Jin Sutra #55

First thing: they are right in what they believe—that apart from the Jin-shasan all other dispensations are false. But they do not know what Jin-shasan is. What they take to be Jin-shasan is not Jin-shasan. The belief is not mistaken; the understanding is.

Jin-shasan simply means: the dispensation of the awakened, the governance of the living, victorious ones. There is meaning in being with one who is awake; there is no meaning in being with those who are asleep.

So the belief itself is perfectly right. The difficulty begins here: how to recognize the awakened—who is awake? The cheap device is to accept whoever tradition has long called “awakened,” and remain bound to that. Can there be anything more asleep than tradition?

Mahavira was awake. But the one you call a Jain today—had he lived in Mahavira’s time, he would not have accepted Mahavira. He would have clung to Parshvanath, because Parshvanath already stood behind two and a half centuries of tradition. In Mahavira’s time a dispute arose. The followers of Parshvanath opposed Mahavira. From that very opposition, Digambaras and Shvetambaras were born. The Shvetambaras are those who relied on Parshvanath and were inclined to deny Mahavira.

That opposition still continues. Twenty-five centuries have passed, yet the Shvetambara outlook remains influenced by Parshvanath. Parshvanath was an awakened being—but awakened only for those who could look into his eyes. Had these Jains lived in Parshvanath’s time they would not have accepted him either; they would have clung to Adinath.

Man worships the past, whereas the awakened can only be encountered in the present. If you meet Mahavira, nothing else is needed. If you meet Adinath, nothing else is needed. But you will not meet Adinath in the past—the past is gone. The search has to be today.

Hence an inevitable dilemma: whoever clings to tradition cannot truly accept the Jin-shasan. Jin means “the awakened, the living one.” But the traditionalist, precisely because he clings to tradition, remains deprived of the awakened of the present.

And it isn’t only Jains who do this—everyone does. Hindus worship Krishna; while Krishna lived, he was a great trouble for them. Hindus worship Rama; while Rama lived, he was a great trouble.

When an awakened one is present, the difficulty is this: if you accept him, you will have to change. Change is the hassle. Your whole life will have to be transformed. What else can “acceptance” mean? Touching feet and bowing your head—what will that do?

It is convenient to accept the dead. They cannot change you. There is no risk with them—what can a dead Mahavira do to you? He is gone. Wherever you seat him, he will sit; wherever you place him, he will be placed. Whatever worship you offer, he will accept; if you offer none, he will just sit. If you do not place flowers, what can he do?

The great ones of the past are gone—only piles of ash remain. With them there is great convenience: you need not change. In fact, you change your great one to fit yourself.

But you can do this only with the dead. A living, awakened person, a living siddha—you cannot change him; he will change you. When you come near him, you will die and be born anew. He will become your death and your new life. Through him you will access a new light—but you will have to leave the world of darkness. You will have to lose much to gain anything.

So the statement is absolutely true—that apart from the Jin-shasan all dispensations are false. But the reason for believing it, the root attitude behind the belief, is dangerous. We can hold even true statements for wrong reasons. We are so wrong within that even right things turn wrong in our hands. We are so unclean that even if nectar rains upon us, it becomes poison—after all, it fills our cup, and the filth of our cup transforms it.

A seeker of truth has to seek now. The guru must be now. Yesterday’s guru will not do; tomorrow’s guru will not do either. Today—life is today.

How will you live in Mahavira’s time? How will you walk with Mahavira? How will you dwell in his shade? That tree is no more. If under a blazing noon your head is dripping with sweat you seek the shade of a tree that is; you do not sit under the shade of a tree that once was. You would be mad to sit in the shade of a vanished tree—there is neither tree nor shade; you will burn in the sun. If you thirst, you go to a lake that exists now; you don’t go to a lake that once was, however beautiful the ancient texts say it was—that will not quench thirst. If you hunger, you seek fresh food now.

What is true for hunger and thirst is also true for truth. Seek truth now. Go to a lake that is present now. The danger is: you may arrive at a lake only after it has gone dry. Your intelligence is so slow that by the time you understand, the awakened ones have departed. Dragging and dragging, the insight barely squeezes into your mind: “Ah!”—and by the time you say “Ah!” the farewell has happened.

Buddha passed by a certain village for thirty years—nearly fifteen times he passed through it. One man, for thirty years, desired to have his darshan; he never managed. Sometimes there were customers in his shop. Sometimes it was his daughter’s wedding. Sometimes he was ill; sometimes he quarreled with his wife. Sometimes on his way a long-lost friend met him, and he turned back. Sometimes guests arrived—how could he leave them? A thousand excuses came; Buddha kept coming and going—for thirty years.

One day news arrived in the village that Buddha would leave his body that day. Then the man ran. That morning Buddha asked his bhikkhus, “Is there anything to ask? The time of departure has come. My boat has reached the shore; now I cross over. Any last question?” The monks began to weep. He had given so much—unsought he had given. Asked, he gave; unasked, he gave. Nothing remained to ask. And in such a sorrowful hour, when he is departing, who thinks to question? In such an hour the mind closes, the heart begins to cry. Tears flowed. They said, “We have nothing to ask. If we can live even a fraction of what you have given, that is enough. You have poured an ocean of nectar; if we can drink a single drop, it will suffice.”

Buddha asked three times, as was his habit. When no one spoke, he said, “Farewell.” He went behind a tree, closed his eyes, and began to leave the body—he separated himself from the body. He was leaving the mind when that man, running from the village, arrived and cried, “Where is Buddha? Let me see him, I have something to ask!”

The monks said, “You took too long. For thirty years he passed your village. Many times we heard that you wanted to come, but you never did.”

He said, “What could I do? Sometimes guests came, sometimes my wife fell ill, sometimes there were many customers in the shop. Once I came out, but on the way I met an old friend after years and returned. A thousand reasons came—I could not come. But don’t stop me now. Where is Buddha?”

They said, “Now it is impossible. We have already bid him farewell. He is gathering his light.”

It is said Buddha opened his eyes and said, “I am still alive—and that man has come! Let there not be this blemish on my name, that while I still breathed a thirsty man left my door. Where is he? Call him—what does he wish to ask?”

Even so, that man came in time. Others in that village still did not arrive. Man is very dull-witted. Dull-wittedness is the malady. It is not a question of Jain or Hindu or Muslim—it is dullness.

The dull hold onto dead things. There is such a beautiful insight: apart from the Jin-shasan all else is false. Its meaning is: apart from what an awakened person says, what the sleepers say has no value. Do not follow the orders of the blind; otherwise you will go astray. The blind will mislead the blind. Do not take the blind as your support—the blind will fall; you too will fall. The blind leading the blind—both topple into the well.

This alone is the meaning of accepting the Jin-shasan: wherever jinatva, awakenedness, is visible—where a living, awakened person appears; where your very life-breaths whisper, “Yes, there is a possibility here; dawn is here; the sun is rising”—there bow down; accept that dispensation.

