Jin Sutra #33

There is no way to know the difference without taking sannyas. Sannyas is a taste. Sannyas is the taste of coming close to me. Sannyas is the courage to surrender.

You do sadhana; but the sannyasin is not alone—you are. You practice; the sannyasin also practices. The sannyasin is with me; you are not with me. I am with both! But you practice in your own way. You listen to me, but you go on choosing. The sannyasin does not even choose. Once he has chosen me, he drops choosing. He says, Enough!

I am with both, but the sannyasin comes to be with me—and that makes a revolutionary difference. But you will know it only when you know it.

There was a famous Christian woman—Theresa. She was a poor beggar. One day she announced in her village, “I want to build a great church for Jesus.” People laughed. “How much wealth do you have?” She took two coins from her pocket: “I have two coins.” They laughed more. “You’ve gone mad—can anyone build a church with two coins?” She said, “That I also know. But I am not alone; God is with me. Two coins and Theresa are nothing—but two coins plus God are everything. What more is needed!”

Where she said this, today stands one of the world’s most beautiful churches. It was built—not by wealth—but by deep surrender. The point was: Theresa was not alone. She had two coins, yes, but she also had God.

When you practice on the basis of my words, you are choosing—what seems right to you, you do; what does not, you leave. You think you are following me; in fact, you are following yourself.

Sannyasin means: he said, “Now we will no longer follow our will, but yours. We drop choosing. We agree to be taken wherever you lead.” Sannyas means the blindness of love. The sannyasin says, “Your eyes are enough; ours are no longer needed.” But you won’t know this from outside—just as if someone asks, “What is the difference between a lover and a non-lover?” Without tasting, there is no way to know. Keep this in mind.

I am with you—but the day you are with me, a revolution will begin in your life that you cannot even imagine now. Then you have taken a support. Then you have held a hand. Then trust enters your life.

I was reading the life of a great scientist, a botanist. He wanted to study flowers that bloomed in a cave cliff, but there was no way to reach them; they grew across a deep ravine and nowhere else. Seeing no other way, he tied his young son with a rope around the waist and lowered him into the chasm, saying, “Pluck a few flowers.” The boy dangled down happily—he took it as a game. And when a father is holding the rope, why worry! He collected the flowers. But the father’s hands and feet were trembling. He had sent the boy, but the task was dangerous. Would he come back alive? He shouted from above, “Any problem? Are you afraid?” The boy replied, “Afraid of what? When the rope is in my father’s hands, what is there to fear?”

The father is afraid; he trembles—because the journey is risky. But the trust inside the boy—without it, danger could arise. Fear itself creates danger.

And this is the strange vicious circle: out of fear you don’t take sannyas—fear of the world, society, respectability. Because of fear you walk alone. And by walking alone you create even more grounds for fear.

Some of life’s subtlest happenings, the heart’s secrets and mysteries, open only through trust, only through faith.

So your practice is from the head. The one who has taken sannyas has descended into the heart; he has set the intellect aside. He says, “Now we will listen to the heart, we will reckon only with love.” Certainly, love is blind; but within the blindness of love are eyes such that even if you live for centuries in cleverness, you will never find them. The lover is mad.

That is why those who have not taken sannyas think the sannyasin is mad—they are right to think so. But it is a madness for which a thousand intelligences can be sacrificed. You, too, practice; but the sannyasin has awakened a vow in the depths.

Baithe hain tere dar pe kuchh karke uthenge
Ya wasl hi ho jayega ya marke uthenge
We sit at your door and will rise only after something happens:
Either union will happen—or we will rise only after dying.

He has dared to stake his life. The sannyasin is a gambler. You are cautious. You are shopkeepers.

What you have gained by merely listening to me is nothing compared to what you will gain by coming to me. What you have gained by listening with the intellect are crumbs fallen from the dining table. You have chosen to remain a beggar—so be it! The sannyasin is my guest. You will remain outside. Not that I did not send the invitation; you did not accept it. You found a thousand excuses. “We are coming, but there is other work first.”

Jesus told a story: A king’s daughter was to be married. He sent invitations to a thousand of the most eminent in the land. One said, “It’s harvest time; I cannot come, forgive me.” Another said, “I have a court case, forgive me.” Others had other excuses. When the messengers returned, they reported that many guests gave many excuses and would not come.

So the king said, “Then go out on the roads and bring whoever is willing to come. Forget the invitations—my palace must not remain empty. It is my daughter’s wedding; the palace must be full. Whoever you meet on the way! Don’t worry about status—bring those who are willing.”

Guests came. Beggars came. The poor came. The uneducated came. Those who were never invited came. And Jesus said: whether or not this story ever happened—for kings’ invitations are seldom refused—but with God’s invitation this happens every day.

I have sent you the invitation. You cannot complain against me. I have called. If you find an excuse—that is your wish. The palace will not remain empty. Guests will come. If you do not come, nothing will be lost. Someone else will stand in your place.

What you have gained by listening are crumbs fallen from the table. Do not mistake those for fulfillment. What you will gain by coming to me…

And how to come to me? Standing shoulder to shoulder is not enough. Stand heart to heart! That is what the sannyasin has done. He has dared to bear ridicule to be with me. People will laugh. They will say, “You’re mad! You’ve lost your wits! Think a little! You’re hypnotized? What net have you fallen into? A clever man like you—and you’re following someone’s words!” But he has chosen to live with me, not with the world. In that choice, the revolution happens.

Chhalakti hai jo tere jaam se us may ka kya kehna—
Tere shadab onthon ki magar kuchh aur hai, saqi.
If you are satisfied with the wine that spills from your goblet, as you pour—that wine is fine!
But your fresh, moist lips are something else, O cupbearer.

If you want to drink the wine by placing lips upon lips, then there is no way without taking sannyas. And you will know this only when you come close. This is not a matter of explanation—it is a matter of doing.

