Jin Sutra #53

Ordinarily, no one knows where they are going. They are certainly going—moving with speed, with force—but it is not clear where to. Nor is there any clear sense of where they are coming from.
Let alone where you come from or where you are headed—even who you are is not known. Who is this within you that is walking, living, enjoying pleasure, suffering pain, becoming anxious, meditating—who is hidden within you?
The human condition is very distracted. Even the state of animals and birds is better. They too don’t know who they are or where they are going. Man’s paradox is that he knows at least this much: that he does not know who he is! He knows at least this much: that he does not know where he is going.
Animals and birds move as if unconscious. Man is not awake; he hangs between unconsciousness and awareness. Man is in a Trishanku state—suspended. And there are only two ways to pass beyond this human state: either fall back into unconsciousness—which is impossible. Become animal or bird again—which is impossible. You cannot return to any earlier stage of evolution. What has been known cannot be made unknown again. You may stop going forward, but you cannot go back. You can get stuck—and that stuckness becomes your restlessness and disquiet.
So there are only two ways: either total unconsciousness, such that even the knowing “I don’t know who I am” is not there; not even the memory of unconsciousness remains; not a single ray of awareness.
People try for this. They drink to forget everything. That attempt is an effort to become animal again. Or they run after wealth, after position—those too are intoxicants; in them one tries to forget oneself, but cannot. How long will alcohol help? In the morning memory returns—deeper, sharper, with an even keener edge.
The race for position, the race for wealth, the race for fame breaks someday. That intoxication too is uprooted someday. One day, upon reaching a high post, you see: where have you reached? You walked so far, and arrived nowhere. One day, after accumulating wealth, it becomes clear that what you have amassed will remain outside. Within, we remained empty. That adding added up to nothing. If that wealth cannot be yours, how can it be “wealth”? Death will snatch it away; what can be snatched is misfortune, not fortune.
One option is to go back—but that cannot be. It is a false option, an illusion. The path does not go back; it only appears so—appears so because we have come from there.
You know what happened yesterday, and the day before—though you cannot return there. Where you have a sense of, you cannot go back. You must go into the tomorrow that you do not yet know. You must go into the future, the unknown. The known, the past—you cannot return there. Time cannot be wound backwards. You can turn a clock’s hands back, but not life’s. You may turn the clock; you cannot turn life. Yet familiarity is with what has passed, with what will never be again. And there is no familiarity with what is going to be.
Animality is the past of humanity; it is familiar. That is why a person drinks. That is why one runs after position and wealth. One finds a thousand ways to forget—be it wine, or sex, or music—seeking some way to drown that little ray of awareness: let even this small lamp go out, let darkness become dense; at least the inner conflict will cease! Let only darkness remain. The nonduality of darkness—if nothing else—at least let there be oneness. Let the dilemma of two be gone. But this does not happen. Try as you may to extinguish this ray, it will not go out.
So the second way—and it is the only way—is to become totally aware. Just as there is a kind of ease in total unconsciousness because it is an unbroken nonduality of darkness, so in total awareness there is supreme bliss, the great joy; it too is an unbroken unity. No darkness remains within. All inner darkness is finished.
So when you come to me, even you are not clear why you have come. You are not clear what will happen. You are not clear where I will take you. It cannot be clear—because we only know what has already happened. You cannot know what has not yet happened.
This is the meaning of a true Master: what is your future is his past. What you are yet to become, he has already become.
Understand this well. The whole meaning of “true Master” is just this: your future is his past. He himself cannot go back into his past, but he can give you a glimpse of your future. He has traveled the path you still have to walk. He has become a flower; you are still a seed. How can the seed possibly know?
It is rightly asked: "When I first met you for the very first time, I knew nothing at all."
If you had known something, first of all, meeting me would have been difficult. Because those who know do not come here. Those who think they know—their conceit won’t allow them to come. Their knowledge itself is the obstacle. If there were real knowing, that would be fine. There isn’t even knowing; there is only the delusion that one knows. You have read the Gita, the Quran, the Dhammapada; you have memorized Mahavira’s sayings. Yet there is no knowing at all. Mahavira might have known, but by memorizing Mahavira’s words you will not know. Krishna might have known, but by committing the Gita to memory you will not know.

Only when it becomes your living experience will you know.

Therefore, scripture can give knowledge—and that knowledge can become an obstacle. Awakening is obtained only from the shasta, not from the shastra. Shasta means a living scripture. Find someone in whom it has happened. Only through such a person will the meaning and import of the scriptures open for you.

And if you want to find such a person, the first condition is to drop the delusion of your knowledge. Meeting the master is not possible at all if the disciple has even the slightest notion that “I know.” The more you “know,” the thicker the wall will remain—the thicker the screen will remain. Disciple means the declaration, “I do not know.” The declaration, “I am ignorant.”

When you accept your ignorance before someone, you become ready—prepared—for revolution. You have set the ego aside.
The question has been asked by Taru. There was a danger; because before coming to me she had kept company with pundits. She had gone to sadhus and sannyasins. She had listened to swamis’ discourses. There was a danger. She had knowledge. But she gathered courage and consented to be ignorant. From that very courage the happening occurred.
There was the fear that she would cling to her knowledge. Had she held on to what she had heard and understood, a meeting with me would not have been possible.
There are many who even while staying near me will still miss me. If even the slightest wall of knowledge remains, I may go on shouting here, but my voice will not reach you. I may explain to you day after day, and you will go on missing day after day. I may repeat myself again and again, and you will become more and more deaf. When the ears are stuffed with knowledge, they cannot hear. When the eyes are filled with knowledge, they cannot see.
In accepting ignorance there is an innocence.
It was difficult. Taru knew. She knew many things. And it is very difficult to set aside what you think you know. That is what I call renunciation. Renouncing wealth, position, prestige—these are nothing; the renunciation of knowledge is the real renunciation. Nothing swells the ego as much as knowledge. Nothing gives such a stiffness, makes the spine so hard and stony, as knowledge does.
When she could drop it, the path to receiving opened. When she could bow, the way to be filled appeared.
She has asked: “I have no idea from where to where you have taken me.” Because what she must have come thinking of, I did not take her there. For whatever you come thinking of is bound to be wrong. You come with your “mind,” and your thinking is only a reflection of your past—how could it be otherwise? Whatever you come thinking of is just a repetition of your past. You will ask only for what you have already known. What you have known before, you will ask for again, a little improved. The pleasures you have tasted, you will ask for again with slight trimming and revision.
How will you ask for the new? That which you have neither known nor lived—how will you ask for it?