So the point is right. But I am not saying that those who believe it are right. The statement is right; the believers are wrong. They say, “The Jin-shasan alone is true; all else is false.” But they believe in scripture, not in the Jina! They believe in tradition, not in the Jina! They believe the pundit, the pundit’s commentary.

Direct darshan of an awakened one burns. There, something will be dropped, erased, shattered, transformed. There you will be disarrayed; you will not remain the same. There you will pass through fire—and without fire no impure gold becomes pure. There you will be beaten, erased, and remade. Without destruction there is no creation. Like the potter treading the clay, you will be trodden. Without being trodden, the vessel of your life cannot be formed. You will be placed on the wheel. The guru will support—and also smack; he will strike and awaken.

To be with a living guru means: you will have to leave your sleep. Hence the great convenience of hugging dead gurus to your chest. It is convenient to worship images.

And there is something even more amusing: those who say “apart from the Jin-shasan all else is false” do not even know what the Jinas have said. They do not know that the very foundational sutra of the Jin-shasan is this: in everyone there is some portion of truth.

Then one wonders at man’s dullness. This is a contradiction. All the Jinas—Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna—have said that the idea “I alone am right” is the declaration of ego. Mahavira especially insisted: hold even a little insistence that “I alone am right,” and you are already wrong. You need the capacity to see the right in the other as well.

On this earth no one can be absolutely wrong. In this world there is no such thing as absoluteness. To be absolutely wrong would mean someone has become perfect in error.

Someone got angry with Mulla Nasruddin and said, “You are a perfect fool.” Nasruddin said, “Wait. No one is ever perfect in this world. Don’t flatter me. Don’t praise me. Here everything is incomplete.”

A perfectly foolish person cannot be found. Nor can a perfectly wrong person. If one were perfectly wrong he could not live. If he is living, he lives by some truth somewhere. Life is allied with truth. Perhaps there is only a ray, not the sun; a thin trickle, not a flooded river—but it will be there. If there is life, it cannot be sustained by untruth alone. Somewhere he is linked with truth; somewhere the divine still flows through him.

Mahavira said: in everyone there is truth. From this arose his syadvada and anekantavada. He said: what seems utterly wrong to you—if you look from his standpoint, you will still find some fraction of truth. It may not be the whole truth; neither can it be absolute untruth. And Mahavira said: there is no way to state the whole truth.

Therefore two points:
- All standpoints contain partial truth.
- The whole truth has never been said, and cannot be said. The moment it is said, it becomes partial. In expression it becomes incomplete; only in experience can it be whole. However carefully you speak, language itself makes it incomplete.

Put a straight stick into water—it appears bent. However carefully you insert it, the medium of water creates the bent appearance. You may say, “We’ll be even more careful, we’ll make the stick perfectly straight, insert it slowly”—it makes no difference. The medium itself bends the appearance. The stick does not bend; it only appears bent.

Language, as a medium, refracts the experience. In language no truth remains whole; and untruth is never whole anyway. So whatever we say is half-and-half.

This is Jin-shastra, the Jina’s teaching: whatever we say is partial. There are standpoints; there is no final philosophy—philosophy is experience.

Consider: morning comes; the sun rises on the horizon beyond the trees; birds sing, humming swells, peacocks dance, clouds glow—you see—this is darshan. Now someone asks you to describe it. Whatever you describe, much will remain unsaid. Describe a thousand colors, you still cannot create in the listener what arose in you on seeing the sunrise. Be the greatest poet—you will find your hand trembles; the greater the poet, the more he feels he only lisped. Small poets feel they have said it—because they had little to say. The greater the vision, the more language’s inadequacy is felt.

Tagore, at the moment of death, said, “Lord! What are you doing? Just as I was becoming a little skillful in singing, you are sending me off!”

An old friend said, “What are you saying—becoming skillful? You are a great poet!”

Tagore replied, “Others may say so. I know my pain. If you ask me, I can only say that all the songs I have sung so far are like tuning the instruments before the music begins. The vina-player tightens the strings, the drummer taps and adjusts the drum.”

He said, “What I have sung so far was only the tuning; the real song had not yet begun. I take the real song with me.”

The greater the poet, the more he finds himself unable. The greater the experience, the more difficult it is to express. Even small experiences defy expression. If you fall in love, language fails—what will you say, how?

Those who know truth are drowned in the vast. Whatever they bring back is incomplete. Hence Mahavira said: all viewpoints are viewpoints; each has a portion of truth.

The Jain says: apart from Mahavira all are false. But what does this mean? If Mahavira is right, then there is truth in all. And if it is true that “all are false,” then Mahavira too becomes false!

Consider this: A ferocious emperor declared, “Whoever tells a lie in this town will be hanged. Let the great gate be opened in the morning, the executioners be ready, and everyone who comes and goes be questioned. If any lie, they will be hanged at once—so the whole town will see what happens to liars.”

Nasruddin was at the court and said, “Good. Then tomorrow we’ll meet at the gate.” The emperor asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “You be there too. I will tell a lie, and you can hang me.”

The emperor was angry but curious. In the morning, the gate opened, the emperor and his viziers were present, the gallows ready, the executioners alert. Nasruddin rode in on his donkey. The emperor asked, “Where are you going, Nasruddin?” Nasruddin said, “To be hanged.”

Now the emperor was in a fix—if he hangs him, Nasruddin has spoken truth; if he doesn’t, it was a lie. What to do? If he hangs him, a truthful man is executed; if he doesn’t, a liar goes free on the first day. The emperor beat his head. Nasruddin said, “The decision between truth and untruth is not so simple. Take down the gallows. Who knows who speaks truth and who lies? Who knows what truth is and what untruth is?”

Truth and untruth are delicate matters.

If Mahavira taught anything, it is this: try to understand the other with utmost heartfulness. For you it is enough to search out whatever truth there may be in him. What have you to do with the untrue?

A man is lost in a forest; searching for a path, the sun sets, darkness gathers, thorns prick his feet, bushes tear his clothes—he sees a lamp flicker in a hut at a distance. Around that hut is darkness, but there is a little light. He sees the light and leaves the darkness. He doesn’t say, “How can there be light in so much darkness?” He doesn’t sit down staring at the dark. He looks at the flicker and says, “Blessed—someone is there. The path is found; let me go. I shall reach; there is no need to panic.”

When someone speaks, see the flicker of the lamp in it—see only that. See whatever portion of truth is present. What have you to do with the untrue? The hansa picks pearls—pick your pearls and leave the pebbles.

But you peck only at pebbles. You are not eager to pick pearls. You are eager to prove that pearls exist only in your house and everywhere else there are only stones. You stare into darkness and refuse to look at light.

The foundation of the Jin-shasan is precisely this: truth is everywhere. It manifests in endless forms. Anekanta means: truth has many facets. Truth is not solitary. Whoever says “I alone am the truth” becomes untrue by that very claim. At the most one can say, “I too am truth.” “I alone am truth”—untrue. “I too am truth—and there are other truths.”

