Jin Sutra #45

That too will happen. A little waiting, a little watching will be needed. The beginning has already happened. Slowly the art of dying is learned. One does not have such courage as to die in a single leap. One drops grain by grain. But walking step by step, even a journey of thousands of miles is completed. So there is no cause for worry.

And meditation is indeed like death. For what we have called life is not life; and what we have taken up to now as death is not death. We are in great deception. What we call life is only a dream; and what we call death is merely the breaking of that dream. But because we take the dream to be true, we cling to it, press it to our chest. It is because we clutch at life so hard that death appears painful. Otherwise there is no sorrow in death. Death is rest, a pause. Having misunderstood life, we have also formed a wrong vision about death.

Meditation is to know death exactly, to recognize it. It is the gradual drowning and losing of the ego. Where you are not, there God is. Where you dissolve, God happens. Without your dissolution he cannot be. You occupy too much space; there is no room for him to enter. Disappear, die, take leave, so that he may come. And you yourself are your disease—yet you have taken this disease to be your ornament. You have taken this ego to be your soul. That is the mistake.

Whoever comes to me, whatever the reason they think they come for, I call them close only to die near me. I want to give them the taste of death. Taste even a single drop of death and through the portal of death the first glimpse of the nectar is revealed. The nectar is hidden in the veil of death; God is concealed behind the screen of death.

When Mansoor was crucified, he looked up at the sky and burst into laughter. Someone in the crowd that was killing him asked, What are you laughing at? Mansoor said, What you take to be death is the doorway to my union with the Beloved. I can see him standing there. His arms are outstretched, ready to take me in. Kill me here so that there I may fall into his embrace. I laugh because none of you can see it! He is standing right in front. Here it is only a moment’s delay in my dying, and there the union is. Hurry—why are you taking so long?

Whoever has known themselves has known this: death carries away the rubbish and leaves the gold. It washes off the useless and polishes the essential, makes it clean and bright. Death is a benediction. And the one who can see the blessing even in death—where will he not see blessing? The one who has seen God’s hand even in death will naturally see his hand in life as well. He has passed the final test.

Until you discover the thread of life within death, you will have to be born again and again, die again and again. You will be sent back repeatedly because you do not pass the examination. Life is preparation; death is the examination—naturally, the exam comes at the end. All life we prepare. For what? Have you ever thought why death comes at the end? Because the examination must come last. Death is not the end of life. It is the test of whatever essence you have learned, known, distilled, gathered through life. If some essence has truly come into your hands, death cannot kill you. If nothing has been gathered, death kills you—and then you are thrown back into birth. Whoever misses through death will be born again.

Birth exists only because you miss through death. The one who has lived death consciously, lived it as a blessing, who has assimilated death—who has died with totality, with joy, with gratitude, who has seen even in death the Beloved’s arms outstretched—he has no more birth. That is why I say: meditation is to learn death. To learn it willingly. And if you do not learn it now, when death comes suddenly you will not be able to ready yourself.

Death comes suddenly, unexpectedly. It gives no news, sends no prior message. One day it simply stands at the door—and you are in disarray. You are not ready to go, your bundle is not tied, the useless has not been sifted from the meaningful, the essential not separated from the nonessential; everything is entangled—and in the midst of it death appears. It does not give even a moment for you to collect yourself, to prepare, to gather provisions, to ready yourself for the long journey ahead. Not a single moment of respite. Death comes—time is gone. With death’s arrival, time is no more.

This death that comes unannounced—if you have not prepared for it day by day in life, just as it has found you unprepared before, it will find you unprepared again.

Then you will miss again; you will descend once more into the pit of birth; you will wander again in these same dark alleys, tread these thorn-filled paths again, be lost once more in the same crowd of desires, angers, lusts, greed, pride and jealousy.

That is why I say: meditation is death. And if you have looked at me attentively, in that attentive moment a little glimpse of meditation will come to you. If you have looked at me in silence, in that moment of silence the spear will pierce. It should pierce—that is precisely the purpose of your being here with me: that I may give you a few glimpses of death. And once those glimpses begin and the sweet current starts to flow, and you see, Ah, how foolish I was—death is a blessing; till now I took it to be a curse!—then no one will be able to shake you. You will set out on the straight path; the way will be found; your direction will be right.

As the flavor of death deepens, your grip will loosen on what you call life. I do not tell you to renounce; I tell you only to awaken. As you awaken, renunciation happens. A renunciation that has to be done—is it renunciation at all? If it has to be done, the whole thing becomes futile. Let it happen. Let it arise from vision, ripen through seeing, be the consequence of awareness. On this side you awaken; on that side, like the shadow of awakening, renunciation happens. Naturally, when something is seen as worthless it slips from the hand. The fist opens and it falls. Why call that renunciation? It has dropped. Why claim, I renounced? What is there to renounce in garbage? There is nothing to grasp and nothing to let go. But this is possible only by tasting death.

So when you are here near me, then truly be near. Keep no distance. Do not let the commerce of thoughts go on between us. Do not let the stream of thinking flow. Push aside all the clouds and look straight at me. Here, I am not. The moment you look straight, a wave of non-being will rise in you too. Here I am erased; if you keep company with me even for a moment, you will find yourself beginning to be erased as well.

