Jin Sutra #4

Love burns. And only the one who is willing to burn in love becomes available to prayer. Love gives pain, because love cuts. As a sculptor breaks the stone with chisel and hammer; but only then does the statue appear. Whoever is afraid of the sorrow of love will live forever in the hell of lovelessness. Whoever accepts the anguish of love—then sorrow soon transforms into joy, and into such joy as has no end.

The path of the search for truth is filled with tears; but for each single tear, millions upon millions of flowers bloom. These tears are not ordinary tears. I know the one who has asked. These tears are not ordinary tears. And the sorrow in these tears is not ordinary sorrow either. There is a certain savor in these tears. Do not take them merely as tears, otherwise you will miss. Let others think as they will; but if you yourself take these tears to be just tears, it will be a great miss. This is an inevitable stage.

In the search for the Divine there are only two ways. Either the tears dry up completely; the eyes do not remain even a little moist, no dampness at all—the wood becomes so dry that if you set it alight, no smoke rises, only flame. Such is Mahavira’s path. There, tears are to be dried. There, tears are to be completely vaporized. There, love is not to be preserved; there, all the possibilities of love are to be brought to an end—so that only you remain, utterly alone; no door remains to go outward. Because love takes one outward. It can take one into the world; it can also take one into the Divine. But ordinarily it takes one into the world—ninety-nine times out of a hundred it takes one into the world.

Mahavira’s path says: dry up these tears. No devotion, no emotion; no worship, no prayer—extinguish all these lamps of offering! Be content in your sheer aloneness. Even then the Divine is revealed. At this extremity too, the Divine reveals itself!
Then there is the second path—the path of Narada, of Chaitanya, of Meera. The one who has asked is also named Meera. There, become nothing but tears. Do not remain there as yourself. Melt and flow away, so that no one is left behind to weep—only the weeping remains. Dissolve in such a way that not even the slightest knot remains within. Let everything flow out by way of the eyes. Let everything be cast into tears. Even so, one arrives at the Divine. For when everything has flowed away and you are no more, only the Divine remains.
Either only you remain and nothing else—then the Divine is found. Or let everything else remain and you do not remain—then the Divine is found.
Either your sense of self becomes so vast that all is contained in it; or your sense of self becomes so empty that you are contained in all.
Mahavira’s path is the path of strengthening the soul. Narada’s path is the path of dissolving the soul. So do not be afraid. Laugh as you cry, dance as you weep, weep as you dance. Take dance to be a celebration.

Upon us are shared the favors of the sorrow of love—
so many favors that if I set out to count them, I could never count.
What have I lost in this love, what have I gained?
Other than You, if I try to explain it to anyone, I cannot make them understand.

Upon us are shared the favors of the sorrow of love! The pain of love has conferred so many blessings; love’s sorrow has given so much—gham-e-ulfat.
Upon us are shared the favors of the sorrow of love—
so many favors that if I set out to count them, I could never count.
Their grace is infinite. Each tear has refined the devotee, cleansed him, given freshness, made him innocent.
Each tear carried the poison out; behind it only nectar remained.

Upon us are shared the favors of the sorrow of love—
so many favors that if I set out to count them, I could never count.
What have we lost in this love, what have we gained?
Other than You, if I try to explain it to anyone, I cannot make them understand.
And no one else will understand either.
Much is lost in love. Much is gained in love. Losing is the way to gaining. If you fear to lose, you will be deprived of gaining. First there is only loss; gaining happens later. At first it is loss, only loss. The bargain looks like a loss at the beginning. When everything is lost, then the moments of union arrive, then the rains come. As in the heat everything dries, the earth burns, trees wither, leaves fall, trees stand naked, the earth is thirsty and weeping—then the monsoon melody, then the clouds gather, then Ashadha’s days arrive and the rains fall.
At first there is only loss. Losing is the worthiness for gaining. First one must be emptied, therefore one must lose. When the bowl is completely empty, God will rain.

What have we lost in this love, what have we gained?
Other than You, if I try to explain it to anyone, I cannot make them understand.
Other than that Supreme Beloved, you will not be able to explain it to anyone. No one will understand, because this bargain is of great madness. The devotee’s path is the path of the insane.
Mahavira’s path is the path of extreme thought, extreme discrimination, of arithmetic. There things are clean and tidy. Hence in the Jain scriptures there is no rasa, no juice. Read on, listen on—there is desert and only desert. There is no rasa in the Jain scriptures—how could there be? That path is of dispassion, of savorlessness. The rasa is in the scriptures of devotion. There you will not find any dry ground; everything is covered with lotuses. But those lotuses are not free. They do not bloom just like that; they bloom when someone has lost everything. So do not be afraid. Now take your weeping itself to be sadhana. Do not be miserly with your tears. If you cry and are stingy with your crying, you have cried in vain. Cry with a full heart. Cry in totality. And take your crying as prayer, as a feeling of awe-filled gratitude. These tears come only to the rare fortunate ones. The eyes of many have turned to stone, have become artificial.

I have heard: a millionaire miser had one artificial eye, a stone eye. A man came begging. The miser had never given alms to anyone. But that day the beggar arrived in an auspicious moment. The miser was somewhat pleased; some great wealth had come into his hands. The news had just reached him and he was delighted. So that day he was kinder than usual. He had never given anything to any beggar. That day he said to the beggar, “All right, I will give you something, but first there is one condition. Can you tell which of my eyes is real and which is artificial?” The beggar looked and said, “The left must be real, the right artificial.” The rich man was astonished. “How did you know?” The beggar said, “In the artificial eye there seems to be a little compassion, a hint of mercy—thus I recognized it. The real has turned completely to stone.”
There are many whose eyes have turned to stone, whose hearts have dried up; the streams of rasa no longer flow. The Ganges has been lost; only dry, rough hills of sand stand. Nowhere does a sprout break through; no bird sings. Blessed are those whose eyes can still moisten, can still be drenched. There is still a way for their souls to be drenched. So if crying comes, let it come; cooperate with it, accompany it, be its comrade. Do not cry while fighting it. Do not cry hesitantly. Do not be shy. Otherwise you will miss.