But the ego insists on “alone.” Mahavira’s emphasis is on “too.” Thus Mahavira says: even the one who speaks the very opposite of you—listen carefully; there too something will be true. Some fragment will be there.

Here, even in the greatest sinner there is a touch of saintliness, and even in the greatest saint there is a touch of sin. No one is complete here. That is why we say in this land: whoever becomes complete does not return. To return here, a little incompleteness has to be retained.

Jain darshan says—very significantly—that to be a Tirthankara one must bind the Tirthankara-karma. That too is a kind of bondage. Even to become a Tirthankara, one must retain a vasana of compassion toward others; otherwise one dissolves directly into the great void. Not all siddhas are Tirthankaras—many become siddha and simply vanish into the vastness. A few become Tirthankaras—those whose siddhi still carries the fragrance of a desire to help others. Blessed are those who retain such a vasana; otherwise the world would be plunged in great darkness.

“Jains believe that apart from the Jin-shasan all else is false.” They believe absolutely right—and for absolutely wrong reasons.

“Therefore one should not go to other dispensations.” If you meet a Jina, there is no need to go anywhere else.

Do not get stuck in Jain scriptures. Scriptures are neither awake nor asleep. A scripture is just a scripture. A book is only a book. Nothing lives in a book.

Seek a living person. Seek someone in whose presence your eyes lift toward the sky; whose longing becomes contagious in you; in whose whirlwind you too begin to be lifted.

“Even when told about awakened and accomplished beings they do not turn toward them.”
The most difficult thing in the world is precisely this: to turn toward an awakened one. It means to turn away from yourself. There is only one way to face the awakened: turn your back on yourself. Only one who can turn his back on himself can face the awakened.

If you do not yet have that much courage, there is nothing surprising in it. The surprise is that you should feel proud about it. You should simply know: “I am still poor and weak. I do not yet have the strength to look directly into the sun. I can only look at pictures of the sun printed in scriptures; I am charmed by those pictures. I lack courage. I am weak. I do not yet have the strength to set out on this journey, the audacity to go on this adventure.”

If you admit this humbly, there is no danger. One day the courage will gather. But man protects his ego. He will not say, “It is my weakness that I cling to scriptures.” He adorns his weakness with jewels. He says, “This alone is the truth—where are the so-called siddhas? In the Pancham Kaal such beings do not happen; that time is over! With Mahavira it ended. After Mahavira, we live in vain. Since Mahavira, nothing has happened. History stopped there. The world ended with Mahavira. With Mahavira’s death, all died—every possibility, every ease of attaining truth, all gone.”

Is this any way to think? It is a dangerous notion—its meaning is deep despair. Then all that remains is to praise Mahaviras and never become Mahavira yourself.

So when you tell them about siddhas, they will not agree. You think you extend a simple invitation—“Look, there is an awakened one; come, sit, listen, understand, be in satsang; let’s serve a little.” You think it is a simple invitation. It is not simple; it is dangerous. Because if that person comes, he cannot remain what he has been. He is protecting his security.

And note another thing: no one truly comes because another has told him to. Drop this worry. Don’t waste time in it. One comes only when it is time for him to come. Only when his thirst ripens does he come. Do not drag anyone. The more you pull, the more he will devise protections. The more you try to prove “Come, there is an awakened one,” the more he will try to prove “No—there is no awakened one. It is all hypocrisy, trickery, conspiracy, fraud.”

Don’t try at all. That you have come is enough. You change. Pour your whole energy into your transformation. Your transformation alone might attract those you wish to bring. A new sparkle in your eyes, a new radiance on your face, a new rhythm in your step; sweetness, softness descending into you—perhaps that will call someone. If a little fragrance spreads through your life, if your taste changes a little, those near you—whom you naturally wish to awaken—may find the path and flowers may bloom in their lives.

Your longing is right, but don’t be hasty. Do not try to bring them. Quietly keep changing yourself. As your transformation deepens, they will become curious. There is no other way.

If you want to bring them to me, there is only one way: somehow they must receive news of me from your being, not from your words. They will not listen to your saying; they will listen to your being. If a resonance begins to sound within you, then perhaps—still I say perhaps, there is no guarantee. People can be so thunder-deaf that a bell rings within you and they hear nothing. So blind that you change and they see no radiance.

Forget them. Don’t worry. Pray for them.

When you rise from meditation, pray for them. Pray that grace may descend upon them too, that they turn toward truth, that awakening arise in them too. Pray—that’s all. Ask the divine to awaken them. Don’t go to awaken them directly.

Buddha told his bhikkhus: end every prayer, every meditation, in compassion. Complete meditation with the feeling, “May what has happened to me happen to the whole world.” Come out of meditation with the feeling, “May what I have received be given to all.”

This will bear fruit. By logic and argument you cannot convince them. More often, if you argue, they may unsettle you instead—because these matters cannot be proved by logic, though they can be refuted by logic. If you have found something near me, you will not be able to explain it by logic; anyone can refute it by logic.

A rose blooms; you say, “It is supremely beautiful.” Anyone can prove it is not beautiful. You cannot prove that it is beautiful. What criterion will you use? What measure? On what basis do you declare, “Beautiful”?

Philosophers have pondered for centuries and have yet to define beauty. What is beauty? What should be called beautiful? And anyone can declare, “It is not.” “What beauty is there in a red color? What is there if petals have opened? Even fragrance—what is in that?”

Anyone can easily negate. It is easy to be a nihilist; it is hard to be a theist. The theist has faith in things that cannot be proved. The theist is courageous—he walks paths for which exact words, arguments, proofs cannot be assembled.

So be careful—don’t get into needless tussles. Keep changing; let your theism slowly be expressed in your life and behavior. That alone may bring them—if anything will.

“Is it not possible to bring them to the right path?”
If you try to bring them, it becomes difficult. They will stiffen. They will become obstinate. They feel you are trying to defeat them, to triumph over them, to conquer them; that you have some interest at stake.

No—don’t do that at all. Even if they are very eager, postpone. Say, “We shall go when it is convenient; what is the hurry?” Make a thousand excuses that it is difficult to bring them, difficult to meet. Then perhaps…

People’s minds run in reverse. If you say, “It is very hard to meet,” they will pester you: “At least once—take me once!” If you say, “Come, let’s go,” they withdraw.

The mind moves contrariwise. Prohibition becomes invitation; invitation becomes suspect—“Why is he so eager? What’s the hidden motive? Will he pick my pocket on the way? Is there a scheme—am I being trapped?”

Don’t try at all. That is why I am making it difficult to come here. Let there be many doors to pass—and I will add more, with guards at them. Let it be hard—only then will people come.

Don’t try to bring anyone. Only pray. After your meditation—whomever you wish may someday come here—remember their face and pray that good fortune dawn for them. Quietly, in solitude and silence, your prayer will bind them with thin silk threads and draw them.

Do not use thick ropes of argument. Whoever you tie with those feels shackled—“Handcuffs are being put on. Where are you going—do you want to lose your freedom? Become mad?”

