Jin Sutra #47

First thing: in the very first line of the question the questioner says—“Nanakdev!” What does dev mean? Dev means the divine. Divinity means godliness. In calling him Nanakdev it is already clear that what is beyond man, above man—the divine—has been acknowledged. What does Bhagwan mean? It has a very simple meaning—bhagyavan, the fortunate. Nothing grander than that.

Who is fortunate? One who has recognized the divinity within. Who is fortunate? The bud that has blossomed, that has become a flower. Who is fortunate? For whom nothing remains to be attained—what was worth attaining has been attained. When a flower comes into full bloom, that is Bhagwan. When the Ganga falls into the ocean, that is Bhagwan. Wherever a glimpse of the whole appears, there is Bhagwan.

Try to understand the word “Bhagwan” rightly. Whether Nanak said it or not, I say that Nanak was a Bhagwan. And if Nanak did not say so, it would have been because of the people among whom he was speaking. Their understanding may not have been capable of it. Krishna did not hesitate. Krishna said to Arjuna—sarva-dharmān parityajya… abandon everything, come to my refuge; I, the supreme Brahman, stand before you. Krishna could say this to Arjuna because he trusted that Arjuna would understand. Nanak may not have had that much trust that the Punjabis would understand—so he did not say it. And also because Nanak was walking a little apart from that vast tradition in which Krishna and Ram stand.

Nanak was making a new experiment: that somehow a bridge be built between Hindu and Muslim; that some compromise, some synthesis be created. Muslims are strongly opposed to calling any man God. Had Nanak lived squarely within the Hindu tradition he would surely have declared, “I am God.” But he was trying to build a bridge. It was necessary; it was the demand of the time. He had to win over the Muslim too. The Muslim simply cannot understand the language “I am God.” Whoever said that took enmity with Muslims upon himself.

Nanak was extending a hand of friendship; therefore it was fitting for him to speak a language that Muslims would also understand. Otherwise, what was done to Mansoor, they would have done to Nanak. Or they would have said, “Nanak too is a Hindu; all this talk of Hindus and Muslims becoming one is nonsense.”

One who has to accomplish a synthesis speaks with great care. Nanak spoke with great care. He did not make a declaration like Krishna’s. His declaration is more like Mohammed’s; within it is the effort to win the Muslim. Punjab is a borderland: there Hindus and Muslims clashed; there was conflict between them. There too a meeting should happen. Where Hindu and Muslim stood facing each other as enemies, there the seed of friendship had to be sown. If frontier regions are not regions of synthesis, they become regions of war. So Nanak made a very deep effort.

Therefore Sikh dharma is not exactly Hindu dharma; nor is it Islam. Sikhism stands between the two—something of the Hindu, something of the Muslim—both. It is a bringing together of what is essential in both. Hence Sikhism has its distinct identity.

But we must understand this in the context of history: why could Nanak not say what Krishna could? What Buddha could, what Mahavira could—why could Nanak not? Nanak faced a new situation, one that neither Buddha nor Mahavira nor Krishna faced. None of them had to face the Muslim. It was a new situation, and a new language had to be found. A living man always seeks the answer suited to the situation; that is his very aliveness. He found the right answer. But the questioner should reflect: why “Nanak Dev”?

Those who have grown up in this land—whether Hindu, Jain, Sikh, or Buddhist—there is a music in the air here, in the very life-breath of this country, and it is hard to escape it. Even a Muslim who has grown up here does not remain a Muslim in exactly the same sense as a Muslim outside India. A Hindu strain enters the Muslim here as well. Mahavira said, “There is no God, no creator of the world,” yet those who followed Mahavira called him God. Buddha said, “Break all idols, remove all images; there is no need to worship anyone,” yet the followers of Buddha worshiped Buddha. In this land there is such a natural leaning toward godliness that even those who denied it were made into Gods. This is the inner condition of this country.
So the friend who asked the question also says—Nanakdev! Saying just Nanak would have sufficed. Why add “dev”? He didn’t use the word “Bhagwan,” he used “dev.” But it comes to the same thing. The declaration is still that Nanak does not end with being a man; he is more than a man.
And rightly so—he is far more than a man. He certainly is a man, but blessed—far more than a man. Being a man is as if his beginning, not his end. From there it starts; it does not finish there.

“Nanakdev too was an awakened one.”
Certainly. There are no two opinions about it. But will you make some distinction between waking and sleep? What is the difference between nature (prakriti) and the divine (paramatma)? That of sleep and waking. Nature is God asleep. God is nature awake. What is the difference between Buddha and you? Buddha is awake; you are asleep. You are a sleeping Buddha. The difference is only in the cover of the eyes, that’s all. Open the eyes and there is only light. Close them and there is only darkness.

