Jin Sutra #41

They are not in opposition; they are in cooperation. They are not contrary; they are complementary to each other. Have you seen a potter? With one hand he supports, and with the other he gives a slap. With one hand he holds the clay so it doesn’t fall—supporting from within; from outside he strikes. If he does not support from within, the earthen body cannot be formed; it will collapse. If he does not strike from outside, it still won’t be held together; the pot will not be made.

What the potter is doing, I am doing as well. He does it with clay; I do it with the soul. Support is needed; blows alone are not enough. Support alone is not enough either; blows are needed too. You will find many who give you support, but they do not strike. There are some who strike, but they do not give support. In both cases the vessel of your soul cannot be fashioned.

Meher Baba gives support; he does not strike. Krishnamurti strikes; he does not give support. These are incomplete approaches.

I am holding both together. I have no difficulty with this, because for me they are complementary. The difficulty will be yours—I know that. You want either only blows or only support, so that my position becomes clear before you. When I do both, my position is not clear to you. You cannot run away from me, because I also give support. You cannot stand with me wholeheartedly, because I also strike. Your mind cannot become clear about me; a mystery remains.

If I gave only support, you would come with me. But of what use would that togetherness be? You would be with me like a corpse. I would not have challenged you. You would remain a rough stone and never become a statue—because to make a statue the chisel has to be raised; you have to be cut. And if I only struck, it would make it easy for you to escape. Who sits to be beaten? You would either run away, or you would not listen at all, or while listening you would remain deaf. The connection would break.

I have put you in a dilemma. You cannot run away because with one hand I am calling you; and you fear to come close because I am also striking. But this is the only way to shape you. Just go and watch a potter making a pot—you will understand what I am saying. For the potter there is no opposition. Perhaps the pot feels the difficulty and says, “What are you doing—opposites at the same time? If you want to support, then support; if you want to strike, then strike. What is this you are doing? Such inconsistency, such contradiction.”

My words may seem inconsistent to you. Today I say one thing; tomorrow I say another. When there is a need to support, I will soothe you; when there is a need to strike, I will strike mercilessly. You cannot decide whether the one you have come to is a friend or an enemy; whether the one you are walking with will lead you home or astray. You cannot make it clear. Your dilemma is clear. I have no dilemma. What I am doing is absolutely clear and coherent.

And if you understand me, you too will come to the vision of coherence. That vision will benefit you greatly. You will see the hidden support within the blow, and the hidden blow within the support. Compassion alone will not do. Compassion must also become hard; only then can the work be done. In you, something has to be created—and much has to be erased. You are like an old, dilapidated building—a ruin. First you must be demolished; then the foundation of a new house must be laid. As you are, you are not fit for the divine. You can become fit for the divine, but before that you must pass through great fires. The divine in you is a possibility, not yet a truth. Right now you are a seed. You will break, you will be broken, you will fall into the soil and scatter—only then one day will a flower be able to bloom.

A robust seed,
a well-prepared field,
companions gathered,
sow at the right time,
water with right effort,
day and night,
without idle talk,
keep watch over the field.
When time grows weary,
when the grain has ripened,
gather together then,
cut and harvest.

A robust seed—first the seed has to be robust; it has to ripen. There is no point in sowing an unripe seed. In the sun, in the solar heat, in the fire of tapas, the seed has to ripen. Only a ripe seed sprouts; an unripe seed does not. If you do not take blows, you will not ripen; you will remain raw. Those in whose lives blows do not fall remain forever unripe. Blessed are those whom life strikes hard. Unfortunate are those to whom life gives only support and never blows; they remain impotent. That is why among those raised in great comfort and affluence, there is little genius. For genius a few blows are needed—the austerity and heat of life, storm and fire.

I have heard: A farmer prayed to God for many days. God appeared, and the farmer said, “Just one thing: you do not know farming. You send clouds at the wrong time. When clouds are needed, we suffer, we cry and shout, and there is no sign of clouds! Sometimes you make it rain so much there is a flood; sometimes you leave it so empty we thirst for water. When the crop stands ready—storm, gale, hail! Do you know anything? You have never done farming. At least in the matter of farming, follow my advice.” God laughed at the simple farmer and said, “All right, what do you want?” The farmer said, “Then one year let everything be according to my wish.” God said, “Fine—one year will be as you wish.”

For a whole year, whenever the farmer wanted something, on the day he wanted it, it happened. When he asked for water, it rained. When he asked for sun, the sun shone. The wheat ears grew so large as never before—so big that a man could be covered and lost among them. “Now see!” he thought. “I will show God.” The ears were huge, but when he harvested and looked inside, there was no wheat—only emptiness. He was very upset. “What happened? I provided such comfort! When water was needed, there was water; when sun was needed, there was sun. Storms, gales, hail—I removed them. I gave no hardship at all. But there is no grain! What happened?”

God said, “Fool! Has anything ever been created by comfort alone? Along with comfort, discipline is needed. You gave comfort, but you gave no opportunity for austerity. You supported, but you did not give blows and buffetings. Storms are needed, hail is needed, gales are needed—and support is needed too. Between the two, wheat is born and ripens. Strength arises out of challenge.”

A robust seed—so the first thing is that the seed be robust.
A well-prepared field—then the field must be made ready. You cannot harvest by throwing seeds just anywhere. Stones, trash, weeds must be removed. Manure must be added. Labor must be done.

A robust seed,
a well-prepared field,
companions gathered—
it will not happen alone either. Nothing in life happens alone. Life is togetherness itself. We are born in society, live in society, and depart in society. Our being is social—it is in relationships. As a fish is born in the ocean, so we are born in the ocean of relationships. Without a mother and father, who would be born, and how? Without brothers and sisters, without friends and enemies, who would grow, and how?

