Jin Sutra #57

This question is natural. In the Jain scriptures there has been much debate on this, because the two states appear almost the same.

In the twelfth state all moha, all delusion, becomes zero. Nothing remains, and nothing remains possible. All hindrances have fallen, all obstructions have ended. Then, about the thirteenth state, the sutras only say: sayogi-kevali Jina—kevala-jnana is attained, jinatva is attained.

But if all delusions have been exhausted, if all obstacles have been removed, if darkness has gone, then what is the difference between the two? In both there is a body, so “with association” (sayogi) makes no difference. The point is subtle and delicate. Understand it like this: you fell ill, you were treated, all illnesses went away; yet it is not necessary that you are already healthy. You still cannot run; you still cannot exert yourself. The physician will say, rest for a while. The illness has gone, but let health make its appearance.

The twelfth gunasthana is negative. The thirteenth gunasthana is affirmative. In the twelfth, the rubbish and clutter have gone—the useless has been removed. But let the meaningful descend. The twelfth is like zero; the thirteenth is like fullness. The definition Buddhists give of nirvana is the definition of the twelfth gunasthana.

Therefore, in the Jain view one has to go a little further. You have become zero; you have not yet become full. Delusion has gone, attachment has gone, but vitaragata has not yet descended. You are ready; the guest has not yet arrived. You have decorated the house, hung festoons at the doors, put up a “Welcome,” lit the lamps and incense. You are ready; the guest has not yet arrived.

In the twelfth, your preparation is complete. Nothing more can be asked of you; whatever could be done by a human being has been done. Now something will descend. The descent of light will happen. The vessel is prepared; now the nectar will rain.

Do not think there is any gap of time between these two. The gap is of emphasis. Do not think that once the twelfth has happened, it will take some time for the thirteenth to happen. They can be simultaneous. This analysis is only so that you can understand the steps one by one.

It can also happen that the illness went and you became healthy—yet the going of illness is not itself health. The disappearance of illness is an indispensable step toward health, but the mere absence of illness is not the definition of health. Health is affirmative. When you are healthy, do you only say, “There is no headache, no stomachache, no thorn pricking; no cancer, no TB”—is that all you can say? Or do you also say, “Something extraordinary fills me, something is waving through me; something trembles in every cell—not merely the absence of pain but the presence of a unique energy. Some supreme power abides within me.”

Health is affirmative. That is why in the East the science of health has been called Ayurveda. The Western word “medicine,” “medical science,” is very poor. Medicine means only drugs. The West chose “medical science”—the science of drugs—because in their view health means the absence of disease. The East chose Ayurveda—the science of life. Ayurveda is not only about drugs; it is something more. From drugs you only learn that the pain is gone. But does the absence of pain mean that bliss has arrived? Pain would certainly obstruct bliss; if pain is gone, the coming of bliss is made easier. But is the absence of pain the definition of bliss?

Buddhists take the twelfth gunasthana as the definition of nirvana; hence they do not speak of bliss. They say the ultimate state is the cessation of suffering—duhkha-nirodha. Nirvana means the cessation of suffering; suffering will not remain. They do not go further. Ask them: “That suffering will not remain—granted. But then what will remain? What will be?” That the world will not remain—we understand. But is this the full definition of moksha? Then what is moksha in itself? If moksha can be defined only in relation to the world, then moksha is very feeble, weak, poor—so poor that it has to be defined with reference to the world.

Understand it this way: a rich man renounces wealth, and a poor man—who has almost nothing, a hut—renounces his hut. Would you say that the rich man’s renunciation is greater than the poor man’s? If renunciation only means giving up money, then certainly the rich man’s renunciation is greater: the poor man left a hut, the rich man left a palace. But renunciation is not merely leaving money. Renunciation is an affirmative state of consciousness. What is left is not what is valuable; what comes by leaving—that is valuable. And what comes cannot be measured by what is left.

Or consider this: one man steals a penny, another steals a million. Is the one who stole a million the greater thief, and the one who stole a penny a lesser thief? Then you have not understood. Theft is the same, whether of a penny or a million. Quantity makes no difference in theft. One man renounced the theft of a penny—a penny lay on the road, he left it and walked on. Another man found a million on the road and renounced that theft. Both had the possibility of stealing and did not. Which is the greater “non-thief”? Both are non-thieves. Achourya (non-stealing) is an affirmative state of mind.

The twelfth gunasthana says: the world has ended, is finished. As when you cross a national border, the end of one country is the beginning of another. On the signboard at the border, on one side it says “India ends,” on the other side it says “China begins.” The twelfth gunasthana gives the news on this side—“samsara ends”; the thirteenth gives the news on that side—“moksha begins.” Both are on the same signboard. On one side: “Samsara ends”; on the other: “Moksha begins.” There appears not an atom of distance between them, yet the difference is great. Their boundary line is one and the same. Hence in the Jain scriptures there has been much reflection: what is the distinction?

As I see it, the twelfth gunasthana says: that which was fit to be left has been left; that which was to be erased has been erased; that which was useless and insubstantial—freedom from it has happened. The thirteenth says: one did not stop there—what was fit to be received has been received; what was worthy of attainment has poured down. The guest has entered the house.

The Jain sutras are clear too. The definition of the twelfth is:
ṇissesa-khīṇa-moho, phalihā-mala-bhāyaṇudaya-samacitto.
khīṇa-kasāo bhaṇṇai ṇiggantho vīyarāehiṃ。。

“When all delusion has been completely destroyed, and whose mind has become pure like clear water placed in a crystal bowl, such a person the Vitaraga Devas call kshinamoha or kshina-kashaya.”

