Jin Sutra #49

First thing: where there are two, there is the world. Where only one remains, liberation begins. Duality is the world; non-duality is liberation. Therefore the world has two wheels; liberation has none.

Second thing: the world is motion, flow, search, quest, a path—therefore it needs two wheels. Without two wheels this cart will not move. Liberation is not going anywhere; in liberation you have arrived. Liberation is where all going comes to an end. If the cart keeps moving, it is not liberation. Where everything stops, comes to rest, and supreme repose arrives—beyond which no goal remains—that is liberation.

Where craving becomes zero, where desire comes to rest, where all goals are fulfilled; where attainment is in each and every breath—the flower has bloomed. There is nothing more left to bloom. Fulfillment has descended; nothing else remains to descend. Therefore there is not only no question of two wheels—there is no need even of a single wheel; there is no need of wheels at all.

So first: as far as there are two, there is the world. Where there is one, there is liberation.

Second: as long as there is journeying, there is the world. Where the journey ends, there is liberation. So there is no need of two wheels at all—not even of one. And even if there were a single wheel, it would be useless.

Third thing: you asked, ‘The world is made from the two wheels of attachment and aversion.’—true. For attachment tilts to one side, aversion to the other. In the tempests of attachment and aversion our consciousness quakes. Attachment and renunciation, love and hate, enemy and friend, mine and the other, helpful and harmful—between these two we tremble. When, between these two, we become still and the trembling ceases—neither attachment calls nor aversion calls; where, free of duality and unmoving, we become established in meditation in the middle; where the midpoint is found—there is liberation.

Opposite to attachment and aversion there is nothing in liberation. Freedom from attachment and aversion is liberation. Liberation is not the opposite of the world; liberation is the absence of the world. Say only this much—that the world no longer remains—that is enough. Whatever remains, that is liberation.

Like a man is ill; when the illnesses are removed, what remains is health. Health is not something opposite to illness; it is the disappearance of illness. Where no illness remains, health naturally expresses itself.

The world is like an obstacle, a rock holding back a spring. The rock is removed, the spring flows. The spring was already there. Liberation is already present within you. The moment your grip on the world loosens, you come upon that which has always been united with you. There is recognition, remembrance.

Liberation is not something you have lost. Liberation is your nature. There is no way to lose it. There is no way you have absent-mindedly put it down somewhere. You are liberation.

Therefore, are there two opposite wheels to these? To ask so is itself not right. The world is not the opposite of liberation, hence the sannyasin is not an opponent of the world. The sannyasin who is an opponent of the world is still in the world. He has replaced attachment with aversion. Some were attached to wealth—he began to hate it. Some were attached to the body—he began to hate it. What he calls worldly people used to do—he began to do the opposite.

If a sannyasin is an opponent of the world, then I tell you, he is still in the world. He may be standing on his head, but he is standing in the marketplace. He may be sitting in the Himalayas, yet he is in the marketplace. He may flee leaving everything, but he has not become free from that which he flees. Its longing remains within the mind. To suppress that very longing he does the opposite.

I call that one a sannyasin who is not an opponent of the world, who has awakened in the world, who has seen the world with a full gaze. Mahavira says: one who has become thoroughly acquainted; who has understood the futility of the world. It is not a matter of grasping something opposite to the world; if the futility of the world becomes clear, then what remains—after this rubbish is washed away, the stream of water that remains within—that is liberation.

If liberation were somewhere separate from the world, then one would have to run away to caves and caverns to search for it; with closed eyes in austerity, go far away where no one is. But liberation is here. Liberation is your nature. When understanding comes, freedom comes. When misunderstanding remains, bondage remains. Misunderstanding is bondage; understanding is liberation. Knowing is freedom.

So do not abandon the world, nor think in opposition to the world. Forget the language of opposites. Forget the language of antagonism. Drop the disease of enmity. All that is needed is to look with full eyes, to recognize rightly. Right where you are, awaken and see. In that awakening, whatever is futile drops by itself, falls away. You are sitting in a dark room—diamonds are lying there and rubbish is lying there. Then someone comes in with a lamp. Until the lamp was there, you did not know what was rubbish and what were diamonds. It may be that in the dark you tied up a bundle of rubbish and never noticed the diamonds. Then someone comes with a lamp; your eyes meet, vision opens, seeing happens. You will laugh if you had tied up a bundle of rubbish. You will quickly untie the knot, quickly empty the bundle, quickly fill it with diamonds. There is no renunciation in this! There is no practice in this! There is no laborious process in this!

Just the coming of the lamp, the opening of the eyes, the seeing of the essential as different from the non-essential—this is enough. Liberation is awakening.

‘You say the world is made of the two wheels of attachment and aversion.’
Certainly. The world cannot be made without the two. The world cannot be made of one. Has any cart ever moved on a single wheel?

This word ‘gaadi’ is very wondrous. Perhaps you have never thought about it. ‘Gaadi’ means that which is ‘gadi’—stuck, embedded. Yet we call a moving thing a gaadi. A gaadi cannot really move. That which is stuck—how will it move? Do trees move? They are stuck. Why do we call a moving thing a gaadi? There is a very sweet irony in that word.

The world seems to move, but it reaches nowhere. It seems to move; it is that stuck. Only in a dream does such moving happen; in reality there is no moving. Running about, hustle and bustle! When the eyes open, you find you are standing where you were—lying on your cot. All that running was in a dream. You roamed vast skies; when morning comes and the eyes open, you find yourself in your bed.

So the world is a gaadi—so stuck. In reality it is stuck; in dream it is moving, in imagination it is moving, in desire it is moving, in thought it is moving, in mind it is moving—so stuck. The gaadi only seems to move.

Sometimes little children who do not know how to ride a bicycle climb onto a bicycle—on a bicycle standing on its stand. They pedal hard and are delighted because when the wheel starts spinning—that is a gaadi. Stuck, and yet the child is overjoyed. The harder he pedals, the faster the wheel spins—listen to his squeals!

Just such squeals are being given by politicians, the rich, those who have attained position and prestige. They have mounted the bicycle. The bicycle is on its stand. A stand means fixed, stuck. But the wheel is spinning fast. They are pedaling hard, drenched in sweat. They even compete with each other—whose vehicle runs faster, who is going ahead, who has left whom behind!

All these squeals one day prove futile when awareness dawns that what we are making run is fixed in place.

