Do not be misled by humming poems. Poems are lovely. But when the poetry of your life is created, you will find all poems pale. The day your life itself hums a song, you will find all poems are rubbish.

And do not be afraid.

If the lamp is out, see it as waiting to be lit. Do not turn the unlit into despair. Do not think, “What to do now? The darkness is dense; the lamp is out.” Do not collapse, do not grow weary.

What we take as death is a message of new life.
The flowers of the garden wither only to bloom again.

What we call death is not death; it is the herald of a new life.

What we take as death is a message of new life.
The flowers in the garden wither only to bloom again.

When a flower has withered, see in it the image of the next bloom. Here everything withers in order to bloom again. If the lamp is extinguished, it is only waiting to be lit.

Do not make this a cause for despair. In fact, this is the ray of hope: your lamp is still unlit—it can still be lit. Something remains to happen. That is the ray of hope: it is not all over. What has happened is small; what has not yet happened is vast. The vast is still waiting; it is to come. This is the possibility, the exuberance, the grace of life: something remains to happen.

So you can tie bells to your ankles and dance. And what is to happen is the greatest of all. What has already happened—birth, a body, wealth, status, prestige—is small. What is yet to happen—meditation, samadhi, liberation—is vast. What has happened is next to nothing; what is to happen is everything. Understand this as the infusion of hope, as life’s message.

Once hope arises in you—once you are no longer dejected, no longer slumped in despair—your life-energy will rise. Filled with hope, the sap will flow; flowers will bloom; lamps will be lit.

“Is it your imagining or your longing,
That someone, again and again, lights a little lamp in the heart?”
Let even a small sprout of longing arise within you—for the search. Seek the One who sent you. Seek the place from which you came. In Hindu language: seek the One who sent you. In Jain language: seek the source from which you arose—the root-source, the primal point from which all has expanded.

Let even a hint of that quest take root in you—someone lighting a tiny lamp in the heart again and again—and moment by moment lamps upon lamps, rows of lamps, garlands of lights will blaze forth. Your path will become radiant.

But before this radiance, risk will be needed. Without risk you remain a poet; with risk you become a seer. The risk is of losing all that can be gotten only in darkness—and only there. The price of the lamp’s lighting is to lose the entire business of darkness.

The lamp can be lit. Be willing to pay the price. It will not light for free. And it is good that it doesn’t. If it lit for free, there would be no savor. If it were free, you would not feel gratitude. If it were free, you would not mature. If it were free, you would not awaken. The lamp would burn, and you would still remain in the dark. You would lie there with eyes closed.

It is not enough for the lamp to burn—the eyes must be open. The sun may rise, but if your eyes are shut, you will remain in darkness. Two tiny eyelids can deny the great sun.

Accept the challenge. The lamp can be lit—let this hope stir you. Rise.

It will be hard. There will be struggle. But in that very struggle you will awaken; your eyes will open.

It is better that as the eyes open, the lamp too is lit. If someone else lights it for you, you will not open your eyes.

I have heard an old Chinese tale. A farmer prayed to God for many years: “Lord, You know nothing of farming. When we need rain, there is none; when we don’t, there is a flood. You have never farmed. What need is there for hail? When we need sun, there is none.” God grew weary of hearing this and asked, “What do you want?” The farmer said, “Give me one year. I have farmed all my life. You have never farmed. For one year, let things be as I wish.”

God agreed.

For a whole year, when the farmer wanted sun, there was sun; when he wanted rain, there was rain. A great crop grew—never seen before. Wheat heads so large that he said, “Now you will see, at harvest, how you have been troubling the world all this time!” The heads rose above men’s heads. But when harvest time came and the crop was cut, the heads were big, but there was no grain within. The farmer was baffled: “What happened?” He said to God, “Lord, don’t You see? I asked for sun when needed, rain when needed. All year everything went according to my plan, and the wheat heads grew higher than ever seen. But there is no grain!” God laughed and said, “You asked for sun and rain, but you did not ask for hail, storms, winds. Without storm and tempest, the inner essence does not gather. The heads grew large, but within, the life was not stored.”

Has life ever been gathered without struggle?