‘It has become pure’—this is negative: purity happened, impurity went. The definition of the thirteenth gunasthana is:
kevalaṇāṇa-divāyara-kiraṇa-kalā-vappaṇāsa-iṇ-ñāṇo.
ṇava-kevala-laddhu-ggamaṃ pāviyara-param-appavv-aeso。。

“By the cluster of rays of the sun of kevala-jnana whose ignorance, whose darkness, has been utterly destroyed, and who have attained samyaktva, infinite knowledge, infinite vision, infinite bliss, infinite energy—they are called sayogi-kevali Jina.”

Infinite knowledge, infinite vision, samyaktva, samadhi, infinite bliss, infinite energy—these are indications of attainment: what has been received!

Samsara has gone; moksha has been obtained. Therefore Mahavira says, the one who has reached the thirteenth gunasthana can be called Bhagavan, can be called Paramatma.

No, having reached the thirteenth gunasthana no one has ever fallen, nor can one fall. Then the question arises: what is the need of the fourteenth? If there is no return from the thirteenth, if there is no possibility of falling from it, what is the distance between the thirteenth and the fourteenth?

One does not fall from the thirteenth gunasthana, but one may, if one wishes, stop at the thirteenth. Greatly compassionate beings have stopped there. For those who stop at the thirteenth gunasthana, the Buddhists have the precise word: “Bodhisattva.” They said, “We will not enter the fourteenth. If we enter the fourteenth, the body will drop. If the body drops, we will no longer be of any use to anyone; relationships will be severed.”

Among the Buddhists there is a story that when Buddha reached the gate of heaven, of moksha, the gate opened and he stood still. The gatekeeper said, “Please enter.” Buddha replied, “No, not yet. There are many behind me still groping in darkness. The light that I have received—I will not enter until I have conveyed it to them.”

This is the decision to remain at the thirteenth gunasthana. It means: one who has attained godliness says, “A little while longer I will remain in this body.” Because only through this body can relationship be made with those who still take the body to be their very being; only through this body can there be a dialogue with those who have invested their life-breath in the body, who are identified with the body.

The aspiration to remain in the body, the Jains have called the Tirthankara karmabandha—the karmic bond of a Tirthankara. One who, out of compassion, remains at the thirteenth state so that those following behind may receive a little help; so that what has been received may be shared; so that others may attain what has been attained.

There is no compulsion to stay. If, at the thirteenth gunasthana, one makes no effort to remain, one slips of oneself into the fourteenth. Going from the thirteenth to the fourteenth is like descending a steep slope, or being carried away by a deep current where it is difficult to keep your footing.

Therefore, in this world, as soon as people attain the thirteenth state they enter the fourteenth—either instantly or after a short while. They cannot remain long. A few strong ones, even after knowledge, have planted their feet and stood in the world of ignorance.

Because of those strong ones the world is not utterly dark; here and there lamps flicker—some Buddha, some Krishna, some Christ, some Mahavira, some Zarathustra, some Mohammed. Little lamps flicker here and there. This is the doing of those strong beings.

To be free of the world is very difficult; but more difficult still is, having become free of the world, to remain in it for a while. It is supremely difficult. To be free of the world is the first supreme difficulty; then, when the moment of freedom has come, who remembers to stay back?

You have lived in suffering and suddenly a palace arrives, the door of all bliss opens—will you be able to stop? You will run and enter the palace. You will say, “That which I have sought for lifetimes stands before me. The destination stands before me—why pause now?” You will not be able to stop even for a moment.

So it is true that no one falls from the thirteenth state; but one can remain at the thirteenth. It is difficult, extremely arduous—but it has happened. Those who have stopped at the thirteenth state are the avatari beings.

In the Jain definition, the avatar does not come from the house of God; therefore the Jains do not use the word avatar. The very word avatar means “to descend”—to come down from above. In the Jain view all go from below upward. There is ascent in the world, not descent. Avatar means descent; it means the infinite has descended, the vast has become small, the sky has become a courtyard, the limitless has bound itself within limits.

Descent is a going downward; it is a fall. That which the Hindus call avatar, the Jain holds to be a fall. There is strength in that view. It is indeed a fall. How could the divine fall? The divine cannot fall. Therefore the Jains say there is only upward movement, only evolution, only development. No one goes backward; one only goes forward. We rise upward.

Thus the one who has reached the thirteenth state is an avatari being—come after a long journey. Through lifetimes the twelve states have been completed; upon reaching the thirteenth, one is Bhagwan.

Understand this meaning of Bhagwan as well. Hindus think Bhagwan means the one who created the world. Among the Jains, Bhagwan does not have that meaning. No one created the world; there is no creator. But the one who has created himself is Bhagwan. The one who, having passed through these twelve steps, has arrived at the thirteenth—that one is Bhagwan.

Therefore Bhagwan is not a singular. It is not that there is only one God. As many souls as there are, so many potential Bhagwans there are. There is the possibility of infinite Bhagwans. Hindus say “God is infinite”; Jains say “there are infinite gods.”

Every life-energy will someday come to the thirteenth gunasthana—sooner or later. How long will you wander? Someday, tired and worn by suffering, you will come home. At that thirteenth gunasthana godliness is attained.

