Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #10

Kusum! Love is mad. But it is in that madness that its glory and dignity lie. Prayer is the purest form of madness. Beyond it there is no madness at all. And prayer is the bridge that joins one to the Divine.

Madness can be of two kinds. One is when someone falls below the level of intellect; the other is when someone goes beyond intellect. In both states the intellect drops. It drops for the one we ordinarily call mad; and it drops for the lover and the devotee as well. He is mad in an extraordinary sense. He has gone beyond the mind.

The last is like the first. The goal is to return to the source. That is why the supreme saint becomes as simple, as guileless as a small child. But remember—“as”; he does not become a small child.

There is a famous saying of Jesus: Blessed are they who will be like little children, for the kingdom of God is theirs. But remember: who will be like little children; not little children themselves. Little children will still go astray. The world will still entice them. Wealth, position, prestige, ambitions will still call them. The poison of life will still poison them. They will still wander, fall, forget. They will still have to walk many dark paths. Life’s maturity becomes possible only by passing through those dark paths. They still have to ripen. But once, after experiencing and tasting the sorrows of life, the pains of life, and the so‑called pleasures of life, they return, then they become like little children again—simple again, innocent again—then sainthood dawns. The child is before the world; the saint is after the world. There is a similarity between the two: in the consciousness of both, the world is not. And there is a great difference too: one has not yet wandered; the other has wandered and awakened.

Such is the lover’s devotion. It too is madness. One madness is that of the man locked in an asylum—he has slipped below the mind. His intellect is disordered; his wires are tangled. And there is the madness of the devotee, the lover—he has gone beyond the mind. His identification with the intellect has dissolved. His connection with the intellect is severed. He has become a witness to the mind.

I have understood what you say. And had you only asked the question, I would not have answered. When you came to me a couple of days ago, I saw it—you have gone mad! In your eyes, on your face, in the way you rise and sit, that rare state is blossoming which is called devotion. You will also feel frightened. There are many other friends here like you. This is a settlement of the wild ones. Here there is a gathering of madmen. I connect only with drunkards. Only those who have the capacity to go mad can become lovers.

Explaining won’t help. And they are right—you have started drinking! And you haven’t drunk some small, ordinary liquor that you sleep off by morning. You haven’t taken anything Morarji could ban if he wanted to. You’ve drunk the kind that, once it rises, only rises and rises.

Kusum, ask Chaman. Ask Neelam. I’m naming people from your own village. She too has drunk deep and is reeling. These are auspicious signs. Such moments come only to a few fortunate ones.

When the mind goes, peace arrives—what greater wealth is there?

The mind won’t obey.
Today the spring-gust blew; the mind won’t obey.

A gaudy turban, a bristling moustache;
the ancestral peepal is drunk, singing a saintly Holi;
the waist doubled, the wind an old crone,
the flame-of-the-forest babbling in a whir its orange slang;
bands have gathered, drums are beating—intoxication in all ten directions.
The mind won’t obey.
Today the spring-gust blew; the mind won’t obey.

Grape-purple eyes, vermilion longing;
the sun teases with a bursting water-gun; the body is velvety;
the bashful touch shivers, shimmers;
over the dark, the parrot-butterfly of a smile prances;
peacock-feathered memories brush the cheeks, drowning them in nectar.
Today the spring-gust blew; the mind won’t obey.

Mahua drips; the earth is tipsy;
the cuckoo, dyed in the color of drink, scents every note;
the mango tree—what a lunatic—
in the festival of fragrance and song, it pours out a dusky sigh.
(Thirst like sand, hope like a drop—are oaths but a courtesan’s lies?)
Today the spring-gust blew; the mind won’t obey.

It is this very spring-gust I am trying to stir. This saffron I have dyed you with is the color of spring. It is the color of love, of flowers, of the rising sun, of burning fire. It is the color of revolution, and the color of ecstasy too.

Today the spring-gust blew; the mind won’t obey.

Dive into this spring! Do not be afraid. Fear will arise, and that’s natural, because the life of yesterday, the order of yesterday, yesterday’s accounting will begin to crack and fall apart. You have lived one way up to now; you will no longer be able to live that way. A descending ray will transform you. And transformation is like putting gold into fire: the dross burns away—but there is pain. The gold is refined; it comes out pure—but only by passing through the fire.

This madness will bring pain, and it will bring defamation. Otherwise why would Meera have said, “I have abandoned all concern for public opinion”? Kusum, Meera’s own family sent her a cup of poison. You think they were wicked. That’s a mistake. They were not wicked people. But Meera’s notoriety had begun to cast a dark shadow on the family. Meera began to dance from village to village, along the streets. She paid no heed to limbs or clothing. And think, centuries back in Mewar, where women never stepped out from behind the veil. Meera was no ordinary woman—she was of a royal house, a queen. Her feet had never touched dust; she had never alighted from the palanquin; she had never walked a single step without guards. And she began to dance! In the lanes, in the markets! Singing songs of the Divine, tears streaming from her eyes. Her veil would slip, her clothes would fall— even the house began to drown in disgrace. It was a great, noble family, good people, not bad ones. The poison wasn’t sent out of malice; it was sent in self-defense—to protect the family’s honor.

But what effect does poison have on the mad? What effect does poison have on the bliss-intoxicated? Those who drink the nectar of the Divine—no poison can touch them.

So, Kusum, difficulties will come. When you came to meet me and suddenly fell at my feet, I sensed that obstacles would arise. You were not in your senses—you were reeling. Now you must steady yourself.

Love has two steps. One step is when a person begins to sway. That step is necessary. Then there is another step, when a person regains balance. Meera is one form—this first form. Buddha is the second—that is further on. When the intoxication becomes so subtle, so deep, so inward that no one outside even suspects it. At first, naturally, the intoxication shows. A novice learning to drink staggers a lot. Ask the true drinkers—however much they drink, no one can tell they have. The capacity to digest grows slowly. Now digest it. Sway—but remember, in the final state even swaying must bid farewell. Stagger—but remember, in the supreme state even staggering must end. When the one who staggers is so dissolved in the intoxication that no “sway-er” remains, who is left to sway?

So love—love’s madness—has two phases. In the first, there is wild frenzy: today the spring-gust blew; the mind won’t obey! Everything becomes helpless. Then gradually this madness must be digested. Then gradually, even within the swoon, the lamp of awareness must be lit. Then, within this intoxication, silence must be mastered. Then Meera becomes Buddha. And until Meera becomes Buddha, however great the ecstasy, something is still lacking—some small lack remains. Unshakable samadhi is the final goal.