The tender threads of love are enough. They are bound in prayer.

To be with a true guru is possible only through surrender. Being with a true guru is not a conclusion of logic; it is the defeat of logic. It is not the sport of intellect; it is the advent and expression of the heart. Only one who is ready to be erased in every way can come.

You, whom I have remembered,
to whom my love is bound—
who are you, my friend,
unknown in age, in lineage, in ways?

You are no obstacle of karma,
you are not beyond engagement.
When, for your sake, did my struggle cease?
My work stopped—
holding you in my heart,
with open hands I shall always give
whatever the outer asks to give.
Nor will I say, even as I fall, “Wait a little—
my provisions are exhausted.”

You, whom I have remembered,
to whom my love is bound—
who are you, my friend,
unknown in age, in lineage, in ways?

The true guru is utterly unknown. Not what appears to the eyes—that is not it. What remains beyond your seeing—that is it. Not what is heard—that is not it. What is felt in the silence—that is it. What you see is only form and shape; within that form is the formless, hidden.

Unknown in age, in lineage, in ways—my friend!

To forge such friendship is difficult. For there is no knowledge of age, family, ways. Where will he take you? Where will he lead? Nothing is known. It is a journey into the unknown.

You, whom I have remembered,
to whom my love is bound—
and this bond is of love, not of argument. If you are with me and somehow are bound to me, that bond is of the heart. It is causeless. You fell in love. Until someone falls in love, there is no way to be near.

You, whom I have remembered,
to whom my love is bound—
who are you, my friend,
unknown in age, in lineage, in ways?
You are no obstacle of karma,
you are not beyond engagement—

The true guru does not take you “beyond activity” by breaking you from the world; he gives you a new way of being in your very world.

You are no obstacle of karma—

The true guru does not say, “Abandon all and run!” He does not make you a deserter. He awakens you. He says, “Don’t run—wake up.”

You are no obstacle of karma—
you are not beyond engagement.
When, for your sake, did my struggle cease?
My work stopped—
holding you in my heart,
with open hands I shall always give
whatever the outer asks to give.
Nor will I say, even as I fall, “Wait a little—
my provisions are exhausted.”

To go with the true guru is to enter an endless struggle where, slowly, everything is lost—even your provisions. Nothing remains. You too disappear.

And only if to the very end you have the courage never to say, “Stop, wait—I am being lost,” will you arrive. Only by dying does one arrive. Only by dying does one attain.

So it is natural that people are afraid. Out of fear they build fences of thought around themselves. Out of fear they worship in dead temples and mosques. They console themselves: “We too are religious.” They sit with scriptures, read, recite, chant—deceiving themselves that they are not wasting life. They read the Gita, the Quran, the Jain sutras.

But whatever you read will be your own meaning. Mahavira’s meaning can be known only by becoming a Mahavira—there is no other way. Words come from outside; where will you get the meaning? Meaning must arise from within.

That is why on the one hand you say, “Only the Jin-shasan is true,” and on the other you go on declaring, “All else is false.” But the meaning of Jin-shasan is precisely this: here, no one is entirely false. Even in the false, truth is hidden. Leave the non-essential; take the essential. The swan picks pearls—choose the pearls. What have you to do with pebbles and stones?

Do not pay any attention to them at all. Put them off. If they say, “Take us along,” you say, “That is very difficult.” Do not be in a hurry. Let them come on their own.

It happens like this. The mind completes three steps. The first—opposition. It is a good sign that they have climbed the first step. Indifference is dangerous. Those who are indifferent toward me will never be able to come to me. If they are opposing, they have begun to move. Where will they go! They begin to take a taste; their attention starts falling toward me; friendship begins to arise. You drop your worry.

Let them oppose. Opposition simply means they have begun to see a danger in me. Opposition simply means they have begun to feel an attraction toward me. Otherwise who opposes whom? What concern has anyone with anyone? We oppose only that where there is danger, where there is a call—where it seems that if we do not oppose, we will be pulled in.

So they are holding back; to hold back, they oppose. They are not opposing me; they are creating a barrier against their own attraction. It is a good sign. There is no need to be concerned.

Sometimes sannyasins come to me and say, “So-and-so opposes you a lot—shall we go and explain to him?” I say, “Are you mad? Somehow he has become curious, and now you want to go and explain it away! With great difficulty he has become curious about me, and now you are trying to persuade him? You want to pacify him so that he does not oppose. If he does not oppose, he will be cut off from me. Let him be connected—do not worry. His very opposition will pull him here.”

Opposition too is a way of friendship. Opposition too is a form of attraction. And slowly, slowly, opposition becomes futile, because nothing comes of it. How long will you drag it on? How long can a man go on spitting at the sky? All that spit falls back on his own face. What is the substance in it? Today or tomorrow it will become clear: What am I doing? There is nothing in it. I am barking for nothing, shouting for nothing.

From my side there is neither any reply nor any attempt to explain. Then the person slowly climbs to the second step. He becomes curious: What is the matter? We keep opposing, and from that side nothing comes back—no answer, no reaction. Perhaps… a doubt begins to arise. Doubt about himself begins to arise: Perhaps we are opposing needlessly, or our opposition is wrong!

This step a person must cross by himself; no one can force another to climb. He stands on the second. Now his inquiry begins to arise. Curiosity appears: Let us go, take a closer look—what is the matter? Is our opposition right or wrong?

Once doubt about oneself has arisen, a step toward trust in me has already been taken. Before trust in me can arise, doubt about oneself must arise. That is why I say: to turn toward me, one has to turn away from oneself.

Now, on this second step, quite a few people are standing. Do not try to pull them yet; otherwise they will descend again to the first. If you pull, they will regain confidence in themselves—“Ah, we were about to get caught in the net!”—and then they will stand again on the first step and start opposing. Do not worry.

My sannyasin should live as if no one else exists in the world. There is I, and there is you. Between me and you is the world. Forget all this—who is saying what, who wants to come, who has become curious, who is opposing. This will go on. Some will remain on the first step, some on the second.

When you pay no attention at all, they will be even more puzzled. Then curiosity will be aroused about you as well. Let my talk remain far from their minds; you too begin to evoke curiosity. They will become curious about you, and only then is the path for their coming made.

So the first step: opposition. The second step: inquiry, curiosity. And the third step: trust.

He who has opposed has already set out toward trust in me—though he may not know it. I am pleased that at least he opposed. Soon curiosity will arise, interest will awaken; someday trust too will arrive. Once the first step is taken, the third too will be taken. At least the man has begun to walk. Step by step, a man traverses a thousand miles. Here it is only a matter of three steps.

But do not be in a hurry. Because of you, many times many people are not able to come to me—and all the while you make every effort to bring them. Even if you somehow drag them here, they sit stiff and rigid. Here I immediately see who is sitting rigid. He goes on defending himself. He is busy proving that you are wrong. He is quarrelling with you. He has nothing to do with me. He does not even hear me, or he hears this and that—so that when he goes out he can say, “We told you before—what a wrong man you got entangled with! And you wasted our time too.”