One man is asleep; right beside him sits a man who is awake. Both are men, true. But are they the same kind of man? Then won’t you make some distinction between sleep and waking? The difference between sleep and waking is so revolutionary that if we say of the awakened that he is a totally different kind of man, it is no exaggeration. For what kind of “man” is a sleeping man! What is the difference between a sleeping man and a rock? Between a sleeping man and a tree? Between an unconscious man and a stone? Neither the stone is awake, nor is the sleeping man awake; they are the same.

In sleep we fall into nature. On waking we begin to rise into the divine. And this waking which we now call waking is not pure waking; more than ninety percent sleep is still mixed into it. When a person is one hundred percent awake, then in one tradition he is called Bhagwan, in another arihant, in another tirthankara, in another prophet, in another guru—it makes no difference; only the words differ. But we get bound by words. If one is a Sikh, he gets bound by what he has heard; if a Hindu, he gets bound; if a Jain, he gets bound. We all get bound by the words we have heard, and then words become an obstacle in seeing the truth.

“Nanakdev too was an awakened one, but he never said, ‘I am God.’”
He must not have found an Arjuna. Because to say “I am God” requires someone who can hear, someone who can understand, someone who can listen with an utter love. Otherwise such a statement will only create controversy; nothing will be resolved by it. “I am God” can only be said in a deep moment of reverence when two persons are so joined that doubt has no place. Krishna could say it.

Also remember: every awakened one chooses his own language, his own way. No awakened one imitates another. If harmony happens, fine; but he does not imitate. Nanak chose in his own way. Nanak had to fashion his own style. If you go on thinking that what Buddha said Nanak should say, or what Nanak said I should say, then you are getting into needless entanglement. I will say only what I can say. Nanak did not ask me; why should I ask him? In Nanak’s own playfulness he did not say “I am God.” In my playfulness, I say it.

And I hold that existence is coming close to such an hour when this declaration becomes useful. Every twenty-five hundred years human consciousness comes near a gate where awakening becomes very easy. Twenty-five hundred years before Buddha and Mahavira there was Krishna. Krishna declared his godhood. Then twenty-five hundred years later came Buddha and Mahavira; Zarathustra in Persia; Lao Tzu and Confucius in China; Heraclitus and Socrates in Greece. After twenty-five hundred years there was again a profound explosion and a humming of spirituality resounded across the world. Then twenty-five hundred years are completed once more. By the close of this century, a resonance of religion will spread over the whole earth. The hour is nearing when people will have the courage to declare godhood.

Because when someone says to you, “I am God”—if he says, “I am God and you are not,” then he is your enemy. But if he says, “I am God, because you too are God”; if he declares, “I am God” so that you remember your own godliness—look at me: if I can be God, why can’t you be? There is no reason, no obstruction. I am just like you; if I can be God, why can’t you? You can. If this flower has bloomed, your bud too can bloom.

This declaration is necessary now, because the gate is coming near again. As each year the seasons turn in a circle—cyclical; the rains come, then winter, then summer, then the rains again—as in twelve months the circle of seasons turns, so too there is a circle of the spiritual season that turns. Just as around fourteen years a child begins to come of age, semen matures, sexual desire awakens; and if all goes well, then around forty-two desire begins to wane and the remembrance of celibacy arises; and if all goes well, then by seventy a person again becomes simple like a child. If something goes wrong, that’s another matter; that is not the rule. If things proceed by the rule, this is how it is. There is a circle to life as well. As a person nears death, he again becomes simple, as a small child is simple after birth.

Exactly so there is a larger circle that spans twenty-five hundred years. Every twenty-five hundred years human consciousness is at high tide. And when the tide is in, heights can be touched with great ease. When the tide is out, heights are reached with great difficulty.

Nanak saw his time; I see my own. Nanak did not speak for my time; I will not speak for his. Nanak spoke to his disciples; I am speaking to mine. Nanak has his own purpose; I have my own. So do not raise futile questions in between. What did Nanak say?—go ask Nanak, if you meet him somewhere. Why ask me? What I say—ask me.

“He also said that a man should not acknowledge anyone except the one God.”
I tell you: acknowledge whomever you like—through every acknowledging you can only acknowledge the one God. What else can you do? Worship the peepal (sacred fig) or a mountain—you will find his feet there. It is there that your head will bow. There is none other than him. I tell you, wherever you offer flowers of worship, all those flowers fall at his feet, because all feet are his, and there is nothing else. The flowers are his, the feet are his, the offerer is his. Therefore I do not make you narrow. I do not say, “Except for the One, do not acknowledge any.” I say to you: acknowledge anyone you like; it will be the One that is acknowledged. In the end you will find that the same One has been worshipped. Whether in a temple or in a mosque; in Rama or in Krishna, in Buddha or in Mahavira—wherever you bow your head, before whomever you bow your head—

Have you heard Nanak’s story? He went to the Kaaba; at night he slept with his feet toward the sacred stone of the Kaaba. The mullahs and maulvis must have been offended; they came running. They said, “How foolish you are! And we had heard that you are very wise, a saint; what kind of wisdom is this? You do not even know the elementary rules of courtesy. You are sleeping with your feet toward the sacred stone! With your feet toward God!” The story says Nanak laughed and said, “Then do this: turn my feet toward the direction where God is not.” They say they turned his feet in every direction, but wherever they turned them, there the stone of the Kaaba appeared.

