Jin Sutra #30

On the path of devotion, the mind’s restlessness is not an obstacle. On the path of devotion it becomes a means. That is the difference between devotion and knowledge.

On the path of knowledge restlessness is a great hindrance, because meditation has to be born—and meditation arises only when the mind’s imaginings, thoughts, all its waves, fall asleep. Meditation is the name of the mind’s unmoving state. So on the path of knowledge the restless mind appears an enemy—you have to struggle with it. But on the path of devotion there is no quarrel with a restless mind. The very waves that rise in the mind for the world have to be turned toward the Divine. Let the waves remain—only let them rise for God! Let waves arise, let there be thoughts and feelings; no problem—provided that in all those feelings, waves, and thoughts the form of God is infused. Even the restless mind is surrendered at his feet.

Therefore devotion is natural, and knowledge is non-natural. Devotion uses your nature; knowledge denies what you are and formulates an ideal of what you should be. Devotion says: as you are, God accepts you. You only accept God; God has already accepted you. Without his acceptance you could not even be. Good or bad, as you are—place yourself at his feet. Say to him: nothing will come of our doing; by doing we only got lost. We did much, nothing happened. Now, Thy will!

So understand the distance between devotion and knowledge. This question is proper for a seeker, but the vocabulary is that of a devotee.

‘Narhari, how shall I do your devotion?
My mind is fickle!’

This is the language of a devotee; the question is that of a seeker, not a devotee. If you distinguish the two clearly, the tangle will be resolved. If you are on the seeker’s path, there is no question of devotion—no question of ‘Narhari’. Then it is you, and you must purify your life-energy through your own energy. Then you are alone; there is no companion.

But if you are on the path of devotion, then ‘Narhari’ surrounds you; he is hidden in every breath. When you are restless, it is he who is restless within you. Those waves are his; that ocean is his.

Why make a separation between ocean and wave? Can a wave be without the ocean? Can the ocean be without waves? An ocean without waves would be dead—lifeless. And waves without the ocean? Impossible. If there are, they are painted waves in a picture—unreal, on paper. And the ocean cannot be without waves; if it is, it is a corpse. Where there is life, winds arise; where there is life, waves arise. And the vaster the ocean, the greater its capacity to bear great storms. Those waves are his. This mind is his! We are his! This body is his!

The devotee’s language is different. In this question there is confusion. It is not clear. Whoever composed those two lines did not have it clear in his own mind what he was saying. His mind was a mishmash. The question was that of a seeker, the language that of a devotee. Whoever falls into such confusion enters a great crisis—an inner crisis. His mind splits in two. He buys a ticket to Calcutta and boards the train to Bombay; then he wonders, I do have my ticket—why is the ticket-checker troubling me! He has a ticket, but he needed to go in another direction. For where he is going, he has no ticket.

In the Rig Veda there is a supreme utterance: ‘Ritasya yatha pret’—what is natural is dear; what is spontaneous is auspicious. Live according to your nature. Ritasya yatha pret! This is Lao Tzu’s foundation: Tao. The whole Tao can be contained in this one small sutra of the Rig Veda: Ritasya yatha pret.

What is natural is dear. Do not split the pleasant and the truly good. What feels delightful is that which is beneficial. Feeling delight is the hint of the beneficial—somewhere nearby the good is hidden. Find the doorway to the good.

Therefore the Vedic rishi is no escapee. He has not denied life—there is supreme acceptance of life. What God has given is prasad, his gift. How can it be rejected? How can it be renounced?

Renunciation would mean: we are not pleased with your gift; your gift is not worthy of being a gift. You gave life—take it back!

In Dostoevsky’s famous novel The Brothers Karamazov, one character, angry with God, says: take back your ticket. I don’t want this life! Keep your life to yourself! The one who renounces is saying the same: these flowers did not please us; they turned into thorns. This rain you showered was not nectar, it was poison. And this life you gave—unworthy of giving. Whom did you want to deceive?

The renunciate says: I drop your life; I want release from coming and going. The renunciate goes against nature—fights the river’s current. He flows toward Gangotri; the devotee toward the Ganga’s ocean. The devotee says: wherever the Ganga takes me! I am his, the Ganga is his, the winds are his. Wherever he takes me, that is the destination! And who am I to decide the destination! So if waves arise in the mind, he hums the Lord’s name in those very waves.

Hence you will find the devotee humming; the knower you will find silent. The knower is not only outwardly silent, he is quiet within. Let a word arise and the world arises. He has become afraid not only of the world, but of the word too. The devotee you will find humming outside and humming within. He accepts the waves. He knows the alchemy for transforming waves. He has offered even the waves at God’s feet. He is not frightened by this. There is no opposition between nature and him. He does not know the language of denial. In fact, for the devotee, the language of denial hides atheism.