A robust seed,
a well-prepared field,
companions gathered—
that is why I put great emphasis on your cultivating both meditation and love. Meditation means: learn to be alone. Love means: create sweetness within relationships. Do not end up only alone, or you will dry up; something very precious in you will die. Something precious dies in the sannyasin who runs off to the forest. Something precious also dies in the person who lives only in the crowd. Both are incomplete. The person who lives in the crowd loses the address of his own home; he cannot return to the temple of his own mind; he gets lost in the crowd and forgets who he is. The one who goes into solitude begins to remember himself, but forgets the other; and without the remembrance of the other, the ego becomes very strong. In one who lives in solitude, the ego becomes powerful; in one who lives in the crowd, the soul is lost. Between the two: live alone, and live in the crowd; and live in the crowd, yet remain alone. Move about, walk in the marketplace, but within, let the solitude of the Himalayas remain.

Do not run away from relationships, because the buffeting of relationships is necessary. Anger, conflict, blows, challenge are necessary. Cultivate meditation within; outwardly hold to the thread of love.

A robust seed,
a well-prepared field,
companions gathered,
sow at the right time—
you must sow at the right time. Whether the right time comes at midnight or at high noon—whenever the right time asks, it must be given. You must wait for the right time like a vigilant guard, eyes open—do not doze. Seeds sown at the right time will flower and bear fruit at the right time. Miss the time even a little, and that small miss becomes a perpetual obstacle; there is no way to make it up.

A robust seed,
a well-prepared field,
companions gathered,
sow at the right time,
water with right effort,
day and night,
without idle talk,
keep watch over the field.
When time grows weary,
when the grain has ripened,
gather together then,
cut and harvest.

Life is just like this. If everything could be had by comfort, everyone would have had it. Comfort is not enough; discipline is needed too. And if it could be had by discipline alone, there would still be no great difficulty—but within discipline, comfort is also necessary. Discipline and comfort appear opposed—but only to those who have not understood the mathematics of life.

All day you labor; at night you sleep. Have you never noticed there is no contradiction? You do not say, “I must work tomorrow as well; if I sleep tonight I will become slack. Let me stay awake all night, because tomorrow too I must be awake, so I will keep practicing wakefulness.” If you stay awake all night, you will only sleep tomorrow; you will not be able to stay awake. The mathematics of life is this: life is made by opposites joining together. If you have been awake all day, sleep all night. If you have slept well all night, you will wake well in the morning. If you have labored, then rest. If you go on laboring and laboring, you will go mad. If you only rest and rest, you will lose all the wealth of life. Life is the balance of labor and rest. Both must be cultivated together.

Some people cultivate comfort—we call them worldly. Some people cultivate discipline—we have called them sannyasins.

My sannyasin receives a very different instruction from me. I say: cultivate discipline within comfort. Do not break discipline and comfort apart—join them. When you are tired from discipline, sink into comfort. When you are tired of comfort, when you are ready and rested, engage again in discipline.

Life does not see the opposite as opposite. There, the opposite is complementary.

Do not think beyond a single moment. It is because of that that the lamp begins to flicker. Nothing more than one moment is in your hands. Why this longing that it remain forever unmoving? Why this craving that it stay forever steady? Why bring in tomorrow at all? Today is enough. Now—this very moment is enough. You never get more than one moment at a time; two moments never come together.

Even if the lamp of equanimity stands still for a single moment, drop worry. Live this very moment totally, to the brim. Squeeze out its entire essence, its juice. This grape of the moment—turn it into wine. This moment is enough. The moment you think, “Will this joy that is happening now remain forever?” you yourself create the gusts. The lamp is not trembling; your mind has made it tremble. Bliss is not wavering—you dragged the future in between. You inserted tomorrow’s worry. Where is tomorrow? And when it does come, it will come like today. Take care of today.

He who has learned to hold today has held the eternal. But what is our hitch? When joy comes before us, we panic—“Will it slip away?” It has just arrived and, instead of savoring it, we worry that it might be lost. Then the joy is lost. The chance is missed. The very thought, “Will it slip away?”—and it is gone. You break right there; the lamp trembles.

When bliss comes, relish it. Why bring in tomorrow? What have you to do with it? From where today has come, from there tomorrow will also keep coming. When tomorrow comes, then see. Right now the opportunity is here—enjoy it. This moment has come—dance it. This link of song has descended—hum it. Let the feet tap, let the drum resound. Take care that in what has come this moment you do not miss even a grain. This should be your only concern—because the moment is running. It is slipping from your hands, flowing out. If you so much as look here and there, you will miss. Look right or left—and it’s gone! Where is there so much time? If you ask, “Will this moment pass?”—it has already passed. It is gone. It is no longer in your hands. There is not even that much leisure left that you can think.

Drink! Thinking will not do. And the instant you drink this moment, this moment lays the foundation for the next. You have drunk this moment, the stream of nectar flowed, you became more capable of drinking it again. The next moment will come more springlike, more honeyed. The next moment will bring a deeper dance. The next moment will shower yet more ambrosia upon you. But this is not something for you to worry about—it happens of its own accord. I am stating a law; I am not asking you to think. It is an eternal law that whatever you have lived in this moment increases your capacity to live it in the next. If just now you grew angry, your capacity for anger will increase in the next moment.

Have you noticed? If anger happens upon waking, people say the whole day is angry. That is why in the old days people rose taking the name of Rama. There is a bit of psychology in that arithmetic. What we do first thing in the morning lays the foundation for the whole day. If you remember Rama at dawn, you will be bathed by that remembrance. If the journey begins with that remembrance, the next moment will come out of it; the chain will be forged out of it. One who rises taking the name of Rama—if someone abuses him, an abuse will not rise immediately from within; the name of Rama will come in the way. One who rises with abuse—even if no one abuses him, he will hear abuse. He is filled with abuse. He is searching for a pretext—somewhere someone may give him a chance, so he can pounce and pour it out. He is looking for an excuse.