This is the very meaning of satsang: to learn the art of disappearing in the presence of one who has disappeared. To sit by a void and taste becoming a void. In the beginning a support is needed. Alone, you will be very frightened. With me here you can trust that even if a man disappears, he still is; there is nothing to fear. In fact, the more one disappears, the more deeply one is. When a person becomes absolutely empty, he becomes complete. Held by this assurance, you can come closer to me. Without it you will be very afraid; you will not let the boat leave the shore; you will cling to the bank.

It is going well. The knife pricks—let it. And the longing is also good; it indicates that you have allowed the knife to pierce. You have asked, When will the ultimate death happen? Do not be afraid; that too will happen. Keep moving. You are on the path.

To the one who has tasted the joy of satsang, the mood becomes like this—
Let nothing have happened, nor happen:
all the world’s wealth and joy—if only
you stay near.
Even if the clouds of my sky do not part—
the moon remains veiled;
even if the night does not thin,
no hint of the sky’s light appears—
my lips will keep smiling on the path, if
you but hold my hand.
Let nothing have happened, nor happen;
my lips will keep smiling on the path, if
you but hold my hand.

Even if I have not read the rich, many-flavored literature—
if others call me dull;
if my poetic sense has not ripened,
if my knowledge stands where it stood—
still, I feel complete in understanding, if
you narrate your story.

If you extend a bridge of your life-breath toward me, if you extend your hand toward me—my hand is already extended—I am ready to grasp yours. I am only waiting for your hand to be extended. If hand but touches hand, the knife will pierce. If hand clasps hand, the ultimate death will also happen. Those in whom this is happening should know they are fortunate; the key has begun to come into their hands. It will not take long to open the lock. A tiny key opens the locks of the vastest palaces. A small key opens the greatest gates. This which now feels like a small knife pricking is the key. Walk on just this path and the great death will happen. Only do not run away. Do not be afraid.

The seeker is searching for his own death. Of God we know nothing; we only know that what we are is wrong. The seeker longs to erase this wrong, in the hope that when the false is gone, what remains will be right. We know nothing of light; we only know that this darkness has led us astray enough. If this darkness is not there, whatever remains will be light—that much we can think, that much we can long for.

The seeker has seen life—so have all of you. Around you spreads the dream of life—what have you found? Even if you gain everything, nothing is gained. Those who gain nothing remain naked and empty; those who gain everything also remain empty. As soon as the understanding of this life becomes clear, a man thinks: I have seen life; now let me see death. Perhaps what is not here may be there. I looked on this path and did not find—let me look on the opposite path. I went far from myself—now let me come near. I looked outside—now let me look within. I tried thinking, reflection, analysis—now let me try meditation. I pursued the intense longing to be—now let me pray for non-being. That very longing to not-be is prayer.

As death enters you inch by inch, you will find that under the pretext of death God begins to enter within. He always comes under the pretext of death. He comes only to those who are ready to die—who say, We are not willing to live without you. We are willing to die with you, not to live without you. The one who stakes like this is the one who attains.

You are within me, beloved—what need of introduction then!
As a few of his rays enter you, at first they strike, erase, burn.
You are within me, beloved—what need of introduction then!
A star’s image, a memory in the breath,
the silent footfall upon the lids,
the small heart thrilled with waves of gooseflesh—
I have filled myself with your playful presence;
what more should I amass in the world?

Gather a little of God into your treasury—
I have filled myself with your playful presence,
waves of gooseflesh in my small heart—
what more should I hoard in the world?
Your lip-kissed goblet,
your smile-mixed wine,
your very mind the tavern—
then why should I ask, my cupbearer,
whether you pour sweetness or poison?

When you begin to recognize God’s hand, you will not ask.
Why should I ask then, my cupbearer,
whether you pour sweetness or poison?
Then, whatever may be in that cup—even if it is death—it is great life. Poison is nectar. If it annihilates you, that is precisely the process of your making. If it destroys you, throws you into dissolution, that is your creation.

The goldsmith puts gold into the fire. If the gold had a little intelligence it would scream and writhe, saying, What are you doing—will you kill me? But how could the gold know that this is the very process of becoming pure? Passing through the fire, whatever remains is kundan, pure gold. What does not die in you even when you die—that is the soul. What is not erased in you even when you are erased—that is your true being.

You will have to pass through death. If you go from me having learned anything else, you will have gone collecting trash. If you go having learned death, you have taken the key.

We have called India’s supreme mystical scriptures the Upanishads. Upanishad means to be near the master; it means to sit close—just that.
What happens by sitting close?
By sitting near one who is gone, the courage to go will arise in you as well. By sitting close to one who has disappeared, peering into his abyss, into his bottomless depth, you too will begin to be drawn toward that depth. Seeing the one who has disappeared you will know how lotus-like he has become—how, in dying, the descent of great life takes place.

The most difficult thing in this world is the trust that even in dying I shall remain. The greatest faith is: in dying I remain. The one in whom this trust has arisen is religious. The one who walks supported by this trust is a seeker. The one who has arrived we call a siddha, the accomplished.

Every pore thrilled like a garden of bliss;
in every breath, life multiplied a hundredfold;
in every dream, a world unfamiliar—
within me, beloved, forever forming and dissolving—
what need have I of heaven, or of lifeless dissolution?
Why should I ask then, my cupbearer,
whether you pour sweetness or poison?

I am giving you death—accept it. Keep two things in mind. First, do not, out of panic, start trying to save yourself. In that saving-process a thousand arguments and a thousand doubts will arise in you. Those arguments and doubts are only pretexts; deep down you want to save yourself, to run away. You look for some rationalization, some intellectual device for fleeing. So avoid that. Second, it is natural that a longing arises: a little death happens, such sweetness is coming—why doesn’t the total happen at once? Do not desire it too much. Wait for it; do not will it. Desire will obstruct and delay it.

