Jin Sutra #37

First thing: a human being has nothing more sacred than tears. There is no prayer greater than tears. People have known only one form of tears—tears of sorrow. But there is another form—tears of joy. Very few have known it; very few ever come to know it.

When you see someone crying, you think he must be unhappy, in pain, wounded, burning. Not necessarily. Tears flow whenever any feeling becomes so intense that you cannot contain it—any feeling. If sorrow grows too much, it overflows as tears. If happiness grows too much, it too overflows as tears. Great pain flows out and lightens the heart through tears; great bliss also flows out as tears.

So first, do not tie tears inextricably to sorrow. Deep down our minds have been conditioned to think tears come because of suffering. So we hide them, we hold them back. We try hard that tears should not come. Drop this strategy—this very strategy will become the reason you stop yourself once you go home.

Here with me there is a different climate. Everything is accepted. If you cry here, no one will take you as miserable. If you cry here, others may even feel a twinge of envy, thinking you are blessed that you can cry, and feeling hurt that they cannot. Your tears will be received as a treasure here. Not so when you return home. There the air will be different; the association around tears will be different.

If you want these supreme tears to keep flowing, remember one thing within: tears have nothing to do with sorrow. Otherwise you yourself will stop them; no one else can. Who can stop anyone? But you will. You will feel shy, thinking, “What will people say?” Your children will be there, your wife, your parents—what will they say? If you begin to cry at your shop, what will the customers say? If you cry in the office, what will the office people say? If you cry on the street, what will passersby say?

Because we have known only one kind of tears—tears of sorrow—tears have been yoked to sadness. Someone dies, and we cry. Some gloom descends on life, and we cry. We have never cried out of joy, out of exultation; our tears have never turned into a dance. So a wrong association has grown. Now there are even people on the earth who will not cry even in sorrow—those who used to cry in sorrow are disappearing. Those who could cry out of joy left long ago; now even those who cry in sorrow are leaving. Now we call strong the man who does not cry even in grief.

His wife has died and he does not cry. We call him discerning, self-controlled—this is what we call control! This is the intelligent man. Now we say, the one who cries is unmanly. We scold, “Why are you crying like a woman? Be a man! Gather courage! What will crying do? These things happen. People die. Don’t cry, don’t waste your tears.” So people have stopped crying even in sorrow.

The day people cease to cry even in sorrow, humanity turns to stone. Then no thrill will ever arise within, no wave will come, no song will be born. One becomes stone. There are many who have become stone—they cannot cry even in grief.

The highest type of man cries even in joy. The lowest type does not cry even in pain. If one cannot weep in sorrow, he has become entirely stone. If one weeps in happiness, he has become utterly fluid, flowing. And once you learn the weeping of joy—once you taste the bliss of crying, the purity of crying, once you glimpse tears as prayer—you have found a great key.

Then anywhere, at any opportunity—even seeing a blooming flower—your eyes will fill. Such incomparable beauty is in this world! Looking at the stars, your eyes will moisten—how mysterious this existence is! You will feel a shiver within, a new surge, a new fervor, a new jubilation.

I too say there is no need to cry in sorrow. But my reason differs from others’. Others say, “Don’t cry in sorrow, because crying shows weakness.” I say, crying can be turned into bliss. Do not cry in sorrow—if you must cry, cry in joy. The person who learns to weep in joy bids farewell to the tears of grief. You have given tears their path; now there is no need for them to crawl on the ground of misery. Once they have grown wings, why would they drag along the earth? Others want to deprive you even of crawling; I want to give you the capacity to fly.

Link your tears with joy. This is the alchemy of life. Then sorrow too will be transmuted into bliss; pain will take the form of love. Even in melancholy you will hear his melody. At the moment of death you will know that life is eternal; even then you will dance in the ecstasy of life. But first, let tears learn the art of joy; let them be linked to bliss.

I know a fear must be arising in your mind: here tears make you so light, fill your heart so fully—what will happen at home? Remember: you are the one who is crying; do not think I am making you cry. Others are here who are not crying. If I were making you cry, they too would be in tears. If it were in my hands, many more would be weeping. You are crying, so you are crying; I am not making you. I am only a pretext, a device, through which you loosened your repression and control a little.

If you understand this—that you are the one who cries and I am only a device—then you will find devices everywhere. Seeing a flower, let tears come. Watching a child dance with joy, let tears come. Hearing a bird’s song, let tears come. Hearing the murmur of a waterfall, let tears come. Green leaves on trees, clouds gathering in the sky—let tears come. There is such mystery all around! Make anything a device.

Once you grasp that the capacity to cry is yours, any peg will do. Think of it this way: you come with a coat to hang; any peg will serve. If there is no peg, even a small nail will do; if not that, the corner of the door will do. The coat is yours—you are hanging it on me. If the coat were mine, of course when you go home it would remain here.

Not only for tears—remember this for all of life’s experiences: whatever happens, happens in your innermost being. Outside, you may find a device. When you see beauty in the stars, that beauty happens inside you; the stars are only an occasion. Others are walking under the same stars, blind, seeing nothing. Even if you point the stars out to them, they will look at you, surprised: “What has come over you? They’re just stars—what is there to be so astonished about!”

Temple bells were ringing. A musician was sitting outside beneath a tree. The sweet resonance of the bells began to move him deeply. He whispered to the friend beside him, “Do you hear—what an exquisite sound!” The friend said, “Because of the priest’s bell-ringing I cannot hear anything at all! These bells are so loud I can’t even hear what you’re saying. Let them stop, then speak.”