But what is happening is auspicious. It is only through such love that the soul is born in a human life. Those who live without love live without a soul. Those who never sway, whom spring has never touched, in whose lives no flower has bloomed, no fragrance has flowed, no raga has arisen, who have never tasted festival—what soul could be within them? They are empty, like a fired cartridge—the gunpowder gone. They are hollow.

I have heard a Russian story. After building a snowman, one child stuck a wooden pipe in its mouth. Another wrapped his own scarf around its neck. A third set a hat of dried coconut fronds upon its head. While the children were nearby, the snowman felt no cold. If the story were Indian, we would have put churidar pajamas and an achkan on the snowman, and a Gandhi cap. We’d have said, “Now you are the Prime Minister—go on a foreign tour.” Because whoever has churidar pajamas must become Prime Minister—otherwise give up the churidar pajamas! If you have them, what else are you doing? Go on foreign tours!

But it was a Russian story. One child put a pipe in its mouth. One gave it a scarf. One set a hat on its head. The snowman must have stiffened proudly! The children played around it—their warmth was a pleasant experience to it. Night fell; they had to go home, shivering in the cold. After the children left, the old snowman made by their hands felt the cold. All around him was only snow. Far off, the city lights twinkled. Longing to taste the warmth he sensed in the city, the snowman started toward it. Somehow he reached the city center and stood beneath an electric streetlamp. His chill melted away; he felt warmth. In that happiness, in that fleeting delight, he didn’t notice himself melting. Night passed; morning came. The children came out again into the lanes. Under the streetlamp in the middle of town they found only three things—a pipe, a scarf, and a hat.

A man without love is just like that—churidar pajamas, an achkan, a Gandhi cap; inside, nothing! One day these will be all that’s left.

Love is the descent of consciousness within a human being. Love gathers your energy within. Love is the arising of a center within. Without love, a person has no center. There is a circumference, but no center. Without love, a person is a crowd, not a soul. Many voices clamoring within, much noise—but no cadence, no rhythm.

Love brings rhythm into life. Even ordinary love brings rhythm—so what to say of extraordinary love, love of the Divine! You can see it: when a thread of love forms with someone—a woman, a man, a friend—your life takes on a new glow. There’s a sparkle in the eyes, a spring in the step; a cadence, a thrill, a blossoming—you look radiant. Your withering has gone. Your bud starts to open, as when the sun rises, morning comes, and the bud unfolds its petals. Before that, you trudged the ground; now you seem to fly in the sky—wings have come to you! You are lighter, unburdened.

Even ordinary love makes life lighter, frees it of weight, gives it wings. A person gains the capacity to fly in the sky. Even ordinary love grants life a grace, a meaning, a song. Then life no longer feels empty. Then life is not a mere accident, as so many Western thinkers—Jean-Paul Sartre, Camus, Marshall—say: that life is only an accident.

Sartre’s famous line is that man is a useless passion. He must have examined someone who had nothing within—only churidar pajamas, an achkan, a Gandhi cap. He never met the real man. He is an object of compassion. He neither met a true man—nor has he yet learned the art of recognizing the man within himself. He has not recognized himself. Had he met someone like Buddha, or Kabir, or Sundardas, he would have seen that another kind of man exists.

Go to a shop where vinas are sold, and you will see rows of them. Many vinas will be in sight, but until a musician—a master of swaras, a beenkar—touches the strings, awakens the sleeping music, sets it shimmering, the vina is dead. Where is the vina-ness in it till then? Yes, there are strings—but what of strings? Strings alone do not make a sitar. The sitar is born when a Ravi Shankar touches it.

When Love’s fingers pluck the strings of your heart, music arises within you, meaning arises. Then man is not a useless passion. Then man is God. Then man is the highest aspiration of this universe, the peak of this vast unfolding, the ultimate leap, the loftiest Everest!

Love is what gives a person a soul—even ordinary love. And through ordinary love we learn the lesson of the extraordinary. So remember, I am not against ordinary love, as your so-called saints and sadhus are. Whoever is against the ordinary has broken the path to the extraordinary. If you’re against the ordinary, where is your bridge, your boat? How will you reach the extraordinary?

You have loved your wife; you have no acquaintance with God. But I say to you: if you have loved your wife, then in your loving there were moments when the wife became God. If you have loved your husband, there have been such moments of love—even if only for an instant—like lightning flashing across the sky, a momentary rent in the dark when all is illumined, and a moment later the dark returns. If you have loved your husband, your son, your brother, your friend—anyone—then sometimes, in your loving, a glimpse of the Divine has descended. That is the bridge. From that recognition begins the knowing. From that comes the first news.

The first news of God does not come from scriptures; it comes from love. The first news of prayer does not come from bells ringing in temples, nor from the azan in mosques. The first news of prayer comes from love-filled eyes.

I tell you: compared to your so-called pundits, a Majnu is closer to God! A Farhad is closer to God than the pundits and great pundits sitting in Kashi. For now your love is for the seen—so be it! As love deepens, the unseen begins to reveal itself in the seen. For now it is for form—so be it! The forms are his too. The Formless hides within forms.

When love arises for the Guru, he is the nearest to the Formless. From the Guru the leap happens into the Formless.

Kusum, you are fortunate. Do not be afraid. Your question is sweet: “I am a crazed bride, beloved—let me behold your form!” But now you must behold the Formless within the form as well. The journey is still long. It has only just begun. But once begun, half the journey is done.

All the wise have said the first step in a journey is the hardest. Why? Because our past is against it. Our whole past pulls us back. Once one step is taken, half the journey is done. Why half? Because now there is only one step to take at a time. You took one; no one takes two at once. The arithmetic is clear. One step taken; the next will also be one; then the next—also one. Step by step, a person travels a thousand miles. The first step is taken—half the journey is over, half remains. In the first half the lover walks staggering—unconscious, intoxicated, with reddened eyes. In the remaining half everything begins to settle, to grow quiet. The frenzy that came is digested. Then deep silence. Then samadhi.

Chitranjan! This is not merely a scriptural statement; it is the essence, the distilled experience of infinite lovers. It isn’t something written only in books—it is etched in millions of hearts. Scriptures are corpses. I take no delight in commenting on dead scriptures. My joy is with the living scripture—the one inscribed in human hearts, carved upon the heart of a living person.

And this saying is deeply rooted in human experience. Understand its meaning. In this land we recognized three aspects of the Divine—Trimurti, the three-faced One. The Self is one, but the pathways that lead toward it are three. Science has only recently spoken of three dimensions; in this land, from very ancient times, we grasped that life itself has three dimensions. Hence “three” has had great value here. We created the Trimurti—our ancient way of saying that existence is three-dimensional. Existence is one, yet it shows three faces.