The world seems to be running; it does not run. Here there is no development. There is much motion, no progress at all. There is much going, no arriving at all. Here it is a wonder if, after much running, you at least remain where you are—that itself is a great miracle. The fear is that you will even fall behind where you had found yourself. If after all the running you at least remain where you were, that is enough.

For the world, two wheels are needed. False though it be, a vehicle though it be of maya, still it is a vehicle—two wheels are needed. Therefore, if you search a little in life you will find that behind every wheel another wheel is hidden. Behind success, failure is hidden. Behind happiness, sorrow is hidden. Behind day, night is hidden. Behind merit, demerit is hidden. Behind laughter, weeping is hidden. Here you will not find any single thing; here everything comes in pairs.

The world lives by pairs. Liberation means: this division into two is gone. This process of being split into two has ended. The flame that used to flicker left and right no longer flickers; it now stands in the middle. Now it has dropped trembling, dropped thinking. Waves of thought no longer arise—now, no-thought.

The sky of no-thought is liberation.

Liberation is not in opposition to the world; liberation is the absence of the world. Bind this as deeply as you can; tie a knot on it. Because if you forget this, there is great danger that even your sannyas will become opposition to the world.

To descend into opposition is very easy. The whole politics of the mind is of duality. Therefore opposition is absolutely easy, simple—a downhill slope. As when someone descends a mountain: even if he wishes to walk slowly, he cannot; he has to run. It is a slope. No energy is needed. If you drive a car down a mountain, you do not even need petrol; switch off the engine—the car coasts by itself.

The tendency of the mind is duality, conflict. First you were fighting for wealth; then you began to fight for meditation—but the fight continued. First you fought for life; then you began to fight for liberation—the fight continued. The disease remained where it was. The name changed, the label changed, but the content inside remained the same.

So remember this. At least my sannyasins—remember well that sannyas is not opposition to the world; sannyas is understanding the world. And for understanding, running away is not appropriate. Because how will you understand what you run from? If you want to understand, remain there. If you want to understand, observe rightly, inspect rightly, become a witness rightly. Lift every veil and look. Unveil all the coverings and look—let nothing remain hidden. In that very understanding, the manifestation of liberation will happen. As wisdom grows, as understanding grows, you will find you begin to be free.

Last thing: liberation is not in the other world. That too is a duality—this world and that world; earth and sky. Liberation is not in the other world. Liberation has nothing to do with worlds. Liberation is the state of your soul. Liberation has no relation with space and time. Liberation is your being absorbed in yourself, immersed in yourself, so full of yourself that you are intoxicated with your own essence.

This can happen now. And if it cannot happen now, it can never happen. And whenever it happens, it will happen now—in the moment of the present. Therefore Mahavira says: the seers, the wise ones, do not worry about the past that has gone, nor think of the future that has not yet come. They live in the pure present. They look at the present, behold the present, contemplate the present.

One wheel of the world is in the past, one wheel is in the future. This vehicle of the world is very wondrous, very strange: one wheel is there which is no more, and one wheel is there which has not yet happened. Between these two zeros the world is running. And that which is, is between these two—it is in the middle. Buddha even called his way the Majjhima Nikaya only for this reason: the one who avoids extremes and stands in the middle becomes available.

The Master is death; therefore the Master is Brahman. Because in him death can happen, the formula for the Great Life can begin.

The old Hindu scriptures say, “Acharyo mrityuh”—the teacher is death. The guru is death. What do they mean? To what end?

When the disciple comes to the Master, as he is, he must die as he is. And as he ought to be, he must be born. When the disciple comes he is a heap of illnesses, a bundle of identifications. The Master’s medicine will remove the illnesses. But the ego with which the disciple arrives is itself only a bundle of diseases. When the illnesses go, that ego also dies; it cannot live without them.

Then what remains is something the disciple never knew. That is known only after dying. Only after the ego’s death does the self reveal itself.

Perhaps the disciple comes with his own purpose. He perhaps comes seeking the Great Life. He perhaps never even thinks that with the Master one must die, be erased—melt slowly, inch by inch, fall apart. He came out of some greed. He perhaps came hoping his worldly desire might gain a little momentum, a little more power—that in the world of craving he might become a bit stronger, that in life’s struggle he might gain a bit more will.

People come to me. They say, “We lack will-power. Please be gracious—give us will-power.” I ask, What will you do with will-power? Will-power is for struggle, for the world; for liberation no one needs it. If you want to be unquiet, you need will-power. If you want to be quiet, dissolve it. Whatever little you have—dissolve that too. Offer it to the Ganges. Be free of it. Will is an obstacle; surrender is the path.

People come to me and say, “Give a blessing. Life is full of disappointment—light the lamp of hope.” I tell them, you’ve come to the wrong place. Here the lamps of hope are extinguished.

Yesterday I was reading Mahavira’s sutra—freedom from hope.

You perhaps come to remove despair. You come here to gain a little strength and then go back to the world to wrestle again. Perhaps you were defeated for now; perhaps you couldn’t win yet; perhaps you were struggling with the powerful and you were weakening. And, taking more strength, more power, more energy, you want to re-enter the war of life.

But then you have come to the wrong place. If you go to a guru for this, you’ve gone to the wrong one. For this you need a false guru. That is why false gurus thrive. False coins circulate because they promise to fulfill what you want. Whether it ever happens is not the question. The promise is enough; you are robbed by it.

Remember this—this is the mark of the true Master: he takes away your hope; he takes away your will. This is the mark of the true Master: he erases you. Whatever reason you may have come with, he will not bother with it. For him only the ultimate matters. He wants to bring liberation within you.

And naturally, how can you desire liberation? You have known only the world. Even there you have not known success. Who has? Alexander too fails. In the world, failure is what falls into your hands.

So if you have come to attain that same “success,” only an untrue guru will suit you—where amulets and charms are dispensed, where with a showman’s tricks sacred ash is handed out, where you are made to believe, “All right, some miracle can happen here,” where your dying, dimming ego is made to blaze again, where someone coaxes your fading little flame.

But that flame is of the world. That is hell’s flame. That is darkness. It has pained you and tormented you. By it you are pierced. It is the poisoned arrow lodged in your chest. The true Master will pull it out—and in the pulling you will feel you are dying. The true Master is your death—as you are. Yet it is only after that death that for the first time you glimpse what you truly are.