What can be done from my side, I am doing. But you too must extend your hand. I have knocked at your door—at least open it!

Otherwise it may happen that you sit there in your cleverness. This tavern will not remain open forever. No tavern stays open forever. The time for the doors to close will come.

Us mahfile-kaif-o-masti mein,
Us anjumne-irfani mein,
Sab jaam-bakaf baithe hi rahe—
Hum pi bhi gaye, chhalka bhi gaye.
In that gathering of rapture and ecstasy,
In that assembly of knowing,
All sat with goblets in hand—
We drank, and we spilled over too.

Do not turn your life into a club of the clever.

Us anjumne-irfani mein
—an assembly of great “knowers.”
Us mahfile-kaif-o-masti mein
—in a moment of ecstasy, joy, and celebration.
Sab jaam-bakaf baithe hi rahe
—being wise, how could they drink! They kept their goblets set before them. And the unwise—
Hum pi bhi gaye, chhalka bhi gaye!

Drink—and let it overflow! How long will you sit holding the cup? Whose path are you watching? Whom are you waiting for? Time is passing. Moment by moment, the hour when the tavern’s doors close approaches. Then do not weep! If you insist on being clever now, do not scream later. Before closed doors, screaming achieves nothing.

And many are doing just that. Twenty-five centuries since Mahavira, how many are still crying at that door! Those are the Jains. Twenty-five centuries since Buddha, how many stand with empty cups before a closed door, crying, “Open the gate, we are thirsty; fill our cups!” But the tavern is gone. Those are the Buddhists. So too Christians, Hindus, Muslims.

I warn you: after I am gone you will take sannyas. But then it will be of no use—mere husk.

To be a sannyasin with Mahavira required courage; to be a Jain monk after Mahavira requires none. Now it is prestige. With Mahavira there was disgrace. To be a Jain monk then was only for a few courageous ones. That is why Mahavira is called “Great Hero.” Standing with him required courage. You had to lose status, position, honor, respect—everything.

Those who went with Jesus received the cross. Now those who go behind Jesus sit upon thrones. Later it becomes very easy.

I read a story. In New York’s grandest church—the wealthiest in the world—the head priest was preparing his sermon when a disciple ran in: “Look! What are you doing? See who’s behind you!” He looked—Jesus himself stood before the altar! The head priest panicked. Two thousand years—and this gentleman shows up, looking exactly like Jesus! What to say to him—and what not! The disciple asked, “What should I do—any orders?” The head priest said, “Do one thing—go sit on the donation box. I don’t know what kind of man this is—he looks like Jesus—but don’t let him run off with the box! Sit on it and try to look busy. Pay him no attention.”

If Jesus came into the church today, the priest would worry about protecting his prestige, his honor, his wealth—“How did this man get inside!”

You worship Krishna greatly; but if Krishna came to your door with peacock-feather crown and began to play the flute, you would call the police!

Worshiping dead prophets is easy—because it costs nothing. No stake. No risk. Only profit. Standing with a living prophet brings only loss—where is the profit?

People come to me and ask, “If we take sannyas, what will we gain?” I tell them, “Go elsewhere. Here, there will be loss. Even what you have will be taken. Here you will receive emptiness, a vast void. Here, what is will be lost. You too will be lost. If you wish to be erased—come here.” Profit is somewhere else—where life has departed and only lines remain—worn-out lines, dead lines, dead scriptures. There is no risk there; only profit.

If people see you reading the Gita, there is profit upon profit. They think, “A fine man; trustworthy; religious.” Even at your shop, if you sit with the Gita, the customer will haggle less.

That is why people sit with sandalwood mark on their foreheads, saying “Ram Ram” at the shop!
A “religious” man finds it easier to rob others. Profit upon profit! But if you sit with my book, there is only loss. If someone sees—“Ah, so you too got entangled!”—their trust in you is gone.

Sannyas, with me now, is audacity. Blessed are those who dare! Because one who is not ready to lose cannot gain. The one ready to lose everything becomes the master of all. The one ready to be erased—God fills him, completes him. Empty yourself; make space—and the Divine will come.

You may see an ocean of love in my eyes, because I am not looking at you; I am looking at what is hidden within you. I am not seeing you as you are—I am seeing your possibility. I am not seeing the seed—I am seeing the flowers that will one day bloom, that can bloom. I am looking right through you. But this way of seeing is possible only when one has seen oneself; before that it is not possible. After knowing oneself, everything becomes non-aggressive. After self-knowing, violence cannot remain. One who knows oneself becomes empty of violence in every way. But this happens only after self-knowing.

For now, you have to choose. In your personality you must select those traits that are the least aggressive. You have to travel step by step, climb the ladder rung by rung. The eyes too become non-aggressive. The whole personality becomes non-aggressive. The day the Divine alone is seen, whom will you attack?

So many of you are sitting here, yet I see only One. The forms are many. The Divine has come in many styles. Colors and manners differ, shapes differ, but it is the same—like gold cast into countless ornaments, like a potter making many kinds of vessels from the same clay. The capacity to see the formless comes only when you have found it within yourself.

Remember this.
You can see in the other only what you have first seen in yourself. You will keep seeing in others what you see within yourself. If you are angry, you will go on seeing anger in others. If you are wicked, you will go on seeing wickedness in others. If you are violent, the whole world will appear violent to you. If you are a thief, you will be afraid of everyone, because everywhere you will see thieves. The world is your reflection, a mirror—it forms your own image.

As soon as you have known yourself—in your reality, in its fullness—forms dissolve, and the ocean of the formless spreads all around. Then there is no aggression, because who would attack? On whom? Who would kill? Whom would one kill? It is then like your own two hands—what sense would it make for one hand to strike the other? Then the other too is oneself. Then you find yourself spread out in the other as well. Only then does love happen—when the other disappears. But the other disappears only when you disappear. Therefore the whole journey begins at home. All worship, all prayer, all sadhana begins in the innermost core.