The musician is saying, “Listen to the resonance, the nada of the bells—have you ever heard such pure tones?” Perhaps he spoke very softly lest he disturb the resonance. But the friend says, “Let this nonsense stop, then talk. I can’t hear a thing. Let the bells allow something to be heard!”

You are with me now. I am only a device. If, through this device, the inner scene becomes visible to you, the work is done. Whatever is seen, know it as your own within—then you will be able to take it home. If you think it happened because of me, you will get bound to me and you won’t be able to take it. You will go home sadder than when you came; you will feel deprived: those tears that lightened you no longer flow, that mystery no longer rises within, that music no longer touches you. That very experience will make you more unhappy.

No—the very way of seeing is wrong. What happens, happens in you; the devices may be outside. You are the master of it. If you want to carry it with you, there is no one in the world who can prevent it. Yes, I understand the fear. You know you will not be able to cry so simply at home.

A friend said, “Here we dance and it is such a joy—how will we dance at home?” Who stops you? You will have to stake a little prestige—nothing more. Who can stop whom? But if you dance at home, your wife will think you’ve gone mad. The children will watch secretly: “What has happened to father?” The neighbors will ask, “Something’s wrong?” Prestige will be at stake. Now it is up to you: choose prestige or choose the dance. If you have more taste for prestige, you will choose prestige; if the taste for dance is greater, you will choose the dance.

In this world everything comes at a price. Even where it seems you are not paying, a price is paid—if not from the pocket, then in some other way. If you want the dance, you must drop respectability; if you want respectability, you must drop the dance.

If you want tears to flow through your life like a spring, and their libation to be poured at the feet of the divine—if you want tears to be your flowers at his feet—then no one can stop you. But you will have to stake something. Meera said, “I threw away concern for public opinion.” If you dance, public opinion will indeed be lost. Now Meera is highly respected; now if you sing her bhajans, you lose no respectability. Meera lost it then. Even Meera’s songs have become respected now. One day your tears will be respected too. But for now—you will have to let respect go.

If Meera’s husband sent poison to her, it was for this reason—not out of any personal enmity with Meera, but because through Meera his own prestige was being dragged in the dust. A lady of a royal house, dancing like a vagabond in the streets—the Rana’s heart would be wounded. People would come and say, “Your wife is dancing in the street; crowds collect to watch; her sari’s end slips from her hand—such a thing has never happened! The woman who never stepped out from behind the veil is dancing on the roads! Do something!” Prestige was at stake. He wished to kill Meera, to remove the stigma. But Meera kept dancing; she even drank the poison and continued to dance.

Whether poison was given or not is not important. What matters is this: she drank the poison, and she continued to dance. She accepted the poison; she did not accept giving up the dance. So if you wish to weep at home, you will have to drink many kinds of poison. If you have that courage, then wherever you are, who can snatch away your dance, your tears, your songs? People do snatch, because we want something from them—honor, prestige. Naturally they give respect on their own terms. If you fulfill their standards, they give honor. On this basis they have seized your neck, put chains on your hands.

If you want prestige, the bargain is clear: you must walk according to society; you must accept what people say. In exchange, they will honor you. If you break their rules, naturally you will be dishonored.

That is the poison—of dishonor, loss of prestige, humiliation. If you are ready to drink it, your eyes will keep raining like monsoon clouds, and wherever your tears fall, they will reach the feet of the divine.

The fear arises within you. Here there is a certain atmosphere. Here there are other madmen; you are not alone. Some are even madder than you. Here the situation is reversed: even those who do not feel like crying may try to bring tears, because here tears can bring prestige. Even those who cannot dance may dance; those who feel no upsurge may pretend to great ecstasy—because here ecstasy brings honor. Here madness and prestige are not opposed; madness can be a cause of prestige.

At home the situation is reversed. You will have to choose between madness and prestige. I can only say this much: if you have tasted the relish of tears, don’t worry. It is a matter of two or four days. People laugh for two or four days—let them. Join their laughter too; laugh at yourself as well. For two or four days they will call you mad, and then who has the time to sit around for you? Who has leisure to think? Who cares? Then people accept: “He has gone mad—finished.” Within a few days everything settles. The wife accepts that this is how it is; the children accept it; life finds a new order. A few days of courage open the path of freedom for a lifetime. But everywhere the price must be paid.

When it is whole, even weeping becomes the song of the ages,
the sweetest song.
When a single tear of the heart,
carrying the feeling of total surrender,
descends into the oyster of the eye
and becomes the offering of worship,
for a moment even stone becomes God.
When it is whole, even weeping becomes the song of the ages,
the sweetest song.

The moment a tear flows from your eye—if it is of surrender, of song, of worship, to be offered at the feet of the Lord—then even if you are sitting before a stone idol, in that moment the stone becomes God. Through that tear, the stone before you is deified. There is great power in your tears. If you look at a stone image without tears, it remains a stone. Then you have looked with logic, with mind, with thought. Look with tears—with moist eyes—and you have looked with the heart, with tenderness, with feeling. To eyes filled with tears, even stone does not appear as stone—life is installed in it.

