Jin Sutra #39

Albert Einstein considered two constituent elements of existence: time and space. And as his inquiry deepened, it seemed to him that calling them two was not quite right. So he chose a single term for both: spacetime.
Space is outside; time is inside.

If we understand life rightly, two things are needed for being. You need a place in which to be—you will occupy some room. You are sitting here; you have taken up a little space. That is kshetra, the sky, space. But that alone is not enough. If that were all, you would become an object. Then there would be no difference between you and a table or a chair. The table and the chair also occupy space, just as you do. The floor you are sitting on occupies space, just as you do.
Then what is the difference between you and a stone?

You have also occupied something within: that is time. For a stone there is no time, for a chair there is no time. For a human being there is time. Animals and birds have a little sense of time—not much. Trees have even less. A human being has a great sense of time. You are somewhere in space and somewhere in time; the point where these two lines intersect is where your existence is.

So we can call matter “space,” because it only occupies space. And we can call consciousness “time.” The world is made of consciousness and matter. Things are, but they have no knowledge of their being. The moment we become aware of our being, we also become aware of time. Our being, at the innermost, is an event of time.

In this way, based on modern physics, we can understand that just as Einstein spoke of spacetime, so Mahavira called the soul “time.” And when I take Albert Einstein’s name alongside Mahavira, there is good reason. The current of their thinking is alike. Mahavira gave birth to relativity in spirituality, and Einstein gave birth to relativity in physics. Their mode of inquiry, their method of thinking, their logic, is the same. If in this world two men’s thought aligns most closely, it is Mahavira and Einstein. Mahavira should be restudied on the basis of Einstein. Then great new waves, new insights will arise from Mahavira—what we had not seen in Mahavira may become visible with Einstein’s help. In Mahavira and Einstein, religion and science meet—as if Mahavira is the Einstein of the religious realm, and Einstein the Mahavira of the scientific realm. One.

Second: the word samaya is more precious than the English “time.” “Time” has only the meaning that kaal has. If we were to translate “time” exactly, we should translate it as kaal, not samaya. Kaal means that which is passing, that which is going. Samaya means that which is still. Samaya is born of sama—of evenness, rightness, balance. It shares the same root as samyakta (rightness), samata (equanimity), sambodhi (perfect awakening), and samadhi (absorption). The same root that is in sambodhi, in samyakta, in samata, in samadhi is present in samaya. Therefore, the exact translation of “time” is not samaya, and the exact translation of samaya is not “time.”

Samaya is a very precious word. Kaal is only one of its gestures. More is hidden in samaya than in kaal. If samaya is to be known, samyakta must be attained. One must become so quiet that no wave of thought remains. Then for the first time you will know what you are made of—who you are. Only in the final moment of equanimity will you become aware of your own samaya. That is why Mahavira called the soul “time”: the experience of samata, of evenness.

Krishna has said: equanimity is yoga. He has called samatva itself yoga. Become so balanced that you go beyond the world of dualities.

Ordinarily we are divided; ordinarily we choose sides. Someone is a woman, someone a man. The soul is neither woman nor man—hence samaya. In the experience of the soul, you will be neither woman nor man; the polarities will have gone—you will have become non-dual. In the moment you come to know your real nature, you will be neither young nor old; neither fair nor dark; neither healthy nor sick. All dualities are gone; equanimity has arrived. In that moment you will be neither happy nor unhappy; there will be neither night nor day; neither birth nor death. All opposites have fallen away; only a state free of duality remains. Therefore Mahavira called the soul “time”: samata, samyakta.

Such a deep rightness that transcendence happens—one slips out of the wheel of the opposites.

And this is why Mahavira called meditation samayik. Samayik is the way to reach samaya; samayik is the method to reach samyakta. Slowly, slowly, sink within and become quiet. As you become quieter, as the waves lessen, the inner taste begins to arise.

Mahavira named the soul “time” after great deliberation. It has both a scientific and a spiritual meaning. The scientific meaning I have spoken of: Einstein’s meaning is Mahavira’s meaning. And the spiritual meaning I have given: Krishna’s meaning—calling yoga samyakta, samatva—is Mahavira’s meaning.

A kind of madness always rides on man: what I believe, the other should also believe; what I believe alone is right; what the other believes is wrong. This is nothing but the proclamation of the ego.
Mahavira has said: the other is also right.
To think “only I am right” is unintelligent. If your wife finds joy in idol worship, who are you to interfere? What’s your purpose—simply because you are the husband? The uneasiness you feel is that you don’t have total possession over your wife. “I meditate, my wife worships idols!” If you have a taste for meditation, meditate. If your wife has a taste for idol worship, let her worship.

Rasa is the essential thing. Raso vai sah—That Supreme is rasa itself. How the rasa comes is secondary. Are we to eat mangoes or count their pits?
But people sit with piles of pits and call it philosophy. They’ve forgotten to eat the mango. Your wife is better than you: at least she does not tell you to give up meditation. She is more even-hearted than you. Wives are not often like this; you are fortunate. Wives don’t easily let go of control. In the cases that come to me, nine out of ten are wives forcing their husbands; one is a husband forcing his wife.

Drop this approach. Freedom is the essential mark of love. If you love your wife, wish her well, wish her auspiciousness, give her freedom. Of course your mind will say, “I wish her well, that’s why I am making her meditate. I wish her well, that’s why I am freeing her from idol worship—otherwise why would I make such an effort? It’s for her own good!” But only she can decide what is for her good, not you.