If the inner lamp could be given to you for free, no soul would be born within you. You would grow tall heads of wheat, but there would be no grain.

As life is, so it is necessary. What must be gained through effort is gained only by effort—because without effort it cannot be had; it does not come into being; your capacity is not created.

But there is no question at all. Darshan’s very disposition is not to ask questions. He has simply expressed his sense of wonder.
Understand this.
Those who ask do not necessarily understand. Very often it is because of the asking itself that you miss understanding. When you ask, you make the question so heavy, and you become so occupied with it that there is no space left within you for the answer to enter. You leave no door open for the answer.
Only those who do not ask can understand. Not asking is precisely the indispensable step to understanding the answer.
So ‘Darshan’ has hardly ever asked anything—save once. The very first time she came to see me, years ago, she came to argue. Something didn’t sit well with her, so she came to debate. That very day I saw that she was entangled; now she would not be able to go back. She had come to argue—and stayed forever. After that she never asked anything. Years passed. In these years many people came and went; she remained with me. Even when the path was rough; even when it was full of thorns. Now, little by little, I am assured that when I look back one day, even if there is no one else, ‘Darshan’ will be there.
She has stayed behind me like a shadow. From the very first day she dropped disputation. Dialogue begins only when we drop dispute. Answers begin to arrive only when we drop questions. She has not asked anything; she has only said this much: a hundredfold prostrations at your feet. Even this she has said for the first time.

Not that the untold tale of love must remain unspoken—
But how can we speak with the tongue what belongs to the heart?
—Love is not something to be hidden.

Not that the untold tale of love must remain unspoken—
—Nor is love a thing never to be said.
But how is one to say with the tongue what is of the heart! Even if one wishes to say it, it cannot be said. Whatever can be said belongs to the intellect. What cannot be said—that alone belongs to the heart.

I have seen her weep, I have seen her laugh; I have seen her joyful, I have seen her sad. But she has never said anything. Because of this not-saying, she has received much that did not come to those who are busy saying a great deal.

Yet, even if you remain silent, quiet, still the heart wants to say something. It cannot say it, finds itself unable—yet it wants to say. In the very act of saying, of expressing, it wants to relate.

Even if I restrain myself a thousand times, even if I say nothing a thousand times—what then?
In the court of the Beloved’s grace, my silence too is a question.

In that lover’s court, in that lover’s gathering—even if I restrain myself a thousand times, even if I say nothing a thousand times—do not say it, hold it in, and yet: in the precinct of the Beloved, my silence too is a question.

But remaining silent also becomes an expression. By saying nothing, something is said. Silence has its own eloquence.

So although ‘Darshan’ has never said anything, she has been saying a great deal—through her quiet, through her tranquil silence. Many times I have asked her; even then she slipped past it—she has not said anything.

Such a state of feeling is soon granted the supreme blossoming. And today, for the first time, she has written. She once sent a letter before too—a blank sheet; nothing was written on it. I answered that as well. For even in a blank page there is a great questionnaire risen from the innermost. Something that cannot be said, something she herself perhaps cannot decide how to say, she wrote upon the blank paper and sent it—her emptiness! Today she has given thanks—she has written something: a hundredfold prostrations at your feet. Something is happening within her; she is passing through a great pain. The old world is breaking. The new is dawning! In these moments of pain it is utterly essential that she remain filled with a feeling of thanksgiving toward that which is about to happen. Otherwise, the old world is weighty; its web and snare are deep. There is again and again the possibility of slipping back into it, of becoming entangled! But by her good fortune that web itself is breaking; it is withdrawing of its own accord.

It is always so. The day you are ready, that very day the world too becomes ready to leave you. You may say a thousand times, “What to do, how to leave? The world won’t let go!” You speak wrongly. The day you truly want to let go, that day the world will not hold you for even a moment—because the world never held you at all. As you begin to let go, the world begins, by itself, to let go of you.

She is passing through just such an hour. In such an hour, the thought of offering pranam—this is good fortune, because at such a time one feels like complaining. If today she had sent a complaint, I would have understood it to be proper, reasonable—for she is passing through pain, through dense pain. If today she had been angry with me, that would have been understandable. For it is quite natural that when one passes through pain one looks somewhere for someone to blame. And there is no one closer to her than me. So we blame the one who is closest.