It is like this: the place from which desire arises is not the source of death; where desire arises, there is the will-to-live. For a moment you looked into my eyes or I looked into you; a jolt came, a wave of bliss arose, something pricked the heart. There was pain, but it was sweet. The one who sees only the pain will run away. The one who sees only the sweetness will start demanding more. Both will be unbalanced.

You have heard: when Jesus was crucified, two thieves were crucified on either side. Jesus hung in the middle, with a thief on each side. Those who arranged it meant only to say that they considered Jesus no more than a thief or ruffian, hence they crucified him alongside two thieves. But the Christian mystics discovered a very unique meaning in this ordinary event; it became a deep parable of insight.

Jacob Boehme has said: with a thief hanging on either side of Jesus, if you bow even a little to the left, your bow goes to the thief; a little to the right, your bow goes to the thief. Only if you remain exactly in the middle does your bow reach Jesus. A very sweet saying of Boehme: move a little this way or that and you miss. Truth is in the middle. On both sides are thieves; on both sides, the untrue. God is in the middle; on both sides, the devil.

So neither run away in panic, nor, filled with craving, start rushing toward me. In both cases you will miss, because both are extremes. Where you are, wait in peace and acceptance. Bow there; let your head bend there. Do not say, I want it to be like this, nor, I want it to be like that. Say, Now I want nothing. Put desire aside, because desire will unbalance you; it will make you tremble. Become desireless and be filled with acceptance of whatever happens.

Understand this: in desire there is rejection; in desirelessness there is acceptance. When you say, I am content with whatever happens, then death—the ultimate death too—will come sooner. But if you say, May it come quickly, you are placing your own wanting above what is happening. To place your wanting above what is happening is the lust-to-live. Then death will not happen; it will be delayed. Ask for it, and it will be delayed.

Leave it to God; give thanks for what is being given. For what is not given, know that perhaps the readiness is not yet. When the crop’s season comes, it ripens—everything ripens in its time.

And for everything there is a moment, a fixed order. There are no leaps. Preparation is gradual, gentle, unhurried. If you are not ready and something is given to you, you will lose it. If you are not prepared and something falls into your unfitness, it will be destroyed.

Slowly, gently, let this knife keep piercing. Accept its pain and accept its love—the pain and the sweetness both. Do not choose. For whatever is happening, give thanks; for what is not, trust that it will. The one who walks with such faith one day disappears—and in disappearing becomes utterly, all-round beautiful.

Love is a delicate matter. If love is rightly understood, it includes this: taking care of the other. The very meaning of love is to be considerate of the other.

You want to hug someone—but does the other want to be hugged? It is not enough that you want to embrace. It is auspicious that the feeling to embrace has arisen in your heart. You are blessed—be grateful to the divine. But that does not make it necessary that the other must be pressed to your shoulders. Then it is not love; it is rape. You have forced yourself upon the other—that is violence, violence in the name of love.

Love moves with utmost care, ounce by ounce, inch by inch. Love watches how far the other is willing to go—and it does not move an inch beyond that. Because love means the other has come into your awareness—their value. The other is an end, not a means. You want to embrace; does the other want it or not? Take your step looking at the other. And take your steps slowly; otherwise the other will feel frightened. Then your love will look like an attack. You did not consider the other at all. You didn’t even pause long enough to ask, “I am coming closer—may I?”

Love always knocks at the door and asks, “May I come in?” If a refusal comes, it waits; it does not get offended. Because it is the other’s freedom, their selfhood, their right—when to hug you and when not. Love has descended in you; it may not have in them. Love has begun to spread within you; they may have no idea of it. And the other person has been deceived so much in the name of love that how can they know this is not yet another deception arising? People have been tormented in the name of love; hence they have become wary. Mother loved, father loved, brother loved, wife loved, friends loved—and in the name of love they all sucked you dry; in the name of love they all put stones on your chest. Love was the pretext; the work was something else. Whoever said, “I love you,” you began to fear—because now something else will happen! Some disease will be hidden behind this love.

In a sick person’s love there is also sickness—naturally. It is always something else. A father tells his son, “Look, study, become great, be prestigious. Because I love you, I say this.” But if the son becomes unprestigious, does not reach high offices, the love is lost. Then the love was for prestige, not for the son. The love was for ambition—perhaps that my son will receive much praise—and through that my ego will also be gratified. “My son became prime minister, became president”—this is the journey of ego via love. This is not love; behind it is the disease of ambition. Love demands nothing; it gives.

The wife says, “I love you.” The husband says, “I love you.” And as the other gets caught in the net of love, it turns out to be a noose. The wife completely kills the husband’s freedom; she doesn’t even let him move—cripples him. Paralysis! The husband kills the wife’s freedom. Both become slaves to each other. Does love make one a slave? Love gives freedom. Love supports freedom. Love wants you to do whatever is blissful for you. What you see is not love; it is something else. It is the pleasure of owning the other in the name of love—this is violence. To turn the other into an object, to make them a possession, is violence.

Husbands and wives are constantly in quarrel. What is the quarrel? It is this: who can establish ownership over whom? Who is small, who is big? A lifelong struggle continues between husband and wife—the struggle is only about one thing: who is the master? The wife says, “I am your servant,” but it is only words; she does not accept it in reality. Saying “maidservant,” she may begin by touching your feet and end at your neck—in the end she throttles the neck.