Therefore it has happened that many knowers became atheists; but not a single devotee became an atheist. Think on this a little.

Buddha is an atheist. He attained supreme knowledge, yet atheism did not leave him. Mahavira is an atheist. He attained supreme knowledge, yet there is no place for God. For when there is no place even for worship, how can there be a place for God? When there is no place for prayer, how can there be a place for God?

So a unique event occurred: supreme knowers like Buddha and Mahavira are atheists. When the West first learned of them, Christian scholars could not understand how this could be—religious and atheist! Because in the West, Judaism, Islam, Christianity—all three are traditions of devotion; none of them are traditions of knowledge. They knew only one style—the devotee’s. For them it was impossible: how can there be a devotee without God! So in the earliest books written about Jainism and Buddhism, Western writers said: these are ethical systems, not religions—moral codes! For how can there be religion without God? But there can be religion without God. In fact, the seeker’s religion will be without God.

God is the flowering of the devotee’s heart—devotion condensed. Prayer, layer upon layer, congeals and becomes God. Only when waves and ripples are not rejected does one find the ocean. The knower, gradually rejecting the waves and then even leaving the ocean, sits in the desert.

Ritasya yatha pret!

So don’t be afraid! He gave the waves—offer them back to him. And what is there in returning his own thing to him?

In the Sama Veda there is an utterance: Devasya pashya kavyam—behold the poetry of the Divine! What appears is God’s manifest poem. He is hidden behind it. This humming that appears in the name of nature—behind it hides his voice. Whether in the cuckoo’s cooing or the crows’ complaints—it is he who is hidden. Be it caw-caw or coo-coo, dark night or day full of light, birth or death—everywhere his hands are at work. This poetry is his.

Devasya pashya kavyam! This world that appears is his manifest poem, like the poet is hidden and we touch only the poem.

Within you too, the one who is raising waves is he. You too are his wave. The waves that arise in you are his waves.

So if you have the heart of a devotee, do not worry. He considered you worthy of waves—thank him for that. He gave you life; he gave you rasa; he gave you a thousand dimensions of being. He gave you love, color and song. Accept! And the moment you accept, you will find the sting gone—the thorn no longer pricks. The devotee says:

We are seized on the basis of what the angels have written—needlessly.
Was there any human to testify for us?

The devotee says to God: do not trust what your angels have reported about us—the accounting of our sins and merits. Do not trust it. ‘Was there any human present at the time of that deposition?’ If you must ask, ask human beings, for only humans will understand that you made us like this. What do angels know of how much love you filled into our every fiber? What do angels know of how much dance and how many waves you gave us? No—do not trust them. If we have erred, it was you who had us err. And if a witness is needed, ask humans, for they will understand us—as they are, so are we.

Pakde jate hain farishton ke likhe par, nahak—
Aadmi koi hamara dame-tahrir bhi tha?

Only if a human eyewitness is our witness should you trust the account.

Christianity says Jesus will be your witness. In the Bible Jesus uses two expressions. Sometimes he says, I am the Son of God; but even more often he says, I am the Son of Man—great emphasis that I am the son of man, as though being the Son of God is secondary. And Jesus says, I am your witness. This is worth pondering.

Islam does not consider Muhammad an incarnation of God, nor a tirthankara—only a messenger sent by God; but a man. This is important, because only a man can be a witness for man. If Rama were to testify for you, there would be trouble, because he would think according to his own standards—very harsh, extremely strict, inhuman, impossible! A washerman says to his wife: I am no Ramchandra to accept you back after years in Ravana’s house! If you are away even one night, I will not accept you. That news is enough for Rama to abandon Sita—propriety!

If such a person testifies for you, you will be in difficulty; his measure will be very high, inhuman. Before him you will be a sinner in every case.

Therefore Islam says Muhammad is not God’s incarnation; he is a man like men. Man’s troubles are his troubles; man’s inner agonies are his inner agonies; the feelings and surges of a man’s mind are his feelings and surges. His testimony has meaning.

The devotee says: I am as you made me. I have not made myself. This mind too you have given. I have only received. I am not the doer of it. Therefore you know—this is your responsibility.

Even if the devotee forgets the remembrance of God, he does not worry much. He says: it is you who are making me forget.

If You are, why worry for You?
If You are not, what is the point of Your mention?

If You are, then even if I do not keep thinking of You, You are! And if You are not, what use is it even to talk of You?

If You are, why worry for You?
If You are not, what is the point of Your mention?

And surely man is weak, helpless. For a moment he is filled with feeling; the next moment the storm subsides, the tide ebbs, and all is forgotten.