In this hour of sorrow, it would have been natural for her to say, “You have ruined everything! All is devastated! All threads are breaking!” But in this hour her sending pranam at the feet is immensely precious. It is by the support of this ray that she will cross over.

A thousand Sinais are sacrificed to the yearning for a glimpse—
When one’s very life becomes the yearning for a glimpse.

Thousands of suns are sacrificed at her eyes, sacrificed upon her longing to see—when the sole aim of one’s life remains to behold the Supreme Beloved.

A thousand Sinais are sacrificed to the yearning for a glimpse—
When one’s very life becomes the yearning for a glimpse.

I gave her the name ‘Darshan.’ Darshan means: hasrat-e-didar—the longing to behold. And her longing to behold has kept deepening. Now even when she sits here, she sits with eyes closed. The deeper the longing to see becomes, the more the eyes begin to close. For the eye can only see what has form, shape, name. With closed eyes one can see That which is formless, shapeless, nameless.

A thousand Sinais are sacrificed to the yearning for a glimpse—
When one’s very life becomes the yearning for a glimpse.

And ‘Darshan’s life is now flowing in that direction, her boat to where none but the Supreme Beloved will remain.

The journey will be arduous! All will fall away. But only at the price of losing all is all gained. Keep one thing in mind—

Be it sanctuary, idol-house, cloister—whatever, wherever—take me there,
O heart, take me only where the Beauty is without limit.

—Where that Supreme Beauty is, there now shall we go!

Be it sanctuary, idol-house, cloister—whatever, wherever—take me there
—be it temple, mosque, Kaaba, Kashi—anything at all.

Be it sanctuary, idol-house, cloister—whatever, wherever—take me there,
O heart, take me only where the Beauty is without limit!

Where that Beauty is infinite! Where there is the vision of the Supreme Beloved!

Be ready to lay everything at stake for That. He tests till the last breath. He tests until the very last moment. To the very last moment he gives pain! But the one who passes through that pain attains that great worthiness—where you need not go to seek God; God comes seeking you!

And if there is thanksgiving, that hour is not far. People grow distant from the Divine through complaint; they come near through gratitude. The deeper the thankfulness grows, the shorter the distance becomes. If the feeling of thanksgiving becomes complete, distance disappears. In a moment of gratitude you suddenly find: He is present! He has encircled you on every side. Other than Him there is no one. Other than Him there is nothing!

In the flower, in the evening glow, in the hem of the spring-cloud,
Wherever I looked, it was You I saw, again and again.

Seen in the crimson of dusk, seen in the rains of spring!

In the flower, in the evening glow, in the hem of the spring-cloud,
Wherever I looked, it was You I saw, again and again.

He alone will begin to appear. Let there be such thanksgiving that not even in the most hidden corner of the mind does some creeping complaint remain; that even His sorrows are accepted, even His pain is accepted. He gave pain—He deemed me worthy: is that itself not enough! In such feeling, a temple is erected. In such a state of feeling, a devotee is born.

And ‘Darshan’ can soon attain that state. But the closer we come, the greater the danger grows. Those who walk on level ground have little fear of falling. But those who climb the heights of the mountain—the fear of falling grows apace with the ascent. If they fall, they will fall badly. Therefore, as the height comes, so too come the moments to walk with greater care and caution. If you fall on level ground, what of it? You can rise and stand again.

I have heard: Bayazid was passing by a village. He saw a drunkard, staggering along. Bayazid caught him and said, “Listen, madman! How much have you drunk? Gather a little sense! If you fall, there’s mud—your clothes will be ruined.”

The drunk opened his eyes and began to laugh. He said, “Bayazid! If I fall, only my clothes will be spoiled. If you fall…?”

Bayazid was a great Sufi fakir, a great saint.

“If you fall…?”

It is said Bayazid touched his feet and said, “You have warned me at the right time. If we fall, far from the clothes—our very soul would be stained. You fall, and by morning a bath will set you right—this too is true. If we fall, it may take births upon births.”

‘Darshan’ is now where one must walk with care every moment. And day by day, to be more careful, more watchful.