From this thirteenth state of Bhagwan one cannot fall; falling does not happen. But one may, if one chooses, remain—one may delay the arrival of the fourteenth. One must practice such profound compassion that it becomes almost like a passion. Just as a worldly person is bound by passion and cannot be free of the world, so the one who has reached the thirteenth gunasthana forges chains of compassion and is bound by compassion. He stops so that somehow he can keep a little company, give a little call. His boat has come to the far shore, the invitation to cross has arrived, yet he devises a thousand ways to remain a little while on this shore.

Different true masters have used different devices—how to remain a little longer on this shore so that a few words can be spoken to you, a little message can be given; so that your sleep can be gently shaken; so that your dreams can be slightly broken.

By itself, stopping does not happen. Of itself the thirteenth passes into the fourteenth—like very smooth ground on which you slip and slide; like a slick slope. The thirteenth and the fourteenth are so close, and the fourteenth is so attractive, so alluring—who would want to stay?

Hence the Jains say: thousands attain kevala-jnana, omniscience, but only once in a while does someone become a Tirthankara. Tirthankara means one who remains at the thirteenth—by force, by deliberate effort.

The fourteenth means the severing of relationship with the body. What happens in the fourteenth is not more than what happens in the thirteenth; rather, something is less. Up to the thirteenth the body remains in association; in the fourteenth only the pure soul remains—the relation with the body is cut.

There is no way to parcel out love. Because love is a leap. Knowledge is gradual; love is a jump. Knowledge moves inch by inch, step by step. Love does not move inch by inch, step by step.

Knowledge is very clever; love is very mad. So these gunasthanas are for the seeker of knowledge. On the path of devotion there are no gunasthanas.

The devotee does not know division. He does not know categories. He does not know analysis. The devotee’s hallmark is synthesis. His mark is to see the indivisible wherever there are divisions.

The knower’s whole effort is to discern differences even where there is unity. Mahavira called his entire scripture bhed-vijnana—the science of discrimination. To recognize what the body is and what the soul is; what the world is and what liberation is. To recognize each thing, to give precise accounts and exact analysis. By right analysis one attains the liberated state. The seeker of knowledge analyzes; analysis is his method. He makes categories, classes. His approach is scientific.

The devotee, the lover, breaks categories. He throws all classifications into a jumble. He is intoxicated, mad. Do madmen ever keep accounts?

So don’t even ask whether there can be similar categories and divisions on the path of devotion, on the path of love. It is not possible.

A man who accumulates wealth does so slowly. A bandit comes and carries it all off in one swoop.

A man came to Ramakrishna with a thousand gold coins. He said, please accept my offering. Ramakrishna said, Now that you have brought them, all right, I accept. But what will I do with them? You have unloaded your burden and put it on me. Do this: I accept them; now, on my behalf, tie them up and throw them into the Ganges.

The man wrapped the bundle very reluctantly. A thousand thoughts arose—What is this! But he could not say anything now. He had offered them, and this madman says, Go throw them into the Ganges. He went, unwillingly. He took a long time; he didn’t return, so Ramakrishna said, Go and see what happened. Did he reach the Ganges or run home? Where is he? He still hasn’t returned.

Someone went to look and found him by the river, a big crowd gathered around. He was first clinking and counting them one by one, then throwing them in. Someone brought word to Ramakrishna. He went there and said, Fool! To put together you have to count. Why are you counting in order to throw away? Look, if it’s nine hundred and ninety-nine, that will do; if it’s a thousand and one, that too will do. Tie up the bundle and toss it in as one! Why this counting?

Old habits—an accumulator’s habit, the habit of counting—must have persisted. As he would sit in his shop, testing coins by their ring—real or fake—he was still doing that. But now the whole process had turned upside down.

Love knows only how to drown.

Who is this that came like a highwayman,
who plundered the township of the heart?
The cloak of ease was torn,
the bond with consolation snapped.
Who is this that came like a highwayman,
who plundered the township of the heart?

God comes like a brigand. That is why Hindus call God Hari. Hari means the taker-away: the one who snatches, who seizes—like a highway robber who suddenly descends and loots.

Who is this that came like a highwayman,
who plundered the township of the heart?

Love is not in your hands. Meditation is in your hands. Knowledge is in your hands. Renunciation and austerity are in your hands; love is not in your hands. In some unknown instant, in some uncharted hour of grace, Someone arrives and carries you off.

The cloak of ease was torn.

Before love, a person lives comfortably. After love, no more comfort. Before love, one doesn’t even know what pain is. Only after love does one know pain—because in love one burns, melts, dissolves, is annihilated.

The cloak of ease was torn,
the bond with consolation snapped.

Before love life moves very slowly, with great caution. There is no running, no leaping. One walks carefully. After love, ecstasy takes over. Where then is patience? Where is composure? Where comfort?

The intellect bows only after much weighing and measuring. The heart is bowed already. Understand this well: your heart even now is steeped in devotion. You have lost contact with your heart. You have settled in your head, taken residence in your skull. There you have remained—stuck and tangled.

The heart is still praying. The heart is still saying namaz. The heart is still drowning. To be in the heart is to be in God.

For those who have gone astray in the intellect and cannot find the way of the heart, there are the fourteen gunasthanas. For those for whom the heart is near and there is no hindrance, who can simply descend into the heart, there are no gunasthanas, no divisions. For them there is no scripture and no practice.

Youth, love, fidelity, despair—
this is the brief tale of ours.
The heart prostrated to you everywhere,
the forehead kept searching for the threshold.