So many thorns have pricked people in the name of love, so much suffering has been received, that whenever you say, “I have fallen in love with you,” and spread your arms, it is no wonder the other shrinks back. Be considerate of the other. And keep one thing in mind: whenever love becomes aggressive, it frightens the other. There should be no aggression in love. The moment aggression enters, violence is included in love. Now, if while walking on the road you forcibly hug a stranger, he will report to the police that the man is mad: “I have nothing to do with him!”

Love may have descended within you, but the moment you embrace another, the other is included; you are no longer alone. Yes, in your own solitude you can hum songs of love, dance—there is no prohibition. Otherwise you have misunderstood the meaning of love. And then there is also the fear: what you are calling love—is it love? Or has lust taken on new forms, come in new disguises, worn the garment of love? For I see this: whenever you look at someone filled with lust, the other recoils, is afraid, is disturbed—because lust is a prison. And the panic is natural, because lust means you want to use the other person. No one wants to be used. To use someone means you have turned the person into a thing—you have killed their soul. Use is for objects, not for persons. You use a chair, a table, a house—not persons. Whenever you look at someone through lust, you are looking in a way that says you want to use that person for sexual gratification. The other immediately becomes alert and cautious; they begin to defend themselves.

In aggressive love there is the fear that perhaps sexuality is hidden. Real love is prayerful, not lustful. In real love it is not even necessary to hug the other. Real love is a benediction. You pass by someone, suffused with blessing—that is enough. Soul has embraced soul—what is the purpose of pressing body to body! Sometimes, along with the embracing of souls, an embrace of bodies may also happen—then it is good. But let it happen; do not make it happen. There will be times when, moving past someone filled with great blessing, the waves of your blessing reach their heart too, and both, under the sway of some unknown power, find yourselves in each other’s arms. Then it is not that you hugged, nor that the other hugged—love hugged you both. This is a far greater happening. When you make it happen, it is lust. Because of your lust the other will pull away. Please do not make such an assault on anyone—you will only frighten them.

No one likes to be looked at through the eyes of lust. Everyone likes to be seen through the eyes of love. So understand the definitions of these two eyes. Lust means—through the eye of lust—“Your body is such that I would like to use it.” The eye of love means: there is no question of using you; I rejoice that you are. Your very being is a benediction. Finished. Love has nothing to take. Lust says: in its gratification and after it there will be pleasure. Love says: in love’s very being there is joy. Therefore the lover has no demand.

Then you can pass even a stranger filled with love. There is no question of doing anything. How will love happen by pressing bones against bones! Love is the nearness of two souls. And sometimes it can be that the one you have lived beside for years, utterly close, you are still not close to; and sometimes, walking on the road, with a stranger there is sudden communion, a meeting—some inner music begins to play, some veena vibrates. That is enough. In that moment, thank the divine and move on. Love has no need to look back. It is lust that keeps looking back. And lust wants the other to go according to me.
Now the friend who has asked says, “The other person pulls away if I want to embrace.”
Give the other at least that much freedom; otherwise it becomes rape. It becomes a kind of tyranny. You don’t even give the other the chance to step aside. The other is shrinking back; he is giving you the news that in your love there is not yet the tone of prayer. There is still some hidden lust; somewhere a stench—the smell of the body is there, not the fragrance of the soul. By moving away he is informing you that you have not yet attained that purity where even a stranger would come into your hands, into your arms, and dissolve. Understand this signal.

Always accept the other person’s complete freedom. And it is enough that you pass by. You see the other, you see God in the other, the form of the Divine, and you pass with a sense of wonder. Sometimes it will happen that in both hearts at once some third force—call it God, call it love—will arise together, in unison, and the two of you will fall into each other’s embrace. But that embrace will not be yours, nor the other’s; it will be God’s embrace. Wait for that moment. Until then, do not hurry. Love is a profoundly sacred happening.

The moment you start trying to love, love becomes defiled. Love is not your doing—love is surrender, letting yourself be in God’s hands. First be embraced by God. Then, because God has many forms, their embrace too will happen. And whether it happens or not has no particular purpose. Love is not a sin, but to impose love is a sin. Love is a great virtue. Firaq has these famous lines—
If one would understand, I’d say just one thing:
Love is grace, not a crime.

Love is prasad—tawfiq, divine favor, grace, compassion; who knows how many merits bear its fruit. Love is grace, not a sin. Love is no offense, yet you can still misuse it. You can turn even love into sin. That is exactly what man has done—made love into a sin. You can drag the highest into the vilest mud; and you can also lift the highest out of the meanest mire. It depends on you.

So always remember, do not let the other’s freedom be singed. And I say this not only for strangers; remember it also in relation to those you call your own. Let your wife’s freedom not be singed. Let your husband’s freedom not be singed. Where it begins to get scorched, know that love has begun to turn sinful. Let there be light, but no burn. Let there be illumination, but no heat. Let love be like the moon, not like the sun—may it not burn, not scorch. Like the moon—let nectar rain, ambrosia pour, soma flow. Let it give coolness; only then is love virtue.

Those who are very close to you—your son, your daughter: a small child is born in your home; God has taken a form, God has come seeking you by this pretext, this occasion—do not cast this little child into molds. Do not try to make him trail behind you, echo your every yes. Do not make him do only what you say. Do not kill him that way. God has come to your house; give this child the dignity due to God. Accept his freedom.

