Jin Sutra #61

Loveless it was bound to become; it was inevitable. Not that it just happened. No life-system is perfect. Every life-arrangement brings some gain and some loss.

Those who make love, prayer, worship their foundation face a danger: their love, their worship, their prayer can become a way to hide their worldliness. There is the fear that attachment slips in behind the word “love.” Only the name “love” remains while inside attachment plays its games. Only the name remains, and it becomes a device to avoid dispassion.

So the path of love has its peril; and the path of meditation has its peril too. On the path of meditation, in the zeal to drop and erase attachment, love can get dropped. In removing attachment, love may be removed.

Man is very cunning. Whatever you give him, he will shape to his own ends. If you speak of meditation, he will kill love. If you speak of love, he will save his attachment.

Therefore, in every century, every time, what is appropriate is what restores balance. When Mahavira was born, too much commotion had already happened in the name of love; too much spectacle in the name of God. Temples, worship, priests, yajnas and havans—so many games had arisen. It was necessary to free man from all that.

So Mahavira leaned to the right because man had leaned too far to the left. The few who understood him attained restraint and balance. But generation after generation people do not follow out of understanding; they follow out of tradition. Then they leaned too far to the right. So far to the right that, in the name of meditation and austerity, they murdered love; they drained life of its juice.

Then devotion had to reappear. Vallabha, Ramanuja, Chaitanya, Nimbarka—an uncommon age of bhakti came; devotion blossomed again.

There had been an excess—of meditation, of austerity, of ascetic practice. Because of it man dried up; flowers stopped blooming. Then love had to be awakened. Kabir, Nanak, Mirabai, Dadu, Raidas—wonderful devotees were born. They turned it back to the left.

The few who understood—who recognized this consciously—attained balance. In their lives love remained and attachment dropped. Love stayed; attachment fell away. Affection remained while its hollow bonds fell off. Affection was freed from the world and flowed toward the Divine; it became prayer. But those who did not understand, who clung again to tradition, brought things back to where they had been.

It will always be so. No path can be perfect; therefore no path can be eternal. Change must be made. Think of it this way: when you carry a bier to the cremation ground, you change shoulders. One shoulder begins to ache, so you place the bier on the other. This does not mean the second shoulder will never ache; after a while it too will ache. Then you put it back on the first. If, because the second will also ache, you refuse to change, you will get into trouble; you won’t be able to carry the bier to the cremation ground at all. Shoulders have to be changed. Humanity keeps changing shoulders.
Someone has asked: “Why has love become void in the Jin tradition?”
The Jin current is a current of meditation, a current of austerity. Mahavira did not count love as a limb of practice; he called it the consummation of practice. When someone, walking and walking, reaches the destination, love manifests. Who reaches the destination? Whoever reaches, in him it manifests. Mahavira reached; love manifested. The Jains did not reach the destination. They did not even walk—reaching is far away. They sit with scriptures, with hollow doctrines. Then love is bound to dry up.

Mahavira left no place for God, because under the name of God too much mischief had happened—deceptions, hypocrisies. It is very convenient to run frauds in the name of God, because “God” becomes a big screen to hide behind. Then whatever you do, it is all God’s play. Plunder and loot—God’s play. What will you do? God is making it happen.

So for everything, “God” becomes a cover. Mahavira removed God from the middle. The harms stopped, yes; but removing God carries a danger. Take away God and man is left alone. Remove the beloved, and the occasion for love to surge is gone. It is very difficult to love the void. One needs someone to love.

You sit alone in a room. I tell you: be filled with love. You will ask, “Toward whom?” I will say, “Forget that—just be filled with love. Fill this empty room with love.” What will you do? At most you will think of your beloved, your son, daughter, friend, your lover. In that thinking, that imagining, only then will you be able to fill the room with love.

Without imagination, to arouse love is possible only for a very few accomplished ones. Mahavira removed God—the danger went. But along with danger, the benefits also went. The benefit was that, with God as support, love develops; He becomes our most beloved. He is dear to us—and the ego does not get built up.

Therefore you will not find a monk more egoistic than a Jain monk. Because there remains no place to surrender the ego—no feet before which to lay it down. Nothing higher than oneself remains. Mahavira did say, “You are God”—not to preserve your ego, but so that you would not get entangled in the webs being spun in God’s name.

But the result is not in Mahavira’s hands. He freed you from “God”; what you do in the absence of God is in your hands. Mahavira spoke—once spoken, the arrow is gone; it cannot be recalled to the quiver. What he said is no longer with him. Now it is in your hands what meaning you extract from it.

I was reading the life of Rahim Khan-i-Khana. He was one of Akbar’s nine jewels. Akbar was very pleased with him and gave him vast lands and wealth—gifted him millions. As money came to Rahim, he just as quickly gave it away. When he died he was a pauper. Millions passed through his hands, but whatever came—he shared. He never stopped giving—so much that even Akbar would sometimes feel a little jealous.

It is said the poet Kavi Ganga composed a couplet; Rahim was so delighted that he quietly had thirty-six lakhs of rupees tied in sacks and sent overnight to Ganga’s house, so no one would know. Ganga was amazed and wrote a verse:

“Where did you learn, O Nawab-ji, to give in such a way—
the higher your hand goes in giving, the lower your eyes become.”

Such giving—where did you learn it? How did you learn to be such a sovereign?
I have seen many givers, but to give at night, in secrecy... In the dark people come to steal—does anyone come to give? That no one should know—such giving!

“The higher the hand in giving, the lower the eyes.”

The giver usually stands stiff with pride, wanting to show the whole world. But you—as your hand rises higher in giving, your eyes fall lower.