Watch a man worshiping in a temple—what purity shines in his face! Watch someone offering namaz—what innocence descends into his eyes! A unique radiance comes upon the face. Then see the same man in the marketplace, quarrelling, running his shop—you will hardly believe he is the same person! The mind changes every moment: now this, now that. The mind is wave-like. Fickleness is its nature. Even remembrance, when it comes, does not stay steady. Sometimes it comes with great force and makes every hair tremble; sometimes it is forgotten and days pass without remembrance. When it returns, you are startled, you weep: ah, I forgot for so many days!

But this is man’s natural condition. Breath goes in, then out. If you try to keep it in, you will die. What comes in must go out; what goes out must come in. Thus the movement of breath continues. In all states there is polarity. By day you work; at night you sleep. One moment you resolve; the next your resolve breaks. So the breath comes and goes; thus the boat sways on the waves.

Now there are two ways. One is the knower’s way—very arduous—for you must strive yourself. With your small hands you must still this entire ocean. That is why Mahavira was called the Great Hero—not without reason. Tremendous austerity! Formidable! Austerities of lifetimes—only then did that fortunate moment arrive when the waves were stilled. It was a great battle. Yes, those who enjoy fighting can go by this path. This path too arrives. The devotee has chosen the natural path.

And if you wish to arrive in a natural, spontaneous way—without much struggle, without futile conflict—then the path of devotion is yours. Leave it to him. What the knower accomplishes in lifetimes, the devotee does in a moment. And to insist on doing over lifetimes what can happen in a moment is mere obstinacy. If it can happen in a moment, why do it for lifetimes? You can hand it over at once.

A man came to Ramakrishna with a thousand gold coins. He placed them at his feet and said, I want to give these to you. Ramakrishna said, Good. Now that you have brought them, if I return them you will feel hurt—so I accept. They are mine now. Now do me this favor: take them and throw them into the Ganga. They are mine now—do this much more for me: go and throw them into the Ganga.

The man went, but did not return; much time passed. Ramakrishna said, go see what he is doing! There he was, ringing each coin, testing it, throwing it into the water—one by one. A crowd had gathered. A marvel! He would ring each coin, test, look, and throw. So it was taking time. He kept count—three hundred three, three hundred four—thus slowly he went! Ramakrishna said, go tell him: fool! When you have to collect them, you must test each coin, examine, count, post to the ledger. But when you have to throw the whole lot into the river, what does it matter whether they are a thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine, or a thousand and one! When you are throwing them, throw them all at once—what are you doing there, counting?

The devotee says: when it is to be placed at his feet, why place it coin by coin—let me lay the whole lot at once! And why this ego that I will offer only merits at his feet?

This is the devotee’s glory: he says, I will place even my sins at his feet! Why keep even this subtle vanity that I will offer only virtue, not sin? Hidden in it is a subtle ego: I—and my sin—at your feet! No, first I will create merit, then offer. I—and in the wrong—come to your feet? No! I will come—made wholly beautiful, beautiful in every limb, wrapped in glory—then I will lay at your feet! Ego is hidden there too. The devotee says: as I am now—poor, lowly, good-bad, beautiful-ugly—accept me!

It is for this that I remained standing—
that you might call me.
The earth does not speak,
nor does the sky speak.
The world, seeing me,
does not open its mouth.
There is no place where
I was not counted a stranger.
Where all have I not roamed,
searching mind and heart?
Where is the man who
has lived having given up hope?
It is for this that I remained insistent—
that you might call me.
It is for this that I remained standing—
that you might call me!
Call—and caress me;
by caressing—set me right!

The devotee says: You! Call and caress me; by caressing, set me right! You!

The devotee’s inner state is unique. The devotee has nothing to do—only to drop the sense of doership. The knower has much to do—a long journey. And the wonder is that the knower, after doing and doing, in the end achieves only this: the sense of doership drops. That is his last step. For the devotee this is the first step. Therefore I say again and again: the knower proceeds step by step; the devotee leaps. The knower descends by stairs; the devotee jumps.

Therefore in Mahavira’s words you will find an orderliness, a scientific sequence. One step joined to the next—each itemized, clear. All pointers and signs. A complete map. Milestones everywhere—how far you have come, how far remains—all written.

Mahavira spoke of fourteen stages (gunasthanas) and divided the entire journey into fourteen segments. Each segment has its clear milestone. You can know for certain where you are, how far you have come, how far remains. Only after the fourteenth is the journey complete.

The devotee has no gunasthanas. The devotee has no map. The devotee has no ordered steps. The devotee does not even know where he is. He knows only this much: wherever I am, I am his; however I am, I am his. This one sutra becomes denser and denser in his heart.

And it depends on you: if you wish, the leap can happen in a moment; if you wish, you can go on thinking of leaping for lifetimes.