And those three faces are meaningful. One is Brahma—the Creator. The second is Vishnu—the Preserver, the Sustainer, the Organizer, the Protector. The third is Mahesh, Shiva—the Destroyer, the Dissolver, the One who brings endings.

The latest findings of science, at the ultimate analysis of matter, have also found these three. The names differ because science uses its own labels—neutron, electron, positron—but their qualities are the same: one is destructive, one is creative, and one simply maintains balance.

For centuries we have said that the primal pillar of life is light; the world is made of light. The Bible says: God said, “Let there be light”—that is the first utterance. Then everything else happened. From light, all else came. And for centuries, those who attained samadhi discovered that, at the end, only light remains—just light! Kabir says: as if a thousand suns were to rise at once—how to describe that light?

The first word of God: Let there be light—and the world came to be. The final testimony of all the sages: only light remains. Now science too says the universe is made of light-energy, electricity. Everything is light.

Even when you eat, what are you doing? You may not know that your food is only stored sunlight. The sun’s rays are stored in fruits and vegetables. If you are non-vegetarian, that too is light—the animals graze on grass which stores sunlight; they digest it and fashion flesh from it.

In Japan a scientist conducted a remarkable experiment. We ordinarily assume that as a plant grows it must be drawing a lot from the soil. His conclusion was striking. He planted a seed and throughout kept weighing the soil to see how much diminished. The plant grew big—leaves, flowers, fruit—but the soil in the pot remained nearly the same. What does this mean? It means the entire growth of the plant was coming from the sun’s light.

When you eat, you are digesting sunlight.

We are made of light. Hence it is no surprise that when a person in samadhi—a Buddha—arrives at the moment of ultimate peace, in the interval without thought, when the mind dissolves, desires wane, when all departs and nothing remains—only the void remains—he finds just light.

Light has three aspects: one destructive, one creative, one preserving. These are the three names: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. Why have we called the Guru Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh all three? Because in the disciple the Guru creates much, preserves much, and destroys much. The Guru kills the disciple too, sustains him too, and gives him life too! He destroys all that is ego. He preserves all that will become the vessel for the Divine. He safeguards all that can receive God. And he births your very soul.

The Guru is a unique process, a laboratory. To be near the Guru means to die as you are now.

Jesus said to Nicodemus: unless you die, there can be no rebirth, and nothing will be possible. Nicodemus had asked: How shall I find God? He was a good man, respectable, virtuous—what we ordinarily call a pious man. He had never stolen, never been dishonest, never lied, never broken his word. In every way, a man of character. He lived by the Ten Commandments. Naturally he asked: What more is lacking in me? I follow all the rules. Tell me if anything is missing and I will follow it fully. What is my deficiency? Why does God not descend in me? I have cultivated virtue, fashioned character, disciplined conduct, sacrificed my life for the good. I have paid every price. Why then does God not incarnate within me? Am I to die empty like this?

There were tears in his eyes. Jesus said: Unless you are born again. He asked: What do you mean by rebirth? Not in this life then—will God be found only in the next?

Jesus said: No, unless you are born again in this very life. He is saying: unless you enter a Guru and die.

Here we have defined the Guru as: “Acharya: death.” The true Guru is that in whom the disciple’s death happens.

Jesus said to Nicodemus: You are doing many good things, but all your goodness has gathered around your ego. Your root disease remains. Around that very disease hang your character, your conduct, your merits like ornaments. It is your ego that is being gratified—“I am such-and-such!” First the ego must dissolve; only then does character have meaning. Only the egoless have character that is fragrant. The virtue of the egoist stinks. First die. Seek a Guru; lay your head at a Guru’s feet.

Kabir says: “Whoever is ready to burn his house, come walk with me.” He who is ready to consign himself completely to ashes—he alone can come along.

So the first face of the Guru is the Destroyer. The second face is the Preserver—like a gardener tending a sapling: he fences it, waters it, manures it, arranges that the sun’s rays reach it, makes sure it isn’t stuck in the shade of a big tree, that it gets neither too much nor too little water; if the sun is harsh, he puts up a shade.

Someone asked Kabir: What does the Guru do? Kabir said: Have you seen a potter shape a pot? He taps from the outside and supports from within. One hand strikes, the other hand supports. Now a fool might say: if you want to strike, then strike properly—what is the need to support? And if you are supporting, why strike at all? But a pot is made just so—blow from one side, support from the other!

So the Guru strikes a lot. And to the degree he strikes, he supports. The one who has become worthy of receiving blows has become worthy of being supported. That is why those who take the Guru’s blows feel blessed. The foolish miss and run away—over the smallest things. They set out to seek the soul, and run away over such petty matters you couldn’t imagine!

Someone came to meet me; I said you will have to wait eight days, then you can meet me—and he ran away! He had set out to seek God, to attain nirvana! He felt insulted—eight days’ wait!

Just yesterday a film actor and director returned his sannyas. Why? He wrote that so many people are flocking to you now that when I want to meet you, I cannot. I cannot mingle in such crowds.

He needs specialness, special arrangements, exclusivity! The ego asserts itself by such subtle routes that one doesn’t even notice. He spoiled it just as it was coming together. The pot was about to be finished—just a few more blows. He wrote me: “I am very grateful for the effort you have put into me; you have made me capable of walking on my own feet now.”

The pot is nearly made, but he doesn’t know it’s still raw. It hasn’t been through the kiln. One gust of rain and the clay will turn back to mud. The time to go into the fire was arriving—and he began to flee! This crowd, the ochre-clad sannyasins—this is the fire!

Many come, many go. And they leave over such trifles it amazes me. Some friends write in advance: We want the front row when we listen; we cannot sit at the back. They have their reasons. A Supreme Court judge—how can he sit at the back! What has a Supreme Court judge to do here? Here he will be beaten worse! If he were the peon of the Supreme Court it would be easier—he’d be beaten less. There is no politics running here.

Former ministers come—there are so many ex-ministers in this country that soon there will be fewer ghosts than ex-ministers! Everyone wants to be a minister and then to be a former minister. They say: I must be seated in front. Why am I not allowed?

Jesus said: Those who are last shall be first in my Father’s kingdom.

The humility to sit behind will bring you closer to me. And you do not know how many blows those sitting in front have endured to sit there. You don’t know how much beating they have taken. You are not yet ready to be beaten that much.