Once you have had a glimpse of the inner beauty, wherever you open your eyes you will find it enthroned there. You will be astonished, amazed: how could you have been missing it all these days! You walked these very roads; these same trees were there, these same people, these same animals and birds; the same cuckoo sang every day; these same eyes were there—you peered through them even yesterday—so why did you go on missing the Divine? That which had not been recognized within—how could you recognize it without? The whole possibility of recognizing it outside happens in the innermost being. First there. First of all, there.

“Beauty and only beauty wherever the gaze is lifted—
How intoxicating this scene, this ambience, O cupbearer!”
Beauty and only beauty wherever the gaze is raised—then wherever the eyes rise, there is nothing but beauty! In this existence the ugly cannot be. If it appears, the error is in the seeing. In this existence there is no possibility for the ugly to be. Existence is filled with beauty—an ocean of beauty.
How intoxicating this scene,
How full of bliss everything is—
This is the ambience, O cupbearer.

But this bliss must first be tasted within. It must arise within. It must awaken from within into your very life-breath and pervade your eyes and ears and your hands. Then whatever you touch is God. As of now, whatever you touch turns to dust. Touch gold—it becomes mud; because right now inside there is nothing but desire. Desire touches gold and it becomes mud; prayer touches mud and it becomes gold.

You need eyes—vision. You need a dense inner realization. Then certainly nothing aggressive remains. That is why Krishna could say to Arjuna in the Gita: Do not worry! Remember only the One. See only that One as enthroned within you. Recognize only that One of whom you are merely an instrument, who is being expressed through you. Surrender to that One. Then there is no concern. Whether you fight or not makes no difference. No one has ever been killed, nor can anyone ever be killed.

If someone were to ask me, what Krishna says in the Gita is an appendix to Mahavira. If Mahavira is the beginning, the Gita is the end. This will be difficult to understand, because the Jains have greatly opposed the Gita; they felt that Krishna was inciting people toward violence, sending them to violence. It seemed to them that Arjuna wanted to run away, to become a Jain monk, to renounce all this—which is violence—and Krishna confused him, led him astray! So the Jains did not forgive Krishna; they consigned him to the seventh hell. All the other sinners will be released, they say; but Krishna will be released only at the very end when this creation finally dissolves.

Their argument is logical: other sinners may have sinned, but they did not turn sin into a philosophy. Others may have committed violence, but at least they had the sense of wrongdoing within: “We are doing wrong.” Krishna, they say, proved that the wrong is right; he gave a philosophy to the wrong, made a scripture of it. So ordinary sinners—fine: today or tomorrow their punishment will be over. But how much punishment to give this man? He has removed the very sense of sin. When the sense of sin is there, a person is transformed: violence happens, he is pained; he repents; he takes vows and disciplines; he worries about washing off his karmas, about nirjara; he does good deeds because bad has been done, and now somehow the scales must be balanced; he sets up an accounting in life; he resolves that if a mistake happened today, it must not happen tomorrow.

Krishna, they say, explained that there is no mistake at all, cannot be. “Na hanyate hanyamane sharire”—is the self ever slain when the body is slain? It is not burned by fire, nor pierced by weapons. “Nainam chindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah.”

So they thought this supports violence. What stronger endorsement could there be? They missed! Because they did not understand even Mahavira—how could they understand Krishna? Had they understood Mahavira, they would see that Krishna is Mahavira’s final step, the consummation, the ultimate form of what Mahavira taught.

Mahavira said: Do not kill, because the same consciousness that is in you dwells in the other. This is the first step of the teaching. When you have become proficient in this, then the second step is taken, the final, ultimate teaching arrives: now, if you wish to kill, kill—but do not be the killer. If it is the will of the Divine, become a mere instrument—because who actually dies?

Ahimsa at the first step teaches: do not kill—because within you there is a great urge to kill, a great urge to destroy the other. As yet it may not be possible for you to see that God is in the other. First stop the killing, so that God may become visible. And when God is seen, then Krishna says: Now what worry! If it is the will of the Divine, then kill—because now you know that even by killing no one dies. This is the last step of nonviolence.

But first, the realization within must become dense. One who has known oneself has known all. One who has missed knowing that One has missed knowing everything.

How can the eye be aggressive? You are aggressive; therefore the eye becomes aggressive. The first lesson I gave you was: incline toward the ear rather than the eye. Do not take this literally. Its symbolic meaning is only this: move from activity to receptivity; from doing to non-doing; instead of running outward, descend inward; be feminine rather than masculine; be receptive, not aggressive. Do not take it to mean you should gouge out your eyes, or keep them closed, or that from now on you will live only by the ear.

It was only a symbol. What I said about the ear was just a symbol. If you understand, then your eye too will become like an ear; even your hands will become like ears. These are only senses. I can place a sword in your hand; the sword does nothing by itself—it depends on you. If you wish, with that sword you can rape a woman; and if you wish, when someone goes to rape a woman, with that same sword you can stop the rape. What can the sword do! I give you a box of matches: if you wish, light a lamp and bring light to the darkness. Not only on your path—light lamps on others’ paths too, so there is light for them as well. And if you wish, you can set someone’s house on fire. There is nothing in the match itself! The match has not told you to burn a house or to light a lamp. It depends on you.

The eye too can be non-aggressive—if you are non-aggressive. And the ear too can be aggressive.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was very angry with him, shouting, “Enough! This is beyond my endurance now. I cannot tolerate it anymore.” Mulla said, “This is the limit! I haven’t even said anything. I am just sitting silently!” She said, “I know. But you are sitting silently in such a way that it is now beyond tolerance!”