If you understand this rightly, you have the whole principle of karma and conditioning. What you did yesterday will affect your today. Yesterday is gone; there is no way to change it now. Be gracious enough to change today—because today will become the tomorrow that harasses you. What you did in your past birth you are reaping now. And now you are busy thinking about the next birth, and this birth is slipping out of your hands. This empty, wasted life will again set you wandering on a road full of darkness.

You ask how the lamp of equanimity can burn forever. Simply taste it for a moment. When equanimity is thick, hum, dance, drown in it. When equanimity is thick, drink—don’t delay. Don’t bring in even so much thought as, “Will it stop?”

There is a Zen story:
At a temple gate two monks are arguing about what is moving the flag above the temple. The flag is fluttering. One monk says, “The wind is moving it.” The other says, “The flag itself is moving.” The master comes out and says, “Fools! Neither the wind is moving, nor the flag. Your mind! Your mind is moving. That is why you see the flag moving. You have gotten interested, entangled in the movement. Still the mind, and even if the wind blows, the flag will not move. Even if the flag moves, it will not move. When the mind is still, everything is still.”
He spoke well.

I was reading the life of an American writer. He wrote, “I was born in a beautiful, scenic valley in California, in a fisherman’s home. My childhood passed catching fish in lovely lakes, rivers, and valleys.

“When I sat with a line cast by some delightful lake to catch fish, planes would pass overhead, and one wish would arise in me: when will the time come when I too become a pilot? To fly in the sky! What bliss it must be in that sky! What am I doing here, wasting time catching fish?”

By a turn of fate, the man later became a pilot. Then he observed, “I was astonished. Now, as a pilot flying over that very valley, when I look down, a thought arises: O God, when will I retire so I can sit again in those scenic valleys, fish, and rest! Then I was startled—what am I doing? When I was in the valley, its beauty did not appear to me. Then I knew only the glory of the pilot seated in an airplane. Now I am a pilot, and I long for rest. And I think of those same valleys in which I once found no joy. Now the green valley spread below looks beautiful. The ponds and lakes shine like crystal gems. I long to sit at their shores again.”

And be sure of it—upon reaching those shores, the longing will wander somewhere else. The mind is very strange. Wherever you are, it does not let you be there. Its entire grip is just this: it does not let you be where you are; it drags you somewhere else. And the whole meaning of meditation is simply this: wherever you are, remain there. Do not let the mind play this game. Tell the mind, “Where I am, there I will be.”

If the mind is tuned now, equanimity is present—drink it! If you learn to drink, it will become eternal. If you start thinking, “Might it waver? Might it be lost? Might this be only a momentary dream? Will worry catch me again tomorrow? Will melancholy return?”—it has already come; what need was there of tomorrow? It has come—you have fallen into worry. It is because of this worry that the flame trembles.

You ask, “Even after the inner lamp of equanimity and joy has stayed steady for a long time, sometimes it begins to flicker.” Forget about stability. Stability is the mind’s desire. Why try to make it fixed? Do you want to become a stone? Be a stream. Know yourself in the very flow. Do not be frightened of transformation, of change. If sometimes the flame does flicker, then enjoy the flicker too. Otherwise this becomes a new spiritual greed, a new spiritual lust—that now the flame must never flicker! “Might it flicker?” If someday it does, accept that too. Then equanimity arises.

Now understand this—it is a little subtle. If equanimity flickers and yet inside you there is no disturbance, you say, “Fine; this too is fine; sometimes it flickers,” and you accept even that, then true equanimity has arisen. When the art of accepting even inequality arises, then equanimity is born. People say, “May happiness not be lost!” No—when even in suffering you do not see suffering; when suffering comes you still say, “This too is fine; let us accept even this; this too is God’s grace,” then happiness will never be removed.

Do you understand me? Happiness will sometimes move away—sorrow will come. That sorrow is a test. It is a challenge. It is an opportunity for you to lay the foundation for supreme bliss. In that moment of sorrow do not panic—“Ah! Happiness had come; it went; again sorrow has come!” The happiness that falls when sorrow appears was a deception; it was not worth holding. The happiness that does not change even when sorrow comes—sorrow arrives and still you say, “Fine, this too is accepted”—let there not be the slightest obstruction in your acceptance. If you can accept even this with gratitude and thankfulness—thanking the Divine not only for pleasures but also for the pains He gives—then who can shake you? Then you have crossed. Only when sorrow cannot make you sorrowful will happiness become steady, will happiness become eternal. Embrace even moments of unrest with peace.

Peace is not destroyed by the coming of unrest; it is destroyed by your rejection of unrest. If peace were destroyed simply by unrest arriving, then what strength would peace have? It is not destroyed by unrest’s coming; it is destroyed when you reject unrest, push it away—“No, I don’t want it!”—and cry, “What is this? Again unrest!” It is by this shouting and clamor that peace is lost.

When the flame of your lamp flickers again, enjoy even the flicker. What is wrong in it? An electric bulb does not flicker—but the lamp has another kind of joy! The lamp’s flame flickers. The electric bulb does not flicker at all. But the lamp is alive; the electric bulb is dead. A lamp is a living stream. It settles and it trembles too. There is life in the flame. The bulb is purely mechanical; there is no life in it. Do not be afraid. Sometimes it will flicker—fine, let it be. If your attitude of acceptance remains unbroken, you will gradually see that as you begin to accept the tremor, the trembling lessens. One day, when acceptance is total, the trembling ends. That day the lamp’s flame begins to burn constant, eternal.

But remember—there is a difference between the eternal and the static. Between the nitya and the sthira. “Static” is the mind’s desire—that it should be fixed. “Eternal” is an occurrence, not a desire of the mind. “Static” gives birth to anxiety; “eternal” has no anxiety. In fact, understand it this way: by thinking about “static,” you yourself set the wave shaking. When you live the moment, as a consequence, eternity is attained. Little by little the flame will become steady. Equanimity will be so well-tuned that you will not even know there is equanimity. As long as you know equanimity, understand that the seeds of inequality are still present. As long as you know happiness, know that sorrow is still possible. As long as you know peace, understand that peace is still struggling against unrest.