Yes, give him your experience. But let that experience not be an order. Hand over to him the wealth of what you have known. But give him the right to choose—whether to agree or not. If he does not agree, do not be angry. If he agrees, do not be elated. For it is through the politics of our pleasure and displeasure that we coerce children. A father tells his son, “Do as you wish.” But if the son acts against the father’s wish, the father looks unhappy; then the son wants to make the father happy: “All right!” If the son acts according to the father’s wish, the father is pleased; then the son wants to please the father: “All right!” In this way, slowly, the son’s soul is lost.

That is why there is such a crowd in the world and so many soulless people. Where is the soul? The soul grows, spreads, blossoms only in freedom. So whether stranger or those you call your own—those you call your own are strangers too. The son born in your house—do you know who he is? From where he has come? What message he brings? What his destiny is? You know nothing! He was merely born in your house; he chose you as a medium. Do not go so mad that you begin to throttle his neck. A stranger is a stranger.

Hence all the scriptures say: who is “mine” here? We ourselves are not our own; how much more difficult to speak of the other! We do not even know who we ourselves are—whom shall we recognize? Whether people are near or far, ours or others, do not break freedom. Where love breaks freedom, there it becomes sin. Otherwise love, in this world, in this darkness, is a ray of God. In this dense darkness love alone is the single flame.

Once again, before someone, the eyes of longing lowered;
In the playfulness of desire, the hue of respect arrived all the same.
Again and again it has happened—there wasn’t even memory in the heart,
Again and again, in ecstasy, their name rose to the lips.
It made the plain sketch of life turn colorful—
Beauty may help or not—love, in the end, did.

Beauty may accompany you or not; love always does. Beauty may or may not be of use; love always comes to your aid.

It made the plain outline of life turn colorful—
The greenery you see in life is because of the eyes of love. The flowers that bloom do so because of the eyes of love. In the pebbles and stones of life, when now and then diamonds appear, it is because of love. The little glimmer of God that begins to appear in matter is because of love. If love is not there, build temples, mosques, gurdwaras—everything will be in vain.

It is because of love that in the stone image of a temple a glimpse of the Divine appears. It is because of love that the ordinary stone of the Kaaba becomes a symbol of God. How many have kissed that stone! No other stone has been kissed by so many. Blessed is the stone of the Kaaba! Millions upon millions wait lifetimes to go and kiss that stone. If so many kisses have not made that stone God, then God cannot be. So much love has rained upon it—even a stone will become God.

When you go into a temple, into someone else’s temple, and see the image, do not say it is mere stone. For you it will be stone, because you have no eyes of love. But the one who goes into that same temple filled with devotion and reverence sometimes finds the stone image smiling, sometimes weeping. The stone image seems alive.

It made the plain outline of life turn colorful,
Beauty may help or not—love, in the end, did.

Beauty today, tomorrow, is lost; beauty is a dream, a line drawn upon water. But love—love is truth. The objects of love may change; love does not. As a child one loves the mother; the father; later one loves brothers and sisters; then neighbors and friends; and later a man loves a woman; later still one loves one’s children; and some day one bows in a temple or a mosque before an unknown beloved. The beloveds change, but love does not. From childhood to the end, from birth to death, if there is one thing that goes on within you unceasingly, it is love. As breath keeps the body, love keeps the soul.

Love is good fortune! But never impose it upon another. Guard it within. There is no need to fling it outside. There is no reason for show or display. Kabir has said—You have found a diamond; tie it tight in your knot—why open it again and again?

If someone finds a diamond lying on the road, he quickly ties it into his sash, keeps it safe, and walks on; he doesn’t keep opening it to look again and again. If ever he doubts, he just slips his hand in, feels it, knows it’s there, and goes on.

You have found the diamond of love—tie it tight in your knot; why keep opening it? There is nothing here to show; there is no need to go to the marketplace and announce that you have become a great lover, that you embrace whoever you meet. Preserve it within, bind it tight, and hide it as deep within as you can. You will find that diamond turns into a seed. It sprouts. This diamond is no dead stone; it is the very essence of life. Hide it in the depths of your unconscious. Do not go on flinging it outside; otherwise you will lose it.

A seed is meant to be hidden in the soil. If you keep it outside, it will spoil. Hide it in the field of your consciousness, lay it in the deep layer. From there it will sprout, shoots will emerge, and from one seed will come millions upon millions of seeds.

This little lamp of love that has been lit—do not wander here and there with it in the winds; it will go out. Keep it carefully. It can become a sun.

The lure of the dough. The lure of the dough trapped you. Had there been no lure, you would not have been trapped. Now that you are hooked, the pain is not because of the hook; it is because you are still struggling against it. Be with the hook. Make peace with the hook. Whatever we make peace with stops hurting us. Make peace even with pain, and pain ends.

Understand this.
As long as we keep fighting something, there is pain. When we accept it—“Well then, blessed that we were found worthy to be caught, worthy that a hook was cast for us”—the pain ceases. Jesus has said: God casts His net like a fisherman. Many fish are caught in it, but not all are chosen. Those He finds useless He returns to the sea; those He finds meaningful He takes home.

If you have been caught in my net, the hook has pierced you—fortunate you are! It must have been the divine’s own lure. That is what I call the lure of the dough—the “greed” to attain the soul. Even that greed is a blessing. Many are greedy for wealth; where are the greedy for dharma? Many are greedy for matter; where are the greedy for the divine? Pebble-pickers are by the millions; where are the connoisseurs of diamonds? That is what I call the lure of the dough. Otherwise you could not have come to me. There are many obstacles to coming to me; where are the conveniences? Only one who breaks through every obstacle can come.