An eye without tears is stony. An eye without tears is rock. From rock, only rock can be seen. Only when the eye is moist is it alive; only then is it juicy, poetic. Only then do the strings of the eye begin to sing. Look at the world through moist eyes—the world will not appear as world. Stone becomes God; the world becomes divine. It is all in your eyes. Tears-filled eyes are soul-filled eyes. But let these tears be of bliss, of awe and wonder; let them not fall in complaint, but in gratitude, in thankfulness—for his grace, with deep gratefulness.

And the matter is in your hands. It cannot be overstated. There can be no exaggeration here, no over-repetition: you are your own master. The way you are now—that is your choice. Then to be miserable is pointless—you have chosen misery. You have chosen the wrong. If your sensitivity has died, your feeling has died, if only petty thoughts rattle in your skull and life is never stirred by any other wave, know that you have chosen this. Blame no one.

If you have come to me, then learn at least this much: the way you are is your decision. If anything is to be otherwise, only your decision needs to change. Nothing else need change. Do not think of changing the whole world. Those who set out to change the world are the very ones who want to avoid changing themselves. It is a trick. They are afraid of changing themselves; finding it difficult, they dream of changing the world. They are politicians, social leaders—deceivers of themselves. Only one transformation is possible: your transformation. And apart from you, there is no other master there. You alone are the master. This is what Mahavira calls the person’s ultimate freedom and ultimate responsibility.

Your tears are auspicious. Guard them. Now that your eyes have learned to be moist, do not turn them again into a dry desert. An oasis has sprung up—protect it.

The moon arose and even the darkness began to smile;
a flower laughed and intoxication spread over the thorns.
It was the magic of love that this clay sitar—
without a single word—began to hum.

If tears have descended—intoxication has spread even over the thorns. If this intoxication brings you joy, a deep relish, if you are drowning in it—then preserve this flavor, even if you must leave anything else. For ultimately, this very rasa will link you to the divine. Without this rasa there is no bridge between man and God. These very tears will become the bridge, the thread. Your needle will be threaded—weep with your whole heart. Drop all concern for public opinion—weep. Drop all fears and doubts—weep. When you weep, become only eyes; and not only let tears flow from the eyes—let yourself flow.

The moon arose and even the darkness began to smile—
once the moon arises within you, once the first glimpse of awe dawns within,
the moon arose and even the darkness began to smile—
you will find that sorrow transforms into joy, darkness into light, death into life, enemies into friends.

A flower laughed and intoxication spread over the thorns—
once the inner flower begins to laugh, even the inner thorns are suffused with ecstasy.

This is a deep alchemy. The person who fills with tears—tears of jubilation and bliss—the prickly thorns within begin to soften. His anger softens. One who weeps will slowly become incapable of anger. Intoxication spreads even over the thorns. His hatred will begin to end. One who has learned to weep will not be able to hate anyone. His doubts will begin to fall away. His moist eyes will lead him towards trust.

Intoxication spread over the thorns.

If even one formula comes into your hands for changing life, the whole of life begins to be transformed.

A flower laughed and intoxication spread over the thorns.
It was the magic of love that this clay sitar—
without a single word—began to hum.

You are with me. If you make this moment a moment of love—if you allow my love to enter you, and allow your love to flow toward me—the sitar will be strummed, the raga will begin. There will be no words—without a single word, the humming will begin—and the heart will hum. Silent music, soundless music, the music of emptiness will begin. But all this happens within you.

Come to me and take a little glimpse within yourself, then carry it carefully back home. Return to your world protecting it, and you will find that even there, a little protection keeps it alive. Naturally, you will have to guard it more there than here. But it is all a matter of guarding. Do not think I am doing anything. You are allowing something to happen. And if you allow, it will go on happening wherever you are. For love is not a matter of place or distance. Whether you sit ten feet from me, a thousand feet, or a thousand miles—no difference. Love knows no distance; hatred knows no nearness. The one who hates you may sit right beside you, body touching body, and yet how near is he? And the one you love may be across seven seas, and yet how far is she? Love knows no distance; hatred knows no nearness.

So if you have allowed the current of love between you and me to flow even a little, then wherever you may be, the moment you close your eyes you will be in my presence. Close your eyes and they will again grow moist, again become dewy. Close your eyes and the veena will resonate again.

Thousands are coming from the corners of the world. Understand their difficulty: you are so near—someone is in Baroda, someone in Bombay, someone far away in Delhi—but from far, far away people come. What happens to them? After two or three months they must go back—but they never truly go back. Once the connection is made, wherever they are, it is only a matter of closing the eyes, centering, becoming still. Like tuning a radio—you just turn the dial and bring the needle to the right spot; when the needle settles in the right place, distance vanishes. Whether it is London or Tokyo or Washington makes no difference. The heart too has such an instrument. If, sitting near me, you have learned even the first lesson—how to turn the needle of your heart toward me—then wherever you close your eyes, if you steady yourself a little, let the waves of the mind settle a little, remember me a little, you will suddenly find distance gone, ended. You will find me just as you find me here. But everything depends on you. You are the master.

Your parents seem to be Gandhian—“they’ll take a rope, they’ll hang themselves!”
Truly, Gandhian people are an even bigger hassle. The violent say, “We’ll kill you.” The Gandhian says, “We will die.” But the desire behind both is the same: “We will not let you be free. We will make you do as we want.” If someone says, “We’ll kill you,” you can still find a way to protect yourself. But if someone says, “We will die,” how do you protect against that? It’s a real difficulty. Still, a few things are worth keeping in mind.