It is very difficult to stand in another’s place and see from another’s position; that is the greatest art. Look as a woman, then you will understand the difference between meditation and idol worship. Idol worship—the very feeling of worship—is feminine meditation. It is the woman’s way of meditating. Even if a woman meditates, it cannot be other than prayer. Love is her nature. For a man, love is one event among many; for a woman, love is her all. A man is loving for a few moments in the day, but love is not everything for him; he has many other things to do. For a woman, love is everything, her very all. Talk of meditation does not naturally take root in her; even if she “meditates,” it will be prayer in the name of meditation. Tears will flow in her meditation; rasa will surge. In meditation the Formless will take form; God will assume a form. A woman has the art of giving form.

That is why she has a womb.
The formless soul descends and takes form in a woman’s womb. The idol is born. A man does not have that capacity; he is not skilled at giving form to the formless. A woman has great power; she has something by which the formless becomes form. In ordinary life, too, the soul enters and emerges wearing a body. When the soul enters the womb, it is without form; the woman gives it form—shape, lines, a body.

So, in a woman’s very being the way of giving form is hidden. Even if she meditates, God will take on a form in her womb. That is her way of seeing. A man cannot understand: “Sitting before a stone statue and worshiping—what is this?” It is a stone statue to you. For eyes wet with love, the stone idol smiles, sings, hums; there is dialogue. Not only does the woman speak—God speaks to her in the same manner. In truth, if a woman is in right prayer, she speaks little; she goes a little sulky, and God coaxes her.

You will not understand her. Nor do you need to. Your path is meditation. A man’s path is meditation. Even if you pray, your pull will still be toward meditation; even prayer you will use for meditation. You will want somehow to be free of thoughts, for the waves to end—to become wave-less. The woman says, “How can all these waves become full of rasa?” She has no longing to be wave-less. Your longings are different—as they should be. Man and woman are opposites; therefore there is attraction, a pull. If they were identical, the attraction would end. Opposites attract. But this oppositeness must be understood.

The woman tries to break the husband to make him move in her way; the husband tries to break the wife to make her move in his way. Here the mistake happens. Here Mahavira’s vision is most useful. The vision he gave is syadvada—“perhaps-ism,” the doctrine of many-sidedness. He says, the other may also be right. He must be, otherwise why would he remain with his view? Idols have been destroyed again and again, yet they reappear. As long as there are women, idols cannot be destroyed—there is no way. Destroy the woman and it is another matter; that day idols will be gone. But if you destroy woman, you too will not survive.

The religions of men are iconoclastic. The religion of woman is of form, color, rasa, excitement, celebration. The religion of man is of renunciation, austerity, resolve, struggle. The religion of woman is of surrender, of refuge. The woman has never hankered after the formless; she cannot even understand what she would do with the formless. One with whom you cannot press your heart, whom you cannot behold with full eyes, whose hand you cannot hold, whom you cannot hear or speak to—what is the difference between the being and non-being of such a formless? What will you do with the attributeless? Eat it, drink it, wear it, spread it—what?

No, the woman’s prayer is: come with attributes; assume a form so that I can see you. My eyes are thirsty for lifetimes. Speak so that your musical voice may awaken my sleeping life. Come, caress me; come, dance with me.

Do not obstruct the woman. To obstruct is irreligious. If she finds rasa, it is right. If you do not understand, there is no need for you to understand; if you find rasa in your way, that is right. Rasa is the measure. If rasa is not arising, then there is something to consider. And it seems to me your wife is getting more rasa than you. You are not getting full rasa; your meditation is not settling. When one’s own meditation settles, who bothers about others? You are restless. You want to prove to the other that your meditation is very precious. You want to set up arguments, proofs, debates. By convincing the other, you want to create in your own eyes the feeling that your view must be right—“See, even my wife has agreed.”

But this insistence on being agreed with is dangerous. Let her walk her road. The other’s agreement is not necessary. You dive into your meditation; let her dive into her prayer. Diving and diving, one day you will find you have reached the same depth. There your meeting will be. There you will find your wife in a new form. There you will see: Ah! Prayer has brought me here; worship has brought her here; meditation has brought me here. All paths bring one to the same place. The difference is of the inner route, not of the destination.

Show compassion in understanding the other’s position. Argument is harsh; love is full of compassion. If you truly care for your wife, you will want her to find happiness, joy, the journey to the supreme bliss; may the Lord meet her—in whatever way she desires. And God meets in the very way you seek him. He comes to you in your manner. He has a thousand forms; the formless too is he. He is found through resolve and also through surrender. Truth is unconditional; it has no condition that “Come only this way, then I will meet you.” Come—just come. From which direction—east or west or north or south—it does not matter. Whether you come dancing, singing, or in silence—it makes no difference.

Meera reached the same place where Mahavira reached. And if one must choose, Meera’s path is more full of rasa; many flowers bloom there. Mahavira’s path is like a desert—dry. The desert has its beauty, its vastness, its expanse, its silence. But passing under trees laden with flowers has its own beauty and joy. Meera reached dancing; Mahavira reached standing still. Mahavira reached by stopping; Meera reached by running. But what happened is exactly one.

Walk in the way that seems right to you. Do not give another the opportunity to obstruct your path, nor try to obstruct anyone else’s path. How did you conclude that idol worship is wrong? Have you practiced idol worship? If you had, you would know. You have not—you are merely spinning a web of arguments. Idol worship has nothing to do with such argumentation; it is a matter of rasa, a bond of love. A woman lives in dreams, but she has the power to make dreams come true. Let her go; send her off with joy: “Go on your path.”

“My wife worships idols, but I tell her to meditate.”
Stop saying such things. Who are you? Being a husband does not make you the owner of her soul. Those seven sacred rounds may have created a worldly relationship, but you did not purchase her soul. Free her. Let her go on her path. Let her choose her own method, her own discipline. Let her heart flow its own way.