If these moments of pain are passed through rightly, the temple is not far—it is near—only veiled in mist.

If you listen with a silent mind, sometimes such windows will open.
Mahavira has said that if someone really listens, one can cross over by listening alone. That is why Mahavira spoke of four tirthas, four fords by which people can go to the other shore: shravak, shravika, sadhvi, sadhu.
Shravak–shravika means: those who have truly heard, who have listened. Can one cross over by just listening? Certainly. But don’t take “just listening” to be a small thing. Just listening is a great event—greater even than doing. Doing is easy; listening is difficult. To truly listen means: there is not a ripple of thought within you; only then will you hear what is actually being said. If there are waves of thought, you will hear only what your waves interpret.
I am speaking here. You are also thinking there. Then your hearing becomes mixed. Your thoughts add a shell around my words; your color spreads over them. You will understand what you were able to understand, not what I actually said.
So sometimes, in the course of listening, such a moment will happen that you arrive at the place Mahavira calls the shravak’s ford. You reach the ghat of listening—suddenly! Then what I am saying is no longer the point—any word, a mere gesture, will open a window within you! A door that has been shut for lifetimes will swing open with a gust of wind! A vision you have never seen will be revealed. Something like this has happened!
“The moment yesterday when you said, ‘Mahavira gave freedom the ultimate value; no one else gave it that value,’ I just kept gazing at you. What have you done?”
I have done nothing. What could happen by my doing? You allowed something to happen. I did nothing; you allowed something to happen. Understand this difference clearly.
If you think I did something, a new chain of dependence will begin. Then you will wait for me to do something so that it happens again.
Don’t fall into this illusion. It happens often.
You are walking along a path. You see a beautiful woman. Something happens. Now you say, “She did something to me.” She did nothing. Something happened within you. Her presence gave support. She did no magic, no mesmerism, as people are prone to think. Perhaps it didn’t even occur to her. That something happened to you is certain. Her presence acted as a catalytic agent. Perhaps without her it would not have happened just then—it would have happened sooner or later—but in her presence something flashed within you; and what flashed was your own inner state. In her presence you had a glimpse of love—but love is your own feeling-state. The love lying latent within you burst forth. Her presence was an occasion. She did nothing. Her presence was a passive opportunity.
Exactly so, the presence of enlightened ones is a passive opportunity. A Buddha or a Mahavira does not do anything inside you. No—they would not commit even that much violence. It would be violence to do something untimely in you—like forcing a birth before its time, which would be like an abortion. No, they will wait.
Socrates used to say: my work is the work of a midwife. The midwife’s task is to give a little support when the child is on the verge of being born. The child would be born even without support; she just lends a little help, some reassurance, some courage. But to pull the child out before time would mean the child is born dead or half-alive.
So whatever happens near me within you, remember: you are allowing it to happen. Do not, even by mistake, think that I have done something. You let it happen. If you keep this in mind, you remain the master. It will happen when you choose to let it happen. If you continuously allow it, it will continuously happen. But do not hand over the ownership to me.
Such a mistake occurs very often. In life our logic is almost always like this: someone passes by you and does not greet you—you become angry. Then you say, “That man made me angry.” He did nothing. It is his choice to greet or not. Yes, his presence created an occasion: he did not greet you. But you allowed anger to happen. Don’t put the blame on the other.
No one does anything inside you.
Consider a dry well: you lower a bucket, rattle and plunge it about—but nothing comes up, because the well is dry. The bucket returns empty. Then you lower a bucket into a full well, and it comes up brimming.
If you are full of love, circumstances will become favorable for love to arise and overflow. If you are full of anger, circumstances will become favorable for anger to surface.
This world is a convergence of all kinds of situations. Every circumstance is present here. Whatever you are full of begins to manifest. If you fill yourself with a little stillness, a little silence, much will happen within—many windows will open.
But do not say, not even by mistake, that I did something. At most say this much: that in my presence you allowed something to happen. And then try that it happens even without my presence, so that you become its master.
You were listening to me, something happened—suddenly you were startled, left speechless, amazed!
Now, in the morning, sit quietly at sunrise and look at the sun! In the same silent, quiet way, keep looking. You will find, some day, that with the rising of the sun the same thing happens.