This hook that has pierced you could only be the fruit of merits from many lifetimes; otherwise it could not have pierced you. Now don’t fight the hook. Somewhere inside the fight must still be going on. Somewhere you must still be thinking, “Where have I entangled myself! This hook is hurting!” Pain will be there. All refinement comes through pain. This is labor pain. How often a pregnant woman must think, “What have I got into!” The weight in the belly grows, nausea comes, food won’t digest, nights are sleepless—a long ordeal. How many times must she not have thought it would have been better never to have fallen in love! Yet if she bears this pain, she becomes a mother—and without becoming a mother, a woman is not fulfilled.

A man gains little by becoming a father—perhaps a few hassles—because fatherhood is not a man’s nature; it is a social arrangement. In nature, except in humans, there is no father anywhere. Motherhood is everywhere—in animals, in birds—motherhood is natural; fatherhood is social. That is why thinkers like Marx even said that when socialism is fully organized, the institution of the father will disappear. What need will remain? The State will do the father’s job. In fact, it is already doing it little by little—free education, free hospitals—the father’s role is being taken away. One day, when communism spreads completely—so Marx thought—the father will vanish. The mother will not vanish. There is no way to abolish the mother.

So the father has only a few inconveniences, but the mother overflows with good fortune. Without becoming a mother, a woman is like a tree that has never blossomed, never borne fruit—barren; no sacred offering comes to be. The moment she becomes a mother, an aura bursts forth from within—life-giver! But to become a life-giver she must endure pain.

And rightly so: the father bears no pain. A child is born, yet the father has suffered nothing. He remains almost outside. His contribution is not very great; what the father does, a syringe could do. The mother has to bear it: the implantation of a new life, its growth within; then she lives for that child. For nine months she breathes for it, eats for it, rises and sits for it. Naturally it is a deep process of creation—and pain! Then the child is born, and there is the great labor pain.

In the same way, as you become ensnared in my net, the pain will increase. You are pregnant. Truth has made a place within you. Now you will feel many pains you never knew before—the pains of giving birth to Truth. They will intensify as the “nine months” draw near. In the last moment there will be a supreme pain. But without passing through that pain, no one gives birth to Truth.

If you want to give birth to Truth, you must conceive. What you are now calling a hook is the seed of pregnancy planted within you. It pricks, so you call it a hook—rightly so. It pierces, so you call it a hook—rightly so. But your whole future, your whole destiny depends on that very hook. If Truth is born from you, that will be your own birth. And surely this pain is far greater than ordinary labor—because in ordinary labor you give birth to another; the hassle ends in nine months. Here you have to give birth to yourself. There is no fixed time—who knows how long: it may take nine months, nine years, even nine lifetimes. It depends on you—how much urgency, how much thirst, how much capacity to endure; the capacity to endure with reverence, with joy, to endure while dancing. The greater it is, the shorter the time becomes.

Pain is natural. But see how to turn that pain into good fortune.

“Even today Majaz sits upon the dust,
Yet his gaze is on the Throne—what can one say!”

The moment you come close to me, you won’t at once reach the sky. You will still be on the earth; only your gaze will lift toward the sky. The difficulty begins: feet on the ground, eyes toward the heavens. Earlier even your eyes were fixed on the ground—there was a coordination: if you were at the shop, you were at the shop. Now your feet will be at the shop, your eyes in the temple. Now you will eat, yet remember the soul. You will count money, yet within remember the divine. Now the obstacle arises. Now a duality begins—a great duality, a conflict, which the Gita calls Kurukshetra. A field of dharma, a Kurukshetra—upheaval begins! A great struggle.

“Again the same road—what to say;
Life is on the road—what to say.
For years the sigh was ineffectual;
Now even song is ineffectual—what to say.
Beauty is no more, nor the displays of beauty;
Now there is only seeing, only seeing—what to say.”

Slowly, beauty will be lost; all that is merely seen will be lost; form will be lost; shape will be lost. Only the eye will remain—pure.

“Now there is only seeing, only seeing—what to say.”

That is what we have called darshan—the state of the seer, the witness. Everything will be lost; all objects of sight will vanish. Only the eye remains. At first it will feel very empty, very silent.

I know: when a person walks toward the Divine, first the world starts slipping from his hands, the crowd bids farewell, and he is left alone. Before the Divine is found, one becomes utterly alone. Only when one is utterly alone does one become worthy of the Divine. Mahavira called that aloneness kaivalya—when only you remain, only your very being remains.

No beauty now, nor the pageants of beauty;
now there is only seeing upon seeing—what can one say!

There will be pain. It will feel like a deep night. But before the sun rises, the night indeed becomes intensely dark.

Do not mistake this solitude for loneliness. See this solitude as the preparation to find Him. It’s just a slight shift in vision, a small change in standpoint, and the whole meaning changes. Loneliness feels like loneliness if you keep thinking of those who, till yesterday, encircled you and who are now receding. Naturally, if the husband meditates, the wife will begin to feel a little distant. If the wife meditates, the husband will begin to feel a little distant. Home, children, “mine,” start to move away—not necessarily outwardly, but inwardly. Inside, something begins to slide across, to go deeper. Outwardly the eyes begin to close; inwardly the eyes begin to open.