Therefore even one who knows a little, who understands a little, gets into trouble. His prayer becomes tainted. The shadow of his knowledge falls upon his worship. The purity of his worship is pressed down by the blackness of his knowledge.

So when you go to the temple, when you worship, when you pray—do not ask for anything. Because whatever you ask will be wrong. Whatever you ask can only be wrong. If only you knew what was right, there would be no need to go to the temple at all.

You do not know what is right; therefore error will be inherent in your asking. You will ask for the same things you have always asked for. You will keep circling the same paths you have always trod, like the bullock of the oil-press.

So if there is a little understanding, do not ask. Stand with your bowl open—do not ask. Stand with your heart open—do not ask. Do not say, “Give this, give that.” Say only this: “The bowl is open. If You give, we will receive with joy, with a sense of wonder. If You do not give, we will understand that not-giving is also Your giving. If You keep the bowl empty, we will understand that this emptiness is our fullness. By emptiness You have filled our bowl. You want us to live in emptiness. Then we shall dance, hum, rejoice; we shall not ask.”

Remember: whoever asks in prayer, his prayer is spoiled. Because of the asking, prayer is no longer prayer. In prayer one offers oneself; one does not ask.

So those who come to me with the idea of getting something, the clearer their idea of what they want, the greater the obstacle. Their mind goes on echoing: “Not yet received, not yet received.” And what is being given, they cannot see—because their eyes are filled with their demand. They keep repeating their own demand. Demand blinds.

Taru asked for nothing. Whatever I told her, she did. I said, “Read the Gita,” she read the Gita. I said, “Read the Upanishads,” she read the Upanishads. I said, “Read the Jina-sutras,” she read the Jina-sutras. I said, “Read the Dhammapada,” she read the Dhammapada. I said, “Sing bhajans,” she sang bhajans. Whatever she was told, she did. She asked for nothing. She did not refuse what was asked. Simply, she placed herself in my hands. The results are natural—great results.

Thus it became possible for the journey to begin toward that which she had never even imagined, which she could never have asked for even in a dream.

When you no longer wish to repeat anything from the past, the new arrives. God is always new. Truth is always new. So new that no conception of it can be made. And once you taste the newness of truth, you drop all asking. Then a new perception arises: so much is being given—and we stand as beggars! We asked—therein lay our mistake.

Then even if you get what you ask for, gratitude does not arise. Because what you asked for, you think you earned. People, even in asking—if they ask for many days—slowly feel entitled. They think, “We prayed so much, therefore it came. Because we prayed!”

Even a beggar who cries on the roadside for half an hour—when you give, he hardly thanks you. He knows he has shouted and labored. And if you start giving daily, far from thanking you, if one day you don’t give, he will be angry.

I have heard about Rothschild—the Jewish tycoon. He used to give a beggar a hundred dollars on the first of every month. The beggar pleased him. One day he sat on the same bench in a garden; compassion arose. Rothschild had no shortage. He said, “Come on the first of every month and take a hundred dollars.” The beggar began to come as people go to collect their salaries. If he had to wait five or ten minutes, he would get annoyed and create a scene.

This went on for about ten years. One day he came, and the clerk who handed it out—Rothschild distributed to other beggars too; he gave away a lot—said, “From this date you will receive only fifty dollars.” He asked, “Why? I’ve always received a hundred—for years. What is this difference?” The clerk said, “Sir’s business is not running with much profit. And his daughter is getting married; there is great expense. So he has halved all charity.”

The beggar at once began pounding the table: “Call Rothschild! Where is he? He will marry his daughter with my money? He will cut a poor man’s money to splurge on his daughter’s wedding? Call him!”

Rothschild has written in his autobiography: I went, and I felt like laughing a lot. But I also understood one thing: this is exactly what I have been doing with God.

This is exactly what we all have done with God. We do not give thanks for what has been given. In those ten years he never once said thank you. But when fifty dollars were cut, he was angry, complaining, blazing. His fifty dollars are being cut?

If you ask—first, you will not receive. And it is good that you do not—because whatever you ask is wrong. You cannot ask rightly. You are wrong; from the wrong only wrong asking can arise. In a neem tree only neem’s bitter fruit can grow; there is no possibility of the mango’s sweet fruit. What is not in your roots cannot appear in your fruits. If you are wrong, whatever you ask will be wrong.

So first: you will not receive. And it is auspicious that you do not. It is God’s great compassion that what you ask is not granted. Sit sometime and consider: if whatever you had asked for had been given, into what trouble you would have fallen!

But sometimes it does happen that it is given. Even then, no thankfulness arises—no gratitude. And a prayer whose outcome is not gratitude is not prayer. The first taste of prayer is gratitude, and the final taste too is gratitude—a deep sense of grace.

So if behind a prayer the flavor of grace appears, understand that the prayer was right; it reached the heart of God. Whether it was fulfilled or not is not the question. If it gave birth to gratefulness, it was fulfilled.

So those who come to me—if they have some demand—first, the demand becomes a barrier; there will be no meeting with me. And even if they meet, and their demand is fulfilled, gratitude will not arise. It is impossible. And if gratitude does not arise, faith does not arise.

Forget God if you must, but do not forget gratitude. Because the accumulated sum of gratitude is what God is. The more you fill with the feeling of grace, the more the temple of God is constructed within you.

“I have no idea from where to where you have taken me. Solitude now feels delightful.” If solitude begins to feel delightful, prayer has begun.

Why does solitude not feel delightful to us? We call solitude “loneliness.” We don’t call it aloneness, we call it loneliness. In loneliness you feel the lack of the other. The other should be there—but is not. Loneliness means complaint. Loneliness means that you are experiencing the absence of the other’s presence. When you say, “I feel lonely,” what does it mean? It means the other is absent and his absence hurts.

Loneliness is negative; solitude is affirmative.

Solitude means: there is joy in one’s own being. Loneliness means: the absence of the other gives pain. The absence of the other pricks. Solitude means: sap is flowing in the joy of being.

When a lonely person sits in a room, he is enveloped in sadness. And when one is in solitude, there is an aura of bliss all around.

