Jin Sutra #28

First, what a Tirthankara does is neither karma nor an act, because there is no sense of the doer. What a Tirthankara does is not done—it happens. Like your breathing: breathing is not an act. It goes on of itself; and when it does not, you can do nothing about it. As long as it goes on, it goes on; when it stops, it stops. It is not in your hands, not under ego-control.

A Tirthankara’s “doing” is not doing—it is a state as natural as breath. It happens; it is not performed. There is no one left inside as the doer. To call it compassion-born is also wrong. It is compassion-full, but not compassion-born. Compassion-born is when pity arises in you and then you do something. Compassion-full is when you have become full of compassion—and something overflows.

There is a difference between the two.

When you feel pity for a beggar on the road, there has been some disturbance within you; your light flickered; your awareness lost its stillness. It was shaken by another’s sorrow—earlier it was shaken by another’s happiness. Someone built a mansion and jealousy arose; now someone’s house is on fire and pity arises. But in every case you are shaken; you are not unmoved; you are no longer as you were before seeing the beggar. You set out alone on the road and then a beggar appears; pity arises; a feeling is formed; an act follows from that feeling. Your state changed. A Tirthankara’s state does not change; therefore his act is not compassion-born, though it is certainly compassion-full. Even when there is no beggar on the road, the Tirthankara is full of compassion. You are not. For you to be filled with compassion, someone else must be suffering.

Understand this well. If the world’s sufferers were to depart, your pity would also end. Whom would you pity? To whom would you give alms? For your charity and pity, some must remain miserable. Your alms and pity require suffering. If there were no lepers, no sick—whose feet would you press? Your pity would simply wither and die. It needs an external stimulus; your pity is an externally produced result.

A Tirthankara is compassion-full—not that he has compassion on someone; he is full of compassion, like a lamp that sheds light: if someone passes by, the light falls on him; if no one passes, the lamp still burns. It does not light up because someone comes, nor does it go out because someone leaves; it does not depend on anyone. It is a state of the Self.

So a Tirthankara’s compassion is not because of your suffering. If you are happy, the Tirthankara’s compassion is upon you just as much as when you are unhappy. It has nothing to do with you. Whether you exist or not, the Tirthankara’s compassion is the same. Your being or not being makes no difference. A Tirthankara’s compassion is not a relationship between you and the Tirthankara—it is his state; his condition; his bliss. He does not have compassion on you because you suffer; compassion flows from him toward you because he is blissful. Grasp this distinction clearly. He does not give because you need; he gives because he has more than enough.

There is a story from the life of Jesus that he told many times. The owner of a vineyard hired laborers early in the morning; grapes had to be harvested quickly, the season was changing. Those who came in the morning worked till noon. The owner came, looked, and said, “With this many, the work won’t finish by evening.” He sent his steward to bring more workers. Around midday more came. Again the owner returned; the sun was leaning west; he said, “Even this won’t be enough—bring some more.” Toward sunset, just as work was ending, a few more arrived. At night, when he paid wages, he gave everyone the same—those who came in the morning, those who came at noon, and those who came at dusk; those who worked all day, and even those who could do nothing because the sun had set. Naturally, those who came in the morning were annoyed. They said, “This is unjust. We have been here since morning, sweating all day. We get the same as these who came just now and did nothing?”

The owner said, “Have I given you less?” They said, “No, not less; in fact more than the usual wage. But it is still unjust. These people did nothing.” The owner replied, “Mind your own business. You have received more than you were to receive—be glad. Do not compare with them. I am not giving because of their work; I am giving because I have much. I am giving all alike. I have more than I need. Not because of your work, but because I have; I am burdened with abundance.”

Jesus’ parable is very significant.

Mahavira gives to you not because you suffer. He has received—received abundantly! If he did not share it, it would become burdensome. It must be shared. Even if you were not, he would share. Even if you were happy, he would share.

So do not link a Tirthankara’s compassion to your suffering. It has nothing to do with you. A Tirthankara’s compassion is related to his inner bliss, to Sat-Chit-Ananda. He abides in his own Self and has attained so much—and what he has attained is such that if you share it, it increases, and if you hoard it, it diminishes. Therefore, it is not that by showing compassion upon you the Tirthankara is doing something; out of the overflowing of bliss he shares—and by sharing it grows. The more he pours out, the more it increases; ever-new springs open. When fresh joy rains each day, who would keep yesterday’s stale? You eat your evening meal and distribute the rest; the poor man hoards even stale bread—he will need it tomorrow.

You are afraid to share because tomorrow is uncertain. If you give away today’s, who knows about tomorrow? But the Tirthankara dwells where every moment the infinite showers. What has poured in this moment must be given away, to make room for the next. If it is not shared, it will turn stale, and the stale will obstruct the new. And if too much staleness accumulates, piles up, then the birth of the new becomes impossible.

Thus, neither is a Tirthankara’s doing a doing, nor is it compassion-born—it is compassion-full. Hence, there is no bondage—neither of sin nor of virtue. Much happens through a Tirthankara, but a Tirthankara does nothing. It is spontaneous—like birds singing!

Someone asked Mirza Ghalib: people praise your poems greatly, but I do not understand them at all. And I suspect those who praise them also don’t! Whenever I ask them, they cannot explain. Please say something.

Ghalib gave a strange reply. He looked up at the sky and said, “God is great. What has poetry to do with God?” The man said, “Certainly God is great—but what has that to do with my question?” Ghalib said, “Wait a little. Do you agree that God is great?” “Certainly,” the man said. “But do you understand God?” “No—nothing is understood.” Ghalib said, “So it is with my poems. I myself do not understand them!”