Whether it happened so or not is not necessary. But the story is very meaningful. I do not believe it happened factually. But I know this much: it ought to be so. Because the stone of the Kaaba is everywhere; in all stones it is the same stone. If all stones are the Kaaba’s stones, then where will you place your feet! And it is not that God is in the north and not in the south; in the east and not in the west; above and not below. God has encompassed all. Walk—within him; sit—within him; sleep—within him. What you cover yourself with is him, what you lie upon is him—what will you do! Eat—it is him; drink—it is him; breathe—his breath. Where is the way to escape him; where is the place to avoid God!

I tell you, worship whomever you wish to worship. Whatever form appeals to you, worship. Whatever name appeals to you, worship. In this sense Hindus are truly astonishing. No religion in the world has touched such depth as the Hindus. Because the religions of the world are, in some sense, a little narrow. The Hindus have a scripture—the Vishnu Sahasranama. In it are a thousand names of God. Not a single name is left out. All names that could possibly be thought of are included. Take any name—it is his. Call anyone—you are calling him. Be silent—then you are sitting silent with him; speak—then you are speaking with him. Now you think I am speaking to you; you are mistaken. I am speaking to him. I will not bang my head against you for nothing. You are like a wall. When I call to you, I am calling only him.

Muslims, Christians, Jews—the three religions are born from the narrowness of the Jews. And Sikhism too is half Jewish; so there is a little narrowness. In Nanak it would not have been; in Sikhs it is.

Hindus say: everything is his. That is why Hindus are astonishing. They put a stone under a tree, smear it with vermilion, and worship begins! Just now it was a stone—smear a little vermilion, and worship begins! It doesn’t take long to make a stone into God. They begin to worship a rough stone. Why carve it, make a statue—time gets wasted. They make clay Ganeshes, worship them, and after the worship they immerse them in the river or sea. Remarkable people. Because the ocean is his, the clay is his; they made it, and immersed it. Nowhere in the world does a people immerse their own images. Once they make them, they get anxious that the image not be disrespected. Hindus are remarkable: after song and dance they go and submerge it in the river—“Now rest, now let us have some peace too; we have other things to do! We will see you next year. And in any case, you are everywhere. The ocean is yours, the clay is yours, the sky is yours. All is yours. Then why bind ourselves in such attachment!”

Remember, God is formless; this very phrase means that all forms are his. Muslims caught hold of the insistence that God is formless and started breaking idols. Had they understood that God is formless, they would have understood that all forms are his. Formless does not mean breaking forms; it means seeing him in forms. The form should not obstruct; the form should become a doorway—an entrance, not a barrier.

I tell you: worship whomever you wish to worship—at least worship. Because my emphasis is on your worship. That you worshiped, that you prayed, that you bowed—that is enough. Wherever you bowed, there were the feet of God.

God’s feet were there already; you were not bowing, therefore you did not see them. Bow, and they are seen. And who will sit counting where he is and where he is not! Is he in a temple, or in a mosque, or in a gurdwara? Where is the need to calculate? He is beyond measure, everywhere. Unbounded, everywhere.
The friend who has asked must not have understood Nanak. “A man should not acknowledge anyone except the One God.” Not only should he not—he cannot. This is what Nanak must have meant: wherever you bow, bow only to That One; wherever you revere, revere only That One. The Sikhs must have misunderstood; at least the Sikh who is asking has misunderstood. Acknowledge only the One. That means: wherever the eyes fall, seek Him there. Wherever the head bows, feel for His feet there. Wherever the hand can reach, search for Him there. Wherever the mind can go, let it fly into That. Wherever dreams can rise, let them rise in That. Live in That, sleep in That. Get up, sit down—in That. In that One.
This does not mean you should cling to one fixed notion and deny all other notions. If a single concept were the only way to God, then God would be terribly limited. He would not be formless, not infinite, not the all-pervading existence. Only if He is present in all can He be formless, eternal, omnipresent.