The intellect kept searching for the place where it could bow.

The forehead kept searching for the threshold—

the doorway, the step where to place the head, where to bow. Where is the temple? Where the mosque?

The forehead kept searching for the threshold;
the heart kept prostrating to you everywhere.

And the heart prayed everywhere, absorbed in your worship. The heart is immersed in worship. There the lamp is already burning, the incense already rising, the altar already set.

Those who are lost badly in the intellect—in the forest of ideas, in the tangle of thoughts—their way is the way of knowledge.

That is why Jain scriptures are extremely intellectual, dry. Like mathematics. Read Einstein or read the Jain scriptures—alike. Read Newton or Aristotle or the Jain scriptures—alike.

Many Jains have come to me asking that I speak on Kundakunda. Many times, hearing them, I too open Kundakunda’s book, then close it again. Utterly dry. Even with effort I cannot pour poetry into it. It would be a great hindrance. There is no song there, no flowing rasa. Straight mathematical accounting—two and two are four.

Jain scriptures were born when India was passing through a great intellectual revolution. The whole country was absorbed in deep reflection. After centuries of thinking, conclusions were being drawn. It wasn’t only in India; across the world a great surge of energy arose. In India there were Buddha, Mahavira, Makkhali Gosala, Ajita Keshakambala, the Niganthas; in Greece, Thales, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle; in Iran, Zarathustra; in China, Confucius, Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Lieh Tzu.

All over the world a severe, swift upheaval was taking place. Everywhere the air was hot; thought was being tempered. Thought, logic, reflection, contemplation were touching their final touchstone, their highest peak. In that exalted moment the Jina-sutras were composed. They carry the full news of that day—the atmosphere, the air, the weather of that time are hidden in them.

The devotee lives in a very different way. The path of devotion is feminine. Hence the Jains do not accept that a woman can be liberated. There is a great idea behind that view.

One thing is certain: within the Jain shastras, the liberation of woman is not possible. Whether a woman can be liberated or not—no one can state with absolute certainty; but this much is sure: not through the Jain shastras. Because the Jain shastras simply do not fit a woman. There is no heart there. Even for all men to fit there is difficult enough.

So the Jains are right to say a woman cannot attain liberation—through their path. Because the Jain scriptures are the search of the male mind—logic, reflection, contemplation. Not the search of love. Hence a unique event occurred: one of the Jain Tirthankaras—the twenty-third—was a woman. Her name is Mallibai. But the Jains did not even like to write Mallibai; they write Mallinath. She was a woman, but they made her a man. They do not accept that Mallibai was a woman; they say Mallinath. And I too feel they are right—in their way. She may have appeared as a woman, inwardly she must have been a man. So changing the name was fitting. Mallibai must have been Mallinath. The heart would not have been the way. In that sense, it feels right.

The male mind is a blade of logic, a ledger of mathematics, the spread of science. Analysis is its door. The female mind beats differently—heart, love, rasa: raso vai sah. For a woman, the Divine is rasa-form, Krishna-form. Truth is the Beloved. Truth is not merely some final mathematical conclusion. Truth is where the heart bows.

The heart prostrated to you everywhere;
the forehead kept searching for the threshold.

The heart goes on bowing. Wherever it goes, it finds the Beloved. The intellect keeps searching for the place where it should bow; and the heart, without searching, finds the place. The heart is a leap.

And when I say “female mind,” don’t think that if you are a man, love is not for you; or if you are a woman, the Jina-sutras are not for you. To be male or female by body is one thing; to be male or female by mind is quite another.

If the Jains could call Mallibai “Mallinath,” then by the same logic Chaitanya Mahaprabhu could be called Chaitanyabai. His mind is feminine—Gauranga’s dancing form—like Radha. No one dared such a thing. Because turning a woman into a man seems like praise; but call a man “unmanly” and there is a quarrel.

It is a man’s world. Here, to call a woman a man seems complimentary; to call a man a woman feels like an insult—because men have set the measures.

But I tell you, this is wrong. If Mallibai can be called Mallinath, why not call Chaitanya “Chaitanyabai”? It would be more apt, more accurate.

So don’t decide by looking in the mirror at the body; search within. If you incline toward the heart, you are feminine; if you incline toward the intellect, you are masculine. The psychological measure is decided between heart and head.

The way of the heart is easy. And it is supremely joyous. There are no segments, no categories, no divisions there.

Therefore Mahavira says, My vision is the science of discrimination. And the devotee says, Our vision is the science of non-difference. We see only the One. Even in the many, we see the One. Only the One appears. All forms seem to be His; all names seem to be His. The devotee is not deceived by form or shape. He sees the formless hidden in all forms.

And devotion, I say, is a single leap. It can happen in an instant. For knowledge, ages may be needed. Your choice! People arrive through knowledge as well.

Some simply don’t know how to catch their ears directly. What can you do? They go roundabout—reach their hand behind the head to grasp the ear. Some, to arrive home, first go around the whole world. If you just keep walking and walking, the earth is round—you will one day arrive back at your home.

I have heard: A man was running along the road. He asked an old man sitting by the path, How far is Delhi? Everyone is going to Delhi, so he must have been going too—there is a fever: go to Delhi! The old man said, In the direction you’re running, it’s very far, because Delhi is behind you. If you keep going this way, you will reach Delhi one day—but only after circling the whole world. Thousands of miles. If you turn around, Delhi is right behind you—you left it eight miles back.