If through tears you are wholly washed away, nothing remains to be said. Then there is no need to pray. No scripture is necessary. Your tears will say everything—even what cannot be said; as for what can be said, of course that too. Your tears will sing everything—the singable and the unsingable; even what cannot be sung will be sung. In the melody of your tears all will be revealed. They will say it better than you; what is there to say to the Divine!

The first poet must have been a lonely one in separation;
song must have been born of a sigh.
Swelling up, it must have flowed silently from the eyes—
a poem, unaware of itself.
All poetry is of tears. Does laughter ever create poetry? All poetry is of tears—because laughter is very shallow, superficial, hollow. No laughter can touch the depth that tears touch. Laughter comes like a wave upon the surface and goes. Tears congeal somewhere deep. Tears are an avenue into depth, a blessing.

And slowly, first the tears flow for oneself; then they begin to flow for others. At first they flow for a reason; then they begin to flow without reason. When they begin to flow causelessly, then their taste is altogether different.

A tear is the naked body of one’s own pain;
song is the soul of the world’s sorrows.
At first they flow from your own pain. But soon you will find that your pain is the pain of all humanity. Soon you will find: your pain is the pain of the entire existence. It is not just you who have wept; it is the separation from God that has wept.

The first poet must have been a lonely one in separation—
this separation has wept.
Song must have been born of a sigh—
and soon, from your tears, songs begin to descend.
Meera wept profusely. That is why what is in Meera’s songs is not found even in the songs of great poets. From the standpoint of language and grammar they are rhymes; from the standpoint of the heart, such songs have rarely descended upon the earth—as if they have come from another realm. Many have written songs, but none have descended into hearts as Meera’s have. Neither the rules of prosody nor the measures of poetry nor the arithmetic of music are there—but there is something else beyond all of these. This sorrow is no longer Meera’s own! As if through Meera’s throat all humanity, all existence, has expressed its pain.
When tears are freed from you and become everyone’s, then you are finished. You are no longer a small stream that dries up, that swells in the rains, that floods in the monsoon and in the heat leaves no trace of where it vanished. When your anguish joins with everyone’s anguish, you become the ocean. Then within you there remains not only anguish; songs of sorrow arise, songs of separation arise.
All devotional scripture is separation, is yearning. And the devotee has not taken separation to be misfortune; he has known it to be good fortune. He has found even his pain to be golden. And it is golden—because when everything is lost and nothing remains, only a thirst remains, an ardent heart remains—then, in that very moment, in that supremely auspicious moment, in that hour of blessedness, the descent of God happens.

“For eight years I have been listening to you, reading you; but I forget everything—only you stand before me.”
Good is happening. Let those keep account of what I say who do not understand me. Trash will fall into their hands. They will gather the leftovers. As a few crumbs fall around the dining table, so are words. Crumbs fallen from the meal—of bread, of vegetables, of sweets—so are words. Because what I am cannot be expressed in words. Words are too small. So it is auspicious that the words be forgotten and I remain. It would be inauspicious that the words remain and I be forgotten. This is what happens to many: the words remain and I am forgotten. They got something, but where much could have been gotten, there they gathered the trivial with their own hands. Where diamonds might have been found, they picked up pebbles.
Good! Forget altogether. There is no need to remember what has been heard.
If there has been a meeting with me, if even for a moment you have seen me, peered into me—then what does it matter what I say!

If we desire, we desire you; if we look, we look at you—
you are the longing of hearts, the yearning of eyes.
One to whom the vision has happened, who has begun to see, leaves off concern for the ears. When the eyes begin to fill, who concerns himself with the ear!
We rely upon hearing when we are blind and have no way to see. We cling to hearing under compulsion, because we cannot see, we grope in the dark. The blind must live by the ear. But one who has eyes lives by the eye. Then who concerns himself with the ear!
Live by the eye! Then you will drown. Those who live by the ear cannot drown. At most, while listening to me, a few drops may sprinkle upon you, but they will not drown you; on the way home, in the sun, they will evaporate. But if you can drown in me, if you can see me... That is why, in this country, we have called the stream of inquiry darshan—seeing—not shravan, hearing. There is something to be seen. There is something that connects through the eye. Let my words bring you to me—that is enough; then see me; do not remain entangled only in hearing.

Whoever drowned—ah!—reached the shore;
the surging of the sea of love is near the shore.
Whoever drowned found the shore. Because it is such a matter that the storm of love, the tempest of love, is exactly near the shore. Ordinary storms are far from the shore—the greater the storm, the farther from the shore. Where are storms ever near the shore! But the laws of love are reversed. The rules of this world are entirely opposite to the rules of love. Here, if you wish to cross a river, do not drown. In the world of love, if you wish to cross and the chance to drown comes, do not miss it.
Whoever drowned—ah!—reached the shore!
The very act of drowning brings the shore; there is no other shore. Drowning itself is the destination; there is no other destination. For when you drown, you are erased. When you are erased, That remains which is, which has always been. You are merely the dust, the scum upon the surface; when that is washed away, That remains which is eternal—the One who was before your being and will be after your being. That which is eternal, beyond time, remains.
These storms, these gales of love, are very near the shore—do not be afraid of them. And when the gale knocks at your door, come out, consent to drown—do not fight the gale.

“Everything is forgotten; only you stand before me.”
Then what is happening is exactly what should happen.
“And now there is nothing but crying. At home I cry before your picture; here in discourse I cry. What is this?”
Do not raise a question—cry. The moment you raise a question, the crying stops. Because the place from which questions arise is not the place from which tears arise. Questions come from the intellect; tears come from the heart. Raise a question and the intellect puts an obstacle in the heart’s way. Raise a question and the intellect says, “What is happening?” Raise a question and the intellect starts obstructing, sets up a guard, says, “Stop this madness, this craziness! Be composed; be cautious.”