Understanding belongs to the small, not to the vast. Our understanding is small—the understanding of a miser, a mean-spirited man. We know only the language of acts; the language of the spontaneous is unknown to us. We believe only in what is done, because even with doing we fail and are defeated. If nothing is gathered by adding and adding, how will we accept that by scattering and scattering one’s treasure increases? We guard our safes and in the end find only ashes in our hands. One who knows only this arithmetic of hoarding—how will he accept that by giving it can grow? “You’re mad,” he will say, “speak sense! Here we kept winning and still lost; you say by losing one wins!”

But I tell you, it is so. That nothing adds up by adding proves that perhaps the opposite is true. For by adding, no one has ever truly added. So one thing is certain: adding does not add. Now try the other experiment—see if by giving it increases. But you will give only if you have.

Tirthankara means: one who has; one who possesses.

A man came to Buddha and said, “I feel like dedicating everything to the service of humanity. I need your blessing!” It is said Buddha’s eyes grew moist; tears glistened. He looked at the man with such compassion that the man himself was shaken. Even the disciples were puzzled; the man had said nothing wrong—he had expressed a noble wish.

The man grew restless. “Why did you become so sad? Why are your eyes moist? Did I say something wrong? Did I hurt you?” Buddha said, “No. It is only that when I see you wanting to give, I feel pity—you have nothing. You say, ‘I want to serve humanity, to offer this life’—but where is the life? Looking at you I see empty hands—only ashes within. What will you give? Before giving, one must have. Because we do not have, we hoard—thinking that by hoarding we will have. Those who have, give—because in giving they find it grows.”

Ask a gardener: he prunes the trees and they become more lush. He grafts and the tree thrives and thickens. Cut one leaf—four appear. Cut one branch—two are born. Ask the gardener the secret of life!

So it is with the inner tree of your life. Share it and it is grafted; it thrives. Guard it out of fear—hide it, cover it from all sides—and the plant of life dies. This is how the plant of life has withered. Leave it in the open air! Let the breeze carry the fragrance! Leave it under the open sky—let the clouds play, let monsoon melodies arise! Let the storms and winds dance around the tree! Let it grow, open, spread! It will grow—upward and inward alike. As the tree reaches into the heights, its roots go deep below. But we have known only the arithmetic of the miser. We have not known the arithmetic of the wealthy. That is why even about Tirthankaras we ask according to our own reckoning: “If virtue also binds, why do the Tirthankara’s compassion-full acts not bind them?”

Tirthankara means one who has gone beyond sin and virtue. Tirthankara means one who has gone beyond doing and entered the spontaneous.

Contemplate, churn, meditate deeply on this word “sahaj.” It is very precious. If its meaning explodes within you, a revolution will happen in your life. Sahaj means: what happens by itself, without your doing. Much is happening that is sahaj; yet you overlay it with yourself and say “I.” If love happens toward someone, immediately you say, “I love.” It happens—and at once you change the language to “I do.” Has anyone ever “done” love? Have you ever heard of someone who did love? Can anyone do love? If I command you now, “Love!”—can you? You will say, “How can that be a command? Will it happen by my doing? If it happens, it happens. If it does not, it does not. When it happens, it cannot be stopped; when it does not, it cannot be forced.”

Yet you impose ego even upon love: “I loved. I am loving; you are not.” And this is what we teach.

Even to little children the mother says, “Love me; I am your mother.” What madness! Who has ever managed to “do” love? Leave the child—adults have not managed. How will you do love? Is it in your hands? Love is not an act. If you pressure the child—“Love me, I am your mother”—you throw him into a dilemma, a crisis you cannot fathom. The small child will writhe: “How to do love?” But he must do it, for everything depends on the mother—milk, life. The father says, “Love me; I am your father. I gave you birth!” What has birth-giving to do with love? The child will try: “All right; if everyone says so, it must be done.” He will smile falsely, touch feet falsely, display false joy. Hypocrisy begins. He will live his whole life in such falsity, and die without tasting love’s spontaneous flowering—because falsehood was planted at love’s very threshold.

No, the mother can only do this: if there is love in her for the child, let there be love—pour it, lavish it, shower it. In that downpour, the child’s own spontaneity may blossom—if it blossoms, it is grace. If not, it is helplessness. If it happens, be grateful to the Divine; if not, there is no ground for complaint—accept it as fate.

But this can be done: if the mother loves, let her love. If love has arisen in her, let her pour it. In this rain the child’s veena will also begin to sing—it should. In such a climate the child’s seeds of love will sprout. Love raining from all sides will call forth the roar of love within him; it will awaken his consciousness. He too will be filled with love—but then love will be a spontaneous experience. One day he will find suddenly that there is love for the mother. “I love”—that is only language; he will find that love is. And then one thing will become certain in his life: never will he make love into an act, even by mistake.

Teachers say, “Show respect, show reverence.” Who can “do” reverence? Reverence happens.

I was in the university for years. Teachers had one complaint: reverence has been lost; students no longer respect. I said again and again in faculty meetings: you raise the question from the wrong end. Can anyone manufacture reverence? The reverence that used to be “done” was false—therefore it has fallen away.

This century leans a little more toward truthfulness. Today’s youth is more inclined to truth than the youth of the past.

A mother was telling her daughter, “Until my marriage I had not even touched a man. Will you be able to tell your children the same?” The young woman said, “I can say it if I must—but not with the swagger with which you say it. Because I know it is a lie.” So she said, “If I must, I can say it—but not with your swagger.”

The age leans a bit toward truth, so wherever there was falsehood, it has cracked.

I told teachers many times: whenever you raise the issue that students have lost respect, you should actually raise a more fundamental issue—perhaps you are no longer gurus. For if there is a guru, reverence happens—it must, as trees turn green when the rains come. If the trees are drying and the clouds complain, “What is wrong with these trees? The rains have come and still they are not green!”—we would say, “But did you rain?” If you had rained, the greening would have happened of itself.