Rahim replied with his own couplet:

“The Giver is Someone Else who sends, day and night;
people mistake it to be me—hence my eyes are lowered.”

The one who gives is another, who keeps sending day and night; and people suspect me, therefore my eyes are downcast. There is modesty in giving because people think I gave.

This is the benefit of the God-idea:

“The Giver is Someone Else who sends, day and night.”

The benefit is that you can lay yourself wholly at Someone’s feet, in every way.

“Someone Else is sending day and night—
nothing is done by me; someone else is doing it.
People mistake it to be me; therefore my eyes are lowered.”

Then the ego has no place to stand. The benefit of the God-idea is that the ego does not survive.

If one uses any idea rightly, it is beneficial; if not, every idea is dangerous. With truths you can hang yourself. Truth can endanger your life. Truth can be poison. It all depends on the drinker. There have been the wise who turned poison into medicine and drank it; and there have been the foolish who turned nectar into poison, were intoxicated by it, and perished.

Mahavira removed the element of God; along with it the big apparatus went—the pundit, the priest, the ritual, the prayer, the fraud, the middlemen were gone. But there remained no place to keep the ego. Mahavira himself must have been very skillful—he dropped the ego without God.

But we cannot expect so much from the Jains. With God gone, conceit arises: “We are everything. There is no God; nowhere to bow.” So the humility you will see in a Muslim fakir, in a Sufi, you will not see in a Jain monk. The humility you see in a devotee, you will not see in a Jain monk. There is great stiffness.

A Jain monk will not even fold his hands in greeting to a lay follower; even the art of bowing is forgotten. The stiffness has grown such that the art of reverence has been lost. Through renunciation and austerity the ego swelled; it did not get cut. That is why I say: there is always the facility to turn nectar into poison, and poison into nectar.

Renunciation and austerity should cut the ego.

“People mistake it to be me—hence my eyes are lowered.”

A renunciate and ascetic should think: by renunciation and austerity I am washing off my sins—cutting the karmas I have done. Where is there glory in that? What dignity? It is repentance; the eyes should be lowered. But the renunciate stands stiff with pride: “Do you know how many fasts I have done? How much wealth I have left? How big a house I have given up? What empire I have forsaken?” The eyes do not bend; they harden.

And then, in the Jain doctrine, there is no one above man. A big difficulty arises: where to place this heavy head? It sits on your soul like a stone.

Therefore, from the Jain standpoint, love slowly receded. If there is no God, where will you place love? Whom will you love? Bhakti—devotion—was lost.

But it had to be so. No one is at fault; these are the natural laws of life.

What I am telling you—only those among you who can understand, it will be useful to them. And what I am telling you—once said, it is beyond my hands. What meaning you will make of it depends on you. I have no ownership over it then. I cannot even say you spoiled my truth—because once spoken, how is it “mine”? It has become yours. Having entered your ears, it is yours; do with it what you wish. Draw whatever meaning you like, take it in whichever direction you want. You have become the owner. Once I have given it—once I have spoken—my ownership ends. I cannot file a case against you.

You will hear it in your own way. You will use it in your own way. You will select some parts and drop others.

I have heard: in the Quran there is a verse, “Whoever drinks wine will rot in hell.” A Muslim was a drinker. His religious teacher said, “Brother, I hear you also read the Quran. Sometimes when I pass by your door, listening to your recitation I too become intoxicated.” (He was a drunkard; he must have chanted in ecstasy.) “But you have not understood this much—that it is written: ‘Whoever drinks wine will rot in hell’?”

The man said, “I do understand, but I am walking step by step. I have reached only halfway through the sentence—‘Whoever drinks wine...’ So far, only this far. Each has his limit, his capacity! I have not reached the second half yet. Slowly I am moving; someday I shall arrive.”

You will pick what suits you. You will choose what you wish to choose.

A case was filed involving Mulla Nasruddin. In a village, some man called a leader “the son of an owl” (a fool). Now, all leaders are sons of owls anyway—otherwise why be a leader? A person should manage himself, walk on his own; instead he sets out to change the whole world, to fix everyone else!

But the leader was furious and filed a defamation suit. The magistrate asked Mulla—who was a witness—“In the hotel where this happened, dozens were coming and going. And the man who said ‘son of an owl’ did not name anyone—he just said ‘son of an owl’. What proof is there that he said it to this leader and not to someone else?” Mulla had come to testify in favor of the leader. He said, “There is absolute proof. Although hundreds were coming and going, he called only our leader ‘son of an owl’.”

The magistrate said, “What is the proof?”

Mulla said, “Because there was no other son of an owl present there.”

Now what will you do? He has come to testify on your behalf!

Your agendas are your own. Whether you stand for or against makes little difference. From where you speak hardly matters. You are you. By the time rays reach you, they are already soiled; by the time gold reaches your hands, it is trash. By the time truths arrive at you, they become untruths.

That is why Lao Tzu says, “Do not say the truth—once said, it becomes untrue.”

Once spoken, it becomes untrue; once heard, it becomes untrue. Because only the word reaches the listener; the meaning will be furnished by the listener—he will dress it in his own meanings.

I will give you the naked truth; the clothes you will put on it. Those clothes will be yours. When, decked out, you present the truth, it will be completely transformed.

Therefore, in every age, perspectives must be shifted. Sometimes the current of meditation flows, sometimes the current of love flows.

Both are needed—both are essential. When one goes to an extreme, the other pulls it back toward balance. The balance will not remain forever, but in those few moments of balance some people will be liberated. Then imbalance will come again; then someone will pull it back to balance.

Bhakti and dhyana are not opposites; they are complementary. When one goes too far, the other corrects it.

