Jin Sutra #26

People who set out in search of religion are often actually searching for something else—and they give that search the name “religion.”
The search for power is not the search for religion. The search for power is the search of the ego. The desire to be powerful is anti-religious.
Yet most people step onto the path of religion for the wrong reasons: what they could not obtain in the world, they go to seek in God.
Do not go to God to seek what you could not find in the world. For what is not in the world cannot possibly be in God. What you failed to obtain in the world—understand that it is unobtainable.
It is natural, of course. We have lived in the world for lifetimes; only one language is familiar—of position, wealth, dominance, power. When the world fails us, we think, “Let’s succeed with these same ambitions on the path to the Lord!” Then failure will be your lot again—an even deeper failure than in the world. You will be left desolate. But the fault is not the path of religion; the fault is your wrong desire.
When someone wants power, against whom is it wanted? Because power is always against someone. Power means violence.
We want power precisely so we can be stronger than another, sit on another’s chest, press someone down, make someone small. Power means ambition; it is a fever of the ego.
Religion is the search for peace. Peace means the realization: the search for power is futile; and if I continue to seek power I will forever remain sick, never whole.
The search for peace is precisely the opposite. It means: I drop even this “I” in which the desire for power arises; I scorch this seed. It has kept me writhing, wandering for lifetimes.
When the Buddha attained supreme knowledge he lifted his eyes to the sky and said, “O house-builder! O house-builder of craving! Now you will build no more house for me. Long have you built my houses, but I am free of the last snare. There will be no more births for me.”
Where ambition is no more, craving is no more, there births are no more. Where ambition is no more, there the future is no more, time is no more; there we enter the eternal.
What is experienced upon entering the eternal is called peace. What is experienced in running in time is called restlessness. Today to tomorrow, tomorrow to the day after! We are never where we are—that is the meaning of restlessness. We are never content with what we are—there must be something more! The bowl of our demand never fills. Our begging bowl remains empty: more, more, more!
Fulfillment is impossible, because whatever we get, we can imagine something more than it. Whatever we gain, we can still kindle the desire for greater.
Do you think there can ever be a moment, in the realm of desire, when you cannot imagine more? There can be no such moment. Even if you possess the whole world, the mind will say: the moon and stars are still there to get!
They say that when Alexander met Diogenes, Diogenes played a great joke. He said, “Alexander! Think of this: if you conquer the whole world, you will be in great trouble.” Alexander asked, “Why?” Diogenes said, “Because after that there will be no other world.” And they say Alexander became sad just contemplating this. He said, “I never considered that. But you are right. After I conquer the world, what will I do? Then desire will hang suspended. Then dissatisfaction will hang suspended. Then the stone of discontent will lie forever upon my chest. For there will be nothing more to gain—but the urge to gain will not end.”
Gain whatever you like—how much power, how much dominion, how much prestige, honor, reputation—imagination for more will always be possible. You will not be satisfied. However big your treasury, it could be bigger; something more can be added. However great your beauty, something more can be added. And as long as something can be added, you will remain unfulfilled. This race will never be completed!
Hence Buddha said: craving is insatiable. No one has ever filled it. It’s not that the means to fill are lacking in the world; it is that the nature of craving is insatiability. When, exhausted, we find this craving cannot be satisfied in the world, we turn toward God. Turning toward God is right, but the reason for turning is wrong.
Turning toward God, slowly you will understand that your eyes are still filled with the old desire. You are asking from the Divine exactly what you asked from the world. So yes, you have turned—the body has turned a full 180 degrees—but the soul has not.
This is precisely the obstacle the questioner feels: “I don’t know where I have gone! I wanted power; here I have come to understand peace.” From this confusion is arising. From this, confusion should dissolve.
Awaken a little understanding! Make it clear and clean! If you were to get power—what would you do? You would invest it in getting more power. People earn money—what do they do with it? They invest it in earning more. And after earning more? They invest it again to earn yet more. When will you enjoy? Whatever comes, you must pour it into the future. Thus life slips from your hands. One day death stands before you—and beyond it there is nothing. Then you are startled, but then it is too late.
There is only one real use in coming to me: that I do for you now what death will do later. Therefore you will be frightened. You will run, you will try to escape, to find devices. I know: you have come seeking something else. But I cannot give you what you came to seek. To give that would be enmity toward you. I can give only what should be given. I will move you only toward peace.
So understand one important thing: the relationship between master and disciple is profoundly paradoxical! The disciple asks for one thing; the master gives something else. If the master grants the disciple what he asks, he is no master—he is an enemy. Only when the disciple is willing to receive what the master wants to give is he truly a disciple.
Do not cling to your demand in my presence. Otherwise your demand will stand between us like a wall. When you are here, say this much: “Now you also decide what is right.” This is surrender.
Surrender does not mean that you have come to demand something, and by surrendering you will get it—therefore you surrender. No. Surrender means: you surrender your demand, your mind, everything.
You say, “Now I have no demand; now I have no mind; now let only the will be! Let the will of the Whole be done! I will no longer say, ‘Let my will be done.’”
“Let my will be done”—this is the mark of the irreligious person.
Gurdjieff used to say: so‑called religious people are often anti‑religious. He even said: those you call religious are all opponents of God—because behind them are the same ambitions, the same intent to have their will prevail.
You want to manipulate God too—according to your will! You want to make Him follow behind you. And God walks only with those who are willing to walk behind Him.
Many are eager to line truth up behind themselves. The one eager to stand behind truth—that one is the disciple. He alone has begun to learn.
Now that you have come, whatever you have learned from life will be of no use to you. It did not even serve you in life. The boat that did not serve on streams and brooks—you are taking it out onto the ocean? The boat that was already sinking in small channels—you’re preparing to sail it on the sea? Then if you drown, don’t be distressed!
You will certainly drown, for you do not comprehend the vastness of the ocean. Do not sail the boat of power on the ocean; it is a paper boat. It is the boat of ego—you will sink badly. You will find no shore. You will writhe and suffer. There, sail the boat of peace. For power has limits. Peace has no limit. Power can be snatched away; peace cannot be snatched.
Have you noticed? Even the mightiest can have their power taken away—stripped.
Napoleon, defeated in the end, was imprisoned on the small island of St. Helena. He had been an emperor. He had set out to conquer the whole world. The final outcome was that he lay in prison. He was given freedom to walk on the island. The island itself was the prison—there was nowhere to run. On the very first morning he went for a walk. He was passing along a footpath. A woman came toward him with a bundle of grass on her head. Napoleon’s physician—he had been assigned one because he was ill, troubled, to look after him—shouted to the grass‑carrier, “Move aside! Do you know who is coming? Leave the path!” But Napoleon himself stepped aside and said, “You are mistaken. Those days are gone when mountains moved aside for Napoleon. Now even this grass‑woman will not move. It is proper that I move aside. At least she is free; I am a prisoner! I have no standing before her.”
Napoleon’s power is stripped! Emperors become poor and pitiable. What can be the value of that which can be seized, over which others can gain control, which is dependent? That boat is very small.
Have you noticed: for power, others are needed. Leave Napoleon alone in a forest—he has no power. Leave prime ministers and presidents alone in the jungle—they have no power. Power needs a crowd; it needs those upon whom power can be imposed. But peace is yours even in solitude; indeed, more yours in solitude. No one can take it from you, because it depends on no one. In the deep solitude of the Himalayas too, peace will be yours; it will go with you.
What remains with you even in aloneness—that is your true wealth. And what depends on others—if you cannot carry it into solitude, how will you carry it beyond death? There you will go alone. No friends, no companions, no husband or wife, no sons or daughters—no one. You will enter death alone. Everything dependent on others will fall away. What others gave, others will take back. You will be left utterly empty-handed. That boat will sink badly.
Therefore I do not give you any training in power, any form of power, any blueprint of power. Peace—only that is worth attaining. That which cannot be lost—only that is worth attaining.
But I understand your difficulty too. If you came seeking power—as people do. People go even to sages to witness miracles. They want to see some spectacle of power there too. Their eyes are so saturated with the marketplace that when they come to the temple, they bring the market with them.
No. Here there is facility only for those who have awakened in every way from the marketplace—at least awakened enough to see that this race for power is futile. Now, let us set out on another pilgrimage—the pilgrimage of peace!
The whole pilgrimage of the world is a race for power—whatever the pretexts. One hoards wealth. Ask him why—wealth brings power. Each rupee is charged with power. Another accumulates knowledge—why? Knowledge brings power. Another is eager to reach high offices—that brings power. In the world, we engage in whatever brings power.
So, in brief: the world is the race for power—the pretexts differ. The one who begins to awaken from this race, who sees its futility, alone sets out on the journey of religion. This journey is an inner journey—and here, the movement is toward ever-deepening peace.
The race for power has only one outcome—restlessness. Now let me tell you something apparently paradoxical: the race for power has only one outcome—restlessness; and the movement toward peace has only one outcome—power. But not as an object of your desire. The peaceful person becomes powerful. But this power is of another kind! This power is not agitation—it is nature. It is part of intrinsic life. It is neither taken from someone, nor snatched, nor can it be given to anyone. When you return home and are absorbed in supreme peace, suddenly you find that power has manifested! But this power is not yours—for “you” have gone along with restlessness. This power belongs to the Divine.
Let me put it this way: except for the Divine, no one is powerful. And except for the Divine, no one can be powerful. In truth, except for the Divine, no one has the right to say “I.” Our use of “I” is makeshift. We use “I,” but only that One who is eternal can truly say “I.” What reliance is there in our “I”? It doesn’t last even for a moment. Now this, now that—a line drawn on water!
You dissolve only when you stop walking the path of restlessness; that is, when you drop the search for power, you begin to disintegrate. That is why there is this anxiety.