“And the one who shows the path of the spirit should be called a guru.” Why even call him “guru”? For the Upanishads say: the guru is God—gurur brahma. That would make it awkward! If you call someone “guru,” you have already acknowledged him as God; all our Indian scriptures declare that the guru is the very embodiment of Brahman. God is far and unseen; the guru is seen. God is like the Ganges of the sky—who knows where it flows; the guru is the Ganges streaming right past your doorstep. Your bathing can only be in that. Only by bathing there will you become worthy of the Ganges of God. The first God, for you, is the guru. With the meeting of the guru for the first time it dawns upon you: God is.

But people are dull. They cling to words. They say, “We will call him guru, not God.” That is why they call Nanak “guru.” Yet the very meaning of “guru” is: one in whom God has manifested; one who has become one with God; in whose presence there is a glimpse of the Divine; in whose company the God within you too awakens, dances, and rejoices. “Guru” means: one who begins to pull you, becomes a great attraction—draws you like a magnet to a place you could not have reached alone. Fear would stop you; courage would fail you. The guru is God. Kabir has said:
“Guru and Govind both stand here—whose feet should I touch first?”
Whose feet should I touch first? Both stand before me; the dilemma is clear. If I touch God’s feet first, it insults the guru; and without the guru, God could never have been found—such ingratitude! “Guru and Govind both stand—whose feet should I touch?” If I touch the guru’s feet first, it insults God—for I was with the guru only to seek God. What to do?

“Blessed is the Guru—who showed me Govind.”
But the guru instantly pointed to Govind: “Touch the feet of Govind.” The couplet would end here—though it is not certain whose feet were actually touched! I know they were the guru’s. Because in the second line it is clear—“Blessed be the Guru!” The guru said, “Bow to God—why delay, why hesitate, why think? There is no choosing to be done. This is why I brought you—now the moment has come. Bow to God—forget me.” The couplet ends there; no one seems to have asked Kabir which feet he actually touched. I take it that he touched the guru’s—“Blessed” says it all. What else could he do?

Ultimately the guru frees you even from himself—“Blessed be the Guru, who pointed me to Govind.”

So the guru is God. The guru is the door to God. Such questions arise from conditioning. Conditioning is the obstacle. One must be free of conditioning and come to a mind on which no inherited imprint casts a dim shadow over facts. Where facts reveal themselves as they are. A devotee’s endeavor is to become God.

“I want to steal You from You—
What is it that I want, what is this that I want?”
The devotee is restless: “Even this—what am I asking!” But still, “I want to steal You from You.” The effort is that the lamp of life now burning become a lamp of Godliness. Until the devotee becomes God, the journey is not complete. If even an inch of distance remains, something is yet to be attained. What is God? God is that inspiration
that has not yet found a body;
the flower aching within the twig,
that has not yet opened on the stem.
The flower aching within the twig, that has not yet opened on the stem—that is God. God is the future, the possibility. God is the name of what you can become. God is the name of what you must become. God is your seed-form potential, the truth hidden in your seed.

When I speak of God I am not speaking philosophy; I am speaking the poetry of your life. Remember me as a poet. I am not a philosopher. I am not giving you a scripture; I am giving you pointers. And to understand life’s poetry, remove the prefabricated, well-worn notions, so that life can reveal its grace and beauty. Set the mind a little aside.

“I have—ah!—remembered You in countless forms.
I have always heard, somewhere within my breath, Your dialogue—
without asking, ‘When the attainment? When will there be
a face-to-face with this Beloved?’
Which dawn is it in which the damp,
desolate, winter-soaked night will burst into bloom?
I have set out; my only support has been awareness—
with each step I am drawing near;
this sun-warm trust has stayed with me:
with the tender rain-clouds of love, keep in motion, dense,
my inhalations and exhalations.
Ah, in countless forms I have remembered You!”

Whenever you have desired anything, I say, you desired God. You desired wealth—and in wealth you were seeking God. You desired status—and in status you were seeking the Supreme Status. You wept in love for a woman—and you were groping for prayer. If you were ensnared in an attachment, if you fell into a passion, even in those pits and ravines you were seeking the path to the Lord. In endless forms and endless ways man is seeking only Him. Your search may be mistaken, but the ache of your life is not false. You may be trying to squeeze oil from sand, but the longing to press out oil is not wrong. You are searching where it cannot be found—so you get sorrow and failure—but that does not invalidate the honesty of your search. Worship a stone, worship your lover—unknowingly, without recognition, you are moving toward God.

“I have—ah!—remembered You in countless forms.”
And there is no other way. The day you understand this, a rhythm will come into your life. You will see: every step, on whatever path it fell, fell toward the temple. Even when you wandered, you wandered from the temple. Even when you went far, you went far from God—but the effort was still to move toward Him. You lost many times, were defeated many times, fell many times; sorrow came, despair came—but all this happened on His path. And in the final reckoning you will see: this all helped you find the way. Nothing has gone to waste. Nothing can go to waste.