Even sitting silently can be intolerable. It depends on the manner. There can be violence even in your silence. You may sit silent because you are so filled with deep violence that you do not even want to speak. But there can be abuse in your silence too. To abuse, speaking is not necessary; without speaking there can be abuse. In the manner of your movements there can be abuse. In the way you listen to another there can be abuse.

Have you noticed? Someone comes to your house. You don’t want to listen. You sit in front of him and keep yawning. You say nothing to him. If you speak, you say, “So kind of you to come! We have been longing to see you for days! The guest is god!”—and you are yawning, you keep looking at the clock again and again. What more needs to be said? Will he understand only if you hit him with a hammer on the head? Someone is speaking and you keep looking at your watch. What are you saying? Perhaps you yourself do not know. Without words you are saying something. In your speaking, in your listening, in your movements, in your not speaking, in your silence—violence can be present on all sides.

I have heard of a great American preacher, Dr. Fosdick. A friend was telling someone about him: “We both went fishing together.” Now some occupations—fishing, or driving a car—are such that you almost inevitably learn to swear. For a driver not to swear is very difficult; anger arises. So many people—someone cuts in front of you; someone breaks the rules; someone overtakes you; someone is ahead of you, you keep honking and he just won’t move! A friend of mine says, “That’s why I stopped driving, because in it swearing becomes almost compulsory. You just can’t avoid it.” Fishing is the same. You sit for hours and the fish don’t bite—what to do! Or sometimes a fish does get hooked and as you are pulling it, it slips away. Sometimes it even comes into your hand and then leaps off. So fishermen too begin to curse.

This Fosdick went fishing with his friend. On returning, the friend told his wife, “Today I saw a very surprising thing. After hours of effort, when Fosdick caught a big fish, he was very happy; but as soon as he lifted it in his hand, it leapt and jumped out of the boat.” The friend said, “I thought now at least some expletive would come from his mouth, some curse. But Fosdick remained absolutely silent; he said nothing.” The friend told his wife, “Never have I seen such an impure silence—impure silence!” He is a religious leader; he cannot swear, cannot utter a bad word. But even silence can be impure. In silence there can be arrows, thorns, poison.

You all know this. Even by keeping quiet you can hurt. Sometimes a wound cannot be inflicted so deeply by speaking as it can by remaining silent.

So it is not necessary that, because I have said the ear is non-aggressive, it actually is. It depends on you. It was a symbol. There is a difference between hearing and seeing. The ear listens, receives. The eye goes out, touches, searches. That was the only symbol. Become like the ear. Let your eye also become like the ear—receptive. Let it drink in this supreme beauty spread all around. Do not tear it open, do not rape it! Do not violate, do not wound! That was all.

This is possible. But it will happen through your transformation.

There is no question of “making” it so. All experiences are his instruments. Taste too.

I do not teach you tastelessness; I teach you the supreme savor. Let the eyes see only that; let the ears hear only that; let the hands touch only that. Let his rasa descend upon your tongue and pass your throat. Let it be him you eat and him you drink; him you spread and him you wear. Let him become your everything. Bathe in him, breathe in him! Walk in him, sit in him; speak in him, listen in him! Let your whole life be filled with him. Because the Divine is not a fragment—that you go to the temple, give God an hour, and keep the remaining twenty-three for yourself. That is self-deception. No revolution happens that way. You have merely made a calculation: “Let me give God an hour; the other world is taken care of. This world gets the other twenty-three hours; that one hour is not costly.” And even in that one hour, how can you be in the temple? One who lives against the Divine for twenty-three hours—how will he live in the Divine for one?

As if the Ganga were to become pure only upon reaching Kashi—impure before, impure again after—how could that be? Ganga is a continuous stream. If she was pure before, only then will she be pure in Kashi; and if she is pure in Kashi, she will remain pure beyond. There is a chain, a continuity, a flow.

It is not that you arrive at the temple door, impure outside; you go in, ring the bell—become pure! Then you come out, change your cloak, and again become impure; you sit at your shop and do the same as yesterday. That visit to the temple has brought no transformation to your life.

No, religion is a twenty-four-hour affair. Then the difficulty arises: if one must live in religion for twenty-four hours, you say, “That is hard!” Therefore I say: sleep in him too. When you spread your bed, see only him. Wake in him too; when you open your eyes, see only him. This was the meaning in the ancient traditions, that people would remember the Lord as they fell asleep, repeating “Ram, Ram” as they drifted off. Not a mechanical repetition—that you chant the syllables and sleep. A state of feeling. And rising, the name of Ram on the lips again—a state of feeling! With eyes open, you see him; with eyes closed, you see him. In him is sleep; in him is wakefulness. Even when you eat, you eat with remembrance of him; first offer a little to him as bhog, then partake yourself—then food too becomes sacred, food too becomes prayer.

Understand it this way: when hunger arises in you, know that it is he who is hungry within. In truth it is so—he hungers. He lives. He is born. He departs. He entered the body; he leaves the body. His is the hunger, his the thirst. Then your rising and sitting become sufficient worship. Let worship be inwoven like breath—so natural that you need not even “remember” separately. Only then will you be able to taste the freedom of the supreme savor.

He is of the nature of rasa. Therefore wherever rasa is found, surrender it to him. If taste arises in food, be glad that the Beloved is pleased, that he has received savor. You are only the means. Through you he ate today. Through you he took in the fragrance of garden flowers. It is he who sits within you as consciousness. You are earthen lamps; the flame is his. All experiences are his.

One who begins to immerse himself in this feeling, and in every way weaves himself into the Divine—this is what Mahavira said: if a needle falls without thread, it is lost; a needle with thread, even if it falls, is not lost. One who is immersed in this way—even if he seems to stray, he does not stray, because for such a one there is no way to go astray. This wandering too is his! If such a one’s boat sinks midstream, he is untroubled. The midstream too is his! Such a person has no anxiety. Everything is his! With this spirit of surrender, his savor will begin to be tasted everywhere.