For those who live by mathematics, the path of knowledge. For those who live by love, the path of devotion.

‘Narhari, how shall I do your devotion?
My mind is fickle!’

Place that fickle mind at his feet! Say, Here—You take care! And if he says, No, you take care of it for me—then, just as Ramakrishna said to that man, Go and throw it in the Ganga for me—so you take care of it so long as he has given it to you. It is a trust. You have nothing of your own in it. He says, Keep it for me. Since it is a trust, keep it; when he asks, return it.

As you wish!

In the world of sadhana there is a difference everywhere between the seeker and the devotee. The seeker will immediately cup his hands and drink. The devotee wants a little coaxing. He says, “Let God say, ‘Drink!’ Let him pat me and say, ‘Come now, drink! Granted you’ve been thirsty so long—now drink.’” So he stands there, playfully sulking.

“You bent me; I bowed—equality was lost.
This turned into worship, my friend; it was no longer love.”

He wants a good deal of wooing. He says, “Bow? Why should I bow?” And he can say “Why should I bow?” only because he has already bowed. Having left everything, he has earned the right to play a little game of sulking and being coaxed.

When the water appears before a seeker, he drinks instantly—for he has waited so long, and he is always afraid it may slip away, the water just found may be lost again. He has labored so much, traveled so far, and only then at last had a glimpse of the water—he bows at once and begins to drink. But the devotee receives without doing anything. He has not come by some long journey; it comes as “His” prasad, “His” grace. It is not that he has earned it or attained it by his own merit. He has declared his own unworthiness and left everything in His hands—and received. So he can afford a little play of sulking. He can wait. He says, “Let it come; let the water rise a bit more. If it has come this far, surely it will reach the lips. Then we’ll drink. Why even trouble to cup the hands? He who has shown such compassion as to bring the water so near will show a little more.”

Love is savored when the Beloved too is restless—
when fire burns equally on both sides.

And as devotion deepens, it becomes visible that not only am I seeking Him—He too is seeking me. This is the truth as well. It is not only the thirsty one who seeks the spring; the spring too is waiting: come. For when the thirsty one is fulfilled at the spring, the spring too is fulfilled. It is not only the thirst of the thirsty that is quenched; the spring’s age-long thirst is also quenched. The spring’s joy lies in someone’s thirst being quenched.

If it were only you seeking God, and He had no purpose with you, the quest would hardly be fulfilled. For if He took no delight in being sought, how would you ever find Him? You can seek because He too wants to be found. He positions Himself where meeting can happen. He comes so close that with a little searching on your part, the meeting occurs.

You have seen children playing hide-and-seek—just that game! They don’t go very far, lest you never find them. They hide right there in the room, behind the bed, or slide under the cot. You know it; they know it. The one who knows still circles around a bit and then comes to the cot, “Ah!” and feigns surprise as if nothing was known—though he had one eye half open and saw where the child went. Everyone knows.

That is why Hindus call this world a lila—a divine play, a game of hide-and-seek.

God too is seeking you. You are not alone in the search. It is not only your hand that is reaching for His; His hand is reaching for yours. Perhaps even before you stretched out your hand, He had already extended His—since the moment He made you, He has been standing with hand outstretched. You have been late.

Love is savored when the Beloved too is restless—
when fire burns equally on both sides.

The fire burns equally on both sides. He too is “thirsty” for you to come.

Scientists say: the sun rises, and flowers bloom. Till now it has been thought this is one-way traffic: the sun rises, the flowers blossom. The sun gives so much to the flowers; without the sun, flowers could not bloom. Poets always doubted this one-way view, and now some scientists too have begun to suspect that in this world nothing can be one-sided. Everything here is a balanced exchange; both pans of the scale must be even, otherwise there will be disorder. If the sun goes on giving and flowers only receiving, one day the sun would be bankrupt, and the flowers’ bellies so swollen they could no longer hold themselves. No—the flowers, too, must be giving something. And at dawn, when the sun rises, not only do the flowers bloom; seeing the flowers in bloom, the sun too must bloom.

Till now this was poetry. But in the last decade scientists have begun to suspect that the poetry may be true—because throughout life the give-and-take is reciprocal. When you give love to someone, you immediately receive love. If only you are giving and nothing returns, you tire quickly, you grow sad, you go your own way: “This door is not for me.” If you offer friendship and nothing answers from the other side—no resonance, no response, no signal from the other heart that your friendship is accepted or rejected, desired or not desired; the other stands aloof and indifferent—friendship dries up quickly. Nourishing is possible only when the flow is both ways—coming and going, returning. And when love returns, it returns a thousandfold. You give again; again it returns a thousandfold. Two lovers by giving to each other receive far more than they ever gave, because on both sides love multiplies a thousandfold.