Here you must be mindful. If you walk on Mahavira’s path, be composed, be cautious; there awareness is the ultimate virtue. If you walk on Narada’s path, on Meera’s and Chaitanya’s, there unawareness is the path. Do not be cautious there. If you become cautious there, you have lost. And choose your way according to your own nature. You have nothing to take from Mahavira, nor from Narada—see where your own delight is, where you flow easily, where no contrivance is needed, where you let go and the current carries you. If resolve is your natural bent, then restrain; break the heart and awaken the intellect; wipe the heart so clean that not even a trace of attachment remains—neither tears nor laughter.
Have you seen Mahavira’s image? Still. In the center. Neither smiling nor crying. Statue-like. Not only the idol is statue-like—Mahavira too was statue-like. He stood exactly in the middle, holding to awareness. That too is a path. Those who relish resolve may go by that path. By that path too people have arrived.
But if willfulness is an obstacle for you, do not be afraid—resolve has taken no contract. As you are, God accepts you in that very way. That is why the Hindus say He has many hands—Sahasrabahu, a thousand-armed. If He had only one hand, there would be great difficulty; He would lift one—what of the rest? If He had two hands, He would lift two. He has as many hands as there are of you. For each, a hand. He has kept a place for you. Your hand is there, for you. Just recognize yourself a little. And never fall into the delusion that you can arrive by another’s path. If you choose the opposite way, one not attuned to your innate tendency, you will become entangled; you will heap upon yourself needless depression and anguish. You will entangle yourself in futile deceits, in self-deceptions. You will fall into hypocrisy. Liberation will be very far; you will begin to be deranged. One who does not go in tune with himself begins to go unhinged. To be in accord with oneself is the seeker’s first understanding.
So choose what seems to you congenial; what you love, what delights you; what fits your natural leaning—only that. You have nothing to take from Mahavira, nor from Narada—the real question is to return to your own home.
Recognize your own path. And the best way to recognize your own path is to understand your slight inclination, your natural tilt.
Whoever has asked—I know—tears are his path. Forget Mahavira. Sing the praises of the Lord! Dance in ecstasy! Drown in intoxication! And hold nothing back. Do not be miserly even a little, because the Divine wants you wholly and completely.
There, if there is renunciation, it is of the whole. There, giving a little, in parts, will not do. Nothing else will do until you give yourself—totally, without remainder, leaving nothing behind.

Cry! Weeping is auspicious. If it comes naturally, it is most auspicious. If it does not come, do not try needlessly. Do not grind chilies and smear them in your eyes.

People do such things. Someone begins to force an effort of will, someone forces surrender. Wherever you feel you have to force, become alert—that is not your path. Where you feel: Ah, it has begun to blossom; the petals open effortlessly; ecstasy arises; the heart becomes glad and buoyant—then know you are exactly on the right path. Your inner instrument tells you moment to moment; it gives you the touchstone. The food that suits you—after eating it, joy arises. The food that does not suit—after eating it, displeasure comes. Whatever truly suits you—that is your dharma.

Mahavira has defined dharma: vatthu sahavo dhammo—the nature of a thing is its dharma. What a lovely definition. Nature is dharma. Drop worrying about dharma; be concerned with your nature. Dharma will follow behind. The very foolish worry about dharma and drag their nature behind them. Mahavira did not say “dharma is nature”; he said, “Nature is dharma.” There is a great difference between the two. Nature—what comes congenially, what feels delightful, what is dear; in whose very presence you begin to dance; in whose nearness a fragrance surrounds you—your own fragrance!

And if from the very beginning you move in accord with your nature, you will not need to make an effort.

Zen masters say: that which is realized without effort is the truth; what is achieved by effort and striving has something amiss in it. Does a bud face any hindrance in becoming a flower? Do we have to pull a bud into a blossom? Do we have to tug plants out of the earth? They grow of themselves. Buds come. Buds open and become flowers. Flowers come, and fragrance spreads—into the winds, sets off on a journey into the sky. All happens silently. So it is with man. But man’s difficulty—one that ought not to have been—is that he has a machine for thinking, and from it the trouble arises. Give a rosebush a device for thought, and there will be trouble. Then the rose is in difficulty. A thousand obstacles will arise: it will think, How big a flower should I become? Envy of the neighboring rose will arise. With envy, politics will be born, and an ambition: I must become the biggest rose. Now, if it is a button rose, it is a button rose—it cannot become the biggest; yet in the struggle to become the biggest a great anxiety will arise—tension at night, sleeplessness, sadness by day, endless calculations: How can I grow bigger? And the fear is that in all this worry the energy will be wasted, and it will not even become what it could have become.

This is man’s trouble. If the intellect is rightly used, it will support you; but it is being misused. You are born in a Jain household, and your intellect says, “You are a Jain.” But if your eyes are brimming with tears, there will be difficulty. In Mahavira’s temple there is no place for tears. In that temple tears are sin, they are forbidden. Then you must look for some temple of Krishna, where crying is permitted—more than permitted, where crying is a method.

Now, if you were born in a devotee’s home, on Krishna’s path, and your eyes have no tears—if they do not come—what will you do then? Existence has not wished you that way. Not all must be weepers; some must be laughers too. Not all must be of surrender; some must be of resolve. Life is a balance of opposites. As many here are of surrender, so many here are of will. Life moves by balance. Night and day, darkness and light, life and death, summer and winter—everything here is balanced. Two legs, two wings—so that balance can be maintained.