Then listen to the birds’ clamor, their chorus. Someday you will find: listening, listening, the strings tune again! It happens again! Then one thing becomes certain: wherever you allow it to happen, it happens.
Then someday, in the middle of the marketplace, where there seems no chance of it happening, listen silently to the market’s noise—and you will be amazed: it happens there too!
Then you have begun to be the master. Then you have begun to stand on your own feet. Then I have not become your crutch; rather, my presence has given strength to your legs.
Beware: your tendency is to make me into a crutch. But even if you get a crutch, you will remain lame.
Never make a guru your crutch. And the guru who allows himself to become your crutch is not your friend but your enemy, because he is giving eternity to your lameness. You will remain lame forever.
This is what often happens. You go to certain people and say, “In your presence—in your power—something happened.”
This is the hallmark to distinguish a true guru from a false one. The false guru will say, “Yes, it happened through my power.” The true guru will say, “No one’s power is the point—you allowed it to happen. And if you allow, it will happen through the cuckoo’s cooing as well; it will happen from the sound of a waterfall; it will happen from the ocean’s thunder. Then it will happen even in the marketplace—amid crowds, clamor, people coming and going, a thousand noises.” Because the real thing is not coming from outside to inside—the real thing is going from inside to outside. The real thing is that you became capable of silent listening; you did not react.
Certainly, the very first time it may happen most easily with the one toward whom your trust and devotion run deep. The first time! It is easier where there is a great exchange of love; where two hearts beat together.
When you heard me say that sentence, by some coincidence you were silent. There was a hush in the mind. You were eager to listen, therefore you were not speaking. In that very eagerness a moment came when a rhythm arose between my breath and your breath, a synchronization occurred. Then, in the very dimension in which I am vibrating, for a moment you danced with me, you vibrated with me. Something happened! Something that leaves you astonished! Something you can hardly believe! Something that you would like me to say “I did,” because you don’t trust yourself that it could happen through you.
Even so, I tell you: it happened through you. And I will tell you again and again: whenever it happens, remember that it is happening through you. Use my situation. Use my presence. Let my presence make you a little aware of the wealth within you—and then forget me! Because I am outside. Then move toward your own center.
Buddha said: the enlightened ones only point the way; you have to walk. Mahavira said: I only give upadesh—counsel—not orders. I simply state what is. If you are willing to listen, then listen. Jesus said: If you have eyes, then see—I am here! If you have ears, then hear—I am speaking! If you have a heart, then let it beat with mine!
Understand it like this: for a moment you beat with me; breath matched breath, heartbeat matched heartbeat. For a moment there was an ascent. A wave rose within you and touched the sky! But I want you always to remember: it happened because of you. If you think it happened because of me, then you are bound to me. Then it won’t happen in the marketplace; it won’t happen in the birds’ chorus; it won’t happen in the roar of the ocean. Then you are tied to me. Then I become your intoxication. Then you will crave my company: “Let me go there, listen there, sit in satsang again!”
No—the very meaning of satsang is that you come to such a state that wherever you are, satsang begins to happen. I am not saying don’t come here; but let your coming not become a disease, not become the addiction of a drunkard!
Come, and be delighted. Come, and open. Come, and be available to grace. But remember: everything is happening within you. And when you leave here, take with you what has happened—don’t leave it behind. Gradually, try to get a glimpse of it even in adverse conditions; where no possibility seems visible, where there is nothing but sorrow and pain—then close your eyes and invite that same feeling-state, that same wave, within you. You will be amazed: slowly, slowly the wave begins to rise; the mastery is coming into your hands!
Then anywhere—no matter how skewed the courtyard—if you have learned to dance, you will dance. At most, what I am doing here is giving you a square courtyard. Nothing more. What awakens was already asleep within you.
“Then what is this ache now in the heart,
you whom I had long ago forgotten?”
That ache that has again been felt did not come from outside. It is the remembrance of that which you had long forgotten. It is the memory of your original source.
“Then what is this ache now in the heart—
you whom I had long ago forgotten?”
You have forgotten so completely that you no longer even remember that you have forgotten. If you still remembered that you had forgotten, you would not be wholly lost. But we have forgotten so deeply that even the fact of forgetting is forgotten.
Close to me, that which you had long forgotten may be remembered—the circle of many lives—the thing that is your original source and your ultimate destiny; what was first and what will be last—you may remember it here, a little awareness may return. That is enough!