The “guru” is not a guru; he desires the honors due to a guru. They do not come; he is pained; he tries to impose respect by force. That forced respect is perverted; then the possibility of spontaneous reverence in that person’s life is lost. Keep this in mind.

Whatever is truly important in life—satya, shiva, sundara; truth, goodness, beauty—happens; it is not done. What is done is petty. Shops are run; houses are built. Love is not done. Reverence is not manufactured. Lies are fabricated; truth is not. Truth is only discovered. Truth is. Lies must be made.

So if you want to be a doer, fabricate lies—that is the only way to be a doer.

If you want to be a non-doer, seek truth.

Tirthankara means non-doer—who no longer does anything from his side; who lets what happens, happen, and does not even obstruct it; who lets come what comes—if life, then life; if death, then death; if pleasure, pleasure; if pain, pain; if youth, youth; if old age, old age—who from his side becomes utterly actionless, drops all striving, and makes no attempt to impose himself on life. One who is ready to flow with life’s spontaneity wherever it leads—that one is a Tirthankara.

So a Tirthankara incurs neither sin nor virtue. There is no bondage of karma for a Tirthankara.

But in this context one more point must be noted. The Jain scriptures say a very precious thing: the Tirthankara himself has no karmic bondage, but a man becomes a Tirthankara because of a certain karmic bondage. Not everyone becomes a Tirthankara. Not everyone who attains the supreme knowledge becomes a Tirthankara. Millions attain kevala-jnana (absolute knowing), but a Tirthankara arises only rarely. Then why, when so many attain the ultimate and dissolve into the supreme truth, are not all Tirthankaras? There must be a reason.

When Mahavira attained enlightenment, others had also attained—but not all were Tirthankaras. The Jains speak of twenty-four in the span between a dissolution and a creation: twenty-four Tirthankaras. Millions of souls may attain kevala-jnana, yet only twenty-four Tirthankaras? What is the matter? Why are not all the enlightened Tirthankaras?

Note this distinction. They say the making of a Tirthankara has to do with karmic bonding. Before becoming a Tirthankara, the person has long practiced compassion; before becoming a Tirthankara, he has practiced nonviolence (ahimsa) in every way; he has so disciplined his conduct that no one is hurt by him; he has built a deep discipline into his life. One who has not built such discipline may also attain enlightenment; but when he does, he immediately dissolves into the Vast. There is nothing to hold him to this earth. But one who has practiced service, pity, compassion, nonviolence intensely over many births—that compassion and service are not yet spontaneous; they are cultivated. Because he has cultivated compassion and pity, he accrues the Tirthankara-making karma.

The Jains are remarkable: they say this too is a karmic bondage. However meritorious, it still binds. Bound by compassion—yes, a golden chain, studded with jewels, but still a chain. In the last birth, when such a person becomes enlightened, he does not silently fly into the sky with his knowledge; he pauses on the earth. He still has some chains. The worldly chains he has broken; but there remain chains of compassion. On their basis he lingers a while on earth; during those moments he can share and give what he has received.

So a Tirthankara happens because of karmic bondage—but a Tirthankara has no karmic bondage.

A Tirthankara is not merely one who knows, but one who makes others know. He has not only opened his own eyes; he is skilled in treating the eyes of others. By the strength of his own seeing, he gives you a glimpse too.

The merely enlightened one knows and goes. The Tirthankara is the enlightened one who pauses a while. Before his boat casts off for the far shore, he lingers on this bank—and fills with yearning those who have no inkling of the other shore, who have not even dreamed it, in whose imagination no shadow of it has fallen. Before he releases his own boat—and who knows how many he has readied—he makes others eager, ardent, thirsty.

Tirthankara means: has known and has made known. One who just knows goes alone; no lineage of goers forms behind him. No religion forms behind one who just knows; he quietly disappears. No trace remains. But the one who tirelessly endeavors to make others know—this tireless endeavor is the result of disciplines cultivated in past lives. Yet that too is karmic bondage. However, in this life, in the Tirthankara’s state, there is no karmic bondage. Now all is spontaneous. Keep this in mind.

Your nonviolence, if you have it, will be non-spontaneous; it will be effortful. If you show pity, you will do so only by trying. If you are compassionate, you will have to pull yourself together to manage it. If you do not exert yourself, you will not be compassionate. Yes, anger comes to you spontaneously; compassion does not. For a Tirthankara it is the reverse: if he were to get angry, it would be non-spontaneous; compassion is spontaneous. The coin has flipped; all the rules of arithmetic have reversed. If a Tirthankara must be angry—and sometimes Tirthankaras do appear angry. Jain accounts do not mention it, because the Jains cannot conceive that a Tirthankara could be angry—and they are right in a way: anger is not spontaneous for a Tirthankara, so mentioning it is not appropriate. But there are other traditions; there too are Tirthankara-like beings.

For example, in Jesus’ life it is recorded that he went into the great temple at Jerusalem and found moneylenders with their stalls inside. He took a whip, flared up; fire rained from his eyes. A lone man threw hundreds of moneylenders out of the temple. They panicked; his form was so blazing! Christians have had difficulty explaining how the Messiah of compassion became so angry.

But if a Tirthankara chooses, he can contrive anger. Even that anger will be in the service of compassion. Understand this alchemy. It was compassion in Jesus that the temple of God should not be debased; that prayer should not become a marketplace; that the house of worship should not be filled with the filth of trade. It was compassion. Out of that compassion he became angry. But that anger was contrived, an acting—like an actor who acts anger. In the Ram Lila, when Rama weeps, “Where is my Sita?” and asks the trees, “Where has she gone?”—it is only a performance; inside there is nothing. His Sita is at home; he himself is not Rama; he is an actor.