Ask Mahavira—if you were to ask him, “Are you peaceful?” he would shrug his shoulders. He would say, “Peaceful? I have not been unpeaceful for a very long time—so how can I know peace?” Health is known in illness, because of illness. If a person is always healthy, the knowing of health ceases. To know, the opposite is needed. So the day equanimity is complete, that day you will not know equanimity at all.

But do not demand stability or steadiness. Steadiness is a result. You just live. The essence is only this: when there is equanimity, savor equanimity; when a wave comes and the flame begins to tremble, savor the trembling. Let there be no resistance anywhere, and no attachment anywhere. Do not become attached to equanimity. Do not say, “Now I have attained equanimity; now I will never let it go.” That becomes a new bondage of desire. Equanimity will grow by itself. Do not become its owner. Do not try to lock it in a safe.

There are things that cannot be locked in a safe. If you lock them, they die as you lock them. Can you lock the fresh morning air in a safe? Can you lock the morning sunlight in a safe? Can you lock flowers, their fragrance, in a safe? The moment you close the safe, the air becomes stale. The moment you close it, the sun’s rays remain outside. The moment you close it, the flowers begin to wilt, to die, to rot. Some things belong to the open sky.

Equanimity, rightness, peace, bliss, meditation, prayer, love—don’t ever try to lock these in a safe. They are flowers of the open sky. Keep them free. Do not even clutch them in your fist; otherwise they will break, scatter. They are very delicate, very subtle, tender. Do not pounce upon them. Otherwise, in the very pouncing they will be destroyed. They need a very quiet, silent, accepting state of being. Only when you do nothing do they happen. The moment you do something, the mischief begins.

If even for a single moment the thread of equanimity is tied, then savor it. That’s all. Savor it completely. Let that moment become eternal. Dive into it so totally that time itself disappears. In that moment, let there be no memory of time—neither the past nor the future. Let there be no memory of what has gone, no thought of what is to come. Forget everything. The door of the Divine opens. There the doors of the temple swing wide.

Gradually you will find—as things become clearer, as the haze before the eyes dissolves—you will find the temple doors are always open. It is only because of your thoughts that the door seems closed.

In love it often happens so. It is natural. Don’t make it a problem. To cultivate both together won’t be easy just now; slowly, slowly it will happen.

For the present, do this: sometimes enjoy the delight of looking with open eyes; sometimes enjoy the delight of listening with eyes closed. Don’t be eager to have sweets in both hands right now—otherwise you will miss both.

Gradually, as the savor deepens, you will discover that with eyes closed you are listening and also seeing. Is an open eye really necessary in order to see? If seeing were only possible with open eyes, then everyone here sitting with open eyes would be seeing. But this isn’t everyone’s question; it is happening to one particular person. Nor is the ear’s being open enough to hear.

Jesus keeps saying to his disciples, If you have eyes, then see. If you have ears, then hear. Don’t come and tell me later. They all had eyes and ears—so what does he mean? Again and again Jesus says, If you have ears, hear; if you have eyes, see. Those very ears, those very eyes are being born within you. Do not turn this moment of birth into a moment of greed. Sometimes close the eyes and drink the nectar of listening—for even then you are listening to me. Through that too you are connected with me; it is another doorway to come to me. And sometimes open the eyes and take the delight of seeing—let listening go. Even then you are joined to me. In the beginning you will have to do it separately, because when a single sense for the first time is stirred wholly, all energy flows there.

Have you noticed? The ears of the blind become powerful, highly skilled. The way a blind person listens, those with eyes never listen. Hence the tone-sense of the sightless grows profound. The blind become musicians; the blind one’s speech grows sweet—because his energy, withdrawn from the eyes, flows into the ears. As his sense of tone deepens, he recognizes the smallest things by sound. He even recognizes people by the sound of their footsteps—who is coming. The sighted cannot recognize. The sighted have never listened so attentively. They have no idea that people place their feet differently, that people walk differently. Just as fingerprints are unique, so is everything else. A blind person recognizes you simply by your voice—even if you meet him years later, he knows you the moment he hears you. For his very recognition is by voice; he knows nothing of the face.

So when you listen totally, naturally the eyes will close—because the ear is taking all the energy, and there is nothing left to give the eye. If you try to listen and see together, the energy will split in halves; then you will neither hear well nor see well. And when you are seeing, all the energy will move to the eyes. In the beginning it will be like this.

It is the same as when you learned to ride a bicycle or to drive a car. The learner’s trouble is just this: if he pays attention to the feet, he forgets the handlebar; if he watches the road, he forgets the pedals. A great dilemma. The same trouble in driving a car: mind the accelerator, watch the road, watch the brake, change the gear—he manages one thing, and as soon as he turns to the next, the first is missed. But slowly, as skill comes, as self-trust grows, as confidence arises—All right, I can manage—then there is no need to remember at all. Then he listens to the radio, hums a tune, drives the car, even chats—everything together. It is only a matter of your skill ripening.

So in the beginning do just this: when you feel like listening, listen. When you feel like seeing, see. Don’t try to cultivate both together yet. Slowly, slowly it will settle by itself. Little by little you will find that while listening with closed eyes I begin to be seen as well. The eyes need not be open to see me. Then you will find that with eyes open you are seeing me—and the hearing begins as well. And not only here: when you return home, even if you sit before my picture with eyes open, you will begin to hear my voice. But this will happen—wait a little, don’t be in a hurry. For now, however you can drown, drown. First learn how to drown.