If you go by way of the intellect, the journey is very long. The earth is not even that big, because the expanse of the intellect has no end. The sky of the intellect is vast.

I have heard that Shiva was playing with his sons—Kartikeya and Ganesh. In play he asked, You say I am this entire creation—then how should my devotee circumambulate me? Kartikeya must have been very intellectual, a knower; he set out to circle the entire creation. To circumambulate Shiva—who is the whole universe, the God pervading all. Who knows if Kartikeya has even returned yet—the story does not say. Ganesh was wiser in another way. Heavy body, elephant’s trunk! Why circle such a vast earth? He circled Shiva and sat down at once. Done! The circumambulation of creation is complete. If Shiva pervades the entire creation, then by circling Shiva, all is circled. Kartikeya thought exactly the opposite. His logic too is right: if He pervades the whole creation, only by circling the whole creation will the circumambulation be complete.

Intellect is Kartikeya; heart is Ganesh. By the heart it can happen now: one little round of Shiva—and complete.

By the intellect the journey is very long—endless time. What happens in a moment may require eternity. It depends on you. Some relish the journey itself; there is no reason to stop them.

But examine yourself well within. For the devotee, God comes quietly. Suddenly he is there.

One day, silently, by yourself—
that is, uninvited, you came.
I felt as if all night long
I had been waiting, so that with both arms outstretched
I might draw you in with delight,
watering with my hands the dawn’s ray-flowers.
One day, silently, by yourself—
that is, uninvited, you came.

The devotee only waits. Where should he go to search? Where is God, or where is He not? Where to seek? God has no direction. The devotee knows only waiting—he weeps, he prays, his tears fall.

One day, silently, by yourself—
that is, uninvited, you came.
I felt as if all night long
I had been waiting...

And the devotee says: The moments of life that have passed—only one night, spent in waiting.

So that with both arms outstretched
I might draw you in with delight,
watering with my hands the dawn’s ray-flowers.

God finds the devotee. God seeks the devotee. The knower seeks truth; the devotee is sought by God. The devotee goes nowhere; he climbs no ladder of steps.

Such a pain that a cloud has gathered,
this cool breeze of breath.
What do you know of today, here?
Rain has come without the clouds.

The shower happens without the clouds arriving. His nectar-pot fills. No clouds swell and yet it rains.

The devotee’s union with God is beyond logic. The knower’s is logical, clear—answers weighable to the last grain. The knower acquires; for the devotee, God is prasad—grace. The devotee says, It cannot be obtained by my doing. It is my doing that misses. It is because of me that the obstacle remains. The devotee removes himself as the obstacle.

On the day the knower attains, there is no one to thank—because he has achieved it. Hence the culture of Mahavira is called the Shramana culture—attained by effort, endeavor, manly exertion.

The devotee says, God came as grace. To say “I attained” is itself wrong.

The knower says, Until I become perfect, how will truth come? So the knower works to perfect himself. The knower’s way is sadhana; the devotee’s is only prayer. The devotee says, Me—perfect? Impossible. If you meet me, it will be in my imperfection. If it be your will, accept me as I am. It will not be managed by me to become perfect.

So in knowledge there is a danger—that the ego may be saved. In devotion there is no danger of ego. Devotion’s danger is different—that laziness may masquerade as waiting. Knowledge has no danger of laziness. Both have dangers; both have gifts. The knower’s danger is to become egotistical—“I achieved.” The devotee’s danger is that laziness may become “waiting.” Laziness is not waiting. Waiting is a highly active state of consciousness—active and passive together, a condition of intense thirst.

Have you seen it? In Olympic images you must have. Runners stand on the line waiting for the whistle. They haven’t run yet; they are standing, charged with energy. In every split-second they await the signal—to leap into the race. Not yet running, but brimming with energy.

Such is the devotee’s state. He does not set out to search, but he is not lazy. He is filled with urgency.

Yesterday I was reading a song—it is of worldly love, but whether love is of this world or that, the difference is not much.

Do not keep gazing into the mirror, my life—
the auspicious moment of love will pass.
Who here has ever completed their adornment?
Every couch that was made was made incomplete;
every garland that was strung was strung incomplete;
every reed that was played was played incomplete.
We are incomplete; our creations are incomplete.
Only love alone is complete here.
Do not keep locking eyes with glass alone—
the mute reflection will cheat the image.
Do not keep gazing into the mirror, my life—
this auspicious moment of love will pass.

The devotee says, We are incomplete. How long shall we decorate ourselves? Accept us as we are. The chance that we will ever be complete is slim. But our love is complete. We may be incomplete; our longing is complete. Look at our longing.

Who here has ever completed their adornment?
Every couch that was made was made incomplete;
every garland that was strung was strung incomplete;
every reed that was played was played incomplete.
We are incomplete; our creations are incomplete.
Only love alone is complete here.
Do not keep locking eyes with glass alone—
the mute reflection will cheat the image.

The devotee says: Do not postpone that which can happen now. Do not put off till tomorrow what can happen this very instant. Do not say, “I will be prepared.” We are limited; we have boundaries. We are incomplete. Our longing can be complete, our thirst can be complete—but we will not be.

Understand the difference. The knower says, Drop longing, become perfect. The devotee says, Fulfill longing; do not worry about your perfection or imperfection. Opposite ways—but both arrive at the same peak.