First, this is not your first time on earth, and these are not the first parents ever to be parents. In the entire history of humankind, no parents have actually taken a rope because their child took sannyas. Everyone threatens; everyone says it—Buddha’s father said it too. But nobody took the rope. No parent has ever died because a son took sannyas. Think a little: when a son dies, parents do not die; will they die because he takes sannyas? It’s a Gandhian-style threat—no need to panic. It’s worth two pennies—no real value at all. Who ever truly dies for someone else!

A young man used to visit a Sufi fakir. He began to be drenched in the rasa, filled with ecstasy—felt the pull to be a fakir himself. But he said, “I can’t. My wife will die! What about my sons? My parents are old; they won’t survive even a day. It will be like murdering several people—how can I do this?”
The fakir said, “Do one thing. I’ll give you a breathing practice—do it for eight or ten days.” The young man asked, “What will that do?” The fakir said, “On the tenth day, in the morning, lie down after the breath practice, as if dead. Then I’ll come, and we’ll see with our own eyes who all ‘die’ because you die.” The young man said, “That sounds right.”

For ten days he practiced. The night before the tenth day he’d already told the family, “My heart is pounding; I’m anxious,” and so on. The household was ready for “He may die—who knows!” In the morning he ‘died’—held his breath and lay still. The chest beating, wailing, and crying began. The fakir arrived—the whole thing was a setup. He said, “Why all this crying?” They said, “Our son has died—You are a great man, do a miracle! With your blessing anything is possible.” The fakir said, “I can do something, but who is ready to die in his place? The messengers of Yama are standing here. They say, ‘We must take someone; we can’t go back empty-handed. If someone else agrees to go, we’ll take them instead.’ I can negotiate that much.”
The father said, “My dying is difficult; there are other sons too—I must think of them. He is not my only son.”
The mother said, “If I die, what will become of my husband? In old age I serve him.”
One after another, everyone refused.
The wife—who had been beating her chest and crying, “I will die!”—when the actual question came, said, “Oh, leave it—he’s already dead; spare me. We’ll somehow manage.”

Then the fakir said, “Son! Now get up—what are you doing? What are you thinking lying there?” The man got up and said, “Right—he’s ‘dead’ now, and these people are going to manage anyway. I’m coming—let me follow you.”

No one has ever actually taken a rope. There’s no need to be frightened or disturbed by such threats. And to let yourself be cowed by these kinds of threats is very dangerous. Give in once and you’ll be pressed forever. So if you too are Gandhian—being their son—then the way is: tell them, “We too will take a rope—if you don’t let me wear ochre.” What else will you do! Let there be a tug-of-war! What other advice can I give! Write them: “Wire me immediately your permission to take sannyas, or I will take a rope.”

If you truly want to take sannyas, no one can stop you. If you don’t really want it, this trick will be enough to stop you. But remember, it won’t be your parents who stopped you—you will have stopped yourself. Keep that in mind. If you stop, you stopped yourself. You are being dishonest, using your parents as an excuse: “What to do—my parents are ready to die; so I’m staying back.” But tomorrow your parents will die anyway—who has ever escaped death? What must happen will happen. And if they were to die because of your sannyas, at least it would go on their record that they were religious people—died because of sannyas.

It has never happened; it doesn’t happen. Those who make death-threats use death as a tool for their own ends in life. Those who are frightened by your sannyas won’t be frightened by their own death. Think a moment—what are you doing? You are only wearing ochre robes. You will live at home, do the household’s work—perhaps better than before. Perhaps you’ll serve your parents better than ever. In two, four, eight days they’ll see that sannyas hasn’t spoiled you—it has made you. And my sannyas is not the sort where you leave home and run away; you abandon aged parents, or wife, or children. I’m not teaching you to be a deserter.

They’re probably misunderstanding—thinking of the old notion of sannyas. So, when you get home, explain. And I believe it’s always easier to explain to uneducated people, because they’re more heartfelt. That’s why the poor folks sent the threat. Otherwise they’d have argued—“There’s no benefit in sannyas”—weighing pros and cons. They said simply, “We’ll die.” They are emotional, simple, straightforward people—afraid their son might slip away. But when you return home in ochre robes, touch their feet, and dedicate yourself to serving them as you never did—because I say: any sannyas that cuts you off from your own is not sannyas! Sannyas is that which connects you to all, and certainly to your own. Sannyas is yoga—union. Anything that severs is wrong.

In two or four days they too will understand. Being uneducated, they’ll understand faster. If they were educated, it might take months—arguments, disputes, theories. Simple village folk will grasp quickly. It will depend on you—on your conduct. If, having taken sannyas, you become more loving than you ever were, there will be no obstacle. Why would they then wish to die! In fact, if you ever tried to drop sannyas, they’d say, “We’ll take a rope—don’t abandon sannyas now.”

So many have taken sannyas; everyone faces some version of these questions. But the weakness is always within.

Yesterday a friend asked, “Now you are emphasizing ochre more. Earlier you used to give sannyas even in simple white clothes.” I told him: In my village where I was born—maybe elsewhere too, I don’t know—when I was small there was a term among children. Little ones—still younger than us—wanted to join the games. Parents would say, “Take your little brother along; take your little sister; let them play too.” And they would spoil the game—they’re too small; can neither run nor chase! So in my village we had a term for them—we’d include them in the game but say, “Doodh ki dohaniya.” That’s all. The players understood: let him run, let him jump, but he’s not really part of the game. Doodh ki dohaniya—still milk-fed. Let him caper about—he’s happy, feels people are chasing him—someone might half-heartedly chase—but no one catches him or bothers him. He just hops about. Doodh ki dohaniya.