Deception dies; truth never dies. The false dies; truth has no death.

We throw gold into fire; the dross burns away; the gold emerges purified.

The Master is fire, flame. And for this very reason the Master is Brahman—because it is there that you are effaced. And where you learn to disappear, there you learn to be Brahman.

The Master is a cross. But hanging on that very cross, for the first time you come to know that the one who died there was not me. On this side the cross; on that side the throne. On this side the cross; on that side the throne. To you only the cross is visible.

You must have seen pictures of Jesus—carrying his cross on his shoulder, going up the hill of Golgotha; the cross fixed in the ground; he is hung upon it. But these are incomplete pictures. They are not painted from Jesus’ own eyes. They are the memories of those who might have watched him on the road to Golgotha; the painter has seen from the outside. Ask Jesus! Is Jesus carrying a cross? No—Jesus is preparing his throne. This cross will become the stairway to the throne.

On this side the cross; on that side the throne. In the seen, the cross; in the unseen, the throne. In form, the cross; in the formless, the throne. In the realm of shape—there is the cross; in the shapeless—the throne.

So those who saw Jesus only carrying the cross never saw Jesus at all. The day you can see the throne in Jesus’ cross, that day you will understand. That day, for the first time, the cross will not seem a cross. The cross will become a cause for supreme gratitude.

At the Master’s feet gratitude abides forever, because it is he who gave the insight into disappearing. Without disappearing, you could never be. It is he who erased you. Once erased, the beginning of becoming happened. The dust was wiped away, and the mirror shone.

But what you call life, the Master does not call life. And what you call death, the Master does not call death. Different languages, different dimensions. Two worlds very different. The Master speaks another tongue. To you it feels odd.

In medieval India that very language got a name—Sadhukkadi; the “reversed flute,” the sadhus’ tongue, the upside-down language: where death is synonymous with life, and where the cross is synonymous with the throne. In your lexicon something else is written. Coming to the Master you will have to learn a new language. It is painful, because you have memorized yours so well—down into every pore.

When you listen to me, you are not really listening to me. You instantly translate. No sooner do I say something than you render it into your own tongue. Only when you drop this will you truly come to me. Your language is the barrier between you and me.

Yesterday I was reading a song:
There is fondness for life, attachment to beauty;
Even today, in the heartbeats, love’s bonfire burns;
The heart is not yet extinguished—
—people call this “the heart has not gone out.”

“There is fondness for life”—
—there is attachment to life.
“There is attachment to beauty”—
—for beauty there is still craving and longing.
“Even today in the heartbeats love’s bonfire burns”—
—and still in the heartbeats there is the heat of craving, of clinging.
“The heart is not yet extinguished”—
If you ask me, it is for these very reasons your heart has not been able to burn at all. Extinguishing is far off; it has not even been kindled. Because of these very things ashes have fallen upon the heart.

“I keep coloring the dust of life;
Even today I am absorbed in the thought of the cosmos;
Sorrow has not yet been spent.
The word of truth is dear; oppression is intolerable;
Even today my pledge to the new covenant stands firm;
I am not yet dead.”

What you call life—when you say, “I am not yet dead,” you are saying strange things. If your breath is still caught in a dream, you say, “I am not yet dead. The heart is not yet extinguished.”

Where there is nothing, you color it with your mind. Where there is nothing—a bare screen—you paint great rainbow arcs of imagination, desires, thirsts. And you say:
“I am not yet dead.
The word of truth is dear; oppression is intolerable;
Even today my pledge to the new covenant stands firm;
I am not yet dead.”
And for this very reason, you are a corpse.

Understand what you call life—know it as death. Then what I call death, you will instantly understand. What you call life is a gradual death, a slow suicide—dying day by day, little by little.

The day you understand that this is death, that day for the first time you will hear the call of another life—some other summons. That day you have become religious. That day your eyes begin to lift toward the unseen. That day into your hand there comes—though little, small, thin—a thread by which you can reach the sun.

So I say: the Master is death, the Master is Brahman; there is no contradiction between the two. The Master is Brahman precisely because he is death. The Master is a cross because he is a throne. Through one door he erases; through the other he creates. With one hand he effaces; with the other he builds. Those who agree to die gain the good fortune of becoming. Those who shirk dying remain deprived of becoming.

“The Beloved’s bed is on the gallows”—it has always been so. But the gallows is what we see because we are uncomprehending. We have not yet learned the Beloved’s language; the Beloved’s symbols have not opened before us. We have tried to understand the Beloved through our own language. Therefore it seems: the Beloved’s bed is on the gallows.

Anxiety arises. Who would not be afraid of dying? Coming to the master brings a tremor, a restlessness.

A young woman came to me the evening before last. She had traveled from California. She said, “I want to return at once. First, I don’t even understand why I came; and now that I am here, I fear I may not get back alive.” She began to weep. “I have a child, a husband. Please let me go.”

She has seen the gallows. But within those gallows there is also a faint glimmer of a throne; that is why she was drawn here—despite herself. I told her, “Now returning is difficult. Now there is only one way: go back only after dying.” She was very frightened—she is new and does not yet recognize my way of speaking. She asked, “Go back after dying? What do you mean?” I said, “Go back new.” Then she felt a little reassured.

“The Beloved’s bed is on the gallows!”
The gallows is what appears; in truth it is a bed. It is the Beloved’s invitation. But only those who consent to die become worthy of meeting him. That is why the Beloved’s bed is on the gallows.

Now do not be afraid. Be courageous. You will be effaced anyway. Death will happen in any case. Only one thing is certain in this world: death. Everything else is uncertain—may or may not happen; it depends on chance. One thing alone is sure—death. What a strange life, in which only dying is definite and all else is uncertain. Welcome what is bound to happen—welcome it willingly. This is the only difference between samadhi and death. When you are killed by force, it is death. Death is our interpretation of samadhi because we were unwilling to die. Because of that interpretation we missed an unprecedented event.

You have died many times. But each time you died hesitating, fighting, struggling, compelled, helpless. Hence we say, the messengers of Death come and drag you away. No messengers come. You cling so tightly to life that it seems as if death is pulling you. The messengers of Death riding on buffaloes—terrifying faces—dragging you by force: such wrong stories! No one forces you. You force yourself to hold on to life. So when life begins to slip from your hands, it feels like force. Let go yourself and see. You will find the messengers of Death have taken their leave. You will find there are no buffaloes, no dark-faced messengers; suddenly you will see the Divine standing with open arms.