So if you were born in a devotional home and from childhood you heard Narada’s aphorisms—that the devotee becomes overwhelmed, thrilled, the eyes fill with tears, he weeps, sings His songs, dances, is intoxicated, becomes mad with love—and if you heard all this and yet tears do not come to your eyes, what will you do? You will force it. You have not used your intelligence rightly.

Look at yourself! You are the one who is important; not Narada, not Mahavira, not I, nor anyone else. You are important, because you yourself are your destination. Use whatever can be of use; but always remember, let the use be in accord with your nature—then you will arrive; otherwise, you will go astray.

“In Your friendship, Bihari has found no joy, O!” Bihari has said this in great joy. “In Your friendship, Bihari has found no joy, O!” He has said it in great love. It is not a reproach, not a complaint. This is the play of lovers, the sport of lovers. The devotee says to God: “In Your love I have found no joy.” Not only does God play with the devotee; the devotee also plays with God. Where there is intimacy, there is room for jest as well.

Bihari is not complaining. He is giving a riddle to the Divine: “Listen! You have tangled me well! But in Your love I have found no joy!” Yet this is not a voice born of sorrow. Do you see the love steeped into these words? “In Your friendship, Bihari has found no joy, O!” The words are steeped in great bliss.

No—sorrow received in His remembrance is also joy. The thorns found on His path are flowers. To have to die on His path is life. And without Him, even if life itself is obtained, it is meaningless. Without Him, even if one receives only flowers and not a single thorn, those flowers will become your deathbed; they will prove to be flowers laid upon your grave. On His path, whatever comes is joy—even if sorrow comes. One is walking on His path!

Have you ever seen a lover going toward his beloved? Does he complain of the thorns embedded along the way? He does not even notice them. Even if he falls, is hurt, is bleeding—he does not notice.

Tulsidas, the story goes, in love for his wife, climbed up holding a snake, thinking it was a rope; he crossed a river taking support of a corpse, thinking it was a floating log.

Those who are drowned in that divine madness do not know sorrow as sorrow; even sorrow is joy on His path. On the world’s path, even pleasures turn into pain; on the Lord’s path, even pain becomes joy. This is the alchemy of spiritual life.

Religion has nothing to do with tradition.
Tradition means that which is dead. Tradition means the beaten track. Tradition means footprints of the past—while the past has gone, the footprints remain pressed into the road.
Religion is not tradition. Religion is ever fresh—though forever ancient. Yet it is not old, not traditional. That is why religion cannot be taught; if it were a tradition it could be taught. Mathematics has a tradition. Science has a tradition. Hence science can be taught.

Einstein discovered the theory of relativity; now no one else needs to discover it again—there is a tradition. Once a principle is discovered, that is the end of the matter; a student need not rediscover it. What took Einstein years to discover may not even take hours for a student to learn.

So science builds tradition. Religion does not. Mahavira attained knowing—do you think you are therefore spared the search? Buddha awakened—do you imagine the matter ended there and that by reading the Dhammapada you will understand what Buddha understood? As by reading Einstein’s book one grasps relativity, do you think reading Krishna’s Gita will make you understand Krishna, or by reading Mahavira’s words you will understand Mahavira? No. You will have to discover again and again.

Understand this well. Again and again you will have to discover it. What becomes tradition need not be rediscovered; it has been found and finished with.
Religion never becomes tradition. Each person must reinvent it within himself. What Buddha discovered is Buddha’s experience. The most we can receive from him is this news: those who seek, find—that much assurance. Truth itself is not handed over; only the assurance of truth. You do not get truth; you get trust that truth is possible. Mahavira found, Krishna found, Christ found—what reaches us is only that we are not searching in vain; it can be found. That much faith arises. You do not get truth; you get self-trust—that you are not groping uselessly in the dark, that there is a door, for some have passed through it. Then you too can. But do not think that by reading their books you will find the door and walk out. You must find your own door afresh.

Therefore religion forms no tradition. Religion cannot be taught. Religion is revolution, not tradition! And it happens only to the one in whom it happens.

Consider love. If you have not fallen in love, what on earth will you know of love? Libraries are full of treatises on love. Go read what happened to Majnu and Laila, to Shirin and Farhad, to Heer and Ranjha—but nothing will happen! The learned words will not reach the heart; no arrow will pierce. You will return as empty as before, though puffed up with scholarship. Yes, if someone speaks on love, you can give a sermon; yes, you might even do a PhD on love. But love will still be absent from your life. Love happens only when you love. Love has no tradition. Everyone must find it anew—personal, intimate.

And it is good love has no tradition; otherwise imagine the misfortune! People would read a book on love and conclude: finished!

Just think: if God could be had on loan—someone attained him twenty-five hundred years ago, say Mahavira—finished! He would have robbed you of your whole adventure. Then Mahavira would not have been your friend but your enemy, leaving you no chance to seek, no room for the journey.

No, God is such, truth is such, love is such, that only the seeker has the vision. Yes, he can speak of his vision to others. But by that speaking no one else gets the vision. By that speaking, someone’s sleeping thirst may be stirred, a sprouting may arise within—“Let me too seek!” A challenge may be felt: “What am I doing just sitting here? Let me rise! Where am I wasting life in the shop and market? Let me search for that!”

So first thing: religion is not tradition. Religion is ever ancient and ever new. It is a paradox. It has always been—and yet each time it must be discovered anew. When the sun of religion rises, it is private, personal, not collective. It does not become society’s property or legacy. If you do not trust Buddha, Buddha has no way to make you trust. Have you thought about this? If you say, “We doubt you: you claim God-experience, but how are we to believe it?” Buddha will shrug his shoulders: “What can be done? What happened is private, personal. There is no way to spread it out on the table before you. It happened within; there is no device to bring it out. It happened so deep that it cannot be exhibited for all to see.”