Again, on my lips are eulogies of lips and cheeks;
Again, on some face today there is a glow upon glow.
In the trembling of the lips there is a storm—of wine and of verse;
In the quiver of the lashes, a spell of ghazal-singing today.
That murmur of breath, that conversing glance—
In the innocent breast today a one-sided turbulence swells.
Such are the signals that to go astray is the very essence of awareness;
To remain sober today is surely a harsh foolishness.

For now, don’t even speak of sobriety. For now, be intoxicated.

Such are the signals that to go astray is the very essence of awareness—
For now, go astray with me. For now, that is true awareness—that you go astray with me, that you go mad with me.

To remain sober today is surely a harsh foolishness.
So don’t talk of sobriety today. Don’t try to do arithmetic—Let me also listen, let me also see; let the intellect also understand, let the heart also drink its juice. Don’t do arithmetic now, don’t bring in logic. For now, be led astray. Wherever you can begin to be lost, begin there. For now, be intoxicated with me. If this hour passes in ecstasy, then slowly, as you become familiar with the depths of ecstasy, you will find that all the senses can be joined together. Then not only the eyes, not only the ears—other senses too will be active.

Some people have such experiences. Someone near me begins to smell a particular fragrance. It means he is not only hearing and seeing me; he is also smelling me. And a few people—very few—two or four have told me that while listening, a certain taste begins to arise in the throat, as if a drop of nectar had fallen within. Then the fourth sense is included, taste. Fewer still—just one or two—have told me that while listening there comes a unique sense of touch throughout the body, a wave, as if I had taken their whole body into my embrace. Then all five senses are included. For now, train them one by one; don’t try to train two together. Slowly, slowly all the senses will become alert and be present with me.

The day all the senses, alert, come into my nearness, that day satsang truly begins. Before that there is satsang, but it is limited. For someone it is the eye’s satsang; for someone the ear’s satsang—limited. Your whole being is not yet in satsang.

And there is no way to hurry it. This is an art that comes slowly, slowly. It comes as it comes; it is not something you can fetch by force.

There is a difference—and there isn’t. Understand both.

Blind imitation means going on believing and following without your own experience. You are born in a Jain home, or a Hindu home, or a Muslim home, and you keep calling yourself Muslim or Jain simply because of that—that is blind imitation. You never formed any living connection with Mohammed, never had satsang with him, never met his radiance. You were born in a Jain family, but there was no meeting with Mahavira, no give-and-take, no encounter. The flowers of Mahavira’s speech never bloomed in your heart; the music of his veena never reached you. By mere accident you were born in a Jain household. From childhood you heard talk of Jainism, you heard Jain scriptures, you visited Jain temples, you heard Mahavira’s name again and again—repetition imprinted it in memory. You say, “I am a Jain.” That is blind imitation. Those who, in Mahavira’s time, were stirred by his aura, drawn by his magnet; those who saw him with eyes brimming, heard him with total ears, drank him into their hearts—and in that drinking knew, “Yes, this is the right path”—and then walked it: that was surrender, not blind imitation.

Surrender can happen only at the feet of a living master. Hence, ninety-nine out of a hundred in the world are in blind imitation. When Mahavira passed through a village, some believed in Krishna and so did not go to listen; some were devotees of Rama—how could they go to Mahavira? They were in blind imitation. Yet among those very devotees of Rama and Krishna, a few were courageous—they went to hear Mahavira. They set aside their blind following. They said, “Tradition is tradition, but tradition is not my soul. It is fine that I was born in a certain house; but how will a religion I have never chosen quicken my life-breath? Religion is a choice—with awareness, with deep reflection, contemplation, meditation, nididhyasan; it is staking one’s life. Religion cannot be borrowed.”

So that religion which came to you because of your home, family, or society is blind imitation.

Those who, hearing Nanak’s song, came to him—those are Sikhs. The rest are Sikhs in name only. The word Sikh means shishya, disciple; it is a variant of it. Those who went to Nanak, who heard his song and caught a glimpse of him; those who had satsang with him, whose heart-bridge joined to Nanak; who for a moment saw with Nanak’s eyes, danced with Nanak’s feet, hummed with Nanak’s throat—even if only for a moment—whose inner note came into tune with Nanak: they surrendered. It was their own experience, and to that very experience they bowed their heads.

Now as for Sikhs today—what have they to do with Nanak? Born in a Sikh home, so a Sikh; had they been born in a Hindu home, they’d be Hindu; in a Muslim home, Muslim. Put a Hindu child in a Muslim household and he will become Muslim. Raise a Muslim child in a Jain household and he will become nonviolent, a vegetarian. But is that any real becoming—something not chosen by you?

What is borrowed is blind imitation; what is truly your own is surrender. What you yourself have done—what did not come from the past handed down to you—what you dared to choose yourself—indeed, one should say audaciously choose: for what comes from the past has been thought over for thousands of years, scriptures have been written, commentaries composed; there are pundits, priests, temples, a long tradition and the prestige of that tradition. But when you come to a new master, a living master, there is no tradition behind him, no support of Veda, Koran, or Bible, no reference point. The living master stands right before you. Only if you are courageous will you be able to surrender. There is no other reason to surrender.

Those who bowed before Mahavira—Mahavira’s eleven chief disciples—were all Brahmins. Not ordinary Brahmins, but great scholars, adepts in the Vedas. They themselves had hundreds of disciples when they came to Mahavira. Yet they put tradition aside. They chose truth. They wiped away the past and chose the present. They denied the dead and chose the living. With the living there is risk: who knows whether Mahavira is right or not? And who knows whether the recognition arising in you is true or not? Perhaps you are hypnotized; perhaps this Mahavira’s words have encircled you; perhaps you are entangled in some net. There is danger. One must take steps along with doubt.