No—do not bring anyone. You keep coming. The footpath that is forming by your coming will become a road for many. Just keep coming. Keep coming and going. The path that is being made through the forest by your coming and going—on that path many will come.

But never bring anyone by dragging him. Man is not an animal that you can throw a rope around his neck and pull. A man should come of his own accord—only then does he come. A man should come dancing—only then does he come.

Awakening has nothing to do with centuries or with time. Man is as he has always been. Houses have changed, roads have changed, clothes have changed—but the human soul has not changed.

Man still gets angry as before, loves as before, feels the same jealousy and hatred. What was done then is done now.

He used to travel by bullock cart; you go by a Fiat car—what difference does it make? He ate sitting on the floor; you eat at a table and chair—what difference does it make? He ate with his hands; you use spoons and forks—what difference does it make? Within, your innermost being is exactly as his was. Man is as he was. There is no longer any evolution happening to man. Nature has brought him as far as it could. Now man will have to take his evolution into his own hands—then there will be growth. Now it will be revolution, not evolution. Only those who understand the process of their own life and choose to rise, to transcend, will rise.

So they rose twenty centuries ago, and they can rise now. Those who do not want to rise, who do not choose to, were asleep twenty centuries ago and will remain asleep now. And do not try to break anyone’s sleep by force, because he will be annoyed. What right do we have? If someone wants to sleep, at least grant that much freedom—that he may sleep. Don’t take out brass bands and start blaring the name of Rama on loudspeakers at four in the morning so that everyone wakes up at the Brahma muhurta. They will all curse. They will curse you, and they will curse Rama too: “What villains! They don’t let us sleep.”

There is no way at all to bring religion by force. If someone is sleeping, pass by softly and quietly, lest he be awakened. He has the right to sleep. Man has the right to wander. It is man’s freedom that if he wishes to remain in the world, he may remain—so long as he wishes.

Even God does not interfere. However long ago nature was made—if ever anyone made it—he too must be tired by now: “People are still wandering. Let’s just call them in; go and drag them here one by one.” But no—God gives freedom. For eternity you are free.

And that is the joy, the glory: only because of freedom do you one day wish to be free of this world.

If you are not yet bored with sleep, what will waking you up do? You will simply turn over and sleep again. If you are not weary of sleep and still relish your dreams, even if someone forces you to sit upright, you will sit and close your eyes and begin to sleep again.

No—there is no method of force. Do not do it. And don’t even worry about it. You wake up—that is enough. And do not scatter your attention in this way.

“Even in the twentieth century why are people so cowardly?”

Man has always been a coward—by nature, because death always stands in front of him. If man were not to fear, what else would he do? Death frightens him. Love frightens him, because love too is a kind of death. The master frightens him, because the master too is death. There is panic.

Have compassion on man. He is surrounded on all sides by death. Wherever he goes, the demand is: dissolve. So he tries to save himself. Weak, helpless man! And the greatest death happens in the presence of the true master: there the ego is utterly dissolved, reduced to ashes.

So fear is natural. Man has always been cowardly because death has always been present. It isn’t as though it was present before and not in the twentieth century. Centuries make no difference.

Life’s real questions are always the same. The small things on the surface change; fundamental laws do not.

Two thousand years ago you envied the villager who had a fine bullock cart, a fast tonga, a splendid horse. Now you envy the one who has a Fiat car. The issue is exactly the same. What difference does it make whether you envied a horse then or a car now? It may happen tomorrow that people will have airplanes; each man will keep his own plane on his roof. Then you will envy the one who has a plane: he is enjoying something and I am missing out.

But the envy is the same. If you look rightly at life, time makes no difference; only meditation makes a difference. Otherwise we keep revolving on the same mill, like the bull yoked to the oil-press.

“Why is there so much attraction to false gurus?”

There always has been. The reasons are deep. A false guru does not annihilate you—he polishes and decorates you. He does not bring revolution into your life—he brings a little convenience. You are ill, so the false guru says, “Don’t worry. Look—ash is falling from my hand by miracle; keep it. You will be cured.”

Whether your illness is cured or not is another matter. But at least he gives you assurance. For three months you will hold the belief: “In three months I’ll be fine.” And if you are not, no harm done; and if you are, great benefit!

Sit in the marketplace and start distributing ash. A hundred patients will come; at least fifty will get better. Not everyone is going to die. Those fifty who recover will sing your praises: “He is a great man, the true Sai Baba. Here is the true Sai Baba!” They got well. Those who did not will go searching for some other “true Sai Baba.” The ones who got well gather around you and glorify you—and they have a reason: they were cured. They are not lying.

Now the fun is that out of a hundred of man’s diseases, fifty are false. They don’t exist; he only imagines them. So fake medicines also work. When the illnesses themselves are false, false medicines do the job. A doctor gives you a water injection—you get perfectly fine.

Have you ever noticed? The doctor comes to see you, feels your pulse, puts the stethoscope to your chest—in that very interval you begin to get better. But the doctor should be a big one, and the fee substantial. If the doctor comes free, there is no benefit. The higher the fee, the greater the benefit. The fee works more than the medicine—because such a great doctor! Now you no longer have the convenience of remaining ill. Such an authoritative doctor has come—recovery is certain. From that conviction, you recover.

When you hear thousands saying that they were cured by a certain Baba’s ash, you too push and shove to get into the crowd. You get the ash—and as soon as you get it, you begin to feel better. Your illness was false. And because you are busy treating a false illness, you go searching for a false guru.

Just now Bangalore University wrote a letter to Sathya Sai Baba saying, “We want to investigate.” He does not even reply. Instead he issues a statement: “You do your work, we will do ours. Why do you create obstacles in between?” That is like a thief saying, “We do our work, the moneylender does his—why do you obstruct in between?” A man who studied six years in medical college is sitting with his signboard, and opposite him a quack sets up his plank and says, “You do your work; we’ll do ours. Why obstruct in between?”

Obstruction will have to be created—because due to Sathya Sai Baba thousands of people are dying who could have been treated. Those who are benefiting would have benefited from anything. But thousands are dying. Someone with cancer arrives and they say, “You will be cured.” So he doesn’t get operated on, doesn’t undergo treatment, because now he will be fine. He dies.

This is dangerous. There is no difference between this and murder. If I come and stab you in the chest, you will die. And if you come to me with cancer and I say, “Don’t worry at all. Take this ash—everything will be fine,” and you die three months later—no court will catch me, but it should. Because you died because of me. I stabbed you—very cleverly, under the cover of ash.

So it is wrong for Sai Baba to say, “What reason is there for anyone to obstruct our work?” You are killing people by the hundreds of thousands, ruining them. You are destroying lives. Yet those multitudes keep coming—because they hope: maybe I’ll be cured; maybe some way will be found; maybe a miracle will happen. In states of suffering, even the most intelligent people begin to believe all kinds of things. They do.