Have you seen a tightrope-walker? When the acrobat walks the rope, he carries a pole. Rope-walking is dangerous—just as dangerous as life is; perhaps less so, because if you fall from the rope you break limbs; if you fall from life, death is certain.

What does the acrobat do? If he sees he is leaning too far left and may fall, he instantly tilts the pole to the right, shifts the weight to the right. But that cannot continue for long, because soon he finds he is now in danger of falling to the right; then he shifts the weight to the left. By moving the weight left and right, he steadies himself on the rope.

Bhakti and knowledge are left and right. The path, if you ask me, lies exactly between them. Neither bhakti nor knowledge alone is the path. Exactly in the middle, where balance is, there is the path. If you lean too far into bhakti, Mahavira will pull you toward knowledge, toward meditation. It seems as if he is pulling you to meditation; his only purpose is to bring you to the middle. In the middle is liberation.

When Mahavira is gone, and by hearing him you slowly lean too far into meditation—so far you are about to fall and crack your skull—then some Ramanuja, some Vallabha will begin to pull you toward devotion. You feel they are enemies, because one said “right,” another says “left.” One pulled you there, the other drags you here. You protest mightily. Pull a Jain toward devotion and he will be ready to fight. Pull a devotee toward meditation and austerity and he will be ready to quarrel. You feel these are enemies.

Nanak pulls one way, Mahavira another, Meera another, Mohammed another—what is this affair? You say, “It is best to settle with only one; in such tug-of-war one gets spoiled.” But both are pulling you toward truth. Truth is balance. Exactly in the middle, where neither left nor right remains, where no excess remains—non-excess—there is samadhi, there is rightness, there is equanimity; there samata is born.

The “equal” lies between two extremes—neither here, nor there. But you will repeatedly go to extremes—that is certain. Escape one extreme and you will fall into the other, because going to extremes is the mind’s habit. So again and again you will have to be pulled back. This will continue. As long as man is on this earth, it will continue. The tug between meditation and devotion will continue. Mahavira and Meera will have to keep coming in new forms.

And if you have a little understanding, a little eye, you will see: they are not pulling you to different places; both are pulling you to the center.

The meditator has a different language, a different scripture, different vocabulary. He speaks of moksha, of liberation, of dropping bondage.

The lover has a completely opposite language. He speaks of love, of union, of the ultimate bond. He says: “May I never be apart from God.”

“What shall I do with heaven and the wish-fulfilling tree’s shade?
Rahim says: sweeter the grapevine if my Beloved’s arm is round my neck.”

Rahim says, what will I do with the shade of the wish-fulfilling tree and with heaven? They are worth two pennies. If my Beloved’s arm is round my neck—that is the ultimate state; I have reached the shade of the grape, the shade of paradise.

“What shall I do with heaven and the wish-fulfilling tree’s shade?
Rahim says: the grape’s shade is delightful—
if my Beloved’s arm is round my neck.”

The knower will say, “The Beloved’s arm round your neck? What are you talking about? Grapes, wine—what are these things? All talk of bondage!” These are different languages, different methods.

If you have gone too far toward meditation, give some space for a Meera to tug at you. If you have gone too far toward love, and love is becoming sludge and attachment, then allow a Mahavira to pull you. Use both to come to the middle. Use whichever is needed, whenever it is needed.

Do not forget the essential thing: to attain truth, to awaken, to know That-Which-Is.