That very Divine appears like a messenger of Death only because of your excessive clinging to life. If you consent—if you are ready to go along—death comes from this side and you rise to your feet and say, “I am ready. Where shall I go? In which direction is the journey? I was waiting for you.”

Suddenly you will see: the messengers of Death are gone. They were there only by your interpretation. You had created an enmity, an attachment to life and an aversion to death. Drop the aversion to death, drop the attachment to life—instantly you will find that what had come like darkness turns radiant. Then you will not see messengers of Death; perhaps you will hear Krishna’s flute, or the supremely serene image of Buddha will appear, or Mahavira’s silence will surround you, or the dancing form of Gauranga will arise. But one thing is certain: something unique will happen—wondrous, astonishing, breathtaking. Nothing tragic will happen; something will occur that is like great bliss, heavenly. Change your way of seeing, thinking, interpreting.

“The Beloved’s bed is on the gallows—by what method can one meet?”
And once the gallows appears, the question arises: by what method can one meet? For that gallows seems to block the way. How to cross it?

You want to dissolve into the Divine without dying. That cannot be. It is as if the Ganges were to say, “I want to merge into the ocean without descending into it”; as if the drop were to say, “I want to become the ocean without entering it.” Impossible. It is against the mathematics of life.

The drop must be lost. The Ganges must descend.

The ocean will be attained—unconditionally, wholly—but never without descending; never has it happened, never will it happen.

Stop focusing on the gallows and the second question will stop arising—“by what method to meet?”

Dying is the method. The gallows is the method. And because of the gallows you panic. You say, “By what method can we meet? Tell us some way to slip past the gallows, to go from this side or that. Let the gallows stay here if it must; we will go out the back door.”

The gallows is the method. If you ask me: dying is the method.

“By what method to meet?”
Die! Disappear! Be willing to be lost.

“Beloved, come and meet”—the Beloved comes the moment you are gone.

By shouting and crying nothing will happen. If you keep fearing the gallows while repeating, “Beloved, come and meet,” nothing will happen.

“Tears stream from the eyes, the heart aches—
Beloved, come and meet.”
No, that is not enough. You are still you. And remaining you, you are shedding tears. Those tears are yours. In those tears is your language; in those tears are your conditionings; in those tears is your way of seeing. They are the eyes’ tears—filled with your vision. Look carefully and you will see the gallows reflected even in those tears. As it reflects in your eyes, it reflects in your tears. They are tears of your panic, of your restlessness.

Accept the gallows. Then a new experience will be born. Tears may still flow, but now they will be of joy. And within those tears there will be a glimmer of the throne. And then you will not need to say, “Beloved, come and meet.” In that very instant the meeting happens. Otherwise it never has, otherwise it never can. The moment you disappear, union happens. You were the only obstacle. Nothing else was stopping it; you yourself were in the way.

“Tears stream from the eyes, the heart aches”—even in your pain, you are there. Even when you weep, your tears are not virginal. Even in your pain there is complaint; there is sting. Your whole world is hidden in your pain.

Go into the temples and see. People are praying—what are they asking for? Tears are falling—what are they asking for? They are asking for worldly things. Hands are stretched toward God, but they do not ask for God. Even from God they ask for paltry things: that the shop may prosper, that they may win a lawsuit, that they may marry a certain woman, that their son may get a job, that an illness may be cured. What do you ask for?

Then your tears were false. A man says, “I am ill; let the illness go”—he is weeping, but there is no prayer to the Divine in his weeping. In his tears there is the declaration of illness and helplessness, but there is no gratitude for life, no “ah!” of wonder.

Look closely: your tears are yours. If you are mistaken, your tears too are mistaken. And your heart is yours. If you are mistaken, even your heart’s pang is mistaken.

What you call the uttermost agony of the heart, O naive one,
seems but the beginning of the passion for fidelity.

What you think is the last limit of heart’s pain—“tears stream, the heart aches”—is only the beginning, not the end. It is the first step of love’s journey. And union with the Divine happens at the last step, not the first.

And what is the journey between the first and the last step? It is the journey of your disappearance. Little by little, keep dropping yourself. If you can drop in a single leap, blessed you are. If you are miserly, then drop slowly, gradually. If you are a niggard, then give up inch by inch, grain by grain. If you are brave, a leap can happen in a single moment. Say in one instant, “Now I am not.” In that very instant you will find the Divine has descended. The moment you vacate the seat within, he arrives.

You are sitting stiff upon the inner throne. From there you inquire; from there you do not vacate, you talk. You have learned fine phrases—“Beloved, come and meet. Tears stream from the eyes, the heart aches.”

Poetry will not do. It is not enough to compose the most beautiful poems; only a proof of life will do. Begin to show your readiness to die.

For twenty-four hours keep watch: in how many small ways you fill yourself up and harden the ego, strengthen it. Over trifles the ego grows strong; over trifles it is hurt and, like a snake struck, it hisses.

See this with wakefulness. Be free of this snake. Live as if you are not. Live as if only the Divine is, and you are not. If someone insults you, understand it was said to him; do not be disturbed. If someone honors you, understand it was done to him; do not be exalted. Do not fill yourself with ego. If a thorn pricks, know it pricked him. If flowers shower, know they fell upon him. Remove yourself. If there is hunger, it is his; if thirst, his; if joy, his; if fulfillment, his. Remove yourself.

Then—and only then—does the Great make his entry.

If love has awakened, drop worrying about meditation. Meditation will come trailing behind love like a shadow. You don’t have to make a place to keep a shadow. You enter the house — space is needed for you; for your shadow no separate place is required. A shadow occupies no space.

If love has come, meditation comes like its shadow; there is no need to create a separate place for it. If meditation has come, love comes like its shadow. Then there is no need to settle love separately. Accomplish the one, and all is accomplished.
For the one who has asked, love alone will be fitting. The scripture of meditation will become a hindrance.
Speak of prayer, of worship, of adoration; light incense and lamps, dance, hum, be enraptured. Descend into prayer. Your temple will come to you through the pilgrimage of prayer.
Whoever has asked, remember this well. Don’t get anxious about meditation. It often happens: the mind is very greedy. When love begins to mature, the mind says, “Oh! Meditation isn’t happening. What if, in the end, I miss?”
Back there Manju is sitting too. She also keeps worrying, “Oh God, meditation isn’t settling! Love is happening.” Then a panic arises: “What if meditation is missed, and something essential is missed with it!”