And they are not willing to demonstrate their feats before the scientists of Bangalore University because they are afraid of being caught. Because that ash, and those watches and amulets—this is all conjuring. It has nothing to do with religion.

But one thing I want to say to the vice-chancellor of Bangalore University: if you want to form a proper committee for inspection, scientists are not the right people. Scientists have no idea about the tricks of conjuring. In that committee include at least two magicians. Put in Gogia Pasha, K. Lal. Otherwise you won’t catch it. In the West this has happened many times: they cannot catch the magician.

After all, what does a scientist have to do with a magician? What does a scientist know of tricks? Scientists are the simplest people in the world—straightforward folk who live in the world of mathematics: two and two are four. To fleece a scientist is easier than to fleece anyone else. And no one can be deceived as easily as a scientist. And the irony is: when you deceive a scientist, you obtain “proof”: “Look, even the scientists have said so.” But what does “scientist” mean here?

It is like this: a dentist exists, and for inspecting whether an eye doctor is doing something wrong you appoint the dentist.

He has nothing to do with it. He knows nothing about eyes. If you want to catch an eye doctor—whether he is right or wrong—then there should be eye doctors.

So I am saying only this much: there are not yet the right people on their committee. One professor of philosophy is on it—what has a philosophy professor to do with it? They are innocent, naïve people. Otherwise would they have become philosophy professors? In this teeming world, would they do such donkey-work? There is a professor of logic—what has he to do with it? Or a scholar of Sanskrit—what has he to do with it? No! Put in Gogia Pasha, K. Lal. They will catch it instantly—because what Sai Baba is doing, they are doing; and far better. Without including them, the committee is incomplete. And Sai Baba is not ready to give a demonstration. In the statement he gave he said, “I am doing these miracles so that people’s faith in religion increases.”

So I want to say to him: if you are doing it to increase religious faith, what better opportunity could there be? Let this committee inspect. If the committee certifies that you are genuine, faith will increase greatly. And if the committee proves you are false, then how can true faith increase on the basis of the false?

In every case there will be benefit. Don’t avoid it. Don’t run from it. But he must be anxious—and the anxiety is natural. He is doing what ordinary magicians do. But the ordinary magician is honest—he says, “It’s sleight of hand.” These religious magicians say, “This is siddhi.”

There are no siddhis and such. But man falls into this net because he is so helpless. Someone gets cancer. He panics: “I’m finished! There is no longer any hope.” If he goes to the doctor, the doctor is no deceiver. The doctor speaks the language of Mahavira: “You may get well.” There is no decision, no guarantee that “we will cure you.” Life and death are not in our hands. The doctor says, “We will do what we can—whatever is the very best, we will do. Sometimes people are saved, sometimes they are not.”

So the doctor speaks with hesitation. He says, “We will try. We will leave nothing undone. But still, in the end, the matter is in God’s hands. If the energy to live is within you, you will get well. We can only support. Perhaps we can be a little bit of help.”

This does not bring reassurance. A man dying of cancer wants to hear it decisively: “You will definitely be cured.” Whether saying it will cure him or not is not the question—he gets relief by hearing it, consolation. He goes to Sai Baba; they say, “You will be absolutely fine. There is no need to worry at all.”

And if he pulled ash out of an ordinary box, the effect would not be so great. He waves his hand in the air and produces ash. This makes the man terrified by cancer feel: “He is a miraculous man—he can pull ash out of thin air.”

No ash comes out of thin air. It is all hidden and comes from there. But that man sees it as if it came from the air. So a man so miraculous—there is reason to trust his words. The man believes. He gets consolation.

Now if he has believed, he surely has obtained consolation, but consolation does not cure cancer. He will die—though he will die comfortably; for three months he will not be troubled—but he will die. Because of Sai Baba, his death becomes certain. With the doctor there was a possibility: he might have been saved; he might not have been—but there was a fifty-percent possibility of being saved.

With Sathya Sai Baba there is one hundred percent hope of being saved—and one hundred percent certainty of not being saved. If he is saved, it can only be when the cancer was false. And if it was false, the doctor would have saved him anyway. There is no gain in it.

Sometimes false notions occur. Someone’s stomach fills with gas; the heart begins to pound. He thinks, “I’ve had a heart attack.” He knows nothing. An enema will be enough. And even without an enema, the gas will pass and he will be fine.

Some people have purely imaginary and mental illnesses. They think them up and they happen. They take on a mood and they happen. In actuality they are not there. So if anyone assures them they will be fine, they become fine. That is why there is such scope for fraud in the world; it flourishes.

You go in search of false gurus because, for now, you are searching for false things. Even if the body gets well, what difference is it going to make? You will die anyway. If you die four days earlier or four days later, what difference does it make? You will still die even if you win your court case. Win or lose—no difference. Yet you want to win the case.

People come to me and say, “Just give your blessings.” I ask, “For what?” They say, “You know everything anyway—just bless us.” If you press, “For what?” they say, “There’s a case in court.” I say, “You are trying to trap me. You commit the theft, you get caught—and the blessing should be mine? What do I have to do with it?”

But they say, “When we go to other gurus, they just bless us; they don’t even ask.” Let them do as they do. I cannot give you such a blessing. I can only say this much: if you have stolen, then certainly you should be punished. If you have not, then you should definitely be acquitted—that is my good wish. I cannot bless you to win your lawsuit. Because that would be wrong: the thieves would remain thieves, and the saint would join them.

The search for false gurus continues because the false guru fulfills some special demand that the true master cannot fulfill. When the attraction to the futile drops within you—when useless desires fall—at that very moment you are freed from the false gurus as well.

If it comes to be so—if such a thing happens—then in life you have attained all that was worth attaining.
“From Your mention, Your care,
Your remembrance, Your name”
let the Divine so surround you in sitting and rising, in sleep and in wakefulness, that whomever you look at, you see only Him; whatever you do becomes His service. Then you have found life’s destination.
Then there is no need to go anywhere else. You have found Him here. His remembrance is the very mode of His coming. Your speaking of Him is the arrangement for His descent. You have leaned a ladder against the wall. You have spread out a welcome at the threshold. Keep remembering Him, and He is bound to come. Do not tire. Remember tirelessly.

For the revelers, the station of rest is here itself;
the brimming tavern of rapture and joy is here itself.
Drink first, O shaykh, then take a little tour of the world:
the heaven you seek is here.

“For the revelers, the station of rest is here itself”—for the drunkards there is no need to go anywhere else. Those who have learned to drink from His cup—His mention, His care, His name—those who have poured His wine for themselves need go nowhere.

For the revelers, the station of rest is here itself—
for them the destination itself comes near. They need not even take a single step.
God need not be sought; God comes seeking them. Only keep the remembrance rightly. Your remembrance becomes a seed; the Divine sprouts, and the flowers of liberation bloom.

The brimming tavern of rapture and joy is here itself—
their tavern is here; its ecstasy is here.

