Jin Sutra #8

A verb is aliveness. A noun is a corpse. A noun means: something finished. A verb means: something that is happening, happening, happening. Like a river that is flowing—the river is a verb; a pond does not flow—a pond is a noun. Flow is life; stagnation is death.

Whatever is important in life is verb-like. Love is not an object; love is a process. If you do it, it is; if you don’t, it is gone. One who tells you, “I love you,” has love only in those very moments when he is loving; when he is not, the love is gone.

If you want to keep love, you must keep the doing alive. Meditation happens only while you meditate; when you don’t, it is lost. Only what you do, is. Your very breath is there only as long as you are breathing; if you don’t breathe—what breath?

This is a profound truth of life: here everything is process. Science too has proclaimed it.

The great scientist Eddington wrote that “rest” is a false word, because nothing is at rest. Everything is happening. Hence all words that denote rest are signs of ignorance. We say, “The tree is.” We should not say that. It is not in accord with truth, not indicative of existence. We should say, “The tree is happening.” When we say, “The tree is,” it sounds as if the becoming has stopped, as if there is some thing. But in the time it takes to say “the tree is,” the tree has already become something else. Some old leaves have fallen, some new buds have slipped out, a bud has become a flower, a flower has scattered. The tree is aging in that very span. We say, “The house is,” but the house too is wearing down; it is today, tomorrow it may not be—otherwise how would palaces become ruins! We say, “This man is young”; if we look closely we will have to say, “This man is becoming young,” or, “This man is becoming old.” There is no state of “is.”

The great Greek sage Heraclitus said, you cannot step into the same river twice. Where will you find the same river again? The water keeps flowing. Then one of Heraclitus’ disciples said, if Heraclitus is right, how can you step into the same river even once? When your foot touched the surface the river was one; a little lower, it had already become another; and by the time you reached the bed, it was different again. The Ganga keeps flowing. In the flow is the Ganga. Therefore everything is happening.

You are not—you are becoming.

Life is an event, not a thing. And one who sees life’s eventfulness will have life burn within him with great incandescence. Then you will not say that love is some permanent treasure stored in the heart. Love too is like breath: take it and it is; don’t take it and it is not.

Things exist only in your doing. What you “are” tells nothing of your state; only your act does. You say, “This man is a sadhu.” It only means: this man is engaged in being a sadhu—he is maintaining saintliness. You say, “This man is meditative.” It only means: he is breathing the breaths of meditation.

Here everything is moving; nothing is stationary. All is transforming, moment by moment. Every moment the new is happening, the old is going. Hence the counsel: do not be attached to the old; your attachment will stall you, and your rhythm with life will break. Hence: do not desire the future; the future is not yet. The past is no more, the future not yet. If you grasp what is no more, you will be in trouble; and how will you grasp what is not yet? You will only imagine. See what is. And what is, is flowing away every moment. Witness this flowing Ganga.

A man came to Buddha and spat on him. He was very angry. The very existence of a Buddha fills some people with great rage, because the presence of one like Buddha makes the very possibility of their own kind of existence impossible. The Buddha’s presence breaks the ego. The Buddha’s presence says, “You too could have been like this; you missed.” The Buddha’s presence acquaints you with your truth. The flower of Buddha points you toward your thorn. Anger arises.

He spat on Buddha. Buddha wiped it off with his robe. The next day the man came to ask forgiveness. He had not slept all night. Buddha said, “No, there is nothing to forgive; because the one who spat is no longer, and the one on whom he spat is also no longer. Neither am I the same, nor are you. Let it be! Drop it! Why get into such things? First you made a mistake by spitting; then you wasted the whole night in useless worry. Now you repent. Drop it! Look at me—I am not the one on whom you spat. You too are not the one who spat.”

Ananda, Buddha’s disciple, was sitting beside him. He said, “Wait—this is not philosophy. This man spat, and he is the same man.” Buddha said, “Look a little, Ananda! Yesterday he spat; today he has come to ask forgiveness—how can he be the same? Do you not see the difference between the one who spat and the one who has come to ask forgiveness? You are being deceived by the face. Look within a little. He is not the same; otherwise he would spit again. This is someone else. Something new has appeared. Have the vision of this new.”

But Ananda would not agree, because Ananda was clinging to yesterday. The one who abused you yesterday—when he meets you again today, do not cling to yesterday; otherwise you will not see the one who has come today. He may have come to ask forgiveness. The friend of yesterday may be an enemy today. The enemy of today may be a friend tomorrow.

A meditator keeps himself continuously empty, immaculate, with eyes open. He does not accumulate clouds. He sees the fact as it is now—neither weighing it against yesterday nor against the tomorrow to come. As it is now, he sees the fact. But to see this fact you too must be true. That is why Mahavira called truth the essence of all religion. Austerity and self-restraint and all other virtues are contained in it.

Truth means: within, be exactly what you are. Then outside too you will see that which is, as it is. We usually go on seeing outside what is not. The past is a heavy burden; the future too is heavy. And in the tussle of these two, between the two millstones, the tiny moment of the present gets crushed. You either fantasize or are lost in memories. You do not see what is passing right by you.

See life as fact. But to see, you must be suffused with truth. The one who is true will see the true. And then you will not see nouns; you will see verbs.

The soul is not an object you can clutch in your fist—the soul is the continuous process of consciousness within you, the ever-arising of the witness from the void, moment to moment—that is the soul.

Psychologists say that when a person is born he is born like a zero, a void. A child is born like emptiness. He knows nothing—not even that he is. It will take a little time even to be aware of being. Being born as emptiness is his first life-event. But the moment the child is born, the fear of disappearing arises. Now that he is, the fear of not-being also appears. Hunger comes, thirst comes—the fear of extinction begins to grip him. So your innermost first state is that of emptiness. Mahavira calls it the soul; Buddha calls it no-self. Both can be said—soul, because it is your nature; no-self, because there is no sense of “I” there—only pure suchness. There is no “I” there. But as soon as the child is born, fear is born: “Now I am—what if I cease?” Where “I am” arises, the fear of “I am not” arises; where light appears, darkness follows behind. Thus a layer of fear forms. Within is emptiness; around it a layer of fear. Within is nectar; around it a layer of death.

Then society begins to mold the child. It does not leave him as he came. He must be given conditioning, education, civilization. Much has to be cut away; much has to be made. Much new must be grown; much removed. Society starts its pruning, lifts its chisel. Then a third layer arises in the child—the layer of morality, of society, of samskaras, of culture. But by its very nature this cultural-social layer is contrary to his nature—otherwise it would not be needed. It is needed precisely because the child as he is by nature is unacceptable to society. The child laughs out of time—laughter is arising by nature—but society will regulate: not every place, not every time is fit for laughter. Someone may have died and you start laughing…

One of my teachers died. He was a very simple man. His way of living was very simple. He wore a big turban—the only one in that whole village who wore such a big turban. He walked loosely, gently. He taught Sanskrit. People took him for a simple pundit. In the school the children had named him “Bholenath.” As soon as he would come, the children would say, “Jai Bhole Baba!” They would write on the back of his shirt, “Jai Bhole Baba!” On the blackboard they would write, “Bholanath.” He would get angry, but even his anger was very endearing. He would make a great commotion, get very mad—as if ready to kill—but he never actually hit anyone. A simple man. He would shout and then fall silent.