If love has happened, it has happened. Meditation will come on its own. When the flower blossoms, the fragrance spreads by itself. But this very anxiety can become an obstacle.

So recognize your own bent clearly. If absorption arises in love, drop meditation—drop even the word. That word is not the medicine for you. It may be the medicine for someone else. For your illness you have found the remedy—an infallible cure. Now let go of the worry.

You’ve seen it: a pharmacy has shelves upon shelves of medicines. You go with your prescription; you receive your medicine; you slip it into your bag and walk away. You don’t fret, “Out of all these medicines, shouldn’t I take some more? There are so many here—am I leaving with only one? Will that be enough?” The medicine for your ailment has been found; the matter is complete.

So if the nectar is dripping from love, learn the language of love. Fill your throat with exuberance. The meditator is still searching; therefore the meditator will be a bit dry. But the devotee has already found. The meditator, at the end, will say, “A stream of nectar flowed.” The devotee says from the very first day, “A stream of nectar flowed.” For the devotee, the first day is like the last day. Mahavira also says: there comes an excess of rasa, a flood of sweetness—but for the meditator it comes in the final moment. The devotee begins to dance from the first step. Such is his trust, his faith. What the knower attains by thinking and thinking, reflecting and reflecting, pondering and pondering, the devotee attains through faith.

Now glare if you will, now swear me to oaths if you must—
Until you sing along with me, I too will not sing my song.

The devotee even coaxes God. He even sulks with God: “If you won’t sing with me, then I too will not sing.”

Now glare if you will, now swear me to oaths if you must—
Until you sing along with me, I too will not sing my song.

Mornings were cut at the door of tears, noons were spent in sorrow’s house;
Who knows where this palanquin will halt, who knows where evening will be?
The monsoon drenched the lashes and left; autumn returned, scorching the body;
The blazing month turned my house to ruins; the village well came back a cremation ground.
The stars drank up my years; the springs plucked my songs;
If this traveler returns home, and returns empty-handed—
I was given but a single day in this prison of clay;
Half of it passed in chains, half in breaking chains.
The body stands clutching the breath; the home shackles the feet—
Where, behind so many veils, is the unveiled Shyam?

Now glare if you will, now swear me to oaths if you must—
Until you sing along with me, I too will not sing my song.

There are too many veils. The devotee says, “Now where should I keep searching? Which veils should I lift? Now you yourself find me. And I have suffered enough. My whole life passed in suffering—spent hoping for happiness and cutting through sorrow. Enough now. I no longer worry about cutting sorrow, nor do I seek happiness; now I am happy.”

Keep this in mind. The devotee says, “I no longer seek happiness; now I am happy. From this very moment, the search is over. Now I will dance. Now I am in bliss. I have decided: it is not found by searching; it is found by being lost.”

The devotee’s faith is utterly unique. If you have the thread of faith in your hand, drop the concern for meditation. If you can trust, you are blessed indeed. If, with a mind free of doubt, you taste the sweetness of what I am saying—if, hearing me, the light within grows more intense and warmth fills your being—then don’t try to carve out a separate place for meditation. Your meditation has already come to you.

Your love is your meditation.

Don’t disrupt it now; don’t create obstructions. The one who is asking is the mind. The mind is saying, “What about meditation? This is love—fine; this is devotion—fine; but what about meditation?” The mind is creating a quandary.

If you get caught in anxiety about meditation, devotion will be lost. And whether meditation will be gained or not is uncertain; that devotion will be lost is certain.

And the very mind that is putting up resistance now—tomorrow, if ever your meditation begins to settle, the same mind will say, “All right, meditation is fine; but what about love? What about devotion? This meditation is dry—a desert. Where will the stream of nectar flow here? How will you dance here? You may get peace, but bliss? Where will you find that dancing joy, that divinity in motion?”

In this way the mind will keep you wobbling. It is the mind’s habit: wherever you are, it shows you dreams of somewhere else. It tells you, “You should be elsewhere. There is a better place than this.” And thus it makes you miss where you are.

And if you become very skilled in this practice—the practice of missing—then you will keep missing everywhere. Even if you are in heaven, the mind will whisper, “Who knows what’s happening in hell! Perhaps people there are having more fun.”

I have heard: a fakir died and reached heaven. He was astonished on entering, for he saw many people bound in chains. He asked the angel leading him inside, “This is beyond my understanding. I had heard heaven is liberation. And here too there are chains? Seeing this makes me more anxious. What is this? Why are these people bound?”

The angel said, “These people want to go to hell, so we had to put chains on them. They are getting utterly restless. They say, ‘We’ve seen heaven; now we must see hell. We’re getting bored here. We’ve seen what there is to see. Who knows—maybe there’s more fun in hell!’”
The mind is like that. Even if you reach heaven, it won’t let you sit at ease. Now, the one who has asked says, “Even the memory of sweetness fills the mouth with taste.” If remembrance is filling you with so much flavor, then set out. Smaran—recollection—is your path; surati—attentive remembrance—is your method. Now drown in this sweetness. Become sweetness.
“The remembrance of light fills the inner being with radiance, with warmth. I had heard: dhyānamūlaṁ gurumūrtiḥ (the form of the Master is the root of meditation). And the remembrance of you fills me with a deep, juicy rapture, bliss, and absorption.”

Then what are you still doing sitting there? Why have you stopped? Wherever rasa flows, know that truth is there. Rasa brings the news of truth. Raso vai sah—the very nature of the Divine is rasa. Wherever rasa flows, understand that the Divine is hiding there. If it flows from stone, that stone has become the deity’s image. If it flows from food, food becomes annam brahma. If it comes through music, music becomes the anahat nad, the unstruck sound. If, in someone’s presence, that rasa begins to arise, then his presence is godly. That person has become God.

Wherever you find the flow of rasa, move that way like a blind man. Then set the eyes aside. The work of these eyes was only until there was no scent of rasa. Feeling your way with the eyes was fine only until you had no clue of rasa. Once a glimpse of rasa arrives, drop all cleverness. Become unknowing. Become mad. Become ecstatic. Run. Now walking won’t do; move toward the Divine like a gale, like a storm.