The Rig Veda says: “Kevalāgho bhavati kevalādī.” Do not eat alone; eat by sharing. The sin lies in eating alone. The sin is not in food. Food is Brahman. But eating by snatching, by stealing—there is sin. Eat by sharing. Make others partners—then sin disappears.

Share as much as you can; whatever you have, distribute it day and night. If you can sing, sing—share song. If you can dance, dance—share dance. Whatever you have, share it. Merit arises in sharing; sin lies in hoarding.

This is an important sutra. A river that stops—there is sin. A river that stands still and becomes a stagnant pool—there is sin. Let it flow, pour itself toward the ocean, merge into the sea—then there is no sin.

Let there be flow in your life! Eat, but… Have you noticed animals? When they eat, they snatch their food and run off alone. They cannot share; they are afraid. The other is an enemy. Human beings are unique in inviting others to a meal, in calling people to share.

I had a professor—such a lovely man! One flaw: he drank. I was a guest at his home once. I was his student, but he had great regard for me. He became very uneasy: how would he drink while I was staying with him? I sensed his restlessness. I asked, “What is the matter? You seem disturbed.” He said, “Why hide it from you—I am in the habit of drinking.” I said, “You can drink. What is there to be troubled about?” He said, “The trouble is I cannot drink alone. I call two, four, ten people—only then can I drink. There will be such hullabaloo; you may not like it.”

I said, “Then the drinking is no longer sin—it becomes merit. I will sit too and enjoy it. I cannot drink, because I have drunk another wine, and no other wine can be poured over that. But I will sit. This is merit; this is prayer—that you drink by inviting people. It makes me very happy that you cannot drink alone. Then even wine has found beauty.”

Sin can become virtue, virtue can become sin. Life is very intricate. Life is not like arithmetic. If you handle it like mathematics, you will miss. Sometimes you may do a virtuous act and it turns into sin; sometimes you may do a sinful act and it turns into virtue.

I told him, “It has become merit. You drink by inviting others; you cannot drink alone; you cannot drink in hiding—good. You are expanding—auspicious. Today you are spreading through this wine; tomorrow you will spread through a greater wine. The expansion is underway. You are moving toward the ocean.”

This Rig Vedic sutra: “Kevalāgho bhavati kevalādī”—only that eating is sinful which is done alone, not shared. Whatever you have—not only food—whatever is full of rasa, of joy, do not hide it and sit. If light awakens within you, do not cover it.

Jesus said to his disciples: when the voice of God resounds within you, climb onto the roof and shout with all your might, so that those who sleep deeply may also hear and not be deprived.

So whatever you have—share it, spread it!

The Sanskrit word “Brahman” is very endearing. It means: that which keeps spreading; that which keeps becoming vast. Modern science has given the word Brahman a fresh resonance. Before Einstein it was thought: however big the cosmos is, it must have a boundary. Perhaps we cannot find it; our means are limited; still, somewhere there must be an edge. And it was thought: the universe is as it is; what new could happen? From where would the new come? There is nothing outside the universe. So what is, is—forms change, transformations occur; river-water falls into the sea; sea-water rises as clouds; clouds fall as rivers; the water keeps circling—it is the same.

Then Einstein’s discoveries opened a unique dimension: the universe is not as it is; it is expanding—an expanding universe—spreading at great speed, like a child blowing air into a balloon and the balloon grows! Then new meanings of Brahman came forth.

Brahman means “the expanding one”—that which keeps spreading, which is ever extending. That which does not stand still anywhere, which never makes any boundary into a boundary, which always flows beyond.

If you would know the Divine, then—even on a small scale—do not make boundaries. Expand, keep expanding! If you have fragrance, share it with the winds! If you have light, give it to the paths! If you have awareness, give it to others! Whatever you have!

And who is there who has nothing? There is no such human being. The Divine is within everyone; therefore something or other will surely be there. Search. You cannot be without purpose. Through you he wishes to sing some song. Through you he wishes to dance some dance. Through you he wishes to bloom some flower. You cannot be in vain. You have a destiny. There is a secret hidden within you. Open it, seek it! For me, religion is the key to that mystery. Become yourself! Let your destiny open, scatter, spread. Let a flood come into your life.

This is what Mahavira said: as the muni listens to that which was never heard, as he is filled with the excess of supreme rasa, he becomes more and more radiant, more and more enthused; flowers begin to bloom; lotuses begin to open; petals unfold; buds become blossoms. Spread! Do not remain a bud. That is misfortune.

For me, the irreligious person is the one who remained a bud; the religious is the one who became a flower. Blossom! Expand! Draw no boundaries. Become a flood. And the more you spread, the more the capacity to spread will come. The more you share, the more will come to you. Nothing is sin in itself; hoarding is sin.

Economists say: the more money circulates, the more prosperous a society becomes. That is why money is called “currency”—that which runs, that which circulates. Suppose there are ten people in a village, each with ten rupees, and all sit on their rupees—then the village has only ten rupees. If all set their rupees moving, buying from each other—one’s rupee goes to another, the other’s to a third—the ten rupees become a hundred, a thousand; because money comes and goes. Hold it, and it remains one. Let it come and go, and it becomes many. Bury it, and currency is no longer currency—it is dead. Therefore there is no one more unfortunate than the miser; he kills currency. He does not let it move. He stops the current. He does not let the river flow; he makes a stagnant pool. Then the pool rots; weeds fall in; stench arises. A miser stinks.

Therefore the giver has been so honored; giving has been called the foundation of religion; greed the root of sin—because greed holds back; giving distributes. Giving makes things spread. And what is true of outer wealth, I tell you, is even more true of inner wealth. When even dead, inert outer wealth dies by being hoarded—and when put into motion even dead wealth seems alive—then think about the inner! There the wealth is living. Stop it, and it is gone. Let it move. Keep it in circulation. Make it currency.