When he died I went with my father to his house. The corpse was lying there. His wife came and fell upon his chest and cried, “Alas, my Bholenath!” We used to tease him by calling him Bholenath. No one else knew that; only I knew. All were elders there, so they kept quiet—but a great laughter seized me. This was the limit of the joke! All his life we teased him as “Bholenath”—and now, if no one else, his own wife is saying, “Alas, my Bholenath!” The more I tried to suppress it, the harder it became. At last the laughter burst out. My father was angry. He said, “I will never take you to such places again. Learn some manners. Is this the way? Someone lies dead, people are weeping—and you are laughing!”

I said, “Listen to me too. No one there knew the secret I knew. The reason I laughed was this: all his life we teased him as Bholenath, and look at the joke—even after death, if no one else, his wife herself is saying, ‘Alas, my Bholenath!’ That man—his soul—must be jumping and fuming even there, angry that this is the limit! Even at the last farewell!” From then on my father stopped taking me. If someone died or something happened, he would not take me along.

Conditioning is necessary. The family has its difficulties; society its inconveniences. The child cannot be left as he is; some pruning must be done. In that pruning something contrary to the child’s nature is imposed on him. Where he wants to cry, he cannot; where he wants to laugh, he cannot; where he wants to be angry, he cannot; where there is no love, he must display love; he must touch the feet of those whose feet he would not touch; he must eat what he does not want to eat; what he wants, he does not get. Thus the third layer forms—of conditioning, of society, of control. A prison is built.

Then, as the child grows and gradually gains strength, he begins to search for back doors to fulfill his nature. While he is small and weak, he accepts; but as understanding and strength arrive, he begins to find ways—to do secretly what he wants to do. Deception is born. A fourth layer appears—the layer of compromise. He shows society what society expects; and he does what he wants. A double personality forms. This is the fourth layer.

Then there is a fifth layer, the outermost—of social custom and etiquette. You meet someone and say, “Tell me, how are you? So happy to meet you. It’s been so long since I had your darshan. My eyes had been longing for days.” All these things. This is the formal layer. It keeps relationships a little smooth—lubrication. Otherwise someone comes and you both just stand—he stands, you stand—where to begin, what to say, what not to say! There will be awkwardness; so you say, “Jai Ramji!” “Hello!” The talk begins. “How is the weather?” “Good.” “Wife, husband, children, home—all well?” The thread starts. Now the conversation can proceed. Somewhere it has to begin.

These are your layers. The first event—the emptiness—is your truth. Now beneath these four layers truth is buried. These layers have to be pruned away slowly, removed slowly. As leaves spread over a river, as scum covers it—you push it aside and see, the current is flowing beneath—so under these four layers your nature is flowing, your Ganga is flowing. The removal of these layers is what is called sadhana. All four layers are inert. All four are of the noun. Your nature is of the verb. With these four layers society is pleased; with your nature it is not, because these four layers bring you under control. Your nature is an explosive phenomenon.

That is why Mahavira, when alive, is not accepted. He is a very explosive man. He lives in his own color. He makes no compromise. He lives his nature—whatever the price. If being naked gives him joy, he lives naked—let the world say what it will. Praise or blame—he takes no notice.

So Mahavira is a rebel, a revolutionary. Religion is rebellion, revolution. Yes, when Mahavira dies, those who gather after him are not rebels. Or perhaps the first few who came to Mahavira were rebels; but their sons will not be. Their sons will be Jains by birth. Those who chose Mahavira by their own free will were courageous, very daring—because Mahavira was infamous. He was driven out of villages, stones were thrown, someone hammered nails into his ears. He was not accepted anywhere. Those who accepted him must have been very brave, very bold.

The first group of disciples is brave. But the second generation becomes just as second generations are. That is why all religions are lost. While the living master lives, the religion is alive. When the master departs, slowly the sound of right religion becomes an echo—farther, farther—then it is lost. Then Mahavira becomes “worshipful.” Then there is no difficulty. Then you make his statue and worship. Then you can do with Mahavira whatever you please.

The Digambaras worship a naked statue—their whim! The Shvetambaras do not worship a naked statue—their whim! The Digambaras worship Mahavira with closed eyes—their whim. Now Mahavira cannot say, “Wait, I want to open my eyes.” They will immediately stop him: “Stop this nonsense, keep your eyes closed! Follow the rule!” The Digambaras worship closed eyes; the Shvetambaras worship open eyes. Some temples are common to both. So half the day the Digambaras worship, half the day the Shvetambaras. Great difficulty—these are stone statues; it is not easy to open the eyes and fix them. So they paste on false eyes. In the morning when the Digambaras worship, they worship the bare statue. When the Shvetambaras’ hour arrives, after twelve, they come and paste open artificial eyes; they dress the statue. Worship begins. Mahavira can neither say, “I don’t like these clothes,” nor “I want to be naked,” nor “I feel cold, don’t make me naked now,” nor “It’s very hot”—he can say nothing. Now he is your toy. Your Mahavira, your Buddha, your Krishna—your toys. The real Mahavira, the real Krishna and Buddha were burning embers. To hold them in your hand required great courage. Those ready to be scorched came to them. The weak ran away. The weak were their enemies. But later…

Sannyasins come to me. Some father, some mother. They say, “Initiate our son too.” I understand their feeling. The happiness and peace they have found—they want for their son too. But they chose me; they bring the son. The son has not chosen me. He has not come of his own. He has come with his father. The father says, “Your initiation too,” and he says, “All right.” But this sannyasin will be of a different sort—an enforced sannyasin.

Women come and say, “There is a child in my womb; give it initiation.” I understand their feeling, their love. But the world does not run by feeling and love alone. Their feeling is pure: their child should be a sannyasin from birth. Fine, auspicious. But ask the son! He who has not even been born—is he to become a gambler, a drunkard, a sannyasin, a Hindu, a Muslim? Ask him! But there is no way yet to ask him.

Just as being born in a Jain family makes one a Jain, being born in my sannyasin’s house will make one a sannyasin. But the second generation will be dead. Perhaps in the second generation a little hobbling religion will remain, because it has seen the first generation; at least it grew near the first generation, in that air. But the third generation? It will be farther away. The fourth farther still…

Twenty-five hundred years have passed since Mahavira; now all is dead. Now what goes by the name “Jain” is dead—just as dead as Muhammad’s Muslim or Jesus’ Christian. This is natural. It cannot be avoided. As persons are born, grow up, and die, so religions are born, come of age, grow old, and die. Whatever is born in this world also dies. That supreme religion which is never born and never dies has no name—neither Hindu, nor Jain, nor Muslim, nor Christian. I am not speaking of that. But what goes by the names Jain, Hindu, Muslim, Christian—this once took birth and will someday die.