“And I say idol worship is futile.” Do not say such a thing. Do not needlessly push someone away from their path. If it is futile, one day she will see it and transform herself. Has anyone ever learned just because someone else explained? People awaken only through their own experience. If it is meaningful, it will reach; if it is futile, then today or tomorrow, after wandering, she will return. When she asks you, “Teach me meditation, because idol worship has proved futile for me,” then offer your teaching—but wait until then. Be patient. The day she asks you, the day your joy touches her and she feels you have found something and she has missed something, that day explain.

Do not try to become a guru. The day someone comes as a disciple, that day present your truth. Even then, do not say “idol worship is wrong”; only say “meditation is right.” There is a difference. Because you can say only this much: I meditated and found it right. I never practiced idol worship—so who am I to pronounce it right or wrong? I cannot say anything about it. I have meditated and found it right. If your path of idol worship does not take you there, then here are my sutras of meditation—this is my offering. If they seem right to you, set out; if not, that is your will. Even then, do not impose. Truths are not to be imposed.

The very word “satyagraha” (truth-insistence) is utterly wrong. Truth has no insistence. Truth is only presented. If you tie truth together with insistence, the insistence will win and truth will die. In satyagraha, truth is hanged. Insistence? Mahavira has said: niragraha—non-insistence. One who attains the state of non-insistence attains truth. Drop all insistences. The world is vast, immense. You have not trodden all the paths, nor plumbed the depths of all the seas. You have not descended from all the ghats, nor traveled in all the boats. You can only say, “My boat carried me.” Whether other boats carry or not—how can I say? Ask those who have traveled in them.

Mahavira himself says, “I am making a tirth”—a ford, a ghat. The river is great—the Ganga flows from Gangaotri to the sea; there are thousands upon thousands of ghats. Mahavira says, “I am building one ghat, one ford.” Hence the word tirthankara—maker of fords. He does not say other ghats are wrong. He only says, “I can say this much: I crossed from my ghat; you too can cross. If my ghat attracts you, if you feel some inviting charm in it, come—my boat is ready.” Mahavira is a boatman, standing ready with his boat for those who wish to cross from this ghat. But he says, “The river is vast—there are other ghats too. And people have crossed from them also; otherwise those ghats would have crumbled, closed, ended. If no one had ever crossed from them, if people kept drowning from those ghats and never reached the far shore, those ghats would have vanished.”

There are so many religions in the world because each contains some portion of truth. Each has been bringing someone or the other across in some way; otherwise their existence would be meaningless. The false cannot live; it can raise a little noise for a while, but it will die. Only truth lives. Only truth triumphs. Satyam eva jayate.

Do not say, “idol worship is futile.” It reveals your anger, not your love; your violence, not your compassion. It shows you are eager to dominate your wife, to make her follow you, to turn her into a shadow; you are not ready to give her soul its freedom. And what kind of love is it that does not grant even this much freedom! Worship, prayer, meditation—these are ultimate matters. They have little to do with husband and wife.

When the world becomes better, freedom will deepen. The wife may go to the mosque, the husband may go to the temple. The sons may go nowhere; they may meditate—and no one will obstruct anyone. Wherever one feels right. If someone finds a stream of rasa flowing from the Quran, let him flow. The stream of rasa is the essential thing. If someone dives into the Gita, let him dive; the diving is the essential thing. Someone walks with Mahavira; someone dances with Meera—let him dance, let him walk. Keep one thing in view: Is transformation happening? Are you becoming saturated with rasa? Are your life-breaths filling with honey? Are you becoming honeyed? Are you diving deep? Are you dancing? Are you becoming peaceful and blissful? That’s all. And even then, do not impose it on another.

Remember one thing: Freedom cannot be imposed—how then can liberation be imposed! Even if a person goes to hell by his own choice, he will remain content. And if you are shoved into heaven by force—even with handcuffs put on by policemen—heaven will become hell. Heaven is where freedom is. Where there is dependence, there is hell. Do not create hell for anyone. Your wife depends on you—economically depends on you. She is like a creeper wrapped around a tree; if the tree is removed, the creeper falls to the ground. She needs your support. Do not make that support an exploitation. Do not use that support to suck her dry; do not begin to destroy her soul.

“She replies that Meera too worshiped idols.”
She answers rightly. And what else can the poor woman say? You are more skilled in argument, you can spout doctrinal talk; she can only present this much: “I don’t know much else, but are you saying Meera did not find God? And if Meera found him through idol worship, why won’t I?” She is making a small plea: “Spare me; let me be!” Certainly Meera found God—and through idol worship. It is not a question of “idol worship or not worship”; wherever you pour out your heart, from there he is found. Pour your heart on a stone, and that very stone becomes God.

God is not sitting somewhere. By giving your life, you create him. God is a creation of man. He is your creation. It is not that you go and find him hiding in a mountain cave or sitting on the moon among the stars and you have to search him out. He is not to be found; he is to be created. God is like dance. That is why I find the Hindu imagination delightful—that they called Shiva Nataraj, the Lord of Dance.

God is like a dancer. If you want to find dance, will you look for it in the forest? If you want dance, learn to dance. Dance will not be found kept somewhere. It is not locked in some vault. If you dance, there is dance. And as long as you keep dancing, it is there. Stop dancing and the dance stops. The dance is gone. You cannot say, “I danced today; look, I have the dance in my fist.” It remains only as long as you dance. When you do not dance, the dance is lost.

God is like dance—Nataraj. When you are in meditation, he is. When you step out of meditation, he is lost. When you are in prayer, he is. When you step out of prayer, he is lost. That is why I say: let prayer or meditation become your natural way of living, your twenty-four-hour atmosphere. Only then will you be able to find God; otherwise not.

He has to be given birth to every moment; only then is God in your hands. God is creativity. Create, and he is found. Others have said God is the Creator; I tell you, you are the creator. And when you give birth to God, he is. God is not first; he is the ultimate flower atop the heights and depths of your life. God is not the cause of the world; he is the destiny of the world—where all should arrive, what all should become. He is the flower, the last blossom. Beyond that, there is nothing.