There is only one sin in my vision: if you coil around what you have been given within—like a snake upon a treasure—that is sin. Share it! The Divine abides by the law of sharing, of spreading. You too—spread!

No, there is no sin in taste; only do not take taste alone. Share it. There is no sin in food. It is his hunger! But whatever you have, eat by sharing. Remember only this much: do not become the owner of anything. If it comes into your hands, let it pass on. As it came, so let it go—let it flow. The moment you become the owner, sin begins. As long as you are not the owner, but only the medium by which wealth moves from here to there—an instrument, a mere conduit—so long the Divine will blossom and expand within you. So there is just one sutra to remember: do not be miserly.

If you listen, something is bound to tremble in the heart. If you give me a little space to enter within; if you do not stand blocking the way; if you do not shut the doors but open them—then the winds will come, the sun’s light will come, something will happen inside. If you give me space, the vibrations of what has happened within me will reach you.

That is the meaning of satsang. That is the whole purpose of my being here and your being here—that somehow the rhythm of my heart and your heart fall into step; that, in some way, you have a slight taste, a small experience of the wave, the cadence in which I am living.

What is the method?
Walk a little while with me. Throb for a little while with me. Breathe for a little while with me. When you listen to me attentively you will find you are no longer merely the listener, and I am no longer merely the speaker—the boundaries have blurred somewhere. At times you will find that you are sitting here as the one who is speaking, and I am sitting there as the one who is listening.

Sometimes you will be startled and wonder: who is who?
When awareness is joined, when your thread and mine meet, suddenly the voices of “I” and “you” fall silent. In some deep moment of listening, for an instant, a trance descends. That instantary trance is like a taste of samadhi. It is just a moment—comes and goes—but it leaves a flavor behind. A single drop of nectar falls. Then you will yearn. Then you can no longer be what you were until yesterday. You will not be able to explain to anyone what has happened. You will find no way to tell it. The happening will be beyond reasons. But it will be so profound you cannot deny it.

Here, as I speak, it is not to explain anything to you—do not get caught in that idea. I am not speaking to explain. I am speaking so that through speech our attunement may settle in some instant. When it will happen, who knows? For whom it will happen, who knows? Whose moment will strike, who knows? But by your listening—this is why I go on speaking every day. If it were a matter of explanation, it would end. This does not end, because it has nothing to do with explanation. This will go on, because its purpose is something else.

Its purpose is chemical, not intellectual—alchemical. Its purpose is that, in listening, sometimes for a moment you will forget yourself. You will be absorbed, immersed, utterly intent; for a moment the ego you clutch for twenty-four hours will slip from your hands. Drowning in some line of poetry, for an instant you will be free of your habitual arrangement of ego. In that very instant union happens. In that very instant, like an arrow, I will lodge in your heart. A drop will shower upon you.

The clouds may be far, but if a single drop has fallen, then the chātak—the rain-thirsty bird—can wait births upon births. After that there is no hindrance. Then the chātak knows: truth is; love is; prayer is; there are such moments for which there is no word but God—that God is! That there comes a time in life when a thousand suns arise; when a thousand blue lotuses blossom in your being.

I speak with the same purpose with which a musician plays the vina. He does not play to explain anything. Remember me as a vina player. My speaking is my vina. What I am saying to you—less am I speaking, more am I singing. If you understand its purpose, that is enough: listening to this instrument—as one sometimes, listening to a vina, falls into a trance—one begins to sway; something within begins to vibrate; something like a stone inside begins to melt and flow. For a moment a window, an opening, is there—sky is glimpsed. Like a flash of lightning—the darkness is gone—even if only for a moment; but then you know that light is, and you also know there is a path. It was revealed for a moment in the lightning’s flare, but revealed it was. Now no one can tell you there is no path; no one can tell you light is mere imagination or a dream. No one can refute you now. This is the purpose.

So it may happen that, while listening, a vibration has arisen. If it arises, it does not vanish at once, because it happens so deep! Even if you get up and go, the vibration continues. And then, from the base of those new trembling waves, when you look at trees their greenery will be different! The same flowers you saw yesterday—when you see them again you will find their tenderness is different; some divine radiance surrounds them. An aura of green encircles the trees. When you look at people—the wife you see at home—you will find she is not just your wife; the divine is there too. You will see your husband and being a husband will become secondary; his being divine will become primary. You will look at your child and he will not remain merely a child.

On the basis of this new experience, revolution will begin in the entire structure of your life. For the wave that arose within you while listening to me is your wave. Do not bind it to your listening to me. It is yours. My speaking was only a device. In the company of my words you became acquainted with some hidden stratum of your own being. But the acquaintance is with your own depth. What you have seen in my light is yours; it is not mine. The light may be mine, but the treasure you discovered is yours.

So do not think that if you stop listening to me here it will be lost. If it is so—that it arises by listening to me and is lost as soon as you go out—then understand that you did not really listen. It was intellectual. It was a scratching of the head. You listened, it felt good, you were entertained, but you were not moved. No foundation stone shifted. Nothing new was unveiled within you, nothing discovered. Then a few words, bits of information, facts—your stock increases; your borrowings increase. You go further into debt; your ready cash is even more covered over. That will not help. You will become knowledgeable, a pundit—but religion will not be born.

If you truly listened—so deeply that your whole personality became like an ear: eyes too became ear, hands too became ear, heart too became ear—as if you were only a doorway, and you let me come in—it depends on you how much you allow me to enter. If you allow me fully, not ripples but gales will rise. If you allow me fully, storms will arise. If, mustering courage, you fling wide every door and say, “Come, I am willing”—this is what I call sannyas, this is what I call initiation—then you will never be the same again. A new life has begun. Then I won’t even need to speak. If you are willing and open, my silence will shake you—because in truth it is not about me at all.