If only the dugdugi remains, then everything remains. If the dugdugi is lost, everything is lost. If you become the dugdugi, all is fulfilled. Delight! Dance! When the inner notes begin to dance, begin to hum, then indeed everything becomes laughable—all the searching, all the running about.

The devotee takes life as a festival. The devotee turns celebration itself into worship and prayer. This world is a grand festival. And here you sit needlessly, sad and sullen. Join in. Everything is swaying—sway with it. Everything is dancing. Look at the moon and stars, the trees, the animals and birds, the winds, the clouds encircling the sky, these dripping drops—everything is dancing. Nothing here is still. All are frisking about. Only man is sad.

Become a dugdugi. Resound. Become a flute. Let the music burst forth—like waterfalls, like the moon and the stars. Dance; join this great dance.

Then laughter will surely come. Laughter will come—needlessly we remained sad so long; needlessly we wept; needlessly we stayed deprived. When it was already given, why could we not dance with it? The raas—the dance—is already happening. This cosmos is a process of raas.

Can’t you hear it? The flute has never stopped; it’s playing still. You have gone deaf. You have gone blind. The dance is going on. It isn’t that something once happened in Vrindavan and is not happening now. God is dancing—now. Those who have eyes will behold Vrindavan wherever they are.

Laughter will come, because you will see we were troubled without cause. You will laugh at yourself. You will laugh at others who are still troubled. You will laugh at this whole play.

That is why the devotees have said this world is lila—play. Don’t take it too seriously. Seriousness is the way of the knower; simplicity and exuberance are the devotee’s.

Laughter will come, because what you feel worthy of saying then you cannot say. It can only be said by laughing, or by weeping. Speech falls terribly short. It can only be said by beating the dugdugi.

What tale can I tell of the night of union?
The tongue grew weary; the talk fell short.

What can I say of that night of meeting? How can I say it?
The tongue grew weary; the talk fell short.

Speaking and speaking, the tongue tired—yet what we wished to say could not be said. Beat the dugdugi! Say it with that. Dance! Take the ektara in your hand. And what comes to you through dancing—no scripture has ever given that to anyone.

Dance means, song means, celebration means you have matched your step with existence. You did not stand aside on the shoulder of the road. The procession was passing, the chariot-festival was on—you joined in. Existence dances moment to moment. Why sit on the edge? How gloomy? How despairing?

Rise! Bring back your sway! Join this circling ring of dance. Lose yourself in that dance. You will not remain. When the dugdugi beats, you will not remain.

The devotee prepares to be lost. The knower preserves himself, polishes himself. The devotee drowns himself—and loses himself.

The moment we met the One, we were lost;
When fortune awoke, we fell asleep.

When true fortune wakes, when the true rains fall, when the gates of nectar really open—you do not remain. No one has ever “met” God—before the meeting, one is lost. The first condition of meeting is to be lost.

The moment we met the One, we were lost;
When fortune awoke, we fell asleep.

For the devotee, every moment is waiting. He is watching the road. When the Beloved will arrive, no one can say.

Today he will come—hush the songs a little.
Take the moon down from the sky and place it at the door.
He will come on foot—he must be tired—so to wash his feet,
These tears are too few; fill the eyes with a little dew.

He will come on foot—he must be tired—so to wash his feet,
These tears are too few; fill the eyes with a little dew.

The devotee does not even raise the curiosity whether God is or is not. God is on the way. In the devotee, the question of God’s being simply does not arise.

The one in whom the question has arisen will not be able to trust.

We are born like devotees—and then we are ruined. Try to understand this a little. Every child is born like a devotee. Of course—because he is born from a woman’s womb, born beating near the heart. Naturally every child is born devotional—filled with trust, with acceptance. “Yes” is the child’s voice. Slowly he learns “no,” learns to deny, learns negation, learns atheism.

Atheism is learned; theism is our nature. We borrow doubt from outside. Life’s sweet-and-bitter experiences, life’s deceptions make us ready for disbelief. Doubt we learn. Trust we bring with us. No one is born an atheist; atheists are made. Theist is how we are born—theism is our nature.

A small child does not even know how to say “no.” Say anything, and he says “yes.” He has not yet learned “no.” Life has not yet hurt him enough for him to say “no.” Refusal has not yet come. No one has deceived him yet, no one has deprived him, no one has picked his pocket, no one has tormented him. How can he say “no” yet?

Theism is natural. Devotion we bring with us. Doubt we learn. Doubt is borrowed from outside. If there are questions in your mind, then you will have to travel a little on the path of knowledge. If there are no questions, and doubt does not arise in you by itself, if the habit of doubting has not sunk deep—then there is no obstacle at all. This very moment you can enter the temple of the Divine. The doors are not even closed.

His heart is that of a devotee, not of a knower. If his nature were that of the knower, this readiness to give everything would carry him up the steps of the gunasthanas, the stages of spiritual growth. But intellect is not his nature; heart is his nature. Therefore this very readiness to give everything becomes the obstacle. Drop that too. It is his anyway—what is there to give? What is there to surrender? Feel ashamed to hand back his own things to him.

Forget this very idea that something must be given. Forget this very idea that something must be done. Do not even ask, “What should I do?” Is there a haste? Do not call it haste; that word is wrong. Call it waiting—swift waiting, waiting filled with urgency—call it abhipsa, yearning. “Haste” is a wrong interpretation.

Certainly a devotee too has an impatience—who knows when the union will happen! But there is a beauty in his impatience. Even in impatience he lives in peace. He knows the meeting will happen; he only wishes it to be soon.