Emptiness is the doorway to the Divine. If you agree to become empty, nothing will be able to prevent you from becoming divine. But if you refuse emptiness and search for lordship, you will remain a beggar—hollow and vacant. Let this paradox settle deep in your heart, for it is life’s ultimate mathematics.

Jesus has said: Those who try to save themselves will be lost; and those who agree to efface themselves, no one can efface them. Lao Tzu has said: Those who set out to conquer will one day be found defeated; and the one who agrees to be defeated, no one can defeat.

The bud has begun to bloom again—
today we saw our heart,
once thought bled away,
found again though long lost.

When that rain of peace descends, the sealed bud begins to open. The bud has begun to bloom again! The bud that had vanished from sight, whose trace was lost, that had sunk as seed into the soil—sprouts again.

The bud has begun to bloom again—
today we saw our heart
once thought bled away...

And what we believed was dead—its blood all spilled—that heart begins to beat again.

Today we saw our heart
once thought bled away,
found again though long lost!

What was lost, what had gone missing, is found again.

If you consent to erase yourself, a day will come when you will find: Today we saw our heart once thought bled away! The heart we believed had died, that we had left far behind on some road, that we’d already laid on its bier, buried, or crucified, cremated—suddenly that heart has turned lush again, green again, the bud has opened again! What was lost is found.

Drop lordship—and lordship will be yours! Drop the ego—and the soul will be yours! Lose yourself, let yourself be effaced, become empty—and you become a vessel for the Whole. The Whole will descend. It can descend only into your emptiness. Space is needed, isn’t it? And to make room for a Guest like the Whole, less than emptiness will not do. Total emptiness is needed; only then can the Whole come to rest in you. The Whole fits perfectly into emptiness.

The Whole has no boundary; emptiness has no boundary. If you invite the infinite, you must become infinite. You have called a Guest—then become a worthy host! Make the seat vacant. Empty the throne!

Therefore I say: Peace. Drop the anxiety for power. Those who seek power never find it; they find only restlessness. Those who seek peace come upon power.

Then do not be afraid.
Why such hesitation in returning to Him what is His? Why such miserliness in offering His own at His feet?

I gave my life—it was given by Him to begin with;
truth be told, the due was never even paid.

It was His gift; we merely returned it to Him. What duty was fulfilled? What did we give? We only gave back what was His.