Jesus’ anger was also an acting done in the service of compassion.

Gurdjieff was very skilled at anger. There are unique incidents. He became so adept at acting that he could be angry with half his face and compassionate with the other half. Many times he bewildered people. Two men came—one sat to his left, one to his right. With half his face he looked as if he would kill; with the other half he showered flowers. One eye rained love; the other eye rained fire. When the two went out, each gave a different account: one said, “He is wicked, murderous; if met alone, he would throttle you.” The other said, “What are you saying? Are you mad? Look at his eye—what love! This man could not kill even an ant.”

Many experienced this. Skill can become so deep!

If you have completely dis-identified from the body, you can use the body like a mechanism. You can move one hand, keep the other still. Likewise, one eye can show anger, the other love. One half of the face can say one thing, the other half another. There is a scientific basis: you have two brains, not one—the left and the right—each with its own processes. Sometimes if the small bridge between them breaks, two persons are born in one—a split personality.

Your body is divided in two—note this. That is why when the right hand is active, the left is passive. If the left is active, the right is passive—because one half is masculine, the other feminine; one half active, one passive. Your two halves are different.

You have never noticed! Have your picture taken and then join two left halves and two right halves—you will see a new face altogether. Join two left halves, then two right halves—you will look like two different persons, and both will seem quite different from you. One eye differs from the other. The left side of the body is governed by the right brain; the right side by the left brain. But you are so identified with the body that you cannot use it. Gurdjieff could. Mahavira could. Even if they did not, they could have.

Mahavira could be angry—but it would be effort and acting. And you too can be compassionate—but it will be effort and acting. Anger is spontaneous for you—you need do nothing; someone abuses you and it happens. A button is pressed—it happens. If you wish to be compassionate, you must think hard, read scriptures, go to masters, attend satsang, take vows, make resolutions—and still anger slips out at a slight lapse. If you remain very alert, you can manage a little compassion.

The Tirthankara’s state is exactly the opposite. Compassion is spontaneous; it needs no doing. Even asleep, a Tirthankara is compassion.

Have you noticed: even in sleep you remain angry—you mutter in anger, threaten to kill! Ask your wife to study your sleeping face; or study hers. Perhaps that is why people prefer to sleep alone, not in crowds, not everywhere—because in sleep the mind reveals what is spontaneous for you. The controller has gone to sleep; the governor—the doer—has slept.

If you are an angry person, your face at night will be full of anger. If lustful, your face will ooze lust. As you are, your night-face gives a truer report of you. By day you manage a little falsehood; at night you cannot.

That is why so-called monks are even afraid of sleep. They are nervous. By sleeping, what they have cultivated by day is lost. All day they practiced celibacy, but at night the dream of sexuality seizes the mind. What to do? How to practice in a dream? In dream there is no awareness; how will discipline be?

Generally, as long as we are unconscious, wrong happens spontaneously, and right happens by effort.

When the mind becomes alert, enlightened, awakened—when sambodhi is attained—then right is spontaneous. If something “wrong” has to be done for some reason, it is no more than acting.

Wherever there is entanglement, there is a way to untangle it. An entanglement would not arise at all if there were no hope of resolution. A knot appears only where the door to untying it is close by.

Every problem hides a solution, every tangle hides its unraveling, and every question carries its answer. Only a little search is needed.

You cannot devise a question that has no answer—sooner or later it comes. You cannot create a tangle that cannot be untied. If you don’t want to resolve it, that’s a different matter. Then the problem is not the tangle—it is you; you simply don’t want to do it. If you want to, there is no obstacle.

Now, this particular tangle is of your own making.

“The first time I have fallen in love, but my ego doesn’t allow me to dive fully.”

If this much is clear to you, then choose. Either choose the ego—then love is madness. Drop the nonsense! Narada must have gone crazy! And if you choose love, then drop the ego. Don’t try to ride two boats; otherwise there will be confusion. And the two boats are very different. Don’t put your hands on both Mahavira’s and Narada’s shoulders, or you’ll become a Trishanku—suspended in between. Then you will be in great confusion. But for that confusion neither Mahavira nor Narada will be responsible—you will be, for placing your hands on both their shoulders. Who asked you to?

Ask Narada and he will say Mahavira is wrong. Ask Mahavira and he will say Narada is wrong. So you won’t be able to shift the responsibility onto them. If you want to create confusion, that’s another matter.

If a man is standing with one foot in each of two boats and asks, “What should I do?” what shall we say? The answer is simple: get into one boat. Of course, to board one you must leave the other. So don’t keep in mind the gains of both.

Life is choice—a moment-to-moment choosing and deciding. And whenever you choose one thing, you have to leave something. In truth, to choose one, you must leave a thousand.

You came here to listen to me. There could have been a thousand uses for this hour. You could have sat in your shop and earned some money. You could have gone to the cinema and watched a film. You could have gone to a bar and had a drink. Chatted, read the newspaper, listened to the radio—there could have been a thousand uses. You left those and chose this use: to listen to me. This is a big choice. Now if you want the benefits you left behind also to come from listening to me, you are wanting wrongly. Wrong wanting creates obstacles.

So if you relish ego, drop this talk of love. Become a complete egoist. Then politics will be your religion. Then run—after ego, after position—make the journey to Delhi! Then what are you doing sitting here? This time will prove wasted. One day you will be very angry with me: this time should have been invested in the journey to Delhi. Let your only mantra be: “On to Delhi!”