These four layers upon you are all of the noun. What you call Jainism is a noun. What I call Jainism is a verb. What you call Jainism is the accident of your birth and circumstances. What I call Jainism is your invention, your discovery—and you must discover it again and again. My Jainism is not opposed to Hinduism. My Jainism is not opposed to Islam. My Jainism is the essence of all religions. There the Bible and the Quran and the Gita and the Dhammapada and the Jina-sutras all become one. Your Jainism is politics; it is against the Hindu, against the Muslim. Your Jainism is a sect, not religion. It is a rigid, dead thing.

Certainly, just as truth is a living fire with leaping flames, so are love, bliss, meditation, samadhi—whatever is alive—flowing like a flame, like the Ganga in full current. Whatever has died is like ash; there is no movement in it.

Be a little careful of the dead! Do not cling to graves, or else you will be buried under them and die. People enter graves much later; they die long before—because they fasten themselves to the dead. Be very alert, because the dead has great attraction: it is ancient, it has tradition.

If I say something it will be new. To trust me may entail risk: this man is not well-known. It is easy to trust Mahavira; for twenty-five centuries he has been known. If it were wrong, why would hundreds of thousands have accepted it for twenty-five centuries? When so many accept, it must be right. Scriptures will certify it is right; tradition will certify it is right; the long stream of imitation that has been created will certify it is right. My words you will have to accept directly, without any tradition—great courage is needed! Yes, twenty-five centuries later my words too will have become just as easy. Then those who follow me will again stand opposed to religion.

Whoever clings to the past is always the enemy of religion. Because religion is ever fresh, ever new, of the now—like a freshly blooming flower! Religion is always a flower in bloom! What you call religion is the squeezed perfume of dead flowers. The flowers are long gone; their blooming ceased long ago. The flowers do not remain, but you have squeezed the blood of dead flowers and you clutch it. And you have certainly squeezed it to your own convenience.

A man was a gambler—a great gambler. He had squandered everything. One night he came home late—from gambling. His wife was angry. She said, “You went to the gambling den again! What is left now?” He said, “I didn’t go to the gambling den; on the way there was a Mahabharata being narrated—I stopped to listen. I was passing by, there was a Mahabharata going on; I watched that.” With no other excuse, he said that. The wife said, “I can’t believe it—you and the Mahabharata! From your clothes, from your face, the stink of the gambling den comes.”

He said, “Listen, Devi! And there I heard in the Mahabharata that Yudhishthira himself gambled. The Lord of Dharma—he gambled! You are after me for nothing. This clearly proves that gambling is a religious act—Yudhishthira gambled and he was the king of righteousness.”

The wife said, “All right then. Then keep in mind that Draupadi had five husbands.”

People extract what suits them. The “religion” you erect is your convenience. You are very clever, very shrewd, very skillful—at deceiving yourself.

When there is a living master—when Mahavira is alive—you cannot deceive. Because Mahavira will say again and again, “Wrong! I did not say this. You must have heard it so.” When Mahavira has gone, no one is left to speak; then you can go on making and believing whatever you like.

All religions, sooner or later, shut their doors. Because if the door remains open, the religion can never become old. And if the door remains open, it can never become a fixed label; it will remain a living process. Then such storms and upheavals will keep happening that you will never feel assured. So all religions close their doors—some sooner, some later. And remember, when they close the doors, they do it at the moment when their highest peak has been reached. In Mahavira the Jain vision touched its highest peak. Then those who came after felt: now close the doors. Enough. The highest peak has been touched—now, shut the doors! Now there will be no more Tirthankaras. Because if Tirthankaras keep coming, it means religion will keep happening afresh. A new Tirthankara will say new things. Mahavira also said many new things that Parshvanath had not said. Mahavira said many things new that Adinath had not said. And now the irony is that on the basis of what Mahavira said, we think what Rishabh, Adinath, Nemi must have said. Now Mahavira has become the authority. The final authority colors everyone. But Mahavira said some things that certainly Rishabh would not have said. The reason is clear.

The Vedas are the scriptures of the Hindus. They mention Rishabh with great respect. But no Hindu scripture has mentioned Mahavira. Rishabh must not have seemed troublesome; he must not have been a very revolutionary person. So the Vedas mention him—with respect, great respect. But they do not even raise the matter of Mahavira. There is no mention of Mahavira in any Hindu shastra. If Mahavira had no followers, there would be no evidence of him at all, because the Hindu scriptures made no mention. Mahavira must certainly have been very dangerous. Even raising this man’s words was dangerous. More dangerous than Buddha—because the Hindus later, gradually, accepted Buddha as one of their avatars. But they did not even mention Mahavira’s name. Even this man’s name must have been dangerous. This man was dangerous!

Just think a little! Jainism touched its last revolution. Then the follower coming behind got frightened: now it’s enough; now close the doors; now declare that there will be no more Tirthankaras. Otherwise Tirthankaras will keep coming. Otherwise fresh awakenings, fresh revolutions—then where will we settle? Every day someone will come and pull down the old building and lay out a plan to build a new one—then when will the building ever be built?

With Mohammed the Muslims shut their doors. With Mohammed Islam touched its final height. Mohammed is the first and the last Tirthankara of Islam—the first and the last Prophet. Then Islam did not even have as much courage as the Jains had; at least they tolerated twenty-four! The Muslims did not even have that much courage; it proved to be a very weak religion. They shut the doors. The Christians did the same—shut the doors. Now there will be no one. The last message of God has come; now there will be no amendment, no improvement, no revision.

Life moves on day by day; somewhere your religions come to a halt. The religion that does not move with life becomes irreligion.

So I say to you: there will be Tirthankaras every moment, Prophets every moment. And whenever you get the chance, and you have to choose between two Prophets, choose the new—do not choose the old. Because in choosing the old you will be choosing yourself. You will only be able to choose the new if you drop yourself. When you choose the old you choose only yourself, because with the old you have already become assimilated. You have melted the old into yourself. You have made the old fit your own way. You have already done quite a bit of amending and trimming in the old. The old no longer threatens you; the new shakes you again, uproots your roots again, burns you again, throws you into the fire again. Whenever you have to choose, choose the new.

I never said tradition isn’t needed. If you wish to remain inert, tradition is very much needed. If you want to remain dead, tradition is the medicine. If you do not want to be transformed, tradition is a great security. For the cowardly, for the weak, tradition is a refuge. It is much needed—because the world is full of cowards. After all, they too must have a place. The world is full of people without a sense of self—there must be some crutch for them too! The world is full of self-deceivers—they too need some way to deceive themselves! Tradition is very much needed.

I didn’t say there is no need! If there were no need, tradition would not exist. It does exist—there must be a need, and a big one! Because so many great ones have come who made a thousand attempts to break tradition—Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ—but tradition does not break. People drop these very ones; they don’t drop tradition. Or they absorb them into tradition, but won’t let go of tradition. They dye these very ones in the colors of tradition. They say, “We will worship you too, but spare us. Don’t disturb us! You too become part of tradition. We have a place for you as well in our temple. We’ll install your statue too. Just don’t make too much noise. We accept you!”