But we are great misers! We cheat the very One from whom we received. We hide even from the Maker. We steal from the Giver.

What is truly yours? Your breath—His. The water flowing in your body—His. The particles of earth in your body—His. The space contained in your body—His. The stream of life—the fire—His. And consciousness—His very fragment! As the sky held in your courtyard is a small portion of the vast sky outside, so the consciousness in you is a little corner, a small courtyard of the Vast Consciousness. All is His.

Why fear becoming empty? Do not tremble like a drop standing at the ocean’s edge; for if the drop falls into the ocean, it becomes the ocean. If it remains on the shore, it remains a drop. Limits will torment you. Limitation is suffering; only with the limitless is joy. Only with Bhuma (the Vast) can there be bliss. Where is bliss in the small?

And do not worry! If you renounce everything, do not imagine He will renounce you. If you become empty, do not think He will take you for a void and refuse to enter your home. Only when you are empty can He enter. Leave everything—without residue! Do not save even a grain; whatever you save will become the obstruction.

Keep no secrets between yourself and Truth—hide nothing. Be naked in every way. Let go in every way; then there is no concern.

I—and should I leave the wine-gathering so thirsting?
Even if I had sworn abstinence, what was it to the cupbearer?

In ordinary taverns it may happen:
I—and should I leave the wine-gathering so thirsting—
that I return thirsty from the tavern.
Even if I had taken a vow not to drink, the cupbearer could still have filled my cup, could have insisted, persuaded—by force, I would have drunk.

In ordinary taverns such things occur. But in the Supreme Tavern, the one who has dropped everything never returns thirsty. The one who clings to everything—he goes back thirsty. Look at the clingers: how parched, how sad, how weary and defeated they remain! Look at those who have let go—Mahavira, Buddha—see how filled they are! Their thirst is quenched forever; such profound contentment!

From His tavern you will not return. If you drop everything, He will coax you, insist on filling you. If you leave everything to Him, everything happens.

Therefore I say: become empty. By emptiness I do not mean become a nobody. You are a nobody now; in emptiness this “nobodiness” will dissolve. Dust has settled on you, and you have taken it for treasure. In becoming empty, the dust will be blown away, and your inner treasure will be revealed. Only by becoming empty will you attain the Whole. There is no other way.

You say, “The old belief has crumbled; the new has not been born. Now I can go neither back nor forward.”

Go nowhere! The old belief has crumbled—do not rush to construct a new one. The danger is that ninety-nine out of a hundred, when the old belief crumbles, shape the new in the very mold of the old. The old is familiar—its colors and lines known—so they cast the new in the old mold.

The old belief has fallen—do not fear! Do not forge a new belief, or you will cast it in the old mold—because that is the only mold you know. Remain still. Consent to this restless in-between state. Then faith will be born in you. It will not be belief. It will not be your fabrication. This is my distinction between belief (vishwas) and faith (shraddha). Belief is your manufacture, because you refuse to remain empty; you must fill with something. If not truth, then falsehood; if not your own, then borrowed; if not seen, then merely heard.

If you cast belief, it will be your home industry—and in the realm of Truth, home industry will not do.

The old has fallen—good fortune! Blessed you are! Now do not hurry to make the new. If you can remain a while in this emptiness, the new will descend; it will not be your making. Slowly you will find that some light has come down and filled your emptiness. You become like a womb, and a life enters your womb. This is no doll of your making—this is life from the Divine.

Faith arrives; belief is brought in. Belief is by force; faith is natural, spontaneous. In the life of one who agrees to live without belief, faith descends.

The absence of belief is not disbelief—disbelief is another kind of belief. One believes God is—belief. Another believes God is not—belief. Does adding “not” change the structure? One believes in Mahavira, another in Mohammed, another in Marx. One worships the Gita, another the Quran, another Capital. There is no real difference.

In Soviet Russia the old gods departed, old religions and churches went; but a new church of Communism was built. New idols of communist leaders appeared. “There is no God” became the creed. Children are drilled in it, just as Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Jains drill their doctrines. Both are belief.

Belief means: what you produce by your effort. And when a person produces nothing—no belief, no disbelief, neither pro nor con—stands empty, saying, “When it is Your will, fill me; if You do not, I am content”—then one day, into that emptiness the Whole arrives. In your dark night His lamp is lit. And it is not your lamp; whatever you light cannot be greater than you—it will be your construct. Give God a chance. Do not interfere. Stand and watch.

This is an auspicious hour: the old belief has crumbled and the new is not being born. Do not do anything! You will be tempted, because emptiness irks. When a tooth breaks, the tongue keeps going there—so when the old belief falls, the mind keeps returning there, eager to fabricate a new one. The house feels empty; restlessness arises. Bear this restlessness. Do not construct a belief. You have built many; none served. Through how many religions have you not lived? How many scriptures have you not worshiped? How many gods have you not made? How many idols have accepted your worship? And what came of it? Now resolve: I will build no more. Now only when Nature herself brings forth. No more paper and plastic flowers; only when the real flowers come. I consent—I will wait.

Pray, wait; but do not manufacture belief. It will happen. Be patient. And if it happens in patience—of its own accord—and you remain only the witness, not the maker; you simply watch faith germinate, watch the tree of faith grow, watch faith flower and fruit—and you remain the witness—then you will find this faith is liberating.

Mahavira has called this faith darshan—seeing. Darshan means: that which you have seen, not made. Faith is not your doing; it is your seeing. You saw it arise, spread, fill the whole sky; you remained the witness. Then faith came from the Vast—and what comes from the Vast makes you vast. What is born of the petty remains petty.

“Now I can neither go back nor go forward!”

There is no need to go anywhere. Where you are, there you must dive. The language of forward and backward is the language of the mind, of ambition. “Am I progressing? Is there movement? Am I going somewhere?” Where is there to go? You are to stop where you are; dissolve where you are; be absorbed where you are. Dive within—where to go? All going is outward. You must come home.