So I said: the sannyas I gave in white clothes—those were all “doodh ki dohaniya.” They want sannyas, but don’t have the courage for ochre robes. Fine—let them play along. Someday they’ll mature and come into ochre. They want to take it—halfway, halfway. I’m now gently saying to them: enough—can’t remain “doodh ki dohaniya” forever! Now grow up a little. So the mala—fine, half is granted. Once they warm to the mala, slowly they’ll accept ochre robes too.

Mulla Nasruddin got a job at a railway crossing. First day, he opened half the gate and left half closed. A motorist stopped and said, “All my life I’ve crossed here, and the gate is either open or closed. What’s this halfway business?” Nasruddin said, “I’m not entirely sure a train will come; so I’ve left it half open.”

Those who aren’t entirely sure of themselves—I told them, “All right, stay in white clothes—doodh ki dohaniya! Half open—let’s see. The other half we’ll see later.” But the weaknesses are within. People bring such strange little excuses. It’s convenient that your father has given you a ready-made excuse: he’ll take a rope. Another gentleman came and said, “Everything else is fine; I can even wear ochre—but what about winter? I’ve had expensive coats made—what will become of them?” You can’t imagine what excuses people find! “In winter can I wear woolens of some other color?” As if wearing certain clothes changes anything! You missed the point entirely—you didn’t catch the gesture. This is about surrender. Surrender is all-season. It’s not about one season this and another season that.

People take sannyas; when I put the mala around their neck, they quickly tuck it inside. It’s meant precisely so people will think you’re mad, so people will laugh, so they’ll have occasion to say, “Ah—so you too have gone that way!” And you’re rushing to hide it! Then the mala might as well not exist. People look for tiny loopholes—but behind them lies their own fear. Recognize your fear, and then nothing can stop you.

And don’t stop because of someone else. If you stop, stop for your own fear—otherwise you’ll remain angry with others, thinking “Father, mother stopped me.” That would be wrong. They expressed a feeling: “We’ll take a rope.” If they must, they’ll take it. But people who talk of ropes over such small matters can’t live long without ropes; they’ll find other pretexts. You could provide them a good, sturdy rope—what else can you do!

But nobody ever actually takes a rope. In two days everything settles. They panicked—old conditioning. And the old conditioning was dangerous. For centuries, millions left their homes. Because of that, religion suffered more damage than from anything else. The very word “religion” began to scare people. If someone shows interest in religion, the family grows anxious: trouble ahead. Millions abandoned their homes. What happened to their households? Their wives and children starved; their fathers and mothers—how did they live in old age? No one wrote that history—it should have been written. Deep anguish must have been born from it. For centuries it went on. Because of it, fear seeped in—people became afraid inside. Outwardly they worship the sannyasi; inwardly they fear. If someone else’s son becomes a sannyasi, people come to pay respects. If it’s their own, they reach for the rope. What a dilemma! Mahavira too was someone’s son, and Buddha too was someone’s son. The father who is frightened by your sannyas will gladly bow his head at Buddha’s feet, never once thinking what Buddha’s father went through. The same—and even more terrible.

I am giving sannyas a form that brings pain to no one. For what is the worth of a sannyas that brings pain! If it creates sorrow anywhere, it will not bring you joy either. How can something that causes others suffering give you happiness?

So I say: become a sannyasin, go home, and serve your parents as you never did—because then the responsibility of a sannyasin is upon you. For two or four days they may be angry, shout and scream; but prove through your conduct that their shouting is utterly misplaced. Your conduct will be sufficient proof. And don’t think, “They’re uneducated; they don’t even understand Hindi.” Let them not—love they will understand! Who is so uneducated as to not understand love? The two-and-a-half syllables of prem are enough. If you press their feet, they will understand. If they say anything, and you listen in peace—they will understand. And one thing should be obvious from your behavior: the sannyas you have taken is not anti-world, not anti-home. We are not pitting the home against the temple; our effort is to make the home a temple. How long will it take them to understand? They’ll grasp it quickly. And if your conduct convinces them, the next time you come, they’ll come to take sannyas too. I’ll give them the rope—why not! The mala is the rope—the noose! Explain to them: if a rope is what you want, take the mala. If you are set on dying, then die in sannyas. The death of sannyas is the doorway to great life.

But keep attention on your own heart. If you yourself are afraid and only searching for your parents as an excuse, then don’t take sannyas yet. Come, meditate, go. Let the rasa deepen slowly. Always act only after proper observation and diagnosis of your own heart. There is never any need to be agitated or disturbed by another.

Who ever got gold without kissing the dust?
Who ever found the honeyed grove without wandering through thorns?
Why lose heart at a little difficulty?
Who ever reached the courtyard without crossing the threshold?

A few difficulties are natural. They are challenges. If they weren’t there, it would be bad; that they are there is good. Life rises by crossing such challenges. The stones on the path become the steps.