But the courageous takes the step. Old roads have great prestige—ancient, trodden by thousands; there are tirthas, temples; you can go and check whether people reached or not. There are proverbs that on this path thousands attained. Now Mahavira appears, or Mohammed; as yet no one around them has attained. It will take thousands of years for a tradition to form; after thousands of years, the weak will follow. The courageous take the hand of a living master. Taking that hand is surrender. What you do out of your own seeing is surrender; what is wrung out of you by tactics is blind belief.

If you have even a little strength and courage, even a little selfhood, you will refuse all those conditionings that others have imposed on you. You will say, “Who are you to impose?”

In Russia, everyone is an atheist because the State is feeding atheism. In India, everyone is a theist because society is feeding theism. Neither that theism has any value nor that atheism has any value. Both are worthless—and both are alike in my eyes. You are being fed theism with your milk, and you keep drinking it. They are being fed atheism, and they keep drinking it. In Russia, whoever is courageous will set aside what the State is feeding and think for himself. In you, whoever is courageous will set aside what society is feeding and think for himself. He will say, “Even if I go astray, at least there will be one joy—that I went astray out of my own longing. If I fall into a ravine, at least one thing will remain with me: I walked by my own choice; no one else is responsible.”

Remember, even if someone forces you into heaven, you will not reach heaven. Only when you walk there yourself is heaven possible. It is not a wealth that can be handed over. It cannot be transferred. So whatever you have believed because of tradition—because others explained and persuaded you—that is all blind imitation. What you yourself choose is surrender. That is the distinction between the two.

And in another sense, there is no difference. Understand that too. People are very clever with big words. If you do it, it is surrender; if the other does it, it is blind belief! If you come to me and take sannyas, you will call it surrender. Your neighbors and friends will say, “He has fallen into blind belief!” Have you noticed? Devotees of Rama say Vibhishana is the supreme devotee of Rama. Ask Ravana’s friends! “Traitor! Turncoat! Betrayer!” If a Hindu becomes a Muslim—traitor! If a Muslim becomes a Hindu, Hindus say, “Wise fellow! He came to his senses. Very intelligent.”

There was a Jain monk, Ganesh Varni. He had great prestige among Jains because he was born Hindu and became Jain. So Jains said, “Exceptionally gifted; such a saint is born once in centuries.” Ask the Hindus—“Traitor! Betrayer!” It has always been so. For yourself you use good words; for the other you use bad ones. When you do it, it is surrender; when the other does it, it is blind belief.

So be careful: the freedom you allow yourself, allow the other too. You have no right to judge another as blindly credulous or as a surrendered being. Drop that concern. You cannot judge anyway—how will you enter another’s heart? How will you know? Think only about yourself. See within whether, up to now, you have lived by blind belief or by surrender. Decide only there; leave worrying about others. Otherwise, all your judgments will be wrong. Jesus said: Judge not; do not set yourself up as a judge in relation to another.
To the friend who has asked: if you are asking for yourself, good. Drop worrying about others. Look within and see: whatever I have been clinging to till now—have I ever staked my life to hold it? Have I meditated for it? Have I loved for it? Or am I just clutching what culture, society, civilization handed me? Others gave it; they, in turn, got it from others, and they from others. It is hearsay. I have no vision of my own. Throw away such rubbish; it is blind belief. Do not go calling others superstitious.
One more point to keep in mind: the more surrendered the other is, the more blind he will seem to you. Because there is a kind of blindness in love. That’s why we say the lover is blind. One who is not in love cannot fathom what the lover is up to. People asked Majnu, “Are you crazy? There’s nothing in this Laila!” Majnu would say, “See through my eyes. If you want to see Laila, see her through my eyes. There is no other way to see Laila—only Majnu’s eyes.”

If you want to behold someone’s love, look with the lover’s eyes. If you see Meera through a Jain’s eyes, you’ll make a mess of it. To see Meera, look through Meera’s eyes. To understand Meera’s feeling, understand with a devotee’s heart. Don’t ask those who are not devotees; they will say, “This is blindness.”

They say that after marriage Albert Einstein’s wife showed him a few poems—she used to write a little poetry. Now Einstein: a mathematician, a physicist! His emphasis was on fact. What meeting-point is there between fact and poetry? Earth and sky! He read the very first poem and began shaking his head. His wife asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “This can’t be. Absolutely wrong.” “What is it?” In the poem—written for her beloved—she had written: “My lover’s face is as beautiful as the moon.” Einstein said, “Impossible! Like the moon? Can’t be. The moon is huge—where is a human head, where is the moon? And the moon isn’t even beautiful—full of pits and craters. The comparison doesn’t hold at all.”

These are two different languages. Einstein is speaking the language of mathematics: where is the head, where is the moon—at least keep some proportion! You’re doing darkness with such metaphors. The wife must have been shocked—any poet would be—because for centuries poets have done precisely this. They found nothing more beautiful than the moon to describe their beloved’s face.

Not only have they described the beloved’s face by the moon—some “blind” folk went even further and described the moon by their beloved’s face: “The moon is as beautiful as my beloved’s face.”

Would you call that wrong? It is another way of seeing, another style, another language, another dimension. They too are right. There is a kinship between the moon and the beloved’s face. That kinship is not of weight, nor of volume, nor of area, nor of craters; it is something else—an enchantment. Your eyes are held spellbound by the moon; so too are they held before the beloved’s face. Something in the moon stirs your heart, makes you beside yourself; so does something in the lover’s face. It is a comparison of the unknown. Some nectar seems to flow from the moon—hence its other name, Soma. That’s why the day of the moon we call Somvaar—Monday. Something happens on a moonlit night that happens at no other time; on the full-moon night something occurs that never occurs otherwise—something intoxicating, something that drives one slightly mad.

You’ll be surprised to know: on full-moon nights more people go mad than on any other night. Hence the old word for the mad—“struck by the moon.” In English too, the word lunatic comes from lunar—the moon—meaning moon-struck. There is something in the moon! It stirs the ocean—tides rise, great waves reach for the sky. The same happens in the ocean of the human heart. On the full-moon night something stirs; with the full moon, within you, poetry, music, dance are born. The same happens when you see your beloved. But this has nothing to do with mathematics. Einstein is right—and so is his wife. They are both right, but right in two different languages, two different dimensions, two different orders. Keep this in mind.