And do not think that to come home you must go somewhere. You are the home. Drop the restlessness, drop thought—and suddenly you will find you never left this home; you were always here. You left only in imagination; in fact, you never left.

When Bodhidharma awakened, he began to laugh—a great laughter. The monks around him asked, “Have you gone mad? What happened?” He said, “I am laughing because what I had been seeking for lifetimes, I had never lost. What a joke!”

Imagine: for years you search for something, and at last you put your hand into your pocket and find it there! You never searched your pocket, because it never occurred to you it could be there.

Your treasure is you. Your wealth is within you this very moment. Go nowhere—neither forward nor backward, neither north nor south, neither west nor east, neither below nor above. One who gives up all ten directions and stands still—Mahavira calls that state samadhi. He has come home. The return has happened. He has known That—which had been forgotten.

Remember this too: you want me to whip you up, to drive you, to take you somewhere, to give you some fever, some craving, some enthusiasm.

People come to me and say, “Please give us a little enthusiasm—ours is drooping.” Enthusiasm for what? You are not soldiers going to war. You are sannyasins—coming home. What enthusiasm?

People want enthusiasm to run; for stopping, is enthusiasm needed? For stopping, enthusiasm can even be a hindrance, because it will keep you running. You have to sit silently—what need for enthusiasm? You are going nowhere; there is no energy to expend. Become like a silent lake in which no ripple rises.

But you are afraid. The life you have known so far has been running, hustle and bustle; you have known no other life. If someone asks you to sit, it feels like dying: “Where is life in this?” But I tell you, life is within you; you will not find it by running. When, tired of running, you sit and say, “Now I have no wish to go anywhere,” in that very instant you will find it.

“Darshan” is a term from Mahavira’s discipline; “bhajan” is not. After darshan, Mahavira says, knowledge arises. After knowledge, conduct is transformed. In Mahavira’s sequence of vision–knowledge–conduct, there is no place for bhajan. Bhajan belongs to the lineage of devotees. Don’t try to splice the two, or you’ll only get tangled. Keep them separate. Both are right—but right separately; they are parts of different instruments.

On Mahavira’s path there is nothing like bhajan, because bhajan means celebration. Bhajan means remembrance of the Divine Name. Bhajan means absorption, a sweet losing of oneself, a divine inebriation—as if one drank an inner wine and became blissfully intoxicated. Bhajan is dance, humming, song. Mahavira’s way is absolutely bhajan-free.

So if you are using Mahavira’s word “darshan,” forget bhajan. Mahavira says: from darshan comes knowledge, awakening. Bhajan, by contrast, is unknowingness—non-cognitive. Mahavira says knowledge will happen, awakening will come; bhajan is deep self-forgetfulness, absorption. And from knowledge, says Mahavira, conduct is transformed.

Bhajan is the devotee’s word; that too must be understood. Bhajan does not require darshan; bhajan requires feeling. To attain Mahavira’s darshan you must be without feeling. The paths are opposite. There, all feeling is to be renounced. There, feeling itself is attachment; even love is bondage. On the devotee’s way, feeling is the beginning: feeling, bhajan, Bhagavan! There is neither knowledge, nor darshan, nor conduct there in the Mahaviran sense. The bhakta is not concerned with character-building. He says, “Character is His; what of mine? As He wills! However He makes me dance!” The devotee says, “I am but a puppet; the strings are in His hands. Whatever role He casts me in, I become that. It’s His play, this whole drama. I’m only a character—if He makes me Rama, I am Rama; if He makes me Ravana, I am Ravana.”

The devotee’s mood is altogether different. The bhakta moves by love, by feeling. Feeling, condensed, becomes devotion; and when devotion blooms like flowers, that blossoming is bhajan.

The beginning is feeling. When feeling deepens so much that the feeler gradually drowns in feeling and is no longer apart—devotion appears. And when devotion becomes so dense that the sense of “I” disappears completely, and in its place the Divine is felt—His presence is seen everywhere—then there is God. And the joy of attaining God—that dance that bursts forth on finding—is bhajan.

There is a story about Archimedes. He was working on a scientific discovery. Sitting naked in his bath, suddenly the insight came. He leapt up, forgot he was naked, forgot the bathhouse, and ran through the streets crying, “Eureka! I’ve found it!” He reached the palace, still naked. The emperor said, “You’ve gone mad! Even if you’ve found it, why such madness? And why naked?” Then he remembered and said, “Forgive me! The moment of discovery was so intense I completely forgot myself.”

Bhajan is such a moment: Eureka! Found!

When the first glimpse of God comes, when His image flashes for the first time, when His fragrance first fills your nostrils—Eureka!—the devotee dances, hums, tears of joy stream—tears of bliss! He cannot contain himself; the goblet overflows—that is bhajan.

Bhajan belongs to an altogether different current. Both currents reach the ocean, but their ways are very different.

“The Sheikh reached Him from the Kaaba, the Brahmin from the temple—
Their destination one; only a little difference of path.”

That “little” difference is in fact great! One goes from the mosque, another from the temple; one through austerity, another through feeling—yes, a small difference, yet a very great one. All paths meet at the summit, but in between there are vast differences. And in the middle, do not waver between two roads. Never board two boats at once. True, both boats may reach the same shore, but the man astride two will end up in trouble. You can ride only one. Nor does it mean you should proclaim that only your boat reaches. That too is madness, a weakness. One who shouts “Only my boat reaches!” still doubts his boat. He shouts to manufacture belief: “Where are you going in that other boat? It will never reach. Come, only mine reaches!” He fears that if another boat also reaches, his own seat becomes insecure.

You’ll be surprised: those who set out to convert others—Christians converting Hindus, Arya Samajists converting Christians—are suspicious people; they lack trust in their own boat. Until they empty the other’s boat, they find no confidence. They think, “There are other boats, people are boarding them—what if they arrive? We ourselves haven’t arrived yet. Our boat doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. So either they are right or we are. If they are right, we must climb out of ours; if we are right, let’s pull them out of theirs.”