So if someone opens, blossoms, becomes fragrant through prayer, rejoice. Your wife is speaking rightly: Meera too worshiped idols. Meera’s husband had the same difficulty you have. Prayer does not sit well with men. It seems a bit messy to them; logic does not grasp it—it cannot. Two plus two make four—that a man understands; mathematics is his straight language. Poetry he does not understand. That is why man and woman do not understand each other. Have you understood your wife yet? You have lived together so many years! Can you say with confidence that you have understood? Difficult. Nor can the wife understand you.

When husband and wife talk, understand that conversation does not really happen. One says something; the other hears something else. Their arguments run parallel, never meeting—because their ways of seeing are very different. The wife is not logical in the step-by-step way; she leaps from one point to another. The husband stands startled: “That wasn’t even a point yet!” But the wife’s movements are in invisible ways, unconscious ways. What you say, she hears less; what you intend to say, she hears first. The words matter little to her; what your eyes are saying, your hands, your feet—she hears that first. She is not deceived by your words.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was on trial. He was suddenly alarmed—there sat a jury of twelve women. He said, “I confess my crime right now.” The magistrate said, “The court hasn’t even begun.” He said, “There’s no need. I cannot deceive even one woman—twelve! Impossible. Whatever punishment you wish, give it to me. I am not ready to get into this mess.”

A woman’s ways of seeing and grasping are indirect. That is why sometimes you are surprised: “I said such a nice thing, yet my wife was not pleased!” You said a nice thing, but alongside the words you were saying something else as well. Along the edges another message was going; your eyes and face were revealing it.

Nasruddin’s wife was saying to him, “Do you love me? Will you love me even in old age? Will you always love me?” Nasruddin was reading his newspaper, simmering inside that she wasn’t letting him read. He said, “Yes, goddess, I will love you forever. There is no woman more beautiful than you. You are supremely beautiful. And you will always remain beautiful. I cannot even imagine you ever growing old.” And then he added, “Now stop this nonsense and let me read my paper.”

But that inner feeling—his face told it all. What you say, a woman does not hear; what you are, she hears. Therefore you try every tactic, yet you find nothing has reached.

Until you become truly sincere—until there is no gap between what you say and what you are—you cannot have a dialogue with a woman. It is impossible.

A woman knows less of inner conflict; she is more innocent, simple, straightforward. A man has become more skillful, and his skill works in the marketplace—because there he deals with other men, and there the logic is the same. That is why even the greatest warrior trembles before his wife. The most victorious hero outside comes home and begins to fear, “We’re going home!” What happens? You cannot conquer one woman! She is made in a different way—her alchemy is different.

Your wife is right when she says, “Meera too arrived.” If one has arrived by that path, so can we. Be gracious to her. Tell her, “Go—walk your way.” If you are truly walking the path of meditation, you will let her walk the path of prayer. Your meditation will at least give you that much understanding, that much wisdom.
You have asked; I don’t have an answer to this. I don’t have one either. There simply is no answer—what will you do with it? It isn’t your fault. Meera has attained; now where could an answer come from? You are trying to find an answer in a place where there is none.
Mahavira has arrived, Meera has arrived. Krishna arrived, Christ arrived. Mohammed arrived, Buddha arrived. They arrived by different paths. Everyone arrives. Just keep walking; let the walking not stop. Even if you wander, you will arrive—only don’t stop, keep moving. Today you may wander, tomorrow you may wander—how long can you keep wandering? In the end even the wandering starts being recognized. If you go astray day after day, understanding begins to dawn. When the wrong is seen as wrong, the feet start moving toward the right. When the nonessential is seen as nonessential, the journey toward the essential begins. There is no other way. Experience itself is the path.

“And also explain how I should make my wife understand?”

Do not explain at all. You understand. When you return home, ask your wife for forgiveness—that all that you have said and heard till now, that idol-worship is futile, etc., was my mistake. You go your own way. Perhaps this very act of asking forgiveness will open the way for her to understand you and for you to understand her. It is not necessary that your wife is actually enjoying prayer. It is not necessary that she truly has a taste for idol-worship. But there is a relish in defying the husband’s word. Everyone enjoys breaking bondage. Everyone relishes breaking what is imposed. It may be that idol-worship is continuing precisely because you are opposed to it.

Sometimes a husband comes to me and says, “I am taking sannyas—now my wife!” I say, now it is a little difficult. If the wife comes first and takes sannyas, there is a possibility that today or tomorrow she will bring the husband too. But if the husband comes first, it becomes very difficult. Then the wife does not come at all. Then she will not even lend an ear to this side. Between husband and wife there is such enmity that the wife is ready to lose to the whole world, but never to the husband. And this is “God”; to lose to him—never.

In the West there was a great thinker, Henry Thoreau. Someone asked him why he never married. He said, “I was coming out after eating in a hotel; there was jostling, a crowd. My foot slightly touched a woman’s foot. She flared up at once and shouted, ‘You devil! Bastard!!’ I was quite shaken—what a humiliation this is going to be. Then she turned back and looked at me—ah! She said, ‘Forgive me! I thought you were my husband.’ That very day I decided: never. I may become anything else, but I will never become a husband.”

There is a deep struggle. Try to understand it. In a brute, physical sense, man is stronger than woman. He has more muscular strength. He is a little bigger in body as well, and more powerful. He suppresses the woman in every way. Then the woman, too, finds subtle ways to suppress him. This is perfectly natural. The weak also have their tricks for tormenting; they have subtle strategies. You can hit her, beat her—fine. But she can create such small disturbances whose accumulated effect will drive you mad. They look small; they have no direct connection with you; you cannot even argue.