Drink first, O shaykh, then take a little tour of the world—
O priest! First drink, become intoxicated, be lost in Him, dance, go mad with love—and then take a stroll through the world.

The heaven you seek is here—
That heaven is here. It is under the very feet of the intoxicated one. Wherever the ecstatic one sits, there is heaven. If only it be so! His remembrance comes only when, in some way, He has stretched out a hand toward you.

Again my thought turns to Your lane—
my bewildered heart, and yet it remembered.
My attention is drawn again to Your street. It seems the memory of my heart has returned to me.
His call is your own innermost call. If remembrance of Him begins to arise in you, it is your own remembrance that is returning. He is no stranger! He is no other, not a second at all!

Again my thought turns to Your lane—
my bewildered heart, and yet it remembered.
Until His remembrance is there, you will not even remember yourself.

Again, in self-forgetful ecstasy, I lost the way to the Beloved’s well;
otherwise, one day I would have come to know myself.
In that intoxication the path to the goal was forgotten—the lover’s home forgotten.

Again, in self-forgetful ecstasy, I lost the way to the Beloved’s well—
Where does the Beloved dwell? In that unconsciousness even this did not remain in memory; without attention, even this was not recalled.

Otherwise, one day I would have come to know myself—
For whoever reaches God reaches himself. Whoever meets God meets himself. That is why Mahavira says, the self itself is the Supreme Self—“appa so paramappa.”

Let this tune resound. Let this song hum within. Let it be seated in the beat of your heart. Dip your every breath in it; get drunk on this very nectar.
Then there is nothing more to do. Then set all scriptures aside. Forget temple and mosque. Wherever you speak of Him, wherever you remember Him—that is the temple. Then as you walk, places of pilgrimage begin to form. At each of your steps, a pilgrimage place is born. But let this happen. It is not easy.

This is the blessing I can give. If you ask for such a blessing, you have truly asked. It can happen, but it is not easy. It is the most arduous thing in the world. For our mind has become so habituated to remembering the trivial that when we sit to remember God, who knows what else comes to mind—this and that.

Therefore, in my view, do not treat the remembrance of God and the remembrance of other things as enemies; otherwise you will be in trouble. Do this instead: take everything to be God. If your wife comes to mind, remember that it is God you are remembering—after all, she too is a form of God. If your son comes to mind, remember, it is God you are remembering.
Do not set up any conflict between son and God, between wife and God, between husband and God. Otherwise you will be in difficulty. Whatever comes to mind, take your remembrance of God to be in that very thing. Slowly, you will find all opposition has dissolved. In whatever face appears, you will see His light. Peer into any eye and in that eye you will find His reflection. There are a thousand lakes, and one moon; the reflection of that moon is formed in all the lakes. The Divine has manifested in many forms. He has donned many colors, many costumes. He alone is; other than Him there is no one.

Therefore I do not tell you to set worldly remembrance and remembrance of God in conflict. In that struggle you will be shattered. You will be badly defeated. And if you are defeated, how will God be victorious? So do not get into quarrels. Do not fall into duality.
Begin only this one endeavor: a tree appears—see the tree, and recognize God. A flower comes to your hand—look closely, look a little deeper; you will surely find Him hidden there. He is—how could it be that you do not find Him? Even if a stone lies before you, look a little more intently. In a flower He shows more quickly; in a stone He is hidden more deeply—but hidden He is.
Sharpen your eyes in this way. Keep clearing your vision in this way.

All voices are of the mind; the heart has no voice. Where voices disappear, there is the heart.
Silence is the heart’s voice.
Emptiness is the heart’s tone.

So there is no complication at all. You think one voice is of the heart and another of the mind; you are falling into a great mistake. All voices are of the mind. It is the mind.

It is the mind that wants to grasp wealth, and the mind that wants to renounce wealth. The mind is very complex. On one side it says, “Grab it, plunder it, enjoy!” On the other it says, “What’s the point? It’s all insubstantial.”
But both are the mind. On one side it says, “Run! Life is only for a few days—win some position.” From the other side it says, “What’s in positions? Look at those who have arrived.”
The mind keeps talking to itself, keeps up a monologue. From one side it poses a question; from the other it supplies the answer. But both voices are the mind’s.

“Despair says one thing, longing another—
Whose words should one trust?”

And gradually, whatever you have been taught is auspicious, is true—if the mind repeats that, you think, “This is the voice of the heart.” When the mind says, “Go to the prostitute’s house,” you say, “That’s the mind, the senses, the body.” And when the mind says, “Go to the temple,” you say, “That’s the soul, the heart.”
This is a mistake. The same mind that takes you to the prostitute also takes you to the temple. They are all linked. The heart takes you nowhere. It leaves you exactly where you have always been: neither temple nor prostitute; neither wealth nor religion; neither indulgence nor renunciation.

That is why Mahavira says: one has to go beyond both dharma and adharma; beyond sin and merit.
You think the voice of sin is the mind’s and the voice of virtue the heart’s? No—both are the mind’s. All voices are the mind’s. The mind keeps itself busy in futile confusion.

“Some of life was spent in the courage to question,
Some passed in the hope of an answer.”

And in just this way the mind goes on wasting time. Here it asks, there it searches. It even manufactures answers; then out of an answer it makes ten new questions. From the questions it erects ten more answers. Like this it keeps spinning a spider’s web—drawing threads from itself and weaving. But this is all the mind’s game.

You ask, which is the voice of the heart? The heart has no voice. When all voices dissolve, the stillness that remains—that belongs to the heart. In that stillness you will see, you will have vision. In that emptiness the Whole descends.

Exactly that—what happened. What happened was precisely it.
If you want to enact the rasa with Krishna, you will have to become a gopi. By becoming a gopi, one day you will also become Krishna—but you must pass through becoming a gopi. Becoming a gopi is a halting place on the road to being Krishna. One who is not ready to become a gopi will never become Krishna.
Such a gopi, dancing and dancing and dancing, keeps coming closer. The circle keeps growing smaller. The dance becomes more intense. The gopi slowly begins to disappear, to be absorbed. The circle grows smaller still. The rasa becomes denser. Midnight arrives. The moon stands overhead. Dancing and dancing and dancing and dancing, the gopi dissolves into Krishna—she becomes Krishna.
Then the circle has utterly vanished.
The rasa is complete.
Union has happened.
The Puranas tell a tale. In the old scriptures there is no mention of Radha—none in the ancient texts. There is only this: that there was a gopi near Krishna who was like a shadow. She has no name. Like a shadow, she would remain attached to him. Like a shadow—that is the very way of being Radha. It was good they did not name her. The name came later, much later—in the medieval period. Poets gave the name, because without a name a poet cannot manage. But the name they gave is very sweet. Radha is symbolic. Dhara reversed—Radha. If you reverse the flow, dhara becomes Radha. As if the Ganges were to start flowing back toward Gangotri—that would be Radha.
When the stream turns toward its source, the gopi-feeling is born. When even your own name is forgotten, Radha is born. When no thought of being separate remains—when you become Krishna’s shadow. Wherever he goes—what can a shadow do? It cannot leave. Even if Krishna tries to shake it off, it does not leave. When Krishna went from Mathura to Dwarka, all others may have been left behind; only Radha would have gone along. The shadow would have gone along. How would you leave a shadow?
As the rasa deepens, first the gopi is born. Then the gopi slowly becomes a shadow. The gopi’s earthliness is lost; only radiance remains—mere existence. And then, in any moment, the moth takes its final leap into the flame, is immersed, and becomes one.
This is exactly what I meant—what happened. The feeling of the gopis arose, the notion of being a gopi was born—that is all: the first step toward Krishna has been taken. What is the gopi’s longing? There are thousands of gopis. Krishna’s story is sweet. God is one; seekers are infinite. The goal is one; the paths are many. The travelers on the paths are many.
Krishna is one. Sixteen thousand gopis—sixteen thousand is only a symbol; there are thousands of gopis. Yet a single Krishna enchanted thousands. There is no hostility, no envy. Each gopi is linked to Krishna directly. She has no concern for the other gopi. Each gopi begins to feel that Krishna is dancing with her alone. You must have seen pictures in which Krishna has taken on many forms and is dancing with all the gopis.
When God meets you, He meets you. This is not a public affair. It is utterly private and intimate. When God meets you, that God will be entirely yours. He will be your very soul. But to meet Him, the gopi’s inner state is needed.