In the dictionary both words have the same meaning; but in the lexicon of life there is a great difference. So don’t rely too much on dictionaries. Those who know language very well are often deprived of life. If you look in a dictionary you will find “solitude,” “alone,” “lonely”—all as one meaning. The dictionary’s realm is a blind marketplace: “Dark city, foolish king—a penny a pound for greens, a penny a pound for sweets.” Everything sells at one price.

Life’s lexicon is very different. The distances are subtle. Mahavira is in solitude; you, when left to yourself, are lonely. When you are alone you think where to find the other—wife, husband, friend, son, father, brother, society—how to find the other? The truth is: as long as the other is present, you do not remember the other. You remember the other only when you are lonely.

In your loneliness a great crowd stands. The dictionary-maker cannot see that crowd, because it is subtle, of the mind. Go sit on a mountain. You will not go alone. You will appear alone, but inside a crowd will be moving.

When Bayazid first went to his master, he bowed at his feet and said, “I have come—leaving all—alone, at your feet.” The master said, “Stop this nonsense. Leave the crowd outside and then come.” He turned back to see if someone had followed him. No one was there. In that mosque the master sat alone. He looked around. The master said, “Don’t look here and there. Close your eyes—look there.”

Frightened, he closed his eyes. Certainly, there stood the crowd. The wife he had left behind weeping was still weeping. The children he had bid goodbye to, asking their forgiveness to let him go, were still sobbing. The friends he had told at the edge of the village, “Do not follow me; leave me alone,” had come along—if not outside, then inside. Inside there was a crowd. Bayazid saw the master was right. I have brought the crowd, and I say I have come alone!

To be alone is a great attainment—but that aloneness means solitude. When joy begins to arise in being with oneself, solitude showers. When does joy arise in aloneness? Only when a glimpse of God begins to come; otherwise it doesn’t. Joy in aloneness comes only when, in truth, you are not alone—God surrounds you.

There was a famous Christian mystic woman—Teresa. One day she announced in the village that she was going to build a great church. People laughed. She was a mendicant. She had nothing. They asked, “What do you have? How will you build a church? Churches don’t descend from the sky. And you—so we hear—you want it to be the most beautiful church in the world! Have you found some treasure?”

She pulled out two coins and said, “This is what I have.” People laughed. “We always suspected you were mad. A church with two coins?” She said, “These two coins, myself, and God. Why do you forget Him? He who surrounds me—include Him in the sum. With only two coins and Teresa a church cannot be built, true. But Teresa, two coins, and God—now say, will the church be built or not? Am I mad, or are you?”

But their point of view also made sense. Their arithmetic was clean. They saw only two coins and poor Teresa. That God who surrounded her—only she could see. The church was built. And they say one of the most beautiful churches in the world was built. On the spot where Teresa showed those two coins, the church stands as proof that if God is with you, you are not alone.

Alone yet not alone, if God is with you. Without God, you are lonely even in a crowd. Friends, beloveds, relatives, kin—have you noticed—does loneliness ever end? Shoulder to shoulder in a crowd, yet lonely. A man in a crowd is still lonely. A devotee even alone is not alone.

So if in solitude joy begins to arise—fragrance comes, incense seems to be burning, sap begins to flow—this is an auspicious sign. It means that even in aloneness there is no loneliness. Even in aloneness there is a fullness. Even alone there is no emptiness, no absence; rather, there is the experience of an unmanifest, invisible Presence.

“Now solitude feels delightful.”

Call it meditation, call it prayer—both begin when solitude becomes delightful.

“Now there is nowhere to go or to come; nothing to become, nothing to know!” And now there is no need either. To go and come, to know and to become—this is all running. It all takes you outward. When one begins to sink within, nothing remains to know, nothing remains to become. The running is gone. One has returned home. The moment of rest has come. A pause.

We have no taste of this pause, therefore there is danger. The danger is that the mind begins to think: “What are you doing, just sitting? Do something.” The old habits of the mind are strong, the conditioning deep. It can start weaving again. Therefore be alert.

Accept the pause, rest—but do not let relaxation become carelessness. If carelessness enters relaxation, the mind’s games are very ancient. The mind can invent some new game. The mind always wants to be busy: do something, become something, get something. The mind is a beggar’s bowl that never fills. Keep dropping something in—the bowl remains empty. The mind is a mendicant.

And when there is nowhere to go, nothing to become, and you sit silent, the mind will be very restless. Be watchful. Otherwise the mind can shatter the solitude you have created. A light breeze fills a still lake with ripples; a slight draft makes the lamp flame tremble. A slight gust of the mind can now be dangerous.

Therefore Mahavira has said: even when meditation is accomplished—even when there is no need for shukla-dhyana—still keep practicing the twelve reflections. Mahavira says: even when samadhi is attained, do not be in a hurry, because the mind’s deceits are very ancient. Who knows where it is hiding—what cavern of the unconscious—where it has made a little place for itself; from there it may slowly start trouble again, sprout again.

Have you seen? We uproot weeds and throw them away—the ground looks clean. Don’t conclude so soon. Last year’s seeds will have fallen. The rains will come, and weeds will appear again. Gardeners say: if weeds are allowed to grow for one year, it takes twelve to eradicate them. The seeds become one with the soil; you don’t even notice them.

And it is strange: if you want to sow flowers, you must give manure, water, care—and still it’s not certain they will grow. But weeds—uproot, remove, burn them—and when the rains come, they grow again without manure, without gardener, without sun.

On the downhill, things happen by themselves; the uphill is difficult. On a descent, a man runs on his own; on an ascent, running is hard. Climbing requires labor.

So all upward journeys demand effort; downward journeys need none. Guard meditation; again and again it slips. Suppress lust, remove it, erase it—still it re-emerges. It is like weeds. Erase anger—after erasing and erasing, who knows when it will flare up again. Cultivate compassion—yet even while cultivating, who knows when it will slip from your hands.

Draw this conclusion: whatever seems to take care of itself without being cared for—be cautious; it is likely to be weeds. And whatever, even when carefully tended, keeps slipping away—make your full effort there, because there the treasure is hidden, there the hoard of gold is, there is life’s upward journey, the ascent, the pilgrimage.

“Who knows where my little boat sails today,
It sails, it sails—my boat sails!
Some say here it sails, some say there it sails,
I said: it sails to the Beloved’s village.”