“When at every step, like the jingling of anklet-bells, your tune plays in my gait; when in every pore you dwell as the form of meditation, of love, and of the Master—then where am I to keep meditation now?”

What will you do by keeping meditation now? Where is the need for meditation anymore? It is as if a blind man has received eyes, and now he asks, “This staff with which I groped my way when I was blind—what should I do with it now? Where should I keep it? I cannot abandon it, for how much it has accompanied me! I was blind for lifetimes, and with this stick I felt my way. Eyes I have only today; I was blind for ages. The stick has been with me for ages—how can I leave it?”

If love has happened, meditation is no more needed. If meditation has happened, there is no worry about love. Let one of the two be accomplished. Do not rock your mind between both; otherwise you will be Trishanku—suspended in between.

And when I say let one be accomplished, I mean that as one is fulfilled, the other, unasked, fulfills itself.

From desolation I have already hoped for spring;
From scorching heat I hoped for the breath of spring.
The desert’s mirage seemed to me like nectar;
From embers I have already hoped for frost.
Where is the man who does not have some thorn of error driven in?
For this very reason I stood—that you might correct my mistake;
For this very reason I stood—that you might call me,
Call me and caress me, and by your caress set me right.

The meditator says, “I will set myself right.” Meditator means: the whole responsibility is on me.

The lover means: I stood precisely so that you might correct the mistake; that you might call me; that calling, you might cherish me; that cherishing, you might set me right.

The lover means he says: I have left myself in your hands. Now you set me right. It won’t be done by my doing. And how could it be done by me? I am the mistake; whatever I do will only enlarge the mistake. I am unknowing; whatever I do will only deepen unknowing. I am already entangled.

Have you seen? When something is in a tangle, you go to untie it and it gets more tangled. I am already in confusion. If I stir more, the mud will be stirred up all the more.

The lover’s vision is different. He says: I have left myself in your hands. If you could make me, will you not be able to mend me? If you could give me life unasked, will you not be able to give me light? You gave life without my asking; you showered unasked-for blessedness; so now I ask of you—will you not give me light? If you give life unasked, will you not give light when asked?

The lover leaves it to the Divine. And in that very surrender, revolution begins. Because the moment you leave it to Him, your ego begins to dissolve. And the ego is the root of all disturbance, all mistakes, all sin, all follies. Ego is the doorway to hell.
So, to the one who has asked—Krishna Gautam’s question—this is what I say:
If the beginning is good, why should the end be bad?
Only the naive say, “God knows how it will end!”
When the start is good, the finish will be good too. Drop the worry. It is the uncomprehending who say, “The beginning is so promising—only God knows about the result!” When the seeds are full of sweetness and sap, the fruit too will be juicy and sweet.

Set out. Now don’t sit and brood. Thinking often turns into laziness. People who think too much forget how to move. That is why philosophers accomplish nothing; thinking and thinking, they lose their lives. There is no chance left to do anything—no time remains, no energy remains.

I have heard: in the First World War a philosopher was enlisted. There was need in the war; everyone was being drafted, so he too was taken. But there was great difficulty: the instructor was at his wits’ end. He would say, “Left turn!” The whole world would turn, and he would stand where he was. “Why are you standing?” He said, “Not until I have thought through why I should turn left. After all, what is the benefit of turning left? And then if I’m made to turn right, why not just stand here?”

At last the instructor despaired. “You are no use. If you keep thinking so much, what will happen on the battlefield? Such thinking is not for a soldier. But now that you’ve been enlisted, we must give you some work.”

So they sent him to the mess hall, to do something there. On the very first day he was given peas: “Put the big ones to one side, the small ones to the other.” An hour later, when the instructor came by, the peas were as they had been, and he sat with his hand to his forehead—like Rodin’s statue, The Thinker.

“What are you doing? You haven’t done anything?”

He said, “That is exactly what I am pondering. Put the big ones on one side, the small ones on the other—but some are medium; where should they go? And until every matter is clarified, any action is fraught with danger. I am a man of thought.”

Gautam, there is no need to be a philosopher. Now drop the worry about meditation. The note that can harmonize with you has already been struck. Now set forth. Now, filled with faith, with trust. Put thinking aside—now run.

Auspicious is the hour when the feeling begins to grow dense that now something can happen. In a human life the most significant hour is this very hour, when trust arises that now something can happen.
Otherwise, ordinarily, trust never arises that anything—and to me—could happen. And that distrust has its reason: for lives upon lives nothing has happened; how could it suddenly happen today? Through endless time it did not happen—how will it happen now?
That is why the most important event in this world, from which other important events begin, is the advent of this moment when you feel: yes, something can happen to me.
This is why people do not trust Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ—because it seems to them: if it cannot happen to us, how could it have happened to anyone? After all, we too are human—made of bone, flesh and marrow. As you were—whether Mahavira, or Buddha, or Krishna, or Christ. We too were born; you too were born. We too are moving toward death; you too died. We feel hunger; you felt it too. Our bodies wither and age; so did yours. Our backs have bent; yours will bend, yours once bent.
Then where is the difference? Humans like us! It did not happen to us; that impossible event never took place for us; the sky did not descend into our life. Our courtyard only kept shrinking. We never had the sight of the open sky. Our windows kept closing. Never a clear light, never a glimpse of the sun—so how could it have happened to you? Either you are deceiving, or you are deluded, or you are merely talking—or you are seeing a dream.
Bear in mind: the day trust arises in you that it can happen to me, that very day, for the first time, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ cease to be mythic and become historical. In that instant the whole of history becomes new, as if rewritten for you. For the first time you can trust those in whose lives a glimpse of the divine appeared, a reflection descended, in whom in some way the radiance of the divine manifested. The day you trust yourself is the very day you trust Krishna, Mahavira, Buddha.
People do not trust God because they do not trust themselves. The real atheism of the atheist is self-distrust. He says there is no God because within, when there is no trace of the divine—not a ray, not a glimmer, not even a ripple in dream—how can God be?
God is there in the very moment when you begin to be within yourself.
It is an auspicious hour. But remember, this hour will come and go many times. So when it goes, don’t be frightened, don’t be sad. For it is a far-off glimpse—like a flash of lightning in the sky by which you see a distant Himalayan peak; then the lightning is gone and there is dense darkness again. And remember, when darkness comes after lightning it feels denser than the darkness before it.
So those in whose life this blessed moment comes, who feel now something can happen, are also in a very risky state. It is necessary to warn them. For this is a flash of lightning; it will vanish. Many times it will come within grasp, many times it will slip away. And when it slips you will fall into such bottomless darkness as you have never known.
But if you remain alert and remember that this is how it goes, you will pass even through those dark nights. And what has now happened like a lightning-flash will one day happen like the morning sun. First a glimpse comes, then the glimpse becomes clearer; then the glimpse is no longer a glimpse—it becomes your sure experience. Then even experience is transcended; the divine no longer feels like an experience—it becomes your very self, your nature.