In haste there is no patience, there is only impatience. In abhipsa there is both impatience and patience. Abhipsa is deeply paradoxical, a contradictory state. On the one hand he knows the meeting is bound to be. It is certain; the matter is already accomplished—nothing to think about. On the other hand he says, let it be quick now. Do not delay any longer. How long have I been sitting with my eyes laid out like a welcome-bed? Now come! And within he knows: what is the hurry? You will certainly come.

The devotee’s inner climate is profoundly paradoxical: he longs for that with which he is already one; he longs for that whose coming is utterly assured.

Do not call it haste. Sometimes a wrong word can be dangerous. In haste there is a kind of tension. In abhipsa there is no tension. Call it thirst, call it a call. Do not call it haste. Haste is a word of the intellect. And Omprakash is not a man of intellect, he is a man of heart.

People hardly use the word “heartful.” Tell someone he is not intelligent and he will be offended—because it is taken to mean: not intelligent, therefore stupid. We have forgotten a second possibility—that someone may be heartful.

Omprakash is close to the center of the heart. The happening will happen; it has to happen. But on your side no preparation is needed. Nor do you have any device by which you could accomplish anything. Long, weep, dance—but not as a means to obtain him. To think in terms of means is the language of the marketplace, not the language of love.

Dance because there is trust. Dance because he must be coming. Dance because he is indeed coming—already on the way. Dance, for in the distance the sound of his chariot wheels has begun to be heard. Far across the horizons, near the clouds in the sky, there is thunder—but he has set out. From eternity he has been moving towards you.

Dance! He has chosen you—not as a means, but as the end. Sing! Not to charm him by your singing. Sing because he has already charmed you. If you do not sing now, what else will you do?

Keep this difference in mind. A devotee does not do anything as a means; he does it as an end. Filled with supreme delight he does it, because what is to happen has already happened. What is to be has already been. He has not even a shred of doubt. Even if meeting the Divine were to be in eternity, then in this very moment it has already happened. In this very trust that “in eternity it will happen,” the meeting happens now.

Narada was going to heaven. Under a tree he saw an old ascetic sitting, absorbed in austerity, counting his beads, with matted locks. He had lit a fire around him. Dense incense, blazing noon—he was heating himself further in the fire, drenched in sweat. Seeing Narada he said, “Listen, since you are going to the Lord, do ask and bring me a firm answer: how long till my liberation? I have been trying for three births. Everything has a limit.”

The mind of the striver is like this—businesslike. Narada said, “I will certainly ask.” Just a few steps ahead, under a great banyan tree, a young renunciate was dancing—perhaps some ancient Baul—with an ektara and a little hand-drum. He was tapping the drum, plucking the ektara, dancing. Young, fresh, new—his days in sannyas had barely begun.

Narada said—half in jest—“Don’t you also want me to ask how long it will take?” He said nothing. He was absorbed in his dance. He did not even see Narada. In that moment, even if Narayan himself had been standing there, he would not have seen—who has the leisure? Narada went on. Next day, when he returned, he told the old man, “I asked. He said it will take three more births.” The old man was furious. He threw his mala into the fire. “To hell with all this! I’ve been burning for three births, and now three more? What injustice!”

Narada was startled—somewhat afraid. He went to the youth and said, “Brother, do not be angry”—the boy is dancing—“I did ask. Now I am even afraid to tell you, because he said: that youth, as many lives as there are leaves on the tree under which he is dancing.”

Hearing this the youth went utterly mad with ecstasy, whirling in divine intoxication. Narada said, “Did you understand? Do you get the meaning? As many lives as leaves on this tree!” He said, “Won! Attained! It is done! Look how many leaves lie on the ground—only this many? Finished! We have arrived!”

They say he was liberated that very instant. Such patience, such unshakable trust, such simpleheartedness, such eyes brimming with love and longing—at that very instant! Who knows what happened to the old one! I do not think he was liberated even in three births, because that pronouncement of Narayan came before he threw his mala. That old man must still be doing austerities somewhere.

Often, if you look at the faces of those who count their beads, you will get some sense of that old man’s face. They sit, and then open their eyes wide and glance around: it’s been so long—still nothing! Look closely at the faces of those doing austerities and fasts, and you will recognize a bit of that old man.

For Omprakash there is no need to be like that. Pick up the ektara, take the drum, dance. It has already happened. What is there to do! We have never lost the Divine—there is only the delusion of having lost. In dancing, the delusion shakes off. In humming a song, the delusion drops. In joy, in celebration, the ash falls away and the live ember shows itself.

As for, “At that time you, Master, will not be available”—if a connection with me has happened, I am always available. It is a matter of connection. For those with whom it has not happened, even now I am not available. They may even be sitting here, and yet I am not available. For those with whom it has happened, I am always available.

With Omprakash the link is forming. Do not be afraid. Trust with a sense of wonder. Once the link is formed, it is eternal. It does not break. There is no way for it to break.

And forget this “haste” altogether. Hold the impatience—but with patience.

When day broke, the cries distressed me;
When night came, the stars distressed me.
In short, the trouble never lessened:
When autumn went, the spring distressed me.

This haste is of the world. To get wealth, to get position—this is worldly haste.

In short, the trouble never lessened:
When autumn went, the spring distressed me.

Now spring has come—just look! But you have kept the old habit of the past autumn, the old habit of being troubled. It is an old shadow of your experience. Drop it. All around, spring is present.