Kill!
But you haven’t understood what Jesus meant, and that’s where the difficulty began. No one outside can really stop you; the ones who stop you are within. How can a wife stop you if you are moving toward truth? Poor wife—how will she stop you? If she cannot stop you from dying, how will she stop you from taking sannyas? If something is meant to be, if it is ready to happen, how will a wife prevent it? And if even a wife can prevent you, then something inside you is shaky. You are using the wife as an excuse.
Jesus says, kill that shakiness. Jesus is hardly telling you to kill your wife. Surely he had at least as much sense as you do—trust him for that much intelligence at least.
What hinders is inside—attachment, infatuation, greed, anger. The enemy is within, not without. What you see outside is only a projection.
When you say, “So-and-so is my enemy, he is scattering stones on my path,” that person is merely a screen; enmity is inside you and you are throwing it upon him. Kill the enmity—then see who remains your enemy! And kill your “friendliness” too—then see who is your friend! Erase attachment—then see who is your own and who is other! Drop the ego—then see who can stop you. How can anyone?
A friend came to take sannyas. He said, “I do want to take it. When I come to Poona, I become absolutely certain. But as soon as I remember my village, I get scared: saffron robes, a mala—people in the village will think I’ve gone mad. So because of the village I can’t do it.”
I told him, “What has the village to do with it? The real fear is being taken for mad. What can the village do? If you are ready to be thought mad, what can the village do? If you actually go mad, what can the village do?
“What can the village do! The feeling inside is: don’t lose the prestige you have there. It is prestige that is stopping you, not the village. We twist simple facts instead of keeping them straight. Attachment to prestige stops you; not the village. Kill the attachment to prestige.”
That is all Jesus means. He told his disciples: if anyone stops you from walking with me, kill him and come along.
A thousand obstacles arise when you walk with someone like Jesus. Those obstacles are not outside; they are within you.
A very rich man, a highly respected scholar, a teacher at the university in Jerusalem—Nicodemus—wanted to meet Jesus. But he was afraid to go by day—by day! If people found out, he was a man of great standing. He was one of the five elders of Jerusalem. What would people say? He was a great pundit; his words were treated like scripture. What would they say—that you also went to ask? So you too don’t yet know?
He was older, too. Jesus was still young—thirty or thirty-one.
Nicodemus was older in years, greater in prestige, greater in wealth. His name was big; the whole country knew him. He had thousands of pupils, students. How could he go, in broad daylight, to this vagabond—and with a crowd of vagabonds around him? What would people say? They would laugh. He would become the laughingstock of the whole town. His prestige would collapse.
So one midnight, in the dark, when everyone had gone, he slipped quietly to Jesus. He shook him and said, “Listen. I have a question. Have you found?” Jesus said, “Why didn’t you come in the day?” Nicodemus said, “Because of the people.”
Jesus said, “So many people come—no one is stopped by ‘the people.’ The reason for stopping must be somewhere inside. Nicodemus, whom are you deceiving? Such a great scholar, so intelligent, and you can’t see this little thing? You’ve come at night so that no one will know, so that tomorrow at high noon you can still say, ‘This Jesus is a vagabond; those who go to him are ignorant, lost, confused; he is leading people astray.’ So you can save your prestige, Nicodemus! And you really have nothing within—therefore you long to ask.”
“Yes, I have found,” Jesus said, “but I tell you, unless you die and are reborn, you will not be able to receive.”
Like every questioner Nicodemus misunderstood. He asked, “Die? What do you mean? And by rebirth what do you want? Am I to enter again into a woman’s womb? That is impossible.”
Jesus said, “It’s simple. Don’t make it impossible. I am not saying, ‘Go and die,’ nor am I saying, ‘Enter a woman’s womb.’ I am saying only this: let your old ego fall. Become new. What has prestige given you? Look at life straight. You have prestige, you have position, you have a heap of so-called knowledge—what has it given? Drop that by which nothing has been gained, so you may be worthy to receive that by which something can be gained. I am ready to give. But first go and kill all this, erase it. Drop the old so the new can be created. Uproot the weeds and throw them away so the seeds of flowers can be sown.” Nicodemus said, “This is a bit difficult.”
“But if truth is not valuable enough for you to pass through a little difficulty, then you are not worthy of truth.”
The meaning is straightforward. I tell you the same: whatever stands in your way—kill it. But understand my meaning. Don’t kill anyone. Don’t think that if your wife comes in the way you should pick up a stick and break her head.
Destroy the obstacles within you. Outside there has never been any obstacle. Outside are only our strategies. What we are afraid to do inside—without the courage even to admit our own weakness—for those we search for causes outside. This whole outer network is rationalization.
You say, “My wife will be hurt, that’s why I’m not taking sannyas.” But how many other things have you done without caring whether your wife would be hurt? Only in sannyas do you care? Has your wife been happy your whole life? I have yet to see a happy wife or a happy husband. Everywhere I see tears. The husband thinks the wife gives him misery; the wife thinks the husband gives her misery. And still you say, “My wife will be hurt.” You have given so many hurts—on this one you hesitate?
No, the issue is something else. When you drink, you don’t think your wife will be hurt. When you gamble, you don’t think your wife will be hurt. When you fall in love with another woman, you don’t think your wife will be hurt. Then you say, “What to do! It’s compulsive. It happened—love happened; what to do now?”
Can you not say the same: “Sannyas happened—what to do now?” No, the wife is not the point at all. And besides, can it be in your hands to avoid hurting or to give happiness? Is it in your hands to give happiness?
For what you don’t want to do, you find outside causes. For what you do want to do, you also find causes. In the end you only do what you want to do—and you always lean on reasons.
When Jesus says, “Kill whatever becomes an obstacle,” his whole intent is: drop the entire inner web; then do what feels true. Only then can someone follow a Jesus. Only then can someone come with me. A price has to be paid. Satsang is not free. It is the costliest of bargains.
In the world almost everything can be got by giving small things; here only one who can give himself totally can receive.
You ask, “Such a command from the priest of love?”
It is a command of love. It is profoundly loving; otherwise it would not have been given. Jesus loves you; that is why he could say this. It is the call of love. Otherwise, what joy would Jesus get by calling you to follow him? He would neither have called you nor been crucified. He called you—and got the cross.
If he had sat alone, there would have been no crucifixion. He called you, and had to carry his cross on his shoulders. Had he remained alone, had he not called you to follow, there would have been no question of bearing a cross.
What did Jesus gain by taking you along? Crucifixion, the cross. No throne came his way. What profit did he get? Love. He could not refrain from calling. What he had found, he could not keep from sharing. He wished to fill your begging-bowl too. From a deep compassion he called: “Come after me.” He had found the hint of a great treasure; that treasure was so near, and you were beggars. So he said, “Come after me.” Whoever understood Jesus’ treasure walked with him.
One morning Jesus passed by a lake. Two fishermen were catching fish. They had thrown their nets; the sun had just risen; Jesus came and stood behind them. He put his hand on one fisherman’s shoulder and said, “Look at me. How long will you go on catching fishes? Come! I’ll tell you the secret of catching greater things. And I won’t be here for long. My time will soon be over.”
The fisherman must have been startled. Who is this stranger? And what strange things he says! But he looked into Jesus’ eyes—simple, guileless men can look straight into the eyes—and the net slipped from his hands. He called to his brother sitting in the boat casting the net, “You come too. The eyes we were searching for have arrived. This man has something. We’ll go with him.” They didn’t even ask, “Who are you? What is your identity? What authority do you have? On what authority do you say, ‘Come after me, drop your nets’?”
They followed. They had barely left the village when a man came running and said, “Where are you two going, you fools? Your father, who was ill, has died.”
They said to Jesus, “Give us three or four days. Let us go and perform our father’s last rites.” Jesus said, “The dead in the village are enough; they will bury the dead. Don’t worry. You have started to walk with me—now don’t look back. To bury a dead father the dead in the village are enough; they will take care of it. Let the dead bury the dead. You come after me.”
To us this will sound very harsh. And from Jesus, the messenger of love—“Let the dead bury the dead.” But what will happen by burying a corpse? The one who has gone has gone. Whether you put the shell into the earth or burn it or leave it for birds and beasts—what difference does it make? Whether you complete the rituals or chant the mantras—what difference does it make? The one who has gone has gone. Only the husk remains. The life-bird has flown; the cage is left behind; the bird is gone. Now nothing remains here.
Therefore Jesus says, “Even the dead can do this.” So there is no need for you to go. Don’t keep turning back—otherwise you won’t be able to walk with me.
Those who want to walk with Jesus must look ahead. What is gone is gone. Don’t dwell in the past. Pay attention to the rising sun, for there is life—there is the possibility of life, the destiny of life, the hidden treasure of fortune.
They must have been courageous men. They could have said, “What kind of talk is this? The father who gave us birth has died, and you stop us?” But they were very simple and clear. They understood. They said, “This is true. What will come of burying? And there are enough people in the village; they will bury him.”
They did not go back. They kept walking with Jesus.
This voice was the voice of love. It was the message of compassion. Because Jesus knows: once a person is free, the boat cannot be moored on this shore for long. It stays a little while; even that little while is a miracle; it stays only with effort. The boat will soon slip away. If you keep looking back, getting entangled in useless things, finding excuses and saying, “Tomorrow we’ll come, the day after we’ll come,” you will never come.
Hence Jesus says, whatever comes on the path, whatever becomes an obstacle—remove it, erase it.
I say the same to you. Do not keep company with what is futile. Do not befriend what is hollow. Friendship with the hollow is proof of your own inner hollowness.
Rahim says:
Give up the company of the petty, O Rahim, as you would glowing coals—
They burn the body when hot, and when cold they blacken with soot.
Understand the petty as burning embers. If alive and hot, they burn the body; if dead and cold, they smear it with soot. In every case they torment.
But remember, all the sutras of life, in their ultimate sense, concern the inner. Why do you befriend a petty person? Friendship does not happen without cause. There is some pettiness in you that resonates with him. How do you befriend a bad man? Friendships don’t fall from the sky!
A stranger comes to a town, and soon—within two or four days—you will see he has found his kind. If he is a devotee, he will reach the company of devotees—he will sing, dance, remember the Lord. If he is a drunkard, he will find the tavern; he will have his arm around other drunkards. If he is a gambler, he will locate the gambling den.
A devotee could live for years in that town and never discover where the gambling den is. And a gambler could live for years and never discover that bhajans are being sung anywhere. He may pass by on the same road, yet the singing will neither be seen by his eyes nor heard by his ears; it will seem like mere noise; no connection will be made. But let the clatter of dice sound somewhere and he will become alert: his world has arrived; something within has found its harmony.
You make friends outside only with those who are like you. Therefore don’t blame the outside. Search within yourself.
Give up the company of the petty, O Rahim, as you would glowing coals—
They burn the body when hot, and when cold they blacken with soot.