Others cannot see; therefore one says “here,” another says “there.” Someone says, “Taru has gone mad.” Someone says, “Her brain has turned, she’s crazed.” Someone says, “She used to be very intelligent; she has lost her mind. She used to be sensible; she’s lost all sense, all social decorum.”

So someone will say this, someone that. In those moments, remember within only this: “I say: it sails to the Beloved’s village.” Because if you forget the Beloved even a little, people’s words may start to seem meaningful. For what people are saying is exactly what you yourself used to think in the past. So feelings similar to what they say lie somewhere deep within you too. When someone says to someone, “Have you gone mad?” it’s not the saying that has the effect. If the person becomes anxious, it is because he too thinks, “Who knows—perhaps I have gone mad!”

Just yesterday I received a letter. A couple took sannyas and went back. Simple folk from the mountains—the innocence of the hills. Both went in great ecstasy. But because they went in such ecstasy, the villagers thought their minds had gone wrong—both together! The relatives forced treatment upon them. Yesterday I received a letter: “We are lying in the hospital. When we laugh, they say, ‘Be quiet, don’t laugh. What is there to laugh at?’ Injections are being given, tranquilizers. We say, ‘We already feel a blissful, natural sleep. We are happy; we sing and dance. We are not mad.’ But no one in the village is ready to accept it. The more we explain that we are not mad, they say, ‘That’s exactly what every mad person says. Does any madman ever admit it? You be quiet. We know.’”
He asks: Now even I have started to doubt—what if these people are the ones who are right? So what should I do now?
Our past too has been lived in just such arguments. For lifetimes our ways of seeing have been like this. So when someone says, “Go this way,” and someone else says, “Go that way,” it becomes very hard inside to remember, “I am going to the Beloved’s village.” Because this Beloved is a very new meeting, and those who are saying “here” or “there” are old acquaintances. Their language is familiar; the Beloved’s language is not.

Is there even such a thing as the Beloved’s village? Even the one to whom it starts becoming visible begins to doubt. For those who do not see it at all, doubt is only natural. But even the one to whom the Beloved’s village appears clearly—their temple spires gleaming in the sun—he too wonders, “Am I only imagining?” Because those spires cannot be shown to others. This is the difficulty.

Even if the husband sees, he cannot show it to his wife. The wife says, “If there are spires and a Beloved’s village, then let me see them too. If five elders can see it, then it is true. What does it matter if only you see it? You’ve fallen into some web of imagination. You have some mental confusion. Your intellect, your discrimination, your capacity for reasoning has weakened. Under what spell have you fallen? How can something be visible to you that no one else can see?”

So the person who does see the Beloved’s village becomes very alone in this world. And this world is very democratic: even truth here is decided by the crowd. How many people believe it—that determines whether it is true or not.

You will become alone the day the Beloved’s village begins to appear to you. That day you will be so alone that doubt will start arising in you yourself: “Who knows? Perhaps I am in error. Perhaps I am deluded.” At that time, remember: it asks for great effort, great trust.

Keep this in remembrance. Keep repeating it inwardly. Do not worry too much about what people say. There is only one touchstone: if joy is arising in you, then do not bother whether it is illusion or truth. Because joy is the goal. I want to tell you that even if illusion were to give joy, then throw “truth” into the trash. Because joy cannot arise from illusion.

This is why, in defining Brahman, we finally said: sat-chit-ananda. Joy is the last word. Sat, chit, ananda—the last word is ananda. Wherever joy is arising for you, let the world say what it will; do not worry. Take your joy as the touchstone. Only then will you reach the Beloved’s village. Otherwise a thousand obstacles stand in between. The whole world will pull you back.

And the world’s pulling you back is not without cause. When the Beloved’s village becomes visible to even one person, he becomes a cause of anxiety for all the rest. If he is right, then we are all wrong. If someone says, “I have had the vision of God,” and he is right, then what of these four billion people? If Buddha is right, then what of these four billion fools? They must be wrong. Fools do not like this. Who wants to accept himself as a fool? So the four billion gather as a crowd and say, “Buddha must be mistaken.”

That is why Jesus is crucified. Socrates is given hemlock. Stones are thrown at Buddha and Mahavira. This is not without reason; there is a deep cause behind it. The cause is: if you are right, then we are wrong—and to accept that we are wrong is hard. We are many, you are alone. You arise only once in a while. You are the exception; we are the rule.

Thus psychologists count madmen and buddhas in the same category. Both are “abnormal.” Both are not “normal,” something is off. The madman is called abnormal—and so are Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna. They are not the rule; they are exceptions.

If psychologists had their way, they would treat buddhas and cure them. This is happening. In the West there are people today locked in asylums who, in earlier days, would have become buddhas—who would have been honored, who would have become Kabir, Dadu, Nanak. Today they are confined in madhouses. Buddha and Mahavira were fortunate to have left early; otherwise, today they would have faced great difficulties. They slipped away smoothly.

In the West even now books are written proving that Jesus’ mind was disturbed—neurotic. And if you read the psychologist, his point will also make sense to you. For this is a man who looks toward the sky and says, “Father!”—which father? Ask him, “Which father? Where is he?” He points his hand to the sky. No one else sees him. You all lift your heads—no one sees any father.

So should we trust this one man’s eyes? Should we doubt the eyes of us all? And if we accept that he is right, then we are wrong. Then what shall we do to become right? What remedy is there? That will create even greater restlessness, even greater panic.

If Buddha is the standard, if Mahavira is the standard, then we are abnormal. We do not measure up to the standard, to the touchstone. Our lives are already full of anxiety; they will become even more anxious. And how will you make so many people healthy?

It seems much simpler to say that this one man has become a bit distorted, a bit unusual. If people are “good,” they compromise and say, “All right, you also be—no harm.” If they are even “better,” they say, “You are an avatar, a tirthankara; we will worship you—but do not disturb things. We accept you are God. We will remember you forever, but no interference. Sit upon this altar. We will come and worship, we will recite the scriptures—but do not come into the marketplace. Do not unnecessarily upset our lives. We are ordinary folk; you are an incarnate being. How can we be like you? Has anyone ever been like you? You are God’s descent upon this earth. Let us ordinary people live ordinarily.”

If people are “good,” they will do this. If they are a bit more aggressive, they will say, “Stop your nonsense! Your mind is sick.” They will hang you on a cross, make you drink poison. “You are mad.”