If I am anything, I am a messenger of spring. This spring is here; the blossoming has already arrived. Close your eyes a little, and you will see it within. Open your eyes rightly, and you will see it without. Now there is no need to be troubled at all. The very energy that is becoming trouble—turn that same energy into bliss.

Until the inner Rajneesh arises, keep bowing; when he arises, then offer your salutation. There isn’t much distance between a bow and a salutation! Make the bow a little longer—full prostration—and it becomes a salutation.

I said to bow to Lord Krishna so that the Krishna within you is not suppressed under your idea of a Krishna outside. So that scripture does not smother your own truth. So that borrowed knowledge does not keep your original genius from flowering. So that you don’t live and die mistaking information for wisdom, without any living experience of your own.

You are listening to me. If you start stockpiling what I say, there is danger. Listen to me, but ruminate in your own way. Understand—don’t accumulate. Filling memory achieves nothing. Even if you pour everything I’ve said into the vessel of memory, it’s worth two pennies. It won’t help. What should awaken is your awareness. Understand what I am saying—wake up through it. There’s no exam where you’ll be tested on whether you remembered what you heard from me.

A friend came one day and said, “It’s very difficult. I listen to you every day, but by the time I reach home I forget. If I start taking notes, would that be okay?” What will you do with the notes? If you take notes, at best the notebook will attain moksha—how will you? The notebook will remember; you will not.

And why remember at all? I asked him: What will you do with remembering? If you understand, that’s enough. The essence will remain. The flowers will depart, but the fragrance will remain. It will even be hard to tell which flower it came from. But with that fragrance, your own inner fragrance will begin to rise. Holding the hand of that fragrance, your fragrance too will begin to ripple.

So one day the guru must indeed be saluted. Begin with a bow; bid farewell with a salutation. Remember this. Don’t forget. Krishna is not as risky for you as I am. You have no attachment to Krishna. Those who do have attachment don’t come to me anyway. So you can salute Krishna with great ease. The real difficulty will be in saluting me.

But before a full salutation, you must practice bowing. It is the bow that, lengthened, becomes a salutation. Bow! If you bow, something within you will awaken. If you remain stiff, something within you will remain bent. If you bow, something within you will stand tall.

The outer guru is only a brief companionship so that the inner guru may awaken. And the day you understand this, you won’t be in a hurry to pull your hand away.

“Jamal-e-ishq mein deewana ho gaya hoon main,
Yeh kis ke haath se daaman chhuda raha hoon main?”

In the splendor of love I have gone mad—
From whose hand am I trying to free my hem?

Love can bring such a frenzy that a person becomes ready to snatch his hand away and run from the beloved.

“Jamal-e-ishq mein deewana ho gaya hoon main,
Yeh kis ke haath se daaman chhuda raha hoon main?”

Don’t pull away. Don’t be in a hurry. I myself will quietly remove my hand. When you are ready, even if you want to keep holding, I won’t let you. Because if I let you hold on, I’d be your enemy, not your friend. A true friend on the path to welfare is the one who gives you your own awakening and steps out of the way; who takes you to the door of the divine and then, if you turn back to look for him, cannot be found.

Yet such a true master is never lost, because you will find him enthroned in your innermost core. One day you will suddenly recognize: the one who spoke from outside was the voice of the within; the call that came from outside rose from within; the figure you beheld outside was the image of your own inmost being; the one you saw outwardly was your own future come to meet you.

Do not be anxious. For now, even if you try to forget, you won’t be able to. Until you awaken, forgetting is neither possible nor appropriate. Even if it were possible, it wouldn’t be right.

“Kis-kis unwan se bhulana use chaha tha, Ravish,
Kisi unwan se magar unko bhulaya na gaya.”

By how many pretexts I tried to forget him, Ravish—
By no pretext could he be forgotten.

Until you have awakened—until you yourself have become the beloved—you will not be able to forget Krishna, or Mahavira, or Muhammad.

“Kis-kis unwan se bhulana use chaha tha, Ravish,
Kisi unwan se magar unko bhulaya na gaya.”

Don’t rush to forget. Be concerned with awakening. Don’t press for forgetting, press for awakening. The moment you awaken, in one sense you will forget the guru; and in a deeper sense, for the first time you will truly find him—seated within you, enthroned on your own seat, abiding as your very Self.

Suddenly you will find that guru and disciple were never two.
I am your possibility—the news of what you can become. But there is no hurry to let go. In trying to let go too soon, you will get stuck; there will be no gain. The letting go will happen on its own. Learn. Awaken. Become.

A mother teaches her little child to walk. She teaches by holding his hand, though the child wants to pull away—his ego is hurt that someone is making him walk! But the mother holds on. Granted the child’s ego is hurt; still, he cannot be left to himself yet.

For now, even if you try to pull away, I will not let go. Even if you run, I will follow you. Wherever you go, I will haunt you like a shadow. For now, there is no other way.

So the mother holds the child’s hand. Then one day, when the child begins to walk, she quietly slips her hand away—even if the child wants to hold on.

Because by then the child has enough understanding to know that the hand in the mother’s hand is safer. Experience has taught him: he has fallen many times, skinned his knees; now experience tells him to keep holding that hand. But now the mother lets go.

This is the paradox of life. One day you must hold on; another day you must let go. The ladder you climb, you must leave. The boat that takes you to the far shore, you must step out of.

Therefore, for now, bow—and later the salutation will also happen. If you don’t do it, I will.

That’s all for today.