The sum of two lovers is not addition but multiplication: the final reckoning is not three plus three equals six; it is three times three equals nine. The number grows like a product. Both lovers become small, and the love flowing between them grows vast. They become like two banks, and the Ganges of love swells between them. But this is possible only when it returns.

My view is the same: flowers return too. And the day not a single flower remains on earth, the sun will not wish to rise. What would be the point? For whom?

I am speaking here. Only if you understand can I go on speaking. If I see understanding returning through your eyes, your expression, your posture—then I can speak. Otherwise there is no difference between speaking to walls and speaking to you. Then I might as well speak to the wall. You are not a wall. That is why I have gradually stopped speaking to crowds, because I found that a great wall stands there. A crowd stands, yes, but like a wall. Sensitive minds are not present. I speak, but nothing returns. And if nothing returns—if at least understanding does not return, if there is no glimmer in the eyes, no spark—then speaking becomes futile.

I say: the sun will not rise the day flowers do not bloom. We know that flowers will not bloom if the sun does not rise; the converse is equally certain. Few have borne witness from the side of the flowers; little research has been done from their side. Flowers are small; the sun is great.

But in the human realm the situation is reversed. Man is small and says, “We seek God,” and God is great like the sun. God is seeking you. You are the tiny flowers. His rays want to surround you, to dance with you on the wind. If this is remembered, there is no fear: wait a little. If the water has risen to your chest, it will reach your lips too. He wants to drown you in Himself. He will be ecstatic in drowning; ecstatic in making you drown. He wants to absorb you into Himself. You are His energy—gone astray. Having you back, He will rejoice just as a lover rejoices when a lost beloved returns; or a mother when her lost child returns; or a father.

This joy is not one-sided. In this world nothing is one-sided. Understand this as a fundamental truth of life. Wherever you see movement on one side, know something is happening on the other side too. A clap does not sound with one hand.

So the devotee will not be able to clap alone. He cannot sing alone. He cannot do kirtan alone. Unless he senses that in the bhajan He too is included—that somewhere behind, He too is humming—and in the kirtan He too is dancing—how long can the devotee go on? The fuel will soon be exhausted. It is He who keeps adding fuel. Therefore, if you are a seeker and have reached the spring with great effort, then you must cup your hands and drink; you cannot wait long. Because the seeker believes, “I am the one who seeks; God is not seeking me.” God has no big matter with the seeker. The seeker seeks truth. Truth means: indifferent, neutral. The devotee seeks God. God means: a person, brimming with love. Truth is a dry word; it carries the ring of logic, the taste of mathematics. There is no stream of rasa in “truth”—it is like a desert. Try clasping “truth” to your chest—you will know! You may cling, but truth does not open its arms; it clings like a pillar.

“God!”—the devotee is saying that existence is not indifferent to you. That is all the word “God” means. It does not mean a person sitting in the sky. The word is a pointer: it says existence is not indifferent to you; it is filled, overflowing with love for you. Not truth, but love.

So when Jesus said, “God is love,” this is what he meant. He could have said, “God is truth.” Gandhi did say, “Truth is God.” But “truth” is a dry word—like a term of logic, mathematics, accounting. It lacks the flavor of God. To call truth “God” is to say there is no God, only truth. Then you must search for truth; truth will not search for you. Why should truth bother? There may be no life in “truth.” When truth is alive, when an inner lamp is lit, then it becomes God—it is no longer mere truth. Therefore Jesus is more right when he says, “God is love,” or “Love is God.”

So if you have leapt as a devotee, there is no worry—stand still, rest; He will advance. Your stubbornness will be the expression of your trust. Your hurry is your impatience; your waiting is your patience.

Behold the proud self-respect of my seeking:
having reached the destination, I ask for its address.

A devotee sometimes speaks with great self-respect. Only the one without ego can speak with true self-respect.

There is a beloved tale in Maharashtra about the temple of Vithoba. A devotee was serving his mother, and Krishna came to grant him darshan. He knocked at the door. The devotee said, “Don’t disturb now; I am massaging my mother’s feet.” Krishna said, “But listen who I am! I am the very Krishna whom you have always prayed to and called—come at last after much difficulty and prayer.” A brick lay nearby; the devotee slid it toward the door, without even looking up, and said, “Stand on this and rest till I finish my mother’s massage.” He kept pressing his mother’s feet through the night, and Krishna, standing on the brick, must have tired—and turned into an idol. The image of Vithoba stands upon a brick. What an extraordinary devotee—what astonishing trust!

Behold the proud self-respect of my seeking—
having reached the destination, I ask for its address.

He even kept Krishna standing—set him on a brick! Such is the devotee’s trust, such his faith: what hurry? Why restlessness? For the devotee, God is already found. And if He “leaves,” where can He go!