Do not be misled by the silence of my heart—
for the voice of the soul is in it too.
Whether I speak or am silent, it makes no difference.
If I speak, it is the voice of the soul; if I do not speak, it is the voice of the soul.

When you become intent in listening, skillful in listening, you will hear even my silence, you will hear my quiet.

Do not be misled by the silence of my heart—
for the voice of the soul is in it too.
Today you may give me no words—no words—
yet tomorrow I will speak.
You are mountains, massive masses of cloud-cleaving rock;
press down this spring—go on, go on—
from your every pore,
giving you its own sap,
bursting forth—I shall flow.
It is you who have bound the blood’s surge in the artery—
this I know each moment.
Where song is everything, you are the perfection of steadiness,
the natural metre of life—
I recognize you.
Ask—whatever you wish: ask, I will give.
What you give—I will endure.
If not today,
then tomorrow;
if not tomorrow,
then even after ages:
this instrument of feeling—
it is not mine,
even if bound by my incapacity.
It is a small stool of dry straw—
in it your wild, unrestrained gift will not stay hidden.
It may not be achieved through me, though through someone it may be.
If not today, then tomorrow;
even if I wish, how long can I keep
this fire pressed to my chest?
Today you may give me no words—no words—
yet tomorrow—I will speak.

The poet’s words are very profound.

When God descends, it is hard to hide Him. When God descends, it is hard to prevent His manifestation. When God descends, He will manifest.

A small stool of dry straw—
this instrument of feeling of mine;
even if it is bound by my incapacity—
it is not mine.
In it your unrestrained gift will not remain concealed.
It may not be attained through me, though through someone it may be.
If not today,
then tomorrow;
even if I wish, how long can I keep
this fire pressed to my chest?
Today you may give me no words—no words—
yet tomorrow—I will speak.

When God has entered someone’s life, he must find a way to communicate. He has to search for words, because he has to share. He must find partners in it.

Here I go on speaking only so that you may become partners. My invitation is: what has happened to me can happen to you too, if you wish. The fire is lit here; even if you take a single spark, your suns will blaze. A lamp is aflame here; if you come a little closer to me—or let me come close to you—your lamp will also be lit. And once lit, it will no longer be mine. Once lit, you will find it was yours—always yours.

I have nothing to do with it. I am only a mirror—see yourself. No more than a mirror. And that is exactly the function. I am not here. A mirror is not something in itself; a mirror is an emptiness. You move away and the mirror is empty. You come and the mirror seems full.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was walking along a road. He found a mirror lying there. He picked it up and looked. He had never seen a mirror before. He thought, Ah! This picture looks like my father. But it must be from his youth. How strange! I had never imagined my father would have his photograph taken—he wasn’t such a colorful fellow! But since I’ve found it, good. He dusted it off, slipped it into his pocket, and went home. Lest the children or his wife break it or lose it, he went upstairs and hid it in the thatch. But has any husband ever managed to hide anything from his wife? She noticed he was hiding something. At night, when Mulla went to sleep, she got up, lit a lamp, went up to the thatch, took it out and looked; and she said, Ah! So this is the woman he’s crazy about! Now I know!

I am a mirror. Whatever you bring is exactly what you will see. No more than a mirror. So in certain moments when you are at your height, you will see your height in me; and in certain moments when you are at your low, your low will also be seen in me. Whoever comes as they are sees exactly that in me and goes back.

In some deep moments when you take a leap to your ultimate height—just for an instant you fly in the sky—then it seems to you, These heights cannot be mine; you think perhaps someone else has shown them to you. But remember: they are your heights, and your lows as well—do not project them onto me. In that projection confusion arises; in that projection a great mistake happens.

Yes, in my proximity something may become visible to you. So do not start worshipping this mirror, thinking, This fragrance arose from the mirror; this taste came from the mirror. Do not fall into worshipping the mirror. And neither, out of anger, smash this mirror. Avoid both.

The last question:

Go ahead—walk even without guidance! What need is there for guidance, if you can walk without initiation? And what is initiation? It is guidance received in utmost intimacy. Guidance heard from very, very close. Guidance heard with reverence. What else is initiation?

You ask me to give you guidance. Are you ready to receive it? That very readiness is the declaration of sannyas: “I am ready—please give. My begging bowl is open—please fill it.” Then even if I fill it with pebbles and stones, if you accept them with reverence, those pebbles will turn into diamonds and pearls for you. But if you hold out your bowl in irreverence, and I fill it with diamonds and pearls, they will turn into stones—because your reverence is a great power, an energy that transforms.

In the end, everything depends on you—entirely on you. If the vessel is wrong, if the vessel is polluted or dirty, pure water cannot be poured into it. I will pour only the pure, but it will not reach you. Everything depends on you. If you want guidance, come closer.

Sannyas is simply your declaration of coming close. Ochre robes and the mala are only symbols. But in life—do you honor symbols or do you not? You fall in love with someone: don’t you take a gift? You take a flower—a single rose—for your beloved. She asks, “What is there in this rose? Why bring a flower—is love not enough?” You will be startled. You move to embrace; she says, “Keep away—what is there in an embrace? Can’t there be love without an embrace?” You try to take her hand; she pulls it away: “Don’t touch! Holding hands will only create sweat—how will it create love? Love me—why these foolish gestures?” Then how will you ever love? All ways of love would vanish.

Even the incomparable happening of love needs a medium—a boat to ride in. Love is utterly subtle; somewhere it needs roots in the gross, otherwise it won’t stay.

The most beautiful flowers that bloom in the sky are rooted deep in the earth. If they decide to remain only in the sky, they are lost. The lotus rises above the water, yet it is buried in the mud of the lake. If the lotus says, “What is the point of being in the mud? Mud is mud—I am a lotus,” the relationship breaks. The lotus will wither and die.