This happens every day.
At night when you sleep, do you remember your wife? your husband? your sons and daughters? your friends and loved ones? Nothing at all. The eyes close, the world is gone. You sink into yourself. In meditation this happens even more deeply. So loneliness will come. If you keep your gaze on the outer, it will feel like loneliness; if you keep your gaze on the inner, it will feel like solitude. There is a great difference between solitude and loneliness. In the dictionary there is none; both are given as one meaning. But in the lexicon of life, there is a great difference.

The meaning of solitude is full of joy; the meaning of loneliness is full of sorrow. Do not misinterpret it. Don’t call it loneliness—call it solitude. Call it pure being-your-own. Call it preparation. No one ever goes to the Divine carrying a crowd. One goes alone. One must go alone. In that temple two have never entered together—only one enters. So take it as preparation. And the more solitude grows, know that the Divine is coming near and the world is receding. A revolution is happening. At first it will feel like erasing. That is why I call it death.

Seeing those who are being erased, why should Majaz not weep?
After all, we too have been erased by someone.

Those who are coming to me will understand. They will understand this. When they see another erasing, descending into the pain of solitude, they will understand.

Seeing those who are being erased, why should Majaz not weep?
After all, we too have been erased by someone—
Their splendors we have hidden in our breast,
We have made our heart a Sinai.

Only keep this in mind: let the light remain lit. Let the lamp of the heart remain lit. Let awareness within remain. The world will drop; it has to drop. Try as you may, you cannot hold it. No one has been able to, nor will you. There are no exceptions.

What has to be dropped tomorrow—let it go today by your own hand: that is an art. There is style in it. There is dignity, glory in it. This is the glory of the sannyasin. What is the sannyasin’s glory? That while the worldly man is forced to let go, the sannyasin himself says, “All right, what has to be dropped has dropped.” The worldly man lets go with great pain, weeping, in helplessness. It feels as though he is being robbed. The sannyasin, seeing that here everyone is robbed, stands up and lets himself be robbed. He says, “All right.” There will be pain, the crowd will say farewell, loneliness will come—along that very road the Divine will arrive. Loneliness is the bridge for His coming; we have built the bridge. If you see it this way, even in this pain there will be joy.

When you are building something, even if sweat runs from your brow, there is joy—because you know, this is labor. And behind this labor there is fruit. This is labor, creation. Behind it gratitude flows. Behind it is attainment.

From this very solitude the Divine will come to you. The day you become silent, that day He will speak. The day you become alone, on that very day His hand comes into your hand. He is not far—He is near. But you are so entangled in the crowd that you cannot see Him.

He dwells in the heart, yet draws a veil over the eyes,
Yes—the real delight is to go on seeking even after having found.

Such is the delight at play. It is already found, and we go on seeking what is already found. We have never really lost Him, but the eyes are entangled in the crowd. Because of this entanglement, though He stands right by you, shoulder to shoulder, beating in your heart, moving in your breath, flowing—He is not seen. As soon as you become alone on this side, bid the crowd farewell, He will begin to be seen. Once He is seen, then I do not tell you to leave the crowd; then I say, descend into the world. Then you will begin to see Him in everyone. Then the crowd is His crowd. But right now it is not His crowd. Right now you have not even known Him within yourself—how can you know Him within others!

The question is from Taru.

Let not the people of insight weep over my state just yet—
I must grow even more ruined yet.
Things do not end with “vagabond” or “Majnun” alone—
I am yet to receive many more titles.

So I say to Taru: do not be frightened yet; still more troubles are to come. And if someone shows you sympathy, tell them—

Let not the people of insight weep over my state just yet—
I must grow even more ruined yet.
Things do not end with “vagabond” or “Majnun” alone—
I am yet to receive many more titles.

But without becoming a Majnun, who has ever attained Laila! And without becoming a Majnun, how can anyone attain the Divine! Without becoming a vagabond! Vagabond means one who has nothing now—empty, vacant, alone. Without becoming such, who has ever been able to invite Him!

Jesus used to say again and again: a shepherd brings his sheep; twilight deepens, the sun has set; suddenly he sees one sheep is lost. He leaves all the sheep there in that dark night beneath a tree and sets out to search for the one that is lost. Leaving the found ones, he goes in search of the one that is lost. In the dark night he calls and calls, and when he finds her—do you know what he does? He lifts her onto his shoulders and returns. He returns with the lost one on his shoulders. And Jesus said, I am such a shepherd.

If we truly break into tears, His hand will reach even to your tears and wipe them away. If we truly become filled with anguish, He will come running. If we truly lose our way while searching for Him, He will certainly come, and lifting us onto His shoulders, carry us. Seeking Him is not a deed of man alone. He too has a responsibility. It is a responsibility from both sides. We seek Him; He seeks us. And so it is.

The Divine is indeed seeking us. The day we begin to seek, that very day the tuning between us and Him happens.

When Jesus was crucified, in his last moments he lifted his face to the sky and said, O God, what are You showing me! A doubt must have arisen: I lived for You, lived in Your prayer, lived in Your worship, lived to spread Your name—and this, what are You showing me! A complaint must have come—a light cloud, a small cloud drifted across Jesus’ chest. For a moment the sun must have been covered. But Jesus immediately recognized that a slip had occurred, a mistake. At once he said, Forgive me—what have I said! Thy will be done! What You are showing is right. Above Your will there is not my will. Above Your wish there is not my wish. What You desire, that I desire—this alone is my desire. How could I have said that!