The conflict among religions arises from this lack of trust in one’s own boat. Whenever you go to convince another, look closely: are you not, under the pretext of the other, convincing yourself? Are you not quieting your own doubts by persuading them? When you manage to make someone agree that you are right, you feel light—why? A burden was inside: who knows, we may be wrong! Another agreed—good, one more convinced! There wasn’t trust within; now another agrees, maybe we are right! Two agree, three agree, a crowd gathers, and the belief hardens: how can we be wrong? So many agreeing! We might be mistaken, but so many can’t all be mistaken!

Hidden in the urge to convert is the attempt to soothe one’s own disbeliefs and doubts. That is why people shout, “This alone is the path!”

Not many went on Mahavira’s path, because Mahavira said all paths are right.

Today Jains don’t dare to say all paths are right; they’ve let go of that courage. Now they say only this path is right. And what ironies arise!

I was talking to a Jain monk. I said, “Jainism stands for syadvada—‘perhaps-ism’: Jainism says, others too are right. ‘Only this is right’—that stance is wrong; ‘this too is right’ is the right vision. If you insist ‘this alone is right,’ all others become wrong.” He said, “Certainly, that is the meaning of syadvada.” We talked on a bit; then, forgetting himself, he blurted, “But if someone is opposed to syadvada, what will you say? Is he also right?” “Never!” he said. “How can that be? The one opposed to syadvada can never be right.”

But the very basis of syadvada is: even the one opposite to me may be right. Mahavira’s sky is vast. He says, the sky is so immense—why do you shout from your narrow footpath, “Only this is right”? You make the path’s measure the measure of the sky? You make the narrow way the destination? The destination is huge; all kinds of paths are included there.

Imagine the Ganges flows east and the Narmada west. If they were to meet mid-course, there’d be trouble. The Ganges would say, “I’m going to the ocean; you’re going the wrong way!” and Narmada too would say, “I’m going to the ocean; something’s wrong with you.” Both flow to the sea; all movement is oceanward.

Mulla Nasruddin boarded a train. He spread his bedding, climbed to the upper berth, then remembered something and asked the man below, “Brother, where are you going?” “To Calcutta,” the man said. “Unbelievable!” said Mulla. “I’m going to Bombay. See the miracle of science—one seat going to Calcutta, one seat going to Bombay!”

If the Ganges and Narmada met midstream, what a mess! Both go to the ocean—and both indeed reach the ocean. I tell you, even one who is going towards the world is, by a longer route, going towards God. Everything goes to Him—sooner or later. One who knocks at a prostitute’s door, unknowingly knocks at the temple’s door—only from a little distance. Even there he searches for the temple, for he searches for love. Whether he finds it or not is another matter; the longing is the same. He may not be aware; he may be groping in the wrong direction. But the inner quest is for the same. All are going to the ocean—and all arrive, because the ocean surrounds from all sides. The ocean has no direction. So too the Divine has no direction.

Remember, people arrive by bhajan, by feeling. But the boat of feeling is different: its gait, its oar, its color and style are different—ornate, adorned.

Mahavira’s boat is quite other—unadorned. There is no place for feeling there. There is pure discernment and meditation. There, one must not forget, but remain mindful. In feeling, one forgets, one does not remain mindful. In feeling, one practices self-forgetfulness; on Mahavira’s way, one kindles self-remembrance. Opposites: one goes east, one west—one Narmada, one Ganges—yet both reach the sea; and in the sea, both become the sea.

Bhajan is an affirmative vision of life; darshan (in Mahavira’s sense) is a negating vision.

“You and your playful companions, when you go to fetch water,
Then the shadows turn green, then the sunlight turns rosy.”

The bhakta sees the Beloved in every play.

“You and your playful companions, when you go to fetch water,
Then the shadows turn green, then the sunlight turns rosy.”

The sunlight grows rosy, the shadows become green. And whoever walks toward the water-point—it is He—those are His playful companions.

The whole world, in countless forms, is His lila, His play. One who has begun to recognize Him will recognize Him everywhere.

“May the moralist be safe—by His grace alone
Come the names of the drunkard, the cupbearer, the wine, the jar, the measure.”

The bhakta says, God is the Master of the tavern of life! And by His grace alone:

“The drunkard (rind), the cupbearer (saqi), the wine (may), the jar (khum), the measure (paimana)—
All their glory is because of Him!
May even the censor (mohtasib) be safe—by His favor alone.”

The devotee is a drunkard—drunk on God’s wine. He sees life drenched in honeyed feeling. He is not searching for “truth,” he is searching for the Beloved. Mahavira seeks truth; the word “Beloved” would never cross his lips.

“The pot wherein the ocean is poured, the goblet brimming with nectar,
The one who pours, the one who drinks—their glory is His grace alone!”

The bhakta’s language is that of wine, fragrance, music; the language of love—of the beloved and the lover; the language of rasa, of delight.

Bhajan means: one who is drowned. Bhajan means: one who has lost himself. Bhajan means: one who has surrendered himself into His hands. Bhajan means: one who has danced around Him and joined the rasa. To the bhakta it seems: this whole play, however it appears—the cuckoo’s cooing, the monsoon clouds, the soft patter of rain—are all His comings in countless forms; this is the tinkling of the anklets tied to His feet!

The bhakta does not see the world merely as world—he sees it as God’s expression. This is His manifest form, His painting, these colors spread by His hand, these songs composed by Him. The Vedas say: this poetry is His; He hummed it; He is humming still!

On the seeker’s path (of discernment), world and truth oppose each other: one must move away from the world to move into truth.

On the bhakta’s path, the world is Truth’s very garment, His attire. The peacocks dancing—those peacock feathers are on His crown. The flute that is playing—whether you see His lips or not—that flute is placed upon His lips; otherwise it would have fallen silent long ago.

“There is wine, there is the goblet, the ocean is there—no cupbearer!
It makes me want to set the tavern on fire!”

If you cannot see Him, then it feels as if you might burn the world down.

“There is wine, there is the goblet, the ocean is there—no cupbearer!
It makes me want to set the tavern on fire!”