In the supreme economics of life, nothing is wasted. But you only see this when you have arrived—at the last hour. Looking back, you realize: had I not wandered, even finding the path would have been difficult! That I tried to gain through wealth—that too was necessary; it was an education. That I sought prayer in love—that too was an education. Had I bypassed all that, I could never have come to this temple.

So I say: remember Him in whatever way you can. He is in everything, and through everything the search is for Him. What is needed is faith. One man pours water with reverence at a peepal tree. You see the tree and the stream of water from his hand; I see the stream of faith descending within him. One man lights a lamp before an icon in a temple. You see stone and a clay lamp; you do not see the current of the Conscious within. Another sits in a vast, empty mosque softly humming God’s song. Another sits silently beneath a tree like Buddha—no prayer, no worship; no external apparatus, no method; no temple, no mosque; eyes closed, absorbed in himself. Yet in all of these there is one common thing—the inner conscious current. The outer instruments differ. Outside, all are toys—play with whichever you like; let the inner stream keep flowing.

Yesterday I was reading:
“Whether it congeals on the sands of the desert,
or on the killer’s palm;
on the line parting justice,
or on the feet shackled in chains;
on the sword of tyranny,
or on the body of the slain—
blood is still blood; if it drips, it will congeal.”
Where blood falls—on stone, on a corpse, on a temple—what difference does it make?
“Blood is still blood; if it drips, it will congeal.”

So I say to you—faith is still faith; if it drips, it will set. And wherever faith sets, there God is. Faith is needed. The real thing is inside; the innermost is what matters. If it is not there, God is nowhere. If faith is there, He is everywhere. If it is inside, He is outside too. If it is not inside, He is nowhere outside. Go on pilgrimages—to Kaba and Kashi—no difference will be made. You will wander in vain. Come home; there is nowhere else to go. Your pilgrimage is within.

Then remember: men differ vastly from one another; so the God of each man will also differ. The full moon rises in the sky—on an autumn full-moon night—countless reflections are formed on the earth. The ocean reflects it, so does Mansarovar. Quiet lakes reflect it; so does the storm-tossed sea. It appears in puddles filled with mud and trash. Where drain-water has collected, there too it appears. The reflections of the moon are millions; the moon is one. Even in a filthy puddle it appears. The reflection does not become filthy—because where is the reflection, to be stained? It is only a shadow.

And yet the puddle is filthy. If you ask the puddle about the moon within it, what opinion will it give? What the puddle says will carry its own filth—naturally. It has seen the moon that can be reflected in its filth. Ask Mansarovar, and it will speak of its moon. That is why there are so many religions in the world. Properly understood, each person’s God is different—men differ so greatly.

“My inner God
is ferocious wrath, a festival of dance
on a barren, unlit land.
My inner God
shakes the foundation of the heaven I call my mind,
stirs an earthquake within me.
My inner God
is fire-fierce—I burn within Him.
My inner God
is a swelling pride of thunderclouds,
an agitated ocean of sky that drives the clouds—who knows where.
My inner God
is nameless, solitary—a cursed bird
that circles and screams in the sky of my heart.
My inner God
is the one who is pounding my forehead hard against the rock.
My inner God—
this dread fourfold tempest, swift as a storm,
in the barren, bottomless, shelterless,
seared province of my mind
fans blazing fires.
Within, the heart’s locked seals;
without, that doomsday banner flies.”

Each man’s God will be different. If you are angry, your God will be angry. If you are egotistic, your God within will be egotistic. If you are peaceful, your God will be peaceful. If you are sad, your God will be sad. For it is you who give the reflection to your God. Your God will take form within you. You will define Him. You will set the limits. You will fence Him in. Your God will be like you.

Hence so many differing notions of God; hence every century has a different God. It changes—not because God changes, but because the reflections change, because the reflectors change. The God of the Old Testament is very wrathful—rudra-like—angry over trifles, raining fire for small things, bringing a deluge for small things. In rage He once drowned the world, saving a few chosen ones in Noah’s ark; on cities He rained fire; slight offense, terrible wrath! Is God wrathful? No. Those who wrote the Old Testament must have been wrathful. The Old Testament tells us about the Jews who wrote it. The Vedas’ idea of God does not inform us about God; it tells us about those who composed the Vedas. A rishi prays, “May the milk in my cows’ udders increase, and may my enemy’s cows go dry. Lord, see that my fields yield well and my neighbor’s do not.” Does God attend to such prayers? Do such prayers clarify any understanding of God? No—they only reveal the petitioners’ desires, the state of their hearts.

When you speak of God, remember: you speak of your God. When I speak of God, remember: I speak of my God. It is entirely natural.