And don’t go about telling this to everyone. People will laugh. These matters are to be shared only with the mad.
If you tell someone that, while I was saying “Mahavira gave freedom the ultimate value; no one else gave it that value,” something extraordinary happened within you, people will say, “What is there in such words? Those are ordinary words.”
“‘Mahavira gave freedom the ultimate value; no one else gave it that value’—what could happen from such words?”
Don’t try to explain it to others! These are matters for lovers, for the crazy ones. Yes, if someone else has had something like this happen, talk with them. Otherwise there is a danger: if you tell others, they will think something is wrong with you; your mind is getting unhinged; you have fallen under some hypnosis. And the fear is that they might awaken your self-doubt. If self-doubt is stirred, it may not happen again.
So whenever such an event happens, tell me—or tell the many ochre-robed madmen here—but don’t tell the “sensible,” or they may harm you. Ultimately, when everything is clear in your life, then no one can harm you. But now, when the sprout is very tender, when the seed has just cracked open, any danger can be fatal.
“When one has no control over the heart,
how can one restrain, how be patient?
If only those who keep coming to advise me
would themselves become like me!”
Many people will advise you: “What madness are you up to? Come to your senses! Use your intellect. What are you getting into?”
“When one has no control over the heart,
how can one restrain, how be patient?
If only those who keep coming to advise me
would themselves become like me!”
But they will not be like you. And the fear is that they can make you like themselves—because they are many.
There is the crowd. And we place great trust in the crowd. Our assumption is that whatever many people believe must be true. Usually, the opposite is the case. What many people believe is most often false—because most people are wrong. Usually it happens that the right thing is believed by one or two at most. The crowd always believes the wrong. Therefore in the realm of truth there is no democracy, no vote—that if ninety percent support it, it must be truth. Usually it has happened that when Mahavira spoke, he stood alone; when Buddha spoke, he stood alone.
Leave religion aside; take science. When Galileo spoke, when Copernicus spoke, they were alone. When Einstein spoke, he was alone.
For centuries the whole world believed the earth is flat. When Galileo said the earth is round, he was alone. For centuries the whole world believed the sun rises and sets. Even now all languages say “sunrise, sunset.” Galileo has come and gone, but language has not changed. Three hundred years have passed, yet we still speak incorrectly.
Galileo said: the sun neither rises nor sets—the sun does not move. The idea was that the sun circles around the earth. It appears so; there is no doubt. Even now, with the naked eye, it looks as if the sun is circling.
The reality is exactly the opposite: the earth is circling; the sun stands still. But since we are sitting on the earth, we cannot see the earth circling. Therefore the sun appears to circle.
Have you noticed? You’re sitting in a train; another train stands beside you. Your train starts moving, and it seems the other train has begun to move. You are startled—it looks like the other train is moving. In fact yours is moving, but you are sitting in it. You too have started moving with it, so you don’t notice. The speeds are the same. The train next to you is standing still, yet it appears to move.
Galileo said the sun is still; the earth moves. For thousands of years people believed the earth stands still and the sun moves. But what difference does it make?
Galileo was taken to court, because the Pope was against him—for in the Bible it is written that the earth stands still. And religious authorities have always feared that if even one statement in scripture is shown wrong, people will begin to doubt the rest: if one can be wrong, others could be wrong too.
The Pope may have understood, yet he told Galileo to ask forgiveness. In court Galileo knelt and apologized—but he was a wondrous man. He said, “I ask your pardon. If you say so, if the scripture says so, then the sun must circle and the earth must stand still. But let me say one thing: nothing changes because I say so. It still seems to me the earth moves. What does it matter what I say? I do ask pardon. It isn’t in my hands. Am I the one making the earth move? I don’t want more trouble. But let me say this: whether I ask forgiveness or not, whether I say it or not—what difference does it make? Whether man believes it or not—what difference does it make? The sun stands still; the earth circles around it.”
Those who know the truth are few and far between. The crowd believes the untrue. But we harbor this notion that what many believe must be right. So many believe! And we ourselves have little self-trust.
So do not tell others. Otherwise they will laugh. Their laughter can become poison in your life. They will think you are mad. Their thinking can make you waver.
Therefore these are matters to be shared with those walking the same path, with those in whom something like this has begun to happen. Then you become companions to one another, supports to one another; you give strength, self-trust develops. And as self-trust grows, many more happenings become possible.