Everything is there but the one who pours—no saqi. Then all seems futile. But if His hand is seen—if you see that He Himself has brewed the wine—then even wine is nectar. If His hand is seen, then even poison is nectar—for how can poison remain poison in His hands?

The devotee’s vision is utterly different. Do not mix it up with the seeker’s vision. Keep them distinct, clean. Then choose what delights your heart—but never harbor the thought that the other is wrong. If you think the other is wrong, I say to you: you doubt your own path. What have you to do with the other? He may be right in his way. If the doors of bliss open for him there, who are you to obstruct? If he recognizes God from there, who are you to hinder?

Do not become monopolists of truth. Thus has religion been destroyed—because every sect claimed monopoly on truth. Whenever religion claims ownership of truth, it becomes corrupt; it remains a sect, religion dies, only the corpse remains. No one has proprietary rights over truth. This is Mahavira’s syadvada: truth belongs to all; it can be found by all ways, from all paths. If you can say this, it means you have trust in your own path. You don’t need to abuse another to bolster your belief. You are so assured of your path that even if the whole world abandons it, you will go on humming your song alone; it changes nothing. You have no need of a crowd.

The weak man needs a crowd. We make up for lack of trust with crowds. The weak man needs tradition. So we say, “Our tradition is five thousand years old!” Thus we convert the crowd into five thousand years of weight.

Crowd can be two ways—present or past. Christians have the present crowd—over a billion—so they don’t talk much of the past; they don’t need it. Hindus say, “Our religion is eternal!” Granted we are only a few hundred million now—so what? We are from the beginning; add all who have been Hindus—see how huge our crowd becomes!

Those who have neither, say, “Future!” New religions, when born, speak of the future: “The future is ours. The past may be yours—but the past is limited. What has happened is limited; what is yet to be is limitless. Tomorrow, see our crowd! You are sunset; who salutes a setting sun? Look at this new sun!”

I call that man religious who needs no crowd—in any form, past, present, or future—who says, “I am enough alone. Even alone, I will arrive.” Between him and God there is a direct connection—not mediated by the crowd.

And it is good that there are many paths, because there are many kinds of people. Each person is so different that it would be difficult if there were only one way: some would go, others could not, because the path would not suit them.

Notice: in school we assume the child good at mathematics is intelligent; the one not good at math becomes a fool. Imagine another world—which is coming soon—where math will be hardly needed. Computers are here; in the coming century even small children will carry computers in their pockets. The biggest math problems will be solved in a moment. Then math-talent will no longer be prized; we’ll say the child gifted in poetry is brilliant. The whole map will change.

The child deemed a fool today may be the genius tomorrow; the prized one today may be useless tomorrow. When values change, positions change.

As values shift, so do statuses. If religion were also for only a certain kind of person, the stream would become narrow. What of the many who cannot go that way? Think of them. If only Mahavira’s path existed, what of those who cannot travel without dancing? That would be miserliness toward truth; a narrow rendition of truth. Those who can arrive dancing must have their place too. If there were only dancing, and no place for the silently seated, it would again be unseemly.

“If, coming out of temple and Kaaba, there were no tavern,
God knows where the rejected humans would go!”

If some do not find their heart settling in temple or mosque, in scripture or tradition—if there were no other path… if there were no tavern—God knows where the rejected ones would go!

No—there is a path for everyone. The One who made you placed your path within you on the very day He made you. Recognize it. Walk and watch. Recognize your gait; that is original. Then the religion that matches your gait is your religion. Forget birth, tradition, crowd, conditioning. What brings you into rhythm, where your breathing falls into harmony—that is your path. Walk it. And never say others do not arrive—that is an irreligious view.

Mahavira’s way is the path of the victor: struggle, resolve. The bhakta’s path is the path of the one who surrenders, who “loses,” for love wins by losing. Losing is love’s art.

“It was hard to win the game of love,
Some, for fear of winning, kept on losing.”

It is difficult to “win” the game of love. Who has ever won it? No one. This game is not for winners. Whoever tries to win destroys love. In the attempt to win, love dies, is crushed.

“It was hard to win the game of love,
Some, for fear of winning, kept on losing.”

Here, the one who loses, wins. The bhakta walks the path of losing. He prays: “Somehow make me worthy to forget everything at Your feet. Intoxicate me so deeply that I never regain separate awareness. Erase me. Let Your arrow pass clean through my heart. Have mercy—finish me; burn me to ash—let not even ash remain!”

The bhakta walks the path of dissolving. By dissolving, he attains truth—because what dissolves is only what can dissolve. Something remains that cannot be burned.

When the bhakta offers himself to the fire, the rubbish burns; the gold remains.

Mahavira’s path is the victor’s path. No surrender—one must struggle. In struggling, the false is sorted out and dropped. There too the same happens: gradually the dross falls away, the gold remains.

Mahavira goes bit by bit, fighting inch by inch. The bhakta is wholesale—he surrenders himself in one go.

Bhakti is a leap; Mahavira’s way is a journey. Each has its joy. Some have no taste for leaping; they say, “We’ll go slowly, watching all the scenery; what’s the hurry? Eternity lies ahead.” Others love to leap: “If we are to arrive, why this slow pace, these steps? Let us jump!”

It is a matter of one’s taste, one’s bent, one’s temperament.

But remember this always: the paths of the bhakta and the seeker are different—keep them different. Walk the one that draws you. Do not be greedy to take a little from both and cobble them together. There are such greedy ones, but greed fares badly—even in the world; on the path to God, it fares very badly. Don’t think, “Let me pick some sweet things from bhakti, some from Mahavira.” You will end up harnessing a bullock cart to a car—it won’t run; it will throw you in a ditch.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s sons assembled a car from junkyard parts. When it was ready, they invited Mulla. He sat in. They had gone only ten steps when the car toppled into a ditch. Mulla lay spread-eagled. The sons said, “Shall we call a doctor?” He opened one eye and said, “No need—call a veterinarian.” “Are you in your senses? Why a vet?” “If I were a man,” he said, “would I sit in your car? If I had that much sense? Call the animal doctor.”