God is a deeply private vision, and everyone’s is colored by his own seeing. A moment can come when all your seeing is gone, when no bias remains—neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Sikh nor Jain; when you are free of all scriptures and all words; when you abide in emptiness—then in that Manasarovar of mind what shimmers is the nearest image of God. Nearest, because the crystal-clear water of Manasarovar creates no distortion—transparent; it reflects as it is. That glimpse is so clear and so God-like that the seers of the Upanishads could declare: Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman. So clear that a Mansur could say: Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth. This occurs when samadhi happens—when all the rubbish of your mind has been washed away; when you too have become stainless, formless, thought-free. Aspire to this. Trust in this. Without faith, it will never happen.

Take it for granted that the final destiny of what God has created can only be God. What He has fashioned can only find its ultimate flowering in God. And until you become God, you will be sent back again and again—for God will not be satisfied until you become like Him and become an offering at His feet; until you are exactly like Him. Therefore I say: remember—you are a closed bud; you must blossom. You are God-in-bud; you must open. You are God hidden; you must be revealed.

In that moment, die. Without dying, it won’t do. In that moment, the very attempt to save yourself will bring you back again. In that moment, lose yourself. In that moment say—
This is the final longing in my heart!
Light the lamp of my life—
let anyone dispel the darkness;
but if ever the lamp must be extinguished,
let it be by your tender hand.
This is the final longing in my heart!

If by the hand of the Divine your lamp is extinguished, what greater good fortune could there be!
But if ever the lamp must be extinguished,
let it be by your tender hand—
this is the final longing in my heart!
The question is: “Beloved Master, in that moment, what should one do?”
Nothing should be done. One should silently slip into the ocean. Like a dewdrop sliding off a blade of grass, falling into the earth and disappearing—so, quietly, one should slip and fall. In falling you will find, for the first time, who you are. In dissolving you will find that you have become. Becoming a zero, you will find that the whole has descended into you. As you move this side, on that side God arrives. Light is the news of his coming. Just as, before the sun rises, a redness spreads across the horizon, the eastern sky begins to glow—in welcome of the sun, this is the sun’s first message. The sun is coming now; there is no delay. Birds begin to sing, the winds stir again, nature starts to awaken—the east has turned red; the sun is at hand.

When, in the last stage of meditation, only light remains, understand: the east has flushed red—now the sun is about to rise. Then, spellbound, dancing, feeling blessed, be ready to fall, be ready to disappear. The final stage of meditation is death. That is why the event that happens after meditation we call samadhi. Samadhi means the great death. That which was able to die has died; that which cannot die alone remains. The mortal is gone, the immortal remains. One is freed from mortality, and wedded to the deathless.

And this thing you call life—what is there in it to save? What do you have to protect? Pointlessly you worry about saving something; there is nothing to save! It is like a naked man who refuses to bathe because he says, “If I bathe, where will I dry my clothes?” He is naked, yet out of concern for drying clothes he won’t bathe! What do you have? Your hands are utterly empty. Your very life-breath is empty—you are vacant. And even this emptiness you cannot let go of! There is nothing, yet you cannot open your fist! If there were something, then it would indeed be difficult.

What kind of existence have the heartless? They neither live nor die.
There is no dream, nor awakening; no awareness, nor ecstasy.

There is nothing—
There is no dream, nor awakening; no awareness, nor ecstasy.
What kind of existence have the heartless? They neither live nor die.

What you call life is not life. You are stuck between life and death. What you call death is not death, and what you call life is not life. Death has been known only by those who died in samadhi. What you call death is merely one illness changing into another. It is a change of things—a change of house. All the inner diseases remain the same; only the house changes. If what you call life is really life, then the search for God is futile. We seek the divine precisely because what we have known so far as life slowly proves not to have been life at all—it was a delusion. It was maya, a dream.