It is true. In the past it was like that. A master would be the advocate of one narrow path. That had its benefits, and its harms.

The benefit was that no dilemma arose in your mind. The same thing—the same thing, the same thing—you heard. The same thing—the same thing, the same thing—you did. Doubt did not arise. You quietly held your path and walked. But there was a danger: narrowness set in. Sectarianism set in—the feeling that only I am right and everyone else is wrong; only this path is right and all others are wrong.

So there was a benefit, and there was a harm. And the harm proved greater than the benefit. The benefit reached very few; the harm reached millions. The whole world became sectarian. The whole world became dogmatic: we are right and everyone else is wrong. Ask a Jain—he says, our guru is the guru, all others are false gurus; our scripture is scripture, all others are false scriptures. Ask a Muslim, ask a Hindu, ask a Christian—everyone became narrow, sectarian. Religion itself was murdered. Some convenience was surely gained by a few simple-hearted people—who only knew what suited them, found it, and quietly walked on it. Out of a hundred, perhaps one got that convenience; the other ninety-nine merely became narrow.

I am doing exactly the opposite experiment—something that has never been done. I am making it my concern that even if convenience is a little less, narrowness should not be. My understanding is that the same simple person who could move beyond the old narrow boundaries will be able to move with me as well. No dilemma will arise for him here either, because the simple person looks at me; he does not worry too much about what I say. The simple person trusts me: “Whatever he is saying, he must be saying right.” No dilemma arises for him. He sees me even in my contradictions; in both he sees me. And the simple person chooses what is relevant to him and moves on.

The trouble is with complicated people. The trouble is with the greedy. The greedy will be thrown into confusion because they want to grab meditation and grab love; to seize devotion and seize meditation; to become ascetic and yet not lose the juice of life; to taste renunciation, to taste ego as well, and also to savor the worship of the Divine.

The greedy one will suffer. The simple-hearted person has no trouble with me; in fact he has no trouble anywhere. He finds the point that speaks to him and goes on his way.

You go to the riverbank. A thirsty person fills his cupped hands and drinks. He does not worry about the whole river—how to take it home, how to dam it, what to do, what not to do. He thanks the river: “Good. I filled my hands, quenched my thirst—the matter is finished.”

But if you are greedy you will even forget your thirst; you will start plotting how to take possession of the river—how to lock this whole river into your strongbox, how to become the owner of it. Then you will be in trouble.

The simple one was not hindered before, and will not be hindered now.