So there must be a need for tradition—otherwise tradition would have snapped long ago. Very few people—courageous, alive—live without tradition. To live without tradition means: to live from awakening. Then you must decide your life moment to moment. Tradition is very convenient, very safe. You need decide nothing. Tradition has already decided; you follow blindly. Everything is written in the book, maps are in your hands—you just follow them. Tradition is like a guide: it keeps telling you. Have you ever gone?

Yesterday a friend took sannyas. He is a guide at Khajuraho. He explains the temples and sculptures to visitors and guests. If you go into the Khajuraho temples without a guide, you’ll be in great difficulty; it could take years—because you would have to investigate every single thing yourself, look with full eyes at each sculpture yourself, meditate upon each figure yourself. Only then, perhaps, you might gather a little mystery, a little secret. The cheap way is to take a guide; he keeps telling you how old this statue is, who made it, when, what its history is. You listen like the deaf, you look like the blind. In an hour or two you’ve “seen” all the temples—and you’re back. Temples that took centuries to build, sculptures that cost thousands of lives—you finish them off in an hour and say, “We did Khajuraho. We saw Ajanta. We toured Ellora.” You circle the whole earth like that.

If you go by your own light, it will be hard. And life is no mere accounting of sculptures and temples. Here, if you have no tradition, you will have to make your decision every single moment. Someone abuses you—what now? You will have to respond awake. There is no tradition. You do not believe in anyone’s tradition, nor even in your own ruts—because yesterday someone abused you and you got angry; the day before too, and you got angry—anger has become your tradition. Today again someone abuses you—will you listen to the tradition, or will you wake up today, understand this abuse, and decide what to do? Not on the basis of tradition—on the basis of awareness. Not on the basis of yesterday—on the basis of today, this moment’s impact. Will you receive this reverberation as it is, like a mirror? Will you answer it? It will be difficult. Then your life will be on waves at every moment—storms, tempests. Nothing will be pre-fixed. No beaten tracks. No royal road—only footpaths; you will have to make them yourself.

People choose the cheap road. They accept tradition. Fine—tradition is needed; because the world is full of cowards, the weak, the downtrodden. There are those who cannot trust their own consciousness. There are those whose faith is not in life but in death; only when one is dead do they trust him.

Have you noticed? In a village, once a man dies, no one speaks against him. Everyone says, “He has become ‘swargiya’—a heavenly one.” The whole village might have been against him, everyone knows that if there is a hell he surely reached it; and if there is a heaven and he went there, he will turn it into hell—but still they say, “He has attained heaven!”

When someone becomes a corpse, see how people start singing his praises—“He was a great soul; darkness has fallen; a lamp has gone out; the empty place can never be filled.”

Mulla Nasruddin phoned a friend; the friend’s wife picked up. Mulla asked in a panic, “Where is he, where is my friend?” She said, “Why panic? What’s the matter? He’s in the bath.” Mulla said, “Good—then all is well. Many people in the village were praising him; I thought he had died.”

Because unless someone dies, no one praises him. The living are condemned; the dead are praised. With the dead, you can make a deal. With the living, you cannot.

Don’t think the way you praise Mahavira and Buddha is religious praise—it is the praise of death. When they were alive, it was you who threw stones. When you read the story that someone drove nails into Mahavira’s ears, have you ever thought it could have been you who did it? If Mahavira came today and you met him in the marketplace, what would you do? If he were standing naked in front of the Blue Diamond Hotel, how would you behave—especially if no one told you, “This is Mahavira”? First thing, you’d inform the police. Would you pay respect? Touch his feet? Yes—if someone told you, “He is Bhagwan Mahavira,” you might bow; because you are attached to the words “Bhagwan Mahavira.” But it could be anyone standing there...

Like at a Ram-Leela: a fellow plays Ram, and people touch his feet! What blindness! Everyone knows he’s a village lad. Still they touch his feet. The word “Ram” has formed such a knot. He is Ram even in a play—and people touch his feet, offer flowers, take out a procession. How deep the blindness runs!

People come to me. Now that I’m speaking on the Jin Sutras, the Jains have turned up. I speak the same thing; I have nothing to do with Jin Sutra or Shiva Sutra. I say the same in the Shiva Sutra, but then the Jains don’t come: “It’s the Shiva Sutra—what’s it to us?” The Hindus come and say, “Maharaj, when will you speak on the Gita?” I am speaking the Gita—singing the same song! But no; their grip is on the word, on the line. Even if I give you a diamond and say, “It’s a pebble,” you’ll say, “What will we do with it?” And if I hand you a pebble and say, “It’s a diamond,” you’ll say, “Let’s keep it safe!”

Do you live by words? Are words truth? Wake up a little from words. Words have tradition; truths have none.

And you ask, “Has there been only harm, or some benefit too?”

When will your shopkeeping end? Will you keep doing profit-and-loss accounts? Religion has nothing to do with profit and loss. Religion relates to the renunciation of both. Neither profit nor loss. For behind profit, loss hides; behind loss, profit hides—two faces of the same coin.

Religion relates to that supreme awakening where you say, “Now I have no worry about loss, no desire for profit.” Religion doesn’t yield profit or loss; religion frees you from profit-and-loss. That whole mindset is wrong. If you start from that mindset, you will find exactly what you want to find. If you want harm, you will find tradition’s harms. If you want benefits, you will find benefits.

A man wrote a book. In the West, the number thirteen is considered unlucky. Big hotels don’t have a 13th floor because no one will stay there. After the 12th, it is directly “14th.” It’s still the 13th, but calling it 14th calms the mind; say “13th” and no one agrees to get off. There’s no room No. 13. People don’t travel on the 13th. This author gathered all the figures to prove thirteen is dangerous—how many wars began on the 13th, how many car accidents, how many cancer deaths, how many divorces—thousands of statistics wherever thirteen appears.

A friend brought me the book, much impressed. He said, “See—now the facts are clear.” I told him, “Now investigate the 14th—you’ll find just as many facts. People die on the 14th too. Cars crash on the 14th. People fall from the 14th floor as well. Pick any date—life is so vast that whatever side you choose, you’ll find proof.”

Therefore, one who sets out to seek truth should not set out with a position already taken. Otherwise he will find what he is looking for. This is the greatest danger in the world—that you will find what you want to find. A seeker of truth should have no preconceived belief. He should keep his eyes open—impartial, innocent—then the fact reveals itself.

Tradition has benefits, and harms. But religion is not tradition. And religion has nothing to do with profit and loss.

If you want to remain in profit-and-loss, avoid religion; be careful. If you want to rise beyond profit-and-loss, then knock on the door of religion. And when you knock at the door of religion, leave tradition where you leave your shoes.