Trifles make people run. But the Guru is not there to console you; he is there to transform you. If you are to be changed, he must also be hard. Like a blacksmith he will bring the hammer down on your head; he will break you—for you are wrong, misshapen. He will break you limb by limb and reassemble you. Thus the Guru is destroyer and preserver—he will hold you until the new is born. He will break from here and hold you there, for there will be an interval between your breaking and God’s coming. In that time you will need the support of a hand. The old light will go out and the new light will not yet have arrived; a deep darkness will fall in between. In that darkness his light will hold you. His love will keep you. His hand will be your support. And then he will fashion within you what must be fashioned—your destiny.

In this sense the Guru has been called Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh—verily the Supreme Brahman.

As for God—where is he? To see him you need a different eye, which you do not yet have. There are two ways. The ordinary theist’s way is: believe that he must be—so many say so: mother, father, teachers, priests, pundits—they must be right. Believe. But belief adopted secondhand is false; a journey begun in untruth cannot reach truth.

The other way is to deny: I neither know nor have I seen—how can I believe? Become an atheist; say “There is no God.” To accept that there is a God is as mistaken as to accept that there is no God, because neither position is your experience. You have no experience of his being nor of his non-being. The theist is wrong; the atheist is wrong. The true seeker, the mumukshu, is neither theist nor atheist. What then should the seeker do? Society offers two options: accept and become a Hindu because you were born in a Hindu home, or Muslim, or Christian. Or, if born in a communist home, in China or Russia—become an atheist. If you don’t want trouble, follow your theistic home; if you enjoy some trouble and have a rebellious streak, become an atheist. In both cases you will not arrive, for in both you have assumed something you have not experienced.

How then to begin the search? There is only one way: go to someone who has experienced. Not to scholars, but to the experienced. Look into the eyes of one whose “other” eye has opened. Place your hand in the hand of one whose hand has reached into God’s hand. Touch the feet of one whose hands are touching the feet of God. Indirectly you will be linked. The waves that are arriving into him from the Divine will begin to stir within you too. The song of God resounding in him—if you simply sit near the Guru, sit and sit—how long will it be before you hear it? I tell you: even the deaf have heard, and the blind have seen. The lame have climbed mountains. But patience is needed.

Therefore for the disciple there is no God; for the disciple the Guru is God! This is the disciple’s inner state—do not impose it on others. One who is my disciple may see in me the very Supreme Brahman; one who is not my disciple will not see it. He does not need to be convinced. Do not try to force it on him. Do not argue.

Majnu fell in love with Laila. Laila was not very beautiful, you know? Perhaps you don’t, because Majnu made such a commotion that people forgot Laila was not much to look at. Majnu wandered, cried out; when the village slept, his cry would still be heard: Laila! The local king, seeing this madman, began to feel sorry for him. He summoned Majnu and said: You are mad. But I feel compassion for you. Your tears, your singing—I too cannot sleep peacefully. Hearing your praise of Laila, I thought: she must be a great beauty; I too am fond of the fair sex. So I went to see your Laila. When I saw her I was shocked; I struck my head—an ordinary, dark woman, nothing special. You are mad! Out of love and compassion for you, come with me to the palace.

The palace was crowded with beautiful women. He lined up a dozen and said: Majnu, choose. None of them could be behind your Laila; Laila is not worthy to touch the feet of any of them. Look carefully.

The loveliest in the realm stood there. Majnu looked—at one, shook his head; at the next, shook his head; at the third—no. The emperor said: What are you saying? These are the most beautiful women in my empire! Majnu said: I have nothing to do with women. None of these is Laila. I am shaking my head only because not one is Laila.

He began to leave, dejected. The emperor said: I do not understand. Majnu said: You will not understand. To see Laila, you need Majnu’s eyes.

To see the Guru, you need a disciple’s eyes. Don’t go around trying to make everyone understand. This is the business of the mad!

Another story. Mulla Nasruddin was invited to judge a beauty pageant—Miss India was to be chosen. Mulla is counted among connoisseurs; he was one of the judges. The panel sat; thousands gathered. The beauties came one by one onto the stage, each more beautiful than the last—from Kashmir to Kerala, all colors, all styles. And what did Mulla do? He looked at each and said: Phoo! The six judges beside him were stunned. They were going mad; they even forgot how many points to give—such beauty they had never seen! Their eyes were glued. And Mulla, each time: Phoo! When at the fifteenth and last he again said: Phoo, they could not bear it. They asked: Nasruddin, who do you think you are? Such beautiful women and you keep saying “Phoo, phoo, phoo!” None pleases you?

Nasruddin said: Are you crazy? I am not saying “phoo” to them—I am saying “phoo” to my wife, seeing them.

Each has his own way of seeing—do not impose yours on another.

Chitranjan, your question is sweet.

“You had neither the search for a Guru nor the thirst for God, nor any sense of lifetimes upon lifetimes.”

No—I tell you: the search was there, the thirst was there; that is why you came to me. Had there been no search, you could not have come; had there been no thirst, you could not have come. But often we do not even know our own thirst. We don’t know whom we are seeking.

Often we keep seeking what we do not really want, and we do not seek what is crying out within us. And sometimes we seek what we truly want, but in the wrong direction.

People think they seek wealth, Chitranjan! In truth people seek meditation. This may sound difficult, but I say it out of the experience of thousands and through observing thousands who have passed by me. No one is seeking money; people are seeking meditation—but they pin their hope for meditation on money.

Money has some attractions. One is the hope that with money there will be no limits. You have experienced how limited you feel without money. You walk down the road, a shop displays beautiful clothes; you want to buy, your pocket is empty—there’s the limit! The heart sinks. If only the pocket were full today, such a limit would not be felt. You see a beautiful house; you want it; then you remember your bank balance; head down, you pass—limit! The lack of money makes you feel walled in, enclosed by a Great Wall. So you think: with money I will become limitless. No more limits. I will buy what I want, live where I want, marry whom I want—no limits.

I tell you: your inner quest is for the Infinite. But if you think money will give the Infinite, you are mistaken. Money may come one day, and life will be lost in getting it—for it will not come just like that. You must strive, ceaselessly. With great difficulty will you get it, for you are not alone in seeking it—hundreds of millions are seeking the same. There is fierce grabbing, competition, rivalry. Here even a brother is no brother, a friend no friend—everyone is a competitor. The one standing behind you will thrust a dagger in your chest; you must push others aside. You climb over each other’s corpses—such a savage struggle! Perhaps you will reach a post, wealth. And the great joke is: when you arrive, you will be astonished. Life squandered, money gained, houses, shops, all the goods you wanted—and yet there is no sign of the Infinite!