But the presence of a Buddha or Mahavira creates unease. Because only one of two can be right: either our vision is right, or his seeing is right. And it seems natural that our vision is right, because we are the crowd. We are filled through the centuries. Buddhas and Mahaviras appear once in a while like a comet—came and went. But trust the fixed stars of the night. These buddhas and mahaviras are like lightning—one flash and gone. Can you sit and read a book by the flash of lightning? Can you do the shop’s accounts? Can you write your ledgers? Of what use are they? Work has to be done by a lamp. Lightning may be vast and magnificent—but what is its use?

So when the first glimpses begin in your life, a great danger arises. Your past says, “Do not forget—do not fall into imagination.” Others also say, “One says she went here; one says she went there.” Your past too will say, “Where are you going? What are you doing? Beware! Be careful!”

“I said, I am going to the Beloved’s village.”
Keep this in constant remembrance. Make it a great mantra. What is the touchstone of the Beloved’s village? Only one: that your joy goes on increasing; your rapture grows; your oneness deepens; your mind and your heart no longer remain two, they become one; your thought and your feeling come together; non-duality within you increases.

There is one arrow by which both were pierced—
Gone are the days when my heart was separate from my liver.

One arrow of love by which heart and mind are joined—one arrow has pierced both.

There is one arrow by which both were pierced—
Gone are the days when my heart was separate from my liver.

If you feel that as you come closer to the Beloved’s village the fragments within you are falling into one another and becoming whole—that a personality broken into pieces is becoming undivided—then do not worry. Even if the whole world stands on one side, do not be concerned.

And only from this wholeness does the stream of joy flow. The more fragmented you are, the more miserable. The more whole, the more the stream of nectar flows. Trust that joy. And if joy keeps increasing, then even if the whole world calls you mad, accept it: “We are mad. But we are blissful.” Do not choose the world’s sorrow, anxiety, and turmoil because it says “reality is something else.” Take joy as reality.

Do not forget the definition of sat-chit-ananda. Vedanta wrote many scriptures on sat-chit-ananda, but hardly anyone asked the basic question: what is its original meaning? These are not only God’s qualities; they are also the seeker’s touchstone. As sat increases in you—sat means becoming undivided; as your being becomes your soul. As chit increases—your consciousness grows, your unconsciousness diminishes. And as ananda increases…

These are not only God’s attributes; they are the measures for the seeker’s path, the touchstone. As a goldsmith keeps a stone to test gold upon, keeps rubbing and testing—“Is it gold or not?”—keep testing yourself upon the stone of sat-chit-ananda. Whatever the experience—if it gives joy, if awareness grows, if truth grows, if the existence of your life strengthens, if strength comes, if the soul becomes dense, if you become more centered—then drop worry.

There is a famous prayer of the Upanishadic seers:
“Asato ma sad gamaya.
Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya.
Mrityor ma amritam gamaya.”
Lead me from the unreal to the real.
Lead me from darkness to light.
Lead me from death to immortality.

So wherever within you light increases and darkness decreases; wherever the fear of death lessens and the trust in immortality grows; wherever you feel the unreal is falling away and the real is increasing—then do not worry. Even if you are utterly alone, you are right.

And keep in mind: in this world truth does not belong to the crowd. Sometimes it belongs to solitary individuals—sometimes. It is unfortunate, but it is so. Now and then a rare, extraordinary person attains truth. The crowd follows the herd. The crowd is a slave to the rut. The crowd goes where others are going.

Mulla Nasruddin went to the mosque to pray. When he sat for namaz, a corner of his kurta was caught up in his dhoti, so the man behind him tugged it straight. Mulla thought perhaps tugging the kurta is a custom of this mosque. So he tugged the kurta of the man in front. The man asked, “Why are you pulling my kurta?” Mulla said, “Ask the fellow behind me. I don’t know. I thought it was the custom here.”

You have no idea how many people’s kurtas you are tugging—because someone tugged yours. You think it’s the custom here. Ninety-nine of the hundred things you do are simply because you see others doing them. Someone said, “Such-and-such film is doing well”—you go! Someone tugged your kurta. You stand in queues tugging someone else’s.

Will you ever live by your own intelligence? Fashions change like this. Ways of living keep changing. A notion gets going. Someone starts it, advertises it incessantly—and it gets going. This is why advertising has become so powerful. In the developed countries of the West, the thing that will come to market ten years later begins to be advertised ten years earlier. The thing has not even arrived; whether it will arrive is not certain. What is certain about ten years hence? But the work begins; the advertising begins. Because first the market has to be created.

How do you create a market? The old economists said, “Where there is demand, supply appears.” When people need something, someone arises to supply it. Now the condition has changed: first create demand. Whether demand exists or not—do not worry. Now it is like this: if supply exists, demand can be created.

In America, ten years ago they used to say, “Is a man even a man if he doesn’t own a car?” Now everyone has a car. What next? The factories must continue to run. So, “Every man should have at least two cars.” Until three years ago they said, “Is a man even a man if he doesn’t have a garage for two cars?” Then that too changed—because the factories must run. Now people have two cars. Now they say, “You should have a four-car garage.” The new year’s advertisements say, “You should have a four-car garage. Don’t have four cars? Are you even a man?” If you have only three, you’ll feel uneasy; you should have four.

Every man should have at least two homes—one in the city, one in the forest, or on a mountain, or by the sea.

Keep advertising loudly and people’s minds are captured. Their minds start moving. Just keep repeating in their heads that “it should be so.” The more you repeat, the more falsehoods begin to sound like truths. The “truths” you take to be truths are merely repeated falsehoods.

When the Upanishadic seers say, “Asato ma sad gamaya,” they are saying: These truths that are heard from outside—we have heard them enough. No truth comes from them. Now lead us to the real. These are only repeated lies. They have been repeated so long that people have begun to trust them.

Analyze a bit the arrangement and style of your life. Why do you wear such clothes? Why do you smoke a particular brand of cigarette? Why do you walk, sit, and move in a certain way? If you analyze, you will find you are only imitating. And the one who imitates never reaches God. He only gets pushed and jostled by the crowd.

This jostling the Indians have called avagaman—coming and going. He is born often, dies often, reaches nowhere. He keeps getting shoved about. Slowly he becomes so addicted to pushing and shoving that he cannot sit peacefully alone unless he is in a crowd. Only when the crowd is grinding him from all sides does he feel alive.