The very meaning of the search for God is this: this life has not proved to be life; now we seek the great Life—we seek another kind of life.
But the friend who has asked—his question is absolutely essential. It happens to all meditators, so don’t worry. If fear arises, don’t let guilt arise with it; it is natural. Anyone who comes to that moment hesitates. This is precisely where a master is needed. If, in that moment, there is no master, you will turn back—or at least you will get stuck there. Without a master, in that moment there is every possibility of going mad. The whole meaning of a master is simply this: that he can reassure you, “Do not be afraid—look, I am lost, and yet I am. I am by becoming vast. I am by becoming infinite. I am by becoming eternal. Come, take the leap. Don’t be afraid. Don’t hesitate. Don’t doubt. Come down.” If the master extends his hand, pulls you, gives you the courage to die, the strength to disappear, then the very moment you descend you will know you were troubled for nothing.
I have heard: a man got lost on a mountain on a dark new-moon night. The darkness was profound. You couldn’t see your own hand. Somehow, groping his way, he was trying to find the path when he fell into a ravine. As he fell, he caught hold of a tree root with all his strength. How that whole night passed—it’s hard to say. Weeping, with tears flowing, the night went by. A cold night—he was shivering; his hands were growing numb. Who could say when the tree root would slip from his hands? His strength was fading, death seemed certain; who knew how deep the ravine below was! And then, around midnight, his hands became completely cold and numb. He could no longer hold on. The root slipped, and the man fell. And after he fell, a peal of laughter rang through that valley, because there was no abyss below—there was level ground. Only after falling did he discover there was nothing below to fall into. He had suffered needlessly.
But in the dark, how could he have known? Only by falling did he discover that below there was flat land. He burst into laughter.
Listen to me: come down! Do not look back; what is gone is gone. And the Lord stands at the door. Listen to me. Welcome him! Embrace him. Come down in joy—dancing, humming. Count it as good fortune! The light has come, the east has flushed red, the sun is near. I tell you—die!

So are you just putting on an act right now! Will you really go mad? Then is madness also at your discretion—whenever you decide, you’ll become mad? Then it would be a charade. What has my answering or not answering to do with your going mad? Either you are mad; and if you are not, how will you suddenly become so?

Whoever has taken sannyas—for me he has already gone mad. Sannyas means you have set out on a path where bookkeeping does not apply, where reasoning is futile, where trust is meaningful. You have taken the road of love. And love is blind—or love has such eyes that only the lover knows them, no one else. Love is a madness, a divine frenzy. Love is to be a Majnun. Love means you are ready to stake everything now, but no longer ready to endure delay.

And you say, “I will go mad.”

As far as I am concerned, the day I gave you sannyas I assumed you had gone mad. Without going mad, when has anyone ever found the divine? To be mad means only this: that the search is happening in life with great urgency—not lukewarm, but boiling. Not business-like, but like a gambler—everything put on the line.

The clever do not come to me. The thirsty come to me. For the clever there are many other places where they keep managing the world while also holding a little support of God—let neither this world go nor that one. Nothing is to be risked. Keep everything safeguarded; ride in both boats. If you have come to me, it means simply this: you have gathered the courage to be mad.
And others cannot see your heart. The question is: ‘Alas, no one asks about the state of the heart.’
The heart cannot be made visible to others. The heart is what only you know, in your private solitude. It is utterly personal. You cannot invite anyone there; you cannot take even your closest friend there. That place is for your coming and going alone. How will anyone know your heart? So drop the hope that someone will ask you how your heart is. Even if someone were to ask, you wouldn’t be able to tell. First, no one asks. Second, they aren’t even sure you have a heart at all!

That is why people say there is no soul. From the outside only the body is seen; at the very most one infers there must be a mind—that too is only inference, nothing is actually visible.

As for the heart, it doesn’t even occur to them that you might have one within. And the soul becomes an even more remote, final thing.

The body is clearly recognized. The mind is recognized a little by inference: thoughts run in me, they must be running in the other too—they should. Because the body seems like mine, perhaps the mind is also like mine. Then the heart, hidden within the mind—that cannot be reached by inference; only through love is there access. Then within the heart is the soul; even love cannot reach there—only meditation can. Then within the soul is the Divine; there is no way to reach the Divine by any device, not even meditation. But when you have reached the soul, the Divine pulls you. Man can go up to the soul—that is the limit of human doing.

That is why Mahavira did not talk about God. It is proper to speak only up to where man can go; why speak beyond? Beyond that, the happening happens—of its own accord. Imagine you are standing on a terrace. As long as you stand, fine; once you jump, to come down to the ground you don’t have to do anything. Once the leap is taken, gravitation begins to work. The earth’s gravity draws you—its pull takes you. You won’t ask, “After I jump, what should I do to reach the ground?” We will say, “Just leap; leave the rest, don’t worry—the ground will do it.” Man goes up to the soul. After the soul, the pull of the Divine begins. From there, it is the Divine’s domain. The leap has happened; then He draws you—His gravitation draws you.

“Alas, no one asks about the state of the heart.”
Do not lament. Lamenting like this you will only trouble yourself. Who is going to ask you about your heart? No one needs to. And do not cultivate the urge to tell it; let your prayer not become a performance.

“Yes, people say your face has changed.”
Up to the face, their recognition reaches. The face is visible; you are not. That they even notice that much is great kindness—otherwise who looks at anyone’s face? If one had any time after looking at one’s own! One never has time even to look at one’s own. When you step out of the house you yourself are anxious, checking the mirror, that nothing is amiss, no stain is left, no speck clings—lest someone see! Who is looking? Worry about that. Whose face do you look at? No one is looking at anyone’s face. People are absorbed in their own egos, shut in their own selves.