That is why there have been so many perfectly awakened ones, yet atheism has not vanished. It cannot—because the atheist says, “Show it to me!” He demands that religion be made a tradition. Here is the irony: those you call religious insist religion is a tradition. I call them atheists. The atheist too says: “Make religion a tradition—like science. Let us go into a lab and see. Put God in a test tube; lay your samadhi on the surgeon’s table so we can analyze it; bring your experience of light and truth into the marketplace where all can see. For if it happened only in your private space, who knows it was not a dream? In ordinary experience, what is private are dreams; everything else is public. Only dreams are private. The dream you dream at night—you cannot even invite your wife: ‘Come, you are invited tonight.’ You cannot say, ‘Let us both dream the same dream.’”

Two men were being treated by a psychologist. They decided on a prank for April Fools’ Day. “I’ll go and narrate a dream,” said one. They wrote out a detailed dream, memorized it. Morning, the first came, narrated the dream. Afternoon, the second arrived and told the exact same dream—inch by inch, detail by detail—watching the psychologist for his reaction. But the psychologist seemed unfazed. When he finished, he asked, “What do you make of this dream?” The psychologist said, “I am quite perplexed—three men have told me this dream today.” Three men! The two were stunned: “Who is the third?” They had told no third. Next day they confessed, “Forgive us, we were joking. But who was the third? We couldn’t sleep all night.” The psychologist said, “There was no third—I was joking. Two people cannot have the same dream. The moment I heard two, I knew it was an April prank. So I said three.”

Two people cannot have the same dream; a dream is private. Hence the atheist says, “God is a dream.” You say you have seen—then show it. What is the difference between your God-experience and a dream? The only difference between dream and reality is: reality is shared, public; a dream is private. Therefore all the Buddhas cannot convince a single thorough-going skeptic—because as long as you cling to doubt there is no way, no proof.

God is an experience that leaves no proof behind. It happens only to the one to whom it happens. And he is left alone. Those to whom it has not happened are billions upon billions. Therefore Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ all say: if you listen in trust, perhaps something can happen; if you listen in doubt, the door is already closed. Why so much emphasis on faith? Because religion cannot be made tradition. If toward one in whom it has happened you feel a little sympathy, a little love, a harmonious resonance—if you love him enough to know he cannot lie—only then. If even a small doubt remains—“Perhaps he is lying; or perhaps he is not lying but is deluded; not that he wishes to deceive, but he has dreamed so deeply that he believes it”—even that much doubt is enough to shut truth for you.

An awakened one can only arouse thirst in you—and that too only if you lend him your trust.

So first: religion is not a tradition. Nor is sannyas a tradition. Sannyas is an individual proclamation; an individual challenge accepted before God—different for each person. Hence when sannyas flowers in a person it will be unique. Sannyas is profoundly personal. A vast possibility.

Christ is a sannyasin; yet his sannyas is not like Mahavira’s. Christ had no inhibition—if a friend invited him and offered wine, he drank. As for Mahavira, he would not even drink water, let alone wine. Mahavira would not go anywhere on invitation, for relationship is formed by accepting an invitation. If you said, “Come sit in my shade in this harsh noon, drink a little water,” he would not come, for accepting your invitation would create a bond.

Even the way Mahavira begged was unique—no one ever begged like that. Each morning in meditation he would decide: “If I come upon such-and-such a sign in front of a house today, I will hold out my hands there.” A sign like: “There will be a cow standing with jaggery smeared on its horn.” Such a thing does not happen every day. He would set the sign and say, “If Existence intends to feed me it will fulfill my condition; otherwise not. If Existence wants to keep me hungry, I will remain hungry. If there is any need for me to be preserved, it will fulfill my condition; if not, I will understand Existence does not wish me to continue.” He would make no personal effort; if Existence moved, fine.

Once he kept such a vow for three months and told no one. Today Digambara Jain monks keep such “signs” declared in advance; their followers know them—two bananas dangling at the door, and so on—so every household hangs the signs, even all in one house. That is cheating.

Mahavira said, “A cow must be standing with jaggery on its horn.” For three months no food came. Then one day a bullock-cart laden with jaggery was passing; a cow tried to lick some and it smeared her horn. Mahavira stood for alms at the house before which that cow stood. After three months Existence willed—so be it.

Mahavira would not accept invitations; Jesus not only accepted invitations—if someone offered wine he drank. “Why refuse?” he said. “All refusal centers in the ego. If friends wish it, drink.” To him, saying “no” was to hurt another.

A great difficulty!

Mahavira stands naked; Krishna is adorned in beautiful garments. Krishna says: when God descends, his splendor descends—beauty descends, thousands of colors and forms. God is a rainbow, a great opulence: that is why we call him Ishvara—the One of majesty. When God has descended into you, welcome him in every way; as you decorate your home for a guest, so decorate the body, for this is the house where he has arrived. Krishna plays the flute, wears the peacock plume.

Mahavira stands naked. Far from adorning—when his hair grows he plucks it with his fingers. He will not go to a barber, for that is an entry into society, an admission of need. Society means: I need others. I cannot live alone; I need the barber, the cobbler, the tailor. That is society.

That is why I say the Jains have never formed a society—no Jain is a cobbler, no Jain a tailor, no Jain a sweeper. They live on the chest of the Hindus; they are a culture, not a society. Show me a settlement of only Jains living entirely by Jain principles—then I will call it a society. There will be a great quarrel: who will sweep, who will sew shoes, who will farm? A Jain should not farm—there is violence. Who will be the surgeon—who will cut and operate? Great difficulties will arise.

Society means relationship, need. Mahavira lived utterly alone—so alone that he left behind no thread by which a society could be woven. He lived alone; those who followed him fell into trouble, for they could not live without society. They need clothes—someone must weave; cotton must be grown. They need food—someone must farm, cut trees; they need medicine—even allopathic drugs made from animal blood and bone—someone must make them. They need shoes—someone must skin dead animals; when that is not enough, the living will be killed. All this goes on.