Sweet export and import—you are practicing the play of both.
In a twinkling you had gone far; with each blink the union grows, moment by moment.
In losing you there is sorrow; in finding you, there is festival today.
The earth finds its edge, the sky reveals its kingdom.

But keep in mind—
Sweet export and import—you are practicing the play of both.
In a twinkling you had gone far; with each blink the union grows, moment by moment.

One moment it seems so close; the next, so far. One moment within the reach of your hand; the next, impossible—utterly impossible. This will happen many times.

In losing you there is sorrow; in finding you, there is festival today.
The earth finds its edge, the sky reveals its kingdom.

So do not be afraid. This glimpse is a blessing.
But with those in whose life blessings arrive, dangers of equal measure arrive too. When you have nothing, there is nothing to lose. When there is something, there is also something to lose. The more you have, the more you are in danger, because you have that much more to lose.
A young man came six months ago. A month after arriving he took sannyas and asked me, “May I go back home?” I said, “You can go.” But he did not go; he stayed another month. Then he asked again, “May I go?” I said, “Now it is not right to go.”
He was a little startled. He said, “A month ago you said I could go; now you say it’s not right—what’s the matter? I thought after a month I would be more prepared, more fit to go.”
I said, “When you asked a month ago, you had nothing to lose. So I said, go—nothing would have mattered. Now you have something to lose. A little sprout has emerged. Now I say, don’t go. Stay a little longer. Let it become strong. Let its roots go deeper. Otherwise you will fall into a misery deeper than you ever knew.”
Do you know? One man is poor—poverty is his. Then there is a rich man who has gone bankrupt—he too is poor. Both have nothing. But you cannot gauge the poverty of the one who has gone bankrupt by the poverty of the one who has always been poor. How poor is the poor man, really! One who has never been rich can have no real sense of poverty. The one who has been rich knows the pain of poverty very deeply. Only he who has known days of affluence knows what hard times are. The one who has never known affluence sleeps merrily under his blanket even in hard times; for him there is nothing like “hard times”—it is simply ordinary life.
So it is with inner wealth as well.
To the friend who has asked: a very significant event is nearing in your life; it is already happening. The first ray has descended.
Be alert! Because with this first ray, when darkness comes again it will be very deep. You will be greatly tormented then.

In your losing there is sorrow; in your finding, today
the earth comes upon its edge, the sky upon its secret.
A sweet commerce of outflow and inflow—you play at both;
in a tinkling instant you had gone far, and with each blink the union grows.

The Divine will give you much such sun and shade. He will come close many times and go far many times. It is a game of hide-and-seek. In just this way he makes you strong, gives you strength. In just this way he gives you life. In just this way your maturity comes. Thus—meeting and losing, losing and meeting—passing you again and again through sun and shade, he ripens you; makes you mature. He gives you adulthood. A oneness comes into your life.

And a moment comes when whether he is found—fine; not found—fine; in every condition you are joyful. The dark night is his, and the day of the glittering sun is his as well. When you can find no trace of him, even then you know he is. And when there is trace, even then you know he is. In that moment the play of sun and shade ends.

For now, danger will come. It is wise to forewarn you.

There is heat in longings, but no zeal in hopes;
without you, even the hottest bazaars are cold.
Life is a continual affliction without you,
each breath a moving sword without you.

And for now, when you lose, it will feel—
each breath a moving sword without you,
life a continual affliction without you.

It will be a great difficulty, such as never was. But this difficulty comes only to the fortunate. Such a hard day comes only to those who have begun to receive a slight glimpse of the Divine.

Your feet are falling rightly on the ground. But you will still wander. Nothing happens so quickly. And having found, when you wander, you will weep much. In those tears, remember. In those tears, keep your trust intact.

Right now trust is easy. When things are going well, trust is absolutely easy. When everything begins to go wrong, then trust is difficult.

But the one who accepts the challenge of that difficulty—growth happens in his life.

Our bond, yours and mine, is this: you are honey-filled, and I a thirsty heart.
You hold the wealth of the unfathomable ocean,
I bear the thirst of the boundless desert.
I, with age-old restless doubts;
you, with serene, unwavering trust.
I need you; you have need of me.
I carry the sigh of life,
you carry life’s delight.
Meeting you, I set out to become whole—this alone is my introduction.
Our bond, yours and mine, is this: you are honey-filled, and I a thirsty heart.

We are thirsty. We are hungry. We are unsatisfied—a parched heart. And within the Divine is hidden that nectar, that ambrosia, which will satiate us. The relationship between the Divine and us is like that between the thirsty and water.

Now the lake has come into view, but from afar. There is still much possibility that you will again come under the screen of trees. Perhaps even as you walk toward the lake, many times the trees will come between and the lake will be lost. Even as you walk toward the lake, many times it will be visible, many times it will be lost.

When it is lost, do not forget that it is. For when it is visible, it is absolutely easy to believe that it is. When it is lost, it is very arduous to believe that it is. Do not then grow sad or despairing; do not sit down, tired.

What has happened in this moment—make it your ever-stored treasure. This trust that has arisen, that now something can happen—do not forget it. Whatever happens, whatever the circumstance, awaken it again and again. Remember it. Let it not slip from your memory.

Then that which has come like a glimpse now becomes your lasting wealth.

Things are moving even while you are disturbed; they will move all the better when you are peaceful. After all, peace is no obstacle to work. If you manage even in restlessness, then in peace you will manage with far greater skill. It’s simple arithmetic.

A person is agitated and doing a task—this means agitation is consuming a great deal of energy. The mind’s tension is drinking your power. Still you somehow drag the work along and get it done. Now think a little: when you are at peace and all your energy is available to the work—no mental holding back, no restlessness, no tension, no worry—when you pour yourself wholly into it, the pace will increase, skill will increase, quality will increase.