Greed will whisper, “Pick a little from Narada’s aphorisms—so lovely! Pick a little from Mahavira—so profound!” But the chooser will be “you,” and you will pick what suits you. You will drop what doesn’t suit you. Yet what you drop may be exactly what could transform you. What you assemble will be artificial. Remember the word “organic.” A living form is organic—like a tree, like your body. Cut off a hand—it cannot live by itself; its life was in the organic unity. Pluck out the eye—it won’t see.

One of Mulla Nasruddin’s eyes was glass. He used to oversee laborers, standing there; if he was present, they worked; if he left, they idled. One day he had to go and performed a “miracle.” He popped out his glass eye, put it on the table, and said, “This eye will keep watching—don’t try to fool me.” The workers were stunned; they had never seen anyone pop out an eye. If he could do such a marvel, perhaps the eye could indeed watch! They kept working for a while, glancing nervously at the eye. Then one came to his senses, covered it with a basket—and they relaxed. An eye cannot see by itself; it is part of an organic unity. A hand cut off is useless.

Mechanical unity is another matter. Take a part out of a car—still marketable, still usable. Cut off a hand and try to sell it—no one will buy; it is lifeless. Its unity is broken.

Mahavira’s path is organic. Do not pull out a piece; it won’t work—it will be dead. Narada’s path is also organic. All paths are organic. Don’t extract bits.

That is why I am not a supporter of Gandhi’s experiment “Allah–Ishwar tere naam.” Allah belongs to one organic whole; Ishwar to another. By joining Allah and Ishwar, one becomes neither Hindu nor Muslim; one gets stuck in confusion. Allah’s path is complete in itself; it needs nothing from the Hindu path. The Hindu path is complete in itself; it needs nothing from Islam. All paths are complete in themselves—and all can lead.

Therefore I do not ask you to be a compromiser. Many compromisers call themselves “synthesizers,” claiming to have made a synthesis of all religions. Dr. Bhagavan Das wrote “The Essential Unity of All Religions.” Such useless books have been written often. They collect dead pieces from everywhere—a nose from here, an ear from there, an eye from somewhere, a foot from elsewhere—and assemble a figure, calling it “the essential unity.” This is a dead man. Nothing in it is alive. A nose lives on a living face; once cut, it is dead. An eye lives on a living person; once removed, it is dead. You can mount all the bones and make a skeleton—useful perhaps to scare children, or to stand at the door to deter thieves, or in a field to frighten birds—but not of any higher use.

Many ask: in this century so many tried to harmonize the religions—why did earlier ones not try? Were Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ fools? Are Dr. Bhagavan Das, Gandhi, Vinoba wiser? The basis of modern “syntheses” is political. Mahavira and Buddha saw clearly that each path is complete and alive in itself; take anything out, and it dies.

So if you want to walk the way of devotion, walk it in its totality—don’t omit anything. What could be omitted, Narada already omitted; what could not be omitted, he preserved. If Mahavira’s way suits you, walk it—omit nothing. If something could be dropped, Mahavira himself would have dropped it. Nothing is superfluous; only the essential remains. Nothing can be cut out. And add nothing: what could be added, they already added. There is no need to add more.

Each religion is a great organic, living unity—not a machine. Keep this in mind; then follow wherever your taste, your bent, your resonance lies—you will arrive. All rivers are flowing toward the ocean!

It is Sohan’s question.
Explaining will only increase the tangle. There is no need to explain; explaining does not bring understanding. And for Sohan, cleverness cannot be the way. Live in unknowing! And if remembrance comes, don’t try to push it away. Dive into it completely. If remembrance brings pain, let the pain be; cry, weep your heart out, let the tears flow! Those tears will purify.

Tears shed on the path of love purify. And such remembrance is not worry; it is the heart’s own upwelling.

The obstacle arises because the mind keeps advising, “Let go; remembrance brings pain. The memory of love hurts.” It is the intellect that keeps interfering.

Nothing will be solved by obeying this intellect. The intellect never wins over the heart if the heart is strong. And Sohan has a strong heart. Let the intellect keep barking; the heart will walk its own way. If you listen to the intellect, a great hindrance will arise, because the heart is strong and the intellect cannot change it.

Listen to the heart! Leave the intellect. Tell the intellect, “Stop barking! You too, join the remembrance! You too, weep! Become an attendant to the heart, a shadow of the heart!”

For Sohan, Mahavira’s path will not carry her; only some path of bhakti, of devotion, will. So turn love into devotion, turn feeling into devotion. And take unselfconsciousness, ecstasy, as the way: drown, weep, dance, sing!

That is why I have slowly moved away. Because if I were near, how would you weep? If I were near and you could meet me whenever you wanted, when would tears flow? How would remembrance arise? This too is a device.

I have drawn many into my love and then slowly withdrawn. Withdrawing is a device. For if love dies when the beloved steps away, it was not love. And if by stepping away love grows deeper, it will not take long to become bhakti.

God is not visible; you can neither touch him nor speak to him. A lover is visible, can be touched, can be spoken with. If I remain by your side, your love will remain merely love. I must move away from you—so far that I become almost invisible. If even then love survives, you will find that love slowly undergoes a transformation—it begins to love the invisible, the unknown. That is bhakti. Slowly my remembrance will cease to be my remembrance. Slowly I too will become only a pretext. Through that pretext the remembrance of the Divine will begin to flow in you.

Love has its day, and love has its night. If there were only day in love, only joy, and no pain of love, love would remain shallow, not deep. Without pain, nothing in this world becomes deep.

Pleasure is very superficial; sorrow is very deep. Does pleasure have any depth? It is like ripples on the surface of water. Sorrow has depth. Therefore sorrow touches your heart more deeply than pleasure ever can. You will always find the happy man shallow. In the life of the one who has suffered there is a certain depth.

Blessed are those who are unhappy because of love! For much depends on the cause. Someone is unhappy because he did not get wealth. Even with wealth no great depth arises; then what depth will come from the lack of it? His sorrow is for nothing. Someone weeps because he did not get position. Blessed are those who weep because love has left an empty space! Make that emptiness your shrine. Where love has touched the heart and awakened pain, do not take that pain to be your enemy—flow with it, accept it! That pain will cleanse you. That pain will refine you. That pain will prove like fire, and your gold will become pure.