If it is the ego you want to fill, then fill it cleanly; don’t be dishonest, don’t hedge. Certainly, remember this: the pleasures of the ego are few; the sufferings are many. The pleasures are illusory, apparent; the pains are very real. So consider well, see clearly—look at both pleasure and pain. The joys of love are very real; its sorrows are only apparent. Therefore the wise have chosen love; the unwise have chosen ego. The wise have chosen religion; the unwise have chosen politics. The wise have chosen the inner world; the unwise have chosen the outer. The wealth of the outer world appears to be—it isn’t; it is only by common agreement. The inner wealth does not appear, but it is. It is invisible—and the visible merely appears.

So it depends on you. If you choose confusion, you will belong nowhere—neither to home nor to the ghat! You will become the washerman’s donkey. Either the ghat or the house. If you choose ego, the ghat. If you choose love, the house.

To choose love means you affirm that life is valuable in itself, and its ultimate meaning is in the flowering of life—not in wealth but in song; not in position but in joy; not in things but in the interrelatedness of persons. And not outside but within. This is a revolutionary decision. And it must be taken very clearly, because upon this decision the entire architecture of your life will depend. Where you arrive will depend on the direction of your first step. If the first step is wrong, you may run a thousand miles, toil a thousand toils—you will not reach the right place. If all your running and hustle stand upon a wrong first step, the foundation is wrong—and the edifice will fall.
It is asked: “For the first time I have fallen in love with someone.” That is natural, too. The first time one falls in love, the ego obstructs—because until now you have been in love with the ego. Until now you have loved only the ego. Today, for the first time, in opposition to the ego, a new love has arisen—where the ego will have to be surrendered, where the “I” will have to be effaced. So naturally, the “I” you have watered and protected until now—if it becomes an obstacle, there is nothing surprising in that. But the very thing you have watered—if you yourself turn off the water, it will wither and dry up on its own. Now the decision lies before you. Until now you have watered only the ego; now the sprout of love has also emerged. Now consider: what can the ego give, and what can love give? The ego will offer many assurances, but it never actually gives anything—only empty promises! That is the story of all Alexanders and Napoleons. Love gives no assurances—it does not even speak of giving. Love says, everything will have to be lost. And yet the stories of those who lose are precisely the stories of the devotees, the religious, the meditators.
Love says: lose, and you will receive. And the ego says: acquire, and you will receive. The ego’s arithmetic is understood by the intellect. Naturally, “if you get, you get.” But love says: if you lose, you will receive. Its arithmetic is odd, puzzling, it does not fit into the intellect.

Between ego and intellect there is a kind of pact, a conspiracy. The intellect takes the side of the ego, and the ego takes the side of the intellect. So if you ask the head, you will wander and be lost on the path of the ego—like a stream that strays into the desert and never finds the ocean. Ask the heart! The heart has an understanding with love. And the heart is saying…

“But my ego does not let me drown completely in love. My heart is with Narada, and my intellect is with Mahavira.”

Then choose! If you feel the heart is wrong, go with the intellect for a while—run with it. Out of a hundred, once in a while one reaches: some Mahavira! It is very arduous. Because a needless tangle of I-ness arises. There is no God before whom to bow one’s head; to learn to bow without any God is very rare. It happened in Mahavira: without any God he bowed; without any altar he offered the oblation.

Ordinarily, when there is no God, the “I” grows strong. So there is very little likelihood that you can be a Mahavira; the greater likelihood is that you will become a Nietzsche. Nietzsche’s reasoning is the same. He says, there is no God. But the moment he said there is no God, he instantly said: now, with no God, man is free to do anything. What was the result? Nietzsche went mad. His ego kept growing stronger. He found no altar anywhere on which to place it. He denied the altar—and the very reason he gave was this: “If there is God, then I become low—and how can I be low! No one can be above me.” So he denied God. Nietzsche went mad.

Out of a hundred, ninety-nine chances are that you will go mad. Mahavira is a very skillful being. He chose exactly the same starting point as Nietzsche, but from “There is no God” he did not conclude that man is now licentious. He drew the opposite conclusion. Mahavira said: “Since there is no God, now no licentiousness will do; the whole responsibility is mine.” Do you see the difference? Nietzsche said: no God—so do whatever you want. Mahavira said: now there remains no way to “just do”; now whatever is done, the responsibility is mine. If God were, one could still find some workaround—do something: take a pilgrimage bath, perform temple worship, make prayers and placate; if sin happened, one could repent—and He is compassionate, Rahim, Rahman; He forgives, He has forgiven even the greatest sinners.

They say, a sinner, at the time of death, by mistake called his son: “Narayan, Narayan!” The son’s name was Narayan, and the Narayan above thought, “He is calling me.” He forgave him, lifted him to heaven. That sinner now resides in Vaikuntha. If One can be appeased so easily; if His bribe is so cheap; He wasn’t even being called—someone else was called—but the mere coincidence of the word “Narayan,” and He got confused; if He is so hungry for flattery—if such is God—then there is license to do anything.

If you ask Mahavira, he will say: if there is God, then man is licentious. Then do whatever you want; because in the end He is there—at His feet you can grovel, cry, beg forgiveness. And He is compassionate, He will forgive.

So the conclusion Nietzsche drew is the same conclusion Mahavira drew—but from the utterly opposite side. If there is God, man becomes licentious. Therefore Mahavira said: there is no God; hence prayer is not an option. One has to make oneself—fashion, prune, cut, refine—everything is one’s own. One’s responsibility is ultimate, final. You will not be able to shift it onto anyone else. Therefore, in the end you will not be able to say, “What could I do? It happened.” You will have to bear it. There is no way to licentiousness.

Thus from the nonexistence of God, Mahavira took responsibility; from the nonexistence of God, Nietzsche took licentiousness. Mahavira became liberated; Nietzsche became deranged. Both began with exactly the same logic, but the ends were vastly different. Where Mahavira attained the supreme fragrance, Nietzsche rotted and died in a madhouse!