Have you noticed? Someone gifts you a handkerchief with love; its price vanishes—it becomes priceless. In the market it sells for a few coins; but if someone asks you for it at that price you’ll say, “Are you crazy? I couldn’t give this even for my life.” He will say, “Are you crazy or am I crazy? You can buy dozens in the market.” You reply, “This carries the remembrance of my beloved—or of my friend. It was given with great feeling.”

Small symbols—upon small symbols a vast sky rests. Don’t stare at the symbol; see the sky hidden behind it.

You go and place your head at someone’s feet. What’s the point? Can there not be reverence without placing your head at their feet? Fine! When anger arises, what do you do? You take off your shoe and strike his head. What are you doing? The opposite of reverence. In reverence you place your head at their feet; in anger you place their head at your feet. Can there not be anger without all this? What does a shoe have to do with anger? Why abuse in anger? Because in love you are unwilling to praise, unwilling to pray—then in anger too, drop the abuse!

No—man, as he is, is the meeting of earth and sky, the meeting of body and soul, of the gross and the subtle. Where man stands, he stands in two worlds at once: roots in the soil, flowers in the sky—both joined.

These ochre robes are only symbols. But for those who have taken them with feeling, a revolution will happen in their lives. I have given them with a definite feeling. It depends on the taker. This mala is just a symbol—there is nothing in it.

The day before yesterday a friend asked—he has taken sannyas, a simple-hearted man—he asked, “What is the scientific reason for this mala?” How can a mala possibly have a scientific reason? Its reason is religious, inward—not scientific. I told him, “If you want something ‘scientific,’ ask Laxmi.” A scientific reason? Does love ever have a scientific reason?

A young man fell in love with Mulla Nasruddin’s daughter. He came and said, “I am in love with your daughter; please permit me to marry her.” Mulla said, “First prove it—what is the cause of your love?” The young man replied, “There is no cause, sir! Love has happened. Where there is a cause, can there be love? Where there is a cause, there is business, a bargain. Love is causeless.”

Your love has happened with me; mine with you. Now some symbol becomes necessary. Think of this mala as the seven sacred rounds—now you’re caught! It is a kind of marriage. There is no reason for it. Love has happened. There is no logical accounting for it—it is a matter of the heart.

You placed your hand in mine; I took your hand in mine. As a remembrance, I give you this mala—so that you remember: now you are not alone, I am with you. Whatever you do, do it remembering me. Wherever you go—go even to a tavern if you must—but you will be dragging me along. This mala will hang on your chest; it will keep whispering, “You are not going alone.” It will restrain you. Many times it will stop your foot from stepping forward. Many times it will take you to places you had never been, and hold you back from places you frequented. You will be about to flare up in anger, and the mala will catch your eye. You were raising your hand to strike, and the ochre robe will flash before you—someone within will turn back and say, “What are you doing?”

Now you are not alone; I am committed with you. This is a commitment. It is my trust in you. I am saying: All right—if you go to hell, I will have to go too. As you wish! In love there is this dragging along. If you insist on going to hell, fine—I will come too; but I will not leave you alone now.

These are only symbols. They have no scientific reason, nor is there any need for one.

These are tidings of revolution—no, not the revolution itself.
They are reflections of the sun—no, not the sun.

It is only good news of the revolution—not the revolution. You have put on ochre; it is not that some revolution has happened—only good news has arrived.

These are tidings of revolution—no, not the revolution.
You have worn ochre; it is not that the sun has risen—only a reflection.

They are reflections of the sun—
no, not the sun.

And ochre is linked with the sun: it is the color of the first ray, the color of dawn. It is the news of sunrise. It is the auspicious news. It is the beginning of your joining with me—do not take it as the end.

Breath by breath a fire keeps flaring up in the heart—
What goblets are these, O cupbearer, what a round is this, O cupbearer!

This is how it begins when you consent. There is much to drink and to pour. You have merely accepted the invitation.

Breath by breath a fire keeps flaring up in the heart—
these ochre robes are the outer symbol of that inner flame.

What goblets are these, O cupbearer—what a round is this, O cupbearer!

This is an announcement to the whole world. It is news to others that you are no longer who you were yesterday. Let them no longer make the old demands upon you. Let them know that if they abuse you, you will not answer. Let them know you have died and become new—that you have been crucified and reborn.

Tell the gardeners, tell the roses and jasmines:
Spring has arrived even in the ruined garden.

Go—tell the gardeners! Inform the keepers of the garden!
Tell the roses and the jasmines:
Where there was no hope of spring, spring has arrived.

For those who have the courage to bear spring—to burn in this fire and be refined, to become pure gold—I am ready.

Do not get hung up on symbols. They are only pretexts. Do not be deceived by them. They are only the beginning—A, B, C. As we used to teach little children: “ga” is for Ganesh—now we teach “ga” is for gadha (donkey), because Ganesh doesn’t suit a “secular” state. The donkey is a symbol. In truth, “ga” belongs neither to donkey nor to Ganesh. But to teach a child you must give some picture—“ga” for donkey, “ga” for Ganesh—something; because the child doesn’t know the letter, he knows the donkey. With the donkey he learns “ga”; then the donkey is forgotten and only the letter remains. It is not that whenever you read, every time “ga” appears you say, “ga for donkey.” You would never learn to read. Donkey and Ganesh both fall away—what remains is the pure letter.

This is only the beginning—A, B, C: “sannyas” of the ochre robe; “sannyas” of the mala. But it is just the beginning. Slowly, as you soak and steep, as you become juicy, as you dive deep, only sannyas will remain; the ochre robe and the mala will no longer be important. You will remain grateful to them, for they set the journey in motion. The first step was taken through them. Your gratitude will remain toward them—but you will not remain bound by them.

These bonds are the first steps toward your freedom.

That’s all for today.