Anyone who, falling in love, becomes surrendered will appear blind to everyone else—because others move by mathematics, by logic. “What is this madness?” You will go back home in ochre robes, a mala around your neck—people will call you mad, moon-struck. My name itself means the moon! Lunatic—you are in trouble now! And you won’t be able to explain. If you try to explain, you’ll lose—this is certain. How will you explain with logic? They will insist, “You’ve gone mad.” If you attempt to explain, all that will be proved is that you are wrong; nothing will be established. Don’t explain. Simply accept it yourself: “You’ve recognized it well—I have gone mad.” Before they laugh, you laugh out loud. You’ll find they become serious. Before they say anything, start humming a song, start dancing. They’ll go home thinking, “There’s no point trying to reason with this one!”

There is a world of understanding where logic climbs step by step. And there is a world of love where there are leaps and bounds. The gait of the two is so different they can never walk together.

Reason can reach matter; love reaches God. There is no proof of God. There is only one proof of God: those who have gone mad in love of the divine. No other proof. To know God, you must ask those who have gone mad with his love. There is no argument, no doctrine, no device to prove him. But when such love is born in someone, the eyes we ordinarily call eyes close, and another eye opens—the so-called third eye. He begins to see in another way.

So naturally, those in whom love has not happened will find the lover mad, blind. But if you have even a little compassion, never use such words. Say only: “It hasn’t happened to me yet; I cannot speak. Let the one in whom it has happened speak.” And feel blessed that there are still people in whom God happens; for in them lies hope even for those who still wander in the nets of logic and delusion.

Ask a devotee; he will say—
I have died a thousand deaths,
only then did I find refuge at the feet.

You will say, “He is blind.” He says, “Only after dying thousands of times did I attain these feet—obtained with great difficulty.”

I have died a thousand deaths,
only then did I find refuge at the feet.

He has obtained it at a great price. The diamond he sought over lifetimes—now he has found it. You will say, “He’s holding a stone.” To recognize a diamond, one needs a jeweler’s eye.

I have heard: a man was walking with a diamond hanging from his donkey’s neck. A jeweler saw it and was astonished: “It must be worth lakhs, and he’s dangling it from a donkey’s neck!” He asked, “What will you take for this stone?” The man said, “Give me one rupee.” The jeweler said, “Will you take four annas? It’s a stone—what will I do with it?” The man said, “All right, leave it—children will play with it!” The jeweler thought, “He’ll come around; who will give him even four annas!” He walked a few steps ahead, and in that time another jeweler came by and bought the “stone” for a thousand rupees. The first jeweler came running back: “What happened—did you sell it? For how much?” “For a thousand.” The first cried, “Are you crazy? That was a diamond worth lakhs!” The donkey’s owner said, “Crazy or not, I didn’t know it was a diamond, so I sold it for a thousand; but you knew it was a diamond and still weren’t willing to give even one rupee!”

A diamond is not a diamond by itself. It lies for thousands of years until a jeweler’s eye falls upon it. Only then does it become a diamond; before that it was a stone. If you don’t have the jeweler’s eye, it is a stone for you too.

I have died a thousand deaths,
only then did I find refuge at the feet.

The devotee says:
He who gives you the trace of the destination—
carry the imprint of his footsteps upon your brow.

Place upon your forehead those feet by which you found your way, your path.
He who gives you news of the destination,
carry the imprint of his footsteps upon your brow.

But to others you will look mad. It will be beyond their understanding—“What is going on here?”

Do not worry about others. If surrender has happened, it is so precious that even if the whole world calls you blind, the surrendered one will say, “I am willing to be blind, but I will not abandon surrender.” If surrender has not yet happened in your life, inquire a little: what has a life without surrender found? What has it found? Trash upon trash, ash upon ash. Not even a single burning ember. You will find the ash of scriptures, not the ember of truth; the dust of tradition, not the mirror of God. Search within: if you have lived by blind belief until now, then live once through the eye of surrender—adopt this new style and see.

To the surrendered person it gradually becomes clear that the feet he had grasped were not someone else’s feet; the hand he took into his own was not another’s hand; and the one he set out with was his own destiny, his own future.

Formless One! When I gave you a form, I myself became manifest.
For ages I was shaping your uncarved, uninscribed image;
when at last it was complete, I found only my own face standing there.
But a greater “offense” occurred at the hour of worship:
the flowers I brought to adorn you became my own adornment.

What you are holding is your own possibility. If, near me, you tasted some nectar, it did not come from me—it trickled from within you. If, near me, you saw something, that is your own future, your coming tomorrow, your possibility; your destiny, your fortune. If you bowed before me, you bowed before your own future—like a seed bowing before its own flower.

Formless One! When I gave you a form, I myself became manifest.
For ages I was shaping your uncarved, uninscribed image;
when at last it was complete, I found only my own face standing there.

If you confer glory upon someone, you become glorious. If you call someone “Lord,” in that very instant your Lord is born. If you bow at someone’s feet, your own feet become worthy for someone to bow to.

Formless One! When I gave you a form, I myself became manifest.
For ages I was shaping your uncarved, uninscribed image;
when at last it was complete, I found only my own face standing there.

The day you come very close to me and truly know me, you will find: “Ah! I went to grasp another—and I found my own self!”

But a greater “offense” occurred at the hour of worship:
the flowers I brought to adorn you became my own adornment.

Whatever you have offered anywhere with reverence and surrender has been offered to you. Wherever you have raised your eyes with reverence and surrender—that is the house of your own future. It is the thread of your own possibilities. It is your destiny.