If you carry tradition into the temple of religion, you will never truly enter; your tradition will enclose you. You will come, and yet you will not arrive.

In the realm of religion, one must be like Mahavira—digambara—utterly naked, free of all coverings.

But the calculating mind thinks in profit-and-loss. Intellect has nothing to do with religion.

Your chest has breath, but you have no heart.
Your heart knows no warmth of the gathering.
Go beyond the intellect—for this light
is a lamp for the road, not the destination.

This little flickering lamp of intellect is “a lamp for the road.” Use it on the way. It is not the destination. Do not mistake this lamp for the final goal. Don’t get entangled in its flicker. This thinking of profit-and-loss, auspicious-inauspicious, heaven-hell, this arithmetic—if you remain stuck there, you will find your skull getting bigger and your heart shrinking. Religion relates to the heart, not to the head—to feeling, not to thought. Religion is a state of deep feeling.

Your chest has breath, but you have no heart,
your heart knows no warmth of the gathering.
Go beyond the intellect—for this light
is a lamp for the road, not the soiree.

Meditation begins where you blow out this lamp for the road and go beyond it. That is why Buddha and Mahavira called it “nirvana.” Literally, nirvana means blowing out the lamp. When all lamps are extinguished, there is nirvana.

Now, a strange thing: the Jains celebrate Diwali because that night Mahavira attained nirvana—and they light lamps! On that night, you should put out all lamps, you fools! Nirvana means: put out the lamps. The Jains light lamps on Diwali in joy that Mahavira attained nirvana. But nirvana means: extinguish the lamps—these lamps of intellect, of accounting and bookkeeping; these lamps of logic and thought. Lose yourself in that deep silence, void, and tranquil darkness which is your nature.

Mahavira even chose the right night—amavas, the new-moon night—to be free. Had he chosen the full moon, some calculation might have made sense. New-moon night! But right indeed: such is the deep nature—profound, dark, silent, vast. Light brings a little excitation; that is why, if the light is on in the room, sleep is difficult; the eyes are stimulated. That is why day-sleep is hard; night is for sleep. Lamps are put out; all excitation departs.

Have you noticed? Light is lit—and it is. You blow it out—and it is gone. Darkness is always there; it is eternal. Darkness gives a deep hint about truth. In darkness there is profound stillness. You are afraid—that is another matter. In meditation everyone feels fear, in samadhi too. Out of fear you cling to the lamp—that is another matter. But Mahavira says: only one who attains fearlessness enters that deep inner void. There, all these lamps—of calculation, logic, proof, scripture, tradition—must be left behind. Only one who has the courage to step into the dark should come. One who dares to enter death while alive should come. For samadhi is the willing embrace of death while living. That is why we call a saint’s tomb a “samadhi.” Not everyone’s grave is called samadhi; but one who has known samadhi within—his death too we call samadhi. The two are one.

Those four layers I spoke about—when they die, you enter the void. You arrive where you were before birth.

And this arriving is a process—not a noun.

Life is nothing but the warmth of motion—
walking the road, carrying the destinations within.

The destination is not somewhere far away that you are going toward.

Life is nothing but the warmth of motion—
walking the road, carrying the destinations within.

The destination is with you; it is in your very movement. The destination is not a terminus—it is the intensity of your movement, the keenness, the swiftness. When you are so kinetic that within you there is only movement—no thing, no fixed, inert object—everything is flow; when you become the Ganga—then and there the destination is found.

Your being—the ego—is an inert thing, like a stone. Melt it. Let it melt in the warmth of life. Only when you dissolve can your emptiness reveal itself. Mahavira calls that emptiness the soul, because it is your very nature.

Remember: it is all a matter of vision.

Even the shore has a rhythm—if one can hear it;
out of seething silence a storm can arise.

It is a matter of vision. A storm can be peace; peace can be a storm. It is your vision. If you look at the storm from peace, the storm is a wondrous rhythm. If you look at peace from restlessness, even peace is lost and only unease and frenzy remain.

Do not look at the flow of life as an enemy; do not fight it. Fighting only strengthens your ego. Flow with it. Let it happen. Accept it. Accept its truth and accept your truth. When the two truths meet—the inner truth, flowing, and the outer truth, flowing—when these two currents merge, that meeting is called samadhi. That embrace is samadhi.

And there is a second part to the question: “Does action have any relation to time?”

When you are in perfect action, time disappears. In any act in which you are totally absorbed, time disappears. A painter painting—when he is utterly immersed, time is gone. Not that the clock has stopped; the clock will go on. The clock’s time is not real time. But for that painter, everything has halted. When a singer sings—not performing, but truly singing, so that not only the lips move but the heart enters—time halts. When a dancer dances and becomes only the dance—time halts. Wherever action is perfect, time stops. Wherever action is imperfect, time starts to run. Where action is very imperfect, moving in jerks—you don’t want to walk and yet you walk, out of compulsion—there time grows long.

Have you noticed? A beloved comes home—an hour passes, it feels like a moment. An insufferable bore arrives and babbles—two, three, five minutes feel like hours. What happens? Why does time vary so much?

Time is very elastic. When you experience joy, time contracts. Then you hear a friend talking—ordinary words become honeyed. When a bore arrives, even if he speaks sweetly, it doesn’t go down. A gap has opened. You cannot immerse in the exchange; the action doesn’t flow, it stalls, limps. You keep looking at the clock, yawning, hinting, “Brother, please go now!”

It is recorded of Albert Einstein that he went to a friend’s house. He was forgetful. They talked; dinner happened; they talked on. The friend kept looking at his watch, kept yawning. Einstein too looked at his watch, yawned—but didn’t get up. Finally the friend said, “It’s two o’clock—your wife must be waiting.” Einstein said, “What do you mean?”

The friend said, “I mean your wife must be waiting. Otherwise no harm—do sit.” Einstein jumped up, shocked: “Extraordinary! I was wondering when you would leave so I could sleep. I thought I was in my own house!”

Both were watching the clock and yawning. Time felt very long.

When you cannot merge with an action—the same action, exactly the same...

You dance—for someone else; you don’t want to dance—then time will be there. You dance for yourself, or for someone for whom you want to dance—time vanishes. Time is tension. Where there is no tension, there is no time. Where you are without tension, there is no time; you are beyond time, beyond chronology.

And what is true of time is equally true of space. Time and space dissolve together when your absorption is complete. The devotee forgets himself in devotion—he forgets everything. He even forgets God. Only the tune remains. The intoxication remains. The meditator forgets himself in meditation—he forgets even meditation. Then a fragrance remains, and that fragrance is not of this earth. Neither time nor space contains it. It is beyond time and beyond space.

The city of the heart is a strange city:
it longs for one who will dare to be robbed.

It takes courage to be robbed. Wherever you let yourself be robbed, the door of religion opens; there is the gurudwara.

So don’t fuss over the “how” too much. Whatever suits you—bhakti if devotion suits, jnana if knowing suits, karma if action suits—create somewhere a moment where time vanishes; where you can be so immersed, so immersed that no line of tension remains—with your whole mind, your whole body. Otherwise life will be nothing but pain.