For example, the day there has been a tiff with your wife and you have shown her your stiffness, harassed her—that day more utensils and cups will break in the house. What will you do? You cannot say that they are breaking because of me. She is not attacking you directly. She is not hitting you; she is hitting the cups. The pots will clang loudly. But if this continues through the day, slowly there is a blow on your brain. You know on whose head the pots are breaking—and why. Doors will be banged. There will seem to be a storm in the house. She will not attack you directly. Her attack will be very subtle, very nonviolent—but she will break you. To give someone a slap does not break him as much as harassing him the whole day does. Women have become adept in that art. Because the man has pressed them from above, what should they do? They have no way to answer directly, so they have begun to answer obliquely. They torment drop by drop. But the accumulated drops become a lot; the pitcher fills. And then they resist in small things.

Every day—I used to stay in many homes in my traveling days—I would be sitting; I am in the car with the husband; he is honking the horn; the wife says, “Coming!” But she does not come at all. She knows well that they have to go somewhere at the exact time. But this is the chance to show who the master is. She cannot miss this chance. She is still getting dressed. She is still choosing the sari. The husband is fuming. But what can you do now? If you start a quarrel at this moment, it will delay you even more. At this moment it is best to swallow it in silence. This is an indirect attack.

So it may be that your wife gets no real joy from prayer and worship; but since you keep insisting, “Meditate,” one thing is certain: she will not meditate. And it may be precisely to avoid meditating that she is entangled in worship and prayer. Withdraw your opposition. Go and ask her forgiveness—that all that has been said so far was a mistake, it was wrong; forgive me. Now I have no insistence that you meditate. Now whatever you do is right. Pray, worship—Meera also arrived; you too can arrive. Then you have set her free. Now she will consider whether, in truth, she was getting a taste out of it, or whether it was only the relish of opposing you. Now there is no reason for the old relish. If it was the taste of opposition, that is finished—the opposition itself is gone. If she finds taste there, fine. If not, she will on her own turn toward meditation. But you drop the attempt to bring her. No one has ever been able to bring anyone to God by force.

Man is very complex. He seeks happiness. If happiness is not found, he settles for misery. Because even seeking has a limit. To go on searching and searching starts to feel like futile labor. So he agrees to misery. Not only agrees—he begins to take a certain relish in it. This is a very dangerous state of mind.

If you start savoring sorrow, you close all doors to joy. Remaining miserable for a long time, you make companionship with misery; a relationship forms. Then even if someone comes to bring you joy, you will close the door. You will say, “Now I have an old bond with my sorrow. I can’t leave it. This companionship cannot be dropped.” In this way a kind of “sufferism” is born inside man.

Those who are devoted to suffering were first all devoted to pleasure. They had gone in search of joy, but they could not reach it. Not reaching does not prove that joy does not exist; it only proves there was some error in your reaching. You searched in the wrong direction. You did not search rightly. Or not with your full urgency and strength. You did not stake your whole being. That much only is proved. Joy is. But joy is found through a very deep search. Yet on the way, bearing pain upon pain upon pain, you developed companionship with pain. You became friends with your hurt. Now you even fear that the pain might leave you—otherwise you will be alone. Thus “sufferism” arises.

In women this “sufferism” arises more quickly than in men. Then in sorrow there appears a taste—a morbid savor. Do not give it much value. Then they begin to sing the songs of sorrow:

Life, water-born of separation—life, water-born of separation;
Born in pain, given shelter in compassion;
Its day plucks tears, its night counts tears.

Then sorrow itself is made into song. Time gets spent counting tears. One begins to play with one’s own wounds. When the pain comes, it feels good—at least something is happening. It is not as if there is only emptiness. Remember, a person prefers being miserable to being empty. At least misery provides a kind of filling. To be utterly empty feels difficult. Either pleasure or pain; no one is ready to be empty. And here is a great, supreme truth worth remembering—only the one who is willing to be empty becomes available to joy.

So the very people who search for happiness slowly settle for sorrow. Then they clutch sorrow and sit with it. Sorrow becomes their ornament. They sing the songs of sorrow. They give birth to poems of sorrow:

Life, water-born of separation—life, water-born of separation;
Born in pain, given shelter in compassion;
Its day plucks tears, its night counts tears.

Such people begin to collect sorrow; they begin to look for it. Wherever sorrow can be found, there they go. Outwardly they say they want happiness, but they search for suffering. And when joy arrives they close the door; when misery comes they are found standing at the gate. This has happened to many. That is why there is so much suffering in the world. It need not be so. Yesterday I was reading a line. Someone has said—

“Conjure up a disease, if you must, for the sake of living—
life does not pass on the strength of health alone.”

Well said!
Life does not pass on the strength of health alone.
Has life ever been lived on health alone?

“Conjure up a disease, if you must, for the sake of living.”

So people manufacture diseases. They have given them many names. Ambition and politics are names of diseases. Wealth, position, prestige—these are names of diseases. Health belongs to love. Except for love, all is disease. When love is missed, man starts searching for other diseases. What to do! One must do something—one must remain busy. Since there is life, one will not sit empty.
The woman who has asked should wake up. She has made a dangerous choice: “I am thinking of taking someone’s support to be free of sorrow.” What is there to think about? Take it! Thinking and thinking, the days will pass. Thinking and thinking, life will pass by. What is there to think about in this? Where is the need for so much deliberation? When you are angry you don’t think—when it comes to love you think so much!
“I am thinking of taking someone’s support to be free of sorrow, of sitting under the shade of someone’s love.”
Sit! Because it is in the fragrance of love that the first news of the divine arrives. And if the flower of love remains unblossomed, how will the flower of prayer ever bloom?