Think it over! Mahavira’s path is for very few. It is for those in whom freedom will not turn into licentiousness; for those in whom the absence of God will not become ego—who will say, “If even God is not, then what of me? If even God is not, what can I be?”

“God” means the “I” of the whole existence, the center of the whole. When the entire existence is centerless and without “I,” then I—a small person, a tiny ripple, a slight wave—when the ocean itself has no “I,” what “I” can there be of mine? The matter is finished!

So in denying God, Mahavira simultaneously denied within himself the very possibility of “I.” Therefore do not think that Mahavira and Narada are truly opposites. Ultimately the essence is one. Mahavira, by rejecting God, rejected the “I.” Narada, by accepting God, offered the “I” at His feet. In either case, both Narada and Mahavira became free of the “I.”

So whatever decision you take—whether in favor of love or in favor of ego—remember one thing: the ego will have to die. You cannot save it. If you do save it, you will become deranged, you will go mad. For that very reason the whole earth is almost like a madhouse.

If you listen to me, I say: listen to the heart! Listen to love! It is the safer path. Mahavira’s path passes through many ravines and chasms. There is the danger that you may fall somewhere. Narada’s path is very safe. It will even hold your weakness. It will support you. Mahavira’s path is very solitary, extremely alone. Far, very arduous! If you go, go with full awareness—Nietzsche’s danger will stalk you.

On Narada’s path there is no danger of Nietzsche—not that there is no danger at all. Danger exists in every journey. Only those who sit at home face none. Fly by airplane—there is danger. Ride in a bullock cart—even that sometimes overturns. But when a bullock cart overturns, you don’t see people dying; at most a few bruises. Generally, if a bullock cart overturns, there is not much danger, because the speed is low and the distance from the ground is small.

Narada’s path is very close to the earth. The path of love is close to the earth. And it is not far from your ordinary life. Even while living your ordinary life you can easily practice Narada.

What is the danger? Only this: that love may turn into lust. When love becomes devotion, that is Narada’s path. And if love remains mere lust, that is the danger.

Just as the Jain monks following Mahavira became stone idols of ego, so those following Narada as devotees got lost in mere enjoyment and ornamentation. There is danger—on every path there is danger. The one who walks must face danger. Therefore walk carefully. Even so, the degrees of danger differ.

Even if you go astray on Narada’s path, you will not fall below where you already are—because you are already in lust. If you fall from Narada’s path, you fall from a bullock cart; you were not far from the ground. You are already in lust. At most you may deceive yourself by calling your lust “love,” and your love “devotion.” A mere trick of names—no great danger. But if you fall from Mahavira’s path, there comes madness, derangement, and the terror of a monstrous ego standing tall.

Look at the Jain monk! It is hard to find a more deeply egoistic person.

A Jain monk cannot fold his hands and bow to a lay follower. Difficult—impossible. A monk bow to a layman! He can bestow blessings, he cannot bow.

But I ask: if you cannot bow, why this fuss of giving blessings? If you must do something, bowing would be better than blessing. And when the bowing has dried up, there can be no great power in the blessing. What fruit will a blessing born of ego bring? Only when it springs from a bowed heart does it benefit. It is like a tree laden with fruit. As a tree bends when it is laden—so when someone is laden with love and bowed, only then do the sweet fruits of blessing become available. But they stand stiff! Not a single branch bends. There are no fruits at all. From where will blessing come? Yet the Jain monk stands rigid: austerity! No surrender to anyone—only resolve.

The danger of relying solely on the power of resolve is that your ego may go deranged. The choice is yours. It is certain that people have reached even by that path.

But if you listen to me, listen to the heart! And when you listen to the heart, the intellect will be troubled. Because choosing the heart means: the intellect’s dominion is gone; the ownership logic has over you is broken.

Who knows what I am going to say today?
The tongue is dry, the voice keeps faltering.

As you come closer to speaking of love, you will find: the tongue has gone dry, the voice falters—because the intellect does not function.

Who knows what I am going to say today?
The tongue is dry, the voice keeps faltering.

As you slide toward the heart, the intellect begins to die. Therefore the intellect will struggle a lot. But the choice must be made.

And the path of love is easy, short—closest of the close. Because love is easy, spontaneous. You are born carrying love; it cannot be said so easily that you are born carrying meditation. Meditation may kindle only after great effort. But the thirst for love is already within you; it is in your every breath, it fills every pore. Where is the human being who is not thirsty for love? Where is the human being who is not eager to give love? Perhaps you cannot give—some obstacle intervenes; perhaps you cannot receive—some barrier arises; that is another matter. But where is the human being not eager for love! Love is natural, native. It is part of life’s rhythm.

Meditation is attained through great effort, refinement, decorum, discipline. Therefore, that which is natural you can bring into use sooner.

Do not make the letter so long, Ghalib—write it brief;
just write this much in short: that I lie on the bed of longing,
submitting the complaint of the torments of separation.

—When writing to the Beloved of your life, do not make the letter very long, Ghalib! Just write this much, it is enough in brief: that at the holy feet I lay the pain of separation, the yearning to meet is deep. That is enough.

Love’s letter is short.

Whoever reads the two-and-a-half letters of love becomes a pundit!

If love has called, do not send this voice back empty. If love has called, listen—walk two steps behind it! Even by walking two steps on the path of love, one reaches God.

The path of resolve is very long, very wild, very solitary. Yes, some people relish just such a challenge. For those who relish such a challenge, that is the path to choose.