The Infinite comes from meditation, not money. The arithmetic has gone wrong.

People seek position. I tell you, no one really seeks position; people seek God—the Supreme Position, the ultimate state after which nothing remains to be attained. But in this world there is no such position after which nothing remains. Become whatever you like, you will find—someone is ahead. Here there are a thousand ways of being ahead. Napoleon, such a great emperor and conqueror—yet he suffered because his height was only five feet five. That was his pain. If a six-footer stood beside him—his whole empire paled! Once a picture on his wall hung askew; he tried to straighten it—his hand wouldn’t reach. His orderly said: Wait, I am bigger than you; I’ll fix it. Napoleon blazed: Take that word back! Bigger than me? Not bigger—say taller! That was his wound.

Lenin was immensely powerful; the Czar’s vast empire fell into his hands. But he had one trouble—his upper torso was long and his legs short. He had chairs made so that his legs wouldn’t show; he hid them behind the desk.

So where will you go where you can be the very top and none above you? Someone will have a beautiful body, someone a beautiful voice, someone intoxicating eyes, someone a captivating gait. And sometimes a beggar on the road will embarrass you—his ecstasy will fill you with unease.

In this world, wherever you arrive, whatever post you attain, you remain a beggar. Therefore I say: no one seeks position; the true search is for that state beyond which nothing remains to be gained—and then we can rest. For as long as there is something to get, there will be anxiety.

So I say to you, Chitranjan: the search for the Guru and the thirst for God were there—you simply did not recognize them. You have come to me; it is not accidental. Nothing is without cause. There are millions of people; only a few have come to me, not all. Not all will come. It happens that someone living right next door does not come, while someone comes from Sweden, from Korea, from America. Ask my neighbors here—they are eager for me to leave! Their problem is: why am I here?

Nothing is without cause. Yes, it happens that you are not fully aware; you search in sleep—groping. But you were feeling around; that is why your hand found mine.

“What call brought me to you?”

The very call I am now refining and clarifying. Each day it will be clearer; each day you will understand more. And the day you fully awaken, you will see: this was your age-long search, this your thirst, this your destiny. Until it was fulfilled you would have wandered. The end of your wandering is near.

Offer up your tasks—
This is the beginning.
Offer up each moment—
This is the path.
Let your wholeness dissolve—
This is the inexpressible.
Which is to say: attainment
is the ending
of our incomplete body, incomplete mind,
our incomplete hopes, incomplete fears.
It is the attainment of nature’s total rhythms,
having gained which we seem,
all at once, to burn and to rain,
to sprout and to ripen,
to stay ever-fresh through all time.
And when we tire, we tire
as the sun or the sea tires.
Nothing petty remains of us then—
when our all is offered, all is consecrated!

You have come—now let everything be surrendered, Chitranjan! The day you sit by me utterly empty, that very day you will be filled; that day the bird of your consciousness will begin to sing!

Each instant it is as if a hundred dawns surround me,
and the bird of my heart chirps.
As if from a deep deep sleep life has awakened—
such freshness shivers in the mind.
Time’s river, the new breeze of life,
ripples like gusts of wind;
and the lotus of the mind, as if it had opened little,
now opens more and fragrances the air.
Each instant it is as if a hundred dawns surround me,
and the bird of my heart chirps.
Whatever work comes to hand
feels as if it is my own.
Sorrowful struggle does not hurt,
for it is only a dream.
And like a housewife’s hearth
every instant lifts up tongues of flame—
the embers of joy glowing.
Each instant it is as if a hundred dawns surround me,
and the bird of my heart chirps!

Preparation is underway. The song within you is ripening. I have begun to see its first sprouts. The first redness of the sun has touched the horizon. Surrender everything. Be empty, be vacant.

To enter the Infinite
is neither emotion nor imagination,
neither the pronouncing of a wish
nor idle talk.
It is a solid and exact experience—
but only when, from the whole ambiance like dew,
you gather and draw yourself in—
then that drop of experience falls.
In the farthest sense then,
a man ceases to be a “person.”
All his thoughts and desires,
when they become, like a clear drop,
minute and beautiful and pure,
and when they can become absorbed
in caressing a single tiny blade of grass—
and that too not like a wave swaying,
but sitting utterly still—
then one finds the childlike depth,
and understanding, and simple joy,
simple peace, simple flow,
simple renunciation.

Dinkar! The meaning of faith is: a sensing that there is more than what is; a feeling that there is more than what is visible; a soft, misty intimation that what comes into experience is not the end of all.

The world is larger than my knowledge—this is called faith. Existence is greater than my intellect—this is called faith. The whole of existence does not end with this little head of mine. I am born from this existence; into it I will dissolve. I am but a wave, like a wave of the ocean. A wave of the ocean cannot be the ocean. I am a tiny wave; the great ocean spreads all around me. The acceptance of this ocean is faith.

Faith is great courage. Because the mind says: accept only what I tell you; do not go a step beyond me! The mind draws a Lakshman-rekha—a do-not-cross line. The mind says: do not go beyond this line; there is nothing beyond it. But the very line is proof that there must be something ahead, otherwise the line could not be drawn. To draw a line, there must be something beyond it; only then can a line be drawn.

The one who accepts the mind’s lines and treats them as a Lakshman-rekha—faith never sprouts in his life, and he remains deprived of the vast. His condition is like a man who walks with his eyes fixed on the ground and never raises them to the sky, who has never seen a night full of stars, the moon and stars, the sun, this blue expanse of sky, the birds winging in the distance along the horizon! Eyes nailed to the ground, he walks on—sworn never to look up!

A man without faith is one who has decided not to see anything beyond the ground. It must be due to some fear. For the vast inspires fear. One fears, “I might get lost in it.” Man wants to live in the small; in the small there is security. In the small we are the masters; of the vast we cannot be the masters. The vast will be our master—keep that in mind. We have all decided to remain in the small, because in the small our ownership remains. We will not go into the vast, for in the vast we will no longer be the owners. The vast will fill us, carry us away.

It is said the camel is afraid to go near the mountains; perhaps that is why it lives in the desert. In the desert the camel appears like the Himalayas. If it went near the mountains and saw towering peaks, then it would know.

I have heard: early one morning a fox woke up, came out of its den. The sun had risen; its shadow was huge. The fox said, “Ah, this is my real form! For breakfast today I will need at least an elephant.” With great swagger it set out to find an elephant, breakfast must be arranged! No elephant was found, and if one had been, what would the fox have done? By noon, hungry and thirsty, on other days it somehow found its breakfast, but today this notion of an elephant created a mess. Hungry and thirsty, it returned again and thought, let me check—perhaps I was mistaken? By now the shadow had shrunk, lying right beneath it. The fox’s heart sank. It said, “Now even if I find an ant, that will be a lot. Even an ant I doubt I could digest.”