Mahavira stands outside all this—no need for shoes or clothes. He needed no society. Even in begging he never said “give,” never thanked the giver; “Existence gave,” he would say. “If you were not here, I would stand under a tree; if a fruit fell by itself in five minutes, fine; otherwise I would move on.” He remained hungry for months.

In twelve years of austerity, it is said, he ate only three hundred and sixty days; in twelve long years, only one year he ate—eleven years he fasted. Sometimes a month of hunger, then one day of food; sometimes fifteen days, then one; sometimes eight days, then one—adding up to one year of food and eleven years of fasting. On average, he ate on the twelfth day. Yet even then he offered no thanks: “No favor of yours; I accepted no invitation. I am following my own way. If Existence gives, I take; if not, I do not even ask.” He would stand at the door but not utter “give,” for that would begin a transaction of karma.

On the other side is Krishna, making space for God by adorning the body. There is meaning there too: when the Lord has come, why welcome him dry and bare? Hang garlands at the door! Play music, spread fragrance, light incense and lamps. Do something. The Lord is at the threshold!

Krishna would not fancy standing naked when the Lord has arrived. Mahavira was content; “God has no need of our splendors; he himself is splendor. Whatever we do will be small.”

Both arguments are right. I am telling you: if you cling to one, you go blind to the other. Everyone who has attained sannyas has had his own way of being a sannyasin.

Hence sannyas has no tradition. Sannyas is an individual revolution. Now, “A sannyasin turns away from illusion and enjoyment toward God”—even this is not true. The questioner does not know the path of devotion. For on the bhakti path, the sannyasin does not turn away from enjoyment; he begins to enjoy God. The friend who asked knows only the ascetic traditions of the Hindus—Shankara—and the Jains—Mahavira—and Gautama Buddha. And those traditions became so influential that it began to seem there were no others. But there are sannyasins of Ramanuja, of Nimbarka, of Vallabha, of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu. They were eclipsed. Buddha, Mahavira, Shankara became dominant—for a reason: you are all pleasure-seekers. This may be hard to grasp. Because you are all given to indulgence, the language of renunciation appeals to you—its opposite attracts. The poor wish to be rich. You, being indulgent, want to be renouncers. “In enjoyment we found only sorrow; therefore Mahavira, Shankara, Buddha must be right—there must be joy in renunciation,” you say, for you already know the sorrow of indulgence.

Ramanuja, Nimbarka, Vallabha, Chaitanya—you did not understand their language; for they say your sorrow is not because of enjoyment but because you enjoy the wrong things. Enjoy God! You have enjoyed woman—but if you see God in woman and then enjoy, sorrow ends. You have enjoyed food and suffered—but if you see God in food and then enjoy, sorrow ends.

Their view has substance too. As for me, I say: let the two become music together—that is sannyas. Let your renunciation be deeper than the indulgent man’s enjoyment, and your enjoyment deeper than the ascetic’s renunciation. Let there be a supreme synthesis. Enjoy—while renouncing; renounce—while enjoying.

The Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhunjitha—“By renouncing, enjoy.” Or, “Only those who have renounced truly enjoy—or only those who have truly enjoyed can renounce.” An extraordinary utterance. Enjoy so deeply that within enjoyment renunciation happens.

Understand this a little. When you enjoy half-heartedly, enjoyment keeps dragging you along. Any incomplete experience haunts you. When experience is complete, you are free. If you have not truly loved a woman, desire for woman will shadow you. If you have truly loved—even in a single union if you have experienced it fully—you are freed that very moment; you are beyond it.

Deep enjoyment brings renunciation. And of the deep renouncer, how shall one speak of his enjoyment? He alone knows how to enjoy.

Just imagine: when Krishna eats—or Mahavira, when he eats—the way he eats you have never eaten. Even if only a dry crust fell to Mahavira, from that too he would press out Brahman—not just flesh and blood and marrow. Therefore the Upanishads say: annam brahma—food is Brahman. Those who wrote it must have tested food well, must have enjoyed it deeply.

A sannyasin was ill and ate only a little. Physicians said, “So little won’t do, take more.” He replied, “This is enough, for I take not only what is seen but also what is unseen. When I breathe I am eating—prana. When I gaze at the sky, I am eating—akasha. When the sun’s rays fall on me, I am eating—light enters. Eating goes on twenty-four hours. Brahman pours into you by a thousand channels and dances within.”

He who has learned to enjoy rightly finds God in every enjoyment. And he who has truly renounced—his eyes become so pure, so limpid, that he sees nothing but Brahman.

Till now the Brahmin and the Shramana cultures have stood opposed. Shramana culture is the culture of renunciation. Brahmin culture is the culture of enjoyment—the celebration of God’s opulence, his expansion. Shramana culture is the culture of letting go, of dispassion—the returning journey. Therefore Ramanuja, Vallabha, Nimbarka do not accept Shankara as Hindu; they call him a crypto-Buddhist. There is great controversy between Nimbarka and Shankara, Vallabha and Shankara, Ramanuja and Shankara. I too say: Shankara is not Hindu—cannot be. He secretly enthroned the Shramana culture upon the chest of the Brahmin culture. Those who think Shankara saved Hindu culture are mistaken; he did not save it, he dissolved it—though people say he rescued it. This is rescue only in name.

Hindu culture is the supreme acceptance of enjoyment—and the discovery of God within enjoyment. Shramana culture is of renunciation, sannyas, letting go, detachment—and through that, to attain God.

In my vision, renunciation and enjoyment are two wings.
Shramana culture is incomplete; Brahmin culture is incomplete. I call complete only that person—the paramahansa—whose two wings are strong; who leans neither to enjoyment nor to renunciation; who has no preference; who is utterly at ease, accepting whatsoever happens—at home in the house, at home in the temple; if there is a wife, fine; if she dies, fine; it is not that there must be a wife, nor that there must not be one—no insistence, desireless.