If I cannot see You, I have no regret;
it is enough that You can see me.

The philosopher says, “I must see God.”
That is why we call a philosopher’s quest darshan—an attempt to see. The devotee says, if I cannot see You, I have no regret.

If I cannot see You, I have no regret;
it is enough that You can see me.

Is it not enough that Your gaze falls upon me? That is all. I am blind, I am foolish, I am lost—leave aside the worry—there is no regret. Your sight is falling upon me; that is enough.
As when the sun rises: the blind cannot see the sun—what difference does it make? The sun is bathing the blind man. Ray by ray, the sun is bathing him.
This is the difference between the philosopher and the devotee. The knower says, I must see God. The devotee says, let God see me.
Now you should take note of a secret. Gopi means a feminine mind. The feminine mind wants the lover to look at her; the masculine mind wants to look at the beloved. The beloved desires that the man should look upon her.
This will surprise you. Psychologists ponder it: a man has a great desire to see his beloved’s body naked, its entire beauty unveiled. But a woman never tries to see a man’s body naked; she has no such curiosity. That is why pictures of naked women sell; pictures of naked men do not. Otherwise, women are as numerous; they too would buy pictures. Hence in films the dance of the naked woman is shown often; if a naked man were to dance, people would say, “Stop it—what nonsense is this?” There is no such desire in woman for a naked man.
When you hold a woman in the embrace of love, you will be amazed: your eyes are open; the woman’s eyes close.
In a moment of deep love, a woman always closes her eyes. The feminine mind wants only that her lover should look upon her; that is enough. Gopi precisely means this: let God look upon me; that is enough.

If I cannot see You, I have no regret;
it is enough that You can see me.

In love of God, a feminine-heartedness is needed. In love itself, a feminine-heartedness is needed. A man’s love is love in name only; love is truly the woman’s. For a man, among a thousand tasks, love is one task. For a woman, love is the one and only task. All her work flows out of love. She will cook, sweep, sew a button on your shirt, wait for you. All her work—she will care for your children, tend your home and garden—her entire concern flows out of her love.
A man has a thousand other tasks. Often he feels that love hinders his work. Hence those men who are very task-driven do not fall in love. Those who must run a shop properly set love aside—out with it; it interferes with the shop. One who is to enter politics sets love aside—out! Love is a hindrance. One who wants to become a scientist sets love aside—out! One who wants to be a meditator sets love aside—out! Love is a hindrance to meditation.
It seems a man has a thousand tasks that are more important than love. He sets love aside and gets on with work. For a woman there is no other work. If love is not, the woman becomes utterly alone. Nothing comes to mind—what should she do? No work arises at all.
The feminine mind means simply this: that for you, love itself is meditation. Becoming a gopi means that in your vision love remains the only task; everything else flows from love. Then you will begin to see God everywhere. First awaken the longing that God may look upon you. Then you will begin to see God everywhere. The day God looks upon you, that very day you will be able to see Him.
This is the difference between the paths of the devotee and the knower. The devotee says: Lord, I am dancing—You look upon me. It does not matter whether I see You; only let Your gaze fall this way. If Your gaze falls upon me—that is prize enough. You have looked; we have won; life is fulfilled.

A torment to the soul, Ghalib, is his every utterance—
what speech, what hint, what grace:
word, signal, gesture…
Every utterance of Banke Bihari is so sweet,
each word a ravishment of my life.

But the secret opens through your dance, through song, through opening your heart. Call out to God: look upon me; that is enough. The very day His eye falls upon you, that day your own eye is born. The touch of His gaze will open your eye.
The knower says: first we will see God. His journey is different. He says: first we will create the eye by which God may be seen. When we see God, only then will He look upon us. The devotee says: let Him look upon us first; even if we do not see, what does it matter? He has seen. In both cases, the event happens.
Hearing my words, the questioner’s gopi-feeling arose; from this it is clear that bhakti will be his path. And since this feeling has arisen, do not just sit holding it. Accept the invitation and set out on the journey.

Today I want to make my dream come true;
I want to go near this far-off vision.
I want to swim across the ocean that lies before me
and bring some radiance from the far shore to this shore.
Even in heaven, on the land of dreams, I still saw myself far from them—
but today I will not restrain myself.
How can I remain on the shore when there is an invitation from the waves?

The Lord’s call has come your way. The gopi-feeling that has arisen in you could not have arisen without Krishna’s call.

How can I remain on the shore when there is an invitation from the waves?

Now do not stop. Now dance. Now become the wave yourself. The invitation of the wave has come—now dance. Let the rasa be arranged. Become ecstatic. Become intoxicated. Become mad. Become feminine. Become his shadow. Make the circle smaller. Dancing and dancing and dancing and dancing, one day you will enter into him. Entry happens while dancing. The moment you are erased—entry happens.
The auspicious hour has arrived; do not let it slip away.

I say—O Asad—proudly to the ascetics, O Majaz:
I have just now won the honor of pledging at Khayyam’s tavern.
With great pride I say to the ascetics, the yogis, the seekers after knowledge
that I have received initiation in Khayyam’s wine-house.
I have received the invitation to ecstasy, to divine intoxication, to drink the wine of the Lord.
Then the ascetic is insipid; before the devotee the ascetic is insipid. The ascetic is like a desert; the devotee is like trees flowering in spring. The devotee is like a waterfall.
So one in whom the wave of devotion is rising—let him not stop; let him move on. Join the rasa. And his rasa is already underway. Around him the stars are dancing. Around him the earth, planets, satellites are dancing. His rasa is already underway. He is the very center of this dance of life.
You too, join the rasa.
That is all for today.