The experiment I am making is new. I want there to be no narrowness in the world anymore, no sectarianism. In the name of sects, too much harm has been done. People have fought, killed, and been killed. Man has not been created, he has been destroyed. Now there should be no sects. Now the world does not need religion, it needs religiosity. Not temples and mosques, but a religious heart. Let the Quran and the Gita be set aside—let goodwill not be lost. We do not need Jains, Hindus, Muslims—we need good, straightforward, simple-hearted people. Jains, Hindus, Muslims have been on the earth for thousands of years, and the earth has gone on becoming more of a hell. Their presence has not helped. Let them take leave now. Let us say goodbye to them. Now we need the empty, uncluttered, healthy, simple human being.

Therefore I am speaking of all the religions. The simple will gain greatly from this; the complex will be thrown into great dilemma. But as I see it, by my reckoning, if in the old world a hundred people walked on the path of religion, ninety-nine became narrow and only one simple-hearted person reached. I tell you, that one simple person will reach with me too—and the ninety-nine will not be able to become narrow. And if the ninety-nine do not become narrow, their chances of arriving increase as well. I want to make you vast. I want to give you a complete vision. Look at everything—and then walk on what resonates with you. Difficulty will arise only if you try to walk on all the paths at once; then there will be trouble.

But that would be madness. You go to the pharmacy, show your prescription, take the medicine, and leave. You don’t say, “There are thousands of medicines here. What will one medicine do? Give me all of them.” You recognize your illness, take your medicine, and go home. You don’t get anxious that there are thousands of medicines in the shop while you are taking only one. You don’t fall into greed.

I am opening all the doors before you. Whichever door appeals to you, enter through that. But do not try to enter through all the doors; otherwise you will go mad. You will not be able to be narrow with me, but if you are greedy you will go mad—not because of me, but because of your greed.

I am giving you the whole panorama, the whole map of the world. Then, whatever strikes a melody within you, take hold of that. For me the paths are not valuable—you are valuable. Methods have no value; the individual has value. Whichever method appeals to you, by which the lotus within you begins to bloom, that becomes your path.

And with me you will certainly understand one thing: that what is a path for you need not be a path for everyone, and what is not a path for you may well be one for someone else. Here you will see people blossoming through devotion; here you will see people blossoming through meditation. You will see Muslims moving toward the Lord, Jains, Hindus, Christians, Jews.

So one thing you will have to learn here: all arrive. If there is a deep longing, an ardent thirst, all arrive. All paths lead to That. One journey is going on. There is one pilgrimage. All journeys arrive there.

But this does not mean you should start running on all the paths. Then you will go mad; then you will reach nowhere. You must walk on one path.

See: the Ganga flows to the east, the Narmada flows to the west; both reach the ocean.

It is good that they do not meet in between. Otherwise the Ganga would say, “Are you crazy? Is there an ocean in the west? It has always been in the east. We have always met the ocean in the east. Your mind is deranged, Narmada. Turn back. Come with me. Join our sect.”

And the Narmada would say, “You have gone mad. We have always been falling into the ocean—this has been our way. You are under an illusion. Is there an ocean in the east? We come from the east; we go to the west. If there were an ocean in the east, why would we be coming from there? There is nothing in the east. You will go astray.”

Rivers do not talk to each other—good. Both reach the ocean. All rivers ultimately reach the ocean.

In the same way, all consciousnesses ultimately reach the Divine. Take hold of your path and walk on it attentively, in awareness and remembrance. Let others walk on theirs. Bless them that they too may arrive. Pray for them that they too may arrive. What difference does it make how they arrive, what vehicle they take? Let them arrive. And ask their blessings for yourself, that you too may arrive by the path you have chosen. Then a spirit of goodwill will be born in the world. There has been enough sectarianism; now goodwill is needed.

It is just what I was saying a moment ago: some blossom through meditation, some through love.

Saroj’s question is a devotee’s question. A devotee doesn’t really have a question; she has a submission. Perhaps even calling it a submission isn’t right; it is an expression of awe and gratitude. There is nothing to ask—there is something to thank for.

The one on the path of meditation asks, “What should I do?” The one on the path of love says, “Thank you—what has happened is more than enough. If nothing more happens, it’s fine.” What has already happened is beyond one’s capacity to hold; it is overflowing, like a flood.

Even in these questions here you will see it—different people, different waves, different vibrations.

Now Saroj speaks—there is no question in it. She says: you are the father, you are the mother, you are my kin, you are my friend. You are everything. You are the God of gods.

A devotee has this exclamation of wonder. The devotee is not searching; the devotee has found. She says life has already begun to shower; the celebration is already on. What was to be found has been found. God has given it.

The meditator is seeking; he says, “When I find, I will rejoice.” The devotee rejoices now. The meditator will rejoice after he has found; the devotee, because she rejoices, will find. For the meditator, the means come first and the end last. For the devotee, the end comes first, the means follow.

Hence the languages of the devotee and the meditator differ like earth and sky. They speak diametrically opposite things. That’s why the wise called Kabir “the speaker of inversions,” as if he were playing the flute backwards. And Kabir himself says, “I have seen a wonder: the river caught fire.”

A calculating mind will say, “He’s gone mad.” Kabir is saying: I saw the end first and the means afterward; the destination first, the path later. Union with the divine happened first; afterward I understood how union happens. “The river caught fire—I have seen a wonder.”

But one who moves by mathematics, logic, argument will say, “This is upside down. This is all inverted.”

Yes, their languages are certainly inverted. But understand it like this: one says the hen comes from the egg; another says the egg comes from the hen. Are these truly opposite statements? Both are true. It takes some courage to understand that both are true at once. It seems difficult because our thinking is narrow; we insist either the hen first or the egg first. How can both be first? Yet have you noticed—they stand before each other.