I define sannyas as samyak-nyasa—right placing, right balance. One who has brought his life into balance, who has given it a foundation that is not crippled, not partial but complete. Where both enjoyment and renunciation are included—that one is a sannyasin for me.

And where is the joy if you drop the world only by running away? The joy is: remaining here and dropping it; standing in the marketplace and within, the Himalaya arises.
To keep your feet in the streams yet not be wetted; to pass through fire and not be scarred.

“It is we who, hiding Your ache within the heart,
go on doing the work of the world as usual.”

Leaving is easy; clinging is also easy; to let go while holding on—that is supremely difficult. It needs great skill. Krishna calls it: yoga is skill in action. Like a tightrope walker poised on a rope stretched between two abysses—watch how he balances: now leaning left, now right; if he leans too far left, he shifts right to restore balance; if he leans too far right, he shifts left. Thus he walks the rope.

And religion is a razor’s edge—a narrow path, like a rope between two chasms. Here is the world, there is God; the rope between—one must be exquisitely skillful.

If love has gone cold in your life and then you become dispassionate—nothing remarkable.
If love keeps burning and dispassion arises—something has happened.

“The ash of extinguished love is darkness—
not a Muslim, just a heap of ash.
Pour again the vintage wine, O cupbearer,
bring that same goblet into circulation.
Fit me with the wings of love and let me fly;
turn my dust into fireflies and let it soar.
Drive that very arrow through my heart again,
awaken longing once more within my breast.”

The ash of extinguished love is darkness.
If the ember of love dies, then what you call renunciation is only ash.

Let the ember of love keep burning—and yet not scorch—then some skill has arisen, some mastery, something gained.

“The ash of extinguished love is darkness—
not a Muslim, but a heap of ash.”

On one side are flaming volcanoes of passion; on the other, heaps of cold ash—lifeless, spiritless. Somewhere in between…!
Let not the madness fade into death, and let there not be so much madness that awareness is lost. Let madness remain alive—yet death happen. Let the ego die, not you. Let worldly enjoyment die, not God’s enjoyment. Let there be renunciation—but living, juicy, not dry.

“Pour again the vintage wine, O cupbearer!
Bring that same goblet around again!
Fit me with the wings of love and let me fly—
turn my dust into fireflies and let it soar.
Drive that very arrow through my heart again—
awaken longing once more within my breast.”

What happened in the world—what happened for some young woman, some young man—for wealth, for position—that same arrow!
Drive that arrow again, but now for You!
Let the passion, the yearning that was for things—now awaken for the Divine!

Most people live, enjoy, but never learn the art of enjoyment. They burn with craving, but do not know the craft of desire.

“We never learned how to love;
we died our whole life long, and never learned how to die.”

Life is an art; religion, the supreme alchemy. Therefore for me the meaning of sannyas is: balance—samyak balance, samyak-nyasa; to drop nothing and yet let all drop; to run from nowhere and yet be free of all; to tread upon streams and not get wet; to pass through fire and leave no wound. And this is possible. The day it becomes possible for many, the two streams—Shramana and Brahmin—will meet; the devotee and the knower will embrace. And on that day, for the first time, the completeness of religion will be revealed. Until now, religion has appeared in fragments, incomplete.

The language of karma is not the devotee’s language. It is like asking whether, while walking through a garden, a desert will come in between; or whether, while crossing a desert, you will find blooming lotuses. You are speaking of different streams.

The language of karma is not the language of surrender; it is the language of resolve. Resolve says: you will receive exactly what you have done. That is why Mahavira’s whole scripture stands on the principle of karma. Mahavira has set God aside; karma itself becomes God—what you do, that you get: cause and effect; straightforward science.

A devotee does not even know the language of karma. The devotee says, “We never did anything; He is the one who makes it happen.” The devotee says, “We are not the doer; He is the Doer. Whatever He made us do, we did; if there is a culprit, it is He.” God will find Himself in difficulty before a devotee, because the devotee will say, “You made me do it, I did it—now you want to entangle me?”

Therefore the devotee does not speak the language of karma. The devotee says, “I have left everything to You—even karma. If I have surrendered myself, where shall I keep a separate ledger of deeds? If I have given all, then the bank balance too is Yours. It won’t do that I keep my bank balance safe and say I have given the rest.”

“You are so proud of your zuhd-o-riyā—your asceticism and your show!
God, O Sheikh, belongs to us sinners too.”

The devotee says, “O Sheikh! You are very proud of your actions—your good deeds, worship, prayer, practice, austerity!”
You are so proud of your zuhd-o-riyā—your asceticism and display!

But the devotee also says that all you have done is hollow; because the sense of doership still remains within. Therefore it is all a deception. And we say to you: “God, O Sheikh, belongs to us sinners too.” He will look after us as well. He is not only for the religious; He is for sinners too.

“The angels, on the Day of Reckoning, will ask the pure:
‘Why did you not sin—was God not All-Forgiving?’”

Those “virtuous souls,” the devotee says—surely the angels will ask them in heaven:
“The angels, on the Day of Reckoning, will ask the pure—
the holy, the righteous, the meritorious—
‘Why did you not sin—was God not All-Forgiving?
Did you not trust that His compassion is boundless? Did you have some doubt? You could have sinned! Why live so timidly?’”

No—the devotee’s language is different.

Keep in mind: if you want to keep accounts of deeds, then the path of devotion is not for you. The languages of mathematics and poetry are different. In mathematics two and two are four; in poetry, sometimes two and two become five, sometimes they remain three. Poetry is a mystery.