“If the morning is yours, O Creator of the dawn!
Then whose grace is the night?”
—O Divine, if You made the morning, then whose compassion is the fruit of the night?

If love brings joy, it will also bring sorrow. Accept love’s sorrow! The one who accepts only love’s joy accepts only half; love will not be able to spread through his whole being. If you accept love’s day, accept love’s night too. And if both are accepted, it will not be long before the Divine is seen everywhere. Sorrow too is His; therefore it is good fortune.

“You are not only in my heart; You are in the entire cosmos.
Hidden like the day within this dark night, You are there.”
—Then slowly He will be felt, like day hidden in the night.
Hidden like the day within this dark night.
Then even darkness will carry His touch.

When even His absence becomes His presence, love becomes bhakti. When even His absence begins to feel like His presence—because absence too is His! It belongs to Him. Then absence also becomes the Divine’s, becomes the Lord’s, becomes love’s! So do not try to fill the absence. Live it.

“You are not only in my heart; You are in the entire cosmos.”
And then, slowly, when in moments of both sorrow and joy He is seen in the heart, He will also be seen throughout the whole world.

What does the lover want? The lover wants to be merged in the beloved. What does the devotee want? To drown in God!

“You are the boundless ocean; I am a tiny runnel.
Either bring me to Your shore, or make me shoreless!”
You are the shoreless sea; I am a little stream. Either take me with You—make me the ocean—or make me without banks.
But both prayers mean the same. Either take me with You, make me the sea; or take away my banks from me! Either drown me, or steal my banks away! In either case, the tiny stream becomes the ocean.

What is yearning? What is pain? Pain is not fulfilled by the meeting of the lover; pain is fulfilled by disappearing into the beloved. This is the difference between a lover and a devotee.

If in your life there is love toward me, and if that love does not transform into bhakti, then even this love will become a bondage. Understand the difference. The lover wants the beloved to come to him. The devotee wants to drown in the beloved. The lover wants to bring the object of love close and possess it. The devotee wants the one he loves to possess him. A great difference. The lover wants to take possession of the beloved. The devotee wants to be possessed.

Remember, the lover will lose; because that possession is not possible. The devotee wins; because the devotee does not want to possess—he only wants to be possessed.

“You are the boundless ocean; I am a tiny runnel.
Either bring me to Your shore, or make me shoreless.”

This sorrow that Sohan feels—feels it deeply—can be turned into joy. Great flowers can bloom out of this pain. But a small revolution in understanding is needed.

“Those who take the gain of life to be delight—
If only for a single breath they tasted grief, God would be remembered.”
A little sorrow is needed—so that for the space of a breath, God is remembered! If there is only pleasure, remembrance is forgotten. That is why people do not remember in happiness; they remember in suffering. And one who has understood this essence—that remembrance deepens in sorrow—will no longer want to be free of sorrow; he will take sorrow also as grace. And once sorrow is taken as grace, all is accomplished. For there lies man’s entanglement: rejecting sorrow, accepting pleasure. When sorrow too is accepted, it is no longer sorrow.

Understand it thus: the sorrow we accept becomes joy. By acceptance, it becomes joy. Sorrow’s very being lies in our rejection. With acceptance, sorrow’s quality changes.

I keep it in mind. Whomever I have loved, from them I will slowly withdraw. Love is the beginning. We cannot stop there. I will withdraw so that love can turn into devotion. If it is to be, it will turn into bhakti. If it is not to be, it will turn into resentment. So there are some who go away from me, offended. Sohan is not among them; she is not one to leave. Try as I may to push her away, she will not move. Then even her defeat will turn into victory.

“In the garden, the breeze seeks only You;
On the nightingale’s tongue, the conversation is Yours;
In every hue is the splendor of Your power—
Whichever flower I smell, its fragrance is Yours.”
So the love that is toward me—expand it! Expand it so much that there remains no fixed address for that love. Learn from me; but do not stop at me. Travel with me; but do not halt on me.

The Jains have a valuable word: tirthankara—maker of the ford. A ford is made; a ghat is not for sitting, it is for moving on, for going to the other shore, to another ghat.

So if I become your ford, and then you sit there and nail yourself down, and moor your boat there, then it is of no use. I will not allow you to nail yourself to my bank. Nail as much as you like; I will keep pulling the pegs out. One day or another you will have to prepare to go to the opposite shore. Be ready for that journey. Surely, as you go to the other side, this bank will seem to recede. But do not be afraid: I will meet you on the other shore—vast, far greater!

In the garden, the morning breeze is in quest of you,
On the nightingale’s tongue, the talk is of you.
In every hue shines the splendor of your nature;
Whichever flower I smell, its fragrance is yours.

That recognition will be the recognition of the Vast. Begin to recognize it from now. For a few days this body will be, then this body too will go; then I will be even farther from you. Thus, slowly, step by step, I shall go farther away from you. After a little while, even this body will be lost. Then you will not be able to see me in any one direction. Only if you can see everywhere will you be able to see. I am preparing you for that. Little by little I am giving you practice for it.

These moments are precious. In these moments, be happy with the happiness that comes—and even with the sorrow that comes, be happy. And do not listen to the intellect! Listen to the heart! I will surely come, but on the other shore. My coming is certain, but do not remain stuck on this shore; otherwise I will be waiting on that shore and you will remain on this one! Even for me, the days of departure from this shore will draw near. Before I bid farewell to this shore, pull up your stake, launch your boat.

The other shore is far and not even visible. But the river that has one shore surely has the other as well, whether it is seen or not. Has there ever been a river with only one bank?

So if you have known one form of love, one shore of it—there is also the other. That is devotion. To have loved a human being is auspicious. But do not stop there. Let that love slowly rise like a flame and be transformed into love for the Divine. If my love frees you, grants you liberation, only then is it truly my love; if it binds you, holds you back, then it is not my love.

Love is always the door to liberation!
That is all for today.