Not that human love is the end—but it is the beginning. From human love we learn the ABCs. Love does not find its completion in a person, because love can be fulfilled only with the Vast, the infinite. How can it be satisfied with a human being? But the first steps of love are learned in the shallows. Just as when one learns to swim, one first learns in shallow water; one doesn’t jump straight into the ocean. One learns at the shore, where there is no fear. At first one learns with someone’s support. Then, when swimming is learned, support is no longer needed. Then one goes alone, far into the deep.

Human love is the shore for the divine. A person’s support is only for learning. Then the boat has to be left behind in the ocean of the infinite. But he who has not even come to the shore—how will he enter the ocean?

“To sit under the shade of someone’s love.” Don’t think—sit! Thinking is the very opposite of love. Thinkers go on thinking. There is a great difference between lovers and thinkers.

I have heard: Immanuel Kant, a great thinker—one woman declared her love for him. For two or three years she remained in love with him, waiting for him to speak, because women wait. Even a declaration is a kind of aggression; it doesn’t feel fitting to the feminine mind. She waited for the lover to speak. But Kant said nothing. Three years passed. Compelled, the woman said, “Say something—life will pass like this. I want to be yours forever.” Kant said, “I was afraid that someday this question would arise. I will think about it.”

He was a great philosopher. It’s a remarkable tale—and even if it were only a tale, it would be fine; but it is true. He went on thinking, thinking. They say that three years later he knocked at that young woman’s house. Her father opened the door. He asked, “How have you come? You haven’t been seen for long.” Kant said, “I’ve come to say I have decided to marry.” The father said, “You’ve come very late. She’s already married—and even has a child. Where were you so long?” Kant said, “I was thinking.” From his pocket he took out his notebook and showed it. He had written down all the possible points for and against marriage; he had calculated: how many for, how many against; what gain, what loss. And then he had concluded that the gain is a little more—a hair’s breadth more, not much. There are many losses too, but the gain is slightly greater. And the gain is this: one will gain experience.

Thinking and thinking, life will pass you by. What is the thinking for? Death will not ask you, “Have you thought it through—shall we go?” Death will come. Just as death comes, let love come too. Open the doors—what is there to fear?

People are very afraid of love. They say they want love, but they are very afraid—because love is a kind of death. The ego has to be dissolved.

As I see it, this woman’s mind must have a big ego. Ego is the enemy of love. Ego does not allow you to bend with another. In love you will have to bend. In love you will have to make room for the other. The ego will have to vacate a little space. When you were living alone in a room, it was one thing. Then you brought a beloved, a friend, a wife, a husband into the same room—now everything will have to be rearranged. Many adjustments will be needed. Where two worlds live together, there will be many compromises. There will also be struggle. At times there will be moments of unrest. At times there will be quarrels. At times flowers of beauty, truth, and music will bloom. At times thorns will prick. Every rosebush has thorns. Love is the roseflower—there are many thorns around it. People fear the thorns. They want the flower but are afraid of the thorns.

But whoever wants the flower must accept the thorns as well. The very savor of the flower is amidst the thorns. Otherwise, buy plastic flowers. That is why prostitutes came into the world: they arose out of the fear of love. A prostitute is a plastic flower—no bond, no relationship. No reason for thorns to prick. When you take a woman or a man close to you, there is danger. Two worlds are coming close. There will be conflict. But the conflict is sweet. Understanding will grow. Maturity will come.
It is asked: “I think, to be free from sorrow, I should take someone’s support, sit in the shade of someone’s love.”
I cannot say that you will be freed from sorrow if you find the shade of love; I can say this much—sorrow will help to open your eyes. Love too will bring pain, but the pain of love is a sweet ache. Without love, pain is nothing but thorns. In love’s pain there are thorns, yes—but there are flowers too. And I do not say that love will satisfy you either. In truth, love will make you even more unsatisfied and send you in search of the greater Beloved. No man, no woman can complete love. The final quest of love is for the Divine. Nothing less will bring fulfillment. But you will find support; the courage will arise to embark on the great journey. When in human love such flowers bloom—even if small, even if they quickly wither; blooming in the morning, fading by evening—then how can flowers not bloom in your love for the Divine!

Your first hint of the Divine will come only through the door of love. So I do not say your sorrow will disappear; I say your sorrow will become creative. You will receive little glimpses of joy. Holding to those glimpses, squeezing their essence, you will be able to set out on the journey toward the great bliss.

Then you say, “But even without finding it, there is contentment.” This is dangerous contentment. It is not contentment; it is consolation. Contentment is a very precious word—never use it like this. This is consolation, explaining things away to yourself. And man is very skillful at explaining himself away. The grapes are sour. What one does not get becomes “not worth having.” What we fail to seek, our ego starts saying we never wanted to seek it anyway! The poor man begins to say, “What is there in wealth?” If a rich man says it, it makes sense; if a poor man says it, it makes no sense. The poor man starts saying, “What is there in conquering the world?” If Alexander or Napoleon say it; if Mahavira or Buddha say it—fine. But you who have not yet conquered the world—whom are you telling, “What is there in conquering the world?” Are you not just pacifying your mind? Does the mind not secretly want to conquer? Seeing its incapacity—conquest is difficult—ego saves itself by saying, “Who wants to conquer anyway!”

Have you ever noticed how many layers of consolations you have built in your life? It is because of these consolations that you have become bound, shackled. Break the consolations! This is not contentment.

You have heard the saying, “The contented are always happy.” It is wrong. “The happy are always contented.” Contentment never brings happiness; happiness certainly brings contentment. What you are calling contentment is only self-justification. When there is no condition to move ahead, what to do?—you explain it away. You say, “We don’t want to go; there is nothing worth attaining; we already know there’s nothing there.” But look closely into your mind. And if this were true contentment, then fine—there would be no need to ask the question. Does a question ever arise out of contentment? Contentment is so utterly fulfilled—where is the space for questions! This is consolation. And women are very skillful in consolation, because they are weak in conflict.