But from the questioner’s question it seems to me that the path of intellect will not suit him, the path of resolve will not suit him. Because those to whom the path of resolve suits cannot even hear love’s call. Love may keep knocking—yet their ears are deaf. In love they see only sin.
A person on the path of resolve would never even ask this. It is asked by one whose path is love but who has gotten entangled in the obstruction of the intellect. The longing is deep to descend into love, but the ego does not let him descend, does not let him bow. So break this ego! Separate yourself from it. The questioner is already the prey; the arrow has already struck.
We had taken the heart to be seasoned in fidelity—who could have known
that at the very first glance it would already be put to the test!
—We had thought the heart was well-versed in love; we did not know it would die at the very first sight!

The arrow of love has struck; now, by listening to the intellect, don’t go and hide this wound! This wound is a blessing. Yes, for those whose path is resolve, such a wound never occurs. The arrows pass them by; they do not pierce. Therefore no question arises for them. The question arises only for the one who hears the call of love. If the call of love has been heard, then come—take courage! There is nothing in the ego worth saving.

And I say this as well: even on the path of resolve, in the end, the ego has to be dropped. On the path of love it must be dropped at the very first step; on the path of resolve, at the last. This is the only difference between the path of love and the path of resolve. On the path of resolve, first the seeker refines himself, fills himself with radiance, becomes luminous, builds character, binds himself with virtue, establishes restraint; in every way he becomes disciplined, a pillar of virtue and character. But within all this a subtle ego forms: “I am an ascetic! I am self-restrained! I am a yogi!” This “I” keeps swelling. Then the final hour comes, and he realizes: now everything else has fallen away; this “I” remains. All that was false has dropped, but in the very act of dropping the false, something was constructed within—now this must be dropped.

So on the path of resolve, ultimately, finally, the ego has to be relinquished. On the path of devotion, the ego has to be left at the very first step. That is why I say: what must be abandoned anyway—why carry it so long? What you will have to leave before reaching the last summit…

Have you ever gone to the Himalayas, ever climbed a peak? As the height increases, you have to shed your load. At the final summit one arrives naked, having left everything. Even clothes become heavy. Even your breath begins to feel heavy. So if you are carrying burdens on your shoulders, you will have to drop them—keep dropping them.

At the ultimate summit of truth, only you remain in your purity. No sense of “I” remains. Mahavira calls that the soul; Narada calls it the Supreme Soul.

Kirtan is not for understanding—it is for doing. The secret is hidden in the very word: do! Do it and you will know. Understanding has nothing to do with kirtan. In fact, only when you set understanding aside will kirtan happen. If you try to do kirtan by figuring it out, it will not happen. If you do it through cleverness, you will miss. Drop the concern to understand. If you truly want to understand, do—understanding will come from behind. Dive!

Kirtan-meditation is the name of total absorption. It is the expression of ahobhava—the “Ah!” of wonder—of blessedness. The wonder that I am! The wonder that the Divine has created me! The wonder that for a little while the eyes opened and I saw light, saw flowers, heard birdsong, beheld the dance of sun, moon, and stars!

These few moments, these few breaths given to live—if they had not been given, to whom would you complain? They were given—without cause! Not asked for, yet given! Someone gave. It is Someone’s prasad; the gratitude toward this prasad is kirtan.

You did not wish to be—you could not have wished it, for to wish, you must first be. You did not desire to be able to see—had there been no seeing, how could the desire to see arise? You did not desire to hear this song, this music of life, this murmur that is existence—yet all this has been given; it is a benediction! It has come to you unasked. It is not alms; it is prasad.

Understand the difference between alms and prasad. You ask and receive—that is alms. You did not ask, you did not want, and it is given—that is prasad. This is the Lord’s prasad, the prasad of the Supreme Existence for you. He has formed each wave so it can taste the whole; he has enlivened every particle so each may know the flavor of fulfillment. Will you not give thanks for this? Do not be so miserly! Give thanks! How will you give thanks?

How helpless man is! He can dance, he can hum a song—what else can he do? What else is in our power?

This, and only this, is the meaning of kirtan: with the little we can do, we offer our feeling of wonder and gratitude to the Whole.

So kirtan is a kind of ecstasy—not madness, ecstasy. In the dictionary they may look alike; in the lexicon of life they are different. Madness is when your inner state shatters into fragments—you are no longer one, you become many. Ecstasy is when all your fragments gather and you become one; in that oneness you dance, you are intoxicated.

Ecstasy is going above the ordinary mind. Madness is falling below it. One thing is common: both lie outside the ordinary mind. That is why a paramahansa can look mad, and lovers of God seem deranged. They share only this: both have stepped outside what you call common sense. The madman fell below and is out; the ecstatic rose above and is out. Do not take the two as one. Between them lies the distance of earth and sky.

I know not why the world laughs at my condition;
in rapture the collar should be torn—and mine is as it should be.

The devotee says: Why are people laughing? My clothes are just as they should be in ecstasy; my attire is right for rapture. If I look as a madman should look, so be it. Why laugh?

I know not why the world laughs at my condition;
in rapture the collar should be torn—and mine is as it should be.
What more is needed?

Kirtan is ecstasy. The clever will laugh. That is why kirtan has been disappearing from the world. The world has grown very clever—and in that cleverness it has become foolish. Kirtan is lost; dance is lost.

Even when people dance now, it is on a very low plane—the dance of sexual arousal. The dance of God-intoxication is nowhere. Energy no longer touches those heights. Even when storms arise now, the hem of the earth is not let go; we do not soar into the sky. And if birds fly, they circle the house and perch again. They do not go so far into the sky that earth and nest are lost from sight.

Kirtan is a very long journey—it is to dance with the Divine. If you have ever danced with a woman you loved, a certain grace descends into the dance, a certain quality appears. Dance with someone merely for form’s sake and the steps will happen, the motion will be there, but no juice will flow in the inner prana. Dance with one you love and the juice of passion flows.