Therefore, if your state is devotional and you wish to let the play go on a little longer, even if the spring rises before you and floods you up to the chest—stand there; no harm. He too is coming; He is seeking you. He will come to your lips. But if you have come by great endeavor, then do not be so patient—drink at once! What is gained by effort can be lost in a moment. In some state of mind the spring appears; the state changes, it is lost. If, by gaining mastery over the mind’s waves, becoming meditative, you glimpsed the spring, drink quickly—who knows when the waves return and you miss again!

The seeker often misses after reaching—again and again—because his reaching depends on a particular state of mind: very narrow, very difficult to sustain. To hold it even for a moment is hard. Mahavira said: if you remain in meditation for forty‑eight seconds, truth is attained. Forty‑eight seconds! Even that much is difficult for the mind.

But the devotee can remain in the mood of God twenty‑four hours a day. Even when he forgets, he forgets only Him; when he remembers, he remembers Him—he never slips away. Even his forgetting is His forgetting. If he turns his back, it is toward Him; if he turns his face, it is toward Him. The devotee’s condition is unique.

So it depends on you, on the questioner. If you have found with difficulty, then when you come near, do not delay—drink at once! Who knows—the source that has come close may vanish again. Yes, if you are a devotee, you can enjoy a bit more of the play. And the relish of the play upon arriving is very different! Earlier we are tormented, afraid, troubled, restless.

That is why you have often seen: when people reach the destination, they sit right there to rest. They may have walked for miles, but exactly at the door, they think, “Fine,” and sit on the steps to rest. Not long now—but having arrived, what’s the hurry!

Because there is love—that’s why.
Your love is not yet free of anger. In your love, anger will still be there. In your friendship, your enmity will also still be there—because you are divided. You are not yet of one taste. For now, the very person you love is the one you also get angry with. The one you revere is the one you also doubt. You are contradictory. Your mind is in a state of duality—where the opposite has not yet been transcended, where the opposite is present. If you didn’t love me, there would be no irritation.

You have seen: if you want to make someone your enemy, first you have to make him your friend. Can you make anyone your enemy without first making him your friend? How will you do it? There’s no way. Friendship can turn into enmity; enmity can turn into friendship; but there is no direct route to enmity. We get angry only with those to whom we are attached. We get angry with our own; we don’t get angry with strangers.

So if you are attached to me, irritation will arise many times. Don’t be frightened by it—it is the shadow of love. Don’t be anxious either. If you become anxious and start paying too much attention to it, there is a danger: whatever you feed with your attention grows stronger. Accept it: “All right, since there is love, sometimes irritation also happens.” But don’t focus on it. Whatever we pay attention to grows. Attention is nourishment.

That’s why we relish attention so much. If no one pays attention to you, you begin to wilt. Psychologists say: even if a child receives food, medical care, and every comfort, if he doesn’t get his mother’s attention, he still withers. He needs attention. A child craves attention; he cries and screams for it. You’ve seen it: tell a child, “Guests are coming, don’t make a racket!” He was quietly playing with his toys; the moment the guests arrive, he will make a commotion—because he won’t miss the opportunity to attract so many people’s attention. And he knows only one way to attract attention: create some trouble.

Attention is nourishment. That’s why people are so eager to attract others’ attention. Someone wants to become a politician—he is nothing, but his ambition is: “Let thousands of people look toward me.” Become president, prime minister—and then millions of people’s attention will be on me.

You must have noticed: as long as a politician is in office, he remains healthy; the moment he is out, he falls ill! As long as he keeps succeeding, he is perfectly healthy; once he fails, he’s done for. What happens? As long as attention comes, nourishment comes. Attention is energy. Whenever you look at someone with total attention, you are giving that person energy. The source of life flows from your eyes.

So people who can’t get attention in a legitimate way use crooked ways. Psychologists say there is no real difference between politicians and criminals. The only difference is that politicians attract attention by socially approved means; criminals do it by socially disapproved means. He kills someone—his photo appears in the newspaper; people talk about him. “Even if infamous, at least there will be a name!” You may think the criminal must feel terribly burdened when the police lead him off in chains. You’re mistaken: look closely! When they take a man away in chains, watch his swagger—see the pride with which he walks! In the marketplace he is now a person of status, a special person! No one else’s hands are in chains, and no one else has four or five policemen walking around him—they’re around him! Just as policemen walk before and behind a president, so they do for a criminal. Just as crowds look at politicians, so they look at criminals.

I have heard: a politician died, and his ghost went along with his bier. Another ghost was there at the cremation ground—an old ex-politician. The new politician’s ghost said, “Had I known that in dying such a crowd would gather, I’d have died long ago! Never in my life did such a crowd assemble. If only I had known earlier, I’d have died long ago!”