“But even without finding it, there is contentment.” This contentment is dead. Remove this corpse! Otherwise you too will die with it. Friendship with corpses is not good. Nor is it good to stay too long with the dead—because we become like those we live with.

“There is contentment that at least my sorrow and someone’s indifference are together.” What kind of talk is this! It is like lying on the bare floor and thinking, “At least there is no bed—that too is a kind of contentment.” Sitting on the ground and brooding over the chair that is not in the room—finding contentment because there is no chair! Finding contentment because there is no bed! Because there is no food! Because there is no health, no companion! If this brings you “contentment,” then that contentment is a disease. Break it. Become discontented, if this is what you call contentment. Search.

Yes, I also say that one day love goes beyond the lover—but first, be a lover. From the lover you will get nothing; from love you will get an even greater thirst, a greater discontent, a burning longing to attain the Divine. In the presence of a lover you will come to know: no, nothing ultimate is going to be gained from this direction. But without the presence of a lover, you cannot know this.

A man stands on the road like a beggar. And Mahavira stands on the road like a beggar. Imagine both beggars walking together. Are they the same? One is Mahavira, who has seen palaces, enjoyed palace pleasures, seen the futility of pleasure, the emptiness of palaces. He has seen kingdom and empire—and seen it all turn to ash. The other is an ordinary beggar who has seen nothing; his mind still dreams. If someone made him a king even now, he would at once agree. Though he too says, “There is nothing of substance,” Mahavira also says, “There is nothing of substance.” Both use the same words—but can the meanings be the same? Between their meanings lies the distance of earth and sky.

Mahavira speaks from knowing; the other speaks from believing. If wealth lay on the path, Mahavira would pass by as if it were mere soil. The other could not pass. He would say, “Forget all that wise talk! Now that it has come, let’s enjoy it!”

“At least my sorrow and someone’s indifference are together”—and you call this wealth! Break this wealth, this illusion of wealth.

Let no one move without love—be it storm or rain,
Whether a young age’s scarf or a tattered, ancient shawl,
Let the earth be scorched for love, let the lamp burn for love—
What heart is there that has not stood guard at love’s door!

On every riverbank enact the dance as you go,
At every water-step sing as you go,
Every eye’s pitcher is thirsty—
Pour out the Ganges water as you go.

No one is a stranger; the whole earth is one dwelling.
If its border lies in the west, the mind’s camp lies in the east.
Whether fair or dark, beautiful or plain,
All fish are of one pond—what is mine, what is yours?

Let lanes and villages resound as you go,
Lay flowers on every path as you go,
Every door is the door of Rama—bow your head to all as you go.

Every door is the door of Rama—bow your head to all as you go: if you have loved someone, the door of Rama opens. Wherever love knocks, there the door of Rama opens.

Never avoid love. Enter love. Do not be afraid of love. Love will give great pain; love will burn; love will become fire—but only by passing through fire does one become pure gold. Do not be frightened of the fire of love; do not run away; otherwise you will remain half-baked, incomplete, full of clay.

So I do not say that love will give you only happiness. I do not say love is a bed strewn with flowers. Love is a path of great pain. But it is necessary to pass through it. Only by passing through it do you become worthy of prayer, mature for prayer. The moment someone is immersed in love, a taste begins; through many veils the first glimpse of the Divine begins. On this earth there is no experience that gives a glimpse of the Divine more than love.

Love is the ray of that world in this world. Love is the shining star of the Divine in this dark night—very far, but through this darkness a ray is reaching. Hold to that ray. I have never seen anyone satisfied by love. Therefore there is nothing to fear: love will make you more unsatisfied. New peaks will challenge you. New impulses to seek higher heights will arise.

Have you ever thought why there is conflict among lovers? There is always some struggle; its whole cause is simply this: every lover is trying to make the other like the Divine. This is the struggle. Wherever the other falls even a little short of the Divine, quarrel begins. The husband is trying that the wife be godlike, divine. As soon as she falls short, obstruction appears. The wife too is thinking the husband should be like the Divine. The search of both is right—and therefore the conflict. Gradually it is realized that man has limits. Then resentment disappears. Then the idea arises that we are searching in the wrong place. We will have to raise our eyes a little higher—see beyond the human. Or, look deep within the human.

Have you noticed that the moment you fall in love, you are no longer what you were? Something new begins to arise in you; some wings begin to open; something is ready to fly towards the sky. Have you seen that with love, all that is noble in you suddenly begins to awaken? With hatred, all that is inauspicious thickens within. Hatred arises—violence arises. Hatred arises—anger arises. Hatred arises—you are ready to kill and be killed, to destroy. Love arises—creation arises. Love arises—you are ready to build, to adorn, to beautify. With love, auspicious feelings are born alongside. The higher love flies, the higher auspiciousness rises within you. The deeper you go into love, the more divine you become.

Newfound love leaves a dignity upon your face you never knew before. An aura, an energy, a new light surrounds your face. Your gait changes; into your step enters a little of Meera’s dance. Granted, she was seeking the Supreme Beloved, so the dance is not complete—but a few anklets do ring; they ring off and on. The anklets do ring. The cadence is not such that it resounds in the sky, but it fills the courtyard. A small lamp does get lit. The great sun does not arise, as Kabir says “thousands upon thousands of suns are being born,” but a small lamp does get lit. And the lamp too is a representative of the sun—small, humble, but what is in the sun’s ray is in the lamp’s ray too; the nature is one.

No ocean may surge forth—but a drop does fall. And in the drop is what is in the ocean. The one who has recognized the drop will someday find the ocean too. The one who has tasted the drop—how long can he remain deprived of the ocean? As glimpses of love begin to come, your hope for love begins to rise.