The path of truth is the path of the alone. It is the path of solitude. One has to go within. Whatever takes you outward will take you away from yourself. Whatever arouses a craving or thirst in your mind will take you far from your home.

So it is auspicious if such a feeling arises that there is nothing to get, nothing to become, nothing to know. Dive into this deep mood. Diving into it, that which is to be gotten is gotten; that which is to be known is known; that which is to be become is become.

“Come now, for now it is the seclusion of sorrow, the seclusion of sorrow—
Now even the sound of the heart’s beating is gone.”

These lines mean: now there is only the loneliness of sadness, aloneness. Now even the heart does not beat. Now come!

Surely this was said for some earthly love.

“Come now, for now it is the seclusion of sorrow, the seclusion of sorrow—”
Now there is only the desolation and loneliness of sadness left. Now there is no one even to keep company so much as the heartbeat. Even that companion is gone. Such deep aloneness has come—now even the sound of the heart’s beating is not there.

But the one who is going toward God, toward the Beloved’s house—his aloneness is not the seclusion of sorrow. His solitude is drenched in joy, brimming with wonder. It is dancing, blooming, fragrant.

The devotee does not say to God, “I am very sad, very miserable—come.” Why call him even in sorrow? The devotee says, “Look how I am dancing! See how I am humming! See how the flowers have blossomed—now come! See how intoxicated I am, how I am drunk on you! From afar I glimpse you and I am drowning in ecstasy. Now come.”

The devotee’s solitude is deeply joyous. There too the sound of the heart’s beating is not heard—because in joy it is drowned. All sounds drown in joy. In the ocean of love everything is submerged.

Remember, never call God in sorrow. Everyone calls in sorrow; that is why he does not come. Is sorrow any time to call? In sorrow everyone remembers, weeps and wails, “Come—I am so miserable.” But sorrow is not the hour for coming. Call in spring; call in happiness. And you will find he is on his way. As you are dancing, so is he, dancing, coming.

Union happens in joy. The happier you become, the easier union becomes. God too avoids the miserable—remember. Sorrow is distance. Who stands with whom in sorrow? Yet people call him only in sorrow. The cry of sorrow does not reach him—nor should it—because the cry of sorrow is dishonest. You are not calling God; you are calling pleasure. You say, “I am so unhappy—come, so that I may be a little happy.” You are waiting for pleasure. When you call God in happiness, you are calling God—because happiness has already arrived. When someone prays in happiness there is no demand in it. His prayer is free of asking—because what is there to ask? In sorrow you pray and petty demands arise.

The devotee says:
“If you say so, I will give my heart, my life, my very liver.
Though I am a beggar of love, do not think me destitute.”

Although I am a beggar of love, do not take me for a pauper! The devotee says to God: Granted I stand at your door to beg—but do not consider me poor.

“If you say so, I will give my heart, my life, my very liver.
Though I am a beggar of love—
Do not think me destitute.”

Love has a very unique world. There the devotee has gone to give. There the devotee has gone to offer himself. But you can give yourself only when you are. And you can offer only when you have something. If you have the flowers of joy, only then can you lay them at his feet. How long will you deceive yourself by plucking the flowers from trees? Those flowers are already laid at his feet. By plucking them from the tree, you are stealing them from his feet. You are not offering them—you are killing them. They were alive; you killed them. They were living, dancing in the winds—you snatched away their dance. They would have blossomed even more—you cut short their blossoming. You removed them from God’s feet and went and placed them on some dead stone idol in a temple. What a deception! Whom are you deceiving?

When you offer the flowers of your own joy—then they are truly laid at his feet. And then there is no need to go to any temple. Wherever you are, his feet will seek you there. If only your hands are filled with flowers, his feet will surely come seeking you.

What Jain philosophy says has no value. What the Jinas say has value. Jain philosophy was manufactured by the pundits. And the pundit is always inventing tricks. One old trick of the pundit has always been this: he keeps saying that what was possible in the past is no longer possible now.

Muslims say—the Muslim pundits—that there will be no more prophets. What was possible for Mohammed is not possible for anyone else now.

If that is so, then God seems very stingy, very miserly. He produced one Mohammed and was finished? He seems very barren. And unjust too—because he produced in one age and now no longer produces. This sounds pointless. There is another reason behind it.

The Muslim pundit does not want anyone else now to be accepted as a Mohammed, as a prophet. Because even one prophet created enough upheaval. It took so long just to gather him up, domesticate him, and make a tidy system of him; only then could they seize him. Only then could they bind him, put him in chains, and imprison him in the mosque. Only with great difficulty could they lock him into the book of the Quran. Now if someone else appears, everything will be in turmoil again. The pundit manages to assemble order only with great struggle.

Christians say that Jesus is the only begotten son of God. No second son—the only one! And then what are all these others? What is this whole existence if Jesus alone is the son? This entire existence is born of the same source. That father cannot be only Jesus’ father; he is everyone’s. Equally everyone’s.

And Jesus kept saying again and again that the father who is mine is yours too. But the Christian pundit repeats, “No—only begotten.” Why? Because with great difficulty he managed to arrange things over two thousand years. In two thousand years he succeeded in erasing Jesus—plastering over everything. Whatever possibility of revolution there was, he finished it. It took two thousand years to extinguish the ember of this one man, or at least to cover it with ash. Now if another ember appears, if someone makes a fresh proclamation, trouble will erupt again. The Jews killed Jesus precisely because this man had stirred up disorder.

An awakened person will inevitably be a rebel. An awakened person will speak in ways that will disturb a society of the blind. An awakened person will give a direction to life that will throw the crowd, moving in herd-fashion, into deep dilemma: What now?

Because an awakened person offers alternatives. And he offers an alternative society as well. He says, “This is not the only path you are walking. In fact, this is no path at all.” And the power of the awakened one, his magnetic force, throws all your arrangements into disarray. Wherever you have built your little nests, he knocks them down. Wherever you have devised clever tricks, he draws the very life out of those tricks. Wherever you have erected deceptions, he exposes them and leaves them naked. He breaks all your self-deceptions.

So the Christians say, and in their way it makes sense: “The last! Enough now. No more.” The Jains say, Mahavira was the twenty-fourth Tirthankara—finished! No further.