Don’t fear the stones—build steps. It’s good your parents have thrown a challenge. Now understand it. Make yourself worthy of it. Accept it. You’ve been given a chance—a struggle has arisen. Find the way to rise above it. Find the method to transcend it. Don’t sit cowering. Don’t be frightened. Otherwise you’ll be dead forever. Life moves forward by accepting challenges. Blessed are those who receive many challenges—for their lives are refined by them.

Who ever got gold without kissing the dust?
Who ever found the honeyed grove without wandering through thorns?
Why lose heart at a little difficulty?
Who ever reached the courtyard without crossing the threshold?

You are not; but if you become so, it will be your great good fortune!
To be a puppet is not an easy thing. To be a puppet is the most difficult thing in this world. That is the whole of Krishna’s teaching to Arjuna: become a puppet.

If the Gita had to be summed up in a single word, it would be this—be a puppet. Become merely a conduit, a mere instrument. Let the One who is doing, do. Let Him pull the strings; you dance. As He wills, let Him make you dance! If the courtyard is crooked, fine. If it is straight, fine; if it is not straight, fine. As is His will. Do not put your obstruction in between. What else is surrender? What else is submission? Surrender simply means: now I drop my will.

Laxmi has said it rightly. But becoming this is not easy. Generally people think, what’s there to being a puppet—utterly easy. The most difficult thing is the surrender of the ego! To put oneself aside! To enthrone someone else in the temple of one’s heart—other than oneself! To step down from the throne and let another sit upon it! Very difficult; that is why love is difficult. Because in love we enthrone someone on our throne. And prayer is even more difficult. Because in love we install the other half-heartedly, incompletely; in prayer we enthrone totally. In prayer we are wiped out completely.

Become a puppet, then nothing remains to be done. The final doing is done. The hardest of tasks is won. You have touched the summit of Gaurishankar. Become as if you are not. Wherever the Lord leads, go. Put your will aside—like someone floating in a river. Have you seen: a living man sometimes drowns, a corpse never drowns. Have you ever seen a corpse drown? The corpse knows something the living do not. Some trick. The trick is that the corpse “is not.” The living one goes under; the dead rises to the surface. Because the dead is no longer there—who is there to drown? How will you drown one who is not?

True religion is born when you become like a corpse. You say to God: now I no longer move on my own. If You sink me, I am ready to sink. If You save me, I am ready to be saved. Whatever You make happen, we have no comment on it, no annotation, no complaint. We are the puppet in Your hands. As long as You make us dance, we will dance; when You stop the dance, we will stop.

He who sought happiness returned with wealth;
He who sought laughter returned with a garden;
But the one who set out to seek love
Returned with neither body nor mind.

He did not return at all—he simply drowned. He came back having lost everything—having even lost himself. Surrender is love’s ultimate height. It is love’s very essence, its quintessence. Surrender means: not I, but You.

It is not give-and-take, not profit-and-loss;
Other and yet one—not multiplication or division.
Do not think what you have given, what you have taken—
Love is only love; it is not an account.
But the friend who has asked must have felt a bit of difficulty. Puppet! We use “puppet” in a disparaging tone. When we criticize someone, we say, “He’s just a puppet—someone’s puppet.” He has no individuality of his own, no strength of his own. We use the word “puppet” when we want to call someone utterly meek, weak, impotent. We don’t call the strong a puppet. Then what does “Nirbal ke bal Ram” mean? “Ram is the strength of the weak!” It would seem to mean only this: the one who is willing to be weak—God is his. Where one is willing to efface oneself, there space is made empty and God enters. With the Master one learns the ABCs of that supreme surrender.
Gurdjieff had a disciple—Bennett. He wrote in his memoirs that Gurdjieff told him, “Go and dig a pit in the garden near the gate. And until I tell you to stop, don’t stop. Just keep digging.”

Noon came. Bennett kept digging, digging, drenched in sweat. Evening fell. No sign of Gurdjieff. He began to think: he must have forgotten, or gotten entangled in some work—should I stop or not? By now his hands and feet were trembling; the spade would hardly lift.

Then Gurdjieff came. The sun was setting and he said, “All right, now fill in this pit.” Naturally the mind would ask, “What foolishness is this! All day you had me dig—I’m completely broken, every limb exhausted—and now you say, fill it up?”

But Bennett began to fill the pit. He was utterly spent. Lifting the soil and pouring it back—just as the sun fully set, he managed to finish. Gurdjieff came and said, “Do this—see that tree in front? It must be felled. It’s a full-moon night; set to cutting it.”

Worn out from the whole day, and now to cut a tree! No food, no rest! Bennett went to cut the tree. He climbed up and was chopping; a moment came when the axe slipped from his hand—he had become so sluggish. Leaning against a branch he fell asleep, no longer in control.

Gurdjieff came, saw Bennett sleeping from below, climbed up himself, shook him. Bennett opened his eyes—and he has written in his memoirs: I had never known such pure eyes could be mine. Such a pristine seeing! The moment the eyes opened, the whole world was different—as if I had just arrived, newly descended, just now born. Such freshness, such a weightless mind!

Later he asked Gurdjieff how this happened. Gurdjieff said, “If you had refused even once, or raised an argument, this moment would not have come. Of course you knew—it’s natural—that after digging all day, to be told to fill the pit is utterly pointless, harsh, senseless. Anyone would ask, ‘What does it mean? Why was the pit dug?’ Had you asked even that much, this hour would not have come. Then you filled the pit as well. Then, utterly exhausted, still you did not refuse. I said, ‘Cut wood,’ and you did not say, ‘This can’t be done now; I’ll do it in the morning.’