We are gazing at our big, big shadows. Our ego is our big shadow. We enlarge it, we color it. And naturally we fear going near God. Where God is spoken of, we are afraid to go, for there we will discover that this shadow is only a shadow; it is not our form. We are tiny drops, and we have fallen into the illusion of being the ocean. And we do not want to trust the ocean.

You have heard the story of the frog that lived in a well. Once a sea-frog came into the well. It was a small well. The well-frog asked after his health—“Where do you come from? Your address?” He said, “I come from the ocean.” The well-frog asked, “What is the ocean like? It’s about the size of this well, isn’t it?”

Consider the plight of the sea-frog; it is my plight too. The sea-frog said, “The well and the ocean cannot be compared.” But the well-frog took offense. “What are you saying? There is no place bigger than this! We too have lived, we too have experience. Our hair hasn’t turned gray in the sun for nothing. We are experienced. We have seen much of life. We have seen cloudbursts too. But when the sky pours down in torrents, even then it fits into our well—the rain of the vast sky! It fits into our well. We don’t even notice where it went! Our well is bigger than the sky. Plain and simple logic! What ocean are you talking about—are you in your senses?”

The well-frog leapt halfway across the well and said, “Is the ocean this big?” Then, showing a bit more generosity, it leapt three-quarters. “This big?” Then, ultimate generosity, it made a full leap across the well. “This big?”

But when the sea-frog said, “Forgive me, it cannot be measured by this yardstick,” the well-frog said, “Out! Get out of here, you liar!”

Faith means: listen to those who have seen, who have been to the ocean. Perhaps in the heartbeat of their hearts you may hear a faint echo of the ocean. Sit near them.

The fundamental meaning of faith is satsang.

Understanding and capacity
grow by living precisely, rightly;
and then the feet
mount every summit meant to be attained,
taking every sun and shade as such a joy
as if there had never been any mountain at all—
the path was straight and simple, cut by itself;
there was only a mist
which cleared by the ray within.

The ocean is within you; but to be able to trust it—trust the words of one who has come from the ocean, the song of a singer who has brought music filled with the ocean within. If you can listen to his music, placing your ear upon his heart, the mist within you will lift, the inner ray will shine clear.

Faith does not concede to limits; faith says: there is no boundary. Faith does not accept death; faith says: death cannot be. Why? How can life die? How can there be a boundary? Wherever there is a boundary, beyond it there must be something more. The world is infinite and life is eternal. We are travelers of the infinite.

From horizon to horizon the circle of morning
is filled with chirping.
Touching the gleam of shining wings,
the mind is green as the wind.
Far across the green grass, a string of pearls
is seen—
is it the ray on the pearls, or pearls studding the ray?
Wind and birds, ray and pearls,
waves and songs—
the dark tried hard to frighten them,
but they did not heed!

Faith means: do not heed the dark.

Wind and birds, ray and pearls,
waves and songs—
the dark tried much to frighten them,
but they did not heed!

Do not be afraid—of the unknown, the infinite, the vast—and you will find your home, for that indeed is your home.

One single trust abides with my consciousness,
for a single, single devotion I long.
Meaning comes to the word, to sound, to the singer’s breath;
one trust alone removes the heart’s distress.

Give me nothing else; I am not helpless.
Who has the strength of trust is not without resource.
Today perhaps the feelings of the doubting heart are mute,
perhaps the whole urge for expression has fainted somewhere;
perhaps the bases of practice lie empty,
the compulsion of the old be my defeat today—
yet my victorious trust, that single trust,
gives the future the exuberance of strength.

It gives the river its motion, shows the mountain the road to the sky;
one trust alone removes the burning of the deserts.
This silence is not sold at any price—
who will buy this deep process of life?

Only faith is that which cannot be bought in this world. Only faith does not sell.

One trust alone removes the burning of the deserts—
and it is faith that in the wasteland makes green trees sprout, makes flowers sparkle. It is faith that lights a lamp in the dark; that finds the nectar in death.

Faith is the greatest wealth of this world.

You have asked, Dinkar, “Does faith have to be made, or does it happen by itself?”

It does not have to be made, and it also does not just happen by itself. Then you may be in a bit of a quandary, for you think there are only two options. No, the real thing is the third. If you set out to make faith, it will not be faith; it will be hollow, superficial, like paper flowers. The faith you make will be smaller than you. But faith must be greater than you. And if you do not allow it to happen, then no power in the world can make it happen. I may desire a thousand times to pour my very life into you, but if you do not open your doors; I may wish a thousand times to shower this cloud that is full, but if you keep your vessel turned upside down; I may call out, and you remain deaf; I may wave lamps in worship around you and you keep your eyes closed—what can I do? Fragrance may arise and surround your nostrils, but you clamp your nose shut.

Faith neither comes by manufacturing it nor does it occur on its own. When faith begins to happen—when near someone the note of faith begins to resound—then do not put obstacles in the way; cooperate with it; let it be born. It is not made by making; it is made by letting it be made. Do you see the distinction? It cannot be made by you, nor can it be imposed by anyone else. But where the sun has risen, do not stubbornly keep your eyes closed. Give at least this much cooperation: open your eyes. The eyes cannot produce the sun, but if the eyes choose to keep themselves shut while the sun has risen, they can remain in darkness.

A gust of scented wind is coming—if you keep your doors shut, it will thump and knock and go back. It cannot force its way in. But if you open your doors—the opening of your doors does not create the breeze; yet if your doors are open and the breeze is blowing—let that fortunate conjunction happen: somewhere there is a true master, and you open your doors—then faith is born.

Understand it like this: someone asks, a child is born, a beautiful child—did the man give birth? That is false, for without the woman’s womb it could not be. And if someone says the woman alone gave birth—that too is false, for without the man’s touch it could not be. Who gave birth? The two met, they were immersed in love, they tuned their strings together. By the joining of their chords, that occasion was created in which the divine could descend in the form of this child.

Exactly such an event happens between master and disciple. The master cannot produce faith in one who is resolved not to let it happen. And with one who is not a true master, you may bang your head at his door endlessly, sit with your doors open—faith will not be born. Faith ripens in that conjunction where, before a true master, you open the doors of your heart. Where the disciple and the master meet, there the supreme occasion creates itself, where the divine descends.

Mere trust won’t help. If trust could help, you wouldn’t have come here. If the work were already done, why look for a physician? Words cannot help. Behind words there must be a living presence, a burning flame.