Kirtan is to dance with the Divine—the most Beloved. As ordinary erotic dance circles around the sex center, kirtan circles around the sahasrar, the crown. At the ultimate height of your being, flowers of dance bloom—thousands of lotuses open.

O afflicted by life! Wait—do not commit suicide;
your cure is not poison, but wine.

Kirtan! The devotee says: Do not head toward suicide out of fear of life—are you mad?

O afflicted by life! Wait—do not kill yourself!
O scorched by life, do not self-destruct! Do not flee from life. Your remedy is not poison—it is wine. Death is not your medicine. Drink the stream of life! Enter the tavern of the Divine—entering the wine-house is entering the temple.

Do not judge us by our soaked hem, O Sheikh;
wring this garment and angels would perform ablutions with its drops.

The one who does kirtan is a lover, a holy madman, a dancer, a singer, a player of instruments. And he dances with such intensity, such depth, that he forgets himself, is lost; he himself no longer remains.

In the West there was a great dancer: Nijinsky. Scientists were astonished about him. A dance like his has never been seen—neither before nor after. They were amazed that when he leapt in dance, he seemed to descend back to earth very, very slowly, as if the law of gravity did not work on him. Other dancers also leap, but they return to earth immediately. He leapt too, yet returned as a bird’s feather flutters, gently, gliding on air toward the ground. Much study was done. He was asked: Where is the miracle? How does this magic happen?

He said: I don’t know. It happens only when I forget myself completely—only then does that leap occur. As long as “I” am there—if I try to leap by effort—nothing special comes of it. But while dancing there comes a moment when the dance remains and the dancer is no more. If the leap happens then, I myself am astonished. I become utterly light, weightless; as though the earth’s pull is the great force of the ego. And so it is. The earth is pulling only at your ego. The day your ego is gone, the sky opens. Then the earth has no hold on you.

In dance, in song, in kirtan and bhajan, the absorbed devotee says to the scholar: Do not judge us by our drenched hem. If we were to wring out this hem, even angels would take its drops for ablution.

This wine is not of this world—this swoon belongs to another. It is an invitation to another realm within. When the devotee is fully dissolved in kirtan, the devotee is no more—only God is. He becomes emptiness; and into that emptiness descends the supreme swoon. Make room—empty the space. Vacate the throne. The Divine is eager at every moment to enter you. You only step aside a little.

This alone is the meaning of kirtan: to step out of yourself; to leave the house empty, saying, “Come—now there is no one inside; the whole space is vacant for You, kept for You.”

Sorrows and griefs, pains and afflictions, despair, desires, longings—
what all arises in the heart with just one remembrance of You!

With Your remembrance, O Lord, what all does not arise! Bliss, awe, hope and despair, pleasure and pain, yearning, thirst and fulfillment!

Sorrows and griefs, pains and afflictions, despair, desires, longings—
just a touch of Your remembrance and a thousand things gather around.

Kirtan has many moods. Sometimes the devotee dances in separation; then his kirtan has a great poignancy—tears flow, there is pain and longing. Sometimes he dances in rejoicing; then his mood is bright, it is spring, flowers everywhere. See his intoxication then—rays of joy dance all around him. Sometimes he dances in thirst; sometimes in fulfillment.

The devotee has great seasons, and kirtan has many expressions. Kirtan is a rich happening—every depth of life is included in it, and every height. At first the devotee hides his love within. It is intrinsic to love that we do not wish to tell anyone—love is no spectacle, no exhibition. He hides it, ties it in the corner of his garment like a diamond. Kabir says, “I have found the diamond and knotted it tight.” He binds it so that no one gets to know, not even a whisper. Jesus said, “If it is in the left hand, let not the right hand know.” The Sufis say, “Rise at midnight and pray; even your wife should not know.”

At first it is very private; but it does not remain private for long. When the vessel fills, it overflows from the brim; then it cannot be hidden, it begins to be revealed. When the hour of revelation comes, bhajan becomes kirtan. As long as devotion flows inwardly it is bhajan, japa; when it begins to flow outward on its own—when, even if you want to, you cannot stop it; such energy is born that it spreads in all directions by itself—then it is kirtan.

Kirtan is the expression, the manifestation, of bhajan.

You too are human, Majaz; hide your love a hundred thousand times—
yet this secret will be disclosed, this mystery will be revealed.

It cannot be hidden—this secret will show itself. Who has ever hidden love? When love begins to be seen without your showing it—when it starts to glimmer in your every pore; when a halo of love forms around your eyes and face such that anyone could touch it, or, if they wished, gather a little in their fist, or drink it in—when the aura becomes that real, then kirtan appears.

So do not be in a hurry. Kirtan is the final state of bhajan. First, worship—sink inward so the roots spread. Then one day you too will be startled to see:

You too are human, Majaz; hide your love a hundred thousand times—
yet this secret will be disclosed, this mystery will be revealed.

Then comes the ultimate hour of ecstasy. The cuckoo within you calls! The peacock within you dances! Then there is no more worry. Then—kirtan!

Kirtan means that devotion has become manifest and begun to flow. Chaitanya dancing through the villages, beating the drum! Mira dancing from village to village. Then there is no concern for public opinion. All formalities drop. All labels fall away—beyond propriety. The devotee becomes a puppet in His hands and begins to dance and hum. The devotee is then only a hollow reed; let Him sing whatever song He wishes through it, hum whatever tune He likes. The devotee merely gives way—becomes a mere instrument.

Move by feeling. When feeling grows dense, it is bhajan; and when bhajan bursts forth into a thousand flowers and its fragrance spreads across worlds upon worlds, then—kirtan.

Kirtan is the supreme state of devotion.

Enough for today.