There is a great relish in gathering a crowd. Behind it is a psychological truth. If no other way is found, a person resorts to upside-down means.

In the early part of this century, in America, a man wanting to become famous shaved off half his hair and half his beard and mustache. He wandered the streets of New York for three days. Wherever he went, people stared in shock: what happened! His name was in every newspaper. In three days he was on everyone’s lips. When asked why he had done it, he said, “What is there to explain? I was dying—no one knew me! We come and we go—and no one even notices! Is that any way to live? I have no special quality; I am not a great poet or a great painter that people would notice me—so I thought, do something! This occurred to me. And now painters are coming to make my portrait, and poets are writing poems about me.”

Remember: whatever you give attention to grows stronger. Among the greatest discoveries of modern science is a most astonishing one: when scientists observe atoms and molecules through high-powered instruments, something unique is found—the very act of observation changes their behavior. The behavior of atoms changes when they are observed! Astonishing. It would mean that when you look intently at a chair, it does not remain what it was when no one was looking! With human beings this is easy to understand: you walk down the road when no one is around—you are one sort of person. Let someone appear and you change; you walk a little more carefully. If two women appear—and if they are beautiful—then you change altogether! You straighten yourself out; adjust your tie; start walking as handsomely as possible! Your face lights up, your step gains a spring!

Ten men are talking, and a woman enters—the whole tone of the conversation changes instantly. A race begins among the ten: whose attention will she give?

Woman means mother! The eye’s first relationship is with her. The first attention came from her eyes. The first flame of life was received from her gaze. The moment a woman is seen, the same longing for that light of attention is kindled. And a competition begins: who can attract her? The one who does has won—he becomes the leader; the other nine lose.

Scientists say even objects do not remain the same under observation; they undergo transformation. Astonishing! That atoms change their behavior when looked at suggests one thing: atoms too are endowed with consciousness. There is awareness even there. Without consciousness, this could not be.

So when you look intently at a tree, don’t think the tree remains the same—it changes. Many experiments are being done on this. Choose a tree in a garden. Go to it daily and give it attention. Choose another tree of the same kind nearby; give both equal water and fertilizer—only withhold attention from one. With the chosen tree, give attention; stroke it, caress it, love it, speak a little to it, share something of yourself, listen a little to it—and you will be amazed: the tree that received attention grows at twice the rate. There are scientific confirmations now. It flowers earlier; its flowers are larger. Water and fertilizer are identical; both saplings were planted together, were of the same height—soon, the one attended to will outgrow the other; the neglected one will remain weak, slight, impoverished.

The same truth applies within. Give attention only to what you want to grow. You love me—give attention to love itself. Yes, now and then the shadow of anger falls—don’t attend to it. Whatever you attend to will grow. Attend to love! As you do, you will find anger diminishing. A day will come when the whole energy of anger, immersed in meditation, will be transmuted into love. Then even the shadow of anger will not arise. Then love will be pure. And where love is pure, prayer is born.

“Even with so much love for you, why do restlessness and anger sometimes arise while listening to you?”
There are other reasons too. Not everything I say is meant to console you. Much of it will not console you. Much of it will shatter your notions. Much of it will uproot your fixed ideas. Much of it will create obstacles in the arrangements you have made so far. So restlessness will arise.

If you were walking along a path thinking everything was fine, and then you met me and I said, “Nothing in this is fine”—restlessness is natural.

A Sufi was brought to me. For thirty years he had been continuously in remembrance of God—zikr. He had reached a point where he saw God everywhere—in trees, mountains, stones. I said to him, “Stay with me for three days and, for three days, stop the remembrance.” He asked, “Why?” I said, “It has been thirty years; now it is necessary to find out whether this isn’t just your remembrance! Whether it isn’t self-hypnosis! By repeating the same thing over and over, perhaps you have created an idea. You don’t actually see—it is a delusion.”

He said, “That makes sense.” He was a little frightened. Yet he said, “I will try.” He stayed with me three days. He stopped remembrance; he did not say his prayers. On the third morning he became very angry with me. He said, “You have ruined everything. You poured water on thirty years of my practice! What enmity is this? What harm had I done you?”

I said, “I have ruined nothing; there is no enmity. A fact has been revealed to you. This ‘God’ you believed you were seeing—you have not yet seen. You merely stirred up a mist in your eyes. If thirty years of labor can be lost in three days, it wasn’t worth keeping. If, in thirty years, the moment did not come when, even without your remembering, God remained—when will it come? Something is going wrong in your memory. Your method is flawed.”