Something auspicious is happening. The thirst is becoming still. The thirst is growing deep.
When a river is shallow it makes a din. When a river is deep it becomes silent—so silent that you can’t even tell whether it is flowing.
Have you seen a deep river? It looks motionless. That’s what is happening. The thirst that till now raised a few ripples is moving to deeper depths. Now everything is becoming quiet.

For some days even this is the hue of waiting:
Wherever the eyes lifted, we simply kept gazing there.

Even the eyes will forget how to turn away. Even thinking will be forgotten. Dumbfounded! Just sitting!
For some days even this is the hue of waiting:
Wherever the eyes lifted, we simply kept gazing there.

Such madness will come; it is coming. Welcome it! Spread your eyelids like a carpet for it! Do not be frightened. Because, at first, when peace descends it feels like sadness—because we are familiar with sadness, not with peace. There is a certain resemblance in their faces.

So when peace comes for the first time it seems as if we are slipping into melancholy. In the beginning even bliss plays its drums. Then, slowly, the drums quiet down, because the clamor of drums too obstructs bliss. Then comes a moment of bliss when even celebration goes silent. It seeps within, within, into every fiber and pore. There will be no dance—because the dance becomes that deep. No movement will show on the surface.

At first, in the passion to behold the Beloved, we forgot everything;
Now I seek my own gaze, and my gaze seeks me.

Such a moment comes when even one’s own whereabouts are unknown.

At first, in the desire to see the Divine, we forgot everything. But in forgetting all, the very gaze is lost.
Now I seek my own gaze, and my gaze seeks me.
Now nothing is understood—who is where, who is who?
In the final hour no distinction remains: who is the devotee, who is the Divine!

Ramakrishna would shower flowers upon himself. He would go to offer them to God, and then he would pour them on his own head. He would offer food to God, and then put it into his own mouth. People complained, “This is no worship; this violates worship.”
Ramakrishna said, “What can I do? I no longer know the distinction. This mouth too is His now! This head is His, these hands are His! These flowers are His!”

Who is who—there’s no certainty!

Your longing has bestowed such a gift upon me
that no prayer can any longer be asked of me.

Now, in this arriving hour, do not ask for anything. Only gratitude—only a sense of wonder. Thank Him! Whatever He gives, give thanks. If it feels like sadness, still give thanks; sadness will soon transmute into peace. If it seems the celebration is fading, still give thanks; a new celebration is beginning—one that is not expressed, that is inexpressible, quiet, and silent.

I tell you, Mahavira also danced; not only Meera danced. But Meera’s dance came outward; Mahavira’s dance remained within. It is that profound.
Have you seen the Nile in Egypt? For many miles it flows beneath the earth, invisible. Then it emerges. For centuries people did not know its birthplace, its source—because for many miles it flows underground; how could its origin be found?
Meera is like the Nile revealed; Mahavira is like the Nile still flowing under the ground. The dance is there—but the dance is utterly silent, still, grave and deep.

There will be difficulty. These moments of waiting will also be moments of pain. Sometimes it will seem, “Has something been lost? Earlier there was such joy; that joy has gone. Earlier there was a sense of dancing; that thrill has ebbed. Has something been lost?”

Do not ask about the turmoil of the night of waiting, or how the dawn broke:
At times I lit a lamp, at times I put a lamp out.

Such a tussle will come. Do not be afraid. Keep only one remembrance: whatever is happening, whatever happens—is auspicious. Let this be your prayer now: whatever is happening is auspicious. Then ever-new doors of the auspicious will open.

A path does meet the heart from somewhere, coming close;
I wonder, is this your thoroughfare or not?