Pain means: layers of tension. Sorrow means: missing the Divine. Sorrow means: missing truth. Sorrow has no existence of its own. The distance between you and truth—that is sorrow.

Narada calls it God; Mahavira calls it truth. Their pointers are to the same One.

Darkness is spreading on every side—
come, let us together remember the Beloved.

Those who wish to remember the Divine in the language of love—come, let us together sing of the Beloved, dance for Him.

If that doesn’t suit you, if it feels too “feminine,” if it doesn’t sit well with your resolve—Mahavira says: leave that worry; there is a path for you too. The day you were born, your path was born with you. You brought your path with you. No one is such that he must miss the Divine. Yes—if your intention is to miss, the Divine will not obstruct you. Only one who wants to miss, misses. One who wants to arrive, arrives.

I have heard: a drunk sat by the roadside. A man stopped his car and said, “I need to go to the station—how do I get there? I’m a stranger here.”

The drunk shook himself a bit awake and said, “Do this: first go left—two furlongs. Then there’ll be a crossroads—turn right from there—two furlongs.” Then he said, “No, no, that’s wrong. From here go right—after four furlongs there will be a mosque; from the mosque turn left.” Then, “No, no—that’s wrong again.” The stranger was now in some trouble. The drunk continued, “Do this: go back the way you came—after eight furlongs there will be a river and a bridge...” Then, “No, no—wrong again.”

The driver said, “Sir, I’ll ask someone else.” The drunk said, “Better ask someone else—because as far as I understand, from here there’s no way at all to reach the station.”

As you are, the way begins from there. Wherever you are, the way begins there. Don’t be disheartened. If your resolve holds—good; if it doesn’t—don’t worry. Don’t fuss too much about means—remember the end. Who cares about the road, who worries about the vehicle? Whether you reach by bullock cart or airplane—reached is reached. The plane has its pleasures; the bullock cart has its pleasures. In a plane you save time; in a bullock cart you savor the beauty of the wayside.

A wealthy friend of mine always travels by passenger train. Once I had to go with him. It took three days to reach where we could have reached in an hour.

I asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “I simply don’t like anything else.” Traveling with him, I understood—he’s right in his way. The passenger train stops at every station; he travels a lot, so he knows every stop—where the best fritters are, where the finest gujiya, where the best milk, where the saffron tea—he knows India’s whole ledger. He says, “Is plane travel any travel? Sit here, get off there—what kind of journey is that? The fun of travel is gone!”

To each his delight. The bullock cart has its charm; the airplane has its charm. People arrive by resolve; people arrive by surrender.

Like that drunk said, “From here there is no way to reach”—I too am a drunk, but I tell you: from here there are all ways. Whichever way you wish to walk leads there. You want to go left—there is a way from the left. You want to go right—there is a way from the right. You want to turn back—there is a way by turning back. You don’t want to move at all—there is a way to arrive standing where you are.

It always happens. Did it happen only with the followers of Mahavira? No—it happens with everyone. It will be so; it is the law of nature. While Mahavira is alive there is jinhood; once he is gone, “Jain” appears.

Jain means: one who is not a Jin, who does not even want to become a Jin; but by tradition, by conditioning, is born in a Jain household. These conditionings are borrowed; they have not been chosen willingly. And any religion not chosen willingly is only intellectual, not spiritual. This will happen with all. It is natural.

A doctor had ordered his servant never to do anything without asking him. One day he was checking medicine doses when the servant came and asked, “Sir! How much sugar should I put in the tea?”
“Two or three spoonfuls,” the doctor said.
A little later the servant came back: “Sir! How much salt should I put in the vegetable?”
“Two or three spoonfuls,” said the slightly annoyed doctor.
After a while the servant returned again: “Sir, how much rice should I cook?”
“How many times have I told you,” the doctor shouted, “two or three spoonfuls!”

Two or three spoonfuls of rice! But slowly grooves are formed. Answers get fixed. The more often you have said something, the more you become compelled to say it. The more times you have bowed before a temple, you start bowing in a stupor; the bowing is not true. You are not even sure within.

A friend of mine used to travel with me. He is a devotee of Hanuman. Now that is a big difficulty—because there are Hanuman temples and idols everywhere. Wherever he goes—there they are. So salutation after salutation, everywhere!
And there is the danger with Hanuman that he might get offended! Another hassle! So I said to him, “What are you doing all day long? Don’t you have anything else to do? To go out with you is a problem. You stop the rickshaw, get down, first you bow. Lest Hanuman-ji be offended!”
I said, “And as far as I can see, there is no juice in your bowing. I see an embarrassment, a kind of annoyance! You bow hesitantly, irritably.”
He said, “That’s true—because this habit was put into me in childhood by my father. He did the same. He too used to be irritated. What can you do in the village—wherever you look, Hanuman-ji is sitting. Under this tree, under that tree. It doesn’t take much to seat Hanuman-ji—put a stone anywhere and paint it red. A whole fuss is created. Now this is Hanuman-ji; if you don’t bow, he’ll be annoyed.”
So I said, “Do one thing. Keep a rule for three days: you won’t bow to Hanuman-ji.” He said, “What if he gets angry?”
“That’s on me. I’ll deal with it. For three days I’ll bow on your behalf. But you, for three days…”
He said, “It will be very difficult.” I said, “At least try.” Three days were not possible. He came that very evening and said, “Impossible. I don’t even remember—it happens by itself; the hands fold on their own.”

Is this worship? Is this prayer? This has become a compulsion, an unconsciousness. It has become a habit; like a smoker’s craving—his hand goes into his pocket, the packet comes out, he starts tapping the cigarette on the packet. A mechanical process.

When you accept religion without willingness—out of habit, conditioning, tradition—then you are entering a danger. Religion is religion only when you accept it willingly, alertly, with care. Religion is religion only when it wakes you up, not when it lulls you to sleep.

So you can repeat. The Jain is repeating. To be a Jin you will have to live; repetition won’t do. Memorizing Mahavira’s words won’t help. You will have to search again to see whether life’s truth is in them or not. You must become the proof of the scripture. You must report from your own exploration that, yes, my inquiry too brings me to where Mahavira’s inquiry led; I also find harmony; what he said is right—this too is my experience—only then will you be able to be a Jin.
But if you go on repeating, you can go on repeating. You will rot as a Jain.
You will reach nowhere.

And even the meanings we take from the scriptures require a great state of witnessing; only then will the flower of meaning bloom within you. Words you can get from scripture—but where will you get meaning? You will have to supply the meaning.

A patient came to his doctor and said, “It’s very difficult; what you told me can’t be done.” The doctor said, “I didn’t tell you anything difficult. I only said: eat what your child eats. Where is the problem? For a few days, eat what your child eats; your body will come onto the right track.”
He said, “I tried, but I couldn’t succeed.” The doctor said, “What nonsense! You couldn’t even do this much—that you eat what your child eats? If he drinks milk, drink milk. If he eats porridge, eat porridge. And eat in the same small quantity. You couldn’t even do that?”
He said, “Sir, my child eats candles, coal, dirt, shoelaces—what is there that he doesn’t eat! That’s what I’m dying of, eating and eating. My condition has gotten worse.”