Naturally he was angry with me. He left in anger. About fifteen days later he returned. He said, “Forgive me. Perhaps what you say is right—though I was angry, because you snatched my consolation, my security. I thought I had found a truth and you took it away! Yet now I understand—you didn’t take anything. My fist was empty. I had not opened it to look. I had only assumed. Now I have come to ask: what should I do?”

So often, while listening, restlessness will arise—because you have not left your beliefs at home; you have brought them along. When I speak, there is a continuous conflict with your beliefs. A single word of mine enters you and a crowd of a thousand of your own words will not let it in. Unease will arise; restlessness will arise; anger will arise. Try to understand this.

Restlessness arises when my words give you some vision that runs contrary to your assumptions. Don’t be hasty. Listen, understand. That restlessness is your mind’s trick—raising smoke so you won’t be able to see. In that restlessness you will miss. In that moment, remain quiet and listen. Say to the mind, “Don’t panic; we’ll go home and think it over. First let me understand. I know you well—we’ve been together for years; let me also understand this. Later we’ll weigh both on the scales and do the accounting. Then we’ll accept whichever is right.”

If you have truly listened, there will be no problem. Truth has a quality: if you truly hear it, you will not be able to escape it. There is only one way to avoid it—don’t truly listen; create confusion while listening. If you have heard it, falsehood cannot stand before it. If your belief is right, it will remain; if not, it will fall. In both cases it is good.

Then, by listening again and again, transformations will happen in your life. It is not that society will approve of these transformations. Society has never approved of a religious person—because society is not yet religious. Society approves of sectarian people, because society is sectarian. Hindus are approved; Muslims are approved; Christians are approved; a truly religious person is approved by none. I am not making you Hindu, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Buddhist. My endeavor is unique: I want to make you simply religious—without adjectives.

So when you return home, if my words have echoed in your mind, touched your heart, struck the strings of your being, you will begin to become different. Transformation will start. Wherever you are, obstacles will arise. You will be angry with me.

I may be oblivious—perhaps you know;
people say it is you who have ruined me.

You will be annoyed with me: “This man has ruined me. I was fine—minding my work. Now everything is in a mess. These ochre clothes, this mala—people say I’ve gone mad! People say I’m hypnotized!” There will be trouble in the office, in the shop. I am knowingly creating obstacles—because it is through this very challenge that you will change; otherwise you cannot.

No one changes through comfort—change comes through challenge. Challenge is painful. In the first stage there is great pain; but after the pain, a new birth.

So your annoyance, your anger, is not altogether without cause. And for those who have fallen deeply in love with me, who no longer care what society says—there is another kind of trouble: they feel empty without me. That too becomes a cause for annoyance. If they don’t hear me for some days, they feel restless. When we become dependent on someone, we begin to feel irritated with that person: “This is not good—it has become a kind of bondage.” If they don’t come to me for two or four months, the heart feels desolate; an urge to come arises; they feel like dropping a thousand tasks and coming. Such is this intoxication. There will be craving. And annoyance will arise: “What is this? As if I am in someone’s power, as if someone is pulling me by strings, as if love has forged chains!”

Nothing is lacking without you—
yet without you my heart remains forlorn.

You may have everything, but if you have kept even a small space for me in your heart, without me your mood will become a little sad. And how will you not be annoyed with that which is making you sad? Yet this sadness is of an interim period. Soon it will pass. And soon a moment will come when you will not need to run here; wherever you are, I will come to you. Before that moment arrives, this period of wistfulness must pass.

The tavern lies desolate, the jars and goblets are sad;
you left—and the days of spring have turned away.

If you have linked your springtime to me—as it will be linked; if your dance has been born with me—then the link is made. If you have felt happy here, joyful, delighted, festive—then on returning home you will feel sad. The mind will keep running toward this place. You’ll go about your work, and the memory of here will remain. Wife and children will start to feel like strangers; your own home will feel like a wayside inn. Your annoyance is quite natural. But this is only transitional. Go a little deeper, and slowly—for the first time—wife and children will feel truly your own.

I am not here to break you from anyone—my commitment is precisely this. I am not trying to separate you from anyone; I am trying to connect you. But before real connection can happen, the false connections will break. Before you can truly love your children, the false love—the thing you have so far called love—will go. When it goes you will feel restless. Your hands will feel empty; your heart will feel hollow. But emptiness is the first condition for being filled. First I will make you empty, so that you can be filled. I will have to cut; with chisel in hand I will have to remove many pieces—only then can your statue shine.

So it is not without cause; it is natural. If you understand, you won’t be disturbed. These restless hours will pass.

Love has never made anyone unhappy. Love has never been a bondage for anyone. If it seems so, understand only this: it is new. The taste has not yet settled on the tongue; once it settles, you will find—love is freedom.

Love is liberation. There is no liberation greater than love.
Enough for today.