So if the language of mathematics makes sense to you, drop the language of devotion; then keep accounts of karma. Whatever evil you have done, do good in exact proportion, like arithmetic. Cancel item by item. The path will be hard, but you will not have to depend on anyone’s compassion. It will be intricate, a formidable struggle. For there are sins of innumerable lives; it is not easy to cancel them. That is why Mahavira journeys through births upon births. Cutting and cutting, canceling and canceling—twenty-five centuries ago the moment came when he could finally cancel all. Hence both Mahavira and Buddha—the two pillars of the Shramana culture—told the stories of their past lives.

No devotee ever bothered: what to do, what account to keep! Mahavira and Buddha did. Both made recollection of past lives a specific method: go back into previous births, because the whole account must be seen—where mistakes were made, corrections must be made there; where there was sin, set merit against it. Slowly, slowly, the scales must be balanced; when both pans are equal and the needle stands in the middle, in perfect balance, then you can be free. It is a very accounting-minded affair. But there are those who relish it—let them do so.

Devotees, however, have never kept accounts of past lives. They said, “Who will keep accounts! You keep them! You manage! You sent us—we came. You moved us—we moved! However You kept us, we remained content!”

The devotee’s whole point is simply this: I am not; only You are! Therefore the devotee has no question.

Both paths lead. The devotee arrives in a leap; the knower arrives inch by inch, by cutting away. The devotee arrives all at once: he drops his “I” in one stroke. He lays his whole head at His feet—at once! The knower cuts away—lets go of sin, holds on to merit—then comes a moment when he lets go of merit too; otherwise merit itself becomes ego.

Therefore, on Mahavira’s path, first cut sin with merit; then a moment will come to cut merit as well, for it is a golden chain. First remove the thorn of sin with the thorn of merit; then throw both thorns away—let both sin and merit go. When all karma falls to zero, the doer dissolves. When no deeds remain, who is the doer! This is Mahavira’s path.

The devotee’s path is this: he says, “We place the doer himself at His feet.” The devotee does not begin with deeds; the devotee surrenders the doer.

He says, “Here it is! However it is—good or bad—You accept it! Patra-pushpam: whatever little we have—leaf, flower, even a petal—You take care of it! There isn’t much more!”

He lays his ego straight down.

On the knower’s path, the path of resolve, by cutting away deeds the doer is erased. On the path of devotion, by surrendering the doer, all deeds are erased.

Last question:

Let go of understanding! Why are you so bent on “understanding”? What will you do with it—eat it, drink it, or wear it? Do not bring understanding in between what has happened. Understanding will obstruct. It always has. Analysis breaks apart the very things that are beyond analysis.

If I were to give you a beautiful flower, enjoy it! Smell it! Drink its nectar with your eyes. Dance with it a while! Soon the flower will wither. Soon, just as it came from the invisible, it will dissolve back into the invisible. Do not analyze it, otherwise you will rush to cut and pound the flower, trying to figure out where the beauty is hidden. In that cutting and pounding, the flower will be lost—and so will beauty.

Analysis does not discover beauty, nor truth; because what is, is in the whole. That is why I say: drop understanding! Understanding fragments. It says, cut, pound, test, break! All of science runs on breaking things apart. Give a flower to a scientist—he will immediately run to the laboratory. He won’t even look at the flower. He won’t give it the slightest chance to whisper to him. Soon you’ll find petals scattered—he has dissected the flower. Soon you’ll find labels affixed, the essences extracted and stored in separate bottles. He will tell you how much salt, how much earth, how much sugar, how much of what. He’ll tell you everything—but there will not be a single bottle containing beauty. The earthly will be captured; the unearthly will slip away. You will ask, “Where is the beauty? We gave you a beautiful flower—this is the analysis of the flower; where is the beauty?” He will say, “There never was any beauty. I cut most carefully; nothing was allowed to escape. The total weight of all these components equals the weight of the flower—you can weigh it. Beauty has gone nowhere; it never existed. You must have been deluded. You dreamed.”

Understanding fragments—understanding means analysis. Truth is attained through synthesis, through joining, through the whole. So I say to you: if somewhere it feels, “Here is heaven,” then drop the worry of understanding! Do not bring understanding into heaven! The world runs by understanding. The world is made by understanding. Do not bring understanding into heaven! If poetry has arisen, if the heart is overwhelmed—dance! Now that heaven has arrived, you ask why it happened! What happened, happened.

To go into “why” means to go into the past. To go into “why” means to go into causes. To go into “why” means to go into science. Science asks, “Why?” No—religion accepts. Religion does not ask. Religion is a sense of wonder. Religion says, “Ah!” If this is heaven, then let us dance, let us sing. Listen to the cuckoo!

If heaven has come, the ultimate door has come!

Teri ummeed chhoot nahin sakti, tere dar ke sivāy dar hī nahīn.
My hope in You cannot be severed; there is no door but Yours.

Aur kyā dekhne ko bāqī hai,
aap se dil lagā ke dekh liyā.
What else remains to be seen,
now that I have tried setting my heart on You?

If the heart has even a little connected with the Divine, that itself is heaven.

Aur kyā dekhne ko bāqī hai,
aap se dil lagā ke dekh liyā.
What else remains to be seen,
now that I have tried setting my heart on You?

But now do not set the intellect running. Do not weave the nets of the intellect. Drop it. The intellect will make it insipid. The “intellectual”—even if heaven has arrived—will turn it into hell; because he cannot accept. Even if the happening occurs, he still asks, “Why?” “Why” has no answer. It is so. Whenever your heart is open and you become available to the Beloved, it happens.

If you have loved anyone, from there the rays of the Divine begin to descend; that very one becomes the window, the opening. If you have loved me, this place will become heaven. Those who have not loved me will think you mad. Let them think about what happened, why it happened, how it happened! Leave that job to those in whom it has not happened. Leave them some work too.

Aur kyā dekhne ko bāqī hai,
aap se dil lagā ke dekh liyā.
What else remains to be seen,
now that I have tried setting my heart on You?

That’s all for today.