Why does this question arise at all? Because you have been taught that those who become peaceful run away from the world. Hence a fear of sannyas, a fear of peace. This fear is utterly baseless.

I say to you: perhaps the unquiet run away from the world; why would the peaceful flee? What need would a peaceful person have to escape? The peaceful one will actually enjoy standing in the midst of the surrounding turmoil—because there the touchstone is. Moment by moment the trust will deepen that however much unrest rages outside, it no longer enters within. “I am enthroned in an impregnable fortress. My peace is unbroken. Nothing can throw it into disarray. My peace is no longer so weak that it can be shattered; nothing can make my mind wobble. I pass through all tests, and my peace grows ever deeper, ever stronger.”

No—I tell you, whatever a peaceful person does, their skill in it will increase.

But this does not mean I am saying a peaceful person will keep doing everything you are doing now. There are some things only an unquiet mind can do, because their very root is in disturbance. If a man is stealing, I cannot say a peaceful person will be able to steal. If he could, he would do it skillfully; but he cannot—because theft requires a very dull, debilitated consciousness; a disturbed, deranged mind. A peaceful person will not be able to be angry. If he could, he’d do it with great skill—but he won’t be able to, because anger’s root is in unrest. But the natural works of life will become more skillful.

A peaceful person will be a better husband, a better wife, a better son, a better father, a better friend. In the life of a peaceful person, whatever can coexist with peace will become better—golden and fragrant. Even the gold will carry a fragrance.

So I am not saying that everything of yours will be saved. I am saying: what is worth saving will remain. What is not worth saving—what you yourself don’t truly want to keep—only that will be lost. It’s not a costly bargain. The costly bargain is the one you are making now by choosing unrest.

“When the mind becomes completely quiet, how will worldly affairs get done?”
The mind is looking for excuses. The mind says, “Don’t become quiet. What are you doing? Meditating? Digging up my roots? Everything will go wrong.”

As far as the mind is concerned, yes—everything will go wrong. The mind is speaking truthfully, because the mind is your disease, your illness. If you are ambitious, ambition will go. If you are crazed with competition, competition will go. If you are busy amassing the unnecessary, that madness will drop.

So the mind is speaking aptly—but the mind is not worried about the world; it’s worried about itself. It’s saying, “What will happen to me? You’re starting to become peaceful—spare a thought for me! I’ve been with you so long.” It is as if you begin taking medicine and the illness protests, “At least think about me—what will become of me? You’ve started taking the medicine? After I’ve stayed with you for ages upon ages? You traitor! What are you doing? Everything will be ruined.”

But you don’t listen to the illness. You have not yet recognized the mind as illness. You think the mind is you. That is the mistake. You are not the mind. You are the witness beyond the mind. The supreme bliss of that witnessing flowers in peace. In peace the mind subsides; you remain. Many of the mind’s enterprises—pathological ones that have given you nothing but suffering—will also go; and their going is beneficial.

The mind always obstructs meditation, because meditation is the death of the mind. The mind coaxes:

I’ve lost so much—let me lose even more.
Let me stray still further.
Today my eyes have slipped into the coy shade of the eyelids;
let me sleep.
I’ve lost so much—let me lose even more.
Today, in the charming shadow of my lashes,
let me sleep.

But what you take to be the lovely shade of the eyelids is the very source of your fever and heat. What you call beauty has made your life ugly. And what you think is your strength is in fact your impotence, your weakness. See it clearly.

And if you worry, “If I become peaceful, what will happen to the world?”—please don’t. There are plenty of unquiet people. Your going will cause no inconvenience. There are enough madmen. Don’t get anxious, “If I get well, what will become of the madhouse?” It has always run; it will go on running.

This world is all colors and springtimes—
why worry, O cupbearer!
Your assembly never runs empty:
some have risen and gone, others have arrived.

This gathering stays full.
Your assembly never runs empty:
some have risen and gone, others have arrived.

So don’t hesitate to get up and leave. Some are standing outside, shouting, “Make room!” They’re in a queue. Move aside—they’ll be delighted. They’ll thank you. That’s why people welcome the sannyasin! “Ah, at least one seat is free.” That is why people sing the glory of the renunciate and touch his feet: “Blessed sir! At least you vacated a place.”

You’ll often find the indulgent praising the renunciates. Look in the Jain temples! Those who left the world, and those clinging to it are touching their feet, saying, “Great grace of yours.” Perhaps they themselves don’t see it clearly—but what’s the matter? The truth is, they were competitors. The fewer competitors left on the field, the better.

The worldly have always praised the renunciates. But that praise is certainly false, half-hearted; not genuine. If it were real, they would themselves become renunciates. It’s a strange thing: the indulger touches the renunciate’s feet. If the reverence were true, he would himself renounce. The praise is hollow: “You’ve done us a great favor, giving up the hassle.”

When a politician retires from Delhi, the other politicians hold a farewell. “Giri-saheb, you’re off to Bangalore! Much obliged! And don’t come back. Settle in Bangalore—the climate is lovely. What’s there in Delhi anyway?” One less in the queue; we move a little forward. On such hopes people live.

Don’t worry about what will happen to the world. It was doing quite well without you; it will do quite well without you.

This world is all colors and springtimes—
why worry, O cupbearer!
Your assembly never runs empty:
some have risen and gone, others have arrived.

Just take care of yourself. And I can assure you of this: whatever is auspicious will remain. Whatever is truly beneficial will remain. Whatever is inauspicious will fall away. In my view the definition of sin and virtue is this: that which a peaceful mind cannot do—that is sin; that which requires an unquiet mind as a necessary condition—that is sin. That which only a peaceful mind can do—that is virtue; that which requires peace as its very ground—that is virtue.

Virtue will remain. The skillfulness of virtue will remain. Sin will fall away. Hell will drop; heaven will remain. Bondages will fall; freedom will be attained. Liberation will abide—and in it your skill will grow.

You will not repent. You will never look back and think, “What a mistake it was to become peaceful.” No one has ever said that. Through the ages countless people have become peaceful—an endless line—and not one among them has said, “I regret it.”

But in these same ages, many times more people have remained unquiet—and they have always said, “We missed something. A mistake was made. Somewhere the string of life snapped. The veena never played, the flute never sang. We came empty and depart empty.”

Without exception, those who remained unquiet have repented.
Without exception, those who became peaceful have called it blessed, a great good fortune.

That’s all for today.