Do not fall into this worry, because soon the path of the Divine that passes by the heart will be seen. Do not get into thinking. When all becomes still—celebration goes, bliss goes—and everything falls quiet and one is left amazed and emptied, then the path that passes by the heart is glimpsed! We have come near ourselves, become detached, unentangled. This is the pinnacle of sannyas. The world and all that is outside is forgotten. We go within, within, within—reach our center. From there the path of the Divine passes. Then do not fall into doubt, because the mind’s last thought that comes is, “Is this path the right one or the wrong one?”

A path does meet the heart from somewhere, coming close;
I wonder, is this your thoroughfare or not?

Do not think this. Do not think at all. Now drop thought altogether. Now remain without thought. And whatever happens, keep accepting it. Slowly, along that very path, His chariot will also arrive. And when He steps down from the chariot and holds out His bag to you, do not be stingy. Give everything! Svaha! Offer it all!

There is a song of Rabindranath. A beggar rises early one morning, slings his pouch over his shoulder, and goes out to beg. As beggars do, he too does: he puts a few grains of rice from home into his pouch. It gives a giver a little courage—“Others have given too.” A beggar will place a few coins in his own bowl and sit; then the passerby feels, “We are not the only fools; others have given as well,” and a little shame and hesitation nudges him to drop a coin. So, putting a few grains of rice into his bag, the beggar set out.
He had never imagined, never dreamed, what would happen on the road—a king’s chariot was coming down the way—golden, gleaming in the sun! He thought, “Blessed is my fortune today; my luck has opened! Today I’ll spread my bag and ask. The king himself is before me; one never even got past the gate before—gatekeepers would drive me away. Now he meets me on the road.”
He stood in the middle. The chariot stopped. Not only did the king call him near, the king himself descended. But seeing the king up close, the beggar grew flustered. He had never stood in a king’s presence. He froze, dumbstruck, staring at the king’s face. And before he could spread his own bag, the king spread his. And he said, “Do not refuse me, do not say no, for my astrologers have said that if I beg today, the kingdom will be saved; otherwise the kingdom is in danger.”
We can imagine the difficulty: a beggar who has never given, who has only ever asked! He has no habit of giving, no conditioning for it. He trembled, but could not refuse—because the king said, “Do not refuse; the whole kingdom is at risk. Give something—anything.” He put his hand into his pouch. He clenched his fist, opened it. He had never given; the habit wasn’t there. With great struggle he took out a single grain of rice and dropped it into the king’s bag. The chariot came and went; the dust kept rising. He remained standing, stunned. He muttered, “This is the limit! He has made me poorer; he took even the one grain I had left!”
That evening he returned home with his alms. That day he had received plenty—more than ever before. The one who gives also receives. He returned home, yet instead of joy he felt a little sad—one grain was missing. At home his wife asked, “Why so sad?” He said, “What can I do? It’s too much. I had hoped to receive, but instead he took from my hand! See the irony of fate, its mockery!”
He upended his bag in sorrow. Astonished, he saw that one grain had turned to gold—the one he had given. Beating his chest he began to weep. His wife didn’t understand. She asked, “What happened? What’s the matter?”
“We are ruined,” he cried, “ruined! If I had given all the grains, all would have turned to gold. But the opportunity came—and went!”

So I say only this: let this hour ripen. Very soon the path by the heart will be found. Not only the path—His chariot will come too, a golden chariot, gleaming in the sun. In that moment you will feel like asking, because we have always been beggars. Do not ask!
And if He holds out His bag before you—as He always has—then give! Do not be miserly—do not pinch and drop a single grain; otherwise you will weep for lifetimes. Because who knows when again His chariot will be met. Give it all. Throw in the bag—and leap in yourself—so that everything may turn to gold.

Everything can become gold. It should. If we do not obstruct, it will—now. Do not worry and do not think.

Something auspicious is happening! Everything is becoming quiet. The chariot is already near. Await that moment with gratitude and wonder!
The waiting will be hard. A lamp will be lit, then go out. You will light it, then extinguish it. Let the night pass. Do not be afraid. The more painful the waiting, the more blissful the union.

That’s all for today.