This urge to put a stop to things exists in almost all the religions of the world. But what has time to do with liberation? I grant this much: there are times when liberation is a little easier, and times when it is a little harder. But never is it impossible. There are indeed certain times when liberation is somewhat easier.

This is true of everything. In the rains, it is easy for trees to grow. In the heat of summer it becomes a bit difficult, but not impossible. If you arrange for water, they will grow even in summer—just so. There is no absolute hindrance.

In the journey of human life too there come many moments when liberation becomes easier. Especially in those moments when a person like Buddha or Mahavira attains liberation, he stands there with the door open. At that time, those who have even a little courage, a little daring, set out on the journey of liberation. If even in the presence of a person like Mahavira the courage is not born in you, then it is hard to hope that it will be born when you do not find such a person. Then you drift with the current. Mahavira is like a great wave. The wind is blowing toward the other shore—hoist your sail and let go; you don’t even have to row.

So there are favorable times and unfavorable times—that much is true. There are favorable lands and unfavorable lands. There is a favorable age and an unfavorable age. There are auspicious opportunities—if someone makes use of them, the happening can come quickly. There are difficult opportunities. But to say that in this ara it is impossible for anyone to attain liberation—that is nonsense. For to God all times are equal. And you will be surprised to know, this notion has existed in every age. The Jews said to Jesus, “You have not attained.” Not everyone accepted Mahavira as a Tirthankara. Only a very few accepted him. The majority said, “It’s all nonsense.” Not everyone accepted Buddha. The majority laughed and said, “It’s all talk, a web of imagination, poetry.”

Even in this time the happening can happen. Even now there are people who have attained liberation. It has never been the case that there were none who attained. Sometimes fewer, sometimes more—that much is true. Sometimes thousands at once; sometimes so few they can be counted on the fingers.

Today, they can be counted on the fingers—but the way is not blocked. It may be narrow, a little rough to walk, but it is open.
But the one who has asked—what would be the reason behind his asking? He has asked: “Jain philosophy says that in this āra (era) moksha is not possible.”
If even liberation depends on time, then what sort of liberation is that! Liberation means freedom. If freedom itself is conditional—that sometimes it can happen and sometimes it cannot—then liberation too becomes a bondage. The very meaning of liberation is that whenever one wants to attain it, one will. What is needed is the one who wants to attain—an indomitable longing to attain.
“Is this not precisely why, again and again, my samkit subsides or is expelled?”
Not at all. The one who has asked is saying, “My attention keeps slipping again and again, my samadhi keeps slipping again and again—is this the reason?” So you are looking for a trick, to find some loophole in the era, in time. “In this Fifth Era, in the Kali Yuga, has anyone attained liberation?” Then you feel relieved. You say, “Then it’s not our fault. We were practicing meditation just fine. If the time itself is adverse, what can we do?”
No, do not offload your responsibility onto time like this. Because if you hand your responsibility over to time, what was possible will certainly become impossible. If samadhi keeps missing, the mistake is somewhere in you. Why drag such a simple matter into such a web? If samadhi slips again and again, look for the error. Somewhere you are missing—find it. Make some transformation. If you are lost in the wilderness, find the path.

But if a person lost in the forest starts saying, “In this Fifth Era is there even a path to be found?” and sits down, then perhaps the path is just beyond two trees, hidden behind a small thicket—and he will still miss it.

And such dangerous arguments become self-justifying. When he sits down and will not walk, will not search for the path, and says, “In the Fifth Era can there be any? Has anyone attained liberation in the Kali Yuga? These things happened earlier, in the Sat Yuga. Where now? This is the time of darkness. Where now? This is the age of wandering, of sin. Where now?”

If he sits thinking like this, then it will not happen. And when it does not happen, he will think, “Certainly what I thought, what I had heard—that in this era there is no liberation—is absolutely right. One hundred percent right.” The more he thinks like this, the more attainment becomes impossible. This becomes a vicious circle.

No, I tell you, there is no era, no time, in which liberation is not possible. Yes, sometimes it may be harder, sometimes easier. Even that hardness or ease is not because of liberation itself, but because of the state of people’s minds.

There are ages that are extremely materialistic. People do not even accept that there is any life after life. People do not accept that there is such a thing as the soul. People do not accept that there is God. Naturally, then it becomes difficult.

When people do accept and there is an atmosphere of trust that there is a soul, there is God, and they are to be sought… If, in your own home, you decide there is no treasure, the search stops. The possibility of finding it decreases. If the treasure were to appear on its own, that would be different; otherwise, how will it be found? If, by accident, you stumble upon the treasure—fine; otherwise, how will it be found? But one who believes there is treasure searches for it. From belief, the search begins. From search, the possibility becomes easier.

I tell you, liberation is possible—because liberation is your ultimate state. It has nothing to do with time. Liberation is your very nature; it needs to be uncovered. You have come with liberation within you. There are a few veils. The veils have to be removed.

So do not fall into such false notions. Although the mind takes great delight in clinging to such falsehoods—because then all the bother ends: the effort ends, the practice is dropped. There is no need for anything now. Now you can do whatever you like—“in this era there is no liberation.”

If your samadhi is missing, then there is a mistake in your samadhi. If two and two are making five, do the math again. Or if two and two keep coming to only three, add again. Do not sit back saying, “It cannot be done.”

So whoever has explained to you that “it cannot be done” are enemies of religion. For what greater enmity to religion can there be than to persuade someone that liberation is now impossible? He will only leave you despondent. He will snuff out the entire lamp of hope within you. He will rob you of every ray, rob you of enthusiasm.
“Isn’t seizing the notion of ‘liberation here and now’ a kind of self-deception?”
Self-deception is to cling to the notion that liberation cannot happen now. It can happen here and now—there is no harm in that. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. If it does, the gates of heaven open.

If a treasure is buried in the house, I say: search. If you don’t find it, what have you lost? In the searching your hands and feet will only grow a little stronger, that’s all. If you find it, you find it. But if you sit idle and never search, even if the treasure lies there, it will not be yours.

I tell you: look at life with a creative, affirmative vision, not a negative one. Search and see. I searched and found; therefore you can too. I am your contemporary, sitting before you, in the same time and the same place where you are.

Those pundits who tell you it is not possible in this age—ask them: Did you try with your whole being? Did you make the last, utmost effort? You will often find they never tried at all; other pundits had already convinced them that in this era it is impossible.