The last moment! Entirely natural. Great pain was given to Jesus. He was hung on the cross. Natural, human. This proves that Jesus was indeed the son of God, but also the son of man. It proves nothing else—only his humanity is proven.

And Jesus has said many times in the Bible, in many places—sometimes he says, I am the son of man; sometimes, the son of God. He is both. Everyone is both. He remembered; not everyone has remembered.

So the son of man spoke: What are You showing me! But then he must have recalled: Ah! I am not only the son of man, I am also the son of God. Then—whatever the Father’s will! Then—His will! He would not wish anything bad. I cannot be wiser than He. If He has wished this, then this is right; it is for this reason He has wished it. Who am I to judge His wish?

Have you heard the story? An emperor was passing by. On the road he saw a beggar. The village was far. Compassion arose in the emperor and he said to the beggar, “Come, sit in the chariot.” The beggar climbed in, but the bundle he had been carrying on his head he kept right there on his head. The emperor said, “Put the bundle down—why keep it on your head now?” He replied, “No, my lord, is it not enough that you have let me sit? Should I place even my bundle’s burden on your chariot! No, no—how could I do that!” But you are seated in the chariot with the bundle on your head—do you think the chariot is not bearing the weight? The weight is on the chariot whether you keep it on your head or lay it down.

The Divine is the doer. All action is His. In truth, God means nothing else: the total sum of this whole play, the center of this great current of karma—that is what “God” is. Yet each of us keeps our own little bundle on the head and says, “I am doing.” We say, “Why put so much burden on God! The One who moves the moon and the stars—will He not be able to move you?” The whole of nature flows in rhythm and harmony; only you sit with the worry that you must move yourself. To drop this worry is precisely the meaning of “Teri raza puri ho—Thy will be done.” One can drop it only by dropping the ego—by saying, “I am no more; only You are.”

When this lamp is lit in the heart—that His will be fulfilled, and I will not set my will against His, I will not fight; I will not swim against the current; I will go where the river takes me; I surrender, I release myself into His stream—if He drowns me, I will drown, and I will take drowning itself to be the shore. If He saves me, I will be saved. In such a state of mind, can there be sorrow? Can there be anguish? Can there be hell? Impossible. Heaven has opened.

One by one the lamps of dogma are going out;
yet this darkness too must be faced.

The lamps of faith have been going out. And this is the greatest lamp—the lamp of trust. This is true theism.

One by one the lamps of dogma are going out;
yet this darkness too must be faced.

And as the lamps of trust have been extinguished, the darkness has deepened. And this is the most vital lamp of all: the lamp of surrender—Teri raza, Thy will, Thy desire be fulfilled. I am surrendered. I will drift. I will not even swim. I will not row the oars. I have hoisted the sail in my boat now; let Your winds take me where they will.

Ramakrishna used to say: there are two ways to cross a river. Either row the oars, or unfurl the sail. The one who opens the sail is the devotee. The one who rows is not a devotee; he still relies on himself. He still lives by the strength of his own arms. He still thinks, “If I do not do something, I will never reach the other shore.” The devotee says, “If I have been kept on this shore, this shore too is His. Then let me remain on this shore. The other shore is already reached.” Remaining on this shore, he arrives at the other.

However far you seem, you are near each instant,
for my practice, moving moment to moment,
has focused the Eternal by the heat of its ardor—
You in the universe, and in You the universe’s love!
Everywhere now is Your door.
This village is a Kashi, that village a Kaaba;
this one calls me here, that one beckons there.
I love this as well, I love that as well—
whom shall I embrace, to whom shall I show favor?
Why make sects, why raise walls?
At every ghat I have drunk the water, changing only the pitcher.

When this becomes visible to you, all ghats become yours. The body has been changed many times—that is only the pitcher changing. Desires have changed often—that too is only the pitcher changing. The mind has changed many times—that too is only the pitcher changing. The thirst is one, and the water that quenches that thirst is one.

At every ghat I have drunk the water, changing only the pitcher.

And once you understand this—even a little glimpse—that behind all actions it is He; behind all the ghats it is He; in the thirst He is, and in the water He is; the One who impels you to walk the path is the same One who places stones upon your path—then surely there is a harmony between the two. Without stones there would be no challenge; that is why He places stones as well. He calls you, “Come, walk,” and He also makes the road rugged—because only by walking a difficult path will your being be forged, your creation accomplished.

He fills you with the longing for bliss, and He also creates a thousand kinds of suffering—because only if you can be blissful amidst suffering does bliss have any meaning. Had there been no suffering and you were blissful, that bliss would have had no spine, no strength. By creating the opposite, a challenge is created. The opportunity of struggle is the device to refine you.

Try to understand—every event, every moment. And the moment you start to forget and wander, and the mind begins to complain, “O Lord! What are You showing me?”—wake up at once, startle yourself! Shake yourself and say, “Thy will be done. Teri raza puri ho.” Let this become your mantra—the great mantra. Take it as Om itself. What you may not gain by chanting “Ram-Ram,” you will gain by holding to this single thread: “Teri raza puri ho—Thy will be done.” Every moment; instant by instant; night and day; in joy, in sorrow; in defeat, in victory; in honor, in insult—remember it, and keep repeating it from deeper within: “Teri raza puri ho.” And when you repeat it, do not repeat mere words—pour your soul into it. All mantras can be contained in this one mantra.

Jesus has said, “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.” Lord, let Thy kingdom descend; Lord, Thy will be done.

Enough for today.