Remember, Sundardas said just yesterday: by talking about a lamp, the lamp doesn’t light. By talking about light, light doesn’t happen. Nor will hugging a cookbook to your chest cure your hunger. And if you keep writing H2O, H2O, H2O on paper—turn it into your mantra—your thirst won’t be quenched. Some people are writing “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram” on paper—just like writing H2O, H2O, H2O! The mantra is perfectly correct. There’s no mistake in H2O—but there isn’t water in H2O. It’s a formula; it won’t quench your thirst. Go tattoo H2O on your throat—do you think then you won’t need to drink water?

Nothing will happen through scripture. Yet some people are mad about scriptures. And the irony is, a true master always says what is the essence of all the scriptures. Have I said a single thing that the scriptures have not said?

You say: “I have always trusted the scriptures, and now you tell us to be free of scriptures!”

You haven’t really read the scriptures, because every scripture says: be free of scriptures. Krishna has said, “I am beyond definition—ineffable!” Buddha said: it cannot be explained—it is inexpressible. What is written does not contain it. What is spoken does not contain it. Lao Tzu’s famous line: the truth, once spoken, becomes a lie.

You haven’t read the scriptures; otherwise, what I am saying is what all the scriptures have said. I am giving you their very essence—and I say it on the basis of my own witness. I am not saying it because it is written in the scriptures, but because it is my experience. Whether it is written there or not is secondary. But it is written there too, because whoever has known has known it in the same way.

But people don’t read scriptures—they parrot them!

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was arguing at the railway inquiry counter. “In the timetable this train goes straight from Phulera to Merta, and you say it will go via Ajmer. How can that be? How can the timetable be wrong?”

“Sir, the tracks beyond Phulera are under water,” the clerk explained.

“Then why hasn’t the timetable drowned?” asked Mulla.

“It will drown by next year,” came the reply.

What else can you do? Some people are crazy about books! Then the timetable should drown too! At least the stations in the timetable should be shown as drowned. At least it should be evident that this place is under water—otherwise what is the point of the map?

Don’t cling to maps; life moves beyond maps every day. The inquiry clerk was right: by next year it will drown. Given the state of this country, such things can happen. Bridges will drown, then timetables will drown—everything will drown. Don’t panic; wait. Trust your fate—this ill-fated day will also arrive!

Such trust in scripture! And what will you understand from scripture? You can understand from scripture only as much as you are capable of understanding. What Krishna said in the Gita—do you think by reading it you will understand exactly what he said? You will only understand as much as your capacity allows. Your understanding cannot exceed that.

A man went to the doctor; his eyesight was poor. The doctor made him spectacles. The man said, “Once I put the glasses on my eyes, I’ll be able to read, right?” The doctor said, “Of course, certainly you’ll read.” The man said, “A miracle! Because earlier I didn’t know how to read at all.”

If you don’t know how to read, how will you start reading by wearing glasses? You will be the one reading the Gita—what difference will the spectacles make? And even if you read once, read daily, read again and again—what will happen? You will go on repeating like parrots.

I have heard: a pundit had a parrot. It chanted “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” A very religious parrot! Parrots are often religious, and religious people are often parrots! That parrot was always wrapped in the shawl of “Ram-naam.” It sat there with a rosary hanging by its side, chanting “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” It was famous. An old woman used to visit the pundit—other than old women, who else goes to pundits? She had nowhere else to go. Seeing the pundit’s parrot, she too bought a parrot. But it was a scoundrel. It abused. It had lived with an opium addict—the effect of company! It hurled pure, choice abuses. The old woman tried hard to make it chant “Ram-Ram,” but it said, “To hell with Ram-Ram!” She said, “This is too much! What kind of parrot is this?” She told the pundit, “My parrot is in a terrible state.”

The pundit said, “Do this: bring your parrot here. Let it attend satsang with my parrot for ten or fifteen days; everything will be fine. My parrot is very wise. Think of it as a devotee from past lives. It’s a realized soul.”

The pundit’s parrot sat wrapped in its shawl, chanting “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” Great devotion showed on its face. The old woman brought her parrot. Both were put into one cage. After five or seven days the pundit came running in a panic. He said to the old woman, “Take your parrot away! My parrot has stopped saying ‘Ram-Ram’ and has thrown away its shawl! This morning I asked him, ‘Why, brother, aren’t you saying Ram-Ram?’ He said, ‘To hell with Ram-Ram!’ I asked, ‘Then why were you chanting all these days?’ He said, ‘For the reason I was chanting—my purpose has been fulfilled. I was looking for a beloved; she has arrived. I was chanting Ram-Ram for this very thing.’”

You can go on reading scriptures like parrots—nothing will happen. You’ll keep lifting your eyes to see whether a customer has entered the shop, who is passing on the street, what is happening at home, whom your wife is talking to. All this will go on—and you’re reading the Gita! A dog will come; you’ll shoo it away—still reading the Gita! You’ve memorized it. Often it happens the page is one thing and you’re reciting another—but it’s memorized. Keep the book upside down or right side up—it makes no difference; you go on “reading”!

What is in the scriptures cannot be known through the scriptures. If you want to know what is in the scriptures, you will have to descend into samadhi. That is exactly what I am urging.

I tell you: drop scriptures, descend into samadhi. My words seem contradictory to you. I say: drop scriptures, enter samadhi—because once you enter samadhi, all the scriptures will be available to you.

See! How parrots twist the meaning to suit themselves!
Man is very clever. Rationalization—whatever he wants to do, he finds exact arguments for it.

I have heard, Baba Muktanand and Baba Chuktanand were sitting under a tree. Ganja smoke was rising; the kundalini was awakening! Muktanand is the guru, Chuktanand the disciple. But Muktanand was on the mouse brand, Chuktanand on the elephant brand! Both were swaying. A discussion on knowledge was going on. At such times, discussions on knowledge do take place. As the intoxication of ganja deepened, as the earth was forgotten and the stars in the sky came into view, ecstasy spread! Chuktanand’s kundalini awakened so much that he landed a punch on Baba Muktanand! A disciple punching the guru—and an elephant-like disciple, a mouse-like guru! Baba Muktanand’s high vanished, and naturally the kundalini subsided too! He looked at the disciple with great anger. He scolded: Why, Chuktanand, why did you hit me? But then he also thought it wise not to stir up more trouble—what if he lands another one! It was a lonely place; no one else around. And his high was stronger, and his kundalini was fully awake. It seemed the effect had reached the sahasrar. He was swaying completely.
So Baba Muktanand, gathering himself a little, said: Tell me one thing—did you hit in jest or seriously? Chuktanand said: Not in jest, I hit seriously. Do what you will.
Muktanand said: Then it’s fine—I don’t like jokes at all!