Mulla Nasruddin was in love with two women. When he met them separately it was fine. He would speak of each one’s beauty at length. Gradually the two women got to know of each other. “This man is tricking us,” they said. “We must corner him.”

One day, for a boat ride, they took Nasruddin out together. On the river, on a full-moon night, in midstream they asked, “Now say, Nasruddin, who is more beautiful?” Nasruddin was nervous. In private you can tell one woman, “You are the most beautiful woman in the world”—no harm; everyone says it; one has to. Then tell the other the same, separately—no logical snag. But two women…! On the river! Midstream! One push…!

So he said, “What kind of question is this? You are each more beautiful than the other. Each of you surpasses the other.”

What does “each surpasses the other” even mean? And yet perhaps it is truer. The statement is logically absurd but closer to the truth.

The egg before the hen; the hen before the egg—each before the other. In fact they are not two. The hen is a form of the egg; the egg is a form of the hen. The hen is the egg’s way of producing eggs; the egg is the hen’s way of producing hens. Trouble arises only when you think of them as two. They are a conjoint event.

Think of a single coin’s two faces. Which is front, which is back? They are simultaneous, together. Means and end are two faces of the same coin.

The devotee attains the end first, then discovers the means. She finds God first and then finds the path. You will say, “How strange!” What to do? “I have seen a wonder: the river caught fire.” It happens to the devotee. First God is found; then she asks him, “Now, where is the path? You tell me. Having found you, what is your address?”

The meditator searches for the path first. He is more logical, more orderly. His life moves in a sequence. The devotee is guileless; love has always been guileless.

In Judaism there is a very delightful notion—a path of devotion. They say: before the devotee seeks God, God has already sought the devotee. You begin your search only when he has found you; otherwise you would never begin. Only when he has somehow entered you does the longing to attain him arise; otherwise even the longing does not arise.

They say: it is not only you who are searching for God; God is searching for you. It is not only you who are yearning for him; he is yearning for you too. And the real joy is when the fire burns from both sides. If only the devotee keeps seeking while God is indifferent—“If we meet, fine; if not, fine”—if God is filled with neglect, then all the relish of the search is gone.

The meditator says, “Truth cannot search for you; you can search for truth.” For him the search is one-sided. “We will search. How can truth search? Truth has to be unveiled.”

The devotee says, “It is not only we who are searching; he too is eager to unveil himself. We have not gone alone to lift the veil; he is sitting veiled, saying, ‘Come, lift it. You took so long—where were you? Come!’” God is searching too. The search is from both sides, the fire is from both sides. The journey advances from both sides.

So Saroj’s “question” is a devotee’s question. In fact there is no question—because a devotee cannot really question. It is an exclamation of awe. She is speaking her heart—what has happened to her.

Now she feels the Master is father, the Master is mother, the Master is companion, the Master is friend, the Master is knowledge, the Master is God.

Wherever love falls, it sees the image of God.

“Having met you now, I am amazed—how ever did such a long span pass in your separation until today?”

And when she gets a glimpse of God, she cannot even believe that so long a time could pass without meeting him. How could this be? How could I be for so many days? How was my being even possible?

She cannot believe that she even existed. The devotee comes to trust her own being only on the day of meeting God. Only then does the devotee come into being. Before that it was all a dream—a false tale. No one told it, no one heard it—a false tale.

“Having met you now, I am amazed—how ever did such a long span pass in your separation until today?

“Only after many days did love come to know:
The night that passed in your absence—that was truly a night.”

The lover discovers, slowly as love ripens:
“The nights that passed without you—those were nights indeed;
what passed without you was as if it had never been.
Meeting you, life began.”

“‘You alone are the mother and you alone the father.’”

Meeting you, life began.

“The nights that passed in your absence were the nights.”

So, when a hand slips into yours and the currents of sweetness begin to flow in your life, it feels: you are the father, you are the mother—because a new birth has happened. One birth, from the parents, is the birth of the body. Another birth, from the true Master, is the birth of the soul—the real birth, the advent of your consciousness.

“The nights that passed in your absence were the nights.”

Therefore the true Master comes to feel like everything. It is your own heart that is reflected in him. The true Master is a mirror; you catch sight of your own face.

And then the devotee gains immense trust. Having the Master’s company, trust descends. If the Master is, then God is. If there is someone who lifts your eyes from the earth toward the sky, that is enough.

They say when Mansoor was put on the gallows, he burst into laughter. People asked, “Why do you laugh?” He said, “I laugh because at least to see me hanging, your eyes have turned upward. You who crawl and drag along the ground never raise your eyes to the sky. By the excuse of my hanging”—he was dangling from a very tall post—“your eyes have lifted toward the sky. That is why I laughed.”

“Whether one reaches the Throne or not—let us see;
in my flight there is, along with a sigh, a prayer.”

Whether one reaches the highest heaven or not—hard to say. But the devotee says:

“Whether one reaches the Throne or not—let us see;
in my flight there is, along with a sigh, a prayer.”

I am not only weeping; it is not only a sigh that rises within me—my flight is strengthened by prayer.

“Whether one reaches the Throne or not—let us see.”

The devotee does not assert, “I will certainly arrive.” No. Love does not make such claims. It hesitates. The devotee says:

“Whether one reaches the Throne or not—let us see.”

In one sense she hesitates—will I arrive or not?—and in another sense she is assured that arrival has already happened.

“In my flight there is, along with a sigh, a prayer.”

In my flight there is not only a sigh, not only thirst, not only the longing to seek you; there is also the prayer of having attained you, the gratitude of having found you.

“In my flight there is, along with a sigh, a prayer.”