So if someone even looks at your face, it is great grace. And if someone recognizes even this much—that your face has changed—thank him. In his heart there must be some sympathy for you, some space for you, some affinity, some love. People first recognize only the face. But the face certainly changes—that is sure. Sometimes a revolution happens in a single instant.

Sometimes I see: a man comes—disheveled, doubtful, a wavering mind. From his gait you can tell he is wavering: nothing is decided; there is trembling within, and trembling without. He sits before me and asks, “Should I take sannyas or not? I’ve been thinking for many days; nothing gets decided.” When nothing gets decided you become very wobbly inside, divided. Then he gathers courage and hears my call. I say, “Jump—we’ll see. We can think later. Thinking is not that important.” He says, “How can I take sannyas without thinking?” I say, “Those who took it, took it without thinking. Yet they did not repent afterwards, because after taking it they found it was worth taking. There are things you know only by taking them up, by tasting them. How could you know beforehand? You take it. I give—you take. Then taste it within, and later decide whether it was worth taking.” If the man is brave, courageous, he steps in. As I place the mala around his neck, a transformation begins—the face starts changing. Because a conclusion has arrived, a dilemma has dissolved. As soon as the dilemma drops, the inner warring fragments come together. “Now that it is taken,” there is a lightness; anxiety is gone. Grace comes to the face. And, “I could take it—I could trust that much, I could have that much faith”—then when he goes I watch his gait: it is different now. As if a tree has found roots. His feet are planted in the earth with strength; his head is lifted into the sky with strength. This same man had come a moment before; the same man goes a moment later—the face changes.

But the face changes only from an inner change. Faces don’t change with cosmetics. When the inner lamp is lit, light comes onto the face. When the inner lamp is lit, an aura comes to the face—something mysterious adorns it. A halo is born.

People are right to say the face has changed—it has changed because the heart has changed. People will not ask after the heart, because they know neither their own heart nor yours. People have forgotten the heart—consigned it to oblivion. Because of that forgetfulness they are cut off from the Divine, for the heart is the link. I have told you: body; within the body, mind; within the mind, heart; within the heart, soul; within the soul, the Divine. The heart is exactly in the middle—on this side mind and body, on that side soul and the Divine. The heart is the middle: the link, the bridge, the chain.

Those who have forgotten the heart—how will they remember the soul? For them “soul” is only a bare word, meaningless. For those who have forgotten the heart, “God” is utterly pointless. How could they use the word “God” meaningfully? It cannot even be understood.

So the first thing is: the heart must awaken. But I will speak to your heart—do not hope from people. That is what I am doing every morning and evening: speaking to you about your heart, so that slowly you begin to recognize the language of your own heart. And as for becoming “mad”—as I see it, you already are. And why are you holding back now? If you have not yet become so, then go. Understand the meaning of madness.

Madness means breaking your connection with logic, with the world of calculation; entering the world of mystery. Madness means a journey from prose to poetry. Madness means leaving the neat, paved highways and walking the secret footpaths of life—they come into being only as you walk. They are not the cemented highways where the whole crowd moves.

Madness means being alone. The crowd moves—Hindus, Muslims, Jains—so long as you are part of a crowd, you have not yet staked anything on the quest for the Divine. The day you step off the crowd and off the highway, the day you enter life’s trackless forest—and life is a trackless forest: there are dangers there, wild beasts there, every possibility of getting lost; arriving is not guaranteed—the one who leaves the highway for the wilderness is “mad.” Your companions will say, “What are you doing? Be sensible.” But if you have understood “sensibleness,” one thing will have become clear: however sensibly you act, nothing of value comes into your hands. Then you say, “Now I must live without this so-called sense. Now I must live ecstatically. Now I must live as a lover, a madman.”

A religious person voluntarily drops life’s securities and embraces insecurity. He leaves the clean, well-trodden lines of logic, thought, calculation, and sets out to solve the unfathomable riddles of love and prayer.

But only such people one day succeed in finding the Divine. God is not a logician, He is a lover. And truth is not a deduction of logic; it is a vision with new eyes. The eyes you have are not enough—grow a third eye. The ears you have are not enough—grow a third ear. Sannyas is the search for that third eye and third ear.

If you are to be with me, it can only be by becoming mad. And while I am here, become so—because later repentance will be of no use. What use to repent after the birds have eaten the field?

These things will not be forgotten
You will remember me a lot—remember

Therefore, now—while you have me—go mad; don’t postpone to tomorrow. This dance, this music that I want to give you—take it. Do not hesitate. Open your robe and fill it.

These things will not be forgotten
You will remember me a lot—remember.

That’s all for today.