A little care is needed. You will have to pour in the meaning!

Mahavira says upavasa; you will read it as anshan. Mahavira says restraint is hidden in truth; you will read that truth is hidden in restraint. You will go on missing like that. Then you will always extract what suits you. Man extracts what suits him.

I lived in Jabalpur for many years. There was an old Sindhi’s shop. He bought and sold old books, old papers. I too used to go there looking for old books; sometimes very important scriptures turned up in his shop. Among Sindhis there was a belief that he was somewhat religious; they called him Sai. While rummaging through old books I would listen to his talk; some of his disciples would sit there too. One day a man came who had bought a fountain pen. He was very angry. He said, “You cheated me. This fountain pen isn’t even worth four annas, and it says ‘Made in U.S.A.’ It isn’t made in America.”
The Sindhi got angry. He said, “Who said it’s made in America?” The man said, “It’s written: Made in U.S.A.” The Sindhi flared up: “Has the U.S.A. taken a contract on writing U.S.A.? Arrey, U.S.A. means Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association.”

Everyone has his own accounting, his own meanings. Remember Ulhasnagar’s Sindhis when buying a U.S.A. item! You will be the one to insert the meaning. What can the poor word do! You will attach the meaning; you will extract the meaning!

Mahavira’s nakedness was natural, spontaneous, uncontrived.

A friend of mine is a Jain renunciate. I was passing near his village, so I stopped the car. I thought, let me meet him; I hadn’t met him for years. I looked in through the window—he lives in a small hut in the forest—and he was strolling naked. When I went to the door and knocked, he came wrapped in a sheet. I asked, “What’s the matter? I just saw you naked through the window; why have you wrapped a sheet?” He laughed. He said, “I’m practicing a bit.”
“Practicing what?”
He is still a brahmachari—the first step of Jain renunciation. When a muni becomes naked, that is the fifth step. So he said, “I’m practicing a little.” I said, “How will you practice?” He said, “First I do it alone—to get a little used to nudity. Then among friends, acquaintances. Then slowly I’ll go into the village. Then even into the city. In this way my courage will grow. Right now I feel great embarrassment.”
I asked him, “Have you ever heard that Mahavira practiced like this? If nudity comes through practice, where does innocence remain? Practice makes everything guilty. Practice means performance. Practice means theater. Are you rehearsing muniship—being a muni? Preparing for it? Is this some drama, or a living event? Suppose you drop your embarrassment by practice; will innocence come from that? Innocence comes when understanding drops the embarrassment, not practice.”

Understanding got turned into practice—then you have missed. The “Jin” is lost; there are Jains.

And so it has happened with all religions. The same will happen with what I am telling you. It is the law of nature. So don’t be angry about it. When you understand, just slip out beyond its circle, that’s all. There is nothing here to be angry about. It will always be so. After all, how long can I sit to supply the meaning of my words? One day you will become the owners of meaning. Then I can do nothing. Whatever meaning you extract—your whim.

That is why so many sects arise. Even among the small number of Jains there are Digambaras and Shvetambaras; then among the Shvetambaras there are Sthanakvasis and Terapanthis; and one gaccha, another gaccha. Then among the Digambaras there are Taranpanthis. Tiny sects! And their quarrels—so petty! Laughable! There is no real issue in them.

But that is not the point. The point is that when the true master is gone, the followers will interpret in their own ways. Differences of meaning will arise. Those who support different meanings will split into different sects. These differences are not in Mahavira’s utterances; they are in the interpretations of the interpreters. All the interpretations will be yours.

So what is the remedy?
That is why I keep saying: if you can find a living master, then seek one; if you cannot, then, out of helplessness, go to the scriptures. Because with the scriptures you will be left alone. You will interpret, you will read. Who will decide that what you read, you read rightly? That the meaning you made, you made rightly? A great possibility of dishonesty arises when you are left alone. You are dishonest! Be alert to your own dishonesty. Find a person who is even four steps ahead of you—that will do. At least for four steps you can walk safely in the light! After those four steps, if he is no longer of use, find someone else.
You are not to bind yourself to people—you are to seek truth! From wherever you get even a little living indication, take that much and keep moving. One day a moment will also come when you will produce your own light. Then there is no need for any master.

It keeps happening; because when the right time was there, you suppressed it. So the disease will surface again and again. When you were young, you kept reading books that said, “Celibacy is life itself.” Then you pushed it down.

Youth has one special feature: it has strength—the strength even to suppress. The same energy can become enjoyment, and the same energy can become repression. But the young can suppress.

In my experience this happens again and again: people come and tell me that after forty or forty-five great difficulty arises—for those who have repressed. Because after forty–forty-five, the energy that used to repress also wanes. Then the desires that were pushed down begin to surface. And when they come out of season, they become even more grotesque.

If a young man runs after women, there is nothing wrong; it is natural; what was bound to happen is happening. If children run after butterflies, fine. But if the old start running—then it looks like an illness. Yet the illness is not your fault; it is because of your so‑called saints—those who never allowed you the ease of living life simply. From childhood poison was poured in: sex is sin! So sex was never accepted with a full and joyful heart. Even when you indulged, you held yourself back. Even when you indulged, it was with a tainted mind, with guilt; the idea stayed inside that you are committing a sin. Even if you went into intercourse, you went knowing you were arranging your place in hell.

Now just think: when you enter lovemaking and the feeling of hell remains, how on earth will you really enter? How will the fragrance of lovemaking surround you? The dance will not be born. So you come back without ever truly entering. On the level of the body sex may happen; on the level of the mind, desire remains incomplete and unsatisfied. The mind continues to run. So when you grow old and the body begins to weaken, when the old power of the body to repress diminishes, and death starts knocking at the door and you feel, “Now it’s over, now it’s over”—then it seems a great mess: you didn’t even enjoy, and you’re going! The bridal palanquin never even rose, and the funeral bier is already decorated! Then the mind will run with great force toward women, toward men.

This is a pathological condition created by the so‑called society. Let the child live his childhood fully, so that when he becomes young not even the trace of childhood remains; so that he can be wholly young. Let the young person live totally; let him awaken through his own experience; so that as youth departs, the rush and hustle of youth, the disease of the mind, also goes; so that the old person can be purely old. And when someone is purely old, no state is more beautiful. But when youth has entered into old age, then a ghost is chasing you. Then you are possessed by a phantom. Then it will lead you astray; it will make you very restless. And as the body becomes weaker, you will find the velocity of desire increasing.

I have heard of a woman. She had crossed forty. She had become fat, ungainly, ugly. Still she kept making a show of herself. A young man sitting next to her at a party had grown tired of her chatter, and to escape he said, “Do you remember that boy who used to trouble you a lot in school?” Grabbing his hand, the woman said, “Ah, so it was you?” He said, “No, no, not me—my father.”