Then no one can stop this flight. It will happen. It has already happened.

“This heart that keeps throbbing in my side—
was it that you called me again?”

To the devotee it begins to feel as if God is calling. Those who have come to me in the way of devotion will hear in every word of mine the feeling: “Was it that you called me?”

“This heart that keeps throbbing in my side—
was it that you called me again?”

Even the sound of one’s own heartbeat seems like the footfall of God.

“Was it that you called me again?

“Every cruelty is bearable, yet remember this as well:
This heart is yours, it is not mine.

“Everywhere the spring has set up its fairs—
is this not perhaps the hint of your glance?”

Everywhere she sees the hint of His glance. Flowers open—God has smiled. The moon rises—God has arisen. Moonlight spreads—God has spread.

“This heart that keeps throbbing in my side—
was it that you called me again?

“Everywhere the spring has set up its fairs—
is this not perhaps the hint of your glance?”

A devotee is given a deep eye—without doing anything, without asking, without effort—by grace. What is needed is a heart that can weep, a heart that can laugh, a heart that does not doubt but trusts.

This is exactly how the lover feels: that within my small boundary the Infinite has descended; that into my courtyard the sky has come down. When a devotee listens, each word pours as nectar. When the devotee listens with an open heart, what to the knower, the meditator, are only words, to the devotee are not merely words; in those words there is a unique life, a glow, the shimmering ring of emptiness.

“Within the finite, the Infinite”
It feels as though the Infinite has entered my finitude. The meeting with the Master is the meeting of the finite with the Infinite. The disciple means the finite. A disciple is one who has come to know his limitation and is willing to lay that limitation at the feet of the Infinite.

“Within the finite, the Infinite—
you play your own note”
And the disciple says: you play your veena. You play your own tone. I am ready. I will listen, I will dance. I have come wearing my anklets—play your note.

“Within me, your light”
I am darkness; you light your lamp. Let your light be in my midst.

“Therefore such sweetness—
how many colors, how many fragrances”
A form that cannot be described. A fragrance that cannot be spoken.

“How many songs, how many meters”
That which cannot be bound in meter; which no song can contain or hold.

“The formless play of your form”
The lila of your form is unparalleled, and formless.

“Let the heart brim”
Awaken that within my heart.

“Within me, your splendor”
I am nothing. If there is any beauty in me, it is from your presence. I possess nothing—only you. I am emptiness. If you abide, everything is there; if you do not abide, I remain vacant. When you descend into my emptiness, I have all; if you depart, even if everything remains, there is only void, only hollowness.

“Within me, your splendor—
so supremely sweet”
The devotee’s whole longing is to make room, to give space for the Divine. The devotee clears the place. He says: I withdraw—come. I go—abide. I empty this throne for you.

Such a devotee melts himself, dissolves, becomes empty. As he becomes empty, the Full descends. One day the devotee suddenly discovers—waking some morning—that the devotee is no more; only God remains. One day he suddenly finds his arm around His neck. One day he suddenly finds himself sitting in the shade of the vine. No, the devotee does not crave heaven, nor the wish-fulfilling trees. Let the shower of his love continue.

The devotee wants to vanish. In vanishing alone the rain of love descends.

And the disciple who comes to the Master as a devotee—without effort the Master begins to do many things through him. You only have to let go; you become an instrument. And with the Master there is only one art to learn: the art of letting go. If with the Master you can drop yourself, you have learned the ABC of surrender. The same ABC will serve when surrendering to the Divine.

The Divine is not seen anywhere—so invisible. Present, yet the presence is not perceived. His very tone resounds, yet all else is heard, not that.

In the Master, the Divine becomes a little visible—a little. A ray of that sun seems to descend. He takes on a slight form. That is the meaning of avatar: the descended. As vapor comes down and becomes water—vapor could not be seen; as water it can be seen.

The Master means: through whom you are reminded of the Invisible; in whose presence, within your limits, the Infinite begins to stir; in whose light, in your darkness, a little shimmer happens. In your stagnant waters, in your stilled pool, waves rise again, movement returns, the current begins to flow.

Thus, not only here will you be effaced—there you will begin to be. Little by little you will learn the lesson of the final dying. You will find: if by bending a little before the Master so much is received, why not bend wholly?

He who bows wholly attains the Divine. He who bows a little attains the Master. And bowing a little is the primary schooling for bowing wholly.

From one lamp, may millions be lit; let darkness be erased.
Those disciples who bow at the Master’s feet—their extinguished lamps begin to glow.
From one lamp, may millions be lit; let darkness be erased.
In every courtyard may imagination bloom; may the doors be adorned with festoons.
Let songs arise, in united voices, from footpaths, roads, and corridors;
Let every pore, each parapet, smile like a rose.
From one lamp, may millions be lit; let darkness be erased.
From pore to pore let the particles surge; the horizons blush rose in every direction;
At each step let a topaz ray arise; at every pace, foamy white moonlight;
For miles of barren land, may the seeds of love sprout.
From one lamp, may millions be lit; let darkness be erased.

If you can bow, do not miss. If you can bow a little, bow that much. From that, the art of bowing more will come—because when, through bowing, you receive, you will see: needlessly did we stand stiff. Needlessly did we remain thirsty. In vain we made life a night. The life that could have become day—we ourselves kept it clutched in darkness.

Taru did not understand. He wasn’t a madman; it was I who came. I was the one who hummed.
“You won’t be able to forget me so easily,
whenever you hear my songs,
you too will hum along.”

And what I told you, Taru, tell it to others. Let the word spread.
The heart spoke to the eyes, the eyes passed it on to others—
the message has set out; now let’s see how far it travels.
That’s all for today.