Do not settle for lack. Do not settle for absence. Lack is hell. Be full of feeling. Be creative. If there is no love, do not settle for that. Break the rocks of the heart! Let the spring of love flow! If worldly, then worldly; if of the body, then of the body—at least begin. No one reaches heaven on the first step—but take the first step. Lao Tzu has said: by walking step by step a journey of a thousand miles is completed. Take one step.

A few settle for love itself. Many settle for the absence of love. Those who settled for the absence of love, they wandered in a dark night. Those who settled for love, they sat holding only a lamp—when the sun could have been theirs.

He stopped at a single radiance—
Perhaps his passion is still impoverished.

The one who became satisfied with a single glimpse and thought it enough—his thirst, his love, his yearning is poor, miserly. Even when he spread his begging bowl, he did not open it fully.

He stopped at a single radiance—
Perhaps his passion is still impoverished.

But in my eyes the most unfortunate are those who became content in the absence of love. After them come those who became content with love. Fortunate are those who did not let lack remain, and did not let even love be the end—they reached prayer, they reached the Divine.

Every day awaken a new discontent. Religion is not contentment—it is supreme discontent for the Supreme. Do not settle for the small. Until the vast is found, do not stop. There will be many halts—many milestones; pause, rest for the night—but keep the preparation to walk in the morning. Don’t build a house anywhere. Rest, take a pause, but remember: rest is preparation to move in the morning.

I am in favor of love, because in my view love is the bridge between the seen and the unseen, between body and bodiless, between matter and the Divine.

I must sing the sky the song of the earth,
I must call every darkness into light,
I must subdue the sword with the fragrance of a flower,
And by singing awaken the mountains.

When there is no love in your heart, you are a mountain—rock and rock and rock—holding back the spring. As soon as love wells up within you, a ray descends, rocks break, the cascade flows.

I must sing the sky the song of the earth.
What do these trees do when they bloom? They sing the earth’s song to the sky. They give the sky news of the earth: “Do not take us as mere earth—there are flowers as well.” On earth are hidden flowers that can outdo the sky. In dust there is fragrance; there is color—rainbow color.

A flower is earth’s offering to the sky. When a human being blossoms, the finite speaks to the Infinite; the small speaks to the Vast; then the drop speaks to the ocean, enters into dialogue. The song of the earth, the song of the finite, the song of the drop.

I must sing the sky the song of the earth,
I must call every darkness into light.

And as long as you are suppressing love, you are in darkness. Awake! Light the lamp of love. In my heart there is complete acceptance of love. Those who condemned love poisoned you. They made you fearful of love. Out of that fear you were left alone. You wander, but no companionship with the Divine happens. You lack the hand with which to hold the hand of the Divine. Love will give you that hand.

I must call every darkness into light,
I must subdue the sword with the fragrance of a flower—

Life is difficult, like a sword.

I must subdue the sword with the fragrance of a flower—

And we must conquer with love. This is the challenge, the adventure of man—his evolution, his transformation, his alchemy.

I must subdue the sword with the fragrance of a flower—
Conquer this world with love. Conquer this body with love. Conquer these senses with love. Conquer this mind with love. Conquer the other and the self with love.

I must subdue the sword with the fragrance of a flower,
And by singing awaken the mountains—

Awaken them by song, not by shaking, not by electric shocks—by song! As a mother wakes someone in the morning—she sings; or at night, lulls her child to sleep—she sings a lullaby. What I go on saying to you is nothing else: I want to awaken the mountain within you.

By singing awaken the mountains—
And the formula of all awakening is—love.

Do not be afraid. Love destroys—indeed it destroys. But love also gives birth. Love is a cross—true. Love is also a throne. And the one who climbs the cross is the one who reaches the throne.

Night sets here, and day rises there.
Someone stops here, someone moves there.
Between the lamp and the moth the difference is only this:
One burns and is extinguished; one is extinguished and then burns.

Love burns—but it also awakens. Love destroys—but it also gives birth. Love is death and the beginning of great life. Abandon useless condemnation. Walk the path of love. And the question is asked by a woman—then all the more it is necessary to understand: never avoid love. A man can perhaps reach even avoiding love; the meditator can reach even leaving love. The path will be difficult—very difficult—what could have been simple, musical, full of juice will become dry, dusty, full of stones and thorns. He will arrive bleeding, but he can arrive. But a woman cannot arrive without love; she will be lost on such a path.

In truth there should be only two religions in the world—there are only two: the religion of woman and the religion of man. All the world’s religions can be divided into these two. The religion of man says, “Leave love.” The religion of woman says, “Make love your worship.” But only when there is love can worship be.
To the one who has asked, I would say: don’t be afraid. Life is for experience. Don’t turn it into a locked cell. Don’t hide in a cave. Open up; let the winds come, let the new rays of the sun in. Live. Living is dangerous. But danger is a sign of life. In security there is death; in security there is a grave. Step in. Storms of love will come—endure them. In those very storms something sleeping within you will awaken, some rock will split, a spring will flow. And do not be afraid—
When night declines here, day rises there.
When someone stops here, another walks on there.
No sooner does one door close than another opens.

Between the lamp and the moth the difference is only this:
one burns and is extinguished; the other, extinguished, burns.

If you can be a moth, be a moth. If you can be a lamp, be a lamp. But both the lamp and the moth burn. The lamp burns and goes out; the moth goes out and burns. Be either—be a lamp or be a moth. Many songs have been written in praise of the moth, that it burns, that it is mad with love. No one has cared to praise the lamp— that it too burns for the moth, that it says, “Come,” that it waits. Where the moth and the lamp meet, where both vanish as separate and become one, there love is born.

When you unite with the Divine, you will unite; for now, connect with a smaller divinity. When you attain the sun, you will attain it; for now, if a ray comes near, seize it. But if life is creative, filled with acceptance and reverence for love, a human being cannot remain far from the temple for long.

Love is the door.
Enough for today.