Nothing is gained by becoming realized. Everything is lost. Nothing remains. That is the real gaining. One attains emptiness through realization. But that very emptiness is the abode of the Whole. Do not ask in the language of getting, because that is the language of greed. What did I get? I got nothing at all.

Someone had asked Buddha the same question. Buddha said, “Gained? I gained nothing—lost, certainly.” The questioner was astonished: “Lost? You gained nothing?” Buddha said, “I gained only what was already mine. I didn’t know; recognition happened. So even to say ‘I gained it’ isn’t quite right. It was lying in my own pocket; I had forgotten it. I put in my hand and found it. What did I gain! It was mine, always; I didn’t know—now I know. Awakening happened. From bodh comes the word Buddha. Buddha said: God is not to be acquired, only to be awakened to. He is—already. He is present. He is what fills you and surrounds you—inside and outside, in all directions, all around. There is nothing to get. Getting makes it seem as if you must go somewhere to obtain what isn’t. No—only awaken. Know, recognize.”

And Buddha said, “I lost much—everything I believed I had, which was never mine.” Understand this: it is a great paradox. That which I thought was not, was; and that which I thought was, is not. The ego is lost; the Self is revealed. The ego never is, and the Self always is.

You ask me, “What did you gain by becoming realized?” I gained nothing; I lost. There is nothing here to gain. The chase to get is the world. As long as you are running after gain, you will remain in the world. That is why, even when a worldly person starts becoming religious, he still asks, “What will I get?”

People come to me and say, “We will meditate—but what will we get?” For his own delight Tulsidas sang the saga of Raghunath. Ask Tulsidas, “What do you get? You keep telling the tale of Rama—what have you gained?” He would say, “For my own inner joy I sing the saga of Raghunath.” It is delight, sheer joy; there is no question of getting. These are flowers blossoming in bliss, not for getting. No craving, no greed, no race to acquire, no wanting.

I got nothing; I lost a lot. I lost everything—the whole of it. But in that very losing, that which was buried begins to manifest. The diamond hidden in this trash and rubble came to light. Ask yourself! You ask me, “What did you gain by becoming realized?” I ask you, “What have you gained by remaining worldly?”

What happened to the green, the leaves, the tulip, the cypress, the jasmine?
The whole garden is desolate—alas, what has become of the garden?

I ask you: you are so sad—what has happened to you? So miserable, so helpless, so defeated and tired, so hopeless! The whole garden is desolate—alas, what has become of the garden? I ask you: so ill, so tearful, so troubled, so afflicted—and still you keep rushing down the very paths that have only brought you pain; you keep racing along the same tracks that have led to hell; you keep plunging into the same anger, the same illusion, the same greed, the same attachment—from which nothing but thorns have pierced you. You ask me what I got? Your sorrow is gone—it is not with me. Your thorns are gone—they are not with me. To put it plainly: what you have, I do not have. That much is certain—that is what is lost. No craving, no journey to get something, no race. I am home.

What can one say of this storm of song and wine?
Tonight my house has become Khayyam’s tavern.

Can you not see it, this storm of wine before you?
What can one say of this storm of song and wine?
Tonight my house has become Khayyam’s tavern.

Wine has poured; the tavern has been found. But this “finding” is not of something that wasn’t ours—it is recognition. The treasure was ours, the key in our hand; we had forgotten how to open the lock. Memory returned, remembrance arose, recollection came. To say, “The world was lost, God was gained,” would be wrong. God was already found. Lost in the marketplace, we forgot the way home.

Something like this happened in the Second World War. A man fell wounded on the battlefield and lost his memory. When he was brought back, there was great difficulty. His tag, his number had fallen somewhere on the field, and his memory was gone. He couldn’t tell who he was. He didn’t know his name or address. He was no use to the army any longer—but where to send him? There was no clue to his home. Then a psychologist suggested: “England isn’t a very big country; put him on a train and take him around all of England. Perhaps when he reaches the station of his village, he will remember.” It worked. They took him station to station. Those who accompanied him grew tired, for at each station they would set him down, and he would just stand and look.

But at a small village station they didn’t need to get him off. As soon as he saw the nameboard of the village, he cried, “Ah! My village!” He leapt down and began to run. They tried to stop him. He said, “Don’t stop me! Let me go now. My village has come.” The psychologists ran after him. He ran straight through the lanes and stopped at the door of a house. “Here is my home. That is my mother sitting there.”

What happened? The memory had been lying deep within. The nameboard at the station struck it.

That is why the knowers have said: God is not to be obtained, only remembered. Remember. Awaken remembrance. Fill yourself with memory. He is lying deep within you—call, cry out, invoke. In some moment the resonance will meet; in some moment remembrance will catch; in some moment, snagged on the hook of your call, it will rise to the surface. You will begin to run—“Here is the home, the home has come; the world is lost, and that which was always found is recognized.”

What can one say of this storm of song and wine?
Tonight my house has become Khayyam’s tavern.

The one who seeks to get, gets nothing. The one who is willing to lose, gains everything. The getters wander, weep, complain; the one who loses is filled, becomes whole.

I seek you, I long for you—
the joy is that I want to be lost myself.

If you keep searching and searching, you will not find. The search for God is the search to lose oneself. The way to “get” God is to drown and efface yourself. As long as you are, God cannot be. You yourself are sitting like a stone on the chest of God. Move—make space! When you move away like a stone, the spring of the Divine bursts forth.

Now you ask: “Can you say with certainty that God is?”

Not “with certainty.” There is a reason. We speak with certainty only about things where some uncertainty lurks. I can say simply, unpretentiously, that God is—but not “with certainty.” Because I have not even a trace of uncertainty—against what should I erect certainty? When we insist, “firmly,” it means some weakness lies within. When we declare “with certainty,” it betrays an inner uncertainty.

I say simply—note my words, simply: God is. God alone is. Apart from that, there is nothing else.

That’s all for today.