Man extracts meanings to suit himself. Certainly I have said: live with compassion—but even I had not imagined that living with compassion would be made to mean: then what need is there to take sannyas! The very meaning of sannyas is compassion. The essence of sannyas is compassion. The very feeling of sannyas is love.

You say: “I want to be initiated into sannyas; I am wholly prepared in mind, but my family might be hurt.”
And in what other matters have you cared about your family’s hurt? When you start chatting with the neighbor’s wife, do you worry about your own wife? In which matters have you cared about the family? And then tomorrow you will die—what will you do at the time of death? Will you say to death, Wait, my family will be hurt? That won’t do. Death will come and take you.
People drink alcohol; they don’t worry about the family. They gamble; they don’t worry about the family. They get angry, they beat people; they don’t worry about the family. But when it comes to meditate or to become a sannyasin, instantly they start worrying about the family! See the logic? Man’s mind is very crafty.

As for your family being hurt—within two or four days all will be well, because my sannyas is not an escapist sannyas. I am not telling you to run off to the Himalayas, abandoning your wife. My sannyas will make you a better husband, if you are a husband. If you are a father, it will make you a better father. If you are a wife, it will make you a better wife. If you are a son, it will make you a better son.
My sannyas is the total acceptance of life. I want to fill life with the flowers of love. Within a few days they will understand that this sannyas is not the old escapist sannyas. This is a new gesture of sannyas. This is a new descent of sannyas. This is a new incarnation of sannyas. They will soon see that you have become more loving than before, more tender, more good, more human, more simple and guileless; they will see there is a little more poetry in your life, a little more music. Then why would they be unhappy? Yes, it may be a matter of a few days of sadness. Don’t worry about a few days.

And if you truly love them, this will be the greatest gift of your love to them—that at least one person in the house be allowed to become a sannyasin. Today or tomorrow your wife will also dive. People have been diving like this and have been coming along. I set out alone; then people began to join. Just so, people have been diving and have been coming. The husband came, then the wife; or the wife came first and then the husband; then the children came. Sometimes it has happened that the little children came first! Then the mother came, then the father—as courage gathered, they kept coming.

Once you understand that my music is not a denial of life. I am not an opponent of this world. I am not telling you to leave the world. I am telling you: live this world with a sense of awe and gratitude. It is God’s gift. Then why would they be unhappy?
Don’t worry. Don’t be needlessly afraid. Don’t try to placate the mind, don’t devise postponements. This is how a man goes on postponing: we’ll think tomorrow, the day after; first we’ll persuade the wife, then persuade the son, then the father, then the mother. You will die persuading.

I was traveling once on a passenger train, and the speed was so slow that the passengers were snapping at each other. There was nothing to be done. Where the train would stop—no telling; it could stop anywhere. It stopped so often that people would get down and pluck mangoes along the tracks. Again and again a peanut seller, shouting “Karara cheena badam!” would pass in front of the compartment. Mulla Nasruddin was traveling with me. Mulla, badly irritated, was sitting there. It was me and Mulla—and there wasn’t much he could do to take it out on me. He kept grumbling. Seeing no other way out, when at the next place the train stopped and the peanut seller came and shouted again, Mulla’s patience finally snapped. Sticking his head out the window, he asked, Brother, what engine is fitted inside you? You’re going faster than the train. Wherever we look, you’re already waiting ahead!

Just take this much care: are you, perhaps, the compartments themselves? For the compartments merely keep postponing. Their job is deferral—We’ll do it tomorrow; the day after; we’ll fix this, we’ll fix that; the daughter must be married, the son must be married; the shop is newly started—let it get going first. Then nothing will ever happen in your life.

Decide. And I am not saying: take sannyas. If you are to take it, then don’t hinder yourself with excuses. If you are not to take it, then it should be equally clear in your mind: I will not take it—end of matter. One should be clear-cut! One should be straightforward. Not half-and-half. Don’t be the washerman’s donkey—neither of the home nor of the ghat! Don’t be Trishanku, for in such confusion a man’s life-energy is wasted in vain.

And don’t search for good excuses. People often do bad things with good excuses. That is why it is said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Now you want to avoid sannyas—the urge is arising, the courage is not gathering—so you say: you yourself say that to live compassionately is right.
Sannyas is the very process of living compassionately.

Melodious rays, a luminous song,
forms in flight,
mute and silent storms—
all these are within.
These inner modes are to be brought outward;
seas are to be mounted, mountains to be forded.

I am calling you to heights, challenging you. Awake!
All these are within.
These inner modes are to be brought outward;
seas are to be mounted, mountains to be forded.
A great journey is to be made. If you go about it slackly, how will it happen?

Life asks of you ever more—
only the strength that you have.
If you are at six,
it does not ask of you seven.
If you can give evening,
it does not ask of you the dawn.
Therefore, of what lies within your doing,
do just that much.
Do not turn your back on its demand—
that’s all!

Just don’t turn your back on the challenge. When a challenge arises, accept it!

Moment to moment, instant to instant, give yourself—
this is the meaning of life.
The more one gives,
the more capable one becomes.
The more one gives,
the more one truly lives.
If the rain-cloud does not rain,
even full, it remains empty.
So let us live life,
pour out the goblet of our life-essence.
It will not be exhausted; it is not yet filled to the brim—
how many oceans dwell in each pitcher!
What is a river, except to flow?
Life is barren without giving.
When greenery awakens from the current,
the current’s flowing doubles.

My sannyas is the art of living. It is a device for sharing love. This sannyas is not world-denying. In my vision there is no enmity between God and the world. How could there be? Enmity between the musician and his music? Between the poet and his poetry? Between the painter and his painting? How could there be? This is his dance. We are not to go against the dance. We are to dive so deep into the dance that the dancer too comes into our hands, that the dancer too is grasped.

My sannyas is the inauguration of a wholly new sannyas. Surely the notion of the old sannyas is swaying in your mind. That is why you are afraid. In my sannyas there is no cause for fear.
Sannyas gives fearlessness. Gather your courage. Be brave. Embrace the challenge. Just keep this much in mind—

Life asks of you ever more—
only the strength that you have.
If you are at six,
it does not ask of you seven.
If you can give evening,
it does not ask of you the dawn.
Therefore, of what lies within your doing,
do just that much.
Do not turn your back on its demand—
that’s all!

That’s all for today.