“This effortless surrender of yours took you to that place. Up to where your strength could carry you, you did; and where your strength ended, there your ego also ended. There you fell into a deep torpor. Such torpor is the first glimpse of samadhi. In such torpor, for the first time one comes to know how it will be when samadhi is complete. A single drop of nectar falls; from it we can surmise the ocean.”
So I say to you: you are not a puppet; if you become one, you are blessed! The one who asked has asked out of restlessness. He asked, what does this mean? Are we puppets?
If you can become one, then in your life a door can open that you could never open because of the ego. It opens the moment the ego is set aside. The ego lies there like a lock. When the ego falls, the lock falls. The door opens. You are far greater than what you have known yourself to be. You are much more than that. You have no idea who you are. The little fragment you have taken to be “I” is nothing at all. It is just a wave. You have forgotten the ocean altogether. When you slip free from the grip of this wave, you will enter the ocean. Surrender is the key to entering the ocean.

The mind is born out of the thought of “what next.” From thoughts of the future the mind arises. Living in the present, the mind comes to an end. The moment the idea of “next” arises, the mind begins to reconstruct itself again. Then consciousness tightens; the mind’s journey starts again.

Don’t ask what happens next! Why worry about the next! Whatever is happening this moment, taste it. Whatever is given this moment, drink it. Do not miss what stands with you this very moment. The river is flowing right before you—bow down, dive in—what “next”!

The instant the idea of the future appears, your eyes close to what is present. Then brooding, worry, thought, imagination, dream—off you go again. Again you go far from truth. Again you slip from the present. Again you break from Being. The way to break from Being is the thought of the future.

If a little happiness is happening, relish it. If you remain happy in this moment, the next moment will be happier—this is certain—because you will have learned a little more of the art of being happy. If in this moment you are blissful, the next moment will be more blissful—this is certain. For where will the next moment come from? It will be born from within you, soaked in your bliss. The next moment will also arise out of you. If this flower on the rosebush is beautiful, the next flower will be even more beautiful. By then the plant has become a little more experienced, has lived a little longer, understood life a little more, become more acquainted with it.

Your next moment will emerge from you. If you are unhappy now, the next moment will be even more unhappy. If you are troubled now, trouble will increase in the next moment, because you will have added one more moment of trouble to it. Your hoard of worry will grow. Care for this moment—that is enough. Do not go beyond this moment. Live in the moment. Live the moment. From this moment the next arises on its own; you need not worry about it, think about it, or organize it. And if you organize it, you will miss here. From that miss the next moment will be born—a great miss then. In the next moment you will again think about the next. Where will you ever stop? Where will you make your home? Today you think for tomorrow; when tomorrow comes, it comes as today, and again you think for tomorrow. Has tomorrow ever come?

What you call today—yesterday it was tomorrow. You were thinking about it yesterday; now it has come as today, and again you are thinking ahead. This is a deep delusion of vision. Because of it, what is right before us is not seen, and we go on thinking about what is not.

The more worthy you become, the more the Divine keeps giving to you. You can never be given more than your capacity. If more than your capacity were given, you would not be able to bear it. How can more of the ocean be poured into you than your vessel can contain! The limit of your vessel will be the limit of your receiving. However heavy the rain, your bowl can never hold more than its size. Let the bowl grow larger. And there is only one way for it to grow: live this moment with such depth of feeling, such lovefulness; live this moment as a dancing celebration, so that in that celebration you expand and your vessel grows.

Have you noticed: in sorrow a person contracts. In happiness a person expands. In suffering one becomes small; in joy one blossoms. Have you noticed, when you are unhappy you don’t want to meet anyone, you don’t want to talk; you want to shut doors and windows and crawl into bed. When you are very unhappy you even think, “Let me just die.” To want to die means: to hide in the grave.

But when you are joyous you throw open the doors and step out into the sun’s rays, into the world of breezes. When you are joyous you go to a friend, sit with a beloved, you hum a song, you play a veena. When you are joyous you share. Then you even want someone to rob you; you long to be plundered. You want someone to come and become a partner. So much is coming to you that what will you do alone? You want to give it to someone. In moments of joy one expands—the vessel grows. In moments of sorrow one contracts.

So if you do not live this moment in joy, in the next moment you will have shrunk even more. Keep the practice of joy alive. Keep savoring joy so that you go on becoming worthy of receiving more joy. The more you enjoy joy, the more joy will start coming closer to you.

If the dancer keeps dancing, the possibility of greater dances goes on being born. If the singer keeps humming, more songs go on being born. Life grows by being lived. Do not sit lost in your head. Come, expand. Life is vast. The opportunity is great. Here each single moment can be made precious. Each moment can be a diamond.

But most people are asleep. They are planning for the future, thinking, “What will happen tomorrow?” Forget tomorrow; today is enough. Today is sufficient. This much I tell you, I assure you: if you forget tomorrow, tomorrow will come bringing flowers more beautiful than today, songs more beautiful than today. Because if today the vessel of your heart has become larger, it is into this vessel that tomorrow’s rain will pour.

“All questions have fallen away. There is no hunger for answers, no thirst, no desire. So then what should be done next?” Is there any need to do anything? Is being not enough? Why this madness for doing?
Understand these two words rightly—doing and being.