This is a great mischief, a web. A man sits on the bank and declares, “This river is bottomless. No one can sound its depth.” Ask him, “Did you?” Did you try? Did you at least take a dip? He says, “What is the point of dipping? The one who sat here before me said it is bottomless.” Was he asked whether he took a dip? His guru had told him that dipping is futile.

I tell you, only the one who has taken the plunge has the right to speak. And the delightful thing is: whoever has dived, has found. Those who sit on the bank want to avoid the labor of attaining, yet they will not admit, “We are lazy, sluggish, indolent, tamasic.” They shift the blame to time: “The times are bad; in this age the river’s depth cannot be known.” If the river has a bottom, it can be known at any time—what is needed is a diver.

I tell you, it can be attained—because it has been attained. If there is a miss, correct your miss.

I even say: even if God were not, don’t worry—seek. For seeking, it is not necessary that He be; it is enough to have the trust that He may be. Seek. If He is not, you will come to know He is not. But even in that coming to know, a great arising of awareness will happen in your life.

If not God, then man’s dream will do—
let the eyes have some beautiful vista.
Why fret that God is not? If not, then fine—
let man’s dream be our companion.
Let there at least be a beautiful dream for the eyes to see.

At least some beautiful dream! With the support of that beautiful dream, you will become beautiful—whether the dream be true or not. Gazing at that beautiful dream, you will become beautiful—whether there is a God or not.

The seeker of flowers becomes flower-like. Because we become what we seek. The seeker of fragrance becomes filled with fragrance. The seeker of truth—whether or not there is truth—becomes truth. We become that which we seek.

Look closely at the man who hunts wealth. On his face the same expression settles as on coins—worn, passed through a thousand hands, shabby. Look at the miser’s face: it starts to look like a rubbed coin, smoothed by many hands; an oily sheen seems to flow from his face. Look at the lustful man—there is in his eyes a fever of craving, a heat.

Look at the seeker of the Divine—leave aside whether God “is” or not; for without seeking, how will you know? Look at the seekers. Whether or not there is God, they slowly become God-like.

If not God, then man’s dream will do—
let the eyes have some beautiful vista.

And do not postpone to tomorrow, because tomorrow has no guarantee. Whatever is to be done, do it today; do it now. You are the master of the now, not of tomorrow. This is the time given to you. If you want bondage, it can be. If you want liberation, it can be.

Now this is curious: bondage existed before and exists now; liberation existed before, but now it does not? This logic does not tally. Illness existed then and illness exists now; health existed then—why should health not exist now? If a man can fall ill, why can he not be healthy? And if chains can be placed on a man’s hands, why can he not break them?

If there is a way to enter the prison, then by the same door one can go out. Once you are inside, one thing is certain: you can go out. But only those will go who make use of today.

This night-blooming jasmine, shy behind her veil—
it may be that even if she speaks tomorrow, she won’t be received.
It may be that tomorrow, for all the sulking and cajoling,
there will be no night, no word, no love.
With every devotion there walks detachment,
the hem of every passion is held by dispassion.
The monsoon cloud may not arch again like this at the window;
if you must, marry your dream now.
This moment will not return again;
if you are to anoint the bridal parting for union, do it now.

Whoever sang this perhaps sang for worldly love; but for the love of the Divine it is just as true.

If you must, marry your dream now.
This moment will not return again;
if you are to anoint the bridal parting for union, do it now.

There is no other “sometime” than now. If you postpone to “sometime,” you postpone forever. Say “tomorrow,” and it will never happen. This is the only time you have. Call it the fifth era, call it the Kali Yuga—corrupt, fallen, sinful—still, this is the time you have. Other than this, you have no time at all.

Granted you lie in the mud; but lotuses are born only in the mud. Do not go on blaming the mud—strive to be a lotus. And remember: in Mahavira’s time not all were Mahavira; not all mud turned to lotus. And even today, not all mud is merely mud: even today some lotus blossoms in the mire. But if you once accept that it cannot happen today, then even if Mahavira stood before you, you would say someone is acting; he cannot be Mahavira.

That vision does not harm Mahavira; it harms you. If Mahavira cannot be, then you are finished. Then you have no future. Then what are you for? In a world where liberation is not possible, in a time where it is not possible, what remains but death?

If there is life, there are only two possibilities: death or liberation. If liberation cannot be, then life has only one meaning—death. Then you rise daily, eat and drink daily, sleep daily—was all the preparation just to die? In the end you die! So what is the point? If you die two days earlier, what is the harm? Two years earlier, what is the harm? If you had never been born, what loss? Or if you were born and died at once, why weep? If only death is to be, and nothing else is possible, then life has no meaning. Life has meaning because liberation is possible.

Men singing in ecstasy,
women sitting in the sun, combing their hair,
children running after butterflies,
maidens plucking flowers in gardens—
these all are God,
for just as Jesus and Rama came,
these too have come in the same way,
bringing with them a little of God’s splendor.
So, O preachers! Come, let us be honest,
and do not frighten humanity, but say:
The water of the pond you drink and repent,
we too have drunk that water.
And as you laugh while weeping and weep while laughing,
so have we lived a life filled with laughter and tears.
It is a blessing that every sinner has a future,
just as every saint has a past.
Man panics and weeps in vain.
I am not smaller than the demon, nor greater than the dwarf;
all humans are the same human,
with everyone I stand in embrace.
The one who has sat in defeat—his defeat is my own.
The one who comes in victory—in his triumph my own victory is hailed.

Mahavira is your own victory. Rama is your own triumphal march. Ravana is your own defeat. Jesus is your own resounding lyre; Judas is your own broken string.

Both are your possibilities—Rama and Ravana—and it depends on you. Remember one thing—most important: to become Rama you will have to make an effort; to become Ravana you can become without effort. No effort is needed to become Ravana; a man becomes Ravana by not becoming anything. Within Ravana Rama lies asleep; within Rama Ravana has fallen asleep. That is all the difference.

If you are asleep, I say, awakening is also possible. Do not raise futile talk of time and age. Admit your mistakes. Do not seek such excuses. This is self-deception. These are clever rational devices to save the ego, to protect it. Look directly. Where you see an error, correct it. Where you feel a downward pull, break it. Where you feel difficulty in rising upward, practice.

Slowly, inch by inch, liberation is built.
Drop by drop, the ocean fills.
Enough for today.