There is an age when certain things feel auspicious. There is an age when certain things must be lived; if they are not lived, they will pursue you. And then those things become very grotesque.

It happened in a cinema hall. A woman had become fed up with an ill‑mannered old man sitting beside her who, for half an hour, instead of watching the film, had been staring only at her. Finally she whispered to the man, “Listen, will you give me a photograph of yourself?” The man was overjoyed: “Of course, of course! I even have one in my pocket. Here! Yes, what will you do with my photo?” She said, “I’ll frighten my children with it.”

Be careful. The very thing that is wholesome at one time becomes unwholesome at another. The very thing that was right once, in accord with nature, becomes distasteful, even obscene, at another time.
The friend who has asked will have to wake up a little and look within at the buried, repressed desires in the mind. Do not repress now! At least now, do not repress! You have repressed till now, and this is its ill effect. Now bring attention to it. Because you are no longer of an age to run after women, nor can I tell you to run after them. It won’t suit; they’ll start asking you for your photograph. Now let whatever could not happen in life, happen in meditation.
Now, for one hour every day, close your eyes and give imagination a free rein. Give it complete freedom. Wherever it takes you—even into sin—let it. Do not stop it. Watch it in the attitude of a witness: let me see whatever the mind is doing. What you could not do through the body, allow to be completed through the mind. You will soon find that after some days—one hour daily, regularly—practice with lust; devote one hour to this meditation on sexual desire. Close your eyes and whatever images, fantasies, dreams arise in your mind—which you must certainly have been repressing—let them appear! Do not panic, because you are alone. You are not committing any sin with anyone. You are not hurting anyone. You are not behaving rudely with anyone, like staring at a woman. You are only staring at your own imagination. But stare at it totally. And do not be stingy in it.

The mind will say many times, “Ah, at this age what are you doing!” Many times it will say, “This is sin.” Many times it will say, “Calm down; why get into such thoughts!”

But do not listen to this mind. Say to it, “I have given one hour for precisely this meditation; I will attend to this.” And for that one hour, gather as many women as you like, as many beautiful women as you can make—make them as beautiful as you can. In that one hour, drown as deeply as you can in this imagined enjoyment. And at the same time, stand behind it and keep watching what the mind is doing—without stopping it, without deciding whether it is a sin or a crime. Do not worry about anything. Then soon, after three or four months of continuous experiment, you will feel lighter. The smoke will go out of the mind.

Then suddenly you will find: women are outside, but in your mind there is no longer any urge to look. And when in your mind there remains no urge to look at someone, then the beauty of people is revealed. Lust makes one blind; how can it let you see beauty! Has lust ever known beauty? Lust has only spread its own dreams.

And lust is insatiable; it has no end. It only goes on increasing.

A very fat man arrived at a tailor’s shop. The tailor, with great difficulty, took his measurements for an achkan (a long coat). Then he asked one hundred rupees for the stitching. The gentleman said, “On the telephone you said twenty-five rupees for the stitching; now a hundred? This is too much! Even dishonesty should have some limit!” The tailor said, “Sir, that price was for an achkan; this one is for a shamiana—a marquee tent.”

Achkans turn into shamianas. Lust keeps on spreading. The tent gets bigger and bigger. A coat was fine, but when you have to carry a pavilion on all sides, it becomes difficult.

I understand the hindrance. But take into account the root cause: you have repressed. You have done suppression. You have been cursed by wrong education and wrong conditioning. Those whom you took to be saints and sages, whose words you clung to—neither did they know, nor did they let you know.

Monks and ascetics come to me and say, “We have something to tell you in private.” I say, “Say it in front of everyone; what need is there for privacy?” They insist, “No, in private.” Now I have stopped meeting in private. Because whenever monks and ascetics come, they want privacy. And in private they have only one question: how to be free of sexual desire! Someone is seventy years old, someone has been a monk for forty years—then what were you doing for forty years? They say, “What to say—whatever the scriptures said, whatever we heard—that’s what we kept doing. From that, the condition only worsened.”

You have suppressed the pus; it needed to be drained. You put ointment and bandage on the wound from the outside; surgery was needed. The pus that you hid inside has now spread through your every vein; now your whole body is filled with pus.

So a little care will be necessary. You will have to go through an operation. And only you can perform that operation; no one else can. Your attention itself will be your surgery. Then one hour a day... You will be amazed: if for even one or two months you carry this process within without any resistance, with a carefree mind and without a sense of guilt, then suddenly you will find that certain things have vanished like smoke! After a month or two you will find: you sit, an hour passes, no fantasies come, no lust arises. Then suddenly you will find: now when you walk outside, the coloring of your eyes is different! Now beauty becomes visible to you! For all beauty is God’s beauty. Does a woman or a man have any beauty of their own? Does a flower or a leaf have any beauty of its own? Wherever beauty appears, it is the beauty of the divine, the beauty of truth. But only one who has removed lust from his eyes can see beauty. If the veil of lust remains over the eyes, how will you see beauty! You simply cannot.

Lust makes everything ugly. That is why whoever you have looked at through lust gets offended with you. Have you ever noticed? Look at a woman with lust and she becomes restless. Look at a man with lust and he becomes a bit disturbed. Because what does it mean whenever you look at someone with lust? It means you have wanted to render that man or woman ugly. Whenever you look at someone through lust, it means you want to use that person as a means; you want to consume someone. And every person is an end, not a means. You want to suck someone dry? You want to use someone for your own benefit? You want to trample someone’s personhood as if it were a thing?

Things can be used; persons cannot. But when you look at someone with lust, the person disappears; a thing remains. Therefore, no one likes the eyes of lust. When lust is gone, the experience of beauty arises. And when the experience of beauty arises, love manifests within you.

Love is the name of that moment when you begin to see God and his beauty everywhere. Then the energy that wells up within you, the song that rises day and night—that is love. What you have so far called love has no relation, not even a distant one, with love. It is not even an echo of love. It is not even a shadow of love. It is not even a distorted form of love. It is entirely the opposite of love.

That is why it takes no time for your love to turn into hatred! Just now it was love; now it is hate. A moment ago he was a friend; a moment later he became an enemy. A moment ago you were ready to die for someone; a moment later you are ready to kill.

Is your love love? It seems only a transformed form of hatred. Love is just your talk. Love is the experience of those from whose eyes lust has fallen; of those to whom beauty has been revealed; to whom the dance of the divine is felt everywhere; to whom the footfall of God begins to be heard all around. Then love manifests. Love means prayer. Love means worship. Love means a sense of awe, blessedness, gratitude.

No, you have not yet experienced love. As yet you have not even known lust; how will you know prayer? Know lust, so that you can be free of lust. When I keep telling you to know lust, I am saying exactly this: there is only one way to be free of it—know it. Whatever we truly know, from that we are liberated.

Truth is very revolutionary. Other than knowing, there is no transformation.

That’s all for today.