What to do? Is being not enough! You are sitting in the room and you start reading the same newspaper you have already read three times since morning—because, what to do? You switch on the radio to hear the same news you read in the paper—because, what to do? You keep yourself busy doing something or other. Would it not be appropriate to “be” for a little while? Do nothing. Put the newspaper away, turn off the radio, sit silently, and for a little while just be. That is meditation.

Being is meditation. Doing is mind.

The mind will not let you sit. The mind says, “What are you doing sitting idle? Do something, get up. At least go to a hotel. Go watch a movie. Find someone—some ‘prey’—to pester. Do something. What are you doing sitting empty? You are wasting time.” So did Mahavira waste time standing idly in the forest for twelve years! He did nothing. In those twelve years there is not a single event the newspapers would consider worth printing. He fought no elections. He did not even speak. He just stood. He remained silent. Nothing like a deed happened in those twelve years. Mahavira’s twelve years are so empty that it would be hard to find their like in anyone else’s life. In that very emptiness lies the glory of Mahavira. For twelve years he did nothing. If he sat, he sat; if he stood, he stood; if he lay down, he lay down—such he became that the disease of busyness which rides man was completely gone.

Think on this a little, be mindful of it a little; let it seep inside, let it descend, let it settle—if you are sitting, you are sitting; there is nothing to do, nothing to think. Then you are. Only in that moment of being does acquaintance with the soul happen. The soul means being. Pure being. Mere being. And only then does the rain of deep peace fall and the instruments of supreme bliss begin to play. Clouds of nectar shower—in being. Doing is the world; being is religion. Doing is outside; being is within. The very moment you do something, you have gone out.

I tell people: meditation is not a doing; meditation is non-doing. I tell them, just sit, do nothing. They say, “At least tell us something, we need a support. Some base—shall we chant Ram-Ram? Shall we turn the rosary?” Those who devised rosary-turning and the chanting of God’s name did so for a reason: these are people who cannot remain without doing. If they do not run a shop, they will run the rosary. If they do not read the newspaper, they will read the Gita—but they will read! They will not be left empty even for a little while so that nothing is—so that the whole world of deeds melts away, goes far, and only being remains! Let the breath go on, the heart beat, awareness remain—enough. They ask, “Give us some support.” Support means: give us something to do, at least the rosary! Then they will go on sliding the beads—at least there will be something to do!

Have you never noticed that when someone is sliding the beads of a rosary, you think, “What a religious man.” That is your notion. Otherwise it is a very foolish activity—sliding the beads of a rosary! Yet it does give a kind of relief: that madness for doing stays occupied. At least one is doing something! All right, at least counting the beads!

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin could not sleep. His doctor said, “Do this: count sheep.” Many doctors advise this—get busy counting something; it is like turning a rosary. Count anything: go from one to a hundred, then come back from a hundred in reverse—ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven... Keep doing something like that. In a little while you will be dead tired, you will get bored: “What is this doing!” In that boredom sleep will come. Sleep comes very easily in boredom. For sleep, boredom is very useful.

Mulla said, “Fine!” He counted. One o’clock struck, two struck, three struck; the numbers reached into the hundreds of thousands and millions and kept going, and he became so excited—where could sleep come! Then he thought, “The whole night will pass like this, and what to do with so many millions of sheep?” So he started shearing them all. Now heaps upon heaps of wool piled up. He said, “What to do now? Let’s have blankets made.” Then around five o’clock he suddenly shouted, “Help! Help!” His wife, startled, got up and asked, “What happened?” He said, “We are going to die—who will buy so many blankets?”

A busy man becomes busy in thoughts themselves. Naturally he gets flustered: “So many blankets must have piled up! They keep piling, keep piling; a mountain must be touching the sky!”—so he panics, “We are finished, we will go bankrupt. Where will they sell? Who will buy? There aren’t even that many people.” The one turning the rosary is also keeping himself busy. The one chanting “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram” is also keeping himself busy.

The meaning of meditation is a transformation from doing to being—dropping doing and sinking into being. “You ask, what should be done next?” There is no need to do anything. If all questions have fallen, if there is a sure trust, if there is no hunger for answers, no craving—if any questions still remain, ask them, otherwise later they will trouble you; they will keep getting up again and again. Do not be hasty; search well. If truly they are finished, then the auspicious hour has arrived, the hour of good fortune has come; the moment of enlightenment has begun to draw near. Now drop the worry about doing; now the longer you can remain in being, the more auspicious it is. Now, whenever the chance arises, just sit.

Of course, when there is a need—run the shop, raise the children—do that much. But even that do in such a way that inwardly non-doing remains. Do it like a lotus in water. Do it and move on. Done, and it’s over. But do not make it a burden, do not make it a worry. Whenever the chance arises, wherever the chance arises—sitting in the car, on the bus, on the train—be empty. Do nothing within.

Let this temple now become empty. For lifetimes you have kept it filled, and by filling it only rubbish has gathered. Now keep it only empty; in that emptiness alone is purity. Mahavira has called that emptiness purity. Fill it neither with the auspicious nor with the inauspicious—remove everything now. Empty it. Let pure sky remain. Let a spotless sky remain within, in which there is not even a line of doing. Let a blank page remain. This is meditation.

And by this very meditation, day by day the nectar will become dense. By this meditation, day by day samadhi will grow more compact. By this meditation, day by day the Divine will come nearer and nearer. One day you will suddenly find: you are no more—only God remains.
That is all for today.